۶ৎ

Meanwhile, Sunghoon started dating one of your close friends, Sooha. She was sweet, bubbly, and had always gotten along with him during group hangouts. Seeing them together at first stung like hell, but you told yourself it was for the best. Everyone moved on. Or so it seemed.

The problem was the friend group. You all ran in the same circle, mutual friends from the industry, trainees, dancers, and staff who loved throwing parties, dinners, and weekend getaways. No matter how hard you tried, you and Sunghoon kept crossing paths. At first, it was awkward. Polite nods, short conversations, avoiding eye contact. But the tension never died. It only grew.

Every time you saw him, memories flooded back. The way his large hands used to grip your hips. How he’d pin you against the wall and kiss you until your knees buckled. The low groan he made when he was deep inside you. The way he’d look at you with those sharp, dark eyes right before he made you come. And you knew he felt it too. You’d catch him staring at your legs in short dresses, or the curve of your ass when you bent over. His jaw would tighten, and he’d quickly look away, especially when Heeseung was right beside you with an arm around your waist, or when Sooha was laughing and clinging to his arm.

The air between you two was always thick, charged and dangerous.

It started small. A house party six months after you and Heeseung became official. Sunghoon and Sooha had been dating for three months. The music was loud, drinks were flowing. You were in a tight dress that hugged every curve. Sunghoon couldn’t stop glancing at you. When you passed each other in the narrow hallway on the way to the bathroom, your bodies brushed. Just shoulders and hips, but it was enough. You felt him, hard, warm, familiar, and your breath hitched. He froze for half a second, eyes darkening, before muttering a low “sorry” and continuing. That night you rode Heeseung like you were possessed, but it was Sunghoon’s face you saw when you came.

Another time, at a beach trip with the whole group. Sunghoon was shirtless in the water, water dripping down his toned abs and sharp v-line. You were in a bikini. Heeseung was building sandcastles with friends, Sooha was napping under an umbrella. You and Sunghoon ended up wading in the shallows at the same time. The waves pushed you closer. His hand accidentally grazed your waist as he steadied you. Electricity shot through your body. Your nipples hardened instantly under the thin fabric. You saw the bulge in his swim trunks grow. Neither of you said a word. You both swam away, hearts pounding, bodies aching.

These encounters kept happening. Birthday parties, award after-parties, late-night karaoke sessions. Every time, you’d leave the function wet and throbbing, panties soaked, thighs clenched. You knew he was going home hard too, probably fucking Sooha while thinking about you. The guilt was there, but the desire was stronger.

One particular night, it became unbearable.

It was a small, intimate gathering at a friend’s luxurious apartment. Only twelve people. Heeseung was there, sitting beside you on the couch, his hand resting possessively on your thigh. Sunghoon and Sooha were across the room. The lights were dim, music soft. Someone suggested truth or dare. Stupid idea. When it was your turn, someone dared you to sit on Sunghoon’s lap for three minutes. The room erupted in laughter. “For old times’ sake!” they joked, not knowing how deep the cut went.

You hesitated. Heeseung chuckled and nodded, thinking it was harmless. Sooha looked a little uncomfortable but played along. Sunghoon’s eyes met yours, dark, warning, hungry.

You sat on his lap.

The moment your ass settled over his crotch, you felt him. He was already half-hard. As the timer started, his hands rested lightly on your hips to “steady” you. His cock twitched beneath you, growing thicker and harder against the thin fabric of your dress and his pants. You were wearing nothing but a tiny thong underneath. You could feel every inch of him pressing right against your clothed cunt. Heat flooded you. Your clit throbbed. You shifted slightly, “accidentally,” grinding down on him. He exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers tightening on your hips. His cock was fully hard now, thick and long, the same shape you remembered so well. You were soaking through your thong, your juices starting to wet the front of his pants.

Three minutes felt like eternity. Torture. Bliss. When the timer ended, you stood up on shaky legs. Sunghoon’s eyes were nearly black. A small wet spot was visible on his thigh where you’d been sitting. He quickly adjusted himself. You excused yourself to the bathroom, locked the door, and leaned against it, breathing hard, your pussy was dripping, you wanted to cum so badly it hurt.

That night, after the party, Heeseung fucked you in his car before you even got home. You came twice, but it wasn’t enough.

Two days later, you were alone in your apartment. Heeseung was away for a schedule. The memory of sitting on Sunghoon’s lap had been haunting you. You took a long shower, trying to calm down, but your body was on fire. After drying off, you opened your drawer and found it, the pale pink satin slip Sunghoon used to love.

It was short, silky, with thin straps and a deep neckline. The hem barely covered your ass. There was a high slit on the left side that went almost to your hip. He used to push the strap down, suck on your tits while fucking you in it. You hadn’t worn it since the breakup.

Tonight, you slipped it on. The fabric felt cool and luxurious against your heated skin. Your nipples were already stiff, poking obviously through the thin material. You stood in front of the full-length mirror in your bedroom, dim lights on. The slip clung to your body, the hem riding up to show the bottom curve of your ass.

You climbed onto your bed, heart racing with guilt and excitement. This was wrong. So fucking wrong. Heeseung was your boyfriend. Sunghoon was his best friend. He was dating Sooha, your friend. But you couldn’t stop.

You lay back against the pillows, knees bent, legs slightly spread. Your hand slowly trailed up your body. You cupped one breast through the satin, squeezing it gently. A soft moan escaped your lips. You imagined Sunghoon’s large hand instead, bigger, rougher. You pinched your nipple, rolling it between your fingers the way he used to. The sensation shot straight to your core.

“Oh god…” you whispered.

Your other hand slid down, pushing the hem of the slip higher. The slit on the side made it easy. You parted your thighs wider, exposing your bare, dripping pussy. You were soaked. Your fingers brushed over your swollen clit, and your hips jerked.

In your mind, it was Sunghoon touching you.

You pictured his sharp jaw, his intense eyes looking down at you. The way he’d smirk when he felt how wet you were for him. You imagined his long fingers replacing yours, two thick digits sliding inside you while his thumb circled your clit. You pushed two fingers into your tight heat, moaning louder. The slick sounds filled the room as you pumped them slowly, curling them just right.

Your other hand kept playing with your tits, pulling the strap down so one breast spilled out. You pinched and tugged your nipple harder, imagining Sunghoon’s mouth on it, sucking, biting, licking.

“Sunghoon…” you breathed, even though you knew you shouldn’t say his name. It felt too good. You added a third finger, stretching yourself, fucking yourself deeper. Your hips rolled, grinding against your hand. The satin slip bunched around your waist now. You were completely exposed, legs spread obscenely, fingers plunging in and out of your creamy pussy.

You thought about that night on his lap. How hard he’d been. How big he felt. You imagined pulling his cock out right there in front of everyone, sinking down on it, riding him while the party continued. You imagined him bending you over in the bathroom after, slamming into you from behind, hand over your mouth to keep you quiet while he filled you up.

Your fingers moved faster. The heel of your palm rubbed your clit with every thrust. Your other hand switched to your other breast, squeezing hard, twisting the nipple. Pleasure built rapidly, hot and intense.

You were so close.

In your fantasy, Sunghoon was on top of you, thrusting deep, whispering how much he missed your tight pussy, how no one fucked him like you did. You imagined his hips snapping harder, his balls slapping against you, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside.

“Fuck—Sunghoon—yes—” you moaned, voice breaking.

Your orgasm crashed over you violently. Your back arched off the bed, thighs shaking. Your pussy clenched hard around your fingers, gushing wetly. You kept fingering yourself through it, drawing it out, riding every wave. Juices dripped down your ass onto the sheets. The slip was ruined with sweat and your arousal.

Even after you came, you kept your fingers inside, gently stroking as the aftershocks rolled through you. Your chest heaved. Guilt tried to creep in, but the pleasure was too strong, too addictive.

You knew you’d do this again. You couldn’t help it. The tension between you and Sunghoon was only getting worse. Sooner or later, something was going to break.

But for now, in the quiet of your room, wearing the slip he used to love, you let yourself drift in the fantasy of him, your ex, your boyfriend’s best friend, your friend’s boyfriend, fucking you senseless the way only he knew how.

—

A few weeks had passed since that night you spent alone in your apartment. The guilt had lingered for days afterward, especially when Heeseung came back from his schedule and kissed you so sweetly, completely unaware of whose name you’d moaned. But the ache between your legs never fully went away. Every time you saw Sunghoon in the group chat or caught a glimpse of him at a quick schedule overlap, the memory of his hardened cock pressing against you during truth or dare flooded back.

Tonight was another mutual friend’s birthday party, held at a spacious rooftop venue. The city lights glittered below like scattered diamonds, and the air was warm with late spring humidity. Fairy lights and soft neon accents bathed the space in a seductive glow. Music pulsed from hidden speakers, R&B and deep house tracks that made bodies move instinctively. About thirty people were there: dancers, idols, staff, and close industry friends. The drinks flowed freely, champagne, soju cocktails, whiskey on ice.

You arrived with Heeseung, dressed in a dangerously short, deep burgundy silk dress that clung to your curves and ended high on your thighs. The thin straps left your shoulders bare, and the low back dipped dangerously close to the curve of your ass. Heeseung had complimented you endlessly in the car, his hand sliding up your leg the whole ride. But the moment you stepped onto the rooftop, your eyes found Sunghoon across the crowd.

He looked devastating. Black button-up shirt with the top few buttons undone, revealing the sharp lines of his collarbones and the beginning of his toned chest. Tailored black pants that hugged his long legs and narrow waist. His dark hair was styled messily, falling over his sharp eyes. Sooha wasn’t there, she’d texted the group earlier saying she felt sick and was staying home. Heeseung, oblivious as ever, spotted Jay and Jake almost immediately and gave your waist a quick squeeze. “I’ll be back in a bit, baby. They want to talk about the new choreography.” He kissed your cheek and disappeared into a group of guys near the bar.

You were alone, and Sunghoon noticed. The tension started immediately.

You felt his gaze like a physical touch the second you walked toward the open bar. When you turned to order a drink, a strong soju cocktail with peach, he was already watching you from a few meters away, leaning against a high table with a glass in his hand. His eyes dragged slowly down your body: lingering on the way the silk hugged your breasts, the exposed skin of your thighs, the way your hips swayed when you walked. You met his stare boldly, heart racing, and took a long sip. The alcohol burned pleasantly down your throat.

For the next hour, it was a game of stolen glances and near-misses.

You danced with some girlfriends on the makeshift dance floor, laughing as you moved your hips to the rhythm. But every time you turned or dipped low, you felt him. Sunghoon stayed on the edge of the crowd, talking to a few guys, but his attention never left you. You caught him staring at your ass when you bent slightly to adjust your heel. His jaw clenched. When you licked a drop of drink from your lower lip, his eyes darkened.

You grew tipsy. Then drunk. The cocktails hit harder than expected, warmth spreading through your veins, loosening your limbs, making your skin feel hypersensitive. Your cheeks flushed. Your pussy already felt warm and slick just from the weight of his gaze.

Heeseung was still deep in conversation with Jay and Jake on the far side of the rooftop, laughing loudly, safe, distracted.

Sunghoon finally moved closer during a slower song. You were at the bar getting another drink when he appeared beside you, ordering a whiskey. His arm brushed yours. The contact sent electricity shooting through your body.

“Looking dangerous tonight,” he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear. His breath ghosted over your bare shoulder.

You turned your head, lips parted. “You’re one to talk.”

Your eyes locked. The air between you crackled. For a moment, it felt like the rest of the party disappeared. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, watching your chest rise and fall. You pressed your thighs together, already feeling yourself getting wet.

The night blurred deliciously after that.

You danced again, this time with a mixed group. Sunghoon joined casually, keeping a safe distance at first. But the music grew slower, more sensual. Bodies moved closer. You swayed your hips, feeling the alcohol make you bold. Every time you turned, your eyes met his. He watched the way your dress rode up your thighs. You watched the way his shirt stretched across his broad shoulders when he moved.

Another song, you danced near him, shoulders brushed, then hips. He smelled like whiskey and that familiar cologne that used to drive you crazy, your head felt light, body hot.

Finally, the moment broke. A slow, heavy R&B track started playing. The kind that made people grind without shame. Most of the group had paired off or were lost in their own conversations. Heeseung was still occupied. Sunghoon stepped behind you without a word.

You didn’t resist. His tall frame pressed against your back as you both started swaying to the music. Your ass nestled perfectly against his crotch. Even through the layers of fabric, you could feel him, already semi-hard, thickening rapidly as you moved together.

“Fuck…” he breathed against your ear, so quietly it was almost lost in the music.

His hands settled on your hips at first, guiding you. The dance was filthy. You rolled your body against him, grinding slowly, deliberately. His cock grew fully hard, long and thick, pressing right between your ass cheeks through his pants. You bit your lip to hold back a moan.

The crowd around you was drunk and distracted. No one was paying attention to the exes dancing far too intimately. Sunghoon grew bolder.

One of his hands trailed down your side, fingers brushing the hem of your short dress. He leaned his head down, lips grazing the side of your neck. Not quite kissing, just hot breath and the faintest brush of his mouth. Your skin erupted in goosebumps.

“You’re driving me insane,” he whispered, voice rough with lust. “Been hard since I saw you in this dress.”

You pushed back against him harder, feeling his cock throb. “Then do something about it.”

His hand slipped lower. While your bodies continued swaying sensually to the slow beat, your ass grinding in slow circles against his erection, his fingers crept under the hem of your dress from behind. The rooftop was dimly lit here, and his tall frame mostly shielded you.

He found the edge of your tiny black lace panties. You were soaked. Dripping. His middle finger traced the wet fabric covering your pussy, pressing lightly against your swollen folds through the lace.

You gasped softly, knees weakening.

Sunghoon’s lips finally pressed against your neck, open-mouthed, hot and wet. He sucked gently, then harder, teeth grazing your skin as his finger pushed the lace aside. The pad of his long finger slid directly along your slick pussy lips, parting them, collecting your arousal.

“Shit, you’re drenched,” he groaned quietly against your neck, voice vibrating through you. “This pussy still gets this wet for me?”

You nodded frantically, biting back moans as you kept swaying with him, pretending it was just a dance. His cock was rock-hard, grinding slowly against your ass in time with the music.

He pushed one thick finger inside you without warning. Your walls clenched around it instantly, sucking him deeper. The wet sound was faint but filthy under the music. He added a second finger, stretching you, curling them perfectly against that spot he knew so well.

His mouth worked on your neck, kissing, licking, sucking hard enough to leave marks you’d have to hide later. His free hand gripped your hip tightly, holding you against him as he fingered you deeper, faster. His palm rubbed against your clit with every thrust of his fingers.

You were trembling. Pleasure built rapidly, hot and overwhelming. Your juices coated his hand, dripping down his wrist. The silk of your dress bunched up further. Anyone looking closely might have seen, but the risk only made it hotter. “Sunghoon…” you whimpered under your breath.

He bit your earlobe. “Missed this tight little cunt. Missed how you fall apart for me.”

His fingers pumped faster, curling relentlessly. The heel of his hand ground against your swollen clit. Your orgasm crashed into you without mercy, hard, sudden, devastating. Your pussy spasmed violently around his fingers, gushing slick arousal down his hand and onto your thighs. You moaned softly, body shaking as he held you upright, still swaying slowly to the music like nothing was happening.

He didn’t stop. He kept fingering you through it, drawing out every wave until your legs felt like jelly. When it finally subsided, he slowly withdrew his fingers, bringing them up to his mouth behind you. You heard him suck them clean with a low, satisfied groan.

The song ended. You turned in his arms, flushed, breathing hard, eyes glassy with lust and alcohol. His eyes were nearly black with desire, lips parted, chest rising fast. His cock was straining obscenely against his pants. Neither of you spoke. The tension had finally snapped.

You both knew this was only the beginning of the night.

The song faded out, but the heat between you didn’t. Your legs were still shaky from the orgasm he’d just pulled from you on the dance floor. Sunghoon’s chest was pressed flush against your back, his breath hot against your ear as he spoke in a low, rough whisper.

“We need to go somewhere private. Right now.” His voice was strained with barely contained lust. “Before I bend you over in front of everyone.”

You didn’t even hesitate. The alcohol and adrenaline made you bold. You gave him the smallest nod, and he immediately took your hand, guiding you through the crowd with purposeful strides. Heeseung was still laughing with Jay and Jake near the bar, completely unaware. Sooha was safe at home. No one noticed as the two of you slipped inside the luxurious indoor section of the venue.

The bathroom was a single, spacious unisex room, dimly lit, marble counters, a large mirror above the sink. The second the door clicked shut and locked, all restraint vanished.

Sunghoon was on you instantly. He spun you around and pulled your back flush against his chest, positioning both of you in front of the mirror. Your eyes met in the reflection, his dark and feral, yours glassy and desperate. His hands were rough with urgency as he yanked the hem of your short burgundy dress up over your hips in one swift motion, bunching the silk around your waist.

“Fuck,” he growled, staring at your reflection. Your tiny black lace panties were soaked through, the fabric clinging obscenely to your swollen pussy lips.

His right hand slid down immediately, fingers slipping under the waistband of your panties. Two long, thick fingers dragged through your slick folds, parting them, coating themselves in your wetness. He pressed them against your clit first, rubbing slow, firm circles that made your hips jerk.

A broken moan spilled from your lips. “Ah—Sunghoon…”

He relished it. His eyes darkened further in the mirror as he watched your face contort in pleasure. “That’s it. Let me hear you moan for me again.”

He pushed those two fingers deep inside you without warning, burying them to the knuckle in your dripping heat. Your walls clenched hard around the intrusion, still sensitive from the earlier orgasm on the dance floor. He curled them instantly, stroking that perfect spot he knew better than anyone.

Your head fell back against his shoulder, another loud moan escaping you. The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers pumping into your soaked pussy filled the bathroom.

Your hands moved behind you with frantic need. You palmed the massive bulge straining against his tailored pants, feeling how hard and hot he was. Sunghoon hissed sharply as you squeezed him through the fabric. With trembling fingers, you tugged his zipper down, reaching inside to pull his thick cock out.

He was rock hard, veins pulsing, the head already glistening with precum. The familiar weight and girth made your mouth water. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking from base to tip in long, firm pumps exactly the way he liked it.

“Shit—yes,” he groaned, hips bucking into your fist. His fingers fucked you harder, faster, plunging in and out while his palm rubbed relentlessly against your clit. The mirror gave you both a perfect view of everything, your flushed face, your tits nearly spilling out of your dress, his hand disappearing between your thighs, your smaller hand working his cock desperately.

You pumped him faster, twisting your wrist at the head, spreading his precum down his shaft. Every time you squeezed him, his fingers would thrust deeper into you, like a filthy feedback loop. Your moans mixed with his low grunts.

“Look at yourself,” he demanded, voice hoarse. His free hand came up to grip your jaw, forcing you to watch your reflection. “Look how fucking desperate you are for me. Dripping all over my fingers while your boyfriend’s right outside.”

The words only made you wetter. You whimpered loudly, stroking him quicker, feeling his cock throb and twitch in your hand. His fingers curled and scissored inside you, stretching you open, hitting that spot over and over until your thighs started shaking.

You were both lost in it, driven by pure, pent-up lust. The sound of his fingers plunging into your creamy pussy mixed with the slick sound of your hand jerking his cock. Your juices were dripping down his wrist and onto the marble floor.

“I’m gonna—fuck, Sunghoon—I’m close again,” you gasped, eyes half-lidded in the mirror.

He leaned down, biting the side of your neck hard as his fingers sped up. “Cum for me, baby. Cum all over my fingers like the dirty little slut you are for your ex.”

Your orgasm hit you like a freight train.

Your mouth fell open in a silent scream, then a loud, broken moan tore from your throat as your pussy clenched violently around his fingers, gushing slick arousal all over his hand. Your knees buckled, but he held you up, still fucking you through it with his fingers while you frantically stroked his cock.

Sunghoon groaned deeply, hips stuttering as your orgasm pushed him over the edge too. Thick ropes of cum shot from his cock, spilling over your hand and onto the sink counter as he came hard. For a few long seconds, the only sounds were heavy breathing and the faint bass of the music outside.

You both stared at each other in the mirror, flushed, messy, and still hungry.

This wasn’t going to end here. The bathroom air was thick with the scent of sex, your arousal and his cum. You were both still panting, staring at each other through the mirror. Sunghoon’s fingers were still buried inside you, lazily stroking through the aftershocks while your hand was covered in his release.

Without a word, you slowly turned around and sank to your knees on the cool marble floor in front of him. His cock was still hard, glistening with cum and your spit from earlier strokes. You looked up at him with hazy, lust-drunk eyes as you wrapped your fingers around the base.

You leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his swollen tip, tasting the salty remnants of his orgasm. Sunghoon’s breath hitched sharply, one hand immediately threading into your hair.

“Fuck… you’re really gonna do this?” he rasped, voice wrecked.

You answered by parting your lips and taking him into your mouth. You sucked on the head first, swirling your tongue around it, cleaning every drop of cum. Then you sank deeper, relaxing your throat to take as much of his thick length as you could. The familiar stretch of your lips around him made you moan around his cock.

Sunghoon groaned loudly, hips twitching. “That’s it… just like that, baby.”

You bobbed your head, sucking him eagerly, hollowing your cheeks. Your hand worked what you couldn’t fit in your mouth, stroking him in time with your movements. The wet, sloppy sounds echoed obscenely in the bathroom as you deepthroated him again and again, eyes watering, spit dripping down your chin.

He watched you through the mirror above, the sight of you on your knees in that tiny burgundy dress driving him crazy. His grip tightened in your hair as he started fucking your throat gently.

“Missed this pretty mouth so fucking much,” he growled.

You moaned around him, the vibration making his thighs tense. You could feel him throbbing against your tongue, growing even harder. His breathing turned ragged.

“Shit—I’m gonna cum again—”

You didn’t pull away. You took him as deep as possible, looking up at him with teary eyes. Sunghoon cursed loudly as he came down your throat, thick spurts of hot cum shooting straight into your stomach. You swallowed every drop, milking him until he was shuddering and oversensitive.

He pulled you up roughly by your arms and spun you around, bending you over the marble sink. Your hands braced against the counter, eyes locked on your own reflection, flushed face, swollen lips, messy hair. Sunghoon yanked your dress up again and ripped your soaked panties down your thighs in one motion.

He rubbed his still-hard cock between your dripping folds, teasing your entrance. Then he pushed in, one long, powerful thrust and he buried himself to the hilt inside you.

Both of you moaned loudly at the same time. “Oh my god! Sunghoon…” you cried out, the stretch overwhelming after so long apart.

“Fuck—your pussy… still so tight,” he groaned through gritted teeth, eyes squeezed shut for a moment. The feeling of your warm, velvety walls clenching around him made his knees weak. “I missed this so fucking bad.”

He gave you only a second to adjust before he started moving, deep, hard strokes that slammed into you with every thrust. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the bathroom as he fucked you against the sink. Your tits bounced heavily inside your dress with every powerful snap of his hips.

Sunghoon reached around and yanked the front of your dress down, letting your breasts spill free. His large hands immediately grabbed them, squeezing and kneading roughly just like he used to. His fingers pinched and rolled your sensitive nipples, tugging them as he pounded into you harder.

“Look in the mirror,” he demanded, voice low and filthy. “Watch how I’m fucking you.”

You obeyed, eyes glazed with pleasure as you watched his reflection. His sharp jaw was clenched, dark eyes burning into yours through the glass. One hand stayed on your tit, playing with it possessively, while the other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise.

He fucked you relentlessly, cock dragging against every sweet spot inside you. The angle had him hitting so deep you felt him in your stomach. Your moans were loud and broken, impossible to hold back.

“Sunghoon—ahh—fuck, you’re so deep—”

He leaned over you, biting your shoulder as he played with your tits and slammed into you. “This pussy is mine. Always been mine.”

The pleasure built fast and brutal. Your second orgasm ripped through you without warning, your walls fluttering and clenching around his cock like a vice. You cried out his name as you came, juices dripping down your thighs.

The feeling pushed Sunghoon over the edge right after you.

With a deep, guttural groan, he buried himself as deep as possible and came hard inside you. Thick ropes of cum flooded your pussy, filling you up completely. He kept thrusting through it, pushing his load deeper, claiming you in the most primal way.

For a long moment, you both stayed like that, his cock still buried inside you, his hands still groping your tits, both of you breathing heavily as you stared at each other in the mirror.

Reality slowly crept back in. Heeseung was somewhere outside. Sooha was waiting at home. But neither of you could bring yourselves to care yet. Sunghoon pressed a messy kiss to the back of your neck, still twitching inside your cum-filled pussy.

“We’re not done tonight,” he whispered darkly. “Not even close.”

No, hell, in your experience, smelled like salt in the air and expensive sunscreen. Like sun-warmed pavement and blooming jasmine climbing over white-painted fences. Like the ocean sitting just close enough to hear from your bedroom window, taunting you with the promise of peace you were never actually going to get.

Hell smelled like summer in Jeju Island. And unfortunately, you had just arrived.

You stood in the driveway of your family’s beach house with your sunglasses sliding down your nose and your patience already clinically deceased, staring at the towering white house like it had personally offended you. Which, honestly, it had. The place looked like every rich family’s Pinterest board had thrown up on it, ivy curling around stone walls, floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the blinding afternoon sun, hydrangeas blooming obnoxiously blue along the front walk.

Beautiful. Expensive. Full of memories you preferred not to examine too closely. Your mother stepped out of the car behind you with the kind of energy only women with fresh manicures and vacation plans possessed.

“Don’t just stand there,” she said, already fishing her oversized sunhat from her tote bag. “Help your father with the luggage.” 

You adjusted your sunglasses and gave the house one last deeply unimpressed look. “I’m considering simply walking into the ocean instead.”

From somewhere near the trunk, your father sighed. “And every year, you make the same joke.”

“Because every year, the ocean remains an option.”

Your mother clicked her tongue, the universal sound of maternal disappointment, and handed you two bags anyway. “Be dramatic later. We’re already late for dinner at the club tonight.”

Of course you were. Summer in Jeju Island wasn’t really summer. It was a social performance with a beachfront view. Three months of yacht parties, country club dinners, charity galas disguised as drinking events, and the same old-money families pretending they didn’t all know each other’s scandals already. Everyone here had grown up together, gone to the same private schools, kissed the same people, ruined each other’s lives in aesthetically pleasing ways. It was beautiful. It was exhausting.

It was home, in the most unfortunate sense of the word.

You hauled your bag up the front steps, pushing the door open with your shoulder. The familiar coolness of the house greeted you immediately, air conditioning and polished wood and lemon-scented cleaning products. Somewhere upstairs, your childhood room waited exactly as you’d left it last August, probably still holding the ghosts of every bad decision you’d made between seventeen and twenty-two. A charming thought. 

You dropped your bags by the staircase and wandered toward the kitchen, where your mother was already directing the opening of windows and the placement of flowers like she was staging a home magazine shoot.

She looked over her shoulder at you. “And before I forget,” she said, in the dangerously casual tone mothers used right before ruining your day, “be nice to the Lees this summer.”

You stopped mid-reach for the lemonade pitcher. Slowly, you turned. “Excuse me?”

“The Lees,” she repeated, as if she hadn’t just spoken your personal curse into existence. “We’re having them over next weekend, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t start any unnecessary arguments.”

You stared at her. There was a long, silent moment in which your soul quietly left your body and floated somewhere over the Atlantic. Then, “I’d like it officially noted,” you said, setting the pitcher down with great dignity, “that I never start the arguments.”

Your mother gave you a look. You gave her one back. She won. “You absolutely do.”

“I finish them beautifully,” you corrected. “That’s different.”

She sighed, turning back to her flowers. “Just behave. Especially with Heeseung.” And there it was. The name. The final nail in the coffin. Lee Heeseung. Your lifelong enemy. Your annual migraine. The human embodiment of every smug text message left on read.

Next door. Living, unfortunately.

You leaned against the kitchen counter and closed your eyes for one brief moment, like maybe if you didn’t move, the universe would take pity on you and reverse time. It did not. Because of course he was here. He was always here.

Every summer since childhood had come with three guarantees: humidity, your mother’s obsession with hosting dinners, and Lee Heeseung existing entirely too close to your personal space. Your families had been friends forever, which meant your lives had been annoyingly, inescapably intertwined since before either of you had enough common sense to avoid each other.

There were photos somewhere, horrifying evidence, of the two of you as children on the same beach, him with scraped knees and you with a missing front tooth, already looking like you were one wrong comment away from attempted murder.

Some things, apparently, were timeless. As teenagers, it had only gotten worse. He’d grown into his face in the kind of unfair way that should’ve required government intervention, too handsome, too charming, too aware of both. The kind of boy adults loved and girls wrote bad poetry about. Golden boy energy in expensive linen. Meanwhile, you had perfected the art of making eye contact while verbally destroying someone. Naturally, you got along terribly.

Every summer had become its own tradition of verbal warfare, stolen drinks at parties, arguments on docks at midnight, insults dressed up as flirting and flirting disguised as threats. There had been one almost-kiss when you were nineteen, drunk and angry and standing far too close on his parents’ balcony.

Neither of you had ever mentioned it again. Civilization had survived. Barely. Your mother was still talking. “His mother mentioned he got back last week.”

Wonderful. Fantastic. Thrilling.“Did she also mention if he’s developed the ability to shut up?” you asked.

“She mentioned he’s doing very well.” Of course he was. Lee Heeseung was always doing very well. He probably woke up looking expensive and emotionally unavailable. You poured yourself a glass of lemonade with the gravity of someone preparing for battle.

“Great. I can’t wait to not care.”

Your mother pointed a flower stem at you. “I mean it. No fighting.”

You took a sip. “With all due respect, mother, if Lee Heeseung and I stop fighting, one of us has probably died.”

From the front yard came the low sound of a car door shutting. Then another. Your father’s voice drifted in from outside, greeting someone. Your mother brightened instantly. “Oh! Perfect timing.”

No. Absolutely not. You set the glass down very, very slowly. “No,” you said. She smiled the smile of a woman who had already decided your fate.

“Yes. Go say hello.” You looked toward the window like it might offer an emergency exit. Sunlight poured across the garden. Beyond the hydrangeas and white fencing sat the neighboring house, just as grand, just as obnoxiously perfect. And somewhere in that orbit of privilege and poor decision-making was Heeseung. Back for another summer. Meaning your peace, your dignity, and probably your better judgment had all officially expired.

You inhaled once. Exhaled. Straightened your sunglasses like armor. “Well,” you muttered, heading for the door, “welcome back to hell.”

The universe, unfortunately, had a sense of humor. Because the second you stepped out onto the front porch, armed with sunglasses, a bad attitude, and the vague hope that maybe your father had been greeting the mailman instead of your greatest seasonal inconvenience, you saw him.

Leaning against the hood of his car like he’d been placed there by an overly confident romance novelist. Of course. Of course Lee Heeseung would make an entrance by simply existing in expensive sunlight.

His car was obnoxious. Sleek, black, expensive enough to probably have its own trust fund. It sat in the driveway of the house next door like a personal insult, gleaming under the late afternoon sun while he leaned against it with all the irritating ease of a man who had never once struggled to be liked. White linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Dark sunglasses pushed back into his hair. Skin already carrying the kind of summer tan people paid money to fake.

And that smirk. That stupid, smug, entirely too familiar smirk. Your father was by the front gate, already deep in conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Lee, who were as lovely as ever, warm, elegant, and somehow still producing that man without demanding an apology from the universe.

Mrs. Lee spotted you first. “Oh, there she is!” There was genuine affection in her voice, which made this all worse. You pasted on your best socially acceptable smile and walked down the steps with the slow, resigned grace of someone approaching their own execution.

Mrs. Lee kissed your cheek, your mother appeared from somewhere behind you like she’d been waiting for this exact moment, and within seconds both sets of parents were exchanging the usual summer pleasantries.

How was the drive?How long are you staying?You’ve gotten so grown up.We must have dinner together soon.

The rich-people mating dance. You answered where necessary, smiled where required, and tried very hard not to look to your left. Naturally, you failed. Because Heeseung was looking directly at you. Still leaning there. Still smirking. Like he’d been waiting for this. You crossed your arms instinctively. He pushed himself off the car. Slowly. Like a villain with excellent posture. Then, with the audacity of a man untouched by divine punishment, he looked you over once, head to toe, unhurried, deeply annoying, and said, “Missed me?”

You stared at him. There were many possible responses. Most of them involved violence. Your mother, standing three feet away, would probably object to murder in broad daylight, so you settled for a look sharp enough to qualify as attempted manslaughter. “I was actually having a wonderful day,” you said, “but thanks for asking.”

His mouth twitched. Your father laughed because traitors lived everywhere. Heeseung slid his hands into his pockets, infuriatingly calm. “Good. I’d hate to ruin your summer that quickly.”

“Please,” you said sweetly. “You ruin my summer just by continuing to exist.”

Mrs. Lee sighed in the fond, exhausted way of a woman who had witnessed this dance for over a decade. “See? Exactly the same.”

“Worse, actually,” you said.

“At least she admits she thinks about me,” Heeseung replied.

You inhaled. Exhaled. Decided prison orange would not flatter you. Your mother gave you a warning glance over the rim of her sunglasses, the universal signal for ‘do not embarrass me in front of the neighbors’. You smiled tightly. Heeseung smiled back like he was enjoying this far too much. He was. He always did. That was the problem.

From the outside, the two of you probably looked like some kind of old-Hollywood screwball romance, beautiful people exchanging insults in linen by the sea. From the inside, it felt more like mutual destruction with excellent lighting. Mr. Lee was discussing the yacht club renovation with your father now, and the adults had drifted slightly toward the garden, leaving just enough space for danger.

You turned toward him, lowering your voice. “If you’re planning to spend this summer being extra unbearable, I’d appreciate a warning so I can emotionally prepare.”

He leaned slightly closer, sunglasses hiding his eyes but not the amusement written all over his face. “Emotionally prepare?” he repeated. “You? I thought your whole thing was pretending not to have emotions.”

You scoffed. “My whole thing is surviving despite your presence.”

“Cute.”

“Don’t call me cute.”

“I didn’t. I said your delusion was cute.” There it was. The familiar rhythm. Effortless. Annoying. Dangerous in the way old habits always were.

You hated how easy it was to fall back into it, like no time had passed at all. Like last summer hadn’t ended with the two of you arguing on the marina docks at two in the morning, both too stubborn to say whatever actually needed saying. Like the almost-kiss years ago had never happened. Like your pulse didn’t do something deeply embarrassing every time he stepped too close.

You adjusted your sunglasses and took one deliberate step back. “Try not to get hit by a yacht this summer, Heeseung. It would create paperwork.”

He grinned. “There she is. I was worried college made you soft.” You smiled back, bright and false and weaponized. “And I was hoping maturity had found you. Shame we’re both disappointed.”

Mrs. Lee called his name from the garden before he could answer, and for one brief, shining moment, you experienced peace. He glanced toward his parents, then back at you. That smirk again. Like he knew something you didn’t. Which was unacceptable. “See you around, neighbor.”

You folded your arms tighter. “Threatening me already?”

“Just making promises.” God, you hated him. Truly. Deeply. Artistically. He turned then, walking back toward his parents with the lazy confidence of someone who had never once doubted the world would make room for him. Mrs. Lee adjusted his collar as he passed, and he let her, smiling in that easy, golden-boy way that made adults adore him and should have been scientifically illegal.

Spawn of the devil. Your father was still laughing at something Mr. Lee had said. Betrayal, everywhere. A few more polite goodbyes later, the Lees disappeared back into their perfectly landscaped kingdom next door, and you stood in the driveway watching Heeseung disappear behind the white fence like a storm cloud in designer sunglasses.

Your mother touched your arm. “You could at least pretend to be nicer.”

“I was radiant with charm.”

“You looked like you were planning arson.”

“That was charm.” She sighed, already turning back toward the house. Inside, the air was cool again, but your mood had fully committed to violence. You followed her to the kitchen, where she resumed unpacking with suspicious calm, the calm of someone about to ruin your evening.

You should have known. “By the way,” she said casually, arranging lemons in a bowl like a woman with no regard for her daughter’s suffering, “we’re having dinner with the Lees on Saturday.”

You stopped. “No.”

She didn’t even look up. “Yes.”

“Cancel.”

“No.”

“Fake your death.”

She placed the final lemon down and finally turned to face you. “Be serious.”

“I am serious. I’m willing to help stage it.” Your mother smiled in the dangerous way mothers did when they’d already won. “Saturday. Seven o’clock. Try not to start a war before dessert.”

You stared at her. At the lemons. At the kitchen. At the universe. Somewhere next door, Lee Heeseung was probably alive and smug. And now there would be dinner. Shared wine. Forced politeness. His knee probably brushing yours under the table just to ruin your life.

Your villain origin story, apparently, came with a seafood course. You picked up your abandoned lemonade and took a long sip like it contained stronger coping mechanisms. Summer had officially begun.

Tuesday arrived the way summer days in Jeju Island always did, slowly, lazily, like the sun itself had nowhere better to be.

By ten in the morning, the entire town had already settled into its usual rhythm. Tennis whites at the country club. Mothers with iced coffees and expensive sunglasses pretending not to gossip. Men in linen shirts discussing boats like they were discussing national policy. Teenagers and college kids spilling toward the beach in swimsuits and bad intentions. Everything here moved with the polished ease of old money and old habits. You hated how easy it was to slip back into it. There was something dangerous about returning to a place that remembered every version of you.

The boardwalk still creaked in the same places. The little café near the marina still sold iced vanilla lattes overpriced enough to count as emotional damage. The beach still stretched golden and endless, all warm sand and glittering water and sun-drunk afternoons that made bad decisions feel like destiny instead of stupidity.

Summer here had a way of convincing people they were invincible. It was probably responsible for at least seventy percent of your mistakes. By afternoon, you’d decided your mother’s constant rearranging of flowers and reminders about Saturday dinner were enough to qualify as psychological warfare, so you escaped. You packed a beach tote with the seriousness of a military operation, sunscreen, sunglasses, a bottle of water, your newest hardcover, lip gloss, and the kind of bikini your mother would call unnecessary and your best friend would call revenge.

Then you walked the familiar path down to the shore. The beach behind the summer houses was quieter than the public side near the clubs and restaurants. Less crowded. More private. A stretch of pale sand bordered by dunes and sea grass, where the houses sat like silent judges overlooking the ocean. This part belonged to families like yours and the Lees, generational wealth and carefully curated summer traditions.

It also meant escape was limited. Still, the ocean was worth it. The salt-heavy breeze hit first, warm and familiar against your skin. Then the sound, the endless hush and crash of waves folding into shore, gulls overhead, distant laughter carried by the wind. You slipped your sandals off and let the sand burn briefly against your feet before finding your usual spot. Far enough from the water to keep your book safe. Close enough to hear the tide.

Perfect.

You spread your towel out, dropped your bag beside it, and stretched out on your back like a woman personally committed to becoming one with summer. Sunlight soaked into your skin almost instantly, warm and golden and heavy in that way only coastal afternoons could be. Your bikini was barely enough fabric to qualify as clothing, but that was the point. Tiny black straps against sun-kissed skin, sunglasses shielding your eyes, a paperback novel open against your stomach.

Peace. Actual peace. No dinner invitations. No passive-aggressive mothers. No Lee Heeseung. Just heat and salt and the kind of silence that felt earned. You read for a while, though read was a generous term for occasionally turning a page while mostly listening to the ocean and contemplating whether adulthood could be legally postponed forever. The book was good. The sun was better.

A few familiar faces passed along the shore, neighbors, old classmates, people you’d known your whole life in the vague, privileged way beach towns operated. There were waves, smiles, the occasional “welcome back,” but no one lingered. Exactly how you liked it. At some point, you must have drifted halfway to sleep, caught in that hazy summer state where time stopped mattering. The sun had shifted warmer against your shoulders. The edges of your book blurred. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed.

Then a shadow fell across you. Immediately, your soul knew. Without even opening your eyes, you sighed. Deeply. Spiritually. Like a woman who had seen the face of God and found it disappointing. “No.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, “That’s not very neighborly.” Of course. You opened one eye. And there he was. Lee Heeseung, standing over your towel like some sort of beautifully dressed natural disaster. Shirtless, because apparently humility was not part of his summer wardrobe. Swim trunks slung low on his hips, sunglasses on, skin bronzed by the sun like he’d been handcrafted by someone with a personal vendetta against your patience.

Water still clung to his shoulders, droplets sliding slowly down his chest like the universe itself was trying to make your life harder. Annoying. Extremely annoying. You closed your eye again. “If I ignore you long enough,” you said, “will you evaporate?”

“I think that only works on your personality.” You considered throwing your book at him. It was hardcover. Tempting. Instead, you shifted onto one elbow and looked up at him over your sunglasses. “Don’t you have a yacht to crash or someone else to emotionally inconvenience?”

He grinned, infuriatingly pleased with himself, and sat down uninvited at the edge of your towel like personal boundaries were a concept he’d heard of once and rejected on principle. “I was swimming.”

“I can see that. Congratulations on your ability to enter water.”

“Thank you. I worked very hard.”

You stared at him. He stared back. There was something uniquely exhausting about Heeseung’s presence, like he moved through the world assuming everything, and everyone, would make room for him. And worse, they usually did. He looked out toward the ocean, arms resting loosely over his knees. For a second, with the sunlight catching against his skin and the sea stretching endlessly behind him, he looked less like your lifelong enemy and more like one of those postcard summers people spent the rest of their lives trying to recreate.

Which was dangerous. You hated when he looked cinematic. It made being annoyed significantly less efficient. “You’re ruining my peaceful beach solitude,” you informed him.

“I noticed. You seemed too happy.”

“I wasn’t happy. I was tolerating existence.”

“Even worse.”

You let your book fall shut against your lap. “This is exactly why people warn me about you.” He tilted his head.

“No, they warn people about you. I’m universally beloved.”

You scoffed. “By mothers and women with no standards.”

“And yet here you are, talking to me in a bikini.”

You sat up fully. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was here first.”

“Mm. Territorial.”

“Get off my towel.”

He laughed then, low and easy, carried by the wind and the waves, and it did something profoundly irritating to your bloodstream. That laugh had been the soundtrack to half your summers. Bonfires at sixteen. Pool parties at eighteen. Drunken arguments on docks at twenty. Memory was a cruel thing. You stood abruptly.

Enough. Absolutely enough. If you stayed any longer, you’d either drown him or make eye contact for too long, and both options felt equally dangerous. With the sharp efficiency of someone preserving her dignity by force, you started packing your things. Your book went into your tote. Sunscreen. Water bottle. Sunglasses pushed into your hair.

Heeseung leaned back on his hands, watching the whole performance with zero remorse. “Leaving already?”

“Yes.”

“Because of me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

A pause. Then, truthfully: “Yes.” His smile widened. You hated how much he enjoyed winning tiny wars. You shoved your sandals on and slung your bag over your shoulder, glaring down at him with all the righteous fury of a woman denied a peaceful tanning session. “You are genuinely the most irritating person I have ever met.”

He looked up at you, sunlight in his hair, smirk already waiting. “And yet you keep coming back every summer.” You opened your mouth. Closed it. Because unfortunately, he had a point, and you refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing that aloud. Instead, you gave him one last glare sharp enough to qualify as a formal threat and turned toward home.

The walk back felt warmer somehow, the sun heavier against your skin, sand clinging to your ankles. Behind you, his laughter followed, soft at first, then clearer as the wind carried it over the shoreline. Infuriating. Familiar. Summer itself, if summer had a god complex and perfect teeth. You didn’t look back. But you could still hear him. And somehow, that felt worse.

Saturday arrived wrapped in sunlight and bad intentions. By six in the evening, the entire house smelled like citrus candles, your mother’s perfume, and the kind of expensive stress that came with hosting, or in this case, being hosted by, the Lees. The sun was beginning its slow descent over the water, pouring honey-colored light through the bedroom windows and turning everything soft and golden in a way that made even impending social torture look romantic.

Outside, Jeju Island was in full performance mode. The streets near the coast glowed with polished summer wealth, convertibles pulling into curved driveways, tennis bracelets catching the light, champagne already being chilled somewhere on a yacht that absolutely did not need to exist. The ocean breeze drifted in through the cracked windows carrying salt, jasmine, and the faint sounds of someone laughing too loudly three houses down.

Everything looked beautiful. Which was unfortunate, because beauty made suffering feel theatrical. You stood in the middle of your bedroom surrounded by what looked like the aftermath of a small fashion war. Dresses across the bed. Shoes abandoned like casualties. A hairbrush on the floor. Three rejected outfit options hanging from your closet door like public executions.

And in your hands, your salvation. An oversized gray hoodie. Soft. Reliable. Emotionally supportive. The kind of hoodie that said I do not wish to be perceived. Perfect. You pulled it over your head with the solemnity of a woman entering battle. It swallowed you immediately, sleeves too long, hem brushing your thighs, the entire look somewhere between off-duty model and suspicious raccoon. You stared at yourself in the mirror.

Excellent. If all went according to plan, the Lees would assume you were a drifter who had wandered in from the beach and politely ask you to leave before appetizers. Peace at last. Your mother entered without knocking, because privacy was apparently a concept reserved for only the elites. She stopped in the doorway.

Looked at you. Looked at the hoodie. Looked back at you. Silence. Long enough to be considered legally threatening. “No,” she said.

You folded your arms. “Counterpoint: yes.”

“No.”

“This is fashion.”

“This is a cry for help.”

You turned back to the mirror, adjusting the hood with dramatic precision. “I’m cultivating mystery. They’ll be intrigued.”

“They’ll think I forgot to raise you.”

“Honestly, that might buy me sympathy.”

Your mother crossed the room with the terrifying calm of a woman who had already made her decision three minutes ago. From behind her back, like a magician revealing the final trick, she produced a dress. Yellow. Of course it was yellow, why? Because, summer, darling. Not soft yellow. Not subtle yellow. The kind of rich, golden, sunlight yellow that looked like it belonged in a movie where everyone had unresolved feelings and excellent cheekbones.

A sleek sundress. Fitted enough to be dangerous, effortless enough to pretend it wasn’t. You narrowed your eyes. “No.”

“Yes.”

“It looks like optimism.”

“It looks like summer.”

“It looks like a setup.”

She held it up against you with complete disregard for your emotional well-being. “It looks like you clean up beautifully.” There it was. The betrayal. Because that was exactly the problem. You knew the dress looked good. That made it worse. Wearing the dress meant effort. Effort meant possibility. Possibility meant Lee Heeseung seeing you in a dress that suggested maybe, potentially, under the right atmospheric conditions, you had once been nice to someone.

Unacceptable. You stepped back. “I would rather be hit by a jet ski.”

“Wonderful. You can wear this to the hospital afterward.”

“Mother.”

She sighed, setting the dress on the bed like a final verdict. “You are not wearing that hoodie to dinner with the Lees. Mrs. Lee adores you, your father is already pretending this evening will be civilized, and I refuse to let my daughter look like she escaped from a beach bonfire.” You looked at the hoodie. The hoodie looked back. A fallen soldier. Somewhere in the distance, a gull cried out over the ocean like it, too, understood your suffering.

You flopped backward onto the bed with all the grace of a dying Victorian heroine. “This is oppression.”

“This is dinner.”

“There’s seafood involved. That makes it worse.”

Your mother sat beside you, smoothing a wrinkle from the yellow dress. For a moment, the teasing slipped into something softer. “You’ve been doing this with him for years,” she said.

You stared at the ceiling. “Doing what?” She gave you a look, not sharp, not smug, just the tired wisdom of a woman who had watched two stubborn people circle each other for too long.

“This one. The fighting. The pretending.” You groaned dramatically and threw an arm over your face. “If this conversation ends with you calling him charming, I’m moving to another country.”

She laughed then, quiet and warm. “I’m just saying… maybe try not to make tonight a battlefield.” Too late. The battlefield had excellent landscaping and probably a wine pairing. Still, after she left, the room felt quieter. The golden light had shifted lower now, stretching long shadows across the floorboards. From your window, you could see the neighboring house through the trees, white walls glowing in the sunset, lights beginning to flicker on, elegant and smug and entirely too close.

Somewhere over there was Heeseung. Probably looking expensive. Probably being annoying. Probably existing with that stupid face. You hated that your first instinct was to wonder what he’d be wearing. Probably linen. Men like him were always in linen, like they were personally sponsored by summer. With a sigh heavy enough to qualify as literature, you sat up and stared at the yellow dress again. It stared back, victorious.

Fine. Fine. You changed. And, because the universe enjoyed humiliation as a hobby, your mother was right. The dress fit like it had been designed specifically to ruin your peace. Thin straps, bare shoulders, the kind of silhouette that looked effortless and absolutely was not. Against sun-kissed skin, the yellow made you look like you belonged in this town, like expensive mistakes and beautiful bad decisions.

You hated it immediately. Mostly because you looked good. You stood in front of the mirror, turning once, suspicious. Like maybe if you stared hard enough, you’d find a flaw large enough to justify changing back into the hoodie. There wasn’t one. Traitorous fabric. You added gold hoops, minimal makeup, lip gloss sharp enough to count as a weapon, and tried very hard not to think about why any of this mattered.

It didn’t. Obviously. You were dressing for yourself. And if Lee Heeseung happened to see you and suffer emotionally, that was simply community service. Downstairs, your father was already waiting by the door with car keys and the resigned expression of a man who knew he was escorting two women into battle and had chosen survival over commentary. He looked up when you descended the stairs. Paused. Smiled. “Well,” he said, “you look expensive.”

You picked up your clutch. “I plan to act accordingly.” Your mother beamed like she’d personally invented beauty. You refused to acknowledge this. Outside, the evening had turned warm and velvet-soft, the sky streaked pink and gold over the ocean. The walk next door was barely two minutes, just enough time for dread to fully settle in.

The Lee house stood glowing at the end of the path, every window lit, laughter already drifting from inside. Dinner. Wine. Politeness. Heeseung. You inhaled slowly as your father reached for the front gate. Summer, apparently, had decided subtle suffering wasn’t enough. It wanted dinner and a show. The Lee house always looked like it belonged in a magazine spread titled People With Better Lives Than You.

White stone, warm lights spilling from enormous windows, ivy climbing tastefully up the walls like even the plants here had trust funds. The front garden smelled like jasmine and sea air and whatever expensive candle Mrs. Lee probably had burning somewhere inside. Everything about it radiated polished wealth and the kind of family dinners where people said things like summering abroad.

You hated how nice it was. You hated even more that you’d spent half your childhood here. Birthday dinners. Pool parties. Christmases once, before everyone got too busy and too grown up for normal traditions. There were memories tucked into every corner of this place, most of them involving some version of you losing an argument to Lee Heeseung and plotting revenge by dessert.

Tonight, unfortunately, promised tradition. Mrs. Lee opened the door before you could even knock, all elegance and warmth in a silk dress the color of champagne. “There you are!” She kissed your cheek before you had time to prepare emotionally. “Look at you,” she said, holding you at arm’s length. “Absolutely gorgeous.” From behind you, your mother made the smug little sound of victory.

You chose to ignore it. “You say that now,” you said, stepping inside, “but let’s revisit after I inevitably insult someone over seafood.”

Mrs. Lee laughed like she always did, like your bad attitude was somehow charming instead of hereditary. “Nonsense. We’re all family here.” That was the problem. The foyer opened into soft golden light and polished wood floors, the low hum of conversation drifting in from the dining room. Somewhere, glasses clinked. Somewhere else, your father and Mr. Lee were already discussing something expensive and unnecessary, probably boats.

You slipped off your sandals and stepped inside, the familiar warmth of the house wrapping around you. And then, of course, there he was. Lee Heeseung, leaning against the archway to the living room like he’d been strategically placed there for maximum irritation.

Black button-down this time, sleeves rolled, top buttons undone just enough to be a public health concern. Dark slacks. Watch glinting at his wrist. Hair slightly messy in that suspiciously intentional way attractive men got away with. He looked like summer trouble dressed in designer clothing. Annoying. Extremely annoying.

His gaze found you immediately. Paused. And for one dangerous second, he said nothing. Just looked. Slowly. Unhurriedly. Like the room had gone quiet around it. It started at your feet, moved upward, and landed finally on your face with something unreadable flickering behind his expression. Not smug. Worse. Appreciative. You wanted to throw yourself directly into the ocean. Instead, you smiled sweetly, the kind of smile that had ruined lesser men.

“Try not to look too shocked. I know basic hygiene is a surprise.”

His mouth twitched. “There she is,” he said, voice low and easy. “I was worried the dress had made you nice.”

Your mother, traitor that she was, immediately linked arms with Mrs. Lee. “Oh, perfect,” she said. “You two can catch up while we finish setting the table.”

No. Absolutely not. You opened your mouth. “No—” Too late. The parents had already vanished with the terrifying efficiency of adults who believed proximity solved everything. Your father gave you a look on the way out, the kind that said ‘behave’, and disappeared toward the kitchen like a man abandoning a sinking ship.

And suddenly, it was just the two of you. Silence. Not awkward. Worse. Familiar. The kind of silence built over years of unfinished conversations and too much history. You crossed your arms. He mirrored nothing, which somehow made it more annoying. In your deeply correct and entirely unbiased opinion, “catching up” with Lee Heeseung translated loosely to trying to have a normal conversation without committing a felony.

A challenge, certainly. You managed three words. “Well. You’re alive.” He nodded thoughtfully.

“Still devastatingly handsome too, thanks for noticing.”

You sighed. “This is why people drink before family dinners.”

“And yet you came sober. Brave.”

You were preparing a truly excellent insult, something elegant, devastating, probably Pulitzer-worthy, when Mrs. Lee’s voice floated in from the dining room. “Dinner!” Saved by seafood. You gave him one final look. “Don’t make me regret this.”

He stepped aside, one hand gesturing toward the dining room like some smug Regency villain. “No promises.”

The dining room looked exactly like every old-money summer dinner should. Long table, linen napkins, candles despite it still being warm outside. Too many wine glasses for any morally responsible evening. French doors stood open to the back patio where the ocean breeze drifted in soft and salted, carrying the sound of waves somewhere beyond the dunes. Sunset had bled fully into evening now, the sky darkening violet over the water.

Everything felt cinematic. Which was rude, considering your mood. Seats were assigned by parental conspiracy, obviously. You discovered yours and stopped. Heeseung. Right next to you. Naturally. Mrs. Lee smiled far too innocently. “I thought it would be nice.” It would not. It absolutely would not. But protesting would only make it worse, so you sat with the grace of a woman choosing violence internally. Heeseung took the seat beside you, looking entirely too pleased with the universe.

Across the table, your mother was already discussing someone’s daughter getting engaged. Your father had wine. Mr. Lee had opinions about coastal property values. Everyone settled into conversation with the practiced ease of people who had done this for decades. And somehow, despite all of it, your entire awareness kept narrowing to the person sitting six inches to your right.

His knee brushed yours under the table. Lightly. Accidental. Probably. You froze for exactly half a second. Then refused to acknowledge it because dignity still mattered. You reached for your water. His hand reached for the bread basket. Fingers brushed. Again. This time, definitely not accidental. You turned your head. He was already looking at you. Calm. Composed. Infuriating.

Like he hadn’t just weaponized table manners. You smiled without showing teeth. “If you’re trying to start something over dinner rolls, I’d like you to know that’s a deeply embarrassing way to die.”

His expression remained perfectly neutral as he handed you the basket. “I’m just being polite.”

“Suspicious already.” 

Across from you, Mrs. Lee sighed fondly. “You two are exactly the same.”

You and Heeseung answered at the same time. “Absolutely not.” Everyone laughed. You considered faking your death. Dinner continued in that dangerous, glittering way summer dinners did, wine poured generously, stories repeated beautifully, everyone glowing a little softer in candlelight. Your parents kept bringing up old memories.

That camping trip when you were thirteen. The sailing lessons disaster. The time Heeseung pushed you into the pool and you threw his phone into the ocean. Mrs. Lee was still mad about that one. You maintained it had been justified. Everyone treated the two of you like old friends. Like there had always been affection under the arguments.

Like this was charming instead of mutually assured destruction. It was infuriating. Because they weren’t wrong. That was the worse part. Every now and then, while someone else talked, you’d catch him looking at you. Not casually. Not the usual teasing glance. Longer. Quieter. Like he was trying to remember something. Or decide something. Too much. Entirely too much.

You focused on your wine. On your fork. Your plate. Literally anything else. But awareness sat there anyway, warm and sharp and impossible to ignore. The yellow dress suddenly felt like a mistake. The ocean breeze moved through the open doors. Candles flickered. Someone laughed at the far end of the table. And beside you, Lee Heeseung leaned back in his chair, looking unfairly good in soft light and expensive black clothing, like every bad decision summer had ever offered.

You hated him. Probably. Mostly. Which was becoming, very inconveniently, less convincing by the second. 

By the time dinner ended, the sky had softened into that strange in-between hour where everything looked prettier than it had any right to. The table was abandoned in stages, wine glasses left half-full, dessert plates forgotten, your father and Mr. Lee still arguing about boats like it was a blood sport. Mrs. Lee and your mother disappeared into the kitchen with the kind of determined energy that suggested they were about to wash dishes neither of them had touched all evening.

Which left the younger generation exactly where summer always did. Outside. Near water. With alcohol. And poor judgment. Someone, probably Jay, because it always felt like a Jay decision, had suggested a beach fire, and within twenty minutes everyone had drifted down toward the private stretch of shoreline behind the houses like it was instinct.

It kind of was. This was what summers here were made of. Bonfires and old friends. Salt in your hair. Music from someone’s phone speaker. Drinks passed around without anyone asking whose they were. The beach at night felt different than it did during the day. Softer somehow. Less polished. The tide rolled in slow and silver under the moonlight, waves folding quietly against the shore while the bonfire crackled warm against the cooling night air. Sand clung to bare ankles, the fire throwing gold over familiar faces.

It made everyone look younger. Closer to the versions of yourselves that had first started all this. Sunoo arrived first, carrying drinks and looking like downtown Cove had personally appointed him its stylish representative. Sharp grin, prettier than most women, and already prepared to be everyone’s problem. “Look who survived dinner,” he said dramatically when he spotted you. “I was taking bets.”

“You should’ve bet against me,” you said, taking the drink he offered. “I nearly drowned in polite conversation.”

“Tragic. And in that dress too. What a loss.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Jay called from where he and Sunghoon were attempting to set up folding chairs in the sand with all the competence of men raised by money.

Jay looked exactly the same as always: clean-cut, expensive taste, and permanently carrying himself like he was five minutes away from judging someone’s life choices. Which, to be fair, he usually was. Sunghoon stood beside him, all cool quiet and expensive silence, somehow managing to look elegant while losing a fight against a beach chair.

Some people were simply born unfair. From farther down the shore came the sound of laughter, bright and familiar, and then Eunchae appeared with Yunjin and Yoonchae trailing behind her, all of them carrying the kind of chaotic energy that guaranteed tonight would end with at least one regrettable decision. Eunchae saw you first and immediately pointed.

“There she is! The woman of the hour.” You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds like a threat.”

“It is,” Yunjin said cheerfully, pulling you into a quick hug. “We’ve heard about dinner. We’re here for details.”

“There are no details.”

“There are always details,” Yoonchae said.

And then, because the universe had apparently decided your suffering needed an audience, Lee Heeseung arrived. Late, naturally. Walking down the path from the houses with his sleeves rolled and his hands in his pockets like he was entering a film scene instead of a beach fire. The ocean breeze moved through his hair, and for one deeply annoying second, every girl within a ten-foot radius visibly remembered he was attractive.

Including you. Unfortunately. Sunoo, traitor that he was, smirked immediately. “And there’s the other half of our favorite summer divorce.”

“Please,” you said. “I’d need to marry him first, and I do have standards.” Heeseung dropped into the sand beside the fire like he belonged there, which, annoyingly, he did, and looked at you over the rim of the beer Jay handed him. “She says that now. Give it ten years.”

“In ten years, I’ll still be filing restraining orders.”

“Romantic,” Yunjin sighed. Everyone laughed. That was the problem with old friends, they remembered too much. This group had grown up together in fragments. Family dinners, yacht parties, beach bonfires at sixteen, too many summers collapsing into one long memory of sunburns and terrible choices. They’d all witnessed the evolution of whatever it was between you and Heeseung. Which meant they were insufferable about it. Sunoo stretched out dramatically in the sand.

“I still think you two should just get married and save us all time.”

Sunghoon, staring into the fire like a philosopher trapped in a luxury campaign, added, “At this point, it would actually be less dramatic.”

Jay nodded once. “Financially, it makes sense.”

You looked around the circle. “I need better friends.”

“No,” Eunchae said, grinning, “you need to admit you’ve been flirting through mutual destruction for like eight years.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “That is an incredibly rude accusation.”

Heeseung took a sip of his drink, far too calm. “She’s right.” 

You turned toward him so fast it nearly counted as whiplash. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged. “You’re meaner when you like someone.”

Sunoo made the loudest, most disrespectful sound of delight known to man. “Oh my god, we’re finally saying it.”

“We are saying nothing,” you snapped.

Yunjin leaned forward, eyes glittering. “Should we bring up the balcony incident?”

Absolutely not. You pointed at her. “If you value our friendship, you’ll choose silence.” Too late.

Eunchae gasped dramatically. “Oh my god, the almost-kiss.” And there it was. Like a match dropped into gasoline. The balcony incident. Nineteen years old. One of Jay’s stupid summer parties. Too much champagne. Too much moonlight. Too much unresolved tension and a stupidly beautiful balcony overlooking the ocean. You and Heeseung had been alone for exactly seven minutes before an argument turned into standing too close, then silence, then that terrible suspended second where both people know exactly what’s about to happen.

You’d almost kissed. Almost. Then someone had opened the balcony door, reality had returned, and both of you had spent the next three years pretending it never happened. Civilization had survived. Barely. Around the fire, everyone looked delighted. You wanted the ocean to take you.

“It was not an almost-kiss,” you said with dignity.

“It absolutely was,” Sunoo replied.

“There was tension,” Yoonchae added.

“There was eye contact,” Eunchae said.

“There was champagne,” Yunjin said solemnly.

Jay, like a judge delivering sentence, finished: “That counts.”

You looked to Heeseung for support. A mistake. Because he’d gone strangely quiet. Not smug. Not teasing. Quiet. His gaze stayed on the fire, beer loose in his hand, jaw set just enough for you to notice because unfortunately, after years of knowing someone, you learned the small things. Interesting. Very interesting. You tilted your head slightly. He wasn’t embarrassed.

If anything, he looked… annoyed. Or thoughtful. Like the memory had landed somewhere deeper than expected. That was new. Usually, Heeseung met chaos with amusement. He was good at pretending nothing mattered. But now, under the firelight, with everyone laughing around him and the ocean dark behind you, he looked still. You watched him for a second too long. Then he glanced up. Caught you.

And just like that, the moment snapped. His expression shifted back into something easier. Familiar. Dangerous. He smirked. You rolled your eyes so hard it should’ve caused medical concern and took another drink. The conversation moved on, someone brought up an old yacht party disaster involving Sunghoon and a very expensive pair of loafers, Sunoo started a dramatic retelling of his brief and toxic relationship with a bartender from last summer, Eunchae laughed so hard she nearly fell backward into the sand.

The night folded around you, warm and nostalgic and too easy. This was the trap of summer. It made everything feel survivable. Even him. By the time the fire burned lower and people started drifting home, the moon sat high over the water and the beach had gone quiet again. You walked back alone, sandals in one hand, the other curled around your phone.

