Linnie

This is familiar. This is easy. You know the way his mouth moves, the way he always starts soft and then forgets himself. The way he chases you when you pull back to breathe, lips parting, eyes half-open and almost offended that you’d dare put distance between you.     

You tilt your head, kiss him again, slower this time. He makes a sound in his throat—quiet, pleased—and his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on your waist. You can feel the tension coil in him, the way his chest expands under your palms, the little hitch when you let your teeth graze his bottom lip before soothing the sting with your tongue.      

He tastes faintly like hot chocolate and something minty. You’d shared a mug an hour ago, knees knocked together on the coffee table, laughing at some ridiculous scene on screen. Now the mug is forgotten, abandoned on the coaster.     

“Hyun,” you murmur against his mouth, not really meaning anything by it. His name comes out as more exhale than word.    

“Mm,” he answers, equally articulate, and drags you a fraction closer.      

His hoodie is soft under your hands, but the strip of skin it doesn’t quite cover at his waist is warm, a different texture entirely. Your fingers slip lower, tracing the hem, feeling the way his muscles jump beneath your touch. You’ve been here a hundred times—on this couch, on his bed, in the backseat of his car on nights when you’re both too impatient to make it inside. There’s a well-worn path from “this” to “more”, a map your bodies know by heart.  

You start to follow it without thinking.    

Your hips shift, just a little. Just enough to settle more firmly over him, to close the last bit of space between your stomachs. The movement drags the seam of your leggings against him and you feel, very distinctly, the way his breath stutters. The hand at your back flexes. His fingers press into you like he’s grounding himself on your spine.    

You do it again, slow, barely there.   

This time the reaction is sharp. His jaw tightens. A sound escapes him, low and almost pained, and for a second you think, triumphantly—got you.   

Then he breaks the kiss.     

One moment his mouth is moving with yours, hot and open and eager; the next, his lips are gone and his forehead is pressed to your shoulder instead, breath gusting hot through the fabric of your shirt. His hands haven’t moved—he’s still holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slide off his lap if he lets go—but the rest of him has gone very, very still.      

You blink, dazed, heart thudding. It takes your brain a second to catch up with the fact that he’s not kissing you anymore.     

“…Hyunjin?” you say, after a beat.

He groans. Not sexy this time—just a long, miserable sound from somewhere deep in his chest.   

“Okay,” he says into your shoulder. “Okay. Wait.”   

You freeze. A tiny, cold flicker of something unpleasant touches the back of your neck. You sit back just enough to see his face, hands sliding up to frame his jaw.    

“Did I do something?” you ask, searching his expression. “If I hurt you or—”    

His eyes fly open. “What? No.” He looks horrified at the very idea. “No, no, you didn’t do anything. You’re—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, muscles working like he’s biting down on the rest. “…too much, actually. That’s the problem.”    

You stare at him. He looks wrecked in a way that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with whatever is going on inside his head. His hair is mussed from your fingers, his lips are pink and kiss-bruised, and there’s a faint flush high on his cheekbones. He also looks like he’s in physical pain.   

You’re not sure whether to be flattered or offended.    

“You kissed me first,” you point out, because you’re not above stating the obvious. “On my couch. With zero warning. While I was minding my business.”      

His mouth twitches like he wants to smile and can’t quite manage it. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “That part was extremely stupid of me.”     

“Okay, now I’m confused.”      

You tilt his face up a little more so he has to meet your eyes. He does, reluctantly, like a school kid being called on in class when he definitely did not do the homework.      

“Something happened today,” he says. “At the practice room. With the guys.”      

“Is this the setup to a horror story?”     

“Honestly?” He scrubs one hand over his face, fingers dragging through his hair. “Yes.”    

You wait. He watches your mouth for a second too long, then drags his gaze back up with visible effort.   

“Promise you won’t laugh?” he tries.   

“Absolutely not,” you say immediately.      

He winces. “Okay, but hold your laughter internally, at least.”  

“No promises.”    

He presses his lips together like he’s bracing for impact. “We made a bet.”   

Of course they did. You can already feel your eyebrows climbing.    

“Go on,” you say slowly. “What kind of bet?”      

He hesitates. Looks at the wall over your shoulder. The ceiling. Anywhere but your face. When he finally gets the words out, they’re muttered like he’s ashamed of them.     

“No Nut November.”     

Silence.      

You blink once. Twice. Somewhere in the apartment, the fridge hums. The drama on TV hits a particularly dramatic background music swell that feels almost intentional.      

“I’m sorry,” you say at last. “You’re going to have to say that again, because my brain auto-censored it.”  

He drags his gaze back to you, eyes wide, lips pushed out in a sulky little pout you’d find adorable if you weren’t so busy processing.    

“No Nut November,” he repeats, enunciating each word clearly like he’s in class. “You know. That stupid internet thing? We… monetized it.”     

“You—” You clamp your mouth shut, because the laugh is right there, bubbling in your chest. “You and the boys made a No Nut November bet.”    

He nods, miserable.  

“For money.”     

He nods again.            

“You voluntarily signed up,” you say slowly, “for thirty days of self-inflicted suffering. While you have a girlfriend. Who lives ten minutes away. Who you routinely climb like a tree the second you walk through the door.”      

His shoulders lift in the closest thing to a defensive shrug he can manage with you still on his lap. “When you say it like that it sounds dumb.”  

“That’s because it is dumb, Hyunjin.”      

“I know,” he says, defeated. “But there’s a cash prize.”      

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. “How much?”      

He tells you the number. It’s not nothing; they clearly took this seriously. You do the math quickly in your head and still can’t restrain your snort.      

“Hyun,” you say, softening despite yourself, “you’re already rich. That is, like, two pairs of shoes to you.”    

“It’s not about the amount,” he protests. “It’s the principle. And the bragging rights. And—” He pauses, eyes flicking down to your mouth before dragging back up again. “I was going to spend it on you.”      

That short-circuits your sarcasm for a second. “…What?”     

“If I win,” he says, pushing past his own embarrassment in a rush, “I’m taking you somewhere stupid romantic. Mountains, or a beach, or that resort you sent me with the heated pool and the really fluffy robes. The money we all put in would cover the whole thing. It’d be, like, a victory trip.”    

You blink. Your chest does an inconvenient little squeeze.    

“You could just… book that now,” you point out, a little more gently. “You don’t need a bet to take me on vacation.”     

He smiles, small and stubborn. “Yeah, but it feels different if I earn it. You know? Like, ‘look what I suffered through for us.’”    

You stare at him. At his earnest face, his messed-up hair, the way his hands are still sitting so carefully on your hips like you’re made of glass and temptation at the same time.      

“You are insane,” you decide, affection curling through the exasperation. “Romantic, but insane.”      

“Is that a yes to supporting my insane romantic quest?” he asks, hope creeping into his voice.      

You sigh, dramatically, just to watch his mouth twitch.       

“Let's recap,” you say. “You and your idiot bandmates shook hands on a no-sex, no-anything deal for the month, and you want me to be, what, your moral support? Your… chastity coach?”  

He laughs, finally, the tension in his shoulders easing by a fraction. “Please never call yourself that again.”  

“I’m serious.”      

“I know.” His fingers flex, thumb brushing the hem of your shirt, quickly pulling back like he forgot he wasn’t supposed to.

“It’s just us,” he adds, more carefully. “The boys. I’m not asking you to… sign a contract or anything.”

“How generous,” you deadpan.

“I’m serious,” he says, and he is. You can hear it—threaded under the teasing, under the mortification. “You don’t have to change anything. I’m the one who signed up for torture.”

“Then why,” you ask, narrowing your eyes, “do I feel like I’m about to get drafted anyway?”

He hesitates. It’s tiny, but you feel it, the way his hands tighten on your hips for half a second before he makes himself relax.

“Because,” he says slowly, “if you keep doing… that—”

“Doing what?” You blink at him, the picture of innocence. You are still in his lap. Your shirt is still slightly crooked. Your mouth still tingles from his.

His gaze drops from your eyes to your mouth, then lower, like his own body is answering the question for him. His tongue darts out, quick, almost nervous, before he catches himself.

“Existing like this,” he mutters, giving your waist the faintest, helpless squeeze. “Sitting on me. Making those little noises.” His voice dips, embarrassingly earnest. “Looking at me like that.”

You feel your cheeks warm. “I was literally just kissing my boyfriend.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Exactly.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. You want to be annoyed on principle—because you were very much enjoying yourself five minutes ago—but the way he’s looking at you makes it hard. 

You drop your hands from his jaw, smoothing them instead over his shoulders, down the line of his hoodie. He lets out a slow breath, like your touch isn’t making anything better, but he’s too gone on you to pull away.

“You’re really going to try,” you say.

“I am,” he says. And he means it. For all his dramatics, there’s steel underneath. “I have self-control. I can do this.”

You hum. “With me around?”

He turns his head, meets your gaze. That stubborn spark flares again. “Especially with you around.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Bold of you to say when you just almost combusted because I moved my hips an inch.”

His ears go pink. “That was… an adjustment period.”

“Mm.”

“Warm-up,” he insists. “I’ll get used to it.”

“You’ll get used to… not having sex with me,” you say flatly. “For a month.”

A shadow of uncertainty flickers across his face, there and gone. He swallows.

“Well, when you put it like that,” he says faintly.

You feel the tiniest, petty part of you preen at that. Because there it is, laid bare between you: it’s not sex in general he’s missing. It’s sex with you. It’s your laugh in his ear, your fingers in his hair, your teeth on his shoulder.

You drag your thumbs over his cheekbones, smoothing the faint flush you put there. “You know this is going to be harder on you than me, right?”

“How do you figure?” he asks, wary.

“You’re the clingy one,” you say. “You’re the one who turns every movie night into a makeout session. You’re the one who can’t sit next to me without holding something—my hand, my leg, my entire body.”

His mouth curves, despite everything. “You love it.”

“I do,” you admit. “Which is why I don’t understand why you’re doing this to yourself.”

“Because I’m competitive,” he says. “And stupid. And I like the idea of saying, ‘I survived No Nut November while dating you.’ It makes me sound strong.”

“Or deranged.”

You sigh, long and theatrical, and for a heartbeat his eyes soften like he thinks you’re actually upset. You’re not. Annoyed, a little. Wound up, definitely. But underneath it there’s a thread of fondness that won’t loosen no matter how hard you tug.

“Fine,” you say at last. “I will… attempt to support your deeply questionable life choices.”

His whole face lights up, relief washing over his features so visibly it almost knocks you back. “Really?”

“Really,” you say. “I will try not to sabotage you. I will not seduce you on purpose. I will, to the best of my ability, refrain from climbing into your lap at every opportunity.”

His gaze flicks down to where you are currently planted. “Starting when?”

You pause. Consider the logistics. Consider the way his hands tighten when you shift even a little, the way his pupils are blown wide already.

“…Tomorrow,” you say.

He laughs, bright and helpless. “You’re impossible.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately,” he agrees. “Yes.”

You lean in and press a quick, closed-mouth kiss to his lips—just a peck, nothing that could be construed as dangerous, even if he still chases it faintly when you pull back.

He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he said the words No Nut November out loud. His hands slide up your back, palms flattening between your shoulder blades, and he pulls you in, just enough to tuck you against his chest.

A few days pass, and for the most part, it’s… fine.

You see him in little pockets of time carved between schedules—quick coffee before practice when he’s already in sweats and a beanie, a rushed goodbye in the lobby when his manager honks from the curb, a FaceTime call with his hair still damp from the shower and his voice soft with sleep. The bet lives in the background of everything, like a bad inside joke. There’s a running tally in the boys’ group chat he shows you once, all ugly emojis and worse nicknames.

You make fun of him every time he mentions it. He rolls his eyes and kisses your forehead. It’s almost easy to forget that there’s a line between you now, even if it’s one he drew himself.

By the time Friday crawls around, you’re exhausted in a way that feels low and heavy. The kind of tired that turns your bones to sand. You spend the evening cleaning in lazy bursts—loading the dishwasher, half-folding laundry, wiping crumbs off the coffee table—and then give up around eleven, flopping onto the couch with a blanket and your phone.

He texts you sometime after that.

HYUNJIN: done late today 🥲 HYUNJIN: leaving now, might be closer to 2 HYUNJIN: don’t wait up if you’re tired okay

You send back a half-assed heart emoji and stubbornly decide you’re going to stay awake anyway.

You don’t.

Sleep sneaks up on you the way it always does—slow eyelids, heavier blinks, the show you were pretending to watch turning into background noise. You curl onto your side, phone slipping from your hand to the cushion, the apartment washed in the soft blue light of the TV. The last thing you remember is thinking you should get up and brush your teeth.

The next thing you’re aware of is the soft metallic click of your front door.

You surface slowly, in layers. The dimness of the room. The quiet shuffle of shoes being toed off. The low, familiar murmur of his voice as he whispers something to himself and drops his bag by the wall.

You don’t move right away. You’re warm and heavy under the blanket, lungs rising and falling in a slow rhythm. Footsteps pad across your floor. A shadow passes between you and the TV.

“Baby?” he says quietly.

You crack an eye open.

Hyunjin stands at the end of the couch, hoodie half-zipped, hair damp and curling around his forehead. There’s a mask hanging from one ear and a plastic bag looped around his wrist. The digital clock on your cable box informs you, unhelpfully, that it’s 2:14 a.m.

“You’re late,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.

He smiles, the kind of soft, crooked thing that makes the trip worth it. “Hi to you too.”

He sets the bag down on the coffee table carefully, like it’s precious cargo. Something inside clinks faintly—takeout containers and chopsticks knocking together. The smell hits a second later, warm and savory, oily in the best way.

Your stomach flutters in vague interest, but the rest of you is too tired to respond.

“I brought food,” he says, needlessly. “In case you were hungry.”

“ ‘M not,” you mumble, letting your eyes fall closed again. 

He glances at the phone wedged between you and the back cushion, screen dark. 

“I made it to…” You blink, brain scrambling for a landmark. “Some guy got slapped. Might’ve been episode one. Might’ve been a commercial.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re adorable.”

You feel the couch dip as he sits down near your feet, the springs sighing under his weight. The rustle of the plastic bag, the little rip as he tears open the knot. The sharp, plasticky snap of chopsticks split apart.

You peel your eyes open again, just enough to see him through your lashes.

He’s turned sideways, one knee up on the couch, container balanced on the coffee table in front of him. The screen light catches on his jaw, on the damp strands of hair clinging to his neck. He looks tired in that way you’ve learned to read—creases at the corners of his eyes, shoulders slumping for the first time all day—but there’s still a fizz of energy under his skin. The schedule high hasn’t completely worn off yet.

“You’re not going to sleep?” you ask.

“I’m starving,” he says around a mouthful of rice. “Also, I have news.”

You shift a little, tugging the blanket up under your chin. “Good news or stupid news?”

“Both,” he says cheerfully. “Han lost.”

That wakes you up more effectively than the smell of food.

“Already?” You blink at him. “It’s been, like… what, five days?”

“Four,” he says. “And it was technically last night, so three and some change.”

You snort. “What happened?”

He grins, eyes lighting up with the kind of glee reserved for watching your friends suffer consequences.

“Apparently he had a dream that started off all innocent and then—” Hyunjin makes an unhelpful, vague hand motion. “—turned into a lot of things very fast. Woke up already… you know.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Already?”

“That’s what he said.” Hyunjin shrugs, then takes another bite.

“So Han’s out,” you say, prodding. “What about you?”

His gaze flicks to you, amused. “I’m great.”

“You’re really going to sit there,” you say, “and claim this is easy?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Hasn’t been that bad so far.”

You study him, skeptical. He looks… okay, actually. Still a little keyed up from work, but not feral. His leg is bouncing a bit where his foot rests on the rug, but that might just be habit. His eyes skitter over you once—messy hair, oversized sleep shirt, blanket burrito—and then obediently return to his food.

“Huh,” you say. “So you weren’t lying about self-control.”

He pretends to preen, shoulders squaring. “Told you. Mind of steel. Also, practice has been insane. I barely have the energy to think about sex.”

You hum. “Must be nice.”

His mouth curves, just enough. “Are you suffering?”

You give him a flat look. 

He reaches over with his free hand, fingers searching blindly under the blanket until they find your ankle. His palm is warm where it closes over your skin, thumb rubbing absent circles over the bone. It’s casual, familiar, easy in a way that doesn’t immediately set your nerves on fire.

