One minute you were laughing against the hallway wall because he almost dropped his keys, the next his mouth was on yours, warm and hungry, hands at your waist like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or worship the space between you.

It’s still new, this thing with him. Two months of dates that ran past closing time, goodnight kisses that hovered on the edge of getting carried away. Tonight was the first time you’d really planned for it. No more “we should slow down” half-smiles. No more “next time” with his hand pressed over the front of his jeans.

Next time is here.

His bedroom smells like skin and clean laundry and his cologne, that expensive warmth you swear you could pick out of a crowd. You’re on your back, his body between your thighs, shirt half off his shoulders. His chain swings down and brushes your collarbone as he kisses his way along your jaw.

“You okay?” he murmurs, lips hovering at your ear.

You nod, nails skimming up his back. “Yeah.”

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, like he has every time you’ve gone further than before. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

He relaxes, kisses you again, slower this time. He’s always like this, half careful, half starving. Every time his hips roll down into yours, he pulls back to look at you, checking, checking, as if you might disappear if he gets it wrong.

Clothes end up on the floor in a trail. There’s a condom wrapper torn with shaking fingers. You’re half laughing, half cursing at how long it feels like you’ve both been waiting.

When he finally pushes into you, the breath leaves his lungs in a ragged sound.

“Fuck,” he whispers, forehead falling to your shoulder. “You feel… god, you feel good.”

It’s slow at first. Rocking, not thrusting. His hand is braced by your head, the other sliding down your side, thumb drawing a circle on your hip every time he sinks deeper. He’s talking under his breath, little praises, half-formed words.

“So pretty like this.”

“Been thinking about you all week.”

“Tell me if you want more, yeah?”

You do.

You say so.

“More,” you breathe, hips rolling up to meet his. “Ji, please…”

His rhythm stutters. He groans into your neck, pace picking up without him meaning to. The headboard thuds lightly with each movement, the sound making your face heat.

Somewhere in the haze of it, his hand slips up.

His fingers brush your throat.

You think it’s an accident at first. He’s kissed your neck a dozen times. His hand has framed your jaw before, thumb tracing your cheekbone like he’s memorizing it. You don’t flinch at the touch, why would you? It’s him.

Then his fingers curl a little tighter.

Not enough to hurt. Just enough pressure that your next inhale catches.

You hear his voice, rough in your ear. “You okay? Too much?”

Your body is already buzzing. You feel drunk on him. And it’s Ji, you remind yourself. Gentle, soft-spoken Ji who apologizes when his foot accidentally brushes yours under restaurant tables.

“I’m okay,” you manage, and you are. Mostly. There’s a weird flicker in your chest, but you push it down. This is normal. People do this. You’ve heard friends talk about it like it’s nothing. A little roughness. A little hand at the throat.

His fingers tighten again, just a fraction.

Your heart jumps, then races.

You try to focus on the weight of his body, the sound of his breathing. The way he’s still checking your face, even as he thrusts a little harder, lips parted, hair falling into his eyes.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he pants. “You feel so good, baby…”

The word snaps something you didn’t know was attached to anything.

Baby.

It was always baby with him, back then.

Your ex’s face flashes up over Ji’s for half a second, sharp jaw, that lazy smile that never reached his eyes. You blink, and it’s gone. You clutch at Ji’s shoulders, nails digging in, grounding yourself in the solid heat of him.

“This is Ji,” you tell yourself. “You’re safe. You’re safe.”

His fingers flex at your throat again, in time with his hips.

Your brain doesn’t hear “safe.”

It hears: no air.

The room tilts, edges blurring, the ceiling rippling like water. His fingers aren’t that tight, you know that, logically. But logic is already sliding out from under your feet.

“Ji,” you start, meaning to say wait. Meaning to say softer, please. Meaning to say something,

His grip tightens once, excited, unthinking.

Your vision tunnels.

You don’t see him anymore.

You see the hotel room.

You see the ugly beige lamp turned onto its side, still on, glare in your eyes. You see the smear of your lipstick on his collar, the way he laughed when you said stop like you were telling a joke.

You feel his hand on your throat, too big, too strong, thumb pressing hard enough that your eyes watered instantly.

“Relax,” he’d said. “You like it rough, right, baby? I’ve seen what you post. Don’t start pretending now.”

You hear the sound of your own choking, ragged and panicked. The black spots at the edges of your vision. The way your nails scraped uselessly at his forearm while he pinned you down with his weight.

“Almost there,” he’d grunted. “Don’t you dare tap out now, you ruin everything..”

You remember thinking: this is it.

Not like this. Not with him.

Not in a room that smells like bleach and a thousand strangers.

Your chest tightens so hard in the present that your whole body seizes.

Ji’s voice cuts through, distant and warbled. “Baby? Hey..hey, look at me..”

You can’t.

You can’t see him.

All you see is that face and that lamp and those fingers digging into your windpipe while your world narrowed down to the lack of air.

Your hands fly to Ji’s wrist, but you’re not here. You’re back there, adrenaline roaring, fingernails biting, your throat burning.

“Stop..” The word tears out of you, raw. “Stop, stop, please, I can’t..”

Ji recoils like you’ve burned him.

His hand disappears from your neck, his weight jerks back, the condom slipping free as he stumbles off you.

“Fuck..shit..hey..hey,” he stammers, breathless for a completely different reason now. “I’m off, I’m off, I’m not touching you, I swear..”

You don’t hear him.

You’re curled on your side before you even register moving, hands flying to your throat, gasping air that doesn’t feel like it’s getting in. The room is spinning. The lamp is wrong. The sheets are wrong. But your body doesn’t care.

You can’t get enough air.

You can’t get enough away.

Ji freezes for half a second, completely naked, completely lost.

Then he moves.

He grabs the discarded T-shirt from the floor and pulls it on with shaking hands, swearing under his breath when he gets the head hole wrong the first time. He doesn’t touch you. Every muscle in him is screaming to, but he doesn’t know if that’ll make things worse.

“Hey,” he says, dropping to his knees by the side of the bed. “Hey, look at me..no, it’s okay, don’t, just… can you hear me?”

You’re rocking, you realize dimly. Your hands are a vise at your throat, nails pressing so hard you’re going to bruise your own skin. Your breaths are high, shallow, too fast. You can’t see him. You see him.

“Please,” you choke. “Please, I’ll be good, I’ll be good, just..”

The words slam into Ji like a truck.

He’s heard you beg before. Heard you whine and curse and say please in ways that made his head spin. This is not that. This is something brittle and terrified, ripped from a place he didn’t know lived in you.

His first instinct is to touch. To grab your hands and pull them away so you don’t hurt yourself. To curl around you and hold you until you remember who he is.

His second instinct, alarmingly close behind, is to put a fist through a wall and then through the face of whoever made you sound like that.

He does neither.

“I’m Ji,” he says instead, forcing his voice low and steady. “It’s me. We’re at my place, remember? The ugly lamp you made fun of? No one else is here.”

No reaction.

You’re staring at some point past him, eyes wide, pupils huge. Tears stream down your temples into your hairline.

He swallows, heart pounding. He runs through everything he’s ever known about panic attacks, flashbacks, grounding, bits of interviews he’s done, things he’s overheard staff mention, one awful documentary he watched on PTSD because he thought the title sounded poetic.

“Okay,” he says more to himself than to you. “Okay. Grounding. We can try that.”

He keeps his distance, hands visible.

“Can you… can you tell me five things you can see?” he asks gently.

Your gaze flicks, unfocused. For a moment, he thinks you didn’t hear.

Then: “Lamp,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Curtains. Floor. Bed. Y-you.”

The last one is barely audible.

Relief punches through him so hard he sways.

“Good,” he says quickly. “That’s good, baby. You’re doing so good. Four things you can feel?”

“My… throat,” you rasp. Your fingers twitch, like you’re just now realizing you’re still clutching it. “S-sheets. My… hands. Air.”

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re breathing, see? It’s coming in. I know it feels like it’s not, but it is. You’re here. With me.”

You suck in another breath, a little deeper this time. It sticks, but it goes down.

“Can you smell anything?” he asks. “One thing.”

His cologne, you think dimly. The detergent on his sheets. The faint, sweet-sour scent of sex in the air.

“Y-you,” you manage.

His eyes go glossy.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Me. Just me.”

Your fingers loosen, slowly, from your throat. Your chest still feels locked, but some part of your brain is catching up now, replaying the last ten seconds.

Ji’s weight. His hand. You saying it was okay. The way his face changed when you said stop.

Shame slams into you so hard you almost retch.

“I’m sorry,” you gasp, sitting up too fast. The room tilts. You grab the headboard with one hand, pressing the other over your mouth like you can stuff the words back in. “Fuck, Ji, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry..”

“Hey, hey, no,” he says, alarmed. “Don’t.. you don’t have to apologize. I’m the one who.. I should’ve asked, I..”

“I said it was okay,” you babble, heart hammering. “I said I was fine, I just.. I thought I was. I didn’t know I would.. I’m not.. I’m not freaking out because of you, I swear, I know it’s you, I just.. I didn’t for a second and..”

Your vision blurs again.

“Breathe,” he says. “Please, just… breathe. Can I sit on the bed?”

You nod, dragging in another shaky inhale.

He climbs up slowly, like you’re a scared animal he doesn’t want to spook. He sits in front of you, cross-legged, as far as he can be while still being close.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, the words low and rough. “I shouldn’t have put my hand there without talking about it first. That’s on me. You don’t have to fix this for me.”

You stare at him.

His hair is sticking up in a dozen directions. His T-shirt is crooked. There’s a faint red mark around his wrist where you’d grabbed him. His eyes are huge, dark, frantic.

“I wanted it,” you say, hoarse. “At first. I thought I could handle it. People do stuff like this every day, right? I didn’t think..”

“You don’t have to want anything you don’t want,” he cuts in. “And even if you wanted it five minutes ago and you don’t anymore, that’s fine. That’s normal. You say stop, it’s done. I don’t care if it’s because you remembered you have to do laundry. I stop. Always.”

The certainty in his voice makes your eyes sting.

“I wasn’t seeing you,” you whisper. “That’s what scared me. I… I was somewhere else. With someone else.”

His jaw clenches.

“The ex?” he asks, carefully.

You nod, fingers tightening in the blanket.

“I thought…” You swallow. “I thought I’d dealt with it. Therapy, time, all of it. I thought choking was… off limits, you know? And then with you, I felt safe, and I thought maybe… maybe I could rewrite it. Make a new memory over the old one.”

He goes very still.

“And then for a second it was just… him again,” you finish, voice breaking. “Same hand. Same feeling. Same… panic. Like I was right back there and I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t move and my body just..”

You gesture helplessly at yourself, at the wreck you’ve become in the last five minutes.

Ji’s hands curl into fists on his knees.

“What did he do?” he asks softly. “If you can… if you want to tell me.”

You close your eyes.

“Same thing,” you say. “Except he didn’t stop when I asked.”

Silence drops between you, heavy and humming.

Ji stares at you, at the red marks blooming at your throat, his, this time, even if they were light.

A slow, hot rage uncoils in his chest. He’s never wanted to find someone and hurt them more in his life. The thought of that man’s hands on your neck makes his vision blur at the edges.

He imagines showing up at his door. No cameras, no security, no witnesses. Just his fists and all the anger he’s never really let himself feel.

He almost stands.

Then he looks at you again.

You’re shaking, knuckles white where you clutch the blanket, eyes darting to his hands like you’re wondering what they’ll do next.

He forces himself to uncurl his fingers.

Killing the guy who did this to you would not fix what happened tonight. It would not unhook the wire between fingertips on your throat and terror in your lungs. It would not give you back those seconds where you didn’t know who you were with.

Right now, the person in front of him needs him here. Not fantasizing about revenge.

He breathes. In. Out. In again.

“Thank you for telling me,” he says. “I know that wasn’t easy.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “It was easier than almost passing out on top of you.”

He winces. “Don’t. Please don’t make jokes that make me want to throw myself out the window.”

“I’m serious,” you insist weakly. “This is… new for you, right? I didn’t want to scare you off with all my… baggage.”

He frowns. “It’s not baggage, it’s… shit that happened to you. And yeah. It’s new. I’ve never been with someone who..”

He breaks off, searching for the right words.

“I’m not scared of you,” he says finally. “I’m scared of hurting you more than you’ve already been hurt. That’s… that’s it. I want to get it right. That’s all.”

The simplicity of it makes your throat tighten in a completely different way.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit. “I don’t know what to ask for. Or what to avoid. Or how much is too much to tell you.”

“We figure it out,” he says. “Together. You don’t have to give me a manual tonight. Or ever, if you don’t want to. Just… talk to me. Like you did now. And I’ll listen. And if I fuck up, like I just did, you tell me, and I’ll fix it.”

You stare at him. “You didn’t know.”

“I knew enough to ask,” he says. “I didn’t. That’s on me. I’m not going to sit here and go ‘well, you said it was okay’ when clearly something inside you didn’t agree. I care more about that,” he nods at your chest, “than my ego about being a good lover.”

The word makes your face heat even now.

He notices, a corner of his mouth twitching.

“Are you… still feeling like you’re there?” he asks gently. “Or are you more here now?”

You take stock.

The room is clearer. The lamp is ugly and familiar, not the harsh cone of someone else’s shame. The sheets smell like laundry soap and his skin, not cheap hotel bleach. Your chest still feels tight, but you can tell air is actually moving.

“More here,” you say.

“Okay,” he says. “Do you want to shower? Clean up? I can get you clothes. Or I can sit on the floor and recite my entire discography until you get bored and yell at me.”

A reluctant smile twitches at your lips. “Please don’t.”

He puts a hand to his heart, mock offended. “Wow. I offer you music and you reject me. Maybe I’m the traumatized one.”

You huff a tiny laugh, then immediately feel guilty.

“I shouldn’t be laughing,” you say. “This is..”

“This is allowed to be whatever it is,” he says. “If you laugh, you laugh. If you cry, you cry. There’s no right script for this. Okay?”

You nod.

“I’d like a shower,” you say after a moment. “If that’s okay.”

“Yeah, of course,” he says instantly, getting to his feet. “I’ll get fresh towels. And a shirt that doesn’t smell like fear.”

You watch him move around the room, scooping up clothes, rummaging for the softest hoodie he owns. His hands still shake, just a little, every time his fingers brush his own T-shirt.

When he passes you the towel and clothes, he doesn’t let his fingers graze yours. You notice.

“You can touch me,” you say quietly. “It’s okay.”

He searches your face. “You sure?”

You nod. “I’ll tell you if that changes.”

He exhales, tension easing from his shoulders.

He steps closer, bends, and presses the lightest kiss to your forehead. No hands on your throat. No weight pinning you down. Just lips against skin, feather-soft.

“I’ll be right out here,” he says. “Door cracked. If you need me, just say my name. I don’t care if you’re mid-shampoo, I’m coming in.”

You actually smile. “Yes, ahjussi.”

He groans. “You did not just ahjussi me after a trauma episode.”

“Sorry,” you say, not sounding sorry at all.

He flicks your knee very gently. “Shower, brat.”

The water helps.

You stand under the spray, letting it beat against the back of your neck, eyes closed. You concentrate on the sensation, the warmth, the slip of soap, the sound of the stream hitting tile. You wash your throat carefully, fingertips ghosting over the faint marks.

They’re light. Nothing like the fingerprint-dark bruises you woke up with that other time.

You press your palm over your sternum.

“This is Ji,” you tell yourself. “Not him. Different hands. Different heart.”

By the time you step out, wrapped in his hoodie and the softest sweatpants he owns, your breathing is mostly back to normal. The edges of the panic have dulled. The flashback feels more like a horrible movie clip than a present tense.

Ji looks up from his spot on the floor beside the bed, where he’s been sitting, knees drawn up, scrolling aimlessly on his phone just to keep himself from pacing a hole in the rug.

His shoulders sag with relief when he sees you.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You look comfy.”

You tug the hoodie sleeves over your hands. “I stole your best one.”

“I’ll allow it,” he says. “Come here?”

You hesitate only for a second before climbing onto the bed. He joins you on top of the blankets, sitting cross-legged again, turning to face you.

“Do you… want to be held?” he asks. “Or do you want space?”

“Held,” you say, surprised by how easy the answer comes.

He opens his arms, slow and careful. You crawl into them, curling against his chest. His heart is racing under your ear.

“Your heart’s going crazy,” you murmur.

He huffs a soft laugh, hand coming up to rest between your shoulder blades. “Yeah, well. I just watched the person I like have a panic attack caused by my dumb horny hand. Not my chillest night.”

You wince. “Don’t call it that.”

“Sorry,” he says immediately.

You grip his shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric. “It’s not your fault. I mean it. That… trigger? It was there before you ever touched me. You stepped on it, yeah. But you didn’t put it there.”

He presses his chin lightly to the top of your head.

“Maybe,” he says. “But now that I know where it is, I’m not going anywhere near it again unless you specifically hand me a map and a safety manual.”

You short laugh into his chest. “I don’t think there will be a manual.”

“Then I’ll improvise and over-communicate,” he says. “Two things I’m great at, apparently.”

You sink into him, listening to the rumble of his voice. The aftershocks of the panic are still there, small tremors in your spine, a lingering ache in your throat, but they’re softer with him around you.

“Can I ask for something?” he says, after a while.

“Yeah.”

“If… this ever happens again,” he says slowly, “can you promise me you’ll tell me before we get to this point? Not the… choking specifically. Just… if something feels off. If you’re not sure. If you’re forcing yourself to do something because you think you should like it.”

You stare at his collar, at the faint thread near the seam that’s coming loose.

“I didn’t want to be the difficult girlfriend,” you admit. “The one with rules. The one who winces at things other people are into.”

He pulls back enough to look at you. His eyes are very, very serious.

“I don’t want a cool girlfriend,” he says. “I want you. The you that sleeps with the light on sometimes. The you that makes fun of my lamp. The you that says no when her body is screaming at her. That’s the one I like.”

Your chest tightens for a completely different reason.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’ll tell you. Next time. If there is a next time.”

“There will be,” he says, then winces. “I mean, only if you want there to be. But I’m not running just because tonight got… heavy. I don’t scare that easy, you know?”

“You should,” you say, voice small.

He brushes a strand of hair back from your face. “Nah,” he says softly. “You’re the least scary thing in my life.”

You believe him.

Not because the panic magically disappears, or the memory fades, or the ex suddenly stops existing. But because he’s here, warm and solid and a little shaken, choosing to stay even when it would be easier to bolt.

“Someday,” he adds, voice quiet, “if you ever want to tell me his name… you can. Not because I’ll go find him.” His mouth twists. “Even though I want to. Just so I can know exactly who I’m cursing under my breath when you flinch at stupid shit like movie scenes.”

You let out a breath that’s halfway between a laugh and a sob.

“Maybe,” you say. “Not tonight.”

“Not tonight,” he agrees.

He shifts, easing both of you down onto the bed, keeping you tucked against him. One hand rests on your back, the other laces with yours on his chest.

“You okay if I turn the lights off?” he asks.

“Leave the lamp,” you say. “It’s ugly, but… I kind of like it.”

He smiles into your hair. “See? Told you. You and my ugly lamp, meant to be.”

You swat his chest lightly. “Shut up.”

He hums, low and fond.

“Sleep,” he says. “I got you. If you wake up and it’s bad again, just say my name. I don’t care if it’s the fifth time. I’ll keep saying ‘it’s me’ until it sticks.”

You believe that, too.

You fall asleep with your fingers tangled in his shirt, his heartbeat steady under your ear, his hand a warm, gentle weight on your back, nowhere near your throat.

The sirens hadn’t stopped in three days. They echoed through the streets, cutting through the air unmercifully. What was likely one of the most shocking and tragic events in the city’s history was now being called The Virgin Massacre by the news. Every victim had been found the same way, same pattern, same mark carved into their skin. 

The whole city was locking doors, lighting candles, closing their curtains, praying that superstition might save their daughters. Meanwhile, you were making your way home after a 12-hour shift with the rain falling relentlessly and cold, turning the streets into a blur of reflections, red lights bleeding into puddles, the wind carrying the sound of distant sirens and the bustling city. 

You put your coat tighter around you, hurrying down the block, your shoes clicking on the wet pavement. It was late — too late — and you cursed yourself for staying behind at the café. You’d promised Vernon and your mom earlier you’d head straight home after work, but the manager had begged you to help close up. 

Now you were paying for it with every step echoing through the nearly empty street.

Your breath came out shallow bursts. The air smelled like rain and fear, one that had settled over the entire city since the murders began. Every news alert, every whisper online said the same thing: the victims were all virgins. 

At first, you’d laughed it off, thinking it was all a rumor. But tonight, when you saw the police cars two streets away and the white sheet covering another girl’s body, virgin scrawled across the wall beside her in a deep, bleeding red, the joke stopped being funny. 

You pulled your phone from your pocket and hit Hansol’s name. One ring. Two. Three. 

“Pick up, pick up, come on,” you muttered under your breath, glancing over your shoulder. The street should've been empty at these hours, but there was a tall figure walking a few steps behind, the heavy rain blurring the face of whoever it was.

“Peach?” Vernon’s voice finally came through the other line, rough, sleepy, calling you by the nickname he gave you ages ago. 

“Hansol,” you exhaled in relief, voice trembling, “I think someone’s following me.”

“What?”

Your pace quickened. You turned a corner, splashing through puddles as you increased the speed. “I just left work. There is a man and he’s been behind me since the main street. I looked back, and he–”

Another sound cut you off. This time, of a foot falling into a puddle. A loud gasp escaped you, but not loud enough to be a scream.

“Y/N, where are you right now?” Vernon’s tone was serious, more than you ever heard him sounding. You scanned your surroundings until your eyes landed on a street sign and you told him. “Run. Don’t look back. I’m coming. Keep me on the line.”

The phone slipped slightly in your shaking hand as you ran. Your breath tore at your lungs, the rain stinging your face. You could hear the rhythm of footsteps matching yours getting closer by the way they echoed through the street. You darted across the street, heart hammering against your ribs, keys already in your palm. You could see your building now, just a block away. 

“Hansol,” you whispered into your phone, “I think he’s still there.”

“I’m almost there, peach.”

Something darted behind you, a shadow slicing across the glow of the streetlamp. You screamed and bolted, fumbling with your keys. Finally, you dashed inside the building and raced up the stairs without a glance back, footsteps chasing you, hurried and heavy. Somehow, you made it to your apartment, slamming into the door. Your hands shook too violently to fit the key. 

The steps were already on your floor when you jammed the key into the lock, shoved the door open, and slammed it shut. One, two, three locks clicked into place at record speed, your chest heaving as you pressed yourself against the door, trying to get your pulse back under control.

Silence. Except for your heart roaring in your ears.

You pressed your back against the door, chest rising and falling too fast. Your hands were numb, your hair dripping down your neck, your body was shaking from head to toe. You watched through the peephole the hallway light flickered once, twice, before steadying again. 

You don't know how long you’d stayed there until a knock came through. You nearly screamed when you heard his voice. 

“Y/N?”

You yanked the door open to find Vernon there completely drenched, breathless, eyes wild. He must have ran straight over. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, stepping inside before you could answer. His hands cupped your face checking you over for bruises, or any way you could be hurt.

“I don’t know,” you managed to say, voice shaking. “I think he followed me here.”

Hearing this, Vernon locked the door, double-checked the windows, the rooms and closets of your apartment, then turned back to you, who was sitting on the living room floor now, your knees pressed against your chest and your head buried in your arms, body still trembling, although you didn't know if it was from fear or cold anymore.

You couldn’t believe you’d almost been killed tonight. Killed because you were a virgin. A twenty-something virgin, but a virgin nonetheless. And now you were at risk of being killed because you'd never had sex. How ironic was life?

It’s not like you planned on being a virgin forever. It wasn’t even your desire, it just hadn’t happened before because you’d never felt that way with any guy. Well, there was one guy that you felt that way, but you didn't think he’d look at you that way.

You heard his footsteps echoing through the silent apartment until he knelt in front of you, trying to lift your head to look at him. “Hey. You’re safe now. I’m here.”

You nodded, though the words didn’t reach you. Your body was trembling so hard you could barely stand, your thoughts working a million miles an hour. Vernon guided you toward the couch, wrapping you in a blanket, crouching in front of you again. 

“What exactly happened?” he asked softly. 

“I saw him. Dark jacket, hood up, red mask. I thought I was being paranoid, but then he started walking faster when I did. And when I ran…” you swallowed hard, tears forming in the corners of your eyes as your brain slowly processed the seriousness of the situation, “he ran too.”

Vernon’s jaw tightened. You knew that was the way he showed he was angry. “Did you see his face?”

You shook your head. “No. But…” you hesitated, lowering your voice. “The police found another victim near the coffee house. She was my age. And–”

“And she was a virgin,” he finished grimly.

Tears were now falling down your cheeks uncontrollably without you even noticing, your lower lip trembling with the same intensity. “I’m scared.”

He reached out, taking your cold hands in his. “You’re safe now. I promise.”

You closed your eyes, shaking your head and letting more tears fall down. “You can’t promise that.”

Vernon really wanted to argue, but something about the fear in your eyes stopped him. Instead, he just said, “So you’ll come stay with me at my place. We don’t know if he might still be out there.”

Outside, thunder rolled, rattling the windows so hard it made you flinch. 

“Okay.”

“Another young woman has been brutally murder tonight,” the stern-faced reporter announced into a microphone. “The killer is still at large. Citizens are urged to stay indoors and lock their doors.” 

You sat curled on Vernon’s couch, your knees pressed tightly to your chest. It was already the third night you’d spent at his apartment, too scared to be on your own, not that he’d let you go, anyway. He’d been the one to invite you to stay, and now you were practically quarantined together, hadn’t stepped outside in days, hadn’t even ordered food, terrified that the next delivery man could be him.

During this time, two more girls were murdered, and the pattern only grew clearer and clearer. Vernon had already begged you multiple times to stop watching the news, to stop feeding your fear, but you couldn’t help yourself. The anxiety would come either way, whether you knew what was happening or not.

You watched the news attentively and didn’t speak until the reporter’s voice faded completely. 

“Hansol,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around your body, “these girls were about our age.”

He looked up from where he stood by the window, watching the rain. His jaw flexed. “I know.”

You swallowed hard, twisting the string of your sweater between your fingers. “All the victims… they were all virgins. I am too.”

The living room went quiet as you turned off the TV, leaving only the low hum of the storm outside. When he didn’t say anything, you glanced away from the dark reflection on the screen to his face. His eyes were tired, red around the edges. 

Just as you, Vernon hadn’t slept either, helping you whenever you woke up in the middle of the night, shaken from another nightmare of being followed. He'd talk to you until your breathing evened out again. And knowing him the way you did, it wouldn’t surprise you to learn he stayed awake afterward, just sitting there in the dark, keeping watch until morning.

You’d been best friends since middle school, inseparable, always there for each other when things got bad. And now things were worse than they’d ever been.

“Peach–” he started, but you cut him off. 

“I don’t want to die, Hansol.”

He froze at the sound of your voice. Having known you his whole life, Vernon could always tell when fear was real, and this time, it was. The tremor in your tone said more about your vulnerability than any tears ever could.

“You’re not going to die.”

“You don’t know that.” Your voice cracked. Vernon's adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed, unsure how to calm you when he was barely keeping it together himself. “Every single person who–who died was like me. I was almost one of them, and I don’t want to be next. I can’t just wait here for–” you stopped yourself, shaking your head like you could chase away the fear. You met his eyes again. “You’re the only one I trust.”

It was now or never. You’d been stewing over this idea for days, ever since you started staying here with him. Not that it was a new thought; if you were being honest, it had been simmering in the back of your mind for a while. But given the circumstances, this felt like the perfect moment to finally summon the courage to say what you’d been holding in for so long. At least now, you had an excuse.

You got up from the couch, moving slowly, and Vernon’s eyes stayed on you. “Peach, what are you saying?”

“There’s one way I won’t fit the pattern.”

“Okay, and how do you plan on—” He stopped mid-sentence, realization dawning as you bit your lip and got closer to him. “Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. You can’t possibly mean that—”

You tugged nervously at the sleeve of his Star Wars shirt. “I do. You’re the only person I trust, Hansolie.”

The way you said his name — soft, pleading — made him shut his eyes tight, as if that could block out the look he knew you were giving him. 

“Peach.” His laugh came out nervous and strangled. “That’s not exactly what they teach you in self-defense.”

“I’m not joking, Hansol.” 

“I know you’re not, that’s the worst part.” He ran a hand down his face, trying to process it, heart suddenly going a mile per minute inside his chest, and it most definitely wasn’t because of the thought and fear that there was a killer on the loose. “Do you hear yourself right now?”

“Yes,” you said quickly. “And I’ve been thinking about it since the second murder. It’s logical.”

“Y/N, it’s insane.”

“Maybe.” You shrugged helplessly. “But it might save my life. Do you really want to be without a best friend?”

His eyes searched yours, to see if this wasn't a very nasty prank you were playing on him. “So you want me to–”

“Take my virginity, yeah,” you murmured, tugging lightly at his sleeve again. Your voice held a mix of courage and certainty he was sure he’d never seen before. Still, your eyes gave away the spark of nerves beneath it.

Vernon’s brain blue-screened. Like, there’s just no way this was his real real life. Either he accidentally overdosed on coffee or he’s straight-up dreaming, because the girl he’s been low-key simping for since forever – his very own best friend, the one he never had the nerve to even flirt with — could not have just proposed that to him. Maybe he was overtired. Maybe the world glitched for a second. Vernon didn’t know. 

He opened his mouth to argue, but his heart was hammering so fast now it drowned out his thoughts. “Why me, peach?”

“Like I said, I trust you the most.” Your voice softened. “And because you won’t make it weird.” 

“Make it?” He barked out a nervous laugh. “This is already super weird.”

You gave him a look that was somehow both terrified and amused. “Would it help if I said I actually like you?”

It was always funny to hear people say your best friend was a man of few expressions. To you, he was the most expressive person you knew, people just never paid close enough attention to him like you did. Right now was one of these examples, when Vernon’s eyes looked like they might pop out of their sockets, his eyebrows threatened to touch his hairline, and his mouth hung open in shock.

“Like me? Like–like me like me?”

“Hansol, we’re not in middle school,” you said, rolling your eyes with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

“I just need to confirm which level of insanity we’ve reached tonight!”

You smiled faintly despite the situation. “You’re cute when you panic.” 

He was pretty sure his soul left his body for a second. “You can’t just say stuff like that right before asking to… to...”

“To help me not get murdered?” you finished bluntly. “Not die a virgin?”

He groaned, dragging his hands down his face again and crossing the living room trying to get some space so his head could finally fully function. It was funny that for someone who was usually a thinker, he was doing it very little and with very low performance right now.

“You’re actually unbelievable.”

“Am I wrong?” you challenged, crossing your arms. “If you say no, I’ll just ask someone else."

He snapped his head up. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, if it’s about our friendship, I get it. But I don’t exactly have time to be picky right now.”

“And who else would you ask such a thing?”

“I mean, there's Chan and–”

“Don’t—don’t even joke about that,” he cut you off mid-sentence, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d swear there was something possessive in the way he looked at you. “You’re not asking anyone else.”

You sighed. “Then say yes.”

“Peach,” he warned, voice low, but you didn’t flinch, walking towards him again.

“Hansol, I’m scared.” Your voice broke then. “And you’ve always protected me. Every single time something bad happened, you were there.”

You sounded scared, yes. But layered beneath it were a thousand other unspoken things, suggestive things, that made his chest tighten at the possibility. It was impossible to reconcile them with the fact that you were his best friend, the one person he knew wasn’t supposed to be needy for him. Except maybe you actually were.

Vernon met your eyes, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke, just stared at each other. The storm roared outside, but in that tiny apartment, the only sound was your uneven breathing, your chest rising and falling, his mind going around in circles. 

“Tell me this isn’t just fear talking,” he said finally.

“It’s not.” You took a shaky breath. “I’ve been in love with you since we were sixteen, Hansol.”

His world tilted slightly. “You pick now to tell me that?”

“Well, I didn’t think I’d have a deadline.”

He laughed under his breath, but it wasn’t funny, more disbelief, panic, and affection tangled together. Vernon stepped closer, hardly believing he was really doing this, until the space between you was almost nonexistent.

You both stood there for a moment, caught in an awkward silence, hands hanging uselessly at your sides. Vernon could feel the tension buzzing in the air between you. Someone had to do something. And it had to be him. He was supposed to be the one guiding you through this, because it was your first time. If he hesitated any longer, you might rethink everything, maybe even walk over to Chan’s place instead. And that thought alone was enough to make him move.

“Y/N,” he murmured, his voice gentler now, breathing hitting your face. “If I do this, it’s not just some survival plan. I don’t want to be something you regret.”

Your eyes softened as you shook your head. “I won’t. I could never regret you.”

Vernon exhaled shakily, unable to believe this was really happening. “You sure?” he asked, searching your face for any signs of hesitation again. There wasn’t any. 

You nodded without wavering. “Im sure. I want this, and I want it with you.”

Slowly, like he was afraid you’d change your mind, he lifted a hand to your cheek, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. Your skin was soft and warm beneath his fingertips, and you couldn’t help but let your eyes flutter shut at the gentleness of the touch. 

“You’re  beautiful,” he murmured, leaning in closer until you could feel the heat of his breath on your face. “And I don’t want you to ever forget that.”

His words made your heart skip a beat, and you felt a flush spread across your cheeks. You’d never thought you’d hear those words from him, especially not in this context. But now that you were finally giving in to what you’d both been feeling for so long, it felt right. 

“Kiss me, Hansol.” Your voice came out in an almost desperate whisper.

“Now?”

You opened your eyes, finding that teasing curve already on his lips. Once a ragebaiter, always a ragebaiter. “Well, it could be tomorrow, but I kind of have a deadline here and—”

He didn’t let you finish. His hands came up, cupping your face, and then his lips were on yours. 

It was slow and explorative at first, his mouth moving against yours like he was trying to memorize the taste and feel of you. You melted into him instantly, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt just to keep yourself from turning into a puddle on the floor. His hands slid down your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, while your arms wrapped around his neck, deepening the kiss until your tongues met. 

The soft sound that escaped your lips made him groan low in his throat, a sound that vibrated between you. The heat of him slipped through his clothes, too much and not enough at once, leaving you aching to close the distance that still existed between you. You wanted to feel his skin against yours, to explore every inch of him the way you’d always fantasized about.

As if sensing your need, Vernon began to guide you toward the hallway that led to his room, his lips never leaving yours while his hands traveled through your body. It wasn’t hurried, but desperate in a quieter way, exactly as you’d expected kissing Vernon to be, and somehow, even better.

Halfway there, he pressed you against the wall, breaking the kiss to trail his lips down your neck. Your head fell back, giving him freer access, while your breaths came in ragged gasps and small moans slipped from your lips. Vernon’s mouth trailed lower, past the collar of your shirt, his hands gripping your waist and fingers digging into the soft flesh as he held you against the wall. 

You could feel every inch of him pressed against you, and it made your head spin with desire, fingers clenched to his sleeve like your life depended on it. 

“Hansol,” you whimpered, tangling your fingers in his hair. “Please.”

He looked up at you then, eyes dark with lust. “What do you need, peach?” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Huh?”

“I need you,” you breathed, arching into him. “I need to feel you.”

“I’ve got you. Don’t worry.”

His hands slid lower, gripping your hips and lifting you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist, feeling his hard length pressed against your core through the thin fabric of your clothes. Another moan slipped past your lips at the sensation, your hips rolling instinctively to seek more friction. 

You had made out with other guys before, sure – some good, some forgettable — but none of them had ever felt like this. Nothing had ever felt like having Vernon pressed against you, making your pulse trip over itself. Everything outside this apartment could disappear and you didn’t even care. The fear, the sirens, the headlines, it all burned into nothing. 

Your mind erased the fact that there was a killer out there. That you’d almost been one of his victims just three nights ago. All you could think about was him: the warmth of him, the feeling of him, the way everything narrowed down to just him.

Vernon carried you to his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him before lowering you onto the bed. His body followed, fitting naturally over yours as if it had always belonged there. His lips found yours again, hungry, desperate, stealing the breath from your lungs, and your hands roamed over his back, fingers digging into the firm muscles as he rocked against you. He was rock hard and the friction was a delicious torture, bulding a pressure inside you until you actually thought you might combust just from drying humping him. 

Breaking the kiss apart, Vernon sat back on his heels, reaching for the hem of your shirt at the same time as he searched your face for any sign of hesitation. Slowly he pulled it up and over your head, tossing it aside before his eyes raked over your exposed skin. Your cheeks flushed under his intense gaze, but you didn’t look away. You couldn’t. Not when he was looking at you like he wanted to devour every inch of you. 

“God, Y/N,” he breathed, his hands skimming up your sides, over the swell of your breasts. “You’re perfect.”

His thumbs brushed over your nipples through the thin lace of your bra, making your arch into his touch. Another whimper escaped your lips, your back bowing off the bed as he continued his teasing caresses. You ached for more, for his mouth on your skin, his hands on your body traveling to where you needed him the most.

“Please, Hansol,” you begged, not even caring how desperate you sounded. “Touch me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Vernon unhooked your bra and tossed it aside, his lips immediately latching onto the hardened peak. His tongue swirled around the sensitive bud, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. Your hand fisted in his hair, holding him in place while he lavished attention on your breasts. 

Your hips rocked against his, seeking more of that delicious friction you felt before. You could feel the dampness growing between your thighs, the evidence of your desire for him, and Vernon seemed to sense it too, one hand sliding down past the waistband of your sweatpants to palm you through your panties. You immediately cried out at the contact, your hips bucking into his touch. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice showing a hint of disbelief. His thumb brushed against your clit and you squirmed. “You’re so wet for me already.”

Slowly and tortuously, Vernon started to kiss down your stomach, with you writhing in anticipation under him. Suddenly, he paused and looked up at you with a mischievous grin that you knew so well. 

“Tell me peach,” he whispered against your skin, nose hovering just below your bellybutton, “have you ever touched yourself before?”

Your cheeks flushed hot at the question, and you averted your gaze shyly. “Maybe,” you admitted after a moment. 

Vernon chuckled, low and sultry, the sound sending shivers down your body. “And what did you think about when you did?” he pressed, fingers tracing patterns on your hip while he slowly pulled your sweatpants down. 

You bit your lip, hesitation warring with arousal. But the desire won out. “You,” you confessed. “I thought about you, Hansol.”

His gaze was locked on you, dark with an intensity that seemed to consume his entire face, like his lust and desire were swallowing the rest of him whole. “Fuck, Y/N. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”

Rising from where he was, Vernon captured your lips again, his tongue delving into your mouth possessively. You moaned into the kiss, tangling your fingers in his hair again as he explored your mouth thoroughly. When he finally pulled away, you were both panting for breath. Still, he gazed down at you with a hunger that made your core clench with need.

“I’m going to make you feel so good, peach,” he promised, leaning down to trail another set of open mouthed kisses along your collarbone and down your breasts. “I’m going to worship every inch of you.”

“Please, Hansol.” His name came out in a moan this time, showing how desperate you were for whatever he was wheeling to give you. “I need you.”

He smiled against your skin, continuing his trail between your breasts, ignoring your pleas. You weren't surprised that Vernon was a tease; he was like that in every other aspect of his life, and now he was just making clear that he would take his sweet time with you, as if you were now his favorite pastime.

“Did you imagine my fingers doing this?” He cupped the soft mounds in his hands, squeezing gently while his thumbs massaged your nipples. “Squeezing and playing with your perfect tits?”

You gasped, arching into his touch. “Y-yes. I imagined your hands on me all the time.”

“Mmm, and what about my lips?” he continued, laving his tongue over one peaked nipple. “Did you think about my tongue circling these pretty buds?”

“Yes, yes I did.” You nodded, breathlessly, tangling your fingers in his hair again. “So many times.”

Vernon chuckled low at your desperation, moving down your body until he was nestled between your thighs. “And this pussy,” he growled, blowing a stream of cool air over your heated flesh. “Did you ever slide your fingers inside here, wishing it was my cock stretching you open?”

You cried out at his words, rocking your hips forward instinctively. “God yes,” you whimpered, letting him pull your panties down your legs at a torturously slow pace. “I imagined your cock splitting me open so many times, filling me up so good.”

At your words, he looked up at you grinning like a devil, before diving in and devouring your pussy like a man starved. You screamed in pleasure when Vernon’s tongue started to work magic on your clit, flicking, sucking and circling the sensitive nub until you were squirming beneath him.

“Fuck, you taste amazing. I could eat this sweet pussy for hours.”

You gasped, feeling his tongue delving deep inside you, lapping up your juices. Vernon feasted on your cunt like it was the first and last meal he’d ever have in his life, eating you out with a wild hunger you were sure you’ve never seen before. Then he slid a finger inside your dripping pussy, pumping it in and out while he sucked hard on your clit. 

“Did you touch yourself like this? Finger-fucking your tight little hole until you came hard?”

“Yes,” you sobbed, rolling your hips down to meet his face, thrusting on his finger. “I came so many times thinking about you doing this to me.”

“Mhmm, need to stretch you, peach,” he groaned against your slick folds, and you swore you could cum just from the deep, rumbling sound. “Gotta loosen up this tight little cunt so it can take my cock. Think you can handle another finger, baby?”

You moaned in response, feeling him slip a second finger alongside his tongue, pumping them slowly as he kept licking and sucking at your sensitive clit to ease it in. Your hands were now gripping his hair so tightly that you thought you’d tear some strands out when you had to remove them.

“That's it, nice and easy.” He worked a third finger inside you, stretching your tight walls as his tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit. “Fuck, you're so goddamn tight. Can't wait to bury my cock in this sweet cunt.”

You never would’ve imagined Vernon to be this vocal in a moment like this. But here he was, every word spilling from his lips only driving you further out of your mind. And all you could do was  moan and writhe beneath him in response, lost in the overwhelming pleasure he was giving to you.

“Tell me,” he continued, pulling back just enough to look up at you. “Tell me what you thought about me doing while you played with this pretty pussy.”

At this point you were too far gone to be ashamed. “I imagined your face between my thighs,” you admitted breathlessly. “Licking and sucking on my clit until I exploded.”

“And my cock? Did you imagine me fucking you hard and deep?” 

His fingers pumped faster, curling to rub against that secret special spot inside you as his lips closed around your clit and sucked hard. 

“God yes,” you moaned, without knowing how the words were managing to leave your lips. “I’d imagine you pounding into me, stretching me open with your cock.”