The sand was cool now under your feet. Waves whispered against the shore. Somewhere behind you, someone was still laughing. Your dress smelled like smoke. Your hair smelled like salt. And despite yourself, your mind kept circling back to one thing. That silence. The balcony. The firelight. The way Heeseung had gone quiet.

Interesting. You were still thinking about it when your phone buzzed in your hand. A text. You stopped walking. Looked down. Of course.

Heeseung

A single message.

Heeseung: still thinking about that balcony, or are you finally admitting i almost won?

You stared at the screen. There it was. The beginning of every bad idea. You should ignore it. You absolutely should. Instead, standing barefoot under the moonlight with the ocean at your back and your better judgment somewhere drowning offshore, you smiled. And typed back.

You: won what? you almost passed out from cheap champagne. history remembers the truth.

Three dots appeared almost instantly. Danger, apparently, texted first. 

The following week was suspicious. Not in any dramatic, life-altering way. No scandals. No yacht crashes. No accidental engagements announced over brunch. Just… suspicious. Because you were happy. Unreasonably, offensively happy. The kind of happy that made people around you uncomfortable, like spotting a shark in shallow water and realizing it was smiling.

It started subtly. You slept better. You stopped glaring at sunlight like it had personally betrayed you. You let your mother drag you to the farmer’s market on Wednesday morning and only complained twice, which she later described to your father in the same tone people used for religious miracles. By Thursday, you had laughed, genuinely laughed, at something Mrs. Lee said over iced coffee, and your mother had nearly dropped a peach. “Are you ill?” she asked immediately.

You looked up from your sunglasses. “Deeply, but unrelated.”

She narrowed her eyes. “No, seriously. You’ve been… cheerful.” The accusation hung between you. Cheerful. As if she’d caught you committing tax fraud. You leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping your coffee with all the dignity of a woman being unfairly persecuted.

“I’m always cheerful.”

She gave you a look so flat it could’ve ironed shirts. “Last week you called a seagull a personal enemy.”

“It knew what it did.”

Your father, reading the paper at the table, lowered it just enough to contribute, “You also threatened the blender.”

“It started first.” He nodded thoughtfully and returned to the business section. Traitor. The truth was harder to explain. There was no grand reason for it. No cinematic revelation. No dramatic confession under moonlight. Just summer. The beach. The sun. Late-night fires. Salt in your hair. And texts. That was the real problem. Because after the bonfire, Heeseung had texted again. And then again. Nothing serious. Nothing dangerous enough to name. Just stupid things.

A picture of the terrible coffee from the marina café with the caption: thought of you and your bad taste

A midnight text that only said: are you still pretending you didn’t almost kiss me first

A blurry photo of Sunoo asleep on a yacht chair: proof he can be quiet

And every single time, against your better judgment and your carefully cultivated reputation for emotional self-preservation, you replied. Sometimes immediately. Sometimes after twenty strategic minutes. Because dignity mattered. Still, the effect had been catastrophic. You were smiling at your phone now. In public. Like a woman with no survival instincts.

On Friday afternoon, your mother found you standing in the garden staring at the hydrangeas like you were in a coming-of-age film. You were holding one bloom gently between your fingers, sunlight warm on your shoulders, genuinely appreciating how ridiculous and beautiful summer looked here.

She stopped on the patio, and squinted, then called into the house, “Honey, come outside. I think our daughter has been replaced.”

You rolled your eyes. “Please. If I were replaced, the imposter would be nicer.”

“Exactly my concern.” Unfortunately, your brief and scandalous flirtation with floral appreciation ended there. The hydrangea wilted two days later. Probably out of sheer terror. Even worse, people noticed. Everyone noticed. Sunoo, after seeing you smile at your phone during lunch, gasped like a Victorian widow and clutched his chest. “Oh my god. She’s in love.”

You nearly threw your drink at him. “I’m blocking you.”

“Denial. Classic.”

“It’s called boundaries.”

“It’s called a crush.” Across the table, Heeseung said absolutely nothing. Which, somehow, was worse, because lately, he’d been watching you. Not constantly, not obviously, just enough, across dinner tables, from the beach, leaning against his car while pretending not to. Curious. Like he’d noticed the shift and hadn’t decided what to do with it yet, like he was waiting.

On Sunday, you passed him outside while coming back from the beach, still warm from the sun, tote bag over your shoulder, skin glowing with the kind of happiness you were trying very hard not to examine too closely. And for reasons still unknown to science, you smiled at him. Not your usual sharp smile, not sarcastic, not weaponized. Bright, easy, and real.

It happened before you could stop it. For one glorious second, Lee Heeseung looked genuinely startled. Actually startled. He stopped mid-step, eyebrows lifting like his brain had temporarily lost signal. He didn’t smile back, just looked at you with that unreadable expression and one slightly raised brow, like he was trying to solve a puzzle and deeply suspicious of the answer.

You kept walking, because stopping would imply weakness. But halfway up your front steps, you could still feel it, that look, and somewhere behind you, you just knew he was still standing there, watching. Interesting. Very, very dangerous.

By Friday night, the entire town had collectively decided to be beautiful. You could feel it in the air. Summer in Jeju Island had a rhythm to it, and bonfire nights sat somewhere near the top of the food chain, just beneath yacht parties and just above making terrible decisions in someone else’s kitchen at two in the morning. The beach changed on nights like this.

During the day, it belonged to families and sunscreen and children building sandcastles with inherited wealth. But at night, especially on Fridays, it belonged to people your age. To music drifting over the dunes. To bottles hidden badly in tote bags. To girls in tiny dresses and boys pretending they weren’t trying too hard. Bonfire nights were for performance. And if there was one thing you respected, it was committing to a bit. You stood in your bedroom with your closet doors thrown open and the kind of focus usually reserved for military strategy.

Your bed was covered in options. Black satin. White linen. Something red Yoonchae once described as “emotionally irresponsible.” You were considering that one. Because tonight wasn’t just any bonfire. Tonight, everyone would be there. Which meant he would be there. And while you were a mature, evolved woman who absolutely did not make outfit decisions based on Lee Heeseung’s potential suffering, you were also not a liar. You pulled the red dress off its hanger. Short, silk, and worst of all, backless. The kind of dress that looked like bad decisions and expensive apologies. Perfect. 

You slipped it on slowly, watching yourself in the mirror as the fabric settled against your skin like it had been waiting for this exact moment. It clung where it should, skimmed where it mattered, and left just enough to imagination to make imagination work overtime. Dangerous. Excellent. You added gold jewelry because subtlety was for people with less interesting lives. Glossed lips. Soft waves in your hair. Perfume that smelled like jasmine and poor choices.

Then heels. Not practical for the beach. That was beside the point. When you walked downstairs, your father was on the couch pretending to read and your mother was rearranging flowers for sport. Both looked up. Your father blinked once. Then lowered his book. “Should I be concerned?”

“Always,” you said.

Your mother smiled like she was watching an expensive revenge plot unfold in real time. “Where exactly are you going dressed like that?”

You picked up your clutch. “To remind people to mind their business.”

Your father muttered something about raising a supervillain. Your mother kissed your cheek on the way out and whispered, “Be safe.” Which, translated from mother-language, meant: Don’t get arrested. Don’t set anything on fire. Try not to ruin anyone’s son permanently. No promises.

The walk to the beach felt cinematic. Warm night air against bare skin. The sound of waves pulling at the shore. Music already carrying from farther down the sand, bass soft and distant beneath the ocean. The moon hung low and bright over the water, silver against black waves. Firelight flickered somewhere ahead. And by the time you stepped over the dunes and onto the shore, every head turned. Good. Let them. There was power in being seen and knowing exactly what they were seeing. Sunoo, standing near the cooler with a drink in one hand and judgment in the other, spotted you first.

He froze dramatically. Then placed a hand over his heart. “Oh,” he said. “She came to kill.” “Someone has to keep standards alive.”

He looked you up and down with the solemn respect of a man appreciating art. “That dress should come with legal paperwork.”

“Excellent. I’m hoping for emotional damages.” Eunchae appeared next, immediately grabbing your arm. “No, seriously, turn around. I need to hate you properly.” You did, because generosity mattered. She groaned. “I’m ending our friendship.”

“Understandable.” Yunjin, from beside the fire, raised her drink toward you. “Whatever crime you commit tonight, I support you.”

“Thank you. That means a lot.” The bonfire itself was already in full swing. Someone had dragged out chairs no one was using. Music played low from a speaker half-buried in someone’s beach bag. Jay and Sunghoon were debating something useless near the waterline with the seriousness of men discussing world peace instead of tequila brands. People moved in loose circles, laughing, drinking, pretending not to stare at each other. Summer. Beautiful and a little stupid.

And then, like a sixth sense specifically designed to inconvenience you, you felt it. That look, across the fire, Heeseung. He stood with Jay near the cooler, beer in hand, black shirt rolled at the sleeves, looking like he’d walked straight out of an ad for poor decisions. The firelight caught against the sharp line of his jaw, the glint of his watch, the expression on his face, which, for one deeply satisfying second, was surprise. Real surprise.

His eyes landed on you and stayed there. Paused. Moved once, slow and deliberate, like he was trying very hard not to react and failing in private. He noticed, immediately, of course he did. You smiled, not at him, but in his direction, which was somehow worse, and turned your attention elsewhere. Because if you were going to weaponize beauty tonight, subtlety would only dilute the effect.

His name was Minjae, which you remembered mostly because he’d tried to kiss Yunjin two summers ago and gotten publicly roasted for it. Harmless. Pretty enough. From one of the families near the marina. More importantly, available. He approached with exactly the kind of confidence men borrowed from expensive watches. “Well,” he said, smiling as he stepped closer, “you’re either trying to ruin someone’s life tonight or start a small war.”

You took the drink he offered. “Can’t it be both?” He laughed, leaning in just enough to suggest intention. And from the corner of your eye, there, heeseung watching, not openly, but enough. His posture had changed, slightly stiffer, beer untouched, expression neutral in the way men got when they were trying very hard not to look like they wanted to commit a felony. Interesting. Very interesting.

You smiled brighter. Poor Minjae. A perfectly nice civilian about to become collateral damage. “You clean up well,” he said. “I usually do.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Have you?” The conversation was easy, almost too easy. Light touches. Leaning closer. The practiced dance of summer flirting where no one meant too much and everyone pretended otherwise, and the entire time, you could feel it.

That awareness from across the fire. Sharp, and steady. Heeseung. You laughed a little louder than necessary. Touched Minjae’s arm. Tilted your head just enough. Purely for scientific purposes. Across the beach, Sunoo noticed first, because gossip was basically his cardio.

He looked from you to Heeseung and nearly ascended. “Oh,” he whispered to no one and everyone. “Oh, this is delicious.”

Jay followed his line of sight and physically winced. “Someone should probably stop this.”

Sunghoon, wise as ever, took a sip of his drink and said, “No.” Correct. Absolutely no one should stop this. Because now Heeseung was walking over. Slowly. Calmly. Which was infinitely more dangerous than if he’d looked angry. He moved like someone with a purpose. Like the ocean itself had personally requested violence. Minjae was still talking. Something about boats. You had no idea. Because Heeseung stopped beside you, close enough for the smell of expensive cologne and sea air to ruin your peace.

And said, casually, too casually, “Didn’t know you liked boring men.” Silence. Beautiful. Terrible. Immediate. Minjae blinked. You took a slow sip of your drink. Turned your head. Looked directly at him. And smiled.

Oh. This was going to be fun. Minjae, to his credit, had enough self-preservation instincts to realize when he’d accidentally wandered into someone else’s war. He looked between you and Heeseung, your too-sweet smile, Heeseung’s dangerously calm expression, and gave the kind of laugh people used when backing away from wild animals.

“Well,” he said, lifting his drink slightly, “I’m suddenly remembering I promised Sunoo I’d help him with… something.” Sunoo, across the fire, yelled, “I did not—” Too late. Minjae was already retreating into the night, leaving you alone with the problem. Which was standing far too close and looking far too pleased with himself. You turned slowly, crossing your arms.

“Did you just scare off my entertainment?”

Heeseung took a sip of his beer like he hadn’t committed a social crime. “If your entertainment starts explaining boat engines, I’m doing you a favor.”

“I was having a lovely time.”

“No, you were being annoying on purpose.” You placed a hand dramatically over your heart. “And here I thought I was subtle.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and the amusement thinned just enough to let something sharper through. “That’s the problem.” The fire crackled behind you. Somewhere farther down the beach, someone shouted over the music. Laughter carried on the wind.

But here, in the small space between you and him, everything had gone quieter. You tilted your head. “What exactly is the problem, Lee?” His jaw shifted. That tiny thing he did when he was trying not to say too much. Dangerous.

“You always do this.” You blinked once, deliberately. “Do what?” He stepped closer. Not enough for touching. Enough for trouble. “Act like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.” There it was. Not a joke. Not banter. Something real enough to make your pulse trip over itself. You should’ve backed up. You didn’t. Instead, you smiled, that slow, sharp smile you used when you were either about to win or about to ruin your own life.

“And what exactly am I doing?” He let out one quiet laugh, humorless. “Seriously?”

“Very.” His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. Mistake. Terrible, catastrophic mistake. Because suddenly the entire night rearranged itself around that single glance. The firelight. The ocean. The red dress. His voice lower now, rougher around the edges.

“You flirt with people you don’t care about,” he said. “You get that look on your face when you’re trying to prove something. And then you wait to see who notices.” Your heartbeat was officially embarrassing. You folded your arms tighter, mostly so he wouldn’t notice.

“And you noticed.” He didn’t answer immediately. Which was answer enough. The moonlight silvered the edges of everything, the shoreline, the glass in his hand, the expression he was trying and failing to keep neutral. You swallowed. Slowly. “Sounds like a you problem.” His mouth twitched.

“Probably.” There it was again, that unbearable thing between you, stretched tight as wire. Years of almosts. Arguments that had never really been about arguments. Every summer version of yourselves layered on top of each other until neither of you knew where the joke ended and the truth began. You could still remember the balcony. Nineteen. Champagne. His hand on the railing beside yours. That second where everything had almost changed.

You wondered if he was thinking about it too. You suspected he was. Because now he was closer. And now you could smell the ocean on his skin, something expensive underneath it, and the very specific danger of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. You should absolutely leave. Instead, because self-destruction was apparently hereditary, you said softly, “You’re jealous.”

His expression sharpened. “Don’t flatter yourself.” “Too late.” “You think this is funny.”

“No,” you said. “I think you’re jealous, and I think you hate that I noticed.” He stepped in once more. Enough that your breath caught. Enough that the entire world narrowed. “Careful.”

“Or what?” Your voice came out quieter than intended. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His gaze dropped again, slower this time, and when he spoke, it was barely above the sound of the waves. “Or you’ll say something you can’t take back.” Silence. The dangerous kind. You could hear your own breathing. The ocean behind him. Someone laughing far away, in another universe where people made good choices. Here, there was only this. His hand brushing your bare arm as he shifted. Your pulse in your throat. The ridiculous certainty that if either of you moved half an inch, the entire summer would split open.

You thought, this is it. Finally. At last. And then, “OH MY GOD, THERE YOU TWO ARE.” Eunchae. Of course. She appeared like divine punishment in platform sandals, carrying two drinks and absolutely no sense of timing. You jumped back so fast it should’ve counted as cardio. Heeseung looked like he might walk directly into the ocean. Eunchae stopped. Looked between you. The space. The tension. The crime scene. And grinned like the devil herself.

“Wow,” she said. “I almost feel bad interrupting whatever deeply repressed thing was happening here.” “Don’t,” you said immediately.

“Never,” Heeseung muttered at the exact same time. She handed you a drink with the smugness of a woman collecting evidence. “Cute. Anyway, Sunoo is taking bets on whether you two make out before August.”

You took the drink because murder was illegal. “Tell Sunoo I hope he loses money.”

“Oh, he definitely won’t.” She skipped away before either of you could respond, leaving behind chaos and the lingering smell of coconut perfume. Silence again. But ruined now. Worse, somehow. Because now both of you knew. Not the joke. Not the performance. The actual thing underneath it. And once you knew that, pretending got harder. You stared out at the water. He stared at the fire. Neither of you said anything. Eventually, as the night thinned and people started leaving in groups of laughter and half-finished conversations, it became painfully obvious that your usual ride home had abandoned you in favor of some post-party food run.

Which left, “Get in.” You stood beside Heeseung’s car, clutching your shoes in one hand and your pride in the other. “No.” He unlocked the passenger door without looking at you. “Yes.” “I’d rather walk.”

“It’s two miles.”

“I’m resilient.”

“You’re dramatic.”

You narrowed your eyes. He opened the door wider. “Get in.” And because the universe hated you, you did. The drive home was quiet. Not awkward. Worse. The kind of silence that knew too much. The windows were down, warm night air rushing through the car, carrying salt and smoke and the last traces of summer bonfire on your skin. Your heels sat abandoned on the floor. Your red dress still smelled like fire.

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console, expression unreadable in the passing streetlights. You looked out the window because looking at him felt like volunteering for emotional damage. Neither of you mentioned the almost-kiss. Neither of you mentioned anything. When he pulled into your driveway, the house was dark, your parents already asleep.

For one second, neither of you moved. Then you reached for the door. At the same time, his hand shifted. Your fingers brushed. Just barely. Warm. Accidental. Or maybe not. You froze. So did he. And for one stupid, suspended second, it felt like the whole world was holding its breath again. Then you pulled your hand back. Too fast. “Goodnight,” you said. Too quiet. He nodded once.

“Night.” You got out. Walked to the front door. Did not look back. But you could feel him there, still sitting in the driveway, engine running, watching until you got inside. And later, long after the house had gone still and the ocean whispered somewhere beyond your window, you lay awake staring at the ceiling. Wide awake. Heart traitorous. Mind worse. Because now you knew. And so did he. Nobody slept.

The next few days were a masterclass in mutual psychological damage. Not dramatic damage. Worse. Polite damage. The kind where nothing happened and somehow everything did. You didn’t fight. That was the first sign something had gone horribly wrong. No sarcastic remarks over morning coffee. No pointed comments when passing each other near the beach path. No weaponized flirting in front of your parents. No smug little “morning, neighbor” from across the driveway.

Nothing. Just awkward, terrible silence. You’d see him and immediately become fascinated by literally anything else. The mailbox. A cloud. The concept of sand. Anything but eye contact. Because eye contact implied remembering. And remembering implied the bonfire. The almost-kiss. The car ride. His hand brushing yours like the universe personally wanted you to suffer. No, thank you. You were suddenly the busiest woman alive. If he was at the beach, you were tragically needed elsewhere.

If he was by the marina, you had urgent business in the opposite direction. If he was leaning against his stupid car looking like a rich-boy problem in linen, you turned around. Dignity first. Unfortunately, subtlety had never survived around your families. By Wednesday morning, Mrs. Lee noticed. Of course she did. That woman could detect emotional tension like a bloodhound. You were outside watering your mother’s increasingly judgmental hydrangeas, a task you’d been assigned after the tragic and suspicious death of the previous one, when it happened.

The sun was already warm, the kind of bright coastal morning that made everything look too innocent. Birds chirping. Ocean breeze drifting through the hedges. A peaceful suburban scene. Lies. Across the white fence separating your houses, Mrs. Lee stood on her patio with a basket of laundry and the sharp, narrowed gaze of a woman putting pieces together. You should’ve run. Instead, you smiled weakly.

Mistake. Because at that exact moment, Heeseung stepped outside. Coffee in one hand. Sunglasses. Half-awake and offensively attractive. He looked toward you automatically. You looked anywhere else so fast it nearly caused whiplash. Silence. A beat. Then, Mrs. Lee gasped.

Not a small gasp. A full-body gasp. The kind that meant family history was about to be rewritten. She turned toward her son so fast the laundry basket nearly died for it. “Lee Heeseung!” He stopped mid-sip. Already tired. “Mom, what.”

Her hand flew dramatically toward your side of the fence like she was presenting evidence in court. “What did you do to Y/N?” From your yard, you froze. The watering can continued pouring directly onto your foot. Fantastic. Heeseung blinked. “Mom, what do you mean?” “She isn’t looking you in the eyes!”

Across two properties and approximately three decades of neighborhood gossip, your soul left your body. “Mrs. Lee—” you tried weakly. She was unstoppable. “Do not Mrs. Lee me. I raised you both. I know things.”

Heeseung rubbed a hand down his face. “Mom—” Her eyes widened. Her voice rose. “Did you finally have sex?” Silence. Birds stopped singing. The ocean itself paused. From somewhere inside your house, your father definitely dropped something. And then, Mrs. Lee, with the volume of a woman chosen by God for this exact purpose: “DON’T TELL ME SHE CAN’T LOOK AT YOU BECAUSE SHE KNOWS WHAT YOUR DICK LOOKS LIKE—”

“MOM!”

“Mrs. Lee!” You. Heeseung. Probably the entire coastline. At that point, survival instincts kicked in. You dropped the watering can. Actually dropped it. Water everywhere. Dignity nowhere. And then you ran. Not walked. Not gracefully retreated. Ran. Straight through the back door, up the kitchen steps, past your mother, who was holding coffee and looked far too entertained, and directly into the sanctuary of your bedroom like a Victorian woman fleeing scandal.

Your heart was trying to leave your chest. Your cheeks were on fire. You pressed both hands to your face and groaned into the universe. This was it. This was how you died. Not dramatically. Not beautifully. Killed by secondhand embarrassment and one very loud mother. Worse, far, far worse, you were blushing. Blushing. For a man currently being publicly lectured about sex on a Wednesday morning.

Humiliating. Absolutely unforgivable. Your mother knocked once on your door and entered anyway, because privacy remained a myth. She took one look at you face-down on the bed and smiled like a woman watching reality television. “Well,” she said, setting her coffee down, “that clears some things up.”

“Please leave me here to decompose.”

“I’d love to, but dinner is in two hours.”

Cruelty. Pure cruelty. Later that afternoon, once the heat of your humiliation had cooled from catastrophic to survivable, you made the dangerous mistake of leaving the house. Just a quick walk, you told yourself. Fresh air. Emotional recovery. Absolutely no Heeseung. The universe laughed. Because halfway down the lane near the beach path, there he was. Of course. Standing beneath the shade of the jacaranda trees like some handsome curse. You stopped. He stopped.

For one horrible second, neither of you moved. Then you made the deeply strategic decision to simply walk faster. Ignore. Evade. Survive. Unfortunately, Lee Heeseung had longer legs and audacity. “Y/N.” His voice behind you made your spine straighten. You kept walking. Badly. “Y/N.” Closer now. You stopped because running twice in one day felt like poor character development. Slowly, with all the grace of someone approaching public execution, you turned.

He stood there looking… weirdly nervous. Interesting. Suspicious. Your cheeks immediately remembered this morning and attempted betrayal. No. Absolutely not. You stared at a point somewhere near his left shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you blurted. Fast. Too fast. Like the words had tripped over each other trying to escape.

“For the thing. Earlier. Your mom. I mean—not your mom, obviously she’s lovely, but the yelling and the—” you gestured vaguely at existence “—everything. Sorry.” Excellent. Elegant. A true masterclass in social recovery. You were already preparing to evaporate when he stepped forward and stopped you. Not dramatically. Just enough. A hand lightly catching your wrist. Warm. Immediate regret. “Y/N.” You looked up instinctively. And there it was. Eye contact. Actual, dangerous eye contact. For one second, all the confidence he usually wore like expensive cologne just… vanished. Gone. He blinked once. Twice. And then— “I—uh.”

You stared. Heeseung Lee. Golden boy. Professional menace. Smooth-talking devil of Jeju Island. Stuttering. You would treasure this forever. He cleared his throat. “Sunoo wanted me to give you this.” He shoved a folded paper into your hand like it had personally offended him. “An invite. For Friday. He’s doing some thing—well, not some thing, it’s a party, obviously, and he said if I forgot, he’d kill me, so—” He kept talking. Rambling, actually.

Words continuing in increasingly unnecessary detail while you stood there holding the paper, blinking. Because now he was nervous. Actually nervous. And somehow that was worse. Far worse. You grabbed the invitation. Nodded once. And, choosing self-preservation above all else, turned and walked away at a speed just barely pretending not to be fleeing. Fast. Very fast.

Behind you, his voice stopped. Silence. Then, a soft scoff. Followed by a quiet chuckle, carried lightly by the ocean breeze. You didn’t turn around. Absolutely not. But you could feel it anyway. Him standing there. Watching you speed-walk your dignity down the lane. And annoyingly, your heart was still beating too fast. Friday night arrived heavy with heat.

The kind of heat that sat low against your skin and made the entire town feel slower, softer, dangerous in ways daylight never was. By nine, the sky over Jeju Island had gone ink-dark, the moon hanging pale over the water, and the beach had transformed again into its usual summer ritual, music spilling over the dunes, bonfires burning low and golden, laughter rising and dissolving into the sound of the tide. Sunoo’s parties were never really parties. They were events. Carefully chaotic, full of beautiful people pretending they were not looking at one another too closely. Someone always brought expensive liquor. Someone always made a bad decision. Someone always kissed the wrong person under the excuse of summer.

Tonight, the air felt like it had already decided who that would be. You had tried not to think about it while getting ready. Failed, of course. Because the truth was, the last few days had left something unsettled between you and Heeseung. No more easy arguments. No more familiar rhythm to hide behind. Just glances held too long and silences that felt louder than fights ever had. And the memory of his hand on your wrist.

The way he had looked at you. The way he had lost words. It had followed you all week. So when you dressed tonight, it wasn’t for attention. It was armor. A black dress this time, simpler than the red one, but worse somehow. Thin straps, soft fabric, bare skin at your back, the kind of dress that didn’t ask to be noticed because it already knew it would be. Your hair loose, your mouth glossed, gold at your throat catching the light. You looked like someone about to make a mistake.

And maybe that was the point. By the time you arrived, the party had already spilled toward the shoreline. Music low, drinks in warm hands, familiar faces blurred by firelight and moonlight and too much history. You let yourself be folded into it. Yoonchae pressed a drink into your hand. Yunjin laughed at something dramatic Sunoo was saying near the fire. Jay stood half in the water, arguing with Sunghoon over something neither of them would remember tomorrow. Everything looked normal.

It almost felt normal. Until you saw him. Heeseung stood near the edge of the beach, farther from the fire than everyone else, a drink untouched in his hand, dark shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms. He wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t talking much. Just watching. And when his eyes found yours, the rest of the beach seemed to pull backward.

There it was again. That terrible, quiet thing. You looked away first. Coward. The night stretched. Another drink. Then another. Enough to soften the edges but not enough to blur them. Enough to make your body warm and your thoughts reckless. Enough to make him impossible to ignore. You felt him before he reached you. That shift in the air. That awareness. You turned, and there he was. Close. Too close.

“Having fun?” he asked, voice low enough that no one else could hear. You tilted your glass against your lips. “Immensely. I’ve only considered fleeing twice.” His mouth almost smiled. “Only twice?” “I’m pacing myself.” Silence settled between you, but not the easy kind. The kind that waited. The kind that knew.

The ocean stretched black behind him, waves breaking silver under moonlight. Firelight moved over his face in pieces, catching the sharpness of him, the tension in his jaw. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said. Not accusing. Worse. Certain. You looked at him then.

“Have I?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you’re just easier to avoid lately.”

His expression shifted. Something quieter. Sharper. “That morning embarrassed you.” Mrs. Lee’s voice echoed in your memory and heat climbed your neck instantly. You looked away toward the water. “Your mother nearly announced your sex life to the entire coastline.”

“She likes you.”

“I nearly died.”

A brief silence. Then, softer, “You ran.” You let out a dry laugh. “Wouldn’t you?”

“No.”

“No,” you agreed. “You’d stand there and make it worse.”

“That does sound like me.” For a second, it almost eased. Almost. Then he said, quieter this time, “That’s not why you’ve been avoiding me.” The wind moved between you, carrying salt and the faint smoke of the fire. No. It wasn’t. Because the truth sat uglier than that. You had been avoiding him because once something shifted, you couldn’t shift it back. Because pretending was harder now. Because every look felt like standing too close to the edge of something.

Because if you let yourself think too hard about him, you would ruin everything. And maybe you already had. You set your drink down in the sand. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Do this.” His gaze didn’t move from yours. “Do what?” You laughed once, breathless and frustrated. “This. This thing where you look at me like I’m supposed to know what you’re thinking.”

He stepped closer. Moonlight and firelight and trouble. “Maybe you do.” Your pulse stumbled. “You’re impossible.” His voice dropped. “So are you.”

And there it was. Years of it. Every argument. Every summer. Every almost. The balcony. The beach. The car ride. Every second spent pretending there wasn’t something here because admitting it would mean letting it matter. You could hear your own breathing. His too. Close enough now that it blurred. You should walk away.

You should say something cruel, something sharp enough to put distance back between you. Instead, you stayed. Because the truth was simpler than pride. You wanted him. Maybe you always had. And he looked at you like he knew it. Like he had been waiting for you to stop lying. His hand brushed your bare arm, slow enough to feel like a question. You should have answered no. Instead, your voice came out quieter than you intended. “Tell me to stop.” He didn’t. For one suspended second, neither of you moved.

Then he kissed you. It felt like anger, like relief, like something starved, messy and immediate and years too late. Your hands found him without permission, his shirt, the line of his jaw, the back of his neck. His mouth was warm and rough against yours, like he’d thought about this too many times and was done pretending otherwise. There was nothing careful about it. No softness. No hesitation.

Just all the tension finally breaking open. He kissed you like he was trying to win something, and you kissed him like losing had never sounded better. The sound that left him was low, wrecked, against your mouth. His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left to pretend inside. When he finally pulled back, it was barely, forehead against yours, breath uneven, your lips still brushing when he spoke.

“Fuck.” The word sounded like confession. Then his mouth found yours again, harder this time, and the world narrowed to heat and salt and the way his hands made thinking impossible. He kissed down the corner of your mouth, breath warm against your skin, voice rough and half-lost. “Mm. Fuck, inside. Now.” You should have laughed. Should have reminded him he was arrogant, impossible, and absolutely not carrying you anywhere. Instead, when he lifted you, your legs finding his instinctively, your mouth was still on his.

Still kissing him as he walked. Across the sand. Up the path. Toward his house lit quiet against the night. The world beyond it disappeared. There was only this. His hands. Your heartbeat. The sound of the ocean somewhere behind you like witness. The back door. The hallway. Darkness and breath and mouths and hands and years of wanting collapsing all at once.

He barely got his bedroom door shut before you were against it, the sound of it closing sharp in the dark. Heeseung didn’t waste a second. His mouth was back on yours before the echo faded, hotter, deeper, more desperate than on the beach. One large hand cupped the back of your head, the other already sliding down the curve of your waist, gripping the soft fabric of your black dress like he’d waited years to tear it off.

You gasped into the kiss as your back hit the door again, the wood cool against your bare shoulders. His body pressed flush against yours, hard and burning, the evidence of how much he wanted you unmistakable against your stomach. “Fuck, this dress,” he muttered against your lips, voice gravel-rough. His fingers found the thin straps first, tugging them down your shoulders with impatient hands. The fabric whispered as it slid down your body, pooling at your waist before he pushed it lower, letting it fall completely to the floor in a dark heap around your ankles.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, bare except for the delicate black bra and panties, skin flushed, chest rising fast. His eyes darkened, jaw tight. “Beautiful,” he breathed, almost angry about it. “So fucking beautiful it pisses me off.”

Then his head dipped. His lips found the swell of your breast above the bra, hot and open-mouthed, tongue dragging over the lace. You arched into him with a shaky moan as he mouthed at your nipple through the thin fabric, sucking lightly, then harder, the wet heat of his mouth making your knees weak. His teeth grazed just enough to make you whimper.

Your hands trembled as you reached for his belt, fumbling with the buckle in the dark. The metallic clink sounded loud in the quiet room. You shoved his shirt up and off his shoulders, desperate to feel skin, and he helped you, ripping it the rest of the way off and tossing it somewhere behind him.

The moment his belt came undone, your hand slipped inside, palming him over his boxers. He groaned low against your chest, hips twitching forward into your touch. But Heeseung wasn’t letting you set the pace. His hand slid down your stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and pushing them aside without ceremony. Two long fingers dragged through your folds, finding you already slick and aching for him.

“Shit,” he hissed against your nipple, voice vibrating through your skin. “You’re soaked.” You couldn’t even answer properly, only a broken sound escaped as his fingers circled your clit once, twice, before sliding lower and pushing inside you without warning. The stretch was sudden, perfect, and your head fell back against the door with a soft thud.

Heeseung’s mouth switched to your other breast, sucking harder now, tongue flicking over the hardened peak while his fingers curled inside you, slow and deep, stroking that spot that made your thighs shake. His thumb pressed firm circles against your clit in time with every thrust of his fingers.

Your hand tightened around his cock, stroking him through the fabric as best you could while your other hand clutched at his shoulder, nails digging in. “Heeseung—” His name came out wrecked, half-moan, half-plea. He lifted his head from your chest, lips shiny, eyes nearly black with want. His fingers didn’t stop moving inside you, steady and relentless.

“Say it again,” he demanded, voice low and rough. “My name. Like that.” You did, moaning it louder this time as he added a third finger, stretching you open, preparing you for what was coming next. His mouth crashed back onto yours, swallowing every sound you made while his fingers fucked you against the door, wet sounds mixing with your ragged breathing.

Your dress was long forgotten on the floor. His pants hung low on his hips. The only thing that mattered now was the burning friction between you, the years of tension finally snapping apart in the dark of his bedroom. And neither of you was nearly done yet. Heeseung’s fingers were still buried deep inside you when he suddenly pulled them out, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. You barely had time to protest before his hands gripped the back of your thighs.

In one smooth motion, he lifted you, wrapping your legs high around his waist. Your arms instinctively looped around his neck as he carried you away from the door. The movement pressed his body flush against yours, and the second your weight settled, his pants, already tugged low on his hips, slid further down.

His cock, hot and heavy, shoved straight against your soaked folds. Your panties had been dragged aside earlier and stayed that way. There was nothing between you now except bare, slick skin. The thick length of him slid right between your folds, the head nudging insistently against your entrance with every step he took. You gasped sharply at the sudden, intimate contact.

Heeseung groaned deep in his chest, the sound raw and broken. “Fuck—feel that?” he rasped, hips twitching involuntarily as he walked you across the room. Every movement made his cock drag slowly through your wetness, the head rubbing right over your swollen clit.

The friction was maddening. Skin to skin. Hot. Wet. Overwhelming. You moaned into his neck, legs tightening around him as another wave of arousal slicked between you. Heeseung’s grip on your thighs turned bruising, his breathing ragged against your ear. By the time he reached the bed, both of you were trembling. He laid you down carefully, never fully breaking contact. The moment your back hit the mattress, he followed, settling between your spread thighs. His pants were shoved just low enough. His shirt was long gone. And his cock, thick, flushed, and glistening with your arousal, rested heavy against your pussy.

Heeseung braced himself on one forearm, the other hand guiding his length. He rubbed the head slowly up and down your folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing your clit with every pass. His eyes found yours in the dim light filtering through the window. Dark, hungry, and strangely vulnerable. You could feel him throbbing against you. Could see the tension in his jaw as he held himself back, waiting. You nodded, barely a breath. “Yes.”

That was all he needed. Heeseung didn’t hesitate. With one smooth, powerful thrust, he pushed inside you, burying himself to the hilt in one go. The stretch was intense, perfect, overwhelming. A broken moan tore from your throat as your walls clenched tight around his cock. Heeseung let out a low, guttural sound, forehead dropping to yours as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours.

“Shit— so tight,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You feel… fuck.”

For a few heartbeats, he stayed still, letting you adjust, letting himself feel every pulse and flutter around him. Then he started moving. Slow at first, long, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. Each thrust pushed a soft cry from your lips. Heeseung’s rhythm quickly grew harder, more desperate, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the dark room. His mouth found yours again in a messy kiss as he fucked you deeper, hips snapping forward with increasing force. One hand slid under your ass, tilting your hips up so he could hit even deeper, grinding against your clit with every thrust.

You were lost in it, lost in him. The way he filled you. The way he moaned your name against your mouth like a prayer and a curse at the same time. The way years of tension finally shattered between you with every brutal, perfect stroke. Heeseung’s pace turned punishing, relentless, like he was trying to make up for every summer you’d spent pretending this didn’t exist.

And you took every single thrust, legs wrapped tight around his waist, nails raking down his back as the pleasure built sharp and fast inside you. Heeseung’s thrusts grew erratic, deeper, harder, his hips slamming against yours with a desperation that bordered on violent. You were so close it hurt, every stroke pushing you right to the edge.

“Fuck— I’m gonna cum,” he groaned against your mouth, voice strained and raw. “Come with me. Now.” You could only nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders as the pressure inside you finally snapped. Your orgasm crashed over you hard, walls clenching violently around his cock as you came with a broken cry of his name. The intensity made your vision blur, thighs shaking around his waist.

Heeseung followed right after, burying himself to the hilt with one final, deep thrust. A low, guttural moan tore from his throat as he came inside you, hips stuttering, pulsing hot and deep while he rode it out, filling you with every twitch of his cock. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your ragged breathing. He collapsed on top of you, chest heaving, sweat-slick skin pressed against yours. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, breath hot and uneven against your throat. You could feel his heart hammering wildly against your chest.

Silence. No soft kisses. No gentle words. No confessions whispered in the dark. Just heavy breathing and the slow realization of what you’d just done. After what felt like forever, Heeseung finally pulled out of you with a quiet hiss. He rolled off to the side, staring up at the ceiling, one arm thrown over his forehead. You both lay there, naked and still catching your breath. Then, quietly, “This was a mistake.”

Your voice came out steadier than you expected. “Yeah,” he answered, just as flat. Liars. Neither of you believed it. Not even for a second. But neither of you said anything more.

Morning came like regret. Too bright. Too warm. Too aware. Sunlight spilled through the curtains in long golden strips, cruel in the way only summer mornings could be, soft and beautiful and entirely uninterested in your emotional devastation. Somewhere outside, the ocean moved lazily against the shore. A gull screamed like it had a personal vendetta. Your head hurt. Not from alcohol. Worse. Memory.

Every second of last night returned in fragments the moment you opened your eyes, his mouth on yours, your back against his door, the way he had said your name like it meant trouble, the heat of it, the impossibility of pretending it hadn’t happened. You stared at the ceiling for a full minute. Then another. Then sat up with the slow dread of a woman remembering she had, in fact, made every bad decision available to her.

Excellent. Fantastic. Character development. Heeseung’s room looked unfairly like him, clean without trying, expensive without showing off, sunlight falling over dark wood and linen sheets and the kind of quiet luxury that made you want to rob him on principle. He was standing by the window, already dressed. Of course he was. Dark T-shirt. Messy hair. Coffee in hand. Looking like the human embodiment of consequences. He turned when he heard you move. And for a second, neither of you said anything.

No teasing. No smugness. Just that strange stillness people had after crossing a line they couldn’t uncross. You pulled the sheet tighter around yourself for dignity. It did nothing. He leaned against the window frame, studying you with an unreadable expression. “Well,” he said finally, voice rough from sleep and something else, “this feels healthy.”

You let out one dry laugh. “Absolutely thriving.” His mouth twitched. Dangerous. Because if he smiled right now, if either of you made this softer than it was, the whole thing would collapse into something harder to survive. You got out of bed, collecting your clothes from the floor like evidence. “This was a mistake.” The words landed between you. Again. Too quick. Too sharp. You regretted them immediately. Something in his expression shifted, not hurt, exactly, but enough to make your chest tighten.

He set his coffee down. “Was it?” You pulled your dress on with more focus than necessary. “That depends. Are we pretending this was a one-time lapse in judgment, or are we being honest?” He watched you for a long moment. Then, quietly, “Pretending clearly hasn’t worked for us so far.”

No. It hadn’t. Not for years. You sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted by the weight of it. The almosts. The history. The fact that wanting him had somehow become the least surprising part of all this. Outside, the day kept moving. Waves. Sunlight. People living normal lives. Inside, it felt like standing at the edge of something. You looked at him.

“So what now?” He crossed his arms, considering. And because the universe had a sense of humor, the answer came with the terrifying logic of two people who were entirely too good at making bad ideas sound reasonable. “We don’t do relationships.”

You snorted. “Understatement of the century.” “You said it yourself. No settling down this summer. No complications.” “No emotional disasters.”

“Preferably.” Silence. Then, you said it first. “Friends with benefits.” The words hung there. Ridiculous. Obvious. Inevitable. Heeseung looked at you like he hated how much sense it made. “Very mature.”

“Extremely.”

“Probably a terrible idea.”

“The worst one we’ve had so far.”

Another silence. Then both of you, at the same time, “Okay.” You stared at each other. And somehow, that was the funniest part. Because of course this was how it happened. Not with romance. Not with confessions. With negotiations. You stood, stepping closer now, the air between you still carrying the remains of last night. “Fine,” you said. “But if we’re doing this, there are rules.”

His brow lifted. “Of course there are.”

“Obviously. I’m not running an emotional free-for-all.” He leaned back against the desk, arms crossed, watching you like he already knew this would be entertaining. “Go on, then.”

You started counting on your fingers. “No dates.” “Agreed.”

“No jealousy.” A pause. Small. Noticeable. Then: “Agreed.”

You narrowed your eyes but kept going. “No emotional attachment.” “That sounds healthy.” “It sounds necessary.” He nodded once. “Fine.”

“No sleepovers.” His expression shifted slightly. You ignored it. “No public affection. I’m not becoming beach gossip.”

“Sunoo will be devastated.” “He survives on disappointment.”

A ghost of a smile. You continued. “No calling unless it’s late.”

“That sounds suspiciously specific.”

“It sounds like boundaries.”

“And?”

You took a breath. The final one. The one that mattered. “This ends with summer.” That one stayed in the room longer. Because suddenly it wasn’t just about tonight or last night or whatever this was becoming. It was a deadline. An expiration date. A promise to keep it temporary. Necessary. Smart. A lie, probably. But necessary. Heeseung looked at you for a long moment before nodding once. “Ends with summer.”

You hated how that felt. Still, you extended your hand like a business deal, because if you were going to ruin your life, professionalism mattered. “Deal?” He looked down at your hand. Then back at you. Slowly, he took it. Warm. Steady. His fingers closed around yours and something about it felt far less casual than either of you intended. “Deal.”

Too intimate. Too dangerous. You pulled your hand back first. Because someone had to be responsible here, and apparently it was going to be you. You grabbed your bag from the chair and moved toward the door before common sense could return and save either of you. At the threshold, you paused. Didn’t turn around. “Just so we’re clear,” you said, hand on the door, “if this ruins my life, I’m blaming you.”

Behind you, his voice came low and familiar again. “If this ruins your life, it’ll be because you let it.” You smiled despite yourself. Didn’t let him see it. Then opened the door. And walked out into the sunlight like a woman with a plan. Very mature. Very stupid. Exactly the kind of thing summer was made for. It started quietly, almost politely. As if whatever existed between you and Heeseung had agreed to disguise itself as something manageable.

A bad decision with boundaries. A summer arrangement. A temporary indulgence. Nothing more. That was the lie you told yourself the first time he texted you after midnight and you slipped out of your house barefoot, cardigan thrown over bare shoulders, the path between your homes lit only by moonlight and terrible judgment.

That was the lie you told yourself when he opened the back door before you even knocked, like he had been waiting there, like he knew the exact second your resolve would break. That was the lie you told yourself when his hands found your waist before either of you said hello. This is fine. It was not fine. At first, it felt almost easy.

There was a thrill to it, sharp and bright and addictive in the way summer secrets always were. The private satisfaction of sitting through family dinners knowing exactly how his mouth had looked against your skin the night before. The way his knee brushed yours under the table and neither of you reacted, though both of you remembered. It lived in stolen things. In late-night visits when the whole neighborhood had gone quiet, and the only sound was the ocean somewhere beyond the trees and your own heartbeat betraying you on the walk next door.

In the pool house one humid Thursday afternoon, when everyone else had gone sailing and the house sat warm and empty under the sun. Chlorine in the air, sunlight breaking over the water in fractured gold, your bikini still damp against your skin while Heeseung stood too close and said your name like it meant trouble. His hand sliding underneath the strap to touch you then quietly adjusting it back into place as if he hadn’t branded your entire neck in marks.

In parties where you crossed crowded rooms without touching, where his hand at the small of your back lasted only a second but ruined the rest of your night. Where you’d disappear separately and meet somewhere quieter, on balconies, behind the marina, near the dunes where the music couldn’t quite reach and the summer air felt heavier.

Every moment carried that same dangerous illusion: that because no one knew, it somehow meant nothing. You learned each other in fragments. The sound of his laugh when it was real, not performed for a room full of people. The way he got quieter when he was tired. How he always reached for your wrist first, like stopping you there somehow felt more honest than pretending he wasn’t pulling you closer.

How you started recognizing the sound of his car before it even turned into the driveway. You hated that one. Because it meant anticipation. And anticipation implied care. Care was not part of the agreement. So you became very good at pretending. You rolled your eyes when Sunoo accused you of being suspiciously unavailable lately. You blamed “family obligations” when Eunchae asked why you kept vanishing halfway through parties.

You told your mother you were staying in because the heat was unbearable, and then spent the entire afternoon in Heeseung’s room with the windows open, listening to the sea and trying not to think too hard about the intimacy of daylight. That was the dangerous part. Not the sneaking around. Not the kissing. Not even the wanting. Daylight. Because night made everything easier to dismiss. Midnight had always been built for mistakes. But sunlight was honest. It stripped things down. Left no shadows to hide inside.

And lately, you were both finding reasons to stay. A cancelled beach day because it was “too hot.” Skipping a yacht party because neither of you were “in the mood.” Sunday brunch abandoned halfway through because one look across the table had made patience impossible. Your parents thought you were finally becoming mature. Choosing rest. Prioritizing peace. If only they knew. On Tuesday, your mother found you in the kitchen at noon, wearing one of Heeseung’s old shirts thrown hastily over your swimsuit because you had forgotten your own cover-up and panic had terrible fashion sense.

She looked at you. Looked at the shirt. Looked back at you. And simply said, “Interesting.” You nearly died on the spot. “Laundry accident,” you replied immediately.

She sipped her iced tea. “Of course.” You fled before she could smile. It was becoming ridiculous. The kind of ridiculous that should have frightened you more than it did. Because somewhere between the late-night texts and the locked doors and the way he said your name when no one else was around, the rules had started feeling less like boundaries and more like decorations.

No sleepovers, and yet you had woken up in his bed twice this week. No emotional attachment, and yet you knew when he was in a bad mood before he said a word. No jealousy, and yet when a girl from the marina laughed too long at something he said, your entire evening soured without permission. This is fine. It was not fine. And the worst part was how natural it all felt. Like maybe this had been waiting for years. Like every summer before this had only been rehearsal.

One evening, stretched beside him on the pool house couch while golden light slipped slowly across the floorboards, you listened to the distant sounds of your families having dinner on separate patios, laughter drifting across the hedges, glasses clinking, the whole world carrying on politely while the two of you existed here in the quiet center of your own disaster. His hand rested lazily over your waist. Your head against his shoulder. Too comfortable.

Far too comfortable. You should have left an hour ago. Instead, you stayed. Because leaving meant acknowledging it. Because staying meant pretending this was still simple. You traced absent patterns against his arm and stared at the ceiling fan turning slowly overhead. Summer had always felt like this, beautiful enough to make bad ideas look romantic. Temporary enough to make them feel safe. You told yourself that was all this was.

A season. A secret. Something that would end when the weather changed. But even then, with the evening light soft around you and his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek, some quieter part of you already knew the truth. This was never going to end cleanly. But the thought vanished as quickly as it came when you felt his hand sliding between your legs.  Later, neither of you said much.

The room was quiet in that intimate, ruined way it only became after too much honesty, sheets tangled at your legs, the windows cracked open to let in the salt-heavy night air, the ceiling fan turning lazily overhead like time had slowed just for this. Outside, summer kept moving. Waves somewhere beyond the trees. A car passing faintly down the road. Someone laughing in the distance, far enough away to belong to another world entirely.

Here, everything felt still. You lay on your back staring at the ceiling, your body heavy with exhaustion, skin still warm, his sheets twisted around your legs like evidence. Your hair was a mess. Your thoughts were worse. This had become dangerous. Not because of the sex. That part had been inevitable the second either of you admitted wanting it. No, the dangerous part was afterward. This. The silence that didn’t feel awkward. The way neither of you rushed to leave. The softness that slipped in when no one was paying attention.

You hated softness. Softness made people stupid. Beside you, Heeseung was quieter than usual, one arm thrown behind his head, the other resting across his stomach, his breathing finally even after the storm of the last hour. In the low light, he looked younger somehow. Less polished. Less like the version of him the rest of the world got.

Just him. That was somehow worse. You turned your head slightly, watching him. His eyes were closed. For once, he wasn’t performing anything. No teasing, no arrogance, no carefully placed smirk like armor. Just tired. Real. You wondered if he knew how dangerous that was too. As if sensing it, he spoke without opening his eyes. “If you’re staring because you’ve finally admitted I’m right about everything, I’d like it formally documented.”

Your mouth twitched despite yourself. “I was actually wondering how someone can be this annoying while unconscious.” He opened one eye. “Talent.”

“Curse.”

“Chemistry.” You rolled your eyes and turned back to the ceiling, but the smile betrayed you anyway. Silence returned. Softer this time. The kind that settled around people who had stopped trying so hard to fill it. You should leave. That thought came and went three separate times. You should absolutely get up, find your dress, reclaim your dignity, and walk back to your own house like a woman with standards and emotional boundaries.

Instead, you stayed exactly where you were. Because moving felt like too much effort. Because his room was warm and the ocean breeze through the window made everything drowsy. Because your body had given up on principles sometime around midnight. Because leaving would make this feel real. And staying let you pretend it was still just summer.

Your eyes grew heavier. The last thing you really registered was the lamp on his bedside table casting soft amber light across the room, and the faint smell of salt and clean linen and him. Then sleep came quietly. No dramatic realization. No final declaration. Just exhaustion winning where common sense had failed. Sometime later, minutes, maybe an hour, you felt movement.

Half-asleep, caught somewhere between dreaming and waking, you registered the mattress shifting, the lamp clicking off, the room falling deeper into darkness. Then warmth. A blanket pulled over you. Careful. Quiet. His hand brushing lightly against your shoulder for just a second longer than necessary.

You should have opened your eyes. Should have made a joke. Broken the moment before it could become one. You didn’t. You stayed still, breathing slow, pretending sleep because somehow that felt safer than acknowledging tenderness. In the dark, his voice came low and almost amused. “Rule number four,” he murmured.

No sleepovers. You felt him settle beside you. The mattress dipped. The silence deepened. And then, after a beat, “Terrible at following instructions.” You smiled into the pillow where he couldn’t see it. Outside, the ocean moved patiently against the shore, summer stretching endlessly into the night. And there, in Lee Heeseung’s bed, beneath his sheets and your own very bad decisions, you fell asleep. Oops. 

Something shifted after the sleepover. Not dramatically. No confessions, no declarations, no grand cinematic moment where either of you admitted the obvious and ruined everything properly. Worse. It changed quietly. In the spaces between things. And somehow, that made it far more dangerous. Because sex was easy to dismiss. Sex could be blamed on summer, on heat, on proximity, on years of unresolved tension finally finding somewhere to go. Sex was physical. Temporary. Conveniently stupid.

But softness, softness was treason. It started with coffee. You were standing in his kitchen one morning, barefoot, wearing one of his hoodies because your own clothes were somewhere upstairs and dignity had long since packed its bags. The house was still half-asleep, sunlight slipping pale and warm through the windows, the kind of slow summer morning that made everything feel deceptively gentle.

You were reaching for the coffee tin when he slid a mug across the counter toward you without looking. Iced. Too much milk. One sugar. Exactly right. You stared at it. Then at him. He was leaning against the opposite counter, scrolling through something on his phone with the dangerous calm of a man who had no idea he’d just committed emotional violence. “You remembered.”

He looked up. At the mug. At you. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You complain about bad coffee like it’s a moral issue.” You narrowed your eyes. “It is a moral issue.” He smiled into his own cup. That was the problem. Not remembering. How natural it felt. As if of course he knew. As if of course you noticed. As if this was normal. It wasn’t. Nothing about this was normal. And yet the days kept folding around it anyway.

He started bringing you food without asking. Not in some dramatic, romantic gesture way. Nothing obvious enough to name. Just showing up at the beach with the exact sandwich you liked because he “happened to be near the deli.” Leaving fries on the passenger seat when he picked you up because you’d skipped lunch and he could always tell when you did. A bottle of water handed to you silently after too much sun and too much pretending at some yacht party, his hand brushing yours for only a second before he walked away.

Little things. The kind people noticed. The kind people definitely noticed. By the second week of July, your friends had reached collective suspicion. It happened on a Wednesday afternoon at the beach club, where everyone had collapsed under umbrellas with overpriced drinks and varying levels of sunburn. Sunoo was the first to say it, because of course he was. He lowered his sunglasses dramatically and pointed between you and Heeseung like a detective solving a murder. “You two are weird.”

You didn’t even look up from your book. “That is the least shocking thing anyone has ever said.”

“No,” Yunjin cut in, leaning forward, “like weird weird. You’re not fighting.”

That got your attention. You looked up. Across from you, Heeseung was stretched lazily in a chair, sunglasses on, looking entirely too comfortable for someone under investigation.

Yoonchae nodded. “It’s unsettling. I miss the hostility. It was romantic.” Jay, who treated gossip like a legal proceeding, added, “The last thing you said to him that even resembled an insult was, and I quote—” He lifted a hand, reciting with criminal accuracy: ‘Don’t stay in the ocean too long, your wig might fall off.’ Silence. You blinked.

Sunghoon, traitor, added quietly, “That wasn’t even an insult. That was concern wrapped in a taunt.” You hated all of them.

“It was a warning,” you said.

“Because you care,” Sunoo sang.

“Because baldness is a public issue.” Across the table, Heeseung laughed. Actually laughed. Low and easy and far too pleased with himself. And you, idiot that you were, smiled back before you could stop it. The entire group gasped like Victorian women witnessing an exposed ankle. Eunchae clutched her chest. “Oh my god. They’re smiling at each other. We’ve lost them.”

You buried your face in your drink. This was unbearable. But the truth sat heavier than embarrassment. Because they were right. You weren’t fighting anymore. Not really. The sharpness had softened at the edges, and in its place had come something quieter. More dangerous.

You knew when he was lying. It was always in his shoulders first, too relaxed, too deliberate. Like if he made himself look calm enough, no one would notice. And he knew when you were upset before you said a word. Sometimes before you did. Like the night you came back from dinner with your parents, frustrated and restless and not wanting to explain why, only to find him sitting on the hood of his car outside your house.

He took one look at you and said, simply, “What happened?” No performance. No jokes. Just knowing. You sat beside him without answering, and he handed you fries in silence. That was worse than comfort. That was intimacy. And intimacy was not part of the agreement. Neither was the fact that you kept ending up in his clothes.

His hoodie mostly. Dark gray, too big, sleeves falling over your hands, smelling faintly like him and expensive detergent and whatever impossible thing made you feel too warm when you wore it home at sunrise. The first time, you’d told yourself it was practical. The second time, convenient. By the fifth, even you had stopped pretending. One evening, walking back from his house with that hoodie wrapped around you and the sun barely rising over the water, you caught your reflection in a neighbor’s window and had the deeply humiliating realization that you looked happy.

Not smug. Not victorious. Happy. You nearly turned around and walked directly into the sea. And then there was jealousy. The rule neither of you talked about because talking about it would make it real. No jealousy. Very simple. A lie, obviously. It surfaced one night at another party on Jay’s yacht. Some guy, tall, forgettable, rich in the boring way, spent too long talking to you by the bar. Leaning in too close. Laughing too easily.

You were polite. Mostly. But from across the room, you felt it before you saw it. Heeseung, watching. Still. Cold. Not dramatic, that would’ve been easier, just quiet. His expression shuttered in that way he did when he was trying very hard not to let something show, and suddenly the rest of the night tasted wrong. Later, when you found him outside near the dock, the air heavy with salt and dark water below, you said it before you could stop yourself.

“You’re being weird.” He leaned against the railing, gaze on the ocean. “I’m always weird.”

“Not like this.”

A long pause, the air thick with unspoken tension. Then, “Nothing’s wrong.” You laughed softly. There it was, the lie. You stepped closer, “You know I can tell when you’re lying, right?”

Finally, he looked at you. Moonlight catching the edges of him. That familiar unreadable expression. “No,” he said. “You just like thinking you can.” You folded your arms. “And you like pretending I’m wrong.”

His jaw shifted. A tell. You noticed. Of course you noticed. For a second, it almost cracked. Whatever this was. Whatever sat under all the rules and pretending and carefully chosen silence. But then he straightened. Looked away. And the wall went back up. “It means nothing,” he said. The words landed heavier than they should have. Because both of you knew he wasn’t talking about the guy. He was talking about all of it. This. You. Him.

The arrangement. The softness. The way neither of you were following your own rules anymore. Nothing. You stared at him for a long moment, the ocean loud in the silence between you. Then you nodded once. “Right.” A lie, both his and yours, both of you standing there in the warm dark of summer, pretending not to bleed where it hurt.

It means nothing, and somehow, that hurt worse than if he’d said everything, the silence between you lingered for a second too long. Warm night air moved around you, carrying the salt of the ocean and the distant hum of music from the party still going on behind the marina. The dock swayed faintly beneath your feet, water dark and endless below, moonlight breaking silver across the surface.

You stood there with his words still sitting heavy in your chest. It means nothing. Such a simple sentence. Such a stupid, transparent lie, but you hated that it hurt. More than that, you hated that he knew it hurt. That somewhere beneath all the arrogance and all the careful pretending, he knew exactly where to place the knife. And still, somehow, neither of you left. Because leaving would mean ending the conversation. Because staying meant there was still something unfinished here.

You folded your arms tighter, more for protection than attitude. “Right,” you said again, quieter this time. Heeseung looked at you like he wanted to say something else, something better, or worse. You could see it in the hesitation. In the way his mouth opened slightly, then closed again. In the tension sitting sharp in his shoulders, like even he was tired of performing indifference.

But he didn’t, of course he didn’t. Instead, after a long moment, he stepped closer. Not enough to be dramatic. Just enough to be familiar. And maybe that was the problem. The familiarity of it. The way your body recognized him before your mind had time to argue. His hand brushed your arm lightly. A thoughtless gesture. Comforting. Soft. Dangerous. You should have stepped back. Instead, you stayed still.

And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like his body had made the decision before his brain could stop it, he leaned down and pressed a quick, absent kiss to your forehead. Gentle. Careless. Tender. The kind of kiss that belonged to something entirely different than whatever this was supposed to be. And the second it happened, you both froze. Completely, the world stopped, the ocean, the music, your heartbeat, everything. Because that, that was not in the rules. Not even close. No public affection. No emotional attachment. No softness.

And forehead kisses? Forehead kisses were practically emotional terrorism. You stared at him. He stared at you. His hand was still lightly on your arm. Your lips parted, but no sound came out because honestly, what exactly was the appropriate response to being emotionally assassinated on a dock? Apparently, the answer was, a dramatic choking noise.

You both turned. Too late. Because standing ten feet away, carrying drinks and what looked like the absolute time of their lives, were your friends. All of them. Sunoo. Sunghoon. Jay. Eunchae. Yunjin. Yoonchae. Witnesses. To your death. For one beat, nobody moved. Then Yunjin made a sound like a Victorian woman seeing a man’s ankle and clutched her chest.

“No,” she whispered. Then louder, “No. No, I refuse.”

And with all the theatrical commitment of a woman born for performance, she dramatically dropped backward onto Eunchae. “I’ve fainted,” she announced to the night. “I’m dead. Tell my family I died right.” Eunchae, instead of helping, was already doubled over laughing. Actually laughing. Tears in her eyes. Full-body betrayal. Jay turned away entirely, hand over his mouth like he was trying and failing to remain dignified. Sunghoon stood there in complete silence, which for him was basically screaming.

Sunoo looked like he had ascended to another spiritual plane. And Yoonchae, traitor, elegant, terrifying, just slowly raised one eyebrow and said, “Well.” You wanted the dock to collapse. Immediately. Preferably with you on it. Beside you, Heeseung cleared his throat with the deeply haunted expression of a man realizing public humiliation was hereditary.

“It was nothing.” Silence. Then six people spoke at once. “Nothing?” Sunoo repeated, scandalized. “You kissed her forehead!” Eunchae shouted.

“That’s husband behavior,” Yunjin yelled from her fake death position. Jay pointed accusingly. “That is not casual. Casual men do not forehead kiss.”

Sunghoon, finally contributing, said simply, “That was intimate.” Which, somehow, was worse. You covered your face with both hands. This was how legends ended. Not with dignity. Not with grace. But with your friends conducting a public trial over a forehead kiss. Heeseung rubbed the back of his neck, visibly regretting every life choice that had led him here. “It was automatic.”

“A Freudian slip,” Sunoo said immediately.

“A cry for help,” Yunjin added.

“A confession,” Eunchae gasped.

“A legal declaration,” Jay said.

“A marriage proposal,” Yoonchae finished.

You made a strangled noise. “Please stop talking.”

“No,” everyone replied. Across the chaos, you finally looked at Heeseung. Really looked. And annoyingly, he looked just as wrecked as you felt. His composure cracked at the edges. His usual confidence gone. His ears, very slightly, red. Interesting. Very interesting. For one brief second, despite the humiliation, despite the six idiots currently planning your wedding in real time, you almost smiled. Because he was embarrassed. Actually embarrassed. And somehow, that made the whole thing worse. Or better. Definitely worse.

He looked back at you. Something unspoken passing there. Something quiet and dangerous. Then, because the universe refused to let either of you have peace, Sunoo threw an arm dramatically into the air and declared to the ocean, “THEY’RE IN LOVE AND THEY’RE MAKING IT EVERYONE’S PROBLEM.” You and Heeseung, at the exact same time: “Shut up, Sunoo.” Which only made everyone laugh harder. 

—

The yacht looked like something built for people who had never been told no. White and gleaming and impossibly large, anchored just far enough from shore to feel exclusive, close enough for everyone to pretend it was casual. Music spilled across the water in low, expensive waves. Champagne sweated in silver buckets. Someone was laughing too loudly near the upper deck, and somewhere below, the ocean moved dark and patient against the hull, like it had seen this all before. Summer in Jeju Island had always been performative, but yacht parties were theater. Everyone arrived looking like they had something to prove. Girls in silk and gold, boys in linen and old money and inherited arrogance. Sunglasses even after sunset. Bare shoulders catching the last of the light. Beautiful people pretending they weren’t waiting for someone specific to notice them.

You hated how much you fit into it. Tonight, the dress was white. Soft and dangerous. The kind of dress that looked innocent until someone stood too close. Thin straps, bare back, fabric skimming your skin like seawater. Your hair loose from the salt air, gold at your throat, your mouth glossed and unhelpful. You looked like a mistake dressed as a good idea. Maybe that was the point. By the time you stepped onto the deck, the sun was already beginning to sink, everything dipped in amber, the ocean turning molten and gold around you. The air smelled like sunscreen, champagne, and money.

Sunoo spotted you first, of course. He stood near the bar, already three drinks deep into being everyone’s problem, and his eyes widened slowly as you approached. “Oh,” he said softly, like someone witnessing divine intervention. “Someone is about to ruin a life.” You took the champagne he handed you. “Only one? I’m aiming higher.”