“Have you…” He trails off, lashes dipping as he looks down at the food again. “You know. Been okay?”

You tilt your head. “You mean, am I climbing the walls without your dick?”

He chokes on a grain of rice.

“Don’t say that while I’m chewing,” he wheezes, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. His grip on your ankle tightens in affronted self-defense. “I could’ve died.”

You smile, lazy and mean. “You walked into that.”

He recovers with a theatrical sigh, shoving another piece of chicken into his mouth like he needs to occupy it with something other than words.

You think about giving him a real answer. About the way your brain keeps replaying little moments from before the bet, about the heat that hums under your skin when he hugs you from behind, about the way you’ve caught yourself staring at his hands more than once this week. But he looks tired and proud of himself in the same breath, so you just shrug.

“It’s been… fine,” you say. “You’re busy. I’m tired. I’ve been mostly falling asleep before my brain has time to be annoying.”

He seems relieved by that, tension in his shoulders loosening a fraction.

“Good,” he says softly. “I didn’t want this to feel like—” He makes a face, searching for the word. “Like I’m withholding something from you.”

“You kind of are,” you say lightly. “But it’s consensual withholding, I guess.”

“Sexy,” he mutters. “Love when my girlfriend talks about things like a lawyer.”

You nudge his calf with your toe. “You’re the one who turned your sex life into a contract.”

“Don’t remind me.”

For a while, the apartment settles into a sleepy kind of quiet. The TV murmurs to itself in the background, all dim colors and looped soundtrack. Hyunjin eats, methodical and unhurried, and you watch him with half-lidded eyes, floating in that strange in-between space where you’re too tired to get up but not tired enough to sink all the way under again.

He looks at home here, in a way that makes your chest ache a little if you think about it too hard. His socks are mismatched—one black, one gray—and his hoodie rides up when he leans forward to grab another piece, exposing a sliver of pale skin at his waist. There’s a small stain on the cuff. His bag is half unzipped by the door, phone charger peeking out.

He catches you staring eventually.

“What?” he asks, chopsticks pausing halfway to his mouth.

“Nothing,” you say. “Just looking.”

“At my chewing?” he says doubtfully.

“At my boyfriend,” you correct.

The expression that crosses his face is almost comically soft. His shoulders drop, eyes going warm at the edges, mouth curving in that way that says you could ask for the moon and he’d at least google how to get it.

“Come here,” he says quietly.

“You’re already here,” you point out, but you scoot anyway, pushing yourself up and crawling the short distance until you’re within reach.

He abandons the food for the moment, wipes his fingers on a napkin, and lifts the blanket in invitation. You tuck yourself against his side, head finding the familiar spot on his shoulder, one leg thrown over his thigh. He settles an arm around you automatically, palm spreading over your upper arm, thumb tracing slow, soothing lines.

This isn’t new. You’ve done this a hundred times. In other months, on other nights, this is the position that leads to wandering hands, to his mouth finding yours, to something more tangled and breathless and messy.

Tonight, it doesn’t.

You feel the awareness of that hovering between you like a held breath. The way his fingers pause for half a second on your arm before resuming their pattern. The way his chest rises and falls under your cheek, maybe a bit deeper than usual.

“You’re being very well-behaved,” you murmur, eyes slipping closed again.

He huffs a soft laugh, the sound rumbling against your ribs. “I told you. I can do it.”

“This is only the beginning,” you remind him. “Don’t get cocky.”

You fall quiet after that, lulled by the steady motion of his hand and the low, steady noise of the TV. Sleep creeps up again, heavier this time. Your muscles go slack one by one, your thoughts dissolving into half-dreams. Somewhere above you, Hyunjin’s voice blurs into a comforting hum as he narrates his day.

Eventually, his words start to slow. He finishes the last bites of his food one-handed, sets the empty container back in the bag, and leans forward to tie it closed, careful not to jostle you too much.

When he settles back, you make a small, unconscious sound and burrow closer. His arm tightens around you automatically, his other hand coming up to smooth over the back of your head.

“Go to sleep,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’ve got you.”

You could say the same—about him, about this stupid bet, about the next three weeks that are going to test both of you more than either of you realize. But right now, it’s still easy. Right now, it’s just his voice, his warmth, the soft press of his lips against your forehead as the room blurs out.

You let your mind go quiet, let your body sink into his.

For week one, at least, cuddling really is safe.

It’s a Tuesday when you head to the dorm after work, the hallways too bright and too quiet at the same time. Changbin opens the door with a fork in his mouth and a hoodie half on, half off his shoulder.

“Oh,” he says around the fork, then catches himself and pulls it out. “Hey. He’s here—just showering.”

“Hi,” you smile. “Whatchu eating?”

He lifts the plastic container he’s demolishing. “Protein.” Then, because he’s not actually a monster, “There’s more in the fridge if you want. I picked up extra.”

“I’m okay.” You toe your shoes off. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

He waves you down the hall, already turning back toward the kitchen. “Make good choices.”

You snort and leave him to his protein and plausible deniability.

Hyunjin’s room is the same it’s always been—two plants clinging valiantly to a windowsill, a paint-smeared tote hooked over a chair, a candle he probably isn’t supposed to have tucked half-behind a stack of books. You sit on the edge of his bed and listen to the water shut off, the muffled thump of the bathroom door, the soft slap of bare feet down the hall.

He comes in toweling his hair, damp shirt clinging in places you’re trying not to think about. There’s a drop of water clinging to the hollow beneath his ear; you feel it like a physical tug somewhere deep and unhelpful.

“Hey,” he says, and it’s stupid how much better the room feels just because he’s in it. “You got here quick.”

He tosses the towel onto the chair and crosses the room in two long steps, leaning in to press his mouth to your forehead. The kiss is quick, chaste, the kind that shouldn’t do anything to you at all.

It does.

You try to hide it by reaching for the ends of his hair, tugging at damp strands to fluff them. He ducks his head obligingly, that lazy, pleased sound rumbling in his chest.

“Long day?” he asks, and he’s close enough that you can see the damp darkening his lashes, the tired creases at the corners of his eyes.

You shrug, noncommittal. “Fine.”

His mouth tilts. “Liar.”

“I am attempting nonchalance,” you say primly.

“Terrible attempt,” he says, even softer. His hands slide to your hips like they belong there—because they do—and then stop, a tiny check you feel more than see. He studies your face for a beat, all the easy teasing peeling back. “Talk to me.”

You look away. The words feel ridiculous even inside your head. You’re fine. You are. It’s just that every time he looks like this—clean and warm and a little undone by the shower—your body sings a single, unhelpful note and refuses to shut up about it.

“I’m… tired,” you say, which is true. “And you look like that.”

“Like what?” He follows your gaze down the curve of his own throat, as if he might discover the problem alone. When he looks back up, he’s smiling, but it’s gentler now. “Come here.”

You go easily, because you always do. He pulls you up the bed and sits back against the wall, legs long and relaxed, and you settle sideways into his lap, your shoulder to his chest, your knees tucked beside his ribs. His hand finds its way under the hem of your shirt without fanfare, palm spreading warm over your stomach, the other arm bracketed around you, a cage you have never wanted to run from.

For a minute, you let the room be small and quiet. You listen to the city mutter through the window and the dorm’s ancient heating rattle like a ghost down the vent. His thumb moves in slow circles at your waist. Your breath takes its cues from his.

It would be easy to leave it here. It would be smart.

You shift.

It’s small. An inch, maybe less. A recalibration that has you closer to the heat of him, to the clean smell of his skin, to the damp line of his jaw when you tip your head back to look. He doesn’t move when you do it. He doesn’t even breathe, for one held second. You feel the restraint in the stiffness of his shoulders, the way his hand flattens against your stomach like he can anchor both of you to something that isn’t this.

“Baby,” he says, and it’s not a warning so much as an acknowledgment. A you’re not wrong, I feel it too.

You swallow. “I know.”

His eyes skate over your face. Whatever he sees there makes a decision for him. He exhales through his nose and dips his head, pressing his mouth to your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth. Kisses that are careful, not cold. Kisses that say I want to and I promised myself I wouldn’t in the same breath.

You catch his jaw with your fingers when he tries to duck away from your mouth again. He goes still under your hand, eyes flicking to your lips.

“Hyun,” you say, and you hate how rough it sounds. “I’m really… I’m not trying to make this harder, but—”

“I know,” he says immediately, like he’d been waiting to hear that. He cups your face, thumb skating under your eye. Up close like this he looks a little wrecked himself, damp hair curling, mouth soft and pink, pupils a little too big. “I can tell.”

Your cheeks heat, humiliation and relief tangling together. “It’s stupid.”

His mouth flickers like he wants to argue with that on principle. He doesn’t. He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, voice dropped low.

“Do you want me to help?”

You go silent. The question hangs between you, honest and easy. He’s not teasing. He isn’t trying to talk you out of anything. He’s offering.

“Help… how,” you ask, and your voice breaks exactly where his eyes do.

“However you want,” he says, like it’s simple. His hand leaves your stomach and slides to your hip, not pulling, just there. “I can take care of you. Just you.” His mouth quirks, apology-soft. “Let me.”

The worst part is how fast your body answers for you. Heat rushes bright and immediate under your skin; your breath catches and you feel yourself lean toward him on a string you didn’t know you’d given him.

“That’s not—” You stop. Try again. “It’s not fair.”

“It’s not about fair,” he says, and he means it. “It’s about you.”

You search his face for the crack in the offer, the place where it costs him too much. All you find is want and patience layered over it like gauze. He’s careful even in this—like his own restraint is something he can set down for a second if it means you get to breathe again.

Your hands have found the back of his neck without permission. Your thumb strokes a damp curl flat, the kind of thoughtless, tender touch that should make this easier and doesn’t at all.

“What if you—” You stop, because saying it out loud feels like tempting fate. Your eyes flick to his mouth and back. “What if this makes it worse for you?”

His smile is crooked and honest. “It already is worse for me.” He tips his forehead to yours. “But I can live with worse if it means you sleep.”

You press your lips together, a small, involuntary pout he sees and promptly chases with a soft kiss, like he can kiss the indecision off your mouth.

He murmurs against your lower lip, “Say the word.”

The room narrows to his breath and your pulse. To the way his fingers curl at your hip, not urging, just steady. To the warm, damp smell of his t-shirt and the faint thread of citrus in his hair. You could nod. You could fall into the shape of the offer and let him handle it, and you know with a weird, fierce certainty that he’d be devastatingly good and even more devastatingly gentle.

You want it.

You want him.

And yet there’s a stab of stubbornness you didn’t know you had, something that says later, not like this, not when he’s already walking a tightrope for you both.

“I…” You exhale and press your face to his throat, buying a second against his skin. Your voice comes small. “If you start, I won’t let you stop.”

He swallows, the motion brushing your cheek. “You don’t have to.”

“Hyun.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again it’s a soft capitulation, not to the bet but to you.

“Okay,” he says, and kisses your hair. “Okay. Then let me do something else.”

Before you can ask, he shifts, easing you down the bed. He lies on his side and tucks you in against him, your back to his chest, his arm heavy over your waist. His knee slides between yours, not indecent, just there, a solid line to lean into. His mouth finds the angle of your jaw, the place below your ear that makes your whole nervous system light up, and he kisses you slowly, like he has time to spare, like he can bleed the ache out by degrees.

You melt, traitorously. His hand spans your lower belly, the heel of his palm applying the gentlest pressure in time with your breath, a rhythm that asks and asks until your body answers by unclenching.

“Better?” he whispers after a while, voice gone husky with concentration.

You nod, the movement dragging his mouth along your skin. “A little.”

“More?” he asks, and even now it’s a question.

You find his hand where it rests at your waist and bring it lower. No coyness—your fingers slot between his and you guide, decisive, until his knuckles meet the inside of your thigh. His breath catches against your jaw.

“Here,” you say, already breathless. “Like this.”

He doesn’t make you show him twice. His palm curves over the heat of you through your leggings, a careful pressure that has your hips tilting before you can stop them. He follows the shift without comment, mouth moving at your neck in slow, coaxing kisses while his fingers learn the shape of what you need—broad strokes, then tighter, then right where you’re aching.

“Tell me,” he murmurs. “I want to get it right.”

“You are,” you manage, and then you’re not managing at all because he is, the heel of his hand catching exactly where the ache peaks. You exhale a small, helpless sound into his shoulder. He swears under his breath, almost reverent.

There’s the faint, traitorous scrape of the bedframe when you roll your hips into his hand. He stills for a heartbeat, listening; from the living room comes the distant murmur of Changbin’s TV and a laugh that might be at a meme or a dog video or nothing at all.

Hyunjin’s mouth ghosts your ear. “Quiet for me, yeah?”

You nod too fast, the motion tugging a gasp from your chest when his fingers press a fraction harder. It’s not enough; it’s too much; it’s perfect. You grab his wrist and push—just a little more, just there—and he groans like the simple trust of it does him in.

“Okay,” he says, voice wrecked-soft. “Okay, baby.”

He works you through the fabric until it’s damp, heat pulling heat, your thighs clenching around his hand like you could keep it there forever. You can’t think in full sentences; your world narrows to the steady drag of his palm and the way his lips keep finding you—temple, jaw, the corner of your mouth when you turn blindly toward him. Every time he feels you shiver he makes one of those low, encouraging sounds that never fails to set you off.

It still isn’t enough.

You catch his wrist again, firmer, and tug his hand under the waistband. He goes without protest, breath stuttering as his fingers slip against you, nothing in the way now but your own restraint. The first touch is shockingly gentle; the second has intent behind it. He finds slick heat and then slides lower, tasting the whine you can’t swallow.

“Like that?” he asks, barely there.

“Mm—” Your head tips back against his shoulder. “Yeah. More.”

He gives you more. Two fingers, careful at first, easing you open, his palm angling so his thumb can circle right where you want it. The sound you make is embarrassingly soft and he swallows it with a kiss to your cheek, then your mouth, then back to the place below your ear that makes your knees go loose even though you’re lying down.

You don’t realize you’re grinding until he breathes a shaky laugh at your shoulder. “That’s it,” he whispers. “Use me.”

You do. You rock into his hand, chasing what he’s giving you, and something in him slips its leash.

“God—” His fingers tighten on your hip like he’s steadying himself, then he’s moving you with him, guiding the grind, setting the rhythm he wants from you—long, deliberate strokes that land you right over his thumb every single time. His breath saws against your neck, hot and uneven. “Look at you. Fuck.”

You try to be quiet. You try. But the way he angles his wrist, the way his fingers curl just right and stay right, drags a sound out of you that’s too loud for the thin dorm walls.

He clamps a palm over your mouth before it’s even fully out, reflex-quick. “Shhh,” he breathes, voice frayed. “Baby—quiet. Please.”

It should be mortifying; it only makes your pulse ricochet. You nod against his hand, eyes fluttering shut, and he rewards you by pressing in deeper, circling faster, like he’s losing the map and loving it.

“That’s it,” he mutters, almost to himself. “That’s it, that’s it.” He’s gone pink high on his cheeks; his pupils are huge, swallowing the brown. He can’t keep still—hips twitching once behind you before he forces them flat to the mattress with a strangled noise. His jaw flexes like it hurts. “You feel so—” He cuts himself off on a quiet groan when you clench around his fingers. “Please. Do that again.”

You do, because you’re helpless for him, because his hand is relentless and every soft, wrecked little sound he makes sinks straight to where you’re aching. He slips a third finger in only when you drag his wrist down and ask for it with a needy roll of your hips; he swears into your shoulder and gives it to you, patient for exactly two strokes before his control frays again and he’s driving you through it, thumb never leaving the spot that’s turning you inside out.

Another moan swells; his palm seals your mouth a second time, more desperate now, his fingers splayed across your cheek. “I know,” he whispers, nearly panting. “I know, I know—be good for me. I’ve got you.”

You are far past good. Your nails bite at his forearm; the bed gives a perilous creak. He presses closer to muffle it, chest flush to your back, forearm banded across your waist to hold you right where he wants you. You can feel the tremor in him, the fine shake running through his shoulders. You can feel him hard and ignored, pressed hot against the curve of you, and the quiet, broken sound he lets out when you grind back by mistake is the hottest thing you’ve ever heard.

“Don’t—” His warning shatters into a laugh that’s barely a breath. “Don’t do that to me, I’m hanging on by a thread.”

