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Butterflies don't belong to one place. They migrate, crossing miles of sky. They’re Free. Have Freedom. They leave when they need to. They stay when they want to. One of your favorite facts about butterflies is how often they're tied to love. That gold rush. The warmth in your lower belly, the way your heart squeezes for air. Butterflies.

That's exactly what you felt around James. Those annoying flutters always return when he’s around, stupid wings brushing against your ribs. 

“Hello? Are you listening?”

It’s a blessing and a curse to feel this much toward him. Because feeling this much also means you’re capable of feeling the negative parts of it, too. You wouldn’t say jealousy is the worst of negative emotions, considering it shows that you care, but it’s still something you hate feeling. I mean, who actually likes feeling that way?

“Helloooo!?”

James has been talking to his ex-girlfriend the whole party, and not once has he spoken to you. It's almost like you’re invisible. When you got dressed nice and came up to the hotel rooftop for the party the boys were hosting to celebrate how far they’ve come, you congratulated Martin first before starting to look for James. When you finally spotted him, he waved, and you immediately smiled and waved back. But as you started walking toward him, someone quickly brushed past you. It was then that you realized he wasn’t waving at you.

He was waving at Daisy.

An ex James had only recently started opening up about. It was a surprise to see her here. You wanted to ask if James had invited her, but you had a feeling the answer would hurt if he did. But then again, what other reason would she have for being here? They were standing by the drinks while you had basically been walking in circles around the rooftop. A rooftop party felt better than being inside, though. The fresh air was very much needed.

Martin clapped his hands in front of your face, snapping you out of your stare toward the two exes. “Did you hear what I said?”

“What? Sorry.”

You forced your attention back to your drink. You knew you were staring, but you couldn’t help but overthink everything. What’s worse is that even if he did invite her, it shouldn’t matter because your arrangement with Martin is weird. James knows that what you and Martin are doing is fake and only for the paparazzi, but he doesn’t like the fact that you and Martin can be affectionate in public and all that when the connection between you and James is getting stronger by the day, and he can’t even show it.

Was this his way of getting back at you? Was this his way of protesting that it doesn’t feel good to watch someone you like be with someone else the way you and Martin are with each other? But what you and Martin have is fake.

James knows that. You know that.

“See! You’re not - never mind.” Martin slumped back against the railing, debating whether or not he should throw himself over it. Maybe then your attention would finally drift away from Daisy and James.

“Oh, chill out.” You rolled your eyes, slumping down next to him. “What did you say?”

Martin smacked his lips and gave you a look, but when you gave one right back, he sighed. How could he ever deny you when you so annoyingly bat your eyelashes and purse your pretty lips, knowing he’d melt at anything you did or said? What else could a boy like him do when a pretty girl was sitting right in front of him? “I said, you look pretty today.”

James laughed at something Daisy said, and your eyes immediately snapped in his direction. You love that smile. Especially when the dimples in his cheeks show. Daisy was James’ ex-girlfriend from when he was a trainee. She had helped him through a lot, and maybe that was why you felt so scared. With what happened in your past relationship, you felt like anyone could replace you. It happened once. Who’s to say it won’t happen again? Especially with someone as gorgeous as Daisy.

Beautiful skin. Beautiful hair. Everything is beautiful. She’s gorgeous, and anyone saying otherwise is just lying.

“Just forget it.” Martin looked away from you. Are you serious? Couldn’t you look away from him for at least a minute?

“I’m sorry, okay!” you sighed, finally turning your gaze away from the two of them. “Can you blame me? What would you feel if the person you liked was talking to someone they dated, someone they shared experiences with that no one else had, and not to mention she’s also hot as fuck?”

“How would you feel if you were trying to tell someone something and they were ignoring you?”

“My problem sounds far worse than yours.” You huffed. Is he okay? Like, actually?

Martin felt like he was invisible. Every time he tried talking to you, it was like you couldn’t focus on anything other than James. It was so annoying. He missed talking to you about anything and everything. Ever since you and James had gotten closer, it felt like everything had become more about James than your friendship.

“How about this: what if you felt a way toward someone that you never thought you would, given the circumstances? And it feels good, feeling what you feel for them. They make you feel special, too. But then there’s someone else, and it feels like there could never be a chance between you and the person you feel this way toward because the other person keeps taking their attention.”

You pursed your lips. What the hell was he talking about? Though you wanted to get your mind off the two people talking closely to one another, you decided to reply. “Then there must be something that person feels toward the other one that keeps getting in the way. I mean, there has to be something about them that keeps taking their attention.”

You looked over at James.

“Some people can’t help the way they feel toward someone.”

“Hm.” Martin’s eyes traced your jawline, the slope of your nose, and your long lashes from this angle. He brought a hand up, tucking a curl away from your face and behind your earring. “I guess you’re right,” he said, though it came out more like a breathless whisper. If anyone had looked closely enough, they would’ve caught the way his pupils had blown wide, dilating with affection. If only you were looking closely. But you were too busy looking at James.

When you’re jealous, and you’re aware that you’re jealous, do you tell yourself to get over it and practically bully yourself into not feeling that way? Or do you just let yourself feel such an annoying emotion? You stare. It’s probably the most annoying trait you have.

Martin would disagree. The most annoying trait you have is your inability to see what’s right in front of you.

Death teaches you that time isn’t money, it’s blood. And you’re both bleeding out fast.

You met James in the oncology ward on a Tuesday— same rare, aggressive cancer. Same prognosis: months, give or take.

The nurses called it “the twins’ corner” because you two were the youngest ones there who still had enough fire left to crack jokes about the food tasting like cardboard.

He had that crooked smile and eyes that looked like they’d already seen the end of the world and decided to stick around anyway— you bonded over shared hatred of the beeping machines, the way the doctors talked in probabilities instead of truths, and the fucking rules.

Let me explain— absolutely no prolonged physical contact. You were both too weak, too prone to infection, too much of a liability if one of you coded because the other’s touch sent blood pressure spiking.

“For your safety,” they said. Bullshit.

So you talked. Hours. Days. Whispered across the gap between beds like prisoners tapping on walls. Never touched. Not really. A brush of fingers when passing meds, ashoulder bump during the rare supervised walk. That was it, absolute torture.

But you planned. God, you planned like kids building a fort. You smuggled notes— saved painkillers for the escape high; a little cash stash from visitors who still pretended you might beat this. One night was the promise; one real night before the morning rounds found empty beds and called it in.

Death would have you in the morning. Tonight, you made it wait.

The escape was clumsy and perfect— you slipped the night nurse an extra dose in her coffee (thank you, hoarded pills), timed the security camera blind spot, and shuffled out the service door like ghosts who still had legs.

The cold hit like a slap, the winter air sliced through your thin hoodies and you cursed under your breath, lungs already protesting. James grabbed your hand— properly this time, no one to stop you— and you both laughed like idiots because it hurt and you felt alive.

You hailed a cab with the last of your saved money, the driver giving you a long look but taking the cash anyway.

“Beach,” James said, voice rough. “The one with the shitty pier.”

The driver didn’t ask questions— it’s like people rarely do when they see the hollow cheeks and the way you both move like glass about to shatter.

You huddled in the back under the hospital blanket you’d stolen, his coat draped over both of you, his body was fever-warm against yours, all sharp bones and trembling muscle. You pressed your face into his neck and breathed him in—antiseptic, sweat, and hospital air; but it was the scent of a man you’d take to the grave.

And God, every breath hurt. Every breath was holy.

The cab radio played some old song about lovers and purple rain, you both stayed quiet, fingers laced so tight it felt like the only thing anchoring you to the world.

The beach was deserted when you got there, wind whipping sand against your legs as winter waves crashed black and silver under the moon.

You paid the driver extra to fuck off and not report anything, then stumbled down the path together, leaning on each other like drunks who’d finally admitted they were in love with the bottle.

The cold sand stung your bare feet but you didn’t care. You spread the blanket and collapsed onto it, James pulling you against his chest immediately. No rules. No monitors. Just skin and breath and the vast indifferent ocean.

“We’re idiots,” he muttered, lips brushing your hair. His voice was laced with that blunt honesty you’d come to crave. “Should’ve done this months ago.”

You laughed, the sound cracking in the middle. “Hospital would’ve lost their shit. ‘Bad influences,’ they called it. Like touching someone is bad.”

Like touching the person who makes you want to live is worse than the cancer and dying alone— devoid of love.

James tilted your chin up, his beautiful eyes already wet. “You. You’re the only thing that’s ever been worth the chemo.”

You kissed him then. Slow at first, tentative like you were both afraid the other might die then and there, but hunger won.

You kissed like you could confuse death into forgetting both of your names. Tongues and teeth and desperate little sounds that the wind stole away. His hands—finally, finally—slid under your shirt, tracing the ridges of your spine, the sharp jut of hips that had once been softer.

You were both too thin, bodies marked by needles and scars and the slow betrayal of cells gone rogue, but mortality stripped you down to your truest selves. Nothing hidden— no pretending to be strong.

Tears came easy. You cried into his mouth and he tasted them, pulling back only to press his forehead to yours.

“I’m scared,” you whispered, shocking yourself with how easily it came out. No filter— dying people don’t have time for armor. so it seems.

“Me too,” James said, thumb wiping your cheek. “Every second. But not of this. Not of you.” His hands roamed lower, mapping you like a cartographer who knew the map would burn by dawn.

You shivered— not from the cold —and pressed closer, legs tangling with his. The blanket wasn’t enough but you didn’t care because heat built where your bodies met, frantic and clumsy.

You talked between kisses, the kind of conversations only dying people have the courage to finish. “What if we’d met in a bar instead?” you asked, fingers digging into his hair. “Would you’ve wasted time on small talk? Pretended we had forever?”

James huffed a laugh that turned into a cough and he wiped blood from his lip without comment. “No. I would’ve known. One look and I’d have dragged you home, there’s not enough lifetime for you.”

You straddled him on the blanket, the cold sand seeping through but irrelevant. His hands gripped your thighs, reverent and rough.

“I love you,” he said, blunt as a scalpel. “Not the dying-you. I just love you.”

“I love you too, my Luck.” You rocked against him, feeling him harden beneath you.

That was his little nickname— the thing he’d given you throughout the months, the thing you so desperately needed; luck.

Clothes came off in layers— hoodies, shirts, pants shoved down with shaking hands. The winter air bit at exposed skin but your bodies warmed each other— touch turned desperate: hands everywhere, mouths chasing pulses at throats, collarbones and lower. You tasted the salt of his skin, the faint metallic hint of blood and medicine.

He groaned when your hand slipped inside his pants, your fingers wrapped around his heavy length, stroking slow and honest. “Fuck, you feel—” He cut off with a hiss, hips bucking. “Don’t stop. Please.”

You didn’t, because there’s something unbearably beautiful about people with no future making plans until sunrise, and you had absolutely no intentions of letting go. You whispered filthy promises against his ear: how you wanted him inside you, how you’d ride him until the stars blurred, how you didn’t give a shit if it killed you faster because at least it would be this.

James flipped you gently onto your back, careful even now, and settled between your legs. His mouth explored— teasing nipples that tightened in the cold, dipping lower to taste you until you were cursing and crying his name into the wind. Every sensation was amplified— pain and pleasure braided together.

Hope was too expensive— but wonder was free, that’s why you needed to hold onto this night, before life took you both away. This was all you’d ever dreamed of— feeling the awe of a man indubitably starstruck by what he was holding between his hands— and blessed be the moon and the stars for allowing you to have this.

When he finally pushed inside you, it was slow, the eyes of a lover locked into yours. You both gasped as the stretch burned beautifully— you were wet from tears, the want and the sheer defiance of it all; and he moved like he was memorizing every second, thrusts deep and measured because neither of you had stamina— but you at least had need. He didn’t stop until he was at the hilt, so snug where he resided, at least allowing you a moment to catch your breath.

You wrapped your legs around him, heels digging into his back, urging him harder. “More,” you demanded. “I want to feel you tomorrow when they drag us back. I want bruises.” You begged him for marks, for a proof that you’d felt something good once in your life, and James did just that. He kissed path down your neck, leaving a train of dark brands, until you were clenching around him desperately.

He cursed, raw. “You’re so beautiful, you know that? Tell me pretty girl, do you know that?” You nodded against him, because if you opened your mouth and talked, it would all come out a string of nonsense, so instead you bit down on his shoulder until you felt him throb inside of you.

It was messy, sand and all, but it didn’t stop you— you were dripping, the sounds muffling with the loud wind, the hum of the sea not bothering you one bit. It was the most devastating thing you’d ever felt— and you’d gone through a lot. But holding someone so tenderly— while knowing you would eventually have to let go, was God’s biggest lesson to you.

“Please… please, need more.” you urged him, nails clawing at his back.

James buried his face in your neck for a second, teeth grazing your skin, “Shit…. baby, I’m not going anywhere, give me a little breathing room.”

You were aware of just how hard you were clenching around him— but for your credit, the need was way too intense to hold back.

You obeyed though, unclenching just a bit— and only then did he come up for a kiss. “There you go, that’s my baby.” he kissed your forehead.

You came first, clenching around him, vision whiting out as the ocean roared in your ears and James followed soon after, burying his face in your neck, spilling hot inside you with a broken sound that tore something open in your chest.

You stayed joined for a long time, shivering under the blanket, trading lazy kisses and softer touches— fingers tracing ribs, counting scars like constellations. You talked more. About the stupid things you’d miss— hospital food, playing mario kart in the common areas and the way kids laugh like nothing hurts.

But most of all? About the anger that came in waves, asking, why us, why now, why couldn’t we have had years?

The truth was— both of you were too close to the end to keep pretending you weren’t at the beginning of something. So later, recklessness took over. Because fuck it—you were dying anyway.

James dared you to run into the surf and you did, naked, screaming laughter as icy water shocked your skin, packed sand until the water rushed up to claim your ankles, then your calves, then your thighs. It hurt like hell— your lungs seized but you splashed him anyway.

He caught you in the shallows, half in the water, half on the land, where the tide licked greedily at the boundary like it wanted to swallow you whole. There was this liminal space, the wet sand shifting beneath your feet, unstable and treacherous, just like the fragile line between living and dying. Waves rolled in, foaming around your legs, pulling back with a hiss. And here you were, pulling him for another frantic fuck, loving each other right on the edge of it— bodies tangled where the two worlds met, salt and grit mixing with sweat and slick, permanence dissolving into something fluid and eternal in the moment.

Salt stung everywhere.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmured against your ear, even as the cold water made you both shiver. His body covered yours, shielding you from the worst of the wind, his cock already hard again, heavy and insistent against your thigh. “My brave girl. So beautiful it hurts. So alive.”

You arched up into him, fingers digging into his wet shoulders, nails scraping through the sand that clung to his skin. The water lapped at your sides, teasing your breasts, your belly, cooling the heat building between your legs.

“James… please. I need you again.” Your voice was hoarse from earlier cries, but the need was sharper now, edged with desperation. The salt stung the places he’d bitten and sucked, a delicious burn that made you clench around nothing.