He smiled, but it faded quickly when his gaze shifted past your shoulder. There. At the far end of the deck. Heeseung. Talking to Jay, drink in hand, sleeves rolled, dark shirt open at the throat in that infuriating way he never seemed aware of. The wind moved through his hair. The sunset caught against the sharp line of his profile. And then he looked up. Found you. Paused. There was always that moment. That small, suspended second where everything else fell away and it was just this, the recognition, the tension, the memory of every version of yourselves that had led here. His gaze moved slowly.

Not rushed. Not subtle. Like being touched without contact. And even from across the deck, you felt it. Something in your chest pulling too tight. It would have been easier if he looked away first. He didn’t. Neither did you. Until Yunjin bumped your shoulder lightly and saved you from your own poor decisions. “Don’t do that,” she murmured. You blinked. “Do what?” She took a sip of her drink, watching the sunset like she wasn’t dismantling your life. “Look at him like that. It makes the rest of us feel like unwilling participants.”

You laughed, but it sounded thinner than you meant it to. Because tonight, something already felt wrong. Not wrong. Fragile. Like standing barefoot on glass and pretending it was only sand. Maybe it was the accumulated weight of it. The weeks of pretending. The rules bent past recognition. The softness neither of you spoke about. The forehead kiss that still sat in your chest like a bruise. Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe you were tired. Tired of pretending this was casual. Tired of pretending you didn’t care. Tired of him saying it meant nothing when it had started to feel like everything.

So tonight, you decided to be reckless. Not because you wanted someone else. Because you wanted him to react. Which, in hindsight, was the kind of decision people wrote warnings about. Minjae found you first. Again. Pretty enough. Easy enough. Familiar enough to be useful. He leaned against the rail beside you while the yacht drifted slow under the dying sun, talking about some party in Seoul, some mutual friend, something forgettable. His hand brushed your arm when he laughed.

You let it. You smiled. You leaned closer. You let the dress do half the work and the silence do the rest. And all the while, you could feel it. Heeseung. Across the deck. Watching. It wasn’t dramatic. He wasn’t storming across the yacht like some jealous cliché. Worse. He was quiet. Still. The kind of stillness that meant all the dangerous things were happening underneath. You knew him well enough now to recognize it.

The way his shoulders went too rigid. The way his mouth flattened when he was holding something back. The way he stopped pretending to enjoy the party. You kept flirting. Because cruelty, apparently, was a love language. By the time the sky had gone violet and the city lights glittered faintly across the water, the tension had become its own living thing. Heavy.

Everyone noticed. Sunoo kept looking between you and Heeseung like he was watching a live sports event. Eunchae physically winced every time Minjae touched your arm. Jay had the expression of a man reviewing poor investment choices. And Heeseung, he stopped speaking entirely. You should have stopped. You didn’t. Because part of you wanted him angry. Wanted proof. Wanted something undeniable.

You found it when you excused yourself to the lower deck for air. The music faded there, softer beneath the sound of the water. The yacht rocked gently beneath your feet. Moonlight stretched silver over the sea, and the world felt quieter, suspended between one decision and the next. You barely had time to breathe before he was there.

“Seriously?” His voice behind you was low. Controlled. Too controlled. You turned slowly. He stood in the narrow corridor of moonlight and shadow, jaw tight, eyes dark enough to make the night feel thinner around you. There it was. Finally. You leaned back against the railing, crossing your arms like your pulse wasn’t trying to leave your body. “Are we opening with accusations? Very romantic.” His laugh was short. Humorless. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re late. I thought jealousy would get you here faster.” That landed. You saw it. The flicker in his expression. The anger sharpened by something much worse. He stepped closer. “You think this is funny?”

“No,” you said quietly. “I think you don’t get to care.” The ocean moved below you. Dark and endless. He stopped. For one second, the entire world seemed to hold its breath. “And why not?” The question came softer than you expected. Not angry, not sharp, honest, and that was worse, because there was an answer. A real one. Because caring meant naming this. Because naming this meant breaking it. Because if he said it first, if either of you said it first, there would be no way back to pretending.

You looked at him and saw all of it at once, the boy you had spent every summer fighting, the man standing in front of you now, the terrible inevitability of wanting someone you were never supposed to want this much. Your throat felt tight. “Because,” you said, and even your own voice sounded unfamiliar, “you were the one who said it meant nothing.” Something in him shifted. Like regret. Like anger turned inward. He moved closer again, and this time you didn’t step back. There was nowhere to go.

Moonlight on the water. Champagne still bitter on your tongue. His hand braced against the railing beside you, trapping you there without touching. His voice dropped, rough around the edges. “And you believed me?” Your heart stuttered. Because no. No, you hadn’t. That had been the problem. You had heard the lie and let him keep it because the truth was too dangerous.

You looked up at him, and the space between you felt like standing in the ocean during a storm, like drowning and floating and drowning and floating, never knowing which one would win. “Tell me I’m wrong,” you whispered.

He stared at you like he was trying to decide whether honesty would ruin him. Maybe it would. Maybe it already had. His hand lifted, slow enough to stop, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a tenderness that felt far too intimate for a yacht full of people and all the lies between you. His mouth was only inches from yours. And when he spoke, it was barely sound at all. “I think,” he said, “I stopped being careful with you a long time ago.”

Not quite a confession. Worse. Because it was true. And truth, between the two of you, had always been the most dangerous thing of all. He stood there for one suspended second after saying it, like even he was startled by the sound of his own honesty. The yacht rocked gently beneath you, the ocean below black and endless, moonlight breaking itself into silver shards across the water. Somewhere above, the music still played, muffled now, distant, belonging to another life entirely. Laughter drifted from the upper deck like something from far away, from people who had not just stepped to the edge of something irreversible.

You could still feel the words between you. I stopped being careful with you a long time ago. It settled into your chest like saltwater, slow, stinging, impossible to separate from your own blood. For weeks, maybe years, the two of you had been circling this. Pretending desire was just annoyance sharpened into habit. Pretending every almost was accidental. Pretending the way he looked at you meant less than it did. And now here it was. Not clean. Not graceful. Just true. You should have said something. Something intelligent. Something devastating. Something that would let you keep whatever remained of your pride. Instead, your body betrayed you first.

Your hand found the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like instinct, like gravity. You didn’t even realize you’d done it until he looked down at your hand and something dark and quiet moved across his face. His restraint snapped so softly you almost missed it. Then he took your wrist.  And before you could think, before either of you could retreat back into irony and self-preservation, he pulled you with him. Up the narrow staircase. Past the low spill of music and careless laughter. Through the blur of warm bodies and champagne and summer pretending to be harmless.

You barely registered the startled glance Sunoo gave you as Heeseung walked past him without a word, your hand still in his like a confession neither of you were ready to speak aloud. The hallway inside the yacht was cooler, quieter. White walls. Dim lights. The hum of the engine beneath your feet. Somewhere, a door shut. Somewhere else, the sea kept breathing against the hull.

He kept walking. You followed because there was no version of this where you didn’t. Because at some point, resisting him had become another kind of surrender. At the end of the corridor, he stopped. A private deck. Smaller. Hidden from the party. Open to the night. Only the ocean. Only the moon. Only the two of you and everything you were pretending not to destroy.

The door shut behind you with a soft click. Silence. He turned. For a moment, neither of you moved. The wind came off the water cool against your overheated skin, lifting your hair, carrying salt into the space between you. You could hear your own breathing. His too. He looked at you like a man standing too close to fire and knowing he was about to step in anyway.

And suddenly, it felt like standing at the edge of land. Like the last piece of solid ground beneath your feet. Like one more step would mean surrendering to something larger than either of you, something tidal and reckless and impossible to survive unchanged. You crossed that distance first. Or maybe he did. Later, you wouldn’t know. Only that one second there was space, and the next there was none. His mouth found yours like gravity.

Not gentle. Not hesitant. Like being pulled under. The kiss hit you like cold water and summer lightning, sharp, immediate, consuming. Every part of you lit at once, every defense dissolving so quickly it felt humiliating. His hands were at your waist, your neck, your jaw, like he couldn’t decide where to hold you, only that he needed to. You kissed him back like drowning. Like if you let go, you’d wash out to sea. His mouth tasted like champagne and salt and every bad decision you’d ever wanted to make. It was anger and relief and hunger all tangled together, all the years between you collapsing into something hot and breathless and overdue.

The world tilted. Or maybe it was just the boat. Or maybe it was him. You had the absurd thought that this was what slipping away from land felt like, that moment your feet stopped touching the ocean floor and suddenly there was nothing holding you up but instinct and want. Floating. Falling. The same thing, sometimes. His hands slid to your back, pulling you closer, and the sound that left him against your mouth was low, wrecked, like even he was surprised by the force of this.

You understood. Because kissing Heeseung felt like melting. Like sun-warmed skin slipping beneath water. Like losing the shape of yourself. Like becoming something softer, stranger, more dangerous. He kissed you like he was angry at how much he wanted to. You kissed him like you were tired of pretending you didn’t. And somewhere in the middle of it, all your carefully built walls, your rules, your boundaries, your clever little exits, went under like they had never been there at all.

His forehead rested against yours for one brief second, both of you breathing like you’d been running, like maybe you had. His thumb brushed your cheek. A tenderness so small it almost hurt more than the kiss. When he spoke, his voice was rough enough to sound like truth. “You make this impossible.” You smiled, breathless, your lips still close enough to steal.

“So do you.” Then his mouth was on yours again, and whatever was left of reason disappeared with the tide.

—

The rain started sometime after midnight. By morning, Jeju Island had turned silver. The sky hung low and heavy over the coastline, clouds blurring the horizon until the ocean and the storm became one endless sheet of grey-blue. Rain slid steadily down the windows in soft crooked lines, tapping against rooftops and palm leaves and the quiet little streets of the neighborhood with the kind of patience only summer storms possessed.

Everything felt slower in the rain. Softer. The beach emptied. Yacht plans were cancelled. The marina sat abandoned except for boats rocking gently against their docks like sleeping animals. For the first time all summer, the town stopped performing. And somehow, that felt dangerous too. You woke late to the sound of thunder somewhere far away, curled beneath your sheets with damp air drifting through the cracked window. Your phone rested beside your pillow, screen lighting softly against the grey room.

A text.

power’s out at our house.

Then, a second later:

mom says yours still has electricity

And finally:

tragic. devastating. i’ll survive somehow.

You stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary. Then sighed. Because despite everything, despite all your promises to yourself about boundaries and self-preservation and not becoming the kind of girl who let boys ruin her summer, you were already smiling. An hour later, Heeseung arrived at your front door soaked from the rain.

Not drenched dramatically. Just enough that dark strands of hair clung messily to his forehead, rainwater catching along the line of his jaw and disappearing beneath the collar of his sweatshirt. The storm had turned the whole world softer around the edges, and standing there beneath the muted grey sky, he looked less like the polished golden boy everyone knew and more like something real. Your mother let him in with entirely too much enthusiasm. “Oh good,” she said brightly, already walking back toward the kitchen. “Now you can both stop pretending you don’t miss each other.”

“Mom,” you warned. Heeseung coughed into his sleeve to hide a smile. Rain followed him inside in traces, the smell of wet pavement and ocean wind clinging faintly to him as he stepped into the warmth of the house. For a moment, neither of you moved. No parties. No music. No late-night tension sharp enough to cut through.

Just quiet. The kind that made you suddenly aware of ordinary things. The soft ticking of rain against the windows. The oversized sweatshirt hanging off his shoulders. The fact that he looked at home here. That realization unsettled you more than it should have. The day unfolded slowly after that. Not exciting. Not dramatic. And maybe that was why it mattered.

You spent most of the afternoon in the living room while the storm darkened outside, half-watching terrible movies neither of you cared about. Your legs stretched across the couch beneath a blanket, his shoulder brushing yours every so often in that absent, thoughtless way intimacy sometimes arrived. At some point, your mother disappeared upstairs with a suspicious smile and the kind of timing that deserved investigation.

The rain deepened. Hours passed unnoticed. You learned strange things about each other in the quiet. Not the big things. Not the carefully curated versions people offered at parties. Small things. Real things. Heeseung hated peaches because he got sick eating too many as a kid one summer. You used to fake injuries during tennis lessons because you hated losing more than you liked sports.

He still remembered the time you punched a boy at thirteen for making Eunchae cry near the marina. “You broke his nose,” he recalled from the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand.

“He deserved worse.” “You were terrifying.” “I still am.” A smile touched his mouth then. Soft. Unthinking. Rainlight filled the room pale and blue around him, and suddenly the years between childhood and now felt strangely thin. Like maybe you had always been circling each other. Like maybe every version of yourselves had led here eventually. Later, thunder rolled low across the coastline while you sat cross-legged on the floor beside the couch, flipping through an old photo album your mother had abandoned on the shelf years ago. 

Bad idea. There were photographs everywhere. Sunburnt summers. Beach days. Bonfires. All of you impossibly young. You paused on one picture, eight years old, missing front teeth, shoving Heeseung into the sand while he laughed hard enough to blur in the frame. Your chest tightened unexpectedly. “We look awful.”

“We look happy,” he corrected quietly. The room fell still after that. Outside, rainwater slid endlessly down the glass. Inside, something shifted. Not loudly, just enough to feel it. He sat down beside you on the floor, close enough that warmth gathered between you naturally. The photo album rested forgotten between your knees. And for the first time since this began, it didn’t feel like war. No tension sharpened into cruelty. No sarcasm waiting like a weapon.

Just this strange, aching softness neither of you knew how to hold. You turned another page slowly. Another photograph. Older this time. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. A summer party. You standing near the water laughing at something outside the frame while Heeseung looked at you instead. Not the camera. You. Your breath caught slightly. “You kept this?” He glanced down at the picture. Then away. Your pulse stumbled. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

His jaw shifted faintly. For a second, you thought he might dodge the question. Turn it into a joke. Deflect the way he always did whenever things came too close to honesty. Instead, his voice came quieter than you expected. “I think,” he said slowly, “I’ve spent a long time trying not to.”

The rain outside seemed to hush around the words. You looked at him carefully. Something vulnerable flickered there beneath all the practiced ease. Something raw enough to make your own chest ache in response. And suddenly you understood something terrifying, this was no longer just desire. Desire was simpler.

This, whatever this was becoming, had roots. Deep ones. You looked back down at the photograph because meeting his eyes felt too dangerous. “I used to hate summers here,” you admitted softly. The confession surprised even you. He looked at you then. “Why?” You traced your thumb along the edge of the page.

“Because everything always ended.” The words settled heavily between you, summer romances, bonfires, fireworks, warm nights, every beautiful thing in Jeju Island came with an expiration date stitched into it from the beginning, and suddenly, without meaning to, you had said something true. Something too true. You felt him shift closer beside you. Not touching. Almost worse.

For one suspended moment, it felt like standing at the edge of another confession, like both of you could ruin yourselves completely if you kept talking, so neither of you did. Cowards.

By evening, the storm had softened into a quiet drizzle. The whole house glowed warm against the rain-dark world outside, lamps casting amber light across the living room while distant thunder faded somewhere beyond the ocean. You’d lost track of time entirely. Dinner had happened somewhere in between conversation and silence and accidental touches that lasted too long. And now he stood near the front door pulling his sweatshirt back on while you lingered barefoot by the hallway, neither of you acknowledging how reluctant this felt. The rain tapped softly against the windows.

He looked tired. You probably did too. For one dangerous second, you almost asked him to stay. You could feel the question there, hovering at the back of your throat. Stay, not because of sex, not because of loneliness. Just, stay, and somehow that made it infinitely more frightening, across from you, he hesitated too, his hand resting on the doorknob, eyes on yours. Like he almost wanted to ask, but neither of you moved.

Because asking would mean admitting this had already crossed into something neither of you knew how to survive. So instead, he opened the door. Cool rain air slipped inside. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said quietly. Not later. Tomorrow. Something about that felt dangerously permanent. You nodded once.

“Yeah.” He left. And somehow the house felt emptier after. You stood there for a long moment listening to the rain before your mother appeared behind you carrying two mugs of tea. She looked toward the door knowingly, then back at you. “You know,” she said lightly, “summer’s ending soon.”

The words hit like cold water. Suddenly, the room felt too small. Too warm. Your heartbeat stumbled somewhere beneath your ribs. Because for the first time all summer, the ending no longer felt theoretical. It felt real. And terrifyingly close.

Summer began leaving in pieces. Not all at once. That would have been kinder. Instead, Jeju Island unraveled slowly, quietly, like a tide pulling back from shore before anyone realized the water was disappearing. The marina grew emptier first. Boats vanished from their slips one by one, carried back toward cities and obligations and real lives waiting elsewhere. Beach houses that had glowed warm every night for months slowly darkened at the windows. Suitcases appeared in entryways. Goodbyes drifted through the neighborhood in soft, temporary promises.

See you next summer.

As if next summer was guaranteed. As if people stayed the same long enough for promises like that to survive. The air changed too, still warm, but thinner somehow, the evenings arriving earlier, sunsets softer, touched already by the melancholy of something ending, even the ocean looked different, darker blue, quieter, less forgiving. You hated noticing it, because noticing meant acknowledging the clock, and the clock meant him, everything suddenly seemed measured in remaining time, three more Friday nights, two more yacht parties, a handful of mornings left before the entire town dissolved back into memory. 

Your arrangement had always come with an expiration date stitched into it. Ends with summer. At the beginning, the rule had felt safe, now it felt like standing beneath a blade waiting to fall. You started sleeping badly after that, not because of him, because of the way he had started looking at you. More carefully, more openly, like somewhere along the way, he had grown tired of pretending.

It happened in small moments at first, his hand lingering too long at your waist before letting go, the way his gaze searched for you automatically in crowded rooms now, no hesitation, no embarrassment about it, how he no longer acted surprised by tenderness, as though caring had become instinctive, dangerous, dangerous things. And worst of all, he had stopped treating this like it was temporary.

You noticed it one evening at the beach. The sky had gone pale gold with approaching sunset, the shoreline nearly empty except for scattered locals and gulls drifting low over the water. You sat wrapped in one of his hoodies, knees pulled loosely to your chest while the tide crept closer across the sand. Heeseung sat beside you quietly, one arm draped over his bent knee, watching the horizon.

Comfortable silence stretched between you. The kind that should have felt peaceful. Instead, it terrified you, because this wasn’t supposed to become comfortable. Comfort implied permanence. Permanence implied loss. “You’re thinking too loudly,” he murmured eventually.

You glanced at him. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you get this look on your face when you’re spiraling.” You looked away too quickly. The ocean breathed in and out before you answered. “I’m not spiraling.”

“You started reorganizing the snacks in my kitchen alphabetically yesterday.”

“That was stress cleaning.”

“That was psychotic.” A faint smile touched your mouth despite yourself. His gaze softened when he saw it. There it was again, that look, something gentler, something infinitely more frightening. Your chest tightened.

You stood abruptly before the feeling could settle properly. “I should go.” The shift was immediate. You saw him notice it in real time, the distance, the retreat, his expression changed carefully, like someone stepping onto unstable ground. “You just got here.”

“I know.” Rain clouds gathered faintly over the horizon, turning the water darker beneath the evening light. You avoided his eyes while brushing sand from your legs, because lately every time you looked at him too long, something inside you started giving way, and you couldn’t afford that, not now, not with endings everywhere. The drive home was quiet. not tense, worse, careful, as though both of you could feel something fraying between your hands and neither knew how to stop pulling. After that, it became impossible not to notice. How often he reached for you now. How naturally your lives had begun folding together. How every goodbye felt heavier than the last.

And the more real he became, the more frightened you grew. So you started pulling away, subtly at first, taking longer to answer texts, leaving earlier, skipping late-night visits with excuses thin enough that even you didn’t believe them, too tired, family dinner, headache, lies, all of them, because the truth sounded too ugly to admit aloud: You were beginning to love him, and loving someone with an end date felt like volunteering for heartbreak in advance. He noticed immediately, of course he did, he had always known you too well.

One night at Sunoo’s house, while music drifted softly through crowded rooms and everyone else played cards half-drunk around the kitchen island, you felt his eyes on you from across the room almost constantly, not possessive, not angry, trying to understand, which somehow hurt worse. You laughed too brightly at things that weren’t funny. Let conversations distract you. Pretended not to see the way his jaw tightened every time you slipped further away from him. By midnight, the tension between you had become unbearable.

You found him eventually outside on the balcony overlooking the ocean, moonlight silvering the sharp edges of his profile. The wind moved softly through the dark. Neither of you spoke immediately. There was too much sitting between you now. Finally, he turned. “You’ve been avoiding me.” Not accusatory. Just tired. You crossed your arms tightly against yourself. “I’ve been busy.”

A pause. Then quietly, “That’s not true.” Something sharp moved through your chest. Because no matter how carefully you built distance, Heeseung always walked straight through it. You looked out toward the water instead, far easier than looking at him. The ocean below looked endless tonight, cold, restless. “I just think maybe we forgot what this was supposed to be.” The silence after that felt dangerous. When he spoke again, his voice had gone lower. “And what exactly was it supposed to be?” You swallowed, temporary, easy, nothing, but none of those words fit anymore. Not after rainy afternoons and forehead kisses and sleeping beside each other until sunrise, not after the way he looked at you now. 

You could feel him watching you carefully, waiting, and suddenly the pressure of it became unbearable, the ending hanging over everything, the fear curling tighter around your ribs every day this became more real, because if you admitted what this was becoming, then losing it would destroy you. So instead, you stepped backward emotionally the way frightened people always do. “You said it yourself,” you murmured. “This ends with summer.”

His expression shifted, hurt, this time, barely hidden, “And that’s all you want?” You opened your mouth, nothing came out, because the answer existed, because it terrified you. The wind moved cold against your skin, below you, waves crashed endlessly against the shore, over and over, like something trying desperately to return to land. He stared at you for a long moment. Then finally asked, softly enough to hurt, “What are we doing?”

The question hung there between you, not angry, not dramatic, honest, and honesty had become the most dangerous thing between the two of you. You looked at him, really looked, at the exhaustion in his eyes, the hope he was trying not to show, the terrifying possibility of being loved back. Your throat tightened painfully. But fear arrived faster, fear always did.

So instead of answering, you stayed silent, and in that silence, something began to break.

—

The storm rolled in after midnight, it didn't rain at first, just pressure, heavy clouds swallowing the sky whole, the air turning electric and difficult to breathe. Wind moved through Jeju Island in restless waves, rattling windows and palm trees and the fragile remains of your composure. You hadn’t slept. Couldn’t.

His question kept replaying in your head like something unfinished. What are we doing? You had no answer that didn’t terrify you. So instead, you spent hours pacing your room while lightning flickered faintly beyond the ocean horizon, illuminating the walls in brief silver flashes. Coward.

The word followed you everywhere now, by one in the morning, your thoughts had become unbearable, by one-thirty, you were walking toward his house through the storm, barefoot, sweatshirt pulled tight around yourself, heart beating too hard.

The neighborhood lay silent beneath the dark sky, every house asleep except his. Light still glowed beneath his bedroom door upstairs. Something inside your chest twisted painfully at that. Like some foolish part of you had hoped he’d be sleeping peacefully. Unaffected. But of course he wasn’t.

You knocked once before opening the door. He looked up immediately from the couch. And the moment your eyes met, you understood this was going to hurt. The room was dim except for one lamp near the window. Thunder murmured low outside, rain finally beginning against the glass in soft scattered drops. Heeseung stood slowly. Neither of you spoke at first.

The distance between you felt enormous. You hated it. You hated that you were the one who created it. “You came,” he said eventually. His voice sounded exhausted. You wrapped your arms around yourself tighter. “I couldn’t sleep.” Something unreadable moved across his face. For one dangerous second, it almost softened. Then he remembered. “What do you want me to say?”

There it was. No avoiding it now. Your pulse stumbled painfully. “I don’t know.” “That’s the problem.” The words landed harder than they should have. Thunder rolled somewhere closer now. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through the calm he’d been holding together for days. “I feel like I’m standing outside a locked door with you lately.”

You looked away immediately. Because if you looked at him too long, you would fold. “You’re making this more serious than it is.” Even saying it felt wrong. You could hear the lie rotting underneath the sentence. So could he, his laugh this time sounded hollow.

“Seriously?” You swallowed hard. “This was supposed to be simple.” “Simple?” His voice sharpened suddenly. “You think any of this has felt simple?” Rain hit harder against the windows. The room felt smaller now. Too warm. Too full of things neither of you knew how to survive. You took a step backward instinctively, he noticed, of course he noticed, and something inside him finally snapped.

“I’m tired,” he said quietly, “of pretending I don’t care.” Silence, the words settled into the room like lightning striking water, there it was, the thing both of you had spent all summer running from, not hidden anymore, not softened into implication, real. You stared at him, your heart hurt so badly it almost felt physical, because part of you had wanted this, wanted him to say it, and another part, the larger, more frightened part, wanted to run until your lungs gave out.

Loving someone meant they could leave. Summer always left. You knew that better than anyone. So fear reached for cruelty the way drowning people reached for air. You laughed softly. Wrong move. His expression changed immediately. You felt your own panic rising now, wild and sharp and impossible to control. “This was never supposed to mean anything.”

The second the words left your mouth, you wanted them back. Too late. Silence. Not dramatic. Worse. Stillness. You watched the hurt move across his face slowly, like something extinguishing. His eyes lost warmth first, then softness, then hope, and suddenly the room felt freezing. He nodded once, a small movement.

“Right,” he said quietly. “Got it.” You opened your mouth instantly. Nothing came out. Because the truth was trapped somewhere beneath all your fear, clawing at your ribs too late. He grabbed his keys from the counter. Didn’t look at you again. Thunder cracked outside just as he reached the door. “Heeseung—”

He stopped. For one second, hope flared painfully inside you again. Then he spoke without turning around. “I think,” he said softly, “I deserved better than that.” And left. The door shut behind him with terrifying finality. You stood there frozen while rain hammered against the windows and the storm swallowed the coastline whole. For the first time all summer, he didn’t come back, and afterward came silence. 

No texts. No late-night knocks at your window. No headlights outside your house. Nothing. Just absence. Cold and endless as the sea. After Heeseung left, summer collapsed in on itself. Not dramatically. No thunder. No shattered glasses. No cinematic unraveling loud enough for the world to notice. Just absence. Quiet and creeping and everywhere.

It settled over Jeju Island like fog rolling in from the ocean, slipping beneath doors and into lungs and through the spaces between ordinary things until everything familiar felt wrong. The beach became unbearable first. You still went sometimes out of habit, carrying books you never opened, towels that stayed folded beside you untouched. The shoreline stretched wide and glittering beneath the August sun, beautiful in the same indifferent way it had always been, but now it felt hollow somehow.

Like a photograph of somewhere you used to belong. Everywhere you looked, there were ghosts of him. Near the dunes where he had first kissed you like he was starving. At the marina docks where moonlight had turned his honesty into something dangerous. On the stretch of sand where he’d once laughed at you for trying to fight the tide after too much tequila and too little dignity. You kept expecting to see him.

Leaning against the lifeguard tower. Walking toward you through the surf. Looking at you the way he always did lately, like he had already memorized every version of your face. But the spaces stayed empty, and somehow emptiness had weight.

The parties weren’t any better. Without him, they felt exposed somehow. Too loud. Too artificial. Music thumping against hollow spaces where your heartbeat used to live. Champagne too sweet. Laughter arriving half a second too late to feel real. You drifted through them like someone haunting her own life.

People noticed, of course they did. Sunoo stopped cornering you with gossip and instead watched you carefully whenever you thought nobody was looking. Eunchae started hugging you too tightly before leaving parties. Even Yunjin, who usually treated emotional devastation like a spectator sport, went strangely quiet around you. One evening near the bonfire, while everyone else sat tangled in conversation and salt air and late-summer exhaustion, Sunghoon settled beside you silently with two drinks. You accepted one without looking at him.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The fire cracked softly before him. The ocean breathed dark beyond the shoreline. Then finally, “You look miserable.” No judgment. Just fact. You let out a quiet laugh that sounded closer to breaking. “I’m fine.”

“Right.” The word carried enough disbelief to hurt. You stared down at the bottle in your hands. “You know,” he said after a moment, “you’re the first thing he’s ever taken seriously.” Your chest tightened immediately. You looked at him then. Sunghoon kept his gaze fixed on the fire. “He acts like nothing matters most of the time,” he continued quietly. “But you did.”

Past tense. The word sliced through you before you could stop it. You swallowed hard. The fire blurred faintly. “He won’t even come out with us anymore,” Sunghoon admitted. “Jay says he’s been packing.” Packing. Something cold moved through your ribs.

You looked away quickly toward the ocean because suddenly breathing felt difficult. Summer had always ended. You knew that. You had built your entire heart around that truth years ago. Nothing beautiful stayed. Not beach towns. Not warm nights. Not people. Especially not people.

But somehow, somewhere between the rainstorm and the yacht and the way he remembered your coffee order, you had forgotten. Or maybe you had simply hoped he would become the exception. That realization arrived slowly over the following days. Not all at once. In fragments. You missed him in stupid ways first. Reaching automatically for your phone after something funny happened.

Turning toward the empty seat beside you at dinner before remembering. Still wearing one of his hoodies to sleep because taking it off felt too much like admitting he was gone. You found traces of him everywhere. In your routines. In your silences. In yourself.

And the worst part was understanding that this grief did not feel temporary. It rooted itself deeper every day. One afternoon, rain threatened faintly over the coastline while you wandered through town half-distracted, passing storefronts already packing away summer displays. Towels disappearing from racks, souvenir stands closing early, seasonal flowers wilting slowly in the heat. August ending in real time. You paused outside the small café near the marina where you and Heeseung had once hidden from the heat for nearly two hours, sharing iced coffees and childhood stories neither of you had meant to tell.

You remembered the way he’d looked at you across the table that day, soft, unarmed. Like loving you had happened quietly when he wasn’t paying attention. The realization hit then, simple, terrible. Oh. This is love. Not infatuation, not summer lust, not convenience sharpened into attachment. Love.

Real enough to hollow you out. Real enough to ruin everything else afterward. You leaned against the storefront window, eyes burning suddenly. Horrible, absolutely horrible, because now you understood why everything felt wrong without him. He had become stitched into the shape of your summer so completely that removing him tore pieces out alongside it.

And worse, you had done this. Fear had done this. You replayed the fight endlessly afterward, every cruel sentence tasting more poisonous each time you remembered it. This was never supposed to mean anything. You had watched those words break him in real time, and still you’d said them. Coward.

By the final week of August, panic settled fully into your bloodstream. You started looking for him without meaning to. Driving past the Lee house too slowly. Watching the beach at sunset. Checking your phone at two in the morning like your body still expected him to return eventually. He never did. The silence between you became its own kind of violence. Finally, the worst part.

It happened accidentally. Your mother stood in the kitchen arranging flowers while late afternoon sunlight spilled gold across the countertops. Outside, cicadas buzzed lazily in the heat, summer sounding exhausted now. You barely listened until she said, “I saw Mrs. Lee earlier.” Something inside you immediately sharpened.

“Oh?” “She said Heeseung’s leaving tomorrow morning.” The world stopped. Your hand froze halfway around your coffee mug. “What?” Your mother glanced up, surprised by the sudden rawness in your voice. “He’s heading back early. Something about work starting sooner in Seoul this year.” Tomorrow. The word crashed through you like cold seawater. Tomorrow meant this was real. Tomorrow meant endings.

Tomorrow meant there was suddenly almost no time left to fix the thing you had destroyed with your own hands. Your pulse turned violent beneath your skin. Outside the window, the ocean stretched blue and endless beyond the cliffs, glittering beneath the fading August light. Beautiful. Temporary. Already slipping away.

—

The next morning arrived too bright. Cruel sunlight flooded Jeju Island in sheets of gold, the ocean glittering innocently beneath the sky like yesterday had not split your heart open. Everything looked painfully beautiful in the way endings often did.

You barely slept. Every hour had passed tangled in panic and memory and the unbearable realization that if you let him leave now, this would become one of those tragedies people carried forever.  The kind stitched permanently beneath your ribs. By nine in the morning, your hands were shaking. By nine-fifteen, you were in your car.

You drove too fast down the coastline road, sunlight flashing violently through the trees, your heartbeat louder than the music still playing faintly through the speakers. Wind rushed through the open windows carrying salt and heat and the last dying breath of summer. Your mind replayed him endlessly. The rainstorm. The yacht. The forehead kiss. The way he had looked at you like you were something worth staying soft for.

The moment his face went cold after your cruelty. You gripped the steering wheel harder. Not this. Please not this. The marina came into view suddenly beyond the cliffs, boats swaying gently beneath the sunlight. People moved lazily along the docks carrying luggage and coffees and ordinary lives. Heeseung. Standing near the end of the dock beside one of the ferries heading toward the mainland.

White T-shirt. Dark sunglasses. One duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Leaving. The sight hit you so hard you nearly forgot to breathe. For one terrible second, fear almost won again. Turn around. Protect yourself. Pretend this never mattered. Then he glanced up. Saw you. And everything stopped. You barely remembered getting out of the car. Only the sound of your footsteps against the dock, the ocean below, your pulse roaring loud enough to drown the gulls overhead.

He straightened slowly as you approached, no smile, no anger either, just exhaustion, like he had finally become tired of hoping, that hurt most. You stopped a few feet away from him, sunlight breaking across the water between you both. Neither of you spoke at first.

Words suddenly felt impossibly small compared to everything sitting between your ribs. Finally, he exhaled quietly, “You came.” The simplicity of it nearly broke you, no accusation, no bitterness, just surprise, your throat tightened painfully. “I had to.” The wind moved softly around you, carrying warmth off the ocean.

He looked at you carefully then, like he was trying not to expect too much, and suddenly you realized something devastating, if you stayed silent now, you would lose him forever, no more pride, no more running, just truth, your eyes burned. “I was scared,” you admitted first. The words came rough, fragile around the edges. Heeseung stayed perfectly still. So you kept going before courage disappeared again.

“I think…” You swallowed hard. “I think I knew what this was becoming before you did. And it terrified me because everything here ends eventually and I didn’t know how to love someone without already grieving them.” His expression shifted slightly. You stepped closer. “I said those things because I thought if I ruined this first, it would hurt less when summer ended.”

Your voice cracked embarrassingly on the last word. The ocean blurred faintly behind him. “But it already hurts,” you whispered. “It hurts all the time.” Silence. Not empty. Listening. You looked at him fully then, no defenses left anywhere inside you. “I was stupid.” A breath. “And cruel.” Another. “And completely in love with you.”

Just love. Messy and terrifying and real enough to destroy you if he rejected it. Your chest ached violently waiting for him to say something. Anything. Heeseung stared at you for a long moment that felt endless beneath the August sun. Then finally, he laughed softly, not mockingly, disbelieving, like he had spent the entire summer waiting for a miracle and couldn’t quite believe it had arrived, you frowned immediately through the tears threatening your eyes. “That’s your reaction?”

He stepped closer. Close enough now that you could see the exhaustion beneath his eyes, the relief slowly undoing it. “I’ve been waiting all summer for you to admit that,” he said quietly. Idiot. You made a broken sound halfway between a laugh and a sob before grabbing the front of his shirt and kissing him, hard, desperate enough to make up for every moment you wasted being afraid. His hands found your waist instantly, pulling you against him with something almost painful in its urgency, and suddenly the entire world dissolved into sunlight and saltwater and relief.

The kiss felt different now, not drowning, not war, like finally reaching shore after spending months lost at sea, his forehead rested against yours when you finally pulled apart, both of you breathing unevenly beneath the burning light. “You are unbelievably difficult,” he murmured.

You laughed wetly. “You stayed anyway.” “Yeah,” he admitted softly. “I did.” Around you, the marina continued moving, boats departing, gulls crying overhead, summer ending one irreversible second at a time. But for the first time since this began, nothing about this felt temporary anymore.

—

The late afternoon light filtered through the curtains of Heeseung’s bedroom, casting a golden haze over tangled sheets and bare skin. Months had passed since that messy night, since the angry kisses and the “this was a mistake” lies. What started as stolen moments and stubborn denial had slowly, stubbornly, become something real.

Now, you were exactly where you belonged, underneath him, legs locked around his waist as he moved inside you with deep, unhurried strokes. Every thrust pulled a fresh sound from your throat. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, back arching as pleasure coiled tight in your core. “Heeseung— mmph!” Your cry was muffled as he leaned down and kissed you, slow and filthy, his tongue sliding against yours while his hips kept that devastating rhythm. Heeseung chuckled warmly against your mouth, the vibration sending sparks through your body. He kissed you once more, softer this time, then pressed his lips gently to your forehead, lingering there as he stayed buried deep inside you.

Still teasing. Still chaos. Still both completely insufferable. But now it was real. He pulled back just enough to look at you, sweat-damp hair falling over his eyes, that signature smirk playing on his lips even while he was still pulsing inside you. “Thought I told you not to fall in love with me,” he murmured, voice low and rough with affection.

You smiled up at him, glowing and utterly wrecked, your hand coming up to brush his hair back.

“Thought I told you not to call.” Heeseung let out a genuine laugh, the kind that made your chest feel too full. He rolled his hips once more, slow and deep, drawing a soft gasp from you before stilling again. “Yeah, well… I never was good at listening,” he said, brushing his nose against yours. “That night after the party, when I texted you to come over… I told myself it was just one more mistake. One more time and we’d get it out of our systems.”

You raised an eyebrow, tracing your fingers down his spine. “And how’s that working out for you?” “Terribly,” he admitted, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Because every time you walked away, I kept thinking about you. Every summer. Every fight. Every time you looked at me like you wanted to kill me and kiss me at the same time.”

He shifted slightly, still deep inside you, and rested his forehead against yours. “I kept telling myself not to fall. And then you showed up at my door the next morning anyway. Stubborn as hell. Beautiful as ever.” You laughed softly, tightening your legs around him. “You’re the one who kept calling. Kept texting. Kept pulling me back in.”

Heeseung’s eyes softened, that rare vulnerable look breaking through the cocky exterior. “Because I couldn’t stop. Even when I tried.” His thumb stroked your cheek. “Guess I’m the idiot who fell first.” The room felt smaller, warmer, wrapped in golden light and years of history finally settling into place. All the almosts, the what-ifs, the angry almost-kisses on balconies and beaches, they had led here. To this. You pulled him down into another kiss, slow and sweet this time, savoring the way he melted against you.

When you broke apart, Heeseung froze for half a second, then broke into the brightest, most boyish grin you’d ever seen on him.“That’s what this whole thing has been, hasn’t it? One long, messy ‘maybe’ that turned into forever.” You nodded, eyes shining. “No more mistakes. No more running. Just us.”

“Just us,” he echoed. He kissed you again, deeper, hungrier, and started moving inside you once more, slow and intentional, like he was sealing the words into your skin. The laughter faded into soft moans and whispered names, the two of you losing yourselves in each other one more time.

Later, as the sun dipped lower and you lay tangled together under the sheets, Heeseung’s fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare back, he pressed one last kiss to your shoulder.

“So… Call Me Maybe?” he asked, smirking.

You grinned. “Only if you promise to always pick up.”

“Deal.”

-

It was three in the afternoon and yet, the sun was nowhere to be found. 

You looked up to the sky, seeing how fast the gray clouds swarmed the whole area, you assumed that rain showers were going to visit anytime. You’re used to Seokdo's unpredictable weather that’s why you decided to gather the clothes you’ve washed earlier and have it dry inside your house instead.

You hummed a soft melody as you took off the clothes from the clothesline. The spring breeze was still so calm and cold despite the dimmed sky, making you relaxed. You loved this feeling. You’ve gotten used to your lifestyle ever since you arrived in Seokdo. There were no regrets inside you but instead, you feel like you’ve achieved a more fulfilled tranquility.

There’s nothing more serene than living in the countryside — away from the crowded city of Seoul, away from the sky-high buildings and polluted humid weather. 

Away from him. You’re your own person in this place. Your ring finger was empty as the cold band was stored somewhere on your small jewelry box back in Seoul. Seven months have passed and you have gotten used to the freedom of your choice. You unknowingly smile as you inhale deeply, immersing yourself in the serene life of living alone in Seokdo.

But before you could fully immerse yourself, you heard a loud engine of a motorcycle driving towards your area. You turned your head towards the sound and immediately assumed that maybe, it was just one of the nice uncles, perhaps bringing you their harvest again. 

That’s why you moved out of instinct, went out to check it but you immediately froze when you saw who’s in front of your gate. 

“Found you.” 

“Sunoo,” you breathed, feet nailed to the ground as your eyes widened. “How the fuck —”

“You really chose a great place for hiding from me,” he teased. Demeanor still calm and cold as he casually walked towards you. 

“How did you know?” you raised an eyebrow. 

“Oh, you really think you can hide from me?”your husband laughed, tone deeper than usual. “That’s your first mistake sweetheart.”

“It took you seven months to find me?” you taunted.

“Doesn’t matter how long I did, what matters is that I found you,” from there, he grabbed you by the arms. “And we’re going home.” 

“I’m not going with you!” you shouted as you attempted to escape his hold, and yet, it was no match for Sunoo who only stood there, surprised by your action.

“Do you hate me that much?” he asked, tone feigning with curiosity. “What did I even do to you?”

“What do you think Sunoo?” you asked back, tone angry and expression filled with irritation that it surprised the man for a second.

“I have no time to deal with your riddles y/n,” Sunoo coldly stated. His grip on you became tight as he yanked you close to him. Eyes meeting his cold ones. “Do you think I like this silly mousechase? Do you even know how much of a burden it was for everyone. Every. Single. One asking me where the fuck are you?”

A sly smirk formed on your lips instead. “Good.” 

“Good?” he chuckled in disbelief. “You love putting me in hell, huh?”

“That shouldn’t be new to you,” you spat back. “This marriage has been a hell after all.”

Sunoo stared at you for a good minute until something in his thought clocked. “Ah. I get it now.”

“You understood now?” you questioned, appalled.

“Yeah,” he said sharply. “That you’re doing this to taunt me. You’re doing this to challenge our marriage. Are you that bored?”

“Are you that fucking dense?” you asked him back. “The last thing I want to do is to do something that will gain a single glimpse of your attention. Dream on Sunoo.”

Along with your sharp words, a series of thunders roared across the sky, and before you two could’ve reacted, rain started to pour. Heavy and huge droplets and yet, not a single one of you moved.

“Go home Sunoo!” you shouted as you attempted to yank your arms away but your husband was persistent.

“I am going home but I will make sure to bring you with me!” Sunoo declared.

You laughed. “For what!? So that you’d be praised that you had found your wife? That’ll boost your fucking ego won’t it?”

“Right, because the only one who could fucking tame my reckless wife is me!” he argued back and with that, he carried you by your waist, earning a loud scream from you.

“Put me down! What the hell —” you didn’t even notice that Sunoo had dragged you back inside your house until you heard the door closed in a loud thud and he placed you down on the floor. Both of you were already drenched, making you flinch at the coldness of the rain. 

“You had the audacity to think you’re welcome here,” you told him, who busied himself with removing his coat.

“Where’s your bathroom? We should change or else we might get sick,” he stated instead, making you scoff.

“That’s your concern?”

“I am allowed to be concerned for our well-being wife,” he answered and his words caused you to flinch — no, some part inside your heart jumped. The rush of blood flushed towards your cheeks, completely malfunctioning your brain while Sunoo stood there with a smirk on his face.

“Flustered? That I addressed you in that way?” he teased and you snapped.

“No, I am surprised,” you answered immediately. “That you’d addressed me in that way when you’ve treated me like a ghost for the past three years.”

“Does that even matter to you? We’re still married.”

“Don’t pull that card right now Sunoo, we never acted like one. I don’t even know why the hell you’re here.” you objected angrily.

“Everyone’s looking for you,” Sunoo answered

You raised an eyebrow. “That includes you?”

Sunoo didn’t answer. He only stared at you with a blank expression, and his silence concluded you to his answer. That’s why you smiled at him, bitter and short as an understanding nod was all you gave him. 

“The first boat to Jeju will be tomorrow at eight am, just so you know, I have no plans on returning to Seoul — especially to you, so leave me alone and return.” you informed him.

“I am not leaving this damn place without you. Despite the crap arrangement we have, you are my wife. You are my responsibility whether you and I like it or not. Now, you fucking listen to me. I have other important things to deal with within my company, so let’s make this trip short and return to Seoul first thing in the morning, alright?” Sunoo explained and you only crossed your arms.

“You’re insane to think I’d fold to you Sunoo. You’re only my husband by papers and I’ll make sure that it’ll stay that way.” You breathed. “You’re in my house, so you fucking listen to me. I’ll let you stay the night but I want you out of my place first thing in the morning, alright?”

“And we can’t have what we want, you know that?” he taunted and that made you chuckle.

“You’re right, so enjoy freezing to death there Mr. Kim,” you mocked as you left him standing there. 

You went straight to your room. Closing it with a small thud before you leaned against the door. Clutching your beating heart as it pounded nonstop out of nervousness.

Sunoo’s here.

Kim Sunoo. Your husband of three years. One of the most influential businessmen in your country is here in a small isle, eight miles north from Jeju island. It takes four to five hours to go here by boat, and he did that just to take you home — his wife of three years.

It would’ve sounded so sweet. A gesture of a dedicated husband who found his wife after months of searching, but all you could see was that egoistic move of his. Everything feels like an act. Everyone would praise him if he’d be the one who’d bring you home after you ran away.

That was the last thing that you wanted to happen. You’re never going to fold to your husband. You know what awaits you once you return to Seoul. An earful lecture from your parents and in-laws, an apology from your distressed twin brother, and last of all — divorce papers from your husband, the very reason why you left in the first place.

You admit that you’re scared of Sunoo. He was a powerful man after all. Old money. Name plastered at every corner of South Korea, he and his family could make your family’s company crumble in a split second. That’s why it’s not a surprise that he could divorce you any time he wants. 

It was an accident. You overheard his conversation with his family’s lawyer. It was a suggestion of divorcing you, simply because it was a trend nowadays.

The cherry on top of what you heard was Sunoo asking for more information about the divorce.

You were frozen. Disbelief entered your system as your anger towards your husband started to boil. Your mind was in haze, you barely heard the rest but all you could think of was how to avoid the divorce.

The divorce will be the end of you. Sure, you would love to divorce Sunoo and save yourself a lifetime of loneliness, but you’re at your peak. Your company’s reputation has become stable, and everything’s going well. There were future plans and the divorce will ruin everything. Cutting ties with the Kim family will paint you badly and it’ll greatly affect the company too.

Of course Sunoo doesn’t know that. He’d never understand that because everything was given to him ever since he was born. He was born wealthy and privileged. While your family were new money. You were competing with other rising companies, and the marriage secured your company’s stability. 

Everything was purely out of business. Since you were in-charge of the company, it was your responsibility too, that’s why you accepted the marriage proposal from the Kim family. You know that Sunoo was strongly against it but in desperate measures, you agreed even if it meant that you’d spend the rest of your life tied to a heartless man.

Now, he has plans of divorcing you, which would ruin you forever. Hence, you devised a plan — run away from Kim Sunoo, leave your company to the safe hands of your twin brother, and while hiding, find a way to keep your company alive that if ever, the time Sunoo forced you to sign the divorce papers, you could walk away without any worry at all.

That’s how you ended up in Seokdo. A small isle that’s a five hour boat ride from Jeju. The population was so small that there were only approximately a hundred houses on the isle.

It didn’t take you long to adjust. Within a week, you’ve become accustomed to the place. The people were welcoming and friendly. They didn't know you that well, but they treat you as if you’re just a city girl who just wants to escape the city, and you let it remain that way.

They don’t know you’re married. They don’t know your whole reason for ending up in Seokdo. You spent your days helping the folks in their harvests and livelihood, babysit their kids, and sometimes, you would join them in their small get-togethers.

It was fun. You’ve become a local at some point. Day by day, you no longer yearn for Seoul and despite living alone, homesickness didn’t occur to you because as you stare at the serene view of the village by your bedroom’s window, you are convinced that you should put yourself first. 

You felt like you belonged here. You don’t want to go back to Seoul, despite Jake’s lectures for you to return. You convinced him that you’ll return soon, but you don’t even have a clear answer. You’re still scared, you don’t know how to face everything — especially Sunoo. You know that Sunoo’s been looking for you. He had been tormenting your twin brother about your whereabouts after all.

But now, you’re at a dead end. Your husband finally found you and has every plan of dragging you back to Seoul. You don’t have any concrete plans yet but all you need to do is to find a way for him to return without you, and right now, the least thing you could do is for him to return safe and healthy.

Your feet moved, opening your cabinet to grab one of the folded towels and spare clothes that Jake leaves whenever he visits. You left your room and noticed that Sunoo hasn’t moved from his place.

He really has plans of freezing to death. You rolled your eyes before walking towards him.

“Here,” you said as you shoved everything to him. “Bathroom’s the first door near the kitchen area. There’s hot water there, just turn the knob to the left and wait for a few minutes for it to come out.”

“There’s hot water here?” Sunoo asked, appalled.

“Rain frequent this place, so yes, the folks need hot water — and heater. So please, take a fucking bath before you get yourself sick.” you explained.

“What about you?”

“That’s none of your concern anymore,” you answered harshly and he didn’t push furthermore. Your husband only gave you a stare before he went towards the bathroom. As the door shut, you were able to breathe again. It made you wonder, how you’ll survive the remaining hours with him.

You just hope that by tomorrow, he'll be gone from your sight. 

-

An upcoming storm will land on Seokdo in the upcoming days.

The waves were huge and angry. Traveling and fishing weren’t advisable too. Everyone was informed to prepare for the upcoming surge and was advised to stay at home instead.

“Kill me now,” you muttered under your breath as you walked back home. The wind was howling and the sky’s gray. You could feel that chaos of the upcoming storm and you found it funny since it totally suited your situation right now. 

Your husband’s stuck with you. Great. You wondered what you even did in your past life to end up in this situation.

As you entered your house, you found Sunoo standing by the corner with the phone near his ear. You noticed the sense of relief washing on his face as you made eye contact with him. He placed down the phone and walked towards you.

“You’re here, I almost called the police,” he said and you rolled your eyes.

“You’re funny when you act concerned for my well-being,” you commented before placing your umbrella on the rack.

“Am I not allowed to?” he asked.

“It doesn’t suit you,” you pointed out. “Anyways, bad news is, you’re stuck here. Storm’s coming and travels are cancelled. If you want a decent stay, Mrs. Lee has a transient house. It’s a bit cozier and bigger, you could stay there until you leave.”

Sunoo raised an eyebrow. “Why would I stay in Mrs. Lee’s house instead of here?”

“Because I don’t want you here Sunoo, simple as that.” you said without any hesitations.

“And you think that saying that would simply make me leave you and stay there,” from there, a sly smirk formed on his lips. “You’ve tormented me for seven months, I think it's best that I’d return that favor.”

“Seven months isn’t enough for the three years I spent living in the cold, lonely penthouse with you.”

“That’s why you ran away? Because you’re tired of our marriage?” he concluded.

“It’s not about our marriage Sunoo. I have long accepted the fact that our marriage was purely business only. I just want a change of environment,” you reasoned out but Sunoo wasn’t convinced.

“And you’d expect me to believe that?”

“I am not expecting you to do anything Sunoo, you shouldn’t have gone looking for me in the first place —”

“Do I have to repeat myself to you? You’re my responsibility y/n. We may be married due to business alliance but you are my wife regardless,” he said sharply. “I know you. You’re not just going to run away out of impulse. Now tell me why did you leave?”

The tension thickened as both of you fell under a staring contest. His eyes were cold and seemingly waiting for you to give in while you were on the edge of it. You wanted to confront him right there. Open up the fact that you had overheard his conversation with Mr. Park.

But the storms’ surging right now. Winds were slamming against the wooden windows as rain poured harder than yesterday. Everything’s overwhelmingly scary that you don’t want to add another chaos that’s brewing at the moment, especially when you're stuck in this small house with your distant husband.

“It doesn’t matter Sunoo, you’d never understand it anyway,” you told him before heaving out a sigh.

“So you’ll just remain stubborn?” he scoffed. 

“I am not being stubborn Sunoo, I am doing what’s best for me.”

“By being selfish.”

“I’ve done a lot of sacrifices, Sunoo. Ever since I was born, everything I did was for my family and our business. So it’s fair that I am choosing myself this time.” you explained. “And if you’re going to stay here just to ruin my peace, I’ll be the one who’ll leave this place instead.”

“Don’t go,” he said immediately and you halted. “Just — fine. I am not going to ask anymore. Just let me stay here and I’m just going to let the storm pass by.”

“And then you’ll go back alone, right?” you asked.

“I’ll think about it,” Sunoo insisted and you were defeated.

“Fine, I’m going to make us breakfast,” you said as you went towards the kitchen area.

“Can I help?” he asked as he followed you.

“Do you even know how to?”

Sunoo became quiet, making you turn around to give him a glare. “Just stay in the living room, there’s a disc player with old cds there and books, keep yourself entertained.”

Like a kicked puppy, Sunoo returned to the living room and sat on the heated floor. He looked around the interior. The house was quite small. Only fitted for one to two people. The living room was a bit small but Sunoo noticed the subtle decorations like the potted plant and figurines. You sure made the house feel like yours after months of living there.

Sunoo then noticed the small pile of books on the corner table, shuffling towards it, he picked it one by one and noticed that they were books of foreign authors. Novels, poetry books, and self-help books. All marked and annotated that you seemed to have run out of books to read.

Sunoo wondered what you’ve been doing here in Seokdo for the past seven months. Clearly, you’ve changed. A lot. You seemed more independent and free than you used to. He doesn’t know if it should concern him but a small part of him was glad nonetheless, that you were alive and breathing even though you’re a thousand miles away from Seoul.

He decided to kill time by picking up one of the books to read, but his mind was distracted by the heavenly smell coming from the kitchen. 

His curiosity beat him into it. Standing up, he abandoned the book and went to the kitchen where you busied yourself cooking breakfast.

Oblivious to your husband’s watching eyes, you hummed quietly as you placed the remaining ingredients needed for the soup. Stirring it lightly before taking a few sips from the ladle. 

“Didn’t know you could cook —”

“God! Sunoo, don’t scare me like that!” you shouted, but your husband only smirked at you as he stood beside you to glance at the pot.

“Looks good, did you learn how to cook while you’re here?” he asked, not minding how close he was as his stare remained at the pot.

“No, I always loved to cook, ever since I was kid,” you don’t know why those words slipped out of your mouth or why you’re having a conversation with your husband. You felt a weird thumping feeling in your heart again, but you tried to ignore it by stirring the soup one more time.

“Really? Why don’t you cook back home?” he asked, tone filled with amusement. 

“We have a chef Sunoo,” you pointed out. “Plus, I’m busy with the company, I don't have time to cook.” 

Sunoo didn’t say a word. You were glad that the conversation ended as the two of you only stood there in silence. Your husband watched as you did a last minute seasoning before turning the gas stove. 

Without saying a word, Sunoo helped you by placing rice on the bowl and setting down the table. You didn’t comment anymore as you placed the pot down, before sitting on the chair in front of Sunoo. The atmosphere’s awkward as you cleared your throat before gesturing to him to eat.

“Thank you for the meal,” Sunoo said, before scooping a ladle-full of soup. 

You poured your portion and as you started eating, there’s nothing but mere silence. Only thunder and the heavy rain slapping against the window, mixed on the spoon and chopsticks drumming against the bowl. 

You felt the atmosphere suffocatingly awkward. This was the first time you and Sunoo ate a meal together and alone. Your schedules usually clashed so you always had your meals alone. Not even breakfast, nor lunch or dinner. The only days you two are on the dining table together were during family dinners, faking smiles, and acting like your marriage is doing fine but deep inside there’s a void that’s slowly damaging your heart. 

“So,” Sunoo broke the silence, making you glance at him. “Why did you choose to go here? You could’ve just, I don’t know, go to another country and disappear.”

Sunoo has always been a cold guy. Always wearing a blank expression and rarely smiling. Not even during your wedding did he flash a smile at you. He acted more like your business partner rather than a spouse. That's why it’s a surprise that he opened a conversation suddenly.

“I have no plans of disappearing at all,” you answered with honesty. “I just want an escape.”

“And you chose here where civilization seemed to have not touched yet,” he commented.

“Are you here to mock my choices Sunoo? Might as well keep your mouth shut by finishing your food,” you spat back, earning a teasing chuckle from your husband.

“You’re fun to tease, why didn’t I do it earlier?” he questioned and you rolled your eyes.

“Because we act like we don’t exist to each other,” you pointed out before you shoved a spoonful of rice in your mouth.

“I started to wonder about that part too,” Sunoo hummed. “Why did we act like strangers rather than just make the marriage work.”

That’s when you stopped. You stared at Sunoo whose eyes were still on you. A thought crossed your mind. The only thing that became a barrier to the two of you.

“You made it clear that you didn’t like the idea of marrying me.” you stated.

“I didn’t say it,” he denied.

“Your face says everything Sunoo,” you sighed. “I know what you’re thinking, we were just leeching your company. That’s very visible in your face when we first met.”

“Then you must have misjudged me.” Sunoo rebutted and your forehead creased.

“If that’s the case, why didn’t you try?”

“Well, why didn’t you? It takes two to tango.”

“You think I could just walk up to you and tell you that I want to make this marriage work? I am scared of you Sunoo,” you confessed and your husband’s face distorted into a confused one.

“Scared?”

“I am very much afraid of you,” you told him, voice almost breaking.  “And I don’t know your next move or what you’ll do. That’s why I left.”

With that, you stood up from your seat and left, leaving Sunoo surprised and confused by your sudden confession. It wasn’t new to him that you had your walls high around him but to be scared of him? That’s new.

He looked at his half-empty bowl and then glanced at yours, still a bit full. It guilts him that he had to ruin a supposed peaceful breakfast but at the same time, all he could think of was; what did he do to make you leave?

-

The storm wasn’t pleasant. 

It hurled its fury the next day. It was dark, cold, and all you could hear was how the wind howled against your windows. It felt like any minute now, it’ll tear off your roof. It jolted you awake at six am, with your heartbeat racing in nervousness.

You looked to your left to see your husband was still asleep. Deep in his own slumber like a baby. For a minute you ponder, thinking about yesterday’s argument that brewed tension between you and Sunoo.

You two were trapped in your own storm. Yesterday was suffocating. You two ate together in silence. Watch each other move and walk around in eggshells — and yet, no one dared to approach one another. Afraid that something might snap and flood the house with anger and frustrations.

Sunoo didn’t try to ruin your peace again. Thankfully. He waited, patiently, which never occurs to you because Kim Sunoo has always been an impatient man. He decides immediately. Always logically, always rational, and he never made any mistakes.

Well, perhaps coming here was a mistake for him because now, he’s trapped with you due to the storm and every schedule he had for the week was postponed. You noticed his irritated expression when he made calls with his secretary. You didn’t ask further, scared that he might snap on you instead.

There’s uncertainty on when he will go home, but at the moment, you’re trying your best to be a good host for him in hopes that it might melt something in his cold heart, and reconsider all his plans regarding your marriage — although that’s far from possible, it’s not bad to hope too.

Unable to sleep again, you stood up from your makeshift bed and left the room. Everything’s still dark and it seems like there won’t be any sun today. You switched the lights on and proceeded to your kitchen to make breakfast.

Deciding on a warm mandu soup, you opened your fridge and pantry to check your stocks only to see that you’re missing some important ingredients.

You glanced at your window, wondering if it’s still safe to go outside. Harsh winds were only present and if you made your errands quick, you’d be able to return in no time before it started raining. So you grabbed your windbreaker jacket, wallet, and an umbrella, and left your house quietly.

Mrs. Kim’s grocery mart — the only grocery mart in Seokdo was already open and god bless her sweet heart because it turns out she has made fresh batches of her sticky rice and mandu. You bought two servings for you and Sunoo along with some other stock that could last the storm.

“Wonbin told me that you have a visitor, a handsome one who arrived last Wednesday,” the old lady said while you placed your items inside the black plastic bag.

“Ah, yes, I do,” you told her with a casual tone.

“Was it Jaeyun? You should’ve told me, I have some candies here for him,” she was about to go to the back room to grab some sour snacks when you stopped her immediately.

“No, just a friend,” you answered but Mrs. Kim wasn’t convinced.

“A friend? He doesn’t look friendly, Wonbin told me,” she commented.

“That kid, he’s very judgemental of people,” you laughed before grabbing your stuff. “Thank you for the mandu Mrs. Kim, I’ll be going now.”

“You should pass by Mr. Han’s stall, he managed to catch some fish today, maybe he could spare you some,” the old lady advised and you only nodded to her words.

Mr. Han’s stall was a bit farther from your home, but since rain wasn’t pouring anytime. You decided to change your route and see if he had some available fish for you. 

“Here, here, this one’s fresh, good for stew or maybe sashimi, good for you and your visitor,” the old man said with a smile.

You laughed at his words, “it seems like everyone knows that I have a visitor.”

“Well, it’s rare for city people to visit here, we just knew immediately, just like the first time you arrived here,” he said while gently cleaning the fish for you. “Who is he anyway?”

“A friend,” you said shortly.

“Oh a friend,” the man chuckled. “I guessed he misses you a lot, that's why he visited you.”

“Maybe he does,” you replied shortly, your smile turning small and bitter. It felt bitter on your part and yet, you remained quiet as you waited for the fish to be cleaned and be given to you.

As you walked your way back home, you hummed mindlessly as you kicked the stray rocks on the pavement. 

Miss me? The world must be ending. You thought as you kicked the rock a bit too harsh. You didn’t care about Mr. Han’s words but in some ways, your mind would always go back to the same question; why is your husband here?

You wanted to think about it deeply. It wasn’t helpful to ponder about it when the said topic is just there in house. That’s why you changed your route just to walk a little longer. You didn’t care that the weather wasn’t one with your plans because in just a glimpse — rain showers arrived. Huge, noisy, droplets poured from the sky and you managed to get wet before you opened your umbrella.

You turned to your left, lengthening your route back home but you didn’t care about the harsh downpours because your mind was still thinking about Sunoo. You tried so hard to come up with a good explanation on why he’s here but everything doesn’t make sense at all. You know him, he wouldn’t just make a detour on his peaceful, usual routine just to travel here and pick you up. Who are you even in his life?

It didn’t sink into you that you’ve finally reached your home. That’s when you noticed that the gate’s opened and it left you confused, thinking that maybe the winds were too harsh that it opened the gates. 

It didn’t sink into you that maybe,  just maybe, your husband went out to look for you, not until a strong hand grabbed your arm and as you turned around you came face to face with your husband’s angry expression. Your eyes widened at the sight of him.

“What the hell Sunoo, where were you!?” you shouted, seeing him still in his sleeping clothes drenched in the rain.

“Where were you!?” he asked you back, tone angry. “You were gone when I woke up, I was afraid —”

“That I’d run away? Where do you think I will go Sunoo?” you taunted.

“You could’ve at least told me that you’re going out, there’s a storm! Who in the right mind will go out in the middle of the storm?” he pointed.

“Ask yourself, who’s drenched right now?”

“I panicked y/n, I was scared that something might happen to you.” he reasoned out and that shut you up.

You stared at him for a second, appalled as a scoff of disbelief left your lips. “Scared?”

“I was worried, okay!? Am I not allowed to?” he said and you couldn’t believe what you just heard.

You were stunned. Words didn’t come out of your mouth until a minute passed. “You were…worried?”

“Yes, now, can we stop this and just go inside? We might get sick if we stay here for too long,” Sunoo didn’t even let you say another word when he pulled you back inside your house.

Hearing the door shut close. You were frozen from your place as Sunoo stripped off his wet shirt. He was definitely drenched from head to toe, completely dripping on the floor while you were just a bit thanks to your umbrella and jacket.