You’re not sure if you apologize or whine; it dies under his hand either way. He kisses the hinge of your jaw like thanks, like apology, like please. Then he sets himself to finishing you—no mercy, no pause, just intent, the pads of his fingers dragging the way he knows drives you crazy, his thumb ruthless and steady.

The wave hits fast. You try to tell him—his name, the word close, anything—but all that comes out against his palm is a panicked sound, so you grab his wrist and squeeze, nails digging in.

“I know,” he says, strangled. He buries his mouth against your shoulder, breath scorching. “Let go. Let me have it.”

Two more circles and you break—silent first, too much for sound—and then a gasp rips free anyway, high and wild. His hand holds firm over your mouth, muffling it; his other arm pins you tight while you shake through it, fingers never letting up until the aftershocks start to make you twitch away.

“Okay, okay,” he murmurs, easing you down, slowing, softening. His palm leaves your mouth to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking back and forth while you find air again. “Good girl. So good.”

You float for a moment, boneless, every muscle unspooling at once. He slips his fingers free with ridiculous care, tugs your waistband gently back into place, then brings his hand up and licks his fingers clean.

You turn in his arms and see it: how ruined he is. Hair a damp mess, lips swollen, pupils blown, a flush licking down his throat. He’s breathing like he just ran stairs. He’s buzzing—the kind of taut, vibrating restraint that makes your post-release brain go soft with something feral and fond.

“Hyunjin,” you whisper, reaching for him.

He catches your hand and threads your fingers together to stop you from going anywhere dangerous, laugh cracking on the edges. “Don’t. Don’t touch me or I'm going to nut in my fucking pants." 

He’s laughing when he says it, but it’s wrecked—too high at the edges, too close to something he doesn’t trust.

He scrubs a hand over his face, drags in air, then blows it out slow like he’s extinguishing candles. “I need a… God. I need a colder shower.”

“You literally just—”

“A colder one,” he bites, already peeling himself away from you like you’re a live wire. He kisses your forehead in apology and swings his legs off the bed. “Two minutes.”

You watch the way he stands—careful, like any wrong move might undo whatever thread he’s got left—and you’re a little in love with him for choosing distance when everything in him is screaming closer.

You let him go, because you love him, because you’re sated and soft and this is the part where you be kind. He crosses the room in long strides, hooks his thumbs in his sweats, and—because modesty has never been a thing with you two—shucks them and his briefs in one smooth, catastrophic motion. Stark naked, he’s all flushed skin and long lines and want he’s trying to pretend isn’t chewing through him. You watch his back flex as he grabs a towel and a spare tee from the chair, then he’s out the door with a muttered “two minutes” like a promise to both of you.

Week three arrives with sugar in the air and Hyunjin starfished on your kitchen rug like a defeated prince.      

You’re at the counter with a mixing bowl, scraping browned butter down the sides while the oven hums to temp. He’s in sweats and a wrecked ponytail, one sock on and one sock nowhere to be found, forearm over his eyes. Every so often his ankle bumps your cabinet. Thunk. A soft hum. Thunk.      

“You’re going to dent my cupboards,” you say, dropping vanilla into the mixing bowl a slow, amber ribbon.      

“Mm,” he answers, noncommittal.     

“You’re staying for the christmas party, right? Next month? I’m not doing sugar-cookie assembly line by myself.”      

“Mm.”      

“I’m thinking two kinds. Classic trees and those little star sandwiches with the jam. You’ll be on sprinkle duty.”     

A quiet smile in his voice. “Mmhm.”    

You flick a glance down. “This is a conversation, you know.”      

He slides the forearm off his eyes. Blinks hazily at you from the floor. “I’m participating,” he says, deadpan, then ruins it by softening, gaze raking you slow like he forgot he’s supposed to be alive and not a ghost. “You’re pretty.”  

Your first instinct is to preen. Your second is to throw flour at him. You settle for a smug tilt of your head. “You say that now. Wait till I’m covered in powdered sugar.”   

He huffs a laugh that buzzes the rug. “Can’t wait.”      

You hold up the whisk. “Do we like gooey or crisp?”      

“Mm. Gooey.”    

“Okay, king of strong opinions.”  

He smiles up at the ceiling. Another thunk. Another hum.      

You pour the butter-sugar mix into the flour. Fold. Breathe. The apartment feels small and warm and very, very you—his hoodie drying on a chair back, a reusable tote on the knob, your playlist low on your phone. For a minute, he’s content to be a warm obstacle on your floor, soaking you up.

He speaks without moving his arm. Almost conversational. “Hypothetical.”

You glance down, fighting a smile. “Hit me.”

“What if,” he says, voice too even, “I put the tip in.”

Your wrist doesn’t even pause. “Tip of what?”

Silence.

You scrape around the edge of the bowl, utterly absorbed. “Like—piping tips? For the cookies? I told you, we don’t need the fancy snowflake nozzles, they’re so annoying to clean—”

“Baby,” he says, and his forearm finally slides off his face.

You still don’t look. “Or did you mean baking tips? Because, sure, here’s one: don’t eat all the dough before it hits the tray—”

“Babe.”

You sigh like he’s interrupting something deeply important and set the whisk down. “You’re going to have to be more specific, Hyunjin. I’m not a mind reader.”

He’s already looking at you like you are, eyes dark in a way that doesn’t match the lazy sprawl of his body. He pushes himself up on his elbows, ponytail sliding over his shoulder, gaze dragging from your bare legs to the hem of your shorts and back up.

“The tip,” he says slowly, like he’s testing every word before he lets it out. “Of my dick. In you.” A beat. “Hypothetically.”

You blink once. Twice. “Ohhh.” You click your tongue. “That tip.”

His mouth falls open. “You are insufferable.

He’s up before you can reply, a shadow at your back, hands sliding under your elbows to the counter so you’re bracketed, caged, warmed. His mouth finds the angle of your jaw like muscle memory.       

His mouth opens against your pulse on a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. He sets his hands on your hips and moves you—one step forward, one to the side—until your thighs kiss the counter and the mixing bowl wobbles. He steadies it with one hand without taking his eyes off you, then slides it out of reach, batter-slick whisk clinking in the sink.

“Hands on the counter,” he says.

You look over your shoulder, innocent. “Why?”

“So I don’t break your stupid mixing bowl.”

“Responsible,” you say, even while your fingers are already spreading on the laminate, flour dust ghosting your skin.

He crowds in, chest to your back, palms skimming down your hips like he’s fitting you to a blueprint only he can see. The oven clicks; the air smells like butter and sugar and the cold outside dying in the radiator. He bends to your neck. Kisses. Bites once, soft. Breathes out like he’s been underwater for days.

His voice drops an octave you feel in your knees. “I want to get off on you,” he says, every word deliberate. “I want to grind against you raw on this counter until I forget my own name, and then I want to fuck you.”

Heat hits you so fast you have to grab the edge of the counter to steady yourself. Your laugh comes out thin. “Are we still speaking in hypotheticals?”

“Hypothetically,” he agrees, and then he’s doing it—tilting your hips, slotting his thigh between yours, the rough press of his sweats catching the thin cotton of your sleep shorts as he drags you back along him. The first grind is exploratory; the second has purpose. He uses your waist like a handle, sets the tempo he wants, long, mean drags that line his length over the place you’re already burning.

You try to be smug, to keep the pretense, but your breath betrays you, breaks jagged on the exhale. Flour dust jumps off the counter with each push, lighting the air like static. His ponytail has half-escaped; a damp strand falls into the hollow of your shoulder as he noses there, breathing you like oxygen.

“Hyun,” you manage, warning, plea, everything.

“Yeah,” he answers, a torn sound. His hands are big and careless and perfect where they grip, thumbs digging into soft skin so he can pull you back harder. “Yeah, baby. Take it.”

He’s not gentle. He’s not cruel. He’s something feral in between, a man who’s been good for weeks and finally lets himself be selfish. He steers you so your belly meets the counter edge; the leverage is obscene. You arch, helpless, and he goes a little unhinged at the sight—hips stuttering, breath breaking hot against your neck.

“God—look at you.” He groans into your skin, the sound strangled. “This is what you do to me. You hear me? This. Every night.”

You push back, meeting the roll of him with greedy, short little rocks that make the cabinet rattle. He laughs—wrecked, disbelieving—and tightens his grip until all you can do is let him use your body to chase what he needs. Your thighs tremble; slick heat soaks through cotton; the room narrows to the rhythm, to the knock of the cupboard, to his voice unraveling in your ear.

A moan swells before you can catch it. He grins into you neck. “Thats it. Let me hear you,” he whispers, ragged, like prayer. “Be good for me.”

You are good. You are ruined. Your lashes stick from the heat. He ruts through the damp mess he’s made of you, the drag so precise you see stars at the edges. He says your name like he can anchor himself in it.

The oven beeps ready; neither of you moves. He presses you deeper to the counter, one hand flat beside yours, the other spread over your belly to feel every desperate twitch while he works you. His pace goes tight and deliberate—grind, drag, pause; grind, drag, pause—until you’re slipping, chasing, whining.

He breaks first.

“Fuck the bet,” he says, sudden, hoarse. “I’m done. I’m done.” His mouth finds your ear and his voice is all teeth. “Say yes.”

“Yes,” you gasp into his palm, wrecked. 

He’s already there—sweats shoved low enough to free him, the quick-rough sound of cotton surrendering. Your shorts follow with a jerk, no ceremony, just the urgent rustle of fabric and the brief, cool kiss of air on your skin before he’s there, hot and heavy and real against you.

“Spread,” he says, and his knee knocks yours wider, his hand guiding, uncaring of flour handprints and sugar smudges. He drags the head of himself over you once, twice, slicking himself in what you’ve already given, and then does it again—slower, meaner—like he’s trying to memorize the way you go soft against the counter when he catches your clit on the upstroke.

“Hyun—” It’s barely a word.

“I know.” His voice is dark honey, ruined at the edges. He slots himself between your thighs and ruts there, bare skin to bare skin now, the length of him sliding through the mess he’s made of you. No thrust yet—just long, grinding passes that smear heat everywhere and light up each nerve he touches. His grip on your hips is possessive, fingers denting flour into your skin. “Let me use you,” he breathes, almost reverent. “Let me—”

He guides your pelvis so you ride him back, makes you take his rhythm: drag, press, catch, shiver. Your belly bumps the counter each time; a dusting of sugar lifts into the air like static. You’re wet enough that it’s obscene, the glide slick and noisy in the warm quiet of your kitchen. His ponytail snags in the nape of your neck; he noses under it, inhales like he’s starving.

“Look at this,” he mutters, half-crazed. “Look at what you do to me—feel what you do to me.” He rocks up so the head grinds just under your clit and you jolt, a strangled sound tearing loose. “That’s it. Be sweet.”

You are, because you can’t be anything else like this. Your thighs clamp; you chase every pass without pride, cheeks hot. He’s shaking behind you—actually shaking—hips stuttering once when the underside of him slips just right against you.

“Fuck—” He laughs, hoarse and unbelieving. “I could cum like this. I could—” He cuts himself off with a hiss, throttling the thought. “No. Not before I—” His teeth find the hinge of your jaw, a quick bite that lands more like a kiss. “I need in.”

You nod so hard your forehead taps the cabinet. He shifts his hand from your mouth to your jaw, turning you just enough to catch your profile with his lips, a messy brush that says sorry and thank you and mine all at once.

“Tell me,” he says, words breaking, the tip riding your clit on purpose now, cruel. “Say it.”

“Inside,” you gasp, shameless. “Hyun, inside—please.”

“Yeah?” He lines up, the head nudging your entrance, pushing and retreating in tiny, maddening presses that make you see white. “Just the tip,” he promises, like a liar and a saint. “I’ll be good.”

You feel the tremor in his thighs when he finally breaches you: slow, steady pressure and then the hot, perfect give of your body taking him. He stops with just the crown nestled inside, jaw locked, breath a ragged shudder against your shoulder. Your fingers claw at the laminate.

“Jesus,” he says into your skin, awed and wrecked. “You’re—I forgot how good you feel.”

You try to move; his arm bands across your waist, pinning you. “Don’t,” he grits, almost laughing at himself. “If you move I—” His hips twitch, helpless. You whine, crushed under the wanting.

He holds there for two, three breaths, like a man at the edge of a cliff telling himself not to jump—then the cliff gives. He eases a fraction deeper, a slow, shallow roll that feeds you a few more millimeters and steals the air from your lungs. You gasp; he groans raggedly like your reaction hits him straight in the spine.

“Just—” Another tiny push, another desperate bite of his lip. He’s barely inside, and somehow it feels like everything. “Just the tip. I swear.” He nuzzles your cheek, voice a trembling whisper. “Let me have this.”

You do. You let him have you: let him set the smallest, filthiest rhythm—out a breath, in a breath—each shallow press a tease that builds pressure until you’re shaking against the counter. He never leaves you; he never takes more than an inch. It’s torture cut into lace, and he’s falling apart in it with you, muttering praise and nonsense into your skin.

“Perfect. Perfect. Taking me so good—there you go—” His thumb sneaks lower to feel where you’re stretched around him and the sound he makes at that is shattered, reverent, almost boyish in its wonder. “You’re making a mess of me.”

You are. He is. You feel him pulsing, the restraint a live wire under your hands. Your body clamps down, greedy, and his control howls.

“Okay,” he says, like a surrender and a warning braided together. He presses a kiss behind your ear, soft as sugar. “One more. Just—” His hips roll, deep as he dares, shallow as he can stand. The head nudges that spot again, deliberate, and your vision goes sparkly at the edges. “Just like that.”

Then suddenly, something in him snaps—audible, almost—and the careful, pretty rhythm you’ve been holding together goes feral. His grip bites, his hips lurch, and he slides in a rough, shallow stroke that punches a sound out of both of you. Another, tighter. A third that’s barely anything at all, just the thick, blunt head grinding where you’re slickest, and he’s gone.

“—ohhhh, fuck—” The word breaks on a groan. He bites into your shoulder as the noise tears out of you, forehead dropping to your shoulder, body strung bow-tight as it hits him. Heat floods; his hips stutter and lock, jerky little pulses betraying him while he tries to stay buried only that impossible inch.

You feel him shake through it, every tremor telegraphing to your spine: weeks of restraint burning up in seconds. He slams home and finishes inside of you, messy and hot, fingers clenched tight around your hips.

For a heartbeat it’s only breathing—his, wrecked and ragged; yours, caught under his palm in quick, shocked pulls. The oven timer chirps again, unbearably cheerful.

He blinks back into himself by degrees. The hand at your mouth slides to your cheek, thumb stroking once like apology. He leans his forehead to the nape of your neck and laughs once, breathless, incredulous, doomed.

“I lost,” he says into your skin, like a eulogy. Then, with immediate, dramatic conviction: “This is your fault.”

He doesn’t move. If anything, he melts closer, chest sealed to your back, nose buried under your ear like he could crawl inside your skin and be done with it.

“My fault?” you echo.

“Absolutely,” he says, kissing the line of your jaw like penance. “A conspiracy. You, butter, sugar, tiny kitchen. I never stood a chance.” Another kiss. Another. He’s clingy in that way that makes you gooey—hands roaming with nowhere to land, mouth greedy for reassuring you’re-here-you’re-mine pecks that trail from your temple to your cheek to the corner of your lips. “I was strong until you did the—” he gestures vaguely at your hips, voice cracking into a helpless laugh, “—that exact thing.”

You tilt your head back, catching his mouth. “Poor baby.”

“Savage temptress,” he counters, already nuzzling, already smiling against your skin like he’s high on you. He finally peels away an inch to grab a paper towel, wipes you and the counter with gentleness that makes your throat sting, then tosses it and wraps himself around you again like the clingy, overheated octopus he is.

“Hyun, the timer,” you remind, soft.

He groans theatrically and still doesn’t let go. “I’m emotionally compromised.”

You bump his hip with yours; he gasps like you shot him and tightens his arms. “Okay! I’m going. I’m going.”

He peels himself off you in slow inches, fingers dragging along your waist until the very last second, like Velcro that refuses to unstick. The oven timer chirps again, smug. He mutters something rude at it under his breath and grabs an oven mitt.

You watch him cross the kitchen: sweats low on his hips, ponytail half dead, cheeks still a little pink. He looks wrecked and soft and yours, and something hot and fond curls under your ribs.

He opens the oven, a blast of heat puffing his hair back, and wrestles the tray out. “Look at that,” he announces, setting it on the stovetop with a hiss of metal on metal. “Perfect. Unlike my failure.”

