𝐇𝐢𝐢! 𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐲𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬! ☻

𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐲𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬, 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭! ♡

𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜!! ᵕ̈

The first thing that caught your eye about him wasn't his fluffy black cat ears that poked through his slight messy hair.

Or his long tail that tightly curled around one of his legs.

It wasn't even the pair of golden brown eyes that cautiously watched every person that walked past his room.

It was how, gentle and quiet he seemed.

As the other hybrids enthusiastically approached the glass whenever someone stopped by their room, Jo didn't move an inch.

He stayed curled up in the corner of his room with a soft cream blanket wrapped around his shoulders and every now and then his ears twitched a little from the loud noises from the shelter. He didn't get up once to greet anyone who passed.

There was a small card beside his room that simply read:

Name: Asakura Jo

Hybrid: Black Cat

Age: 21

Personality: Gentle. Quiet. Affectionate once comfortable.

You gently knelt down in front of the glass and you noticed how his ears flicked towards you as you spoke, "...Hi."

His eyes slowly glanced up to meet yours. You simply sat down on the floor, instead of calling him over with the usual high pitched voice.

Your voice was soft as you finally spoke up again, "You don't have to come over," he looked up at you slightly, " I just wanted to keep you company."

A few minutes passed as people walked passed behind you. You could hear someone laugh way to loud in another room behind you.

Then you heard soft footsteps inching closer to you. When you had finally looked up, you saw how Jo had slowly shuffled closer to you until he was sitting only a few feet away from the glass.

His black tail was still tightly wrapped around his thigh as his ears slowly lowered, but he hadn't turned away from you like he had with others.

A shelter worker who was walking by softly smiled before whispering, "I've never seen him come over to anyone before."

〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎

The papers for Jo's adoption were signed by you less than an hour later.

The drive back to your apartment was incredibly quiet as Jo was sitting in the passenger seat.

He was wearing a white, slightly oversized hoodie the shelter had given him. He's hands were nervously twisting the sleeves of the hood as he glanced over at you every few seconds, before looking away quickly.

You were slightly worried by his actions, "...Are you okay?"

He only gave you a slight nod.

"...Scared?" you asked him again, quickly looking over at him for a split second before focusing on the road again. You only got another tiny nod.

As you stopped at a red light, you tried your best to make him a bit more comfortable, "I'm not going to force you to do anything."

His ears slightly perked up at your words.

"You don't have to hug me."

"You don't have to talk."

"You don't have to be the perfect hybrid."

You sighed before continuing, "You just have to exist."

For the first time Jo's tail gave the smallest little wag at your confession.

〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎

Your apartment wasn't the biggest place on earth but it was warm and cozy.

There were fluffy blankets everywhere he looked, with the prettiest plants by the windows.

The couch also looked ridiculously comfortable.

Jo slowly and cautiously stepped inside, "...This is..."

"Home." you quickly mumbled to him, locking the door behind you both.

He only stared at you, slightly surprised, "...Yours?"

"Ours." you quickly corrected him, making his ears stand upright almost immediately.

You had spent the first few weeks learning each other.

Jo had learned how you always hummed while making breakfast for the both of you.

You learned that Jo absolutely loved watching the birds fly by through the window.

He recently discovered which blanket was your favorite out of all your blankets and you discovered that he secretly loved when you teased him.

Jo became obsessed with sitting in the sunny patches on the floor.

You'd walk into the living room to find him stretched out like a spoiled kitten with his eyes closed and a comfortable smirk on his expression.

"...Comfortable?" You asked him as you walked out of the kitchen towards to the couch.

"Mhm." he softly hummed, his tail wrapping around his thigh.

"So you're stealing my sunlight now?" you joked with him, a pleasant smile forming on your lips as you crossed your arms.

"...It's mine." he grumbled, slowly flipping over onto his stomach.

"You've become awfully confident." Your words made a tiny smile form on his lips as he whispered, "...Maybe."

〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎

Jo had followed you everywhere! Literally everywhere...

Need something in the kitchen?

Jo's right behind you.

Putting away some laundry?

Jo's right next to you.

Bathroom?

Ears poking around the corner, making you laugh, "...Jo."

"...Hm?" He hummed, finally looking around the corner.

"You know I'm just brushing my teeth." you giggled at the slight pout on his lips.

"I know."

"So why are you standing there?" you asked him curiously as you put away your toothbrush, closing the cabinet door.

"...Just watching."he quietly mumbled in response.

"...You're so clingy." You said laughing without really thinking about what you said.

You watched as his ears flattened dramatically and his quiet voice whispered out , "...Sorry..."

His apology immediately made you feel guilty, "No no."

You quickly made your way towards him and gently scratched behind one of his fluffy ears, "I think it's really cute."

You felt as his entire body froze at your touch, "...Again?"

You blinked at his question, "Hm?"

"...Can you...do that again?" His voice was so soft and full of nerves. You gently traced your fingers behind his ear once again and the loudest purr you have ever heard filled the room.

The sound of his purring made you both freeze.

He's eyes widened at the sound leaving him, "...I..."

Another soft purr escaped him, making his face burn with a rosy tint, "...Please pretend that didn't happen."

His words made you let out a little giggle, "I didn't know hybrids purred!"

"I don't!" He quickly whined out as a protest.

"You literally are." You laughed out again, finding him extremely adorable.

"...I'm not doing it on purpose though..." He pouted slightly.

After that incident that happened outside of the bathroom, he became addicted to your touch.

Every night after you came back home from work, he'd quietly shuffle towards you while you were reading and would quietly whisper, "...Can I?"

You huffed a little at his question, "You don't even have to ask."

In a split second he layed across your lap, as your fingers would softly scratch behind his ears and his fuzzy tail would wrap around your waist.

And within minutes you would hear the soft purring of your little kitten against your thigh. It started happening every single night.

〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎

He had became very protective of you over the next few weeks.

One particular rainy night you had came home exhausted from work, locking the door behind you with a loud sigh and without saying a single word, your bag slipped from your fingers, falling to the ground with a loud thud.

"...Long day?" His voice was soft with admiration laced in his tone, his ears slightly perking up with concern.

"Mhm." You only hummed in response and before you could even sit down, Jo sprinted down the hallway, disappearing from your sight.

You sighed and slumped down on the couch, closing your eyes as you leaned your head against a cushion.

A few minutes later you opened your eyes as you heard Jo scurrying towards you. He had returned with your favorite blanket. He gently draped it over you, before running off again, only to return with the stuffed animal he won for you the time you went to a arcade.

You let out a tiny laugh as he handed you the plushie before running off once again. This time he came back with a cup of hot chocolate and a bag of your favorite candy.

You blinked at the sight in front of you as he sat down next to you, "...Jo."

"Hm?" He glanced up at you, a slight sparkle in his eyes.

"...Did you just build me a comfort nest?" You asked him curiously, a small smile forming.

"...Maybe." He mumbled as he looked down at his hands, his tail giving himself away as it slight sways.

You couldn't keep your laughter in anymore as you watched him being so shy.

〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎〰︎

You've come to a realization that Jo absolutely loves sleeping, but not alone! With you!

At first he always asked you with his shy, shaky voice, "...Can I sleep here?"

But eventually he'd just simply climb into bed beside you as his tail immediately wraps around your leg or your waist and he'd rest his forehead against your shoulder.

"...Comfortable?" You'd ask him while glancing down at him, watching as his eyes blinked with tiredness.

"Mhm."

"...Too close?" You simply asked him with a teasing voice.

"...No." He whined and pulled himself closer to you, humming contently against your arm.

You giggled at his response of him tugging himself closer to you. Not even five minutes later, you heard soft purring coming from the boy clinging to you.

That same night you couldn't fall asleep. You tried your best to quietly slip out of bed and made your way onto your balcony.

You watched as the city lights below you sparked with a certain hue. After only one minute of peace on the balcony, you heard the door sliding open.

You glanced behind you to see Jo carrying one of his hoodies, "...You'll get cold."

You gave him a little smile as you put on the hoodie, "Thank you."

But instead of going back inside, he stood beside you. A little giggle left your lips as you felt his tail gently curl around your wrist.

You've noticed that he always has go have his tail around you, not possessively, but in a way comforting.

His voice made you snap out of your thoughts, "...Can I tell you something?"

"Always." You told him confidently as you looked up at the night sky full of stars.

"...I was scared when you adopted me." You could tell there was slight hesitation in his sleepy voice.

"I know." You whispered as you finally glanced back at him, your eyes full of something he couldn't name.

"...I thought you'd take me back to that scary place." He mumbled softly, looking away from your gaze, his fingers playing with the strings of your hoodie as you turned to him. Your heart ached at his words, your hands reaching for his, "You've never done anything for me to even think about that..."

His eyes didn't leave your intertwined fingers as he spoke up, "I know that now."

He sighed before continuing, "When you said I didn't have to earn being loved..." You've never heard his voice so quiet, "...Nobody had ever said that to me before."

Your grasp on his hands slightly tightened, hoping he wouldn't hear the ache in your voice, "You never have to."

He finally looked up at you, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears, "...Can I tell you something else?"

"Of course." you whispered quietly.

"I think..." He mumbled as a small, shy smile spread across his expression, "...I loved you from the moment you sat outside my room."

Once again a little laugh erupted from you, "Really?"

He gave you a tiny nod, "You were the first person who didn't ask me to perform."

He sighed as he squeezed your hand, "You just...stayed."

He quietly looked at you again before continuing, "And now?"

Jo leaned in towards you until his forehead rested against yours, "...Now you're my favorite person."

You noticed how as he said it, his ears twitched happily and his tail wrapped around your waist once again.

And...

Somewhere between his silent purring, the way he looked at you through his lashes as you hung the stars above you and the warmth of his embrace...

You had realized that adopting Jo, you hadn't just given him a home.

It had given you one too.

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐮𝐮!! ʚɞ

𝗔𝗹𝗹 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲𝘀, 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗵𝗶𝗴𝗵𝗹𝘆 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 ♥︎♥︎

It was a very hot afternoon. The kind of afternoon where anyone else would be thanking God that they were inside a classroom with air conditioning. You weren’t though. The air conditioner didn’t really work for you. You were sweating buckets from nervousness alone. Beomgyu hadn’t turned around the entire class. You only get to see him once every Wednesday at the art class that you guys have in common. He would turn and look around once in a while, you’d catch each other’s eyes, and then nervously look away. It was almost like a routine. But all you were doing this Wednesday was looking at the back of his head. God, even the back of his head looked handsome.

You must have talked to him, maybe, once? That is if you count the squeaky “I’m sorry” that you could barely force out of yourself after bumping into him on the first day of class.

He seemed like a pretty shy person. It’s not like he didn’t have any friends; you’ve seen him walking around campus with his friends. He looked like a completely different person around them though. Goofy in the most adorable way possible, like a puppy that’s out for a walk for the first time ever, and outspoken in way you’d have never imagined from his classroom ‘quiet guy’ persona. You caught his eye once when he was with one of his freakishly tall friends. He instantly went quiet, as if on cue, and fully turned in the opposite direction. What were you even supposed to make of that?!

“I think he’s just too shy to talk to you”, your best friend had said, the day of that incident, while you were idling around on your dorm couch at night.

“What if he hates me and thinks I’m creepy cause I keep staring at him in class? What if he thinks I’m a psycho that’s obsessed with him or something?”

“Aren’t you though?”, she said, and you’re not completely sure that she was joking.

“Do you wanna get hit in the head?”, you said, throwing a pillow at her.

“In all seriousness though, why don’t you just talk to him?”

This is a question you’ve asked yourself quite a few times too. If you were being completely honest, you were scared. Scared that he won’t like you back. Or worse, that he’ll say he does and it’ll be a lie. To you, or maybe himself. That’s a pretty common fear though. No, you were also frying much bigger fish here. You were scared for a whole plethora of reasons that didn’t really have anything to do with him honestly. The actual reason was that you were too accustomed to your routine. Talking to him meant change. Change in your life, your thoughts. You wake up in the morning, take a shower, make your coffee, and you go about your day. That’s your routine. You liked your routine. It kept you sane, it was peaceful. Letting him into your life, fully, meant changes to that routine that you won’t be able to control, no matter how hard you try. Wondering whether you will see him today, talk to him, whether he will talk to you, wondering what he’ll think when you tell him stories from your hometown. Letting him into your life meant adjusting his routine around your routine. Have you mentioned that you like your routine? What is the guarantee his life will fit in your life? What if it doesn’t and all the effort just becomes a waste of your time. Or worse, it becomes a waste of his time.

But that’s a lot to unpack so you just shrug and say, “Not worth the risk I guess”.

That’s what you’ve always said. Your entire life. It was obviously a lie.

And as you are sitting here in class, religiously staring at the back of his head, it’s all that you can think about.

Unknown to you though, the reason Beomgyu is not turning around today, is because he’s scared. Turning around and looking at you is the only thing he can think of right now, but he’s restraining himself with every bit of strength that he has in his bones. Getting to see you, and maybe even talk to you one day, is like 70% of the reason he shows up to this class in the first place. The first day of class, when you bumped into him, gave him that awkward yet adorable smile, he knew he was a goner. Ever since then, he has been, in his friend’s words, ‘pining’ for you. But unfortunately for him, he’s not the best at interactions. That’s more his friends’ department. And it didn’t really help that every time he turned around to look at you, or spotted you around campus, you looked at him like you would rather be having a stroke than look at his face. His friends say he’s exaggerating but he swears that’s what it looks like to him. It never stopped him from turning around to catch a glimpse though. He just couldn’t help himself.