Vernon groaned loudly, doubling his efforts and fucking his fingers into you in earnest now. You hips bucked against him again and this time you didn't stop, moving uncontrollably against his face.

“I bet you thought about me painting your insides with my cum. Filling you up real nice.”

“Yes, yes!” you screamed, teetering on the edge now, your inner muscles clenching around his fingers. “I wanted it so badly! I need your cum inside me!”

“Then come for me, peach,” he ordered, pumping his fingers faster. “Come on my fingers and I’ll give you my cock.”

“Hansol,” you cried out, your orgasms building fast and hard. “I’m gonna–”

“Let go, baby. Come for me. Go on.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. Your body convulsed around his fingers, your vision whiting out as your orgasm crashed over you in waves of pure bliss. Your pussy spasmed violently around his plunging digits, juices gushing out to coat his fingers and tongue. You screamed his name again and again, trembling and writhing beneath him, lost in ecstasy. 

Vernon lapped at your dripping folds, determined to lick up every drop of your essence. He didn’t stop until you were completely spent and trembling beneath him, your body going limp with satisfaction. When he finally resurfaced, his chin was slick with your juices. He brought his fingers to his mouth, slowly sucking them clean while locking eyes with you. The sight made your core clench with a sense of renewed desire. 

He crawled up your body, trailing up kisses, a grin on his face. “You look so fucking sexy like this. All sated and glowing from my touch.”

You blushed at the compliment, but your only response was a small whimper, still reeling from the intensity of your climax. Vernon chuckled softly, trailing his fingers up your body to cup your face and capture your lips in a searing kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. 

His weight settled on top of you, his hardness pressing against your still sensitive center. You could feel how much Vernon wanted you too, how much he was holding back, so you bucked your hips against his for the thousandth time tonight. 

“Please, Hansol,” you whispered against his lips, hands sliding down to palm him through his sweatpants. “I need you inside me.”

He groaned at your words, hips rocking into your touch. “You sure you’re ready for that?”

In response, you reached down and started pushing his pants down, pushing them and his boxers down just enough to free his cock. It sprang free, long and thick and already leaking at the tip. You wrapped your hand around him, giving him a slow stroke from base to tip, making Vernon close his eyes at the feeling. 

“I’m sure,” you breathed, stroking him again. “I want all of you.”

Vernon reached between your bodies, his hand enveloped yours as he grabbed his throbbing cock, rubbing the head through your slick folds. You gasped at the sensation, desperate for him to fill you up. 

You wrapped your legs around his hips almost instinctively, rocking your hips forward and making his cock slide easily between your slippery pussy. “Please. I need your cock inside me so bad.”

He gasped at the delicious sensation, positioning himself at your entrance. The blunt head of his cock pressed against your hole and you could feel yourself throbbing with anticipation.

“Last chance to back out,” he said, voice strained with restraint. His eyes searched yours, filled with heat and desire, but also a hint of caution. He wanted you to be sure.

“Don’t you dare.” You wrapped your arms around his neck, gripping his shoulders tightly to keep him there. “I want this. I want you.”

And with that, Vernon pushed inside you with one smooth thrust, filling you slowly. You gasped and cried out at the sudden sensation of fullness, your walls stretching deliciously around his thick length. It burned slightly at first, but it quickly morphed into a deep, aching pleasure. 

His head dropped to your shoulder. “Fuck yes. You feel incredible, peach. So hot and tight.”

You nodded, too overwhelmed by sensation to form words, but sharing the same feeling as him. Vernon began to move then, slowly at first letting you adjust to the intrusion. Each thrust pushed him deeper, almost hitting that sweet spot inside you that made your toes curl just minutes ago. 

“You can go faster,” you practically begged, nails digging into his back. “Please. 

He obliged, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, snapping his hips forward with more force and setting a steady rhythm. The new angle sent shivers shooting up your spine, your pussy clenching more and more around him.

You met each thrust with eager movements of your own hips, relishing the feeling of Vernon moving inside you. His breath came in ragged pants against your neck as he drove into you like his life depended on it, chasing not only his pleasure but yours too. 

“Harder,” you panted, raking your nails down his back. “Fuck me harder, Hansol!”

Vernon complied eagerly, pounding into you with renewed vigor. 

The room soon filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, your moans and gasps echoing off the walls. Vernon’s hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles on the overstimulated nub. The added stimulation sent you hurtling toward another peak, your body tightening like a coiled spring. 

“Come on, baby,” he encouraged, fingers working faster. “I want to feel you come around my cock now.”

He powered into you, chasing your releases with single-minded focus. Your own pleasure coiled tight in your belly, building higher and higher with each powerful stroke of his.

“Come with me, Y/N. Come on my cock, baby!”

Just like that, your second orgasm hit you like a freight train, clamping down around him like a vice, your body trembling enough to make your feet sink into his ass searching for steadiness.

“Where—where do you want me?” Vernon asked, his voice strained, and you could feel that he was almost there. 

“Inside, please,” you replied breathlessly, aching to feel him fill you completely.  “You can cum inside.”

He needed no further encouragement.

With a final, mighty thrust, Vernon buried himself to the hilt and came with a loud groan of completion, spilling deep inside you in long thick spurts. You continued to move beneath him, working him through his release until he collapsed on top of you in a boneless heap, careful not to crush you with his weight. 

You ran your fingers through his hair, pressing soft kisses to his sweat-dampened forehead. You stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other as you tried to catch your breath, Vernon still buried deep inside you. After a moment, he lifted his head from the crook of your neck, his eyes shining the same way you imagined yours did.

“Hi,” he simply said, pressing a small kiss to the tip of your nose.

A slow smile spread across your face, and Vernon mirrored it back at you. In that moment everything else faded away; the fear, the danger lurking outside these four walls. There was just you and him. 

“Hi.”

Vernon kissed along your jaw and neck. “That was incredible. You’re incredible.”

You could only hum in agreement, still floating in the realization that the guy you’d loved for years loved you just the same. He pulled out slowly, a soft grimace crossing his face as his softening cock slipped free of your still-fluttering heat, his release spilling out of you.

“Come on,” he murmured, gathering you close and rolling to the side. “Let’s get cleaned up and then we can sleep.”

You nodded weakly, too sated to move just yet. Vernon pressed one more kiss to your forehead before untangling himself from you and sliding out of bed. You watched him walk to the bathroom, admiring the sight of his bare back. He returned a moment later with a damp towel, gently cleaning you up before tossing it aside and climbing back into bed. 

You got up to pee, and when you came back, Vernon pulled you into his arms, tucking your head beneath his chin and wrapping his legs around yours. You nestled into his embrace, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“Thank you,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his chest.

He stroked your hair gently, pressing a kiss to the top of your head in return. “For what?”

“For being here. For making me feel safe.”

His arms tighten around you. “Always, peach. I’ll always keep you safe,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Sleep now. We can talk more in the morning.”

You nodded drowsily, already slipping under the covers. As you drifted off in his embrace, you couldn’t help but marvel at how perfectly you fit together. Being here with him felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be. And that knowledge brought a sense of profound peace and happiness to your heart.

Morning came softly, a pale, silver light slipping through the curtains of Vernon’s bedroom, like the world hadn’t almost ended in a downpour over the past three days. The storm had passed, leaving everything outside washed clean. The city felt quieter than it had in days, as if the air itself was holding its breath with fear. 

You woke first. Vernon was still asleep beside you, his arm loosely around your waist, the rise and fall of his chest slow, steady, peaceful. For the first time in weeks, you felt calm. The fear that had been gnawing at you was gone. There was no other place in the world where you felt as safe as you did with him.

You lay there for a moment, watching the soft light paint across his face, and smiled. He looked different like this, softer, younger. Beautiful. 

After a few minutes, you carefully slid out from under his arm, trying not to wake him. You wanted to make breakfast, something normal, something that didn’t smell like panic or sleepless nights. Maybe eggs, a french toast, maybe some orange juice. 

The apartment was cold under your bare feet as you padded toward the kitchen. You hummed under your breath, something small and tuneless. You opened the living room curtains, letting the sunlight you hadn’t seen in days stream into the apartment.”

“Morning,” you whispered to yourself, watching the streets below, already filled with cars and people going about their day.

You didn’t hear the creak of the other door until you turned to walk toward the kitchen again. 

Vernon’s office door,  the one he always kept closed. You’d never been inside. He’d laughed once and said it was too messy, too embarrassing, and you knew that was probably true, considering he was extremely messy and was only keeping everything in place lately because you were here to organize.

But the door was open now. Halfway open, in fact. 

You’d always been curious about what might be there, so instead of walking to the kitchen, you walked to the door. Maybe now you could help him organize whatever mess it was. 

You didn’t know why, but suddenly and somehow the air in the hallway felt heavier with each step you took. The closer you got, the stronger the faint metallic scent became, something sharp, sour, familiar in a way you didn’t want to name.

When you pushed the door open fully, your whole world tilted.

Polaroids.

Dozens of them.

Taped to the walls, hanging in uneven lines, faces of people you’d seen on the news. The victims. Some of them smiling, some of them terrified. And at the center of it all, a table. On it, a red mask. The same one the killer wore when he followed you three nights ago. 

You stumbled back, your hand flying to your mouth.

No. No, no, no.

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. You turned, eyes darting to the hallway, but he was already standing there. Vernon leaned against the doorframe, barefoot, hair mussed, wearing the same shirt and boxers from last night. There was no panic on his face. No fear. Just a quiet, tired calm.

“How many times have I told you not to go into this room, peach?”

# NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAGLIST

Every ask & comment gives me life 💗 If you’re enjoying it, don’t forget to reblog, helps so much and gets the fic out there!!

PERMANENT TAGLIST: @bmo-bri @chromequette @codeinebelle @starlight-constellation @paradiseoflosers @tinyelfperson @dcrlingyou @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @haaruki @bath1lda @hoshstruck @wubbz05 @jihoonsbbygirl @smiileflower @tastyluvr @gyuguys @nerdycheol @christinewithluv @jesauiin @ughokmyg @raggedypansexual @caratcak3 @ateez-atiny380 @meowchella @jeonsfries @whoisbaek15 @damnedangel98 @sumzysworld @theidontknowmehn @mingyuuulover @vsopesoul @andreethier @sarabencze @weepingsweep @minhui896 @blaycke @miyx-amour @pl4netx1a @ohwowzersthatscool @ahuiahoe @bee-the-loser @im-gemmy @ssamarzi @my-neurodivergent-world @wonsrat @unlikelysublimekryptonite @nonuverse @gyuhao365 @healingmv @coupsarchive

There were days when his laugh seemed deeper, when the stretch of his black t-shirt across his chest made your stomach twist, when the fabric clung to his biceps so tight it was impossible not to look, When you caught yourself staring at his hands wrapped around a controller and thinking of things best friends should never think about.

You had trained yourself to handle it. Stay quiet. Avoid too much eye contact. Blame hormones and wait it out. Friendship was more important. Always.

Except tonight. 

Tonight he was sprawled across your couch, damp hair curling against his forehead after a shower, shirt long forgotten somewhere. His skin was warm, golden under the TV light, and the smell of his shampoo lingered in the air. You curled your legs under yourself, forcing your eyes back to the screen, trying not to breathe too deeply.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, eyes still on the screen. “Why do you sometimes look at me like that?”

Your pulse stuttered. “Like what?”

“Like…” he tilted his head, pretending to think, though you caught the edge of a smile. “Like you want something.”

Your laugh was sharp, fake. “I don’t.”

“You don’t?” His eyes flicked to yours then, curious. Too curious.

“No,” you said quickly, but it came out breathy, your voice catching on the end.

The corner of his mouth lifted, slow, knowing. He shifted closer, resting his arm along the back of the couch, body heat brushing against you. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah, Jisung, I’m sure.”

“Okay then.”

He came even closer, dropping his head onto your lap, a habit of his, one you were more than used to. But this time, as soon as his weight settled against you, your whole body lit up. Your breath hitched, heavy and uneven, and you forced yourself to play it cool, to keep your hands still, to pretend this was as casual as it always had been.

Except it wasn’t. Not when his hair brushed against your skin. Not when the heat of his body radiated through you, or when the faint smell of his shampoo curled up into your lungs and stayed there. You could see every line of his face, every shift of muscle, every little thing you weren’t supposed to notice. And your mind was long, long gone.

He didn’t say a word for the rest of the night, which was weird, Jisung was a yappy guy. Always running his mouth, filling silences with dumb jokes, humming under his breath, narrating his own thoughts like you hadn’t known him for years. But now? Nothing. Just him sitting there, quiet, and you facing the screen, pretending to care about that goddamn movie while your pulse pounded everywhere but your chest.

You tried to stay still, tried to focus, tried to shove your mind anywhere but the direction it was going. But the warmth of his body next to yours was distracting, the silence deafening, and soon your eyelids got heavy.

You must’ve dozed off.

Because suddenly you were dreaming, really dreaming, of him. Touches that had never happened, his voice in your ear saying things he had never said, heat curling low in your stomach until it felt so real you startled awake with your heart racing.

The movie was still on. The room was dim, the glow from the TV flickering across the walls. A blanket you didn’t remember pulling up was covering you, soft and warm. And right beside you, there he was, head tilted slightly down as he scrolled on his phone like nothing in the world had shifted.

“Bet that nap felt… good,” he said casually, without even looking at you.

“Uhum,” your throat felt dry. “I was sleepy.”

“Sleepy, huh?” His tone had that dangerous lilt, like he knew something you didn’t.

“Yeah… sleepy.”

Finally, he looked up from his phone, dark eyes locking onto yours, too steady. “Why exactly were you calling my name for?”

“What?”

“Yeah yeah, I heard that”

“It was just… a dream”

“Yeah.. but that kind of dream for sure”

“Jesus Christ. You won’t let go, will you?” you muttered, sitting up a little. “I’m just a bit… you know, horny. It’s just that time of the month. You ended up being my mind’s victim, that’s all. End of story.”

Jisung’s brows shot up, and then he laughed, low, amused, almost smug. “Ohhh, end of story? Sure. So what, you want me to call up that guy you went out with last week for you?”

Your stomach twisted, heat creeping up your neck. “Shut up.”

“What?” He grinned, leaning back against the couch. “He’s probably free. Though, to be fair, he didn’t even know how to kiss, right? You said that. Honestly, tragic.”

You glared, but he only chuckled, basking in your reaction, because that’s what best friends did, poked at bruises until the other one snapped.

Except this time… this time you could feel his heat radiating toward you. And when you risked a glance at him, the way he was looking at you made your chest tighten. Not playful, not entirely. Deeper. Like maybe he had already been thinking about the same things you had dreamed of.

Your pulse jumped, your mouth dry.

“So…” his voice was softer now, slower, eyes never leaving yours. “How was that dream?”

It wasn’t weird that he asked, not for you two. You had always been too comfortable, telling each other things you probably shouldn’t. But this time, the words weighed heavier. This time, the air was different.

“Come onnn!” he whined, that voice only Jisung could pull off, halfway between a joke and a plea. “I want to know.”

You shifted under the blanket, gripping the edge a little tighter. “Nothing much. I honestly can’t even remember it.” A lie, and a bad one, you could still feel it. “But it was more about… chasing a release somehow than what was in fact being done.”

His eyebrows lifted, interest flickering in his eyes, but he stayed quiet, letting your own words hang heavy between you.

That blanket was saving you. Because the way your thighs were pressing together, clenching harder with every second, you’d be ruined without it. The ache was pulsing now, deep and insistent, impossible to ignore. And talking about it with him, with Jisung, of all people, was making it so much worse.

His gaze flicked down to where the blanket bunched around your lap, then back up to your face, slowly. And when the corner of his mouth tugged into that knowing smirk, your stomach flipped.

He was breathing heavy now. You tried to look away, but you couldn’t.

“I can leave…” he murmured, voice low, careful. “So, you know, you can chase your release.”

Your lips parted, your eyes still locked on him. “…Okay…”

But he didn’t move.

“Or—” he cleared his throat, the sound tight, almost nervous. “Or I can stay and, hm… we can chase it together.”

You closed your eyes, releasing a breath. “Ji, we can’t.”

“I know,” he said quickly, leaning in, words tumbling out. “I know. But just… just for fun. We won’t have sex. We can just do it together, you know?”

Before you could protest again, he shifted, dragging himself under the blanket with you. The space between you disappeared.

His thighs brushed against yours beneath the blanket, warm and solid. And then you caught the subtle movement of his arm, his hand slipping lower, slowly.

“Is this okay?” he asked softly, watching your face.

You nodded, throat too tight for words.

For a moment, the only sound was your breathing. You hesitated, your fingers twitching against the blanket, your whole body wound tight, nerves sparking under your skin. But the weight of his stare, the sound of his breath, the fact that he would do the same thing inches away from you… it pulled you under.

Your hand slid down, tentative at first, brushing over the thin fabric between your legs. A shiver shot through you at the contact. You pressed a little harder, exhaling shakily, until finally, slowly, you slipped under the waistband.

The first touch made your whole body jolt. You were wet already, embarrassingly so, your fingers sliding easily against yourself.

And then, a sound.

Soft, strangled, not yours.

Jisung.

He heard it. That slick, obscene sound in the quiet of the room. His lips parted as he dragged in a sharp breath, and before he could stop himself, a shy, broken moan escaped him.

Your eyes flew to his face, heat flooding every inch of you. His cheeks were flushed, his lashes low, but he didn’t look away.

And under the blanket, you both kept moving, his hand stroking himself, yours circling, pressing, dipping lower. The air thickened, your heavy breaths filling the silence and wet rhythm of your fingers and the faint slick sound of his hand working himself. The intimacy of it was unbearable: best friends, side by side, baring every secret breath and sound to each other.

You bit your lip, hips twitching upward into your hand, fingers dragging over your clit in lazy circles before sliding down again, gathering more of your arousal. The blanket was a shield, but the way his thigh pressed into yours made every movement vibrate between you, every shift impossible to hide.

“Fuck…” he whispered suddenly, voice cracked open, his forehead tipping forward until it brushed your shoulder. His breaths came hot against your skin. “You sound… so wet.”

The way he groaned right after, like the words had undone him too, pushed you further. You pressed harder, moving faster, chasing the edge you had been aching for.

His pace matched yours, each soft grunt and shaky exhale pulling you closer. You could feel him unraveling next to you, his hand moving quicker, thighs tensing against yours. And you couldn’t stop looking at him, his flushed face, the way his mouth kept falling open, the desperate little sounds slipping out despite his effort to hold them back.

Your hips lifted off the couch slightly, back arching, fingers circling furiously now. The pressure was unbearable, every nerve lit up.

“Oh, s-shit,” he whispered, broken, eyes squeezing shut. “Say my name”

“Ji—” it tore out of you, breathless, almost a cry. “Jisung”

And that was it. Your body clenched, trembling as release crashed through you, heat flooding your core, thighs quivering under the blanket. The wet sounds grew louder as you worked yourself through it, chasing every drop of pleasure until you couldn’t anymore.

Next to you, his hand stilled with a sharp, muffled groan, his body jerking as he spilled into his fist. He buried his face against your shoulder, teeth clenched as he came undone, his shaky breaths loud in your ear.

For a long moment, the only thing in the room was the sound of you both breathing, ragged, uneven, trying to come down.

Finally, Jisung pulled in a long, shaky inhale, still hiding his face against you. Then, with the tiniest laugh, he muttered, “Well… that was… different.”

Your cheeks burned, but your lips curled despite yourself. “You don’t say.”

—

You never talked about it. Not that night. Not the morning after. You just let yourselves drift into sleep on the couch, tangled under that same blanket, like nothing had even happened.

But something had. And whatever it was, it lingered.

After that, things felt… different.

Closer.

You caught yourself noticing it in small ways first, his hand on the back of your chair during late-night gaming, fingers brushing your shoulder like it belonged there. The way he leaned into you when he laughed, chest pressed against your back as though your bodies had decided space was optional.

It wasn’t just you, either. Jisung had gotten bolder, without even realizing it. His hugs lasted longer, holding on until you had to push at his chest and tease him for being clingy. His cheek kisses stopped being quick taps; now they lingered, his lips warm against your skin, leaving you flustered every time.

And maybe the strangest part was how normal it all felt. Like you had both silently agreed to erase that night and pretend nothing had changed, except everything had.

Because it never happened again. Not once.

But the weight of it was everywhere, tucked into every glance that lasted a little too long, every brush of skin that felt too deliberate, every easy excuse you both found to be pressed up against each other…

And today? 

It was one of those nights when he was coming to your apartment, one of those sticky summer nights where the air felt too heavy to breathe. You were in a tank top, no bra underneath, and shorts that clung tight to your thighs. It was hot. That was the only kind of clothes possible to wear.

Jisung arrived already tugging his shirt over his head, tossing it aside the second he stepped in. But then he looked at you. Really looked. His eyes dragged up, down, lingering in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Excuse me, Ji? Have you lost something?” you asked, trying to mask the heat in your voice.

“Well, I think I did,” he shot back smoothly, lips twitching.

“No, you didn’t. Now stop looking at my butt and give me the beer you bought me.”

He grinned, handing it over, and you clinked cans like always. It was fun, loud laughter, music playing low in the background, the two of you sprawled on the floor and couch in turns, talking about everything and nothing. It was the kind of night you've had a hundred times before.

Maybe it was the heat of summer, maybe it was that night you had never spoken about, maybe it was both. But your skin felt too sensitive, burning with every brush against his. And his heat, God, you could feel it. Every time he leaned close to whisper some dumb joke in your ear, every time his arm pressed against yours as he reached for the chips, every time his thigh bumped yours when he laughed too hard, your body caught fire.

And you didn’t move away.

Neither did he.

You were closer and closer, shoulders touching, legs pressed together like the couch wasn’t wide enough, like the floor wasn’t big enough. It didn’t feel like best friends hanging out anymore. It felt like something was about to happen.

And you weren’t sure you wanted to stop it.

“Ji.”

“Hum?” he hummed, voice casual, but his eyes were already on you.

“Do you remember… that night?”

You didn’t even have to clarify. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Yeah?”

“Do you ever… think about it?”

His lips pressed together, then parted just enough for a whisper. “Well, yeah…”

“Me too.”

Silence stretched, charged and heavy, until he finally breathed, “…We can’t.”

“I know.”

“But…”

You both said it at the same time and immediately broke into nervous laughter, the sound shaking some of that unbearable tension.

“You go first,” you told him.

He licked his lips, hesitant but honest. “We can do it again if you want. Just… no sex.”

Your chest tightened. “I think I want that.”

This time, there was no blanket to hide under. You were both on the floor, the low lamp casting shadows that made everything feel sharper, rawer.

He shifted where he sat, legs spread wide on the carpet, watching you with that mix of mischief and restraint that only made your pulse race faster.

“So what,” you asked, tilting your head, trying to sound playful even though your voice was shaking, “we just… sit here and stare at each other?”

He smirked, leaning back on his hands. “Depends. You planning on doing something worth staring at?”

Your stomach flipped. “Don’t act like you’re not already.”

He choked out a laugh, running a hand over his mouth, but his eyes, dark, locked on you, betrayed him. “I can’t stop imagining…” He trailed off, shook his head, then let out a nervous, broken laugh. “Never mind.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was charged, electric, daring. His gaze flicked down, your tank top, your thighs, the waistband of your shorts, and you swore you felt it like a touch.

You swallowed hard.

Then his hand moved, slowly, and he patted himself over his shorts, a faint hiss slipping past his lips at the contact. He wasn’t even trying to hide it, his eyes stayed on yours the whole time.

The outline of him was obvious, straining against the thin fabric, and the way his fingers curled around himself had your breath catching in your throat. Heat surged through you, pooling low in your stomach, until you couldn’t stand anymore.

Your own hand drifted down, mirroring his, pressing against the damp heat between your thighs. His lips parted when he saw, chest heaving.

“Oh, shit…” he whispered, stroking himself now, slow and shaky.

You nodded, your fingers slipping under the waistband of your shorts, your touch clumsy at first but growing bolder when his jaw clenched, when his breath hitched harder.

You swore the room grew smaller, hotter, every second. The quiet was deafening, filled only with the slick sounds of him stroking himself and your uneven breaths. The carpet prickled under your bare thighs, grounding you in a way you didn’t want, because everything else in your body was floating, pulling toward him.

His eyes stayed locked on yours, wide and almost disbelieving, like he couldn’t believe you were both really doing this again. Every time your lashes fluttered shut, his voice was there, rough, low, “Don’t stop… don’t look away.”

Your fingers slipped deeper, the little gasp that tore from your throat wasn’t meant to be heard, but he did. His rhythm stuttered, a strangled groan breaking from him, his head tipping back for just a second before snapping forward again, watching you like a man starved.

He could see the little hitch in your breath as your fingers moved lower. And you could see his hand, working himself under his shorts, the outline of his cock straining against the thin fabric.

It should’ve been enough. The deal was clear: no sex. To pretend it was just this. But it wasn’t. enough. Not tonight.

“Ji…” Your voice cracked on his name. “I– I need more.”

Before you could think twice, before either of you could talk yourselves out of it, you reached forward. In one swift motion, you pulled his hand away from his shorts and dragged yourself into his lap.

He froze, breath caught, hands hovering like he didn’t know where to put them. And then, like he couldn’t help himself, his arms locked tight around your waist.

Your chest pressed into his as you buried your face in the crook of his neck, arms looped around his shoulders like you were clinging for dear life. His scent was everywhere, soap and heat and him, and the way his breath hitched only made the fire in your stomach worse.

But you were already moving. Your hips rolled forward, slow and desperate, dragging yourself against the hard line of him under his shorts. The friction was dizzying, sharp, too little and too much all at once.

He gasped, almost a choke, his fingers digging into your waist before he caught himself. His grip loosened instantly, like he was afraid of breaking the one fragile rule between you.

“Is this—” you whispered, shaky, pressing your mouth against his shoulder. “Is this okay? Just… this.”

His jaw clenched so hard you could feel it against your temple. “Fuck…” His voice was ragged, almost broken, and yet his hands hovered uselessly in the air, fists tightening, opening, tightening again as you ground down harder. “Yeah”

You could feel him pulsing against you through the thin layers of fabric, every shift of your hips drawing out a low, shaky sound from his chest. You were panting now, thighs trembling, and he was matching your rhythm without even meaning to, the two of you caught in a loop that neither wanted to stop.

Your whole body was burning. Your breath came shallow, shaky, as you rocked harder into him, the thin cotton of your shorts dragging against his, dragging against him. The sound of it, low fabric friction, the little whimpers you couldn’t hold back, the strangled groans he tried to bite down, filled the room more than the summer heat.

“Holy shit,” Jisung rasped, head falling back against the couch. His lips were parted, sweat glistening at his hairline. “You’re—” he swallowed, voice breaking, “—you’re killing me.”

You whimpered in reply, hips rolling with more urgency, and his hands flexed uselessly at your sides. He wasn’t sure if he could touch you, and his restraint only made him twitch harder beneath you, straining against his shorts.

Then, his voice dropped lower. “Can I—” he sucked in a breath, shaky, “can I take them off? Just your shorts. Please.”

“The underwear stays,” he rushed to add, voice wrecked but sure. “I swear. Just… I need to feel you closer. Just this much.”

You closed your eyes, biting your lip, the ache between your thighs making the decision for you. With trembling hands, you pushed the waistband down, lifting your hips just enough to slide them off. His eyes never left you, his chest heaving, jaw clenched like he was in pain.

“Mine too,” he muttered suddenly, voice low and ragged, already tugging his shorts down his thighs. His boxers clung to him, soaked through at the tip, a dark wet patch spreading where his precum had leaked. He was rock hard, straining against the thin fabric, every outline visible, and you couldn’t stop staring.

And then you sat back down on him, only the thin, damp fabric of your underwear keeping you apart. The difference made you gasp, loud and broken, your nails digging into his shoulders. He let out a guttural moan, so desperate it shook through both of you.

“Oh, fuck, baby…” he groaned, hips jerking up involuntarily to meet yours. “That’s it. Just like that. F-fuck— keep going.”

Baby. He had called you that before, always in a mocking tone, the way best friends threw names around to tease. But this time? This time it felt different, low and raw and wrecked, and your whole body lit up even more, heat flashing through you at the sound of it.

You rolled again, slower this time, savoring the sharp, wet drag, the way the head of him pressed right against your swollen clit through your panties. The slick sound between you was undeniable now.

“Shit—” his voice cracked as his head fell forward, lips brushing against your ear without meaning to. “You’re soaking me through. You—” he gasped when you ground down harder, “you like this that much?”

You whimpered, clenching around nothing, grinding like your body was chasing something more. “Yes… Ji, I—fuck, I need—”

His answer was another choked moan, hips meeting yours in a rougher rhythm now, his self-control fraying with every drag of your bodies.

Your hips rolled harder, chasing friction, and the pace between you turned messy, uncontrolled. His hands slipped beneath your tank top, fingers splaying against the hot skin of your back, holding you tighter like he couldn’t stand even an inch of distance.

You didn’t care. You wanted him closer, way closer.

Lifting your head from where it had been tucked into the curve of his neck, you leaned up until your lips brushed against his ear. The words didn’t come, just a moan, shameless and breathy, spilling straight into him.

The sound wrecked him.

“Shit,” he whined, high and desperate, clutching at you with trembling hands, dragging your body harder against his. His hips stuttered up, meeting you rougher, guiding your waist in erratic pushes. “Don’t— don’t do that to me—”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your forehead pressing to the side of his head, both of you gasping through the hot, wet drag of fabric on fabric.

“Fuck, Jisung—” you moaned again, louder. His voice cracked on another whimper, breath catching as he forced your hips down against the rigid, soaked outline of him.

“You’re—ah, fuck—you’re driving me crazy,” he choked, his tone shaky and pitched high, every ounce of restraint gone. “Do it again. Please—moan for me again.”

Every nerve in your body was lit, every drag of his cock under his underwear sending shocks through you. The wet heat between your thighs made your panties cling, sticky, unbearable, and still you ground harder, chasing that edge.

“Ji—fuck—” you whimpered, breath breaking against his ear.

That was all it took. His hands clutched you tighter, forcing your hips down in a frantic rhythm, his thighs trembling under you. “Yeah? You’re close, aren’t you?” His voice cracked with it, whiny and rushed. “I can feel you—god, I can feel how bad you need it—”

You were already gone.

Your body tensed, a desperate cry slipping from your throat as your orgasm tore through you, thighs clenching tight around his hips, grinding helplessly against him while you came. You buried your face in his neck, muffling the broken sounds spilling from your mouth, your whole body shuddering in his arms.

Jisung was wrecked by it, by the feel of you convulsing against him, by the hot wetness soaking through your panties and spreading over his cock. His hips snapped up wildly, chasing, needing. “Fuck, fuck—don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

He was loud now, gasping and whining, rocking against you harder until he broke apart too. His cock throbbed in his underwear, spilling hot and sticky between you both, soaking the already-dark patch at the front of his briefs. He clung to you through it, voice pitched high as he moaned your name into your shoulder.

The room fell quiet except for the sound of your heavy breaths, your bodies still rocking lazily, more aftershocks than rhythm now.

Just sweat, tangled limbs, and the sharp, sweet sting of knowing you had just crossed a line you couldn’t uncross.

“Oh, fuck, Jisung. Just for fun, huh?” You were still catching your breath when Jisung finally slumped back against the couch, chest heaving, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. You stayed straddling his lap, too dazed to move, but the ridiculous grin tugging at his lips made you groan.

“Don’t,” you warned, pointing a shaky finger at him.

He tilted his head, wide-eyed, all fake innocence. “Don’t what? Congratulate you? Because—wow—you sound like a goddamn dream when you cum.”

“Han Jisung!” you smacked his shoulder, heat rising to your cheeks.

“What? You want me to lie? Pretend you didn’t almost break my neck grinding down on me like that?”

You covered your face with both hands, whining into your palms. “This is literally the worst idea ever.”

“And yet…” His hands slid up your sides, playful, not really touching but close enough to remind you of what just happened. “…best orgasm I’ve had in months.”

You peeked through your fingers. “That’s depressing.”

“That’s honesty,” he shot back, grinning wider. Then he leaned in, voice dropping into a teasing whisper. “Also… you owe me new shorts. Pretty sure you ruined these.”

You shoved at his chest, but he just laughed harder, holding you in place so you couldn’t escape.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, trying not to smile.

“Impossible and hot,” he corrected, smug. “Don’t forget that part.”

And despite yourself, you laughed too, tangled up in him, sticky and messy and more comfortable than you should be.

Eventually, you peeled yourself off his lap, legs shaky as you stood. “Okay, I’m disgusting,” you said, tugging at your tank top. “I’m gonna shower before I actually stick to these.”

Jisung leaned back, arms draped over the couch, eyes still glued to you in that lazy post-release haze. You rolled your eyes at him and, just to mess around, tossed over your shoulder, “You could always hop in with me.”

That snapped him upright, his laugh coming out sharp and disbelieving. “Ha—don’t joke like that.”

“You’d faint before the water even got warm.”

“Yeah, sure,” he called back, muttering under his breath as he grabbed a cushion to shove over his lap.

—

Steam clung to your skin as you stepped out of the bathroom, hair damp, droplets trailing down your legs. You hadn’t bothered with much, just one of your shirts, the hem barely covering your hips, as you padded barefoot toward your bedroom to grab clean panties.

Jisung was spread across the couch, one arm over the backrest, phone in his hand. His eyes flicked up casually, and then widened, head snapping forward like he had been slapped.

“Fucking hell,” he blurted, sitting up straighter. “What are you doing? You can’t do that!”

You blinked at him, pausing mid-step. “Do what?”

“Do what?” His voice cracked. “You’re naked!”

You glanced down at yourself, then back at him with a scoff. “Well, sorry! I’m on my way to get a new panties. You’re the one that shouldn’t be looking that much.”

But he was. His gaze kept darting down, catching the glimpse of your ass every time the shirt shifted, the bare curve of you almost giving him more than he could handle. He groaned, dragging a hand down his face, as if that would erase the image already seared into his brain.

And that’s when you noticed. He was still in just his boxers, and… hard.

Your lips curled, mischief sparking. “Ji…” cocking your head as your eyes dropped to his lap. “Seriously? Again?”

His ears turned red instantly. “Shut up,” he muttered, grabbing a cushion like it could save him, but you were already laughing.

“Oh my god, you’re so obvious.”

“You literally walked out here with your ass hanging out!” he shot back, voice high with desperation. “What the hell did you expect?”

“Relax,” you teased, flashing him a grin as you started toward your room. 

“Stop—don’t—” he tried, but you were already slipping into your bedroom, the door swinging halfway shut behind you.

And something inside him snapped.

“Fuck this,” he muttered under his breath, throwing the cushion aside as he pushed off the couch. His legs moved before he could think better of it, padding fast down the hall. The door creaked open under his hand, and there you were, standing by your dresser, shirt riding high as you dug for clean panties.

“What the hell?” you spun, startled, clutching the shirt’s hem down instinctively.

He shut the door behind him, chest heaving. His eyes were dark, hungry, no trace of the lazy teasing from before. “You can’t just—walk around like that—and then leave me—” His voice cracked again, desperate now.

You swallowed, heat prickling under your skin at the sight of him like this. Boxers low on his hips, still straining, his hands flexing like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Jisung…” your voice came out softer, nervous.

“I’m serious,” he rasped, stepping closer. “I can’t—shit, I can’t take it.”

You leaned back against your dresser, pulse hammering, suddenly aware of just how cornered you were by his body heat and his voice. “Ji…”

He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated, restless, his chest rising and falling too fast. “Look at me,” he said, voice breaking. “I’m pathetic. I didn’t even get to change—” he motioned down at his boxers, at the obvious mess spread across the front. His face twisted, half shame, half hunger. “I’m standing here still fucking wrecked from earlier, and—and I’m still so hard it hurts.”

The confession hit you like a spark to gasoline. Your eyes flicked down before you could stop yourself, taking in the dark patch of dried cum against the fabric, the swollen length beneath it, twitching with every shallow breath he took.

“You don’t get it,” he rushed on, words tumbling out in a desperate stammer. “You come out there in just a shirt, and I—fuck, I can’t stop looking, I can’t stop thinking about it, and it’s killing me. I need—” he choked, whined, the sound raw in his throat, “I need something. Please. Just… anything.”

His voice cracked again on that last word, so small, so undone. He wasn’t the playful best friend anymore, he was begging, almost breaking, standing there in his cum-soaked boxers, staring at you.

You should’ve felt guilty, maybe. He looked wrecked, like he was seconds away from falling to his knees for you. But instead, something hot curled in your stomach, sharper than lust. You loved this, loved seeing Jisung, your Jisung, usually all jokes and easy charm, standing there trembling, begging, wrecked just because of you.

“Anything?” you tilted your head, letting your lips curve slow, wicked.

His breath hitched. “Y-yeah. Please. Just… don’t leave me like this.”

You took a step closer,m, watching the way his eyes blew wide, tracking every move like a starved thing. Then, softly, you tsked. “Poor Ji. All messy, and still begging for more.” Your gaze flicked down, lingered on the obvious bulge, the sticky patch darkening the front of his boxers. “You’d do anything if I asked, wouldn’t you?”

He whimpered, the sound punched out of him, and nodded too fast. “Yes. Fuck, yes—I would, I swear, just… please.”

“Careful, Ji,” you murmured, voice low, teasing. “Keep begging like that and I might start to think you actually belong to me.”

He swallowed hard, eyes locked on yours, and whispered hoarsely, “Maybe I already do.”

“No, you don’t. You’re my bestie, remember?” you said it soft, eyes cutting into him with a sharpness that had nothing to do with innocence.

“Right. Yeah, I know. Fuck, I know,” Jisung muttered, running a hand through his hair, looking absolutely destroyed. His voice cracked on the last word.

“But?” you pressed, not letting him off the hook.

He froze, caught in the way you were staring, like you already knew exactly what he was about to say, and you were daring him to say it anyway. His eyes pitiful, wide, the most vulnerable you had ever seen him.

And then, as if to pour gasoline on the fire, you didn’t even bother hiding what you were about to do. You reached for the new panties. 

He didn’t blink. Couldn’t. His jaw slackened as the fabric slid up your thighs, catching high on your hips. Every second of it, he was looking, openly, hungrily, the thick line of him pushing against his boxers, obscene and desperate.

“Fucking hell,” he hissed, voice tight. “Are you doing this on purpose? All this bestie talk and then—doing this slowly, right in front of me?” His fists clenched, knuckles white where they gripped at his thighs. “You know what you’re doing to me.”

You tugged the panties up the rest of the way, smoothing the waistband against your hip like you weren’t putting on a show, but you knew damn well you were. His eyes tracked every movement, breath coming harder with each second you ignored how ruined he looked.

“God, you’re killing me,” he muttered, voice wrecked, like he hated himself for saying it but couldn’t stop.

You tilted your head, pretending innocence. “Killing you? I’m just getting dressed, Ji.”

“Don’t—” his voice broke, and he bit his lip, shaking his head. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?” you asked, dragging it out, stepping just close enough for him to feel the weight of your presence without touching. His chest heaved, eyes darting down your body and back up to your face, as if he couldn’t decide where to look. You smiled then, sweet and devastating, “What’s wrong, Jisungie?”

He actually whimpered. Shoulders slumping, thighs pressing together, his hands fisting uselessly on his lap. “F-fuck—don’t call me that right now. Please.”

But the way he leaned toward you, the way his whole body responded to the name, you knew he loved it. He was completely undone, standing there in nothing but his boxers, cock straining and leaking again, looking at you like you held every shred of control over him.

“Aw,” you teased, “You’re adorable.”

His head fell back against the doorframe with a groan, raw and desperate. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he asked, voice strained, pupils blown wide.

“Of course I am,” you shot back, lips curling, the confidence rolling off you in waves.

He was still looking at you, devouring you, like he was almost ready to drop to his knees if that’s what it took. And you? You leaned in, catching him off guard.

“Come here,” you whispered, tugging him forward by the shoulders until he stumbled into you.

It was just a hug, should’ve been, at least. You had hugged a thousand times before. But this wasn’t the same. Not when your arms slid over his shoulders, your chest pressed against his, and his arms wrapped around your waist with a grip so desperate it nearly stole your breath.

“You're making this way too hard” you murmured, but the sound melted into your throat when he squeezed tighter, harder.

You felt him, hot and heavy against your lower stomach, straining through his boxers, pressed flush into your skin. His breath hitched at the contact, and your nails dug into his shoulder blades without thinking.

“Fuck,” he groaned into your neck, muffled, ruined. “You have no idea.”

But the way your lips ghosted over his ear, the way your body curved into his on instinct? You knew exactly what you were doing.

Your lips brushed his neck first, just the faintest press of warmth against his skin, enough to make him shiver. He gasped, clutching your waist tighter as if the sound alone might tether him.

“Don’t—” his voice cracked, pitiful. “Don’t do that unless you mean it.”

But you only smiled against his skin, trailing higher, letting your breath fan over his jaw. Then you pulled back, slowly, your hand sliding up to grab his face, tilting it toward you.

And there he was. So close. So goddamn close. His breath mixed with yours, shaky and uneven, his lips parting like he was seconds away from forgetting every rule you had ever made together.

You hovered there, teasing, brushing your lips just close enough to make him choke on a sound. His eyes fluttered shut for a heartbeat, then snapped open again, desperate.

“Please,” he whispered, so broken it almost undid you on the spot.

Your grin widened, wicked. “Well… kissing definitely isn’t having sex.”

That was all it took.

He closed the distance, and the second your lips touched, he melted. A wreck. He kissed you like he had been starved for years, messy and frantic, lips crashing against yours in a rhythm that was nothing but need. His hands slid up your back, fingers digging in like he couldn’t get you close enough.

He whimpered when you opened your mouth for him, the sound vibrating straight into your chest. His tongue pushed against yours clumsily, greedy, like he didn’t even care how sloppy it was, he just needed more.

“Fuck—” he broke the kiss just long enough to gasp against your mouth, his lips wet, swollen. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

You caught his bottom lip between your teeth, tugging just enough to make him moan, high, needy, almost too loud. You swallowed the sound in another kiss, deeper this time, slower, rolling your tongue against his until his thighs shifted under you, restless, seeking friction.

Your own stomach twisted, the heat pooling between your legs sharp and insistent. Each time his breathy whine slipped past your lips, you clenched around nothing, your body aching in sync with his.

His hands slid up to cradle your face, thumbs trembling against your cheeks as if he couldn’t believe this was happening. “Don’t stop,” he begged into your mouth, the words slurred with desperation. “Please, don’t stop.”