You snort. “You act like you didn’t sprint to failure the second you had an opening.”

“Defamation,” he says, affronted, but his eyes are laughing. He leans on the counter next to the cookies, shoulders heaving once in a leftover shiver, then glances at you with the expression of a man who just remembered something terrible. “Oh, fuck.”

“What?”

“The group chat,” he groans. “We have to tell them.”

You blink. “We?”

“We are in this together,” he insists immediately. “If I go down, you’re my accomplice.”

You wipe a thumb through a stray streak of flour on the counter. “Or,” you say, “you could… not tell them.”

He blinks. “Not… tell them?”

“Not tonight,” you amend. “You can confess your tragic downfall in the morning. When you’re less—” you wave a hand at his whole flushed, wrecked self “—like this.”

He considers that, chewing his lip. Then he sighs, dramatic. “Postponed execution. I’ll allow it.” He chucks his phone onto the table without unlocking it and steps back into your space like a magnet snapping home.

You squeak when he scoops you up by the waist, spinning you lazily once before setting you on the counter beside the cooling tray. His hands find your hips again and stay there, thumbs rubbing little circles over the fabric.

“Hyun,” you laugh. “Cookies are hot.”

“So am I,” he says, completely straight-faced. “Equal threat level.”

You roll your eyes, but your fingers are already in his hair, loosening the half-dead ponytail, combing through the strands at his nape. He melts, actually melts, tipping his forehead into your shoulder with a tiny, content sound.

For a minute, that’s all it is: his arms around your waist, your nose tucked into his damp hair, the kitchen warm with butter and sugar and the soft tick of the cooling oven. His heartbeat is a steady thump against your ribs. The sharp edge of earlier has dulled to something slow and syrupy.

He speaks without lifting his head. “Just so you know,” he mumbles into your shirt, “I’m taking you anyway.”

You stroke the back of his neck. “Hm?”

“The trip.” He turns his face so his cheek is pressed over your heart, words softer, clearer. “I still want to go. With you. Even if I lost like, spectacularly.” His mouth quirks. “Maybe because I lost spectacularly.”

You huff a tiny laugh. “You don’t need an excuse to take me on vacation, you know.”

“I know,” he says, and there’s no bravado in it now. Just that earnest, stupid-sweet honesty you’re a little bit addicted to. “I just… liked the story in my head. Suffer all month, win the pot, whisk you away with my noble restraint.” He tips his chin up to look at you, eyes soft. “But I think ‘couldn’t keep my hands off my girlfriend while she was making cookies’ is a pretty good story, too.”

“A little embarrassing,” you correct.

“Still vacation-worthy.”

You search his face. “You’re sure?”

He leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth, slow and certain. “I’m sure,” he says against your lips. “I wanted the trip with you. The rest was just… decoration.”

Your chest does that inconvenient squeeze again. You thread your fingers with his where they rest on your thighs, squeezing.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Then we’ll go.”

His whole body relaxes, like he’d been waiting for you to say it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He grins, bright and boyish and a little relieved, then tucks back into your shoulder, arms cinching you closer until you’re basically welded together.

He smiles against your collar, and the kitchen, your stupid cookies, the ruined bet—all of it settles into something small and sweet and yours. No charts, no prize money, no rules.

Just Hyunjin, sticky with sugar and soft with relief, promising you a vacation he was always going to take you on anyway, and you, letting him hold you there on your own counter until the only thing left humming in the air is the certainty that he’d lose a hundred bets, and choose you, every single time.

“You take jokes too seriously.” Seungmin pushes half-heartedly, just enough to say he tried. He's pinned back, Chan's thigh slots between his. “There are people around, you know.”

Chan looks around with mock interest, then back, still smiling, still very clearly planning. “Back hallways are always empty.”

“My girlfriend’s here.” Seungmin's gaze drops for a second—just a second—to Chan's lips. He shouldn't have done that. “She'll come looking.”

“And what will she find?” Chan's thigh presses up just enough to put the right amount of pressure on Seungmin’s cock, leaning the way his body favors to catch the tip. “Hm? Will she find you riding your hyung's thigh?”

Seungmin swallows a gasp, lips pressed together tight, but his eyes betray him. They always do. “We can finish this at the dorms. After I take her home, just—hyung.”

Chan's hands slot to Seungmin’s hips, dragging them forward then back. A tease. A taste of what he could give him, a taste of the pleasure burning hot and familiar between them. 

“Fine, you want me to be quick?” Seungmin hums, blinking away his glossy haze. “Maybe a kiss'll convince me.”

Usually there's a fight, some push back, playful denial. Seungmin will try to force Chan off just to be pinned back. On other days, Chan lets himself lose, lets himself be taken. 

There's no fight today. 

Seungmin closes the distance like they've done this a million times—and they have. Tongues slide easily, heads tilt at perfect angles, lips moving with the type of precision you only learn in the dark. In secret. 

One of Seungmin’s hands slips down between them, palming where Chan strains against his sweats. Chan pulls Seungmin’s hips forward, guiding him to ride his thigh while they swallow each other's sounds. 

It's hot. Forbidden. The type of wrong that feels too right. They're members. Friends who know too much about how the other feels. Who knows how hot and tight they get when you kiss them with tongue or stroke just right. 

They're friends. 

But you're not in the same boat. You and Seungmin have been together for months. Long enough for you to be here, at the company to watch unreleased moves with sworn secrecy. 

You've never once suspected what you're looking at. Never once considered that your boyfriend, your Seungmin, would be kissing his leader. Thigh fucking his friend while he fights with his hyung's pants to get his cock out. 

You stand just out of sight. Still. Quiet. Watching. 

“So eager to touch me.” Chan mumbles when he breaks the kiss, forehead resting against Seungmin's just as the younger gets his hand wrapped around the fat length of his cock. “Seung—”

“You said quick.” He's breathy, watching Chan's face twist in pleasure. Chan's grip on Seungmin’s waist loses its bite, the drag of his hips slows. “Can you even be quick? Can you come without feeling some wet hot hole? Don't think you're capable of it.”

He's being a brat again. He's pushing it. He knows. 

Seungmin’s words are paired with the twist of his wrist, fist tight over the fat leaky tip of Chan's cock. His hyung presses his palm to the wall beside his head, fighting back a grunt and closing his eyes. Seungmin knows they're rolling back, he smirks. 

“You're falling apart, hyung”

“You're next, brat”

Your thighs press together. You shift just barely. Quietly. Watching the way Seungmin picks up pace just enough to make Chan grip the wall with both hands. Just enough to have his hyung kiss him again to fight back a moan. 

You're burning hot at the sight. 

“Spit on it.” Chan mumbles against his lips. Seungmin shakes his head, mumbling back.

“You do it.” Chan growls, too loud but not loud enough. His hips cant forward, cock twitches with need.

“Spit on my cock, Seungmin.” It's a dare. A dare to defy. A dare to keep being a brat. 

Seungmin’s smart enough to choose his battles wisely. His lips purse, letting a wad of spit fall, his fist spreads it over Chan's leaky tip, and then he kisses him. Hard. Hard enough to muffle the groan Chan lets out at the feeling. 

Chan's hips buck, fucking into Seungmin’s fist. “Gonna come.”

Seungmin kisses him again, mumbling something so quiet you can't hear it. “Come for me”

That does it. Chan's face is red with the effort of not crying out, muscles flexing in his arms, hands pressing harder into the wall. He comes in Seungmin’s fist, watching himself leak while the younger keeps pumping him. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Chan leans closer, one arm bending until his forearm is against the wall. “Seung—fuck, fuck—Seungmin.”

“You never said to stop.” He's being a brat again, picking a battle he knows he'll lose. His fist twists again and Chan's hand is around his throat in an instant.

Seungmin moans. A sound you've never heard before. A sound you've never gotten out of him.

He stops pumping, his messy hand falling away, wet with his hyung's come. 

“You're asking for it.”

“You said quick.”

“And now it'll be whatever I want it to be.”

What happens after that is a blur, a mess. Chan's hand stays on Seungmin’s throat, pinning, squeezing just the faintest bit while his other hand goes for his waistband. The string of his sweats falls loose, Chan's hand dips in, and Seungmin’s eyes roll back with a heavy sigh.

“Look who's quiet now.”

You nearly whimper. You nearly moan at the sight of Seungmin—your boyfriend—bucking into Chan's hand. Clearly lost in bliss.

The tip of his cock is angry red, leaking like a faucet. You can see how much it aches, how badly he needs to come. Seungmin whines, hips dragging back over Chan's thigh.

“Hyung—hyung, please.” You've never heard him beg. Not in a way where he meant it. The sound makes your skin buzz. “Sorry for being a brat. ‘m sorry, please.”

Chan hums a laugh, his hand moves from Seungmin’s throat to his hair, pulling just enough.

“What would your pretty girlfriend say if she saw you like this? Horny and fucking your hyung's fist. Think she'd stay with you?” Chan leans in, lips brushing Seungmin's ear with a whisper, “think she'd join us?”

The thought alone punches a moan out of your boyfriend. Then, he whines, mumbling, tripping over his words. “Yeah. Yeah, she'd join. God—she would—and, and you'd fuck her.”

You don't know when you started cupping yourself over your shorts. You don't know when you started pressing against your clit through the layers of fabric—but you are. You're rocking your hips into your own touch. Watching. Listening. 

“You think about me fucking her, Seung? Fucking both of you.” 

“Hyung—” it's a whimper, low and pathetic. Chan groans at the sound. “Gonna come.” 

Chan closes the gap, kissing Seungmin, licking into his mouth then trailing over the edge of his jaw. His tongue swipes over the sensitive skin, fist still pumping. 

“Ah, hyung, please. Please, please, close. So close.” He's begging to come. Begging for permission like his pleasure isn't his own. Like only Chan can give him the queue to feel euphoria. “Fuck, please.”

“Poor thing can't hold it?” Chan mocks, getting his hit back with a taunt. A quick hint of torture. “Be good for me, baby.”

Seungmin groans, hips bucking up once, then he cries out at the pressure of Chan's thigh against his tight balls. 

“Help me edge you, and I'll think about it.” Seungmin’s messy hand comes up to his own cock, stroking the head with a lewd squelch of Chan’s come mixing with his own. 

Chan moans this time, watching as his fist and Seungmin’s move together up the younger's length, sticky with Chan's arousal. Seungmin’s leaking heavy now. Red red red and ready to fucking bust. 

“Don't fucking come.” Chan growls. 

“Hyung, I can't—I can't.” Seungmin's eyes are glassy. Tearing with desperation. “It fucking hurts. I need it. Need to come for you. I'll be good, I promise.”

“You'll be my good boy?”

“Yes. Yes, yes, I'm your good boy. I promise.” His jaw falls slack with a pitiful sound. “Wanna be good”

Chan watches, waits, keeps pumping him, then he says it. “Come for me.”

Seungmin's knees buckle. His hand comes off his length in an instant. Come spurts hot over Chan's fist, over his forearm, and drips down. Chan keeps Seungmin upright, thigh holding him stable. 

“You fucking flooded my fist, Min.”

You follow right after, back pressed to the wall and hips bucking with a whimper. You come at the sight of Seungmin. At the mess that Chan keeps pumping over his throbbing tip. You're panting, trying to be quiet. You leave before they can see you.

Seungmin comes back to earth eventually, breathing heavily, face red. “Hyung—”

“I think someone heard us.” Chan hums out, nonchalant. Seungmin nods, looking down at the mess between them. His come on Chan's thigh, both of their hands messy with arousal. Both of their cocks out, throbbing, ready for more. 

“I saw her shoe peaking out.” Seungmin takes a breath, looking back up at Chan. “I think she liked it”

Chan smiles, wrapping his messy fist around Seungmin’s semi-hard length again. “Think she'll join us next time?”

Seungmin moans, biting his bottom lip to try and stop the sound. He brings his hand up to Chan's cock, wrapping around it with a squeeze. 

“I think so, yeah.” Seungmin moves first, pumping Chan's fat throbbing length and moaning when his hyung follows his lead. 

They're jerking each other off now. Wet, squelching pumps that threaten to ruin them both. 

“Think you can give me one more?”

Seungmin's breath stutters in his exhale. He nods, humming “a quick one.”

“Yeah,” Chan agrees, leaning in and kissing him. Hard, wet, needy. He mumbles, breath heavy, “a quick one”

a/n - this is my first mxm fic, i think? I actually wasn't going to post this, but here we are. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed!

• banner credit to @lariesographic

this is a work of fiction and is not meant to reflect the real life relationships of the idols mentioned.

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Stray Kids | Secret Relationship → Getting Caught by Paparazzi

Bangchan

Chan is so careful usually.

Dates are always super lowkey - private cafes, quiet beaches at night, movie nights at home.

But today was your birthday, and he wanted to do something special.

He rented out a tiny rooftop restaurant just for the two of you, candles, flowers, the whole thing.

Everything was going fine...until you both laughed too hard at a joke and he leaned across the table to kiss you.

Flash.

Click click click.

Both of you froze mid-kiss like-

🧍‍♂️🧍‍♀️...

Chan immediately tensed and went into protective mode, grabbing your hand and pulling you away from the ledge.

He spends the rest of the night furious at himself, feeling like he failed to protect you.

“It’s my fault. I should’ve been more careful, baby, I’m so sorry…”

You have to literally cup his cheeks and remind him that you knew the risks from the start, and you still chose him.

Later when the photos surface, they’re actually really sweet and respectful - the caption is like: “Bang Chan spotted in sweet rooftop date - fans speculate he’s in a relationship.”

His company releases a statement saying they won’t comment on private matters, and surprisingly, most people are supportive.

In the end, the incident kinda soft-launches your relationship 💛.

Lee Know

Lee Know thinks he's a secret agent.

Always plans escape routes. Dresses down. Times everything.

“Trust no one. Speak to no one. Blend into the crowd.”

But you went out for bubble tea one afternoon, and he just couldn’t resist teasing you.

He poked your straw when you weren’t looking, got your drink all over your shirt, and then tried to "help" wipe it off.

You were laughing and swatting at him, and he kissed your forehead without thinking.

Flash.

😐😐😐

Minho freezes.

“Did you see that?”

“...Yes.”

“Abort mission. Run.”

Grabs your hand and books it through side streets like a literal action movie.

Later, when the photos go viral, they’re weirdly cute - you’re laughing, he’s looking at you with soft eyes, and fans are melting.

He doesn’t say anything publicly, but a few days later, he posts a dance video wearing a shirt that says “Not Sorry.” 😎

Changbin

Changbin is PARANOID about getting caught.

He wears hats, masks, sometimes even sunglasses at night.

He’ll make you walk separately in public and only link up when it’s super empty.

But today, he was feeling bold.

You were walking by the river, and he just couldn’t help it - he grabbed your hand.

You warned him. He didn’t listen. He was too busy smiling at you like an idiot in love.

Then:

Click click click click.

Changbin drops your hand and looks around like a scared puppy.

“Was that what I think it was-”

“Yes.”

“@$#%&.”

He immediately pulls you into a side street, calling his manager with one hand while trying to shield you with the other.

“I think we have a problem.”

Despite his panic, you kinda find it cute how protective he gets, constantly glancing over his shoulder to make sure you’re okay.

The photos blow up fast - he’s recognizable even under the hat and mask because of his build.

Surprisingly, the fans argue that he deserves to be happy and start trending “#HappyForChangbin.” 🥹

He won’t relax until you both sit down and personally go over every nasty comment and good comment together, promising to only listen to the good ones.

“They don’t know our love, jagiya. Only we know. That’s enough.” 💌

Hyunjin

You were museum-hopping for your date - very chill, very lowkey.

Hyunjin wore glasses and a mask, blending in as just another artsy boy admiring sculptures.

You thought you were in the clear.

Then you reached to point at a painting at the same time and your hands touched.

Hyunjin looked at you, smiled all dreamy, and brushed your hair behind your ear like a damn movie scene.

THAT’S when the paparazzo got you.

Flash.

Hyunjin didn’t even flinch, he just kind of...blinked and kept smiling.

“Let’s keep going. Pretend nothing happened.”

(Internally he was PANICKING.)

Later he has a minor meltdown about it, pacing and chewing on his sleeve.

“WHAT IF THEY FIND YOU? WHAT IF THEY HARASS YOU? I SHOULD’VE BEEN MORE CAREFUL!”

You calm him down with forehead kisses and pinky promises.