James kissed you deeply, tongue sliding against yours, tasting like ocean and the faint copper of whatever medicine still lingered in his blood. One hand cupped your face, thumb stroking your cheek with aching gentleness while the other slipped between your thighs, fingers parting your folds.

“So wet for me already,” he groaned, circling your clit with slow strokes. “That’s my gorgeous girl”

A wave crashed higher, splashing over your chest, and you gasped into his mouth. He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. “You laugh so pretty.”

You rocked against his hand, grinding down as his fingers pushed inside you— two at first, stretching you open with tender care. The wet sand shifted under your back, molding to your body like it was trying to hold you in place while the water tugged you toward oblivion. It was messy, primal: grit abrading your skin, salt mixing with your arousal, the push and pull of the waves syncing with the rhythm of his fingers.

“James—fuck —more,” you begged, legs wrapping around his waist, heels digging into his ass. “I want you inside please.”

This was it. This was everything and you’d trade every remaining heartbeat for ten more minutes of his hands on you.

He pulled his fingers free, replacing them with the blunt head of his cock, rubbing it through your slickness. “Yeah? You want me to fuck you?” His voice dropped, dirty and loving all at once. “My sweet, filthy girl.” He pushed in slowly, inch by thick inch, the stretch burning beautifully against the cold water. You both moaned as he bottomed out, your walls fluttering around him, clenching greedily.

The first thrust was measured, deep, James’ hips rolling like the waves themselves—pulling back as the tide receded, slamming forward as it surged in. Sand scraped your shoulders, your ass, but the discomfort only heightened everything. “God, you feel so good,” he praised, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked even in the dim moonlight. “So warm around me. So perfect. My lucky girl.”

You cried out as he hit that spot inside you, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails that the salt would sting later. “Harder, James. Please, i can’t.”

He obliged, surrendering to each of his girls’ wishes, picking up pace, one hand bracing in the sand beside your head, the other gripping your thigh to spread you wider. “That’s it, baby. Let me hear you.”

You made the sure the sea heard how full he made you feel, moans getting louder.

“Look at your pretty pussy swallowing my cock. You’re doing so good for me— my strong, beautiful girl. Taking it like a champ.”

Pleasure coiled tight in your core, and a larger wave hit, soaking you completely. you gasped, clenching hard around him and your vision blurred, legs trembling. “James— I’m close—fuck—”

“Mmhh, poor thing,” he whispered, voice cracking with emotion as he leaned down to kiss your neck, sucking another mark into your skin while his hips kept that relentless rhythm. “It’s okay. You should come. I got you my sweet girl.”

James words broke you. The orgasm crashed over you harder than any wave, vision whiting out as your body seized around him, pulsing and fluttering, pulling him deeper. You screamed his name into the wind, nails digging in, back arching so sharply the sand shifted and gave way beneath you.

He kept praising you through it, voice rough and adoring: “Yes— fuck, that’s my girl. I love you.”

James followed you over soon after, burying himself to the hilt with a broken groan, spilling hot and deep inside you as another ye another wave washed over your conjoined bodies. You stayed locked together, trembling, as the tide gently rocked you. He collapsed half on top of you, careful not to crush, his face tucked into your neck, pressing soft kisses to your pulse point.

After a while, James you just laid there, not even caring about the pneumonia and whatever terrible diseases you were prone to, the salt surely stung but so did the love.

He traced patterns on your back, adoring your skin like it was his own, “If there’s an afterlife, I’m finding you there. We’ll do this right, no hospitals.”

You cried again and James held you through it, rocking you like you were something precious and breakable—which you arguably were. The night stretched and you shared the last of the smuggled snacks, feeding each other with sticky fingers, laughing when the wind stole crumbs.

Then came more touches, slower now. His mouth on your thighs, your tongue tracing the veins on his cock until he was hard again and you took him deep, choking a little because you wanted to feel so full of him. He returned the favor, eating you out with single-minded focus until you soaked his face and the blanket. You came down from the high tangled, whispering secrets no one else would ever hear.

See— there are conversations only dying people have the courage to finish. You told him your biggest regret: not saying yes to life sooner. For years, you’d mistaken survival for living, you kept waiting for the fear to disappear before allowing yourself joy, convinced there would always be another treatment, another doctor, another version of yourself brave enough to exist instead of merely endure. You postponed happiness until it became a habit. You treated tomorrow as something permanent.

That was until you met him, though.

You only wished you had arrived there sooner. Not because it would have spared you this ending— God no— but because it would have given you more time to love the life you’d spent so long refusing. You looked at him and realized death wasn’t what made your chest ache, it was finally understanding how beautiful living had always been, just as it was slipping beyond your reach.

James, when his turn came, admitted his fear of being forgotten. “They’ll remember the sick version,” he said. “Not the one who made you laugh tonight.”

“They won’t forget this,” you promised. “Not us. Not tonight.”

Dawn crept closer and the sky lightened to a bruised purple; you dressed slowly, stealing kisses between layers. The cab back was silent, hands clasped, bodies aching in the best and worst ways.

Every step toward the hospital felt like walking into the grave willingly. But you carried the night with you— the salt on your skin, the marks on your neck, the memory of him inside you while the ocean watched.

Back in the ward, alarms blared and nurses swarmed, you looked at James across the chaos and smiled. He smiled back, crooked and real, realizing that sickness was waiting with its arms opened wide enough to welcome the both of you.

Death would have you in the morning. But tonight—fuck, tonight you lived.

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The first post was from 6 years ago.

Not reblogged. Not tagged.

Just sitting there, a group photo with few guys at a restaurant. The quality wasn't good and there was nothing catchy about it.

You found the blog completely by accident. One wrong click from a dead link, another from an archived fan page, and suddenly you were staring at a Tumblr account that looked like it had been abandoned for over a decade.

Your eyes fall on to the user name. Yeah, this was definitely a teen boy.

The profile picture was hard to make out - a blurry photo of someone's hand.

The name sounded very familiar but at the same time you couldn't exactly say who it was. But everything about the whole profile screamed nostalgia.

No replies. No notes. Just post after post.

Just a teenage boy with random thoughts at 3 am, half finished lyrics, photos of his friends and himself and song recommendations.

Everything about this boy was raw and unfiltered and that's what drew you in with the current world being set on restrictions and fitting in.

The post that was pinned had a random writing on it. But it looked a bit too familiar to you.

A line that eventually became a song.

A phrase you'd heard in interviews.

A thought that you deeply resonated with.

Not famous Martin.

Not stadiums and magazine covers Martin.

Just Martin. Young, restless and awake at three in the morning.

You kept scrolling.

Who was he even talking to? It felt like peeking into someone's old diary, it was weird.

You remembered seeing in one of the interviews, Martin would get messages on twitter but he'd reply somewhere else because he was scared to get cancelled over the smallest things.

Maybe this was it. Perhaps this really was his secret diary.

Across the town, Martin was trying to remember a password.

It started as a joke, a conversation with a friend. A mention of old websites, ancient internet archaeology.

Then he suddenly remembered, the tumblr account.

One that nobody knew about, one that was made before everything changed in his life, before the records and tours. Back when it was just him and his friends on soundcloud for fun.

He stared at the login screen.

Tried a password. Wrong.

Tried another one. Wrong

And finally a third one. Success.

When he got in, it was exactly as he had left it. Embarrassing and full of things no one should ever read.

"Oh no." He groaned as his eyes went to the notifications. Someone had been liking his old posts.

A new follower.

One follower.

01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10

Sometimes, on rare occasions, he'll have breakthroughs; he'll find a random ceramic plate at the supermarket, one that has the particularity of- for once- looking decent, and he'll buy it for you, wrapping a little bow around it in guise of covering the price tag.

Other times— well, most of the time, he'll bypass the moodboards and color grades you send him daily— instead finding the ugliest items possible and calling them ‘gorgeous’.

Sunghoon has the taste of an 89 grandma hooked on life support— and he's shameless about it.

He folds everytime he sees something ugly- it's actually starting to become funny. Like this one time, he sent you a link for the ugliest table cloth ever made, called it ‘western vintage’— when it look like it could've been a substitute for toilet paper during the covid pandemic.

To sum up, you wouldn't let him touch your mood boards with a 10'' pole. Sunghoon is incapable of color coordinating things— so much so that you're almost certain he's color blind but just won't say it.

The man thinks neon orange and mustard yellow look good together, for fuck's sake.

But unlike his decoration skills— he's a master at hunting for apartments, that he is.

Ever since you started talking about moving in together— he's taken up a true realtor hobby the way he spends all his time on housing websites. There's not a day that goes by without him sending documents over— scheduling visits, handling it all.

You'd rate him a 12/10 in terms of reliability.

The decoration part though? A minus 78.

Sunghoon's an accomplished man however tacky his taste in household items is— the kind you see and think 'oh damn he's got it under control'. It's not so much about his broad back and big arms- but rather his self restraint, assertiveness and stance. He reeks of success and power even when he parades none of it— which is probably why women (and men) line up to get a taste of him. 

But don't fool yourself, Park Sunghoon indulges in none of that. No no, he keeps to himself— careful and reserved, never letting anyone get too close; he deliberately chooses not to entertain hedonistic habits and instead, surrounds himself with an elite of handpicked, exclusive friends.

You are one of the lucky people Sunghoon chooses to let in— you met by happenstance; during your first year of highschool, back when you'd go back and forth between Seoul and the outskirts to visit your divorced mom, and he just so happened to be on a train with you one day. You spent the next few hours in said train because of technical difficulties, and bonded over the last bottle of water you carried in your bag during a heatwave.

Friendship, sometimes, begins with nothing grander than that.

Over the years, you maintained the same relationship— close but not too close, with enough privacy to allow a drawn line. Sunghoon knew not everything but only a few big secrets of yours— that was how you sustained the equilibrium. You knew most parts of him— his kind, thoughtful and attentive side, inclusive of his darker and broodier side.

But you had no idea what he looked like when he was all in— when there were feelings involved, so naturally you couldn't claim to know him entirely.

You both applied to the same college and hung out any chance you got during the first years, alternating between his home— a high-end penthouse— and yours. Sunghoon was good company, he had good taste in music and movies— knew how to entertain and cook, and had a very specific kind of humor that you so happened to like.

He had long pianist fingers despite being terrible at instruments, he took care of his nails like they were a mirror of his soul— and had tan lines from his expensive Audemars Piquet watch, which he kept religiously in a safe. He wasn't a man of luxury, yet, he liked gifting expensive things to family and in consequence, you.

At the top of the list of things you loved about Park Sunghoon, sat his habit of always skipping songs in his playlist and listening to them all the way through.

He gave a chance to everything, second chances included.

In second was that he could spend hours in a bookstore without buying anything— he never said know to hang outs at the museum and never pretended to like something for convenience.

You could spend hours talking about the things that make Park Sunghoon who he is— the little patterns in his daily life that constituted a special place in yours, by constant exposure.

But what you cant really elaborate on is why you two linked the way you did— why it feels so fusional— yet never transcends the line between platonic and questionable.

In brief, that's how —through a fortunate set of circumstances— you ended up making the decision to live with Park Sunghoon.

        You push the oversized cart through the wide aisles of the furniture store, wheels squeaking against the floor, while Sunghoon walks beside you like he owns the damn place. His broad shoulders brush against yours every few steps, and he's got that half-smirk on his face—the one that says he knows exactly how ridiculous this whole trip is but he's indulging you anyway.

The moodboard you printed out (the one you spent three sleepless nights perfecting on Canva) is crumpled in your free hand, colors and swatches already starting to smear from how many times you've waved it at him like a battle flag.

"Sunghoon, I swear to god, get your nasty eyes off that floral chair before I leave you here," you say, steering the cart sharply away from a display of hideous patterned armchairs that look like they belong in your grandma's attic.

He laughs, low and warm, the sound rumbling through his chest as he reaches over to snag the moodboard from your fingers. "Come on, it's vintage. You said you wanted vintage."

"You're acting like you know anything about 'vintage', give it back to me," you shoot back, snatching the paper back.

Your inside voice is begging to know why you even tolerate this idiot so much— when his taste is actual garbage. But out loud you just roll your eyes and bump the cart into his hip. "Stick to the moodboard. Beige, sage, warm wood tones. Neutral with pops of green. That's the assignment dick face."

Sunghoon leans on the cart handle, his long fingers drumming against the metal. Those fingers that always look too elegant for someone who once tried to convince you neon orange throw pillows were "classy".

He's wearing a simple black t shirt today, stupidly expensive wraparound sunglasses resting on his nose, but he still manages to look like he walked out of a magazine. People keep glancing at him as they pass— women, mostly— and you feel like the little black sheep; like you're somehow gonna get beat up just for standing next to him.

"Fine, fine. Safe, whatever you say boss," he says, but his eyes are already drifting toward a section of overly ornate side tables. "But hear me out—one statement piece. Something with personality."

"Personality for you means ugly," you mutter, but you're smiling. You can't help it— he has such an old-person soul.

You turn into the living room section, rows of sofas stretching out of sight; Sunghoon grabs a throw pillow from a display and holds it up dramatically. It's mustard yellow. Of course it is.

"See? This would look great with the neon orange you're so scared of," he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

"You're colorblind man. I'm calling your mom later and telling her to get you tested." You yank the pillow out of his hands and toss it back onto the shelf with exaggerated disgust. "We're getting the charcoal sectional. It's on the moodboard. Page three. Look at the damn moodboard, Hoon."

He's laughing again, that genuine one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look younger than the composed, successful version of himself he likes to portray. "You're so bossy when you're nesting. It's cute."

"Fuck off," you say, but there's no heat in it. You're both pushing the cart now, shoulders bumping on purpose. The conversation flows easy, the way it always does with him—l ike slipping into warm water after a long day.

"Okay but seriously," you continue, steering toward the modular sofas, "the sectional has to be big enough for everyone. Housewarming party is happening whether you like it or not. We need space for people to sprawl but also it needs to look good enough for pictures."

"Yeah, sounds right." Sunghoon nods, running a hand through his dark hair. "Speaking of housewarming party, you should send out invites. But we're not doing it the first week. Let's actually unpack before we have seven idiots destroying our new place."

'Our place,' your mind echoes, the words feeling a little too big. This has always been your dream, finding someone you truly hit it off with and move together. But you always thought it would be a girl for some reason... not a 6ft-something man.

"Right. Anyway, Jungwon and Riki are not allowed near the drinks unsupervised. Those two get tipsy off one beer. Remember last time? I don't wanna go through that again."

Sunghoon snorts, grabbing a fabric swatch from a nearby display and rubbing it between his fingers like he's some kind of expert. "Jungwon gets emotional when he's drunk, it's hilarious. We'll put them on snack duty, or water duty. Make them the responsible ones for once."