“I didn’t think you’d be capable of doing that,” you break the silence, making Sunoo glanced at you with a deadpan expression.

“What?”

“Worry about me,” you told him.

“What kind of husband am I if I don’t worry about my wife who went outside in the middle of the storm?” Sunoo reasoned out. “You should be careful next time, if not, just tell me so I don’t have to worry.”

“Well, why worry now? You never worried about me back then,” you asked.

“I always worry about you,” he confessed and you weren’t convinced, not when his words remained cold and his expression never softened as he looked at you.

“You don’t show it.” you pointed out.

“I just don’t show it,” he clarified.

The thought made you scoff, “you’re unbelievable, aren’t you? How could I be convinced that you’re not lying?”

“Believe what you want then,” he rebutted. 

You didn’t answer him anymore. Weirded out by the contrast of his words and actions, you just passed by him and made your way towards the kitchen. Placing down the plastic bag loudly as you focused on making breakfast. 

The last thing you heard was the bathroom door opening and closing, and that made your heart heavier than before. 

-

That same night, the storm was still surging outside along with the tension inside your house.

No one brought up the conversation again. You two remained quiet, walking on eggshells, as the coldness could be felt both from you two and the weather.

You were still angry. Your husband could see it. It’s not hard when you have that irritated look on your face that makes Sunoo look at you every minute, and yet — you didn’t even spare a single glance at him.

Sunoo doesn’t get your stubbornness. He was irritated by the fact that you don’t want to go home. He wonders why you had the sudden change in your heart when you have always been a quiet wife for him. You never crossed the line after all.

He was used to you being a ghost, his shadow, or his trophy wife who stood by his side. You would always smile and talk with much demureness and softness, but right now, you’re far different from it. All he could see was anger and pure rage in your eyes. He never thought that you’d raise your tone or even talk back to him. But maybe, Sunoo concluded that he’s wrong, and that’s because despite being married for three years, he never really knows you that deeply.

Or perhaps, he didn’t bother getting to know you at all. Sunoo wasn’t oblivious about the way he treated you. He knew from the start, the marriage was purely business only. His parents themselves told him, it’s up to him how he’ll make the marriage work. 

So he did, in his way — and seeing how the events turned, he seemed that his ways were a failure.

You’re probably tired of your life, that’s why you left. But one logic Sunoo couldn’t understand was why? That wasn’t your personality at all. Despite the loveless marriage, you were persistent, not to him but to your company. He knew that you care for it and your family, and running away was the last thing you’d do. You’re not going to drop all of your responsibilities like a hot potato.

There’s definitely a bigger reason why you left all of the sudden. Despite that, Sunoo couldn’t ask you that. He doesn’t want to confront you again, especially since he had arrived all you two did was argue. It gets too repetitive too. 

The only thing he wanted was for the storm to pass by and hopefully, it’ll be safe now to travel and return to Seoul. He had hoped that the storm would be just a day or two worth because right now, it has become too dangerous even though he’s under a roof.

The man found himself by your kitchen. Mug on his left while the thermos was on his other side. He couldn’t sleep. The weather wasn’t pleasant at all. It was too noisy for him and it left him agitated. Sunoo convinced himself that that’s the reason why he’s sleepless, and not because of something else.

“You’re still awake?” a voice surprised him all of the sudden. Turning around, Sunoo sees you standing by the doorway.

“Can’t sleep,” he answered simply as the thunder roared against the downpour. “The storm’s too noisy for me to sleep in.”

“Oh. Okay,” you acknowledged before your feet moved. Sunoo watched as you went to the fridge to grab yourself some water. He then glanced at the wall clock. It was past two am and it seemed like the storm’s not going to dissolve any moment.

“Can’t sleep either?” Sunoo asked. You nodded as an answer before placing down the glass on the sink, and instead of returning to your room, you leaned against the counter which confused your husband.

“What are you doing?” you asked as you eyed the mug Sunoo was holding.

“Making tea? From whatever I could find here,” he said with confusion. 

“Here,” you opened your fridge to grab the peach extract your neighbor gave you. Place it on the kitchen counter before going to the second drawer below where your tea bags were placed. 

“Peppermint,” Sunoo muttered as he read the label.

“Calms my mind,” you said with feigned nonchalance as you remained in your place, a close distance to your husband.

“Hopefully this works for me,” Sunoo commented and the two of you fell into deep silence. You watched as Sunoo made tea for himself, careful and meticulous just like how he does with his coffee. 

“Do you want some?” he asked within a minute and you stared.

“You’d make me?” you asked, although jokingly, your husband seemed to have not noticed the tone in your voice.

“If you want me to.” Sunoo answered casually.

On most days you would’ve rejected Sunoo’s offer. You should’ve rejected his offer but you feel like tea would’ve been a good drink for your sleepless self. That’s why nodded and he grabbed another mug for you, making the same tea for you. Not a minute passed and he handed the mug to you which you accepted with a short smile.

“It’s sweet,” you commented as you took a sip.

“I like my tea sweet,” Sunoo muttered.

You nodded, “I know, you always have a sweet tooth.”

“How come?”

“I couldn’t ignore the sweet pastries and chocolates in our fridge Sunoo,” you pointed out. “You’re the only one who probably loves to buy those kinds of things.”

He looked at you. “Do you not like sweets?”

“I’m more of a sour girl.” you hummed.

“Ah, no wonder we never ran out of sour patches and sour belts in our pantry,” he commented and that made you chuckle.

The conversation ended in an abrupt silence and yet, you felt no awkward beat to it. The rain served as your background noise while minute-by-minute, you took a sip on the tea your husband made when suddenly, the wind howled again, slamming against the window making you flinch.

“You okay?” Sunoo asked, noticing your scared expression.

“Just surprised,” you quickly brushed it off. “The storm’s scary isn’t it?”

“Did you have trouble sleeping during your stay here?” he asked once again and that made you glance at him.

“Only during nights like this,” you commented. “It’s a storm. I was afraid that any minute it’ll flood my house or take away my roof. That has become my fear, I guess.”

“So why stay here? You mentioned that there’s better houses to stay in here.”

You shrugged, “I don’t know, got too lazy to move out. Got used to it too. That’s why I’m here.”

“Are you scared of the storm?” Sunoo asked.

“Who wouldn’t be? It’s a catastrophe,” you answered and he understood what you meant.

A beat passed. The two of you melted into the silence comfortably against the raging storm, you took a sip on your tea as the sweet, warm taste slid through your throat.

“How did you find me?” you asked.

“Do you really want to know?” he asked you back.

You chuckled, “Well, curiosity kills the cat, don’t they?”

“I’ve found you through Jake.” he answered and you raised an eyebrow. Has your brother given up and ended up telling Sunoo about your whereabouts?

“Jake told you?”

“No, I hired an investigator to follow Jake and trail his whereabouts,” Sunoo explained casually. “It was obvious that he knows something, but he just doesn’t want to tell me, and I don’t want to put more stress on him that’s why I hired someone to just stalk him instead.”

“Huh,” that was the only thing you could say and yet, it didn’t surprise you at all given that your husband must be that desperate to track you down.  “That’s such a crazy thing to do.”

“Not as much crazier as running away.” Sunoo pointed out and you laughed.

“Touche,” you only said before a bitter smile formed your lips. You finished your drink a minute passed and placed down the mug. “You asked me why here right?”

“Right, why here in Seokdo?”

You became quiet for a moment, “We used to have a helper when I was a kid. She was kind, old — she was like a second mother to me. She lived here in Seokdo but went to Seoul to find a job.”

Sunoo only listened, he noticed as the smile on your face became fond as you recall your childhood days. 

“She always tells me about her life here and somehow, I was curious. I wondered about life here in this tiny isle because it seems so mundane and peaceful,” you told him, the smile on your face never even fading.

“Did it exceed your expectations?”

“It did, on sunny days, it’s beautiful here,” you answered. “It’s warm and the folks were friendly, we would throw community gatherings, which made me feel like I’m part of their town.”

“But most days, it’s rainy here, mostly harsh rains and winds. I do end up sleepless. I didn’t notice that I’ve become scared of the storm,” you explained to him.

“What do you do when you can't sleep?”

“I just think, sometimes overthink, about things that don't make sense,” you joked but deep inside you were serious. Most nights wherein you couldn’t sleep all you could think of were your decisions in life — both past and future. It made you think whether your choices were right or not.

Sure you could consider that your days in Seokdo were bright and peaceful but most nights, you find yourself alone in your room, wondering if it’s right for you to stay here for the rest of your lives, hiding from your husband. 

Noticing your worried expression, Sunoo didn’t say another word, and instead, he took a final sip on his tea before placing the mug on the kitchen counter.

“It’s bad for us to stay late, we should go to sleep now,” he announced, making you glance at him.

“What —”

“Come on now,” he said before he guided you back to your shared room. You weren’t able to rebut anymore, not when he’s tugging you towards your shared room.

As you reached the room, Sunoo pulled your mattress close to his, along with your pillows and blanket before laying on it.

“Come on now,” he ordered, patting the empty space.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“Going to sleep?” Sunoo stated the obvious. “You said you couldn’t sleep, and I don’t know, but maybe you’re just lonely here. I thought — maybe, this would help.”

You thought it was a dumb suggestion. Seeing your cold husband avoid eye contact and stumble through his words, you find it funny yet endearing to see him trying to give you comfort. You still find his actions odd and yet, having no room to argue, you lay beside him.

“Is this okay?” Sunoo asked and before you could’ve asked, your husband scoot closer to you. Arms wrapped around your waist as he gently rubbed circles on your back.

“This is weird,” you mumbled, eyes shut as you can feel your husband’s warmth engulfing your whole body.

“How is it weird?” he asked.

“You know what I mean Sunoo.”

“I don’t see it as something weird given that we’re married,” without saying another word, Sunoo pulled you even more closer to his touch that your head’s almost resting to his chest. You could hear how his heart beat rapidly. It made you wonder if it’s because of the sudden affection you two have made.

“You should go get some rest,” he told you and yet, the position only made you even more sleepless.

“How come you would always say that,” you whispered.

“What?”

“Saying that we’re married,”

“Well, I’m just reminding you, because it seems like you’ve forgotten,” he stated.

You laughed softly. “That’s why this is weird, we don’t even act like one.”

“It’s not about the fact that we act like we’re a couple,” Sunoo pointed. “I am just reminding you that legally, you’re binded to me — and so am I to you, we’re stuck together unless —”

“Unless what Sunoo?” you asked.

Sunoo became quiet for a moment. A pause filled the room but you felt his hand tightened on your waist as a minute passed before he shook his head.

“Nevermind,” he said in defeat. “Let’s go to sleep now.”

-

No one brought up what happened last night.

Last night seemed to be a weird spur of the moment between the two of you. It’s probably because of the storm and the glimpse of loneliness. That’s probably why, you are convinced as you glanced at the window where rain continued to pour. You’ve been stuck with Sunoo for almost two days and yet, you two are in this silent truce of not opening any fight nor argument in order to maintain peace inside the house.

You two ate in silence. You cook, Sunoo washes the dishes. When neither are doing chores, you’re either reading or listening to music while Sunoo busies himself with his phone. Trying his best to complete some task that he left in the city. Mornings were quiet, but confusing.

Yet, despite that odd morning, you found yourself in the same position tonight. Wrapped in Sunoo’s arms, head resting on his chest, close enough for his warmth and beating heart.

So did the following night.

And the night after that.

Still, no one had the courage to bring up all that night you two spent cuddling in the midst of the storm. Maybe, you two wanted warmth. This has been the first time you two ever shared any type of skinship willingly, and it was weird. Practically weird given that you two never tried to fix your marriage and by the looks of it, your relationship’s far too ruined to be fixed.

You just hope that the storm would pass by now, so that you wouldn’t overthink anymore, at how your cold husband could give you that much warmth and comfort.

-

The storm disappeared after three days of nonstop downpour.

The sky’s still dark, but there were no more gray clouds around. The aftermath wasn’t that pleasant. You’ve heard that there’s a lot of damaged crops and livestock due to the storm.

The whole townspeople moved immediately. Fishing had started and people were clearing out the dirtied road. Some were invited to clear out the crop fields. Hopefully, they could salvage more crops than what was damaged. Everyone was encouraged to help — that includes you.

Sunoo had insisted that he should help. You were hesitant knowing your husband’s lifestyle, but in the end, he trailed behind you as you two walked towards the farm area where some townspeople greeted you with a smile and a concerned look on their face.

“Oh, is that your friend?” one of the elders asked as she pointed at Sunoo.

Your eyes darted at Sunoo who stood there confused. “N-no, uhm, he’s my husband.”

You noticed how Mrs. Kim’s eyes widened, “husband? You didn’t tell me you were married!”

You laughed awkwardly, “it’s a long story auntie, but I’ll just save it for another day. We’re here to help with the crops after all.”

Mrs. Kim didn’t pry further, leaving you alone as you watched her go to the other older folks, probably going to spread the news that the stranger that visited you wasn’t just a friend — but your husband. You let it be as you began walking towards a part of the field while Sunoo followed you.

“What was that?” Sunoo asked but you waved off your hands.

“Nothing, come on now, I’m going to teach you how to check if the tomatoes are salvageable,” you told him, who only nodded.

Sunoo was able to adapt quickly — too quick for someone who grew up in the city. The elders seemed to love him. They were in awe of his beauty and manners. It shouldn’t surprise you given that Sunoo has always been good-looking, but you find it funny how he ended up breaking his cold demeanor for the elders.

You watched him get pulled by some older aunties, separating him from you as he was tasked to carry a box full of tomatoes and carry it towards the pickup truck. You could only laugh as you continued your task when you felt a shadow hover over you.

“Seems like I am not needed here,” you turned around to see him standing in front of you. He gave you his signature dimpled smile, making you smile too.

“Jungwon, you’re here,” you said before giving him a hug which he reciprocated. “How are you? The storm was pretty intense?”

“Safe, very safe and fine, Maeumi’s fine too, but she keeps on barking whenever there's thunder,” he explained, and you only smiled.

“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re safe,” you said to him who hummed as he crossed his arms.

“How about you? Heard from Mr. Han that you have a friend visiting, but it seems like he’s more than just a friend,” Jungwon teased and you gave him a knowing smile.

“My husband’s here,” you announced and immediately, there’s a shift in Jungwon’s expression.

“Oh, your husband’s here,” Jungwon mused before chuckling. “Well, it’ll be a shame for me not to introduce myself right?”

“You're not going to cause any trouble, are you?” you eyed him but he only shrugged.

“You know I don’t want to cause you any harm y/n,” he answered meaningfully.

You glanced at him for a second before giving you a signal for you two to approach Sunoo who’s still by the pickup truck. Your husband seemed to have noticed you immediately, but his eyes darted towards Jungwon and from there, he sensed something strange.

“Sunoo, this is Jungwon, Seokdo’s village chief,” you introduced, and from that moment, Sunoo had felt a bad feeling about the former.

“Jungwon, Sunoo, my husband,” you introduced and that should’ve given Sunoo some pride but the way Jungwon looked at him — it feels like the man’s dissecting him.

“Nice to meet you, y/n told me about you,” Jungwon gave him a dimpled smile before offering his hand. 

“Good things, I hope,” Sunoo said as he accepted it for formality, and yet, he couldn’t ignore the way Jungwon’s smile turned into a small smirk.

“Of course, y/n’s very nice, you’re a lucky man, you know?” Jungwon removed his hand from Sunoo. 

“I don’t even know what you’re trying to imply,” the older one answered sharply.

“Just a compliment,” Jungwon shrugged casually before darting his attention to someone else. “I think Mr. Hong’s calling for me, excuse me.”

As Jungwon left the two of you, Sunoo noticed how your eyes trailed towards the younger for a minute. His mind wandered all of the sudden.

“He looks young,” Sunoo commented. 

“Yeah, his father used to be the village chief, but since Mr. Yang’s bedridden now, Jungwon’s took over his position,” you explained before giving your husband a small smile. “Are you done already?”

“No, not yet, I think the grandmas are calling me again,” Sunoo excused, leaving you there alone while his mind was clouded with unpleasant thoughts.

The afternoon passed by in a blur. Almost half of the crops were disposed of. Sunoo could feel his body weary and tired, and yet, he didn’t complain. The least he could do was help the village, and also because he was amused by the grandmas who seemed to like him too.

“Ah look at those two, they’re together again,” one of the grandmas commented, making Sunoo stop to look in the direction they were staring. 

It was you, with Jungwon, laughing as you two were by a corner, arranging the good crops and placing it on a box. The conversation seemed to be lighthearted but Sunoo couldn’t help but to notice how close you two are.

“Young love I must say,” another one stated but she was nudged by her friend, making her complain.

“What do you mean love? Y/n’s married, they’re just probably friends,” she corrected.

“That doesn’t look like friends to me.”

“They do look pretty close and cozy with each other. If the husband was out of the picture, they would make a good couple.”

“You two shut your mouths! Have some respect for her husband —” the moment one of the grandma’s eyes landed on Sunoo, she looked guilty, and hushed her friends. They all complained at the sudden change of the grandma’s attitude, not even noticing that Sunoo’s just nearby them, who unfortunately, had heard everything.

Sunoo’s eyes darted once again at the two of you. Observing thoroughly how you smile and laugh without any wariness while Jungwon’s leaned closer to you. Sunoo didn’t notice that his grip tightened on the box when Jungwon whispered something to your ears. 

Then you’d laugh. You’d laugh loud like it was the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. Sunoo had never heard you laugh that loud, not even your twin brother’s joke would make you laugh that hard. It made him wonder — how close you and Jungwon are.

It didn’t help that throughout the whole afternoon, you and Jungwon were together. Even after the end of the day and everything had gone home after helping, you stayed to talk to Jungwon, for another hour or more. 

If it wasn’t for Sunoo’s impatient self, then you probably would’ve spent the night talking to Jungwon. Even on the way home, the smile on your face remained. There’s a sharp bitterness that hit Sunoo as you two walked home. Mind confused as he remembered those nights where you’re within his touch but now he’s became a total stranger to you.

Him — your supposed husband suddenly felt like a ghost the moment Jungwon came into the picture. 

That’s when he wondered. He doesn’t want to assume things about you, but Sunoo couldn’t help it, not when you look happier when you’re with him.

“You’re close with the village chief,” Sunoo commented the moment you two entered the living room, making you stop to glance at him, the smile on your face became more genuine.

“Wonnie? Yeah he helped me adjust here,” you shared casually, not noticing the way Sunoo’s jaw slackened at your words. 

“Wonnie,” he chuckled in disbelief. “You seemed closer than I thought.”

That’s when you stopped, turning around to face him who had nothing but a cold, observant stare.

“What are you trying to imply?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Should I be worried? For the past seven months you were gone, you’re here, getting well-adjusted with a man,” he spoke and his tone was filled with accusation. 

But instead of a guilt-stricken expression, a smile on your lips curved. You seemed aware and yet, not scared of the sudden confrontation. “Are you saying…Jungwon and I had a relationship?”

“Have, dear, because it seems like it’s continuing even though I am here now.” Sunoo concluded.

You two became quiet. You stared at him for a moment as your heart started beating rapidly.

“You’re right,” you admitted with a smile on your lips. There wasn’t a hint of guilt in your tone, and it was as if it was something to be proud of.

“Cheater.” your husband accused and that’s when you let out a mocking laugh.

You looked at him with disbelief in a split second. “Oh, we’re going on that route now? Why are you so affected by it, Sunoo? We’re married in papers only, we don’t even act as a couple at all.”

“You should’ve at least respected the sanctity of our marriage —”

“Bullshit Sunoo, our marriage isn’t out of love. Our marriage is purely business, so don’t act all moral just because I looked for someone else.” you snarled at him. 

“Why do you have to do that?” he asked, and you were confused by how he sounded so betrayed by your actions.

“Are you really asking that question?” you asked rhetorically. 

“Just answer the damn question,” he ordered.

“Because I’m so lonely Sunoo,” you confessed, feeling that heavy weight on your chest disappear. “I’m so lonely in our marriage that our house felt more like a cage to me.”

“That’s why you left, and thankfully met Jungwon because it seems like you’re not lonely anymore,” Sunoo mocked and you only nodded to his words.

“Right, because he was there for me. Jungwon was there during my worst days. Listened to my worries — in fact, he acted more like my husband than you did.” you explained and word by word, Sunoo felt his system turning into knots.

“How far did you two go?” he asked out of nowhere, and you halted.

“What?”

“Did he touch you? Slept with him?” Sunoo asked accusingly and you shook your head.

“Does that matter Sunoo?” you answered.

“So he did, holy fuck, you let yourself get fucked by him?” your husband concluded.

“And he’s more than what I’ve imagined.” you added.

“You think I’d be affected by that?”

“You’re seething Sunoo, I can see it in your eyes that you’re mad,” you pointed out.

“Fuck right I am! You are my wife, why did you…fuck, why did you let another man touch you?” he asked, tone breathy and shaky as his eyes remained on you, betrayed and hurt. “Am I not enough?”

It made your forehead creased. How could your husband act this way all of the sudden? “You never touched me Sunoo, not even once — do you even remember our wedding night?”

“So you slept with him to spite me.” Sunoo concluded.

“During our wedding night, I was willing to give myself to you. It’s the least I could contribute to our marriage, be a good wife for you but all you did was stare.” you answered, completely ignoring his words.

“I didn’t want to sleep with you out of obligations, I don’t want to pressure you into giving yourself to me,” he reasoned out but you shook your head immediately. 

“I was willing to give myself to you Sunoo. You should’ve asked me if I wanted to rather than look at me so disgustingly that all I could think of was —” a deep sigh of disappointment escaped your lips before you looked at him, eyes already glassy. “Shit, am I not that attractive enough for you?”

“That’s why you fucked around with Jungwon?”

“Because he sees me Sunoo! Something you never tried! you couldn’t even spare a single glance on me —”

“That’s when you’re wrong,” Sunoo rebutted. “You think I don’t see you? Do you even know how hard it was for me to control myself from fucking you that night? Or everyday when I see you in those damn pencil skirts or silk night gowns. You’re a walking temptation to me.”

“So why didn’t you? I am your wife, you have the right,” you pointed out.

“Don’t fucking test me. You don’t know that I’ve been holding it for three fucking years. All the times I rubbed it off in my bed or in the shower pathetically as I wondered what you feel like wrapped around my cock.”

The air shifted all of a sudden. Your breath halted as Sunoo took a step forward. The gap between you two became small.

“Tell me to stop,” he told you. “Or don’t. Don’t tell me to stop. Tell me to take you right here, right now because I know you want this too. I know how you’ve been dying to get fucked by me, am I right?”

You only stared at him. Both of you hold a staring contest as the air becomes more intense, suffocated by the years of repressed and hidden desires you two had for each other.

With no objection from you, Sunoo moved, taking a step forward which led you to take a step back.

“You said you’re my wife. That means I have the right to you, don’t I? So if I bend you over here and take you over and over again until the only cock you could think of was mine, you’re not going to complain, right?” he asked, tone deeper than usual. Your words got stuck on your throat as your husband gazed at you like a predator.

Before you could’ve moved, Sunoo had pushed you against the wall. His hands find themselves on your waist, holding it tight as you gasp for air.

A beat and two passed by, no one moved.

“Seeing how you’re not even attempting to struggle, that means you want this too,” Sunoo darkly laughed as he brushed the stray hair strands out of your face. He looked at you clearly, seeing how your eyes wander at any place other than his. 

“Look at me,” he cupped your cheeks aggressively, making you face him with a whine. His fox-like eyes were all you could see. It was filled with nothing but wanting — something in him was yearning for you — his gaze was completely different from his usual cold expression

“Are you scared?” Sunoo asked and you blinked, before slowly you shook your head as answer.

That was his signal. Your husband didn’t hesitate to carry you towards the bedroom. Gently, he placed you down at the unkept bed mattress on the floor and that’s when your heart stopped.

“You’ve thought about this, haven't you?” he asked. “During our wedding night? I’m sorry if I have disappointed you.”

He crawled on top of you and without any words, started working on buttons of your blouse. He was eager, like a predator ready to feast on his prey — that thought had you fisting on the sheets while the moment your husband pushed your blouse away, revealing your bra, he let out a deep chuckle.

“Last chance to stop this,” Sunoo warned as he stripped off his shirt, revealing his toned body that made you gulp at the sight. You didn’t stop him nor did you push him away. All you did was stare at him who observed you thoroughly.

“You sure?” Sunoo taunted. Seeing that he was only met with silence, your husband leaned down on you. His face was an inch close to you that both your noses bumped onto each other. His lips grazed on yours that your throat felt dry at the tension.

“I’m not going to hold back dear,” he warned before closing the gap. His lips moved to meet yours. Slow at first not until he pushed himself deeper to get a taste of you. Feeling his lips lick through your lower lip, you groaned harshly at his action before without any thoughts — you kissed him back.

Your mind was screaming to push him away. This is wrong — yet it was dangerously addictive. It was your curiosity. It took you three damn years to get a taste of your husband’s affection towards you.

If that wasn’t enough, Sunoo broke the kiss first. You were catching your breath as your stare at him became obvious, looking so innocent yet needy that your husband immediately caught it. A deep laugh escaped his lips. It seems like the past few days you were so stubborn but just a snap, you submitted to him so willingly. 

“You’re not going to need this,” he told you as he pulled your blouse away, tossing it somewhere before reaching your bra and unclasping it in a second.

You let him undress you. Embarrassment washed through your body as he pulled your pants down along with your panty. Both of you froze as the last piece of garments was thrown somewhere in the room. Your husband’s stare on you lingered longer than it should be. You couldn’t help but to cover your body with your arms but he was quick to swat it away. 

“Shit,” Sunoo cursed. Disbelief boiled in his system as his stare on you became longer. He wanted to memorize every piece of you. Every curve, flaws, and moles scattered on your body. 

He couldn’t believe he held back for three years when his wife’s body could envy every goddess to ever exist.

You’re far from what he had dreamt of — no, you were a fucking dream. All his thoughts and desires about you exceeded his expectations. Sunoo couldn't fathom the reality that another man had seen your naked glory before he could’ve.

That was his mistake. He should’ve claimed you during your wedding night. He shouldn’t be a gentleman to you if you were actually willing to give yourself to him. You were so lucky that he could control himself. You didn’t know that behind his cold facade was a monster who couldn’t take his eyes away from his lovely wife. 

He’ll curse you that night. Approaching him with silence and patience, in that white slip-on silk night gown. You were a freaking angel from above, and god, it took him years to know what you were hiding behind that thin layer.

At the same time, Sunoo was also a man with dignity. He respected you and your arrangement. He’s not someone who lets his urges win — but tonight, something in him shifted. He wanted to claim you and taint your body with nothing but him.

He approached you closely, observing, wondering while his hands travelled on your bare skin, an audible gasp escaped your lips as you felt an electrified touch lingering at every part he touched. 

“All of this…is mine?” he asked with utter surprise. You couldn’t answer his thoughts, not when his hands reached your thighs, gripping it softly on its plush skin before pushing for it to be spread in front of you.

“Shit, you’re already fucking wet for your husband,” he whispered and you remained quiet, observing your husband who gathered your slick from your entrance. Playing with it before putting it in his mouth. Shock was all you could feel as Sunoo glanced at you with a smirk on his face.

Sunoo went for a kiss once again. Soft with the lingering taste of your musk. It was sweet and addicting that your lips moved to get a taste of that nectar. The room became hotter as you could feel your skin make contact with Sunoo’s naked torso. He was too warm for someone cold.

It made you wonder, what he’s like down there. Your curiosity gave you a glimpse as Sunoo pulled you closer to him while his lips traveled down to your neck, leaving wet, messy kisses that left you breathless. Feeling his hard bulge against your naked cunt, you felt the heat on your core aching, making you whine as your husband busied himself on leaving marks on your skin.

“Sunoo —” a moan escaped your lips as your husband licked your nipples, making it hard against his tongue.

“Shh, just lay there dear, let me have this,” Sunoo hushed softly before he turned his attention towards your breasts once again. You let him play with it, feeling him suck and bite your right nipple hard that you were whining in pain before he proceeded to repeat the same action on the left.

The growing ache down your core started to become too painful to ignore, you couldn’t help but to buck your hips upwards, hoping to feel any friction from your husband who seemed to be taking his time worshipping your chest.

“Sunoo please —”

“Have some fucking patience,” he snarled at you. “I’ve waited three years for this, I am going to take my time.”

“Can you — please, just please, I want you inside me now.” you begged pathetically that it made Sunoo stop.

“Look at you, begging for my cock like a slut, who would’ve thought my wife has this side of her?” Sunoo taunted, a chuckle leaving his lips as he cupped your cheeks once again.

Your eyes were watery, almost whining as you called out his name once again making your husband smirk wider.

“Ah, what should I do? I wonder if this is how you beg Jungwon too. Did you kneel in front of him? Suck his dick hard just to get fucked?” he mocked devilishly.

“No.” you muttered but Sunoo only cocked an eyebrow.

“No?” he questioned, doubtful of your answer. “What? Did you lay there pretty while he ate you out? Or was it just a quick fuck for you?”

“Do you want to know?” you asked him, patient already thinning. “Do you really want to know how Jungwon fucked me so good that I stayed in bed the next day? Do you want to know how he filled me up to the brim that I could still feel him inside me? Is that what you want for me to confess, dear husband?”

“Fucking slut.” he cursed and you only laughed.

“Guess I bruised your ego with that one, couldn’t accept the fact someone touched your wife huh?”

“That’s fine, I guess I’ll just the fuck the hell out of you until you reminded who you really belong to,” he spat before proceeding to flip you without any warning.

Your knees scraped on the floor before he lifted your hips upwards for him. A slap stung your asscheeks making you yelp in pain but the only thing you heard was your husband’s dark chuckle as he untied the drawstrings of his sweatpants.

“You want to get fucked? Oh, you’ll get fucked like a dirty slut you are,” Sunoo muttered under his breath as he released his cock free from its strain, already hard and angry red. Using his spit to lube his length, Sunoo lined his tip on your warm and wet entrance.

“On second thought,” he murmured. “Why don’t you fuck yourself on my cock? Show me how needy you are for your husband’s cock.”

A whimper was your only answer. Head low as embarrassment flushed through you. You were almost crying as you shook your head. 

“Don’t you want it?”

“Go to hell Sunoo,” you cursed at him and your husband wasn’t fazed. 

“I’ll see you there,” he laughed before without any warning, inserted himself inside you, making you scream loudly. You could feel his thick girth ripping your walls in just a split-second, hot tears streamed through your eyes out of pain and pleasure that you froze from your position.

“Come on dear, I already put it inside,” your husband taunted before slapping your butt once again. The sting sent shivers down your spine but everything faded when your husband hovered over you. His breath fanned against your ear before he placed a gentle kiss on its shell.

“You don’t want to test my patience don’t you? You want my cock? You’ve got to earn it,” he whispered to you, and that’s when you fold for him.

All your pride came crumbling down the moment you thrust your hips backwards to meet his cock. You moved on your own, making a use of your husband who remained in his place, watching his wife fucked herself in his cock. He could only chuckle as he slapped your ass once again, making you cry further as you thrusted faster than before. 

“Good wife,” he teased as his eyes never left your body. Watching how his cock disappeared inside your pussy, Sunoo couldn’t help but to groan in pleasure before he snapped his hips to meet yours halfway.

“Sunoo —”

“Don’t fucking stop,” he ordered and you nodded at his words before continuing your actions. You didn’t stop and instead moved faster and more hastily, letting his cock plunge inside you so deeply that you started to babble messy cries.

Embarrassment washed all over you as all the burning anger you had for your husband was replaced with nothing but that immense pleasure on your cunt. You found yourself getting high at the act, drowned at the act as lewd sounds escaped your lips.

It didn’t help that Sunoo’s starting to move too, his hands gripped around your waist, fingers dipping on the plush of your skin as he followed your rhythm, meeting your movement halfway, creating a more intense sensation on your pussy.

“Fuck — shit! So fucking tight huh? Even after sleeping with someone else, your pussy’s still tight,” he taunted before grabbing a fistful of your hair and pushing your face down the mattress. A cry escaped your mouth  as your husband’s thrust became rough and harsh, as if he was angry at the idea of someone touching you.

“Have to — ha — remind you — who you fucking belong to,” Sunoo said in between his thrusts before lifting your hips further for him, and with the new angle, he rammed you without any mercy, burned with jealousy and pride to claim you as his own cockslut.

“You like that dear? I could feel your pussy tightening around my cock? You like getting fucked by your husband’s cock?” you couldn’t even answer him, your face remained buried on the soft pillows, already wet with your tears and drool while your husband continued to rail you like a madman.

You could feel yourself getting numb at your husband’s actions. Sunoo didn’t stop, his stamina was quite strong as all you could hear was his hefty groans and degrading words for you. You didn’t even notice the intense churn on your stomach as Sunoo’s shaft continued to abuse your g-spot nonstop.

Along with your cries, your orgasm came without any notice. A grunt escaped from Sunoo as he felt your pussy tightening as your muffled cries could be heard. He smirked at your pathetic self who came without any warning. He pulled your hair once again and all you could do was breathe as your husband didn’t stop his movements.

“Cumming without any warning, you really wanted to be punished, right?” he fumed. 

“I don’t — I’m sorry,” you babbled, too focused on how your husband snapped his cock inside your cunt.

“Aw, look at you, you’re such a fucking mess, always a mess for me pick up, aren’t you?”

Sunoo stopped for a second before he flipped you once again. Your back hit the mattress before he crawled over you. He stared at you with your hair sprawled all over the pillow, glassy eyes, and cheeks filled with tear stains.

You couldn’t help but to tear up once again, the frightening feeling hovering over you as your husband’s stare lingered at you longer.

“Fuck, you’re so ruined for me,” he teased, wiping your tears so gently before he slides himself once again and gave you a sharp thrust. Your back arched naturally as a cry of pleasure left your lips.

“Come on, cry for me, pretty girl — want you to look ruin for me,” his thrusts never stopped, not even when your pussy started clamping around his cock once again.

“Open your mouth,” Sunoo ordered and without any thoughts, you opened your mouth and without any thoughts, your husband spit on your mouth, making you flinch by the act.

“You’re mine, got that?” he claimed while his hips continued abusing your cunt nonstop. You could feel your skin bruising at its intensity but all you could do was mewl and cry before nodding.

“Y-yes, yours Sunoo —” you said in between your tears.

The room became hotter and hotter, smelling like sex as both bodies moved in one rhythm. He could feel it, his orgasm coming in a minute. Everything’s becoming too sensitive for him and your warm, wet cunt wasn’t helping at all.

“I’m gonna cum,” he groaned. Everything’s becoming too overwhelming for him but despite that, it crossed his mind what you’ve said earlier.

“Fuck, I’m going to fill you up,” Sunoo announced. “Fill your pussy with cum until it leaks out, breed you — give you my babies. Fuck, you’re driving me insane woman.”

“Please,” you whined, feeling another orgasm churning in your stomach.

Sunoo chuckled at your attempt, “shit you want that? You want your husband to breed his cock-drunk slut? You want to carry my kids, don’t you?”

You nodded, tears still streaming from your eyes as your grip on the sheets became tighter — and that only drove Sunoo to go animalistic. The sight of you being a mess, whining and begging him to breed you urges him to go rougher.

Sounds of wet skin slapping against each other echoed inside the room along with the cries and whimpers from your lips. All of your senses have been heightened up, eyes turning white as your second orgasm came crashing down once again.

Sunoo followed in a second, his groan loud and guttural as he released a dump of his cum inside you. The warm feeling of being filled by your husband’s cum made you moan unknowingly. Sunoo didn’t stop, even when his legs were shaking and his breathing’s unstable, he didn’t stop thrusting inside you, wanting every last drop of his cum to fill you up.

You were catching your breath as a few mewls and whining was all you could do while Sunoo pulled out. He stared at how his cock’s still aching hard, mixed with both your juices, before shifting your attention towards you. 

Gently he wiped the sweat trailing on your forehead. You hummed against his touch before he gave you a kiss on the lips which you accepted without a word.

“On your knees,” he whispered to you and you looked at him confused.

“What?”

“On your fucking knees,” he repeated. “I’m not done with you dear. I have to make sure you’ll be swollen with my cum that all you could think of was how I took you over and over again.”

You didn’t say another word. All you could do was let out a shaky cry before stumbling to get on your knees. 

Without any warning, Sunoo plunges his cock inside your still sensitive pussy once again. You couldn’t do anything but to accept it and what awaits you that night.

-

Last night was a mistake.

That’s what you insist as you wander around Seokdo. It was still dawn. The sky’s still gray and tiny downpours accompanied you in your walk. 

You can still feel your legs numb, core aching, and despite taking a long shower, you can still feel him inside you — just like what your husband swore to you.

You thought about last night and everything that happened after that. The way Sunoo touched you, took you over and over until you couldn’t think of anything other than him — you cursed at your helpless self.

That shouldn’t happen. You shouldn’t have succumbed to him. It felt wrong in every possible way. You felt your pride all bruised-up because no matter how much you try to convince yourself that you hate and loathe Kim Sunoo, you still ended up submitting to him.

You felt your body twitch as you recall how he claimed you like any husband would to their wife — and you felt the churn in your stomach when you remembered how you’ve consented to every part of it. All the words that left your lips last night made you groan in frustration as you continued walking mindlessly around the small isle.

“Y/n, isn’t it too early for your walk?” you freezed when you heard a familiar voice. You turned around to see Jungwon who had a smile on his face.

You smiled, short and simple as the man approached you. “Good morning Jungwon, you’re awake already I can see.”

The village chief hummed, “Grandma Hong wanted help with delivering her some cabbages to the market and I’m actually on my way home when I saw you.”

“That’s kind of you,” you commented and he gave you a dimpled smile.

“You seemed alone, where’s your husband?” he asked, and the mention of your husband made you flinch.

“Still asleep. I just want to clear my mind, that's why I went for a walk.” you answered immediately.

“Then, you wouldn’t mind if I accompany you?” Jungwon asked.

You smiled, this time genuine as you nodded, “of course Won.”

The two of you continued walking quietly. Jungwon’s presence has always felt calm to you and it did help you calm your mind. He didn’t pry, not when his curiosity could be felt with the way he glanced at you from time to time. You were grateful for it. All you wanted was peace of mind. 

By the time you two are near the port, overseeing the lighthouse, you two stopped and watched the waves splash against the pier deck.

That’s when you talked.

“Sunoo had learned about us,” you told Jungwon whose eyes remained in the deep, gray ocean.

“He’s great at observing then — we weren’t subtle at the field either,” Jungwon joked and that made you chuckle.

“I admitted it to him, and one thing led to another,” you added and Jungwon didn’t react. He only nodded slowly.

“Ah, that’s why you weren’t able to answer last night. I went to your place, but felt like I was disturbing something private,” the man explained and that’s when your eyes went wide.

“Oh my god.” you groaned.

But Jungwon only chuckled, “So, you two had fixed your relationship then?”

“No — I don’t, it was a spur of a moment Jungwon,” you insisted. “It feels wrong.”

“Wrong? He’s your husband.” he questioned.

“He’s only my husband, he’s not the one I love.” you clarified.

Jungwon became quiet at your words. He stared at you for a second before shifting his gaze at the ocean. The two of you became quiet as a sharp rumble of thunder roared in the sky.

“Do you think this is love?” Jungwon asked and that’s when you glanced at him.

“It’s not, we both know that. But if I were being honest, I’ll never regret everything we’ve done.” you explained.

“So did I,” he admitted. “I enjoyed your company, but I wouldn’t call it love. After all, I’m still mourning her.”

You nodded. Agreeing to his words. Love isn’t an easy thing to happen to you. Your relationship with Jungwon, you wouldn’t call it love. Just an escape. An epiphany on your life and marriage. He was just a fleeting moment and maybe, you had concluded, he was just filling in the hole in your heart that your husband was supposed to be filling. 

“I just think we’re just two lonely people in this small isle. Just two lonely people trying to find something they’ve been yearning for from their past relationships” Jungwon explained.

“You’re right,” you agreed. “And that’s all we will be.”

Jungwon nodded. That’s when you two concluded your relationship — just two lonely people in this small isle, standing together, watching the storm in front of them. The waves scattered in different sizes as the gray clouds continued to swallow the sky. Love feels like it doesn’t exist in Seokdo and whatever you and Jungwon had, seemed to be shallower than you think.

And yet, it was more than what you had with your marriage with Sunoo.

“Would it be pathetic if I told you that I would rather stay here in Seokdo with you and our blurry relationship than to return to Seoul with my husband?” you asked Jungwon as the two of you walked back to your home.

Jungwon chuckled. “You’re taking the risk? You have a great life there y/n. May I remind you that your family’s also there? And your company?”

“I was testing if you’d enable me and my bad decisions,” you mumbled.

“I don’t want to be the reason for your bad decisions y/n. A lifetime in Seokdo isn’t that beautiful as it seems, someday, you’ll miss Seoul and the elevators in your sky-rise penthouse.” Jungwon reasoned out.

That’s when you let out a laugh. “But if I get to laugh like this, I’d rather stay here.”

Jungwon stopped for a moment. He looked at you as your smile never faded. His heart skipped for a moment. A selfish thought crossed his mind as his eye never left you.

“Don’t stay here,” Jungwon advised as his stare deepened. Despite that selfish thought of his, his rational mind still won over him.

You gaze upon him. His words had a hint of bitterness on it that you were confused.

“You don’t belong here, you have a company waiting for you. Your brother’s waiting for you in Seoul. You were just meant to hide here, not stay forever,” he explained.

“I was just thinking hypothetically,” you reasoned out.

“It feels like you’re thinking about it seriously,” Jungwon pointed out, tone becoming serious. “Don’t stay because of me, you know I couldn’t love you the same way I have loved her.”

“I know,” you admitted immediately, it was more like a whisper as it felt sour on your tongue. You have accepted the fact that what you and Jungwon had was just a fleeting moment, and yet, it still hurts — how can you be so unlovable?

“I’m sorry,” Jungwon apologized, seeing your hurt expression and watery eyes. You nodded at his words, sniffing your tears away when suddenly you felt someone snatching your arms.

“What the —”

“What the fuck did you do to her?” Sunoo calmly asked, yet there’s a storm raging in his tone.

“Sunoo please, it’s nothing,” you insisted.

“Don’t cover up for him y/n, now tell me,” your husband ordered.

But Jungwon only smirked, a teasing one as he crossed his arms. “Look at you, acting like a husband to her. Do you know that you're too late for that act?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Do you even know why your wife ran away?” Jungwon clicked his tongue. “Or that she’d rather stay here with me?”

“Stay away from her,” your husband warned.

“I could, but could she stay away from me? I don’t think so, hyung,” the younger taunted.

Sunoo’s grip on yours tightened. His eyes darkened while the younger remained smug before giving you a glance. Jungwon’s eyes softened before mouthing something that you couldn’t comprehend. 

Instead of answering Jungwon, Sunoo turned around and dragged you with him. You were helpless from his strength, almost dragging you back to your house until the last thing you heard was the door closing with a loud thud.

“You’re hurting me Sunoo,” you pleaded but he yanked you closer to him. His eyes were glaring, almost red with anger as he looked at you.

“We’re leaving,” he announced. “We’re going back to Seoul, and I’m not going to let you out of my sight. I am going to make sure that you’ll never escape or run away. This is the last time this will ever happen again. You don’t want to cross me right?”

But a chuckle of disbelief escaped your lips, “those are big words coming from someone who’s planning on divorcing me.”

You watched as Sunoo’s expression shifted immediately. He looked surprised — scared you might notice as his hold softened that you managed to yank your arms away from his hold. Clutching on the purplish mark that for sure, will hurt for the following days.

“How did you know?” he asked, still in shock. 

“Sunoo, the walls of our house are pretty damn thin for a penthouse you know?” you sarcastically said. “So I guess it’s true, and you must be so, so desperate that you chased me all the way here.” 

“How much did you hear?” he asked. 

“It doesn’t matter Sunoo,” you exhaled. “But the truth’s out now, I left because I don’t want to divorce you. Fucking funny right? Because as much as I hate you, I still need you Sunoo.”

“You needed me?” he questioned.

“I needed your name, your reputation — your company’s share in my company because like I have always told you, our marriage is purely business, and divorcing me will ruin everything my family had built.” 

“You think I am stupid to let that happen?”

“I don’t know Sunoo. You have everything, you don’t need me at all. You can discard me anytime you want, that's why you seemed interested in divorcing me.” you reasoned out.

“You’re making me like I’m sort of a heartless monster.”

You laughed at his words. “Aren’t you one, Sunoo? I’ve watched you from a distance for the past three years. All those calculated moves you do during family dinners or important events. The cold and short answers you would give to me — you never even looked at me once, just last night, why now?”

A tear escaped your eyes this time and yet, it felt nothing but the rage that you have bottled to your husband. It burst suddenly. The storm may have passed by but it left a lot of damage between you and your husband.

“For the past three years, I wanted to at least be a good wife to you. If not, a friend or someone you can lean to, but you never want all of it. So, I’m sorry if I am not convinced with everything you do — it’s like you’re scheming me to come home and what awaits there? Our divorce papers, am I right?"

“You’re right,” Sunoo confessed. “I am planning on divorcing you, but you’re wrong on one thing. I am not discarding you just like that.” 

“Is this one of your chivalrous acts Sunoo? Next thing, you’ll tell me you’re divorcing me because you’re letting me go.” you mocked.

“You’re right.”

“Fucking bullshit,” you cursed. “Should I praise you now Sunoo? Drop onto my knees and be grateful that you’re setting me free from our marriage? Wow, you’re not as heartless as I thought you were.”

“Don’t test my patience y/n,” Sunoo warned. “I am doing this for us. This marriage should stop. Everything’s useless.”

You clicked your tongue. “That means my life’s ruined.”

“I am not stupid to let your company fall, y/n.” Sunoo stated. “We still have connections and ties. We’re still partners but there’s no more marriage. We don’t need that anymore.” 

That’s when you became quiet. 

“You’re serious?”

“I don’t take these things as a joke,” Sunoo stated. “Once we divorce, our shares remain but I’ll move out. You can stay in the penthouse. We can still meet but merely as business partners only, and I am going to make sure that the press won’t write any bad articles about you.” 

“That sound like a fucking dream,” you whispered to him, still unconvinced. “You thought about this thoroughly huh? Did you even ask me about this?”

“That doesn’t matter. You don’t need to dwell further on it since we’ll eventually part ways.”

Sunoo left first. Going towards the back door towards the backyard while you remained frozen from your place, unable to process everything your husband just said.

But your feet moved, something in your heart was screaming its frustration towards your husband. You found yourself following Sunoo who’s outside, staring at the gray skies.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you asked, making Sunoo turn around.

“What?”

“You came here, trying to drag me back to Seoul just to divorce me but I — I’ll benefit from it! You’re divorcing me for my own good. Why did you have to force yourself to go here just for me?” you asked and Sunoo became quiet because for the first time ever, he doesn’t have a concrete answer.

All he knows is that the moment he went home that day, and was welcomed by an eerie silence — he knew, something was wrong. 

Ever since he arrived in Seokdo, the question that kept running in his mind was: what drove you to run away? Now that he had heard the real reason, all he could feel was guilt. He may look cold and heartless but Sunoo could still feel — he still has conscience and emotions, and he may have been a distant husband to you, but that seven months of searching for you had taught him one thing.

He needs you. Sunoo needed his wife and he doesn’t know why and how but — he just wants you.

Yet, there’s a part of him who knows that your marriage isn’t perfect anymore. Already ruined by him, the least he could do was to free you and save you from the lifetime of loneliness.

Hence, the divorce.

He knows that you deserve someone better. Someone who could love you wholeheartedly — like Jungwon. It wouldn’t surprise him if you’d return to Seokdo after finalizing the divorce papers. You seemed happier with him after all.

“This is my last duty as your husband.” he answered and you scoffed.

“Pulling that card again?”

“If you want me to stop pulling that card, sign the papers, once it’s ruled by the court, you could return here and live peacefully. I won’t disturb you anymore.” Sunoo proposed.

“Why should I believe you?” you questioned and your husband sighed in frustration.

“Because, like I said before, I care for you, and I care enough for you that I’m willing to travel all the way from Seoul to here, just to see if you’re doing okay and you’re fine enough to go home in Seoul,” Sunoo confessed and you were stunned. Surprised by his words that the only thing that became noisy was the thunder's grumbling in the sky.

-

You didn’t get to say goodbye.

Not only to Jungwon but to the whole townspeople. They’ll probably wonder where you’ll be. Grandma Hong might go to your house and see it empty, while the children might start to question why you don’t visit the elementary school anymore.

Sunoo insisted that in a few weeks, you could return to Seokdo. There’s no need for goodbyes and yet it still felt bittersweet.

But maybe it’s for the best to not say goodbye to them. You might hesitate to leave. You’re actually hesitating if it wasn’t for Sunoo’s promise of your freedom. That’s the only silver lining in this decision of yours.

You watched as the tiny isle of Seokdo turned into a small thin line as the boat sailed towards Jeju. The wind’s howling but the sky’s calm and muted blue. Everything suddenly felt like a huge change on your part as you remained from where you were standing, heart filled with nervousness as by afternoon, you’re now in Jeju.

By night, you’re back in Seoul. As you step inside the airport, you find yourself a stranger in your hometown. The place wasn’t crowded but everything felt rushed. The seven months were squeezed in a day or hour. It seemed like yesterday you were in Seokdo, helping the townspeople harvest their damaged crops.

The next thing you know, you’re back in Seoul — back to reality.

The first person you noticed by the time you walked into the arrival area was your twin brother. Jake’s eyes widened the moment he saw you. Flashing a huge smile, he ran towards you two with excitement, hair flopping like a dog’s ear before pulling you for a big hug.

“Jake — be careful,” you greeted as you hugged him back.

“Welcome back!” he said with joy before glancing at Sunoo. “Both of you, welcome back.”

“It’s only been a week,” Sunoo commented but the older male chose to ignore it as he broke out of the hug. 

“You okay?” he asked, glancing at you who nodded immediately.

“I just want to rest,” you said as you felt your body getting heavy and weary from the trip. Your brother understood it immediately.

“If that’s the case, we should hurry now and go home,” your husband butted in. 

“Actually, I want to stay in Jake’s place,” you said to Sunoo. “If that’s okay with you?”

“Of course y/n, you can stay with me,” Jake immediately answered, giving your back a gentle rub before glancing at Sunoo. “I should take her luggage now.”

Sunoo didn’t argue anymore, and instead, let Jake take your things as his eyes gazed on you.

“We’ll be going now Sunoo, your driver’s here too, waiting by the benches, have a safe way home,” Jake stated and Sunoo merely nodded.

“Call me y/n, when you’re decided,” Sunoo said to you who only nodded.

“Of course,” you replied before you and your twin brother began to walk away. Leaving your husband there alone, watching you disappear in front of his eyes.

-

Jake kept quiet throughout the whole ride on the way home. But he wasn't subtle at how he's extremely worried about you. You noticed how he would shift his stare at you from time to time. Not having the energy to talk, you chose to ignore it as you passed out on the drive home.

That’s why it shouldn’t surprise you that Jake had cornered you the moment you two entered his place.

“You’re back,” Jake stated. “Suddenly you’re back, what happened in Seokdo?”

You became quiet for a moment, “Sunoo and I are getting a divorce.”

Your twin brother’s eyes widened. “What!?”

You chuckled in disbelief, “pathetic right? But Sunoo said he’ll make sure that our company won’t lose its stocks and image even if we divorce.”

“Y/n, you don’t need it,” your twin brother interjected. “I got everything settled, we’ll be fine even without the Kim's help.” 

That’s when you glanced at him, shaking your head in disagreement. “You got everything settled? Jake, you’re not supposed to take over the company, you should be focusing on your treatments.”

“I’ve been cancer-free for almost a year y/n, look at me, I’m fine!” Jake stated with a smile. “I still have my weekly check-ups but there's a low chance of my cancer returning, so I think it’s best that I’d handle the company starting from now on.”

“I don’t want you to stress too much, it’ll be bad for you,” you pointed out but Jake merely scoffed.

“Yeah, I do admit it was stressful at first but you know what? If I can handle cancer, I can handle stress,” he said with a wink but you weren’t convinced.

“Jake.” you called out.

Your twin brother hushed you merely before pulling you to a hug. “It’s okay, it should’ve been my responsibility from the start because I’m the man of this family. I’m really sorry for being your burden since we were born. It must’ve been hard for you, dealing with everything while I got a pass.”

“Jake, you were sick. We wanted to focus on your treatments and —”

“I told you, I’m healthy now. Mom and dad saw that I could handle everything, and they sort of fired you from the position,” Jake announced, making you stop, glancing at him who had an apologetic expression.

“W-what?”

“Yeah, I took over your position — but don’t worry! You’re still part of the board of directors, just not the ceo soooo…yeah, you’re free now.” your brother stuttered, careful with his words.

You blinked at his explanation. “Free?”

“Live your life, return to Seokdo — divorce Sunoo, we don’t need their alliance after all. I have handled everything and nothing’s going to ruin our parents’ hardwork.” 

You couldn’t believe it. You’re free. Not only would you be free from your marriage, you’d also be free from your responsibilities. You should be angry. After all, all your efforts and years dedicated to running the company suddenly disappeared just because your twin brother is now healthy and capable of taking over it — but all you could feel was a sense of relief.

You’re still young. You still could do a lot of things. It’s not too late for you after all. The divorce was just the first sign, but this one? This one’s different. Your brother, who you always would look after, is now looking after you.

“Thank you Jake,” you breathed giving your brother a hug. “Thank you so much.”

“You deserve it, for all the years of looking after me,” Jake insisted as he hugged you tighter than before.

-

It’s been a week since you went home.

One week without any contact with your husband. Sunoo didn’t make any calls, nor text, or even a visit. It was better that way. You find his presence confusing especially when he’s probably in the middle of fixing your divorce papers.

True to Jake’s words, you no longer hold the highest position in your company. Meeting your parents meant a half-day filled with lectures and worries about them, in which in silence, you endured every word that left their mouth. Your twin brother looked at you apologetically, but you let him be, knowing that half of it was still your fault.

You returned to your office, well, now that you’re in a lower position, you don’t know what to do at all. Jake advised you to just chill and relax, since he really was planning on never letting you work anymore. But you don’t feel any sense of relief from it and would do your best to help him. (In the end, he wins and you just end up reading some books inside your office.)

Mr. Park, the Kim’s family’s lawyer, visited your office a few days later, bearing the news.

“Here are the papers,” Mr. Park said, giving you a thick-pile of papers which you started reading.

“Everything is settled there, since you two signed a pre-nuptial agreement, all discussions and divisions of marital properties and assets could be found on the page three, this includes your company and —”

“I’ll ask questions once I’ve read all of it,” you cut him off with a smile before darting your attention towards the paper. “Thank you for delivering these Mr. Park. I’ll let you know once I’ve signed it.”

The old man stood for a moment before he nodded to your words.

“Please take your time Mrs. Kim,” he said, dictating your surname before he left. It left nothing but chills to your spine before you continued reading it again. Careful and word-by-word so that you wouldn’t miss a single detail.

Not a few minutes later and Jake entered your office without even knocking. 

“Hey, let’s go get some lunch…what’s that?” he asked, eyeing the papers in front of you. “Did they send you some tasks? I told them to not bother you.”

“No, stupid. It’s my divorce papers and agreement,” you said with an eyeroll.

“That’s fast, I guess he’s eager to get rid of you,” your twin teased but you didn’t laugh at his words, still focused on reading the papers.

Jake approached you and stood beside you, reading the paper along with you.

“Wow, he’s not even taking away their shares in our company. You get to keep your penthouse, plus you’ll get yearly support from him? And if ever you have a child — wait a minute, what is this?” Jake’s forehead creased as he pointed to the mentioned paragraph.

“What?” you asked innocently.

“What? What do you mean, “what”? Are you pregnant?” your twin brother asked.

“No, I’m not!” you defended but Jake stared at you, raising an eyebrow.

“So something happened in Seokdo, I assume given that he won’t be writing that in the settlement unless…you know, you and him —”

“Okay, that’s enough Jake, I know, and I assure you, nothing will come out of what happened that night.” you answered.

But your brother stared at you unamused. “So you do admit that something happened.”

You glared at him instead. “Literally shut the fuck up, if you’re here to disturb me, just get out,”

“Sorry, but on a serious note, are you going to sign it?”

“Of course, what else should I do?”

“Nothing,” he said, looking at you and checking your mood. “You seemed pretty sad for a girl who’s going to divorce her cold husband.”

“I’m not sad,” you lied as you grabbed your pen. Your hold on it tightened as you flipped through the pages. “I’m just confused. If good things will come out of this divorce.”

“Hey, on the brighter side, you’re finally free now,” Jake assured, hands patting your shoulder. “Even in your responsibilities in our company, you’re free from it too. So I suggest, do the things you always wanted to do.”

That’s when you placed down the pen and paper. That’s the thing. You could now do the things you wanted to do, but the question was, what do you even wanted to do?

“I don’t even know what to do,” you mumbled.

“What?”

“Jake, the only thing that’s been on my mind was running the company and being a good wife for Sunoo, and in a glimpse — I won’t be doing it anymore. I’m suddenly confused.” you admitted.

“Well, you’ve created another version of you,” Jake answered. “That girl who laughed freely, and got along with everyone in Seokdo. They’re probably waiting for you — Jungwon’s probably waiting for you too.”

A bittersweet smile formed on your lips. “You think so? You’d let me stay there forever?”

“If that makes you happy and free, why not?” your twin brother assured and his answer seemed to put a sense in you.

Looking at the divorce papers, you became quiet for a moment. You think of your husband and the three years you spent with him — are you going to let yourself live like that ‘til you die? Jake’s right, you deserve to be free after all. 

That’s why you grabbed your pen, and with shaky hands but a determined heart, you signed every page of the divorce papers.

-

A week later and you found yourself standing in front of Sunoo’s office. The envelope containing the divorce papers were in your hands, signed from the very moment you received it.

Once your soon-to-be-ex-husband signed it, and had it approved by the court, you’d be free from him. Forever. You felt confused by the situation. Wondering whether good things would come out of the divorce. Even if it means your freedom, you still feel like something is at stake.

Despite all your worries, you tried to think of the brighter side and convinced yourself that you’ll be finally free from your husband. No more quiet penthouse and lonely nights. Maybe, somewhere in the future, you’d find someone better, you’re sure of that.

As you opened the door of his office, Sunoo was by his table. Outfit clean, hair pushed back while wearing his usual cold demeanor.

“You’re here,” he said the moment he laid his eyes on you. His tone indicated that he was surprised.

You only shrugged, “came here to deliver this.”

Sunoo accepted the envelope  without any questions. Opening it and reading every page one-by-one, his heart stopped every time he saw your signature.

“You signed it,” he muttered, eyes still on the paper.

“Like what we’ve talked about,” you said to him. “It’s for the best.”

It wasn’t. Sunoo wanted to disagree. He looked at the papers once again and suddenly — a whip of thoughts hit his mind. It felt sickening. Seeing the divorce papers signed by you and if he complies with it. He’ll watch you walk again.

The idea of losing you again. Sunoo couldn’t fathom that idea. He wondered and thought about what your future would be if he had divorced you. Would you be happy? You’d probably return to Seokdo and reunite with Jungwon —

“What if it wasn’t?” he asked and that made you raise an eyebrow.

“Sunoo, this marriage is useless. We don’t benefit from it anymore, and I don’t want to burden you too,” you stated.

“You’re not a burden.” Sunoo calmly answered before standing up to face you. “You were never a burden to me. Not once, not even when you left me — do you even know what it felt like? Living seven months wondering where you are and are you doing fine? I was going crazy looking for you.”

You were surprised by his sudden confession but despite that, a scoff escaped your lips. “You think I’d believe that? What? It took me to disappear to realize that you care for me?”

“I care for you, you know that,” he rebutted.

“You just don’t show it, I know Sunoo,” you sarcastically replied. “But you think I’d settle for that? I’ve known my worth Sunoo and I just — I’m sorry but I just don’t see you loving anyone, not even me.”

“You’re right, neither do I. I don’t even know how to love,” Sunoo confessed. “But for you, I’d like to try.”

“Sunoo, the papers are signed,” you insisted. “Everything’s too late now.”

Sunoo glanced at paper, gathering it in his hands as he looked at it once again. 

“Actually,” Sunoo looked at you and the next thing you knew, the papers were ripped in front of you.

He threw it carelessly, scattering on the floor while your face drew confusion.

“Sunoo —”

“It’s not too late,” he said sharply. “I changed my mind. I don’t want a divorce.”

You breathed, “Are you fucking insane?”

“When it comes to you, yes,” he stated, taking a step forward towards you. “Because now, all I could think of was that I don’t want to see you with somebody else. That’ll fucking kill me.”

Your forehead creased. “What are you trying to say?”

“I love you.” he blurted out, completely catching you off-guard. “I love you so much that I am willing to let you go because I don’t deserve you. We’ll just ruin each other y/n. We’re just not compatible.”

You stared at him whose eyes darkened before a laugh escaped his lips. “But you know what? I am ruined enough that I don’t care anymore. I’d love to enjoy the rest of our lives fixing and ruining each other because you’re the only person I want to do that with.”

“And I know somewhere in our future, we’d be fine. We’ll be living and loving peacefully like in your days in Seokdo and I want to be in that future with you. It might be a mess right now in the present, but for the future that awaits us. Can you hold on for more?” he asked, almost begging as his hands trailed on the edge of your waist. 

Instead of an answer, Sunoo was welcomed by a sharp sting on his right cheek. He felt it turning numb as the sound echoed inside his office. He was frozen — and so were you, palm hurt and eyes watery as it sinked into you every word Sunoo had said to you.

“You’re so stupid,” you whispered to him, breath shaky and words stuttering. “Impulsive, repulsive, hot-headed, cold and — and yet, in the worst way possible, I fell in love with every, every inch of your existence that it hurts.”

You hated to admit that somewhere, in your lonely marriage, your heart yearned for your husband. That there were moments that you wondered if he could look at you the same way you looked at him. 

Perhaps that’s also the other reason why you don’t want a divorce. You don’t want him to leave you. It sounded pathetic on your part, but people can learn to love someone at some point in their lives. You were patient, waiting for Sunoo to do his part, and anytime, you’d welcome him with all your heart.

“We clash, banter, and are too stubborn to lower their pride for the other, and I wanted to ask you, why now? Why!? Why are you years late Sunoo!?” you shouted in frustration. Tears streaming down on your face as the guilt and anger seethe on your system. You hated how you two had to go through everything just for him to reciprocate everything.

“I’m sorry,” he admitted, flashed with guilt as he stared at you. “I just didn’t think you’d go that far.”

“You pushed me to,” you spat back.

“That’s why I am not going to push you anymore,” he said, before grabbing you by your arms. The next thing you knew, you were trapped against the wall as your husband closed the proximity between you two that you could hear the rapid beating of his heart.

His deep brown eyes searched for yours. The time felt like it stopped as his grip on your waist tightened. The tension suffocated both of you and yet, no one moved.

“You’re the only one that I don’t have,” Sunoo whispered, breaking the silence. “It’s crazy to think that the only thing that’s holding me back is me.” 

His face became close. Too close for you liking that your heart became more rapid, hyperventilating as your grip against the flat surface of the wall tightened. 

“So tell me,” he proposed once again. “Tell me you want this too, even if it’s wrong, even if it’ll hurt us because the only thing that I wanted to do here is take you and show you — how much I’ve been controlling myself from making you mine.” 