The photo goes viral because it’s just so beautiful - you two look like characters out of a romance drama.

Fans nicknamed you “Hyunjin’s Mona Lisa.” 🎨🖌️

Han Jisung

Jisung is...not careful. Like at all. 😭

Like, he tries - really he does - but his excitement always gives him away.

You two went on a simple late-night drive, windows down, singing along to whatever’s on the radio.

You driving of course since the chubby cheeked boy still had yet to get his license.

You pulled over to a convenience store to grab snacks,

When he came back with a pile of candy and two hot coffees, he opened the drivers door and buckled you in as if you were sitting in the passenger seat.

After making sure you were secured he shut the door, and leaned into the car window and kissed you.

Like full-on swoon-worthy type of thing.

…Right in front of a paparazzo who was tailing idols that night.

FLASH.

You both screamed. Like actually screamed.

Jisung dropped everything he was holding, candy and coffee flying into the air. ☕🍬

“RUN!” he shrieked, diving into the passenger seat as you two sped off like a maniacs while you gasped laughing in the drivers seat.

Later, he’s freaking out. But tries to cover it up with joking.

“Do you think they got my good side?” (You smack his arm.)

The photos come out with the caption "Mystery lover? Han spotted on late night date!"

The company tries to spin it as “just hanging out with a friend,” but nobody buys it because of the kiss photo LOL.

In the end, you two have to lay low for a while, but honestly, Jisung just jokes about it constantly.

“If I’m gonna get caught, at least it was a kiss that looked straight out of a K-drama, am I right?” 💋

Felix

Honestly?

Felix would straight up take you on a nature walk for your dates.

Forests, hidden parks, lakes - anywhere with sunshine and minimal people.

You were sitting by a lake one afternoon, feeding ducks, and he kissed your cheek.

A photographer hiding in the bushes (like a weirdo) got the shot.

(Felix: 🫠)

(You: 🫠)

He immediately covers your face with his hands in the CUTEST protective way.

“Stay still, baby, don’t look, it’s okay, I’ve got you.”

Back at home, he hugs you and promises it’ll be okay no matter what happens.

“If they hate me, it’s fine. If they hate you, it’s war.”

The fandom goes wild, but mostly in support because...well...it’s Felix...

Even people who don’t stan Stray Kids are like, “If Felix found love we’re all cheering for him.” 😭

Seungmin

Seungmin is sneaky with dates.

Like, coffee shop hidden inside a bookstore levels of sneaky.

But today, you convinced him to just do something normal - ice cream at a park.

You were eating together on a bench, Seungmin roasting you for dropping your scoop.

“Are you five years old?”

“You’re gonna be single if you keep talking.”

He laughed, leaned in, and kissed your sticky nose.

You heard a camera shutter.

Both of you paused.

Seungmin squinted at the photographer like 🧐.

“You dropped your scoop and got us caught. Great job, genius.”

(He’s teasing. But he’s freaking out inside.)

Later when the pictures come out, Seungmin’s fans are laughing because he looks so deadpan in every photo.

Someone even memes it:

Caption: "When you drop your ice cream... and the fact you're in a relationship, too." 🍦😅🍦😂

I.N

Jeongin is careful because he’s still the “baby” to a lot of fans.

But he really wanted to take you to the little zoo near the city.

He wore a hat so low it almost covered his eyes, mask up to his nose, hoodie two sizes too big.

Adorable.

He was so focused on making sure you were comfortable he didn’t even realize a paparazzo had been tailing you guys.

The moment that got caught?

You feeding him a french fry outside a food stall.

Jeongin holding your hand to guide the fry into his mouth.

Giggles and hearts in your eyes.

The flash that the paparrazzo had forgoten to shut off startled you two.

Jeongin dropped the fries in horror.

You were more worried about the wasting of the fries more than anything else.

Panic.exe.

Later he’s apologizing over and over, voice so soft and guilty:

“It’s okay if you wanna break up with me...I get it…” 😔

(You bonk him on the head, lovingly of course.)

Turns out the fans think it’s the cutest thing ever.

“Our maknae is growing up 😭💖.”

Jeongin turns bright pink every time someone mentions it for the next month.

You say he owes you a large fry.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

the air smells faintly like fabric softener and coffee from hours ago, now cold in the cup beside his keyboard. you’re curled up on the studio couch, legs tucked beneath you, wearing one of chan’s crewnecks that swallows your hands. the cotton is worn soft from too many washes, oversized and comforting, and it still holds the ghost of his cologne—cedar, musk, the kind of scent that lingers long after he leaves a room.

he’s quiet.

not in the brooding way, not in the overthinking-every-note kind of way either. just… quiet. his fingers tap lightly against the desk as he listens to the loop again and again. his chair is tilted back just enough to see you in his periphery, and you know, because he’s been stealing glances between each pass.

you pretend not to notice.

instead, you let your fingers trace invisible patterns into your thigh, resting your cheek on your hand as you watch him from under your lashes. the way his black hoodie bunches at the elbows. the curve of his jaw when he’s focused. his mouth, slightly parted. the tip of his tongue resting in the corner, a habit. the faintest scruff on his chin from a day he forgot to shave. or didn’t care to.

you sigh, almost smiling. “you’re squinting again.”

chan’s head tilts. “huh?”

you point lazily at him. “your eyes. when you concentrate. you look like a suspicious grandpa decoding secret messages in morse code.”

a laugh bubbles out of him—short, breathy, surprised. “wow. thanks.”

“you’re welcome,” you say, smug, leaning into the armrest. “you should really consider reading glasses.”

he narrows his eyes at you on purpose now, making a dramatic point. “i will literally end this song right now.”

“you won’t.”

“no, but i’ll pretend i did and pout about it for forty-five minutes.”

“pouting’s a great look on you,” you hum.

you expect him to roll his eyes. maybe throw a crumpled napkin at you. but instead, he just leans back in his chair, legs stretched out, arms folded across his chest—and looks at you.

fully.

the studio is quiet except for the looped track. and chan’s gaze? it softens. like the way light filters through curtains. gentle, warm, and far too much.

“what?” you whisper, feeling your face heat.

he shrugs, lips twitching into a small, sleepy smile. “nothing. you’re just really pretty when you’re bullying me.”

you squint back at him. “you’re not even trying to win this argument.”

“that’s ‘cause i like losing to you.”

your heart stumbles. you mask it by pretending to cough into your sleeve. he sees right through it. smirks wider. turns back to the screen like he didn’t just ruin your entire nervous system.

“asshole,” you mumble.

“mmhm.”

he slides his headphones on again, adjusts a few sliders, then clicks the spacebar. the track starts over. he listens. edits. rewinds. rests his chin on his palm.

you let yourself stare a little longer this time.

there’s something about watching chan work that feels like worship. he’s quiet with it—not boastful, not performative. just intensely focused, endlessly curious. you can see him thinking—layers of intention behind every adjustment, like he’s shaping sound into something that can hold meaning.

you never feel more drawn to him than in moments like this.

“c’mere,” he says suddenly, pulling one side of his headphones off.

you blink. “why?”

“just for a second.”

you raise an eyebrow. “this is how you trap me.”

“yup.” he doesn’t even deny it.

still, you rise, stretching your arms over your head with a small yawn, then pad over to his chair. he grabs your wrist lightly and tugs you down, guiding you gently into his lap like he’s done this a hundred times before. like your body fits there. like it’s second nature.

his arms wrap around your waist automatically.

you settle back against his chest, your head resting beneath his chin, your legs slotted between his. the sound from the speakers is low now—background music to the quiet closeness you’ve both fallen into.

“this part’s new,” he murmurs near your ear, hitting play again. “i wrote it thinking of you.”

you freeze just a little. then slowly glance up at him.

he’s looking at the screen like he didn’t just casually say that.

“…chan.”

“mhm?”

“you wrote the chorus with me in mind?”

“pre-chorus, actually,” he says, lips twitching. “the chorus is about ramen. but the pre-chorus? that one’s you.”

you lightly smack his chest, laughing. “you suck.”

“do not.”

“you literally labeled the file ‘yn_ver2_emotionsfix.wav,’” you accuse, voice barely hiding your grin.

chan gives a dramatic sigh. “it was either that or ‘track_56_final_final_real_final_edit.wav.’ i went with art.”

you shake your head, settling into him again. he smells like warmth—like cotton, and hours of focus, and something softer beneath it all. his hands splay against your hips. secure. careful.

you close your eyes.

“you tired?” he asks quietly.

you nod against him. “but i don’t want to sleep yet.”

“why?”

“‘cause you’re not done loving me tonight.”

that catches him off guard. you feel it in the pause of his breath.

then—arms tighter around you. his chin tucks into your shoulder, and his voice is low. honest.

“i don’t think i’ll ever be done, y/n.”

the song loops again. a soft echo in the dark.

and neither of you move.

“something like home.” (12:59 am. still just the two of you.)

your feet are bare.

there’s a stray thread at the hem of your sleeve, and chan’s fingers have been absentmindedly twirling it between his thumb and forefinger for minutes now. the song plays in soft loops, fading into the walls like wallpaper music. you’ve stopped noticing it. or maybe it’s become a part of this moment.

you’re still in his lap, curled into his chest like the world forgot to pull you apart. he doesn’t seem to mind. his chin rests on your shoulder, and his hands are warm on your sides. his thumb strokes lazy, back-and-forth shapes over the fabric—like a lullaby with no melody.

you yawn. then mumble something.

“what?” he whispers.

“i said… i think i’m starting to melt.”

he chuckles, the sound low against your back. “melt?”

“mhm.” you nudge your nose into his hoodie. “i’m too comfortable. i might dissolve. evaporate. just… become one with the hoodie.”

chan hums, tilting his head to press a small kiss into your hair. “then i’ll carry you in my pocket.”

you pause, smiling into his chest. “you’re such a sap.”

“you love it.”

you twist just enough to look at him. “you say that like you’re not the clingy one.”

“i’m not clingy,” he says, indignant. “i just… like you close.”

you raise an eyebrow.

he holds up a finger, serious. “okay, hear me out. i didn’t ask you to stay over because i’m clingy. i asked because—”

“you missed me,” you cut in, sing-song.

he scoffs. “no—well, yes—but—listen. i knew you’d be annoying about it. that’s the real reason.”

“wow. you invited me over just to be bullied?”

“you’re better than caffeine.”

you blink.

he grins, smug. “and cuter.”

your chest does that thing again—that quiet, involuntary ache. like your ribs are expanding too fast for your heart to keep up.

you try to hide your face in his hoodie. “stop it.”

“no,” he says softly. “not when you look at me like that.”

you glance up. “like what?”

“like i’m the whole night sky.”

there’s a beat. long enough for your throat to close around it. you laugh, a soft, shaky breath. “that was corny.”

he kisses your temple. “did it work?”

you don’t answer. you don’t need to. the way your fingers curl into his sleeve is loud enough.

you eventually slip off his lap, legs stiff, your body slow with sleepiness. but you don’t go far. just settle beside him again, letting your head fall onto his shoulder.

chan shifts, pulls the blanket from the couch, and drapes it over your legs without a word. then he leans forward and clicks a few keys. the track pauses.

“what happened?” you ask, voice small.

he shrugs, adjusting the volume. “nothing. just wanted to sit here.”

you smile. “is the genius producer taking a break?”

“genius producer,” he echoes, a grin playing at his lips. “i like how that sounds.”

“it’s true,” you say, poking his cheek. “you’re brilliant. even when you forget to eat dinner.”

“someone’s trying to soften me up,” he teases.

you lean closer, your voice a playful whisper. “is it working?”

he turns his face toward you—slow, like the moment stretches around the movement. his eyes flicker between yours, soft and unreadable.

“yeah,” he says quietly. “too well.”

you don’t kiss him yet. but the space between your faces is small enough to feel the promise of it.

“can i tell you something weird?” he asks a little while later.

you nod, half-drowsy, eyes fluttering shut.

“i think…” he hesitates, then laughs under his breath. “god, this sounds stupid.”

you look up at him. “nothing you say to me is stupid.”

he’s quiet for a beat. then-

“i think my heart memorized you before my brain did.”

it’s barely a whisper.

but it slices through the quiet, delicate and sure. your breath catches.

“i don’t even mean that in a romantic movie kind of way,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck. “just… every time i see you, even if i’m tired, even if the day sucked, something in me just—relaxes. like it knows. like you’re what it was waiting for.”

you don’t respond with words.

you just reach out—touch his face gently, like he’s something precious. your thumb runs along his cheekbone. then down to his lips.

chan closes his eyes under the touch.

“you always say these things like you don’t realize what they do to me,” you murmur.

he opens them again. they’re deeper now. fuller with something unspoken. “what do they do?”

“you make it really hard to breathe.”

“then hold on to me,” he whispers.

so you do.

“in the quiet, i love you” (1:17 am. again, just the two of you.)

it’s late. but that kind of late where the world feels paused. no ringing phones. no outside noise. just the low hum of equipment, a single dim lamp in the corner, and chan’s hand resting over yours like he’s scared the moment will slip away if he lets go.

your head is against his shoulder again. his hoodie sleeve is bunched between your fingers, and you’ve long since stopped trying to pretend you’re not holding on like he’s your anchor.

“wanna know something?” you say softly, tracing small shapes into his palm.

“always.”

“i used to think love would feel loud.”

he doesn’t speak. just waits.

you smile at the ceiling. “like fireworks. or movie kisses in the rain. or fighting, dramatic, over-the-top things. but this—” your hand squeezes his. “this feels like… the space between notes in a song. quiet. but there. and if it were gone, you’d hear the difference.”

chan swallows, his voice a hush. “you’re gonna make me cry in my own studio.”

you giggle, turning toward him, noses almost brushing. “no tears allowed. you’re the genius producer.”

he fake-sobs dramatically. “the genius producer is in shambles.”

you cover his mouth with your hand, laughing now. “stop. you’re gonna ruin the mood.”

he grins under your palm. then kisses it. soft. warm. so soft it makes your throat catch.

“wanna hear a line i wrote today?” he asks, voice lower now, fingers lacing between yours.

you nod.

he glances at the monitor like he’s nervous, then looks back at you. “it’s not for the track, just… a thing i wrote.”

he clears his throat.

“if i could fold myself into your pockets i’d live there quietly, beside your pulse where your heartbeat becomes my soundtrack and time forgets how to hurt.”

your eyes sting.

“chris…”

“it’s dumb,” he says quickly, eyes darting away. “just a line. you don’t have to—”

you cut him off with a kiss. it’s soft. barely there. just the press of lips against lips, the kind of kiss that says, i understand you even when you think you don’t make sense.

when you pull back, you’re both blinking too much.

“was that okay?” you whisper.

his voice cracks when he speaks. “i don’t think i’ll ever forget it.”

the next hour passes in fragments.

you try on his headphones and gasp when you hear how clear the track sounds. he records you saying random phrases to sample your voice—half of them silly, the other half secretly tender.

“say something sexy,” he grins, mic already on.

you squint at him. “like what?”

“i don’t know. just say whatever comes to your mind.”

you lean in close to the mic, lips parted. “christopher, i swear to god, if you don’t drink water within the next ten minutes i’m turning off your computer.”

he throws his head back, laughing so hard it shakes his shoulders.

“you menace,” he wheezes.

“you asked for it.”

“not the hydration threats—oh my god.”

you’re both giggling too much to care what time it is. he turns the mic off, pulls you back to him, and presses his forehead to yours like it’s instinct.

“hey,” he whispers.

“yeah?”

“i don’t think i’ve ever felt like this before.”

you meet his eyes.

“i think…” he pauses. “i think i trust you with parts of me i didn’t even know i had.”

you nod, tears threatening again.

“you can keep them,” you whisper back.

later, he reaches over and grabs his phone, unlocking it with one hand, still holding you with the other.

“what are you doing?” you murmur, sleepy now, blinking slowly.

“i want a picture.”

“no,” you groan. “my face is puffy. i’m tired.”

“you’re beautiful,” he says immediately, no hesitation.

you glare. “you can’t say things like that so easily.”

“but they’re true.”

“still.”

he snaps one anyway—your face buried in his hoodie, his hand covering half your cheek, both of you in soft shadows. when he looks at it, he smiles like he’s looking at the beginning of something.

“can i post it someday?” he asks gently. “not now. but when it’s not just ours anymore.”

you nod.

but neither of you say when that might be. because for now, the secrecy is sacred. the studio is a sanctuary. and this—this hush, this touch, this late-night wonder—belongs to you both.

right?