"Yeah. Let Jay and Heeseung handle the drinks, Jake can DJ or whatever shit he wants to do. Sunoo will probably show up with flowers and make everything look ten times better than we could anyway." You stop the cart in front of a massive L-shaped sectional in a perfect warm gray. It matches the moodboard almost exactly. "This one. This is it. Sit on it."

Sunghoon drops onto the cushions with zero hesitation, spreading his long legs out and patting the spot next to him. "Come test it. Make sure it doesn't hurt your back.”

You sit, sinking into the fabric. It's comfortable, really comfortable. "It's perfect. Soft but not too soft. And at least it doesn't look like a grandma passed away on it."

"Damn okay," he says, but he's grinning. "I still think that one tablecloth had potential."

"That tablecloth looked awful. We're never speaking of it again." You lean back, shoulder to shoulder with him on the display sofa. "Okay, furniture plan: this sectional, the wooden coffee table —not the one with the weird carvings you liked— and those floating shelves for the books. No ugly ceramic stuff unless I approve it first."

He turns his head toward you, close enough that you can smell his cologne— something clean and expensive that always lingers on your clothes after hanging out. "You're really not letting me have any input, huh?"

"Your input is vetoed for life after the neon orange thing. I still have nightmares about that absolute shit of a color combo." You poke his arm, "But fine. You can pick the plants. Within reason. No carnivorous ones or anything that'll die in two weeks because you forget to water them."

Sunghoon's eyes light up like you just handed him the keys to a new luxury car. "Plants? Really? I get full control?"

"Limited control," you correct quickly, already regretting it as you both stand up and start pushing the cart again toward the greenery section. "I'm watching you. One ugly plant and it's going in the trash. No— you're going in the trash."

The plant aisle is a jungle of green— monstera, fiddle leaf figs, snake plants, pothos hanging everywhere. Sunghoon immediately beelines for a dramatic-looking plant with variegated leaves that honestly looks kind of cursed.

"No," you say flatly, grabbing the cart handle to stop him. "That one looks dangerous. Pick something normal."

"It's a prayer plant," he argues, turning the pot around to show you the tag. "It folds its leaves at night. Cute, right? Western vintage."

You burst out laughing, the sound echoing a little too loud in the aisle. A couple nearby glances over, but you don't care.

"You and your fucking western vintage. Get the monstera, it's a classic. Hard to kill and matches the moodboard."

He raises one eyebrow. "You're killing my vision."

"Your vision needs to be euthanized Sunghoon please." But you're smiling as you say it, and you end up compromising on two monsteras and one smaller prayer plant because apparently you're weak.

You load them carefully into the cart, leaves brushing against your arms.

As you wander deeper into the store, the conversation drifts. Sunghoon picks up a set of minimalist ceramic plates— actually decent ones, for once— and holds them up for approval.

"These are... good," you admit grudgingly.

He chuckles, remembering the supermarket plate incident. "See? I can have taste. When I try really hard."

"Rarely. Don't get cocky." You add them to the cart.

Your mind is racing with details: how the apartment will look with his stuff mixed with yours, how his piano (the one he barely plays but keeps because it "looks sophisticated") will fit in the corner, whether the lighting in the new place will make his tan lines even more obvious when he's cooking shirtless like he sometimes does — wait what?

"What about the housewarming menu?" you ask, changing the subject before your thoughts spiral. "Jay will wanna take over the kitchen. We should let him— he's the only one who won't burn water. Jake can bring desserts, Sunoo will handle the vibe and... Heeseung... can sit there— I guess."

Sunghoon nods, pushing the cart with one hand while scrolling through his phone with the other, probably adding things to the apartment checklist you made. "And we keep Jungwon and Riki on hydration duty."

"Exactly. Lightweight kings." You laugh, imagining it.

The cart is filling up— throw blankets in approved colors, a couple of lamps that don't scream "granny's house," some simple glassware. Every item feels like another brick in this new shared life. It's exciting and yet terrifying.

You stop in the bedroom section because, of course you do and Sunghoon eyes a massive bed frame with a dramatic headboard.

"Don't even think about it," you warn. "Simple. Platform bed. No weird carvings."

"But it has presence," he teases, flopping down on the display mattress dramatically. He pats the space beside him again. "Test it with me. Important decision."

You hesitate for half a second— this is how rumors start— before climbing on. The mattress is firm but comfortable.

Sunghoon turns on his side to face you, head propped on his hand.

"Admit it," he says softly, that reserved smile playing on his lips. "This is gonna be good. Even if my taste is shit."

"Your taste is atrocious. But yeah... it's gonna be good. As long as you let me control 90% of the decorating and you keep handling the apartment paperwork like the reliable slave you are."

He laughs quietly. "i’m so good at apartment hunting, right?"

"Exactly." You stare at the ceiling for a moment, both of you lying there on the display bed like idiots. "Party guest list is locked. No randoms. Just the group."

"Deal." Sunghoon sits up, offering you a hand to pull you up too.

You continue through the aisles, banter never stopping and he tries to sneak a hideous abstract sculpture into the cart; you catch him and replace it with a sleek wooden one.

You argue over rug textures— "This one feels like a cloud, Hoon." "It looks like puke."— and laugh until your sides hurt.

By the time the cart is overflowing and you're heading toward checkout, the sun is dipping lower outside the store windows.

You pay (splitting it because that's how you two do things—fair, balanced), and as you wheel everything out toward his car, you can't stop smiling.

Being best friends with a member of the male species, is a really weird thing. See, people tend to view you completely differently when they learn that your best friend is in fact a tall buff guy who happens to be rich. They immediately think, there's no way you're "just friends."

That a guy like him— would never settle for platonic with someone like you. They assume you're fucking, or at least that you're one wrong grocery run away from it.

You've heard the whispers, seen the side-eyes. Hell, even some of the group has thrown in a sly comment or two over the years. But you know where you stand with Sunghoon. Best friends. Ride-or-die. The kind of bond that doesn't need labels to feel solid.

You're both loading the last of the bags into the trunk when Sunghoon's phone buzzes. He pulls it out, checks the screen, and gets this weird little smile, not his usual half-smirk, something you've never seen before. You shrug it off though, it's probably his mom sending another recipe or one of the guys in the group chat. Whatever.

"Everything good?" you ask, tossing the last bag in.

"Yeah," he says, pocketing the phone. "Nothing important."

You head out of the store, arms aching from hauling all the items. Before you can even complain, Sunghoon's already reaching over.

"Let me carry that, you're tired," he says, grabbing the heavier bags like they're nothing.

You trail behind him with the lighter stuff and the plants, both of you looking like a married couple fresh off a furniture run. The thought flickers through your head for half a second and you immediately drop it.

Nope. Not elaborating on that. Giving it any weight just makes shit weird.

But see— you’ve lied a lot from the get go. Since the introduction you’ve said quite a lot of false things— the biggest one being, “it’s purely platonic between me and Park Sunghoon.”

God knows even the most perfect things have cracks in them, right?

The drive back is easy, windows down, your playlist skipping through songs like always because you have the attention span of a goldfish when it comes to music. You're already mentally arranging the living room, trying to picture where the monstera will look best without clashing with his inevitable ugly finds.

"You're not sneaking that funny plant into the main area, by the way," you tell him, poking his arm. "It's going in a corner."

Sunghoon laughs. "You're so dramatic. Jeez."

"Dramatic my ass. It looks like it belongs in a haunted house. We're sticking to the moodboard, dickhead."

He just grins, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "You're lucky I take care of the actual important stuff. Otherwise you'd be living in a beige prison."

"Beige prison is better than neon orange hell," you shoot back, grinning. "Stick to hunting apartments like a neat freak."

By the time you pull up to your building, the sun's almost gone. Sunghoon kills the engine and helps haul everything upstairs without being asked, the two of you bumping shoulders in the elevator like always.

In 3 weeks, you and Park Sunghoon will be living together, life is good.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

Life is NOT good. Fuck life. You're standing in your bathroom, shivering in a towel after what was supposed to be a quick shower but turned into a goddamn ice bath.

The water went from lukewarm to straight-up arctic in under thirty seconds. No hot water. Again. Your ancient landlord has been "looking into it" for two weeks, which is code for doing absolutely jack shit.

You're tired, your hair is half-washed, and you have a morning lecture tomorrow. So you do the only logical thing: you call Jake.

"Dude, I'm dying. My shower is spitting ice cubes. You're the only one I know who's good with this plumbing crap. Please save me."

Jake laughs on the other end. "Yeah, yeah, I'm on my way. Gimme twenty."

Twenty minutes later there's a knock at your door and you open it to find not just Jake, but the whole circus: Jake with a toolbox, Sunghoon looking unfairly put-together in a black hoodie, and Heeseung trailing behind with a bag of snacks like they're here for a movie night instead of a plumbing emergency.

"You said you were coming, not bringing the entire zoo," you groan, stepping aside to let them in.

Jake grins, already kicking off his shoes. "They were with me when you called. Couldn't leave them behind. Sunghoon said he's an expert at watching other people work, and Heeseung brought chips."

"Team morale," Heeseung adds solemnly, holding up the bag. "Also I'm excellent at moral support."

You wrap your hoodie tighter around yourself. "Fine. Just fix my shit before I freeze to death."

Jake heads straight to the bathroom while you, Sunghoon, and Heeseung camp out in your tiny living room. The conversation flows easy, the way it always does with them.

"Uni is kicking my ass," you complain, flopping onto the couch. "Rent's going up again next month and my part-time job pays like shit. Being an adult is a scam."

"Tell me about it," Heeseung says through a mouthful of chips. "I'm living off instant ramen. My landlord raised the rent too— said it's 'market rate.' Market rate my ass. I'll market rate his ass, see how that goes."

Sunghoon leans against the wall, arms crossed, looking amused. "You two are dramatic. Just move somewhere better."

"Easy for you to say, Mr. Penthouse," you shoot back. "Some of us aren't out here swimming in good credit scores."

From the bathroom, Jake's voice echoes. "Pass me the wrench! And stop complaining about rent—the sink is fixed in like five minutes, watch."

You hear clinking and cursing as Jake works. Sunghoon eventually wanders over to "supervise" (aka stand there looking pretty while Jake does everything). You and Heeseung keep chatting about stupid professors, upcoming deadlines, and how none of you can afford to eat out anymore without feeling guilty.

Jake emerges twenty minutes later, wiping his hands. "Fixed. Your hot water heater was just throwing a tantrum. Should be good now."

"You're a godsend," you tell him, genuinely relieved. "I owe you dinner or something."

"Make it the good ramen, not the cheap shit," Jake says, grinning.

You're all sprawled out now, snacks open, relaxed. Sunghoon sits on the arm of the couch, close enough that you catch a whiff of his cologne— clean, expensive, the same one he's worn for years. For some reason it hits different tonight but you shake it off.

Then, casually, like he's commenting on the weather, Sunghoon says, "By the way, I met someone on that group outing last weekend. Mina. She's cool. We're grabbing coffee sometime."

Ah. Nice?

You blink, forcing a smile. "Oh? That's great, Hoon. She sounds nice. You should go for it."

Inside, there's this weird little twist in your stomach. Not jealousy or anything dramatic—just... off. The type of feeling that makes you want to jackhammer the "?????" button on your keyboard.

You push it down immediately. Supportive friend mode. That's where you stand bitch.

He nods, that reserved smile appearing. "Yeah, we'll see. She's into photography or something. Might be fun."

Jake and Heeseung immediately pile on with teasing questions, the conversation shifting into typical guy shit-talk about dating apps and whatnot. You laugh along, throwing in jokes about Sunghoon's questionable taste in everything except women, apparently.

But that faint twist lingers as you breathe in his cologne again.

You tell yourself it's nothing. Just a weird day. Life's already been kicking your ass with cold showers— you don't need to overthink this too.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

You're the biggest overthinker the world has ever known. It's been one week before move-in and your brain won't shut the fuck up. Ever since Sunghoon casually dropped the Mina news, you've been spiraling in the most ridiculous way possible.

What if he turns into one of those dudes who gets a girlfriend and suddenly disappears? The type who's glued to her 24/7, canceling plans and turning your shared apartment into her second home.

Would she have a problem with you being there? Some girls get weird about their boyfriend living with a female best friend, even if it's been strictly platonic for years…

And honestly? How the hell does someone even start dating a guy knowing he's about to move in with a girl?

Sure, you know there's nothing there, but not everyone gets that. People already assume shit when they see you two together.

You keep telling yourself it's fine, that nothing's going to change, but your brain is a professional at inventing problems that don't exist yet

You're still overthinking it when you meet Sunghoon and the landlord at the new apartment for the final walkthrough.

The place looks even better than you remembered— sunlight pouring in, fresh paint, that perfect spot in the living room for the charcoal sectional. The landlord drones on about the terms, pointing out outlets and explaining the heating system.

You nod along, trying to focus on the important stuff.

Sunghoon's only half there, his phone keeps buzzing and he's texting back with that small, distracted smile. You don't have to ask who it is. Mina. Of course.

"Everything looks good to me," you say, signing your part of the lease after the landlord walks you through the final checklist. Sunghoon signs right after, barely glancing up from his screen before sliding it back.

"Cool," he mutters, typing another reply. "We're good then.”

The landlord leaves and you're both standing in the empty living room, keys in hand. It should feel exciting—this is your place now—but your stomach is doing that stupid twist again.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

Later that night you're both at his current place, surrounded by half-packed boxes, eating takeout on the floor like broke uni students. Except well… you're the only one that's actually broke.

Sunghoon's in a good mood, legs stretched out, picking at his food.

"She's really cool, you know?" he says suddenly, eyes lighting up in that rare, genuine way. "Mina. We talked for like three hours last night. She gets my humor and she's into the same movies. I think you'd like her actually."

You force a smile, swallowing the weird knot in your throat.

"That's awesome, Hoon. I'm happy for you. Seriously. If she puts up with your neon orange taste, she must be a saint."

He chuckles, leaning back against the couch. "She called my prayer plant 'interesting.' That's good right?."

You laugh along, poking at your noodles. "Just don't let her convince you to buy more ugly shit before we move in. I'm not redecorating around someone else's terrible vision."

"Deal." He bumps your shoulder with his. "It'll be fine. You know I wouldn't bring someone around if I thought it'd mess things up."

"Yeah," you say, lying through your teeth. "I'm really happy for you."

Inside, your brain is still overthinking.

What if she hates that he lives with you?

What if things shift and you become the awkward third wheel in your own apartment? But you shove it down. This is Sunghoon. Your best friend.

You know where you stand.

At least erm... you hope you do?

๑ஓ๑ஓ

You don't know where you stand. You don't know whether to stand on top of a cliff or a bridge actually.

One wrong gust of wind and you're either plummeting into the abyss of "i'm jealous because that's MY friend" or swan-diving into the river of "this is fine, everything's fine, I'm totally not spiraling."

Move-in day is pure chaos. Boxes stacked like a Tetris game, bubble wrap popping underfoot, and the scent of new cardboard mixed with Sunghoon's stupidly expensive cologne that's somehow already infiltrating every corner. The charcoal sectional is half-assembled in the living room, looking majestic against the fresh walls, and the monstera plants are perched on the windowsill like leafy green bodyguards.