You looked him in the eye for a second. He was waiting for you. Patient and careful which is the total opposite of the Kim Sunoo that you always know. He has always been impatient. Time shouldn’t be wasted on silly ponderings and conflicts. Sunoo has always decided on everything, with his mind and heart.

Which meant that he meant every word he told you. 

“You don’t have to do it Sunoo,” you answered — more like a whisper because you still feel scared — afraid that everything might turn into a passing feeling for him. 

“Do you want me to kneel in front of you and beg for your love? Because if that’s what it takes, I’d do it in a heartbeat,” he professed and you shook your head as your hands cupped his cheeks to make him look at you.

“You don’t have to do it because, I’m yours already Sunoo,” you repeated. “I’m your wife, and you're my husband — and it will remain that way ‘til forever.”

With your words, Sunoo didn’t waste any more time. The next thing you knew, he tugged you upwards, arms supporting your thighs as he pushed you harder against the wall. His lips crashed onto yours unexpectedly. Soft, plump, tasting like cherry and that made you whimper against it. 

You tugged his hair, brushing it softly as you fell under his spell. Kissing him back, tasting the sweet indulgence of him giving into you. It felt feverish feeling Sunoo’s lips against yours. It couldn’t sinked into you, not even when Sunoo left your lips and trailed kisses on your jaw downwards your neck, making you throw your head back with a moan. 

There was nothing you could do as Sunoo drowned himself in your body. His lips were busy, biting and sucking every skin he could feel. His hold on you tightened because even though he wanted to take you right there, he wanted to lavish every part of you.

He stepped away from you. Eyes filled with lust as he kissed you hungrily once again, a whine escaped your lips before kissing him back. Your arms snaked around his shoulder, pulling him closer to feel more of his warmth.

“Sunoo,” you moaned, before he stole your lips once again. He didn’t let you speak, he let both bodies do everything to show that this is what you two have been waiting for. 

Before you could’ve said anything, he carried you towards his desk table. Ignoring all the important documents that crumpled under your weight. You two didn’t care about it especially when Sunoo removed his coat and loosened his tie while you started to unbutton your blouse. He cupped your cheeks once again, staring at you with his cold, lustful eyes that made you inaudibly nervous. 

“Mine,” he declared. The word slipped out so easy — so natural that he wondered why it took him long to do so. Why did he hold himself back from loving you for so long when you have always looked at him with the softest gaze one could gaze upon his cold demeanor. 

“Always yours Sunoo,” you replied to him and instead of answering you back, he kissed you once again. More gentle, more careful enough to taste your warm touch against his. He couldn’t hold it anymore when his hands reached for your bra’s clasp and in a split second, your breasts were free and taken by Sunoo’s huge hands, fondling the soft flesh of it, making you whine against his mouth.

“You’re so perfect,” he whispered to you before stealing a kiss once again. “So fucking perfect for me — my sweet girl. Always good and nice for me right?”

You whimpered as an answer. You found yourself drinking all of his taste. Dangerous and yet, you have always been a magnet for chaos and trouble — it just turns out that your husband’s the most poisonous one out there.

His hands landed on your skirt, hoisting it up enough for him to caress your thighs, earning a soft moan from you. His smirk was evident as the two of you continued your heavy makeout.

“Mr. Kim, Mr. Lee is looki —” the two of you flinched when the door swung open revealing his secretary who was surprised by the scene.

Silence came through. No one moved. His secretary looked like a shocked hamster with her eyes so wide that it’ll pop out of the socket.

“I’m sorry!” she squeaked before closing the door with a loud thud. The two of you remained frozen from your position, trying to process everything before Sunoo let out a laugh, catching you off-guard.

It wasn’t just any laugh. It was boisterous and loud, echoing around his office that you were left confused and shocked because this was the first time you’ve ever heard Sunoo laugh this hard.

His laughter continued for a minute until a deep sigh escaped his lips. He rested his forehead on your shoulder while it just sinked into you what just happened.

“Poor Wonhee,” he commented before glancing at you, expression soft and light. “Well, it’s her fault for not knocking on the door.”

You couldn’t say anything. You only looked at your husband who gave you a smile as he kissed you once again.

“I never heard you laugh that loud,” it was the first you said.

“You’ll hear that laugh for the rest of our lives so don’t worry about hearing it the first time,” he assured and his statement immediately hit you.

“I’ll look forward to it then,” you smiled before you pulled him once again for a kiss which he reciprocated dearly. 

“How about we go home now? Continue what has been interrupted and I don’t know, make up for the years we lost?” Sunoo suggested the moment you two broke from the kiss. You stared at him, hands brushing his messy hair as your heart beat in that steady motion — gentle and in relief.

No photos. No bullet points about ‘respectful boundaries’ or ‘shared Netflix password.’ Just that blunt, cocky little block of text, like they knew exactly what kind of person would bite anyway. The rent figure was unreal, half what you'd been paying for your shoebox studio that smelled faintly of regret and yesterday's takeout. You stared at it for a full minute, thumb hovering over your phone screen, heart doing that stupid flutter thing it does when you're about to make a decision that's either genius or catastrophic.  

And then there was the line written in red pen, scrawled untidily, looking like a disastrous attempt at cursive.

“She better be hot lol”

Crossed out once, aggressively. Then underlined twice, like whoever wrote it had second thoughts about the shame and decided to recommit. You stared at that part the longest.

Your current apartment smelled like damp carpet and stale air no matter how many candles you burned. The windows rattled every time the train passed. Your landlord had the audacity to send out a mass email about a “maintenance fee adjustment” that was definitely just code for I bought a new car and you’re helping pay for it.

Rent had started to feel like a chokehold. And this, four guys, one girl, big downtown apartment, utilities split five ways, was a stupidly good number. Too good. Which should have been your first red flag. 

Your reflection in the lobby mirror looked tired. A little reckless. The kind of girl who was one bad decision away from either ruining her life or improving it dramatically. You took a picture of the flyer. You hesitated.

You zoomed in on the red scribble. You told yourself you were an adult. That you could handle four random men in a shared space. That this was just housing, not a horror movie opening scene.  Then you texted the number before your common sense could wrestle your thumbs away.

You: Hi, saw the flyer for the roommate spot. Still available? Interested if the details match up. What's the move-in date?

The three dots appeared almost instantly. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. Your stomach did that awful, fluttery dip it does before you step into something you can’t undo.

Unknown: yeah it's open. u got a name sweetheart?

Sweetheart. You actually rolled your eyes. You told yourself you rolled your eyes. But something warm slid low in your stomach anyway. Casual ownership. Teasing. A test.

You: Y/N. And yeah, I do. When can I come see it?

The typing bubbles came back. Stayed. Disappeared. Came back again. Then your phone vibrated with a voice note instead of text. You stared at it for a full second.

Who the fuck sends voice notes to strangers?

You slipped in one earbud like you were about to overhear something you weren’t meant to. You hit play. Chaos. Not the polite kind. Not the muffled, distant kind. The kind that sounds like bodies moving and furniture scraping and too many voices in one space.

“—told you the flyer was too obvious, dumbass—”

“Shut the fuck up, she texted, didn’t she?”

“Bet she’s mid. Fifty says she’s mid.”

“Fifty says she’s a freak who’ll cry after one night.”

Explosive laughter. Low and rough and layered. Someone swore. There was a thud like someone got shoved into a couch. Another voice yelling, “Give me the phone—”

Your pulse was in your throat. It felt intrusive. Intimate. Like you were already inside their space, hearing something raw and unfiltered. Then the chaos snapped. Cut clean. A different presence took over. Closer to the mic. Lower.

“...Y/N, right?” Your name sounded slower in his mouth. Like he’d rolled it around once before saying it.

“This is Heeseung.”

The way he said it wasn’t introduction. It was declaration. The background noise dimmed, not because the room got quieter, but because he stepped away from it. You could picture it without trying: him turning his back to the others, leaning against something, one hand braced on a counter, phone lifted close enough that his breath ghosted the mic.

The kind of voice that didn’t rush. The kind that didn’t need to. “Place is still open. Come by tomorrow. 7 p.m. sharp. We’ll be here.”

We’ll be here. Not I’ll be here. A collective. A warning. There was a beat of silence. Not awkward. Deliberate. “Bring your shit if you like what you see. We don’t do second viewings.”

And then it ended. No goodbye. No emoji. No softening. Just the click of the recording stopping, leaving his voice hanging in your ear like smoke in a closed room. You sat on your sagging futon with the cheap springs poking through the cushion and replayed it. Twice.

The arguing in the background. The laughter. The careless comments. The way he had cut through all of it like a knife sliding into silk. You told yourself they sounded like idiots. You told yourself this was exactly the kind of environment you’d sworn you’d never put yourself in. But your thighs pressed together anyway, tension curling low and restless, not quite fear and not quite excitement.

You imagined the apartment. Exposed brick. Too much space. Music playing too loud. A kitchen that actually had room to breathe in. Four men who moved through it like they owned it. And one empty room.

Waiting. You should have blocked the number. Should have deleted the thread. Should have found a nice, quiet girls-only share in the suburbs where the biggest drama would be someone stealing your almond milk. Instead, you typed back.

You: 7 p.m. tomorrow. Address?

The reply came faster this time.

Heeseung: [pinned location]Don’t be late, sweetheart. We hate waiting.

You read that last line more than once. We hate waiting. It sounded less like a preference and more like a rule. You packed that night with a strange kind of calm. One duffel bag. Just enough clothes to rotate for a few days. Toiletries. Charger. The essentials. You folded each item slowly, like you were preparing for something bigger than just a new address.

Your studio looked even smaller with your things missing. The walls felt closer. The air heavier. You stood in the middle of it and imagined tomorrow. The elevator ride up. The door opening. Four sets of eyes. The apartment smelling like expensive cologne and something darker. Smoke, maybe. Leather. Ego.

You imagined him. Them. All four of them. Either unfairly good-looking men who were complete assholes, or unimpressive men who were still complete assholes. The asshole part was a constant. The hotness was the only variable.

Not that it mattered. Of course it didn’t.

You didn’t know his face, but you knew the voice. Low. Steady. Amused. The kind of voice that didn’t rush for anyone.

You imagined the smirk you’d heard through the speaker, lazy, confident, practiced. Probably rich, too. Not new-money loud, but old-money careless. Daddy’s money had a look. It looked like never checking price tags.

You zipped the duffel closed. This was reckless. Stupid, even. The kind of decision that looked sensible only from far away, like a bruise that passed for lavender in low light. Rent had been pressing in for months, a dull gray weight at the base of your skull, constant as weather. You told yourself that was all this was. Survival. Logistics. Math.

But that wasn’t the whole truth. There was something about his voice. Not the depth of it, not even the amusement. It was the contrast, the velvet laid carefully over something serrated. Chaos humming behind glass. Control presented like a gift.

It had sounded dark blue through the speaker. Not navy. Not midnight. Something electric and expensive. The kind of blue that didn’t apologize for swallowing light. You should have been afraid of it.

Maybe you were. But the risk didn’t feel like falling. Falling was abrupt. Colorless. Final. This felt different. It felt like stepping across the gold line in a painting, the one the artist never meant anyone to cross. Like touching wet paint just to see if it would stain. Like walking into a story that had already decided what to do with you.

7 p.m. Sharp. You arrive at 6:58 p.m.

Not because you’re punctual by nature, but because something about Don’t be late. We hate waiting. lodged under your skin and stayed there all day.

The building is taller than you expected. Glass-fronted. Industrial. The kind of place that tries to look effortless and ends up looking expensive instead. The lobby smells faintly of artificially scented cleaner, probably lemon, and polished concrete. Exposed brick climbs one wall in a deliberate, curated way that says urban charm instead of structural compromise.

You stand in front of the elevator with your duffel bag hooked over one shoulder and a medium-sized suitcase at your side. You told yourself you’d bring only what you needed for a week.

You lied.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft metallic sigh. You step inside. Your reflection in the mirrored walls looks smaller than you feel. Lip gloss reapplied in the car. Hair brushed back into place. A quiet, deliberate choice in your outfit, effortless enough to pretend you didn’t try, fitted enough to know you did.

The numbers climb. Your pulse climbs with them. You tell yourself this is housing. Just housing. Four men sharing rent in a five-bedroom apartment isn’t unheard of. This isn’t a cult. This isn’t a frat house. This isn’t—

The elevator dings. The doors part. And the first thing you hear is laughter. It spills into the hallway like it lives there. Low, overlapping, careless. The door to their unit is already open. You don’t knock. You step inside.

The apartment is bigger than the pictures could’ve shown. High ceilings with steel beams running across them. Floor-to-ceiling windows pouring in late afternoon light that turns everything gold. A massive sectional couch in charcoal gray dominates the living space. There’s a long dining table made of reclaimed wood, scuffed in places that look intentional.

Music hums low from somewhere, bass-heavy, lazy. And then, you see them. All four of them. Shirtless. You stop walking. They’re scattered across the living area in a way that suggests they were doing something physical, lifting, maybe, but not something that required shirts. One is crouched by a stack of flattened cardboard boxes. Another leans against the kitchen island with a bottle of water tipped to his lips. Someone else stands near the couch, forearms flexed as he adjusts the hem of his joggers.

They notice you at the same time. Conversation dies. It’s not dramatic. Not loud. It just… stops. Four pairs of eyes land on you. And stay there. You feel it before you process it. The weight of being looked at. Not glanced. Not politely assessed. Looked at. Slowly. Thoroughly. Like you’re an answer to a question they’ve already been debating.

The one by the kitchen island lowers his bottle first. He’s tall. Lean muscle, not bulky. Collarbone sharp under the light. Damp hair pushed back from his forehead like he’s just showered or run a hand through it too many times. His gaze drags over you without apology. From your shoes. Up your legs.

To your waist. Your chest. Your mouth. Your eyes. He doesn’t look away when you meet his stare. That has to be Heeseung. The voice fits.

“Y/N.”

It isn’t a question. Your name sounds different in the open air of the apartment. Deeper. Warmer. More tangible. “Yeah.” Your voice comes out steady, which surprises you.

He pushes off the island and walks toward you. The other three follow slower, not crowding but not retreating either. You become aware of everything at once. The quiet click of your suitcase wheels settling. The way your fingers tighten around the strap of your duffel. The faint sheen of sweat along their collarbones.

They must’ve been moving furniture. Or maybe they just wanted an excuse to be shirtless when you arrived. The thought hits you uninvited. And then,  you realize you’re staring, too. One of them, broader shoulders, dark hair falling into his eyes, lets out a low whistle.

“Not mid,” he mutters.

The guy beside him elbows his ribs. A cocky grin already spreading over his lips nonetheless before he disrupts it by caging his lower lip between his teeth. “Shut up.” Heat crawls up your neck.

Heeseung stops about three feet in front of you. Close enough that you can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. Close enough to smell something clean and subtle, soap, maybe, or skin warmed by movement. He tilts his head slightly.

“You’re on time.”

“I said I would be.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. Behind him, one of the others steps forward and grabs your suitcase handle before you can protest. “We’ll take that.”

It’s said casually, but there’s something about the way he says we again that makes your stomach dip. The fourth one finally speaks. “You bring everything?”

“Just enough to survive a week,” you reply.

He laughs. “Smart.” They move around you with unsettling ease. Not touching you. Not yet. But close enough that the air shifts when they pass. You step fully into the apartment as your suitcase is rolled toward the hallway. The door shuts behind you with a quiet click that feels louder than it should. You turn slowly, taking in the space.

The kitchen is massive, marble countertops, stainless steel appliances, open shelving that somehow looks organized despite the presence of four men. There are plants near the windows. A guitar propped casually against the wall.

This isn’t a mess. It isn’t chaotic. It’s lived-in. Comfortable. Dangerously comfortable. “Room’s down the hall,” Heeseung says. “Last one on the right.”

You nod, but you don’t move yet. Because they’re still looking at you. Not in a way that feels crude. But undeniably… interested. Assessing. One of them, taller than the rest, sharper features, leans back against the wall and crosses his arms. His eyes crinkle,  “So,” he says slowly. “You cool living with guys?” The question isn’t innocent. You lift your chin slightly.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

His gaze flickers, approval, maybe. The broad-shouldered one smirks.

“You get easily offended?”

“No.”

“You snore?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Got a boyfriend?”

The question lands differently. You glance at Heeseung. He hasn’t spoken. He’s watching you. Waiting. You meet his eyes and answer evenly, “No.”

The silence that follows is subtle, but it shifts something. Like a door quietly unlocking. Heeseung gestures down the hall. “Come see your room.”

You follow. The hallway is lined with closed doors. Music grows fainter as you move away from the main space. Your suitcase wheels roll softly against polished concrete. He opens the last door and steps aside to let you in first. The room is bigger than you expected.

Large window. Soft gray walls. A queen-sized bed frame already assembled. A desk near the corner. Closet doors sliding open to reveal empty hangers. It doesn’t feel like someone just left it. It feels like it was waiting.

You step inside. He follows. The others hover at the doorway, leaning casually against the frame like they’re watching a show. “Well?” one of them asks. You set your duffel down on the bed.

“It’s… really nice.” Heeseung walks to the window and pulls the curtain slightly, letting more light in.

“Told you. No bullshit.” He turns to face you fully. There’s something different now that you’re in a smaller space. More contained. More charged. You can feel the other three just outside the room. Listening. You cross your arms loosely.

“What’s the actual catch?”

One of the guys snorts from the hallway. Heeseung’s lips twitch. “No catch.”

“Four guys, one girl, cheap rent, no second viewings. There’s always a catch.”

He steps closer. Not enough to trap you. Just enough to make you aware of proximity. “We don’t like flakes,” he says quietly. “We don’t like drama. We don’t like people who pretend they’re chill and then aren’t.”

“And if I’m not?”

“Then you won’t last.”

The words aren’t cruel. They’re factual. You swallow. “Is that a threat?”

His gaze drops briefly to your mouth. Then back up. “It’s information.”

The other three laugh softly behind him. “You scared?” someone calls.

You step closer instead of back. “No.” And that’s the truth. You’re not scared. You’re wired. There’s a difference. He studies you for a long second. Then nods once.

“Good.” He steps back, creating space again. “You can move in tonight if you want.” Your heartbeat stutters.

“That was the deal.” One of them pushes off the doorframe. “Guess we’ve got a new roommate.” The broad-shouldered one grins. “Welcome to the madhouse.”

They disperse slightly after that. Not fully. But enough to let you breathe. You kneel on the bed to unzip your duffel, aware of eyes tracking the movement. A shirt comes out. Toiletry bag. A pair of heels you probably won’t need but packed anyway.

From the hallway, a voice says quietly, “She’s staying.”

“Obviously,” another replies.

You pretend not to hear. But your skin hums. Because beneath the jokes. Beneath the cocky questions. There’s something else. A tension that hasn’t snapped yet. An understanding that this isn’t just about splitting rent. You don’t know the rules. You don’t know the lines. But you feel them. Drawn. Invisible. Waiting. You stand and smooth your hands down your sides.

“I’ll bring the rest tomorrow.” Heeseung leans against the wall now, arms crossed. “Take your time.”

Your gaze locks again. The eye contact lingers too long to be accidental. Too steady to be polite. It’s not crude. It’s not rushed. It’s slow. Deliberate. Like he’s memorizing you.

And maybe, you’re memorizing him, too.

Friday night settles in outside the window, the sky deepening from gold to blue. You came here for cheap rent. For square footage. For practical reasons. But as the music in the living room turns louder and someone calls your name like you’ve always belonged here, you realize something quietly, dangerously simple. This wasn’t just a listing.

It was an invitation. And you accepted it. The kitchen island becomes your first battlefield.

Someone, Jay, you learn later, has already spread out a chaotic spread of takeout: greasy fried chicken in red-and-white buckets, japchae tangled in sesame oil, bulging containers of tteokbokki still steaming, a few lonely mandu that look like they've been fought over. Plastic forks and chopsticks clatter. No plates. No pretense of civility.

You slide onto one of the high stools, thighs sticking slightly to the leather from the heat still clinging to your skin after the move. Your thin white tank clings in all the wrong-right places, damp from nerves and the apartment's lazy, cold thermostat. No bra underneath because you'd changed into "comfy" clothes after unpacking the bare minimum. Big mistake.

Or the best one you've made all week. They circle like sharks who've already scented blood. Heeseung claims the stool right beside you without asking. His bare knee knocks yours under the island the second you settle. He doesn't move it. Neither do you. Jay drops onto the one across from you, broad shoulders taking up too much real estate. He leans forward on his elbows, forearms corded, watching you like you're the next thing on the menu.

Jake sprawls next to him, legs spread wide under the counter, one foot hooking casually around your ankle like it's always belonged there. He grins, pretty, boyish, filthy.

Sunghoon perches at the end like a king on his throne, long legs stretched out, one hand already tearing into a chicken wing. He licks sauce off his thumb slowly, eyes never leaving the front of your tank.

"Alright," Heeseung says, voice low and amused as he pops open a beer and slides one toward you without asking if you drink. "Introductions, since you're staying."

He drags a knuckle down your bare arm, slow, deliberate, like he's testing how soft you are. Goosebumps erupt instantly. "I'm Heeseung." His fingers linger at your wrist, thumb pressing your pulse point. "You already knew that." You nod, throat dry. Take a sip of the beer. It's cold. Sharp. Does nothing to cool the heat pooling between your legs.

Jay jerks his chin up. "Park Jongseong. Jay." He reaches across the island, grabs a piece of tteokbokki with his fingers, holds it out to you. "Open." You hesitate half a second. He raises one brow. "Don't make me feed you like a baby, sweetheart."

Your lips part. He pushes the sticky rice cake inside, thumb brushing your bottom lip as he pulls back. Sauce smears. He doesn't wipe it off. Just watches it glisten there.

"Jake Sim," the one with the foot around your ankle says. He leans in, elbow on the counter, chin in hand. His gaze drops blatantly to your chest. Your nipples have pebbled hard against the thin cotton, traitorous little peaks begging for attention. He bites his lip, lets out a soft, appreciative hum. "Fuck, you're not wearing a bra. Bold move, roomie."

Heat floods your face. Also lower. Sunghoon doesn't bother with words at first. He just stares, cold, assessing, predatory. Then he speaks, voice velvet and mean.

"Park Sunghoon." He drags a fry through sauce, offers it to you the same way Jay did. When you lean forward to take it, he pulls it back at the last second, makes you chase. You feel ridiculous. Wet. "Good girl." The praise lands like a slap. Your thighs clench.

Heeseung chuckles low beside you. His hand finds your knee under the island, big, warm, possessive. Slides up your inner thigh slow enough that you could stop him. You don't. His fingers stop just shy of where your shorts end, thumb stroking the crease where thigh meets hip. Back and forth. Lazy. Teasing the edge of your underwear.

"So," Jay says around a mouthful of chicken, eyes locked on the outline of your nipples like they're speaking to him personally. "What's your deal, Y/N? You always this easy to read?"

Jake snorts. Leans closer. "Bet she's already soaked just from us looking."

"Shut up," you mutter, but it comes out breathy. Weak.

Heeseung's thumb presses harder. "She is," he says quietly, like it's a fact he's confirming for the group. His other hand reaches up, casual, like he's reaching for more food, and brushes the side of your breast through the tank. The pad of his thumb grazes your nipple. Circles once. 

You gasp. Small. Involuntary. Sunghoon smirks. "Told you. Instant slut for attention." Jay exchanges a look with Jake, dirty, conspiratorial. They both laugh under their breath.

"Pass her the spicy one," Jake says. "See if she cries."

Heeseung finally pulls his hand from between your legs, only to slide it around your waist instead. Tugs you closer until your side is flush against his bare chest. Skin on skin. Heat on heat. "Eat," he murmurs against your ear. Breath hot. "You're gonna need the energy."

You pick up a piece of chicken with shaking fingers. They watch every bite like it's porn. Sunghoon leans forward. "Question." You meet his eyes. Dark. Unblinking.

"You gonna pretend you're not dripping for us all night, or can we skip the bullshit and get to the part where you spread on the counter?"

Your chopsticks freeze halfway to your mouth. Jake groans softly. "Hyung—"

"What?" Sunghoon shrugs. "We're all thinking it. She's sitting here with her tits out, clit probably throbbing, acting like she didn't come here to get fucked stupid by four guys who don't even know her last name."

Heeseung's hand slides higher again, this time under your tank. Palm flat against your bare stomach. Fingers splay wide. Claiming territory. Jay licks sauce off his lips. Slow. "Rent-free, remember? That pussy's been ours since you texted back."

Jake's foot slides higher up your calf. "Bet she clenches just hearing that." You do. They know. Heeseung's thumb finds your nipple again, pinches lightly through the fabric. Rolls it.

"Finish eating," he says, voice deceptively gentle. "Then we're gonna show you how we collect rent around here."

The words are disgusting. The way your body responds is worse. You swallow hard. Sauce still sticky on your lip. They wait. Patient. Filthy. Certain. Because they already know, you're not leaving this island until every inch of you is marked.

And the food? It's barely started getting cold. The takeout disappears faster than it should, mostly because your mouth is never empty for long.

Jay keeps tearing off pieces of chicken, dipping them in sauce, holding them to your lips like it's his personal mission to keep you full. His fingers linger every time, brushing your tongue, smearing gloss and grease across your chin until you're sticky and flushed. "Good girl," he murmurs once, low enough that only you hear it, but loud enough that the others smirk.

Heeseung never stops touching. His hand starts at your knee again, then climbs, slow, shameless, until it's high on your inner thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles over the damp cotton of your shorts. When you shift, trying to close your legs, he just spreads them wider with his knee. Casual. Like adjusting furniture. His other hand stays under your tank, palm flat against your stomach, fingers occasionally drifting up to pluck at your nipples like he's testing how hard they can get before you whimper.

They do get hard. Painfully so. The thin fabric does nothing to hide it.

Sunghoon leans back, legs spread, one hand lazily palming himself through his sweats while he watches. "Bet she's clenching every time Jay feeds her," he says, voice dripping. "Like a little hungry bird. Open wide, princess, here comes the next load."

Jake laughs, soft and filthy, leaning so close his breath fans your ear. "You're so fucking cute when you're pretending not to like it, baby. Look at you, your body is begging, thighs shaking. You gonna come just from us looking at you like the slut you are?" He drags his tongue along the shell of your ear. "Say 'please' and maybe we'll let you grind on the stool till you soak it."

You don't say please.

You just swallow another bite Jay pushes past your lips, choke a little when Heeseung's fingers slip under the leg of your shorts and graze the edge of your folds, wet, swollen, traitorous. They all hear the tiny, broken sound you make.

Sunghoon groans. "Fuck. That's the sound I wanna hear when she's choking on my dick later."

Dinner ends like that, messy, humiliating, electric.

When the last container is shoved aside, you mumble something about needing to unpack. Your voice is wrecked. Legs unsteady as you slide off the stool.

Heeseung's hand finally leaves your body, but not before he gives your ass a firm, possessive squeeze. "Go on, sweetheart. Get settled."

Their laughter follows you down the hallway, low, overlapping, knowing. "She's dripping down her thighs, I can smell it from here."

"Bet she locks the door and fingers herself thinking about us."

"Door stays unlocked from now on. House rule."

You shut yourself in the bedroom anyway. Heart hammering. Cheeks burning. Cunt throbbing so hard it hurts. You tell yourself you're just going to unpack. You don't.

The apartment feels smaller now, the air thicker, like the walls themselves are breathing. You’re still sprawled on the edge of the mattress, knees wide, thin cotton shorts shoved down just far enough that the waistband bites into the tops of your thighs. Your tank top has ridden up under your breasts, nipples stiff and visible through the damp fabric. Two fingers are buried inside you, knuckle-deep, curling, pumping, while your thumb mashes frantic, messy circles over your swollen clit. Every stroke pulls a slick, obscene sound from between your legs. You can’t stop. You don’t want to stop.

The apartment is quiet for maybe ten minutes. Then you hear it. From the living room, muffled at first, then unmistakable. Low grunts. Wet, rhythmic sounds. Skin on skin. "New roommate's pussy looked so fucking tight," Jake's voice, breathy. "Bet she'd cry if I went in raw."

Jay, rougher: "I'd make her ride me reverse so I could watch that ass bounce while Heeseung fucks her throat."

Sunghoon, colder, meaner: "I'm breaking that little cunt open first. Gonna make her squirt all over the couch before the night's over."

Heeseung's voice cuts through, low, controlled, dangerous. "We're breaking her in slow. Let her think she has control for a day or two. Then we take turns stretching her till she forgets her own name."

More groans. Faster strokes. Someone swears. Someone moans your name, your actual fucking name, like it's already theirs. Your cunt clenches hard around your fingers at the memory. A fresh gush of wetness coats your palm. You’re dripping onto the sheet now, dark spot spreading beneath your ass. You try to muffle the next whimper by biting the inside of your cheek, but it still leaks out, high and broken.

You come hard. Silent at first, then a choked whimper slips out when your fingers push inside, chasing the aftershocks. Your thighs shake. The bed creaks. The apartment has been dead silent for thirty seconds.

Then, floorboards creak. Not fast. Not rushed. Slow. Measured. One deliberate step after another. Your heart slams against your ribs so violently you’re sure they can hear it through the thin walls. You freeze, fingers still stuffed inside you, walls fluttering helplessly around them. You don’t dare pull them out. Don’t dare move. Every nerve feels peeled open, raw, screaming.

The footsteps stop right outside your door. You hold your breath. The knob turns. No knock. No warning. The door swings inward on silent hinges. Heeseung fills the frame.

No shirt. Sweatpants slung obscenely low, the thick ridge of his cock still half-hard and outlined against the gray cotton like it’s trying to tear through. A faint sheen of sweat glistens along his collarbones, down the cut of his abs. His hair is wrecked, fingers-raked, damp at the temples. His eyes are black, pupils blown, and the corner of his mouth curls in something that isn’t quite a smile. It’s possession wearing amusement like a mask.

He doesn’t step inside. Not yet. He just leans one bare shoulder against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed, and lets his gaze drag over you, slow, deliberate, filthy. From the way your thighs tremble, to the hand still buried in your shorts, to the wet spot darkening the sheet, to your bitten-raw lip and glassy eyes.

“Caught you,” he murmurs. Voice so low it vibrates in your chest. Your fingers twitch involuntarily inside yourself. A tiny, helpless pump. You can’t help it. His voice alone is enough to make your cunt spasm. He notices. Of course he notices. His head tilts. “You didn’t even lock the door, baby.”

The endearment lands like a slap and a caress at once. Your mouth opens, maybe to deny, maybe to beg, maybe just to breathe, but nothing comes out except a shaky exhale.

He takes one step forward. The floor creaks under his weight. Another step. Your pulse is in your throat, your clit, your fingertips. You’re so wet it’s obscene, every tiny shift of your hips makes a slick sound you’re sure he can hear.

He stops at the foot of the bed. Close enough that you can smell him, clean sweat, faint cologne, the dark musk of arousal still clinging to his skin from whatever they were doing out there.

“Look at you,” he says softly. Almost tender. “Legs spread like you were waiting for an audience. Fingers stuffed in that greedy little hole while you listened to us talk about ruining you.” His eyes flick to where your hand disappears into your shorts. “Did you come thinking about Sunghoon splitting you open? Or Jay making you bounce on his cock while I fucked your throat raw?”

You make a sound, half sob, half moan. Your hips jerk up without permission, chasing your own fingers. Heeseung’s gaze darkens. “Don’t stop.”

Your breath hitches. “Keep fucking yourself,” he orders, voice dropping into something darker, quieter, more dangerous. “Let me watch how desperate you got listening to us plan all the ways we’re gonna break you.”

Your fingers move before your brain catches up, slow at first, then faster, wetter, louder. The heel of your palm grinds against your clit with every thrust. Your other hand claws at the sheet. Your thighs shake so hard the bed frame rattles. Heeseung doesn’t touch you. He just watches.

Eyes heavy-lidded. Breathing slow and controlled while yours comes in ragged little pants. The outline of his cock has thickened again, straining harder against the sweats. A dark spot blooms at the tip. "You were moaning our names," he says, tilting his head. "Heard you clear as day."

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. He walks closer. Stops at the edge of the bed. Looks down at you, spread, flushed, fingers still glistening.

"First rule of the house," he says, voice velvet and final. He reaches down, grips your chin, tilts your face up so you have to meet his eyes. "If we hear you moaning our names, if you touch that pretty pussy thinking about us, you don't get to come alone anymore."

His thumb drags across your bottom lip, collecting the spit and gloss there. "You finish with one of us inside you. Or on you. Or watching. Your choice."

He leans in until his mouth is a breath from yours. "But tonight?" He smirks, slow, filthy, victorious. "Tonight you go to sleep wet and aching. No more touching. That's rule two."

He straightens. Steps back. "Get some rest, sweetheart."

He turns for the door. Pauses. Looks over his shoulder. "And tomorrow?" His smile is all teeth. "Rent's due."

The door clicks shut behind him. You lie back on the bed, heart slamming, thighs slick, body screaming. You don't touch yourself again. Not because you don't want to. But because you know, he's right outside. And they're all waiting for the next time you break.

Your gasp rips through the dim bedroom like a blade, but it’s not fear that claws up your throat, it’s the raw, electric shock of Jake’s iron grip clamping around your upper arm, yanking you upright so violently the mattress squeaks in protest. Your eyes fly open to the sight of his wicked grin, teeth flashing white in the pale morning light filtering through half-drawn blinds. The sheets are torn away in one savage sweep, cool air slamming against your overheated skin like a slap. Your thin tank top is already bunched uselessly under your tits, the fabric twisted tight around your ribs, while your tiny sleep shorts have ridden so high they barely cover the swell of your ass cheeks, the crotch seam digging intently into your folds.

“Morning, roomie,” Jake purrs, voice dripping with mock sweetness and pure venom. He drags you out of bed like a ragdoll, your bare feet scrambling for purchase on the icy concrete floor, toes curling against the chill. His free hand instantly mauls your left tit, thick fingers sinking deep into the soft, heavy flesh, squeezing so hard your nipple hardens between his knuckles like a ripe berry. His thumb flicks it once, twice, three times, fast and brutal, like he’s punishing a disobedient little button. Pain blooms hot and sharp, shooting straight to your clit, and you hiss through clenched teeth, back arching involuntarily, pushing your chest further into his greedy palm.

He laughs, low, filthy, delighted, and crashes his mouth against your cheek in a wet, sloppy kiss that’s all tongue and teeth. The flat of his tongue drags slow and deliberate across your flushed skin, leaving a thick trail of spit that cools instantly. He pulls back with a loud smack, lips shiny, eyes glittering with mischief.

“Breakfast’s waiting, princess. And you’re the main fucking course.”

He hauls you down the hallway, your legs stumbling, tits bouncing freely under the ruined tank, shorts still tangled around one thigh. The living room hits you like a fever dream: thick with the scent of fresh-brewed coffee, printer ink, and the unmistakable musk of four horny men who’ve already been stroking themselves thinking about this exact moment. Jay’s lounging like a king on the massive sectional sofa, legs spread wide in nothing but gray sweats that do nothing to hide the monstrous bulge tenting the fabric, one arm slung lazily over the backrest, the other lazily palming his cock through the material. He doesn’t even stand. Just crooks two fingers at you, slow and commanding, a lazy smirk playing on his full lips.

Jake shoves you forward hard. You stumble straight into Jay’s waiting hands, rough, calloused palms gripping your hips like vices, and he yanks you down onto his lap in one fluid, possessive motion. Your bare ass cheeks land flush against the scorching heat of his massive morning wood, the thick ridge of it nestling perfectly between your cheeks through the thin sweats. He groans deep in his chest and rocks up once, grinding his fat cock against you so you feel every throbbing inch, every vein, the blunt head nudging right against your folds like a promise.

“Sit pretty for me, slut,” Jay growls hot against the shell of your ear, breath smelling like mint and sin. One thick arm snakes around your waist, locking you down like a seatbelt made of steel. His other hand shoves up under your tank top, claiming your right tit fully, squeezing, kneading, rolling the nipple between rough fingers until it’s swollen and aching. You squirm helplessly, already leaking slick down your thighs, but he just chuckles darkly and pinches harder. “That’s it. Feel how hard you make me first thing in the goddamn morning?”

Heeseung leans against the kitchen island like a statue carved from ice and hunger, arms crossed over his broad chest, black tank stretched tight across his muscles, sweatpants slung low enough to show the deep V of his hips. His dark eyes drink you in with that calm, terrifying amusement, lips curled in the barest smirk. Sunghoon’s perched on the arm of the couch like a predator in repose, long legs dangling, one hand already shoved inside his boxers, slowly fisting his long, pretty cock, tip flushed angry red, leaking precum in shiny beads that he smears down the shaft with lazy twists.

A single crisp sheet of paper is taped to the stainless-steel fridge, bold black Arial bullet points screaming authority.

Roommate Rules.

Jake claps once, sharp and theatrical, the sound cracking through the room like a whip. “New roommate orientation, baby! Time to learn the house rules. Stand up, oh wait.” He grins viciously as Jay’s arm tightens, keeping you impaled on his lap, grinding slow circles so the ridge of his cock drags deliciously against your dripping cunt. “Never mind. Stay right there.”

Jay doesn’t let you move an inch. Jake rips the paper free and slaps it into your trembling hands. “Read it. Out. Loud. Every word.”

Heeseung’s voice cuts through like velvet over steel. “And don’t you dare stop.”

Your fingers shake so badly the paper rattles. Jay’s free hand dives straight down, past the waistband of your shorts, two thick fingers spearing into your soaked cunt without mercy, no teasing, no warmup. They curl viciously against your G-spot instantly, pumping in and out with wet, filthy squelching sounds that echo obscenely. Your walls clamp down greedily, sucking him deeper, and you choke on the first syllable.

“R-Rule… one…” Your voice cracks into a broken moan as Jay adds a third finger on the next thrust, stretching you wide, scissoring brutally. “N-No panties… in the apartment… after 8 p.m. Fuck—ahh!”

Sunghoon hums low, shoving his boxers down to his thighs, his long cock springing free, veiny, curved slightly, glistening as he strokes faster, thumb swiping over the leaking slit. “Louder, whore. Let us hear how wet that rule makes you.”

Jake drops to his knees between your spread thighs like he’s worshipping at an altar. He rips your shorts down your legs in one violent yank, tossing them across the room, leaving you completely bare from the waist down on Jay’s lap, pussy lips puffy and shining, clit throbbing visibly. He spreads your thighs wider with both hands, thumbs digging into soft flesh, and leans in. His tongue, hot, flat, and obscene, drags from your dripping hole all the way up to your swollen clit in one long, sloppy stripe. He sucks your clit into his mouth like it’s candy, tongue flicking rapid-fire while Jay’s fingers keep moving.

“Rule two,” you sob, hips jerking wildly, trying to ride both sensations at once. “You… sit on someone’s lap… during movie nights, oh god, Jake, please—ahh!”

Jake pulls back just enough to spit a thick glob of saliva right onto your clit, watching it drip down to mix with your juices coating Jay’s knuckles. “Good fucking girl. Keep reading while I eat this sloppy cunt like breakfast.”

Your voice is pure wreckage now, high, breathy, broken. “Rule three… Whoever cooks… the others get to fuck you… on the counter… while dinner’s in the oven, fuck, I’m gonna—”

Jay slams his fingers deeper, adding a fourth, stretching you to the burning limit. Your pussy gushes around him, slick squirting out in messy pulses that soak his sweats and the couch beneath you. The wet sounds are pornographic, schlick-schlick-schlick, loud enough to drown out your whimpers.

Heeseung is stroking himself now, thick, heavy, perfectly shaped, veins pulsing as he strokes slow and controlled, eyes locked on your face like he’s memorizing every twitch of humiliation and pleasure. “Almost there, sweetheart. Finish it. Then we give you the welcome gift you’ve been dripping for since you moved in.”

Jake stands, shoving his shorts down. His cock slaps heavy against his abs, thick, girthy, the head red and angry, already drooling precum in long strings. He strokes himself right in front of your face, the wet sound of his fist mixing with Jay’s fingers destroying your cunt. The tip keeps brushing your cheek, smearing precum across your skin like war paint.

You force the last words out between guttural moans, tears of overwhelming pleasure streaking your face. “First… official use… read the rules out loud… while being used—nnngh! And… and it ends with all four… cumming on your face… and tits… as welcome gift, please, I can’t—!”

Silence crashes down for half a second, only the obscene sounds of fingers plunging into soaked pussy and four men stroking their cocks. Then Jay rips his fingers out with a wet pop. You whine pathetically at the sudden emptiness, pussy clenching around nothing, a gush of your own slick dripping down your thighs onto the carpet.

Heeseung steps forward first, voice calm as death. “On your knees, cumdump.” Jay lifts you like you weigh nothing, strong arms tossing you onto the floor between them. The rough carpet bites into your knees as you kneel, back straight, tits heaving, cunt visibly throbbing and empty. They circle you like wolves, four towering, muscular bodies, cocks hard and leaking, surrounding you in a filthy halo of dominance.

Heeseung speaks, low and final. “Welcome to the house, sweetheart. Open that pretty mouth and take what you earned.” They don’t ask permission. They just ruin you.

Jake goes first, groaning loud and theatrical, fist flying as thick, ropey jets of cum erupt across your face. One stripe lands right across your open mouth, coating your tongue in salty heat. Another paints your left cheek, dripping down to your jaw. A third splatters across your forehead, sliding into your hair. He milks every drop, slapping his spent cock against your lips. “Swallow what you can, baby. The rest stays.”

Sunghoon’s next, quiet, intense, eyes dark as midnight. He aims low, long powerful spurts painting your tits in pearly white. Thick globs land on your left nipple, sliding down the curve of your breast like icing. Another heavy rope coats the valley between them, dripping down your stomach. He keeps stroking through it, smearing the head of his cock through the mess on your skin, marking you deeper.

Jay growls your name like a curse, “Fuck, look at you”—and unloads across the right side of your face. Hot cum hits your cheekbone, your eyelid, your lips, mixing with Jake’s in sticky rivers that drip off your chin onto your cum-glazed tits. One stray shot lands directly on your tongue and you moan, swallowing reflexively.

Heeseung saves the best for last. He steps closest, tipping your chin up with two fingers so your teary eyes lock onto his. “Eyes on me while I paint my new toy.” His strokes stay slow, deliberate, until the first powerful pulse shoots straight across your lips, forcing you to taste him, thick, bitter-sweet, coating your tongue. The next stripes your chest, adding fresh layers over Sunghoon’s mess, dripping off your nipples in heavy rivulets. He keeps coming, pulse after pulse, until your entire face and tits are a glistening, ruined masterpiece of four loads, cum sliding down your body in obscene trails, pooling in the hollow of your throat and between your thighs.

When they finally step back, you’re a trembling, kneeling wreck, face and chest absolutely drenched, lips parted, tongue still out like a good little cumslut, thighs shaking, pussy clenching and dripping onto the carpet in desperate need.

Heeseung crouches, thumb scooping a thick glob of mixed cum from your bottom lip. He pushes it deep into your mouth. “Suck. Clean every drop like the rules say.” You do, hollowing your cheeks, sucking his thumb clean with a wet pop, eyes fluttering as the salty, musky taste of all four of them floods your senses. He smiles, slow, dark, satisfied. “Rules are rules, baby.”

Jake laughs, tucking his cock away with a satisfied sigh. “Shower’s down the hall, princess. But we won’t mind if you don’t shower today. Or ever again.”

Jay leans down, pressing an almost tender kiss to the top of your cum-matted hair. “Welcome home, roomie.”

Sunghoon just stares, licking his lips as you instinctively drag your tongue across them, chasing every stray drop. “Rent’s cheap as fuck now, huh? But you are gonna pay every single day.”

You can’t speak, voice wrecked, body owned. But your cunt is already fluttering, aching, dripping for the next rule they’ll break you with. And they know it. They always will.

The rest of the day unravels like a slow, deliberate fever dream, every ordinary second laced with the kind of casual, relentless violation that makes your pulse thunder and your cunt throb like a second heartbeat. You try so fucking hard to pretend it’s just another lazy Saturday. That the thick, salty ghosts of their cum aren’t still drying in flaky trails across your tits and cheeks no matter how hard you scrubbed in the shower. That the taste of all four of them, bitter, musky, addictively filthy, doesn’t coat the back of your throat every single time you swallow.  

The shower is a war zone. Scalding water pounds against skin still blooming with faint red handprints and fingertip bruises, steam thick enough to choke on. You soap yourself raw, trying to erase the evidence, but every glide of your own hands over your sore nipples, your swollen clit, your tender skin just reminds you how easily they marked you. When you finally step out, the oversized black tee you pull on clings to your still-damp skin like a surrender flag, hem barely skimming the bottom curve of your ass, nipples already stiff and obvious against the thin cotton, pussy lips puffy and exposed every time you move. No bra. No panties. It’s not even close to 8 p.m., but the rule is already branded into your brain like a collar. You tell yourself it’s just comfort. Practicality. Not the first step in learning to live with your holes on permanent display.

They let you cling to that lie for exactly twenty-three minutes.

You’re in the kitchen, stretching up on tiptoes to grab a glass from the top shelf, the tee riding all the way up to expose the full, bare globes of your ass and the slick shine already coating your inner thighs, when the first crack lands.

Jake’s palm connects with your right cheek like a gunshot, sharp, loud, viciously playful. The sound ricochets off the marble counters. Your whole body jolts forward, glass clattering against the shelf, and a hot bloom of pain explodes across your skin. Before you can even gasp, he’s right there, chest pressed to your back, hips grinding his half-hard cock against the cleft of your ass through his sweats.

“Careful, princess,” he drawls, voice syrupy and mean. Both hands shove up under the tee from behind, claiming your tits like they were built for his palms, squeezing the soft, heavy flesh until it bulges between his fingers, thumbs and forefingers rolling your nipples in tight, cruel pinches that send lightning straight to your clit. “Wouldn’t want you breaking shit on your first full day. Or maybe we should make you clean it up on your knees.”

You white-knuckle the counter, breath sawing out of you, thighs pressing together uselessly as fresh slick drips down your legs.

Heeseung strolls past like he’s fetching orange juice, not even sparing you a glance, until his arm snaps out mid-stride and his open palm cracks across your left cheek so hard the sting blooms white-hot and immediate. Your knees buckle. He keeps walking, cool as ever, but you catch the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jay’s waiting when you bend over to grab a yogurt from the bottom drawer of the fridge. The oversized tee flips up completely, baring your dripping cunt and the pink handprints already decorating your ass. His bare foot hooks your ankle, yanking your legs apart with zero warning. Then his hand comes down, once, twice, three brutal, stinging slaps in rapid succession, each one harder than the last, the wet smack of skin on wet skin echoing obscenely. Your pussy clenches visibly with every impact, a humiliating string of slick stretching from your hole to the floor.

“Good reach, roomie,” he mutters, already back to scrolling his phone like he didn’t just turn your ass into a throbbing, cherry-red masterpiece. “Keep bending over like that and I might have to test how deep that pretty throat is before dinner.”

Sunghoon doesn’t bother with words. He simply appears behind you while you’re loading the dishwasher, hips slamming forward to pin you bent over the open rack, his massive erection grinding slow and filthy between your spread cheeks. One arm bands around your waist, the other shoves under the tee to grope your tits with lazy, proprietary thoroughness, palms rolling the soft mounds like ripe fruit, fingers tugging and twisting your nipples until they’re swollen, aching peaks. He pinches so hard you cry out, then releases you with a low whistle, walking away like he just checked the mail.

It never stops.

Every single movement is an invitation they cash immediately. Reaching for the remote? Jake’s fingers plunge between your thighs from behind, two thick digits sliding through your soaked folds just long enough to coat themselves before he pulls away, sucking them clean with a wink. Bending to pick up a dropped spoon? Jay’s palm cracks down again, then stays, middle finger dipping into your cunt, pumping once, twice, curling against your G-spot until your knees shake, then withdrawing with a wet pop and a casual “oops.” Stretching up to dust the top shelf? Heeseung’s mouth finds the back of your neck, teeth grazing, one hand sliding between your legs to flick your clit in rapid, teasing circles until you’re whimpering, then he’s gone, leaving you edged and gasping.

By late afternoon you’re a walking wreck, skin flushed scarlet, ass a lattice of overlapping handprints burning with every step, nipples raw and hypersensitive against the cotton, cunt so swollen and empty it aches like a bruise. Your thighs are shiny with constant slick. Your brain is fogged with need. You’re trying, failing, to fold laundry on the living room couch when Jake decides he’s done playing.

He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t warn. He simply drops to his knees in front of you like a man starved for weeks, hooks your trembling legs over his broad shoulders, and buries his face in your dripping pussy with a guttural groan that vibrates straight through your clit.

No warmup. No mercy.

His tongue is everywhere at once, broad, flat, filthy laps from your clenching hole all the way up to your throbbing clit, then sucking the swollen bud between his lips like he’s trying to pull your soul out through it. He alternates, hard, punishing suction that makes your back bow off the cushions, then soft, fluttering licks that leave you sobbing. Two thick fingers spear into you without resistance, curling viciously against that spongy spot inside while his tongue flicks your clit in rapid, relentless strokes. The wet sounds are deafening, your slick gushing around his knuckles, dripping down his chin, soaking the couch beneath you.

You grab fistfuls of his hair, half trying to rip him off, half grinding your cunt against his face desperate for release. “J-Jake, fuck—too much—ahh!”

He growls into your pussy, the vibration making your vision spark white. Three fingers now, stretching you wide, pumping brutally, thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit while his tongue spears inside you, fucking you in shallow, messy thrusts. Your thighs clamp around his head like a vice. Your back arches so hard you nearly levitate. The orgasm rips through you like lightning, violent, shattering, squirting messily all over his face as you scream, walls convulsing, vision whiting out completely.

He doesn’t stop. He rides you through it, through the aftershocks, through the oversensitive whimpers and the frantic pushing at his head, tongue and fingers relentless until you’re a sobbing, twitching wreck, another smaller orgasm crashing over you before the first even fades.

Only then does he pull back, face glistening, lips swollen, chin dripping with your cum like he just won a war. He climbs up your body slow, caging you against the cushions with his powerful frame, cock heavy and leaking against your thigh through his sweats. Then he kisses you. Not the brutal, claiming way you expect after he just devoured your cunt like a starving animal.

Sweet. Devastatingly soft. His mouth moves against yours like a promise, gentle, coaxing, tongue sliding in lazy, velvet strokes that taste like your own slick and his spit. One hand cups your cheek with shocking tenderness, thumb stroking your jawbone like you’re fragile, precious. The other rests low on your belly, warm, possessive, fingers splayed like he’s claiming the space where his cock will eventually live.

It breaks something in you. Filthy-sweet. Disorienting. Dangerous. When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, breath mingling, eyes half-lidded and shining. “Good girl,” he whispers, so soft it feels like a secret. “Tasted so fucking sweet. Could eat this pussy for every meal.”

Then he’s gone, standing, wiping his shiny face with the back of his hand, flashing that boyish, wicked grin like he didn’t just ruin you twice in five minutes. You lie there panting, legs still hooked open and shaking, lips tingling, cunt still fluttering and leaking onto the ruined couch. The others don’t even pretend to look away anymore.

Heeseung glances over from the armchair, dark eyes gleaming, one brow raised in quiet approval. Jay keeps scrolling, but his free hand is palming the massive bulge in his sweats. Sunghoon licks his lips slowly, deliberately, like he’s already tasting his turn. You yank the tee down over your trembling thighs with shaking hands, trying to catch your breath, trying to remember how to be a person.

The clock on the wall glows 7:42 p.m. Eighteen minutes until the first rule locks in for the night. And every single one of them is watching the seconds tick down with hungry, patient eyes.

The day was “normal.”

But normal in this house means your body is their favorite toy, teased, slapped, groped, eaten, and edged until you’re dripping and desperate. The night hasn’t even started.

The apartment is shrouded in that heavy, post-midnight hush, only the low, constant hum of the AC and the faint, faraway pulse of city traffic bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The clock on the wall glows 12:34 a.m. Your panties have been gone for hours, the rule now a permanent, throbbing law between your legs. Every step you take reminds you: bare, slick, exposed, owned.

You’re trying to ghost down the hallway like a shadow, bare feet silent on the cool hardwood, oversized tee clutched in one fist to keep the hem from riding up, when Heeseung materializes out of nowhere. His long fingers wrap around your wrist like a steel cuff, firm but not cruel, and he yanks you sideways without a single word. The door to his room swings open, swallows you both, and clicks shut with the finality of a prison gate. The lock engages with a soft, damning thunk.

The second the bolt slides home, the mask drops. Heeseung spins you around and slams you back against the door so hard the wood rattles in its frame. His mouth crashes into yours, teeth clashing, tongues battling, no sweetness, just raw, starving hunger. One big hand fists your hair, yanking your head back so he can devour your throat, sucking bruises into the skin while the other shoves up under your tee and finds your already dripping cunt.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he growls against your pulse point, two thick fingers spearing straight into you without warning. “Been walking around all night with this greedy little hole empty? Bad girl.”

You moan brokenly, hips jerking into his hand. He adds a third finger instantly, stretching you wide, scissoring brutally while his thumb grinds hard circles on your swollen clit. Your knees buckle; he doesn’t let you fall. Just pins you to the door with his body and finger-fucks you so viciously the sound echoes louder than your gasps.

He rips the tee over your head in one motion, leaving you completely naked. Then he’s spinning you again, bending you over the edge of his massive bed, face pressed into the black silk sheets that smell like him, dark, expensive, masculine. He kicks your legs wider, slaps your ass once, twice, hard enough to make the flesh jiggle and bloom pink.

“Look at this pretty cunt clenching for me,” he snarls, lining up the fat, leaking head of his cock and slamming in to the hilt in one brutal thrust. The stretch burns so good you scream into the mattress. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, just grips your hips hard enough to bruise and starts pounding.

Skin slaps skin like thunder. His heavy balls smack your clit with every savage thrust. The bed creaks violently under the assault. He fucks you like he’s trying to split you in half—deep, punishing strokes that drag against every sensitive ridge inside you, the thick head battering your cervix on every inward slam.

“Take it,” he grunts, one hand fisting your hair to arch your back, the other reaching around to slap your clit in time with his thrusts. “This is what you signed up for, roomie. This cunt belongs to the house now, belongs to me tonight.”

You’re sobbing, drooling onto the sheets, pussy gushing around his cock so loudly it’s embarrassing. He reaches down and spreads your ass cheeks wider, watching his thick shaft disappear into your stretched hole, the creamy ring of your arousal coating every inch.

“Fuck, look at that. Greedy little slut sucking me in.”

He pulls out suddenly, flips you onto your back, and hooks your legs over his shoulders. The new angle lets him drive even deeper. His hips snap forward like a machine, relentless, punishing, perfect. Your tits bounce wildly with every thrust. He leans down and sucks one swollen nipple into his mouth, biting hard enough to make you wail, then soothes it with his tongue before moving to the other.

You come first, hard, screaming, walls clamping down on him like a vice, squirting messily around his cock as your whole body seizes. He doesn’t slow. Just fucks you straight through it, growling praises and filth into your ear.

“That’s it, milk my cock, baby. Give me another. Come on this dick again like the house whore you are.”

You do, second orgasm ripping through you even harder, vision whiting out, nails raking bloody lines down his back. Heeseung follows with a guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt and flooding you with thick, hot ropes of cum, pulse after pulse until it’s leaking out around his cock, dripping down your ass and soaking the sheets.

He stays buried inside you for a long moment, both of you heaving, sweat-slick bodies glued together. Then he pulls out slowly, watching with dark satisfaction as his cum pours from your ruined hole in a creamy waterfall.

But the brutality ends there.

Heeseung rolls off you with surprising grace, chest still rising and falling hard. He sits up, runs a hand through his wrecked hair, then stands, completely naked, still half-hard and shining with your combined mess. You lie there boneless, thighs trembling, cum leaking steadily onto the bed, mind completely blank.

He disappears into the attached bathroom. You hear the faucet run, the soft clink of glass. When he returns, he’s carrying a warm, damp cloth and a small bottle of something. You flinch when he kneels between your spread thighs again, instinct, not fear, but he just shushes you softly.

“Easy, baby.”

The cloth is blissfully warm. He starts at your inner thighs, wiping away the sticky trails of cum with slow, careful strokes. Then higher, between your folds, dabbing gently at your swollen, puffy entrance. You hiss when the fabric brushes your oversensitive clit; he pauses instantly, waiting until you relax before continuing. He cleans every inch of you with the patience of a man who’s done this before, thorough, reverent, almost worshipful. When he’s satisfied, he sets the cloth aside and pours a small amount of cool, soothing lotion onto his fingers, massaging it gently into the red handprints on your hips, your ass, the bite marks on your breasts.

You can only stare at him, wide-eyed, lips parted, heart hammering in a way that has nothing to do with the orgasms.

Heeseung meets your gaze, those dark eyes steady, unreadable for a heartbeat, then the corner of his mouth lifts in something softer than a smirk. “I may be an asshole, baby,” he says, voice low and gravel-rough from how loud he’d moaned your name, “but I know how to treat what’s mine right after I break it.”

He finishes with the lotion, then grabs a clean, fluffy towel from the dresser and drapes it gently over your hips like a blanket. Pulls the black silk sheet up to your waist, tucking it around you with careful hands. Finally, he leans down, brushes sweat-damp strands of hair off your forehead with his knuckles, light, almost sweet, and presses the softest kiss to your temple.

“Get some sleep,” he murmurs against your skin. “You’re gonna need every ounce of strength for what the rest of them have planned tomorrow.”

He doesn’t stay. Just stands, flicks off the bedside lamp with a soft click, and pads out of the room, leaving the door cracked just enough that a thin, golden line of hallway light spills across the floor like an invitation… or a warning.

You lie there in the dark, body aching in the most delicious, ruined way, pussy still fluttering with aftershocks, skin tingling from his gentle hands, mind spinning in dizzy circles.

Because he is an asshole. A cruel, rule-making, cum-painting, pussy-destroying asshole. But tonight, for the first time since you moved in, you’re terrifyingly certain that’s not all he is. And that single, dangerous crack in the armor?

It scares you more than every filthy rule they’ve written on that fridge. Because if Heeseung can fuck you like a toy and then care for you like something precious…

What the hell are the other three capable of? You get your answer somewhere around an hour after Heeseung leaves.

The apartment has gone quiet, city lights bleeding through the blinds in faint orange stripes, the distant hum of traffic like white noise. You’re half-asleep in your own bed again, body still humming from earlier, skin too sensitive, mind too full of everything that’s happened since you walked through the front door. The sheets feel cool against the faint bruises blooming on your hips.

You don’t hear the door open. Just feel the mattress dip behind you, slow, careful, like whoever it is doesn’t want to startle you awake. Then warmth. Jay’s chest presses to your back, not crowding, not possessive in the usual way. Just… there. Solid. His arm slides around your waist from behind, palm flattening low on your stomach. Fingers splay wide, covering as much skin as they can without gripping.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just breathes, slow, even, against the nape of your neck. His nose brushes the baby hairs there once, twice. Then his thumb starts moving.

Slow circles. Lazy, deliberate swirls over the soft skin just below your navel. The kind of touch that feels like he’s tracing something fragile. Like you’re made of blown glass, or spun sugar, or something that might crack if he presses too hard.

It’s nothing like the way they’ve touched you all day. No slaps. No gropes. No mocking whispers or filthy promises. Just this. Quiet. Steady. Almost reverent. You tense for half a second, waiting for the punchline, the shift into something meaner.

It doesn’t come. Instead, his lips find the curve where your shoulder meets your neck. Not a kiss. Just a resting place. Warm breath fanning over your skin in time with the slow rub of his thumb. “You okay?” he murmurs eventually. Voice low, rough from sleep and whatever else he’s been doing in the dark. Not demanding an answer. Just… checking.

You don’t know what to say. Your throat feels tight. You nod once, small, barely there. His hand keeps moving. Same rhythm. Same gentleness. Circles widening a little, then tightening again, like he’s memorizing the shape of you under his palm.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says against your skin. “Any of it. Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever.”

The words hang there, simple, quiet, sincere in a way that doesn’t match the asshole roommates who printed rules on the fridge and came on your face like it was a housewarming tradition. You swallow. “I’m… okay,” you whisper. It’s the truth, mostly. The rest is too tangled to name.

He hums once, soft, approving. His arm tightens just enough to pull you closer, back flush to his chest. No grind. No wandering hands. Just holding. The circles don’t stop. Slow. Soothing. Like he’s trying to rub the tension out of you molecule by molecule. You feel your breathing start to match his, deeper, slower. The ache between your legs dulls to a low throb instead of a sharp pulse. Your eyelids grow heavy again. Jay doesn’t move to leave.

Doesn’t push for more. Just stays. Palm warm on your waist. Thumb still drawing those endless, careful circles. Like you’re something worth being gentle with. Even here. Even now. You fall asleep to the rhythm of it, his heartbeat steady against your spine, his breath even against your neck, the soft scrape of calluses on your skin.

And for the first time since you moved in, the apartment doesn’t feel quite so dangerous.

Sunlight slices through the half-open blinds in thin, golden bars across your bare back. You wake slowly, first to the sensation of heat, then weight, then the unmistakable press of something thick and heavy sliding past your lips before your eyes are even open.

Heeseung. He’s already there, kneeling at the edge of the mattress, one hand braced on the headboard, the other cradling the back of your skull with surprising care. His cock is hard, morning wood, thick and flushed, veins prominent under the skin, and he’s feeding it to you slowly, not thrusting, just… settling. Like he’s been waiting for you to wake up around him.

Your lashes flutter. A soft, sleepy sound escapes your throat, half protest, half surrender, as your mouth stretches to accommodate him. He doesn’t push deeper than you can take. Just holds still once the head bumps the back of your tongue, letting you adjust.

“Shh,” he murmurs above you, thumb stroking the hinge of your jaw. “Morning, baby.”

His voice is gravel-rough from sleep, softer than it has any right to be. You blink up at him through damp lashes. He’s shirtless, hair a wreck, eyes dark but not cruel. There’s something almost apologetic in the way he looks down at you, like he knows exactly how many times he’s already used this mouth, this body, in the last forty-eight hours and still can’t stop.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you flatten your tongue along the underside, hollow your cheeks just enough to make him hiss quietly. His hips twitch once, small, involuntary, then still again.

“Good girl,” he breathes. Not mocking. Quiet. Almost reverent.

That’s when you feel the mattress dip on either side. Jake slides in behind you first, warm chest pressing to your back, knees nudging yours apart. His cock, already leaking, slides between your thighs, not inside yet, just rocking slow and lazy along your folds. He kisses the nape of your neck, open-mouthed and gentle, like he’s tasting sleep-warmed skin instead of claiming territory.

“Morning, princess,” he whispers against your ear. One hand slips under you, cupping your breast, not squeezing, just holding. Palm warm. Fingers splayed. Thumb brushing the nipple in slow, soothing circles.

Sunghoon appears on your other side, long limbs unfolding gracefully. He doesn’t speak at first. Just watches your face while Heeseung rocks shallowly into your mouth. Then he leans in, presses a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. The gesture is so unexpectedly tender your breath hitches around Heeseung’s length.

Sunghoon’s hand finds your hip. Strokes down the curve of your waist, then back up. Like he’s memorizing every dip and swell. Like he’s sorry for every bruise he’s left there. Jay’s the last to join.

He’s fully dressed, gray sweats, black tee, hair still damp from a shower, sitting in the armchair across from the bed with a steaming mug of black coffee in one hand and his phone in the other. Vertical hold. Red recording dot blinking steadily.