And you didn’t.

You devoured him.

You couldn’t stop kissing him, couldn’t stop swallowing every broken moan he poured into your mouth. His lips were swollen, wet, slick with spit, but he didn’t care, and neither did you. Every kiss was messy, frantic, tongues sliding, teeth clashing, breathless whines filling the space between you.

You collapsed onto the bed together, tangled and gasping, his hands everywhere and nowhere at once.

But then he pulled back, panting, pupils blown. “Please,” he rasped, tugging you toward the edge of the mattress. “Sit—sit right here. Please, I need—fuck, I need it.”

You blinked, dazed, but obeyed, sliding to sit on the edge of the bed. Your elbows propped behind you, chest heaving, hair a wild mess. The way he was looking at you made your stomach twist.

He stood between your knees, hands trembling as he hooked his fingers under the waistband of his boxers. You caught a glimpse, red, flushed, leaking, and then he freed himself, fisting the base with a shaky groan.

“Ji—” you started, shocked, but he cut you off, eyes locking with yours as he pumped once, twice, moaning.

“Don’t worry,” he said, voice broken, desperate. “We won’t. I just—fuck, I need this. I need you watching me.”

Your thighs clenched, heat sparking low in your belly as his fist worked over his cock, slick sounds filling the quiet between his needy whines. His eyes never left yours, pleading, glassy, undone.

You swallowed hard, hand trembling as you slid it down between your legs, slipping under your panties. The second your fingers found your clit, you gasped, eyes flying back to his.

He saw. His breath caught, hips jerking into his fist, a guttural sound tearing out of him. “Oh, f-fuck—yes. Please—please, touch yourself for me.”

Your fingers circled faster, slick already coating your hand, the ache unbearable. Every moan that fell from your lips was mirrored by his, every shift of your body matched by the sloppy, desperate pace of his fist. Eyes locked. Bodies shaking. Both of you ruined, chasing release together without ever breaking the rules.

You were drenched, your fingers slick and messy as you rubbed yourself raw. Jisung’s eyes were wild, glazed with need, his fist a blur over his cock as he matched your pace. The room was filled with wet sounds, whines, gasps, both of you right there but still aching for more. It wasn’t enough.

With a sharp groan, he suddenly stilled. His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist, pulling your fingers away from where you were dripping and swollen.

“Wha—” you tried, breathless, but before you could ask, fuck, he angled forward and pushed the head of his cock against your soaked panties.

You both gasped at the contact.

“Holy shit—” he choked, hips twitching as the thick length slid against your covered slit, the fabric doing nothing to hide how wet you were. Precum mixed with your arousal instantly, making it obscene, messy, almost bare.

Jisung froze, chest heaving, his forehead nearly knocking into yours. He held himself there, trembling, waiting. Just to see. Just to make sure. If you would stop him. If you would say no.

But you didn’t.

You tilted your hips instead, dragging yourself against him, and the sound he made, broken, whiny, shot straight through you.

“Oh, fuck—” he gasped, voice wrecked, thrusting forward again. “Baby… it’s so wet—feels like you’re—fuck—”

The thin barrier of your panties was nothing now, every grind making you both moan louder, desperate and messy, so close to crossing the line completely it barely mattered anymore.

He was so hot, so hard, sliding against you in messy, desperate strokes. Every time the head caught on your clit through the soaked fabric, you gasped, hips jerking up into him.

Jisung was a mess above you, sweat curling his hair, lips swollen and shiny, breath tearing out of his chest in ragged moans. He pressed harder, rutting against you like he couldn’t stop himself, the slick sound between you filling the room.

“F-fuck—, you’re soaking me through again—” he gasped, voice high and shaky, his cock grinding so deep into your folds the fabric clung tight to both of you. “It’s like you’re—like I’m already—” His words dissolved into a whine as his hips snapped forward again, harder, chasing it.

You clutched the sheets behind you, arms shaking as you pushed your hips up to meet his. The pressure was unbearable, the drag so wet it felt bare, like every inch of him was sliding right against your swollen clit, against your dripping entrance, against everything you needed filled.

Your moans tangled with his, sloppy and loud, your body arching as he drove himself over you. The outline of his cock was so clear through the drenched fabric you could feel the veins, the thick weight, every ridge dragging against your folds.

And then, you couldn’t take it anymore.

With a shaky hand, you tugged your panties aside. Just a little. Just enough.

Jisung’s breath hitched so sharply it broke into a cry, raw and guttural. “Oh, f-fucking Christ—” His cock slid against you fully now, bare to bare, the wet heat of you coating him instantly.

He nearly collapsed, forehead falling against your shoulder, his entire body trembling as he rutted forward, slower this time, savoring it, moaning into your skin. “I won’t—I won’t go inside, I promise,” he whined, his voice so ruined it made you clench. “I just—please, let me—just like this—fuck—”

You couldn’t even answer. Your mouth opened, but all that came out was a broken moan, your hips lifting, dragging yourself against the length of him in desperate circles, slick and messy, every grind pulling him deeper against your folds.

It felt dangerous. It felt inevitable. It felt like crossing the line, even without him inside you.

Jisung’s thrusts slowed, the frantic pace breaking into something almost reverent. His hand wrapped loosely around the base of his cock, guiding himself as he dragged his tip up your folds, sticky and wet, circling your clit, slipping lower just to hover at your entrance.

Every time the swollen head kissed your hole, your body clenched in reflex, and he whimpered, nose burying into your shoulder. But then, he’d pull away, dragging back up, smearing you open and wet, grinding himself against your clit until your thighs trembled.

“Jisung—” You could barely breathe. The teasing was driving you insane, the thick head catching everywhere but where you needed it most.

He moaned, shaking his head, his voice a broken rasp. “I’m s-sorry, I can’t—I just want to feel all of you, every inch—fuck, you’re—”

But you wanted it too. Needed it.

Your hand slid down, trembling, and he froze when your fingers brushed his cock. Carefully, deliberately, you pressed his tip against you, holding him there as your hips rolled up to meet him.

The gasp that tore out of him was wrecked. “Oh—oh my god—baby—” His entire body jerked forward, his cock twitching hard against your hold. You dragged him higher, rubbing him through your slick folds, pressing down so he dragged against you as if he were fucking you, thick, heavy, perfect.

His head tipped back, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut as he moaned your name. “Yes—like that—just like that—holy fuck, you’re—” His words dissolved into a whine as his hips rocked helplessly into the pressure of your hand guiding him, each stroke hitting your clit and folds so perfectly it felt like he was inside without crossing the line.

You couldn’t stop, not with how good it felt, the friction sharper, deeper, every grind soaking him more, every roll of his hips making you both choke on the sound of it. Your panties clung uselessly at the side, your thighs spread wide, and he was rutting against you like you were the only thing he had ever wanted.

His voice broke, desperate and raw. “Please don’t stop—don’t ever stop—fuck, I’m so close, baby, I can’t—”

The rhythm turned ragged, messy, both of you grinding harder, faster, no restraint left. Your fingers held his tip flush against your folds, every roll of his hips making him drag thick and heavy across your clit, catching perfectly, sparks firing in your stomach.

“Baby—oh my god, shit—” His voice broke on a sob of a moan, forehead pressed to yours, sweat slicking his temples. He was rutting against your hand, against you, helpless, chasing it with every ounce of his body.

“Ji—fuck, Ji, don’t stop—” You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, your whole body tightening as his cock slid and caught exactly where you needed it. The obscene sound of it, wet and relentless, only pushed you higher.

And then you shattered. Your body arched up against him, a strangled cry ripping from your throat as you came, soaking him, thighs trembling around his hips.

The second he felt you clench and shake, Jisung broke. His hips jerked hard, his cock grinding desperately against you one, two more times before he let out a strangled cry, spilling hot and messy all over your folds, your stomach, your panties tugged to the side.

“Fuckfuckfuck—” His words dissolved into gasps as he collapsed forward, cock still twitching against your drenched skin, rutting through the aftershocks because he couldn’t stop, not yet.

You held his face against your neck, both of you panting, bodies sticky and trembling, ruined together.

When he finally stilled, chest heaving, he whispered against your skin, voice raw and wrecked, “That… that was… too good. I can’t—” He laughed weakly, still clinging to you. “We’re so fucked. I’m so fucked.”

You let out a breathless laugh, brushing damp hair off his forehead. “I think it would be easier if we just have sex already. This is insane.”

His head snapped up, eyes blown wide, mouth dropping open. “Wait—really? You say that now? After—fuck, after that?” His voice cracked in disbelief, half-whiny, half-hungry, still. “Shit, don’t play with me like that, I can’t get hard again already.”

You just giggled, tilting your head, smug.

He groaned, collapsing against your chest again, hiding his face. “God, I’m being pathetic again, aren’t I?” His voice was muffled, small, wrecked.

You traced a lazy line down his back, grinning at the way he shivered under your touch. “Mm… yeah. A little.”

“Shit, I'm fucked.”

—

+++ authors note: idk why it's called dry humping i'm personally really fucking wet about it...

✧ thank you for reading my stuff!! you can check out my intro + masterlist post to find all my works in one place. ✧ want to be tagged when i post? drop your comment in my taglist post

He looked good, he had to admit. Black suit tailored perfectly, his chain glinting subtly under the dim lighting. His face was composed, but his eyes—they gave him away. Empty, distant, always scanning for her.

She hadn’t appeared yet.

Guests were seated, the ceremony having already taken place earlier in a private garden that Chan hadn’t been invited to. It stung just a little. No, it stung like hell. He had received the invitation to the reception only. It was a mercy, really. A cruel one.

He hadn’t wanted to come. God, he had stared at the envelope for days, debating. But something pulled him here. Pride? Regret? Masochism? Maybe he just wanted to see if she looked happy without him. Maybe a part of him wanted to believe she wouldn’t.

The lights dimmed slightly. Murmurs quieted. Everyone turned their attention to the staircase, where Y/N finally appeared.

Chan’s breath caught.

She was radiant. The kind of beauty that didn’t ask for attention but owned it. Her dress shimmered like stardust, her smile warm and wide as she clutched the hand of the man beside her. Her husband.

That word hit him like a punch.

Chan clapped politely as they made their way to the head table. He didn’t realize his hands were trembling until he stopped. His eyes didn’t leave her—not once. Not as they sat, not as they toasted, not even as the groom leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple. Chan stared like a man witnessing the life he should’ve fought harder for. Dinner passed in a blur. People laughed, reminisced, danced between courses. Chan remained seated. He didn’t touch his wine. Couldn’t stomach the food. The conversations around him faded into static.

And then she stood.

Y/N walked to the center of the room with a microphone in hand, the light catching the teardrop earrings he remembered buying her on her 25th birthday. Her voice, soft and steady, filled the air.

“First of all,” she began, “thank you all for being here. Tonight is… surreal. And I mean that in the best way.”

She looked around, her eyes gliding over the room. For a fleeting second, they landed on Chan. He thought he saw something flicker in her expression—uncertainty? Pain? Or maybe he was imagining it. Wishful thinking.

“I’ve always been the kind of person who loves hard,” she continued. “Who dreams big, and believes in second chances… sometimes even when I shouldn’t.”

The room chuckled. Chan didn’t. “I used to think love was meant to hurt. That if it wasn’t chaos, it wasn’t real. I don’t believe that anymore.” Her eyes shined not from tears, but conviction. “I’ve learned that love should feel safe. It should be your home. Your peace.”

Chan’s chest tightened. Her words didn’t need names. He felt the unspoken weight behind every one of them.

“I’m so grateful to have found someone who doesn’t make me question if I’m too much. Someone who loves every scar, every mess, every part of me.”

She turned toward her husband, smiling softly.

Chan looked down. It was deafening now—the regret. He thought leaving was the right thing. He convinced himself that Y/N deserved someone better. Someone who wasn’t always busy, always in his head, always running. So he let her go. Walked away without fighting. And now, here he was clapping for the woman he still loved as she promised forever to someone else.

He should’ve said something. Back then. When she begged him to try. His hands came together slowly in applause, the sound barely audible over the standing ovation. But he wasn’t clapping for love. He was clapping for the pieces of himself that shattered quietly inside.

The music shifted into something lighter, more upbeat. Laughter filled the room again, chatter rebounding off the walls of the reception hall. The formalities were over now just mingling, dancing, and celebration left.

Chan sat still. He shouldn’t have come.

His chest was tight, lungs burning in silence as he watched Y/N weave gracefully through the crowd. She was radiant in her post-speech glow, stopping to greet friends, receiving hugs and compliments. People told her how beautiful she looked. How lucky her husband was. How magical the night had turned out. And she smiled. Genuinely. Effortlessly.

Chan couldn’t take it anymore.

He pushed his chair back quietly, letting the scrape of the legs drown beneath the music. His jaw was tight, his eyes stinging more than he was willing to admit. He blinked hard, hoping it would stop the tears from spilling but one slipped anyway, sliding warm and bitter down his cheek.

He didn’t belong here. He turned and began to walk toward the exit, shoulders stiff, breath caught somewhere between shame and heartbreak.

“Chan?”

Her voice. Soft. Familiar. Just loud enough to catch him in the middle of unraveling.

He froze.

Slowly, he turned, and there she was just a few feet behind him now. Bouquet tucked under one arm, her other hand holding the hem of her dress so it wouldn’t drag. She looked unsure. Not nervous, but… gentle. Careful.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t trust himself to. She walked up to him, stopping at arm’s length. The air between them was thick with everything they never said. All the things that still lived in the silence.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” she said, voice small, but honest.

Chan swallowed hard. He looked down, then up again. And finally spoke, low and raw.

“I’m sorry.” Y/N blinked. That hadn’t been what she expected.

“Chan…”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, this time shakier. “For everything. For… not being who you needed.”

Her lips parted like she wanted to say something but hadn’t found the words yet. “I thought I was doing the right thing,” he whispered, eyes searching hers. “Back then. Letting you go. I thought I was protecting you. I thought I—” He stopped. A bitter laugh caught in his throat. “I thought I had time.”

Without hesitation, she reached forward and took his hands. Hers were warm. Familiar. Anchoring.

“Chan…” she said softly, “it’s not your fault.”

He looked away, blinking quickly as emotion threatened to spill again.

“It’s not your fault that we wanted different things,” she continued, voice steady. “You didn’t fail me. You didn’t ruin anything. We just… grew apart. And that’s okay.”

He flinched at that, at the calm in her voice. The acceptance. The closure. She gave his hands a small squeeze.

“I loved you,” she said. “With everything I had.” He nodded, eyes glistening. “I know. I loved you, too.” A silence fell between them. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just final. “Thank you,” she said gently, “for coming. It means more than you know.”

Chan finally managed a small, broken smile. One hand slipped from hers, brushing his face roughly.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, of course.”

And then he stepped back. She didn’t stop him. She watched him leave with a soft, unreadable expression—an ache in her chest, but a weight lifted too.And Chan walked out of the reception, hands in his pockets, a tear-stained smile on his face.

She was happy.

The night air was colder than he expected.

Chan walked slowly toward his car, the sound of the reception fading behind him like a memory already starting to blur. The click of his shoes on the pavement felt louder than it should. Like they echoed in his chest.

He breathed in deep, trying to let it go. The night. The speech. Her voice. Her hands in his. He couldn’t. As he reached the driver’s side door, he heard soft footsteps again.

“Chan…”

His shoulders tensed before he looked back.

Y/N stood there, her dress a little rumpled from walking, the bouquet gone now. In her hands was a small, neatly wrapped box tied with twine and a soft beige ribbon. Her eyes held that same gentleness from earlier, but this time, there was something else too. Sadness. Or maybe nostalgia.

“I… I know I gave gifts to the wedding party,” she said, walking closer, “but you’re still a guest. So, I wanted to give you something too.”

He blinked. “Y/N, you didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” she cut in gently.

She stopped in front of him, holding the small box out. “And…” she hesitated, voice faltering for the first time. “I’ll really miss you.” That broke something in him. The way she said it like it hurt. “I’m gonna check in on you, okay?” she added, trying for a smile. “Just… to make sure you’re alright. That you’re eating. Sleeping. Not burning out again.”

Chan let out a breathy laugh, one that cracked halfway through.

“You haven’t changed,” he murmured.

“Neither have you,” she whispered. Then, before he could say anything more, she stepped forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Soft. Lingering. Too long to be just polite. Too close to his lips not to mean something.

Chan froze. She didn’t pull away at first just hovered there, barely an inch from his mouth, eyes flicking between his lips and his gaze. His hand twitched at his side. God, he wanted to lean in. Wanted to remember how she tasted. Wanted to forget time. Forget that someone else was waiting for her upstairs.

But he didn’t move.

“Y/N,” he said quietly, his voice wrecked, “you should go back up.” The sentence stabbed more than he expected. She blinked like she’d just woken up from something, then pulled back, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “That was—stupid.”

“No,” he said quickly, “it wasn’t.”

Her eyes glistened for a moment, and she nodded.

“Take care of yourself, Channie.” Then she handed him the gift and turned to leave, her steps slow but certain, like she didn’t trust herself to stop again if she looked back. Chan watched her until she disappeared through the doors.

Only then did he look down at the box in his hands.

He unwrapped it carefully, like it might break. Like it might be the last thing of her he’d ever touch.

Inside was a simple, black leather bracelet. Engraved on the inside were the words:

When you forget how bright you are, look here. And tucked beneath it was a note. Her handwriting. Still soft. Still familiar.

“Thank you for being my first home.”

Chan pressed the bracelet to his lips, eyes closing as the pain surged again. She was someone else’s now. But a part of her had still remembered him.

And for now… that had to be enough.

---

Four years later.

The city was quieter in the mornings. Less noise. Less pressure. Just the dull hum of life breathing in slow motion.

Chan sat outside a small café, legs crossed, a cappuccino growing cold in his hands. The bracelet—her bracelet—peeked out beneath his sleeve as he rolled his wrist to check the time. It had become a permanent part of him. He never took it off, not even once. It wasn’t about holding onto her anymore, not exactly. It was about remembering something real. Something that had shaped him.

Across the table, his friend, Jaemin, dug into his croissant, wiping crumbs off his mouth between sips of espresso. “You know Y/N’s pregnant, right?” Jaemin said casually, almost too casually.

Chan blinked. His grip on the cup faltered for a second. “Wait—what?”

Jaemin nodded. “Yeah. Due in a couple months, I think.”

The smile that bloomed across Chan’s face was instant and visceral—wide and genuine and so full of warmth it almost hurt. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “She’s gonna be a mom?”

“Yeah.”

“God, that’s… that’s amazing,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Why didn’t she tell me?” Jaemin looked at him for a beat too long, like he was weighing something.

Chan caught it. “What?”

Jaemin exhaled. “She’s… filing for divorce, Chan.”

Chan’s smile dropped like glass hitting tile.

“What?” Jaemin rubbed his neck, glancing around before leaning in a little. “It started a few months ago. Her husband he was cheating. For a while, apparently. With someone he worked with. It got messy. She found out when she was already a few weeks pregnant.”

The words didn’t register at first. Chan just stared at him.

“She’s… divorcing him?” he repeated. Jaemin nodded slowly. “Yeah. It’s official now. She’s been going through the paperwork, court dates, custody prep. It’s a lot. She's doing it all on her own. The pregnancy too.”

Chan leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face.

Fuck. That asshole. The guy she’d chosen instead. The one who made her smile like she was finally safe. The one she married.

“Is she okay?” Chan asked quietly. Jaemin hesitated, then said, “She’s trying to be. I think she’s doing better now, but you know her—she keeps it all quiet. Doesn’t really let people in until it’s already torn her apart.”

Chan looked down at the bracelet again, fingers brushing the worn leather. “When you forget how bright you are, look here.”

“I didn’t even know she was pregnant,” he whispered. “She didn’t tell me.”

“She didn’t tell anyone at first. And when she started showing, she stopped going out altogether. Said she didn’t want pity. Just peace.” Chan swallowed the lump rising in his throat. His thoughts raced back to the last time he saw her standing in front of his car, kissing his cheek, eyes too full of things they never said.

She had meant it when she said she’d miss him. She had checked in, once or twice. But eventually, the messages faded. Life moved on. Or at least, it pretended to.

“Does she have anyone helping her?”

“Just her mom,” Jaemin replied. “And a couple friends. But… she’s pretty much handling it alone.” Chan stared out at the street, brows furrowed deep, jaw tight. He should’ve known. He should’ve noticed something, anything.

He shook his head, trying to breathe past the guilt clawing at his chest.

“Jaemin…”

“Yeah?”

“Can you give me her address?”

The friend raised an eyebrow. “You thinking of showing up?” Chan didn’t answer right away. But his eyes were set.

His fingers tightened over the bracelet.

The sky was soaked in burnt gold when Chan pulled up in front of your place.

It was quiet the kind of quiet that settles only after something breaks and no one’s had the strength to clean it up. The porch light flickered faintly against the dimming horizon, and the blinds in your front windows were pulled halfway down, casting soft shadows over the living room.

He sat in the car for a full five minutes before moving. The keys were still in the ignition, engine ticking down. His palms were sweating, even though the AC had been on the whole drive.

His foot finally moved, pressing the door open.

With every step toward your house, his heart beat louder. Four years. Four years of distance, of choosing silence, of watching and hearing you build a life without him and now, here he was. Not as a guest. Not for a wedding. Just a man who heard that the person he never stopped loving was hurting.

He raised his hand and knocked, just once.

A few seconds passed. Then the door creaked open.

And there you were. You looked different—but not in a bad way. Softer. Tired. Your hair was pulled back into a messy braid, a hoodie hanging over your frame, one hand resting gently on your small but clearly visible bump.

Your eyes widened the moment you saw him. You blinked once, then again, as if your brain was double-checking the image in front of you.

“Chan?”

His throat dried. He could only nod.

You stared. For a moment, neither of you moved. The weight of time sat like a ghost between you.

“I… what are you doing here?” you asked, voice quiet. Chan licked his lips, took a breath.

“I heard,” he said. “About the baby. About the divorce.” Your expression shifted, still shocked, but now tinged with a sadness he hadn’t seen in years.

“Oh,” you murmured, stepping back instinctively, hand protectively falling to your stomach. “I didn’t think… I mean, I didn’t expect—”

“I know,” he interrupted gently. “I know I’m probably the last person you wanted to see.”

You shook your head, unsure. “No, it’s not that. I just… I didn’t think you’d care.”

“I shouldn’t have stayed away this long,” he said, gaze finally rising to meet yours. “I didn’t know. And when I found out, I couldn’t just… pretend I didn’t care.” You bit your lip, leaning against the doorway, uncertain. The air between you was heavy with unspoken things memories, regrets, almosts.

“You still wear it,” you said softly, eyes flickering down to the bracelet on his wrist. His lips quirked up barely. “I never stopped.” Your eyes welled before you could stop them.

“Chan…”

He stepped closer, careful. Like approaching something fragile. “I’m not here to make this harder on you. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. To see you.”

You nodded, blinking away tears. “I’m trying.”

He smiled gently. “Yeah. I can see that.”

Silence again. But this time, it wasn’t as sharp.

You looked at him for a long while. The man who once held you like the world might fall apart. The man who let you go because he thought it was right.

But now… right looked different. And for a second, just one second, you wished he had come sooner.

“Do you wanna come in?” you asked. Chan paused. Then nodded.

“I’d like that.”

You led Chan into the house quietly, like speaking too loud might make the moment disappear.

It smelled like lavender and ginger tea inside, soft and lived-in. A few unpacked boxes sat in the corner of the living room, and a baby book lay open on the coffee table, half-filled, the pen still tucked in the spine. The lights were warm, and the couch looked like you’d fallen asleep on it more than once.

You moved slowly, tired. He could see it in your steps. In your body. In your soul.

Chan sat down across from you as you lowered yourself carefully onto the couch. You leaned back with a hand against your belly, exhaling softly, and he watched you—watched the small movements you probably didn’t even notice. How you winced when your back hit the cushions. How you rubbed at your side absentmindedly, like it had been sore all day.

His chest ached.

“You’ve been able to go for your checkups, right?” he asked, eyes scanning your face, gentle but firm. You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you looked down, brushing invisible lint from your lap.

“…Not lately,” you admitted. “I… haven’t been able to pay.”

That was all it took for something in Chan to snap. Not in anger but in the way someone’s heart clenches when they hear something that shouldn’t be true.

“What?” His voice dropped. “Y/N—seriously?”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, trying to wave it off. “It’s just been a weird few months. And I’ve been careful. I’m healthy. The baby’s okay, I think.”

He leaned forward, brows furrowed. “You think?”

You winced. “I haven’t had a scan in a while.” Chan ran a hand through his hair, trying to stay calm. “You can’t go without those. You need to know how the baby’s doing.”

“I know, I know,” you murmured. “But I’ve been applying for emergency aid, and my mom’s been helping with bills, and I’m trying not to stress the baby out with hospital debt—”

“Stop,” he said gently but firmly. “Y/N. You don’t have to do this alone.”

You looked at him, tired and wide-eyed.

He softened his voice. “I’m taking you to your next scan. No arguments.” You opened your mouth. He raised a brow.

“No arguments,” he repeated.

You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re still so bossy.” Chan smiled. “Only when I’m right.”

The room settled for a moment, the tension easing just a little. You curled your fingers around a throw pillow, glancing at him. “You really don’t have to do that,” you said again, quieter. “I want to,” he replied. “Let me.”

Another beat passed. Then you nodded. “Okay.”

He exhaled, shoulders relaxing. “Good.”

You sat in the quiet for a moment. Then, as if it had been bubbling beneath the surface all along, Chan asked the question.

“…How did you find out?”

You blinked. “About… him?”

He nodded, careful not to say his name. He didn’t deserve the weight of it. You sighed and looked down at your hands. “I found a second phone.”

Chan's jaw tensed, but he didn’t interrupt.

“It was in his car. Stuck between the seat cushions. I thought it was mine at first, but when I opened it, it didn’t have a passcode.” You swallowed. “There were texts. A lot of them. Photos. Some of them taken here. In our house.”

Chan closed his eyes for a moment, fury and helplessness surging together in his gut. “I waited until he got home,” you continued. “I didn’t say anything at first. I just… watched him. He kissed my forehead. Asked me what I wanted for dinner.”

Your voice trembled slightly.

“I asked him who she was. He didn’t even deny it. Just stared at me. Said it had ‘just happened’ and that he ‘wasn’t in love with her.’” You laughed bitterly. “Like that was supposed to make me feel better.”

Chan’s hands curled into fists in his lap, nails digging into his palms.

“I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just told him to leave.”

“You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone,” Chan whispered. You shrugged. “I was tired of fighting to be loved properly.” Silence fell again, this time heavier. More fragile. Chan leaned forward slowly, voice hushed, steady.

“You are loved properly. You deserve that. You always did.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. His gaze didn’t waver.

And something in your chest cracked a little. He wasn’t the same man you’d last seen at your wedding. He looked older now. Sharper in some places, softer in others. But the way he looked at you? That hadn’t changed. That gaze had always made you feel seen.

You whispered, “Thank you… for coming.”

Chan gave a small nod, voice thick. “I’ll be there for the next appointment. And every one after that. If you’ll let me.” You smiled, eyes shining with something between grief and comfort.

“Okay.”

---

It was early afternoon, the sunlight soft and golden as it filtered through the clinic’s tall windows. The waiting room smelled faintly of hand sanitizer and baby powder, a combination that made Chan oddly nervous and comforted all at once.

He sat beside you in one of the pale blue chairs, hands clasped tightly between his knees, eyes flicking every so often to you.

You looked beautiful. Tired—but beautiful. A soft, oversized sweater hung loosely over your bump, and your hair was pulled back in a low bun, wisps framing your face. You were quiet, your fingers gently resting atop your belly, occasionally drawing little patterns as if to soothe the child growing inside.

Chan hadn't said much when he picked you up earlier that morning just a quiet, “You look good,” and a small smile. He’d made sure you were buckled in safely. Played soft music in the car. Asked if you wanted coffee or a snack before the appointment. You hadn’t said much either, but your hand brushing his on the gearshift had said enough.

Now, in the waiting room, the silence was heavier. Not tense but thick with unspoken things.

Chan glanced sideways. “Are you okay?”

You nodded. “Just nervous.” He nodded back. “Me too.”

You let out a soft laugh. “You’re not the one being poked and scanned.”

“No,” he said, looking at your stomach, “but it still matters.” Just then, the nurse opened the door and called your name. You stood slowly, Chan rising immediately to steady you by the elbow.

The nurse smiled as she led you both to the room. “Partner?” she asked lightly, glancing at Chan.

Your eyes flicked to him for a split second.

“Friend,” you said softly.

Chan didn’t react, but his heart ached anyway. Once inside the dim ultrasound room, you lay down, pulling your sweater up just enough for the nurse to apply the gel. The machine hummed gently, the monitor glowing blue with soft static as she moved the wand across your belly.

Then—there it was.

The baby.

Tiny. Whole. Wiggling slightly.

Chan’s breath hitched. “Whoa…”

You looked over at him, and his face, God, his face. Soft and stunned and glowing with something almost like reverence. “There’s the heartbeat,” the nurse said, smiling as the sound filled the room, fast and strong and rhythmic.

Chan blinked quickly, and you weren’t sure if it was the monitor light or something more that made his eyes shine like that.

“That’s amazing,” he whispered.

The nurse nodded. “Everything looks healthy. Do you want to know the gender today?” You glanced at Chan. He blinked. “Up to you.”

You bit your lip. Then nodded. “Yeah… I think I do.”

The nurse turned the screen toward you. “Congratulations. You’re having a girl.”

For a second, the air went still. Then Chan let out a soft laugh, covering his mouth with his hand. “A girl…”

You blinked up at the monitor, your eyes glassy. “She’s perfect.”

The nurse handed you a towel to wipe off the gel and printed a couple of pictures for you before stepping out, giving you both a moment. You sat up slowly, looking at the ultrasound photo in your hands. “I was so scared I’d never hear that heartbeat again.”

Chan reached out, his fingers brushing yours. “You don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

You didn’t answer at first. Then—quietly—you whispered, “I missed you.”

Chan’s jaw clenched.

“I missed you too,” he said, voice hoarse.

But neither of you moved. Neither of you leaned in. The ache was there, right beneath the surface, waiting. Instead, Chan reached for his phone. “Let me take a picture of the scan too?”

You handed it to him, and as he held the photo up to the light, you noticed his wrist—the bracelet.

Still intact. Still worn.

You swallowed the knot in your throat.

“Thank you… for being here,” you murmured. Chan met your eyes. “I always should’ve been.”

The drive home was quieter than before, but not in a bad way. The kind of quiet that felt… safe. Like the world had calmed a little after hearing your daughter’s heartbeat. Chan kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, fingers tapping lightly to another slow song playing on the radio. You looked out the window, the ultrasound photo in your lap, fingers brushing the corner now and then like you still couldn’t believe she was real.

He glanced over at you at a red light. “You hungry?”

You nodded, sighing. “I haven’t had a proper meal in days.” That made his brow furrow. “Then I’m cooking. Real food. Not cup noodles and crackers.”

You smiled softly. “You still remember that?”

He gave you a mock-offended look. “How could I forget? You basically lived off saltines and orange juice the first three weeks of your last breakup.”

You snorted. “That’s not even an exaggeration.”

“Nope,” he grinned. “I was there.” The words lingered longer than they should have.

Your apartment was warm and quiet when he brought you inside. You sank into the couch while he bustled into the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, opening cabinets and drawers like he’d never stopped memorizing where everything was. You watched him, one arm draped lazily over your bump, unable to stop the small smile tugging at your lips.

“Still allergic to tomatoes?” he called from the fridge.

“Yeah.”

He hummed. “Then no tomato paste.”

The familiarity settled into the room like sunlight through curtains. It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t even emotional. It just felt… right.

A little later, you were seated at the small dining table as he brought over two plates—pan-fried chicken, rice, and a salad he somehow made look expensive. He cut your chicken for you without even asking and handed you your fork like it was just another Tuesday.

“You always used too much salt,” you teased.

“Still do,” he smirked. “But I learned to scale back. Growth.”

You both laughed. The food tasted good—better than good. Maybe it was the warmth of it, or just the fact that it was made by someone who actually cared. Either way, you cleaned your plate, and Chan practically glowed as he watched.

“You’re easy to cook for when you’re not nauseous,” he said, sipping water.

“You’re just happy I didn’t throw it up.”

“Well, yeah, that too.” You leaned back, rubbing your stomach. “God… okay. That actually made me feel human again.”

He smiled. “Glad I could help.” Then, more softly, he asked, “What phase are you in now? Like… with the pregnancy stuff.” You lifted your fingers, counting quietly, then nodded. “Hormonal phase.”

His face froze. “...Oh.”

You laughed. “Not like that.”

“No, no—it’s fine. I just… I’ve seen movies, Y/N. You’re about to turn into a hormonal dragon.”

“I am a dragon, Chan.”

He grinned. “That tracks.” You rolled your eyes, nudging your plate forward. “It’s not as dramatic as it sounds. It just means I cry at weird things, snap a little more than usual, and sometimes… I get kind of—” you paused, lowering your voice, “touchy.”

His ears flushed pink. “Touchy?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry,” you said quickly, sipping your water. “Nothing’s really triggered it. I’ve been too tired. Or too pissed at life.”

“Still,” he muttered, “you shouldn’t be going through that alone.”

You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to. The silence between you said enough.

The knock on the door came just as he was starting to tidy up the dishes. You stood, waddling slightly toward the door. Chan tried to stop you, but you waved him off with a muttered, “I’m not a doll.”

You opened the door, and there stood your mom with two plastic bags full of home-cooked food, a thick envelope, and a half-worried, half-annoyed look on her face. “Why didn’t you answer my calls—?” she started, then her eyes locked onto Chan standing in your kitchen, drying a plate.

“…Is that…?”

“Hi, Mrs. Y/L/N,” Chan said, putting the plate down and stepping forward with a little bow.

Your mom blinked. Then blinked again. Then looked at you with a smirk that could slice granite. “So… you’re back together?”

Your mouth opened. “No.” She raised a brow.

“Mom, no—we’re not. He’s just—he came to the scan with me.”

Chan nodded. “Just wanted to make sure she wasn’t alone.”

Your mom stared for another beat. Then she stepped inside, handing you the bags. “Still. It’s nice to see someone responsible in this apartment again.”

“Mom.”

“I’m just saying.” She handed you the envelope. “It’s for the next few weeks. Doctor bills. Rent. Groceries.”

You frowned. “Mom, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” she said firmly. “And now that you’re getting company again…” Her eyes slid to Chan with a sly smile. “Maybe you’ll stop acting like you’re married to grief.”

You covered your face. “I swear we’re not back together.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said, taking off her coat and heading to the kitchen. “And honestly, I don’t want to.” Chan glanced at you as your mother started rearranging the fridge.

You sighed, giving him a helpless look.

He just smiled and mouthed, Sorry, his eyes warm and glinting with something else. Something that, for the first time in years, didn’t hurt as much as it healed.

---

Your mom stayed longer than she said she would.

She always did, especially when she had that look in her eye—the one that said “I know you’re not okay even if you’re pretending to be.”

You tried to shoo her away more than once, especially after she started wiping down countertops and reorganizing your medicine shelf like she lived there. But she waved off your protests with a simple, “You’re pregnant, not in control.”

At one point she adjusted a crooked picture frame in the hallway and muttered, “That man couldn’t even hang things straight. Figures.” You didn’t even have the energy to ask if she meant your ex-husband or Chan. Either way, she brought warmth into the apartment like she always had.

Eventually, when the fridge was full, the floor was vacuumed, and you were sitting down like she demanded, she kissed your forehead and whispered, “Rest more. Stress less.”

Then she turned to Chan.

She leaned up to whisper something in his ear as she held his arm, her lips barely moving, and his body tensed just enough for you to notice. She gave him a gentle pat, almost motherly, then left with a wink in your direction and a, “Be good.”

The door closed behind her, and silence took its place. Chan was still standing near the door when you glanced up at him.

“You okay?” you asked.

He blinked like he’d forgotten he was still here. “Yeah.”

But his voice was distant. Thoughtful. You tucked your knees under your blanket. “You don’t have to stay, you know.”

He sat beside you anyway. “I want to.”

You were curled sideways on the couch now, legs draped across his lap. He’d rubbed your ankle earlier when you’d complained about swelling. He was still touching you now—absently brushing your calf like it soothed him, not just you.

You studied him. Really studied him. His jaw was tense. His eyes kept flicking between your face and your belly, like he was searching for something—comfort, maybe. Or control.

And you felt it.

That ache. That old pull toward him that never really left. Not even when you signed your vows to another man. Not even when the bed beside you went cold. Not even when you cried in the shower with your wedding ring still on.

“…Thank you,” you whispered.

He looked at you. “For what?”

You swallowed hard. “For coming back when I didn’t know how to ask. For taking me to the scan. For making dinner. For just… showing up.”

His eyes softened. “You don’t need to thank me for that.”

“I do,” you said. “Because… if I’m being honest, I don’t know how to function without you.” He sat still. Not frozen, but… braced.

And you added, softly, “I think I cheated first.”

Chan blinked. “What?”

“I mean—not physically,” you clarified. “Not in the traditional sense. But... even when I was married, even when I tried, I never stopped thinking about you. In the quiet moments. In the conversations. Even when we had sex.”

His body flinched slightly.

You nodded, voice hoarse. “I pictured you sometimes. Not just how you touched me, but how you used to hold me after. How safe I felt. How loved. Even when I hated you, I still wanted you.”

Chan inhaled sharply, about to speak, but you continued, voice cracking:

“So maybe I didn’t cheat in bed. But I cheated in my mind. And my heart.” You looked up at him now, closer than before. “Tell me you didn’t feel the same.”

He opened his mouth.

Then closed it. Because he couldn’t. You were both quiet. Breathing the same air. Sharing the same silence. You shifted slightly, your knee brushing his thigh. “Do you wear it every day?” you whispered. “The bracelet, I mean—”

“I wear it,” he said, voice rough. “Every day.”

Your eyes widened.

His hand came up, hesitating—then gently cupped your cheek.

“I never stopped loving you,” he said, so quietly it felt like a confession.

You didn’t breathe.

“Even when I saw you walk in a dress meant for someone else, I’ve been in love with you,” he said, voice breaking. “And I hated myself for it. I told myself I had to let you go. That it was selfish to hold on. But I couldn’t. You’re the one I see when I wake up. The one I think about when I hear love songs. The one I dream about when everything else falls apart.”

You leaned into his palm, eyes closing.

His thumb brushed your cheek, trailing down to your jaw. “I’m scared,” he whispered.

“Of what?”

“Of loving you all over again and losing you again.”

You moved closer, breath mingling with his. “You never stopped.” Then, without another word, he kissed you.

Hard.

Not desperate. Not reckless. But real. It was the kind of kiss that cracked something open.

His hands moved to cradle your face carefully, mindful of your body. Your fingers curled into his shirt. The weight of everything between you crashed into that kiss—the years, the regret, the what-ifs, the silence.

He didn’t rush it. He let it burn slow. Let it say everything words couldn’t. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathless. Your fingers trembled where they clutched him. And his hands, God, his hands were still so warm on your face.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. You didn’t need to. The truth had already been spoken. And sealed between your lips.

Your breath hitched as his kiss broke, barely a whisper of air between your mouths. His hands stayed steady on your face, thumbs brushing just under your eyes as tears gathered and finally spilled.

Chan’s voice was gentle, low. “Hey… no, no—don’t cry.”

He kissed the corner of one eye, then the other, his touch so heartbreakingly soft that it only made your chest ache more. You sniffled, letting out a shaky laugh, and leaned into him helplessly.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured. “I didn’t mean to—”

He shushed you with another kiss, this time deeper—needier. You responded instantly, your fingers curling into his shirt, dragging him closer like your body remembered this rhythm better than your mind did.

The kiss turned messier, warmer. His hand slid to the back of your neck, cradling you, anchoring you to him like he was terrified to let go again.

You pulled back for just a breath, lips swollen, voice shaky but teasing.

“I think…” you panted, “…you just triggered my touchy hormones.”

Chan froze, blinking, lips slightly parted. “Oh shit.”

You burst into soft laughter, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “Nah. It’s okay. It’ll die down.” You let out a long breath, trying to cool the flush across your cheeks and throat, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

But then… he didn’t move.

You felt his hand trail from your neck to your jaw again, coaxing you to look up.

When you did, he was closer than before gaze darker, more intent. His voice was lower now, the kind of tone he used to use when you were alone. When he was in love. “But what if I don’t want it to die down?”

Your heart skipped.

You blinked. “What?”

He leaned in, nose brushing yours, mouth hovering over your lips.

“What if I want you to be horny?” he whispered.

Your breath caught. There was silence. Heavy, charged silence.

Then his hand slowly slid down your side, barely grazing the edge of your bump, as if checking if this moment—this version of you—was still the same person he fell for.

And you didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

Instead, you looked right at him, pulse racing, body warm from the inside out.

You could still taste him on your lips. You could feel how he held back—how badly he was restraining himself. And yet his words lingered in the air like a match held over an open flame.

What if I want you to be horny?

And the way he said it wasn’t dirty. It was desperate. Honest. Almost reverent. Like your desire your warmth still meant something to him. Like he’d been starved for your affection for years. And now, finally, he had a chance to touch you again.

Even if it hurt.

Even if it burned.

His arms wrapped around your thighs as he lifted you without hesitation, bridal-style but with something more urgent, more needy in his grip like he was trying to make up for all the years he spent without you. Your breath caught as your fingers instinctively clasped behind his neck, heart pounding in your ears.

He nudged the bedroom door open with his foot, barely looking as he crossed the room. The tension between your lips and his was magnetic every few seconds, he’d stop to kiss you again, deep and eager, like he couldn’t help himself. And you didn’t want him to. Not when your body ached for him. Not when your heart still whispered his name.

When your back met the mattress, his hands hovered. You expected him to fall apart the way he used to hands everywhere, mouth all over you but instead, he paused. He sat on the edge of the bed, brushing a hand over your belly gently, reverently.

“Wait,” he murmured, voice rough. “Is there… a way I have to hold you now? Because of the baby?”

You blinked, touched. “Chan…” He looked at you like he was afraid of breaking you, like every inch of you now came with warning labels he didn’t know how to read.

You reached for his hand and brought it to your stomach, his palm wide and warm over the curve of your bump. “It’s okay,” you said softly, guiding his hand. “The doctors… they told me how to position during this. There are ways I can still be comfortable. And safe.”