You're both on the floor surrounded by Ikea instructions that might as well be written in ancient Sumerian; Sunghoon's got that focused look on his face— brows furrowed, fingers turning an allen key —while you're holding up a dubious plank and praying it's not upside down.

"Pass me the weird little L-shaped thing," he says without looking up, hair falling into his eyes.

You toss it over. "This one? Or the torture device thingy?"

He catches it mid-air, smirks. "Both could be torture devices. Have you seen how many screws are left? Feels like we're building a medieval catapult."

You snort, leaning back on your hands. "Knowing your taste, it'll probably end up looking like a medieval catapult anyway"

He laughs and bumps your knee with his. "You love my taste. Admit it. The prayer plant is thriving already. It's a sexy ass plant."

"It's in the corner where no one can see it," you fire back, but you're grinning like an idiot.

This is the good part. The easy part. The two of you knee-deep in cardboard and allen keys, trading insults like always.

You spent the morning blasting your playlist (the one he hates but secretly vibes to anyway), arguing over where the floating shelves should go, and pretending the whole Mina situation wasn't sitting in your stomach like week-old takeout.

For a while, it almost feels normal. Like the last ten years of friendship compressed into one messy, sweaty afternoon of building a life together. He teases you about your obsessive moodboard adherence— you threaten to burn his ugly abstract sculpture if he tries sneaking it in again.

Sunghoon makes you coffee in the new kitchen (because of course he already knows where everything is packed— efficient king) and you both sit on the half-built sectional, shoulders brushing, legs tangled in bubble wrap.

"You're really good at this nesting shit," he says, nudging your foot. "Bossy as hell, but good.”

"Someone has to keep everything in check," you reply, poking his arm.

God, his arms. Why are they like that? Broad and stupidly solid from whatever rich-guy gym routine he does. You yank your brain back by the collar before it starts cataloging his tan lines again. Not today, Satan.

Sunghoon checks his phone at some point; a small, distracted smile creeps onto his face— the same one from the furniture store— and your insides do the twisty thing again. Harder this time.

"Shit, is it already that late?" He runs a hand through his hair. "I've got that thing with Mina tonight, coffee turned into dinner plans."

Of course it did.

You force the smile so hard your cheeks hurt. "Oh yeah? That's cool. Go have fun. I'll figure out where to put the Tv."

He hesitates for half a second, eyes flicking over the disaster zone. "You sure? I can push it back an hour—"

"Nah, go. Seriously. I've got this." Liar. Liar. Liaaaar. You wave him off like the supportive bestie you are, even though your brain is already screaming in 4K surround sound.

Sunghoon stands up, brushes dust off his pants, and gives you a reserved look that makes you feel seen in a way no one else does. "Text me if you need help carrying something. I'll bring reinforcements.”

"Or just more ugly plants," you mutter.

He laughs, leans down to ruffle your hair like you're twelve again, and then he's gone. The door clicks shut behind him and the apartment suddenly feels ten times bigger. Emptier. The monstera leaves rustle in the breeze from the open window like they're gossiping about you.

You sit there on the floor in the half-finished living room, surrounded by half-built furniture and your own thoughts. The charcoal sectional looks perfect, exactly like the moodboard, but now it just feels... off. Like it's waiting for something. Or someone. Probably Mina's perfume or her photography prints or whatever perfect, non-colorblind girl shit she brings to the table.

"Fuck," you whisper to no one, dragging a hand down your face.

Your brain, that treacherous bitch, immediately launches into overdrive.

What if she comes over after the date? What if she stays the night? What if she has amazing taste and suddenly the prayer plant migrates to the center of the room and you have to pretend it doesn't look like a haunted house reject? What if he starts canceling furniture trips and playlist sessions because he's too busy being all couple-y?

Yeah, you're being dramatic. C'mon.

You flop backward onto the rug (the non-puke one, thank you very much) and stare at the ceiling.

You don't know where you stand. Platonic soulmate? Roommate? The girl who's been friend-zoned so hard she's developing altitude sickness from the height of the friend zone? Or—worse—the girl who's been secretly jealous now that someone else might actually take him?

The worst part is you do like Mina from the little he's said. She sounds cool, funny and plus she’s into the same movies. The kind of person who'd probably get along with the group. Which makes this whole internal meltdown even more pathetic.

You groan and roll over, face-planting into a pile of bubble wrap. It pops sadly under your cheek.

"Get your shit together stupid cunt." you mumble to yourself.

But as the sun dips lower and paints the empty walls golden, you stay there on the floor, the apartment half-alive around you, boxes everywhere, plants watching.

You really don't know where you stand. And that terrifies you more than any ugly tablecloth ever could.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

You don't know how the hell a week can feel both brand new and like you've been doing this forever.

Living with Sunghoon is supposed to be the seamless extension of a decade of friendship, right? Best friends turned roommates. Easy. Natural.

Except nothing feels easy when every morning starts with the low hum of his voice through the wall and the sound of running water that makes your brain short-circuit in ways it absolutely should not.

The first full week hits like a fever dream.

Mornings are the worst— or the most dangerous, depending on how honest you're willing to be with yourself. You wake up to the soft clatter of him in the kitchen, the rich smell of coffee already brewing because Sunghoon is that kind of person.

The kind who sets the timer the night before so you both have something decent before uni swallows you whole.

You shuffle out of your room in an oversized hoodie and sleep shorts, hair looking like a bird's nest, and there he is— already dressed in a crisp button-down that somehow makes his shoulders look even broader, sleeves rolled up to his forearms.

"Hey," he says, voice still a little rough from sleep as he slides a mug toward you across the counter. Black with one sugar, exactly how you like it. His fingers brush yours for a second and you pretend it doesn't send a stupid spark up your arm. "Sleep okay? You were tossing around last night. Heard the bed creak."

Jesus Christ, he heard the bed creak? Your face heats up instantly. "Yeah, just... weird dreams. Thanks for the coffee, lifesaver."

Sunghoon leans against the counter, watching you with a quiet, attentive look that always makes you feel like he's seeing more than you want him to. "If the mattress is shit, we can swap rooms. Or I'll order a new topper today. No big deal."

You wave him off, hiding behind the mug. "It's fine, Hoon. Really. Don't go spending your trust fund on my ass."

He chuckles softly, the sound warm and low, and reaches over to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear like it's the most natural thing in the world. "Too late. Already added it to the list. Eat something before you run out the door."

The gesture lingers— his knuckles grazed your cheek for half a second, and now you're standing there like an idiot, heart doing obnoxious cartwheels while he casually plates some eggs and toast.

It's caring. He's always been caring.

But in this apartment, with just the two of you and no group buffer, it feels... different. Intimate in a way that makes your stomach flip and your brain scream abort mission, friend zone only.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

Uni days blur together in the usual mess of lectures, group projects, and shitty campus coffee that you now compare unfavorably to whatever magic Sunghoon brews at home.

You text him between classes— stupid shit, memes, complaints about your professor's monotone voice—and he replies with voice notes that are way too soothing for someone who's probably in the middle of his own packed schedule.

By the time you drag yourself home most afternoons, he's already there or arrives shortly after, shedding his jacket and asking about your day like he actually wants the full rundown.

One evening you come back soaked from a sudden downpour, cursing the weather gods under your breath— Sunghoon takes one look at you dripping all over the entryway and disappears into the bathroom, returning with a towel and one of his hoodies.

"You're gonna catch a cold," he murmurs, draping the towel over your head and rubbing gently. His hands are careful, almost tender, as he dries your hair. "Go change. I'll heat up some soup. Jay sent over extra from his latest kitchen ...experiment."

You stand there like a drowned rat, letting him fuss because fighting it feels pointless when he gets that determined look. "You don't have to baby me, dude. I'm not five."

"Could've fooled me with the way you're shivering." He smiles, that small reserved one that crinkles the corners of his eyes, and gives your shoulder a light squeeze before heading to the kitchen. "Besides, I like taking care of you. Someone has to."

What the fuck does that mean?

You pull on his hoodie— because of course it smells like him, clean and expensive and stupidly comforting—and shuffle back out. He's at the stove, stirring the soup with focused precision, brow slightly furrowed like this is a critical mission. His sleeves are rolled up again, exposing those tan lines from his watch, and the way the muscles in his forearms shift as he works...

You tear your eyes away and hop onto the counter beside him. "Smells good, you're spoiling me this week."

Sunghoon glances over, eyes soft. "That's the plan. You've been stressing about midterms, figured good food might help." He ladles a bowl and hands it to you, fingers brushing again.

Deliberate? Accidental? Your brain doesn't know anymore.

Evenings melt into this weird domestic rhythm. You study on the sectional while he works on his laptop across from you, legs tangled under the coffee table because neither of you moves them. He'll reach over randomly to hand you a snack or adjust the lamp so the light hits your notes better. "Don't strain your eyes," he says one night, voice low and serious. You mumble thanks and try not to notice how close his knee is to yours.

The friendship is still there— solid, easy, full of banter. You roast each other over dinner, recreate ridiculous inside jokes from high school, and bicker like always. But underneath it, something's shifting. Or maybe it's just you. Probably just you and your overthinking ass.

Thursday night is when it really hits. You're exhausted from a brutal day of back-to-back classes and come home to find him fresh out of the shower.

He's in the kitchen again— because Sunghoon cooks when he's thinking— wearing only low-slung sweatpants and no shirt. Bare shoulders still damp, water droplets tracing paths down the smooth lines of his back as he chops vegetables with that same focused expression. The kind where his jaw tightens just a little and his long fingers handle the knife like it's an extension of himself.

You freeze in the doorway like a creep, mouth suddenly dry.

Holy shit. When did his shoulders get like that? Broad, defined, carrying the kind of quiet strength that makes you want to trace them with your fingers and then immediately slap yourself for the thought. He's always been hot, objectively. You knew that. But living together means seeing him like this—post-shower glow, relaxed in your shared space—and your brain is filing it away for later torture.

He looks up, catches you staring, and offers a small smile. "Hey. Rough day? You look like you need a hug dwarf."

Before you can respond, he's crossing the room and pulling you into one of those hugs— one arm wraps around your waist, the other hand cradling the back of your head against his bare chest. He's warm from the shower, skin still slightly damp, and he smells like his body wash and home. "Missed you today," he murmurs against your hair. "Tell me about it while I finish dinner?"

What the— fuck???

You nod against him, arms circling his waist because what else are you supposed to do? It feels too good. Too right. Too fucking ambiguous.

Sunghoon holds you a beat longer than necessary before letting go and returning to the stove like nothing happened.

You perch on a stool, watching him cook and thhat focused look returns— the slight furrow, the way he tastes the sauce and adjusts seasoning with care. "You're really good at this," you say, trying to keep your voice light.

He shrugs, shoulders rolling beautifully. "Learned for moments like this. Can't have you surviving on instant ramen forever, right?”

Your heart does something traitorous. Caring. Always so damn caring.

Later, while you're both on the couch pretending to watch a movie, his phone buzzes. He checks it, that soft smile appearing— the Mina smile—and excuses himself to the balcony. "Gotta take this real quick."

You try to focus on the screen. You really do. But the balcony door doesn't close all the way, and his voice carries on the night breeze.

"...Yeah, I know. This week's been crazy with the move-in, but it's good having her here. Makes the place feel less empty." A pause. "No, she's great, you'd like her. We've been friends forever." Another pause, softer. "Dinner tomorrow sounds perfect, Mina. I'll pick you up after your last class. Can't wait to see you."

The jealousy sparks hot and ugly in your chest, like someone struck a match against your ribs.

She'd like her? We've been friends forever? You know it's true. You know you're the one who's always been there.

But hearing him talk to her in that warm tone while you're sitting here in his hoodie, stomach full of his cooking, makes you want to throw something. Preferably at your own stupid feelings.

You curl tighter into the corner of the sectional, pulling the blanket up like armor. Get a grip. He's allowed to date. You're happy for him. Mostly.

But the spark lingers, fanning into quiet flames every time you picture him with her. Does he hug Mina like that? Does he cook for her like that? Does he tuck her hair back and offer to swap rooms because he heard her bed creak?

You're a bitch. The kind of bitch girlfriends are scared of.

Friday morning brings another intimate routine moment. You're in the bathroom brushing your teeth when he walks in shirtless again, towel slung low on his hips from his shower, hair wet and tousled. "Sorry, forgot my watch," he says casually, reaching past you. His bare arm brushes your shoulder, and you nearly choke on toothpaste.

"No problem," you mumble around the brush, eyes glued to the sink. In the mirror, you catch him glancing at you— soft, concerned, maybe something else. He lingers a second longer than needed.

"You okay? You've been quiet since last night."

Because I overheard you being all boyfriend-y with Mina and now I'm noticing how your shoulders look like they could bench-press my whole body— goofy ass.

"Just tired. Midterms."

He nods, squeezing your shoulder gently. "We'll order in tonight, my treat. And I'll handle the dishes so you can crash early."

"Sunghoon, you don't—"

"I want to," he cuts in, voice firm but kind. That ambiguous caring again, the kind that makes you question every platonic boundary you thought was rock solid.

The rest of the week follows the same pattern: mornings with coffee and subtle touches, days at uni where you text like always, evenings filled with his quiet caretaking. He leaves notes on the fridge ("Leftovers in the blue container—eat this, not the expired yogurt"), covers you with a blanket when you fall asleep studying, and listens to your rants about group project freeloaders with full attention, offering solutions and back rubs that feel way too nice.

By Sunday night, you're both exhausted on the couch, some old movie playing low. His arm drapes casually along the back of it, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder. You're hyper-aware of every point of contact.

"You've been off," he says quietly during a lull. "Talk to me."

You shrug, heart pounding. "Just adjusting. Living together is... a lot."

He turns toward you, eyes searching. "In a bad way?" There's real worry there, mixed with something deeper. His hand drops to your knee, thumb stroking absently. Caring. So fucking caring it hurts.

"No," you whisper. "Not bad. Just... new.”

Sunghoon smiles, small and reserved, and pulls you into his side. "We'll figure it out, together.”

You lean into him, cheek against his shoulder— bare again because the motherfucker ditched the shirt after his post-gym shower— and let yourself pretend for a minute that the jealousy from the phone call doesn't exist. That the intimacy of shared mornings and his cooking focus and these ambiguous touches are just friendship.

But deep down, you know the spark is growing. You don't know where you stand, but with every caring gesture, every lingering look, every bare-shouldered moment in your new shared life, the line between best friend and something more feels thinner than ever.

And that terrifies you. Because what if he's just being Sunghoon— reliable, thoughtful—and you're the one reading too much into it? What if Mina is the one who gets the clearer version of his heart?

You close your eyes and breathe him in anyway. The week is over, but the confusion is just beginning. Fuck.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

    The housewarming party is supposed to be fun. A celebration. Proof that you and Sunghoon can pull off this whole roommate thing without the universe imploding. Instead, it ‘surprisingly’ feels like stepping into a pressure cooker...