He doesn’t say anything filthy. Doesn’t bark orders. Just watches. Sips. The corner of his mouth lifts when your eyes meet his over Heeseung’s shoulder. Not a smirk. Something quieter. Almost fond. “Pretty,” he mouths. No sound. Just the shape of the word.

Heeseung starts moving then, slow, shallow rolls of his hips. Never deep enough to choke you. Just enough to fill your mouth, to let you taste the salt and musk of him. Your hands come up instinctively, fingers curling around the base he can’t fit, stroking what your lips can’t reach.

Jake shifts behind you. Lines himself up. Presses in, slow. So slow. The stretch is lazy, unhurried, like he has all morning to sink into you. When he bottoms out, he stays there. Doesn’t thrust. Just grinds in tiny, rolling circles, letting you feel every inch pressed against that spot inside that makes your toes curl.

Sunghoon’s hand slides between you and the mattress. Finds your clit. Circles it with the same gentle pressure Jake’s using on your nipple. No frantic rubbing. No pinching. Just soft, steady friction that builds slow and syrupy.

You moan around Heeseung, muffled, needy. The vibration makes him groan low in his throat.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s it.”

They move like they’ve rehearsed it. Like they’ve agreed, silently, somewhere in the dark hours after Jay held you last night, that today they won’t break you. Not more than they already have.

Jake rocks into you in time with Heeseung’s shallow thrusts. Sunghoon’s fingers never falter, patient, coaxing. Your body starts to tremble, not from overstimulation, but from the slow, relentless climb they’re building together.

Jay’s phone stays steady. He tilts it slightly, capturing the way your back arches, the way Jake’s hand splays protectively over your stomach, the way Sunghoon’s lips brush your shoulder every few seconds like he can’t help himself.

Heeseung’s breathing grows ragged first. “Gonna come,” he warns, voice strained, almost pleading. “Where do you want it, baby?” You can’t answer with words. Just tighten your lips around him, suck harder, look up at him with wide, glassy eyes.

He swears under his breath. Pulls out at the last second, strokes himself twice, and spills across your tongue in thick, warm pulses. You swallow what you can; the rest drips from the corner of your mouth. Heeseung catches it with his thumb, pushes it back between your lips.

“Good girl,” he whispers again. This time his voice cracks. Jake’s rhythm falters behind you. His forehead drops to your shoulder. “Fuck—can I—inside?”

You nod frantically, around Heeseung’s softening cock still resting on your tongue.

He groans, long, low, broken, and buries himself deep. Comes with a shudder that rocks through both of you. Hot. Thick. Filling you until it leaks out around him, down your thighs. He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays seated, grinding lazily through the aftershocks, letting you clench around him like he’s trying to keep every drop where it belongs.

Sunghoon’s fingers speed up just enough, still gentle, still careful, and you come like a wave breaking slow. No scream. No violent shaking. Just a long, trembling release that leaves you boneless, whimpering softly into Heeseung’s thigh.

They don’t rush to move.

Jake stays inside you, softening but not leaving. Sunghoon keeps petting your clit through the aftershocks, light, soothing touches now. Heeseung strokes your hair back from your face, tucking strands behind your ear.

Jay finally lowers the phone. Stops recording. Sets the mug on the side table. Walks over. He kneels on the edge of the bed, still fully clothed, and cups your cheek. Thumb swipes away the last trace of Heeseung from your lip.

“You okay?” he asks quietly. You nod. Eyes heavy. Body humming. He leans down. Kisses your forehead, soft. Lingering. Then he looks at the others. “Group chat,” he says simply. “She’s gonna want to see it later.”

Jake chuckles, soft, breathless, against your neck. “She’s gonna come again just watching.” Sunghoon finally pulls his hand away. Presses one last kiss to your shoulder blade. Heeseung helps ease you onto your side, careful, like you might shatter. Jake slips out slowly, both of you hissing at the loss. Cum leaks immediately, thick, white, obscene. Jay grabs a clean towel from the nightstand, wipes between your thighs with the same gentle care Heeseung used last night.

No one speaks for a minute. Just breathing. Skin cooling. Hearts slowing. Then Heeseung breaks the quiet. “We were… a lot,” he says. Voice rough. Eyes on yours. “Yesterday. The day before. If it’s too much—”

You shake your head before he can finish. Reach up. Curl your fingers around his wrist. “I’m here,” you whisper. “I’m staying.” Something flickers across his face, relief, maybe. Guilt, definitely.

Jay’s hand finds yours. Squeezes once. Jake presses his lips to the back of your neck, soft, apologetic. Sunghoon just watches you. Then leans in. Kisses the corner of your mouth. Slow. Sweet. “Breakfast,” Jay says eventually. “In bed. No rules for the next hour.”

You laugh, small, wrecked, real. They move like they’ve been given permission to be soft. And for the first time since you moved in, you let yourself believe they might actually mean it. The rest of the day unfolds like something borrowed from another life.

No one touches you. Not in the hungry, claiming way you’ve come to expect. No wandering hands under your shirt while you’re making toast. No casual spanks when you bend to pick up a stray sock. No one pins you against the counter or drags you onto a lap. The rules, those printed, obscene bullet points on the fridge, might as well be written in invisible ink for how irrelevant they feel in the soft, lazy hours that follow breakfast.

They just… stay.

All four of them orbit you without crowding. The living room becomes this strange, sunlit island: blankets dragged from bedrooms, pillows piled into a makeshift nest on the sectional, takeout containers from last night still scattered like evidence of a truce. Someone puts on music, low-fi beats, nothing aggressive, just enough rhythm to fill the quiet without demanding attention. Jake sprawls across the floor with his head in your lap, scrolling memes on his phone and reading the funniest ones out loud in increasingly ridiculous voices until you snort-laugh and accidentally knee him in the ribs.

“Ow, princess, you trying to murder me?” he whines, but he’s grinning, grabbing your hand to press a dramatic kiss to your knuckles before going right back to his phone.

Jay sits cross-legged at the other end of the couch, one of your feet in his lap. He massages your ankle absentmindedly while he argues with Heeseung about whether the new season of some crime drama is trash or genius. Every time you shift, he squeezes your calf once, gentle, grounding, like a silent check-in.

Heeseung’s on the armchair opposite, legs kicked up on the coffee table, nursing the same lukewarm coffee from this morning. He catches your eye every so often and just… holds it. No smirk. No heat. Just a small, almost shy tilt of his mouth, like he’s still surprised you’re still here.

Sunghoon is the quietest. He’s tucked into the corner of the sectional, long legs stretched out, one arm slung over the backrest behind you. He doesn’t say much, just watches. Watches you laugh at Jake’s dumb jokes. Watches the way your shoulders slowly unclench. Watches the way the afternoon light turns your skin gold.

You keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Every time someone shifts closer, every time a hand brushes your arm or knee, your body tenses on instinct, bracing for the grab, the grope, the inevitable slide into filth. But it never comes.

Instead: Jake starts a pillow fight that lasts exactly thirty five seconds before Jay declares himself referee and tackles Jake into the cushions. Heeseung orders fried chicken and insists on feeding you the first piece, holding it to your lips like Jay used to, but this time there’s no sauce-smeared thumb, no dirty promise in his eyes. Just a soft “Open up, baby,” and when you do, he smiles like you’ve given him something precious.

Sunghoon eventually migrates closer. Not crowding. Just enough that his thigh presses warm against yours. You glance at him, skeptical, guarded, still half-expecting the mask to slip. He notices. Of course he does. His hand lifts, slow, telegraphing every movement so you can pull away if you want. You don’t.

Fingers gentle, he reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingers there, knuckles grazing the shell lightly, before he lets his palm cup the side of your face for half a heartbeat. You freeze. He smiles. Not the cold, cutting one he usually wears. Something smaller. Softer. Almost sad.

“You are our friend, sweetheart,” he says quietly. His voice is low enough that the others have to strain to hear, but they do. The room quiets around the words like they’re something fragile. You blink. Throat tight. Sunghoon’s thumb brushes your cheekbone once, barely there.

“We fucked this up from the start,” he continues, softer still. “We saw you walk through that door looking like you were ready to bolt at the first wrong move… and we made sure every move was wrong. On purpose.” His gaze drops to where his hand still rests against your skin. “Thought it’d be easier if you hated us. If you left on your own. If we never had to admit we wanted you to stay for more than just—”

He stops. Swallows. “—for more than just the easy parts.” The confession hangs there, heavy and unpolished. Jake’s head is still in your lap; he’s gone unnaturally still, staring up at the ceiling like he’s afraid to interrupt. Jay’s thumb has paused on your ankle.

Heeseung sets his coffee down. Slowly. You look around at them, all four, and for the first time you see it: the guilt. Not performative. Not a tactic. Real. Raw. Sitting under their skin like a bruise they’ve been ignoring. Sunghoon’s hand finally drops from your face, but he doesn’t move away.

“We’re not asking for forgiveness,” he says. “We don’t deserve it. Not yet. But we’re not gonna keep treating you like—” He exhales through his nose. “—like you’re disposable. Not anymore.” Silence stretches. Then Jake, sweet, chaotic Jake, breaks it by pressing the softest kiss to the inside of your wrist.

“Friends can still cuddle, right?” he mumbles against your skin. “Because I’m not moving. My head’s too comfy.” A tiny, surprised laugh bubbles out of you. Jay squeezes your calf once. “We’ve got time,” he says simply. “No rush. No rules today.”

Heeseung leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Tell us what you want,” he says. “Right now. Anything. We’ll listen.” You look at them, really look. The assholes who printed rules on the fridge. The ones who marked you, used you, laughed while they did it. The ones who just spent an entire day proving they know how to be gentle when they choose to be. You swallow.

“I want…” Your voice is small at first. Then steadier. “I want to believe you.” Sunghoon’s eyes soften. “Then we’ll keep showing you,” he says. “Until you do.”

Jake nuzzles closer into your lap like a cat claiming territory. Jay resumes the slow massage on your ankle. Heeseung picks up the remote, queues up some mindless comedy you’ve all seen a hundred times.

And Sunghoon, quiet, beautiful, regretful Sunghoon, leans in just enough to rest his forehead against your temple. “Friends,” he whispers again. Like a promise.

Like a beginning. The afternoon bleeds into evening. No one fucks you. No one even tries. They just stay. Laughing. Joking. Touching you like you matter. And for the first time since you moved in, you let yourself lean into it.

Just a little. Just enough to see what happens when the rules stop mattering and the people start to.

The apartment feels different when the others are gone, quieter, yes, but not the hollow kind of quiet that echoes off the walls. It’s softer, warmer, like the whole space exhales once Heeseung, Jay, and Sunghoon finally slip out the door with their jackets half-zipped and promises of “real food” still lingering in the air. Twenty minutes ago they each pressed a kiss to your forehead, Heeseung’s lingering the longest, his thumb sweeping slow circles over your cheekbone as if he still couldn’t quite believe you were letting all four of them stay, Jay’s quick and teasing with a wink, Sunghoon’s almost shy, lips brushing your skin like a secret. They told Jake to behave, and the second the door clicked shut behind them, Jake’s grin turned wicked, golden-retriever energy dialed up to eleven, like the instruction itself was foreplay.

He’s been orbiting you ever since, turning half-hearted chores into an excuse to stay glued to your side. You’re folding laundry on the couch, and he keeps “helping” by snatching shirts out of your hands just to hold them up like trophies before tossing them back in a messy pile. In the kitchen he hip-checks you every time you reach for a dish towel, laughing low and bright when you swat at his chest. The late-afternoon sun pours through the big windows in thick golden slabs, catching on the fine hairs of his arms, turning his skin warm and honeyed. You’re both a little sweaty from moving around, the faint scent of his cologne, something clean, mixing with the laundry detergent and the leftover smell of last night’s fried chicken still clinging to the air. 

“You’re terrible at this,” you say, watching him wrestle a fitted sheet into something that vaguely resembles a rectangle. The elastic corners keep snapping back at him like they have a personal grudge.

Jake flashes that devastating, all-teeth smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m excellent at distractions. Watch this, baby.”

Before you can protest, he shakes the sheet out with dramatic flair, like a matador taunting a bull, then whips it over both your heads in one smooth motion. The world narrows instantly to white cotton filtered sunlight, the fabric draping around you like a private tent. You’re both laughing before you can stop it, deep, helpless belly laughs that make your ribs ache and your eyes water. The sheet muffles everything, turning the sound intimate and close. Jake’s body is right there, heat radiating off him, chest brushing yours with every breathless chuckle. He tugs you deeper under the fabric, arms wrapping loosely around your waist, and suddenly the playful game shifts. His nose nudges yours. You feel the brush of his lashes against your cheek. The laughter fades into something heavier, warmer, the air between you thickening like honey.

“See?” he murmurs, voice low and rougher now. “Masterclass in procrastination.”

You roll your eyes, but your hands are already sliding up his chest, fingers curling into the soft cotton of his t-shirt. You don’t push him away. You pull him closer.

The sheet eventually slips to the floor in a crumpled heap, forgotten. You move down the hallway together, the basket of clean clothes balanced on your hip, Jake trailing so close his fingers keep ghosting the small of your back. You bend over to grab a stray sock that’s escaped onto the floor, nothing exaggerated, just a natural lean, your thin cotton shorts riding up just enough to expose the curve where thigh meets hip. Behind you, Jake sucks in a sharp, punched-out breath, like the sight physically winds him.

You freeze.

His hand settles on your hip, palm broad and hot, fingers spreading wide over the soft flesh through the fabric. Not a slap, not a grope. Just… claiming. Resting there with deliberate weight, thumb stroking a slow, lazy circle that makes your skin prickle. You feel every callus on his fingertips, the faint tremble in his touch like he’s fighting the urge to squeeze harder. Heat blooms low in your belly, liquid and slow.

You straighten up slowly, deliberately, and his hand stays glued to you, sliding with the motion so it ends up cupping the full cheek. He turns you around with the gentlest pressure on your hip, like you’re made of glass he’s terrified of cracking. Your back meets the cool wall of the hallway with a soft thud. Jake crowds in immediately, but not aggressively, his body cages you without trapping, one forearm braced beside your head, the other hand still kneading your ass with slow, possessive squeezes that make your breath hitch.

His eyes have gone dark, almost black, pupils blown wide. Not the usual playful hunger. Something deeper. Hungrier. Worshipful.

“Hey,” he breathes, voice gravel-rough. “You good? Still with me?” You nod, small and shaky, because the air has turned thick, syrupy, every inhale dragging like molasses. Your nipples are already tight against your shirt, and you know he can see it. He leans in like he’s giving you every chance to stop him. The first kiss is feather-light, barely a brush of lips, testing, asking. You answer by tilting your head, parting your mouth just enough, tongue flicking out to taste him. That’s all the permission he needs.

Jake kisses you like he’s been starving for it since the day you moved in, like every shared glance and late-night movie marathon has been foreplay leading to this exact second. Slow. So fucking slow. His lips are plush and warm, sliding against yours with wet, deliberate pressure. He sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, tongue tracing the seam until you open wider, then he licks inside, deep, lazy strokes that map every inch of you like he’s memorizing the taste. You moan softly into his mouth and he answers with a low, guttural groan that vibrates straight down to your clit. His hand on your ass tightens, pulling you flush against him so you can feel exactly how hard he already is, thick, heavy ridge straining against his sweatpants, pressing right against your lower belly.

One of his hands cradles your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone while the other slides up under your shirt, palm flat and scorching against the bare skin of your stomach. He doesn’t rush. His fingers splay wide, stroking up your ribs, tracing the underside of your breasts with reverent touches. When his thumb finally brushes over your nipple, already pebbled and aching, he circles it slowly, pinching just hard enough to make you gasp and arch into him. He swallows the sound, kissing you deeper, tongue fucking into your mouth in filthy, rhythmic strokes that mimic exactly what you wish his cock was doing somewhere else.

You’re grinding on his thigh now, small, helpless rolls of your hips that drag your soaked pussy along the hard muscle. The thin fabric of your shorts is useless; you can feel how wet you’ve gotten, the slickness coating your inner thighs, probably leaving a damp spot on his sweats. Jake breaks the kiss only to drag his open mouth down your jaw, sucking wet, open-mouthed kisses along your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. He bites down gently, then soothes it with his tongue, leaving faint red marks that bloom under his lips. You tilt your head back against the wall, exposing more of your throat, and he takes full advantage, licking a hot stripe down to your collarbone, sucking hard enough that you know there’ll be bruises tomorrow, little purple galaxies only the four of them will see.

“Fuck, you taste so fucking good,” he groans against your skin, voice wrecked. “Sweet. Like you’ve been waiting for me to do this all day.”

His hand leaves your breast only to slide down, cupping your pussy through your shorts. He doesn’t push inside, just rubs the heel of his palm in slow, firm circles right over your clit, feeling how soaked the fabric is. You whimper, hips jerking, and he chuckles darkly into your neck.

“Yeah? That feel good, baby? You’re dripping for me already.”

You can’t answer with words, just a broken moan as two of his fingers slip under the hem of your shorts, tracing your slick folds without pushing in, spreading your wetness up to your clit and rubbing tight, teasing circles. Your hands are frantic now, one fisted in his hair, the other palming the thick length of his cock through his sweats, squeezing and stroking him until he’s panting against your mouth, hips twitching like he’s fighting not to rut into your hand.

You kiss for what feels like hours, messy, spit-slick, tongues tangled and sliding. Your lips are swollen and tingling, jaw aching in the best way. He keeps breaking away only to come right back, sucking on your tongue, biting your bottom lip, whispering filthy little praises between kisses.

“So fucking pretty when you’re desperate like this… making those sweet little sounds for me… gonna ruin me, baby, you know that?”

Your legs are trembling. He notices, always notices, and presses his thigh harder between yours, letting you ride it properly now, the friction perfect and relentless. His fingers keep working your clit in lazy strokes, dipping just inside your entrance to gather more slick before sliding back up, never giving you enough to come, just keeping you right on the edge, trembling and whimpering into his mouth.

When he finally pulls back, forehead resting against yours, both of you are breathing like you’ve run miles, chests heaving, lips shiny and red, his hair a complete mess from your fingers. His eyes are glassy, cheeks flushed, cock throbbing visibly against your palm.

“Shit,” he laughs, breathless and shaky. “I didn’t mean to… fuck, I just—”

You cut him off with another kiss, slow, deep, pouring everything you’re feeling into it. When you pull away, you whisper against his swollen lips, “I know. I wanted it too.”

He smiles, that crooked, boyish, heart-stopping smile, and kisses the tip of your nose, then your forehead, then pulls you tight into his chest. His arms wrap around you completely, one hand still cupping your ass possessively, the other stroking soothing circles up and down your spine. You can feel his heart hammering against yours, his cock still hard and insistent between you, but he doesn’t push. Doesn’t grind. Just holds you there in the hallway, the distant hum of the fridge and the faint city traffic the only sounds left.

You stay like that for a long, indulgent stretch of minutes, bodies pressed together, breaths syncing, the ache between your legs still pulsing but somehow perfectly satisfied by the simple fact of being wrapped up in him. His lips brush your temple.

“Friends can make out, right?” he murmurs, echoing the joke from earlier, voice warm with affection and something deeper.

You laugh softly against his chest, the sound muffled and content. “Yeah, Jake. Friends can definitely make out.”

And for now, for this golden, sun-drenched afternoon, that’s more than enough. The others will be back soon, but right now the apartment is yours and his, and he just keeps holding you like he never wants to let go.

The hallway still smells faintly of Jake’s cologne, clean and warm skin, and the soft, powdery scent of laundry detergent clinging to the crumpled clothes you never quite finished putting away. His lips are swollen and glossy from the long, lazy make-out against the wall, cheeks flushed a deep pink, pupils blown so wide the pretty hazel is almost gone. He’s breathing hard through his nose, forehead pressed to yours like he needs the contact to stay grounded, hands still shoved up under your shirt, palms hot and broad against the small of your back, thumbs tracing slow, idle arcs that make your spine tingle.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice wrecked and soft all at once, raw like he’s been shouting your name for hours even though he hasn’t. “I need you on me, princess. Need to feel that pretty pussy sliding down my cock right fucking now.”

The words drop straight into your belly, heavy and molten. You swallow hard, thighs pressing together on instinct, and he feels the tiny clench, grins against the side of your neck, boyish and filthy at the same time.

He doesn’t beg. Doesn’t grab. Just brushes his mouth over the shell of your ear, hot breath ghosting, voice a low rasp that curls straight between your legs.

“Ride me. Please. On the couch. Slow. Let me feel every inch of you taking me like you own it.”

Your cunt throbs at the plea. You nod before you even realize you’re doing it.

Jake laces his fingers through yours, gentle, almost sweet, and leads you back down the hall like you’re going for a Sunday stroll, not about to fuck him stupid in the middle of the living room. The late-afternoon light has shifted, pouring across the big sectional in thick, golden rivers; the cushions are still dented from earlier folding sessions, the air warm and lazy. He drops onto the couch first, sprawling wide, legs splayed, grey sweats already tented, the thick outline of his cock straining against the fabric like it’s trying to escape.

He then hooks his fingers against the edge of your shorts and drags them down, along with your panties. His eyes darken as he gulps and looks up at you.

He pats his thigh once, slow, inviting, eyes locked on yours with that crooked, heart-melting grin.

You don’t hesitate. You climb on, knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips, and the first slow grind of your bare, soaked cunt against the hard, hot length of him through the thin material rips a twin hiss from both your throats. You’re dripping, have been since he pinned you to the hallway wall, and the fabric is already darkening under you, slick. Jake’s hands settle on your hips, not guiding yet, just holding, thumbs stroking the skin right above the waistband of your shorts like he’s memorizing the feel of you.

You start slow. Torturously slow. Tiny, rolling rocks of your hips that drag your swollen clit along the rigid ridge of his cock again and again. The friction is perfect, wet, hot, teasing. Every pass makes the fabric cling tighter, the head of his dick bumping right where you need it. Jake’s head falls back against the couch, throat working on a low, broken groan, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Goddamn, baby… look at you. Already so fucking wet you’re soaking through my sweats. That little pussy weeping for me.”

You giggle, breathless, giddy, almost embarrassed at how turned on you are, and lean down to kiss him. Soft at first, just lips brushing, then deeper: tongues sliding lazy and messy, tasting the faint salt of his skin and the sweetness of the iced americano he had earlier. His hands slide back under your shirt, palms scalding against your ribs, thumbs circling the undersides of your breasts in slow, reverent strokes until your nipples are tight, aching peaks. He pinches them gently, rolls them between thumb and forefinger, and you arch into his touch with a whimper that makes him smile against your mouth.

“You’re so fucking soft,” he mumbles between kisses, voice thick. “So perfect. Been dreaming about this tight little cunt wrapped around me since the second you walked through that door and smiled at all of us like we hung the moon. Gonna let me feel it now, princess? Gonna sit on my cock and ride me nice and slow?”

You lift just enough to shove his sweats down his thighs. His cock springs free, thick, flushed dark, veins standing out, the tip already glistening with a fat bead of pre-cum that streaks down the shaft when you wrap your fingers around him. One slow, firm stroke from base to head has him groaning, hips twitching up into your fist. You line him up, notch the blunt head against your dripping entrance, and sink down.

The first inch is heaven.

You both moan, long, filthy sounds, as he stretches you open, thick and hot and perfect, splitting you so deliciously slow you feel every ridge, every vein. Your mouth falls open, eyes fluttering shut. He bottoms out with your ass flush to his thighs, balls pressed tight against you, and the fullness is so overwhelming your walls flutter around him like you’re already close.

“Fuuuuck,” Jake breathes, hands flexing hard on your hips, fingers digging in just enough to bruise. “That’s it. Take every fucking inch, princess. Look at you, swallowing me like you were made for it. So goddamn tight and wet and perfect.”

You start riding him properly, long, deliberate lifts and sinks, rolling your hips on every downstroke so your clit grinds against his pelvis. The sounds of your cunt taking him echo in the quiet apartment: slick, filthy squelches every time you drop down, his cock glistening with your arousal when you rise. Jake’s eyes are glued to where you’re joined, watching himself disappear inside you over and over with something like awe.

“Listen to that,” he groans, voice cracking. “That sloppy little sound every time you take me. You’re dripping down my balls, baby, making such a pretty mess all over me. Gonna stain the couch and I don’t even care.”

You bury your face in his neck for a second, flushed and turned on beyond words, then bite down on the skin there, light, teasing. He jolts, cock twitching hard inside you, and groans louder.

“Fuck, do that again. Mark me up, princess. Want the others to see who got to have you first.”

You do, sucking a faint pink bloom into his throat while you ride him harder, faster, breasts bouncing under your thin shirt. His mouth finds your nipple through the fabric, sucking hard, teeth grazing, soaking the cotton until it’s transparent and clinging. You cry out, high and needy, hips snapping down faster now, chasing the heat coiling tighter and tighter in your belly.

Jake’s losing it beautifully, head thrown back, throat exposed, hands gripping your ass and spreading you wider so he can watch every inch of his cock sliding in and out of your greedy cunt.

“Shit, ride it harder, baby. Fuck yourself on me. Use my cock like the greedy little slut you are. Come all over it, wanna feel this pussy milk me dry.”

The filthy words spoken in that sweet, reverent tone send you spiraling. You slam down harder, clit grinding relentlessly, thighs burning. He slides one hand between you, thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing fast, firm circles.

“Come on, princess. Give it to me. Soak my cock. Make it messy. Wanna feel you gush.”

You shatter with a broken cry, head thrown back, back arching, clamping down around him in hard, pulsing waves. Your vision whites out. Thighs shake violently. You gush around him, slick flooding out around his base, soaking his balls and the couch beneath you. Jake swears, low and guttural, hips stuttering up once, twice, burying himself to the hilt as he comes, thick, hot ropes of cum painting your walls, filling you so full it leaks out immediately around his throbbing length.

He holds you flush against him through every aftershock, arms banded tight around your waist, forehead pressed to your collarbone, breathing ragged and shaky. You stay like that, sweaty, trembling, his softening cock still buried deep inside you, cum slowly trickling out, while he kisses your shoulder, your neck, the corner of your mouth with soft, lazy presses.

“Best fucking ride of my life,” he mumbles, voice hoarse and sated, nuzzling into your hair.

You laugh, soft, spent, glowing, and nuzzle back. “Friends can do that too, right?”

He chuckles, kissing your temple. “Friends can do whatever the fuck they want.” You’re still seated on him, his cock twitching occasionally inside your cum-filled pussy, when the front door clicks open.

Neither of you moves fast enough. Sunghoon steps in first, grocery bags dangling from one hand, keys in the other, the faint scent of fresh produce and restaurant takeout wafting in with him. He freezes mid-step. Eyes lock on the scene: you straddling Jake on the couch, shirt rucked up to your collarbones, thighs spread obscenely wide, Jake’s cock still half-hard and buried inside you, thick white cum already leaking in slow, creamy rivulets down his balls and onto the cushion.

The bags hit the floor with a heavy, forgotten thud. A carton of eggs probably cracks, but no one cares. Sunghoon’s jaw tightens so hard you hear the sharp click of his teeth. His eyes, usually cool and calm, go black, dangerous, glittering with something possessive and furious.

“What. The. Fuck.”

His voice is ice wrapped in velvet. Low. Deadly calm. Jake startles, arms tightening around you protectively, but he doesn’t dare pull out. Doesn’t even try to cover you.

“Hyung—wait, it’s not—”

Sunghoon crosses the room in three long strides, towering over both of you. He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t shove Jake. Just reaches down, grips your chin between thumb and forefinger, firm, not bruising, and tilts your face up to meet his gaze. His thumb drags slow and deliberate across your bottom lip, then presses inside. You suck instinctively, tongue swirling around the digit, tasting the faint salt of his skin.

His eyes flick to Jake, cold as winter.

“Get out from under her. Now.”

Jake hesitates half a second. Sunghoon’s voice drops even lower, lethal.

“I said now.”

Jake lifts you carefully with a wet, filthy sound that makes Sunghoon’s nostrils flare. The moment he slips free, a thick gush of his cum pours out of you, sliding down your inner thighs in white trails. Jake stays seated on the couch, chest heaving as he watches warily.

Sunghoon never looks away from you. He steps closer, one hand sliding to the nape of your neck, thumb pressing right over your racing pulse, while the other grips your hip hard enough to anchor you. “You let him fuck you the second we walked out the door?” he murmurs, voice velvet and venom, lips brushing your ear. “Spread this pretty pussy for whoever was home first? Without waiting for me? Without even texting?”

You shake your head, small, instinctive, breath caught in your throat. “No?”

He leans in closer, breath hot against your skin. “Then why the fuck are you stuffed so full of him, hmm?”

Two of his long fingers dip between your thighs without warning, sliding deep into your cum-slick cunt with a wet squelch. You gasp, knees buckling. He curls them slowly, deliberately, scissoring, feeling the warm, sticky mess Jake left behind, pushing it deeper before dragging it out again. When he pulls his fingers free they’re coated thick and white. He holds them up between you, shiny, dripping, then brings them to your mouth.

“Clean.”

You open obediently. Suck his fingers clean, tongue swirling, tasting yourself and Jake and the faint metallic tang of Sunghoon’s skin, moaning around them while he watches with dark, unblinking eyes.

“Good girl,” he praises, voice low and rough. Then, suddenly, he yanks you forward by the neck and kisses you, hard, possessive, teeth clashing, tongue fucking into your mouth like he’s erasing every trace of Jake’s kisses. When he pulls back his lips are wet, eyes blazing with jealousy and hunger.

“Bedroom. Now.”

He doesn’t wait for you to walk. Just scoops you up like you weigh nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist, arms around his neck, cum still dripping down your thighs and onto his shirt. Jake scrambles up and follows, sweats tugged up haphazardly.

Sunghoon kicks the bedroom door shut behind the three of you with a bang that rattles the frame. He drops you onto the bed, gentle enough not to hurt, rough enough that you bounce, thighs splaying open automatically. He looms over you, tall and broad and radiating controlled fury.

“Strip. Everything off. Let me see exactly what he got to play with while I was gone.”

You obey instantly, tugging your shirt over your head, shoving your shorts down, kicking them aside until you’re completely bare, pussy puffy and glistening.

His gaze rakes over every inch of you, slow, possessive, furious, hungry. He licks his lips. “You’re mine tonight, princess. All fucking mine. And you’re going to feel exactly who this cunt belongs to until you can’t remember anyone else’s name.”

He glances at Jake, standing frozen by the door, eyes wide and cock twitching in his sweats.

“You can watch,” Sunghoon says coldly, voice like a blade. “But you don’t touch. Not until I say so. You sit there and watch me take back what’s mine.”

Jake swallows hard. Nods once. Sinks into the chair in the corner, hand already palming himself through his sweats like he can’t help it.

Sunghoon turns back to you. Grabs your thighs in both hands and spreads them wide, wide enough that your folds spread, dripping. He lowers his head slowly, eyes locked on yours the entire time.

The first long, vicious swipe of his tongue through your folds is punishing, hot, wet, claiming, licking every drop of Jake’s cum straight out of you like he’s erasing the evidence. You arch off the bed with a sharp cry, hands flying to his hair. Sunghoon doesn’t stop. He eats you like a man starved, tongue fucking deep inside your cum-filled hole, sucking noisily, swallowing every filthy mix of you and Jake with low, possessive growls that vibrate straight to your clit. He sucks your swollen folds into his mouth, tongue flicking mercilessly over your clit, then dives back in to lap at the creamy mess still oozing out of you.

You’re moaning, loud, broken, shameless, hips grinding against his face while he devours you, chin and lips shiny with cum and your fresh slick. He pulls back just long enough to growl against your thigh,

“Gonna lick every last drop of him out of this pussy until it only tastes like me. And then I’m going to fuck you so deep you’ll still feel me tomorrow when the others take their turns.”

His mouth seals back over your clit, sucking hard, two fingers plunging deep, and the jealousy is only just beginning.

The bedroom is thick with the sounds of Sunghoon’s mouth devouring you, long, filthy drags of his tongue through your cum-slick folds, sucking Jake’s release out of your fluttering hole like he’s personally insulted by every drop. He’s relentless, humming low against your clit, two fingers curled deep inside you, scissoring and stroking that spongy spot that makes your thighs quake around his ears. Your back is arched off the bed, hands fisted in his dark hair, moans spilling out broken and shameless as another orgasm teeters right on the edge.

Then the door bangs open.

Heeseung fills the frame like a storm cloud, broad shoulders tight, jaw locked, one hand fisted in the back of Jake’s t-shirt. Jake looks wrecked already: lips kiss-swollen, cheeks flushed crimson, cock still half-hard and shiny with your slick, the cocky little grin from earlier completely wiped away. Heeseung doesn’t even glance at you at first. His voice is low, calm, the kind of calm that makes the air feel heavier.

“Living room. Now.”

Jake opens his mouth, probably to whine, to joke, to try and charm his way out of it, but Heeseung’s grip tightens, fabric stretching across Jake’s shoulders. Jake stumbles forward instead, casting one last wide-eyed look at you before they disappear down the hall. The living-room door shuts with a soft, deliberate click that somehow feels louder than a slam.

You’re left panting, chest heaving, Sunghoon’s tongue still lazily circling your clit like the interruption was nothing more than background noise. He presses one last open-mouthed kiss to your dripping pussy, then pulls back slowly, lips glossy, chin glistening with a messy mix of you and Jake. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, slow and deliberate, eyes dark and glittering with dark amusement as he rises to his knees between your spread thighs.

“Looks like someone earned himself a timeout,” he murmurs, voice velvet-rough, thumb brushing a lazy stripe up your inner thigh to collect the fresh slick still leaking out of you. His gaze flicks toward the hallway, then back to your flushed, trembling body. “Guess that leaves the three of us to remind you exactly how this works, princess.”

Jay appears in the doorway a heartbeat later, arms crossed over his chest, shoulder propped against the frame, eyes raking over you with that cool, assessing hunger that always makes your stomach flip. He takes his time stepping inside, shutting the door behind him with a quiet snick, the lock clicking into place like a promise.

You try to push yourself up on your elbows, instinct, nerves, the sudden awareness of how exposed and messy you are, but Sunghoon’s large hand plants flat on your sternum and pushes you right back down into the mattress. Firm. Unyielding. Possessive.

“Stay right there,” he says softly, almost sweet, but the edge underneath it makes your cunt clench around nothing. “We’re not done with you yet.”

Jay stops at the foot of the bed, looking down at the obscene picture you make: completely naked, skin flushed pink, thighs shiny with slick and cum, nipples tight and begging, pussy puffy and still leaking. He reaches out, fingers threading through the hair at your scalp, tightening until your breath hitches. He yanks your head back just enough to expose the long line of your throat, thumb stroking once over your racing pulse.

“You let him fuck you raw the second we left,” Jay says, voice low and dangerously even. “Without asking. Without waiting. Without even a text to let us know our pretty little slut was getting her cunt filled.”

His free hand slides down your body, possessive, claiming, cupping your soaked pussy like it belongs to him. Two thick fingers push inside without warning, rough and deep, curling hard against that spot that makes white sparks burst behind your eyes. You cry out, hips jerking, walls fluttering greedily around the intrusion.

Sunghoon watches with a mean little smile, one hand lazily stroking his own thick cock. “This pussy,” Jay continues, voice dropping to a growl as he pumps his fingers faster, “is ours. All of ours. You don’t get to decide who fills it first when we’re not here. Understand?”

You nod frantically, tears of overwhelming pleasure already pricking your eyes. “Y-yes—fuck—yes, it’s yours—”

Sunghoon’s hand replaces Jay’s on your throat, long fingers wrapping around the column, squeezing just enough to make the edges of your vision sparkle and your cunt gush around Jay’s fingers. Not cutting off air. Just reminding you who’s in control.

“Good girl,” Sunghoon breathes against your ear, leaning down to bite your earlobe. “Now prove it.”

They move like they’ve choreographed this a hundred times in their heads.

Jay flips you onto your stomach in one smooth motion, face pressed into the sheets that already smell like sex, ass up high, back arched deep. He keeps one hand fisted tight in your hair, yanking your head back until your spine bends in that perfect, aching curve. Sunghoon shoves your thighs wider apart, knees sinking into the mattress as he kneels behind you. His cock is flushed dark, angry, veins throbbing, pre-cum beading at the tip as he lines up and slams in, deep, brutal, one single punishing thrust that punches the air straight out of your lungs.

You scream into the sheets, the stretch burning so good it borders on too much. Sunghoon doesn’t give you time to adjust. He sets a ruthless pace immediately, hips snapping forward, balls slapping wetly against your clit with every brutal drive, the wet squelch of your cum-filled pussy echoing obscenely. Jay releases your hair only to wrap his hand around your throat from the front instead, squeezing in perfect time with Sunghoon’s thrusts, thumb pressing under your jaw so you feel every heartbeat.

“Take it,” Jay growls, voice rough with arousal. “Every fucking inch. You wanted cock so bad you couldn’t even wait for all of us? Then you’re gonna take everything we give you, princess. Gonna let us ruin this greedy little hole until you remember who it belongs to.”

Sunghoon leans over your back, chest slick with sweat against your spine, one hand fisting your hair now while the other reaches around to slap your clit, sharp, stinging little taps that make you clench and sob. Jay’s free hand comes down hard on your ass, once, twice, three times, each smack leaving a bright red handprint that blooms hot across your skin.

“Whose pussy is this?” Jay demands, voice low and filthy.

“Yours—” you sob, voice cracking. “Yours—fuck—yours—Sunghoon—Jay—please—”

Sunghoon yanks your head back harder, lips brushing your ear as he pounds into you. “Say it louder. Let the whole fucking apartment hear who owns this cunt.”

The rhythmic slap of skin on skin, your choked moans, Sunghoon’s low possessive growls—“This tight little pussy is fucking mine”—carry clearly down the hallway.

In the living room, Heeseung has Jake pinned against the wall by the collar, fist raised, knuckles white with restraint. The first muffled scream from the bedroom makes them both freeze. Then another, higher, broken, needy. The unmistakable wet slap of Sunghoon’s hips. Jay’s dark chuckle. Your desperate, gagged whimpers around whatever they’re doing to your mouth now.

Heeseung’s fist slowly lowers. Jake’s eyes go wide, cock twitching visibly in his sweats.

Heeseung turns toward the bedroom door, expression unreadable but eyes burning.

Then they’re both moving, fast. 

They burst through the door just as Sunghoon buries himself to the hilt with a guttural groan. You’re a complete wreck: face down, ass up, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth, tears streaking your cheeks, ass glowing red from Jay’s handprints, cunt stretched obscenely around Sunghoon’s thick cock, creamy cum from Jake and your own slick coating your thighs.

Heeseung stops at the foot of the bed, takes one long, possessive look at the scene, then climbs on without a word. 

“Move,” he tells Sunghoon, voice low and lethal.

Sunghoon slows just enough to pull out with a wet, filthy pop, thick strings of cum and slick connecting his cock to your gaping hole. Heeseung grabs your hips, flips you onto your back like you weigh nothing, and hooks your legs over his arms, folding you in half until your knees are by your ears. He lines up and slams in, harder, deeper, angrier than Sunghoon, bottoming out in one brutal thrust that makes you scream his name.

Jay pulls back from where he’d been feeding you his cock, letting you gasp for air, then moves behind you. Sunghoon shifts to your side, hand wrapping around your throat again, thumb stroking your pulse almost tenderly now.

Jay presses the blunt head of his cock against your ass, already slick from the mess dripping down, and pushes in slow, relentless, the burn intense and overwhelming as he stretches you open around him. Heeseung stays buried to the hilt in your pussy, holding perfectly still while Jay sinks deeper, until both of them are fully seated inside you, rubbing against each other through the thin wall, filling you so completely you can feel them in your throat.

You’re sobbing, overwhelmed, stretched to your limit, pleasure so sharp it hurts, in the best possible way.

“Breathe, baby,” Sunghoon murmurs, voice softer now, fingers loosening just enough on your throat. “You’re taking us so fucking well. Such a good girl for us.”

They start moving, slow at first, testing, letting you adjust to the impossible fullness. Then harder. Deeper. Alternating thrusts, Heeseung driving in while Jay pulls out, Jay slamming home while Heeseung retreats, until the rhythm syncs and they’re both fucking into you at the same time, stretching you open on two thick cocks with every synchronized thrust.

Jake stands frozen by the door, cock rock-hard again, hand wrapped tight around it, stroking himself slow and desperate, eyes wide and glassy with guilt and raw arousal. Sunghoon notices. His voice cuts through the wet sounds of flesh. “Watch, Jake. You started this. Now you get to watch how we remind her exactly who she belongs to.”

Jay’s fingers find your swollen, oversensitive clit, rubbing fast, rough circles that make your vision spark white.

“Come,” he orders, voice rough. “Come on both our cocks. Milk us. Show us who this perfect body belongs to.”

You shatter harder than you ever have, screaming, back bowing, spasming violently around both cocks, gushing slick down Heeseung’s shaft as your orgasm rips through you in endless waves. Heeseung comes first with a deep, broken growl of your name, flooding your pussy with hot, thick pulses. Jay follows seconds later, burying himself deep in your ass and filling you with rope after rope until it leaks out around his base. Sunghoon strokes himself twice, fast and rough, then spills across your stomach and tits in long, creamy stripes, marking you visibly.

They don’t pull out right away.

Just stay buried deep inside you, panting, sweating, chests heaving, holding you between them like something precious and thoroughly, beautifully ruined.

Heeseung leans down first, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss to your tear-streaked cheek. “Mine,” he whispers against your skin.

Jay echoes it against your shoulder, lips brushing the fresh bite mark Sunghoon left earlier. “Mine.”

Sunghoon’s fingers loosen completely on your throat, turning into gentle strokes along your jaw. “Mine too, princess. Always.”

You’re trembling, wrecked, full to overflowing, claimed in every possible way. And Jake, still standing by the door, cock leaking in his fist, eyes shiny with regret and desperate need, looks like he’s never wanted forgiveness more in his life.

The entire room smells like sex and sweat and something deeper, something dangerously close to devotion. None of them move to let you go. Not yet.

The room is thick with the aftermath, sweat, sex, the faint metallic tang of overstimulation hanging in the air like smoke. Your body feels liquid and heavy, every muscle spent, every inch of skin marked in some way: fingerprints blooming on your hips, faint red lines from Sunghoon’s grip on your throat, the slow leak of them all still inside you, warm and obscene between your thighs.

No one moves right away.

Heeseung is the first to shift. He eases out of you carefully, slow, deliberate, hissing softly at the drag. Jay follows, pulling out with the same measured gentleness, both of them watching your face for any flicker of pain. Sunghoon’s hand leaves your throat last, fingers trailing down your sternum in a soothing path before he sits back on his heels.

You’re trembling, small, involuntary shivers that ripple through you like aftershocks. Jay notices first. He reaches over the side of the bed, grabs the soft throw blanket that’s been kicked to the floor sometime in the last hour. Drapes it over your lower half, tucking it around your waist like he’s wrapping something fragile.

“Easy,” he murmurs. Voice low, rough from use. “We’ve got you.”

Heeseung slides off the bed, still naked, still glistening, and disappears into the en-suite bathroom. Water runs. A minute later he returns with two warm, damp cloths. One for your face, one for between your legs.

He kneels beside you. Presses the cloth to your cheek first, gentle swipes over tear tracks, then your swollen lips. You lean into it without thinking. Heeseung’s free hand cups the back of your head, thumb stroking the base of your skull in slow circles.

Sunghoon moves to your other side. Takes the second cloth from Heeseung when he’s done with your face. Parts your thighs carefully, murmurs a soft “shh” when you flinch at the cool air, and cleans you with careful strokes. Between your folds, down your thighs, over the sticky mess on your stomach and chest. He’s thorough. Patient. Every pass of the cloth feels like an apology he doesn’t know how to say out loud.

Jake is still hovering near the door, shirtless now, sweats low on his hips, looking like he’s not sure he’s allowed to come closer. Heeseung glances at him once. Sharp. Then softer.

“Water,” Heeseung says. Not an order. Just a word. Jake nods, quick, grateful, and bolts. Heeseung turns back to you.

“Can you sit up a little?” You nod, weak, but willing. Jay helps, arm around your shoulders, easing you against the headboard. Pillows get rearranged behind your back until you’re propped comfortably. The blanket stays tucked around your waist; someone (Sunghoon) pulls the sheet up to cover your chest without smothering you.

Jake returns with a tall glass of water and, somehow, a small tray he must have grabbed from the kitchen. On it: a bowl of cut fruit (strawberries, mango, grapes, someone’s idea of “recovery food”), a few pieces of the chocolate they keep stashed in the fridge, a packet of electrolyte powder already stirred into a second glass.

He sets it on the nightstand. Doesn’t try to climb on the bed yet. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, looking at you like you might vanish if he blinks.

Jay picks up a strawberry first. Holds it to your lips.

“Open.”

You do. The fruit is cold, sweet, bursting on your tongue. Jay feeds you slowly, another strawberry, then a piece of mango. His fingers brush your bottom lip each time, wiping away juice with his thumb.

Sunghoon takes over with the chocolate. Breaks off a small square, places it on your tongue. Watches you melt it slowly, eyes dark but soft.

“You did so good,” he says quietly. Almost to himself. “Took everything we gave you.”

Heeseung handles the water, holds the glass to your lips, tips it carefully so you can sip without spilling. When you’ve had enough, he sets it aside and wipes your mouth with the edge of the sheet.

Jake finally moves closer, slow, like he’s approaching something skittish. He perches on the very edge of the mattress.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Voice small. “For earlier. For not waiting. For—” Heeseung cuts him off with a look. Not angry. Tired.

“Later,” Heeseung says. “She needs rest now.” Jake nods. Swallows hard. Jay reaches over, squeezes Jake’s shoulder once, firm, forgiving, then turns back to you.

“More?” he asks, nodding at the tray.

You shake your head. Full. Heavy-lidded. The ache between your legs has dulled to a low, satisfied throb; your limbs feel like warm honey.

Sunghoon takes the tray away. Sets it on the dresser.

Heeseung pulls the covers up higher, tucking them around your shoulders, smoothing the fabric over your chest. Jay adjusts the pillows again so you’re lying flat but elevated just enough. They surround you, four bodies, four sources of warmth, without crowding.

Heeseung lies on your left. Arm draped loosely over your waist. Not possessive. Protective. Jay on your right. Hand resting on your hip under the blanket. Thumb stroking idle arcs. Sunghoon stretches out at the foot of the bed, long legs hanging off the edge, head pillowed on your thigh like it’s the most natural place in the world.

Jake curls up against your legs, face tucked into the crook of your knee, one arm thrown over your shins like he’s anchoring himself there. No one speaks for a long minute. Just breathing. Slow. In sync.

Heeseung’s fingers find yours under the blanket. Laces them together. Squeezes once. “Sleep,” he murmurs against your temple. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Jay presses a kiss to your shoulder, soft, lingering. Sunghoon’s hand strokes down your calf, slow, soothing.

Jake mumbles something sleepy against your skin, too quiet to catch, but it feels like “thank you.” Your eyes flutter closed. The room smells like them, all of them, mixed with clean sheets and the faint sweetness of fruit. Just warm bodies. Gentle hands. Quiet promises. And the steady rhythm of four heartbeats lulling you under.

The idea starts innocently enough.

It’s been three days since the jealousy the three had that they claimed was just ‘heat of the moment’ but you knew better, and the apartment has settled into something dangerously close to domestic. Mornings are soft now, coffee passed hand-to-hand, lazy kisses traded over toast, rules quietly ignored unless someone’s feeling particularly mean. The fridge note is still taped up, but no one’s enforced them. It’s almost… normal.

Almost. Jay is the one who brings it up first. You’re sprawled across his lap on the sectional Sunday afternoon, legs tangled with Sunghoon’s, Jake’s head pillowed on your stomach while Heeseung scrolls through takeout apps from the armchair. Jay’s fingers are tracing idle patterns on your bare thigh, higher than friendly,lower than any action, when he says it.

“I want to take you out.”

The room stills. You lift your head from Jake’s hair. “Like… a date?” Jay’s mouth quirks. “Yeah. A date. Just you and me. Dinner. Somewhere nice. No roommates crashing.”

Sunghoon snorts without looking up from his phone. “Good luck with that.”

Heeseung glances over the top of his screen. “You’re asking permission?”

Jay shrugs. “I’m telling you. Friday night. She’s mine for the evening.”

Jake sits up slowly, blinking sleep from his eyes. “Wait—solo? Like, no sharing?”

Jay’s hand tightens on your thigh. “No sharing. One night. My rules.”

You feel the shift immediately, the air thickening with something possessive and unspoken. Heeseung’s jaw ticks once. Sunghoon finally looks up, eyes narrowing. Jake just pouts. But no one argues. Friday comes fast.

Jay picks the restaurant himself, small, upscale Italian place downtown. Dim lighting, velvet booths, candles that cost more than your old rent. He texts you the address at 6:45 p.m. sharp.

Jay: Wear something pretty baby ;) preferably no panties sweetheart

You roll your eyes at the winky face and the last obligation, but you obey anyway.

The dress is black, silk, short enough to make you nervous when you sit. Heels that click satisfyingly on the pavement. Hair down, lips red. When Jay arrives to pick you up, he stops dead in the doorway.

“Fuck,” he breathes. Steps close. Cups your face with both hands and kisses you slow, deep, claiming, tasting like mint and want. “You’re killing me.”

The drive is quiet. His hand rests high on your thigh the whole way, thumb stroking the inside seam, never quite reaching where you’re already wet. He doesn’t speak. Just smiles every time you squirm.

The restaurant is perfect.

A corner booth. Wine list thicker than a novel. Jay orders for both of you, pasta, seared scallops, tiramisu for later. His knee presses against yours under the table. His fingers brush yours when he passes the bread. It feels… romantic. Normal. Like you’re a real couple on a real date.

You’re laughing at some stupid story he’s telling about Sunghoon trying to cook once when the first text comes through.

Jake: picture of him pouting on the couch  

Jake: miss u already princess 😩

You snort. Show Jay. He rolls his eyes. “Ignore them.”

Another buzz.

Sunghoon: timestamped selfie, him shirtless in the kitchen, knife in hand, looking bored  

Sunghoon: hurry up. food’s getting cold here

Jay exhales through his nose. “They’re children.” Heeseung’s text is last.

Heeseung: Enjoy your date. We’ll behave.  

Heeseung: …mostly.

Your not sure what that means, you’re not sure if you want to find out. You laugh, soft, nervous, and slip your phone face-down. Jay reaches across the table. Takes your hand. Laces your fingers. “I meant it,” he says quietly. “Tonight’s just us. No crashing. No rules. Just you and me.”

You believe him. For about seven more minutes. The scallops arrive. Perfectly seared. You’re mid-bite when the restaurant door opens. And four familiar silhouettes step inside. Jake first, grinning like he invented mischief. Sunghoon behind him, hands in pockets, expression unreadable. Heeseung last, calm, collected, scanning the room until his eyes land on you.

Jay’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth.

“Motherfuckers,” he mutters.

They don’t hesitate. Jake slides into the booth beside you first, arm slung casually over the backrest, fingers immediately finding the nape of your neck. “Hey, princess. Fancy seeing you here.”

Sunghoon takes the seat next to Jay, long legs stretching out, forcing Jay to shift. “Nice place. Bit pretentious, though.”

Heeseung pulls up a chair from a nearby table, unapologetic, sits at the end like he owns the booth. “We were in the neighborhood.”

Jay’s jaw is so tight you’re worried it’ll crack.

“You said you would behave.”

Heeseung shrugs. “We are. We’re not fucking her on the table. Yet.”

Your face burns. Jake laughs, bright, delighted, leans in and kisses your cheek. Loud. Wet. “You look so pretty. Red lipstick’s a nice touch.”

Sunghoon reaches across Jay to steal a scallop off your plate. “He’s right. You do look fuckable.” Jay slams his fork down.

“That’s enough.” The table goes quiet.

Jay’s voice is low. Dangerous. “I said one night. Just me and her. You had your turns. Back off.”

Heeseung leans forward. Elbows on the table. “We’re not here to take her. We’re here to watch you try to have her all to yourself.” His gaze flicks to you, dark, heated. “And see how long it takes before she’s begging for the rest of us.”

Jake’s fingers tighten on your neck. “C’mon, hyung. Don’t be dramatic. We can share the appetizer.”

Sunghoon smirks. “Or the main course.”

You’re throbbing under the table. The silk dress feels too tight. The wine too warm in your veins. Jay looks at you, really looks. “Are you okay with this?”

You swallow. Meet his eyes. Then glance at the others. Then back to him. “I’m okay,” you whisper. “But… maybe we skip dessert here.”

Jay exhales, half-laugh, half-snarl. “Bathroom,” he says. “Now.” He stands. Pulls you up with him. The others don’t move. They just exchange knowing glances. Jake just grins. “We’ll keep watch.”

Jay drags you through the restaurant, hand firm on your lower back, past the bar, down the narrow hallway, into the single-stall bathroom at the end.

He locks the door. Spins you around. Pushes you forward until your palms slap the sink. The mirror is huge. You watch your own reflection, lips parted, chest heaving, dress already rucked up to your hips.

Jay’s behind you, fly open, cock hard and leaking. He doesn’t speak. Just yanks your dress higher, notches himself at your entrance, and thrusts in, hard. Deep. One brutal stroke that makes you cry out.

“Quiet,” he growls against your ear. Hand clamps over your mouth. “They can hear.” He fucks you like he’s proving a point. Fast. Rough. Hips snapping. The sink rattles. Your tits bounce with every thrust. His other hand fists your hair, yanks your head back so you’re watching yourself in the mirror.

“Look at you,” he pants. “Taking it so good. Even when they crash. Even when I try to keep you to myself.”

You moan into his palm, muffled, desperate.

He reaches around. Finds your clit. Pinches. Rolls. Hard.

“Come,” he orders. “Come on my cock before they barge in.”

You do, fast, violent, clenching around him so hard he swears. He follows seconds later, burying deep, spilling hot inside you with a choked groan.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Just holds you there, chest to your back,breathing ragged. Then he kisses your shoulder. Soft. Apologetic. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “Couldn’t help it.” You laugh, shaky, wrecked.

He pulls out slowly. Fixes your dress. Wipes between your thighs with paper towels from the dispenser. When you open the door, Jake’s leaning against the opposite wall. Arms crossed. Smirking. “Took you long enough.”

Jay glares. Jake pushes off the wall. Steps close. Kisses you, quick, filthy, tasting Jay on your tongue. “My turn to watch the door,” he says. “Go wait in the car. Round two’s on us.”

Jay takes your hand. Leads you out, past the hostess who definitely knows what just happened, into the cool night air.

The car is parked in the back lot, tinted windows, engine already running. Sunghoon’s in the driver’s seat. Heeseung in the passenger. Both turn when you climb in the back. Sunghoon’s eyes drop to the wet spot on your dress. Smiles, slow, predatory.

“Missed the show?” Heeseung reaches back. Pulls you onto his lap. “Plenty of time for round two,” he murmurs against your neck. Jay slides in beside you. Jake climbs in last, locks the doors. The engine starts. And the night? The night is far from over.

The black SUV idles in the shadowed back lot behind the restaurant, engine a low, steady rumble beneath the distant pulse of music leaking from the outdoor speakers. Tinted windows seal the interior into a private world, leather seats already radiating warmth, the air heavy with Jay’s cologne, the sharp bite of expensive whiskey on their breath, and the unmistakable, intimate musk of sex that still clings to your skin.

You’re straddling Heeseung in the center of the back seat, silk dress shoved up around your waist, thighs spread wide over his hips. His dark jeans are damp where your leaking cunt has pressed against him. Heeseung doesn’t flinch. His hands are beneath the fabric, broad palms cupping your bare ass, fingers spreading you open with deliberate care, holding you exposed and vulnerable in the dim glow filtering through the windows.

Jay sits to your left, shirt untucked, collarbones still flushed, lips swollen and red from the way he’d fucked you against the marble sink in the bathroom minutes earlier. Sunghoon occupies the right side, long legs stretched out, one hand already working the thick outline of his cock through tailored slacks, eyes fixed on the sight between your thighs. Jake has twisted around in the front passenger seat, forearm braced on the headrest, gaze dark and unblinking.

For several long seconds, no one speaks.

Only the rhythm of heavy breathing, the soft creak of leather as bodies shift, the faint metallic tick of the cooling engine. Then Heeseung’s voice, low, gravel-rough, breaks the silence against the shell of your ear.

“You’re still dripping him,” he murmurs, one hand sliding from your ass to slip between your legs from behind. Two fingers push into the slick, swollen heat of your cunt, gathering Jay’s release and pressing it back inside with slow, unhurried strokes. The wet sound is obscene in the confined space. “Can feel it leaking out. Can’t let that go to waste.”

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up, inner walls fluttering, a soft, helpless whimper slipping past your lips as your hips twitch forward. Jay’s hand joins Heeseung’s without hesitation. Four fingers now, stretching you wider, scooping the thick cum deeper, curling against the front wall until your breath hitches sharply.

“He’s right,” Jay says, voice quiet but edged with something darker, more possessive. “We should keep you full. All night. Every time one of us finishes, the next one pushes it right back in.”

Sunghoon leans in closer, breath ghosting hot along the side of your neck. His voice is velvet and steel. “Full until it takes. Until you’re so thoroughly bred there’s no question who put it there.”

The words hit like a physical blow, low in your belly, sharp and electric. Your cunt clenches hard around their fingers, a fresh gush of slick coating their knuckles.

Jake’s eyes widen in the front seat. “Fuck—did you just—”

“I said,” Sunghoon repeats, slower, darker, each syllable deliberate, “full until it takes. Until this perfect little cunt is swollen and leaking and carrying exactly what we give it.”

Heeseung’s free hand slides up to cradle the front of your throat, not squeezing, simply holding, thumb resting over your racing pulse. “You like that thought, don’t you?” he asks softly, lips brushing the sensitive skin behind your ear. “All four of us pumping you full, one right after the other. No pulling out. No wasting a single drop. Just letting it stay deep until your body has no choice but to keep it.”

You nod, frantic, tears already gathering at the corners of your eyes because the fantasy is suddenly too vivid, too real, too close to everything your body has been silently begging for.

Jay’s fingers crook harder, pressing ruthlessly against that spot that makes your vision blur. “Use your words.” 

“I want it,” you gasp, voice cracking. “Want you to, to breed me. Fill me until I can’t take any more. Until it’s all inside me. Please—”

A chorus of low, guttural groans fills the car. Heeseung lifts you just high enough to shove his jeans and briefs down his thighs. His cock springs free, thick, flushed dark, already leaking at the tip. He doesn’t tease. He simply guides you down onto him in one long, controlled descent, stretching you open around his length until your ass meets his hips and he’s buried to the hilt.

You cry out, head falling back against his shoulder, nails digging into his forearms.

“That’s it,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Take every inch. Take every fucking drop I’m about to give you.” He begins to move, deep, rolling thrusts that grind the head of his cock against your cervix with punishing precision. Jay’s hand stays between your legs, fingers circling your clit in tight, relentless loops while Heeseung fucks up into you with measured force.

Sunghoon has already freed himself completely, long, elegant fingers wrapped around his shaft, stroking slowly, eyes never leaving the place where Heeseung disappears inside you over and over. “My turn comes next,” he says, voice low and certain. “I’m going to add to it. Make sure nothing escapes.”

Jake’s hand is inside his own pants now, stroking himself in perfect time with Heeseung’s rhythm, breath coming in short, ragged pants. “Look at her,” he mutters, almost reverent. “So fucking desperate to be filled. Greedy little thing.”

Heeseung’s pace builds, hips snapping up harder, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the car. “I’m going to come inside you,” he warns, voice strained. “Going to flood this tight cunt until it’s overflowing. You ready for it?”

“Yes—please—Heeseung—”

He buries himself as deep as possible and comes with a long, broken groan, hot, thick pulses painting your walls, filling you so completely you feel the pressure build behind your navel. Even as you clench down hard, trying to keep it all in, the excess begins to leak out around his base, coating his balls and dripping onto the leather.

He doesn’t pull out. He simply holds you there, still hard, still buried deep, while Jay shifts.

Jay moves to kneel on the seat beside you, one knee braced against the cushion. He nudges Heeseung’s softening length aside just enough to press his own cock against your already-stretched entrance. The stretch is immediate, two thick cocks forcing their way inside the same slick channel, rubbing against each other through the thin barrier of your walls. You scream, muffled against Heeseung’s shoulder, body shaking violently.

Jay fucks into you with short, brutal thrusts, the friction almost unbearable. “This pussy is going to take all of us tonight,” he growls, voice rough with possession. “Going to be so full of cum you’ll feel it moving inside you every time you breathe.”

Sunghoon reaches over, fingers finding your clit again, pinching, rolling, tugging, pushing you higher and higher while Jay pounds relentlessly.

The orgasm crashes through you without warning, sharp, blinding, walls spasming so violently around both cocks that Jay swears under his breath. His hips stutter, then slam forward one last time as he comes, hot spurts mixing with Heeseung’s release until you’re overflowing, thick rivulets running down your thighs and soaking the seat beneath you.

Sunghoon doesn’t give you time to recover.

He yanks you off both of them, strong hands manhandling you onto all fours across the wide back seat, ass presented high, face pressed into Heeseung’s lap. He lines up and drives in with one punishing thrust, burying himself to the hilt in a single motion that forces the air from your lungs.

“This cunt is getting bred tonight,” he snarls, voice low and dangerous. “I’m going to pump you so full you’ll be leaking for days. Every step you take tomorrow, you’ll feel us still inside you.”

He fucks like it’s a claiming, like he needs to imprint himself deeper than the others. One hand fists your hair, yanking your head back until your spine arches sharply. The car rocks with the force of his thrusts.

Jake climbs over the center console into the back, kneeling in front of your face. He guides his cock to your lips. You open for him immediately, taking him deep, sucking with sloppy, desperate hunger while Sunghoon rails you from behind.

Sunghoon comes with a guttural sound, hips locked flush against your ass, flooding you with another hot load until it spills out around his base and runs in sticky trails down your inner thighs.

Jake pulls free from your mouth, strokes himself twice, and spills across your lower back in thick, warm ropes, marking your skin. They rotate again, Heeseung sliding back in, then Jay, then Sunghoon, each one adding more, fucking it deeper, pushing it against your cervix with every thrust until you’re trembling, sobbing, body overwhelmed and exquisitely full.

When the final round ends, Sunghoon pulling out with a wet, filthy sound, a fresh gush of cum following, your legs give out completely. You collapse forward onto Heeseung’s chest, shaking, panting, utterly spent.

Jay reaches into the center console and withdraws a small black velvet pouch. Inside are three plugs, smooth black silicone, flared bases, graduated sizes. Heeseung selects the largest, coats it generously in the creamy mess still leaking from you, then presses the blunt tip against your swollen entrance.

“Gonna keep every drop where it belongs,” he murmurs, voice soft now, almost reverent. He works the plug in slowly, watching your face the entire time, until it pops past the rim and settles deep, the weight immediate and grounding.

Jay takes the smaller one, slicks it with the same care, and presses it gently but firmly into your ass. The dual fullness is overwhelming, possessive, complete.

Sunghoon cleans between your thighs with a packet of wipes from the glovebox, slow, careful strokes that feel almost tender after everything. Then he helps you sit up, smoothing your dress back down over your hips, fingers combing gently through your tangled hair. The car falls quiet again. They surround you, Heeseung’s arms wrapped securely around your waist, Jay’s hand resting warm and steady on your thigh, Sunghoon’s fingers tracing idle patterns along your arm, Jake leaning over the seat to press close from the front. After a long stretch of silence, Jake speaks, voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it. “We don’t want anyone else,” he says simply. “Not ever. Not like this.”