Chan’s eyes flicked up to yours, wide and searching. He let out a slow breath, like your words had cracked something open in him something hungry and barely restrained.

“You’ll guide me?” he whispered, almost shy.

“I’ll guide you,” you nodded, voice breathy.

And you did.

You pulled him back over you slowly, carefully, adjusting until your body aligned with his. Until the pressure didn’t strain your back, and your belly had space. He followed your lead with gentle obedience, hands braced near your sides, careful not to collapse into you. But once he had you in the right position when he was sure you were comfortable, safe…

He kissed you like he was starved again. Like he remembered every way your mouth had ever tasted. Every sound you used to make. Every night you used to fall asleep tangled in him, legs and lives intertwined.

And it wasn’t fast.

It wasn’t frenzied.

It was intimate. There was desperation in his lips, yes, but there was also worship. A silent apology. A yearning for something long lost and somehow found again between these sheets.

You held his face in your hands. He stroked your sides like you were sacred. And when he kissed you next—long and hard, while your legs tangled with his—he whispered into your mouth:

“I missed you every fucking day.”

This wasn’t just hormones.

---

The room was dim and quiet now, the aftermath of everything still hanging like warmth in the air—soft breathing, tangled limbs, your head tucked beneath Chan’s chin as his hand traced lazy circles on your back. The blanket was pulled just enough to keep the chill off your skin, and the steady thump of his heart beneath your cheek made you feel more whole than you had in months.

He shifted a little, brushing his lips against your hair before murmuring, “Do you, um… need to pee or anything?”

You groaned lightly against his chest. “God, why are you like this?”

He chuckled, deep and low. “I’m being responsible. Pregnancy rulebook 101: always pee after sex.” You rolled your eyes but grinned. “Yeah, yeah… fine.” You sat up with a small sigh, careful with your belly. “I actually do need to.”

He watched you shuffle to the bathroom with the fondest smile messy hair, swollen lips, his old shirt barely hanging on your shoulders. You didn’t notice the way his gaze lingered like he was memorizing you again. Every curve, every movement. Every little piece of you that he had missed for years.

But a few seconds after the door closed behind you, he heard it.

Gag. Splash. The sick sound of your stomach revolting. He shot up immediately.

“Y/N?” he called, worry tightening his voice as he rushed to the door. He knocked lightly, then cracked it open without waiting. “Baby? You okay?”

You were crouched awkwardly over the toilet, flushed and groaning as the last of your dinner—and whatever was left of your stomach—poured out of you.

“Shit,” he muttered, rushing to your side and holding your hair back gently with one hand while the other rubbed soothing circles across your back. “Is it me? Was I that bad?”

You laughed weakly, coughing. “No, idiot. I think it’s just the hormones…”

“Sure it’s not my performance?” he teased softly, offering a small cup of water to help you rinse. You bumped your shoulder against his tiredly, still smiling. “Chan.”

He wiped your face carefully with a damp towel, eyes full of worry and care. “Let’s get you changed, yeah?”

He helped you stand, arms steady around you as you leaned into him for balance. He led you back to the room slowly, grabbing one of your oversized shirts and a fresh pair of shorts with practiced hands. You sat on the edge of the bed, letting him kneel to help you change. The whole thing was so domestic, so natural, it made your chest ache.

Once you were dressed and under the covers again, he hovered a little like maybe this was his cue to leave.

But you looked up at him, eyes soft. “You’re not going home?” He blinked, surprised. “I wasn’t planning to. Not unless… you want me to.”

Your face broke into the gentlest, most relieved smile. “Good.” He exhaled, chuckling quietly, and climbed into bed beside you again. You tucked yourself back into his chest like it was where you’d always belonged, your body molding into his without hesitation.

And as his arms wrapped around you and the steady hum of your breathing returned, Chan kissed your temple and whispered, “I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

---

The eighth month crept in like a quiet storm, suffocating, swollen, and full of tension neither of you could quite put into words.

Your apartment had changed since Chan started visiting more frequently. There were signs of him everywhere now. His sneakers by the door. His jacket thrown over the back of your couch. A half-empty mug of coffee on the windowsill because he liked to watch the rain with you. And baby stuff, so much baby stuff. Boxes from deliveries he insisted on signing for. A crib waiting to be assembled. Plush toys, tiny socks, bottles lined up neatly on the kitchen counter. A bottle warmer he argued with for twenty minutes. A pink onesie with “little love” written on it in cursive—his favorite.

And somehow, through the chaos, you and Chan had slipped into something soft again. Something unspoken but undeniable. Every visit, every shared meal, every doctor's appointment, every gentle kiss stolen in the hallway. It wasn’t labeled. It wasn’t official. But it was real.

It was safe.

And yet, the eighth month loomed like a ghost in the room.

You were exhausted body aching, emotions on a tightrope. Your hands were swollen. Your ankles throbbed. And sleep? Sleep was a luxury now. The kind of deep rest you only dreamed of while flipping your pillow to the cool side again at 2:00 a.m.

Tonight was no different. You were curled up on the couch in an oversized hoodie, one of Chan’s, with your legs propped up on a pillow, trying to breathe through the pressure in your lower back.

Chan, barefoot and in gray sweats, had just finished warming up the soup he made earlier. He carried the bowl over to you like it was holy, a dish towel wrapped around the base, spoon tucked in neatly.

“Careful,” he murmured, settling beside you. “It’s hot.”

You gave him a tired smile. “Everything’s hot. Including me.” He gave you a look—half fond, half exasperated. “That’s because you’re carrying a literal furnace.”

You took a sip, and the warmth helped. The way he rubbed your back slowly, too, helped even more.

“I’m scared, Chan,” you admitted suddenly, your voice a little quiet, a little cracked.

He froze for a beat.

“Scared?” he asked gently, shifting to face you more fully.

You nodded. “The eighth month is where everything becomes real, right? One wrong movement. A contraction too early. I haven’t slept in days. What if she comes early? What if I—what if I don’t make it through delivery?”

His brows furrowed deeply. He took the bowl from your hands and set it aside, then held your face in his palms.

“Hey… look at me.” His thumbs brushed under your eyes. “You’re doing so good. You’ve been so strong. And I swear to you, I’m not going anywhere. I’m here for all of it. Every second.”

Your lip trembled. “I know. I know you’re here, it’s just… I’ve been doing this alone for so long.”

“I know,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. “But not anymore.” You stayed like that for a long moment, breathing in sync, his hands cupping your cheeks like he was anchoring you to this moment. To him.

Eventually, you felt his fingers slide to your swollen belly. He rubbed slow circles, then leaned down to kiss the stretched skin just above your belly button. “She’s almost here,” he murmured, more to her than to you. “And when she comes, she’s gonna know she’s loved. So loved.”

Your hand slid into his hair, tugging softly. “You’re really staying for this, huh?”

He looked up, a little grin forming. “I already stayed for the swollen ankles and the mood swings. I think I’m in it for the long haul.”

You snorted, tears still in your eyes. “Don’t tempt me.”

He leaned up and kissed you softly. A promise sealed with lips and warmth. You curled into his side again, and for the first time in weeks, your body let go of the tension.

The doctor’s office was cold—but not unkind. The type of sterile that felt softened by the soft pastels of the wallpaper and the framed photos of babies lining the hallway. The kind of place that tried to say we know this is scary, but we’re here with you.

You were sitting up on the padded examination bed, belly exposed, gel still cool on your skin after the ultrasound. Chan was beside you, perched on a little stool, his hand never leaving yours—not once. His thumb ran idle strokes over your knuckles as the monitor beside you faded to black.

“She’s measuring healthy,” the doctor said with a warm smile, peeling off her gloves. “Heartbeat’s steady. She’s already in position for delivery, which is excellent.”

You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Chan squeezed your hand once, proud and silent.

“I’ll give you two a moment,” the doctor added, grabbing the printed sonogram photo and placing it gently on the tray. “Oh—and keep those feet elevated when you can. The swelling will get worse before it gets better.”

You gave her a tired nod, and she left with the soft click of the door.

Chan stayed still. Then slowly, carefully, he let go of your hand and leaned toward your belly. His gaze flicked up to yours, questioning.

You smiled, nodding. “You can talk to her… if you want.”

His eyes softened immediately. He turned his stool to face you fully and lowered his face toward your belly like he was bowing to something sacred. He pressed a hand to your skin first, large, warm, grounding.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice lower than usual. “It’s me. Again.”

You watched his expression melt into something fragile and open. Something he rarely let anyone see.

“Your mom’s been doing such a good job carrying you. You’re already lucky and you don’t even know it yet.” He chuckled softly. “But you’ll know soon enough. You’ll see how strong she is… how beautiful… how loud she can get when she doesn’t get her snacks on time.”

You giggled, and he paused just to smile at the sound.

He leaned closer. His lips brushed against your belly, lingering.

“I’m gonna be here, okay?” he murmured. “I’m gonna be here when you come out. I’ll hold you. I’ll feed you. I’ll sing to you if you’re crying even though I can’t sing to save my life.”

You choked on a sob-laugh, blinking back tears.

“Can I…” you said, voice watery, “can I ask your opinion on something?” He looked up immediately. “Anything.” You reached for your bag beside the bed and pulled out a small notepad, dog-eared, pen marks all over it. You flipped to a page labeled Names, and handed it to him shyly.

“I’ve been trying to decide. You don’t have to pick or anything, but I just… I wanted to know what you think.” He took the notepad like it was something delicate, and scanned the list slowly.

Luna.

Arielle.

Eden.

Mina.

Soraya.

Noa.

Mae.

Seren.

Elia.

Rhea.

“Mm…” He paused at one. “Elia.”

You looked up. “Yeah?”

He nodded, slow and thoughtful. “It’s soft. But strong. It feels like… like the kind of name you’d whisper when you’re holding something small and new.”

You smiled, the warmth rushing through your chest. “That’s the one I kept going back to too.”

“Elia,” he repeated, like he was testing it. “Elia, baby, are you hungry? Elia, come here. Elia, don’t put that in your mouth—” You burst into laughter, and Chan grinned, proud of himself.

Then he looked up at you again, serious now. “You want that to be her name?”

You took a breath. And nodded.

“Elia,” you said, laying a hand over your belly again. “Elia, sweetheart, you’ve got one hell of a name. And a hell of a father figure, too.”

Chan blinked, surprised by your wording—but then he smiled. Not correcting it. Not clarifying. Just taking it in. He looked at your belly one more time.

“Elia it is.”

And in that quiet moment, in a pale doctor’s room filled with echoes of tiny heartbeats and unspoken hope, her name settled between you—soft and certain as love.

---

It was one of those nights that felt like borrowed peace.

The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the low lull of the TV you’d forgotten to turn off. Dinner had gone smoothly, Chan had made your favorite pasta, even though you barely touched it because your stomach felt tight. The ninth month had been heavier than you expected, literally and emotionally. But Chan had kept the house in order, rubbed your swollen feet, and massaged your back every time you whimpered in your sleep.

Now, he was in the kitchen, quietly wiping down the counters, putting the leftover baby books in a neat pile near the toy stand. Your hospital bag was packed and sitting near the door—just in case. You’d joked earlier that Elia was too comfortable to come out, that she’d probably wait until 42 weeks just to be dramatic.

Chan laughed at that. “She gets it from you.”

He had just bent over to pick up one of the rattles when he heard it.

Your gasp. It wasn’t loud. Not the kind of sound he’d normally panic over. But it was sharp, and wet, and carried the weight of something real. Something sudden.

“Chan…?” your voice wobbled from the hallway, where you had been slowly waddling to the bathroom.

He dropped the rattle instantly and was at your side within seconds.

Your legs were trembling slightly, your hand braced on the wall. A puddle was spreading beneath your feet, glistening on the hardwood, soaking through your pajama pants. Your breathing was shallow and fast.

You looked up at him with wide, glassy eyes.

“My water broke.”

Chan froze for a millisecond—but only a millisecond—then sprang into action.

“Okay, okay. Okay.” He steadied you with one arm. “Is it just the fluid or—are you feeling anything else?”

And then you grimaced, this deep, visceral twitch of your whole body as your stomach tightened into a rock-hard knot. You squeezed his forearm tight, gasping again.

“Contraction,” you hissed. “That was a—fuck, that was a real one.”

He didn’t let go. Not once.

“I’ve got you,” he said, gently lowering you into the nearest chair. “They’re coming fast, aren’t they?”

You nodded, squeezing your thighs together, bracing yourself. “It’s not like before,” you panted. “These are close… and tight. And low. She’s… she’s low, Chan.”

He wiped your forehead with the sleeve of his hoodie and kissed your temple.

“Okay. Listen to me. I’m gonna grab the hospital bag and call the OB. You just breathe like we practiced. Slow. In through your nose…”

“…out through my mouth,” you whispered, trying to keep up. Your hands trembled against your belly.

Chan flew into motion he grabbed your bag, your folder of medical documents, his keys, your slippers and dialed the hospital. He explained everything clearly, quickly, as though he had rehearsed this moment. Because he had.

When he came back into the room, you were gripping the sides of the chair, eyes clenched shut, groaning low in your throat.

“Another one?” he asked, kneeling in front of you. You nodded, and tears were slipping down your cheeks now.

“They’re really close together now, Chan. Like… maybe three minutes. I don’t think I have time for the bath, or—fuck, I don’t think I have time for anything.”

Chan’s face stayed calm, but his heart was thudding. “Okay. That’s okay. We’re going right now. Can you stand?”

You nodded, but shakily.

He helped you to your feet, supporting your full weight as another cramp seized through you and your knees buckled slightly.

“Shhh, I’ve got you,” he murmured, pressing a steadying kiss to your temple. “You’re doing so good, baby. We’re gonna meet her tonight.”

You sobbed into his chest, but from everything.

The contractions were wild now—sharp, clenching, tugging pressure that made your whole body fold in on itself. You could feel her moving down, heavy and certain. There was no turning back. No time to think.

Just Chan, the hallway, the midnight rush, and the knowing:

This is it.

Your baby was coming.

The drive to the hospital was a blur of traffic lights and shallow breathing.

Chan kept one hand on the wheel, the other holding yours. You were reclined in the passenger seat, body tense, teeth clenched as each contraction ripped through you like a sudden wave, crashing hard and fast before ebbing away.

"You're doing so good," he murmured again and again, thumb stroking your knuckles. “Almost there, sweetheart. I promise.”

You could barely speak through the pain, but you nodded, gripping his hand like a lifeline, your eyes fluttering shut with each spasm in your belly. The seat beneath you was soaked through from your water breaking, but you didn’t care. Time was unraveling.

By the time you reached the hospital, you could hardly stand. Chan parked in emergency drop-off, half-dragged, half-carried you into the maternity ward, yelling for help as nurses rushed toward you with a wheelchair.

“She’s nine months—her water broke at home—contractions are two minutes apart, maybe less!”

They rushed you through intake. Lights flashed overhead. You hissed with each jolt of the wheelchair, your body screaming, breath ragged.

Chan never let go. Once inside the labor and delivery suite, it all moved fast. Nurses pulled your clothes off as you cried and moaned through another contraction. Monitors were strapped to your belly. A quick cervical check had the nurse’s eyebrows shooting up.

“She’s already at eight centimeters,” she said urgently. “She’s close.”

You let out a panicked whimper, and Chan was at your head in an instant, brushing your hair from your face, kissing your forehead with trembling lips. His voice was low and soothing, holding you together as the doctor arrived and a nurse inserted the IV.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you panted. “It hurts so much, Chan.”

“You can,” he whispered, pressing your hand to his chest so you could feel his heartbeat. “You already are. You’re stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.” The pressure was unbearable. The urge to push was coming hard now, and you started sobbing uncontrollably as another contraction hit like a freight train.

The doctor snapped on gloves. “Okay, mom, on the next one, you’re going to push.”

Chan moved beside you, gripping your hand tight. “You’re not alone, okay? I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You nodded, teeth clenched. A contraction. The nurse counted. “One, two, three—push!”

You screamed, body arching, eyes wild. Every nerve in your body was on fire.

"Again!" the nurse called. You pushed again, gasping and trembling.

“You’re doing amazing,” Chan whispered. “She’s almost here. Just a little more.” The burn was white-hot. You bore down, crying out, legs shaking, hands clawing at the sheets. And then—

“I see the head!” the doctor said, voice calm but firm.

You gave another desperate push, crying out.

A sharp cry.

Sharp, shrill, beautiful. Your body collapsed into the bed as Elia took her first breath. Your daughter. Your baby. The doctor lifted her, slippery and pink and screaming with the strength of a storm.

“She’s here,” Chan whispered, tears already falling from his eyes. “She’s really here.”

Chan kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your damp hair, whispering over and over, “You did it. You did so good. I’m so proud of you.”

---

The room was warm and quiet now, lit only by the soft yellow glow of the overhead light above the hospital bed. After the chaos, after the sweat and shaking and pain—there was just calm.

You were propped up, body aching but blanketed in that post-labor haze of endorphins and awe. The nurse had taken Elia to clean her, weigh her, check her vitals. It felt like hours, though it had only been minutes. And now she was back.

Swaddled tight in a soft cream blanket, her tiny face peeking out, a white hat snug on her head. A nurse gently placed her into your arms again.

“Here’s your daughter,” she whispered with a smile. “Nice and healthy.”

Your arms cradled her instinctively. Your fingers trembled as they adjusted the folds of her blanket, your thumb smoothing over her cheek. Her skin was so soft so impossibly new. Her eyes fluttered open just a little, those long lashes blinking at the world.

You leaned in close and whispered, breath catching in your throat. “Hi, my beautiful girl,” you said softly. “Hi, Elia… It’s me. Your momma.”

Chan stood at the side of the bed, silent, as though the entire world was holding its breath.

“I’m sorry your real dad was too much of a wuss to be here for this,” you murmured, voice quiet but strong as you gazed at Elia. “But you’ve already got someone better than him. Your other father… he’s so much more than he ever was.”

Chan’s breath hitched.

You looked up and met his eyes.

“Father?” he repeated, his voice barely a whisper, like he didn’t dare trust it.

You gave him a small, tearful smile. “If that’s okay with you.” For a moment, he didn’t speak. His jaw clenched, and then trembled. He blinked hard—and then the tears fell, quiet but sure.

“I don’t mind,” he said softly, voice cracking. “I’d love that. I’d love her.”

You reached out and gently held her out to him. “Do you want to hold her?”

His hands were shaking as he nodded, stepping forward, arms instinctively opening. You guided her into them, and he received her like something sacred, his entire world slowing as she settled against his chest.

She was so small in his arms—so fragile. But his hold was strong, steady, instinctive.

“Hi, baby,” he whispered, rocking her gently. “Hi, darling… it’s me. Daddy.”

You watched him. The way he looked down at her like she was the most perfect thing he’d ever seen. The way his lips quivered as he smiled, as though he was holding in both a laugh and a sob. And as he cradled her, whispering gentle promises, you couldn’t look away.

You looked at him the way you had once looked at him long ago. The way you used to when everything was still new—when love still clung to your bones like light.

But this… this was deeper.

This was the man who had stayed. Who had chosen you again and again. Who was here now holding your daughter like she was his entire world. You smiled through the blur of tears, voice trembling as you reached over and touched his arm.

“You’re already everything she’ll ever need.”

He looked at you, and for a heartbeat, nothing else existed but the three of you.

---

It had been weeks after Elia was born when you finally sat across from your divorce attorney in a quiet office downtown, the weight of motherhood and heartbreak settling in your bones like a second skin. You wore soft clothes and Elia was nestled in a carrier beside you, sleeping peacefully blissfully unaware of the legal unthreading taking place around her.

Your now-ex hadn’t contested anything. After the affair, after his selfish absences and the gutting silence that came when you cried alone in your shared bed he didn’t even show up to the final meeting.

You remembered holding the pen in your hand, staring down at the line that needed your signature. And with Elia’s breath steady beside you, and memories of Chan rocking her in the hospital fresh in your mind, you pressed the pen to the page and signed.

A quiet breath escaped your lips.

Freedom.

It wasn’t a moment of joy, but of reclamation. Of choosing peace over the pain you had carried too long. Of making room—for your child, for yourself... and for whatever could blossom in the ruins.

---

Three Years Later

Elia's tiny hands clutched a cookie as she sat on her grandpa’s lap, giggling as he made silly faces with whipped cream. Your mother buzzed around the kitchen like always, preparing tea and humming softly to herself. The house smelled like rosemary and old wood, full of warmth and memories.

And in the living room there you were. Sitting with Chan on the floor, your fingers brushing over fabric samples, color swatches, and a soft notebook labeled "Re-Wedding Plans."

The word made you both laugh every time.

Chan looked relaxed his back leaned against the sofa, long legs stretched out, one hand resting behind your back like muscle memory. He had flour on his black t-shirt, a souvenir from baking cookies with Elia earlier.

Your daughter squealed and ran into the room just then, throwing her little arms around your neck and squishing cookie crumbs into your shirt.

“Mommy, grandpa said I can be the flower princess!”

You laughed, kissing the top of her head. “Of course you can, baby.” Chan chuckled, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “You’ll be the prettiest flower princess anyone’s ever seen.”

Elia’s eyes lit up. “Can I throw real flowers?!”

“All the flowers you want,” you whispered. She ran back out of the room, leaving a trail of glitter and joy behind her.

And then it was quiet again. You and Chan exchanged a glance, warm, familiar, full of a thousand unspoken things. “I never imagined this,” you said softly, fingers grazing over a pale pink ribbon sample. “Not after everything.” He reached over, took your hand, and laced your fingers with his.

“I did,” he said. “Not right away… but when I held her that night. When you said I was her father.”

You turned to him, heart full, eyes glossing with unshed tears.

“You are,” you said, voice thick. “You’ve been more of a father than anyone ever could be.” He leaned in and kissed your forehead. “And I want to be more than that again… if you’ll still have me.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, fingers tightening around his.

“I’m planning this whole re-wedding, aren’t I?”

He grinned. You both turned your heads toward the sound of your mother calling from the kitchen. “Do you want the lemon glaze on the cake again or something different?”

“Lemon!” Chan and Elia both shouted from opposite ends of the house.

You laughed, resting your head against his shoulder.

A different kind of love had grown here one watered by pain, forgiveness, and time. And now it was blooming in the most unexpected place: your parents’ living room, with your daughter dancing in circles and the scent of warm cookies in the air.

The wedding was small, heartfelt, and filled with the kind of intimacy only time and healing could create.

Elia stood proudly as the flower princess in her sparkling pink dress, throwing petals with wild joy before running to Chan at the altar and clinging to his leg. She was just as much a part of the ceremony as the vows themselves. And when you said “I do”, your voice didn’t shake. Because you knew this was a beginning—not from scratch, but from growth.

That night, after the reception, after Elia had been tucked into her new bed in the room Chan painted himself, after your mother kissed your cheeks and whispered “you’re glowing, baby”, the house was finally still.

It was just the two of you.

Newlyweds.

You were in your shared bedroom now, the soft yellow lamplight casting a glow across your white slip dress, the air filled with traces of your perfume and fresh linen. Chan came out of the bathroom in sweatpants and a shirt, hair damp from the shower, his eyes locking with yours like magnets drawn back to each other after years of waiting.

You walked toward him, slowly, and his arms found your waist like instinct.

“You’re my wife,” he murmured, forehead to yours, voice so full of wonder you could cry.

“And you’re my husband,” you whispered back, breath catching in your throat as he kissed you, tender but deep, like he’d been waiting since forever. The kisses turned heavier as he guided you toward the bed, hands gentle but hungry. The way he held you was reverent, touching you like you were both porcelain and fire. Your bodies fit together like a memory remembered. You gasped softly when he pushed your dress aside, your skin burning where his fingers traced.

Then, just as you arched into him, ready to welcome him with every aching, married fiber of your being, a sharp cry pierced the quiet.

Elia.

You both froze. Chan blinked, still hovering above you, his lips slightly parted.

“She’s crying,” you whispered, breathless.

Chan gave a breathy laugh full of disbelief and frustration, gently lowering his forehead to your shoulder. “Of course she is.” You kissed his temple and smiled. “Parenthood.”

With a groan and a soft kiss to your chest, he sat up. “I’ll get her.”

You pulled on a robe while Chan padded into her room. A few moments passed before he returned, Elia clinging sleepily to his chest, thumb in her mouth and tears drying on her cheeks.

“She had a nightmare,” he murmured.

“She okay?”

“She said a spider tried to eat her juice box.”

You snorted and opened your arms. “Come here, sweetheart.” Chan laid her between you both. She snuggled close to you, half-asleep again, one arm reaching blindly for Chan. He curled up on her other side, and the three of you formed a warm little cocoon.

A pause.

Then Chan whispered with a grin, “We will finish what we started.” You chuckled under your breath. “Eventually.”

“Don’t test me,” he teased. “I’m very patient... but not that patient.” You pressed a kiss to Elia’s hair and reached over her to touch his cheek.

“Then we’ll make it worth the wait.”

Chan smiled.

And in the stillness, with your daughter safe between you and love settling around you like soft blankets, it felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

The past had burned.

But the future?

The future was golden.

Purple means I can't see that I've tagged you (cause I honestly don't understand why it's this much)

@whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @pessimisticloather @alisonyus @rockstarkkami @morkleesgirl @yoongiismylove2018 @imeverycliche @katchowbbie @pixie-felix @maisyyyyyy @katyxstay @day138 @necrozica @nebugalaxy @strsforjsb @iknowyouknowminho @imagine-all-the-imagines @jc27s @igotajuicyass @jitrulyslayyed @sh0dor1 @idiotmaterial @leeknow-minho2 @btskzfav @glenda2107-blog @jeonginnieswifey @makeawitchoutofme @nikki143777 @sharnnnnnn @akindaflora @chungdol @lillymochilover @lixies-favourite-cookie @heartsbystars @idol-dream-catcher @iknow-uknow-leeknow @rachmmb @min-doesnt-know @maxidential @ebnabi  @aiden2708 @burntbang @therealmrsbahng @ari-hwanggg @xxxxmoonlightxxx @rossy1080 @hanniebunch @tricky-ritz @woozarts @zerillia @lveegsoi @queenofdumbfuckery @intartaruguinha @lorialia  @btch8008s @jamroses @hhwangsmoon @pnkcasket @alix-nai @geni-627 @sspersonally @dolphin-scream-s @enhacolor @possum_playground @pinkflowerdream @peterparkoure @crazy4books1  @sunshinestaytiny @143straykidsot8 @bbxbxxy @iloveavatar @kwanniehae @kkmiso @Imperfectlyperfectprincess1

Check out my pinned if you want to be added to my taglist!

Your footsteps are muffled against the carpet as you trudge down the hallway, scanning the signs and doors for your room number.  Double checking the digits on the keycard envelope with the numbers on the door you had stopped in front of, you scan your card against the reader. The expected click and whirring noise confirms its acceptance as you turn the handle and with a weary sigh, enter the hotel room, reflexively taking a look at the interior.  A single queen-sized bed, pristine and perfect, sheets smooth across the surface with not a wrinkle to be seen.  Wall mounted flat screen TV across from that.  Large floor to ceiling windows opposite the entrance.  Leaving your rolling carry-on and Birkin bag next to the dresser, you make your way over to the windows, pulling the navy blue drapes  back to assess the view outside.  As if on cue, a blinding flash of lightning greets you.  You wince, just as a large rumble of thunder reverberates not long after.  

At least the airline had played it safe.  They weren’t kidding when they announced the weather related cancellation over the PA system at the airport just over an hour earlier. It had been an agonizingly long day for you, starting with an early meeting for your company’s latest round of contract negotiations.  They’d taken far longer than anticipated, the client wanting to review and re-run the numbers.  You had known scheduling your flight that same evening was a risk, but fortunately they had given it their blessing and you had made it to the airport with a couple hours to spare.  

Not that it had mattered.  You’d checked in for your flight, managed to grab a bite to eat, and were waiting at the gate when the announcement came through.  The winds had changed (quite literally), and a massive thunderstorm that was originally predicted to move north had suddenly switched directions causing flights to be cancelled left and right - including yours.  

The poor gate agents had been overwhelmed with frustrated passengers upset about their travel plans gone awry, but then word had come through that they would be providing compensation and a limited number of hotel / meal vouchers to those passengers who chose to postpone their travels to the following day.  You had been one of the lucky few to snag those coveted vouchers, and so here you were.  Leaning against the window, you savor the feeling of the cool glass against your skin, the subtle vibrations of the rain pelting the pane from the other side.  

You should just change out of your professional attire and go to bed, but the residual tension from earlier in the day has you feeling anything but relaxed, and you know at this point sleep will be elusive. Maybe what you need is a stiff drink.  You’d noticed a bar downstairs when you were checking in…might not be a bad idea.  

**********

To your pleasant surprise, you find the restaurant relatively empty for this time of night. The bartender had made light, polite conversation with you, nothing past the usual niceties, and now stands at the other end of the counter, wiping down a glass and talking to one of his colleagues.  

There are currently only two other people at the bar - an older couple two seats down to your left enjoying a meal of what appeared to be some sort of risotto dish (for her) and chicken wings (for him).  You’d thought given the storm and number of stranded travelers it would be busier here… but honestly you like it better this way. Quiet, and unbothered, you are mulling over whether to order something to eat for yourself, when you feel another presence approach the bar.

 You look to your right and a familiar looking younger man takes the seat on the far end - backwards LA Dodgers cap, black utility blouson jacket, vintage Red Hot Chili Peppers T shirt, and light denim baggy jeans, belted casually around his waist. This newcomer stands out - the epitome of streetwear among a small group of business casual; though you suppose it doesn’t really matter - this is a hotel bar, privy to all sorts of travelers and individuals from all walks of life.  If it had been a gastropub or a michelin establishment the expectations might have been a bit different, but here, in this hotel just a few kilometers from the airport… anything goes.

Something about him keeps drawing your attention back to the strikingly familiar stranger. You try desperately not to make it too obvious but the magnetic pull is too strong. Your mind is racing, trying to place him… why does he look so familiar? Have you met before?  Where have you seen - 

All at once it hits you and your mouth goes dry in a flash of panic - you grab your phone, needing to confirm that you weren’t going crazy.  There was no possible way he was here, right now, in the same city, the same hotel, the same room as you.  THE Suga from BTS.  Min Yoongi.  Agust D.  There was just no fucking way. 

Wait - so then where are the other members?  Any security?  Bodyguards?  You look around the establishment, but as you had initially assessed - other than the few restaurant staff, and the couple next to you, the famous rapper / producer / singer / songwriter is the only one of his group here.   

You steal another glance in his direction only to find him gazing right back at you, a playful sparkle in his eyes. The corner of his lips lift slightly into a small subtle smirk, and you quickly avert your gaze, heat prickling your skin at the thrill of being caught looking.  You stare instead at the picture on your phone.  Your bias, your crush…and here he was, at the same hotel, in the same room, sitting in the same bar as you.  Be cool, man….be cool.  You can feel the nerves taking hold, anticipation and anxiety simmering below the surface.  You force yourself to take a deep calming breath.  You got this.  No one else is here, maybe it would be okay if you just approach and smiled and introd-

“Here you go, miss,” the bartender interjects, replacing your now empty gin and tonic with another full one.  

Your brows furrow in confusion as your brain struggles to reset itself to the present.  “Wait - but I didn’t…”

“From the gentleman on the end.” he nods in Yoongi’s direction. 

You look up and the man of the hour is once again glancing your way, that cocky grin unmistakable now. He lifts his glass of amber liquid in your direction and you find yourself nodding back in acknowledgement, raising your own glass back at him.  Not even a moment later you mentally say fuck it and grab your phone and wristlet, making your way towards him with your drink.

You adjust your long button down dress as you take the seat next to him.  Your outfit is professional enough for a corporate meeting, comfortable enough for air travel, and alluring enough for a flirtatious encounter with an attractive stranger.  The slit sits tantalizing on your thigh as you cross your legs demurely, offering just the right amount of skin.  “I thought it would be rude of me not to come over and thank you properly for the drink.” 

He glances down at his drink, then back to you, his eyes raking over you with zero shame. “My pleasure. To be honest - and please don’t take this the wrong way - it kind of looked like you needed it.” 

You can’t help the laugh that escapes your throat. “That obvious?” You shake your head, “You’re not wrong though. It’s been a helluva day.” 

“Lemme guess. That storm outside has something to do with it?”

“Your guess would be correct. I don’t think anyone’s flying out of here until at least tomorrow morning.”

As if to prove your point, a distant rumble of thunder resonates through the bar area and you hear the rain continuing its assault on the windows and becoming markedly louder as the storm outside picks up in intensity. 

You sit in silence for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. Do you call him out on his celebrity status? You certainly don’t want to make a scene or make him feel uncomfortable. You figure easing into it slowly is the best approach.

“So what brings you into town?” You dip your toes in the water cautiously, testing it out to see his response, praying that he doesn’t shut you down.  “Working on solo activities?” 

His eyes meet yours and he scans them carefully, gauging the recognition behind them, as if trying to assess for any potential threats, eventually accepting that you mean no harm. “Solo activities. Yeah, you could say that.”  He hesitates a moment, then smiles, a hint of cockiness playing on his lips.  “So I take it…..you know BTS?”

You laugh at his trademark line, “Yes, I do.”

He hums in agreement.  “So, you know who I am.  It’s only fair that I know you.” 

You oblige him and introduce yourself, feeling a warmth creep up your spine at the way his deep voice echoes your name. You engage in casual small talk - what you do for work, your adventures at the airport today, and he tells you a little about what he’s been up to (a photoshoot for a highly reputable skincare line to be featured as part of an advertorial in an upcoming issue of Dazed, followed by an appearance at the Samsung Unpacked event in Seoul the following week).  You marvel at the amount of traveling he does and how exhausting it must be.  He merely shrugs - par for the course at this point.  

“I’ll bet you can’t wait to get home after all the chaos of today,” he comments, sipping his drink.  “Sounds like quite the adventure.”

“I was hoping to get home tonight, but obviously the weather had other plans,” you gesture at the floor to ceiling windows beside the bar, the lights of the city distorted and barely visible through the rain traversing haphazard paths down the outside of the pane.

“A gorgeous woman like you must have someone waiting for you at home…”. His eyes flit to yours, curious, assessing the situation.

Jesus Christ - handsome and smooth as fuck.  Damn, Min Yoongi’s got game. You are pleasantly taken aback by his flirtatious query, not that you haven’t been circling the issue like two birds engaged in a delicate mating dance for the last hour.  You match his gaze, your foot gently nudging the inside of his calf, once again testing the waters to gauge his reaction: “Does it matter?” 

He shakes his head, his shoulders shaking in silent laughter.  “I suppose not…I guess what happens during a freak thunderstorm where travelers are stranded in a random hotel stays in said random hotel.” 

You look at him incredulously, “you know that’s not how the saying goes... like not even a little bit.”

“So then how does it go?”

Your foot makes its way higher still, and you notice him shift in his seat, his legs parting ever so slightly.  “Well... I could invite you up and we could find out.” 

*************

The tension on the way up to your room is palpable.  It takes every ounce of your will power not to jump him right there in the elevator.  Despite the fact that the two of you are the only ones in the car, he silently insists on standing right next to you, his fingers gently brushing against yours, every touch sending heated sparks right through your veins all the way to your core.  The only thing holding you back from pouncing on him and ravaging every inch of his body right then and there is the innocuous red blinking light marking the presence of the security camera in the top right corner of the elevator - you most certainly do not want your business splashed across every tabloid in the country for indecent exposure (you’re pretty sure he doesn’t, either).

“7th Floor,” the automated female voice announces with a ‘ding’ as the doors open, and you step out and make your way towards your room.  As you fumble in your purse for your keycard, your hands trembling, you feel him press up behind you, the warmth of his body like fire on your already heated skin. His hands come around to guide yours, his breath gentle on your neck.  

You breath hitches as the door clicks and whirrs, and not a moment sooner than he’s ushered you in that he spins you around to pin you against the closed door, his mouth finding yours hungrily.  The connection is immediately electric, frenzied.  Your keycard and purse fall from your fingers, landing somewhere you don’t know and frankly, don’t care.  Your hands fly up, knocking the baseball cap off of his head, fingers tugging at his soft black hair, eliciting a soft groan from him that sends a rush of wetness to your panties - you can already tell they are beyond ruined. 

“Tell me to stop,” he gasps, his lips nipping at your jaw, then your neck, sucking on the sensitive skin there - biting gently and making you hiss, then soothing it with the warmth of his tongue. His hands have wandered from their initial death grip on your waist, one reaching down slowly to find your ass and give it a firm squeeze while the other hand slides up to cup the back of your neck. 

A feeble whimper escapes your lips begging him for the exact opposite of what he asked for as you grind against him, feeling his hardness even through his jeans. 

“Don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop.”  You’re gripping the lapel of his jacket in desperation, fumbling to push it past his shoulders.  He lets go of you long enough to take it off the rest of the way and toss it haphazardly to the side. 

His mouth is relentless with its attention on your neck, and your head tilts back to allow for easier access. It’s so much but also not enough. You need more of him. Need to see more, feel more, touch more. Your hands grip his biceps, strong and firm, seeking something to ground you and reassure yourself that this is, in fact, real.  

Fingers race against clothing and before you know it your dress is halfway unbuttoned and pooled around your hips.  His lips mouth at one breast over your bra, his large hands fondling, squeezing the other.  

He breaks the kiss to look at you again, a slow smirk playing on his lips and before you can open your mouth to even attempt to protest, he's dropped to his knees in front of you, bunching your skirt up around your waist and pulling your panties down.  How he manages to do both simultaneously you're not sure, but you barely have time to register that thought because the next thing you know you can feel his warm breath between your legs as his mouth places delicate, open mouth kisses on your thighs, nipping playfully until he reaches your center, his tongue flattening to trace across your slit.  You gasp at the welcome sensation and your head falls against the wall with a dull THUD, prompting a reflexive "ow!" to escape your lips.

He pulls back for a moment. "Are you okay?"  

"Fuck, yes, Jesus don't stop..." you admonish him breathlessly.  

Obligingly, he dives back in between your legs, this time lifting your right leg so that it rests over his shoulder, giving him better access to your sex.  His finger strokes your folds, tracing the wetness there, then slipping in as his tongue continues licking, his lips finding your clit and latching, sucking, eliciting a moan from your lips. God they really weren’t kidding about that tongue technology.  Storm or no storm, this man was well on his way to taking you to Hong Kong, first class all the way. 

Within minutes he's added another finger inside of you, his tongue and lips continuing their assault on your most sensitive parts.   You struggle to grab something, anything, anything at all next to you to brace yourself for what is imminent. You manage to bury one hand in Yoongi’s hair, the other flat against the wall behind you, clawing at it in vain as you groan, "Yoongi, please...just like...that..I'm...I'm almost...holy FUCK a little mo-OH!" A cross between a squeal and a scream fills the room as your legs shudder and you thank your lucky stars you have one leg propped up on Yoongi’s broad shoulder to support you - you're sure you would have collapsed otherwise.  He laps up all of your juices and then gently moves your leg from his shoulder, grinning as he stands up to kiss you deeply.  You wobble, slightly unsteady, and moan at the taste of yourself on his lips. 

"You good?" he whispers, his trademark smirk playing on his lips.

"More than good," you pant, smiling as you catch your breath.  "But you're not..." you protest with a frown, cupping his hardness through his jeans.  He inhales sharply as his lips forge a trail down your jaw, towards your neck.   "Let me take care of you." You offer as you start to lower yourself to your knees but he stops you with a shake of his head, his grip firm on your arms.    

“I won’t last - I need to be inside you.”  Your pussy is still quivering with the aftershocks but painfully empty - you don't have to be told twice.   Within seconds you’ve unbuttoned and shoved his pants and his boxers halfway down his thighs - the urgency and desperation of the moment allowing only that much -  just before raising your leg again.  You fumble for a moment, then manage to prop it upon the bench next to you for leverage, allowing him better access to your sex.  He rubs the head of his cock against your folds, gathering the wetness from them and drawing a shaky sigh from you in the process, before sliding inside of you, both of you groaning at the sensation.  

"Yoongi..." you breathe.  "Please..."

"Fuck baby," he groans against your ear, pulling out slowly before thrusting back in, this time harder than before. "So tight for me.  You feel so fucking unreal." 

"All for you," you reply breathlessly.  

His left hand finds your breast, his hand kneading it as his mouth latches onto the skin between your neck and your shoulder.  

You drape one arm around his neck for support, the other reaching down between your throbbing bodies, finding your clit and rubbing it.  The familiar knot is back, building in your stomach; you clench your toes in anticipation.  "Yoongi...almost...so close."

"Right there with you," he pants, the rhythm of his hips never wavering.  Within seconds you feel your second orgasm of the night and with it, your walls pulsing around his cock - driving him over the edge as well.  His hips stutter, falter, his thrusts becoming sloppy and jerky as he finishes inside of you.  Bringing his hands up to cup your chin, kissing you softly before resting his forehead against yours, catching his breath.  You slowly lower your leg to the ground, wobbling slightly. 

"You okay?"  he asks, his hands on your hips, steadying you.  You nod, then look down and notice that he’s still hard.  “You’re still…”

He chuckles.  “What can I say… it’s been awhile.”

Your eyebrows dart up in surprise.  “You?  Min Yoongi?  BTS Suga?”  You click your tongue disapprovingly.”Tsk tsk tsk. Well we can’t have that, can we?”  

You push him gently. He stumbles backwards, his pants still bunched around his thighs.  Holding his gaze, you slip your dress off the rest of the way, letting it pool at your feet.  His eyes widen, taking in the sight of you in your black lace bra, the cups sheer and leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination, while the matching black bottoms were an equally poor excuse for a pair of panties. Stepping out of the dress you make your way over to the queen-sized bed in the center of the room - a coy glance over your shoulder as you reach around back and unclasp your bra, letting that fall as well.  

He swallows audibly as he watches you next shimmy out of the lace panties.  “You coming?” you ask, before turning back to climb on top of the bed.  

“FUCK yeah I am.  In more ways than one…” Sure enough, his erection is now most definitely back in full force.  In record time his pants and boxers have been shed, and he’s whipped his shirt off, his chest broad, toned, defined.  He quickly takes his position on top of you on the bed, the heat of his body pressed up against you, his cock sliding easily through your wet folds.  You gasp as it grazes your clit in just the right way.  

“Fuck,” you arch your back, needing to be closer still.  How is this possible, you’d already come twice…but a third?  Do you even have it in you? Fucking hell though this was Min Yoongi - it seems that anything is possible.  