The guys show up right on time, loud as always, turning your half-settled apartment into a proper disaster zone within minutes. Jake bursts through the door first with a ridiculous stack of takeout bags and a speaker already blasting some Travis Scott song. "Housewarming kings! Where's the alcohol? We're christening this place properly."

"Kitchen counter," you call back, laughing despite the knot in your chest that has been tightening all week.

Sunghoon stays right behind you, one hand lightly on your lower back as he steers you out of Jake's path. "Careful, she's been on her feet all day helping set up, don't trample her motherfuckers."

Jake rolls his eyes but grins. "Yes, daddy."

Heeseung and Jay follow, arms loaded with more snacks and drinks, already bickering about some video game. Riki and Jungwon tumble in last, the maknaes immediately claiming the sectional like it is their throne, legs sprawled everywhere. Sunoo arrives with a soft, angelic smile and a bag of fancy desserts that makes everyone cheer.

For a while, it is perfect. The kind of easy energy yo've missed. You're all crammed together, passing plates, roasting each other mercilessly, the apartment filling with laughter and the clink of bottles.

Sunghoon stays close— refilling your drink before you even notice it is low, handing you a plate with your favorite bites arranged neatly because "you always forget to eat when you're hosting." His fingers brush your wrist each time, lingering just enough to make your skin hum.

"Stop hovering, Hoon," you mutter at one point, bumping his shoulder. But there is no heat in it. Secretly, you crave it. That quiet caretaking in front of everyone makes the ambiguous line blur even more.

He just smiles, reserved and warm. "Not hovering. Taking care of my favorite roommate."

"Only roommate," Jungwon teases from the couch, mouth full. "Unless Mina's moving in too?"

The name drops like a rock into still water. Sunghoon chuckles softly but doesn't deny it.

The party ramps up— music thumps, stories from uni and old high school memories fly around the room. You're in the middle of it, trading insults with Jake about his terrible DJ skills, when the doorbell rings again.

Sunghoon's face lights up in that specific way— the small, genuine smile reserved for someone new. "That's her."

Oh.

Mina steps in, pretty in a casual way that somehow makes your oversized hoodie and jeans feel sloppy. She has an easy laugh, a camera bag slung over her shoulder, and flowers in hand because, eh... of course she does. "Hi everyone! Sorry I'm late— traffic was brutal. These are for the new place."

The group greets her warmly; Sunoo immediately pulls her into a conversation about the flowers, Jay offers her a drink, and Riki starts asking about her photography like he's known her for years.

But your eyes are glued to Sunghoon as he greets her.

He hugs her— not the quick side-hug he gives the guys. A full one, arm around her waist, murmuring something low that makes her smile up at him. His hand lingers on her back the way it sometimes lingers on yours. Caring. Attentive. The same fucking way.

The apartment suddenly feels suffocating. Too small. Too full of their shared space and your racing thoughts.

Every time Sunghoon leans in to say something to her, every shared laugh, every time he makes sure she has food or adjusts the lighting because "the ambiance matters for photos, right?"—it claws at your insides.

Jealousy is not new, but this is sharper. Watching them together in your apartment, on the sectional you tested with him, in the kitchen where he cooked for you shirtless just days ago... it makes the walls close in.

You feel sick to your stomach.

You busy yourself in the kitchen, refilling snacks you obviously dont need to refill, forcing laughs when Jake cracks jokes. Inside, your brain is a fucking circus.

She fits. Look at them. He's glowing. Does he look at you like that? Are you just the comfortable best friend while she gets the real version? Fuck, why does it feel so weird?

Sunghoon catches your eye across the room at one point. His expression shifts— concerned, searching, he excuses himself from Mina mid-sentence and comes over, hand finding your elbow. "You good? You been quiet the last hour."

"Yeah, just tired from playing host," you lie, plastering on a smile. "Go enjoy your guest."

He studies you for a beat too long, thumb stroking your arm. "I'm here if you need anything, yeah?" The words are soft, ambiguous as hell, and they only make the knot worse.

Mina is great. Funny, genuine, easy to talk to. She compliments the place, asks you questions about your classes, even offers to take some group photos.

You hate how much you want to dislike her. The group loves her, Sunghoon keeps glancing between you two like he is hoping you'll click. And you do, on the surface.

But every time he touches her shoulder or laughs at her story, the suffocation grows until you feel like you're drowning in your own living room.

The party winds down eventually. Goodbyes, hugs, promises to do it again soon. Mina leaves with Sunghoon walking her to the elevator, their voices fading down the hall and you stay behind, cleaning up mechanically while the guys filter out with final teasing waves.

When Sunghoon comes back, the apartment is quieter than it has been in hours. Just the two of you, remnants of the party scattered like evidence of a crime scene.

He rolls up his sleeves and starts helping without being asked, gathering empty bottles, wiping counters; the silence stretches, awkward in a way it never used to be.

"You were good tonight," he says eventually, voice low as he dries a glass. "Everyone had a great time. Especially with you running point on the food."

You shrug, tossing napkins into the trash a little harder than necessary. "Team effort. Mina seems nice."

There. You said it. Neutral. Casual. Like it does not feel like swallowing glass.

Sunghoon pauses, setting the glass down. "She is. But... you were off after she got here. Did something happen?"

Yeah, watching you two felt like someone was vacuuming out my soul asshole.

You lean against the counter, arms crossed. "No. Just... first big thing in the new place. Adjusting."

Sunghoon steps closer. Too close. The kitchen light casts shadows on his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark eyes search yours with that quiet intensity. "Talk to me. Really talk. We've done the small talk thing all week. I know when something's bothering you."

The words hang there— akward small talk dissolving into something deeper, heavier. You can feel the shift in the air, thick and charged while he's giving you that caring look again— the one that makes boundaries feel imaginary.

You exhale shakily. "It's stupid. Seeing you with her... in here. It felt weird. Like I was intruding or something."

He doesn't laugh it off- doesn't pull back. Instead, he moves even closer, hands bracing on the counter on either side of you, caging you in without touching. "Youre not intruding. This is our place. Yours and mine. Mina's... she's new. You've been here through everything."

His voice is low, sincere— one hand lifts to brush your cheek, the same way he did that first morning. "I care about you. A lot. More than I probably let on most days. Living with you has been... good. Better than I expected, i dont want that to change."

Your heart hammers— the touch is gentle, thumb tracing your jaw like he is memorizing it, but it's ambiguous. So fucking ambiguous. Is this how best friends are supposed to comfort?

"Hoon..." you whisper, voice cracking. "What are we doing?"

He doesn't move away, his forehead nearly rests against yours, breath warm. "I know. I dont wanna fuck things up. You're important. The most important person in my life. We’ll figure it out together yeah?"

The conversation pulls you under— no more jokes, no more deflections. You tell him about the overthinking, the jealousy that surprises even you, the way you're scared this is going to get complicated and you'll no longer be his best friend.

You don't tell him about the real jealousy though— the silly, ugly one that makes you want to be in Mina's place— fuck that.

Sunghoon listens without interrupting, nodding, his hand eventually sliding to the back of your neck, massaging gently like he can ease the tension out.

"Im not good at this," he admits quietly when you finish. "Keeping things in neat boxes. With you, it's never been neat. But I don't regret asking you to move in. Not for a second."

You swallow hard. "Me neither. But Mina—"

"Is figuring things out," he finishes. "And so are we. I am not choosing. I'm just... here. With you."

After a while, Sunghoon presses a soft kiss to the top of your head before murmuring, "We'll be okay. Get some sleep. Ive got breakfast covered tomorrow."

You believe him. Mostly. But as you lie in bed later, replaying every touch, every word, the suffocating feeling from the party mixes with a new, fluttering hope.

This is going to get complicated. Really fucking complicated. This is not a friendship. There’s nothing friendly about this relationship.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

The week after the housewarming party drags like hangover you can't shake— everything's heavier now—the air in the apartment, the weight in your chest, the way Sunghoon's caring gestures twist between comfort and confusion.

It's late on a Thursday night when the emergency hits. You stumble through the door well past midnight, soaked from rain again because the universe hates you, eyes burning from hours of staring at a failed group project report your asshole teammates dumped on you last minute. Work-study has been kicking your ass, midterms are breathing down your neck, and everything just... sucks.

You don't even make it to your room before Sunghoon appears in the hallway, still in his lounge clothes, hair slightly messy like he's been waiting up. "Hey. Oop, rough day?" His voice is soft, instantly concerned. He takes one look at your dripping state and the defeated slump of your shoulders and pulls you straight into his arms without asking.

You melt into it before your brain can protest. He's warm, solid, smelling like home and his hand rubs slow circles on your back while the other cradles the back of your head. "Bad day?" he murmurs against your hair. "Tell me about it."

And you do. The words spill out in a messy ramble—shitty group members, endless revisions, the professor who doesn't give a fuck, the way rent's creeping up again.

He listens without interrupting, just holding you tighter, chin resting on top of your head. "You're doing your best. That's enough. I'll help with the report tomorrow if you want. Or we can order your favorite takeout."

The hug lingers— longer than it should. His arms stay wrapped around you, one hand sliding up to stroke your damp hair, thumb brushing your temple in that gentle way that makes your knees feel unreliable. You can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong against your cheek. It feels safe. Too safe.

Too much.

Your brain screams at you— this isn't just friendly. Or is it? Fuck, why does it feel like more every single time?

Maybe because this is highly fucked up— because friends don't act like that while having a girlfriend.

You pull away first, stepping back abruptly even though every cell in your body wants to stay. Confusion floods your face. "Thanks, Hoon. I... I should shower and crash. Sorry for dumping all that on you."

Sunghoon looks at you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "You never have to apologize, get some rest. I'm here if you wake up and still feel like shit."

You nod and escape to your room, heart pounding. The hug stays with you long after the hot water runs out— his touch, his voice, the way he makes the bad day feel bearable.

But Mina's name echoes in the back of your mind like a warning. Youre a bitch for feeling this way about her man.

Mina starts coming over more after that. At first it's casual— dinner one night, movie the next. You try to be normal about it. You really do. But hearing her laugh from his room while they watch something on his laptop makes your stomach turn.

Their voices filter through the wall, low and easy, full of inside jokes you're not part of.

You bury yourself in your room with headphones, blasting music to drown them out, or claim you have late study sessions at the library just to avoid the common areas.

Sunghoon notices, of course. He always notices. He leaves little notes on the fridge—"Saved you some pasta. Eat, please."—or texts you during the day asking if you're okay, if you need anything.

One night he waits up again, catching you as you try to slip in quietly after a long day out.

"You've been avoiding the apartment," he says gently, leaning in the doorway to your room. "Is it because of Mina? Or... us?"

You shrug, avoiding his eyes. "Just busy. Uni's brutal right now."

He steps closer, hand reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. That caring touch again— fuck that. "You know you can talk to me, this is still our place. Don't disappear on me."

The words make your chest ache— youu nod, but the avoidance only gets worse.

Then comes the night that shatters whatever fragile denial you have left.

You told them you're going out— meeting a friend for drinks, staying late. You even make a show of getting dressed up and leaving at a reasonable hour. But the "friend" cancels last minute, and instead of finding somewhere else to go, you end up wandering the streets for a while before quietly letting yourself back in.

The apartment's dark except for the faint light coming from Sunghoon's room. His door's cracked open just enough.

You freeze in the hallway when you hear it.

Soft moans— the rhythmic creak of his bed. Mina's breathless laugh turning into a gasp and Sunghoon's low voice murmuring her name.

They think you're out. They have no idea you're standing there like a statue, heart hammering so hard you feel sick.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The sounds are unmistakable. Intimate. Real.

Your hands fly up to your ears, pressing hard like a child trying to block out a nightmare. It doesn't help, the images flood your brain anyway— his bare shoulders, that focused expression, the way he cares so deeply when he touches someone. Now he's touching her. In your shared apartment. While you stand outside like the pathetic third wheel you've become.

Tears burn your eyes as you tiptoe to your room, shutting the door as quietly as possible. You push your fingers deeper into your ears, curling up on your bed with your face buried in the pillow.

The frustration boils over into quiet, angry sobs. Why does this hurt so much? You knew this would happen. He's dating. You're just the best friend roommate. Get the fuck over it.

But you can't. The sounds eventually fade, but the ache stays. You lie there for hours, replaying every lingering hug, every caring gesture, every ambiguous moment— Sunghoon comforting you after your bad day, the way he pulled you close. The way you pulled away first, confused and scared.

You avoid him even more aggressively after that.

Early mornings to dodge breakfast together. Late nights at cafes pretending to study. Burying yourself in work until your eyes cross. Sunghoon tries— texts, notes, a soft knock on your door asking if you want to watch something— but you keep the walls up.

Inside, your thoughts spiral wildly. He's happy with her. Good for him. But why does hearing them together feel like someone's ripping out a piece of you? This is so fucked.

The apartment that once felt like home now feels like a minefield— every laugh from his room, every time Mina's shoes appear by the door, every lingering glance Sunghoon gives you when he thinks you're not looking —it all builds until you're not sure how much longer you can keep pretending everything's fine.

You don't know where you stand anymore, and the worst part is, Sunghoon still looks at you like he wants to pull you back into one of those long hugs and fix it all. But you're not sure a hug can fix this kind of mess.

Not when your heart's screaming what your mouth refuses to say.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

       The grocery run is supposed to be quick and easy. Just the usual Sunday restock— but obviously everything feels loaded lately, like one wrong word could blow up the fragile peace you've been faking

You're pushing the cart while Sunghoon walks beside you, tossing things in. He's been extra since the night you overheard him and Mina— leaving notes, making sure you eat, checking in with soft "you okay?" texts. It's driving you insane because it feels too much and not enough at the same time.

"Grab the oat milk?" he asks, reaching for his usual protein bars.

You nod, but when he puts another pack of those ugly off-brand snacks in the cart— the ones you hate because they taste like cardboard— you snap.

"Seriously? We talked about this. Stop buying shit we don't need just because it's on sale."

Sunghoon blinks, surprised. "It's not a big deal. I thought you might want options."

"It is a big deal when I'm the one trying to keep the kitchen from turning into a junkyard while you're playing house with Mina every other night." The words fly out sharper than you mean them to. Your voice cracks a little at the end and you hate it.

Sunghoon's jaw tightens. "Playing house? That's what you think this is?"

The aisle feels too narrow. People glance over but you don't care, this is your first real argument as roommates and it's happening under shitty fluorescent lights next to the cereal.

"You've been distant as fuck," he says, voice low but heated. "I try to check on you, you shut me out. I bring Mina around and you disappear. What do you want from me?"

"I don't know!" You grip the cart handle until your knuckles hurt. "I just... everything's weird now and I'm tired, okay?"

He looks hurt- actually hurt. "You think this is easy for me? Watching you pull away?"