“we talk about everything, and nothing, and it all matters.”(01:58 am. the world is asleep, but you’re still here.)

you’re half on the couch, half on chris. the blanket has migrated around both your shoulders now, pooled at your waists like it’s tucking you in on behalf of the moon.

the studio lights are dim. the glow from the monitors is faint and flickering. the music is paused. you aren’t.

chan’s fingers are threaded through yours again, resting on your stomach, your hands fitting like they’ve known each other longer than you’ve been alive. his head is tilted back. yours is on his chest, listening.

every so often, his heartbeat skips. you never point it out.

“do you think,” he says suddenly, voice hushed like he’s afraid to wake the air, “that people always end up where they’re meant to be?”

you pause. “you mean, like fate?”

he nods, slowly. “yeah. or something like it.”

you think for a second.

“i don’t know. i think maybe we end up in the neighborhood of where we’re meant to be,” you say softly. “but the exact house? the one with the red door, or the one with the leaky ceiling? i think we choose those.”

he hums. “i like that.”

“why’d you ask?”

he’s quiet for a moment. “i just keep thinking.. if i hadn’t chosen this path—music, the hours, the pressure—i don’t know if we’d be here. but sometimes i wonder… if it’s too much. if i’ll burn out.”

you lift your head slightly to look at him.

his gaze is on the ceiling. like he’s asking the stars above the insulation to answer for him.

“i think about it too,” you admit.

his eyes flick down to you. “you do?”

you nod. “not just about you. about me. about everything. what i want. what i’m allowed to want.”

the way you say allowed makes him tense just slightly, but you don’t dwell.

you rest your cheek back on his chest. his hand finds your shoulder, slow and soothing. “tell me,” he says gently.

you take a breath.

“i used to think i had to be perfect,” you say, voice low. “or at least harmless. make everything easy for everyone. be sweet. be smart. never ask for too much. never make things complicated.”

chan’s hold on you tightens almost imperceptibly.

you keep going.

“but i’m learning that love… real love… lets you take up space. even the messy parts. even the loud parts. i’m still trying to believe i’m allowed to ask for things. to say ‘i want this.’ even when it’s scary.”

he’s silent, but you can feel the emotion rising in him. his fingers brush your hair back from your temple with a kind of reverence.

“i’m glad you said that,” he whispers. “because i want you to ask. always. for anything.”

you nod, eyes stinging again.

after a pause, you murmur, “what about you?”

he exhales. “i think… i used to believe i had to earn love. like, i had to constantly do something to deserve it. be productive. be valuable. make music. fix things. be strong.”

you shift slightly to see his face. his eyes are unfocused, turned somewhere inward.

“but lately…” he goes on, “with you, i’m starting to believe that maybe i don’t have to prove anything. that maybe i can just be. and that’s enough.”

you press your lips to his jaw, a soft silent thank you for letting you see that part of him.

you stay like that for a while.

just breathing.

just existing.

“i want to grow old with you,” he says suddenly.

you blink.

“like—not in a cliché way. not just the cute stuff. i mean i want to still know you when we’re tired and wrinkly and grumpy and our backs hurt when we laugh too hard.”

you smile against his hoodie.

“i want that too.”

he looks down at you. “you do?”

you lift your chin just enough to meet his gaze. “i want to see what kind of old man you become. i bet you’ll still wear these black hoodies and cry when the guys bully you for actually being old.”

he groans. “don’t expose me.”

you giggle, tucking back into his chest. “you’re adorable.”

you both fall into a comfortable silence again. the kind where the silence isn’t empty—it’s full. of safety. of things you don’t have to say.

and then…

“hey,” you whisper.

“yeah?”

“if we ever get a dog, can we name it something stupid like toast?”

he snorts, nearly choking. “why toast?”

“i don’t know, it’s cute. imagine yelling ‘toast! come back here!’ in the park. it even matches with berry. like.. berry toast.”

he’s laughing now, full and quiet and real. “okay. so berry can bond with a new sibling then. over names. well.. toast it is. but only if i get to name the next one pancake.”

“deal.”

eventually, you both go quiet again.

there’s a weight to the room now—but not heavy. just… full. like the whole place is holding its breath around you, content to let you exist in each other.

you listen to his breathing. he listens to yours.

you both listen to the invisible thing being written between your hearts— soft and slow and definitely.. real.

“the song you weren’t supposed to hear.”(it’s still the middle of the night. and his heart is ready.)

the night has settled into the kind of stillness that only exists between 2 and 3 am—where the world outside is paused, like it’s holding its breath just for you.

you’re both now completely on the studio couch, your legs lazily tangled over his, the blanket from earlier now messily draped across your laps. the air smells faintly like jasmine from his candle stash and whatever conditioner he uses that clings to the collar of his hoodie. you’ve been tracing little nothing shapes on his arm, neither of you talking for a while—not because there’s nothing to say, but because being this close is already saying enough.

chan’s fingers have been fidgeting. not nervously, just… thinking. tapping little beats into the fabric of the couch like he’s composing something in his head he doesn’t want to forget.

you’re the first to break the silence.

“your brain’s loud again,” you murmur, smiling without opening your eyes.

he huffs out a quiet laugh. “always is, when you’re around.”

you lift your head, eyebrow raised. “is that a compliment or are you blaming me for your overworked neurons?”

chan grins. “little bit of both.”

you roll your eyes affectionately and nudge his shoulder. he watches you for a moment—eyes soft, dimple barely showing—and then he shifts. gently untangles himself from you and gets up, barefoot steps soundless on the floor.

you sit up slowly, watching as he walks over to the computer, clicking something open with a hesitance that’s uncharacteristic of him.

he hesitates a second longer, one hand on the mouse, the other in his curly hair.

“can i show you something?” he asks, voice low, unusually careful.

you straighten. “of course.”

he doesn’t look at you when he speaks next. “i wasn’t gonna. i wasn’t ever going to, honestly. but i feel like… if i don’t now, i’ll never get the courage again.”

your heart stirs—soft, curious.

he opens a folder.

one you’ve never seen.

the name of it is just a single word: "maybe."

he clicks on a file. the project loads slowly. your eyes flick over the screen. it’s dated from almost two years ago.

the first out of a gazillion track's name? “she’ll never know (demo)”

he doesn’t look at you. just presses play.

the room fills with the sound of chan’s voice. not the polished, practiced version. not the stage-ready delivery. this is raw.

the acoustic guitar is gentle, almost sleepy. like the song was written late one night, maybe one just like this, with him hunched over his desk and the words falling out of him before he could stop them.

and then— the first line.

"she walks in like the sky turned soft just for her—""doesn’t notice the way she makes silence feel warm."

your breath catches. your boyfriend doesn’t turn around. he’s sitting at his chair now, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as if it held answers to his shower thoughts.

the song continues—delicate, bare-boned. there’s a melody that rises like a question and falls like an answer. his voice cracks a little in the second verse. not from poor singing. from too much truth.

"she calls my name like it was made for her mouth—and i swear, i’d give her every version of me she asks for."

you bring your hand to your chest without realizing it.

your throat is dry. your eyes aren’t.

and then— the bridge.

it’s not perfect. the production cuts slightly. but the lyrics?

"if she knew i wrote her into every song i couldn’t finish,would she stay long enough to hear the chorus?"

you don’t breathe.

he lets the track end without speaking. the silence that follows is thick and tender.

and finally, finally, he turns to look at you.

you’re still holding your hand to your chest. you can’t find words.

“i wrote that before,” he says, quietly, “before i knew if you’d ever… look at me like that. before i thought i’d get to call you mine. i wasn’t gonna play it. felt like—it was too much.”

you shake your head, eyes glassy, voice cracking. “no, chris. it’s not too much. it’s—god. it’s beautiful, channie.”

you cross the room slowly and kneel beside his chair, hands reaching for his. “you loved me then, didn’t you?”

he nods. “i think i always did.”

the air feels like it might break from the softness.

you press your forehead to his. close your eyes. he does the same. his hands slide around your back, pulling you into him like he needs to feel you breathing.

“can i ask you something?” you whisper.

“anything.”

“when you wrote it… did you ever think i’d hear it?”

his voice is almost inaudible. “no. but i wanted you to feel it. even if you never knew.”

you kiss him. not rushed. not fiery. just… full. full of every quiet word you’ve ever shared, every moment your bodies spoke before your mouths did. full of everything that’s always been there.

when you pull back, you whispered.

“thank you for writing me into your world.”

he smiles, presses his lips to your hair.

“you are my world.”

“you and me, in a song.” (almost 3am. but none of you seem to care.. because it's just you two.)

your knees are folded up on the studio couch now, hoodie sleeves past your hands, hair a little messy from where he’d had his fingers in it. chan’s laptop is dimming from inactivity. that song—the one he never meant to play for anyone—is still echoing in your chest.

there’s something quiet between you two now, but it’s not tension. it’s the kind of silence that follows honesty. like the air has finally settled after a truth landed and made its home here.

he’s lying on the floor now, one arm tucked behind his head, the other outstretched, hand palm-up like he’s waiting for you to hold it. you do. of course you do.

“you’re still thinking too much,” you say, squeezing his fingers gently.

he gives a tired smile, turning his head toward you. “i know, baby. i can’t help it. my brain doesn’t have an off switch, y'know.”

you glance down at him, at the boy you love who writes heartbreak into bridges and hides confessions in chord progressions.

“wanna distract it?” you ask softly.

he raises an eyebrow. “you got something in mind?”

“let’s write something,” you say, voice picking up in excitement. “together. something stupid and sweet. corny. cheesy. but something that sounds like us.”

he sits up, instantly intrigued. his eyes are sleepy but alive now, warm like melted chocolate in low light. “you sure you’re not tired?”

“i’m very tired,” you say, already reaching for a notebook, “but i’m also in love, and this feels like something we’ll remember.”

he exhales a quiet laugh. “okay,” he murmurs. “let’s make it ours.”

the guitar is perched on his knee now, and you’re tucked beside him, the notebook resting across both your legs. you can barely see the lines under the yellowish desk lamp glow, but that somehow makes it feel even more intimate.

“okay,” he says, strumming a slow, dreamy chord. “tone check. what are we going for?”

“something soft,” you say. “not too polished. something that sounds like—like a sleepy love letter or something?”

he nods, repeating the chord progression, slower this time. “mmm.. like this?”

you hum in approval. “wait, yeah. genius! that feels like us. okay, first line.”

he laughs at the page. “you go.”

you pause, chewing your lip. then, with a grin..

“you looked like a dream at 3 a.m., with sleep in your eyes and my name on your lips.”

your boyfriend's pen freezes.

he blinks.

then he gives you the kind of look that belongs in poems—stunned, a little helpless, a lot in love.

“that’s not fair,” he mutters, writing it down. “you’re gonna make me fall harder than i already have.”

you smirk. “your turn, loverboy.”

he strums a chord and speaks more than sings.

“you whispered forever in the way you laughed, and i started believing it might be real.”

your heart flutters.

you grab the pen and underline that line twice. “you’re disgusting,” you whisper with a grin.

“i learned from the best,” he grins back.

you spend the next hour like that—passing the pen, trading verses, scribbling out and rewriting lines until your fingers are smudged with graphite and the paper is creased from how many times you’ve folded it to your chest in giddy disbelief.

at some point, chan turns the mic on. just to catch what you’re doing. just in case.

he doesn’t warn you when he starts singing.

you’re halfway through doodling stars and hearts in the corner of the page when his voice fills the air again, soft and sleepy and devastatingly sweet.

he sings the first verse.

your verse.

you look up at him, startled.

his eyes are on you, and he doesn’t look away when he reaches your line:

“…with sleep in your eyes and my name on your lips.”

you smile, caught.

when he finishes the chorus—messy and still incomplete—you exhale slowly. “you made it sound beautiful.”

chan shrugs, pretending to be casual. “t'was already beautiful. i just put a melody on it.”

you reach for his hand again. he lets you take it, always lets you take it.

“is this the first song you’ve written with someone you’re in love with?” you ask quietly.

he pauses.

then smiles, shy and soft. “yeah. and i hope it’s the only one.”

you press your forehead to his shoulder.

“i think we just made a cheesy memory,” you whisper.

he turns slightly to kiss the top of your head. “then let’s keep making them. cheesy and all.”

the clock reads 4:12 a.m. now. the first version of the song is saved in a folder called “us.” it’s not finished. it might never be. but it doesn’t need to be perfect. it just needs to be yours.

you curl into the corner of the couch again, eyes fluttering shut- not to sleep, but maybe to rest them. chan hums the chorus under his breath beside you, fingers mindlessly playing the chords like he’s serenading the night itself.

before you drift off, you mumble one last thing:

“you’re my favorite song, chris.”

and he whispers back. he always does.

“you’re my reason for every one of them.”

“the part i never said out loud.”(a still hour. 4:41 a.m. the quiet isn’t peaceful anymore—it’s holding its breath.)

he doesn’t notice it at first. the way you’ve gone quiet. maybe you were asleep.

but it was not like before. not sleepily. not wrapped in awe from a new lyric or his voice in your ear. this silence is different. it’s sitting heavy on your chest. and he only realizes when he reaches out to run his thumb gently over your knuckles and you flinch—barely, but enough for him to notice.

he turns to you slowly.

“hey,” he says softly. “hun, you okay?”

you blink at him. you were looking at the studio wall—at the sound panels, the gold record in the frame, the corner where your folded lyric sheet sits untouched. you weren’t really seeing any of it.

“yeah,” you say. but your voice betrays you. too thin. too quiet.

he sets down the guitar and shifts closer. his brows furrow, but not in frustration. it’s concern. that same warm, earnest gaze he’s always given you.

“you can tell me anything,” he says. “you know that, right?”

you nod. and then you nod again. because it’s true. you know it’s true. you believe him with your whole heart.

that’s exactly why it’s so hard.

“i didn’t want to ruin tonight,” you whisper, “but i… i think i’ve been avoiding saying something.”

he doesn’t rush you. doesn’t press. just waits. lets the silence expand around you until you’re ready.

you take a breath. and then another.

“it’s my family,” you say finally. “they don’t… they don’t like that i’m with you.”

chan’s head tips slightly, like he didn’t hear right. “what?”

you wince.

“they think it’s unstable. unrealistic. that… that i shouldn’t be dating someone in the industry. that i’m just a phase to you. or that it’ll always be long-distance and lonely and that i’ll be the one waiting while you live a life i can’t be part of.”

you can’t look at him.

“they think loving you is… irresponsible,” you say, voice cracking.

for a moment, there’s nothing but the soft buzz of equipment around you. the hum of the silent studio. the absence of sound.

and then—his voice. low. steady.

“do you think that?” he asks, gentle but serious.

your eyes snap to him.

“no,” you say immediately, like it physically hurts to even have him wonder that. “no, god, never. i love you. i love you more than i even know how to explain. i just—”

you break off, pressing your palm to your forehead.

“i hate that i feel like i’m betraying them just by choosing my own heart.”

he doesn’t interrupt. he doesn’t get defensive. he doesn’t ask for promises or ask you to pick sides. he just reaches out and cups your face in his hand, thumb resting softly against your cheekbone.

“you’re not betraying anyone by being honest about what you want,” he says. “and if that’s not me, i’ll understand.”

you finally cry.

not hard. not dramatic. but silent tears spill, and you don’t even try to stop them.

“but it is you,” you whisper. “it’s always been you. that’s the whole problem.”

chan pulls you into him then, holds you so close it feels like maybe you can hide there for a while. maybe forever.

his chin rests on top of your head as your hands grip the fabric of his hoodie. you can feel his heart against your cheek.

“then we’ll figure it out,” he murmurs. “whatever it takes. i don’t care what the world says. you’re my home.”

your breath stutters.

“i don’t want to lose you,” you say.

“you won’t,” he replies, like it’s fact. “even if the world ends. even if i’m across the globe and you’re under a hundred rules, i will still be yours.”

you don’t realize how hard you’re clinging until his arms tighten in response.

“i’m so scared, channie,” you whisper.

“i know, baby. i know.”

and then, quieter.

“but i’m not scared. not if i’ve got you.”

somewhere between the crying and the quiet, you fall asleep against him.

your dreams are a blur of chords and warmth, of light through a studio window that doesn’t exist. you dream of melodies that sound like safety.

and even though the world outside might never fully understand it—might never fully approve—you wake up knowing.. this.

your heart knows where it belongs.

and it’s right here, in the quiet thrum of a boy who wrote your name into every note before he ever said it out loud.