The reason he’s not turning around today though, is because Taehyun got in his head about how you probably find it creepy that a random guy just keeps looking at you for no reason and how he needs to dial it down or he’s gonna catch himself a court order. Can’t argue it with, he’d find it creepy too. And it’s not like you ever gave him any clear signals too. But he could swear that at times he caught you looking at him while turning his head in your direction. That’s one thing he couldn’t explain and also what kept him a little hopeful he can’t lie.

Just then the teacher cleared her throat. The entire class knew what was coming. Great, something to take your mind off of this mess.

“Soo… I have exciting news”, the teacher said. The entire classroom perked up. One thing you absolutely love about art class is that everyone who’s there, genuinely wants to be there. You all collectively look forward to the creative assignments your professor gives you. Art, for every artist, is a way of expression. And the assignments give that expression a direction.

“I am going to partner each of you with a person from this class. I want you guys to hang out, get to know each other, have some deep talks, share some fears, try to understand each other. Then I want you to paint what getting to know that person felt like to you. I want you to, in your own way and sense, try to capture the essence of being with that person in your paintings. Expression is a very core part of art so I want you to be able to express your life and the things around you in your own personal way.”

Beomgyu nearly jumped out of his seat. He had never been much for praying but in that moment, he decided he would genuinely become a devout if you were made his partner. Because there would be no other explanation for that. It would have to be a blessing from above. He crossed both of his fingers. He would cross his toes if he wasn’t wearing shoes.

You on the other hand were almost hyperventilating. Just the thought of being possibly partnered up with Beomgyu was making you genuinely see stars. You were excited, nervous, anticipating. You were feeling every single emotion that you were capable of feeling in that moment.

Just then the teacher started announcing the names of the partners. Your name came up after three pairs.

What were you hoping for? Did you want it to be him? Did you not want it to be him? You weren’t sure. One thing that was clear though, was that you had your fingers crossed for both of your hands. Doesn’t that say a lot?

“Y/n and… Beomgyu”, the teacher said with an unusual perk that you would’ve noticed if it weren’t for the whirlwind going on in your stomach.

This time Beomgyu did actually jump out of his seat, looked around awkwardly realizing what he had done, and then quietly sat back down. He’d feel embarrassed in any normal situation, but this was no normal situation. He was literally living his daydreams. He pinched himself, just in case, to make sure.

After class, he appeared in front of your seat in record time, he even shocked himself.

“Hey, I’m Beomgyu. We’re.. uh partnered together for the assignment I think?” Very smooth you absolute loser idiot, he thought to himself.

You looked up at him, and then, nothing. You did nothing. You just looked at him. Like you were petrified or something. You tried to speak, you knew what to say, you opened your mouth, and then nothing. Nothing came out. There was a lump in your throat that you could not seem to get rid of no matter how hard you swallowed.

His brows started to furrow. He started panicking.

“Yeah”, a pause that under normal circumstances could be ignorable, but here felt like a valley of distance between the both of you. “Yeah I’m sorry hii I’m y/n”, you finally managed something, this has to call for a celebration.

To Beomgyu, this whole altercation felt like someone was keeping you on gunpoint. So, he did what he thought was the sensible thing to do. “You look uncomfortable. Do you want me to talk to the teacher about switching partners?”, because genuinely what else was he supposed to do here. He was convinced you despised him.

That sent your brain into a frenzy. He hates me, he wants to get rid of me, getting partnered with me is a bother to him.

And then it hit you. Straight to your head like a brick but instead of bleeding your dry, it woke you up.

No. This was a crazy opportunity that was just thrown into your lap. Just like that. You’ve never been too brave. All you’ve ever been is scared. But how long can you live your life like that? At what point do you just have to stand up for once in your goddamn life and experience something? You’ve read tales of star-crossed lovers, torn apart by fate and all their other thousand enemies. But this? Just a stupid painting assignment. And you’re seriously gonna run away from it just because you can’t bring yourself to trust yourself with trying? Pathetic. No, this has to start somewhere.

“No, it’s nothing like that. I was just a little zoned out that’s all. I’d love to get to know you. For the assignment.”

Beomgyu had to physically contain himself from actually jumping, shouting, and running around the classroom right now. He was talking to you. This was so insane for him. You were talking to him. You said that you wanted to do the assignment with him.

You exchanged contacts and he practically went frolicking out the door.

You stood there for a second to take a few breaths. The way you were beaming and feeling proud of yourself you’d think you had single handedly overthrown a corrupt government or something. All you did was say a few stuttering words to your crush. But damn if you didn’t feel like you had concurred the world right there.

As you made your way towards the exit of the classroom, you caught your teacher’s eyes. She gave you a very playful wink and then went back to going over what you’re guessing are the paintings from the last assignment.

Huh? Wait a minute. What was that?

That confused you. Was it fate or was it just an over-meddling teacher?

Whatever it was, you were glad for it.

You put in your headphones, hit shuffle, and started making your way to your dorm building.

“If you want to ask me how I am

Don’t hesitate

Cause you’re my cru-cru-crush…”

when kai asked for a movie night with you, you expected the cuddling. you expected the way he’d pull you into his lap and keep his arms wrapped around you. you even expected the occasional peck of his soft lips against your skin, but you weren’t prepared for his kisses to land on your neck instead of your cheek. it surprises you, but it’s innocent enough to ignore for a while. he doesn’t linger very long, just planting a few small kisses along your pulse point.

you’re able to calm down after a minute, adjusting to your best friend’s newfound interest in your neck. he keeps his head rested against your shoulder, the warm skin of his cheek heating you up. he’s calm and quiet every time he speaks up, making one-off comments about the movie that you only respond to sometimes. with him leaning on you like this, you can feel the vibrations from his voice rumbling against you.

you start dozing off at some point, too relaxed to bother keeping your eyes open, letting your body go lax against kai’s. the slow rhythm of his hands drawing up and down your body helps you drift off; his innocent, soft touches have always comforted you.

“you tired?” he asks, voice low. he entertains himself with the soft skin of your thigh, gently grazing his fingers against it. it sends a shiver down your spine.

“yeah,” you answer, and even you can hear the slow, sleepy lilt in your response. you feel kai’s lips pull into a small smile before he’s pecking your shoulder carefully.

“do you want me to take you to bed?”

you hum, considering his offer, but you don’t feel like moving around. the second you hit your mattress, you’ll probably lose all your drowsiness. “no, i’m comfortable,” you say.

kai giggles, “okay.” he places his hands on your waist and maneuvers you until you’re facing him instead of the television. it’s easy to move you around when you’re so relaxed, just letting him do whatever he wants. you blink at him slowly, taking in his soft features under the dim lights. he looks angelic. you think you tell him that, but you’re only half-awake and can’t really think well.

he brings his face back into your neck, nosing up the column of your throat languidly. a hand on your thigh gently urges you closer, pressing you further into him until you’re chest-to-chest. he keeps his head buried against you, and his affection nearly drowns you. in your sleepy daze, you accept his actions happily, feeling nothing but cherished by your best friend.

the moment builds up so slowly that it barely hits you when he places a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your skin, right under your jaw. the heat of his mouth feels like heaven against you, and you can’t bring yourself to push him away, too comfortable and content to deny his touches. he drags his lips a little further down, sucking lightly against your neck, taking just a small taste of you.

there’s a heat building inside you now, a growing need that you only register when it’s too late. you’re too far into the moment, too entranced by the feeling to pull away. you let him do as he pleases with your pliant body, indulging in the slow, firm drag of his hands over your sides and the glide of his warm tongue against your flesh.

he kisses all over your skin like he needs to keep you warm, humming pleasantly as he brings his mouth to your shoulder. his fingers dip ever so slightly under your shirt, resting on your bare skin, a faint tickle against your waist. his teeth just barely scrape against your skin, and a tiny mewl slips out of you before you can think about controlling yourself.

he pulls his lips off you after that, face flushing red like he’s the one who made the embarrassing noise. cool air hits the saliva trail kai left on your neck, and suddenly you’re missing the heat of his mouth. your stomach’s still twisted up in knots, all worked up from kai’s relentless attention.

“i’m sorry,” he finally says, hands slipping out from under your shirt. his touch lands on your upper thighs instead, just below your hips. you try hard to push down the arousal that pools in your gut, fearing the possibility of making a fool of yourself even more than you already have.

“it’s okay,” you reply meekly. you can’t tell if the silence that fills the room is tense because it’s awkward or because everything feels so intimate. you have to put in a conscious effort to not let your hips buck against his, still perched on his lap. it’s only now that you realize how hard kai’s gotten beneath you, a prominent tent in his pants. you ignore it for both his sake and your own.

“w-we should stop,” he stutters out, loosening the hold he has on you like he’s ready to let you go. you tighten your legs around his, not wanting him to pry you off. this is stupid, and you know you should just go to bed, but you fear what will happen when you finally let the moment fall.

“yeah…” you agree quietly, even though your actions don’t match your words. you stay right where you are, and your eyes betray you when they dart down to his lips. they’re pink and coated with his saliva, and it doesn’t help you simmer down at all. you only feel more restless. his hands find your hips, holding you still against him. it seems like neither of you are willing to pull away.

his gaze flits behind you for a moment. “the movie’s over,” he says.

you hum and nod. it’s quiet for a few seconds as you think of what to say to fill the silence. “it was pretty good,” you say, making boring, meaningless conversation. you’re not thinking about the movie at all.

“yeah, it was,” he agrees. it’s almost like you can see the restraint he’s summoning upon himself to not pounce on you.

nothing seems to dissipate the tension in the air. you’re stuck staring at each other, and it’s like you’re both waiting for the other to make a move. his hands drift a little lower, sprawling out on your thighs. his large palms engulf your flesh so easily. you gulp.

your hands ease themselves onto kai’s chest, ignoring how firm and strong he feels under you. you only put your hands there to ground yourself. you’re only doing this to keep yourself sane. that’s what you’re telling yourself, at least.

“you got anything to do tomorrow?” you ask, voice shaky as you try to keep your tone casual. his fingertips inch up your thighs to breach into your shorts, slight enough to not need to mention it.

“no,” he answers a little breathlessly. your hands trail up until they’re resting around his neck. it would be easy to pull him in for a kiss like this, but you don’t think about that.

“me either,” you say, whispering now. you feel your heart pounding in your chest. there’s a pulse in your core, too, but you promised yourself you’d ignore that. you barely feel able to breathe.

kai’s eyes fall to your lips. you take the opportunity to let your gaze fall to his own, admiring the rosy swell once again. his hands tighten against you in a way that’s barely noticeable, but since you’re so attuned to every little thing happening, you catch it easily.

you find each other’s eyes again at the same time, and mercy finds you both then—you pull into each other hungrily, lips colliding like you can’t bear another second apart. he moans into your mouth, working against you like he needs to swallow you whole. you’re just as desperate as him, hands scrunching up into the fabric of his shirt as you push your tongue into his mouth.

he doesn’t part for a second, not daring to let up on his kiss, and you let him consume you completely. your mind is spinning, and all you can think about is how incredible his mouth is. he kisses like that’s what he was put on earth to do, diving into your mouth like he needs to taste you to survive.

you whine when his palm meets your clothed center, rubbing against your cunt like he knows how hard you’ve been holding back. you grind against his hand unabashedly, possessed by the need to sink into the pleasure he gives you. your hand travels down his torso until you’re palming the bulge in his pants. you work your hand over him in the same rhythm he rubs his fingers against you, calculated and needy.

you’re panting into his mouth now, leaving it wide open for him to swirl his tongue into. your legs clamp around his hand, feeling yourself nearing your peak, and you can’t stop whimpering and moaning. you feel pathetic, you feel like some bitch in heat, but kai seems to absolutely love it.

he pulls away from your mouth to praise you, “pretty. pretty girl. fuck, i really want you.”

you’re entranced by how swollen his lips have become, looking all the more sinful, making your cunt gush pathetically. your stomach tenses up, orgasm approaching quickly, and kai bucks his hips up into your hand. he seems to be getting close too.

“kai, need to cum, please, need it,” you moan, and he doesn’t let up on his rhythm against your core. you almost feel like crying. you can taste your high as it approaches, chasing it by grinding your hips against him faster.

“yeah, let go, cum for me,” he says, sounding just as broken and pathetic as you. your climax hits you like sweet relief, leaving you crying out as kai helps you make a mess of your panties. you feels kai’s dick twitch beneath your palm as you ride out your high, and you jerk your hand over him greedily until he’s spent and spilling his load into his pants. he throws his head back with a deep moan, thrusting up against you until he’s coming back down.

you’re exhausted, sinking against him and leaning into his chest. you don’t even have the energy to talk about the line you just crossed with him. he doesn’t speak up either, only running his hand down your back as he catches his breath.

a few minutes pass, and you think he might be asleep. the rise and fall of his chest is steady, and it almost lulls you into slumber as well. you’d be perfectly content laying in his arms and resting here, but you feel too gross and sweaty to stay. you let a few peaceful minutes pass before slowly prying yourself from kai’s hold—not without his sleepy refusals to let you go—and head off to go shower.

you don’t know if you should go back to the couch with him, or if you should lay in bed and give yourselves some space. you stay in the shower longer than you need to, not wanting to make any decisions that’s going to alter the course of your friendship with kai. you groan; you should’ve thought of that before hooking up with him. you lean your head against the shower wall, shutting your eyes tight. rationality only comes to you at the worst times.