You don't answer. You just abandon the cart in the middle of the aisle and walk out to the car, chest tight with regret and anger and that stupid fucking longing you can't kill.

The drive home is silent, when you get back to the apartment you disappear into your room and bury yourself in assignments, headphones on full blast.

An hour later there's a soft knock. Sunghoon opens the door a crack, holding your favorite beer— the expensive one you only treat yourself to on good days.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, stepping inside. "I shouldn't have pushed. And I'm sorry if having Mina here makes you feel like shit. That's not what I want."

You stare at the beer like it's personally attacking you. The domesticity of it— the way he remembered your favorite, the way he's standing in your room trying to fix things after a dumb fight over snacks— hits you like a truck. It feels like couple shit.

You take the bottle with shaky hands. "Thanks. I'm sorry I snapped. I've just been... in my head a lot."

He sits on the edge of your bed, close but not touching. "We're okay?"

"Yeah," you lie, because saying anything else right now would open floodgates you're not ready for. "We're okay."

But as he gives you that small, caring smile and leaves you with the beer, the domestic weight settles heavy in your chest. Fuck. This is getting harder every day.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

          Tonight, you're sitting on the sectional alone tonight, the apartment quiet. Sunghoon's out with Mina again.

Instead of spiraling like usual, your brain drags you back to high school— those early days when everything was simpler and the line between you two hadn't blurred into this mess.

Flashback hits hard— you're fifteen again, stuck on that delayed train with him, sharing the last bottle of water like it's some sacred pact. That's where it started. Friendship born from boredom and bad luck.

Prom night memories flood in. You got rejected by the guy you liked— some idiot who said you were "too much like a sister." You cried in the bathroom until Sunghoon found you— he ditched his own date, showed up in his rented tux with snacks he stole from the refreshments table.

"Fuck him," he'd said, sitting on the gross bathroom floor with you. "You're way better than that loser anyway. We'll dance right here if you want. Or we can bail and get convenience store beer."

You laughed through the tears, he stayed with you all night, no questions, no judgment. Just steady, caring Sunghoon. The same way he held you after your parents' divorce shit got bad—when your mom moved away and you felt like the world was splitting. He'd show up at your door with bad movies and shoulder to cry on.

"You're not alone in this," he told you back then, voice serious even at seventeen. "I got you. Always."

You're yanked back to the present when the front door clicks open— Sunghoon steps in, still in the hoodie he left in earlier— he sees you on the couch and his face softens immediately

"Hey. You're home." He kicks off his shoes and comes over without hesitation, dropping down beside you. "Mina had an early thing tomorrow so I came back. You okay?"

You shrug, "Just thinking about old shit. Prom. When my family was falling apart. You were always there, fixing things."

Sunghoon watches you carefully. "I still am. Even if it feels different now."

The contrast hits like a slap. Back then it was easy— pure support, no jealousy, no hearing him with someone else through the walls. Now every caring gesture feels loaded. Every "I got you" carries new weight.

"You remember when you stayed over after my mom's call about the divorce?" you ask quietly. "We fell asleep watching those terrible horror movies and you held my hand the whole night because I was shaking."

He nods, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, i remember. I didn't want you to feel alone for even a second."

You swallow hard. "Feels like we're both alone in the same apartment these days."

Sunghoon shifts closer, his knee pressing against yours. "We don't have to be." His hand finds yours, squeezing gently —the same way he did years ago. "I know things are messy... but I'm still here. Like I was back then."

He was your rock in high school, the one who supported you through every rejection, every family crisis. Now that same rock feels like it's cracking under the weight of unspoken feelings and another girl's laughter in his room.

You don't pull your hand away. "I miss how simple it was," you whisper.

"Me too," he admits, thumb stroking the back of your hand. "But we're still us. We'll figure the rest out.”

You want to believe him, you really do. But as the memories of carefree high school support clash with the complicated mess you're living in now, the inside voice won't shut up.

How the fuck do you go back to simple when everything feels this complicated?

You decide it's time to move the fuck on.

At least that's what you tell yourself when you agree to the casual date with Minjun from your psych class. He's cute, funny enough in lectures, and most importantly— he's not Sunghoon. No complicated history, no shared apartment, no Mina in the picture. Just a simple coffee that turns into dinner and maybe a walk.

The kind of thing that might loosen the knot in your chest, right?

You get ready in your room, sliding into a little black top that shows just enough skin to feel good but not desperate. When you step out, Sunghoon's in the kitchen grabbing water, his eyes drag over you slowly— down the curve of your waist, the bare skin at your collarbone, back up to your face. The look is dark. Hungry, almost?

"You going out?" His voice is low, casual on the surface but edged with something more.

"Yeah. Date with Minjun." You grab your bag, trying to sound breezy. "Don't wait up."

He sets the glass down harder than necessary. "Minjun? The guy who sits in the back and barely talks? You sure that's a good idea?"

You raise an eyebrow. "It's just coffee and dinner, Hoon. I'm not marrying him."

Sunghoon steps closer, crowding your space in that way he does without realizing— or maybe he does. His gaze drops for a split second before flicking back up. "Just be careful. Text me if anything feels off, I don't trust random dudes with you."

The protectiveness hits different tonight, it's more than friendly concern. His hand brushes your arm as you pass, fingers lingering on your skin like he wants to pull you right back.

Heat pools low in your stomach. Fuck. Why does he have to look at you like that? Like he wants to ruin you right here against the counter.  Does he even fucking notice?

But you force yourself out the door anyway.

The date is... fine. Minjun's nice. He laughs at your jokes, pays for dinner, walks you to the door like a gentleman.

There's zero spark though. No butterflies, no insane pull that makes you forget how to speak. Every time he touches your lower back, your brain supplies Sunghoon's face instead. Sunghoon's hands. Sunghoon's dark eyes raking over your body.

By the time you get home it's late— the apartment's quiet except for the TV in the living room. Sunghoon's passed out on the couch, one arm slung over his stomach, shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin at his waist. His hair's messy, lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling in steady breaths.

You should go to your room.

Instead you stand there like a creep, staring.

The sexual tension from earlier comes rushing back hard— if it was even ever sexual... you imagine waking him up with your mouth on his neck, his hands gripping your hips, that protective growl turning into something filthy while he fucks the confusion out of you right there on the couch.

God, you're pathetic. Heat floods your face and between your thighs.

He looks so good like this— relaxed, vulnerable, broad shoulders taking up half the couch. You want to crawl on top of him. Want to trace those tan lines with your tongue. Want things you definitely shouldn't want from your best friend.

But then the cold slap of reality hits.

He's probably just being a possessive friend. That's all. He has Mina. He laughs with her in his room, fucks her when he thinks you're gone. The protective bullshit tonight? That's just Sunghoon being Sunghoon— the guy who's looked out for you since high school.

Not because he wants you the way you're starting to need him. He's not lying awake thinking about you the same way, he's not burning up with this unbearable tension every time you're in the same room.

You're the one reading too much into lingering touches and dark looks. You're the idiot catching feelings while he's just... comfortable. Possessive because you've always been his safe person, not because he's imagining you naked.

The realization stings like hell. You tear your eyes away from his sleeping form, chest tight, and slip quietly into your room.

You change into an oversized tee and crawl into bed, pressing your thighs together to ease the ache that won't go away. The apartment feels smaller than ever, Sunghoon's right there on the couch, looking like every dirty fantasy you've been trying to kill, and all you can think is how much it hurts that he probably doesn't feel the same.

Get it together.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

Week seven hits like a goddamn freight train. The tension in the apartment has been building since that night you stared at Sunghoon asleep on the couch like a horny idiot. You've been trying—really trying—to keep your distance, burying yourself in assignments and forcing yourself on more "moving on" dates that go nowhere. But the universe has other plans.

See, you were supposed to be gone for the whole weekend. A cheap bus trip with some girls from your program to escape the city and clear your head. But the trip got conveniently canceled last minute— rain washed out the whole thing—so you drag your tired ass back to the apartment Friday night instead, earlier than expected.

You don't even text Sunghoon. Figured he'd be out or chilling alone.

Big fucking mistake.

The second you push the door open, you hear it.

Moans. Loud, breathy, unmistakable. The wet slap of skin. Sunghoon's low groan that shoots straight between your legs before the ache in your chest takes over.

You freeze in the entryway, keys still in your hand.

The door to his room is wide open like they didn't even bother closing it properly, and there they are— Sunghoon fucking Mina on his bed, her legs wrapped around his waist, his bare back flexing with every thrust. His shoulders— the ones you've been fantasizing about—are glistening with sweat. He looks so good it hurts, hips snapping forward, one hand gripping her thigh hard enough to leave marks.

Your stomach drops. A weird, deep aching feeling blooms in your chest and spreads like poison. It's not just jealousy. It's visceral. Like someone's reached in and twisted everything you've been trying to ignore.

Seeing him like this— raw, lost in pleasure, giving someone else what your body has been craving in secret—makes you feel sick and devastated all at once.

"Fuck— Hoon," Mina gasps, and the sound snaps you out of it.

You drop your bag with a loud thud and they both jolt apart. Sunghoon's head whips toward the door, eyes wide with shock and Mina scrambles for the sheet, face flushed.

Sunghoon sits up fast, pulling the blanket over his lap. "Shit— I didn't know you'd be back early."

The concern in his voice only makes it worse. He's still hard, still naked under that sheet, and he's looking at you with that caring expression like he didn't just shatter the last bit of peace in this apartment.

Mina, to her credit, looks mortified. But then she opens her mouth and makes it so much worse. "This is exactly why we need more privacy, Hoon. Maybe... maybe you should think about moving out. Just us having our own space would be better for everyone."

The words hang in the air like a bomb.

Sunghoon doesn't immediately shut it down— no, he hesitates, running a hand through his messy hair, glancing between you two. That split second of silence is enough to light the fuse.

"This was supposed to be our place." The words rip out of you ugly. "You and me, Sunghoon. Not you, me, and your girlfriend. I moved in with you. Not some couple's retreat where I get to walk in on you fucking while I'm supposed to be gone for the weekend. For fucks sake just give a girl a warning?"

Tears burn your eyes but you don't let them fall.

"I've been walking on eggshells for weeks, avoiding my own fucking living room because I can't stand hearing you two. And now you wanna move out? Like I'm the problem here?"

Sunghoon stands up, wrapping the sheet around his waist, looking torn. "That's not— Mina, don't say shit like that right now. This isn't the time."

"But it's true," Mina says quietly, pulling her clothes on. “This situation is weird for everyone."

"Weird?" You laugh, but it sounds broken. "Yeah, it's real fucking weird watching the guy I've been best friends with for years rail his girlfriend in the apartment we picked together. I didn't wanna see that okay?"

You can still see the image of Sunghoon's hips moving, the way his muscles flexed, burned into your brain. Your body reacts even now— traitorous heat mixing with the ache in your chest—and it makes you hate yourself a little more.

And God, you know you’re being a bitch. But it hurts.

Sunghoon steps toward you, "Hey i'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to see that. We should've closed the door, I wasn't thinking—"

"You never are lately," you snap, stepping back. "Not about how this affects me. This was supposed to be our place, Hoon. Remember? The one you said would be good for us. Now it just feels like I'm crashing your relationship."

Mina slips out of the room awkwardly, murmuring something about giving you two space and the door to the apartment clicks shut behind her a minute later.

Sunghoon stands there in nothing but the sheet, looking devastated and guilty and still so fucking attractive it's unfair.

"I didn't agree to anything. I'm not moving out. This is our apartment. I just... I didn't know how to say no to her without making it worse."

You shake your head, the aching feeling spreading until it feels like your ribs are cracking. "Doesn't matter. The fact that you didn't shut it down immediately says enough. I'm gonna go stay somewhere else tonight, I can't be here right now."

He reaches for you but you dodge his hand. The almost-touch burns worse than if he'd actually grabbed you.

"Don't," you whisper. "Not tonight."

You grab your bag and leave before he can say anything else.

The image of him fucking her follows you the whole way down the stairs, mixing with the memory of his heated stare the night of your date. The sexual tension, the protectiveness, the caring touches—they all feel like lies now.

This was supposed to be your place. Yours and his.

Now it just feels like he's playing with a little bit of everything. Does he even know what he’s doing ? Does he even notice how ambiguous he acts?

The cold shoulder lasts for days. You come back the next morning after crashing on a friend's couch, but the apartment feels like a war zone— silent except for tense hallway passings and the occasional awkward "excuse me" when you both reach for the same cabinet.

Sunghoon tries at first. He leaves coffee on the counter with a note that just says "sorry" and your name in his neat handwriting. You dump it down the sink without drinking it, childish as always.

You can feel him noticing the changes. The way you come home later, earbuds always in, the way you don't linger in the kitchen anymore. The way you flinch a little when his door opens. He watches you with those dark eyes, brow furrowed like he's trying to solve a problem he created.

You catch him staring more than once— lingering on your legs when you walk past in shorts, on the way your shirt rides up when you reach for something. The tension hasn't died— oh no, if anything, the fight made it worse— it simmers under every stiff interaction, thick and unbearable.

By day four the silence is killing you both.

Then the power outage hits on Friday night, so convenient. A storm rolls in hard, lights flicker once and die completely, the whole building goes dark, you're in the living room when it happens, laptop dead on your lap, cursing under your breath.

"Shit," Sunghoon mutters from the hallway. He appears a second later with his phone flashlight, looking rumpled in a black t-shirt and sweats. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Your voice is flat, you stand up, but the room feels smaller already.

He disappears for a minute and comes back with candles— emergency ones you both bought during move-in. The warm glow flickers across his face as he sets them on the coffee table. "Old school vibes, huh?"

You don't answer, but you don't leave either.

He scrolls through his phone and connects to a portable speaker. Your old playlist— the one from high school with all the songs you used to listen together— starts playing low; the familiar beats hit you right in the chest.

Sunghoon sits on the other end of the sectional, close enough that you feel the heat from his body. "You've been avoiding me like the plague."

"Can you blame me?" you mutter, pulling your knees up.

He winces. "I fucked up. I should've shut that down immediately, this is our place. I meant that."

The candlelight makes everything feel too intimate, his eyes keep dropping to your mouth, then lower, tracing the neckline of your tank top. You're hyper-aware of every breath he takes, the way his thighs spread when he leans forward. Tension coils tight in your stomach.

You want to climb into his lap and kiss the guilt off his face. Want his hands on you the way they were on her. Want him to ruin the friendship in the best and worst way possible.

"I know things feel different," Sunghoon says suddenly, voice rough and low. "Between us. I can't explain why. It's not just the fight. Living together... it's messing with my head. You walk around and I—" He cuts himself off, running a hand through his hair. "Fuck. I don't know what I'm saying."

Your heart slams against your ribs— he's looking at you like he wants to devour you. It builds slowly—both of you leaning in without deciding to, breaths mingling, his gaze dark and heavy. You can smell his cologne mixed with the rain outside.

His hand brushes your knee, then slides higher, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh in a way that's definitely not platonic and heat rushes through you.