“no matter the ending, it’s you.”(the sky is beginning to lighten, barely. that liminal hour between night and morning. somewhere between dream and day, where truth feels soft enough to hold.)

you wake up first.

chan’s head is tilted toward you on the couch, cheek pillowed in the mess of your hair. he’s asleep — properly this time, breath slow, mouth just barely parted, hoodie slightly askew around his collarbone where you clung to him in your sleep.

the studio is still quiet. the monitors are off now, the soft blue light from the mixing board the only thing illuminating the room. your bodies are half-covered by the denim blanket he keeps for emergencies, the air conditioner humming gently in the background.

and your heart — somehow — is steady.

not because the fear is gone. not because the world has changed overnight. but because you’re still here.

and so is he.

you lift your hand and gently brush a strand of hair from his forehead. his lashes flutter. then, without opening his eyes, he whispers, still half-asleep:

“are you leaving me?”

you smile, sad and sweet, your thumb tracing the shell of his ear.

“never,” you say softly. “even if i have to pretend in front of everyone else. even if i have to keep you a secret just a little longer. i’m not leaving you.”

his brows twitch — a quiet expression of protest even in sleep.

“you shouldn’t have to pretend,” he murmurs. “you deserve to be loved out loud.”

you press your forehead against his.

“i am loved out loud,” you reply. “by you.”

that makes him stir. he opens his eyes now, sleepy and glassy and gold in the low light.

“you’re sure?” he says.

you nod, then softly: “i’ve never been more sure of anything.”

he sits up slightly, blinking, hair a ruffled halo.

“you don’t have to protect me from your world, y/n,” he says, voice gravelly. “i’m strong. i’ll stand there with you. whatever people say. whatever your family thinks. i’ll wait however long you need. i’ll earn every inch of your life.”

your throat tightens.

“i don’t want you to wait,” you say. “i want you in it. not waiting at the edges. just… just give me time to show them. that it’s you. that it was always you.”

he leans forward and presses the softest kiss to your temple.

then, he says the same thing he whispered into your hair the first night you ever stayed this long in the studio, months ago, when he was shy to admit how badly he wanted you to stay:

“i’ve got all the time in the world.”

you let out a breath. a small one. a real one. and for the first time in days, the ache in your chest eases.

you end up sitting side by side on the studio floor with mugs of tea he brewed on the tiny electric kettle under his desk. you drink in silence for a few moments, legs pressed together, heads leaning against the wall.

then you speak, softly, barely louder than the hum of the outside wind through the sealed windows.

“do you think this lasts?”

he doesn’t ask what “this” means.

he just looks at you. and smiles.

“i don’t think love ends,” he says. “not the real kind.”

you swallow, slow.

“even if it changes?”

“it might change,” he nods. “it might grow, or shrink, or stretch itself around the seasons of our lives. but it doesn’t disappear. and mine for you… isn’t going anywhere.”

you close your eyes.

“i want forever,” you say, and you mean it. not in the dramatic, fairy tale way. not as a fantasy. but as a promise. as something simple and raw and real.

and he reaches out and takes your hand like it’s instinct. like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“you have it,” he says.

outside, the world begins to stir. trains groan in the distance. the city starts to wake.

but in here, in the little universe you’ve made with him under dim lights and scattered lyrics and the leftover scent of jasmine tea, everything is still. everything is soft.

and maybe the world still won’t understand.

maybe your family will take time.

maybe you’ll both carry the weight of being two people in love who don’t fit the boxes you were given.

but you’ll carry it together.

and that’s all you need.

𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑒𝑛𝘵 𝘵𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝘵 ୨ৎ @cosmicalily @hyunjiiza @modesttiger @woozarts @katsukis1wife @shotngun @reignessance @peskybirdysya @honeyybbuubblleess @ellemir2404 @4ng3l-ch1ld @urlocalmultigroupfan @its-stayville-forever @ashtxrie @minlixyaoi @shuuporanglinos @bobaluvzz @yourfavoriteakutagawakinnie @mhluvie @channieschocco @m-325 — fill out this form to be added !!

comments, likes, asks and reblogs are always appreciated !! req. are officially closed till the month of june. thank you for reading, hope you liked it <3

After that, it became a thing.

You’d catch him watching whenever your lights were on and your curtains weren’t fully shut. Not creepy watching—just… lingering. Judgy. Disapproving. And when you caught him doing it, he didn’t look away.

He smirked.

Like he wanted you to know.

You flipped him off that night. He responded by slamming his curtains closed.

From there, it escalated.

Petty window wars.

Matching scowls.

Drawn blinds. Slammed shutters.

Occasional glimpses that left you just curious enough to keep checking—only to pretend you weren’t.

You didn’t speak. You’d never actually met. But the hatred was mutual and unspoken, hanging heavy between the glass like fog.

It didn’t help that he was attractive in the worst possible way.

Blonde hair, always messy. Pierced lip. He dressed like a delinquent and moved like he knew he was hot, and god, it made you hate him more.

Felix Lee was your most consistent irritation.

Until 3:07 a.m.

When you got up to get water.

And saw something you definitely weren’t supposed to see.

You hadn’t even fully woken up when you padded barefoot into the kitchen, hoodie sliding off one shoulder and eyes still crusty from sleep. The apartment was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of your fridge light as you grabbed the glass you kept on the counter. A sip, a sigh. Your body was already turning back toward your bedroom when something… off caught your eye.

Light. Across the alley.

His light.

You froze mid-step.

Felix never kept his curtains open at night. That was one of your only mutual rules in this silent, window-fueled cold war. If one of you was home, the curtains were shut. It was petty, unspoken truce. Or maybe a game.

But tonight?

His window was glowing.

Wide open, lit up like a stage.

Your heart jumped before your eyes even found him—because part of you knew something was off. Something wrong or strange or—

Holy shit.

You blinked.

Then blinked again.

There he was.

Felix.

On his bed.

Pillows messy. Legs spread. Shirtless.

One hand splayed lazily over his chest, rising and falling with every breath. The other was wrapped around his cock, slow and steady and completely unbothered by the fact that his window was wide open and you could see everything.

The laptop beside him glowed faint blue, casting porn shadows across his wall—but your eyes weren’t on the screen.

They were on him.

His head tipped back, lips parted, hair falling into his eyes. His chest arched as his grip tightened, jaw clenching like he was chasing the edge of something deep. His thighs flexed beneath the dim light, muscles tense with the kind of effort you’d only ever imagined before.

You should’ve looked away.

You tried.

But your body didn’t listen.

Not when he looked that good.

Not when you could hear his muffled groans through the paper-thin gap in your window.

You’d seen Felix angry. You’d seen him smirking, annoyed, smug, wet from the rain, shirtless once or twice from a distance on a laundry day.

But this?

This was different.

Raw. Beautiful. Unfiltered.

And then—

As if summoned by your stare—

His eyes opened.

Right to you.

And he froze.

Your heart launched itself into your throat, panic flaring as you realized you were standing at your window, fully visible, hoodie half-falling, staring directly at him like some thirsty creep. But before you could move—

Felix’s gaze dropped.

To your lips.

Then lower.

And then… He didn’t stop.

Didn’t close the laptop.

Didn’t cover up.

Didn’t even blink.

He just kept going.

Eyes on you.

Like he wanted you to watch.

You should’ve looked away.

Any normal person would’ve.

But you weren’t normal around Felix.

He made you reckless. Stupid. Curious in ways you weren’t proud of.

And now?

He was watching you watch him.

The air felt thick between the glass, like it carried something hotter than heat, heavier than tension. Your hoodie slipped further down your shoulder, but you didn’t move to fix it. Your lips parted. Felix’s eyes tracked it—subtle, slow—and his hand never stopped moving.

If anything… it got bolder.

Longer strokes. Tighter grip. His head tilted just a little, lips curling into something dark, daring.

Like he was saying: Go ahead. Look. You want this, don’t you?

You didn’t even breathe.

You stood there, transfixed, thighs clenching as you watched the tension build in his body. Every muscle flexed. His jaw locked. And when his hips jerked and his lips parted on a soft, filthy moan—so quiet you barely heard it—you knew.

He was coming.

And you watched it happen.

Hot. Shameless. His gaze never once leaving yours.

It wasn’t until his hand finally slowed, resting limply over his stomach, that you moved.

Your fingers twitched. Your breath trembled.

And then—with the kind of delayed panic that hits after the damage is done—you grabbed your curtain and pulled it shut, heart in your throat.

This time, you didn’t stand there.

You ran to your bed, threw the blanket over your face, and cursed the way your body ached.

Because Felix had just cum for you.

And you liked it.

—

You didn’t sleep much.

Your bed had never felt smaller. Your skin had never felt hotter. And the worst part?

You couldn’t stop seeing it.

The way his chest moved when he came. The twitch of his fingers. That look on his face—half smug, half lost, all heat.

And those fucking eyes.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

So no, sleep wasn’t an option. Not when Felix Lee had jerked off with the window wide open and turned your brain to static.

By the time morning rolled around, you were feral. Restless. On edge.

And you knew exactly how to get it out.

You grabbed a thick sheet of white poster board from your closet—a leftover from your “I Hate Everyone” art phase—and a black Sharpie that bled like hell.

In huge block letters, you wrote:

“Are you INSANE or just a NARCISSIST?!”

Underlined it twice.

Taped it to your window.

And waited.

It took a few hours.

But eventually—after a few dramatic passes back and forth through your apartment—you saw it.

A fresh sheet of paper.

Handwritten. Slanted. Arrogant.

“If you have a problem, say it to my face.”

Your jaw dropped.

He did NOT just—

You stormed to the window for a closer look, just in time to see him walk into frame. Felix. Hoodie half-zipped, hair still wet from a shower, jaw tense like he was barely keeping a smile down.

He saw you reading the note.

Saw your reaction.

And smirked.

Then—without a word—he shut his curtain.

You stood there, stunned.

Heart thundering. Face hot. Hands clenched at your sides.

Your phone buzzed, but you ignored it. Your brain was already racing. That wasn’t just an invitation—that was a challenge.

And you’d never backed down from Felix Lee.

Maybe it was time to go to Building B.

It started with pacing.

One lap across your room. Then another. Then four more, fast enough that your socks started slipping on the floor.

You couldn’t let that little red sign go.

“If you have a problem, say it to my face.”

Who the hell did he think he was?

Felix Lee, the pretty little punk across the alley, with his smug smirks and his reckless ego and his dick in his hand like he owned the world. You hated him. You hated him.

And that hatred was currently pulsing between your thighs like an electric fence.

You grabbed your hoodie.

You didn’t even think about it.

Your brain was a thunderstorm of curses as you stomped down the stairwell and out of your building, hoodie flapping behind you like a battle flag. The spring air hit your face, as you crossed the narrow alley between your buildings and reached the entrance to his.

“Don’t chicken out,” you muttered to yourself.

Your legs carried you up the steps before your brain could catch up. Floor one. Floor two. Floor three. You weren’t going to yell. You weren’t going to scream. You were going to knock on his door and tell him, calmly and clearly, that he was the worst thing to ever happen to your life and you wished you’d never moved into this stupid building across from his stupid face—

You stopped in front of 4B.

Hand raised. Knuckles inches from the wood.

Your heart pounded.

Your brain screamed, what are you doing??

And then the door opened.

You hadn’t even knocked.

And there he was.

Felix.

Shirtless. Again.

Towel slung over his shoulder.

Hair still damp, curls clinging to his forehead.

His eyes raked over you once, slowly—down your body, then back up—and a lazy, dangerous smile pulled at his lips like he’d been waiting for this.

“Well,” Felix drawled, arms folding over his chest as he leaned against the doorframe, towel still hanging off one shoulder. “Took you long enough.”

Your mouth opened—then shut—because goddamn it, he was even hotter up close.

He smelled like citrus and clean sweat, fresh from a shower, his chest still glistening in places like he hadn’t bothered to dry off properly. And that towel? It barely covered the waistband of his low-slung sweatpants.

You forced your eyes back to his face. Mistake. The cocky smirk there could ignite wars.

“You think this is funny?” you snapped.

Felix tilted his head. “A little.”

“You left your window open on purpose.”

“You looked.”

You took a step forward. “You were jerking off at three in the morning with the lights on like you were filming a damn OnlyFans—what the hell did you expect me to do?!”

His smirk widened. “Close your eyes? Maybe say thank you?”

You made a strangled sound of fury, hands clenching into fists. “You’re such a narcissistic, arrogant—”

“Cute when you’re angry,” he cut in, voice lower now, rougher.

Your pulse stuttered. He stepped aside just a little—door wide enough to let you in, body still blocking half the frame.

You hesitated.

He saw it.

“What, scared?” he said, voice dipping into something darker. “Big words from the girl who couldn’t look away last night.”

Your breath hitched.

Something in you snapped.

You shoved past him into his apartment.

Felix blinked, just once, before he shut the door behind you. Soft click. Thick silence.

The room smelled like him. Looked like him—messy, lived-in, warm. His laptop sat closed on the bed, probably hiding whatever filthy tab he’d left open.

He turned to face you, arms crossed again, eyes raking down your body with zero shame.

“Alright,” he said, casually, like you hadn’t just stormed into his home ready to rip his head off. “You’re here. Say what you need to say.”

You spun on him, heartbeat banging in your ears. “You don’t get to act like this is normal.”

“Never said it was normal.”

“Then why are you—why are you smiling at me right now?”

“Because you’re standing in my apartment,” he said, taking a step closer, “in that little hoodie that barely covers your ass, cheeks red, voice shaking… and you’re fucking hot when you’re mad.”

Your lips parted. Words didn’t come.

He stepped closer again.

“You didn’t look away last night,” he said softly.

You swallowed hard.

Maybe you hated him.

But maybe you hated how right he was even more.

The air between you crackled.

Felix was close enough now that you could feel the heat rolling off his bare skin. Every inch of him radiated this lazy, infuriating arrogance—like he knew exactly how far he could push before you snapped.

And he was aiming for the edge.

“I’m just saying,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing, “you didn’t seem so bothered last night. You could’ve looked away. Closed the curtains. But you didn’t.”

You folded your arms, fingers digging into your sleeves, willing your voice to stay steady.

“That doesn’t mean I enjoyed it.”

His eyes glittered. “Didn’t say you did. But you watched.”

You scoffed. “I was shocked.”

Felix took another step closer—his body barely an arm’s length from yours now. “You were curious.”

“I was horrified.”

He smiled, slow and dangerous. “Your thighs were probably clenched.”

Your breath caught.

“You’re imagining things,” you said, but your voice cracked just slightly.

He heard it.

He leaned in—not touching, not quite—close enough for his breath to ghost against your cheek.

“I think you liked it,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I think you liked seeing what you do to me. Even if you pretend to hate me.”

You could feel your pulse thudding in your throat. Your body screamed to react. Push him. Kiss him. Slap him. Something.

Instead, you straightened up. Turned your head. Met his gaze—unflinching, fire meeting fire.

And then you said it.

“You want me to watch again?”

“Fine.”

“Then show me.”

His smirk vanished like a light switch flipped.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Then his lips parted, and for the first time since this little game began—Felix Lee looked stunned.

“Yeah,” you said softly, lifting your chin. “Didn’t think so.”

You turned on your heel, heading for the door with your blood screaming in your veins, adrenaline sizzling like lightning in your fingertips.

But before your hand touched the doorknob, you heard it—

The quiet sound of breath.

And then:

“Don’t move.”

The words curled in the air behind you—low, sharp, bitten off like they’d escaped his mouth before he could cage them.

You froze.

Not because he said it.

But because part of you wanted to listen.

And that pissed you off more than anything.

So you didn’t move… but you didn’t stay still out of obedience.

You stayed still because you were calling his bluff.

You placed your hand on the doorknob. Deliberately.

“You gonna show me or not?” you said, voice calm, cool, razor-blade smooth. “Or is all that cocky attitude just for the window?”

Silence.

No footsteps. No breath.

Then, the faintest rustle. Like he shifted. Like you’d just kicked the legs out from under his control.

“I mean,” you continued, twisting the knob slightly, “I could always go home. Maybe next time I’ll have popcorn ready.”

Still nothing.

And then—

“I said don’t move.”

You turned your head just slightly, still not facing him. “Then make me.”

Another heartbeat of silence.

And suddenly he was there.