Raising your fist to the door, your knuckles rap against it with a few thick knocks. The door is frosted around the edges in little swirling white puffs of icing, framing the gingerbread door. It’s the same all around his house: gumdrops and candy canes and the like, all twinkling with sugar crystals.

It’s all so sweet—unbelievably so. The man that calls it home is the very antithesis of sweet. He does not take after the gumdrop, nor the sweetness of the icing, and most definitely not the brown sugar and molasses of the gingerbread. Taehyun is the quick snapping of a leg, or the sharpness on your tongue when you get to the cinnamon and nutmeg. 

You loathe it. Even being stood here, knocking at his door, you hate. He is everything uncouth and abrasive—he is everything you should not entertain. 

Here you are, entertaining it. The door swings open. Your fingers and toes have begun to slow with the cold, like frosty-whip in the fridge. Through the forest, stepping over sugar bushes and cocoa streams, you had fought the bite. Why did he have to live all the way out here? Secluded, as though the rest of Strawberryland were beneath his meddling. You know why: it’s that he believes it. He is exactly as your parents told you he’d be, all those years ago. Of course, they were right. They always are.

When he catches sight of you at his door, his distant eyes morph, and his lip tugs into a scowl. The rise of his brows ruffles your feathers with an infuriating ease. “Is there something you want?” he asks. His tone is infuriating, too. It’s the kind of question that means much more beyond the words said. You catch exactly what he means—how he intends to get under your skin.

Hidden behind the door, he has one hand on the handle. It's an unspoken thing, too. He wants you to remember that he could close it. You can’t let him, or else you’ll have drug your pretty new furry winter boots through the powdered snow for him to slam a door in your face. “Yeah, actually. There is.” You run preening fingers through the ends of your hair. “We’re partners for the bake-off.”

“I don’t do the bake-off,” he says. His eyes would be chocolate and smooth if it weren’t for the way he wields them sharp. “Sorry. You’re gonna have to find somebody more your speed for that.”

Barking an incredulous, perhaps even snobby, laugh, you look around. Snow comes down on the ground, sweet and creamy. It’d been enough of a battle to come here. If you were going to give up so easily, you would’ve turned your little bottom around perhaps two hours ago. Does he think you hadn’t considered that? It was a long walk; you had plenty of time to mull over the many things he might do. Sometimes, you imagined him diplomatic and affable. You stomped those wispy thoughts out. Perhaps it’s been years since you’ve spoken with him, and perhaps what happened between the two of you is dusted over, but you know better. Here he stands in front of you: bitter as ever. 

“You’re just gonna leave me without a partner?” you say. Your jaw trembles, seized finally by the cold. “Everybody is already paired up. Literally everybody.”

Shrugging, he says, “I don’t see how that’s my problem. I didn’t sign up for it.”

Your brows knit. That means somebody else had signed him up. You have a sneaking suspicion who might’ve—Blueberry Kai always tells you that he just feels excluded. It’s hard not to laugh when he does. Taehyun? Excluded?  He is exactly where he wants to be. Where most are sweet in Strawberryland, the snappy gingerbread finds it easier to justify his bitterness when he lives off in his little gingerbread home, out and away in his own neck of the forest only to be found by a winding gumdrop road, where he can pretend he’s above it all.

It’s entirely ironic. Him, better than you? Gingerbread, and all his ruggedness? His unpolished edges? Once, you’d believed that the two of you weren’t so different. That you could be friends, even. Seeing what he’s grown to be, you think you understand why your parents stepped in. Back then, though, as just that soft little girl who followed the charismatic boy around with crystal stars in your eyes, it had been the worst thing to ever happen to you. He had been so gravity-defying, moving through the soft, marshmallow edges and the sugar-whipped reality of Strawberryland as something different.

No. Not gravity-defying. Rather, in the powdery and sweet sweet Strawberryland, you think that he is the only thing with gravity.

“That’s not fair.”

“Not fair?” he echoes, letting a little patronizing laugh out along with it. “That’s sweet.”

It’s hard not to shift or cross your arms over your chest, abraded by the dripping sneer.

“What? It’s not. It’s not fair that, just because you don’t want to at least give it a try, I can’t participate,” you say. Really, you should just crawl back home and beg to join somebody’s duo, but you can’t lose like that. You can’t lose to him. If you leave it like this, then he’ll have gotten the better of you. 

“Can’t get everything we want, huh?” he says, straightening up and taking the door in his hand once more. “Just because everybody else has bent backward to give you what you want doesn’t mean that I will.”

“Wait,” you say, sighing in a white swirl. “Don’t close the door. Don’t you know your manners? It’s rude. You’re just going to let me freeze out here? I walked all the way out here, and even got snow all over my new boots, just for this, just for you to slam a door in my face? I mean, a gentleman would at least invite me in to warm me up.”

Lips twitching into a laugh and his eyes suddenly alight, he says, “A gentleman, huh?” He pulls the door open a little further. The warmth from his home, warm and spiced and oh-so-inviting like oven-warmed gingerbread, brushes over your twinkling skin. “Sure. Show me your manners, then. I want you to ask me nicely.”

Your jaw tightens. Sending him a once over, sharpening your eyes, you decide to just do it. His tone is nasty, but you don’t want to be disqualified for not having a partner. Even if he’s the worst you could’ve been paired with in all of Strawberryland. Or maybe the best, because it’s a gingerbread house competition this year. “Will you just do it?”

“I said ask nicely. Say please.” 

He wears a mean smile—he’s having fun watching you squirm. So, you make a conscious effort to straighten up. “Will you please be my partner for the competition?” you say, making your voice sugary and batting your eyelashes in an overdone way. He thinks he’s funny.

Stepping out of the doorway, he motions you inside. It might look gentlemanly if it weren't for the sting in his eyes. You swallow down petty words and push through, your arms full with supplies. Arms aching, you finally let them clatter down over the countertop. The inside of his home is fresh-baked and spiced, aromatic like a true gingerbread cookie straight from the oven. You’re sure the glowing fire helps carry the smell in warm air. It wraps your cold bones up and smooths over some of the frayed edges. You’d been out there for so long… Nobody else had to walk that far for their partner.

Better just to get this done as quickly as you can. You just have to put up with him today, and you’ll be done, and then you can have fun with the competition. He won’t even show up for it; you’re sure. 

“I’ll do it all if it’s that big of a deal,” you tell him, laying out the walls and warming the icing between your palms. “You can put the peppermint on, I guess. So then we can say we both worked on it.”

Hair the fluffy brown of true gingerbread and dusted with snowflakes like powdered sugar. Taehyun shakes his head, and it moves with him. “No,” he says, the corners of his lips still turned up as though he knows something you don’t. He rolls the sleeves of his gaudy, knitted Christmas sweater up to his elbows. The corded muscle there, flickering with movement, catches you off guard. Gingerbread, built like that? Tearing your eyes off him with the effort of metal tearing itself from a magnet, you watch him approach the kitchen counters. “I’ll help. We’re partners, right?”

No matter what he says, there’s a twist of something sparkling in those sharp eyes that has you watching him closer—has you trying to gauge exactly what he’s playing at. “Uh… Yeah. Sure. If you want to, I guess.” You gesture at the walls. “Two for us, and ten for display. Can you start the walls?”

“Ten?” he says. “We’re making twelve gingerbread houses?”

With your lips pulled taut, you say, “Yeah… Twelve. Is that too much? I didn’t think any amount of gingerbread houses would be too much for you. That’s a little ironic.” Everything is warm in his home—even when you look down at your own hands to tug off your white woolen gloves, your skin that usually sparkles like frost rests just beneath the surface is tinged with the warmth.

“I can handle it just fine,” he says, taking the wall and base sections of one. “Just wouldn’t want you to ruin your pretty outfit. Twelve is a lot of icing.” He spits the word pretty out like it tastes bad. On his tongue, you’re sure it does. He never cared for pretty things the way you do. Your mommy always said that he was just jealous, but when the both of you were little, before your parents’ meddling, you learned that it was just a different lifestyle. One that you don’t understand, perhaps. Who doesn’t enjoy dressing themselves in lush furs and sugar crystals over their necks? 

“I’ll be fine,” you say, snipping the tip of the piping bag open. “I wore these knowing they’d get dirty. They’re my baking clothes. My boots already got all messed up…” 

“Oh,” he says. “You put on cashmere knowing you’ll get it dirty. Mommy and daddy paid a pretty penny for that, huh? And it’s your throwaway outfit?”

“Look. If you like it so much, I’ll let you have it when we’re done, yeah? Maybe you’ll make a pretty penny off selling it.” You ice a warm white line down the length of a wall. “Can you hurry? I’m already icing. I don’t want to be here all day.”

There’s  a few long, thrumming moments of quiet, where only the sound of your piping back crackling fills his home. Finishing a wall, you tear yourself away from your work to spare a glance his way.

Taehyun’s jaw is tight, a muscle flickering where he grits his jaw in the low light that washes over him. There’s a fire blazing in his eyes, and though he doesn’t turn them on you, the smoke rolling from them is enough to make your skin warm. You’d successfully gotten under his skin. Why stop here, when seeing that look on his face is so fun? He looks as sour as an apple; as spiced as cinnamon. “Wall?” you say, sharp and haughty as you offer your hand out to him in an impatient demand.

Snapping his head up, he hands you a wall with the heat of a thousand ovens in his face. You feel the scald he intends for you with it, and you revel in it.

You bark commands at him, watching his shoulders grow tense and his lips twitch with each. Crush the candy canes, you tell him. Melt the icing. Sprinkle these over that. Soon enough, you’re sitting back and watching him work more than anything.

He doesn’t say a word. You see them brimming in his eyes, but he doesn’t let them burst out all venomous like you know he wants to. It’s quite the show. 

“Would you at least help me hold this up?” he says, holding the walls of a house together with one hand. His hands are a mess of runny sugar and powdered sugar for snow, and yours are perfectly clean. You can at least help a little bit if you want to claim any part in the competition. 

You reach for the piping bag, fat with the sweet sweet icing, and straighten a wall up. You trace the seams with it, thick and like glue. With a bit too much pressure, the side of the bag bursts. White rivulets of slow icing run down your fingers and over the table. You curse, dropping it to the counter. That’s all of your icing, flopped down and deflating over the surface all sad-like. It’d been so much, that you thought it would last you each house and then some. Of course, you hadn’t brought extra.

Bringing your sticky fingers up to your mouth, you suckle the mess off. It’s so very sweet—warm and weeping, nutty and spiced with something like nutmeg. It’s Taehyun: the smell of it, the way it spreads over your tongue… You stick your tongue out to catch it where some drips down your forearm. “Mmm,” you say, sticky-armed. “Tastes good.” That’ll be good on the gingerbread houses; maybe the two of you do have a chance at winning. 

When you look up to Taehyun, he stands frozen in place, his hands still holding up a half-constructed gingerbread house. His eyes are different. It’s a look you don’t recognize—a look you’ve never seen before. Rather than deep and warm, his eyes are blackish and heavy. A swallow goes down his throat; a tense, barely contained thing.

 You frown, your lips still a sugary mess. “I didn’t mean to make a mess. Sorry. I’ll clean it up…”

Clearing his throat, Taehyun says, “Yeah…”

He watches you clean the counters, where the icing had pooled, and now the bag is empty, with the same intensity. You can feel it on your skin in a foreign, itching way. You swipe and scoop and work at the spill, and still, he watches. He does not speak. 

You survey the houses you’ve managed to finish. They’re pretty, and absolutely competition ready: looping swirls of icing like shingles on the roofs, peppermint chunks all red and white catching light where you’d sprinkled them into the frosting, gumdrops lining the paths true to Taehyun’s own home, and powdered sugar sifted over the entirety of it like snowfall. It’s all great, but there are only four.  “What are we supposed to do now?” you say, lips pouty. “That’s all the icing I brought. We literally can’t make any more.” You wipe at a smear on your cheek. How’d that get there? “I think I’m gonna have to come back tomorrow… Can you hold on to the houses for me?”

“Yeah—yeah, sure. Tomorrow,” he says, blinking something away. He straightens. “It’s a long walk. I think you should get going.”

You want to say something snarky or ask him why he wants you out of the house so fast, but it’s true. Night’s creeping over Strawberryland, and you have no icing, and tomorrow’s the last day before the bake-off. If the two of you don’t work harder tomorrow than you did today, then you won’t even make qualifications. You’ll lose before even starting.

You never lose. Not like this, and certainly not to the man standing before you. 

ꕀ

“C’mon. You can do better than that, can’t you?” Taehyun says, drooping icing from rooftops like icicles as you sprinkle crushed candies over the top. 