He trails his way up your body with his mouth, and then swiftly slides into you, easier this time but still tight - your walls clinging to him like a vise.  His thrusts come slow at first, savoring the feeling, wanting so much to make this last for as long as possible.  His hips stutter, his ass tensing under your fingers - you can tell he’s close.   

Without warning, you push him off; he starts to voice his objection but relents when he realizes it was just to allow you to switch positions - you quickly guide him over so he’s laying on his back underneath you.  You settle yourself on top of him, wasting no time sheathing his cock in the heat of your cunt.  Slow swivels, back and forth, stimulating your clit, watching him for his reactions, and sure enough, you can feel him approaching his climax once again. His hands guide your hips, you can feel him tensing, he’s close, so fucking close.  You can see the silent pleas in his eyes, his fingers gripping your hips just a bit harder.   

With a mischievous smirk, you brush his hands away and slip off of him again- he’s stunned and frustrated, this is now twice that he’s been edged and you can sense his exasperation by the annoyed “what the FUCK” that he utters, grasping feebly at you, insistent at pulling you back onto him to resume your mistrations on his cock.  Ignoring his protests, you straddle his leg, your wetness soaking his thigh just above his knee, his muscle there stimulating your clit as you grind against him. 

Before he has a chance to fully grasp what’s happening and before he can protest further you’ve bent over and taken his cock in your mouth. 

“Oh FUCK!” His exclamation is raw, guttural, pulled from the depths of his throat by the thoroughly unexpected action.  The tastes of your essence and his arousal mingling in your mouth only serve to make you even wetter, and his hands come down to bury themselves in your hair, seeking purchase, stability, something to ground himself. His grip is strong, pulling to the point of tears that cloud your eyes but the pain merely elevates your pleasure and you find your hips grinding harder against his thigh, chasing your own release.  

Your head is spinning with a million different sensations - the taste of him, the taste of you, the stimulation your clit is receiving, the feeling of his balls in one of your hands, your other hand stroking his cock as your mouth bobs up and down on his length, tongue tracing the sensitive underside, desperation fueling your movements as a litany of curses spew forth from his lips.  You moan around his cock, the stimulation nearly overwhelming; by now his gasps and whimpers are barely intelligible - murmurs of “don’t stop don’t fucking stop”, and “please please please oh fuuuuuuck”.

It’s only a matter of minutes now - one more swallow around his cock and gentle squeeze of his balls and his body tenses beneath you, one final guttural groan that barely sounds human and he spills in your mouth, his seed dripping down your throat.  You’re ready for him, swallowing every drop as he gives it to you and with one last grind against his leg you’re coming as well, your walls spasming feebly around nothing, your lower lips pulsing against his thigh.  You are well and truly spent, collapsing against him, your head on his abdomen. You tilt your head up to see him to find his hands are now in his hair, dragging down his face, chest heaving. 

He looks down and sees you smiling lazily at him; he chuckles weakly.  “What the actual fuck, baby.  I think you may have just sucked my soul out of my body.  Like there’s actually nothing left.” 

A playful giggle escapes your lips.  “Well we can’t have that, can we? The night is still young…”  You plant soft kisses along his stomach, slowly working your way up his body.  “...and I wouldn’t mind a round two. Or are we on three now?”  Your tongue finds his nipple, gently flicking it with your tongue, feeling his breath catch. His hands find your ass, stroking, groping, squeezing.  Moving to the other nipple lest it feel neglected, you look up at him, waiting for his response.  

“Shit…I don’t even know. ” he breathes.  “I think I lost count.  Not that I would mind, but seriously…Imma need a minute or two.  Or like…twenty.” 

You giggle again as you work your way further still, nipping at his collarbone, sucking on his neck, the sensitive spot near his ear that makes him whimper, spending extra time on the mole on the base of his neck near his right shoulder.  Pulling back just slightly you can see the purple bruise slowly starting to form; you smile at your handiwork and catch his gaze. Sure enough his eyes are hooded, half open, lips swollen, face flushed; he looks fully and thoroughly fucked out.  You finally meet his waiting mouth with your own, his tongue tangling with yours, as he tastes himself on you with a muffled groan.  

As you part just enough to catch your breath, your foreheads pressed against each other, you take a moment to savor the closeness, until he breaks the silence with a reminder of your words from earlier in the night. “‘Does it really matter?’” He scoffs.  “Are you KIDDING me?”  

You giggle, rolling up off of him and snuggling into his side, your leg coming up to drape across his hips. “Too much?”

He pulls you in closer to him, nuzzling the top of your head.  “I don’t know, I kinda feel like I should be worried if this is how you’re going to respond to every stranger you meet in a hotel bar.” 

You can hear the pout in his voice.

You laugh, flipping your hair over your shoulder and crane your neck up to give him a kiss on his adorable cheek. “Not every stranger.” You clarify.  “Just the handsome ones I happen to share a last name with.”

He pulls you in for a kiss, his hand gripping your thigh still hooked around your waist, thumb gently stroking at the skin there,  “Well, thank you for indulging my fantasy.”

“Oh believe me, when I say it was my absolute pleasure,” you reply.  “Though I have to say, I really was surprised to see you here.  I thought you had schedules until early next week. I even double checked your itinerary when we were downstairs.”

“I did… but I thought I’d rearrange my flights with a stopover here to try and catch you at the airport after your meetings, then the storm came through, and… well… here we are.”

“You certainly kept me on my toes,” you smile.  “I saw you come into the bar and it took me a minute to register because I just wasn’t expecting to see you there. But then I figured it was as good a time as any… and when you got me the drink, I knew it was game on.”

“Well, thank you.” He pulls your leg up tighter around him, and you can feel his cock twitch against your skin.  

Propping yourself up on one elbow, you seek out his lips, capturing them with your own, this time soft and gentle, knowing you have all the time in the world.  “You are so very welcome.”  Sliding your body across so that you are once again straddling him, you feel his increasingly hardening member grazing your ass. “I take it we’re ready for round three Mr. Min?” 

He hisses through his teeth as your fingers rake down his chest, your nails leaving the faintest of marks in their wake. “Oh we most certainly are, Mrs. Min.”

It’s been an hour. Your blind date is not coming. So, why are you still sitting here with tears ready to spill? If you're lucky, the tears will fill your water glass so your impatient waiter doesn’t have to bring over that stupid pitcher again. 

Three years ago, after your last relationship ended, you couldn’t bring yourself to leave the apartment. Well, technically, it was your friend’s apartment. You’d moved in after the breakup; there was no way you could stay in your ex-boyfriend’s studio after dumping him. You’re not that heartless. 

Your friend had been pushing for the breakup long before it happened. She'd been worried ever since she noticed bruises on your thighs during an impromptu sleepover. You brushed her off, insisting it was nothing, but no matter how thick your leggings or how loud your protests, the truth bled through. The relationship was toxic. It was only a matter of time before it began to show.

Convincing you to go on a blind date was an uphill battle. Your friend had to practically corner you to get you to even consider it. What finally tipped the scale wasn’t her persistence – it was your therapist’s suggestion. A harmless dinner at a nice restaurant, just to practice being in the presence of a man again, wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. You weren’t expecting anything to come of it. If it got uncomfortable, you could leave at any time.

Being stood up hadn’t even crossed your mind. You were too focused on what you’d say, how you’d act. Your most recent search history still haunts you: “how to hold a decent conversation on a blind date without having a mental breakdown and scaring them away within the first 3 minutes.”

It was a valid search.

Unfortunate results, though.

In the frosty reflection of the window, you can see your waiter quietly discussing with his managers, frequent glances shot in your direction. He breaks away from their huddle and makes his way toward your table. 

You know what he'll say: “I'm sorry, but we're going to have to ask you to either order or give up your table for the next reservation." 

It’s too late to snatch your purse and leave, but you swear, if that waiter so much as opens his mouth, you’ll cry, and you won’t stop. 

He’s almost to your table when something completely unexpected happens.

“So sorry I’m late. Traffic was crazy! You would not believe the slowpoke I got stuck behind.”

All you can do is stare, wide-eyed, as a complete stranger slides into the seat across from you with an easy smile.

The waiter, just a few steps away now, comes to a stunned halt, completely slack-jawed. 

Your expression obviously reflects the panic that’s developing inside your chest, because in the next moment this (handsome) stranger is leaning in closer and whispering behind his hand, "Just play along. My name’s Seungmin and whoever stood you up is a douche." 

One thing is clear. This is not the blind date you were supposed to meet tonight. 

This guy is a total stranger. 

You’re not entirely sure what to say. It’s jarring to see someone sitting in the chair you’ve been staring at for the past hour. He doesn’t carry himself like someone who’s thought this through, which means he must be the type to act on impulse if he’s crashing blind dates without so much as a second thought.

Then again, if you really think about it, he’s not interrupting anything really. 

"Did you order our regular?" he asks casually. 

You shift in your seat when he manspreads under the table, his thighs unmistakably defined beneath sleek black slacks and a crisp, tucked-in button-up.

"Umm—"

Giggles like popping bubbles fill the awkward silence before he waves a careless hand in the air. "That's okay! I'll order and tell them to work double time for an extra tip. I really am sorry for making you wait on me like that. How about I buy us your favorite dessert to share? Will you forgive me then?" 

Before you can respond, Seungmin snaps his fingers, and the waiter rushes to the table. The boy doesn't seem all that younger than Seungmin or yourself. Actually, he looks like he could be about your age. You wonder why he's running around like a dog when his obvious good looks could do most certainly something for him. 

He straightens his apron and drops into a ninety degree bow. "Mr. Kim, I had no idea you were going to be joining us tonight.” 

Seungmin reclines in his chair with crossed arms and a raised brow. "Even so, you should be sensitive to every guest. You weren't about to ask this young lady to leave, now were you?" 

The waiter answers with a swift, “No, Sir! I was just going to offer her tonight's special…" 

Seungmin doesn't blink. 

“…on the house?” the waiter adds hopefully. 

With a smirk and a wave of his hand, Seungmin finally allows the boy to relax. "Ah, I see. Well, just bring us two of the usuals and some red wine – wait!" Seungmin looks at you. "Would you like white instead?"  

Your answer is a lowered head and hidden eyes. 

Seungmin studies your timid posture for a moment and then gives a knowing smile. "Champaign then," he tells the waiter. "That should be a good place to start." 

The waiter bows and quickly leaves to tell the kitchen. 

"Hey,” Seungmin calls to the boy, who whips around in attention, "you're doing well, Jeongin. Don't listen to everything those older guys tell you. You've got yourself an extra tip tonight." He winks. 

The boy called Jeongin smiles and says a quick "thank you" before escaping through the kitchen door, a wide grin on his face showing off his pretty front teeth. 

“Sorry about that. I hope you like parmesan chicken. I know it's not fancy, but it's honestly one of the best dishes here. Oh wait, do you have any allergies? I can tell them to make something else." 

“It’s fine,” you have to answer him quickly because he's already lifting his hand to call some other waitress over, “but...do you own this restaurant or something?"

"Well, sorta. My best friend Felix and I co-own it, but this is really his dream. To own his own restaurant, I mean. It was going to be too expensive without a partner to help him get started, and he's got a real talent in the kitchen, so you know, it's not fair if – I'm sorry, I'm rambling, aren't I?" 

Actually, you find his talkative personality endearing, especially when his eyes start unconsciously bouncing around the room, like he's reading the walls and, every so often, your eyes. It's definitely a different feeling than the one you're used to. People shine when they talk about things important to them, but you haven't seen that shine in so long. Seungmin is...pretty. 

"I don't mind." 

Seungmin runs a hand through his hair and sits back again, his shoulders sinking as he relaxes. Once Jeongin brings the bottle of champagne and pours you each a glass, Seungmin allows the stem of the glass to pass between his fingers, lifting the rim to his lips and taking a sip. 

"So," he swallows, "sorry about the whole random stranger stealing the spotlight thing. I saw you sitting alone and figured you were waiting for someone. But when no one showed up, I figured either you enjoy sitting alone in restaurants staring out frosty windows - which I don't condemn at all by the way-" he stops and winks again which makes you crack a bashful and nervous smile, "-or there's a really stupid someone out there who gave up their chance to have dinner with a beautiful girl." 

You shrug, nodding after a moment of processing all of Seungmin's charms. "The second one." 

He shakes his head and frowns. "Whoever stood you up is the dumbest person alive." 

You find some kind of comfort in his words, even if you don't completely believe them. 

"Well...thank you." 

You haven't ruled out the possibility that this Seungmin guy is one of those predators who prey on vulnerable girls who have been stood up on dates, just waiting to swoop in and take the prize. The thought gives you pause. Are there signs to look for? You start to remember the time your friend came back from the club, rambling about creepy guys who hit on her. Hearing about it and actually being in the moment are two different things. 

You're in the middle of deciding whether or not you'll stay to eat when--

"I just realized something!" Seungmin suddenly remarks as if he left cookies in the oven. "I don't know your name!" 

"Oh..." you sigh, more relieved than you'd ever admit. "It’s ___." 

“___?” Seungmin repeats sourly. "What kind of a name is that?” 

You blink, unsure of how to answer. "The name my parents gave me." 

"We're gonna have to think of a better name for you. A cuter name. You're too cute for a name like ___.” 

You mean to say something, honest you do, but nothing comes out but a stutter and some random mumbled syllables. Should you be flattered or offended? 

Seungmin obviously notices, because he smirks at your bouncing gaze. "Just give me a few minutes, I'll think of something perfect." 

Three waiters come out carrying silver trays with large dome lids and a roll out table with various choices of soup, bread, salad, kimchi, fruit, just about anything you could wish for. Two plates of parmesan chicken are placed on the table in front of you, the covers on each dish lifted in such a manner you would think the waiters were presenting gold. 

"Wow..." you breathe in total extravagance. 

This meal is like one meant for a king or a CEO. The waiters leave the rolling table behind while the two of you eat, so you can have your pick of side dishes and whatnot. 

You're hesitant to eat, but when Seungmin lifts his head from taking his first bite and asks "what's wrong", you instantly begin stuffing parmesan chicken past your lips with a small hum of deliciousness. 

"So tell me, if I can ask..." he says after a moment of enjoying the meal, "who stood you up?" 

You almost choke but manage to hold yourself together. "A blind date. Nothing important." 

"Really? Oh." 

"Oh?" 

Seungmin plays with his food, not something you were expecting. The action makes him seem childish. "Just not what I was expecting." 

"What do you mean?" 

He shrugs and takes a large bite of food. When he gets done chewing, he sees you're still waiting anxiously for an answer. 

"Just...you looked properly upset, so I figured it was someone who means a lot to you, like a boyfriend or girlfriend." 

"I don't have a boyfriend." 

The man across from you nods and goes back to take another monster-truck-size bite of food. Odd, you were expecting a larger reaction, but okay. 

This time you decide to ask a question, "Were you also waiting for someone or...?" because the last thing you want to do is steal someone as nice as Seungmin away from their predetermined plans just because you got stood up by (as Seungmin so graciously dubbed them) a douche. 

He perks up. "My girlfriend called me right before I saw you and told me she's working late tonight. I already got all dressed up, and I didn't want it to be for nothing. And then I saw you sitting all alone with what looked like tears in your eyes, and I just...felt like you needed someone to talk to." 

The word 'girlfriend' hits you like a truck and makes you want to cry unbeknownst the reason, but you still feel the necessity to be polite. The last half of his story was obviously meant to flatter you, even if the first half makes you ungodly uncomfortable, knowing this man is in a relationship with another woman. 

"You do look very nice." 

Seungmin meets your eyes. "So do you.” 

The two of you share a smile. Not the first. Not the last hopefully. 

The stars in his eyes and his words provide you with hope that you won't be parting ways for forever after this dinner. For some reason, you're finding it easier to be in this man's presence the more he speaks, which is not normally the case with strangers. 

"I know I didn't officially ask you, but would you like to have dinner with me, ___?" 

Shyly, you lift your champagne glass to meet his. "I thought you didn't like my name." 

"I never said I didn't like it. I said it wasn't cute enough for you," Seungmin corrects, clinking your glasses. "But the more I say it, the cuter it gets." 

::

About thirty minutes after dinner, you were halfway through devouring a truly sinful dessert called Triple Chocolate Killer Cake. And wow, was it sinful. You loved every bite.

Across the table, Seungmin watched you with a soft smile, his cheek resting against his palm as you enjoyed his favorite dessert from his best friend's restaurant.

"Happy?" 

Placing your fork delicately on your plate, careful not to make a sound, you swallow politely and nod. "Thank you." 

"You got some. Right there." Seungmin gestures to the right corner of his mouth. 

It’s always tricky in moments like this. Are they talking about their right or your right? In the movies, the girl always wipes the wrong corner, and then the guy has no choice but to reach over and swipe her lip with his thumb, creating that perfectly awkward tension. You know the trope well. Courtesy of an adolescence spent cultivating wildly unrealistic expectations of boyfriends. So, to play it safe, you just wipe your entire mouth, corner to corner, just in case.

Seungmin smirks as if he can sense the inner workings of your reason. "You got it, good job." 

Placing the napkin back on your lap, you muster up the courage to initiate conversation further, "So if the restaurant isn't your dream, what is?" 

"I'm the CEO of Seung Models." 

"Is that your dream?" 

Seungmin blinks at you, a tilted head and frowning lips. "You know, everytime I tell someone I own a modeling agency, they just assume that it's my dream. I mean, who wouldn't want to work with models all day, right?" 

"I would imagine lots of people," you say plainly. 

"Yeah, I guess so," Seungmin gazes at you, the corners of his smile slowly turning up again. You tell yourself it's not because of you, but the way he's watching you right now makes your lungs clench inside your chest. "Well, we're always looking for new talent, so if you know anyone who'd be interested let me know." 

"I'll keep a lookout." 

"Or, you know, if you were interested in--" He jumps when his phone vibrates in his pocket. "Good grief, who is it now?" Pulling out his phone, you notice his annoyed expression shift when he sees the caller ID. 

"Hey, beautiful, what's up?" 

The other voice is muffled but you can clearly make out one thing. It's definitely female. 

"No, I just...I went to the...yes, I'm being careful...well, I just ate without you because you said work...ah, okay...I'll be back soon then...yeah...love you too. Bye.” 

The call ends. 

You could ask who it was, but that doesn't seem necessary as it's kind of obvious. Anyway, you'd rather not remind Seungmin he's having dinner with an awkward stranger instead of his lovely girlfriend like he originally planned. 

The man, who doesn't seem so much like a stranger anymore, sighs and leans back in his chair before snapping his fingers. 

Jeongin comes quickly. "May I help you, Sir?" 

"Put the bill on my tab and let this young lady order whatever else she wishes. It's on me. I'm headed home for the night." Then he looks back at you with a charming smile. "I'm sorry for leaving so suddenly like this. But you know, when the girlfriend calls..." he shrugs to finish the statement. 

You shake your head. "Please don't apologize! You've done so much for me already. I should be thanking you." 

"Such manners." He smiles gently. "I wish we had met sooner. I like talking with you." 

Then Seungmin winks and pulls out a small white, business card from his suit pocket. "Here's my number. Call me if you get stood up again, okay?" 

You’re fully aware he has a girlfriend, and no, you shouldn’t be feeling anything for him. That would be wrong on every possible level. But still, every time he smiles or laughs or sends a casual wink your way, something inside you tightens. Not in fear, but in a way that’s warm and unfamiliar. Your cheeks flush, your chest grows tight. He’s kind. Gentle. So full of light it almost hurts to look at him. Maybe it’s all just an act, a well-rehearsed charm, but a small, foolish part of you wishes it’s not. 

"Thank you." You take his card, immediately standing and bowing in respect. 

Seungmin chuckles at your actions and grips your shoulders to pick you back up. "Please, that's not nec--" 

Your entire body instinctively flinches, unnecessary panic flooding your eyes and a loud heartbeat indicating your steadily rising pulse. Before you can register what’s happened, you jump back from him, putting sudden space between you. Your arms fly around your waist, encircling you in a defensive, barricaded position.

Seungmin just stares at you, with his hands hovering where you were once standing. 

"___? Are you okay?" 

You try to laugh it off, but your voice comes out shaky and scared, "Sorry, I'm fine. Thank you for dinner. I should be leaving too." 

"___?" he tries to ask again, but you're already walking out with a lowered chin, trembling fingers clutching your purse and Seungmin's business card. 

You don't look back even though you want to. Because you know what you'll see – a very confused and very handsome stranger waiting for the universe to explain who you are and why you did what you just did. 

::

Seungmin tiptoes into the house and carefully places his keys and jacket by the door. Treading quietly through the living room, past the stairs, and into the back bedroom, not daring to make a sound lest he wake the possible sleeping beauty in his sheets. 

She said it's been a rough week. She's been saying that a lot lately. 

Sure enough. When he turns the brass knob and peaks inside, there she is. Fast asleep in his bed, one of her legs exposed above the sheets while the rest of her stays snuggled out of sight. She's funny like that, insisting the room be cool so she can suffocate herself inside the comforter. Seungmin isn't a big fan of the AC blowing on him in the middle of the night, but it's a small preference to ignore for the sake of her comfort. 

Seungmin fondly smiles and unbuttons his shirt, throwing it to the side along with his shoes and slacks. He climbs into the bed and scoots closer to her, his smile fading when he realizes she's wearing practically nothing. He can't tell if her newly developed habit of sleeping naked is intentional or oblivious. Either way, it's driving him insane. 

"Hey, baby," he whispers with a kiss to her temple. 

Her eyes slowly open, barely turning to the sound of his voice. "You're back early," she hums. 

"So are you. Welcome home." 

"I don't live here," she mutters sleepily, eyes already closing again. "You make it sound like I moved in or something.” 

"Then why don't you already?" Seungmin whines, lightly running his palm over the bare curve of her hip. 

She doesn't answer right away. “Because I have my own place and my own bed." 

“Then why don't you ever sleep in it?” Seungmin asks with a seductive nibble on her neck. Not that he minds his girlfriend's odd attachment to his bedroom, but he low-key meant that to be a serious inquiry. 

"Maybe I’m frustrated." 

"Really?" Seungmin excitedly presses his warm hand against the small of her back to pull her hips closer to him, voice low and yearning, "I am too." 

"No," she scoffs, pushing him away. "Not that kind of frustrated. I mean tired frustrated." 

Seungmin frowns against her skin and nuzzles a few more kisses against the crook of her neck, dying to entice any kind of need within her. "Baby, please? Come on, I want you." 

"Not tonight," she whines and innocently curls into his chest, immediately building that all too familiar wall between them. 

Seungmin can feel the pressure building in his gut. Unfortunately, this isn't the first time he's gotten excited and then shamelessly shut down. It's a common occurrence that's been repeating for a while now. 

At first, he tried to be patient. Told himself it was just stress, long hours, hormones. But the weeks went on, their workloads fluctuated, yet the excuses stayed the same. And Seungmin was left with pent-up tension and a girlfriend who feels more like a roommate. 

"How was work?" she asks tiredly. 

"Hard. We're running out of time to find the last model for the New Year line. It's not like we haven't gotten plenty of options but," he sighs, rolling to his back to watch the ceiling, bringing her with him. "None of those girls have the right vibe, and I just can't bring myself to settle. I mean, this could be a huge opportunity for the company. If this season takes off, we could be on the same level as the top of the top in the industry and it's all riding on me to…babe?" 

The girl looks up at Seungmin with one half-opened eye, a disinterested hum on her lips. 

"Hmm…” 

"Are you listening?" 

"Yeah," she says through a yawn. "Work is hard, I get it. Just relax and pick someone." 

"You know what might make me feel more relaxed?" 

"What?" 

"An orgasm.” 

"I told you, I'm tired--" 

"You don't have to do anything," Seungmin insists, voice low and pleading. “I'll do all the work, baby, please?” 

"How many times do I have to say no?"

Of course, she has every right to say no. She's not obligated to do anything just because Seungmin asked, and he would never want to take that choice away from her.  

But...he can't lie and pretend it doesn't hurt. It’s not just about sex. It's the way she used to reach for him in the middle of the night, the way her body told him he was wanted, needed. Now it feels like she's left that part of them behind, and he's the only one still trying to carry it. The closeness, the intimacy, the feeling of being completely connected. And he's trying so hard to be patient, but he wonders when 'no' stopped meaning 'not tonight' and started meaning 'not ever.’ 

He has to say something about this. He should say something, right? This is about the health and intimacy of their relationship after all. 

"Actually...I've been wanting to talk to you about something." 

"What now?" she groans. 

"Our sex life. Or rather the lack of it." 

The girl just sighs and goes back to cuddling. "You know I've been overworking myself lately. Can't we talk about this tomorrow?" 

"But, you said that last time, and now it's been close to four weeks since we last talked." Seungmin pulls away and props himself up on his arm, forcing his girlfriend to roll away. "I'd like to talk about it now." 

She throws an arm over her eyes. "Fine. Talk. I'm listening." 

"It's just that, it's been over a month since we've been intimate, and I don't want to pressure you or anything, but it's starting to mess with me. I'm imagining things, flirting with random inanimate objects, and all I want to do at the end of the day is make you feel good and to release some of my own tension, but it just keeps building and building, and that's why I'm like, frustrated because--" 

"Seungmin," she interrupts him with a hand on his thigh, "you know you don't need me to feel good. You can do that by yourself." 

"I know I can because I have been. Almost every day!" Seungmin admits, shifting in his spot to lean further towards his girlfriend's unconcerned position. "But I feel kind of wrong, because I'm not satisfying you like I should be doing as your boyfriend. I don't want just the thought of you, I want you. I want what we had before we stopped having sex." 

The girl sighs and wraps her arms around Seungmin's strong frame, slowly rubbing the bare skin of his side with soft fingertips. "I know you're worried about our lack of intimacy, but really I'm okay with it. You don't need to worry about satisfying me. I like things the way they are." She scoots closer. "But, since you've made it very clear that you're frustrated, I'll make the extra effort for you. Just not tonight, okay. I'm tired." 

Seungmin dramatically sighs before pecking her lips, making note that he didn't feel her return the kiss. The sting hits him deep in his stomach. 

"Okay, but please don't act like having sex with me is something you have to put 'extra effort' into. I know you like it." Suddenly, a tinge of fear creeps into Seungmin's chest and makes itself a little home between his ribs, "...don't you?" 

His girlfriend holds her breath before exhaling with a casual shake of her head. "Does everyone have to like sex as much as you do? So what if I don't want to be intimate every day." 

"I don't mean to say we have to be intimate every day," Seungmin explains, god forbid they end this conversation with another misunderstanding, "but a little more physical affection would be nice sometimes. You sleep in my bed more than anywhere else, but I still miss you." 

"Seungmin, I'm right here. You don't need to miss me." 

The irritated tone she uses is like an aching fire on Seungmin's skin. He grabs her hip, rolling her onto her back and hovering over her with shallow desperate breaths. 

"That's the thing, I still do. Sometimes, I feel like we're not even in a relationship anymore. In the morning, you leave before me and come back before me, falling asleep again before I even get to kiss you hello." Seungmin leans down and attaches his lips to the curve of her ear, the simple action of his hips pressing down on hers sending tremors through his entire body. "Baby, I swear I don't mean to push you, but I just want to feel like my girlfriend is still mine." 

Her breath comes out in a tired, irritable huff. He hears it, swallows hard, and slowly pulls back, the faint ghost of his affection retreating with him.

Without a word, he rolls away to his side, the silence between them heavier than before.

A few seconds later, her fingers graze his back, absent and noncommittal. "We’re fine," she mutters softly. "Let’s just sleep, okay?"

Seungmin closes his eyes, trying to will himself not to speak after being utterly embarrassed like he just was. But his will breaks, and his lips form the words. 

"Goodnight....love you." 

He waits for a moment but his only response is the faint sound of his girlfriend's breathing. 

::

You turn the clean, white card over and over in your hands.

Of course, he owns a modeling agency. Why wouldn't he own a modeling agency? 

Seungmin definitely has the physique to be a model. Like, damn. That address is actually pretty close to the smoothie shop you work for, and with this card, you could easily find him (not that you're going to). 

Quickly, you save Seungmin's number and address in your phone contacts. Then you rip up the business card and toss it in the trash bin. 

Immediately, those insecurities you thought you had started to overcome begin rushing back. But just like your therapist taught you, each time you start to have a negative thought, you tell it to shut up. 

He doesn't want you to call him anyway. He has a girlfriend, but even if he didn't, he'd never want to be with someone like you. Shut up. 

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. 

:: 

Work is slow today. Probably because of the rain. People never want to get out when it's so gloomy and gross. The downtime would be nice on any other day, but today, the lack of busy tasks has left your mind with the opportunity to wander in every direction. 

Unfortunately, the only direction it wants to go is to the phone in your back pocket, with Seungmin's number in it. 

He keeps popping up, and you don't know why. Not that you hate thinking about him. But the worst part is that every time Seungmin pops into your head, so does his girlfriend. 

It suddenly hits you while cleaning the blender – his girlfriend is probably a model. A beautiful one. Someone who doesn't have scars, or bruises, or metaphorical cuts and marks. Someone who doesn't have problems opening up their heart or trusting to the point of self-depreciation. Someone who is willing to wear a bikini during the Summer or who can sleep in the same bed with another body beside them without waking up to a panic attack. 

Seungmin doesn't deserve someone like you. Or rather, you don't deserve someone like Seungmin. A beat-up piece of trash who questions why she woke up that morning. A girl who hasn't been able to say "I love you" for over three years. A girl who hides herself like a child every chance she gets. 

And yet, you can't stop thinking about him. It's gotten to the point that you've dangerously started creating your own personal assumptions about his life and personality. 

You know, like psychopaths do. 

You like to imagine he owns a dog or two. Huskies. Maybe German Shepherds. He buys them that fancy dog food that has to be refrigerated and toys, lots of toys. His girlfriend is allergic to dogs, so she's never around, and he likes to send you random pictures of them digging up his girlfriend's garden in the backyard because he thinks it's funny. 

You like to imagine there are times when he's not so confident. Especially when it comes to romantic stuff. Like a first kiss. He probably blushes and stutters and asks before he does anything, because he's a gentleman. 

It isn't long until the Seungmin you met over an impromptu blind date is morphed into your ideal, flawless partner, into someone he's probably not, but you like the character you created out of him too much to stop daydreaming. 

Seungmin pops into your head so much today that you even imagine him walking through the front doors of your humble, corner smoothie shop. You imagine he's wearing a blue suit and brown shoes and his hair is dripping wet from the rain outside, combed out of his face to expose his forehead. He looks so handsome. You imagine he shakes his jacket out and hangs it on the coat rack to dry before scanning for a place to sit, another hand running through his hair for the third time since he entered, but you're not mad one bit. 

"Hey," he greets you, the image of him walking toward the front counter with a friendly smile has you outwardly sighing, "I didn't know you worked here?" 

"Huh?" The miniscule sound escapes you when he continues to stare with expecting eyes. 

He laughs out loud, "I just came in to escape the rain, but didn't expect to find you handling a blender." 

In that exact moment, said blender slips from your hands, and you fumble with it across the counter like an idiot, fighting to regain composure. 

"O-Oh well, yeah I mean, I just," you ramble until you're finally able to drop the blender back into its rightful place against the wall, "it's just a part time job. What are you doing here, Seungmin?" 

He points outside with flat lips. "Rain." 

"Right." Mental facepalm number one. 

He smiles at you genuinely. "You remember my name. I'm flattered." 

A nervous chuckle is not the smoothest response you could have used, but it's all you manage. "Of course. How could I forget?" 

"I guess it's safe to assume you made it home okay then," Seungmin comments, fixing the slightly ajar collar of his soaked, navy button up. "You never called me." 

He's upset at you. Shut up. 

It takes you a few moments to understand what he means, but then you remember his business card and a flush returns to your cheeks, one he's probably way too familiar with at this point. "Oh, yes. I'm sorry for running away like I did. I don't really have an excuse..." 

Seungmin just shakes his head, excusing your previous behavior with a friendly, "No, it's okay! Some people don't like to be touched, and I get that. I should have asked before I just randomly grabbed you. I apologize." 

"It wasn't your fault, but thank you. I hope we can just put that behind us." 

"I'd like that," he smirks dangerously. 

Not that he was being suggestive in the slightest! Seungmin is a perfect gentleman in the way he keeps polite eye contact and smiles with every word you speak. But his smirk is dangerous because you find yourself magnetically pulled into the slight curve of his lips to the point where you're physically leaning against the side of the counter. 

His smile is so contagious. The way his eyes basically disappear, and the corners of his lips are kissed with the smallest dimples. No doubt you're falling for his smile more and more every time you see it. Naturally, you subconsciously attempt to suppress those nasty feelings as much as you can. But for some reason, for the first time in three years, you're having a really difficult time. 

"So!" Seungmin says with a tap on the counter, "You do work here or you just think the green apron has potential to be the next fashion icon?"

You straighten your apron, running your hands over the monogram label. "What? You don't like the uniform?"

He shrugs. "You look better in black."

You cross your arms, trying to portray an air of confidence and playfulness. "I can pull off several colors. Green being one of them." 

Seungmin harshly hisses as if he doesn't want to offend you, but his next comment comes anyway. "I think, and I'm just a lowly model producer, but you would look much better in, I'm gonna suggest blue." 

After a long, careful examination of your apron, you shrug. "Okay, I'll give blue a chance. But if someone else walks in and tells me to wear purple, you're out of luck." 

Seungmin tries to keep a serious face, but ends up breaking down in giggles. "Deal. Thanks for at least acknowledging me."

"My pleasure."

Seungmin licks his lips, watching you for a second or two, eyes softly blinking as if he's considering something intensely. You're about to comment because you're beginning to feel rather small under his gaze, but he speaks up first, finally. 

"Would you like to have a smoothie with me? I'm going to be here until the rain dies down a little, and if I remember correctly, I really enjoy your company."

"Well," you consider, looking over your shoulder to where your only co-worker is sitting in the corner on their phone, zero concern for the world around them. "I would, but I'm on the clock and already had my break."

He waves your excuse aside. "Eh, your boss won't mind. Come on, just one small smoothie with me. I'll take responsibility for any troubles. Promise." 

Glancing at the clock, your heart sinks because you do wanna sit with him, but if you ditch your shift, even just an hour early, you'll feel like crap and won't be able to enjoy Seungmin's company. The curse of obligation. 

"My shift ends in about an hour…" 

You're not worth waiting for. Shut up. 

You figure he won't; that's why you asked. Seungmin probably has someone to meet. Someone like his girlfriend. He'll say he doesn't have that kind of time, probably scoff at you for asking something so outrageous when you know he's a busy man, and then walk out and never talk to you again. It's for the best. Obviously Seungmin is not good for your health. 

He checks his watch and then nods. "I'll wait for you."

The shock on your face must be amusing, because as soon as Seungmin lowers his wrist and sees your face, he's bursting into a giggly smile. 

"You will?" 

He nods again, resting his hands inside his slack pockets. "I said I will." 

"Then...I guess one smoothie can't hurt."

Seungmin hasn't stopped smiling. He winks at you, a loud skip of your heart responding inside your chest. 

"Awesome."

::

Conversations with Seungmin are a roller coaster. One second, he's talking about the superiority of sweet potato fries to french fries, and the next he's pouting because his girlfriend won't let him buy a puppy. He doesn't have a dog currently and, no, he and his girlfriend did not break up. Judging from the way he talks about her, he's a loyal boyfriend. A kind, considerate, happy, loyal boyfriend. 

He says she's perfect in almost every way. He likes her hair, her smile, her laugh. He really appreciates and treasures every part of her. This is the stuff your elementary friends said having a boyfriend was all about. The kind of stuff in movies where the guy always speaks kindly of his girlfriend no matter who he's with. It's all very childish in a way, but you do admit. You're jealous. Jealous of the way Seungmin talks about his girlfriend.

Not that you were expecting him to be any less passionate about his relationship than he is about producing. He also loves his job very much. Turns out Seungmin is in charge of managing behind the scenes of the photoshoots and the final produced cut of the photos. 

So, basically, he's a genius. 

Each time he talks, he impresses you. So much, you have to take a sip of your smoothie to keep from staring slack-jawed at him. 

Seungmin starts giggling, his cute laugh bringing you back to reality.

"What?" you ask, stunned at the way he suddenly sounds like a little kid.

He lifts his finger and brushes the corner of your mouth, pulling away with a small dot of pink smoothie on his fingernail. He smiles and tastes it. His lips are pink, and they look very soft for it being so cold outside. 

"Thanks."

He nods. "No problem. I'm assuming you like your smoothie then?"

You copy his cute nod. "I always get this one." 

He sits back and crosses his arms with a furrowed brow. "Always? Why that one?" 

"I know I like it." 

"Don't you wanna try something different now and then?" 

"I haven't wanted to try something different in a long time," you answer, using your straw to play with the leftover smoothie at the bottom of your cup. “It’s safer to get what I know I like.” 

Seungmin blinks at you. Behind his eyes, he's processing, things are stacking in his mind and making more and more sense the more he talks to you. He can already tell you're no ordinary smoothie employee. There's something special about you, special and perhaps painful. He wants to know you more. 

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Did you lose my card?"

Your eyes widen to the size of baseballs. Inside your chest, your heart screams at you not to answer. This is where the fairy tale ends and reality slaps you in the face.  

"Umm, to be honest, I-I threw it away," you reply with a guilty frown. 

Seungmin clenches his heart in pain, "Oh! You sure know how to hurt a guy's feelings.” 

He's disappointed in you for what you did. He must hate you for that. Shut up. 

It's things like this that really bug you. He's obviously joking, but you feel like crying. No matter how many times you tell yourself he's fine, your mind keeps plunging itself into darkness, beating itself up for being so useless and stupid. 

"I threw it away after I saved your number in my phone," you quietly tell him in hopes that he'll accept your excuse. "I have your number in my phone, I swear." 

You try to fake a playful smile, but it's impossible. Your head hangs low, much lower than it was before. He still manages to notice your eyes and the dim wetness in them somehow. 

Seungmin stops and turns to rest his chin in his palms, titling his head to see you and kindly smiling. "Ah, so is that why you haven't called me?"

"What?"

"The reason you haven't called me is because you have my number in your phone?"

The smirk on his face finds you practically speechless. "Well...no?" 

His lips smack and he flashes a warm smile at you. "Then why didn't you call me? Not that I was waiting for your call or anything, but I was kinda waiting for your call." 

What did he just say? You understand that some people are overly friendly or just have a flirty personality, but why does he keep saying cute things like this when he has a girlfriend? 

"You have a girlfriend," you finally say, "I didn't call you because you have a girlfriend."

"Is that what you thought? Oh, no! I didn't – I mean, that's not what I was implying at all. Yes, I have a girlfriend, but I was hoping you would call me because I want to offer you a job."

"A job?" you ask timidly. 

"Yes, a job." Seungmin explains, "I think you have some raw talent hidden under that shy exterior, and I wanted to offer you a chance to audition for my company. But I also wanted to make sure your personality is as sweet as your appearance. I was hoping you would call me and I could see you again, so I could make sure I wanted you for the new New Year line. That's all, I swear."

"Oh." 

It all starts to make sense. His friendliness wasn't an act, but you also misunderstood him from the very beginning. He never intended to have a relationship with you, well, not a casual one at least. 

"I've never modeled before." 

"That's okay!" Seungmin says. "I don’t like to use professional models. They're too pompous and demanding. Plus, they don't look as natural as say someone like you. I like your style, and from the time I've spent with you, I really like the energy and vibe you bring too. I want to hire you."

"Hire? Me?"

Seungmin nods.

Flashbacks of times you've watched yourself in the mirror come to mind. Clearly, Seungmin is only asking you this because he's yet to see you in something truly form fitting. While a New Year line doesn't sound nearly as demanding or scary as say a swimsuit line, you can't deny the amount of sheer terror just thinking about being in front of a camera does to you. 

"I can't."

"Why not?" 

I'm bruised. I'm broken. I'm scarred.  

"I have a job here."

Seungmin scoffs, "Don't use that excuse on me. Someone just offered you a well-paying job to stand in place, and you turn it down to blend smoothies? Come on, all I'm asking is for you to audition. Whatdya say?" 

"Thank you, but…" you nervously pick at your sweater paws wrapped around your cold, styrofoam cup, "I'm happy where I am." 

The gentleman sitting across from you narrows his eyes and sighs. "Are you? I mean, I know we don't know each other insanely well, but you can talk to me. If you want to."

"I know. Thanks." Your default response when someone offers to get closer to you.

Seungmin slowly nods and ganders around the store. "I guess you do have a little home here, huh? I get why you don't want to leave. Still..." he finishes his smoothie and stands up, "tell me if you change your mind?"

"Okay, sure," you say without looking up.

He stands there, watching you for a minute or so before you hear his soft voice, "Hey."

You slowly find his gaze looking down at you, and instantly, you're locked onto his eyes.

"Call me tomorrow? We can have lunch together on my break."

Immediately, you shake your head. "I'm not going to model for you, Seungmin." 

"I know, but who said we can't be friends? I'm just asking you for lunch not to marry me."

"Friends?" The word slips past your lips before you can stop it. 

He squats down next to you and smiles softly, little sparkles in his eyes you didn't know were there until you became this physically close to him. "I think you're really cool, ___. I'd like to be your friend, if you can manage that."

Your eyelids flutter like it's life or death. Did it suddenly get really hot in here or is that just you getting sick over nothing again? His eyes are so beautiful, it feels like they see into your deepest thoughts and insecurities when he looks at you like that. It's scary and nice and painful all at the same time. 

You take a deep breath, unsure of what you're about to say, but your lips part and you decide whatever words come next must be your honest feelings. 

"Okay. Lunch. Just promise me there won't be a wedding photographer."

Seungmin laughs and crosses his heart. "I promise." He stands and pulls out some money, dropping it on the table to pay for the smoothies. "See you tomorrow, ___."

You wave as he walks out the door, smiling back at you before stepping into the harsh world with exemplary confidence and positivity, the same kind you hope will find you again someday. 

::

"Baby? Is that you?" Seungmin hears the lovely sound of his girlfriend's voice come from the kitchen when he enters the house.

"Yeah, it's me." He sniffs. "Are you cooking?"

Her footsteps come around the corner, and she smiles when he sees her, sighing in complete and domestic satisfaction. 

"It's in the oven right now. I felt bad about our little fight the other night and wanted to make it up to you. Sorry, I used all your pasta though."

Seungmin sighs as he takes in the beautiful sight of his girlfriend. She's dressed in his t-shirt and boxers with a small white apron wrapped around her waist. She looks absolutely adorable. Seungmin can feel his heart swell at the sight of her.