Jay nods once. “You’re not just something we fuck. You’re ours. Completely. For everything.”

Sunghoon’s fingertips brush the line of your jaw, tilting your face toward him. “We thought we could keep it light. Keep some distance. Pretend it didn’t matter.” He exhales, the sound almost pained. “We were wrong.”

Heeseung’s hold tightens, lips brushing your temple. “No one else touches you. No one else fills you. No one else gets to love you the way we do.” The word, love,lands soft and heavy, undeniable. You turn your face into the warm curve of Heeseung’s neck, feel the first tear slip free, not from pain, not from overwhelm, but from the sudden, terrifying certainty that this is exactly where you want to be.

“I don’t want anyone else either,” you whisper against his skin. They exhale as one, like they’ve been waiting weeks to hear it. Jake leans farther over the seat, presses a gentle kiss to your temple. “Good.” Jay draws you closer, tucking your head beneath his chin.

Sunghoon drapes his suit jacket over your shoulders, still warm from his body, carrying his scent. Heeseung climbs over the console, settling in the driver’s seat, he glances up at you through the rear view mirror, starts the engine, and pulls out of the lot with careful precision. The drive home is quiet. The plugs shift inside you with every turn, constant, heavy reminders. Their hands stay on you, gentle now, grounding.

When you reach the apartment they carry you inside, Heeseung’s arms strong and sure, straight to the largest bed. They undress you slowly, silk peeled away, heels slipped off, every movement careful and deliberate. They clean you again, warm washcloths, soft touches that linger.

Then they slide into bed around you, skin on skin, bodies fitting together like they were made for it. Heeseung at your front, chest pressed to yours, one leg thrown possessively over your hip. Jay at your back, arm wrapped securely around your waist, lips brushing your shoulder. Sunghoon curled lower, head resting on your thigh, long fingers tracing soothing circles. Jake pressed to your side, fingers laced tightly with yours.

No words. Just the slow, even rhythm of their breathing syncing with yours. Until the plugs feel less like possession and more like quiet promise. Until sleep finally claims you, safe, full, irrevocably claimed. Your dreams aren’t about running. They’re about staying.

perm taglist:

You had no idea how your professor even knew you. You were always in the second row seat in the corner, tucked away, fixed on your laptop. You procrastinated, studied, got the grades and went the fuck home, never speaking even once in class. Not when you dropped your pencil about 5000 metres away from you (right in front of your seat-partner) and they didn't notice so you chose to stay quiet for the rest of the class and went home and googled all the notes. Desperate times, desperate measures.

And then came your professor calling you to her office, telling you how perfect you’d be to tutor her weakest students for the upcoming final exam! Yipee!

Euijoo and Jaeyun. How could one even begin to describe Euijoo and Jaeyun?

They were such paradoxes, two bodies of complete irony, the sun and moon in one. They were part of the biggest and most famous frat on campus, &-En—the one known for epic parties, charity fundraisers that broke records and a roster of members who looked like they’d stepped out of a casting call for ‘University: The Musical’.

Both of them were campus royalty, the faces on every frat party flyer, every sports event poster, every stupid candid photograph people uploaded with captions about ‘college memories <3’. In summary, they were impossible to miss.

And ridiculously beautiful too.

Jaeyun with his soft black hair that always somehow fell perfectly over his forehead no matter how recklessly he moved, pretty in a quiet way that snuck up on you unexpectedly. He smiled at everyone, held doors open, remembered names; people talked about how he once carried an intoxicated freshman girl all the way back to her dorm because none of her friends could manage it properly.

Euijoo, his dyed hair a vibrant slash of autumn against the grey campus concrete, sitting on benches, gently coaxing skittish campus cats to eat from his hand. He had the kind of face people wrote songs about after making prolonged eye contact once. You’d once seen him climb a damn tree to grab an apple for some giggly group of girls who ran their manicured claws along his chest.

But despite the frat parties and loud crowds and expensive jackets and stupidly attractive friends, neither of them had ever seemed cruel. Frat-boyish? Absolutely. They roughhoused with their friends on campus lawns, walked around in sweats and sleeveless shirts like they were born for magazine covers, and showed up to lectures smelling faintly of expensive cologne and sleep deprivation.

But they were gentle, kind. You noticed things. The way Jaeyun always bowed politely to professors, the way Euijoo slowed his pace whenever someone walked beside him, the way they listened when people spoke.

Soft boys hidden beneath loud lives.

So when Professor Choi had asked you to stay behind after class, you genuinely thought you were being accused of plagiarism or tax fraud or something equally horrifying. Instead, she folded her hands together over her desk and smiled.

“I have two students who desperately need help before finals,” she said. “And I think you’d be perfect for tutoring them.” You had opened your mouth to reject the offer immediately—because absolutely not—before she continued.

“Euijoo and Jaeyun.”

“…What?”

Professor Choi laughed softly at your expression. “They’re struggling badly in biology.”

“That can’t be true,” you blurted before you could stop yourself. You had never, not once, spoken a word to either of them. Which was exactly why this whole situation was so bad. Because now you had to speak to them. Repeatedly.

“For two months?” you repeated weakly.

“Just until finals.” Professor Choi nodded sympathetically. “They’re both nice boys, it would be a pity if they failed.”

Yeah it would be a pity if you just jumped off a building right now.

You stared at her. She smiled brighter, like this was a gift. “They specifically asked for someone academically reliable, someone focused.” Which was apparently professor-code for antisocial. You sighed into your hands while she slid a paper toward you containing their schedules. “Please try your best with them,” she said gently. “They’re good boys.”

Good boys.

Right.

That was how you ended up back in your tiny one-person dorm later that night, sitting cross-legged in front of your mirror with your skincare half-done and biology notes scattered across your bed. The dorm was only yours because of your grades—a tiny mercy granted by scholarship credits and endless academic validation. It was small but quiet, and right then, it felt painfully too quiet. It was the kind of silence that amplified the impending doom.

You stared at your reflection. Tomorrow. Tomorrow you were going to sit across from Euijoo and Jaeyun for two entire hours pretending you were capable of functioning like a normal human being. You imagined awkward silences, you imagined humiliating yourself instantly, you imagined them leaning over your shoulder to ask a question and your brain physically short-circuiting.

Maybe they’d hate tutoring, maybe they wouldn’t show up, maybe they’d stare at you waiting for conversation while you slowly dissolved into the floor. Your stomach twisted as the harrowing reality closed in around you—tomorrow you were going to translate the Krebs cycle and mitochondrial DNA to Jaeyun, with his pretty, sharp eyes, and Euijoo, with his pretty, flame-kissed hair. Tomorrow, your beautifully silent, anonymous world was going to crack wide open. You dropped backward onto your mattress with a groan, one arm covering your face.

There were going to be the longest months of your life.

_____________

“Tutoring.” 

“For the fifteenth fucking time—” Euijoo sighed, massaging his temple, “—yes. Tutoring. Biology. Final exam. Two months. Do you need me to draw a diagram?”

Nicholas stared at him like he’d just told him he was someone from an alien planet who’d travelled to earth to study humans. Beside him, Sunghoon chomped away at his jar of cheese balls.

“Why are you so interested anyway?” Jaeyun asked, not looking away from his game on the tv, “You usually don’t give a shit about either of us.” “Yes I do.” Nicholas said in a defensive tone, “I give a shit about you two more than anyone else. Right Hoon?” “I can neither confirm nor deny.” 

Nicholas threw a cushion at his head. The frat house was unusually calm for once. Music still hummed faintly somewhere upstairs, and people moved through the halls every few minutes, but the main lounge had settled into the lazy atmosphere that only existed after midnight.

Jaeyun sat cross-legged on the carpet in grey sweats and a black hoodie, controller in hand. Euijoo occupied the far end of the couch, long legs spread comfortably,  hair messy from showering. Both of them looked unfairly good for someone discussing biology tutoring at one in the morning. Nicholas, meanwhile, looked personally victimized.

“I still don’t understand how this happened,” he muttered. “You two failing biology feels very incorrect. You’re the only ones here who actually study.”

“Ew studying.” Sunghoon said, his silver hair gleaming in the soft light.

“We’re not failing,” Jaeyun defended.

“You got a thirty-two.”

Jaeyun paused. “…Okay but the class average was bad too.”

“The average was seventy-one.”

Sunghoon snorted into his cheese balls. Before Jaeyun could throw something at him, the front door opened, letting in a burst of cool night air and two more of their brothers.

“Heard the death sentence was finalized,” Fuma said, hanging his jacket by the door.

“It’s not a death sentence,” Jaeyun muttered, his car on screen crashing into a wall. He tossed the controller aside in defeat.

Jungwon blinked. “Still talking about tutoring?”

“Unfortunately,” Euijoo muttered.

“Oh, you guys got lucky.” Fuma dropped onto the armchair with a grin. 

Jaeyun looked over. “How?”

Jungwon pointed lazily toward them. “I talked to Professor Choi earlier this week.”

Euijoo frowned, the reddish-orange of his hair seeming to burn a little brighter under his suspicion. “Why were you talking to Professor Choi?”

“She likes me.”

“You literally helped her carry boxes one time.”

“And now we’re connected spiritually,” Jungwon said seriously.

Sunghoon made a thoughtful noise. “That’s beautiful.”

“Anyway,” Jungwon continued, “I told her to get you idiots the best tutor possible before finals destroyed your GPAs.”

Nicholas gasped softly. “You care.”

“I care about the frat reputation,” Jungwon corrected instantly. “If two of our members fail biology, people will think we’re stupid.”

“We are stupid,” Sunghoon said.

“That’s not the point.”

Fuma leaned back comfortably. “I know who your tutor is, actually.”

Euijoo lifted his head slightly. “You do?”

“Top of the class,” Fuma said simply. “Like ridiculously top of the class.”

“Great.” Jaeyun groaned immediately. “So they’re gonna hate us.”

“Nah.” Fuma said. “She’s just quiet.”

Silence. Actual, physical silence. It was like the entire world had just collapsed, the way all of them stared at Fuma. 

“…She?” Nicholas repeated slowly.

“It’s a she?” Sunghoon sat upright so fast the jar of cheese balls nearly flew off his stomach.

Fuma blinked at them. “Yes?” The room exploded.

“No one said it was a girl!” Nicholas yelled.

“Why would we assume that?!” Jaeyun shouted back.

“Because tutors are always men named Daniel!” Sunghoon argued passionately.

Euijoo rubbed his face tiredly while Nicholas looked personally betrayed. “You let me picture some forty-year-old economics major this entire time.”

“She’s not even an economics major,” Fuma said.

“That’s not the issue.”

“Wait.” Jaeyun stared at Fuma suspiciously now. “You know her personally?”

“Not really,” Fuma admitted. “We’ve talked a few times.”

Nicholas gasped dramatically. “Oh my god. Fuma has female acquaintances.”

“Please grow up.”

“Wait. Is she at least normal?” Jaeyun asked, head tilted like a curious pup. 

Fuma stared at him. “You’re asking if someone’s normal while Nicholas is currently wearing sunglasses indoors.”

Nicholas pointed at him. “Fashion never sleeps.”

Sunghoon grabbed another handful of cheese balls. “Important question though.”

Euijoo already looked tired. “What.”

“Is she pretty?”

Jaeyun groaned loudly. “Why does that matter?”

“Because,” Nicholas said as though explaining basic mathematics to children, “if I’m being forced into academic rehabilitation, I at least deserve visual motivation.”

“You’re not even being tutored,” Euijoo said.

“I’m emotionally involved.”

Fuma shrugged. “I mean…yeah.”

Immediately, Nicholas sat upright. “Yeah?” he repeated eagerly.

Fuma looked amused now. “Pretty. In a scary smart way.”

Jaeyun sighed deeply and leaned back against the couch behind him. Sunghoon winced, “Oh you guys are finished.”

“Fantastic.” Euijoo groaned into his hands.

“Don’t act miserable,” Jungwon said. “You’re the ones who ignored every warning sign before exams.”

“We were busy,” Jaeyun argued weakly.

“With what?” Sunghoon asked. Jaeyun opened his mouth. Then closed it again.

Nicholas pointed at Euijoo accusingly. “You better not flirt your way out of this.”

Euijoo looked offended. “I don’t do that.” All four of them stared at him. Jaeyun burst out laughing first.

“Bro,” Sunghoon said through laughter, “you once got an extension because Professor Lee said you looked exhausted.”

“I was exhausted.”

“You smiled at her once and she extended the deadline for the whole class,” Nicholas corrected.

Fuma, meanwhile, looked entertained. “Honestly? I can’t picture her tolerating either of you.”

“Great,” Jaeyun muttered. “Love that for us.”

“She’s really quiet,” Fuma continued. “But nice.”

Nicholas narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Pretty and quiet.”

“Yes, Nicholas,” Jungwon sighed. “Women exist.”

“Do you think she’s mean pretty or cute pretty?” Sunghoon asked seriously.

“Can you freaks focus?” Jaeyun said.

“No, wait,” Nicholas interrupted. “This matters.”

“It absolutely does not.”

“It does,” Sunghoon insisted. “There’s a psychological difference.”

A moment later, both of their phones buzzed at the exact same time. Nicholas lunged forward instantly like a starving animal detecting food.

“Ohoho.”

Jaeyun narrowed his eyes. “Don’t.”

Too late, Nicholas had already snatched Jaeyun’s phone from beside him while Sunghoon practically folded himself over the couch trying to read Euijoo’s screen upside down. Nicholas read aloud in the most robotic voice imaginable:

“Hello. This is regarding tomorrow’s biology tutoring session.”

Sunghoon lost it immediately, nearly choking on a cheese ball. “Oh my god,” he wheezed. “That’s terrifyingly formal.”

Nicholas continued dramatically. “Would 4:30 PM at the science library be suitable for both of you? Please let me know if adjustments are needed. Thank you.”

The room dissolved into laughter. Jaeyun dragged a hand down his face. “Why does it sound like an email from the government?”

Euijoo, despite himself, smiled a little. “It’s polite.”

Nicholas clutched his chest. “‘Please let me know if adjustments are needed.’ Euijoo, she thinks you pay taxes.”

Sunghoon wiped tears from his eyes. “You’re gonna show up tomorrow and get assigned homework and a retirement plan.”

Jaeyun grabbed his phone back with an exhausted sigh. “She already hates us.” He decided.

“I don’t think she hates you,” Fuma said.

“She texts like she’s the dean.” Nicholas argued. The phone buzzed again suddenly and Nicholas immediately lunged for it like a feral animal. “Oh my god there’s more.”

Euijoo held the phone out of reach effortlessly. “Get away from me.”

Jaeyun checked his own screen first and snorted. A follow-up message.

“Also, please bring any previous test papers if possible so I can identify which topics need the most attention.”

The room went silent again. Then Nicholas whispered, horrified, “She’s so organized what the fuck.”

Sunghoon looked genuinely afraid now. “You guys are meeting a real academic weapon tomorrow.”

Jaeyun dropped backward onto the carpet dramatically. “I’m calling in sick.”

“You can’t call in sick to tutoring,” Jungwon said.

“Watch me.”

Fuma laughed quietly while Euijoo typed out a reply. “4:30 works. We’ll be there. Thanks.” Short and simple. But he reread it twice before sending anyway. Nicholas noticed immediately.

“Oh?” he said slowly. “Why are you typing so carefully?”

Sunghoon clutched Nicholas’s arm with faux shock. “He wants the tutor to think he’s literate.”

Jaeyun pointed accusingly at Fuma from the floor. “This is your fault for telling them she’s pretty.”

“I said she seemed nice!”

“Same thing,” Nicholas argued.

Euijoo ignored them completely, tossing his phone beside him before standing. “I’m sleeping.”

“Same.” Jaeyun agreed, running a hand through his hair. “We’re gonna pass biology. Which is why we,” he said, emphasizing the word as he looked pointedly at Nicholas and Sunghoon, “are going to bed at a reasonable hour so we can actually focus tomorrow.” This announcement was met with exaggerated gasps and mock applause. 

“The &-En pillars, turning in before midnight? For studying?” Nicholas clutched his heart. “The world is ending.”

Jungwon made a dramatic gagging noise “We’re witnessing history here.”

Sunghoon pointed at them solemnly with a cheese ball between his fingers. “Good luck, scholars.” 

“Can’t wait to hear all about your future A pluses tomorrow.” Nicholas crowed. 

Euijoo flipped him off lazily as he headed toward the stairs, but despite the chaos behind him, his mind lingered strangely on tomorrow. Jaeyun was on the same thing, the stiff, painfully formal text not leaving his mind. It was like someone was trying very hard not to say the wrong thing and something about it felt strangely endearing. 

Till tomorrow it was.

__________

You were about to combust. You were about to die.

It was 4:31. One minute late, yeah of course they hated you. Why wouldn't they? You were the one who sent that grandma ass text to them last night so now they obviously thought you were some stuck up nerd who ate data reports for breakfast.

‘Would 4:30 PM at the science library study hall be suitable for both of you?’ Suitable for both of you—you sounded like someone’s divorced aunt scheduling a dentist appointment. Cool, this was so cool.

You sat tucked into the far corner of the science library, half-hidden behind a stack of biology textbooks you’d arranged in front of you like defensive barricades.You’d arrived twenty minutes early out of sheer panic and now you were spiraling. Your outfit situation certainly wasn’t exactly helping either.

Every decent shirt you owned had apparently decided to unionize overnight and sit in the washing machine damp and unusable, leaving you with exactly one option: a white button-up that dipped lower at the collar than you normally liked. One wrong move and you’d be in jail for flashing everybody. Which meant you’d spent the entire walk to the library awkwardly tugging at it every thirty seconds like a Victorian woman protecting her honour. 

Your thumb mindlessly scrolled through videos as you waited, desperate distraction after desperate distraction until you landed on some stupid clip of a raccoon stealing cat food while dramatic orchestra music played in the background. The raccoon knocked over the bowl and you snorted before you could stop yourself.

And immediately after, the universe decided it hated you as a laugh sounded behind you—warm and surprised and very close.

“Oh my god,” a voice said through barely contained laughter. “Is that a raccoon edit?”

Your soul left your body and you nearly launched your phone across the library. You whipped around so fast you nearly elbowed your water bottle off the table.

And there they were.

Tall—that was your first coherent thought—just offensively tall.

Jaeyun stood slightly behind Euijoo, black hair falling messily over his forehead, soft eyes crinkled from laughing. Even in something so simple—a navy hoodie with the sleeves pushed up and loose grey sweatpants—he looked so majestic, a sort of Adonis. 

And Euijoo—jesus fucking christ. The hair was somehow even worse in person, softer-looking under the library lights, messy in a way that looked accidental and intentional all at once. He wore a black zip-up over a white shirt, rings glinting faintly as he adjusted the strap of his bag. 

You were going to die here.

“I—” you stammered instantly, locking your phone screen so fast it nearly slipped from your hand. “It just came up on my feed, I wasn’t—”

Jaeyun lost it. “No, no,” he said quickly, holding his hands up. “I’m not judging you. The music made it ten times funnier.”

“It just autoplayed,” you said quickly, fumbling to lock your phone so aggressively you almost dropped it. “I wasn’t searching for raccoon content specifically.” There was a pause and Euijoo’s mouth twitched slightly.

“Specifically?” he repeated quietly. Heat rushed into your face so violently you considered throwing yourself through the nearest library window. 

You closed your eyes for one brief moment. “Okay,” you thought to yourself. “This is horrible.”

“You text exactly how I imagined.” Jaeyun was visibly delighted now. “The ‘please let me know if adjustments are needed’ almost made me stand up straighter.” 

Euijoo nodded beside him. “Very professional.”

“I don’t talk like that normally,” you defended instantly.

Jaeyun raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you lied. Of course your antisocial dumbass always talked like that. 

Euijoo finally sat down across from you, movements easy and relaxed while you sat there like a frightened woodland creature. “I’m Euijoo,” he said gently.

You nodded too fast. “I know.” Silence, your eyes widened. “I mean—not like weird know,” you corrected immediately. “Not stalker-ish. Just like campus-knowledge know. Like everybody knows—not everybody, probably, statistically speaking that wouldn’t even make sense—”

Yeah the universe should have just killed you already.

Euijoo looked down for a second, hiding a smile. Jaeyun had physically bent forward laughing now. And somehow, impossibly, the panic in your chest loosened a little.

“I’m Jaeyun,” he offered kindly, like you weren’t actively self-destructing in front of them.

You nodded again. “I know that too.” Jaeyun stared at you. You stared back in horror. “Jesus Christ,” you mumbled, covering your face with one hand. “Can I restart this entire interaction?”

“No,” Jaeyun said immediately. “Absolutely not.” 

Euijoo leaned back slightly in his chair, watching you fumble with an expression that was far too entertained for someone who was supposed to be struggling biology students.

“This is the best first meeting I’ve ever had.” He added softly.

You peeked through your fingers suspiciously. “You’re making fun of me.”

“A little,” Jaeyun admitted.

“But affectionately,” Euijoo said.

Oh.

Oh ok where was your gun. 

You dropped your hand back onto the table and immediately knocked your pen onto the floor. The three of you watched it roll away in silence. You stared at it. Then stared ahead instead.

“I’m leaving it there,” you decided quietly.

Jaeyun laughed so hard he had to lean back in his chair. Euijoo shook his head, smiling properly now before leaning down to pick the pen up for you. Your heart nearly stopped from embarrassment when his fingers brushed yours lightly handing it back.

“Thank you,” you said far too formally.

“You’re welcome,” he replied with equal seriousness, “Now should we start before any more accidents happen?” “Yep.” Jaeyun replied enthusiastically, pulling out a genuinely massive folder from his bag, “You wanted all our tests right?” Universe, where was the damn gun.

The session itself started chaotically. Mostly because Jaeyun and Euijoo apparently shared one singular brain cell when placed together. At one point, Jaeyun confidently identified the mitochondria as “the thing that does vibes.” Euijoo had immediately buried his face in his hands while you stared at them in genuine disbelief.

“It’s the powerhouse of the cell,” you said weakly.

“Right,” Jaeyun nodded seriously. “That’s what I meant. Vibes.”

And somehow—somehow—it got easier after that. The tightness in your shoulders slowly disappeared the longer the session went on. The awkwardness never fully vanished—you still nearly choked on your water when Euijoo leaned closer to look at your notes once—but it became manageable. 

Jaeyun asked questions constantly, even if half of them sounded ridiculous at first. “So wait,” he’d said at one point, frowning at his worksheet, “if enzymes speed reactions up, why don’t they just keep going forever?” And instead of pretending to understand when he didn’t, he genuinely waited for your explanation, brows furrowed in concentration.

Euijoo was quieter. He absorbed things carefully, eyes flicking between your diagrams and textbook while he listened. Sometimes he’d go silent for a full minute before suddenly asking something terrifyingly specific that forced you to rethink how you explained the concept. You liked that a lot more than you expected.

And they were nice. God, they were annoyingly nice. Jaeyun apologized every single time he interrupted you, even accidentally. Euijoo kept sliding your highlighters back toward you whenever they rolled too far across the table because apparently your motor skills deteriorated under stress.

At one point, while you were explaining cellular respiration, you’d gotten too into it and started gesturing aggressively with your pen.

Jaeyun blinked at you. “You really like biology.”

You froze mid-sentence. “I mean,” you said awkwardly, “academically.”

Jaeyun laughed softly. “No, I mean it’s cool.”

Now why did your chest suddenly feel so tight? Probably because nobody usually called your interests cool.

Then, near the end of the session, something genuinely shocking happened. Jaeyun got a question right. Not partially right. Actually right. You’d stared at his paper for a full three seconds before looking up slowly.

“See?” Jaeyun immediately pointed at the answer triumphantly. “Academic weapon.”

Euijoo leaned over to look and blinked. “Wait, you actually got that?”

“Why do you sound surprised?”

“Because I know you.”

Jaeyun looked offended while you laughed before you could stop yourself. Both of them looked up immediately. And for one horrifying second, you realized that was probably the first time you’d laughed properly around them for the past three hours. 

Jaeyun grinned instantly like he’d won something.“You’re way less scary when you laugh.”

“I was scary?”

“You text like my mother.” Jaeyun reminded you.

Euijoo nodded solemnly beside him. “Very intimidating.”

.By the time the session ended, your notes were scattered everywhere, Jaeyun had somehow eaten two protein bars during a lesson on DNA replication, and Euijoo had finally understood something he’d been stuck on for weeks.

And weirdly—you’d had fun.

__________

Once you got back home, a realization hit you that made you genuinely sit down and think about life for a second.

That tutoring session had been….actually great?

You were back in the sanctuary of your dorm, the door locked firmly against the world. You’d dumped your bag, kicked off your shoes and were about to collapse into your usual post-social-interaction coma when it hit you, so foreign and unexpected that it made you genuinely stop and think about life for a second.

They hadn’t laughed at you meanly even once. Okay, they laughed at you constantly, but not cruelly—a particularly mind boggling difference. And they’d listened to you too, to your very quiet voice which was akin to the flap of a butterfly’s wing. Jaeyun had looked genuinely excited when he finally understood something. Euijoo had quietly thanked you after you re-explained transcription for the third time without sounding annoyed. Nobody had treated you like some awkward invisible thing sitting in the corner.

You sat down on the edge of your bed in complete silence, staring at your wall like you’d just uncovered a government conspiracy. Then you fell backward onto your mattress, staring at the ceiling. You’d expected arrogance, disinterest—frat boys who’d spend two hours scrolling through their phones while you suffered quietly beside them.

Instead they’d just been…..two guys who were genuinely disgusting at biology and genuinely grateful for the help. It was cool. It was, dare you think it, great. The feeling that settled in your chest was weird—a low, warm hum of something like accomplishment, mixed with a strange, lingering awareness of Jaeyun’s eager eyes and the careful way Euijoo had handed you your pen.  It was nice, suspiciously so and now you felt strange; like maybe these months weren't going to destroy you after all.

Shaking your head slightly to dispel the peculiar buzz, you decided the best course of action was a hard reset. A return to your most reliable, private comfort.

The cursor hovered over the familiar title. You’d bookmarked this one last week, a slow-burn enemies-to-lovers fic in your favourite fantasy fandom, renowned in the comments for its particularly… thorough eighth chapter. 

The tags were a delicious wall of text, you immediately spotted your favourites: size kink, bondage, degradation, a mating press and a full fucking nelson? Oh weren’t you in for a treat tonight. You skimmed them, a ritual as comforting as the first sip of tea. Your eyes caught on something and a faint, unrelated echo of Jaeyun’s voice—“For real? Oh, hell yeah!”—flitted through your mind before you firmly pushed it away. This was your time, your space.

You clicked open. The prose was immersive, pulling you instantly into a torch-lit chamber where the two protagonists, after chapters of biting dialogue and fraught glances, finally faced the precipice of their desire. The author was a master of the slow reveal, of the aching detail—the hesitant brush of a calloused knuckle against a jawline, the hitched breath that was more telling than any confession.

You read curled up on your bed, the dim glow of your laptop the only light. As the characters’ verbal sparring dissolved into breathless, urgent whispers, your own breathing began to subtly sync with the rhythm on the screen. A familiar, low thrum of heat started in your belly, a pleasant counterpoint to the weird buzz still lingering from the afternoon.

One hand scrolled slowly, absorbing every beautifully crafted sentence. The other drifted down, slipping beneath the waistband of your sweatpants and underwear. Your touch was light at first, exploratory, mirroring the tentative explorations described in the text. 

The hero’s voice in your head, low and rough with praise—“You’re doing so well, just like that…”—coalesced with the memory of a different kind of approval, of two sets of eyes fixed on you with grateful focus.

You pushed the thought away, focusing on the fiction, on the safe, controlled fantasy. Your fingers moved with more purpose, circling in the slow, practised rhythm that you knew worked. Your back arched slightly off the mattress as a particularly vivid line of description—a bite against a collarbone, a whispered command—sent a sharp jolt through you.

The sensations built, a steady crescendo. The warm hum in your chest from earlier seemed to migrate, to fuse with the physical heat coiling tighter and tighter low in your body. The images from the story—tangled limbs, sweat-slicked skin, desperate pleas—flashed behind your closed eyelids. 

For a fleeting second, the fantasy blurred at the edges; the careful hands in the story weren’t entirely fictional, they were unexpectedly gentle, handing you a pen, and the voice murmuring praise was eager, relieved, saying you got one.

It was that confusing, illicit overlap—the real, strange warmth of the day colliding with the reliable, fabricated heat of the story—that finally tipped you over the edge. Your breath caught, a soft, stifled sound in the quiet room as the tension shattered into waves of release, leaving you trembling and spent against your pillows.

For a long moment, you just lay there in the aftermath, the blue light of the laptop screen casting everything in a cool, unreal glow. The peculiar buzz was gone, dissolved into a heavy, physical lassitude. The weird feeling of accomplishment was still there, but it was quieter now. 

You closed the browser tab with a soft click, the finality of the sound sealing the chapter on both the story and the day. The months stretched ahead, but the dread was now just shadows, and for now, the shadows felt manageable. You suddenly couldn't wait for the next session two days later.

Meanwhile on the other side of the campus—

“So…”

“So.”

“She’s hot.”

“Oh my god she’s so damn hot.” 

Jaeyun was lying on his back on his bed, one arm behind his head, staring at the constellation of glow-in-the-dark stars stuck haphazardly to his ceiling. Euijoo was perched on the edge of his own meticulously made bed, ostensibly examining a highlighter as if its chemical composition was the most fascinating thing in the world.

They were supposed to be reviewing the notes you’d helped them make. The pages were open on Jaeyun’s desk and Euijoo’s bed, covered in highlighted terms and doodles on the margins. Neither was looking at them.

Jaeyun turned his head on the pillow, his dark eyes finding Euijoo’s profile in the dim lamplight, whose shoulders slumped as if released from a wire. He dropped the highlighter.

“What the fuck are we even thinking about?” He breathed, his words fervent.

“How we find our tutor hot.” Jaeyun deadpanned. 

It was a floodgate opening. The careful focus, the respectful masks they’d worn for two hours in the library fell away completely, revealing the sheer, dizzying impact you’d had on them. Another silence followed, mostly because neither of them knew where to even begin. Because it wasn’t just one thing. It was everything all at once. Their minds (hive mentality perhaps) were fixated on the ravishing beauty of you. And the shirt.

Oh that damn shirt.

Cut so dangerously, both of them could see everything when you leaned forward, unaware of your own skin because you were so engrossed in biology. But neither of them was willing to admit how much heat had flushed between their legs at the sight of your cleavage. 

Jaeyun groaned into the mattress dramatically. “The glasses thing almost killed me.”

Euijoo looked over immediately. “Right?”

“Like why was she pushing them back up every thirty seconds?” Jaeyun sat up halfway, scandalized. “How am I supposed to focus on mitochondria during that?”

“The way she explains things,” Jaeyun continued, his gaze drifting back to the ceiling, seeing not stars but the intense, thoughtful furrow of your brow. “It’s like…..her voice just cuts through all the noise in my head about this stupid class. Kinda hot.”

“I know,” Euijoo agreed, running a hand through his hair, messing it. “And she has this…this tiny little frown she does.” He breathed, “I think I almost lost it.”

“And her hands,” Jaeyun said, almost to himself, “I’m going to be so weird about her hands.”

“Go ahead.” Euijoo laughed, then sighed, “Wow. We’re kind of the worst people to ever exist right now.”

“We are.” Jaeyun conceded, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Man what the hell would she think of us right now? She’s just so…” “Hot.” Euijoo finished for him, the word definitive. “Incredibly hot.”

“I was going to say innocent but yeah that too.” Jaeyun hummed.

Euijoo laughed under his breath. You did look so….soft. Warm eyes, nervous hands, pretty lips constantly pressing together after you spoke like you were mentally reviewing every sentence for errors. Euijoo leaned back in his chair smiling helplessly now while Jaeyun buried his face into a pillow.

“She looked so excited when we understood something,” Euijoo murmured.

“She looked at me like I’d solved world hunger when I got that answer right.”

“To be fair,” Euijoo said, “I was also shocked.” Jaeyun threw a pillow at him.

“But seriously,” Jaeyun continued, “she’s weirdly easy to be around.”

That was the strangest part. Usually people acted different around them. Too eager, too shy, too damn performative. But you were so fucking awkward that it circled back around to honesty. Every expression showed on your face immediately, every embarrassed thought practically announced itself out loud. And the funniest thing? You clearly had no idea how pretty you were.

Euijoo remembered the exact moment you laughed properly for the first time. How you’d immediately looked startled afterward, like the sound escaped accidentally. Jaeyun remembered the way you frowned at your notes while concentrating, lips moving silently as you reread things. Both of them remembered how softly you’d thanked Euijoo for picking your pen up.

Jaeyun turned his head toward Euijoo suddenly. “She definitely thinks we’re cooler than we are.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Jaeyun sighed dramatically. “This is bad.”

Euijoo raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because now I actually wanna go to tutoring.” A beat passed.

Then Euijoo admitted quietly, “…Yeah.”

They lapsed into silence again, but this one was charged, buzzing with shared, stunned realization. Jaeyun sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “We can’t be weird about this,” he said, his tone serious but his eyes still bright. “We cannot fuck this up by being…you know. Us. Around girls.”

“What are you talking about? We’re amazing around girls.” 

Jaeyun stared at him. Then burst out laughing. “No, we’re not.”

“Yes we are!”

“Euijoo, you accidentally flirt with baristas.”

“Yeah and you once thanked a girl for handing you a receipt and she turned red.”

“That sounds like her issue.”

“Exactly this.” Euijoo pointed accusingly at him. “You can’t do this cool boy shit with her.”

“You can’t do it with her either then!” Jaeyun said.

Euijoo leaned back in his chair looking deeply unbothered. “I’m naturally charming.”

“You’re naturally annoying.” Jaeyun ran a hand through his hair before dramatically breathing out and putting on the face of someone who hadn’t devoured two tubs of (Jungwon’s) ice cream an hour ago. “Okay. New rule.”

Euijoo already looked tired. “Why are you like this?”

“We act normal.” “We do act normal.”

“No flirting.”

Euijoo barked out a laugh. “You say that like we planned to flirt with her.”

“You smiled at her like three times.” “That’s literally normal human activity, Jaeyun.”

“You picked her pen up.” “It rolled near me, you freak?”

Jaeyun pointed at him triumphantly. “Ahh, getting defensive are we?”

Euijoo threw another pillow. This one hit him directly in the face.

“Okay,” Jaeyun mumbled through laughter, shoving the pillow away. “Fine. Maybe we’re both screwed. But—” He shrugged his shoulders, “We’re gonna be normal, good students. We’re gonna sit down and learn and pass this godforsaken final.”

“And we don’t stare,” Euijoo added, as if making a pact.

“Right. No staring. At her hands, or her mouth, or the way her hair falls—”

“Jaeyun.”

“Sorry.” He flopped back onto the bed with a groan, draping an arm over his eyes, “You really think we’ll be able to survive the next one?”

Euijoo didn’t have an answer. He just looked at the neat, precise handwriting on the notes you’d helped them create—your handwriting—and felt a confusing, thrilling surge of anticipation that had absolutely nothing to do with cellular respiration and everything to do with the quiet, brilliant girl who had, in two short hours, rewritten their entire expectations for the months ahead. Euijoo then realised just how high their libidos were. 

Yeah, they were absolutely fucked.

_______________

You were not a virgin by any means.

You’d had sex approximately one time in your life, a virginal sacrifice with your first, shitty boyfriend. 

The memory of your first and only time was less a memory and more a clinical footnote, a checklist of sensations: pressure, a little pain, a lot of awkward shifting, the smell of his cheap cologne, and a profound, echoing sense of ‘is this it?’ It was over quickly, and the only thing that had trembled was your resolve to ever do it again.

You hadn’t cum, not even close. You hadn't known you were supposed to, not really. The messy, overwhelming crescendos described in books and movies felt like mythical geography, a place you’d heard of but never visited. 

Even by yourself, with your own fingers, the journey often petered out into a gentle, sighing plateau—a soft orgasm that was more a relief of tension than a transformation of it. Pleasant, but faint, like hearing a symphony from another room five kilometres away.

That distance, that gap between what you read and what you felt, was precisely why you’d plunged into the world of fanfiction. 

The stories were a map to a territory you couldn’t seem to reach on your own. The authors didn’t just describe sex; they charted the emotional and physical crevices of pleasure—the winding paths of anticipation and the seismic shifts of release. You read them to understand, to feel it vicariously, to try and translate the words on the screen into a language your body could finally speak.

You’d always been able to recognize when someone was objectively attractive—you had eyes after all. But that recognition was a detached, aesthetic appreciation—like admiring a painting or a well-designed car.

It had never, not once, translated into a visceral, physical want. The idea of actually fucking someone from your real life had seemed vaguely abstract, and entirely separate from the specific hunger you cultivated with your curated stories.

Until today.

Until the fifth tutoring session. Because as always, the universe hated your very existence.

Somewhere between the first session and the fifth, things had shifted so naturally that you hadn’t even noticed it happening at first.

The formality disappeared in pieces. First went the painfully stiff texting—your original messages had looked like official university announcements. By the second session, Jaeyun had replied to one of your carefully structured texts with: coming rn don’t perish without us. And somehow after that, the entire dynamic cracked open.

Then went the awkward silences. Not completely—you were still you, unfortunately—but enough that tutoring no longer felt like performing a social experiment under observation.

Now Euijoo and Jaeyun just…..talked to you, which you couldn't even believe was humanly possible. They talked to you casually and constantly. 

Jaeyun, especially, had apparently decided that your concentration existed solely to be destroyed.

“You know,” he’d said during the third session while leaning dramatically across the table, “if mitochondria are powerhouses, does that technically make me an energy source?” You didn’t even look up from your notes.

“No,” you replied flatly. “You make everyone around you more tired actually.”

Jaeyun gasped like you’d stabbed him directly in the chest while Euijoo laughed quietly beside him.

And the worst part? You liked it.

You liked it so damn much it made your chest physically hurt.

Euijoo started sitting closer without realizing it, shoulder occasionally brushing yours when both of you leaned over the same worksheet. Jaeyun started stealing your pens constantly because apparently he lost every writing utensil he touched within seven minutes.

Both of them had developed this annoying habit of looking at you whenever something funny happened, like your reaction was somehow part of the experience now.

And outside tutoring sessions—

God.

That was where things became genuinely surreal.

The first time Jaeyun called your name across campus, you genuinely turned around expecting there to be another person behind you. Instead, you found him jogging down the library steps toward you with Euijoo beside him.

“Yo.” Jaeyun said breathlessly, like this was a completely normal way to address your tutor, “did you finish the bio review sheet?” You nearly walked into a pillar and Euijoo noticed instantly.

“She does that a lot around us,” he murmured thoughtfully.

“I hate both of you,” you replied automatically. But your face burned the entire walk afterward.

Then came the coffee. The horrifying, relationship-coded coffee. By the fourth session they’d started showing up with drinks already in hand, not even asking anymore. Jaeyun remembered your order after hearing it once and Euijoo started quietly sliding pastries toward you whenever your studying went too long and you forgot to eat.

“You look dead,” he’d said simply one afternoon while placing an iced coffee beside your laptop.

“That’s because I’m studying.”

“We never noticed.” Jaeyun drawled sarcastically. 

You stared at both of them suspiciously over the rim of your coffee. “You’re weirdly caring.”

Jaeyun blinked. “Were we supposed to let you deteriorate?”

“Yes,” you answered immediately. “That’s what most people do.” The way both their expressions softened afterward made something uncomfortable twist warmly in your chest.

And somehow, impossibly, people had started noticing. Because apparently being repeatedly seen around two of the most well-known boys on campus transformed you from ‘that quiet girl from Biology 212’ into a subject of active campus curiosity. You started catching looks, whispers, double takes. The first time it happened, you nearly had a nervous breakdown.

You’d been sitting on the edge of the basketball court one afternoon trying desperately to finish a lab report while Jaeyun and Euijoo played with some of the others from the frat. 

You weren’t even supposed to be there. Jaeyun had somehow convinced you by saying: “Just sit there and work. Your academic aura might help us.”

Which was stupid and yet you came anyway, because you were a dumbass.  You sat cross-legged on the bleachers with your laptop while the sound of sneakers squeaking against the court echoed around you.

At first you genuinely managed to focus.

Then Jaeyun yelled:

“THIS SHOT’S FOR YOU, MY TUTOR.”

The entire court erupted immediately. You looked up in horror just in time to watch him completely miss.

Nicholas collapsed onto the floor laughing and Sunghoon screamed so loudly someone from the next court turned around.

Jaeyun pointed accusingly at the hoop. “She distracted me!”

Euijoo grabbed the ball next, grinning toward you lazily.

“This one’s for her then.”

“You are not helping—”

Swish.

The ball went clean through the net. The entire gym exploded. You physically covered your face with your hands while Jaeyun shouted betrayal at the top of his lungs.

After that, it only got worse. Now people knew you. Or at least knew of you.

You earned the following monikers:

“The bio tutor.”

“The girl Euijoo keeps looking for.”

“The one Jaeyun annoys constantly.”

It should’ve made you uncomfortable and maybe it did a little. But every time one of them spotted you across campus and their entire face brightened in recognition before they waved you over like it was the most natural thing in the world, you somehow forgot to care.

And then came the damned fifth session. 

You were in the zone, explaining the intricacies of protein synthesis, when Jaeyun had gotten a question spectacularly right, a complex one about tRNA anticodons.

“Holy shit, I did it!” he burst out, a grin splitting his face. He turned that brilliant, triumphant smile directly on you. “You’re a genius, honey. An absolute genius.”

Honey.

The pet name landed like a spark on dry tinder. It was casual, warm, dripping with unthinking affection and your pencil stilled on the page.

Not even thirty seconds later, Euijoo, who was quietly connecting another dot, looked up from his notebook, his hair falling into his eyes. “So if I follow this….it’s like an assembly line, and the ribosome is the foreman reading the blueprint?” At your nod, a look of profound satisfaction had settled on his face. “Huh….you make it make sense, doll.”

Doll.

Two pet names in under a minute. 

Honey. Doll.

Your calm shell developed a hairline fracture and a slow heat began to pool in your stomach. You finished that session on autopilot, your mind replaying the words in their voices.

And now, you were back in your dorm and the heat felt like a wire about to bust. You could feel the hunger at the bottom of your throat, screaming at you to satiate it. 

You didn’t even wait to change out of your clothes, your mind fixed on wanting those calloused hands that fumbled highlighters to be steady on your naked skin.

You wanted to know if Euijoo’s focused intensity in solving a problem would translate to the focused intensity of his gaze on your body. You wanted to hear Jaeyun’s saccharine sweet voice groan against your neck for a reason that had nothing to do with biology.

You opened your laptop, bypassing your usual bookmarks. You navigated to a story you’d saved but never dared to read: a lengthy, explicit fic. 

Un, deux, trois. 

Perfection.

You clicked on it, the threesome tag seemed to wink at you.

As the story unfolded—two devoted knights finally claiming their wary, brilliant queen—you didn’t see fictional characters in a fantasy castle. 

You saw a library study carrel pushed against a wall. You saw Jaeyun’s broad shoulders blocking out the lights, his eager mouth finding yours. You felt Euijoo’s careful hands, the ones that took such neat notes, mapping your ribs with a scholar’s attention to detail.

In the story, one lover whispered praises while the other drove the heroine to the edge. 

In your mind, it was Jaeyun’s voice, hot in your ear, “You’re so smart, honey, so perfect for us,” while Euijoo’s steady, relentless touch between your legs unraveled every coherent thought you’d ever had all while he was moaning, “Such a good doll for us, yeah?”

You chased the feeling, the image of the two of them—their contrasting hair, their gentle focus now turned devouring—so vivid behind your eyelids. The soft, sighing plateau you were used to wasn’t the destination tonight. 

You were climbing that staircase to heaven, the coil of heat tightening beyond its usual limits, spurred on by the illicit, perfect fantasy of them.

Your breath hitched, your back arching off the bed. The release, when it crashed over you, was not a faint echo from another room. It was a symphony played right in the heart of you, loud, shuddering, and utterly transformative. For the first time, your body understood the map perfectly. 

And it had two very specific, very real guides to thank for the journey.

Oh well.

Wasn't this so fucking great for you?

__________

They say ladies and gentlemen, that necessity is the mother of invention. In this situation, the necessity was your pussy yelling to be touched…….to the thought of both of them.

The aftershocks of that first, real orgasm left you feeling like a new person inhabiting an old skin. The world had shifted on its axis, and the new gravitational pull had two names: Jaeyun and Euijoo.

By the ninth tutoring session, your situation had officially evolved from “minor academic inconvenience” into “active psychological horny warfare.”

Because apparently both of them had decided pet names were part of your curriculum now.

Every “honey, can you explain that again?” from Jaeyun was a bolt of heat straight to your core. Every low, thoughtful “doll, I think I’ve got it now,” from Euijoo made your breath catch. 

“Honey, pass me the worksheet.”

“Doll, you skipped question four.”

“Sweetheart, if I fail this exam I’m blaming you personally.”

You were going to pass away. At first you’d genuinely thought they were doing it accidentally but then Jaeyun called you “pretty tutor” after getting an answer right and winked when you nearly inhaled your own spit. So no.

Definitely intentional. 

Which was exactly why your dignity had deteriorated enough for you to do something deeply embarrassing one night at two in the morning.

You copied the entire text of that life-altering fantasy threesome fic into a blank Google Doc. Then, with a feverish, shameless focus, you used ‘Find and Replace.’ The fictional knight with the eager heart became Jaeyun and the one with the careful hands became Euijoo. And of course you even rewrote some parts on your own with details that reminded you of them. Then you immediately hide the document inside three different folders.

It was a raw, unvarnished act of carnal need—nothing else was fucking satisfying you anymore. 

The document became your secret altar, a place where their imagined voices—“That’s it, honey, take it,” and “So perfect for us, doll, so good”—could play out in explicit detail against the stark white page. You returned to it often, each visit a temporary balm that only deepened the ache.

You’d told yourself it was harmless. But even you knew it wasn’t.

The present session was another exercise in sustained composure. You were all reviewing for the upcoming midterm, a thick cloud of shared academic stress mingling with your own, far more potent, personal tension.

You’d joked around in the beginning, a rare comedy moment from you, that you’d made report cards for the both of them before the exam, just for motivation. They’d tried to sneak a peek at your laptop and you immediately pulled it away.

But now, nature was calling, so you sighed and closed your textbook with a decisive thump that made them both look up

“I’m trusting you both alone for five minutes,” you warned, pushing yourself off your chair. You pointed at both of them threateningly. “And don’t touch my laptop.”

Euijoo raised both hands innocently. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As you walked towards the library restrooms, the echo of your words felt hollow. Your laptop sat open on the table, your Google Drive a single careless click away.

The second you disappeared around the corner, Jaeyun leaned back in his chair dramatically. “She still doesn’t trust us.”

“To be fair,” Euijoo said calmly, “you do act like a raccoon with Wi-Fi.”

“I trusted you.” Jaeyun gasped.

But despite the joking, neither of them actually touched your things at first. Jaeyun flipped through his own notes while Euijoo absentmindedly reread one of your annotated diagrams. Then Jaeyun noticed the document tab still open behind your biology slides. His eyes narrowed.

“…What’s that?”

Euijoo glanced over lazily. “Probably notes.”

“Maybe it's the report cards.” Jaeyun snorted. 

“Report cards.” Euijoo snorted, shaking his head. 

But his eyes drifted to your laptop. Jaeyun followed his gaze. The unspoken thought passed between them, a current of shared, guilty curiosity. 

“Just… a quick look?” Jaeyun whispered, his finger already hovering over the touchpad. “To see if she actually made us report cards?”

Euijoo didn’t say no. He just leaned in, his heart hammering a strange rhythm against his ribs and Jaeyun clicked before common sense could stop him.

And both of them froze instantly.

Complete silence.

Jaeyun blinked once. Then twice. Euijoo leaned forward slowly, eyes widening the further he read.

The document that filled the screen had no title. But the first line stole the air from the room.

‘Jaeyun’s mouth was hot and demanding on yours, while Euijoo’s clever fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your—’

A jolt, white-hot and seismic, went through both of them. Jaeyun’s hand jerked back from the laptop as if burnt and Euijoo’s breath left him in a silent rush.

For a second, there was only the hum of the library and the deafening roar of blood in their ears. Horror—at being caught—flared for a single, blinding moment. But it was instantly, overwhelmingly, drowned out by a surge of pure, undiluted relief so powerful it was dizzying.

You thought about this. About them. Like this.

They scanned the text, their eyes flying over phrases, seeing their own names woven into acts of breathtaking intimacy—praise, possession, shared focus. It was their fantasy, the one they’d only whispered about in their room, written out in your unmistakable prose.

“Oh my god,” Jaeyun breathed, his voice ragged.

Euijoo couldn’t speak. He was re-reading a line where he was described as ‘methodical, worshipful, leaving no inch of skin uncharted.’ His face was on fire.

“No way,” he whispered, dragging a hand over his face slowly, stunned disbelief melting into something dangerously close to delight. “You’re kidding.”

Jaeyun let out a quiet laugh of pure disbelief and leaned back in his chair. “Oh my god.”

The sound of footsteps approaching made both of them sit up immediately. Jaeyun clicked back to the biology slides at lightning speed while Euijoo tried very hard to look normal—which failed instantly because both of them looked visibly brighter when you sat back down.

You paused immediately. “…Why do you both look guilty?”

“Crazy accusation.” Jaeyun said quickly. Euijoo picked up a pen before he laughed accidentally.

Your eyes narrowed. “Oh my god. What did you do?”

“Nothing,” both of them answered far too fast. You stared harder.

Jaeyun cracked first. “There’s a party tonight.”

“What.”

“At the frat house,” he continued casually. “You should come.”

You blinked.

“No.”

“Why not?” Euijoo asked, quieter.

“Because I enjoy surviving social situations.”

Jaeyun leaned across the table dramatically. “We’ll stay with you the whole time.”

“That is not reassuring.”

“It should be.”

You looked between both of them suspiciously. Something definitely felt off. But there was also something strangely warm about the way they looked at you now.

Every shred of self-preservation you’d ever cultivated screamed at you to say no. Frat party? With them? It was a spectacularly bad idea, a one-way ticket to a social and emotional disaster.

Then Jaeyun hit you with the look. 

His dark eyes went wide and pleading, his bottom lip jutting out just a fraction. It was a full-force, hopeful puppy-dog stare, completely at odds with the sinful things he’d just read about himself.

Beside him, Euijoo didn’t say a word. He just watched you, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips, as if he could see the exact moment your resolve would crumble.

It crumbled instantly.

“…For like one hour,” you muttered. 

Jaeyun actually cheered, a soft, triumphant “Yes!” that he immediately tried to smother, looking around the library with a guilty grin. Euijoo ducked his head, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter, strands of his hair falling forward to hide his face.

“Why am I getting the feeling my life’s about to get really complicated?” You chuckled weakly. 

They both laughed then, a shared, relieved sound that eased the last of the tension. It was a laugh that said, ‘Yeah, it is, and we’re in it together.’

“I should… probably head out early,” you said, gesturing vaguely towards seemingly nothing. “To, uh, get ready, for my one-hour sentence.”

Euijoo watched you for a second before asking quietly, “What are you gonna wear?”

“Oh my god, good question.” Jaeyun immediately looked delighted.

You stared at both of them in betrayal. “Why are you acting like this is the Met Gala?”

“Because this is important,” Jaeyun replied seriously.

“It’s literally a frat party”

“So you’re saying you don’t respect our respectable establishment.” Jaeyun pouted up at you. Stupid pretty pink lips.

“I hate when you say things with confidence because it makes me nervous.” You groaned.

Jaeyun laughed while Euijoo leaned back in his chair, still looking strangely pleased just from the fact you’d agreed at all. You slung your bag over your shoulder and stood.

“Okay. One hour,” you warned again. “And if either of you abandon me there, I’m transferring universities.”

“We’ll text you the address.” Jaeyun said, his voice still bright with victory.

“Don’t be late.” Euijoo added, the quiet command in his tone sending a fresh shiver down your spine.

You disappeared around the corner before either of them could answer. The second you were fully out of sight, silence dropped over the table again.

Jaeyun slowly leaned back in his chair and Euijoo exhaled through his nose, dragging both hands over his face briefly. Jaeyun looked over immediately.

“So.”

Euijoo already knew where this was going. “Don’t.”

“She likes us.”

Euijoo stared at the ceiling like he was seeking divine patience.

Jaeyun grinned helplessly. “No, because actually think about this. She wrote about us.”

“Jaeyun.”

“She thought about us enough to write things down.”

“I’m aware,” Euijoo muttered, ears burning all over again. Because unfortunately, he was very aware. Jaeyun drummed his fingers against the table thoughtfully before glancing sideways at him.

“You know why I invited her, right?” He said, biting his lip, an annoyingly attractive habit he had.

Euijoo lowered his hands slowly. “Because you have no survival instincts?”

“That too.”

Jaeyun’s grin turned slightly nervous underneath the humor now.

“But also because…” He hesitated once. “Maybe tonight gives us a chance to actually talk about it.” Euijoo went quiet.

Talk about it.

Oh.

Euijoo would have been lying if he said he wasn’t going to combust if he didn’t do all the things he’d read in the document to you in real life. 

Jaeyun sighed dramatically, though his smile lingered. “If we don’t talk about it,” he muttered, “I’m gonna keep thinking about it until I fail biology again.”

Euijoo laughed quietly at that, though his own heart was beginning to race. Then after a second, he quietly admitted, 

“…Yeah. Me too.”

___________

Your dorm looked like a small-scale crime scene.

Clothes covered half the floor. Makeup products sat scattered across your desk like evidence. Three separate outfits had already been rejected and thrown violently onto your bed over the course of forty-five minutes. You stared at yourself in the mirror with narrowed eyes.

This was stupid.

You were acting stupid.

It was just a party.

Not even a date, definitely not a date. Just one hour at a frat house with two boys you unfortunately found devastatingly attractive.

Cool.

So normal.

Your gaze drifted back toward the black dress hanging from your closet door which you had been trying hard to ignore. You’d bought it months ago during one of those dangerous online shopping spirals that happened at two in the morning when your brain convinced you that yes, actually, you were the type of person who attended rooftop parties and drank sparkling cocktails while looking mysterious.

Reality had proven otherwise and so the dress remained untouched ever since. Until now.

You grabbed it cautiously. It was short, scandalously short, short enough that your legs were on full display and your ass was perfectly framed and your chest was accentuated. The fabric hugged you more than your usual clothes did, soft black material dipping slightly at the neckline while the hem stopped mid-thigh. You stared at your reflection in silence. You looked pretty. Which was honestly a little alarming. Why the fuck were you putting in this much effort for some dumb party you wouldn’t have even heard of two months ago?

A knock sounded at your door before you could spiral further.

“You alive in there?” your friend Yujin called.

“Debatable.”

Yujin pushed the door open anyway and immediately froze. Then her jaw dropped. “Oh, you bitch.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’ve been hiding all that under cardigans?” she demanded dramatically, stepping fully inside. “That is criminal behavior.”

Heat rushed into your face instantly. “It’s too much, isn’t it?”

“Too much?” Yujin repeated like she was personally offended. “You look hot!”

You glanced at yourself again uncertainly. The dress really did look good, which unfortunately made you even more nervous. Because they were going to see you in it. Your stomach flipped violently.

You groaned into your hands. “Why did I agree to this?”

“Because they’re hot and nice to you.” Yujin replied instantly, fixing one of your earrings for you.

Yujin had been one of your only real friends since first year—mostly because she’d adopted you against your will after catching you eating dry cereal alone outside a lecture hall once. And she knew you all too well.

You grabbed your small bag while trying very hard not to think about how Jaeyun would probably whistle obnoxiously the second he saw you. Or how Euijoo would look at you quietly for one dangerous second too long.

Your heart was already beating too fast. This was a disaster.

The frat house was visible from halfway down the street. Music pulsed through the night air loud enough that you could feel the bass before you even reached the front lawn. Groups of students crowded outside laughing loudly beneath strings of warm lights wrapped around the porch railings.

You stopped walking. Yujin kept going for three steps before realizing.

“Oh no,” she sighed, turning back toward you. “Don’t do this.”

“I can still leave.”

“You absolutely cannot.”

“I suddenly remembered I love staying home.”

Yujin grabbed your wrist before you could retreat. “You survived tutoring sessions with two campus heartthrobs,” she informed you firmly. “You can survive one frat party.”

People moved around you constantly as you approached the house, music and laughter spilling from open windows while colored lights flashed faintly inside.

Your nerves worsened with every step. Then the front door opened and you were about to evaporate into thin air. 

But instead of Jaeyun or Euijoo, Fuma appeared in the doorway first. He blinked once when he saw you. Then slowly grinned. 

“Well damn.”

You immediately wanted to disappear. “Please don’t start.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You implied it with your face.” He chuckled, “Never thought you’d actually come.”

Yujin snorted beside you while Fuma stepped aside to let both of you in, music immediately swallowing the conversation the second you crossed the threshold.

The frat house was warm and loud and overwhelming in the exact way you’d feared. Lights flashed dimly across crowded rooms while people moved everywhere at once, laughter rising over music, conversations overlapping into noise. Someone nearly ran into you carrying chips before apologizing and disappearing upstairs again. You instinctively moved closer to Yujin. Fuma noticed immediately.

“You’ll survive,” He laughed quietly before guiding you through the hallway. People looked over as you passed and somehow that made you even more aware of the tight fabric clinging to your skin.

“Where are they?” you asked, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly.

Fuma’s grin widened knowingly. “In the kitchen.”

You barely had two seconds to mentally prepare before Fuma led you around the corner and there they were.

Oh, this was just fucking unfair.

Fuck you universe. 

Jaeyun sat on the kitchen counter laughing at something Nicholas was saying, sleeves rolled up over his forearms, dark hair messy like someone had run their hands through it repeatedly. A silver chain rested against the collar of his black shirt and—

Right.

You need to be breathing.

Very important for life.

Beside him, Euijoo leaned against the counter with a drink in one hand, hair pushed back slightly from his forehead. He wore a dark grey shirt that fit annoyingly well beneath an open black jacket.

What you would have given to be fucked stupid on that stupid counter with their stupid fingers. 

Stupid stupid hot boys.

Both of them looked up at the exact same time. The conversation around the kitchen kept going normally, but the second their eyes landed on you, something shifted.

Jaeyun straightened slowly. Euijoo’s gaze moved over you once before returning to your face. A chill ran down your spine instantly. You suddenly became hyperaware of every inch of exposed skin.

Jaeyun recovered first. “Holy shit, am I in heaven?”

“You look beautiful.” Euijoo said quietly over the noise before Jaeyun could speak again.

Your heart betrayed you so violently you almost considered going to church and confessing your sins. But then again you probably would have imagined them fucking you in that tiny little booth so you steered away from the idea. 

Nicholas whipped around so fast he nearly dropped his drink. “Oh my god,” he gasped dramatically. “Academic weapon spotted.”

Sunghoon looked up from where he’d been stealing fries directly off Jungwon’s plate and actually paused mid-bite. “Wait,” he said slowly. “Fuma undersold this situation severely.” You opened your mouth to respond and nothing came out.

Jaeyun’s grin widened immediately. “There she goes.”

“I’m—” you started, then stopped. Because unfortunately your brain had ceased functioning the second both of them looked at you like that.

“Thank you.” You managed finally, voice weirdly high. “I almost didn’t wear this.”

Jaeyun blinked. “Why?”

You gestured vaguely at yourself like that explained everything. “This is…a lot of skin.” You immediately looked down at the floor. “This is why I wear cardigans,” you muttered.

Jaeyun laughed softly. “No, seriously,” he said, still looking at you with that same dangerously warm expression, “you look really pretty.”

You physically short-circuited.

“Okay,” you said quickly, pointing at him. “You can’t just say things like that immediately after I arrive.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” You said as if it was the most obvious fact in the world, “I need adjustment time.”

Nicholas burst out laughing. “Adjustment time?” he repeated.

“Yeah.” You defended instantly, “Not everyone’s a social butterfly like you guys.”

Sunghoon nodded thoughtfully. “Honestly valid.”

Euijoo smiled beside you now, placing a protective hand on the small of your back, “I think we’re gonna get a drink before she faints.”

“Excuse me—”

“Great idea!” Jaeyun hopped off the counter, “I’ll come with.”

Getting a drink was number infinity on the list of tasks that required three persons. But hey, who were you to complain? Some sort of pure angel who didn’t thirst over the two boys she tutored? 

"Come on." Jaeyun chirped, already weaving through the crowd. "The good stuff's out back, quieter there."

Quieter was an understatement. 

He led you through a chaotic kitchen, out a creaking screen door, and into a small, enclosed back porch. It was shrouded in shadows, lit only by a single, buzzing yellow bug light. A large, dented cooler sat against one wall, filled with ice and bottles. The roar of the party was muffled here, reduced to a dull thump. It felt secluded, dare you say intimate.

“See? Much better." Jaeyun said, rummaging in the cooler. "What's your poison, honey?"

You asked for something simple, so that you could hold onto it like a lifeline. As he fished out a hard seltzer and cracked it open, Euijoo leaned against the doorframe, blocking the most obvious exit back to the house. 

Handsome motherfucker.

"So," Jaeyun began, handing you the cold can. His tone was light and conversational. "The tutoring's really helping. I think we might not totally bomb the midterm."

"It's all you guys," you said, taking a small sip. "You're doing the work."

"We have a good teacher," Euijoo said from his post. His voice was quiet, but it carried perfectly in the hushed space. "Very…..thorough."

There was a beat of silence, filled only by the distant bass. The air, which had been cool, suddenly felt thick and warm like being covered in sticky honey.

Jaeyun took a swig from his own beer. "Thorough is a good word for it." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes finding yours in the dim light. "Like that document you were working on. That was incredibly thorough.”

The can in your hand felt like a block of ice. 

The document.

Oh.

Euijoo pushed off the doorframe. He didn't move aggressively, but with a slow, deliberate intent that made your breath catch. He walked towards you, his steps quiet on the wooden planks, until he was standing right in front of you. 

Then he lifted an arm, placing his hand flat on the wall just beside your head, leaning in slightly. He wasn't touching you, but he’d effectively caged you in, his body blocking one side, the rough wall of the house at your back.

Jaeyun didn't move from his spot by the cooler, but his watchful gaze was just as potent. He took another slow drink, his eyes never leaving your face.

"No more running, doll," Euijoo said, his voice a low, intimate rumble. The stupid, stupid pet name, here and now, was a weapon, said in that deep and husky voice of his. "We saw our names on it.”

"All of it." Jaeyun added softly.

"So we need you to be truthful with us, doll." Euijoo continued, his free hand coming up to gently tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. "Was that just a fantasy? Or do you want it to be reality?”

You could lie. You could try to laugh it off. But under the weight of their combined focus—Euijoo's searching gaze and Jaeyun's patient silence—all your defenses shattered. The truth was a living thing in your chest, pounding to get out.

You swallowed, your voice barely a whisper. "I do.” “What was that, doll?” Euijoo said, tightening his grip on your chin, “Speak up, pretty girl.”

“I—” You said, drawing in a shuddering breath, “I want it to be real.” 

The words seemed to change the very atmosphere. Euijoo's eyes flared, a hot, satisfied gleam in the dim light. Jaeyun let out a slow, controlled breath, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Aww, honey. You like us that much?" Jaeyun pressed, needing the final confirmation. You nodded, unable to form more words.

For a long moment, no one moved. Your confession hung in the air like a paper lantern, transforming into a new reality that they were enjoying far too much. 