You grit your teeth. If he’d been snappy yesterday, he’s made it his mission to be your worst nightmare today. You think it’s his sort of revenge for ordering him around how you did. “What would you like, then?” you say. Maybe it’s feeding right into what he wants, but your life has lent you a short fuse. “You don’t even care about winning. Why does it matter? Let me do it how I want.”

He’s in another sweater. The sleeves are bunched up to the elbow just like yesterday, but you think he’s making a point with it this time. The shifting of his muscles is a bit too intense for piping icing. You’d made it through three more houses, wrangling your inner demons with each passing snide remark or nasty smile the whole time. It doesn’t help that he keeps his home terribly toasty, and you run cold down to the core. You melt and melt until all that is left of your temper is a puddle on the floor beneath you. Gone. 

“We’re partners, remember?” he says. He doesn’t even look at you as he says it. “I don’t do things half-assed, Frosty.” 

You’re sent reeling with the old nickname. It’d been sweet then, back when it was just the two of you against the world, but now it’s gone sour like milk. It even comes from his mouth soured. It’s something that you thought you’d left a million lifetimes ago, never to hear again. With Taehyun, though, it’s hard to pretend that you are no longer that. 

He will not let you forget that, at one point, the two of you were friends. An unlikely pair, especially looking at you now. You thought it was all nothing to you, but seeing him has kicked up dust. 

“You don’t?” you say, shooting him a quick glare from the side of your eye. “That’s funny.”

Strong brows shooting up, Taehyun quits mid-piping to look at you. “Funny? What’s funny about it to you?”

You can’t settle the obnoxious smile that curls at the edges of your mouth, mean and taunting and falsely sweet. “Oh, nothing.” You shake a sifter full of powder against your palm. It falls like true snow down over the house. 

“No, tell me,” he says, his eyes trained and heavy on your dismissive shrug. “Tell me what you think of me. I wanna hear it.”

Oh, this will be good.

“It’s just that,” you say, “you’re not really known for doing things the best way, you know? Living all the way out here, an ass when anybody tries to talk to you… Well, really, it’s just that nobody likes you. But, don’t worry! I’m sure there’s at least somebody that does.”

His face falls, the twinkle of delight at taunting you that he’d been holding in his eyes gone away. All that’s left is the peaking of something deeper and roiling from out of the cracks. You get the funny feeling that maybe you’ve taken it a step too far.

But, you never lose.

“Is that what it is?” he says. “I work for my shit. You? Everything you’ve ever had has been handed to you.” He measures his words delicately. Like a measuring cup full over the top, he cuts the excess words and coarseness off. He doesn’t say all that he thinks, but you see all he leaves unsaid toiling furiously behind his eyes. 

His eyes. They’re clear and, sharp as they are, they pin you. It’s a reflection of that look he gave you yesterday: deep and swirling and wild. It’s more than that, this time, though. It’s laced with anger and bursting at the seams of him. You’re not sure he’ll be able to hold back whatever it is that storms just beneath his skin, this time.

“It is,” you say, punctuation your words concisely. “It’s exactly why my parents said I shouldn’t hang out with you. They said that I’m above… all this.”

Oh, you’ve absolutely taken it too far now. You don’t really mean it. Sure, that’s what they told you, but you don’t really believe it. For some time, you did, but not now. It’s too late for sorries, though. Taehyun’s jaw goes tense.

For a long, awful moment, you just stand there and burn in his silence. It’s worse than any words he might spit. It’s hot—hot, hot, hot, and you turn liquid in it.

In a blink, nothing more, you collide against his countertop. Something clatters and thuds behind you. The gingerbread houses? That doesn’t matter right now—all that your dizzy mind can manage is his body crushing you and his fingers biting into the plush of your cheeks.

Where he had fractured, like true gingerbread, he snaps. You can see it in his eyes; even you know when you’ve pushed too far. Perhaps you ought to have seen this coming.

His knuckles curl white around the edge of the counter beside you, and his fingers dig deeper into your face. He’s oh-so-hot up against you. “I’m sick of your fucking mouth,” he snarls. His breath is hot as it fans over your face, too. “Someone needs to put you in your place. Where are your goddamn manners?”

Your heart thrums in your chest, and your pulse goes wild in your neck. You can’t form the words to answer him.

“Quiet now, huh?” he says. The husk in it makes the place between your thighs feel weird. You don’t know what’s wrong with you.

He shut you up real quick. You’ll give him that.

That funny feeling does flips, roaring to life when his fingers hook under the waistband of your bottoms. “That’s your problem.” His eyes send a chill up and down your spine. “You’ve never been told no. You’ve always gotten what you wanted.” Peeling down all the layers, he tugs your knitted stockings and your little fur skirt, and your sweet frosty panties, too. They bunch at your feet. Between your thighs, right where those foreign, throbbing waves reign, cool air laps at a wetness there. The hair all over your body rises. You’ve never felt anything like it. “Not with me. I'll set you straight. I don’t put up with spoiled brats.”

“I’m not a brat,” you say. “You’re just an ass.” They’re the first words that come to you. Damn your temper.

With the same hand he’d been holding your face in place with, he curls his fingers right into your scalp and yanks hard, baring your neck to him. You lose a strained squeak, tears pricking the corners of your eyes at the sting. If your heart had been racing before, it runs wild, now. You strain your eyes to look at him and his curled lips. Painted with a sneer, he says, “Watch your mouth.”

A swallow goes down your throat hard. It’s all unfamiliar: the aching between your thighs, the burning in your blood, and the dazing of your thoughts. “Taehyun, I… I feel weird. It feels weird.”

Something knowing passes over him. “Yeah?” he says. “Show me where. I can help.”

Show him? You hesitate, searching his eyes for an ounce of joke or aversion. You find none, and that pounding is syrupy-sweet, and he says he can help. That’s all you want; all you need. Taking a trembling hand, you bring it down your body, running the palm down the planes of your belly and resting it just over the spot where the lower bit gives way to the apex of your thighs. Going any further—the thought tightens your throat and pinkens your cheeks the color of strawberry frosting. “There. It feels weird there.”

Taehyun smiles a snappy, spiced smile. He likes that. “Want me to make it feel better?”

Your thoughts feel replaced by something powdery and weightless. You give him a dumb nod.

“Say please.”

Something bratty crawls up your throat, but you want help, and he’s the one who will give it to you. He’d meant that: teaching you a lesson. Melted around the edges already, you say, “Please, help make it feel better.” Your voice wavers.

“There we go. That’s how good girls talk. That’s how you ask to get what you want.” He nudges your thighs apart with a knee and slots it between them, pressed right up against that coolness. Right up against that need. “Grind down on it.”

Neck aching at the angle, you say, “Grind?”

He brushes his clothed thigh right up against you. The friction is delicious—sweet and melty and just what you need. It shoots yellow sparks throughout you.

It feels so good. Your mouth waters in anticipation.

“Grind,” he says. It’s harder, this time. Not a sweet suggestion.

You bring yourself back down on it, gasping at the contact, and you do. You grind, tummy tightening at every brush of the fabric hard and delicious. Your chest constricts, one hand flying up to dig your fingers into his shoulder and the other fighting the hand he has still in your hair. It aches and hurts, and so does the friction as you grow more gaspy and frantic. 

It feels so, so good. You want more—you want him to touch you there and everywhere else. He smells just right all over you, nutty and musky like a gingerbread twist. “Taeh—hyun,” you mewl. It burns, but something slick eases the burn a little bit. Just enough for you to enjoy that burn.

“That’s it,” he coos. It’s not a sweet coo; it’s the type of sound one might make when you play right into their mean game. It’s mean. “Make yourself a mess on my thigh. I don’t even have to touch you. What would mommy and daddy think of you now, huh? What would they think if they saw their precious princess fucking herself on my thigh?”

No. That would be the end of you. You whine, thighs twitching. Something twists in your center, scary and foreboding, and still you chase it. None of your thoughts are solid enough to stop. Each time he flexes a muscled thigh or presses it harder into you, you shudder and curl your fingers into his shirt harder. 

“Don’t like that, huh?” he laughs. “Then you haven’t learned your lesson. You’re no better than me; I mean, look at you.”

You want to cry when he pins your hips back to the counter, stilling your wild bucking. Squeezing your eyes shut, you claw and reach for that wave, even as it recedes from you. “Why?” you say, voice thin. It’d been so yummy—the sweetness still rests on your tongue. Your heart thumps hard, longing for it.

“I said, look at yourself,” he growls, taking his hold on your hair to crank your head down.

Right where you’d been on his thigh, there’s a sticky, marshmallowy mess. Your mess. 

Taehyun releasing his grip on your hair is almost a relief, but he doesn’t even give you time to relish it. The walls of his house blur around you. All that you register in between the motions is his shoulder in your belly and your limbs dangling from you. You dig your hands into his back to balance yourself, but he’s got you.

He has you slung over his shoulder. He’s carrying you like you weigh nothing at all. That place between your thighs flutters anew. In all your life, you never worried too much about the plushness of your belly or your thighs. It is who you are; all mallow and soft around the edges and starkly sweet. But you did get nervous when somebody tried picking you up. Usually, you protest and giggle it off. Watching somebody strain to pick you up when they lift other girls like sacks of flour is just something that makes you feel a little strange.

But, Taehyun does not strain. He doesn’t huff; he carries you right down the hallway and into his room, and he even manhandles you down onto the bed with a bounce without so much as a sound. He is a solid pillar beneath you, and then he is a solid, muscled chest above you. With strong fingers, he pins your hands to the mattress above you. With the other, he leads your shirt up.

He’s so warm against your cold skin. His breath like waves from the oven over your mouth, he says, “You think you’re so much better than me because you have all this?” Curling his fingers around a necklace circling your throat, he tears it off with a clattering of a few snow-drop beads.

 You gasp, glaring right into his eyes. “What the hell?” you hiss, arching your chest to wiggle beneath him. Your necklace. Who does he think he is, breaking your stuff? That was one of your favorite necklaces, and now it lies all over his floor. Still, your center pounds and longs for the return of his touch. Everything about him just calls for more from you. You don’t know how you went so long without him, or how you made yourself forget just how drawn you are to his magnetism. Maybe he is just what your parents turn their nose up at, and you too, but that does not make him any less a powerful personality. 

He knows exactly who he is and what he wants, as solid as the gingerbread cookie. And you, plush and impressionable as whipped marshmallows, take to him just right. It’s something you once knew, but the sneered words of adults obscured that memory.

“Don’t whine,” he says. “I want to see your pretty neck without all that shit. That’s your problem: you’re spoiled.” He reaches down to mess with his pants.

His length springs free. Cheeks flushing, you take it in. You can’t look away, even as embarrassment crawls spindly legs over your skin at the interest you take in the sight. You’ve never seen anything like it—long and hot and weeping something thick and white from the slit at the pinkish tip. A pearl of it dribbles down, landing on your belly in a string where he holds it.

Taehyun collects that wetness and then urges more from the tip with a few drags down the length of it. Wrapping his fingers around it, he begins to slowly work his fist up and down it. It’s nothing short of impossible to tear your sights off it—it’s another thing that inexplicably fans the flames of something roaring in your center. “Do you want to touch it?” he says, watching your tongue dart out to wet your lips. 

The sight of him growing restless over his pumping fist is enough to get you nodding. 

“Fuck,” he says, sharp and under his breath. He lets his hand off it. “Go ahead. Touch it. I won’t tell anybody you did.”

When he frees your pinned wrists, you reach out a slow hand. You curl your fingers around it the way he had. Your fingers don’t even touch around jt. The weight and warmth of him in your palm makes your blood tingle. Looking up, you search for guidance in those intelligent, swirling eyes. His bangs hang over his eyes as he watches.

Placing his hand over yours, he drags it up and down his rigid length the way he had been doing a few beats ago. “Like that,” he says. “Just like that.”

You pump your closed fist up and down him, encouraged to squeeze harder and flick your wrist faster with each tight breath he lets slip. The skin of your palm gets stickier and stickier, the slick sounds sending your ears and core burning just the same. You like that it makes him feel good—that he’s making those noises just for you. 

He twitches under your fingers. “Feels just like I thought your pretty hands would…” he says, stomach tight. “See—what happens when you give up that bratty fucking act? Shit… harder—give it to me harder, Frosty…” Shivering at the name, you oblige him. You reach your thumb up and collect more of that beaded liquid from the slit, and you work your arm harder. Faster. Your forearm begins to burn, but you don’t let it slow you. All you want is more of this; more of him. Finally, he lets sounds out from his chest freely. He grunts and hisses through his teeth, letting his head fall back. “Holy shit. I’m gonna—gonna ice your face, okay?” he says. “You said you liked the taste, huh? Wanna taste it again? Give me your tongue…”

Whatever that means, you push yourself up and situate your face in front of his length, your tongue out. Taehyun’s sounds tighten, and his hips begin to stutter and chase your hand. He picks his head back up to look down at you half-lidded—to watch. With only a few last runs of your palm down his length, skin so slick that your hand just slips and slides up him, he growls through gritted teeth. The weight of him in your working hand twitches once more, and from that weeping tip he shoots dancing ribbons of white. It lands on your tongue hot and sweet, melting out all spiced and snappy.