"Baby, you shouldn't have."

She reaches out to him. Seungmin drops his coat and immediately goes to her, scooping her up in his arms and kissing her thin lips. He melts into her embrace.

"Hmm," she hums against his lips before pulling away, "well, I still felt bad. So, I put some lasagna in the oven and bought a bottle of your favorite merlot. How do you feel about having an Italian night?"

Seungmin smiles and kisses her nose cutely. "Sounds perfect." He begins to sway her in his arms as calmness washes over him. "You look adorable by the way. I love it when you wear my clothes."

"I know," she sings, "that's why I'm wearing them."

Seungmin raises his eyebrows. "Is that the only reason?" He dips his lips to her neck and begins to tickle her skin with kisses. "Sure there isn't another reason my girlfriend is wearing my boxers?" 

She only giggles and tries to keep her boyfriend’s fingers from tickling her ribs. "Uh no, there's not. Seungmin!" she exclaims when he swoops her into the air, her legs instantly wrapping around his waist. "I swear, if you don't put me down right now—"

"You'll what?" Seungmin interrupts. "What will you do?"

His girlfriend huffs a few empty threats which make him chuckle. 

"I think we've established that I'm the dominant one in this relationship," he leads them to the couch before dropping the smaller girl on the cushions and climbing over her, "or maybe you need to be reminded."

His words ghost against her ear mere moments before his lips follow, brushing along her lobe, then drifting down the length of her neck to the dip of her collarbone. Each kiss escapes him with a quiet sigh, his hands slipping beneath the oversized shirt she’d stolen from his closet the night before. In one swift motion, he tears off her apron and tosses it aside, the careless act sending a pulse of heat straight through him. Even something that simple makes his desire spike. 

Fuck, he needs this. The feeling of her soft body pinned beneath his. The sound of her breath hitching, her moans curling into the air as he rocks into her, her nails dragging down his back and sending shivers through his spine. The way her fingers tangle in his hair when he bites down on her shoulder. The heat of her skin pressed to his, their bodies moving together like they were made for this. The way she arches and cries out when he hooks her leg over his shoulder. 

Just thinking about it makes Seungmin groan under his breath.

"Baby, the lasagna will be done in like fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen minutes is plenty of time." He crashes their lips back together, his mouth hungry and urgent as he licks inside, coaxing her tongue to meet his. He needs to taste her - but more than that, he needs to keep her from speaking, afraid that if she does, she’ll pull away again.

To Seungmin's pleasant surprise, she doesn’t stop him. Maybe it’s because she made this whole dinner as a quiet apology for turning him down last time, but he clings to the hope that it’s because, right now, she actually wants him too.

“Wait,” she finally breathes against his lips when she finds a moment to speak.

Reluctantly, Seungmin pulls back, his eyes searching hers.

She offers him a soft, almost apologetic smile and gently runs her fingers through his hair. “How about we just enjoy our dinner tonight, okay? We’ve got plenty of time to do all this another day.”

Seungmin freezes. He thought…for a split second, he could’ve sworn she was into it. Her head had tilted to give him more access, her body warmer and more inviting than it had been in weeks. His hands were already halfway to undoing his pants, convinced they were finally on the same page again. So what happened?

“Yeah,” he says after a pause, swallowing the lump of disappointment in his throat. “Okay.”

His girlfriend sighs as they both sit up again. She pats his thigh and heads back to the kitchen, but she doesn’t make it two steps before—

“Do you find me attractive?”

She pauses, glancing over her shoulder. “What? Of course, I do.”

“No, I mean…do you think I’m sexy?”

She turns fully now, brows furrowed. “What the heck are you getting at?”

Suddenly, Seungmin stands and strips off his shirt, urgency tightening every movement. His breath comes faster, heart pounding under a storm of insecurity. 

“Do you even want me?” he asks. His gaze might look confident, but the tremble in his voice betrays the truth.

“I…” She swallows, startled. “Why would you ask me that?” 

“Just answer the question,” Seungmin says, more vulnerable than demanding.

She doesn’t speak right away. Instead, she walks toward him and places a hand gently on his bare chest. It’s a simple gesture. But after weeks of distance, that one touch lights a fire under his skin. It sends a chill down his spine, and something low in his gut pulses with the need to feel more.

"Are you okay, Seungmin?"

"No. I'm not okay. This relationship is not okay. That's the issue." The words pour out before he can stop them. "And stop calling me Seungmin."

She scoffs, tension flaring in her voice. "That’s your name.” 

"You never used to call me by my name. It was always baby, or dandy boy, or hell, even daddy. What happened to that? Or was it just pillow talk? Things you used to say when we were actually sleeping together.” 

Her brows knit, clearly taken aback. "What the hell has gotten into you?"

"I want you! I still want you so badly. Why don't you want me anymore?" His voice breaks as he reaches out for her waist, but she steps back, putting more distance between them. He’s left standing there half-dressed, half-broken, and completely confused.

“I don’t want to have sex,” she says firmly.

Seungmin’s hands slowly fall to his sides. The silence stretches on before he quietly asks, "Baby…are you asexual? Because if you are, that’s okay. We can work through it. But you have to talk to me—"

"What? No!" she snaps, quicker than he expected. "I just don’t want to do it right now."

"You haven’t wanted to 'do it' in over a month," Seungmin presses, trying not to sound accusing. "I’m not trying to offend you, I just…I thought maybe something’s changed."

She exhales sharply and lifts a hand, signaling him to stop. "I promise I’m not asexual. I just—"

"You just what?" he asks, stepping closer.

“I just had a long day and I’m tired, alright?” she finally says, turning to walk into the kitchen.

Seungmin follows, quietly but firmly. “If you’re that tired, why go out of your way to make dinner for me? You could’ve ordered takeout.” 

She shrugs and wipes little circles on the counter top with her hand towel. "Just because I wanted to," she mumbles but it's not cute like it was before. It's just frustrating. 

Seungmin carefully steps closer to her and slides his hands around her waist once she allows him, giving her every chance to push him away. When she doesn't, he sighs and rests his chin on her shoulder. 

"I'm sorry if I made you feel pressured. I can take care of myself later. But I don't think we should ignore this. What do you think about maybe talking to someone about it?" 

"What do you mean? Like seeing a counselor?" 

"A relationship counselor, yeah. There's clearly something wrong in our sex life or we wouldn't be fighting like this all the time. I feel like there's a lot of tension that we're not releasing." 

His girlfriend furrows her brow, clearly not impressed with the idea. "If you need to release tension that badly, why don't you do it before you come home?"

"You mean at work?" He almost can't believe she even suggested that. "I work at a modeling agency." 

She shrugs again. "Yeah, so?"

Seungmin takes a step back and shakes his head, very confused and somewhat offended. "I am surrounded by stunning, sexy women all day who would do anything to get on the producer's good side." He points to himself. "Do you understand how easy it would be for me to release my tension at work? Are you asking me to cheat on you?" 

That's when his girlfriend throws the hand towel across the counter and raises her voice louder than either of them have been all night. "Do whatever you need to, Seungmin! Whatever, I just can't take this nagging about sex anymore! I'm stressed, alright?"

"Then let me help you destress! I need you, you need me. Let's just go back to how we were before. When we were both happy. When we were sleeping together. Now it's like…I don't know, I just hate how we are now." Seungmin practically begs, running his hands through his hair.

"Well, I don't!" she replies with a stomp. "God, I don't want to have sex every day!"

"I'm not asking you to have sex with me every day, but I haven't touched you or been touched in over a month and it's messing with me! You just quit on me without any warning, with no explanation, and now I feel more distant from you than I ever have, and honestly, it's really shitty of you to keep pushing me off without saying why!” 

She crosses her arms, and huffs a breath, popping her hip like one of those mean girls from high school. "Well, you're just gonna have to get over that because I'm done having this conversation with you. And if you can't accept that we're not going to be intimate anymore, then we can end this relationship right now.” 

And right at that moment, the oven timer beeps, and Seungmin feels his heart drop. 

She pulls the lasagna out of the oven and places it on top of the stove before throwing her oven mitts next to the dish. 

"I think I'm just gonna head home for tonight," she says quietly. "Enjoy your dinner."

Seungmin sighs and rolls his lips between his teeth, telling himself he should stop her. But he doesn't, and she walks out the door with her hair blowing back a scent of lavender and missed opportunity.

He doesn't eat dinner that night. 

::

There aren’t many contacts in your phone, honestly. Scrolling through them, it’s nearly impossible not to see Seungmin’s name pop up.

You hesitate. Maybe you shouldn’t be doing this. But…he did say he wanted to be friends, and if you're being honest, you’ve been looking forward to seeing him again, no matter how much his smile does weird things to your chest.

Calling people has never been your strong suit. It's such a simple thing, yet your anxiety spikes the moment the phone rings in your ear. That faint, staticky tone that makes your lungs fizzle like they’re boiling from the inside out.

"Hello?"

He answered. Oh god, he actually answered.

"Hey."

"I know that voice," he says, and somehow he sounds like he’s smiling. Just the sound of it makes you melt. "So you finally decided to call me. Took you long enough. I was wondering when you’d come around."

"Actually, that’s why I called—"

Seungmin lets out a dramatic gasp. "Wait. You’re not calling to stand me up, are you?"

You laugh, soft and breathy. If anyone else had said that, it might've sparked full-blown panic. But with Seungmin, you can hear the teasing smirk in his voice, and it soothes the knots in your stomach.

"I got caught up cleaning a mess for my coworker. They called out. I’m sorry."

"Don’t apologize. I’d rather you be late than hurt. I'm glad you're okay.” 

People always talk about the moment. The exact second they knew they were starting to fall for someone. One sentence. One gesture. One heartbeat where everything shifted.

And for the first time in three years, the second Seungmin said that impossibly thoughtful and completely unintentional sentence, something in you shifted too.

Like everything is finally starting to make sense.

"So, where are you?" 

"I'm walking to the bus stop now," you tell him. 

"Should I come pick you up? You'd probably have a much better time if you didn't have to take public transportation."

"No!" you respond a little too quickly, and it makes you pause before you can even finish your thought. "I mean, I can't ask you to go out of your way like that. I'll just meet you there like we planned."

Seungmin scoffs. "Nah, it's all good. I don't mind. Just stay where you are, and I'll be there in a few." 

"But--" 

But you don't have a chance to retort when he ends the call suddenly. Apparently he won't be hearing another word on the subject. Seungmin is on his way here and you have no choice but to wait for him. 

It's a bit chilly. Thankfully the ice on the road has begun to melt, but there's still a biting breeze and plenty of reasons to wear gloves and a scarf. Too bad you didn't bring any. 

By the time Seungmin pulls up to the curb, you've begun to shiver. He pops open the door from inside and gestures for you to climb inside. Cars were never really your thing, but you can tell just by the shape of the headlights this is not your run of the mill sedan. 

That and the door opens up instead and out. You didn't even know car doors did that. 

Inside is already toasty and the passenger seat is pre-warmed. 

"Did you wait long?"

"No, you made great time. I figured you’d be later with the snow and all."

Seungmin presses a fist to his chest with mock pride. "I pride myself on my punctuality. But I hope you don’t mind, I actually need to stop by my office and drop something off. Totally forgot I had it, and the marketing team needs it before tomorrow."

You nod quickly. Of course you don’t mind. Seungmin's already done so much, picking you up, taking you to lunch, treating you like an equal, being generous, kind, real. Just being Seungmin.

He keeps driving, and the conversation flows as naturally as it did at the restaurant, and again at the smoothie shop. Every minute with him is easier than the last. He’s open. Attentive. And you can’t help but smile at the little winks and side glances he sneaks your way despite being behind the wheel.

It’s rare. Someone who actually listens, someone who sees you. He may never realize it, but he's doing something no one else has ever done for you before – he's modeling what a healthy relationship feels like. 

"So, tell me," he continues after you've finished comparing your favorite things about snow, "who is this coworker who dares to call out and leave you with all their work?" 

"Oh, they do it all the time. I'm used to it by now." 

"Doesn't the manager care?" 

"Pretty sure they're sleeping with the manager so...I'm guessing not." 

"Maybe you should sleep with the manager. Then you could get out of shifts too." 

"I don't know. Double chins and back fat don't really do it for me." 

As soon as you speak, Seungmin breaks into laughter - an easy, bubbling sound that fills the car. It's surprising because no one has ever thought you were funny. 

It must’ve struck him funnier than you meant, because he casually reaches over and places a hand on your knee. You manage not to flinch, though the reflex still hums beneath your skin. He promised he wouldn’t touch you without asking, but something tells you that for Seungmin, touch is second nature. An instinctive way he shows affection. And honestly, you like that about him. You just haven’t figured out yet how to enjoy it without your past trying to yank you backward.

"So what does it for you then? If it’s not double chins and back fat?"

He grins, clearly joking, but you’re suddenly aware of how genuine your answer is going to be.

"I guess, I like guys who are more gentle. And honest. Honesty is really important to me."

Seungmin nods slowly, eyes fixed on the road. “Honesty’s hard to come by these days. Even when you’re upfront, the other person might not be. They start shutting you out, keeping things from you, like you’re some stranger. And you keep trying to be enough, trying to be what they want, but... it’s like they’ve already decided they don’t want you. And they won’t even explain why. It’s so fucking stupid and—” he cuts himself off with a quiet sigh, resting his head against his fist by the window. 

Silence stretches between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. 

You’ve never seen this side of Seungmin before. With all his teasing and charm, it was easy to believe nothing ever really got to him. But now? Now you see it. He carries his own quiet ache, the kind you recognize. You don’t know the full story, but for the first time, you wish more than anything to be someone he could trust with it.

You just don’t know how to ask him to let you in.

He ends up speaking before you can think of the words to say. "Sorry, I didn't mean to drop all that on you. We can forget it.” 

"Trouble in paradise?" 

"Guess you could say that," he shrugs, brushing it off with a tight smile. "But it's all good. Let's change the subject, if you don't mind."

"Sorry. Sure."

So that’s it, then. Seungmin doesn’t want to confide in you. The realization settles deep in your chest, cold and familiar, like an old bruise pressed too hard. You hate how easily your silence chokes moments like this, how your words always seem to falter right when they might matter most. You’re not the person people open up to. You never have been.

The silence between you stretches, thickening with every passing second. You start to fidget, fingers tugging at the strap of your purse, eyes locked on the worn tips of your boots. Seungmin’s car glides so smoothly over the snow that you can hear every subtle crunch beneath the tires, every small shift of his hands on the leather wheel. It should be peaceful. Instead, it hums like static in your ears, uncomfortable, impossible to ignore. 

"Is your work much farther?" 

"Yeah, we just have to cross the bridge after this light," he says with a flat smile as the car comes to a stop.

The red illuminates the inside of the car despite it being midday. Clouds litter the sky and block the majority of any possible sunlight. Winter is nice, but you miss the sunshine on days like this. 

"What's your favorite food?" he suddenly asks you. 

"Umm, probably fruit. I also like rice dishes." 

"Favorite color?" 

"Red." 

"Favorite animal?" 

"Definitely dogs," you start to crack a smile. "Why the pop quiz?" 

The light turns green, and he eases the car forward. “I’ve gotta keep asking questions,” he says, glancing your way with a grin. “It’s the only way I’ll get to know you. Most friends know this kind of stuff about each other.”

“If you say so,” you laugh softly, warmth blooming in your chest. It’s been a long time since anyone really tried to know you, really cared to. And the fact that it’s Seungmin? That just makes it harder to keep your heart steady. 

He catches your shy smile in the corner of his eye and smiles back. "Glad we agree."

Damn it, you really like this. Riding in a car, feeling completely safe with the person driving. Talking about absolutely everything and seemingly nothing at the same time. Learning new things about each other without fear. You're not sure how he's managed to create this safe atmosphere, but somehow Seungmin makes talking – something you've never found easy – so simple. 

He keeps the conversation going with another easy question. “Favorite movie genre?”

“I like old-timey romantic movies.”

Seungmin quirks a brow. “Like black and white ones?”

“Yeah. My mom and dad used to take me to drive-ins. We’d sit in the car tossing popcorn at random stuff and making fun of the actors. It was just silly, but, it made me feel really close to them.”

He glances at you briefly, then back at the road, his smile soft and genuine. “Used to?”

You hesitate, but something about Seungmin makes you feel safe enough to tell the truth.

“My parents passed away not long after my eighteenth birthday.” Your voice stays steady, though your chest tightens. “I still miss them every day. Sometimes I catch myself wishing I could just hug my mom again or ask my dad what to do. I feel like things would make more sense if I could. Daz always said they're dead now so what's the point of wishing hopelessly. He's probably right. He was very adamant about those things."

Seungmin doesn't respond right away. The silence settles, not cold or dismissive - just thoughtful. And when he finally speaks, it’s quiet and careful, like he doesn’t want to break something delicate.

"Look, I don't know who this Daz guy is, but he has no right saying things like that. It's one hundred percent okay to miss your parents. And if it's hopeless wishing, who freaking cares? Wishing keeps your heart alive. It keeps your hope alive. And if you're not hoping for anything, then what's the point?"

Those words are the kindest you've heard in a really long time. So long in fact, you don't know how you're supposed to respond. Even if he didn't mean them in the way you want him to, you know he meant them to encourage you, and that in and of itself means so much. 

You honestly feel safer even just sitting in a car with him, driving down the snowy street in the cold of a winter afternoon. You could spill everything. Every little piece of yourself. 

Carefully, you watch his profile, paying special attention to your heart tugging in your chest. And not because Seungmin is the first guy to treat you this way in such a long time, (although that's probably a factor), you just trust his person. You don't have to keep your guard up constantly or suspect him of lying to you or– 

"And who the hell is this Daz guy anyway? He sounds like a dick.”

You blink. Whoops.

"Uh…" you stumble, "h-he's my… ex."

Seungmin straightens a bit, clearly caught off guard. “Your ex said that to you?” His voice is laced with disbelief, and your heart skips.

“Yeah…” You inhale slowly. It’s time. He’s been open with you, and you owe him the same. “Do you remember the first time we met?”

“Yeah, at Felix’s restaurant. Why?”

You hesitate, then press forward. “I told you I was waiting for a blind date… but that was actually my first date since breaking up with Daz.”

Seungmin glances over, catching the embarrassment on your face before you can hide it. “Really?”

You nod, hands twisting together in your lap, ankles crossed tight. The heat rising in your cheeks feels almost unbearable, made worse by the snow falling steadily outside, soft and cold against the windows.

You wait for the silence to stretch, for him to pull away or say something sharp. But instead, he exhales slowly and reaches over, slipping his hand into yours.

“I’ve been stood up before,” he says gently. “It sucks. A lot.”

His palm is warm—solid—but tender. The way his fingers curl around yours makes something deep inside you unclench. You glance at him. The angle of his jaw looks sharper against the soft light, but his expression is anything but hard.

“I’m sorry for lying,” you murmur. The guilt is thick in your voice. You still can’t convince yourself he won’t suddenly regret being kind.

But Seungmin just shakes his head, glancing at you with something softer in his eyes. “You didn’t really lie. You didn’t owe me anything that night. And honestly… people lie for a lot worse reasons. You don’t have to carry that around. I'm not mad.” 

"You're not?'

Seungmin shakes his head and chuckles. "Of course, I'm not. What, like I'm gonna pull the car over and leave you on the side of the road because I don't affiliate with liars? My job has me surrounded by liars every day. And they're much worse than you, believe me." 

"What do you mean?"

"Okay so, you've seen magazine covers and photoshoots, right? All that stuff is edited and polished until it's perfect. Most of those girls don't look like they do in pictures. In real life, models are much more..." he takes a moment to think of the right word, "erroneous."

"Erroneous?"

Seungmin glances your way and smiles proudly. "It's my word for the day. It means flawed."

"Oh," you stifle a giggle with the back of your hand, "well, I appreciate you not kicking me out of your car. And for your significantly expanded vocabulary. It's very advantageous."

Seungmin raises his brow, equally entertained. “Alright, I see you, ___. Impressed.” 

Conversations with Seungmin are so refreshing. You never talked about vocabulary words, models, or classic romance films with Daz. Honestly, you never talked like this with anyone.

In fact, since your last conversation with Seungmin at the smoothie shop, you haven’t really spoken to anyone else. That exchange has been playing on a loop in your mind ever since. His words linger, like they found a home somewhere in the space between your ears. And strangely, you don’t mind. You like having his voice echo in your head. It's calming. 

"Earth to ___?" 

"Huh? Oh, sorry," you immediately apologize. "I tend to zone out sometimes." 

"Stuck in dream world?" he asks with an understanding sigh. 

You shrug. "Something like that." 

"The dream world can be a dangerous place, you know. Careful how often you spend time there."

Some of the things Seungmin says catch you off guard. Sometimes you think you've got him figured out and then he says something totally unexpected and yet completely understandable, and it surprises you how well you resonate with his worldview and experiences considering you've only met him a few times. 

"Because," you continue his thought, "if you're not careful, you can grow complacent with your dreams. The only problem being nothing can ever live up to them. You'll only ever be satisfied when you're not in reality. Right?" 

Seungmin looks over to you slowly as the car comes to pause at the last red light before his company. You keep a solemn gaze fixed on the road ahead.

"Right..." he says with a soft blink, sliding his hands up and around the steering wheel.

"Seungmin?"

"Yeah?"

"What do you do when all your dreams are nightmares?"

You've never asked anything like this to anyone, and this could potentially be very inappropriate, but you ask anyway. Maybe because for the first time, you think Seungmin could have a chance of having the answer. Maybe because you've come to the end of your patience and you're tired of dealing with unanswered questions. Whatever the reason, the words tumble out on their own. But you're not necessarily trying to stop them either. 

"Find something good."

Seungmin's words shock you, but you're also curious as to what he could mean by that.

"Something good?" 

He shrugs. "Yeah. Focus on the good. Everyone has nightmares from time to time. Probably because no one has a perfect reality and their daydreams are going to have some downsides too. The main point of a dreamworld is not to erase the hellishness from this reality. It's to create a whole new place to go when this reality gets a little too…" 

"Real?" 

"Yeah. Real." 

He parks his car and for a moment, you just watch each other, as if silently understanding that whatever it is the two of you are separately going through, whatever trials, whatever pain, whatever struggle, whatever reality, you both just found someone you can confide in and trust. Something neither of you have had in a long while. 

"We're here," he sings and exits the car with you close behind. 

Your head falls back completely just trying to see all the way to the top of the building. Standing on the sidewalk in your thrift shop jeans and sweater, you don't feel nearly rich enough to go in there. 

Seungmin leads you past the front doors, past security, past another set of metal detectors and into what you immediately realize must be the main hall. 

Everything is very impressive, from the massive cameras to the people behind them. You've never seen so many screens and all of them are flashing picture after picture in real time as the photographer takes them. 

Standing in the middle of a white sheet at the front of the room is a beautiful model. She's wearing what looks like very expensive clothes and high heels. Her hair is perfect, her smile is perfect, her outfit is perfect. She looks perfect. And she looks so at ease. You can only imagine if that was you, you'd never look that good. 

Seungmin taps your shoulder. "I'm stepping into that back office for a second. Can you wait here? I'll be right back." 

"Yeah, sure." 

As soon as Seungmin is out of sight, you try to get a little closer to the action. The whole thing is admittedly very very cool. The idea that the model and photographer work together to help influence thousands of people to buy a particular piece of clothing. 

The fashion industry always intrigued you but you never felt beautiful enough to pursue it. Part of that is your natural tendency to belittle yourself, but you also know a lot of your issues with self acceptance came from your past relationship. You keep telling yourself you've moved on and healed but the truth is there's still pieces of you that hurt on a regular basis. 

But watching this model do her job...wow. You have to admit, it looks fun. If only you had the guts to accept Seungmin's offer. 

"Oh, thank god, you're here!" 

Your head whips around and standing before you is a very tall, very flamboyant stylist. He's got a measuring tape draped around his neck, a crop top beneath his short overalls and the longest, prettiest eyelashes you've ever seen on any eyes. 

"Next time you're gonna be late, please have the decency to let me know. We're all trying to do our jobs here, same as you, okay babe?" 

"But I'm not--" 

He takes your wrists and ushers you towards the other side of the room where there's racks of clothes and about six or seven vanities. 

"No excuses, babydoll," he sighs, sitting you in a chair and pulling the ponytail from your hair. "Let's do this quick. You'll find out soon enough, but Mr. Cameraman over there is not known for his patience." He chuckles to himself before adding, "But he knows how to use his hips just as well as a camera, so I'm usually convinced to let things slide, if you know what I mean." 

His comments make you giggle. Suddenly, you're very comfortable. He plays with your hair, fluffing it and styling it before moving onto your make up. It doesn't take him long. He says you're already so naturally beautiful he doesn't need to do a lot. 

"Makeup is meant to accentuate a person's natural beauty, not paint on a whole new face. That's why it's called 'make up' not 'mask on', darling. Write that down." 

After scanning through his several racks of clothes, he picks out a few pieces and tosses them towards you. 

"There's a curtain over here, honey. Let me know if you need help. Just call for Hyunjin, that's me!” 

And with that, he hurries his cute little butt to another station and gets to helping someone else. As you look around, you realize there's not many people here. The set is big and appears to need many people to run it efficiently, but there's only maybe fifteen working bodies nearby. Maybe they're short staffed. Or maybe Seungmin is just picky about who he hires. 

Whatever the reason, Seungmin made a very good choice hiring Hyunjin, you think. 

The clothes he gave you look warm and cozy but definitely higher fashion than you're used to. Maybe you should try them on, just to be polite? 

With more excitement than you thought you'd have, you hurry behind the curtain and begin stripping. After double checking no one could see, you slip on the fancy pants and top and coat. 

As soon as you step out, Hyunjin comes running back over, hands over his mouth and what looks like tears in his eyes. 

"Baby, look at you!" he gasps. "You are so beautiful. Yes. Yes! This is it, Felicia! Oh my god, girl, everything about this is right. You look utterly amazing!" 

His compliments make you blush, warm cheeks only adding to the casual winter girlfriend aesthetic he's got you dolled up in. You wrap the coat further around your waist and smile bashfully. 

"I like it." 

"That's right you do! Now, go do your job and model that coat like your paycheck depends on it. Because it does. Go go go." 

"What? Oh no, that's not what I--" 

"Less talking, more modeling. Snap snap!" 

You're shoved in front of a blank backdrop, suddenly and forcefully. Scanning the room, you don't see Seungmin anywhere yet. He must still be handling business elsewhere. 

The photographer lifts his camera but he lowers it again before taking any shots. 

"Are you gonna pose?" 

"Uhh…" you start to panic, "I don't know…s-sorry." 

From the corner of your eye, you catch Hyunjin gesturing for you to do something. He puts his hand on his hip and mocks showing off his outfit with a confident and flirty smile. 

With nothing else to go on and no clear sign of escaping, you decide it's now or never. It does cross your mind that this is all Seungmin's doing, a last attempt to make you reconsider working for him, and while it's petty and a little invasive of your personal space, you might as well make the most of it. 

You try to copy the poses. A hand on your hip, a hand behind your head, legs wide and hips pushed back. But it doesn't look right and feels awkward. The photographer takes a peak at the pictures and shakes his head. 

He's disappointed in you. You ruined his photoshoot. You ruined the coat. You ruined all these people's hard work. It's all your fault. Shut up. 

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," you mumble repeatedly, rubbing a hand over the back of your neck and refusing to look at the camera anymore. 

The photographer gasps, "Hold it right there!" He snaps a picture before you can move. "That's it. That is, oh damn, that's great. Do that again." 

"Do what?" 

"The shy thing," he mimics your hand on the back of his neck, "what you just did." 

With little assurance you tuck your hair behind your ear, glancing at the camera before looking away in embarrassment. 

"Nice," he encourages you, "keep it up!" 

You're not sure how you being shy and unconfident makes for good pictures, but you continue being your awkward, unsure self, and the photographer continues snapping pictures of you from every angle and side. He litters you with praises the whole time, some way too good to be true. But the more you hear how much he likes your modeling, the more willing you are to try new poses. 

By the time Seungmin returns, you've modeled two other outfits and had your make up redone three times. 

He walks out, hands in his pockets and an innocent smirk on his face as he watches you giggle at the camera. He thinks you're a natural, playing with the camera like that, teasing it by looking over your shoulder and shyly flipping your hair. Not only do your pictures come out flawless, but you make the clothes look remarkable too. 

"Ready to go?" he calls for you. 

As soon as he gets your attention, you hurry over to him, thanking the photographer and stylist on the way. 

You stop in front of him and smile. "Okay, fine. You win." 

"I win what?" 

"I know you asked to come here so I would get a chance to model and hopefully reconsider your job offer." 

He gapes, a hand over his chest. "___, whatever do you mean? I would never try something so manipulative like that." 

You giggle at his reaction, playful hitting his bicep. "Oh, stop it! You know exactly what you did. And I admit, modeling is pretty fun." 

"And you're so good at it," he insists, pointing to the pictures on the monitor. "You were a natural up there. Just like I knew you would be." 

"You really think so?" 

"Yeah, I do. And if you enjoyed it that much, you should come back and be my winter model. If you want to. Please? Only if you want to. Pretty please?" 

This might be the second biggest mistake of your life, but right now, it feels like exactly what you need to do. Even if this all ends up being a waste of time, you want to experience it. It's been so long since you said yes to something new, something exciting. At least you know your therapist would be proud of you. And Seungmin's smile is influencing your heart in more ways than one at this moment. 

"Okay. I'll do it!" you say excitedly and almost immediately, he wraps you in a tight hug. 

::

Seungmin feels completely victorious. Today went even better than he’d hoped. You agreed to take a seasonal position helping him shoot his New Year line. And if things go the way he wants, maybe he’ll even convince you to stick around for the summer one too.

He’s not trying to think too hard about how much fun he had with you in the process. He meant it when he said he enjoys your company, though he might’ve understated just how much. There’s something about you. Your reactions are so sincere, your feelings never feel forced, and you have this effortless ability to switch between being funny and thoughtful. With you, there’s no second-guessing. No pretending.

You just get him.

And that's…really something. You’re really something. 

Plus he got to come home early which hasn't happened in what feels like forever. He can actually cook something for dinner if he wants to. He has the time, the energy, and the ingredients. What the hell, why not? He can spoil himself for a night. 

He drops his stuff by the door and makes his way to his bedroom to change into comfy clothes. 

Weird. He doesn't remember closing his door this morning. 

Just as his hand closes around the knob, he hears it. A high pitched, desperate moan. He recognizes the voice but not the name it's currently cursing in explicit pleasure. 

Part of him doesn't want to open the door. If he does, he has to face it and envisioning the scene in his head is already his worst nightmare. The other half of him couldn't care less. 

He pushes open the door and sure enough, there she is. With her head thrown back against his pillow, in his bed, covered by nothing but his sheets, in his apartment. Her hand is buried in the curly black hair of some strange guy who's buried himself between her legs. 

They both jump when Seungmin slams the door against the wall. 

He watches them, expressionless. 

"Seungmin, what are you doing here?" 

"My apartment," he deadpans. "What are you doing here?" 

It's such a sick, mean question to ask someone in her position, but she couldn't earn his pity or his sympathy even if she wanted to. Not anymore. Not now. Not ever again. 

The douchebag who was just devouring her sits up with a dazed blur over his eyes and shimmering lips. He uses the bedsheet to wipe his mouth before attempting to say something. 

"Whoa, uhhh, hey dude listen, she didn't tell me she had a--" 

"Get out," Seungmin commands.

The guy doesn't hesitate. Without giving Seungmin's girlfriend another glance, he pulls his jeans over his ass, grabs his shirt and runs out the front door, stuttering as he goes. 

She sits there, naked and shameless. 

She doesn't say anything. Not that Seungmin necessarily wants her to, but it would be nice to at least hear her try to explain herself. Her silence cuts through his skin like a knife, carving her obvious state of indifference across his skin and engraving every hint and voiceless sign he should have seen but chose to ignore for the sake of avoiding this very confrontation. 

There's no point in avoiding anything anymore. 

"You too." 

"You can't just kick me out--" 

"Now. Never come back." 

She shouldn't be shocked. Either way, she takes her time getting dressed and gathering her jacket, which was thrown across the room earlier, no doubt during some heated foreplay. 

Just as she passes Seungmin in the doorway, she pauses. Still staring straight ahead, he clenches his jaw and barely manages to keep himself composed when she speaks. 

"I liked you, Seungmin. It's not my fault you suck in bed." 

It's her lack of guilt or apology that burns more than anything. A million questions cloud his mind and judgment as she walks out, into the freezing world, the only consequence for her actions being the end of a relationship she clearly couldn't have cared less about. 

And Seungmin is left to clean up the mess she's made of his trust. 

He doesn't cry. She's not worth it. 

First, he strips his sheets and pillow cases and stacks them in his apartment-sized square of green backyard. With a little motor oil and a match, he burns his best bedsheets to ash, followed by every physical picture he took with her and the scarf she accidentally left on his desk chair. 

Even with all the physical evidence gone, for now the memory of her voice, her laugh, her kiss, and her sighs are still fossilized in his brain. 

Despite having remade his bed and stacked it with fresh pillows, he still sleeps on the couch that night. (If staring at the ceiling and listening to the same song over and over just so he's not encased in humiliating silence is considered sleeping.)  

:: 

2 weeks later

"Hey hot stuff, ready for a new day?" 

Hyunjin, your now official personal stylist, tells you that you're beautiful every day. He's constantly praising you and pushing you to try new colors and hairstyles. Sometimes, when there's time before the shoot, you let him mess with your hair and play around with different makeup techniques. 

Hyunjin is one of a kind and he's definitely your favorite new friend you've made since taking this job. But everyone in the office is nice to you thankfully, including the other girls. You're not best friends with any of them, but they smile politely and let you use their spare hairspray when yours runs out. 

Modeling itself has gotten harder over the last few days. No longer do you envy the girls on magazine covers and commercials. The more pictures you see of yourself, the more you realize what Seungmin said is true. None of those models look exactly like themselves in the final product. Neither do you. 

But you're not quitting. You gave Seungmin your word that you would stay until all the shoots for his New Year line are over. In return he offered to give you whatever outfit you like best in addition to your very generous paycheck. 

You admit the perks are nice and you get along with the staff, but it's disappointing how often you actually see Seungmin. 

Seungmin is a very busy man. You've only been modeling for about two weeks now, but even you can see he's been putting a lot on himself lately. Sometimes he doesn't leave the office until early hours of the morning. You discovered this after the day you came in to surprise the team with coffee and he was still working from the night before. 

Needless to say, you made him promise to leave by midnight at the latest. And so far, he's kept to that promise, or so he texts you that he has. 

Not that you took this job because you thought you would be able to spend more time with him. But when you took this job for a totally responsible reason, you thought you would be able to spend more time with him. Luckily, you've come to discover something he has a very hard time saying no to. 

Lamb skewers. 

Knock knock~~ 

"Come in." 

You slowly push the door open and peek your head inside. "Hey, Seungmin?" 

He looks up from his desk. His expression instantly lightens when he sees you. "___, what's up?" 

"Are you ready to go?" 

It takes him a moment to remember, but after a few blinks he catches on again. "Oh! Right, dinner. We're going to dinner, uhhh one sec." Scrambling for his things, he chuckles when he finally finds his car keys in his pocket. 

His smile is nice but something about it seems...off. 

In his car, you keep a close eye on him. Something happened. You can tell. As someone who's gone through deep shit, you've developed an ability to tell when someone else is also going through deep shit. 

"How was modeling today?" he asks you casually as he pulls onto the road. "I saw your newest pictures earlier. You're amazing." 

"Thanks," his compliments always make you shy. "I think I've got the hang of it, but facing a camera isn't always easy." 

"Do you like it though?" 

"Yeah, I enjoy it. How's your work coming along, Producer?" you ask with a slight tease to your voice. 

He nods, as if his smile alone will carry the conversation. For whatever reason Seungmin has decided to overwork himself, whether that's to distract himself or avoid something, it's affected his social skills. He's not nearly as outspoken, confident, or involved as he used to be. The Seungmin you know is a great conversationalist and passionate and isn't afraid to save a stranger from being embarrassingly stood up on a blind date. 

This isn't the same Seungmin. 

You're not one for confrontation, but it's come to the point where Seungmin means too much to you to ignore him when he's not himself. 

"Hey, are you okay?" 

"Huh?" He glances at you innocently, as if broken from a daydream. "I'm fine." 

"You don't seem fine. Did something happen?" you ask gently, tucking your hands between your knees and shrugging as if that will make your question less invasive. 

Maybe it's not your place as his employee (technically), but you justify your actions because you're approaching him as his friend. 

Seungmin sighs, obvious conflict in his breath and subtle fidgeting. He bites his lip as if he's trying to keep himself from admitting it, but he can't help himself. He really wants to talk to someone about it. And while he probably should be talking to a therapist, he really trusts you and part of him wants to share his personal life with you. 

"I broke up with my girlfriend." 

"I'm sorry." 

"Not what you were expecting, huh," he forces a laugh. 

"That's not it, I just…" you pause, thinking of the right way to form your words, "...can I ask why?" 

"She...wasn't the one for me," he hums. "I mean, things were fine at first, but she thought I wasn't...well, I decided we weren't good together, so I ended things." 

You take that answer as an unwillingness to share the detailed reason of why he decided to end things with his girlfriend. Since you're in no place to push his obvious boundaries, you relax into your seat again and try to keep the conversation going without increasing the already settling awkwardness. 

"People usually assume it's hardest on the person who got broken up with. But I know what it's like to end a relationship. It's not easy. I think you're really strong for making that call." 

"That's right, you broke up with your boyfriend three years ago," Seungmin reminds himself. "I don't know much about your ex, but from what you've told me, he wasn't exactly kind." 

"Not really. Sounds like your ex wasn't exactly kind either." 

"Yeah, not really," he admits with a chuckle, glancing at you with at least some form of an honest smile. "Damn, we really know how to pick em, don't we?" 

The atmosphere between you is warming up in a way that feels effortless. The more you talk, the more you share, the more natural the closeness becomes. Being close to Seungmin is something you’re learning not to take lightly. For all his charm and outward confidence, he’s surprisingly guarded when it comes to his personal life. He’s great at small talk, professional, polished, always knowing the right thing to say. But letting people in? That’s rare. 

So being someone he trusts, someone he opens up to even a little, feels…special. 

The car hums gently beneath you as you ride along, the snow outside catching the streetlights in passing glints. Between stoplights and quiet pauses in the conversation, you glance out the window, content. Seungmin asks about your last photoshoot, if your shifts at the smoothie shop are finished, and if you’re still thinking about applying elsewhere. He keeps the questions coming - always about you.

But when you try to ask about him, he redirects, shifts the topic, or tosses out a half-answer before moving on. You’ve started to pick up on the subtle way he dodges. He may seem laid-back, but you’re beginning to understand his tells. Seungmin doesn’t like to be seen too clearly. And yet, here he is, letting you in just enough. Just a little. 

You’re only a couple stops from the restaurant when you glance out the window. 

And then you see him.

It’s instantaneous. The moment your eyes register his silhouette, something in your chest clenches tight. Your breath catches before you even realize what’s happening. You can’t breathe. 

Seungmin continues sharing about his desire to have an office karaoke night, but all sound is muffled inside your ears. You're suddenly very aware of where you are in space and what's happening around you. Every time Seungmin's elbow moves or his hand slides over the steering wheel, your whole body jerks. Your eyes stayed glued to the figure outside the car, sipping on something definitely illegal and laughing it up with a group of scruffy looking guys. 

His hair, his face, his arms, his hands, his mouth the way it moves when he speaks. It's all too familiar and it's all coming back like being hit by a three year long train. 

Daz. 

You thought you had emotionally prepared for the day you would inevitably see him on the street. You two live in the same city after all. But clearly, you were not ready. 

From the outside, nothing looks amiss. You seem calm, collected. But when Seungmin finally pulls into the parking spot and turns to say something, his gaze lands on you—and freezes.

Your cheeks are flushed, not from the weather but from pure adrenaline. You haven’t blinked. You haven’t breathed. Your lips are a flat, colorless line. You’re rigid, barely present—except for the slight movement in your throat every few seconds as your body struggles to remember how to inhale. 

"“___?” Seungmin says your name carefully, almost in a whisper. “Hey, ___, look at me.”

But you don’t.

When his hand enters your peripheral vision, you flinch like you've been struck. A gasp tears from your throat as you slap his hand away on instinct, chest heaving as you recoil, curling toward the door. Your fingers clutch the safety handle with white-knuckled force, your shoulder pressed hard against the cold window like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

Seungmin stares at you in stunned silence—heart breaking, hands still.

"It's just me. It's okay." But no matter how many times Seungmin gently mutters to you, nothing feels okay.

Talking about Daz had already stirred things up - old memories creeping in, raw emotions resurfacing like bruises you thought had faded. You could still hear the words, feel the heaviness, remember the reasons you left and the parts of yourself you lost along the way. And then, to look out the window and see him, laughing, carefree, untouched by everything he put you through, was like pouring salt into wounds you’d only just managed to cover.

It ripped something open.

Seungmin doesn’t say anything right away. He just sits there, his expression unreadable. Slowly, he looks down at his hand and watches the faint red imprint bloom across the back of it. He doesn't flinch or pull it away. He just studies it, like he's trying to make sense of what it means.

"___, you're okay. I'm not gonna hurt you." He carefully shows you his palms, offering you his hands before trying to touch you again. 

You nod quickly, still breathless, but beginning to register where you are. That’s something.

“Breathe with me, ___,” Seungmin says softly, guiding you through slow, steady breaths - in through your nose, out through your mouth. You follow his lead, even though the panic still pulses through your veins like electricity, raw and relentless.

His hand finds your elbow, grounding you with the gentlest squeeze. You don’t pull away this time, so he leaves it there.

“Can you tell me what you need right now?”

“Remind me what we’re doing,” you whisper, voice trembling.

“I’m taking you to dinner, remember? Lamb skewers because they’re my favorite. And yours is fruit, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I like fruit too. I’ll pick some up later. How does that sound?”

“Yeah.” Your grip loosens on the safety handle, just enough to reach out and take his hand. Your fingers are cold, but you unbuckle yourself and draw in a deeper breath. “Keep talking to me. Please.”

“Okay, um…” Seungmin wets his lips, searching for something to keep your focus steady. “I fell on my ass this morning.”

Your head lifts slightly. “What?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t looking where I was going and stepped on a patch of ice. Just bam! Flat on my ass.”

A watery gasp slips from you, part laugh, part sob. “Did it hurt?”