You felt it before you saw it—the shift of air, the heat of his body, the way your skin prickled like the storm had finally rolled in.

He didn’t touch you. Not yet.

But his voice was right behind your ear when he said, “You really wanna play this game?”

You smiled.

“You started it.”

You turned.

Slowly.

Like you had all the time in the world, like your heartbeat wasn’t a goddamn war drum in your chest.

And there he was.

Felix, standing barely a breath away, eyes dark as sin, mouth parted like he couldn’t quite believe you were still here, still pushing, still daring him.

Your gaze dragged down his chest—tan skin, droplets of water still clinging to his collarbone. The towel over his shoulder had shifted, forgotten. The waistband of his sweatpants teased a V-line so sharp it looked like it could cut glass.

You looked up into his eyes.

“I’m waiting,” you said.

His jaw flexed.

Then a hand—his hand—lifted, slow and deliberate, settling gently on your waist. Not possessive. Not rough. But confident. Heavy with intent.

You didn’t flinch.

You held his gaze and raised your chin. Challenging him.

“What do you want to see?” he asked, voice barely a whisper now. Not cocky. Not smug. Just low. Hungry.

Your fingers gripped the edge of your hoodie, knuckles white. You could feel the heat of his hand through the fabric, feel the storm inside him rising to meet yours.

You let your lips part.

And then, softly—

Deadly.

Like a secret meant for sin.

“Everything.”

His hand rested on your waist—firm, unmoving, fingers splayed wide like he wanted to mark you.

You held his stare.

Said it again, breath softer this time. “Everything.”

And for a second, Felix didn’t move.

Then his hand slid away, slow, like he was peeling himself off you before he did something reckless.

He stepped back.

And smiled.

Not the cocky, smug kind from earlier.

This one was darker.

Tighter.

Like he’d just made a decision that would ruin you.

“Alright,” he said, voice dipped in something molten. “You want a show?”

You didn’t answer.

He tilted his head. “Then make me hard.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“If you want to see it—” he moved back toward the bed, sitting down, legs spread just enough to make your stomach flutter— “earn it. Get me hard. Then I’ll show you everything.”

You stared at him.

It was a bluff. You knew it was a bluff. He didn’t think you’d follow through—probably expected you to roll your eyes and storm off.

But that’s where he fucked up.

Because now it wasn’t about teasing. It wasn’t even about winning.

It was about breaking him.

You stepped forward slowly, watching his brows tick up in surprise. He didn’t move—just watched, waiting, lips twitching like he still thought he had the upper hand.

And then—

You dropped to your knees.

Right there, between his legs.

Without touching him.

Felix’s eyes widened. “What are you—”

“Shh,” you said, voice calm. “I’m thinking.”

He didn’t breathe.

You leaned in, slow, deliberate, so close your mouth hovered just inches above the outline in his pants—but never made contact.

Then you whispered, “Close your eyes.”

He blinked, throat bobbing. “Why?”

You smiled. “So you don’t cheat.”

For some reason, he did it.

And that’s when you leaned in even closer—lips ghosting over the waistband of his sweats. Still no touch. Just your breath. Your presence.

You whispered.

“You think I need to touch you to make you fall apart?”

His whole body twitched.

And when you pulled back just slightly to look up at him, his eyes cracked open and dropped to your face—and the noise he made?

Not a sound you’d ever forget.

Low. Raw. Desperate.

His cock was hard.

Already.

You stood up like nothing happened.

“Looks like you owe me a show,” you said, brushing imaginary dust off your hoodie.

Felix stared at you like you were made of fire and bad decisions. Like you’d just rewritten the rules of your war.

And he was fucked.

Felix didn’t speak at first.

Still seated. Still rock hard. But now—eyes blown wide, pulse ticking in his throat, jaw tight like he was hanging onto the last frayed thread of his control.

You’d gotten to him. You knew you had.

You took a step back, slow. Smug. “Looks like you’ve got something to show me, Lee.”

He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his thighs. The tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled—he looked like a wolf about to pounce.

But he didn’t.

Instead, his lips curled into something low and sharp. “Sit down.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You earned a show, right?” His gaze flicked to the chair by his desk. “Then sit. You want to watch, you watch properly.”

Your throat went dry.

But you moved, slow, and dropped into the chair—legs crossed, arms folded like you weren’t falling apart inside.

He stood.

And when he tugged the towel off his shoulder and let it fall, there was a second—just one—where you swore he was nervous.

But it passed.

His fingers slid under the waistband of his sweats, slow, taunting, and he dragged them low enough for you to see the start of the promise underneath—

Then you moved.

Not to stop him. Not even to leave.

Just slightly. Shifting in your seat.

But Felix’s eyes snapped to the motion, and something changed.

The tease dropped.

The room crackled.

And in the next second, he was in front of you.

His hands gripped the armrests of your chair, boxing you in, and his face was so close you could see the way his pupils swallowed his irises whole.

“You think you can pull that stunt,” he growled, voice low and tight, “and walk away like nothing happened?”

You opened your mouth. You weren’t trying to leave though.

But you didn’t get a chance to speak.

Because he leaned in, nose brushing yours, lips barely touching.

“I don’t strip for free, sweetheart,” he whispered, and then—

He grabbed you.

In one sharp, fluid movement, he lifted you out of the chair and tossed you onto his bed. Not rough—but fast enough that your breath left in a sharp little gasp.

You stared up at him, wide-eyed, half-shocked, half-high.

Felix stood at the edge of the bed, panting, sweatpants dangerously low now.

“You want everything?” he asked.

And you—voice barely there, already trembling—said:

“Yes.”

The air felt thicker on his bed.

Heavy with sweat, tension, and the taste of something forbidden brewing between your thighs.

You sat up slightly, breath shallow, heart pounding against your ribs like it was trying to escape. Felix hadn’t touched you again—not yet—but the heat of him standing at the edge of the bed was a presence all its own.

His eyes locked on yours.

Then he lowered his sweats.

And fuck.

He was already so hard. Thick, flushed, the kind of cock that made your mouth go dry and your mind short-circuit. Your thighs clenched without permission.

Felix let out a breathless laugh. “You look surprised,” he said, wrapping a hand around himself. “You did this.”

You swallowed.

He started slow. Long strokes, fingers curling just enough, the tip wet and leaking as he dragged his hand up and down. He kept his eyes on you the whole time.

“You wanted a show?” he murmured. “Then watch.”

And you did.

Because how could you not?

He stood there—shoulders flexing, hips rolling with each stroke like he was fucking his own fist, his abs tightening every time his hand reached the base. The sounds—soft wet slicks, the hitched breath in his throat, the whispered curse when his thumb brushed the tip—it was too much.

Your hand gripped the sheets.

Your chest rose and fell, and when you bit your lip to keep a sound in, he saw it.

His jaw twitched.

“You like that?” he asked, voice hoarse. “You like watching me stroke my cock thinking about how good your mouth would feel on it?”

You whimpered.

He groaned—louder this time. “Fuck. Say something.”

You couldn’t.

You were frozen. Staring. Melting.

And that’s when it snapped.

He lunged.

One second, you were sitting up, the next, he was crawling onto the bed, towering over you, cock still in his hand as he shoved his knee between your legs and hovered over your body.

His lips ghosted your jaw, hot and trembling. “You wanna touch?”

Your voice cracked. “Y-Yes.”

“Then do it.”

You reached between you.

And when your hand wrapped around his cock—hot, heavy, real—Felix hissed through his teeth like the contact shattered him.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed.

You started stroking. Not shy. Not hesitant. You gave it back to him just like you watched—slow, firm, precise.

He dropped his forehead to yours, lips barely grazing. “Just like that, baby.”

Then he grabbed your hand—keeping it there—and rolled his hips into your fist.

The moan he let out?

Filthy.

He pulled back, looked down at you, face flushed, chest heaving.

“You wanna see everything?” he asked.

You nodded, mouth parted, dizzy with want.

Felix smirked.

“Then don’t stop.”

Your hand stroked him slow and steady.

Confident now. Addicted to the way his breath caught in his throat, the way his thighs tensed under your touch. He was trembling—Felix, trembling—with his head tipped back, mouth parted, eyes squeezed shut like he couldn’t fucking believe how good it felt.

“You’re gonna come like this?” you asked, voice low, taunting. “Just from my hand?”

“Fuck,” he groaned, hips twitching into your grip. “You’re such a—”

He didn’t finish.

Couldn’t.

You gave him a twist on the downstroke, thumb teasing the head just right, and that was it—his whole body jerked like he’d been shocked.

“Fucking hell–”

He looked down at you, wrecked and wild, and that was the moment he snapped.

He yanked your wrist away and tossed your hand to the side, eyes blazing.

“No,” he growled.

And before you could breathe, he flipped you.

Fast. One hand on your hip, the other braced beside your head, and suddenly your back hit the mattress and his body was everywhere.

He was on you.

Over you.

Breathing hard, flushed and leaking and furious.

“You think you get to do that,” he muttered, grinding down against your thigh, dragging his cock along the soft skin there, teasing you with it now, “drive me insane—then sit there all proud and fucking smug?”

You blinked up at him, dazed. “Was I smug?”

His hand slid under your top, up your ribs, finding the curve of your breast and squeezing hard enough to make you gasp.

“Smug as fuck.”

You smirked—couldn’t help it.

But it vanished when he leaned in, nose brushing your cheek, lips grazing your ear.

“You wanna make me come?” he whispered, grinding harder, slower, “Then lie there and let me fuck your thighs until I do.”

You gasped.

And Felix? Felix smiled.

Dark. Dangerous.

“My turn.”

“Felix—wait—”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. Weak. Breathless. A protest in theory only, because you didn’t actually stop him when his fingers hooked into your waistband and dragged your shorts down—slow, torturous.

He paused, just for a second, eyes dark and unreadable as they flicked down between your thighs.

And then he saw.

Your soaked thong.

A dark patch clinging to your center.

His breath hitched.

“You’re already wet?” he asked, like he wasn’t expecting it—like it genuinely short-circuited something in his brain.

You swallowed. “You’re the one who started—”

“Don’t care.”

He yanked the shorts off completely, tossed them aside, and pushed you down again with a hand firm on your thigh. Then he settled between your legs, rough palms gripping just above your knees and spreading you.

Your breath caught.

And when he lined himself up—not with your entrance, but with the plush, slick space between your thighs—you whimpered.

“Wanna feel it,” he muttered. “Wanna feel you like this first.”

And then he pushed in.

Slow. Deliberate. Letting his cock slide between your thighs, trapped tight with your soaked panties still clinging to your cunt. His cockhead brushed the slick heat of your folds, dragging over your clit just enough to make your back arch.

You weren’t supposed to get off like this.

But the friction—his grip, his deep voice, the sheer heat of it all—your body betrayed you.

“Felix—fuck—” your hands gripped his arms, trying to ground yourself as the pleasure built, relentless and filthy.

“You like this?” he asked, thrusting harder, faster, his cock slick now from you. “Fucking hell—you’re dripping—”

“I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”

You came. Without warning.

Legs shaking, mouth open in a silent cry, thighs squeezing tight around him as your cum slicked the space between you. Felix cursed—loud, desperate—his rhythm breaking.

And then it happened.

He slid forward.

Too fast. Too deep.

And right into you. Slipped right into your cunt.

He stilled.

You both froze.

The sound that left him—low, raw, like a fucking growl—was followed by a whisper of your name, choked and sinful.

“Shit. I didn’t mean to—”

But neither of you moved.

Because he was inside you now. Bare. Thick. Hot.

Your pussy clenched around him involuntarily.

His jaw clenched.

“I’ll pull out,” he managed, voice shaking. “Just—”

“Don’t.”

Your voice was wrecked.

Ruined.

Fucked.

His eyes snapped to yours.

You reached up, cupped the back of his neck, and pulled him closer.

“I don’t want you to.”

And with that, he started fucking you.

Desperate, slick, buried to the hilt and already seconds from breaking. The sound of skin slapping skin, the way you whimpered every time his hips snapped forward, how wet it was from your orgasm—

He didn’t last long.

With a guttural moan and a full-body shudder, Felix came inside you, deep, heavy, his cock twitching as he spilled everything into you, no barriers, no filter.

When he finally collapsed beside you, panting, flushed, and fucked-out, neither of you spoke.

Because there was nothing left to say.

Just the sound of your breaths, and the weight of everything you just became.

For a full minute, neither of you moved.

The room was drenched in silence. Sticky, humid, fucked-out silence. You were both staring at the ceiling like you’d just been struck by lightning. Not touching. Not speaking. Just… processing.

Felix’s chest rose and fell beside you, still rapid.

Your pulse was in your throat.

Your thighs were wet. Your panties were ruined. You could still feel him—his cum, the ghost of that final, frantic thrust. It should’ve been horrifying. You weren’t even sure what the hell you were now.

Then he breathed.

“…Sooo.”

You blinked.

He turned his head, slowly, and smirked like he just won a championship game.

“Still mad at me?”

You let out a breathless laugh. “You came in me.”

“Correction.” He propped himself up on one elbow, totally shameless. “Slipped inside of you.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“Because you made it that wet,” he added, gesturing vaguely to your thighs like he was proving a point.

“Oh my God.”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugged, smile smug. “If anyone’s fault it was, it’s yours.”

You grabbed a pillow and smacked him with it.

He took the hit, laughing through it, already reaching to pull you back.

Felix’s laughter slowly died, and for a moment, there was nothing but the soft hum of the room settling, the air thick with the aftermath. He was lying back, eyes half-lidded, his chest still rising and falling quickly, but there was something different in the way he looked at you now. Like the animosity that usually swirled between you both had… loosened a little.

You rolled onto your side, your eyes narrowing as you stared at him. “So,” you said, teasing but with that edge of sarcasm you couldn’t shake, “I guess we’re like enemies with benefits now?”

Felix smirked, a lazy, smug expression creeping onto his face as he met your gaze. “Seems like it, yeah.”

You let out a slow, contemplative breath, staring at him with that familiar mix of annoyance and… something else you couldn’t quite define. “You’re still really annoying,” you muttered, but your voice wasn’t as harsh as it would’ve been before. Something about the situation had shifted.

Felix’s grin widened, and without missing a beat, he leaned closer to you. His breath was warm on your skin as he whispered, “Same to you.”

But there was no sting in the words. Instead, there was a softness to his tone, a kind of understanding you hadn’t expected.

And before you could stop yourself, you spoke again, the words slipping out with no filter. “You’re a really good lay, though.”

Felix chuckled under his breath, leaning in just enough for his lips to hover over yours, his smirk never leaving. “I know,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

For a second, neither of you moved, the tension lingering like an electric charge in the air between you.

And then, you did it.

You pulled him in, just enough to make his lips crash against yours, rough and demanding. It was different from the last time—messier, more heated. The kiss was filled with a strange mix of passion and frustration, the kind of frustration that came from a desire you didn’t want to admit was there.

Felix groaned low against your mouth, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you let him kiss you deeper, the taste of him filling your senses, your body responding before you could even catch your breath.

When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, he gave you that smug, knowing look again. “Still mad at me?”

You wiped your lips with the back of your hand, rolling your eyes but unable to hide the smirk tugging at your mouth. “Oh, I’m definitely still mad at you.”

Felix raised an eyebrow, leaning back, clearly pleased with himself. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

You sighed dramatically, trying to hold onto some semblance of your old annoyance. But deep down, something had shifted. You weren’t even sure what it was anymore. “I swear, Felix,” you muttered, half irritated, half… something else entirely. “This doesn’t mean we’re friends.”

Felix’s laugh was soft but self-assured. “Doesn’t mean we’re enemies either.”

You huffed, turning over to face the other direction, your back to him, but there was a warmth in your chest that you couldn’t ignore.

Felix’s voice broke through the silence once again, teasing, but this time there was a softness to it. “So, what’s next? You gonna keep staring at me from across the windows, or we got more sessions planned?”

You rolled your eyes again, but the playful smile on your lips gave you away. “Maybe,” you said, leaning back slightly so you could look at him over your shoulder. “But don’t think you’re winning me over anytime soon.”

Felix raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Sure,” he said, like he was more than happy to play this game. “You just wait until the next time I slip in again.”

And just like that, everything felt… right. Or, at least, it made sense.

Enemies with benefits.

Maybe it didn’t have to be more complicated than that.

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Authors note: Felix has really been wrecking me lately so here’s the nastiness my horny brain conjured up 😍 youre welcome!