Snappy like gingerbread. Like gingerbread icing. Swallowing it down, you meet his gaze. He pants, chest rising and falling, but there’s something clear and knowing in his heavy eyes when you do. You think you know now, why he’d been so dazed as you made a show of licking that same sticky icing off your hands and said how good it tasted. 

When you release him from your palm, it glistens with his sweet essence. He softens in front of your eyes just the littlest bit.

Eyes just as hungry and still catching his breath, Taehyun says, “Open your mouth. I wanna see your tongue.”

Belly doing wicked twists, you do. You stick your tongue out for him, still laden with the headiness of his taste. He does taste good. 

“Swallowed it all down?” he says, eating the sight of you with your mouth dropped open up. “You really are so nasty. They all think you’re so sweet—you think you’ve got them all wrapped around your finger.” He pushes you back down to the bed with a palm. “Well, not me. I know that you’re just as filthy as you are spoiled. Somebody had to deal with you.”

Like always, snarky words swirl in your mouth. All it would take is letting them fall off your tongue. But you don’t—not with the feeling between your thighs, and not with the way your blood, frost turned to snowmelt, begs for him to fix it. Not when you know that all it will get you is more of Taehyun’s wrath. 

It’s not like what he says is true, or anything. That’s what you tell yourself anyway.

“Taehyun, please. I need it…” He takes a marshmallow thigh of yours, pressing it up so that it melds with your belly. Cool air reminds you once more of that strange wetness between them.

Dark, blown eyes catching the sight of it, his lips quirk into a scoff. “Need what?” he says, reaching a hand down. At the contact of his fingers, just as they had against his thigh, your hips jolt and an explosion like the breaking of sugar glass shoots down the muscles of your thighs. He scoops that stickiness up from its source, bringing the soft cream up to his mouth. Tongue darting out, he has a taste of you just as you had tasted him. “Shit—you taste good too, frosty. You’re so sweet, how’d you turn out like this? That’s okay. I’ll deal with you, and then you’ll be just as sweet as you taste.” That fat tip of him presses flush to the source of all your want. “I’ll straighten you out.”

You don’t know what that means, and you are absolutely sure that you don’t deserve it, but any sass is staunched with the utter sweetness of the stretch in your center. Taehyun presses his hips up into you, slowly and internalizing the dropping open of your mouth, the pinching of your brows into a worrying line, and the press of your palms to his broad chest. He takes it and metabolizes it down like cream cake or the plumpest fruits, and he gives you more. More, all the way up until there is no length of him left to give, and nowhere else for him to go.

You feel so, so full. No amount of twinkling jewels or new skirts hold a candle to this. You don’t know what it is, and you don’t know why Taehyun knows, but whatever. Who cares? Breathing out a shudder, you squirm beneath him to search for that dazzling feeling he’d made you feel earlier.

“Stay still,” he barks, steadying himself beside your head with a sturdy, powerful arm. When had he lost his sweater? You don’t know. You might drool over the definition and warm skin there if he didn’t pull the length of him out until just the tip of him threatens to pop out, and then drive right back in before you could. A gaspy breath falls from your mouth, devolving into mewls and whimpers when he does the same over and over and over again, quick with snapping hips and the smacking of his skin against the soft skin of your bottom. Your thigh quivers in his hold, his fingers digging into the fluff of your thigh as he holds you into it. 

Each and every time he slides up against something inside you that makes you feel different. Different from what you felt when you were on his thigh, and different from anything else you’ve felt in the entirety of your life. It’s deeper, right at the very bottom of your belly, sending your veins lazy and your hips twitchy. You want to chase it as much as you want to hide from its power, so all you do is stay in a hazy limbo of sharp gasps and long, drawn out mewls for more.

“No,” he says, his face right in yours. The smell of him, manly and so very sweet like oven-warmed gingerbread, settles over your bones and wiggles its way through your thoughts. It does something to your melted mind, planting a need to cling to him right in the center. Your hands perch all over him: the hair at the back of his head, his working waist, his biceps that flex and strain with his effort, and finally around him so that you can push your cheek to his chest and feel his heart racing there. “You’ll take exactly what I give, and thank me for it. You don’t get to ask for more; not with your mouth.”

“Why?” you say, whining. “I want it—so bad. Please? I’ll be so… so good…” Your voice bounces with each collision of your bodies, and your toes flex and curl at the twisting in your core. Nonetheless, you want more. Whatever this is—this syrupy, pure goodness—Taehyun has shown you something that you will never be whole without again. He has bloomed a flower right in the chest of you, something hungry that will want and want this, and you fear that he will be the only one able to satiate it. 

The thought of the smile he’ll wear, should you come crawling back to his doorstep just for this… 

Taehyun stops, pushing off you with a curled lip. “What will it take to get you to fucking listen?” he says. He pulls himself from you, leaving you to whine and long for that feeling once more. You want to complain and pull him back over you, but with the fire churning in his dark gaze and the sight of his length, covered in that same white, whipped stuff you’d left all over his thigh. 

You’d made a sticky, frosty, frothed mess all over him once again. Really, what would people think of you now? Your mom? Your dad? 

Manhandling you again, he flips you onto your hands and knees and shoves your face into the bed. Any yelp or gasp that tears from your chest is muffled into the sheets. Taking the swell of your hips, his fingers like bites against the powdery, soft skin there, his voice comes from behind you. “Won’t you just listen to me? If you’re gonna be mine, you’re gonna have to start learning how to hear no.” Curling your hair up and pulling it like a handle, he snaps your head back into another stinging, awful tug. It turns the arch of your back into something that you can imagine is a sight to be seen. If the burning where you feel his eyes raking down the curve of it has something to speak of it, that is. You squeeze your eyes shut as if that’ll help you any. “You don’t get everything you want. That’s not how this works.”

You don’t say anything. You have nothing good or sweet left to say.

“Say thank you, and I’ll give it to you good, okay?” he says, running a flattened hand down your spine. “That’s all I want to hear. Show me you can be good.”

The last thing you want to do is to thank him. That would mean admitting that you’ve lost, and that ruffles your preening feathers. But you want that goodness back, you want his hips snapping into you and that tight knot back in your belly. You’d do anything for it; even forget your ego.

Your mind is gone, anyway. Whatever your rational self would do, it doesn’t matter. There’s one thing that you want right now, and getting it is so easy. “Thank you, Taehyun. Thank you so much… I’m sorry I’ve been a brat, and I’m sorry about what I said to you. Please, just… help me. Please, I need you so bad.”

You? Sorry? It’s absurd, and yet, you entirely mean it. Maybe it’s your lazy brain talking, or maybe he really has won.

“See? So sweet when you act right,” he says. “Let me show you what happens when you do.”

You could cry real tears when he sets that same pace, his hands bracing on your hips to pull you deeper into each thrust and the front of your body bouncing against the sheets with each. Your cries grow hoarse and beyond needy, and your insides twist and turn even more dangerously.

You are on the brink of something divine. Something that will melt down so well, good on the tongue and as smooth as chocolate, but as sharp as the snapping of gingerbread.

And, snap, he has.

“Yes!” you cry, straining your shoulders as you reach behind you and curl your fingers around the place where he meets your skin. “S..So good! Right there—thank you, Taehyun!”

He doubles down on you. His length hits a spongy spot in your core, pounding up against the walls there and turning your insides against you. It’s almost too good. “There we go,” he says, voice shaking with a growl. The delivery of his thrusts grows sloppy. You think he feels just as good as you do. “That’s what—” Falling over you, he supports himself with each strong arm dug into the mattress beside your head, his solid front melded to your soft back. “That’s what I like to hear. Here you go—fuck, I’m gonna give you what good girls get, okay?”

You hope it’s more of that melty icing he shot from his length earlier. The knot in your belly tightens, just on the brink of a glittery, bright explosion. “Mhm!” you say, your voice cracking. You want it—you want it so bad. The intensity of it, turning over in your veins and rendering your thighs jelly, sings in your ears. It’s a frightening greatness, but you rage against the urge to drop your hips into the mattress and run from it. You need to finally taste what you’ve been chasing. “Taehyun! Right there—please, don’t stop!”

You were demanding more from him again, but Taehyun didn’t stop this time. Not when his growls and whines against your shoulder tell you enough about how he’s feeling. He tongues and nips at your shoulders, the only sounds echoing off the walls of his room, the hollow smack of his hips against your bottom, and the only smell of the sweet mingling of his gingerbread sharpness against your heady marshmallow. It’s good enough to eat.

Crying out with a frantic whine, the feeling deep in your belly changes once more, and you’re writhing and squirming against him. Your hips buck and chase and run, wild and just as explosively as the tightness shooting down your thighs and up through your lower back.

Everywhere. You feel it everywhere. It’s in the continued bouncing of your body, in each nudge of his tip to a sweet, spongecake spot deep inside you, in his breathless pants into your skin, and in the curling of his fingers into your hair when he releases a hip to do so, and in your pleads when he chases his own delicious release. Your throat tightens, and suddenly the sheets are all too warm around you, and you realize with blistering intensity that another one of those knots builds up in your belly. It’s quicker, short, and bright. You’ve barely even made it through the last, but still, it comes.

“Holy shit,” he growls, hips stuttering and then stilling. He reaches a hand down between your thighs and finds a very sweet button. The breath in your throat catches, and in nothing more than a blink of an eye, you crash again, and then your bodies are two twitching, elated things. He presses himself impossibly deeper into you before shooting that same hotness, sweet ropes of sugary icing right into you, and your fluttering insides hold him tight and eat it up. Your heart pounds in your chest, running amok in your ears and your neck, and you try to catch running breaths to no avail.

Occasionally grinding up into you, though there is hardly any space between your joined bodies to do so, Taehyun shoots more lazy spurts for a few long moments. His breaths slow against your skin, and yours do in your chest. Slowly, you recover as two entangled bodies, all clammy and melted like left in the oven for a bit too long.

Pressing hot, wet kisses to the back of your neck, and then down your spine when he pushes off you and pulls himself out, his tongue darting out against your skin for some, he says, “Taste so good… So sweet, even on your skin…” He brushes the wild tangles of hair from your face and adds, “I wonder if you’ve gone all sweet inside, too? You look like it…” The mess of you, your thick creaminess staining your thighs and his runny load pooling from your hole, is all over. It even makes the sheets beneath you dirty with dribbles of his release as it drips. “I told you I’d get you sweet.”

If that sluggish, sugary thing moving through your veins is sweetness taking over you from the inside, perhaps you have gone sweet. Or, perhaps you now have every reason to become his worst nightmare—just if it gets you this.

You’ll play sweet for now. The softer kisses he seasons your skin with are no less enthralling than the delightful goodness still ebbing away between your thighs. You think that, for the first time, you have lost. 

And, to your very own dismay, it tastes so very sweet. 

... back to the masterlist ⌇ back to strawberryland

✎୭ ashlynn's note BRAT TAMER TAEHUN, amirite?

beomgyu remembers when he found your stream for the first time. The cam website had you listed in the newcummer ranks, only a few watchers sitting in the chat when he clicked on. he usually kept to the top camgirls in the list, getting off once and then heading to bed, but he had misclicked when logging on ending up right where he needed to be all along.

The little window previewing your stream showed your pink backdrop, a million pink pillows laid out on the ground where you leaned back. He shrugged, opening your stream to see you with a wand pressed to your clothed clit, legs lifted to your chest, your back arching as you came, the strappy blue bikini straining against your tits like it would pop off at any second. It was over for him the second he heard your breathy whines, thighs shaking as you overstimulated yourself, knees pulling in before you gave a shout pulling the vibrator away. The swimsuit bottoms are completely soaked through sticking and outlining your cunt. 

Even without the wand you were trembling, head thrown back as you tried to catch your breath. And for the first time ever gyu commented in the chat dropping a donation with a single word. 

beomiebear: again.

The ding of the request was the only sound in your room, drawing you to look right at the screen for the first time. If he hadn't been gone by the sound of your pretty noises he was with your pretty face. 

“okay ill go again,” you hooked your arms under your knees, and before pressing back down on your clit you muttered, “This one's for you beomiebear,” 

beomgyu stayed up until your stream was over, cock raw from how long he had been fucking his hand, stomach covered in streams of his cum from how often he finished to the sight of you. he bookmarked your page, paid to be an exclusive member and waited for a notification that you were on live. 

The first month of following you he got used to your schedule on Wednesday, and Friday nights he would be at his desk filling your chat with requests, commenting on your beauty, dropping donations like candy leading you through the forest of your other commenters to praise him and him alone. Every stream he joined got him more and more recognition from you. A sweet, “hi beomiebear,” drawn out and giddy, your little wave and smile just for him. Other exclusive members in the chat didn’t get that voice, no, it was reserved for beomgyu and beomgyu alone. Even as you grew higher in the ranks and more people started joining your little army you always greeted beomiebear. He was the longest standing member in chat, donated the most, requested things he could tell you liked just by the way you sounded. 

When you listed a wishlist for items to be sent to you, if the gift was from beomiebear you didn’t just mention the one time you wore it but every time after, “You remember this one don’t you? It was a gift from beomiebear,” your fingers snapping the waistband of the pink thong you wore, “beomie says he loves me in pink, do you guys agree?” 