“Oh, absolutely. My pride took the biggest hit. Pretty sure I cracked the sidewalk too,” he says with a small chuckle.

But when he glances over and sees tears sliding down your cheeks again, his smile falters. “Wait, did I say something wrong?”

You shake your head, burying your face in your hands as fresh sobs break free. “No,” you croak, voice soft and broken. “It’s just… it must’ve hurt a lot to fall like that. I’m sorry you fell. Falling down… it really hurts, Seungmin. It hurts so much.”

His expression softens, and without saying a word, he squeezes your hand just a little tighter.

In a moment of something—instinct, maybe, or something deeper Seungmin can’t quite name—he gently pulls you into his lap. Your body folds against his as he tucks your head into his shoulder, cradling you close, murmuring soft reassurances into your hair.

“It’s okay now. I know it hurts, but I’ve got you. You’re safe. I promise.”

He shouldn’t be surprised by the raw emotion still rolling off you in waves—people react in all kinds of ways after panic hits—but he’s never seen anyone cry this hard over something that, on paper, was supposed to be funny. It makes his chest ache for you.

His hand moves in slow circles over your back while the other strokes your hair, grounding you in the present. The way your legs settle around his waist and your body melts into his chest makes it easier to breathe. You cling to his warmth like it’s the only thing tethering you to earth.

It’s so different from anything you’ve felt before. His touch, his words, his presence. Nothing like the cold aftermath of your ex’s affection. Seungmin’s arms wrap around you now and then, pulling you into soft, steady hugs that calm your trembling body piece by piece. You don’t even realize how much you’ve needed this kind of safety until now.

Eventually, after a few minutes and one final deep breath, you push off his shoulder to sit up, the top of your head brushing the roof of his car.

“…Sorry,” you whisper, trying to shift back into your seat.

But Seungmin’s hands remain at your waist. “Stay here. Just for a little longer. You’re still calming down.”

“Sorry,” you mumble again, quieter this time.

He shakes his head, eyes gentle. “Why do you keep apologizing? You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

He opens the lid to his middle console and pulls out a spare napkin. After wrapping it around his finger, he carefully uses it to dry the line of tears on your cheeks. Then he wraps it around your nose. 

"Blow." 

It's a little embarrassing, but you're not in a position to turn his kindness away. So you blow. 

"There we go. Better?" 

You nod, sniffling when he tosses the napkin away and brushes the hair from your face. 

Seungmin sighs, relaxing into his seat and dragging his hands around your waist. "Just breathe for a moment. We're not in any rush. Take all the time you need." 

You don’t mind taking a little extra time to steady yourself. What really has your heart racing isn’t just the emotional aftermath of seeing your ex. It's the fact that Seungmin pulled you into his lap without hesitation, and now you’re here, nestled against him, completely flustered.

Because the way he’s looking at you… it’s not casual. It’s not friendly. It’s like you’re the most important thing in his world and he’s silently made it his mission to protect you.

And then, there it is. A flicker in his expression. Something small, but you catch it. A shift behind his eyes, in the tension of his jaw. Like something just clicked into place for him. He doesn’t say anything, but you can tell. Seungmin just realized something he’s not ready to admit out loud. 

"___, do you wanna go back to my place?" 

"Huh?" 

"I don't really feel like eating out anymore. Should we just order to go and eat at my place instead?" 

Really, you should give this more thought. But your mind and body are so exhausted. If this was anyone else, you would have had to force yourself to think rationally, but since it's Seungmin, you feel safe letting your guard drop completely.

"Sure. That sounds nice." 

:: 

His apartment isn’t quite what you imagined for a CEO who drives such a luxurious car. It’s surprisingly modest—clean, minimal, almost understated. The kind of place that doesn’t flaunt wealth but still feels intentional. Out back, you spot scorch marks in the grass through the window. You’re dying to ask what happened, but you’re not sure you’re close enough yet to pry.

Seungmin steps in behind you and gently brushes past. “Hang on one sec.”

He disappears into the closet and returns with a pair of spare slippers. Kneeling in front of you, he places them at your feet and helps you slip them on. They’re a few sizes too big, but they’re warm and ridiculously soft.

“All good?” he asks, looking up at you with a small smile.

You nod. “Yeah. Good.”

His smile grows just a bit. “Good.”

He makes his way to the living room with your food in hand and you follow. 

There's a chance Seungmin was smiling at the size difference of your feet in his shoes and the way you shuffle across the floor in an attempt not to trip over them. But then again, he could have been smiling at anything. 

"Do you like sauce?" 

"Mhm," you nod politely, now sitting on the couch with hands folded in your lap. 

Seungmin glances at your posture. Your back straight, feet flat, like you're waiting for permission just to exist in his space. His ex had made herself at home without a second thought, treating his apartment like it was hers from day one.

You're nothing like her. Still, some part of him had habitually expected you to be instantly comfortable. 

"Hey," he says gently, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. "You can relax, you know." 

"Sorry," you apologize, as if the word is on standby on your tongue. 

Then again, he wasn't expecting to be this awkward himself. Suddenly, Seungmin drops his task of preparing the food and turns to face you on the couch. 

"Don't apologize to me anymore. You're always saying that word." 

He's annoyed. He seems really annoyed. Shut up. 

“Sorry. I mean—” you flinch, catching yourself and pressing your lips together. “Okay.”

“I just meant… you don’t have to be so professional around me,” Seungmin says, softer now, like he’s trying not to scare you off.

“Okay…” you say again, more hesitant this time, eyes blinking slowly like you’re trying to decode what he really means.

What is happening? Seungmin’s always been composed, articulate. The kind of guy who knows exactly how to make people feel at ease. But now you’re sitting on his couch, in his apartment, and he can’t seem to string a clear thought together. Ever since he wrapped you in his arms, heart pressed to yours, something's shifted. 

“Look, ___,” he says, finally meeting your gaze, “I really like spending time with you. It’s kind of crazy how easy it is to talk to you. I don’t usually feel that way around people. You make me feel comfortable… so I just want to make sure you feel that way too. With me.” 

"I am comfortable." 

"Are you?" 

"Yeah," you answer, shyly tucking your hair behind your ear. "I have a habit of saying sorry. I'll try not to say it so much since it bothers you." 

Just the way you said it makes Seungmin think you've had to say things like that to your ex far too often. The realization sinks in quickly, and without meaning to, he finds himself developing an even deeper resentment for the word sorry. 

“No, I’m not nitpicking,” Seungmin says gently. “I just want you to feel good around me. Like you don’t have to apologize for anything. What I mean is, your ex was a jerk, and I’d never treat you like that. Forget everything else, I want to be close to you. Closer than we are now. I just… I don’t really know how to go about it. I haven’t been single in a while, so I might be rusty when it comes to this sort of thing.” 

His words hang in the air, warm and hesitant. And as your mind works to translate what exactly he’s trying to say, you find yourself stuck on that one part. Closer than we are now. 

That could mean anything.

And sitting here next to him on his couch, alone in his apartment, with the hour slipping later and later, you’re not sure your brain is capable of taking it platonically.

“What sort of thing?” 

He carefully inches closer to you on the couch, placing a hand behind you and leaning in just that little bit more. With absolutely no warning, he leans into you and places a small kiss on your cheek. 

"This probably feels random, but I've liked you since I met you, so it's not really random at all." 

Your lungs fill slowly and then you shakily exhale, watching him carefully. Thoughts swim behind your eyes, thoughts Seungmin would give anything to read. 

"What about your ex?" you ask quietly. 

"My ex was a controlling, emotionally manipulative, dishonest bitch. You're nothing like her," he assures you. "You're human." 

"Seungmin," he manages to pull a small, breathless chuckle from your lungs. 

You hold your breath after saying his name, fighting the part of you that wants to fall head first into whatever this could end up being. "You just broke up. And yeah she was a controlling, emotionally manipulative, dishonest bitch, but...you just broke up." 

"Two whole weeks ago, what's your point?" 

He gives you a simple, devastatingly beautiful smirk and tilts his head so you have no choice but to notice how undeniably adorable his bangs are flopping over his eyes like that. 

"The point is you're still healing." 

“You broke up with your ex three years ago and you’re still healing,” he says softly, brushing his fingers against your hand. There’s something shimmering in his eyes, a flicker of emotion threatening to spill over. “I don’t want to wait until I’m fully okay, because honestly? I don’t know if I ever will be. But with you...it feels like maybe I’m getting there.”

His honesty cleaves through your logic like a blade. You’ve always told yourself not to start something new as a way to patch over the past. Love born out of pain can’t be stable. It can’t be lasting.

“You know I can’t fix everything,” you murmur.

“I know,” he says without hesitation. “But maybe we could help each other feel less broken. You see me, and I feel like I see you too.” He gently takes your hand, watching your face for permission before wrapping his fingers around yours. “I promise I’ll treat you with respect. I’ll make you laugh when you need it. I’ll sit with you when you cry. I want to take care of you, ___. Please let me.”

His words tug at every frayed edge inside you. The vulnerability in his voice, the softness of his grip, the way he looks at you like you’re something precious - it all threatens to undo you.

You knew, eventually, you’d have to face this moment. Life doesn’t stop after heartbreak, and love doesn’t wait for perfect timing. But you never imagined someone like Seungmin would be the one holding out his hand. He’s smart, emotionally present, endlessly kind, almost too perfect. 

But there’s something unspoken in his offer. If you let him hold you, you’ll hold him too. He’s not just a salve for your past. He’s bleeding from his own wounds, and somehow, in each other, there’s a strange sort of comfort that feels right, even if it’s not forever.

Maybe this won’t last. But Seungmin is here now. And while timing might be cruel, he’s not. 

"I…" 

He's patient, eyes glued to you, wide and waiting. 

"...I'd really like that," as soon as you say it, you can't help but smile. "Take care of me, Seungmin. And I'll take care of you too." 

He mimics your smile, sighing deeply when you fall forward over his shoulders. His hug is a warm, safe place, and when his arms wrap around your middle, they're a strong fortress for the weak walls of your heart. 

His lips press to your ear and he whispers to you with the most sincerity you've ever heard from anyone, "I promise I'll protect you from whatever, ___. Lean on me and I'll hold you as tightly as you need me to, okay?" 

"Okay." 

:: 

Never once did either of you mention the titles boyfriend or girlfriend. And much to your initial relief, Seungmin hasn't been acting as if you own the titles. Although he is more openly attentive and he's gotten more physically affectionate, he hasn't shown you off or gone around telling everyone about your new relationship dynamic. Which is nice. 

You feel much more at ease knowing Seungmin is okay with you hanging around. He's pulled you next to him on more than one occasion, commented on your modeling as more than just your producer, and it's become a regular expectation to eat together almost every day. 

Outside of the public eye, the two of you are pretty much the same as before except you spend a surprising amount of time at Seungmin's apartment. You've gotten comfortable napping on his couch - he never lets you sleep in his bedroom. As much as he insists he's over his ex, little things remind you he's not completely okay. He also keeps your favorite snacks in bulk in his pantry and a spare change of your clothes in the top drawer of his dresser. 

On the other hand, it's been a few weeks since you started…whatever you started together. It does bother you somewhat that there's no title for your relationship. You're used to being tied to the other person by either a title or at least some kind of label. 

Suppose the absence of a title is significantly less stressful. You both know that neither of you are seeing other people in the meantime. That's what matters. 

And while the emotional comfort is nice, you wonder why he hasn't attempted any more romantic affiliation when you know it's a core love language for him. Is it because of your lack of a girlfriend title or does he really only see this as a way to comfort himself since his last relationship ended so suddenly? 

You're not materialistic and you're not a hoe. But…it's confusing how much it feels like you're in a romantic relationship, just without the romance. 

He doesn't really like you as much as he said. Shut up. 

He doesn't think you're sexy. Shut up. 

You're not as pretty as his ex, that's why. Shut up! 

Hyunjin greets you when you step inside the building, a welcoming grin and his trademark jazz hands. 

"Babe! You're early today!" 

"Early bird catches the worm, right? Is Seungmin here yet?" 

"He was," Hyunjin says while watching the front doors. "I think he went on a coffee run or something. At least, I asked him to bring me back a vanilla latte when I saw him leaving." 

You reply simply and nod, not too much worry on the surface of your casual expression. Hyunjin sits you down and starts on your makeup while you discreetly send Seungmin a good morning text. 

You're almost done being prepped for the photoshoot when the front doors part and in walks your producer with a single cup of coffee in his hand. 

He enters in slow motion, checking his Rolex like the flex that it is and running tempting fingers through his silky hair. His suit is pressed and dark and makes him look built and powerful. The sheer authority he exudes is unfairly sexy, every step he takes being your new favorite because it's bringing him that much closer to where you are. 

It’s taken you three years being single and three months of being Seungmin’s model, but you’re finally to the point where you feel ready for something really serious. And you want that something serious with Seungmin. 

"Hi guys," he greets with a confident nod and hands Hyunjin his coffee. 

"Bless you, Kim Seungmin," the stylist gawks. He takes a sip and you swear he would fall on his knees for Seungmin if he asked. 

"___, I need to talk to you before you leave. When the shoot is over, will you come into my office?" 

"Of course," you have no reason to refuse him. 

The shoot goes well. All the usual things you expect, bright lights, a flashing camera, Hyunjin flirting with the camera guy. You've become rather comfortable being here like this. Several issues of the latest magazine have been published and, as weird as it is to think about, you appear on several pages. As far as you understand, the magazine has been well accepted and local department store sales have increased at a satisfying rate. 

It doesn't take long to finish today. Thankfully, you only had four changes and very minor makeup touch ups throughout. Hyunjin finished his coffee about half way through and grew continually more grumpy as the shoot went on, but it was humorous. You know he could never hurt a fly but the way he talks big game is entertaining for sure. 

As everyone wraps up the day, you finish changing back into street clothes and make your way to Seungmin's main office. 

Knock knock~ 

“Come in,” you hear him through the wood and peek your head inside. He smiles when he sees you and immediately stands to usher you past the threshold. “___, hey, are you done for the day?" 

"Mhm. You wanted to see me?" 

"Yes. Come on in, please. I need to discuss your contract with you.” 

This is producer Seungmin. He’s in work mode right now. So, you decide to hold onto your work persona for a few more minutes.  

"Right. What do you need from me?" You take your place in front of his desk while Seungmin sits back down, folding his hands politely and looking up at you. 

"Your seasonal position as our winter model will end come the 31st of this month. The company will move its focus to summer and we'll start interviewing and hiring models for the summer line." He pauses, waiting to see if you already can tell where he's going with this. "I know you said before that you wouldn't consider being a summer model, but now that you've been here for some time, I thought it couldn't hurt to ask you again. ___, what would you say if I offered you a full time position?" 

"For the summer?" you clarify. 

"For until you decide you don't want to model anymore,” he says with much anticipation. “Full time means this would be your primary job. You'd get a pay raise and more photoshoots on your calendar, not to mention you would have access to company benefits, so a personal nutritionist and dietary specialist, gym membership, paid days off, discounts, a retirement fund." 

You slowly nod, the list ever growing in your mind, and while they’re all great things, so far none of that stuff can beat down your anxiety about modeling for a summer wardrobe. 

"That's a lot of benefits." 

He drinks in your body language and translates your need for reassurance. Of course, he's more than willing to be that for you. 

Seungmin quickly moves around his desk and comes to you, gently taking your hands and interlocking your fingers. The distance between your bodies shrinks until he's so close you fear he can hear your heartbeat picking up pace. The Work Seungmin mask falls to the ground as he watches your face, eyes bouncing from your hair to your lips and back to your eyes. 

"If you don't take the job, our relationship won't change,” he whispers to you, “so don't worry about that. I'm offering you this position as your producer, because I honestly believe you're an amazing worker and model.” 

"Really?" 

"Yes. And the public loves you too by the way,” he adds as a final attempt to entice you. “But if you don’t want to, just say so. It's your choice. I won’t be mad, I promise." 

The fact that he made that promise without any implication from you that that’s what you were afraid of gives you the surety to say what’s on your mind. Your heart beats a thousand times per second, being this close to him, sharing the same air, meeting his gaze, feeling secure holding his hands. If you weren’t so caught up in his proposition, you could very easily find yourself caught up in his ambiance. 

"I just don't feel comfortable doing the summer line. I'm sorry." 

"That’s okay,” he immediately responds, nodding along with you and smiling in spite of your no doubt disappointing answer. “Thanks for being willing to model the New Year line. You were amazing and perfect." 

"Thank you for the opportunity." You step back to bow very respectfully. 

He tries to keep a straight face, but you're just so damn adorable to him and he doesn't have the will or resolve to keep his adoration for you to himself. 

"Now that all the professional mess is out of the way," he sings, "I have something very important to tell you." 

"What is it?" 

A shy smile starts creeping across his lips and he slowly sneaks his hands to your waist to pull you close again. He doesn't blush often, but when he does it's beyond adorable and you feel like taking a polaroid so you can capture and keep it forever. 

"I missed you today," he confesses. "Like a lot. So much I thought I might die." 

That's it? That's his something important? It flatters you to the point of losing your breath. And it's not even his words that have your lungs spasming and your toes curling in on themselves.

Seungmin has complete disregard for the outside world. Right here, right now, it's just you and him. Everything else is inconsequential. 

His palms slide smoothly up the curve of your waist. They slip to your lower back, mapping your measurements and committing them to memory as they go. The second he has the opportunity, he jerks you forward, your chest colliding with his body and forcing you to stumble into him. 

Looking into his eyes now, your hands clutching at his chest in tight fists for balance, you hear his heartbeat. Rapid and unsteady, pounding beneath your palms. 

"I missed you too." Your whispered confession only proves to make his heart beat that much louder. "Actually, I need to talk to you about something too. Can we have dinner at your place or mine?" 

"What's wrong?" 

"Nothing's wrong," you quickly assure him. "I just...have something on my mind and wanna talk to you about it." 

He seems slightly nervous, which is understandable. But nevertheless, Seungmin nods and agrees to have dinner at his place tonight. He even offers to pick up your favorite sushi on the way home, a gentleman's gesture as if to say he's not worried about your upcoming conversation. 

But maybe he should be. You're not exactly sure how this is gonna go. 

:: 

"What did you do?" you immediately ask when you step into his humble abode, the scent of lemon and pine filling your nostrils. 

He chuckles shamelessly, "What are you talking about?"

"It's so...clean." 

Cleaner than you've ever seen his place before. Even last weekend it wasn't this nice. Not to say that Seungmin is a slob, actually the opposite is true. But ever since he broke up with his ex, his apartment seemed to be taking most of the hit in terms of hygiene.

But now. Wow. 

"You know you didn't have to clean for me." 

"I know. I cleaned for me, well, for both of us," he shrugs. "Besides, it's nice to have a clean apartment again. Feels like things are back to normal finally." 

Seungmin follows you into the kitchen where you begin handing out plates and cups for dinner. He rubs a shy hand over his neck and mocks his earlier shameless chuckle. 

"I'm feeling a lot better in general," he says simply. His eyes on your profile suggest you're the reason why, but he leaves that comment silent, hoping you'll jump in with similar feelings toward him. 

"I'm really happy to hear that!" You offer him a gentle smile and make him carry half the sushi to the living room where you'll eat together. "Come on, let's eat. I'm starving." 

Conversations with Seungmin are easy. Words spill from your lips without hesitation, and he listens like every syllable matters. Even when your cheeks are puffed out with dragon sushi rolls and soy sauce, there's an effortless comfort between you—one you haven't found with anyone else.

That has to mean something, doesn’t it? The longer you delay bringing up what you came here to say, the more tempting it becomes to just stay in this limbo—hovering between friends and something more. But as Seungmin nearly chokes on his fried rice from one of your offhand sarcastic remarks, doubling over with laughter, you realize something: no, this isn’t enough anymore. You don’t want to hover in the in-between. You want more. You’re ready for more.

After the meal, Seungmin moves to clean up, and you take a deep breath, rising from your seat with your plate in hand.

“So, about what I wanted to talk ab—Oh!” you laugh as Seungmin spins around and bumps right into you at the kitchen threshold.

“Sorry,” you both say at once, your chuckles overlapping.

The two of you go back and forth, side to side, trying to avoid a collision but you're too in sync. Every time you move left, so does he. So you move right, and so does he. 

"Wanna dance?" he jests, making you smile again. 

"I'd love to." 

It was a joke. You were playing along as one does when awkwardness threatens to rear its ugly head. It was supposed to be a passing reply and then you continued on to the kitchen to help wash dishes. 

So, imagine your surprise when Seungmin suddenly snatches the dishes from your hands only to toss them aside. 

"M'lady," he bows. 

"Huh?" 

But he just laughs and sweeps you into his arms, one hand clutched in yours and the other wrapped around your lower back. His feet begin gliding across the kitchen tile and you have no choice but to follow his lead. With a gasp, you grip his shoulder with your other hand and hang on for dear life. 

You're very much out of your comfort zone here, but you don't have the will to stop this, not when Seungmin looks so domestically happy. 

While you're struggling not to fall flat on your face, Seungmin is laughing. Precious, beautiful giggles like specks of golden music filling the space and landing softly against your ears. 

You step on his foot more than once but he doesn't say anything, despite your relentless apologizing. Dancing has never been your strong suit, but somehow Seungmin makes it enjoyable. Because he doesn't dance well either. 

There's no music, but that doesn't deter Seungmin. He fills the silence with soft la la la's and ba da da's to guide your terrible rhythm. And no matter how stiff or how unconventional your dance moves, he doesn't take his eyes off your ever growing smile. That smile of yours...that's his victory. 

He dances you towards the living room, getting faster and faster despite your inability to keep up with him. You gasp again when he suddenly spins you around only to bring you back to himself. His hands catch you by the waist and your world comes to a sudden halt. Instinctively, you grip his shirt as a lifeline when your chests collide, lost for breath, but so is he. 

Everything is still for a moment. The funny part is that you don't even realize you're biting your lip in concentration. But damn, Seungmin does. 

"You're a terrible dancer." 

His comment breaks your daze. "So are you." 

But your lack of skill must not mean too much considering his hips begin to sway naturally, enticing you to do the same. Soon enough, you're relaxing into a slow dance, one much easier to follow than whatever polka waltz quick step chaos you were swept into before. There's still a lack of music, but neither of you seem bothered by it. 

You sigh, finally able to catch your breath. He holds onto you as if he'll always be here, and you're tempted to start believing in something totally reckless. 

"So," Seungmin mutters gently through the hypnotic atmosphere intruding on your minds and hearts, "what do you need to talk to me about?" 

Does he know? Can he read your mind? His smirk suggests he can. 

"Umm, well, it's something I've been thinking about lately...about us," you start with fluttering eyelids. 

"You have my complete and utter attention." Anyone can look at the focus in his eyes and tell he's being terrifyingly honest. 

Rolling your lips, you prepare the rapid beating muscle in your chest for the rollercoaster you're willingly climbing into.

But as hard as you may try to be concise, everything tumbles out as an incoherent stutter due to nervousness and the admiring look in Seungmin's gaze. "I think that…well, I know that I really like you and having you with me like this is really amazing, but...I feel like we've been dancing around something for a while and--at least I've been and...I'm scared but also I don't want to ignore it anymore." 

He smiles at you, innocent and ignorant. "What's that?" 

You bravely peck his lips suddenly and he freezes, stunned completely motionless. 

"The lack of romance in our romantic relationship. I mean, maybe I misunderstood what you meant when you said you wanted us to take care of each other and you didn't want a romantic relationship at all, but if I'm not wrong then I really really want--" 

His lips are on you in an instant, a deep inhale through his nose to bring you as close as physically possible and take in every part of you he can in a single moment. Pulling you impossibly close to himself, it doesn't take much encouragement to get your arms around his shoulders. 

He holds you steady there, supporting your body while his kiss makes a mess of your unsuspecting lips, milking every moment he can for everything it's worth because he's kissing you...finally. 

Not that he means to compare you, because it's impossible to measure how much you mean to him against anyone or anything else, but damn, the way you make his heart feel so full after it's been so emptied. Just the fact that you initiated this by kissing him first and the delicate, shy way you kiss him back--it feels as though you want him to kiss you, as opposed to tolerating his affection, and that is so special to him for so many reasons. 

When you decide to take a peak, you see his brow furrowed in intense concentration as his lips move professionally against your own. And when you push into his kiss, gripping his biceps to hang onto him, his expression reflects the absolute euphoria you instill in his bones, eyelids fluttering while closed tightly. Enamored by your wonderful person and ability to make him feel so strong yet so weak at the same time, Seungmin can't help but want you in every way possible. 

Your eyes float shut, completely encased in the feeling of his arms picking you up and supporting under your legs. You're sitting on clouds. 

Your kiss is separated only for a moment when Seungmin lowers onto the couch and proceeds to set you onto his lap, knees straddling him familiarly.

He sighs when your body relaxes into him, chest on chest, your cute little ass on his thighs. He never thought to appreciate the tremors of warmth one gets from supporting someone else's weight on their body but now, he's committed it to memory. He's slowly committing you to memory. 

You haven't made out with anyone in three years but so far everything is basically the same. Desperate clinging of hands on hips and shoulders, sighs against kisses, nearly invisible smiles sneaked in-between delicate whispers of names and wishes. 

"I've wanted to kiss you for so long…" 

"Why didn't you?” 

“I don't know. I'm an idiot.” 

"Your voice changed." You didn't mean to point it out, the words just spilled as you took in every detail of his being. 

With lips still ghosting and bodies nearly floating, he smiles as if he's already aware that his voice dropped four octaves and it sends shivers down your spine. 

"Is it a good change? You like it when my voice drops like this?" 

You nod, pecking at his top lip to lead your two mouths back into a smooth rhythm. Like a dance you've been doing for years, you fall back into a comfortable pace. 

"That's just what you do to me, ___. You're just amazing." 

It's not his fault. It's yours. Because you're so goddamn irresistible to him and he can't help his human need to feel skin on skin, even if it's just his fingertips. His head gets high off the drug in your kiss, so his heart is all that's left to call the shots. And his heart has a direct line to his hands, they go where they feel you should be held. 

You jerk when his palms slide under your top, onto the bare skin of your ribs. It doesn't matter how gentle he is, how soft his hands are, or how special his intentions. You can't help but squirm. 

"Sorry," you immediately apologize when the kiss is forced to a premature stop, sighing in frustration at yourself. 

His hands have already removed themselves, hovering over your body now. "No, I should have asked before I just stuck my hands under your shirt like that. I'm the one who's sorry." 

"I just...I should say something." 

"Okay, say whatever you need to, baby." 

"This is the most romantic we've been since we became...okay, that's the thing. We promised to protect each other, but what does that mean?" 

He flashes you a confused but willing smile. "What exactly are you asking me for?" 

You swallow, fingers fidgeting with the loose strings of his sweatpants. With attempted courage, you look into his eyes and say, "A title." 

There you said it. Good god, you're terrified. The last time you held a title, it was mistreated beyond forgiveness. And yet here you are, asking for it once again. While some may say you haven't learned anything, this is actually you proving it is possible to come out of a difficult and painful trauma stronger and more sure of what you deserve. Because this time you're asking for it from someone strong but gentle. Powerful but compassionate.

"But you're already my girlfriend." 

"I am?" 

He blinks at you. "Of course, you are. We've been dating for weeks now, ___, wasn't that obvious?" 

You shrug, embarrassed. "We never said the words girlfriend and boyfriend, so I didn't know. I'm sorry." 

He nods, gently stroking the hair beside your ear. "You don't need to be sorry. This is just the kind of stuff you learn about each other when you're in a relationship. I'll work on being more direct about stuff from now on, okay?" 

His words relax you a bit, your legs falling lax across his lap and your hips rolling comfortably over his hips. 

Up until this point, Seungmin has attempted to keep himself to himself, for the sake of your comfort of course. He knows you get nervous about that kind of stuff and he wants to respect you more than anything because he feels like your ex never did. You're such a special person to him, more so than he's willingly admitted, and while you may not be aware of the mental battle he fights, you must be aware of how desperate he is for you. 

"Okay. Umm, Seungmin?" 

"Yeah?" he responds casually, still allowing you to sit prettily on his lap. 

"What do I need to work on?" 

He taps his chin and hums thoughtfully. "Taking initiative maybe? You're brave, I know you are, so go after what you want. Whether that's taking up some random stranger's offer to be a model--" you chuckle when he winks at you, "--or calling out your coworker for dumping their workload on you all the time. You know you deserve better, so you just need to trust yourself." 

"Trust myself," you repeat quietly, "go after what I want…" 

You lean forward to kiss him again, small fingers spread across his cheeks and jawline, guiding him into a sensual and tasteful rhythm. Only this time, your body rocks in time with your lips and your tongue flicks over his bottom lip, as if to tease desire into his heart and soul. 

He instantly reacts to taste you fully. It's hard not to smile when he parts his lips for you and releases an involuntary whine. It does loads for your confidence though, giving you that extra something needed to run your fingers through his hair. 

He's hesitating. Even though you initiated this, he's the one holding back. You can feel his fingers fidgeting with the edge of your sweater, slowly dipping beneath to feel your skin and then quickly pulling the fabric back down again. 

"___, we don't have to do anything you don't want to," he pulls away from your lips to say, "please don't feel like you have to do anything just because I advised you to take more initiative." 

"I'm trusting myself and I trust you. I'm going to go after what I want. I want this. I want you, Kim Seungmin." 

“You want me?” 

“So much.” 

You have to be aware by now of Seungmin's desire to protect those he loves. It's a part of his natural person, his overall character. The fact that you feel not only safe with him but that you're willing to expose your heart and body to him in this way means more to him than you realize at this moment. 

"Should we take this to the bedroom then?" 

"Your bedroom?" You're not necessarily nervous to be taking this step, you're more so surprised since Seungmin usually makes you avoid that space. "Are you sure?" 

Instead of answering, Seungmin scoops his hands under your thighs and stands up, bringing you along with him. 

As he walks to the back, you feel a sudden sense of wonder. He's so wonderful. The way he smiles so genuinely at you, the way he gently sits you on the bed, the way he kisses your forehead as he guides you to strip and lay down beneath him. 

He sighs at the feeling, allowing you to hold him as close as you wish, resting some of his weight onto you and filling himself with your scent and taste until all that's left is you. You and your beautifully addictive essence. 

As you kiss the eagerness between your bodies grows. Seungmin strips, giving you the first look at his body and how mesmerizingly gorgeous he is. 

He places a small pillow underneath your lower back and one behind your head, brushing your hair from your face and leaving a few grateful and sensual kisses to your temple.  

"Ready?" he asks, already completely breathless.

"Yes, please," you reply with another kiss to his face, combing your fingers into his hair and brushing back his bangs so you can see that beautiful forehead. 

But he doesn't move. He hovers over you there, feeling the urge to finally have you, but he can't make himself rock forward. 

"Sorry," he tries to play it off with a chuckle and takes another deep breath. "Okay, here we go." 

You gasp, subconsciously spreading your thighs and closing your eyes as you drink in the feeling of his intimacy. 

But he doesn't move. 

"Damn it, I'm sorry," he sighs, rolling to his back beside you, heels of his palms pressed to his eyes. 

Confused, with your body suddenly exposed and abandoned, your limbs curl in on themselves. 

His head shakes back and forth, frustrated and haunted by the disturbing sound of her voice echoing throughout his thoughts. 

"Seungmin?" You carefully roll to your side, legs closing and body cold without his warmth and weight over you. "What's wrong?" 

His arms drop to the sheets, punching the mattress in utter distress as a stray tear slides it's way down the side of his face. Your entire chest sinks into your stomach. 

"I can't get her out of my head." 

Somehow you know immediately who her is. 

"You're thinking about your ex while in bed with me?" 

"No!" he instantly corrects you, rolling to face you on his side too. "No, not like that at all." 

"Then what's wrong?" 

Remembering his promise to be more direct, Seungmin takes a moment to catch his breath, sitting up against the headboard. 

"The truth is I dumped my ex after I found out she cheated on me." 

"Oh no…" 

This is news. You were under the impression he dumped her because she was mean or, as Seungmin said before, she wasn't the one. Kneeling beside him on the bed now, a gentle hand reaching out to hold his fingers, you let him confess what he's kept from you up until this point, judgment free. 

"Apparently, my ex cheated because I didn't, umm, I couldn't satisfy her. And now I'm really worried that..." His fingers fold around your hand but it's not lovingly. He's scared. 

"Why didn't you tell me before?" 

"I was embarrassed." He shrugs, eyes finding yours again but they're past the point of misty. "I thought I could get over it myself because in my heart I knew it didn't have anything to do with me. She was just a cruel, unloyal bitch." His expression breaks, lips turned downward and head falling back like a thousand pounds. "But she still got to me and now I've ruined our first time together because I can't get her words out of my head." 

You were haunted by the damage your ex left on your soul and heart for three years. Seungmin has barely had three months to heal from the wounds his ex left behind. And while some may measure his wounds against others and judge him for not being able to get back on his feet himself, you know it's not that simple. When someone you trusted, someone you thought cared shows their true, ugly colors to you, it's a sight you carry with you no matter how heavy and uncomfortable the baggage. Not because you want to, god no. But because they left their red string of lies around your wrists and it's tied to whatever weight they decided to drop off the cliff. 

Even with his eyes closed, Seungmin senses the shift in weight as you climb over his lap, arms slipping around his neck. Your entire body encases him in a hug and he folds his arms around you too. Nothing suggestive, nothing enticing, just a hug to hold one another while the lies from your pasts simmer away. 

"I'm not sure exactly how to say this because I've never said it before but," you slowly pull away to look in his eyes, thumbs brushing beneath his eyes as you gently tell him, "you are the greatest man I've ever met in my entire life." 

This manages to make him chuckle. He swallows his last few tears and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay. Thanks." 

"I mean it! Fuck your ex. Don't really because you should do me instead, but forget about her. She doesn't deserve any part of you. Not your heart, not your attention, not your embarrassment, and certainly not your affection. You've already made me feel so good, baby, my body is literally shaking in anticipation for what you can do to me." You leave small pecks and butterfly kisses down his neck and across his collarbone, silently instructing him to sit back as you work your way down. 

His chest starts to rise and fall again, his breath glitching when your mouth grazes across his skin. 

"You're absolutely amazing, every inch of you." 

And with every kiss, your lips cut through all that useless red string and all that weight, all those lies she used to crush his spirit just to make her black heart look less repulsive, it all disappears. 

And then he just can't keep it inside anymore. When you return to his lips, it spills out, like a broken dam, or in your opinion, a beautiful waterfall. 

"I'm so in love with you, ___. Desperately in love with you.” 

It's not weird. It's not awkward. It's not out of place at all. It makes sense. It makes perfect, euphoric sense. 

"I'm in love with you too, Seungmin." 

“Please don't leave tonight." 

You smile, resting your forehead on his shoulder as your body and heart attempts to process everything that's happening. 

"I don't want to leave." 

"Good." 

It's strange. These are the kind of moments you read about in stories or see in movies. The guy isn't ever really voluntarily this caring, is he? 

Well, at least you can say with certainty, Seungmin is. 

"What do you think would have happened if my blind date hadn't stood me up that day?" you ask out of curiosity. 

Seungmin pauses. "I don't know," he replies, scooting you closer, practically disappearing inside his safe, warm, and loving embrace. "I'm glad he did though. I owe everything to that guy." 

:: 

And also—totally not into girls.

At least, that’s what you’d always assumed.

He never talked about hookups. Never ogled girls. Never so much as blinked when you pranced around in your tiny shorts or ranted about your latest sex-related disaster. You figured he was either the most respectful man alive—or playing for a different team.

So you got reckless. Comfortable.

And today?

You were about to find out just how wrong you’d been.

It started with the kitchen sink.

You were washing dishes, half-dancing to your playlist, wearing nothing but those soft cotton shorts and an oversized white tank with no bra underneath. Your wet hair clung to your neck, and you were humming through a verse when the faucet burst—literally—spraying a jet of cold water straight at your chest.

“FUCK—shit, fuck—” You stumbled back, grabbing at the handle, slipping on the tile as water drenched you from neck to stomach.

And that’s when Minho walked in.

“Yo, I got the charger you—”

He froze.

You blinked at him, soaked and panting, hair plastered to your cheeks.

Water trickled down the front of your now see-through top. The fabric clung to every inch of your skin. And your nipples? Standing out like full spotlight, front row through the sheer cotton. You had no idea though, no time to even think about it before he had appeared.

“Oh.” You laughed, awkward. “Um—hi. Broken faucet. Don’t mind the wet t-shirt contest.”

He didn’t answer.

Just stood there.

Eyes glued to your chest, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring like he was trying to hold his breath.

Your smile faded.

“Min?”

His gaze finally snapped to your face.

Too late.

You saw it—the tension. The fire.

The unmistakable flicker of hunger.

And suddenly your stomach flipped.

“…Minho?”

He swallowed hard, voice low. Rough.

“Put something on. Now.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I said—” His eyes dropped again before yanking back up. “Go change. Now. Before I do something really fucking stupid.”

Your heart skipped.

Because that? That didn’t sound like your best friend.

You stood there in wet silence, your soaked top clinging to your skin like a second damn layer, Minho couldn’t meet your eyes.

He turned his back to you—turned his back—and gripped the edge of your countertop like he was grounding himself. His shoulders rose with each breath, tense as hell, like someone trying not to explode.

You’d never seen him like this. Not with you.

“I wasn’t—Min, I didn’t mean—” you stammered, brain short-circuiting. “I didn’t know you were coming over yet.”

His voice was clipped. “You knew the faucet was broken.”

“I didn’t know it was gonna blast me in the tits!”

Silence.

A beat.

Then, quietly—so quietly—you heard it:

“Jesus Christ…”

That’s when something finally clicked.

You looked down at yourself—at the sheer fabric sticking to your breasts, nipples hard, outline of your curves totally exposed. And for the first time in all the years of being this careless around him, you suddenly felt self-conscious.

You reached for a dish towel and held it over your chest.

“…Are you mad at me?” you asked, voice small.

“No,” he said quickly. Too quickly.

You stepped closer.

“Then what’s going on?”

He shook his head, still facing away. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Try me.”

He let out a breath that sounded more like a growl, and when he finally turned around, you caught it again—that look. Raw, unfiltered restraint. His gaze flicked down to the towel you’d pressed to your chest, then back to your face.

You watched him like he was someone else.

Like the Minho you grew up with had peeled off his skin and left something sharper underneath. His jaw was tight, arms folded, eyes still avoiding yours—but you felt it now. That edge. That static charge that had been humming under the surface for who knows how long.

“I’ll fix the faucet later,” he muttered, stepping past you—carefully. Like you were made of glass. Or fire.

You turned as he moved, towel still clutched to your chest.

“You didn’t answer me,” you said.

“About what?”

“Why you told me to change.”

He stopped at the door.

Didn’t turn around.

For a long second, you thought he wouldn’t say anything at all.

Then, quietly, he replied:

“Because if I’d kept looking at you, I don’t think I would’ve kept my mouth shut.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

And when he walked out of the kitchen, just like that, it was like the whole room shifted.

The air changed.

Everything felt warmer. Tighter. Thinner.

You didn’t move for a while. Not until the cold in your soaked top finally made your skin sting.

⸻

The rest of the day passed weirdly.

Minho didn’t leave, of course. He stayed like he always did, lounging on your couch, bickering over what to order for dinner, side-eyeing you every time you grabbed your phone.

But the energy between you?

Completely different.

He didn’t look at you the way he usually did. Didn’t tease you like normal. Didn’t even touch you when he passed you the remote—just tossed it like it might burn him otherwise.

And you couldn’t stop thinking about his voice in the kitchen.

“I don’t think I would’ve kept my mouth shut.”

Kept it shut about what, exactly?

What he was thinking?

What he wanted to do?

You were still thinking about it when you came out of your room later in a sleep shirt that barely skimmed your thighs. No bra. Nothing underneath. The usual you-in-your-element vibe.

Except… this time?

You caught him looking.

Not accidentally.

Not briefly.

He looked—and kept looking.

From your legs to your hips to the faint hint of nipple under the thin fabric, straight to your face.

Your breath caught.

He didn’t apologize.

He didn’t blink.

He just raised a brow—almost like a dare—and said, “Your sink’s still fucked.”

You nodded, slowly.

“So are you gonna fix it?”

He stood up.

And as he passed by, way too close, his hand brushed the curve of your lower back.

Just a touch.

Too casual to be called a grab. Too deliberate to be innocent.

And then he was gone again, heading into the kitchen.

Like it hadn’t just happened at all.

⸻

He always crashed in your bed. That wasn’t new.

Late movie nights, sleepy arguments, limbs tangled and breathing synced—just best friends, just comfort.

Except tonight?

You felt everything.

His warmth at your back. The heaviness of his arm draped around your waist. The intentional silence of him pretending to be asleep, even though you could feel how tense he was.

You’d turned off the lights twenty minutes ago, but your body was still buzzing. Hyperaware of every inch of skin not covered by your flimsy sleep shirt. Every inch of him pressed against you in the dark.

And you knew—you knew—he hadn’t stopped thinking about earlier.

About how you’d looked dripping wet, nipples hard, shirt transparent and clinging to your curves like a second skin.

You should’ve felt awkward.

But instead, your thighs were clenched.

And then—His hand moved.

Just a little.

At first, it was nothing. A small adjustment. His fingers splayed over your stomach like they were stretching in his sleep. But then his palm drifted higher.

Slow.

Barely grazing the underside of your breast through your shirt.

Your breath caught.

His did too.

Like he just realized what his body was doing.

He didn’t pull away.

Not immediately.

His fingers twitched, tips brushing right beneath the curve of your boob—soft, tentative. Still pretending it was nothing. That he was asleep. That this wasn’t completely out of bounds.

Your chest rose and fell faster now.

He still didn’t speak.

But his hand stayed there.

Hovering. Teasing. The edge of a full touch, like he was testing himself. Or punishing himself.

And you?

You didn’t stop him.

You didn’t even breathe.

You just pressed back into him slightly—so slightly—and felt the undeniable shape of him, hard and restrained against the swell of your ass.

He exhaled shakily behind you.

Shit.

You’d never heard him make a sound like that before. Not around you.

Not around anyone.

You didn’t move for a while.

Didn’t even blink. Not when his fingers hovered beneath your breast, not when you felt his cock pressed firm and restrained against the curve of your ass. You just stayed still—heart hammering, skin burning—like your body was listening for his next move.

But when none came…

You shifted.

Just a little. Barely a breath of movement. Just enough to arch your back, push your chest forward, and guide the soft swell of your breast right into his palm.