Then, Euijoo’s thumb brushed once, softly, against your jawline before he dropped his hand. He straightened up, removing his arm from the wall, breaking the cage. The sudden lack of his proximity felt like a winter chill.

Jaeyun stepped forward then. He didn't touch you, he simply took your limp hand and wrapped your fingers more securely around the cold can of seltzer you'd almost forgotten you were holding.

"Good," Jaeyun said, his voice strangely gentle. "That's all we wanted to know."

Euijoo gave you one last, unreadable look—a mix of that blazing heat and something softer, almost approving. "Enjoy the party, pretty girl.” 

And then, just like that, they turned and walked back through the screen door into the roar of the house, leaving you alone on the quiet, shadowed porch, clutching your drink with trembling hands, your entire world having just been thrillingly upended.

What the actual fuck had just happened?

And why the fuck were your panties so drenched? ________________

Whilst agreeing to come to the party, you had forgotten one very important detail.

You were the world’s most antisocial person who detested crowds with every fibre of her being. 

Pushing back into the house had been like diving into a wall of sound and heat. The earlier introductions felt like a distant dream. Now, every shouted conversation, every burst of laughter, every accidental brush against you in the crowded hallway felt like a violation, the bass from the speakers an assault on your sternum.

Anxiety, a cold, slithering thing, began to coil in your stomach, tightening around the lingering heat. You scanned the pulsing mass of bodies for a familiar face—specifically, Yujin. You finally spotted her near the kitchen island, but any hope of rescue died instantly. She was draped over Nicholas’s shoulders, laughing uproariously at something he was shouting, a red plastic cup held aloft in a toast. She was in her element, completely and utterly off-duty as your safety net.

A wave of pure, claustrophobic panic crested over you. You couldn’t breathe. You needed out. Now.

Your feet moved before your brain fully caught up, carrying you on a desperate search through the shifting crowd. You found them—of course—in a slightly quieter corner of the living room, holding court with a small group. Euijoo was leaning against a bookshelf, listening to something Sunghoon was saying with a faint smile. Jaeyun was animatedly telling a story, his hands flying.

You didn’t have the capacity for social grace. You walked right up to them, interrupting the flow. Jaeyun’s story trailed off. You knew you probably looked wild-eyed and pale, a deer caught in a wolf pack’s den.

“I need to go home,” you blurted out, your voice strained over the music. “Now. Can one of you…?” You glanced desperately between Euijoo and Jaeyun, unable to finish the sentence. Take me? Save me?

The easy smiles faded from their faces. Euijoo straightened up, his gaze sweeping over you, taking in your tense posture and your white-knuckled grip on your bag. Jaeyun’s expression shifted from surprise to immediate concern.

“Where’s Yujin?” Jaeyun asked, his voice cutting through the noise.

You just gestured vaguely, miserably, towards the kitchen. “With Nicholas. She’s…..busy.”

Euijoo didn’t ask another question. He simply nodded, a decisive dip of his chin. “I’ll get my keys.” He pushed off the bookshelf.

“I’m coming.” Jaeyun said instantly, already falling into step beside him. He shot an apologetic look at their friends.

Yet another task that did not require three people. Especially when the panties of one of the person’s was wetter than water itself.

Minutes later, you were sliding into the backseat of Euijoo’s clean sedan, Jaeyun got in the passenger side. The moment the doors closed, the cacophony of the party was severed, replaced by an absolute, crushing silence.

The engine purred to life. Euijoo navigated out of the packed street, his eyes fixed on the road. Jaeyun stared out the passenger window. No one spoke.

The silence in the car was thick with everything that had been said and everything that hadn’t. It was louder than the party had been. You sat in the back, curled slightly into the door, watching the streaks of streetlights pass over their profiles—Euijoo’s focused stillness, Jaeyun’s uncharacteristic quiet. The only sounds were the soft hum of the engine and the turn signal’s steady, mocking click.

Enjoy the party, he’d said. You were definitely not enjoying the car ride.

The silence stretched through every turn, every stoplight, a suffocating blanket over the three of you. By the time Euijoo pulled into a visitor spot near your dorm, the tension had coiled so tight you felt you might snap. You moved to unbuckle your seatbelt, a mumbled "Thanks for the ride" already forming on your lips.

"Which floor?" Euijoo's voice cut through the quiet, calm and matter-of-fact. He was already turning off the engine.

"Oh, you don't have to—I can get up on my own," you stammered, the idea of them escorting you amplifying your anxiety tenfold.

"It's late." Jaeyun said, his tone leaving no room for argument as he popped his door open. The finality in his voice brooked no protest.

The walk across the dimly lit quad was just as silent as the car ride, their footsteps a synchronized echo behind you. The main lobby was deserted, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. You jabbed the elevator button, wishing for the stairs but knowing your heels—chosen in a moment of foolish, fantasy-inspired bravery—made that impossible.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding. The three of you stepped into the mirrored box, and the close quarters made the silence even more profound. As the doors closed, sealing you in, your awareness of your own body became acute, screamingly so. 

Your little black dress, which had felt so daring and powerful when you'd put it on, now felt like a trap. The hem was so short, the neckline plunged so deep. In the mirrored walls, you could see everything—the expanse of your thighs, the shadowed curve of your cleavage. And you could see them. You didn't dare look directly, but in the reflection, you caught it. 

Jaeyun's gaze, usually so open and bright, was dark and fixed—not on your face, but tracing a slow, deliberate path down your reflected form. Euijoo stood with his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed, but his eyes in the mirror were like lasers, burning with an intensity that made your skin prickle. He was staring right at the deep V of your neckline, his expression unreadable but utterly focused. They weren't even trying to hide it. The acknowledgment of your fantasy had stripped away all pretense.

You stared rigidly at the ascending floor numbers, your face flaming, your earlier dampness returning with a vengeance. The elevator seemed to crawl.

Finally, with another merciful ding, the doors opened on your floor. You practically bolted out, the click of your heels on the linoleum too loud in the empty hallway. You led the way to your door, fumbling with your keys, painfully aware of the two presences looming behind you.

You got the door open and stepped across the threshold into the familiar, safe darkness of your dorm. You turned, a hurried "Okay, well, thanks again, goodnigh—" already tumbling out.

But before you could swing the door shut, a hand shot out. Jaeyun’s fingers curled around the edge of the door, not forcefully, but with an undeniable firmness that stopped its motion completely. You looked up, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Euijoo took a single, slow step forward, crossing the threshold to stand just inside your doorway, crowding your personal space. He looked down at you, a faint, cocky smirk playing on his lips—the same smirk you’d imagined a hundred times in your writing. His voice was a low, teasing rumble that vibrated in the small space between you.

“What, doll?” he asked, his eyes glinting with challenge and promise. “Aren’t you going to invite us in?”

The air in your doorway vanished, replaced by the heat of their presence. They were inside your space, their taller frames casting shadows over you in the dim light from the hallway.

You stumbled back a step, your heels catching on the rug, and they followed, a synchronized unit. Jaeyun released the door, letting it swing shut behind them with a soft, final click. The sound sealed you in with them. The familiar safety of your dorm was instantly transformed into an electrically charged arena.

You were backed against the edge of your desk, with nowhere else to go. Euijoo didn’t touch you, but he stood close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. Jaeyun leaned against the closed door, his arms crossed, watching with a lazy, predatory interest.

“You’re shaking.” Jaeyun observed, his voice soft but clear in the quiet room. 

“It’s cold,” you lied, your voice a thin thread.

Euijoo’s smirk deepened. He reached out, not to grab you, but to gently take a strand of your hair between his fingers, rubbing the silky texture. 

“Liar.” He murmured, his tone conversational, almost casual. “Pretty little liar. Thinking about things you shouldn’t be thinking about with the guys you tutor standing right here.”

His words, so blunt, so filthy in their simplicity, sent a jolt straight through you. You whimpered, a tiny, pathetic sound you immediately wished you could take back.

Jaeyun pushed off the door and took a few steps into the room, his gaze sweeping over your cramped space before landing back on you. 

“This where you wrote it?” he asked, nodding toward your laptop on the desk behind you. “Where you dreamed up all those pretty little scenes? Where you imagined what we’d feel like?”

Each word was a gentle probe, prying you open. They were talking about your deepest secret like they were discussing the weather, and the casual confidence of it was unraveling you faster than any overt aggression could have.

“I…” you tried, but no other words came.

Euijoo’s finger released your hair and trailed down the side of your neck, a whisper of a touch that made you shudder violently. 

“You described it so well, honey,” he continued, his voice dropping to that intimate rumble. “The way you wanted to be touched, the way you wanted to be praised. Damn, almost made it seem real.”

Jaeyun was right in front of you now, standing beside Euijoo, boxing you in completely. “So here’s the question,” Jaeyun said, his eyes locked on yours. He reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking over your cheekbone. “All that imagination…..do you want to see what the reality feels like?”

The question hung there, immense and terrifying. Your fantasy, your secret, was being offered back to you, in flesh and blood and breath. Your mind screamed a dozen warnings, but your body, still humming from the elevator, from their stares, from their filthy, casual words, had only one answer.

You swallowed, your throat dry. “Yes,” you whispered, the word barely audible.

“What was that, doll?” Euijoo’s head tilted. “We didn’t quite hear you.”

They were making you say it. They were making you claim it. The humiliation was a fire in your veins, mixing with the desperate want. Oh how pathetically you wanted them. 

“Yes,” you said again, your voice trembling but louder.

Jaeyun’s thumb stilled on your cheek. A slow, beautiful smile spread across his face. He glanced at Euijoo, and they shared a look—a look of shared understanding, mutual hunger and triumph.

“Alright then,” Euijoo said, his smirk softening into something devastating. His hand came up to cradle your other cheek, so you were held between them, the center of their dual attention. “Good girl.”

Jaeyun leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “That’s our clever girl,” he murmured, the praise sinking into your soul like a brand. “Now, let’s see how real we can make it for you.”

You always knew that you had a penchant for staying in the clouds, in the solitary heaven you’d created for yourself where everything was perfect and you were perfect and all was rainbows and cupcakes. Daydreaming was such a good way to escape this depressing and dark, real world.

But now?

Reality had never felt like such a fucking dream.

The first thing you registered after that was the solid press of Jaeyun's body against yours. One of his hands found your waist while the other cupped your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his kiss. There was nothing tentative about it—he kissed you like he'd been waiting for permission for weeks, mouth warm and demanding, tongue sliding against yours before you could even think to part your lips.

You made a sound against his mouth, somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, and he swallowed it whole. His palm slid down from your waist to grip your thigh, hitching your leg up around his hip. Your dress rode up higher, the fabric bunching around your hips as his fingers found bare skin.

"Been thinking about this aaall night, honey," he murmured against your throat, lips trailing down to the sensitive spot behind your ear. “You wore this tiny little thing for us, yeah?” His fingers pressed into the soft flesh of your inner thigh, teasing, luxurious. “You’re too damn sweet, baby."

A rustle of movement from across the room reminded you that you weren't alone. Your eyes fluttered open, dazed, and found Euijoo settled into the desk chair he'd pulled into the corner. He leaned back, legs spread wide, one hand resting casually on his thigh. His gaze was heavy-lidded, tracking every movement Jaeyun made against you like he was studying something precious.

"Oh please, don't stop on my account," Euijoo said, his voice low and smooth. A small smile curved his lips. "I'm enjoying the show, doll."

Heat flooded your cheeks, but before you could formulate a response, Jaeyun's fingers found your cunt through the damp fabric of your panties. Your breath hitched, head falling back against the wall. He pressed two fingers against you, rubbing slow circles over the soaked cotton, and you felt yourself clench around nothing.

"Already this wet?" Jaeyun's voice was husky with surprise and satisfaction. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and pulled them down, letting them fall to your ankles. "God, you've been hiding this from us all this time, haven't you? Sweet little girl, so quiet and proper—"

His words dissolved into a groan as he dipped his fingers between your folds, finding you slick and ready. He circled your clit once, testing, and your whole body jolted like an electric shock.

"That's it," he breathed. "That's it, honey."

Jaeyun worked you open slowly, one finger sliding inside, then two, curling and pressing until you were gripping his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. The stretch was delicious, the pressure building low in your belly as he pumped his fingers in and out, his thumb pressing against your clit in rhythm.

Euijoo watched unmoving, but you saw the way his hand tightened on his thigh, the way his jaw tensed—when your breathing turned ragged, when your hips started rolling forward to meet Jaeyun's hand, he spoke.

"Look at him, doll. Look at what he's doing to you."

Your eyes found his across the room—dark, intense, focused entirely on you. The eye contact sent a thrill straight through you, and your walls fluttered around Jaeyun's fingers.

"You gonna cum for him?" Euijoo's voice dropped lower. "Let him feel it."

Jaeyun pressed harder, palm grinding against your clit as his fingers curled deep, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. "That's it, honey. Let go—I've got you."

The orgasm hit you like a wave breaking, sudden and immense. Your back arched off the wall, a cry tearing from your throat as your body seized and shuddered around his hand. 

It was nothing like the careful, solitary orgasm you'd given yourself in this very room before—this was devastating, all-consuming, pulling you under and leaving you gasping for air.

"Fuck….” Jaeyun muttered, watching you come apart against him. "Look at you. Fucking beautiful."

Before you could catch your breath, strong hands were lifting you. Perhaps it was under the stupor of your newfound pleasure that you didn't even notice Euijoo crossing the room, his arms sliding under your knees and back as he carried you the few steps to your bed. He laid you down gently, the mattress dipping under your weight.

“My turn?” He said, and it wasn't a question.

Euijoo settled between your thighs, pushing your dress up past your hips until you were bare to him, glistening and sensitive. 

Jaeyun moved to the head of the bed, propping himself against the wall, one hand reaching down to brush the hair from your face.

Euijoo's first touch was a kiss—soft, almost reverent, pressed to the inside of your thigh. Then another, higher; then his tongue, flat and warm, sliding through your folds from bottom to top.

You whimpered, hips bucking, oversensitive from your first orgasm. But Euijoo held you down with firm hands on your thighs, anchoring you as he worked you open with his mouth.

"Easy, doll.” Euijoo murmured against your cunt, and the vibration made you gasp. "We're not done yet."

He ate you like a man starving, tongue circling your clit, dipping inside you, lapping up every drop of wetness. He found a rhythm—long, slow licks that built pressure deep in your core, punctuated by sharp sucks that made your vision white out. 

His nose pressed against your clit as his tongue fucked into you, and you heard yourself begging, words falling out of your mouth without permission.

"Please, please, please—"

"One more," Euijoo said, pulling back just enough to look up at you, his chin slick, his eyes dark with hunger. "Give me one more, doll. I know you have it." He sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked, two fingers sliding into you, curling in that same devastating spot Jaeyun had found. 

The combination was too much, exactly enough—your second orgasm crashed over you like a thunderstorm, harder and deeper than the first, ripping a scream from your throat that echoed off the dorm room walls.

Euijoo didn't stop—riding you through it, tongue gentle now, lapping at your sensitive flesh until you were twitching and moaning, your hands fisting in the sheets. Only then did he crawl up the bed, his lips and chin glistening, and press a kiss to your forehead.

"There she is," he whispered, thumb brushing away a tear you hadn't realized you'd shed. "Perfect little thing."

Your body was a trembling sea of aftershocks, floating in a haze of endorphins and praise. Euijoo’s gentle kiss on your forehead felt so sweet and searing. You could feel him shift beside you on the bed, his weight dipping the mattress.

From the other side, a low, appreciative chuckle broke through the heavy silence. You turned your head to see Jaeyun. His own need was evident in the tight line of his jaw and the heat in his eyes. He was leaning against your headboard, having shed his shirt at some point you couldn’t remember.

“Look at her.” Jaeyun said, his voice rough. He reached out, his fingers tracing a path from your knee up your inner thigh, a touch that was both an angelic caress and a possessive claim. “Absolutely ruined. And we’ve barely even started, baby.”

Euijoo propped himself up on an elbow beside you, his gaze moving from your dazed face down your splayed, spent body. “She took it so well, didn’t she?” he mused, his tone one of proud admiration. “Just like she wrote she would.” He chuckled, “Our smart girl, yeah?”

The reminder of your own words, of the script they were now following, sent a fresh, dizzying thrill through you. You were living your own story. 

And fuck did the line where reality and fiction blend feel like taking nectar in your tongue.

Jaeyun’s hand slid higher, his thumb brushing through the wetness Euijoo had left behind. You jolted at the contact, still impossibly sensitive. “Think she’s ready for more?” he asked Euijoo, though his eyes never left yours.

Euijoo’s hand came to rest on your stomach, a warm, heavy weight. He leaned down, his lips grazing your ear. “That’s the question, honey,” he murmured, the petname a velvet command. “You gave us two beautiful, perfect little gifts. But we’re not done, are we?”

He pulled back to look at you, waiting for an answer. Your mind was foggy, your body pliant and humming. All you could do was shake your head weakly. Not done at all.

Jaeyun’s smile was sharp as he moved, swinging his legs off the bed to stand. You heard the soft sound of his belt buckle clinking, “Good.” He said, his voice dropping into a deeper register. “Because we’ve been sharing you so nicely, I think it’s time you felt what that’s really like.”

Euijoo pressed another kiss to your temple before moving as well. He sat up, his back against the wall, and patted his thigh. “Come here, doll. Let’s get you comfortable.”

With trembling limbs, you let him guide you, pulling you up to straddle his lap, your back to his chest. He wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you securely against him. From this vantage point, you watched Jaeyun finish undressing, the intent in his movements clear and devastating.

“Remember what you wrote about sharing, clever girl?” Euijoo whispered into your hair, his hands smoothing over your hips. “About being ours?” You could only nod, your breath catching as Jaeyun approached the bed, his gaze burning into you.

“Time to make it real,” Jaeyun said, his voice a soft rumble as he kneeled on the mattress before you. He reached out, tilting your chin up with a finger. “You’re doing so well. Just keep being good for us.”

The shift in position was fluid, almost choreographed—Jaeyun guiding you onto your side, his body molding against your front as his arm wrapped around your waist. His chest was warm against your back, or rather, your front against his, and you felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his jeans. Behind you, the mattress dipped as Euijoo settled in, the heat of his body sealing against your spine.

"Comfortable, doll?" Euijoo's breath ghosted over the back of your neck, and you shivered, nodding weakly.

Jaeyun's hand slid down your stomach, fingers grazing your hypersensitive clit, making you jolt. "She's more than comfortable," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "She's perfect. Ready for us, honey?"

Before you could answer, Euijoo's hand found your hip, guiding your leg back, opening you up to him. You felt the blunt head of his cock pressing against your slick folds, not entering, just teasing, sliding through your wetness. At the same time, Jaeyun aligned himself with your entrance, his tip nudging against your opening.  You never knew the both of them to be so mean, but fuckkkk did it feel so good.

"Who do you think will make her cum first?" Euijoo's voice was low, his lips brushing your ear.

Jaeyun chuckled, the sound vibrating against your chest. "She's already cum twice from my fingers and your mouth. But inside? I think I've got this one, baby."

"Bet." Euijoo said, and before you could process the word, he pushed inside you in one slow, steady thrust.

The sound you made was broken, a high keen that turned into a gasp as Jaeyun entered you at the same time, filling your other hole with equal slowness. For a moment, you were suspended between them, stretched so fucking full in both ways, the sensation overwhelming—too much and not enough, a perfect, aching fullness that made your eyes roll back back back.

"Oh—fuck! nghhh…” you heard yourself whimper, your voice thin and wrecked. You felt like a sinner in church and an angel roaming Eden all at once. But what thoughts were even required when both of their cocks inside you had your brain going quiet for once?

"That's it, honey." Jaeyun breathed, his forehead pressing against yours. His hips were still, letting you adjust, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your waist. "Take your time. We've got you."

Behind you, Euijoo let out a low groan, his fingers digging into your hip. "Fucking hell doll, you're so tight. Squeezing me like you were made for this."

“She is made for this, yeah?” Jaeyun said, his warm breath tickling your skin. 

They stayed still for a long moment, letting you feel the stretch, the heat, the weight of both of them buried inside you like roots in earth. Your breath came in ragged pants, your body trembling between them; the fullness was maddening, a deep pressure that made your head spin.

Then Jaeyun moved, pulling back out halfway and thrusting back in, a slow stroke that had your mouth falling open. Euijoo followed his rhythm, withdrawing and pushing back in counterpoint—one sliding out as the other slid in, creating a continuous wave of sensation that built with every movement.

"Oh, oh, oh—" The sounds fell from your lips unbidden, broken and desperate, a lamb on the altar begging to have her pretty throat be marked red.

"Listen to her," Euijoo muttered, his pace quickening. "Listen to those pretty sounds. She's been so quiet all semester, and now look at her."

Jaeyun's hand found your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, a sheen of sweat on his brow. "Yeah, honey. Let us hear you. Let everyone in the hall hear what we're doing to you."

They fell into a punishing rhythm, each driving into you with increasing urgency. It wasn't gentle—it was rough, demanding, but the way Jaeyun kept brushing the hair from your face, the way Euijoo pressed open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder—fuck for a moment, it made you feel like they actually cared. 

"Who's gonna make you cum first, baby?" Euijoo growled, his pace quickening. His hand slid around your hip, fingers finding your clit and pressing hard. "Me or him?"

Jaeyun answered by driving deeper, hitting a spot that made you cry out. "Her pussy's squeezing me like she's close. Come on, honey, cum for me. Beat him to it."

The competition spurred them both, each trying to outdo the other—Jaeyun fucking you harder, Euijoo's fingers working your clit faster, their words blurring into a stream of praise and encouragement. You were caught between them, unable to think, unable to do anything but feel as they used your body for their race. And you did not give a single fuck about anything else at that moment. 

"Fuck, she's clenching around me," Jaeyun groaned. "She's close, she's so close—"

"Cum for us, doll," Euijoo demanded, his thrusts growing sloppy. "Cum with me. Now."

Your orgasm cracked through you like lightning, sudden and violent, tearing a scream from your throat that was muffled by Jaeyun's mouth crashing against yours. Your body convulsed between them, waves of pleasure ripping through you as your walls clamped down around both of them.

"That's it, that's it, fuck—" Jaeyun's hips stuttered, and you felt him spill inside you, hot and thick, his groan swallowed by the kiss.

Behind you, Euijoo followed, his body tensing as he buried himself deep, a guttural sound escaping his throat as he came. His hand never stopped pressing against your clit, riding you through the aftershocks until you were sobbing, tears streaming down your cheeks, your body limp and trembling.

When it was over, the only sounds were heavy breathing and your quiet, hiccupping sobs. Euijoo pulled out gently, collapsing behind you, while Jaeyun eased out with a wince, his hand immediately coming up to wipe the tears from your face.

"Hey, hey," he murmured, his voice soft now, all the roughness gone. "You okay, honey? Was that too much?"

You shook your head, unable to form words, tears still leaking from your eyes. Euijoo's arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against his chest, sandwiching you between them.

“Yeah she’s alright. Just sore yeah?” Euijoo said, his lips pressing to the back of your head. "That means we did our job right."

Jaeyun laughed, a breathless, satisfied sound, and pressed a kiss to your nose. "Told you she was perfect. Look at her, pretty little thing.”

You lay there, cocooned between their bodies, the warmth of them surrounding you as the tears dried on your cheeks and your breathing slowly steadied. Nothing in your life had ever felt like this. Nothing had ever come close.

And you knew that nothing ever would for the foreseeable future.

__________________

Three days.

Three days of aching muscles, of tender reminders every time you shifted in your chair or climbed the stairs to your dorm. A delicious, secret soreness that made you blush whenever you remembered its source. 

You’d missed Intro to Psych on Monday, texting your professor a vague excuse about a migraine. An hour later, there was a soft knock on your door. It was Jaeyun, holding a neatly bound set of notes and a small white pastry box from the expensive French bakery downtown.

“Compliments of the house,” he’d said, his smile easy but his eyes holding a familiar, knowing heat. “Euijoo sends his regrets. He’s…tied up with family.”

Inside the box were two perfect, flaky pain au chocolat. The apology was unspoken but clear, and it made your stomach flutter. They’d wrecked you, and then they’d brought you pastries. The absurd domesticity of it was almost more overwhelming than the night itself.

Now, it’s Wednesday afternoon. You’re in the library, tucked into a secluded carrel on the third floor, the quiet hum of study around you. The scent of old paper and lemon-scented wood polish filled the air. Biology 201 notes were spread before you, but they might as well be hieroglyphics.

Because Jaeyun was here.

Euijoo, true to his word, was at a family function so it was just you and Jaeyun. He’d suggested the library with a perfectly straight face, citing the need for a “distraction-free environment.” The irony was a breathing thing between you.

He was sitting right beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours whenever he turned a page. For the first twenty minutes, he was the picture of academic focus, explaining enzymatic pathways with his usual patient clarity. But then his hand, which had been resting on the table, found its way to the back of your chair. As always. 

His fingers began to play with the ends of your hair, idly twisting a strand around his index finger. The touch was casual, almost absent-minded, but it sent a jolt of awareness straight down your spine. You tried to focus on the diagram of a mitochondria.

“You’re not following,” he murmured, his voice low so as not to carry in the quiet library.

“I am.” You whispered back, your eyes glued to the page.

“Mmhmm.” His fingers left your hair and for a second, you thought you were safe. Then his hand dropped below the solid wood of the table, out of sight of any wandering eyes, coming to rest on your thigh, just above your knee. Of course it had to be the one day you wore a skirt. 

Jaeyun didn’t move for a long moment, just let his hand sit there; then his fingers began to stroke a gentle, up-and-down caress along the inner seam of your jeans—a chaste touch through the thick fabric. 

“Jaeyun…” You breathed out, a desperate, quiet plea.

“Shh,” he hushed you, his face the picture of scholarly concentration as he looked at your textbook. His hand slid higher, his thumb now pressing in a slow circle against the sensitive muscle of your inner thigh. 

You whimpered, the sound swallowed by the vast, quiet room. The words were blurring, all you could feel was the relentless stroke of his hand, moving steadily higher.

Jaeyun leaned in closer, his lips almost brushing your ear, his breath warm. “You’re thinking about it again, aren’t you?” he whispered, the words a secret just for you. His fingers reached the juncture of your thighs and pressed, a firm pressure.

Your whispered "yes" was barely audible, but Jaeyun's eyes darkened with something that made your stomach flip. He closed your textbook with a soft thud, slid it into his bag, and stood, extending his hand to you.

"Come on.” He said, his voice calm and collected, as if he asked you to follow him to the library's storage room every day. Not like you would have minded if he asked everyday.

You took his hand, your legs unsteady as he led you through the maze of shelves until you reached a narrow door tucked between two towering bookcases. He pushed it open, revealing a small storage area—old filing cabinets, boxes and a single dim bulb casting weak light over the cramped space. The door clicked shut behind you, and suddenly the world outside ceased to exist.

Jaeyun turned to face you, backing you against the wall until your shoulders pressed against the cold metal of a filing cabinet. His hands found your waist, gripping the hem of your skirt, bunching the fabric in his fists.

"You've never done this before, have you, honey?" He asked, but it wasn't really a question. His thumb traced your lower lip, pressing slightly. You shook your head, heat flooding your cheeks.

“That’s ok, I’ll teach you, hmm?” He smiled, a soft, almost tender expression that contrasted sharply with the hunger in his eyes. "Just do exactly what I say, and you'll be perfect."

Jaeyun guided you down, his hands gentle but firm on your shoulders until you were kneeling on the dusty floor, the cold tile seeping through the fabric of your skirt. He stood over you, tall and imposing, and you watched as his hands moved to his belt, unbuckling it with slow movements.

"Open your mouth," he instructed, his voice low.

You obeyed, parting your lips. He pulled himself free, his cock already hard and straining, the tip brushing against your lower lip. The taste of salt and skin hit your tongue before you'd even taken him in.

"Good girl.” He breathed, and then he fed himself into your mouth, one slow inch at a time.

The sensation was overwhelming—the weight of him on your tongue, the stretch of your lips around his girth, the musky taste of him flooding your senses. Your hands flew up to grip his thighs for balance, and you felt the muscles jump under your fingers.

"That's it…fuckkk…” He groaned, his head falling back. "Just like that. Let me feel that pretty mouth."

His hand found the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, and he began to guide you, setting a slow rhythm that had you bobbing your head against his hips. You tried to relax your throat, to take him deeper, but the instinct to gag fought against your willingness.

"You can take more," he murmured, his voice strained now, losing its composed edge. "Relax your throat for me.” You tried, focusing on the instruction, and when you managed to take him a little deeper, his whiny groan was your reward.

"Fuck yes…ohhhh..” Jaeyun hissed, his grip tightening in your hair. "You're doing so well, baby. So fucking perfect on your knees."

His hips began to move, a shallow thrust that pushed him deeper into your throat, and you felt tears prick at your eyes as you struggled to accommodate him. But the taste of his approval, the sound of his voice breaking for you—it drove you forward, made you want to be better, want to make him feel as good as he made you feel.

"Close.” He panted, his rhythm faltering. "I'm so close, honey. Where do you want it?" You couldn't answer with your mouth full, but you looked up at him, eyes wet and pleading, and he seemed to understand.

Jaeyun pulled out abruptly, his hand moving to stroke himself twice, three times, before he spilled across your lips and cheeks—hot, thick ropes of cum that painted your skin. The sight of you, kneeling before him with his release marking your face, made him groan again, his chest heaving.

"Fuck.” He breathed, staring down at you. "That's the prettiest thing I've ever seen." He crouched down, using his thumb to wipe a stripe of cum from your cheek and bring it to your lips. "Taste it," he instructed. You parted your lips and let him feed it to you, the bitter taste filling your mouth.

"One more," he said, his voice already thick with renewed arousal. "You can give me one more, can't you?"

You nodded, your throat raw but eager, wanting to feel him in your mouth again and again again. Cock drunk slut, you thought to yourself. Jaeyun smiled, a sharp, possessive curl of his lips, and guided your mouth back to him. He was already hardening again, sensitive and swollen, but he didn't hesitate to push himself past your lips.

This time, he was less patient, less gentle. You’d learn your lesson, time to put it to the test right? His hand fisted in your hair, holding you in place as he fucked your throat with shallow thrusts. Each push made you gag, tears streaming down your cheeks, but the noises he made—the desperate, whiny gasps that fell from his lips like angelic choruses—were worth every second of discomfort.

"Fuck, your mouth is—hah—so good…”groaned, his hips stuttering. "Such a good little cocksucker. Taking it so well for me."

Your hands clutched at his thighs, nails digging into the denim as he used you, chasing his second release with single-minded focus. The sounds you made were wet, obscene, gurgling around his length, and the shame of it only made the heat between your thighs burn hotter.

"Look at me," he demanded. You forced your tear-blurred eyes up to meet his. "Watch me cum for you again."

And then he was spilling down your throat, hot and thick, a broken moan tearing from his lips as he emptied himself into your mouth. He held you there, his cock twitching against your tongue, until the last wave passed.

When he finally pulled out, you slumped forward, your forehead pressing against his thigh, chest heaving as you gasped for air. Your throat burned, your jaw ached, and your face was a mess of tears, drool, and cum.

But when he crouched down, cupping your face in his hands and wiping away the mess with gentle thumbs, you felt nothing but a warm, glowing gratitude.

And also the urge to do this a hundred times over.

_____________

It really seemed to be a sort of schedule at this point—a ritual of horniness even. 

If Jaeyun got you coffee one day, Euijoo would get it for you the next day. If Euijoo fixed the ribbon in your hair in the morning, Jaeyun would brush dust off your shoulder in the evening.

So if Jaeyun had taught you how to use those pretty little lips of yours, Euijoo had to teach you something too?

Which is how you ended up in the situation you were in.

To be fair, it had been fairly Jaeyun’s fault. After all, nobody told him to get crap drunk and pass out in the middle of the day, completely forgetting the fact that they’d invited you over to the frat building for tutoring in view of your usual library being closed. 

So after being invited in by Jungwon and being told to wait in the kitchen while Euijoo came back from class (he’d also told you all about his pet cactus in the meanwhile before Fuma dragged him off by the collar of his shirt), you were finally sitting in his. Alone. With him. Yeah, completely survivable situation.

It was neater than you’d expected—books arranged by subject and color on a shelf, a single succulent thriving on the windowsill, the scent of clean laundry and his cologne—something crisp and subtle with a hint of sandalwood. The door was closed, muffling the distant sounds of a video game and shouting from elsewhere in the house.

You’d set up at his small desk, your biology textbook open to a chapter you were not interested in. Euijoo had pulled his desk chair right beside yours, his arm brushing yours as he leaned over the page.

For the first fifteen minutes, it was productive. He was nodding along to all your explanations, tracing his fingers over the particularly harder sections and chuckling whenever you made some ridiculous analogy to explain. But then his gaze, always so careful and respectful, drifted. 

It landed on the V-neck of your shirt, on the sliver of skin and the hint of lace-edged cleavage the dip of the fabric revealed.  Had you worn this top on purpose? Of course not. But with the way your inner thighs were heating up at the moment, the way you were sitting, the subtle arch of your back—it all felt like a swan dance to seduce him.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just…..looked. His pen, which had been tapping a rhythm on the page, stilled. The atmosphere in the room shifted, growing thicker and warmer.

“This is a complex system,” You said, trying not to let your voice waver. His finger came to trace a line on the textbook, but his eyes lifted to yours as you continued. His gaze dropped back to your chest, lingering.

“Explain it again?” He asked, though his eyes never seemed to go to the actual words on the page. Euijoo’s voice was so rough and low pitched now, practically a growl that your breath hitched. 

He reached out then, not for you, but for the pencil cup on his desk, selecting a pen, his movements slow. As he pulled his hand back, the back of his knuckles grazed the upper swell of your breast, just above your shirt’s neckline. The touch was fleeting, accidental in its choreography but devastating in its effect. A bolt of pure, liquid heat shot straight to your core. You flinched, a tiny, involuntary jump.

A faint, knowing smile touched his lips. “Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. He went back to the textbook, pointing at a paragraph, “Can we do this again?” 

But you couldn’t even answer him. He shifted in his chair, turning his body more towards you, his knee pressing against yours under the desk, “I don’t think I get this part, principle of concentration or whatever.”

Euijoo was looking at your mouth, then your eyes, then back at the revealing dip of your shirt. The academic pretense was a thin, shimmering veil now, and you were both watching it dissolve.

The scent of him—that clean sandalwood and something uniquely, essentially Euijoo—enveloped you. His hand came up again, but this time there was no pretense of reaching for a pen. His fingertips brushed the column of your throat, then drifted down, skimming the sensitive skin just above the neckline of your shirt. You stopped breathing.

“Euijoo,” you managed, a weak protest that sounded more like a plea.

“Yes, doll?” he asked innocently, his fingers pausing, his thumb now stroking a hypnotic little circle on your collarbone. “What is it?”

This handsome asshole. 

“You know, Jaeyun told me something interesting.” He leaned in even closer, his lips beside your ear.

His breath was warm. “Taught you how to use that pretty little mouth, hmm?” He murmured, the words a soft, sinful secret. “I think it’s my turn to teach you something else, don’t you think darling?”

His hand finally slipped past the barrier of your shirt, his palm curving over the lace of your bra, cupping you fully. You gasped, arching into the touch despite yourself.

Euijoo hummed, a sound of deep approval. His thumb found your nipple through the lace and rubbed, slow and firm. “Learning pretty quick, aren’t you doll?”

So that was how you’d ended up in the position you were currently in. Sitting comfortably on his lean waist, while his hands gripped your hips as he looked up at you with a look of worship in his eyes. Like you’d become his new deity to shower praise upon. 

The offer had slipped out so casually, like he was asking if you wanted another cup of coffee. “Let’s take some of that stress off, yeah?” Euijoo had said, his voice low and steady, eyes fixed on yours with that intense focus. Your mouth had gone dry, but you'd nodded before your brain could catch up with your body. 

Now here you were, perched on his waist, his bed creaking softly beneath the two of you. He'd stripped off his shirt somewhere between the desk and the mattress, leaving him in just a loose pair of grey sweats that did nothing to hide how much he wanted you. His hands found your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft skin just above the waistband of your skirt.

"You're so pretty," he breathed, looking up at you like you were something sacred. "God, look at you. Sitting on me like you own me." Your hands braced against his chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath warm skin. His heart was racing—you could feel it hammering against your palms.

"You need to take this off, doll.” Euijoo said, fingers hooking into the hem of your pink shirt. "Can't teach you properly with it in the way."

You let him pull it over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him without a second glance. His eyes dropped to your chest, and the sharp inhale he took made heat pool low in your belly.

"Fuck," he whispered. "Can I touch them, pretty?"

You nodded, and his hands were on you instantly, cupping the weight of your breasts through the thin fabric of your bra. His thumbs traced over your nipples, already hard and sensitive, and you gasped at the contact.

"Please…" you managed, the word barely a whisper.

Euijoo's fingers found the clasp of your bra with practiced ease, and soon the garment joined your shirt on the floor. The cool air hit your bare skin for half a second before his mouth was on you, lips wrapping around one nipple while his hand worked the other. You cried out, your hips bucking forward against his stomach. The pressure was perfect, his tongue flicking against the sensitive peak while his thumb rolled the other between his fingers.

"That's it," he murmured against your skin, switching to give the other breast the same attention. "God, your tits are perfect. Been thinking about them all week."

"How long?" you gasped, fingers threading through his hair.

"Since the first time you wore that pretty little pink top," he admitted, lips trailing up your chest to your collarbone. "Couldn't focus on a single thing you said.”

You should have been embarrassed, but the confession only made you wetter, made you grind down against his hard length with more desperation. The friction through his sweats was maddening, not nearly enough. Euijoo's hands guided your movements, showing you how to rock your hips against him, how to find a rhythm that made his eyes roll back.

"Feel that? Feel what you do to me, doll?" he asked, voice strained. "You nodded, focusing on the motion, on the way his cock pressed against you through the layers of clothing. It wasn't enough, you needed more.

"I want—" you started, but the words caught in your throat.

"I know what you want," he said softly, his hands sliding down to grip your ass. "But you have to ask nicely, baby.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, but the ache between your thighs overpowered any shyness. "I want you inside me. Please, Euijoo."

"Yeah?" His voice was thick, almost reverent. "You wanna ride me, sweet girl?”

"Yes, please, please—"

The sudden tightening of his hands settled on your hips told you everything you needed to know. Jealous, jealous Euijoo, how dare Jaeyun have you alone before him? His thumbs pressed into the jut of your hip bones, grounding you, holding you steady as you hovered above him.

"Then take what's yours," he breathed, the words barely a whisper but he heard them. 

Your fingers, trembling with need, fumbled for the waistband of his grey sweats. The fabric was soft, worn, and the simple intimacy of undressing him like this sent another jolt of heat through you. He didn't help, just watched you with heavy-lidded intensity, his chest rising and falling in a quickened rhythm.

You hooked your thumbs under the elastic and the thin cotton of his boxers beneath, pushing them down in one urgent motion. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip, straining upwards against his stomach. The sight stole the air from your lungs, he was so painfully and beautifully hard for you.

"Look at you," Euijoo murmured, his voice rough with awe and impatience. "So pretty for me.” 

"Slow," he instructed, his voice low and controlled, nothing like the breathless, whiny sounds Jaeyun had made in the library. Euijoo was so very attractively calm. "Lower yourself onto me slowly, doll.”

You positioned yourself, the blunt, hot head of him nudging against your soaked entrance. A shuddering breath escaped you. You already felt so full in a way that felt like coming home. Your hands braced against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your palms. You whined high as you sank down, inch by inch, the stretch of him filling you in a slow, burning glide that made your vision blur. His fingers tightened on your hips, a sharp inhale escaping through his nose. 

"Good girl…" he breathed. "Just like that. Take all of me."

When you were fully seated, his pelvis flush against yours, you stilled, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. He was so deep inside you, hitting a spot that made your thighs tremble. He let you adjust, his thumbs stroking soothing circles into your skin.

"Now," he said, his voice patient, almost gentle, "roll your hips baby, take it slow.”

You tried, moving your hips in an awkward circle, and his hands guided you, showing you the rhythm. His grip was firm, correcting your angle, tilting your pelvis until the motion felt natural. The friction was maddening, his cock dragging against your walls with every slow rotation.

"There," he murmured, satisfaction lacing his tone. "You're learning so well doll."

Then his hands were on your skin, cupping the weight of your breasts in his palms, his thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, teasing passes. "Beautiful," he said, almost to himself. 

You moaned, your rhythm faltering as pleasure spiked through you. He pinched lightly, rolling the hardened peaks between his fingers, and your hips stuttered, grinding down harder against him.

"No," he corrected, his grip on your breast tightening just enough to make you gasp. "Don't change the pace. You can feel good and still follow instructions like a good doll."

You nodded, biting your lip, forcing your hips to return to that slow, rolling grind. He rewarded you by bowing forward, taking one of your nipples into his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue against the sensitive bud made you cry out, your fingers threading through his hair as he sucked and laved at your skin.

His hands never stopped moving. One stayed at your breast, kneading and squeezing, while the other slid down your side, gripping your ass to help guide your movements. His mouth switched to your other nipple, giving it the same attention, and you felt the coil tightening in your belly, hot and insistent.

"Euijoo…." you whimpered, your voice breaking.

"Not yet," he said, pulling back, his lips glistening. He looked up at you, his eyes sharp and focused. "I want you to cum with me. Can you do that, baby?" You nodded, desperate, willing to do anything he asked. "Then keep riding me. Just like this. Don't speed up."

The minutes stretched into an eternity of sensation—his hands on your breasts, pinching and teasing, the slow, torturous grind of your hips, the feeling of him buried so deep inside you that you couldn't tell where he ended and you began. The pleasure built in waves, each one higher than the last, until you were trembling on the edge, your breath coming in sobbing gasps.

"Now," he said, his voice strained, finally losing its composure. "Cum for me."

And you did. Your orgasm crashed through you, your back arching, a broken cry tearing from your throat as your walls clenched around him. He followed immediately, his hips bucking up into you as he spilled inside you, his groan low and guttural, his hands gripping your hips so hard you knew there would be bruises.

You collapsed forward, your forehead pressing against his, both of you breathing hard, sharing the same air. His hands softened, sliding up your back, holding you close as you trembled through the aftershocks.

Well there went another three days of losing all motor function in your legs.

And you were still going to ask him for another round.

_________________

It was almost funny how fast two months had passed by. 

Perhaps it felt like that because now, every other day you were being filled to the brim by either one of them or both of them at the same time. And to be honest, you were too thoroughly, blissfully fucked-out to even think about asking the infamous ‘what are we’ question. The answer, in every touch and whispered praise, felt obvious: you were theirs. Their perfect girl. 

The proof was in your grades. The final biology exam results had been posted, and you’d passed with flying colors, a crisp ‘A’ gleaming beside your student ID. The more surprising—or perhaps not surprising at all—revelation was that Euijoo and Jaeyun had also scored remarkably high. Jaeyun, who’d claimed to be “barely passing” before, had landed a solid A. Euijoo, predictably, had aced it with an A+. They’d celebrated your collective success that night in Euijoo’s room, their congratulations taking a deeply physical and profoundly satisfying form.

But that had been a week ago. A long, torturous, dry week.

How rude.

Since turning in their final projects, both of them had become suddenly, maddeningly busy with “end-of-semester logistics” for their frat. Brief, distracted texts, apologies muttered through yawns when you saw them in passing, a peck on the cheek that felt brotherly at this point—it was infuriating. The constant, humming attention you’d grown addicted to had vanished, leaving you twitchy and empty.

You were frustrated, more than frustrated—you were a live wire of neglected need. And tonight, they were throwing a party to mark the end of exams. Revenge, you decided, was a dish best served looking utterly devastating.

That was why you were standing in front of your full-length mirror, critically examining your reflection. The dress was baby pink, a shade so innocent it bordered on absurd. The fabric was soft and clingy in a way that left exactly nothing to the imagination. 

It was shockingly short, the hem brushing mid-thigh only if you stood perfectly still. The neckline was a deep, sweetheart cut that showcased the swell of your breasts, and the back? The back was practically non-existent, a few strings holding it together. You’d paired it with the highest, most precarious strappy heels you owned.

You looked like a confection, a delicious, bite-sized, walking sweet cherry pie.

A slow, determined smile spread across your lips. Let them be “busy.” Let them try to have a meeting, organize a party, do anything at all while you walked in looking like this. You knew their tells—the way Jaeyun’s jaw would tighten, the way Euijoo’s eyes would darken and track your every move like a predator. You were going to remind them exactly what they’d been neglecting. And you were going to make them beg to fix their mistake.

With a final, satisfied nod at your reflection, you grabbed your small clutch. The party was just starting and it was time to make an entrance.

______________

“You’re going to spill your drink.”

“I’m going to light this house on fire.”

The bass from the sound system pulsed through the floorboards of the frat house, a physical thrum in the air. The party was in full, chaotic swing—bodies packed tight, laughter spilling over the music, the sharp tang of cheap beer and sweat cutting through the usual scent of pine cleaner and boyish neglect.

You’d made your entrance. A ripple had gone through the crowd near the door when you walked in, a subtle shift in attention you felt like a physical touch. 

You’d caught sight of Jaeyun first, over by the keg, laughing with a couple of his brothers. His eyes had found you, and the laugh died on his lips. His gaze had traveled from your face, down the scandalous plunge of your neckline, over the sinful shortness of your skirt, all the way to your treacherous heels. His expression had shifted from surprise to something hot and intense, his grip tightening on his red plastic cup. 

Euijoo had been beside him, leaning against the wall, looking effortlessly cool in a black tee. His reaction was quieter, but no less potent. His eyes had narrowed, his head tilting slightly as he took you in, a slow, unreadable mask settling over his features. You’d given them a small, breezy smile—a mere flick of acknowledgment—and then deliberately turned away, melting into the crowd without a word.

That had been twenty minutes ago. Now, you were on the makeshift dance floor in the living room, the space cleared of furniture.

And you were dancing with Fuma, his hands respectfully placed on your waist as you moved to the beat. You were leaning in close to hear him over the music, laughing at something he said, your hand resting lightly on his shoulder. You knew exactly how you looked: the pink fabric clinging to every curve, the dim light catching the sheen of your skin, your head thrown back in a laugh that was just for him.

From across the room, near the archway to the kitchen, two pairs of eyes were burning holes into you.

“You’re going to spill your drink,” Euijoo said flatly, his voice barely audible over the music. He wasn’t looking at Jaeyun; his gaze was locked on the way Fuma’s thumb was stroking a tiny, infuriating circle on the bare skin of your waist.

Jaeyun didn’t even glance at his cup. His knuckles were white around it. “I’m going to light this house on fire.”

Euijoo finally tore his eyes away, cutting a sharp look at his friend. “She didn’t even say hello. Walked in here looking like…..like that,” he hissed, “and didn’t even come over.”

“She saw us,” Jaeyun growled. “She looked right at me and smiled like I was a fucking stranger.” 

He took a savage gulp of his beer, his eyes tracking your every move. The way your dress rode up when you swayed, the flash of your thigh, the way the neckline threatened to spill its contents with every bounce. He was so hard it was painful, a relentless ache that had started the second you walked in and was now a throbbing, jealous fury. 

It was Fuma. Fuma who had always been their anchor in a storm, older and widely respected in the frat, someone that the both of them leaned on when things got too hard. But right now? All that stuff was going down the drain just at the sight of him pressed so close to you. The memory of Fuma being the one to tell them about you first was also hurting like a bitch. 

Euijoo watched as you whispered something in Fuma’s ear, saw the other man’s smile widen, a possessive snarl threatened in Euijoo’s chest. That was his ear to whisper into. His girl to make smile like that. “She’s doing this on purpose.”

“No shit,” Jaeyun spat. “A week of nothing, and now this?” He gestured violently with his cup towards you. “This is a fucking declaration of war.”

They both watched, helpless and seething, as Fuma leaned down to say something else, his lips too close to your hair. Your resulting laugh was bright and clear, a sound that used to be reserved for them in the quiet of a dorm room.

Euijoo’s jaw was clenched so tight it ached. The sight of you in that dress, on another man’s arm, moving with a confidence they’d coaxed out of you themselves…it was the most potent aphrodisiac and the most bitter poison he’d ever tasted. He wanted to tear you away from Fuma, throw you over his shoulder and carry you upstairs. He wanted to ruin you in that dress, mark every inch of skin it revealed so everyone would know exactly who you belonged to.

“She wants a reaction,” Euijoo said, his voice low and deadly calm.

Jaeyun’s smile was all sharp edges. “Oh, she’s gonna get one.”

___________

Any protest you might have mustered died in your throat, swallowed by the heady thrill of their focused, furious energy. They’d descended on you and Fuma like a pair of storms, their polite-but-icy smiles belying the fire in their eyes. 

A few terse words to a bewildered Fuma, a “she’s with us” that brooked no argument, and you were extracted from the dance floor and ushered through the chaotic party, up to the familiar sanctuary of their room.

The door clicked shut, sealing you in the sudden, profound quiet. The only sound was the ragged pull of three sets of lungs.

Now, you sat perched on the edge of Euijoo’s neatly made bed, your arms crossed tightly over your chest, doing your best impression of indifference. Your lower lip was pushed out in a defiant pout, your eyes wide and attempting to project wounded innocence, though the fire in them probably betrayed you. Your dress which had felt like armour downstairs, now felt flimsy and exposing under the twin spotlights of their gaze. 

Jaeyun and Euijoo stood side-by-side at the foot of the bed, a study in contrasting, coiled tension. Jaeyun’s earlier rage had condensed into a smoldering intensity, his eyes dark and hungry as they raked over you. Euijoo was deceptively still, his expression unreadable, but the air around him crackled with possessive intent.

For a long moment, they just looked at you, their gazes traveling over your defiant posture, the exposed length of your legs, the rise and fall of your chest.

“Well,” Jaeyun drawled, "Look who decided to join the party.” His voice was a low, rough scrape that sent a shiver straight down your spine. “And dressed for the occasion too.”

Euijoo’s lips quirked in a ghost of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Such sudden bravery, doll,” he murmured, taking a slow step closer. His gaze lingered on the desperate clutch of your arms over your chest, on the way the dress’s neckline strained with the motion. “Parading yourself downstairs, letting just anyone put their hands on you.” He tsked softly, “Real bold, sweetheart.”

Jaeyun’s smile was wolfish. He took a step closer, his eyes tracing the neckline of your dress. “You knew exactly what you were doing in that dress, didn’t you honey?”

You lifted your chin, refusing to answer, but a flush crept up your neck. Fuck why did they have to look like five course meals?

“Of course she did,” Euijoo answered for you, his tone almost conversational. He took a step to match Jaeyun, closing the distance. “Bet you wanted every man in that room to look at you didn’t you, pretty girl?” His voice dropped, filling with a raw, appreciative hunger. “But you know who you belong to hmm?” The praise, wrapped in sheer possessiveness, made your traitorous body hum.

You swallowed, the defiance in your posture softening into something more pliant under the heat of their combined stares. “I… I was just—”

“Just what, honey?" Jaeyun cut in, his voice deceptively soft. He was close enough now that you could smell the clean scent of his soap and the faint, lingering hint of beer. “Just reminding us what we’ve been missing?” He reached out, a single finger tracing the fluttering pulse at the base of your throat. “Trust me. We didn’t need a reminder. We’ve been thinking about you every damn second.”

Euijoo’s hand joined Jaeyun’s, his fingers gently but firmly prying one of your arms away from your chest. He laced his fingers with yours, pulling your hand down to rest on the rumpled duvet. The implication was clear, and a fresh wave of liquid heat pooled low in your belly. Your pout was gone, replaced by parted lips and breath that was coming a little too fast.

Jaeyun watched the transformation, a dark satisfaction in his eyes. “Since you were so…..creative with your little display tonight,” he said, his thumb stroking your captive hand, “we thought we’d get a little creative too.”

Euijoo’s free hand went to the pocket of his dark jeans. He pulled out a rectangular box, wrapped in simple matte black paper. “A little gift,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “From both of us.”

Your eyes widened, flicking between the box and his face. A gift? Now?

Agonizingly slowly, he unwrapped it, letting the paper fall to the floor. Nestled inside against a bed of black velvet was a vibrator. It was sleek, elegant and a soft, shimmering shade of pink that somehow perfectly matched your dress.

“Saw it last week,” Jaeyun explained, his gaze fixed on your reaction as he began to unbutton his own shirt, his movements lazy and deliberate, “Thought you’d like it, our little slut.”

Euijoo picked it up, his fingers curling around it familiarly. With a soft click, it hummed to life, a low, steady buzz that seemed to vibrate in the very air of the room. He held it up, the pink silicone catching the dim light. “Pretty, isn’t it?” he mused. “Just like you.”

As the persistent hum filled the silence, Jaeyun finally closed the last of the distance. He leaned over you, caging you against the headboard, and captured your mouth in a deep, claiming kiss. It was all tongue and teeth and a week’s worth of pent-up frustration, and you melted into it with a helpless whimper. His hands went to your dress, sliding it down your body.

“Let’s get you out of this, honey,” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with desire. “We’ve admired it long enough.”

Euijoo had you spread out on his bed in a matter of seconds, the vibrator humming against his palm as he watched you squirm around. God how horny was your brain? To not even have noticed the way they were handling you between them like a toy. 

"Look at you," he murmured, running the buzzing tip along your inner thigh, avoiding where you needed it most. "So needy already. And we've barely started."

You whimpered, your hips twitching, trying to chase the sensation. He clicked his tongue, pressing the vibrator flat against your thigh, holding it there until you stilled.

"No." He said, his voice patient but firm. "You don't get to decide when you feel good. I do."

He finally pressed the head of the vibrator against your clit, and you gasped, your back arching off the mattress. The sensation was sharp and immediate, pleasure flooding through you in waves. But just as you felt the familiar tightening in your belly, he pulled it away.

"No!" you whined, the sound pitiful and desperate, “Euijoooo….”

"Shhh," he soothed, trailing the toy down your stomach, over your hip, circling your navel. "You'll get there, doll. But not yet."

He did it again and again and again—pressing the vibrator against your clit, letting the pleasure build until you were teetering on the edge, then pulling it away. Each time, your body would shudder, your breath hitching, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

"Please," you begged, your voice breaking.

"Please what, doll?" He tilted his head, feigning ignorance. "Please let you cum? But you haven't earned it yet, have you?”

Your hands fisted in the sheets, your hips grinding against nothing. The room was filled with the wet sound of your arousal and the low hum of the vibrator, and you felt completely at his mercy.

After what felt like an eternity of teasing, Euijoo finally set the vibrator aside. He gripped your hips, pulling you toward him until you were sitting up, and then guided you onto his lap at the edge of the bed. His cock was hard beneath you, pressed against your ass, but he made no move to enter you.

"Good girl," he murmured, his hands settling on your waist. "Now stay."

You heard movement, and then Jaeyun was there, dropping to his knees in front of you. He looked up at you with that hungry, worshipful expression, his hands sliding up your thighs, pushing them apart.

"Jaeyun's going to make you feel good," Euijoo said against your ear, his breath warm. "And this time, you're going to let go. You're going to cum all over his face. Understand?" You nodded, your throat (and pussy) tight.

Jaeyun leaned in, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then the other. His tongue traced a slow path upward, and when he finally reached your folds, you cried out, your hips bucking forward. He didn't waste time—his tongue lapped at you, broad and flat, then focused on your clit, flicking and circling with practiced precision.

"Oh, god…." you gasped, your hands flying to his hair, gripping the strands, “Jaeyun! Fuck ohhhh…” Fuck it was like he’d mastered the art of female oral pleasure for centuries—the way he was eating you like a starved god. 

Behind you, Euijoo’s hands roamed your body, pinching your nipples, sliding down your stomach, gripping your hips to hold you steady. "That's it, doll. Let him eat you—bet you taste soooo good for him, don't you?"

Jaeyun moaned against you, the vibration sending sparks through your core. He devoured you, his tongue sliding inside you, then back to your clit, alternating between sucking and licking until you were a trembling mess.

The pleasure built faster this time, without the torturous pauses, but it was overwhelming, too much and not enough. You felt the pressure mounting, coiling tight in your lower belly, and you knew this time it would be different.

"Ju…" you sobbed, "Ju, I'm—I'm going to—"

"Let go," he commanded, his voice low and rough. "Cum for him, doll. Let it all go."

And you did. Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave, your body arching, a guttural cry tearing from your throat. But it didn't stop—it kept building, pushing past the peak, and you felt the release of something more, a hot gush of liquid that spilled from you as you shuddered and moaned.

Jaeyun didn't pull away. He drank it all, his tongue working through your climax, lapping at you as you squirted over his chin, his lips, his tongue. Your thighs clamped around his head, but he didn't stop, coaxing every last drop from you until you were limp, gasping, your body trembling uncontrollably.

Euijoo’s arms wrapped around you, holding you against his chest, pressing kisses to your shoulder. "Such a good girl," he whispered. "You did so well."

Jaeyun finally pulled back, his face glistening, a satisfied smirk on his lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, but his eyes never left yours.

“So fucking sweet, pretty girl." He said, his voice husky, “Sweet like honey, yeah?”

You were too spent to respond, your head falling back against Euijoo’s shoulder, your body humming with aftershocks. They held you between them, warm and possessive, and for a long moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing and the soft hum of the vibrator Euijoo had discarded on the bed.

You heard the rustle of fabric, then felt his hands on your ass cheeks, spreading them wide, cool air kissing your exposed holes. 

“Round two, pretty girl?” 

The words were fleeting in your ears, neither of them had the patience to wait for your answer. You asked yourself that question again: just how orgasm-drunk were you that you didn’t even protest the change in position? It was a matter of minutes before you found yourself in the position you were in. 

Did you really give a fuck? Nope—all you wanted was for your wet little pussy to be filled by her usual favourites. 

The bed creaked beneath you as Euijoo positioned himself behind you, his hands gripping your hips while you hovered over Jaeyun’s cock. Your thighs trembled, slick and ready, as Jaeyun’s hands found your waist, guiding you down.

"That's it, honey," Jaeyun breathed, his eyes locked on yours as you sank onto him, inch by inch. "Taking me so well."

A choked gasp escaped your lips as he filled you completely, the sensation spreading through your core, stretching you in a way that made your vision blur. Before you could adjust, Euijoo’s hands spread your cheeks, and you felt the blunt pressure of his cock pressing against your ass.

"You think you can take us both, doll?" His voice was low, dripping with challenge. "Or are you going to break on us?" You nodded, words failing you, your fingers digging into Jaeyun’s shoulders for support.

"Use your words," Euijoo said, slapping your ass hard enough to make you jolt. "I want to hear you say it."

"Yes," you gasped, your voice cracking. "Please, I can—I can take it."

Euijoo pushed in slowly, the pressure building until it became a dull, overwhelming ache, then a sharp fullness that made you cry out. Your body clenched around both of them, the dual intrusion too much and exactly what you needed.

"Fuckkkkk" Jaeyun groaned beneath you, his head falling back. "She's so fucking—hah—tight. Squeezing me like she's trying to milk me dry, yeah?”

"Because she's such a desperate little slut," Euijoo said, his voice softening into something almost affectionate, wildly in contrast to his words. "Aren't you, honey? Can't get enough of us filling you up."

You whimpered, your hips starting to move on instinct, rocking back against Euijoo while grinding down on Jaeyun. The rhythm came naturally, the three of you finding a pace that had your breath hitching and your body shaking.

Euijoo’s thrusts were so damn deep, each one hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl. Jaeyun met your movements from below, his hands gripping your waist, his hips snapping up to meet yours. They set a punishing rhythm, alternating their thrusts so that one was always filling you while the other pulled back, a mean oscillation. 

"Look at her…." Euijoo said, his hand tangling in your hair, pulling your head back. "Riding you like a good girl, taking my cock in her ass like she was made for it."

"Made for us," Jaeyun corrected, his voice strained, his eyes burning into yours. "Perfect little cocksleeve for both of us."

The pleasure built, coiling low in your belly, your moans turning into broken sobs as they fucked you from both ends. Every nerve in your body was alight, the sensation overwhelming, consuming.

"Please," you begged, not knowing what you were asking for. "Please, I'm—I'm going to—"

"Not yet," Euijoo said, slowing his thrusts, denying you the friction you craved. "You don't cum until we say you can."

Jaeyun followed his lead, stilling beneath you, leaving you suspended on the edge. A frustrated whine tore from your throat, your hips grinding uselessly against them.

"Please," you tried again, tears pricking at your eyes. "Please, I need—"

"I know what you need, doll." Euijoo’s voice was softer now, almost gentle. "You need to be good for us first. Can you do that? Be our good girl?" You nodded frantically, desperation clawing at your chest.

"Then cum for us," Jaeyun said, his hands sliding up your sides, cupping your breasts, thumbing your nipples. "Let go, honey. Let us feel you."

They started moving again, faster now, harder, driving into you with a relentless pace that had you seeing stars. The pleasure hit you like a wave, crashing over you as your first orgasm tore through your body. You cried out, your back arching, your walls clenching around them.

"Fuck, yes….." Euijoo groaned, his thrusts growing erratic. "That's it pretty girl, oh fuckkk squeezing me so good fuck…”

But they didn't stop. They kept fucking you through your climax, the overstimulation pushing you higher, building toward something even more intense.

"One more," Jaeyun commanded, his voice rough, breathless. "Give us one more, baby. I know you can."

"Please nghhh—I can’t " you sobbed, your body trembling, every nerve on fire. "I can't—"

"You can.” Euijoo said, his hand sliding down your stomach, his fingers finding your clit. "And you will."

He pressed down, circling the sensitive nub as they fucked you, and the second orgasm hit you before you could brace yourself. It ripped through you, harder and deeper than the first, your vision going white as you screamed, your body convulsing around them.

"Fuck—" Jaeyun's voice cracked as he came, his hips bucking, his cum flooding you. Euijoo followed a moment later, a guttural groan escaping his lips as he spilled inside your ass, his grip on your hips bruising.

The three of you collapsed together, tangled and breathless, your bodies slick with sweat and cum. Euijoo pulled out slowly, kissing your shoulder, while Jaeyun traced lazy patterns on your thighs.

"So fucking perfect," Jaeyun murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction.

"You did so well, doll." Euijoo added, his hand carding through your hair. 

You couldn't respond, your body humming with aftershocks, your mind blissfully blank. They held you between them, warm and possessive, and for a long moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing and the steady beat of their hearts against your skin.

Somewhere between the border of sleep (“Is she sleeping?” “Should we change her clothes or..?”), you had a fleeting thought. 

You were happy. Really happy.

Because somewhere along the way, the fear disappeared entirely—you stopped overthinking every text before sending it, stopped panicking when they touched your shoulder casually or leaned too close over your notes, stopped feeling like the quiet girl hidden in the second row of lectures. Somehow, without you noticing, the lonely little world you’d built around yourself had cracked open.

And standing in the middle of it were two boys who brought you coffee, listened to your rambling biology explanations, made you laugh when you forgot how, and looked at you like you were someone worth knowing. And fucked you crazy stupid too of course. 

The months you thought would destroy you had ended up changing your life instead. 

Funny how that worked.

Cause fuck were you into it.

fin. 

A/N: this is one of those fics where i genuinely felt myself lock in HARD and lowkey felt much melancholy when i finished it like this fic is my child ykwim. Never in my life did i think I'd ever write four smut scenes in one singular fic but hey my biases made me do it yay. Shoutout to Jaeyun and Euijoo edits for getting me through the hell of writing threesomes i will now go be their fucktoy byeee

divider by @honeyluvsw