Your streams were everything to him, even if he was on a trip or out late when you started a stream he was in the bathroom of a bar jerking off like it was the first time he ever saw you, he's trying to stifle his moans in hotel rooms, cumming hard with your name on his lips. he was there for your streams when you just got ready, always in your tiny little tank top nipples peddled, treating the camera like a facetime call. Asking the chat what you should wear, holding up options. His favorite part is always at the end when you put on your lipstick and then go on to fix up your hair, spinning in your outfit asking if you looked pretty. He never missed an opportunity to shower you with love. 

And when you did an event for reaching your goal sub count you promised the highest donator a fleshlight, two used pairs of panties, and a personal video of you cumming in one of them. beomgyu was the winner by a landslide. “and who would have guessed that beomiebear was the winner? I'm not surprised my beomiebear is obsessed with me,” it was the same time that you set up personal chat offers for long-time members and no one had been watching as long as gyu had. 

you: Do you want me to use your real name in my video for you?

But gyu loved that you called him by his screen name, anyone else he had ever had sex with only called him beomgyu and you were so much more than just casual even if you had never met in person. 

beomiebear: No, I like it when you call me beomiebear or even just beomie or bear. 

Once beomgyu got his video he watched it on the days you didn’t stream, playing it over and over until he had each word memorized. 

“I picked these out just for you,” your hands running over the bubble gum pink panties you wore, “you’re going to have to tell me if you like them. and then these,” you held up that strappy blue swimsuit, “I know I said two panties but these were from the first stream you joined, so that means I wore them the first time you made me cum,” 

just the fact you remembered made him hard. and when you pulled out the fleshlight you got him, unboxing it to show it off, “now it's not wet unlike how I am right now but I'm sure you'll get it wet enough,” your fingers running over the silicone, slipping your middle and ring finger in the hole before taking them out and putting them into your mouth, “I wish I could lick this clean after you had used it,” you pout, “I know you must taste so good,” you kissed over the puffy lips before asking, “you’ll think of me when you use it right?” 

You had him wrapped so tight about your little finger that he was nodding and answering to a screen knowing damn well you couldn't hear him.

When his package came in he was shaking with need, straining in his jeans ripping open the box, groaning over the smell of you. You didn’t only send the things promised, you tossed in an extra pair of panties, sprayed with your perfume, and a little bear and lollipop phone charm. A note card handwritten for him saying ‘for my beomiebear, don’t forget to give your new toy clitty kisses before fucking it and filling it up while thinking of me <33’ and did he listen, kissing over where he knew your lips had been before sending it, fucking it until he was so drained he was amazed at how much cum could leave his body. Your panties pressed to his nose, phone charm hanging from his case. 

You were right about him being obsessed with you and neither of you would have it any other way. and you were no different. Seeing beomiebear's name in the chat or donating would never stop you from smiling. He was one of the first people to support you on live, calling out bad behavior in chat, and calling you the prettiest names. When beomie was active you were putting on your best show. You felt the prettiest when beomiebear was watching and commenting. You picked out outfits you knew beomie would like and couldn't help but think about how he must look behind his keyboard at home.

You've never seen beomie but that didn’t mean that you weren't obsessed with the idea of him just like he was obsessed with the idea of you. Sometimes after a stream when beomie would go to your private chat complimenting you and saying goodnight you were laid out in bed giggling and kicking your feet, blushing and smiling acting as if you've never had a boyfriend before in your life. No man had ever made you this giddy in real life and no one else from your streams compared. 

You remember finding the little phone charm when you were on vacation smiling like a madman just thinking about beomiebear so you bought it. You wouldn't be able to forget the cute little bear or the lolly pop, beomiebear, and his bubblegum princess in pink. Always wondered if he had put it to use or if it was sitting in his nightstand with your panties. 

Tonight you set up your stream for a get ready with me, fingers rolling over your nipples to get them hard, “Hi! Tonight is just going to be a short stream, it feels like forever since I've been on but it's been only one day,” your eyes scan over chat, welcoming the users who tip or the ones you've seen before. These streams never did as well as the ones with you masturbating but they did bring in long-term tippers, the ones who requested private texts and videos often. “I'm going out tonight so I need help to make sure I look good, do you think you could help me decide on a few things?” 

Your setup is in your spare room, the one space that made you sign for your apartment as soon as you saw it. Your backdrop is set up right along the back wall, a bed set up lengthwise along the wall with all your pillows to lay down at the perfect angle for your camera. Your vanity is usually behind the camera, only used when you do streams like these, the lights setting the mood. The small closet attached to the room held anything you wore for streams, all your toys and props organized under where everything hung. Tonight you were going out with friends for drinks for a rare night out with friends. You spend most of the time commuting to class and home, and with both your cam schedule and your school schedule you didn’t go out much. And none of your friends knew your little secret and you would keep it like that as long as you possibly could. 

You held up the two options you had picked out for tonight, “maybe I should try them both on for you?” 

It then that beomies name pops up in chat and your smile brightens, “Hi beomiebear! Which one should I try first?” you were going for an angel or devil theme with the white set and the black set in hand, both of them nearly identical to each other.

beomiebear: Don’t we get to see the lingerie first?

“I didn’t even think of that beomie you’re so right. I would need your help to pick out the perfect panties for these, hmm let me see what I have,” you dig through your collection, pulling out a few options for them to pick between. “Here I have pink,” you hold them up one at a time, “white, red, and black. If I wear the white skirt I don’t know if I'll be able to wear the red but why don’t we see?” 

Your top half was mostly in frame as you changed your panties but stepping closer to the bed you could see more of your body in the viewfinder. Picking up the white skirt to pull it on, purposefully tugging it up higher. “see what I mean everyone would be able to see, especially if I bend over,” you demonstrate leaning over the bed and looking over your shoulder as you wiggle your hips. 

beomgyu is sitting in his apartment biting his lip trying to decide if he should touch himself when he has to be ready in an hour to leave for drinks with his friends. Debating if the clean up is worth it but knowing that if he doesn't get off at least once he will be fighting a boner for a while. He watches as you pick up the next pair of panties to try, you’re standing in front of the camera tugging your skirt down enough so that when you take off the red pair the camera doesn't pick it up, but as you tug on the white lace and bend back over the bed he gives up on resisting. The material is just sheer enough to show the outline of your cunt and as you sway your hips asking if these are better the fabric slips along your lips. there is no way he is not touching himself now. “oops,” you giggle fixing the lace so that it sits right again, “maybe not these, don’t want anyone else seeing what is only meant for my angels,” 

you stand back up, “You know what I think the black skirt is better,” you slide the white skirt off leaving you back in your tiny cropped tank and lace panties before sliding up the black skirt, “okay but now the white is too showy,” you bend again, “what should I pick next the black or the pink?” gyu is fast to respond, “okay beomie says pink so I think we have to try that one next,” and gyu doesn't know what happens to him when he sees you wear pink only that he's whimpering with his hand down his sweats picking up his pace as he squeezes his cock. When you bend doing your little wiggle he knows he's the one who sent these to you from your wishlist, that alone makes him cum. His head falls back against the headboard, not caring about the mess anymore when you’re there taking your top off, pushing down on your boobs with your arm to hide giggling about not wanting to wear a bra tonight. Your bare back to the camera as you pull on your new top. 

By the end of your stream, he was cutting it close to making it out on time to meet up with everyone. But when he got to the bar they had saved him a seat at their booth half taken up with his friends and half taken up with yours. 

You were half squished between your friend and soobin, feeling claustrophobic amongst the group. soobin and you have an econ class together along with another friend at the table. He had invited the two of you out a couple of times but it was always on a Friday and you always made the most of Friday nights. But he had asked to celebrate the end of the semester pointing out everyone else was going so you agreed wanting to finally get out even if it was only the one time. So far all of his friends were nice, picking up conversation easily and adding everyone in like they had been besties for years. gyu didn’t even realize it was you at the table until you lifted your head at yeonjuns loud, “Look who finally made it!” 

beomgyu had only just seen you on his screen, putting on lipstick and blowing a kiss to your chat before logging off, he felt like he was hallucinating but he didn’t want to get caught staring. He tried to keep his features blank, avoiding spending too much time looking at you when he nodded a short greeting to everyone. he wasn't fully convinced it was you until soobin was introducing your side of the table, “And this is gyu,” 

your smile was the barest reaction he had ever seen you give, “Hi gyu,” so unlike the way you look when you call him beomie. he sat on the other side of soobin as the others continued their conversation. His hands were slick with sweat as he discreetly pulled out his phone pulling up your private chat, he had messaged you after stream like he usually did complimenting you, your sweet reply always going straight to his heart. He typed out a message for you clicking his phone off and letting it sit in his lap as he watched you pick yours up. 

beomiebear: I hope you’re thinking of me while you’re dressed that pretty tonight don’t need you forgetting me. 

beomgyu was trying not to make it obvious he was watching you as your face lit up typing before clicking your phone off. In his lap, his buzzed and he knew it was you. That little smile gave away more than anything else. 

you: There is no way I could forget about you when I'm always thinking about you <3

And as much as beomgyu wants to talk to you he's completely scared shitless. 

He feels like the second you two lock eyes you'll know he knows you’re a cam girl. That you'll feel weird once you know he's watched you get off for what feels like forever. Not even that he just watched but he's gotten off more times than he can count from watching you. that not even two hours ago he was fucking his hand wishing it was you and you had only been changing. He wouldn't be able to take it if you ignored him, stopped answering his messages, and smiled at his user. So he bit his tongue and sat back.

beomgyu didn’t think he would have a problem acting normal but when your friend dragged you out onto the dance floor it was almost painful not to watch you. the way your body was moving drawing him in without him noticing he was stuck on you until soobin bumped his shoulder, “just talk to her,” 

“w-what no,” he stumbled, waving away the suggestion, “she wouldn't- I'm not-“ his heart was beating so hard he's sure any more attention brought to him would give him away. 

“I will if you don’t,” gyu gave the deadliest glance, it was the last thing he ever wanted to think about, his friend and you together when it should be him. soobin chuckled, “I'm kidding I like her friend but it proves my point on why you should speak up,” 

beomgyu bit the inside of his cheek before muttering, “I'm getting another drink,” 

and that's where you found him at the bar. He was checking the time on his phone waiting for his drink when you popped up next to him leaning over the bartop waving over the bartender. Not even noticing he was from your group until the bartender walked right past ignoring you. gyu went stiff, placing his phone face down on the counter when you spoke up, “gyu right?” 

“Yeah,” he absentmindedly starts to play with the charm on his phone, flicking the lollipop. He knows you've never seen him, that you wouldn't know him in the way he knows you. Every shared glance feels as if you will just know it's him, like his username is written on his forehead that if you paid enough attention would be visible to only you. He could feel a pit in his stomach, a brewing mix of embarrassment and need. If he wasn't worried you would freak out he wanted to get to know you like he would any other girl in the bar. Ask you to dance, get you a drink, flirt until the sun comes up; he wanted you to like him, feel something for him even if it was a fraction of what he felt for you. 

“how do you know soobin?” you ask just trying to make conversation as you wait for another bartender to pass. 

“we're childhood friends and we roomed together our first year,” he flicks the charm again, looking over at the glasses lining the wall in front of the two of you, missing the way you looked down at what he was messing with. 

You could feel your heart in your ears at seeing the charm on his phone, the instant realization almost blinding. Your silence is what makes gyu look back at you, both of you looking at eachother like you saw a ghost. The two of you jumped out of your skin when Yeonjun and Kai came up behind gyu to say goodbye. 

“beomgyu were leaving,” and if Kai hadn't said his name at that exact moment you could have written it off. Anyone could be beomiebear it didn’t have to be gyu but mixed with the phone charm at that exact moment you couldn't have missed it. 

“o-okay,” beomgyu had to clear his throat to get the words out. the final nail in the coffin was when Yeonjun ruffled gyus hair as a salute not knowing he was leaving the two of you in a puddle of nerves after saying, “Bye beomie,” 

Even if it's a packed room, the only thing you can see is gyu in front of you. you had always dreaded the day when you would meet a member outside of chat, the possibility so much higher with your face uncovered. Now you were face to face with someone you had proof watched almost every single one of your streams. “so… is it going to be really uncomfortable now?” 

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable at all. I wasn't going to say anything,” beomgyu feels like he's rambling, grasping for straws to try to right the situation. You can see the panic on his face, the same face you're re-examining with your new clarity. A deep blush is set across his cheeks, his brows pinched in worry. 

“no it's okay I'm more shocked than uncomfortable,” you try to laugh it off, finger brushing over the little bear charm. “Happy to put a face to the name, you’re way cuter than I imagined,” 

beomgyu could feel warmth all over his body at the compliment, a soft smile showing itself. “you think?” it was so much better in person to hear you say nice things, to know it was meant for him alone. 

you give a soft chuckle waving, “Do you want to dance with me? I don’t think the bartender cares about us at this point,” 

“o-okay,” 

beomgyu couldn't believe you were here, the two of you are so close now that beomgyu can smell your perfume, making his cock so much harder remembering your panties pressed to his face, aided now by the way you were grinding back on him. he had a hard time putting his hands on you in the first place, you have to guide him to grab your waist. But as the night went on he was finding it easier and easier to let his hands roam wherever you let him. 