God, just do it. Kiss me. Touch me. Make this aching stop.

Your lips are inches apart, you can feel his breath, warm and shaky. His fingers press firmer on your thigh, grip tightening like he's barely holding back and —

His phone rings. His fucking. phone. rings.

Mina's name lights up the screen, bright and obnoxious in the candlelit dark.

Sunghoon freezes, he glances at it, then back at you, conflict written all over his face— the moment shatters.

You pull back fast, like you've been burned. "Answer it.“

He hesitates, thumb hovering over the screen, but the call keeps ringing.

You stand up on shaky legs. "I'm going to bed. Enjoy the candles."

As you walk away, leaving him sitting there with the phone still ringing, the inside voice screams louder than ever.

He almost kissed you. But he still has her on speed dial. This is so fucking messed up.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

The thought of leaving doesn't hit you all at once. It creeps in slowly, starts the morning after the power outage. You wake up to the sound of Sunghoon moving around the kitchen, probably making coffee like always. The memory of his hand on your thigh, his breath on your lips, the way he looked at you like he was starving— it all crashes back. Then Mina's name lighting up his phone, the almost-kiss interrupted. Again.

You lie in bed staring at the ceiling, chest tight.

This can't keep going on like this. You're torturing yourself every single day in this apartment, the images won't leave your head: him fucking Mina, the candlelight on his face, the way your body still reacts to him even when your brain knows better. You're exhausted from the constant tension, the cold shoulders, the aching want that never gets satisfied.

By noon you're on your laptop in a cafe far from home, scrolling through apartment listings. One-bedrooms. Studios. Anything that doesn't have fucking Park Sunghoon in it. Your hands shake as you save a few that look decent— small, expensive, but far enough away that you might actually breathe again. You tell yourself it's practical, rent is going up anyway. You need space to study. To stop wanting your best friend who's busy railing someone else in the next room.

You don't tell him. Not yet.

The next few days blur— you visit two places after class— one tiny studio with shitty lighting, another slightly better one with a window that overlooks a noisy street. You take pictures, ask questions about leases, and feel a weird mix of relief and grief every time you imagine packing your boxes.

This was supposed to be your place with him, it was also supposed to be purely platonic. But you're too big of a slut, turns out— and so is he.

You start packing in secret. Small things at first—a couple books, some clothes you don't wear often and you hide the boxes under your bed like a coward.

Every time you pass Sunghoon in the hallway the tension flares up again— he'll brush past you a little too close, eyes dark, and your body lights up even as your heart twists.

You catch him staring at your mouth when you're both in the kitchen.

He catches you looking at his bare shoulders after his shower but neither of you says anything— the air so thick with it you could cut it with a knife.

By the end of the week you've put a deposit on a tiny studio two subway stops away. It's smaller, more expensive, and nothing like the home you built here. But it's yours.

You're in the middle of quietly moving some winter clothes into a suitcase when it all comes crashing down.

It's 2am. You can't sleep— ugh again—so you slip into the kitchen for water. The apartment is dark except for the fridge light when you open it, you're standing there in an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, barefoot, when Sunghoon appears in the doorway like a ghost.

He's shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair messy from sleep. The sight of him hits you like a punch all tan lines, broad chest, that fucking focused expression even when he's half-awake.

"You're leaving," he says. It's not a question— his voice is rough, raw; he's holding a piece of paper—one of the apartment listing printouts you accidentally left on the counter earlier.

You freeze, glass of water halfway to your mouth. "How did you—"

"I saw the boxes under your bed when I was looking for the spare charger." He steps closer, eyes blazing. "You're actually doing it. You're moving out."

The raw emotions spill before you can stop them.

"Yeah, I am." Your voice cracks. "I can't do this anymore, Sunghoon. I can't keep living here like this—"

Sunghoon looks like you slapped him— the audacity. "You think this is easy for me? You think I don't feel it too?"

"Well you have a fucking girlfriend." The words explode out, loud in the quiet kitchen. "Why do you look at me like that and touch me like that, huh? I just don't get it."

Sunghoon crowds you against the counter before you can escape; his body presses close, one hand gripping your hip, the other bracing on the counter beside you.

"Because I'm scared," he admits, voice low and broken. "I don't want you to leave— God, I don't want you to leave. This was supposed to be our place. You and me. I can't imagine coming home and you not being here."

His forehead drops to yours— breaths mingle. His hand slides under the hem of your t-shirt, palm hot against your bare waist, thumb stroking the skin just under your ribs. You shiver hard as his other hand grips your hip tighter, pulling you flush against him. The outline of his cock presses right where you need it and you have to bite back a moan.

Now that you think about it, the line's always been thin— if this was all it took for you to cross it. You were living in delusion, talking about how platonic you both were.

"Sunghoon..." you whisper, voice trembling.

His fingers trace higher under your shirt, brushing the underside of your breast. Your traitorous nipples harden instantly under the thin fabric and he groans softly, hips rolling against yours in a slow, filthy grind. The friction makes your head spin.

You're so wet already it's embarrassing, thighs pressing together instinctively as he keeps that maddening pressure right against your core.

Why are you so easy?

"Been thinking about touching you like this for so long," he mutters, voice rough, his thumb circles your nipple through your shirt, teasing, while his other hand squeezes your ass, pulling you even harder against his erection. "You have no idea what you do to me. I don't even know why i'm doing this— it's so wrong."

The tension is unbearable, every roll of his hips sends sparks through you, you can feel how thick he is, how much he wants you— your hands grip his shoulders, nails digging into bare skin as you fight the urge to grind back against him. His mouth hovers inches from yours, breath hot, but he doesn't close the gap. Just teases. Torments. His fingers keep playing with your breast, pinching lightly until you whimper.

"Fuck, you're so responsive," he breathes, lips brushing your ear.

You're losing it— the ache between your legs is painful now, your body screaming for more more more— his fingers inside you, his cock, anything. The kitchen counter digs into your back but all you can focus on is the heat of his body, the way he's holding you like he never wants to let go.

But then reality crashes back.

You push him off hard, hands on his chest— he stumbles back a step, breathing ragged, eyes dark with lust, sweatpants tented obscenely.

"You have a girlfriend," you say, voice shaking. Tears burn your eyes. "You can't do shit like this, Sunghoon. You can't touch me like that when she's the one you're actually with. I won't be the other woman in my own fucking apartment."

Sunghoon looks wrecked. "I know. I'm sorry. I just— I don't know what the hell I'm doing anymore. I don't even know..."

"Well, that's the problem. Im not a toy." You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly cold. "I'm moving out. I already put the deposit down."

Sunghoon steps forward again but stops when you flinch. The raw pain on his face mirrors your own. "Please don't go. We can figure this out. I'll talk to Mina. I'll end it if that's what you want. Just... don't leave."

The admission hangs heavy between you, it should feel like victory. Instead it just hurts more.

You shake your head, tears finally spilling over. "I didn't ask you to leave her. Just don't do this to her, or to me. It's mean— it's useless."

Sunghoon's eyes widen, he looks like he wants to pull you back against him, touch you again until you forget everything else. The tension is still there, pulsing between you like a living thing. But you can't. Not like this.

You step around him, heading for your room. "I'll start packing properly tomorrow. Please don't make this harder than it already is."

He doesn't follow you; but as you close your bedroom door, you hear him curse softly in the kitchen, the sound of something hitting the counter.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

The next few days are hell. You pack in bursts— clothes, books, the stupid little trinkets you bought together during vacations. Every box feels like another nail in the coffin of what you two had.

Sunghoon keeps his distance, but you catch him watching you— the tension never leaves, it's in every hallway pass, every time his fingers brush yours reaching for the same thing. You're both walking around the apartment like it's wired with explosives.

Mina shows up on wednesday evening.

You're in the kitchen making instant ramen when she knocks. Sunghoon's out— probably at the library or avoiding the war zone you both created; she stands in the doorway looking uncomfortable but determined, hair up in a messy bun, wearing one of his hoodies that makes your stomach twist.

"Hey," she says quietly. "Can we talk?"

You almost laugh. Talk? Sure, let's chat about how you’re slowly dying inside while her boyfriend grinds on you in the middle of the night. But you nod and gesture to the couch. The same one where everything almost fell apart.

She sits, twisting her hands in her lap. "I can feel the tension every time I come over. It's not just awkward anymore. It's... heavy. Sunghoon's been distant as hell and I know part of it is because of you two living together. The history. All of it."

You stare at your ramen, appetite gone. Inside, your brain is screaming. 'Yeah, the history where I stupidly want him and he's been touching me like he wants to fuck me senseless while dating you'. But you keep your mouth shut.

"It's complicated," you say instead, voice tight. "We've been best friends forever. Moving in together changed shit. Made boundaries blurry. I'm sorry if it's been weird for you."

Mina nods slowly, eyes shiny. "I appreciate you saying that. I'm not trying to start drama. I just... needed to know if I'm imagining things. The way he looks at you sometimes, the way the air gets when you're both in the same room…”

You swallow hard, forcing yourself not to spill everything. "We're figuring it out. Or trying to. I'm actually looking for my own place soon."

She looks surprised, then a little relieved. "That might be for the best. For all of us." She stands up, pulling the hoodie sleeves over her hands. "This whole situation is messy as fuck. Thanks for talking to me."

She leaves shortly after and you sit on the couch for a long time, the cold ramen forgotten. Not admitting it out loud doesn't make the feelings disappear. If anything, it makes them louder in your head.

You want Park Sunghoon. Deeply. Stupidly. And pretending otherwise is getting harder every day.

Later that night you hear them arguing through the wall. Not the full words— just raised voices, Sunghoon's low and frustrated, Mina's sharper. It goes on for twenty minutes before the front door slams— then silence.

Sunghoon breaks up with her the next day.

He doesn't tell you right away, you find out when her stuff slowly disappears from the apartment— no more extra toothbrush in the bathroom, no camera bag by the door. The relief hits first, warm and guilty— then the guilt eats at you.

You didn't ask him to end it, you told him not to play games. But you still feel like the villain in someone else's story.

You don't talk to Sunghoon after that night— not really. A few mumbled "morning"s and "excuse me"s in the hallway, but nothing real; the guilt and relief and fear sit heavy in the apartment like fog, but you push through it by convincing yourself you need to move on. For real this time.

Sunghoon isn't someone you should want, that's what you keep telling yourself as you tape up another box. You've already ruined too many things— the easy friendship, the roommate balance, even Mina's relationship. Wanting him now feels selfish and messy and doomed.

You need someone simple, someone who doesn't come with years of history and almost-touches that leave you aching for days.

So when Minjun texts asking if you're free this weekend, you say yes before you can overthink it.

The date is... fine. Dull as fuck, actually.

You meet him at a casual ramen place near campus. He's sweet, talking about his classes and some club he's in, laughing at his own jokes a little too hard. You smile and nod, asking the right questions, but your mind keeps drifting.

Sunghoon would've ordered the spicy one without asking. Sunghoon would've remembered you hate scallions. Sunghoon's hand on your thigh felt like fire—Minjun's fingers brushing yours feel like… nothing.

"This is nice," Minjun says halfway through, smiling across the table. "I've been wanting to do this again. You seem... I don't know, more relaxed tonight?"

You force a laugh. "Yeah, just trying new things."

The conversation stays surface-level. Grades, professors, weekend plans. Nothing that makes your heart race, nothing that makes you forget the way Sunghoon's body felt pressed against yours in the kitchen. By the end of dinner you're restless, a weird mix of disappointment and determination swirling in your chest.

On a whim, as you're walking out, you turn to him. "Wanna come back to my place? It's close."

Thot daughter habits never die...

Minjun looks surprised but pleased. "Yeah. I'd like that."

You text Sunghoon quickly on the way: hey, you gonna be home tonight?

His reply comes fast: No, heading to Jay's after the library. Why?

Just checking, you send back. Have fun.

Guilt twists in your stomach, but you shove it down. This is what moving on looks like and Sunghoon doesn't get to ruin this too.

The second you get inside the apartment you pull Minjun to the couch. He's surprised by the suddenness but goes with it, hands settling on your waist as you kiss him.

His lips are soft. Nice. But they don't spark anything wild; his body feels different—leaner, less solid than Sunghoon's broad frame. His hands slide up your sides carefully, almost polite, while your brain cruelly compares every touch.

Sunghoon would've gripped harder. Sunghoon's hands are bigger. Sunghoon's mouth would've been on your neck already, teasing like he knows exactly what you want.

You deepen the kiss anyway, trying to lose yourself in it. Minjun groans softly, pulling you closer until you're straddling his lap; his hands move to your ass, squeezing as he rolls his hips up.

It feels okay. Good, even.

But it's not electric, not the stomach-dropping, thigh-clenching heat you get from just Sunghoon brushing past you in the hallway.

This is fine. This is what normal feels like. You should want this.

Things get hotter fast— Minjun tugs your shirt up, hands sliding over your bare skin, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. You arch into him, letting his mouth move to your neck, sucking marks that make you gasp; then fingers dip under your bra, teasing your nipples until they harden. He's getting bolder, grinding up against you with clear intent, his hardness pressing right between your legs through your clothes.

You rock against him, chasing friction, but your mind won't shut up.

Sunghoon's cock felt thicker when he was grinding on you. Sunghoon's hands would've been rougher, more desperate. Sunghoon would've already had his fingers inside you, whispering filthy shit in your ear.

The comparisons make you feel guilty and turned on at the same time. You kiss Minjun harder, like you can drown out the thoughts.

He moans into your mouth, one hand slipping down to palm you through your jeans, rubbing with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. "Fuck, you're so hot," he mutters against your lips, voice shaky with want.

His other hand squeezes your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers. It feels good, your body even responds, hips moving faster against his hand, but it's missing that soul-crushing intensity. That feeling like you might die if he stops touching you.

You don't notice your phone ringing on the coffee table. Once. Twice. Then silent.

Minjun's hand fumbles with the button of your jeans, breath hot against your neck as he starts tugging them down your hips. You lift up to help him, desperate to feel something real,

— when the front door suddenly flies open.

Sunghoon steps in, keys still in his hand, and freezes mid-step.

For a second he can't even speak. His eyes go wide, mouth slightly open like the air got punched out of him, the color drains from his face as he takes in the scene— Minjun's hands halfway down your jeans, your shirt pushed up, your flushed, guilty expression.

He looks sick to his stomach, like he might actually throw up right there in the entryway.

"What the fuck," he finally chokes out, voice raw and broken. His knuckles are white around the keys.

Minjun scrambles, nearly shoving you off his lap in panic. "Shit—uh, hey man—"

"Get out," Sunghoon cuts him off, eyes locked on you. His voice is cold but you can see the storm behind it.

Minjun doesn't argue. He grabs his jacket and bolts, mumbling an awkward "sorry" as the door slams behind him.

The apartment falls dead silent. Sunghoon stands there, chest rising and falling hard, looking like someone just ripped his heart out and showed it to him.

You pull your shirt down with shaking hands, heart hammering.