His fingers twitched again.

But he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t say your name. Didn’t jerk back in shock or guilt. He just stayed there—completely still behind you, breathing shallow and slow like he was holding onto sleep as a defense.

Your nipples were hard beneath the thin cotton, the heat of his palm sinking through the fabric like an electric brand. It was barely a touch—but it felt filthy. Loaded. More intimate than anything you’d done with someone you were actually sleeping with.

And still, you stayed quiet.

Still.

Sleeping.

His thumb brushed the soft curve below your nipple. Just once. Barely there. Like a reflex.

And this time, his hips shifted too.

The press of him against your ass sharpened—more deliberate now. Less restrained. Like his body had stopped asking for permission and started taking what you weren’t stopping.

His hand tightened—slightly.

He was pretending to be asleep, you realized.

Just like you were.

If either of you acknowledged it, the world would crack open.

So you didn’t.

You just let it happen.

Let his hand cup your breast like it was meant to be there. Let his hips roll forward in the slowest, tiniest grind. Let your legs shift apart just enough that your thighs stopped brushing—and instead, welcomed.

He let out another one of those breaths—low, shaky, wrecked.

You smiled into the pillow.

Still not breathing.

Still “asleep.”

And behind you, your best friend since diapers was losing his last scrap of composure.

—

The morning came too fast.

Sunlight crept through your curtains like it knew what happened. Like it saw every second of that not-a-dream moment where his hand cupped your breast and his hips rolled into yours like it wasn’t the first time he’d imagined it.

He was already in the kitchen when you woke up.

Hair messy, hoodie wrinkled, acting like everything was normal. Like he hadn’t spent the night wrapped around you with his cock pressed to your ass and his hand full of your tit.

You padded out barefoot, keeping your face unreadable.

He handed you a mug. “You were out cold.”

Liar.

You took it, fingers brushing his, watching him too closely.

“So were you.”

A flicker—barely there—but his eyes twitched toward you for a split second. Like he was trying to see if you meant something more.

You let him sit with the tension.

You drank your coffee slow.

“You ever think…” you began softly, “maybe I’ve just been really fucking stupid?”

He looked up from his cereal. “Since when?”

You tilted your head. “Since assuming you weren’t into girls.”

He blinked. Slowly. Carefully.

That… got his attention.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh it off. Just sat there—silent—and then brought the spoon to his mouth like nothing had happened.

But his voice, when he finally answered, was low. Controlled.

“What makes you ask that?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. You never dated any. Never flirted. You never reacted when I walked around like—” you gestured vaguely at yourself—“this. So I figured, you know. Must be the reason.”

Another pause.

His eyes dropped to your thighs.

You were wearing the same sleep shirt.

No bra still.

Of course he noticed.

But he didn’t give you that satisfaction. He set the spoon down and leaned back in the chair, stretching lazily like his body hadn’t betrayed him eight hours ago in your bed.

“Maybe I’m just good at not talking about certain things,” he said.

That hit harder than it should have.

You stared at him.

And for the first time in a long time—you didn’t see your best friend.

You saw a man who’d been holding himself back for years.

You’d never stared at his crotch before.

That was the first red flag.

You weren’t even trying to. Just sitting across from him on the couch while he scrolled through his phone, hoodie riding up slightly, grey sweatpants loose and slung criminally low on his hips. You weren’t supposed to notice the shape beneath. The outline. The fact that you recognized the pressure of it against your ass last night because it had left an imprint on your nervous system.

You blinked away quickly.

Jesus.

You sipped your water like it could douse whatever fire had started in your chest—and your thighs.

He didn’t notice.

Of course he didn’t.

Lee Minho was the king of unreadable faces. That man could watch you strip naked and probably wouldn’t flinch. It was part of the reason you’d always felt safe around him. And the same reason you were losing your mind now.

You needed to know.

If you were wrong. If he’d just been hiding in plain sight. If that touch last night had been a fluke. A dream. Or something darker.

So you tested it.

That evening, while he sat on the floor building a shelf you couldn’t be bothered to finish, you leaned in behind him.

Loose tank top. Braless as usual. Intentional bend.

He turned slightly. Saw your chest from the side—too close, too exposed, one nipple practically peeking through the armhole.

His jaw clenched.

But he said nothing.

Strike one.

You tried again.

Pulled your hair up messily, exposing your neck, your back. Made small, breathy sounds when you stretched. Loud enough to hear. Soft enough to pass as innocent.

Still nothing.

Strike two.

You were practically writhing at this point. Trying to piss him off or fluster him, something.

But Lee Minho stayed quiet.

You weren’t sure what exactly you were trying to prove anymore.

That he wasn’t gay? That he wanted you? That you could still control this friendship even when everything was shifting beneath your feet?

Maybe it was all of it.

But you were already halfway in his lap before you had time to second guess it.

“You’re not good at building shit,” you teased, voice sweet as sugar while you hovered close, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. “Lucky I’m cute enough to get away with watching instead of helping.”

He grunted—low, disinterested. But his eyes betrayed him. You saw the flicker—straight to your chest, to the deep dip of cleavage you’d made extra sure he’d notice.

Bingo.

You leaned closer. Pretending to inspect a screw on the shelf. Your tits brushed his upper arm.

He went still.

“You okay there, Min?” you asked softly. Coy.

He cleared his throat. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?”

“This,” he said. He didn’t look at you. “Whatever game you’re playing right now.”

“I’m not playing anything.”

“Yes, you are.”

You tilted your head. “What are you talking about?”

Silence.

Then, quieter: “I’m warning you.”

Oh, that did something to you.

He sounded like he meant it. Like he was afraid of himself more than you. And maybe he should’ve been—because you were reckless now. Hyped up on the taste of your own power, drunk on the image of him with your tit in his hand last night.

You pulled your tank top aside from the arm hole just a little. No bra. Just the soft swell of skin—more than enough to tempt. His eyes snapped to it instantly.

“Go ahead,” you whispered. “Touch me.”

He swallowed.

Didn’t move.

So you took his hand yourself—slowly, deliberately—and pressed it to your breast.

Flesh to palm.

He exhaled sharp. Visibly flinched. But he didn’t pull away.

You arched into his touch.

“You’ve never been curious?” you asked, voice lower now, almost daring. “Never once wondered what they felt like? You’ve known me your whole life, Minho…”

His thumb twitched. Brushed the underside like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

You smiled faintly.

But then he tightened his grip—just slightly—and your breath caught.

“You think I’ve been ignoring you all these years?” he asked, voice dark now. Steady. Dangerous. “You think I don’t notice when you walk around half naked? You think I don’t see the way your tits bounce when you laugh?”

You froze.

Oh.

Oh shit.

“You think I don’t feel them when you’re sleeping pressed against me?” His thumb brushed up now—barely grazing your nipple. It stiffened instantly. So did you.

“Minho…”

His hand dropped away suddenly, like he was snapping out of it.

“You need to stop,” he said, standing up too fast. “Before you push me too far.”

You stared up at him from the floor, dazed.

For the first time… you realized you might’ve already pushed too far.

—

It was hours later when you finally crawled into bed.

He was already in it—lying on his side, facing away, blanket riding low on his waist and exposing the tight line of muscle up his back.

Your heart was still pounding.

He hadn’t said a single thing after storming out earlier. Not during dinner. Not while you cleaned the mess from the half-finished shelf. Not while you avoided looking at him like he hadn’t cupped your tit like a stress ball.

And now you were lying beside him again, like nothing had changed.

You couldn’t tell if you were relieved or disappointed.

You turned your back to him, the usual position when you shared a bed, but the air felt different tonight. Dense. Stifling.

“Hey,” you whispered in the dark. “Are we… okay?”

His voice came low. Controlled. “You tell me.”

You swallowed. “You seemed… upset earlier.”

“I was,” he said. “I’m not anymore.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

Then, casually:

“You looked at my dick today.”

You choked. “What?! No I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

You rolled onto your back, flustered. “You can’t prove that.”

“I don’t need to. I know your face. I’ve known it since you had baby teeth.”

You blinked at the ceiling. Your face was burning.

He shifted then—closer. The bed dipped behind you. His chest met your back.

And something else pressed against your ass.

Hard. Solid. Undeniable.

You gasped.

His lips brushed your ear. Calm. Evil.

“That’s payback,” he said softly, “for putting your tits in my hand.”

You forgot how to breathe.

He didn’t move.

Neither did you.

The air between you was molten now, and his cock—fuck, that was his cock—was still heavy and pulsing against your ass like he was proud of it.

“Minho…”

“You wanted to know,” he said, voice silk and fire. “You’ve been trying to get a reaction out of me all day. So now you’ve got one.”

You felt him smirk.

“What’s wrong?” he murmured. “Too much?”

You couldn’t answer.

Not when your thighs were squeezing together like they had a mind of their own. Not when your heart was a drum and your skin burned where it touched his.

You didn’t say anything at first.

Just stayed frozen in place, his cock pressed thick and solid against the soft curve of your ass, your entire body vibrating with heat.

Your lips moved before your brain could stop them.

“…Can I touch it?”

Silence.

Not even a breath behind you.

Then— “What?”

You swallowed, your voice weirdly calm now. “I just… I wanna feel it. Like—actually feel it. With my hand.”

A sound escaped his throat. Sharp. Choked.

“You’re kidding.”

You turned around slowly, facing him in the dark. His eyes locked on yours—blown, stunned, like you’d slapped him with a brick made of sin.

You didn’t wait for another answer.

Your eyes dropped straight to his crotch.

And your hand followed.

The blanket shifted just enough as you slipped beneath it, and your palm found him right where he’d pressed up against you before—still just as thick, still painfully hard, straining beneath the soft fabric of his sweatpants.

You cupped him gently.

Minho jerked.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered, face twisting. “What the hell are you doing…”

“Just curious,” you murmured, gaze fixed on the shape of him under your hand. “You’re so… big.”

He groaned, head dropping back into the pillow.

Your fingers squeezed lightly. You were sure you felt him twitch.

“You’ve been like this all night?” you asked, eyes wide.

He hissed through his teeth. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Why not?” you teased, still stroking. “It’s not like I’m doing anything serious.”

“That’s the fucking problem,” he gritted out, hips twitching into your hand.

You explored him like you were learning something new, weighing the heft of him through his pants, tracing the long, thick outline up and down.

He was breathing heavier now. Jaw clenched. Eyes shut.

“You can tell me to stop,” you whispered.

He didn’t.

So you slipped your hand inside.

No warning.

Just fingers beneath the waistband, sliding inside until you were wrapping your hand around bare, hot skin.

Minho choked.

“Fuck—fuck—”

You stroked slowly, palm tight around the base, sliding up to the head and back again. He was massive. Velvet over steel. Already leaking a little at the tip.

He bucked into your hand before he could stop himself, hips twitching under the weight of your touch.

“Is this payback too?” you asked, lips barely moving.

His eyes flew open.

“Keep talking and I’ll fuck your throat instead.”

Your hand froze.

Your heart flipped.

Your thighs clenched so hard it hurt.

But then, you looked up at him. Still holding him. Still stroking him.

His cock twitched in your hand, thick and aching, as you slowly dragged your fingers up the shaft and back down, your touch featherlight—teasing.

Minho’s eyes were glassy now, dark and stormy and wild, like he was barely keeping himself together. His jaw clenched. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts.

You felt powerful. Dangerous.

So you looked up at him—bold, daring—and said, “So? Still want me to stop?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just blinked at you like he was seeing you for the first time. His voice came hoarse and wrecked.

“Are you crazy?”

You tilted your head. “Maybe.”

“This is—” He swallowed. “We’re—”

“Friends?” you offered, sliding your hand again, slower now. “Childhood besties? Practically siblings?”

He winced. “God, don’t say that.”

You smiled.

And then, without another word, you sat up on your knees and tugged your oversized sleep shirt over your head—bare underneath. Just skin and heat and those same soft breasts he’d felt in his hands earlier.

They bounced slightly as you moved, and the room went still.

His breath hitched. His eyes dropped—dragged—to your chest.

It was the second time he’d seen them that night.

“I’m sure,” you said simply.

Something broke in him.

He sat up so fast the mattress shook, one hand grabbing your wrist, the other threading hard into your hair. He yanked you forward, his mouth crashing into yours with so much heat it knocked the breath from your lungs.

You gasped into the kiss, and he devoured it—biting, claiming, groaning into your mouth like he’d been starving for years.

“This what you wanted?” he growled, lips trailing down your neck, teeth dragging over your collarbone. “You really wanted to see what I’d do?”

You whimpered, nodding, fingers already clawing at the waistband of his sweats.

“Too late to take it back now,” he muttered against your skin, before ducking down and wrapping his lips around your nipple—hard.

Your back arched. His tongue flicked, sucked, bit.

“Minho—”

“I’ve dreamed about these,” he groaned, switching to the other breast, kneading the first one in his palm like he was worshiping it. “You don’t know what the fuck you’ve done to me.”

Your whole body was trembling, his hands now everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding down your back, yanking you flush against his chest as he rutted up into you, his cock still trapped in his sweats, still throbbing.

“Need to feel you,” he rasped. “Need to have you.”

“Then take me,” you breathed. Without even thinking about it.

And for a second, Minho froze.

Not because he didn’t want to—his hands were already sliding lower, gripping your hips with bruising force—but because the way you’d said it… so open, so needy, so real… it shook him.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” he whispered, forehead pressing against yours, his voice raw, trembling. “Because if I start, I won’t stop this time.”

Your chest heaved against his, nipples dragging over his skin, and his self-control nearly snapped again right there. You could feel him under you, thick and hot through the fabric of his sweats, the tip pressed right against your soaked panties. One shift of your hips and—

“I’m not asking you to stop,” you whispered back.

He groaned, low and guttural, like the sound had been buried in his chest for years. You kissed him again—slow, deep, your tongues tangling like this wasn’t the first time. Like your bodies already knew the steps.

And maybe they did.

His hand slid between your thighs, pressing the heel of his palm right where you were aching most. Your hips jerked.

“Already soaked,” he rasped, biting down on your lip. “Fuck—have you always been like this around me?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. His fingers dipped beneath your waistband, brushing over your soaked folds through your underwear—just enough to make you moan.

“You’re playing with fire,” he warned, mouth now at your ear, voice shaking. “You keep tempting me like this, and I swear—”

“Then burn me,” you whispered, grinding down on his hand.

He snapped again—grabbing your ass and flipping you onto your back like he’d been holding back all his life. The sudden dominance in his movements made your breath hitch.

Minho hovered over you, both of you half-naked now, tangled in sweatpants and damp underwear and a thousand repressed thoughts.

His hand moved with purpose now, cupping your mound, rubbing slow circles over your clit, lips pressed to your neck.

You whimpered, bucked.

“Don’t tease,” you begged.

He chuckled darkly. “Says the one who’s been waving her tits in my face for years.”

You gasped—half embarrassed, half turned on—and he pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

“Tell me to stop,” he said softly. “Or I’m going to ruin your sleep.”

You stared at him, panting. You wanted him. Needed him. But something inside you whispered—not yet. Not like this. Not while everything was still unraveling too fast.

“Not tonight,” you murmured, heart racing.

His expression shifted, softening in a way that made your chest ache.

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

But his fingers didn’t move right away. He gave you one last teasing brush, slow and aching.

“For the record,” he added, voice like gravel, “this is me trying to behave.”

You giggled, breathless.

“I can tell.”

And then he pulled you into his chest, kissed your forehead, and let the fire between you simmer.

You didn’t have sex that night.

But neither of you slept much, either.

⸻

It had only been three days.

Three days since Minho had slipped out with nothing but a cryptic, “I’ll see you later,” and a soft kiss to your temple. Two days since you’d almost let your best friend finger you into oblivion under the safety of your shared covers. And now he was gone.

Well, not gone-gone. Just back at his apartment. Just out of reach. Just far enough to not risk really doing what your bodies had been begging for.

He hadn’t ghosted. Not exactly. Just a little space, a few texts. “Sorry, been busy.” “Work’s a lot this week.” “I’ll come by soon.”

But soon wasn’t now. And now… was when you were sprawled out on your bed, fingers between your thighs, a familiar silicone toy buzzing softly inside you—desperate to chase that same friction you almost got from him.

It wasn’t the same. Nothing could be. But the thoughts in your head? Those were filthy enough to get the job done.

Your mind kept flashing back to the night before he left: his voice in your ear, his thick cock pressed to your core, the way he’d looked at you like he’d been starving. You whined as your hips rolled, tightening your grip on the toy buried inside you.

Then your phone lit up.

Minho calling.

You froze, heart skipping. Fuck.

You hesitated just long enough for it to ring again—and then answered, trying to level your breath.

“Hey,” you managed, voice just a bit too airy.

“Hey,” he said, voice casual, low. “Were you sleeping?”

“Nope.” You exhaled hard through your nose, the vibrator still inside you, pulsing away like it knew your secrets. “Just… relaxing.”

“Mmm.” His voice dropped, curious. “You sound out of breath.”

You swallowed. Hard. “Tired day. I was just—y’know. Lying down.”

The vibrator kicked up just a notch, and your thighs jerked. He kept talking.

“Sorry I’ve been MIA. Been thinking about you, though.” His voice was warm, familiar. God, his voice. “A lot, actually.”

A sharp breath escaped you. You hoped it sounded natural. It didn’t.

“…You okay?” he asked, his tone shifting just slightly. “You sound—off.”

You could barely think anymore. Your head was buzzing. Your thighs were trembling. And you didn’t dare stop.

“I’m fine,” you rasped.

But then you whimpered. Barely. Just a little hitch in your throat.

He paused. “Wait. Are you—are you doing something?”

Your whole body froze.

“No,” you lied, voice high.

He went quiet. Too quiet.

“…Are you touching yourself right now?” His voice came low, dangerous. “While on the phone with me?”

Silence.

Then, another breathy whimper.

He growled. “Fuck. You are.”

You felt heat shoot up your spine.

“Keep going,” he said, voice gravel now. “Don’t stop. You started this.”

Your hips rolled again—slower this time, more deliberate—as you listened to him breathe, listened to the weight behind his words.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” he demanded. “While you fuck yourself to my voice.”

You bit down on your lower lip, squeezing your eyes shut as his words settled under your skin like molten honey.

“Tell me,” he said again, voice a touch lower, rougher now. “What were you thinking about?”

You whimpered. “You.”

He chuckled. Dark. Breathless.

“Yeah? What about me?”

You hesitated, hips twitching as your toy nudged just right inside you. “The way you felt that night,” you gasped. “The way you pressed into me from behind… the way your cock felt against me, even through the sheets—”

“Fuck.”

His reaction was sharp and immediate, a barely controlled groan through clenched teeth. You knew his hand was probably fisting the sheets or his thigh right now, trying to stop himself from touching the one thing he couldn’t have—yet.

“Are you still touching yourself?” he asked, voice thick.

“…Yes.”

“Good. Faster.”

The single command shot straight to your gut. Your fingers moved in rhythm with the toy now, chasing the heat blooming deep in your belly. You didn’t even care if he heard your wetness or the whines building in your throat anymore.

“Wish I could see you,” he breathed. “Wish I could have my hand over your mouth. You’re too loud, babe. You’d wake the whole damn building if I fucked you right now.”

“Minho—”

“Not yet,” he cut in. “You’ll come when I say so. Not a second sooner.”

You squeezed around the toy, aching, desperate, toes curling.

“Keep going. Just like that.” His voice was pure sin now, molten and slow. “You’ll come with my voice in your ear and my name on your lips, just like you should’ve that night.”

You whimpered.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say my name.”

“Minho—”

“Louder.”

“Minho.”

“Good girl,” he rasped. “Now come.”

You shattered.

Your back arched off the bed, thighs quaking, moan spilling raw and unfiltered from your lips as your body pulsed around the toy. You didn’t even try to hold it in anymore—he needed to hear it. He deserved to.

Silence stretched on the line after, only your wrecked breathing and the distant rasp of his own breath filling the space between you.

When he finally spoke again, it was with the voice of a man barely holding back his hunger.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he said softly, deadly. “Next time I get my hands on you… I’m not stopping until you forget anyone else ever made you come.”

The call ended.

You blinked at the screen, dazed, thighs still trembling.

But you didn’t sleep.

You changed into the first half-decent outfit you could find, tugged your hoodie over your head, and grabbed your keys with your heart hammering in your throat.

If he wasn’t going to come to you?

You’d damn well go to him.

—

You almost turned around three times. Once at the stoplight. Again when you parked in front of his building. And one last time while standing at his door, staring at the stupid number you’d memorized when you were ten.

You shouldn’t have been here.

But your body didn’t care. Not when it was still buzzing, still throbbing from the orgasm he commanded out of you through the phone not ten minutes ago. Your thighs were sticky, your bottom lip sore from how hard you’d been biting it in the car, nerves coiling in your belly like a wire about to snap.

Showing up like this—unannounced, in shorts that barely passed as clothing, no bra under your thin hoodie—wasn’t just reckless. It was deliberate. Dangerous.

You raised your hand and knocked before you could talk yourself out of it.

Footsteps came quickly. Heavy. The door flew open seconds later, and there he was.

Minho.

Still shirtless.

Sweatpants slung low on his hips. Hair a mess like he’d been pacing. His jaw was tense, chest rising like he hadn’t calmed down since the call ended. His eyes found yours and locked in like he could see through you.

He didn’t say a word.

Just looked at you.

Slow. Hungry. His gaze dragged from your flushed face to the zipper of your hoodie and lower—lingering on your bare thighs.

You shifted, suddenly feeling way too exposed.

“Say something,” you whispered.

His voice came out hoarse.

“You’re insane.”

“I know.”

Another pause. The air between you tightened.

He stepped forward. Just one step—and you backed up, your breath hitching.

“No bra?” he muttered like it hurt him. “You show up like this after what just happened—fuck—”

“I didn’t know what else to do.” You bit your lip, heat crawling up your neck. “I didn’t want to wait.”

That was it.

He snapped.

You didn’t even see him move—just felt the door slam shut behind you as he pushed you up against it, one arm shooting out to lock it without looking. His hands came to either side of your head, bracing himself like he was seconds away from self-destruction.

His breath hit your lips.

Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, like he was holding back something feral.

“Last chance,” he growled. “If you tell me right now you’re not sure, I’ll let you go. I’ll jerk off in the shower until my knees give out and pretend you never begged to come in my ear.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’m sure.”

That was all it took.

His mouth crashed into yours. Hungry. Deep. Unapologetic. It hit you like a wave—his tongue sliding in, his grip tightening, his body pressing flush against yours with an intensity that made your knees buckle.

One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head, while the other found your waist and gripped—like he was claiming territory.

A moan escaped into his mouth as you clung to his shoulders, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to the storm that was him.

Minho’s mouth was still glistening with you when he picked you up—one arm under your thighs, the other around your back. He didn’t even blink. Just carried you down the hall like it was nothing, your head pressed to his neck, body boneless from how hard he’d made you come.

His bed was unmade.

Sheets tossed. Pillows scattered. And you were in them seconds later, back hitting the mattress with a bounce.

Minho stood at the edge of the bed and looked at you.

Like he’d waited years for this moment. Like you were a fantasy come to life and he was deciding whether to kneel at your feet or tear you apart.

“You still want this?” he asked, voice low—gravel and smoke.

You didn’t answer. You showed him—legs spreading wider, hips tilting, your hand sliding down to part your slick folds. His eyes darkened.

“Fuck, okay,” he breathed, like he was short-circuiting. “Okay, baby.”

He crawled over you like a shadow, slow and heavy, his mouth finding your jaw first—then your neck, then your collarbone, biting as he went.

“You’ve been mine since we were kids,” he murmured into your skin, tongue flicking over a mark he’d just left. “You just didn’t know it.”

You gasped when his hips rolled against yours, his cock rubbing through your soaked folds, huge and leaking and so hot against your cunt.

“You feel that?” he asked, dragging it up and down—your body arching, chasing it. “You’ve had me like this for years. All those skirts. All that attitude.”

He gripped your jaw, making you look at him.

“You think I didn’t notice the way you got careless around me?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out—just a broken breath as he lined up, pressing just the tip in.

Your nails dug into his arms.

“Minho—”

“Shh,” he whispered. “I know, baby. I know.”

Then he pushed in.

Slow. Deep. Relentless.

And holy fuck.

Your eyes slammed shut, jaw dropping in a silent scream as he stretched you open. He didn’t stop until he was fully inside—until his hips were flush with yours and your cunt was full.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned into your neck. “So fucking tight.”

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

He pulled back just enough to drive back in—and again—again—building a rhythm that knocked the sanity right out of your head.

Minho fucked like he was carving his name into your body.

He was everywhere—teeth on your throat, hands on your tits, hips snapping hard and deep like he needed to ruin you.

And he was talking, too. Filthy. Possessive. All in that growly voice that made your toes curl.

“You gonna let me fill you up, baby?”

“Gonna fuck you so full you feel me for days.”

“You were made for this. For me. For my cock.”

You cried out when he grabbed your thigh and folded you in half, slamming deeper, finding that spot that made your entire body lock up.

“Right there?” he growled, eyes glued to your face. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s your spot.”

You were sobbing now—wet, broken sounds as your second orgasm raced up your spine.

“Minho, please—I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he snapped. “Right now. All over my cock. Let me feel it.”

And you did. Harder than before—louder, messier, more intense.

You clenched around him like a vice, and he lost it—groaning loud as he slammed in one final time and spilled inside you, hips jerking, body trembling above yours.

He stayed like that—deep and twitching inside you, sweat dripping down his temple, lips ghosting over yours as you both tried to come down.

You didn’t know how long you laid there—legs trembling, his cum leaking out of you, your fingers tangled in the sheets like you were afraid of floating away.

Minho hadn’t moved much either.

He was still inside you, chest to chest, your noses brushing each time he inhaled. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking softly along your jaw as he watched you with those warm, sleepy eyes—eyes that held none of the fury or possessiveness from before.

Just softness. Almost guilt.

“You okay?” he asked, voice husky but gentler now.

You nodded, but your throat was tight. And when you blinked up at him, he leaned down to kiss the corner of your mouth. Then your nose. Then your temple.

“Did I go too far?” he murmured.

“No,” you whispered, your voice small. “I liked it. I liked all of it.”

That made his lips twitch.

“Yeah?” he said, brushing his knuckles across your tits—lingering when your breath caught. “Even when I told you to shut up and take it?”

You swallowed hard. “Especially then.”

He chuckled under his breath and finally pulled out, making both of you hiss. You whined at the emptiness—at how sore and stretched you felt—and Minho’s gaze immediately dropped between your legs.

“Shit,” he muttered, almost reverent. “Look at that mess.”

You flushed, shifting your legs, but he pressed a hand to your thigh to stop you.

“Don’t hide,” he murmured. “You look so good like this. All ruined because of me.”

Then, to your surprise, he slid down the bed and kissed your inner thigh. Just once. Then again. Then right next to your sensitive center.

You flinched. “Minho—too much—”

He smiled and looked up at you from between your legs.

“Alright, baby,” he said. “I’ll be good.”

And he was.

For about two minutes.

Then he kissed his way up your body—lingering on your nipples, dragging his tongue across them until they stiffened again. You whimpered as he sucked softly, then bit gently—making your hips buck.

“I just wanna taste them,” he murmured. “You kept arching for me earlier like they needed attention.”

“They still do,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

He smirked. “Then don’t move.”

He licked and sucked until your chest was wet with his spit and your thighs pressed together again—need building back up in the pit of your stomach like a slow flame.

“Fuck,” you mumbled. “You’re gonna break me.”

He pulled back to look at you.

“Not yet,” he said, voice low. “But you did say you liked sucking cock, didn’t you?”

You blinked. “I—yeah—why—?”

He rolled off you and onto his back, cock already hard again—thick and flushed, still glistening from earlier.

“Then get over here.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

You crawled down the bed and straddled his thighs, eyes locked on the way he stroked himself, slow and heavy.

He tapped the tip against your lips. “Open up, baby.”

You did.

And he groaned the moment you took him in—just the head at first, tongue swirling around it, your lips tight and wet. He filled your mouth so easily, and you loved the way he shuddered when you gagged on him.

“That’s it,” he breathed, hand sliding into your hair. “So fucking pretty when you’re drooling on my cock.”

You moaned around him, and he twitched.

“You gonna swallow it all?” he asked, voice breaking a little. “You want me to come in your mouth this time?”

You sucked harder, nodding with tears in your eyes, and that was it.

He cursed—hips jerking, cock thickening—and seconds later he was spilling down your throat, one hand on your head as his other clutched the sheets.

You swallowed everything.

Every drop.

When you finally pulled off, eyes glassy and lips swollen, Minho reached for you and pulled you into his chest, kissing your forehead like he hadn’t just fucked your mouth like a man possessed.

“Now,” he whispered, pulling the blanket over both of you, “lets get some sleep.”

⸻

The morning light slipped in through the blinds in soft gold stripes, painting lazy patterns across the room.

You blinked awake slowly, body aching in the most indulgent way, wrapped in the scent of skin and sweat and fabric softener. The hoodie you had worn here last night was still crumpled somewhere on the floor—probably next to your shorts, your underwear, your dignity.

Minho’s arm was heavy around your waist. His chest was warm against your back. His breath ghosted over your shoulder in quiet puffs, slow and steady.

It didn’t feel real. It felt like one of those fantasies you used to jerk yourself off to in the dark, flushed and breathless, thinking about what it would feel like to fall asleep tangled up in him like this—after.

You stayed still as long as you could, just… absorbing it.

And then, of course, he ruined it by murmuring against your neck, voice still thick with sleep.

“Your thighs are twitching.”

You groaned. “Maybe because you almost broke them last night.”

He chuckled, low and pleased, then slid his hand over your hip and gave your inner thigh a light squeeze. “You came here cause you wanted me to do exactly that.”

Your cheeks flushed instantly. “Don’t remind me.”

“Why not? It’s my favorite memory now.”

You rolled over to face him, hair a mess, eyes still sleep-fogged. He looked unfairly gorgeous in the morning. Hair tousled. Eyes soft. The roughness from last night completely gone, replaced by something almost too gentle to be him.

He looked at you like he was thinking way too hard.

“What?” you asked quietly.

He reached up, brushed some hair from your face, fingers lingering at your jaw.

“You know this isn’t just sex for me, right?”

Your breath caught.

“I mean…” he licked his lips, eyes searching yours. “It can be, if that’s what you want. But I don’t think I can go back to just being your best friend. Not after this.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at him, trying to collect your heart off the floor where it had just dropped.

Finally, you whispered, “I don’t want to go back either.”

Minho exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that breath all night.

Then he leaned in and kissed you—soft and slow and sweet, like the question was already answered.

You melted into it. Into him. Into the shift.

Later, you’d get up. He’d make coffee. You’d steal one of his shirts. He’d tease you about the bite marks on your thighs. And you’d both pretend not to notice how domestic it already felt.

But for now, you stayed in bed—best friends turned something more—with his arms around you and your future somewhere in the spaces between his kisses.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: hi guys! Ok so the poll results from the Leeknow angry boy fic came out and it was a really close one. So instead of changing whats already written i decided to upload this to make it up to you guys! This is not an angst story or the angry boy replacement but this is a story for my romantics ❤️ Thanks alot for all your feedback really love you guys!

As if summoned —maybe the magic still lingers around?— Jisung pops his head inside the kitchen, with another two bags.

“Did I hear my name?” Han smiles, rubbing his hands together to easy the red, tight feeling the plastic bag left in his hands.

“Yeah, bitch,” Seungmin scoffs, “tryna max out your credit card—wait. Who paid for this?”

Jisung blinks, gasping. “Oh, I left the water bottles outside.”

“The juice was me, by the way,” you let out softly, moving side to side as you sat on the kitchen stool.

Cans clatter onto the counter, a bunch of parsley poking out from under a loaf of bread, and somewhere in the mess, a rogue apple rolls across the floor. Between the crinkling of paper and the thud of boxes, it feels like the bags will never end. Jisung and Felix should never go to the supermarket again unsupervised.

You hold back the need to laugh, not only at the crazy scene, but at Seungmin’s puzzled face.

“Are there more things there?” You giggle.

As you grab a plastic bag and peek inside, you frown. “What’s this?” you ask, fishing out a brightly colored packet with a name you didn’t dare to pronounce.

Silence.

Several heads snap toward you, as if you’ve just confessed a crime.

“You’re joking,” Seungmin says flatly.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Hyunjin echoes as he gets to the kitchen, already halfway to dramatic fainting.

“You’ve never had Pocky?” Felix gasps, a smile on his lips. “Where have you been—under a rock? On the moon?”

You blink, holding the snack defensively. “Am I… supposed to know?”

Jisung stares at you like you’ve just insulted Felix’s baking skills, leaving the water bottles on the floor.

“You’re not supposed to know,” Jisung says, snatching the packet from your hands like it’s too sacred to be handled by a novice. “You’re supposed to have lived it. This was childhood. This was lunchbox gold. This was—”

“—currency on the playground,” Jeongin chimes in solemnly, taking a seat on the stool next to Hyunjin.

“You know there’s a flippin’ day for this in Japan, right?” Felix chuckles, taking the other Pocky box from the bag and settling on the kitchen aisle, ruffling your hair.

“There is?” You look at the package with amazement in your eyes, to which Seungmin snickers.

Just as Hyunjin tears the Pocky box open with ceremonial flair, footsteps sound in the hall. Minho walks into the kitchen, eyeing the chaos.

“Why does it sound like someone just uncovered a forbidden artifact?” He snorts. “Oh, Pocky,” he smiles, sitting around the kitchen aisle and grabbing a box, tearing it open.

“This one right here just discovered gunpowder.” Seungmin rubs his eyes in fake desperation, actually amused.

Minho pauses after taking a bite. Looks at you. Blinks.

“You don’t know what this is?” He presses his lips together, failing to hold back a smile as he swooshes the bitten Pocky on his hand in the air, like some kind of wand.

Han looks at you like he’ll Avada Kedavra your ass. “Imagine never having one!” Jisung whines dramatically, holding up the package like a sacred offering, grabbing one.

Your arms shoot up in ginger frustration, a smile still on your face. “Why is this such a big deal?”

Minho grins—not as much mocking like the others, but amused, like he’s secretly delighted by the whole thing. “It’s just… You’ve really never even seen one?”

“No!” you say, half-laughing now. “And what do you mean there's a day for this?" You grin, grabbing one and staring at it.

“Okay, so Pocky Day is like—November 11th, right?” Felix explains, waving a half-eaten stick like a pointer. “Because the date looks like four Pocky sticks. One-one-one-one. It’s a whole thing in Japan. People gift them, take pictures, post cringe, whatever—”

“And the real tradition is the Pocky challenge. It’s like a trust exercise. But sexy. And dumb,” Hyunjin chuckles.

“It’s dumb-sexy,” Seungmin nods.

Meanwhile, Minho isn’t listening. Well, technically, his body is facing the group. He even nods a little, like he’s following the conversation. But his eyes? Always trailing back to you, like some new magic trick.

Focus, Minho. Leave her alone. Don't be a creep, his brain scolds him.

So while teacher Felix explains Pocky day to you, Minho grabs a stick from the box, settles it on his lips, and spins to face Hyunjin with dramatic flair. “Heyyyy,” he drawls, voice muffled slightly around the chocolate-covered end. “You wanna kiss me?”

Hyunjin's eyes turn to crescent moons as he laughs. “Please stop.”

“Come onnnn,” Minho says, leaning in like he’s about to seduce a houseplant. “I’m irresistible. It’s Pocky Day. It’s sacred.”

Your laugh stands out to him in the group as Hyunjin keeps making dramatic faces, and like some Accio spell, his eyes go back to you.

He can see how you’re swinging your legs slightly, brow furrowed in concentration, actually trying to make sense of this absurd little candy holiday. Your hair’s a little messy from the wind, your cheeks still pink from the cold. And every so often, when the others laugh or make a dumb joke, you smile—slow and genuine, like you mean it.

Minho feels it like a punch to the chest every time.

God, he thinks, heart doing something stupid. She’s so—she’s just—

Then you straighten, wiping a tear from your eye. “Okay, but wait. I wanna try the game.”

“You know, Minho is the king of the Pocky challenge,” Felix smiles, faking innocence.

Minho’s internal monologue hits DEFCON 1. He’s already halfway to cardiac arrest when, like sharks circling the blood, Felix and Seungmin lean in with matching devilish grins.

Minho wakes up from his daydreaming. "What?"

“Yeah, Min," Felix snickers. "You’ve pulled this exact move four times at parties.”

Minho blinks. Brain: static. Limbs: gone. Soul: ascending. He feels every cell in his body yell, STAY CALM. But his blood has turned into hot soup, and his mouth is suddenly so dry. Did his knees always feel this weak? Had he ever actually known how to breathe?

"I wanna try it," you repeat, still laughing, still not understanding that you’ve just shattered Minho's reality. "But Minho doesn't have to do it if he doesn't want to."

Minho silently beams regret and death at them while his brain screams, THIS IS NOT A DRILL, IT'S HAPPENING, STAY CALM, STAY FUCKING CALM—

Heart jackhammering in his chest, Minho has a single, profound thought: Don’t combust. Don’t combust. Don’t combust. He’s already reaching for it before his body catches up with his brain. “No— I mean, yeah,” he croaks. “Sure. Totally. Why not."

The room holds its breath. His ears are definitely red.

In the blink of an eye, you’re sitting on the stool right next to him, and he turns to face you.

You lean in, slowly, and every inch closer is a personal attack on Minho’s ability to remain upright.

Okay, he tells himself. Cool. You’re fine. It’s just a game. A snack. A stick. A proximity-based ritual of emotional doom. Totally normal.

Your eyes flick up to his again and—boom. There goes his brain. Just gone. Replaced with white noise and the echoing reminder that your lashes are stupidly long and your nose crinkles just a little when you smile, and he’s so, so doomed.

He can feel your breath now. Warm. Sweet.

Abort. Abort. You are not built for this.

You’re smiling like you know exactly what you’re doing to him.

Nope. Just trying the challenge. Calm down. This isn’t about you. Except it is about you. Because you picked him. You wanted to try this—with him.

He doesn’t know where to look. Your eyes? Your mouth? Somewhere neutral, like the ceiling?

His lips are millimeters from yours now. Time has completely stopped. His hands are clenched at his sides because if he moves them, he knows, he knows, he’ll reach for you.

You’re so close now.

The room has gone quiet in that strange, electric way—like even the air doesn’t want to interrupt.

The pocky stick trembles slightly between you, balanced between your mouth and his, and Minho’s pulse is so loud in his ears it feels like a countdown.

You’re leaning in slowly, a little hesitant, like you’re trying not to laugh, like you can’t quite believe you’re doing this either.

Minho can’t hear the others anymore. Can’t remember his name, the challenge, the context—nothing. All he can see is you.

The soft part of your smile where your lips meet the stick. The tiny shift in your expression as you get closer. Your lashes lowering just slightly. The edge of pink on your cheeks.

And then, something in him snaps.

This might be the only time, his brain whispers, already folding itself into silence. The only chance. You don’t get this twice.

So he leans in just a little more. Not enough to scare you off. Just—closer. Closer than he should. Enough to feel the whisper of your breath against his skin.

Your eyes flick to his. Wide, surprised.

But you don’t pull away.

So he doesn’t either.

The stick between you cracks softly as you near the middle. And still, he keeps going.

Your breath hitches.

And just before the Pocky snaps—

Your lips meet.

It’s soft. Just a brush. Warm and uncertain and far too short. But it hits him like gravity suddenly tripled, like he’s stepped off the edge of something tall and forgotten how to land.

He barely remembers the crunch. Barely hears the explosion of screams behind him.

All he knows is that your lips have touched his—and that nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared him for how right that feels.

Minho doesn’t move.

He isn’t sure he can. He’s frozen, standing perfectly still like his nervous system has short-circuited and just… shut down. His ears are ringing. His heart is somewhere in his throat, possibly on fire. And you’re still right there, eyes wide, fingers covering your mouth in stunned shock—and maybe, just maybe, a tiny smile hiding beneath it.

His lips tingle. Every neuron in his brain has turned off except the one whispering, You kissed. You kissed. You actually kissed.

Someone claps him on the back way too hard. “That was the smoothest thing I’ve ever seen you do, you absolute menace.”

Minho blinks. He’s barely processing it. The voices are background static. You’re still the only thing in focus.

You’re biting back a laugh now, cheeks flushed, glancing around like you can’t believe this is happening.

But then—your eyes meet his again. And it hits him all over again. This just happened. You kissed him. Or he kissed you. You kissed.

Minho tries to speak. Fails. Swallows. Tries again.

“You—uh. That was…” he manages, rubbing the back of his neck.

You give him a look—shy and warm and teasing all at once. “Happy… Pocky Day?”

He laughs. A little too breathlessly. “Best holiday I’ve ever celebrated.”

Across them, Felix bites his lip. "Let's not tell them we're still in April." Felix snickers softly at Jeongin. "What? I wouldn't want to ruin the magic!"

If one were to cast a spell and see into the future, this author thinks it’s quite obvious to think that Minho couldn’t wait until November to kiss you again.

Propperly, this time.

[🎀★🍬★🎀]

~kats, who is craving pocky rn.

catiuskaa, may 2025 ©

---

Hyunjin: You left your glasses on my nightstand. I can bring it over

You: Bring it to class tomorrow

Hyunjin: I’m keeping them hostage. 

You: Hyunjin 🙄

Hyunjin: Sleepover tomorrow? I’ll make pancakes.  

You: Maybe. But only for the pancakes.  

Hyunjin: Liar. You want my pancakes and you know what.

Hyunjin: Night, Nerd Queen 😘

You: Night, Hwang.  

---

You smiled at your phone, heart doing that stupid flip again. You knew you shouldn't be feeling like this. You two were friends with benefits. Fuck buddies. But every time you were with him, you fell for his stupid smile and his childish self way harder than you liked to admit. 

It was a Friday night, and you were curled up in your dorm, binge-watching a new series, when your phone started buzzing.

Hyunjin's frat was organizing a party, and he was probably charming the socks off everyone with his stupidly perfect face. You were trying to stay strong - no running to him tonight - because if you kept giving in to his every whim, he would surely figure out that you were completely, pathetically in love with his dramatic ass. 

And that was a secret you kept locked in a vault.

But Hyunjin? He wasn't making it easy. Your phone lit up again, and you caved, glancing at the screen.

---

Hyunjin: Babbyyyyyy where are you 😭 This party sucks without you! 

Hyunjin: Seriously, come over. I miss your face.