It felt as if you've known him for so long, everything falling into place as if you've always known each other, like that first stream was a first date and you haven't been apart since. If it had been anyone else you think you would have gone straight home and locked yourself away, with beomiebear, with beomgyu, you felt as if you could lock the two of you in a room and never leave. Because even if he had been behind the screen he still had picked up on the way you liked things. 

You turned wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer to your mouth, “it's getting late,” 

“I don’t wanna go,” he confessed not caring if you could feel his erection pressed against you, he wanted to stay with you not see you go. 

“You don’t want to go home with me?” if you could push yourself any closer you would just to make your point, “Because something tells me you really do,” 

beomgyus mouth is dry, trying and failing to come up with words that won't seem too needy because all he wants to do is beg. he would have you right here if he could, right in the back of the uber you called to pick the two of you up. He's never been so nervous to be with anyone before, even his first time he was less needy and more confident. What breaks him is when you get to your apartment, when you push open the door to your spare room and he sees that pink bed from your background, moody lights and all. He moans at the thought of all the times he's seen you spread out on those very pillows with your hand between your thighs. The white skirt and panties you didn’t wear were still on the floor. “are you really wearing the panties I picked out?” his voice was caught in his throat, not at all how he wanted it to come off. But you just smile from the doorway, no one has ever been in here with you before and it gives you butterflies.

“Why don’t you find out for yourself?” you ask, sliding your hands up his chest and around his neck. 

He's slow to kiss you, the soft tentative nature of his kiss unlike how you thought he would be. He was being so gentle, taking his time with you, exploring the way you two fit together. His hands at your waist pulling you into him, kissing you breathless. beomgyu could make out with you forever, making every effort to know you inside and out. one hand sliding down the curve of your ass, pushing your shirt up until he was feeling the lace of your panties, groaning into your kiss. “do you-,” he can’t even pull himself away from you, pressing himself closer, coming back to your mouth like it was the source, “do you think-“

you have to pull away giggling. “it's okay beomgyu I'll still kiss you after you ask your question,” he's nodding like he understands, nose brushing against yours as he tries to latch back onto your mouth. 

“Do you think I could watch you?” those puppy dog eyes working wonders on your stomach, “please,”

“only if I get to see what it looks like on the other side of the screen,” you reach down to cup him over his jeans, “it's only fair,” beomgyu has never been so noisy in his life, whimpering as you feel him up, wanting to thrust into the air when you pull away. “Do you want me to use a toy?” 

he's nodding his head watching you pull open your closet door, the drawer you pull open overstocked with everything he's ever seen you use in a stream, even things he hasn't seen you use yet. He's almost a little shocked at the sight of all the options to choose from, mind filtering through every reaction he can remember you having with each one, needing to see your lashes flutter. It's when he sees the wand toy from the first stream he attended that he knows there was never another option for him. 

beomgyu sits on your vanity chair, leaning back against the cushion to get the perfect angle to watch you. The nerves were new for you, even the first few streams you had done you had been able to overlook the feeling because you were just alone in the room and no one really watched. Now you were actively being seen because even if the chat was running it was almost always positive comments that boosted your ego. Even other partners hadn't stepped into the space and maybe that's what was making it worse, you didn’t want to disappoint, but as you laid back on the pillows all stacked up to keep you slightly upright and looked at beomgyu it all faded away. He was watching you like he was seconds away from devouring you, that needy crease to his brow, the hem of his shirt rolled up just enough to show off his navel and waistband of his underwear. 

You lifted your knees to your chest using your arm to help keep them up, the way you were folded made your panties tighten against your cunt, the wet outline making gyus mouth water. He popped the button of his jeans, zipping down the zipper, to give him some release. You clicked on the vibrator, the hum the only sound in the room as you pressed it over your clit. Your reaction was instant, hips jerking and lashes fluttering. You could see the way beomgyus breathing increased, his hand pushed into his pants, lip between his teeth to keep his moans quiet. 

“I want to hear you,” you gasp, “I need to hear you,” 

beomgyu nods adam's apple bobbing, the breathy whimpers taking up all of the space in your mind until he pulls down his pants. His cock is heavy as it slaps against his stomach, beomgyu works fast to take off his shirt not caring where it lands as you focus in on every vein on his shaft. He's already so leaky, all his precum aiding his strokes. The visual of watching his hand working himself drives you insane, your imagination running wild as his hand pumps up and down stopping right at the flared tip, picturing exactly what it would feel like when he pushes into you. Your orgasm comes crashing down on you, the pretty sounds coming from your mouth alone have beomgyu following right after, both of you locking eyes across the room as you try to come down from your high. gyus stomach is covered in streaks of his cum, sliding down with every breath he takes. You click off the wand not wanting to overstimulate yourself letting it fall in the pillows next to you.

Your panties are completely soaked as you push them down, strings of wetness still clinging to the fabric. You toss them over to beomgyu who's eager to catch them, cleaning up the mess he's made only to wrap them around his still-hard cock, letting your combined cum work as more lube for his slow pumps. “Your cock is so pretty beomie, does it put the gift I gave you to good use?” 

beomgyus thrusts up into his hand at the nickname, “Yes, I-I make sure to give it clitty kisses just like you told me,” 

you run your fingers through your slick folds spreading your legs wider to give him a better view, “are you going to give me clitty kisses before you fuck me?” beomgyu has to pull his hand away from himself before he came again at the question. He had dreamed of tasting you; getting lost between your thighs. He dropped your panties making his way to kneel in front of you on the bed. You still had your shirt and skirt on and he helped take both of them off before hooking your knees over his shoulders. As much as he has seen your pussy on screen nothing beats in person, your swollen clit covered in your slick, his head framed by your thighs. beomgyu is licking his lips as you brush your fingers through his hair, pushing the strands behind his ears, his eyes flickering up to yours as he wraps his hands around your thighs to keep you still. “how is it that you look this edible?”

you roll your hips, the heels of your feet pushing into his back, “just get to eating me,” 

his lips ghost over your clit, your whimper drawing him closer, soft kisses dusting over every part of your pussy. You have to tighten your hold on his hair, pushing him to your clit to get him to move past all his teasing. beomgyu moans at the taste of you, the vibrations aiding his work on your clit. If he could spend the rest of the night between your legs overstimulating you he would. Every sound and movement in reaction to the way he's making you feel fuling him on. He's messy as he buries his face into you, all of your wetness gathered on his tongue as he circles your bundle of nerves, sucking deeply making you roll your head back. Your second orgasm is blinding as he presses two fingers into you, the pressure making you see spots, legs closing in around his ears. 

When beomgyu pulls away your legs feel weak when they rest back on the bed. He kisses up your stomach, loving your uneven breathing as you try to come back to reality. His mouth is all over you, tongue trialing your skin before he finds your nipples. Taking his time with each he lightly tugs them between his teeth, sucking along the delicate flesh leaving marks up and down your body. beomgyus thinking about seeing all the hickeys he's leaving on you when you stream, everyone knowing someone had their mouth on you. The thought alone has him humping into the mattress, your giggles waking him up as you run your thumb over his cheek, “who knew beomiebear would be so needy,” 

“only for you,” he confesses kissing your extended wrist, “please let me fuck you, please,” 

you don’t hesitate to let your legs fall open wider as an invitation beomgyus cock already pressed against your thigh, sticky still from earlier. “you don’t need to beg,” 

you help him guide himself to your entrance, mushroom tip pressing in enough to make you shiver, mouth opening in a silent moan at the feeling. beomgyu can’t contain his noises, eyes glued to where the two of you are connected. He pushed in further the sight of him disappearing into your cunt like a beacon he won’t look away from. He doesn’t look up to see your face until he gives one last thrust to fully knock his pelvis to yours. Your head is rolled back with that hazy fucked out expression and he’s hardly done anything at all. he rolls his hips back before pushing all the way back in your whimper tearing him apart. “you feel so fucking good,” 

beomgyu sits back on his heels dragging you with him, hands holding your hips as your back arches. The angle pushing him right against your gspot, your feet digging Into the mattress as gyu frantically picks up his pace. He guides your body down on his cock, every thrust making your boobs bounce. beomgyu is lost in the feeling, desperate whimpers escaping him, veins in his hands and arms bulging from his hold on you. 

“beomie,” the name slipping so easily, the whine making beomgyu feel like any second he would cum especially when you felt this warm, this wet. He was using you like his own personal cock sleeve focused solely on getting his cum as deep as possible into you. 

Blindly you reached out next to you for the vibrator, finding it and turning it on pressing it to your clit. beomgyu can feel his orgasm building aided by the way you’re squeezing him. Sloppily thrusting he feels the tightness in his balls, he presses as close as he can get himself to you. 

The fucked out expression on his face as his hot cum spills inside you triggers your orgasm, the wand pressed to your clit also pressed to the base of his cock overstimulating the both of you. You go to move it but beomgyu’s hand shoots out holding the vibrator in place watching the way your body convulses. Thighs trying to close in around him, your cries loud enough you know you’ll get a noise complaint. But beomgyu’s cock is still pulsing your body milking him in a way no one ever has before. 

It’s only when he sees the tears in your eyes that he pulls the wand away, switching it off and laying himself onto you. His mouth is on your neck, hammering pulse pressed to his lips as he gives you slow soft thrusts making sure you’re stuffed full of his cum. 

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, fingers curling in the sweaty strands of hair at the base of his neck. Both of you catch your breath slowly coming back to yourselves. 

When he pulls out you feel the overwhelming gush of your combined cum slipping out and down to puddle on the mattress. beomgyu sat back watching in amazement. “I’ve always wanted to see what your pussy would look like after i was done with it,” two fingers scooping up anything he could to stuff it right back in.

🏷 taglist: @kissmekissykissme @bts-txt-ateez @apeachty @stwq2349 @isa942572 
@tomorrowxforever @beestvng @soobingf-blog @lovinjjong @lola-horore-553 
@cypher-03 @midnight-mochii @hueningwhy @choibeomning @soobinbunnie5 
@yunjinswifee @cupidtaehyun @bamgeutsz @prince-jjae

The worst part was that none of these rules came from his father — a man who, at first glance, seemed exactly like the kind of parent who'd enforce discipline, high standards, high expectations, strict curfews, and strict grades. Except he wasn’t.

These rules came from you, his older sister. Scratch that — his terrifying older sister that’s also been known as a heinous bitch. You somehow managed to be nineteen years old and forty-seven years old at the same time, right after hearing Beyonce talk about girls running the world, and ultimately decided to make it your entire personality.

You remembered appointments, you knew where every important document in the house was, you made sure groceries appeared in the fridge, and you knew the hardware store. That was a good thing, especially since your Mother is a long story and has been gone from the picture since you turned eleven. It should be a good thing, because while your father forgot that he was meant to be a parent, you managed to step into the role for the then nine-year-old boy. 

The bad part was that you also happened to be ruining his life. 

"Don’t drink." you state.

Riki looks up from his phone, brows furrowed and eyes wide with confusion. "Why?"

You roll your eyes. "Because you're seventeen."

He stands up, his hands raised in even more confusion. "So are half the people going!"

You didn't even look up from your laptop, just continued on with your academic duties as the poster-child and perfect student you exactly are. Everything that Riki isn’t (he doesn’t give a fuck, he’s actually glad he isn’t as tense as you are). "Be home by ten."

He groans. "It's a party." 

You narrow your gaze at him. "Then leave at nine-thirty."

He had barely been there twenty minutes before somebody handed him a drink and accepted it immediately. He didn't even know what was in it, but it was blue and it was something that would give you an MI, which practically made every sense for him to take it. 

A hand suddenly smacked the back of his head. "Ow — what the fuck?!"

Riki turned around to find Jay looking unimpressed and clearly annoyed, arms crossed like he was already embodying your spirit for you. “Your sister would freak the fuck out if she saw you.” he says.

Riki scoffs, shaking his head before taking more sips. “Good thing she isn’t here.”

“Wow, someone’s bold.” Jungwon snickers.

Sunoo lets out a laugh from where he's leaning against the counter. “I can already count the amount of times she’ll call me tonight because you won’t be answering your phone.”

The worst part was that none of them were exaggerating. Most people heard the words overprotective older sister and pictured somebody mildly annoying that decided the takeouts. You were something else entirely, you were a mean person with good intentions, who treated Riki like a highly intelligent houseplant that couldn't be trusted unsupervised. Which, admittedly, was only a little unfair.

Jake looks significantly less invested in the conversation than everyone else, which makes sense considering he'd never actually met you before. He knew who you were, obviously. He had seen you around school a handful of times, though only in fragments, passing through hallways with your books tucked against your chest, standing behind podiums during assembly speeches, moving through student events with a clipboard in hand, and occasionally appearing in Riki’s house whenever his friends came over, though never long enough for Jake to understand what everyone meant when they talked about you like you were a natural disaster.

You didn’t hover during those visits, maybe because Riki was already home and therefore safely within the borders of your net, which meant Jake never had any firsthand evidence of the so-called atrocity people kept describing, no grand personal encounter with the hornless devil of a woman they swore you were. To him, you were just Riki’s older sister, put-together, sharper than most people, and clearly the kind of girl who knew how to keep things from falling apart.

He shrugs as if the entire conversation had been blown wildly out of proportion. “Honestly, she can’t be that bad.”