The door slams so hard the walls shake— Minjun is gone, but the damage is done. Sunghoon stands there like a statue for three full seconds, then the storm breaks.

"What the actual fuck was that?" His voice starts low but builds fast, shaking with rage and something deeper. He drops his keys on the floor without caring, stepping closer. "You brought him here? To our couch? While I was gone?"

You stand up fast, tugging your clothes back into place, face burning with humiliation and anger. "Ah fuck's sake. You have no right."

"No right?" He laughs, but it's bitter and ugly. "I have every fucking right. This is still my apartment too. And you—" He gestures at you, eyes wild. "You were letting him touch you. His hands were in your jeans, for fuck's sake."

Your chest heaves, the guilt flips into pure fury. "And how many times did I have to hear you fucking Mina in the next room? How many times did I walk in on shit I never wanted to see? You don't get to do that now."

"I ended things with her" he shouts, stepping even closer. The possessiveness rolls off him in waves. "Because every time I touched her I was thinking about you. Because this—" He gestures between you two. "—has been driving me insane for months. And you go and bring some random dude here the second I'm gone?"

You shove his chest, hard, he barely moves. "You don't own me, Sunghoon. We're not together. We're not anything. You made sure of that when you kept messing with me while having a girlfriend. I'm trying to move on because clearly wanting you is the worst mistake I've ever made!"

The words hit him like a slap. For a second his face crumples, then the anger comes back twice as strong.

"Move on?" He laughs again, stepping forward until your back hits the wall. "You think fucking Minjun is moving on? That guy couldn't make you feel half of what I do. I saw the way you looked when I walked in. You weren't even into it y/n!"

"Fuck you," you spit, tears of rage burning your eyes. "At least he doesn't come with ten years of baggage. At least he isn't messy."

Sunghoon's hand goes against the wall beside your head, caging you in. His body is inches from yours, heat radiating off him— the possessiveness is suffocating. "You think I wanted this? We were perfect. Then we moved in together and suddenly I can't stop thinking about you. Your laugh. The way you look in my clothes. How fucking good you feel when you're pressed against me."

You shove him again but he doesn't budge. "Then why didn't you say anything? Why did you keep Mina around like a safety net while you were touching me like you wanted to fuck me?"

"Because i was scared" Sunghoon yells, voice cracking. "Scared of ruining the only real thing I've ever had. You've been my person since high school And now look at us. We've ruined everything anyway."

The argument turns mean, ugly, years of buried shit spilling out.

"You ruined it first," you snap, voice breaking. "Every time you hugged me too long, every time you looked at me like that. You made me feel all of that while you were with someone else. That's cruel, Sunghoon. That's so fucking mean."

His eyes flash with pain. "And you think it didn't hurt me? Hearing you laugh with the guys, watching you pack your shit to leave me? I ended things with Mina because I couldn't keep pretending. But you—" He laughs bitterly. "You ran straight to Minjun. Real mature."

"At least he doesn't make me mad" you scream. Tears are falling freely now. "At least he doesn't make me question every single thing.Was any of it real? Or was I just the safe, comfortable best friend you kept around while you played house with other girls?”

Sunghoon's face twists. "Don't say that, for fucks sake. Everything was real. Every fucking second. You're the only person who's ever really known me. The only one I let in. And yeah, I fucked up— i was scared, but don't stand there and pretend you didn't feel it too. Don't pretend you weren't wet for me in the kitchen while I had a girlfriend."

The words are low and dirty, so dirty.

"I hate you," you whisper, but there's no heat left in it— just exhaustion and want and years of love twisted into something painful.

"No you don't." His voice drops, dangerous and desperate. "You love me. Same way I love you."

"I do love you, you asshole" you shout, shoving him again, but this time your hands fist in his shirt instead of pushing away. "I love you so much it makes me sick— I've loved you for years. And I hate it. i hate wanting you. Look at what it's done to us."

Sunghoon's hands are on you instantly, gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. "Then stop running. Stop trying to replace me with guys who don't even know you. You're mine. You've always been mine."

The kiss is desperate and violent. His mouth crashes into yours, all teeth and tongue and pent-up years of want. You kiss him back just as hard, hands yanking at his hair, nails digging into his shoulders— he groans into your mouth, lifting you up like you weigh nothing and pressing you against the wall, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.

There's nothing gentle about it. It's angry and messy and perfect, his hips grind against you, hard and insistent, while his mouth devours yours. You bite his bottom lip and he moans, the sound vibrating through your whole body.

His hands are everywhere— squeezing your ass, sliding under your shirt to palm your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples roughly.

"Fuck, I've wanted this for so long," he growls against your mouth, rolling his hips in a filthy rhythm that makes you whimper. "Wanted to touch you like this. Taste you. Make you mine."

You tug his hair harder, kissing him deeper, tongues sliding together in a desperate battle. The anger hasn't faded, it fuels everything; everything touch feels like punishment and reward at the same time.

The kiss breaks only when you both need air. Sunghoon rests his forehead against yours, breathing ragged, eyes dark with lust and love and fear.

"Don't leave me," he whispers, voice raw. "Please. We'll figure out the rest, but don't go."

You're still wrapped around him, heart pounding, body on fire, the argument left you both stripped bare. Now there's only this—desperate, angry, all-consuming love that's been waiting years to explode.

"I've wanted to touch you like this for so long," he whispers, voice wrecked and trembling. His fingers trace your ribs slowly, reverently, like he's memorizing every dip and curve he's only ever imagined. "Knowing your heart for years and never getting to feel your skin... it's fucking torture."

You shiver hard, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.

This is happening. After all the fights, the almosts, the heartbreak. Finally. "Then touch me," you breathe against his lips. "Stop holding back. I need you."

He groans deep in his chest and kisses you again, slower this time, tongue sliding against yours in long, filthy strokes while his hands push your shirt up and off. The fabric whispers over your skin and hits the floor with a soft sound— the cool air of the apartment hits your bare chest, making your nipples tighten instantly. Sunghoon's gaze drops, hungry and possessive, and he lets out a shaky breath.

"God, look at you." His hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, teasing circles until they pebble under his touch. He leans down and takes one into his mouth, sucking gently at first, then harder, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak. The wet heat of his mouth makes you arch off the wall with a moan.

"These are mine," he murmurs against your skin, switching to the other breast, sucking a dark mark right above it. "These pretty tits. Mine to touch. Mine to taste. Mine to mark up so no one else ever gets ideas again."

You're already dripping, thighs pressing together as he maps your body with his mouth and hands. He kisses down your stomach, tongue dipping into your navel, then drops to his knees right there on the living room floor like he physically can't wait another second. His eyes are blown wide with lust and something deeper as he looks up at you, hands sliding your jeans and panties down your legs with agonizing slowness.

He helps you step out of them, then presses his face against your inner thigh, kissing the soft skin there, breathing you in. "Smell so fucking good," he groans, voice muffled. "Been dying to taste this pussy. You can’t even imagine how many times I jerked off thinking about you."

He doesn't tease for long, he's way too desperate for that. His mouth is on you in seconds, tongue sliding through your soaked folds with a deep, satisfied groan that vibrates straight to your clit— the sensation is overwhelming—hot, wet, perfect. You grip his hair tight, head falling back against the wall with a broken moan.

"Shit—Hoon —oh my god," you gasp. His tongue is relentless, licking broad stripes up your slit before circling your clit with precise, devastating flicks. Two thick fingers push inside you slowly, curling just right against that spot that makes your vision blur. He pumps them steadily, scissoring gently to open you up while his mouth sucks on your clit.

The sounds are obscene— the wet slide of his fingers, the filthy noises of his mouth devouring you, your own desperate whimpers echoing in the quiet apartment. He adds a third finger, stretching you beautifully, and the fullness makes your legs shake.

"This pussy is mine," he growls against you, pulling back just enough to speak, lips shiny with your arousal. "So tight. So wet. Only gets like this for me, doesn't it? Not for him. Never for him." He curls his fingers harder, rubbing that spot mercilessly while his tongue flicks faster. "Say it. Tell me who this belongs to."

"You," you moan, hips grinding against his face. "It's yours, Hoon. All yours."

He rewards you by sucking your clit into his mouth hard, fingers pumping faster— the pressure builds fast and overwhelming. Your thighs tremble around his head as the orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and shattering. You cry out his name, clenching around his fingers, soaking his chin and hand, he doesn't stop, licking you through every wave, groaning like tasting your release is the best thing he's ever experienced.

When you finally push his head away, oversensitive and panting, he stands up slowly, kissing up your body— stomach, ribs, breasts, collarbones—until he reaches your mouth. The kiss is filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue while his cock presses hot and heavy against your stomach.

Your hands explore him greedily now, pushing his shirt off so you can finally feel his skin. The moment your palms meet his bare chest you both moan— his skin is fever-hot, smooth over hard muscle, tan lines stark under your fingers.

Finally. After knowing every corner of his heart, you get to touch his body. This beautiful skin you've stared at for years. You trace his abs, the V of his hips, his broad shoulders, feeling him shiver under your touch.

Sunghoon's hands are everywhere too— mapping you with the same devotion. "This waist," he murmurs, gripping it tight. "Mine." His palms slide down to your ass, squeezing hard. "This perfect ass. Mine." He cups your breasts again, thumbs flicking your nipples. "These tits. Mine." His fingers dip between your legs, stroking your soaked pussy. "This cunt. All fucking mine."

You wrap your hand around his cock, stroking him slowly, feeling him throb in your grip. He's thick, hot, leaking at the tip. "Yours," you whisper back, kissing him deeply. "I'm yours."

Sunghoon sits on the couch and pulls you on top of him, hands gripping your hips as you straddle his lap. The head of his cock nudges against your entrance, slick and ready. But he doesn't let you sink down right away.

Instead, he grips your hips tighter and starts grinding up against you, sliding his thick length through your soaked folds without entering you. The heavy drag of his cock against your clit makes you whimper, hips jerking involuntarily. He does it again, slower, teasing, letting the head catch against your entrance before sliding back up to rub firmly over your swollen clit.

"Feel that?" he murmurs, voice low and rough, eyes locked on yours. "Feel how hard I am for you?" He grinds up again, coating himself in your wetness, the obscene sound filling the room.

You moan helplessly, rolling your hips to chase the friction, but he keeps control, teasing you mercilessly —sliding the head just inside you before pulling back out, rubbing it in slow circles over your clit until you're shaking.

"Please," you beg, nails digging into his shoulders. "Hoon, please fuck me."

He finally lets you sink down onto him, inch by thick inch. His head falls back with a broken, guttural moan as your walls stretch around him, hot and tight.

"Fuck— baby, calm down," he gasps, fingers digging bruises into your hips. His cock twitches hard inside you, stretching you so perfectly it borders on too much. "I'm gonna cum the second you start riding me if you keep squeezing like that... shit, you feel too good."

You roll your hips experimentally, taking him deeper, watching his face twist in overwhelming pleasure. He looks completely wrecked already— lips parted, eyes half-lidded and glassy, sweat starting to bead on his chest and collarbones. His abs tense under your hands with every movement.

He laughs shakily, the sound turning into a deep groan. "I'm serious— stop, fuck, stop moving for a second. I'm gonna cum too fast. You're choking my cock, baby."

You lean down and kiss him, filthy and deep, tongues sliding messily as you keep rolling your hips in slow, grinding circles. He whines into your mouth, hands sliding to your ass, squeezing hard as he tries to hold back.

Then something in him snaps.

With a low moan he flips you over onto your back on the couch, spreading your legs wide and thrusting back in deep in one smooth motion. The new angle makes you cry out, nails raking down his back. He fucks you hard but intimate, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked as he pounds into you with deep strokes.

"Mine," he pants between thrusts, kissing you sloppily, tongues tangling in messy, desperate kisses. "This body. This heart. All mine. I don't own you... but you're still mine. Say it."

"I'm yours," you moan, legs wrapped tight around his waist, heels digging into his lower back. "Always have been…. Fuck— harder, Hoon. Please."

He gives it to you, hips snapping faster, one hand reaching between you to rub tight circles on your clit. The couch creaks loudly under you, swea-slick skin slides together obscenely. It's messy and filthy and perfect.

He sucks bruises into your neck and tits while thrusting deep, then kisses you again like he can't stand being apart from your mouth for even a second.

"Love you," Sunghoon groans against your lips, voice breaking as he grinds deep. "Love you so fucking much. Should've said it years ago. Should've made you mine the second we moved in together."

He suddenly slows his thrusts to a torturous grind, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in so deep you feel him in your stomach. His eyes are dark, possessive, and a little wicked as he watches your face.

"Not yet," he murmurs, voice rough. "I want to feel you fall apart again." He hooks your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half. The new angle lets him hit even deeper, the head of his cock dragging against that perfect spot with every slow thrust.

You cry out, nails digging into his back. He teases you mercilessly— pulling out until just the tip stays inside, then pushing back in so slowly you can feel every thick inch stretching you open. His thumb circles your clit in lazy strokes, keeping you right on the edge but never letting you fall.

"Please— Hoon, I'm so close," you beg, voice breaking.

He leans down, folding you further, and kisses you filthy and deep. "Not yet, baby. Hold it. I want to feel this tight little pussy flutter around me." You clench around him involuntarily and he groans, forehead dropping to yours. "Fuck— stop squeezing me like that though, or I'm gonna lose it."

But you can't stop. Your walls flutter and pulse around his thick cock, and Sunghoon curses, hips snapping harder.

"Shit— cum for me," he demands, thumb pressing firmer on your clit.

The orgasm hits you like a freight train. You scream his name, back arching off the couch as your pussy clenches violently around him, gushing wetly. The pleasure is blinding, wave after wave crashing through you.

Sunghoon follows with a broken, guttural moan, burying himself as deep as possible. His cock pulses hard, flooding you with long, thick ropes of cum. He keeps thrusting through it, hips jerking uncontrollably as he fills you up, more and more spilling deep inside until it starts leaking out around his cock.

When the last shudder finally leaves both of you, he stays buried inside, breathing hard. A breathy, disbelieving laugh escapes him.

"Fuck... I've never cum this much in my life," he pants, voice hoarse. He pulls out slowly, watching with dark, satisfied eyes as his cum leaks from your swollen pussy. With a low groan he pushes two fingers back inside you, fucking his release deeper.

"Look at that," he murmurs, mesmerized. "So full of me. So fucking gorgeous." He leans down and kisses you softly, tenderly, still pushing his cum back inside with slow strokes of his fingers. "My beautiful girl. All mine. Inside and out.”

He kisses you again, deeper this time, like he never wants to stop.

For a long moment afterward you just lie there, tangled and sweaty and breathing hard. He presses soft, reverent kisses to your face, your neck, your shoulders—gentle now after the storm.

"We're so fucked," you whisper with a tired, sated laugh, fingers tracing patterns on his back.

Sunghoon smiles against your skin, nuzzling closer. "Yeah. But i'm never letting you go again."

…