They all try and fail to hide the biggest smiles, until Riki finally let out a laugh so unhinged it sounded like Jake had just said the stupidest thing ever invented. “You’ve never met her, then.”

Jake frowned. “I mean, she just sounds responsible.”

That only made the laughter worse, because how exactly did someone describe you without sounding dramatic? How did anyone explain a girl who could build furniture, schedule doctor’s appointments, cook dinner, maintain perfect grades, and still somehow have enough energy left to lecture her younger brother about road safety, curfew, peer pressure, and why riding in a car with anyone named Jay was apparently a preventable tragedy? 

“She’s like…” Riki started, then stopped, because there genuinely wasn’t a normal word for you, only some abstract painting of red and black, wrathful but organized, terrifying but color-coded.

Jay stepped in with both hands raised, like he was trying to translate a myth. “Imagine your mom, but if she had anxiety.”

“And a planner,” Riki added immediately, “and a superiority complex, and an attitude, and the ability to track your location and all your friends’ locations. She has everyone’s number saved, too, just so she can call around and make sure I’m actually where I said I was.”

Riki smiles though, because the way Jake shrugs it off and doesn’t think you’re that bad makes a terrible idea begin forming in his head. If he felt that way about you, maybe some things could be arranged. 

The thing was, if anyone could survive you, it would probably be Jake. He was patient enough, he was also the kind of person teachers liked, parents trusted, classmates voted for, and strangers somehow ended up telling their life stories because he was just so easy-going. He was responsible enough to get good grades without making it his entire personality.

It was weird how the two of you had somehow never interacted despite orbiting the same school, same academic events, same kind of reputation, and yet somehow the universe had kept you separated for years. Now potentially united because of a very dumb idea.

Riki takes another sip of his drink while the idea starts taking shape. If Jake was as patient as he seemed, maybe he could handle you, if Jake could handle you, maybe he could distract you, and if somebody distracted you — Riki's life would finally begin.

Riki clears his throat, staring directly at Jake, with the kind of focus that makes Jake slowly lower his cup and narrow his eyes in suspicion.

"Why are you looking at me like tha —"

“Have you ever considered dating my sister?”

Jake simply stares, because a question that insane and honest has never landed on him before. The more Riki thinks about it, the better the idea becomes, which is unfortunate for everyone in the room because his expression slowly shifts from impulsive desperation to genuine, terrifying conviction. 

“No.”

“Why not?” Riki asks, genuinely offended, like Jake is the unreasonable one here.

Jake looks at him as if he has lost his mind. “Because she’s your sister.”

Riki waves a hand, dismissing the concern as if family relation is just a minor technicality on a form. “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”

Jake shakes his head, “What?”

“Take her out,” Riki repeats, slower this time, like Jake is the one struggling with basic comprehension. “Dinner, coffee, whatever girls like. Somewhere outside the house where she can’t govern my life.”

And for all the ridiculousness of the conversation, something in his face turns a little more serious. “Look, she’s always busy. Always. If she’s not studying, she’s doing house stuff, and if she’s not doing house stuff, she’s worrying about me, and ruining my life. Anyway, I think she needs to go outside and be a normal nineteen-year-old.”

“I’m not dating your sister because you want fewer curfew checks,” Jake says, though his voice has lost some of its earlier horror.

Riki stares at him for a long second, and whatever dignity he has left seems to lose the fight somewhere between desperation and the thought of another month spent being interrogated. So he will compensate. “Okay, fine,” he sighs, “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks weekly,”  

Unfortunately, the offer is not completely ridiculous in the financial sense. Your father might have forgotten how to parent somewhere along the way, but he had certainly remembered how to compensate for it by making sure money was never a scarce resource in the household. You're both pretty spoiled.

Jake was not desperate, of course, and he was not exactly suffering in the financial department either, because the Sim family had enough money for philanthropy. He did not need a hundred bucks a week, did not need to be paid to sit across from a girl at dinner, and definitely did not need to accept what was less like a favor and more like an internship. Still, there was something almost offensively easy about the idea of it — a challenge.

The proposition is ridiculous, the girl in question sounds even more ridiculous, and yet the more Riki talks about you, the more Jake finds himself wondering what kind of person could make everyone so terrified.

Jake exhales slowly, then shakes his head like he is disappointed in himself before finishing the rest of his drink. “When do I start?”

By the time the party began thinning out and people started calling rides home, Riki had graduated from slightly irresponsible to actively incapable of functioning like a normal human being. By his fifth blue drink, he started a speech about oppression that was very clearly about you and was dangerously starting to sound like a prick to the hard-earned established feminism that Jungwon had to cover his mouth. Jake was also unfortunately present for all of it, because he has to drive Riki home.

"You're a good man, Jake."

"I'm aware."

"No, like, a really good man."

"Thank you."

"The best."

Jake adjusts his grip on him, while Riki is leaning heavily against his shoulder, forcing most of his weight onto the former as they make their way up the front path of your house. Every few seconds he stumbles, nearly dragging both of them into the bushes.

"You know what my problem is?" Riki asks. "My sister."

Like he managed to summon you with a single call, the front door opens. And for the first time in his life, Jake finally sees you and not as a passing figure. The first thing he noticed was that you looked nothing like the distant, polished version of yourself he had seen around school. Those glimpses had always been quick and incomplete, a neat figure behind a podium during assemblies with your hair done properly and your expression fixed into something polite enough. Standing on your front porch at midnight, however, your hair loose, a few loose strands escaping around your face, and you're in sleeping clothes. The porch light caught the irritation on your face clearly, and you exactly had a face that looked like it had been designed to ruin a person’s confidence.

Your gaze landed on Riki first, and whatever thin thread of patience you had left snapped immediately. “You’re dead.” you said, voice flat enough. 

Riki, drunk and useless, pointed at you before looking back at Jake. “See?”

Jake could see, yes, but not exactly what everyone else seemed to see.

“I told you not to drink,” you said, already stepping forward.

“Technically,” Riki started. “You said I couldn’t drink too much, and I think —”

“No.”

Riki shut his mouth, which Jake found impressive considering he had spent the entire car ride arguing. You reached them and immediately took over, not gently, but not aggressively either. One second Jake was supporting most of Riki’s weight, and the next you had somehow taken your brother’s arm, and dragged it over your shoulder.

“You are seventeen years old,” you muttered. “Seventeen. Not grown enough to survive every stupid decision your friends encourage.”

Riki groaned and sagged against you, deciding, with the cruelty only younger brothers possessed, to become completely boneless. You nearly stumbled beneath his weight, and your annoyance sharpened so visibly that Jake almost took half a step back. “Stand properly,” you snapped. “I swear to God, Riki.”

“Uh,” Jake said, because apparently he was articulate, just not under porch lights and direct eye contact.

You paused, like you had forgotten he was there, then turned your head just enough to look at him. “What?”

“I can help.” The words left his mouth before he could fully decide whether he meant them, and for the first time that night, your attention shifted from Riki to him.

It lasted maybe two seconds, three if he was being generous, but it was enough for Jake to finally get a proper look at you and realize, with a strange and deeply inconvenient sense of betrayal, that nobody had mentioned the tyrant had pretty eyes. 

You looked at him like he was another problem that had arrived, taking in his face, his clothes, and his car behind him. Your expression did not soften, in fact, it became even more unimpressed. “No,” you said. “I’ve got him,”

You turned away before he could say anything else. The door closed a moment later, leaving Jake alone on the porch with the cool night air, and the silence of having been dismissed by a girl who had barely given him enough time to become charming.

For several seconds, he just stared at the closed door. 

That was it? That was his grand introduction to the infamous sister everyone had sworn was some terrible, unbearable monster? He had spent the entire night hearing stories about you, had driven your drunk brother home, had offered to help, and all he got in return was a death sentence aimed at Riki, two seconds of eye contact, and a rejection so cold.

Wow. Okayyy.

You’re sitting alone beneath one of the trees lining the courtyard, legs crossed neatly at the ankle, a planner open on your lap. Your attention is fixed on whatever system of color-coding you have, your neat cursive filling the page in careful lines. Even from across the courtyard, you look overwhelming. The Miu Miu loafers, the Bottega Veneta resting beside you, like you were deliberately trying to repel anyone who didn’t belong in the same tax bracket as your family.

Jake walks over easily, casually, friendly in the way he usually is without trying.

“Hey.”

You look up, not startled nor pleased, just disturbed. He smiles automatically, the kind people return before they even realize they’re doing it, because he has the sort of face that makes friendliness look charming instead of invasive. Your eyes move from the top of his head to the tips of his shoes, slow and blatantly judgmental, before returning to his face.

He waits, yet you close your planner, stand up, pick up your bag, and leave.

For a second, he just stands there while every gear in his brain grinds to a halt. Nobody has ever dismissed him that cleanly and efficiently, like he had been a minor scheduling conflict you decided to remove from your day. Obviously, he follows. You hear his footsteps behind you but you don’t react, your pace remains even, your expression unchanged, and by the time he catches up beside you, you still don’t give him so much as a glance.

“So that’s how this is gonna be?” he asks, amused despite himself. “You pretending you don’t hear me?”

You finally look over briefly. “Hi.”

Jake practically lights up at that; his smile widening, eyes brightening like he has just won something ridiculous, considering all you did was say hi. Still, he takes it as progress, watching your profile as you keep walking with your attention already returned to your planner. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you remember me?”

That barely gets your attention. “Yes, Jake Sim,” you say, your voice stays perfectly even. “You’re one of Riki’s friends.”

The answer comes instantly, and Jake has no idea why you saying his name feels satisfying. “So you do know me.”

You only look back down at your planner as he flashes another smile, the one that usually makes people start talking, or laughing, or tucking their hair behind their ear because what is anyone supposed to do with all of Jake Sim’s attention? Unfortunately, you aren’t looking at him at all.

He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Have you always been this friendly?”

“No.”

He frowns. “So it’s personal.”

“No.”

Before he can decide whether to be offended or impressed, you push open the door to a classroom. He follows one step too close, only for you to stop at the threshold and turn around, leaving him outside. Your eyes land on him properly, sharp and unreadable, and his thoughts stumble over themselves for half a second.

“What exactly do you need?” you ask. Your tone is calm, but somehow it feels like an insult wearing perfume.

Technically speaking, he needs nothing. This becomes obvious the longer he stands there saying absolutely nothing, and from the way your eyes narrow, you reach the same conclusion at the exact same time. “If you’re looking for assistance regarding academics, facilities, or student concerns,” you say politely, “I suggest you start by talking to a member of the student body.”

He opens his mouth, but you continue before he can speak. “Although,” you add, giving him one last slow once-over, “the nurse’s building might be more appropriate.”

For a second, Jake genuinely cannot tell if you’re joking.

You are not. You offer him the smallest smile imaginable, neither warm nor friendly, but decorative at best. Then you shut the door directly in his face — which, for the record, is the second time you have done that since he met you. He stands there, staring at the wood, while inside the classroom he can already hear you speaking to someone else in a perfectly normal voice, as if he had never existed at all.

Jake spots you three days later in the library, clearly because he was looking, but this time he has a plan, and for some reason, he still believes plans work on you.

Afternoon sunlight slips through the tall windows and stretches across the desks in pale strips, and Jake finds you near the history section, seated at a wide table with your laptop open and your papers arranged so neatly. Your curls are pinned back from your face, loose pieces framing your cheeks, your eyeshadow soft and precise in a way that makes you look even more put together. You are highlighting something when he sees you, chin resting lightly on your hand, completely absorbed and completely unreachable.

Naturally, he walks straight toward you. The chair across from yours screeches when he pulls it back, loud enough that two people at another table look up. Your eyes lift immediately, widening at the earsplitting sound before narrowing at him with such open irritation that he almost feels proud for earning a reaction at all.

“What are you doing?” you ask, voice low.

Jake drops into the seat with the confidence of someone who has already survived two doors being shut in his face and is somehow eager for a third. “Studying.”

Your gaze moves from him, to the empty table behind him, to the empty seats beside you, then back to him. The silence that follows is not confused, just judgmental. “And you chose the only occupied table in this section?"

“It had the best lighting.”

“It has me.”

“Exactly.”

You stare at him for another second, face unreadable except for the small, unimpressed lift of your brows. Then you look back down at your notes, clearly deciding he is not worth the strain of further expression. For about twelve seconds, Jake pretends to open his textbook for a real reason — flips one page, glances at your highlighter, then at your face. “Can you help me with something?” he whispers.

You don’t look up. “No.”

Jake’s mouth parts slightly, then closes. He has been rejected before, technically, but never with so little effort. It bothers him more than it should, especially when you do not even look pleased with yourself. You simply continue highlighting, lips slightly parted in concentration, as if dismissing him is just another item on your to-do list.

“Fine,” he says, leaning back. “I need help with economics.”

Your highlighter stops moving, and for one hopeful second, Jake thinks he finally got you. Then your eyes lift from the page, slow and suspicious. “You got a ninety-four.”

He blinks. “So?”

“You have the second-highest grade in the class.”

“You know my grade?”

“I’m the TA,” you say flatly. “That isn’t special.”

It lands with embarrassing accuracy. His smile falters for half a second before he recovers and leans forward again, lowering his voice like the two of you are sharing a secret. “Maybe I want to be first.”

This time, you do smile, but it is not warm. “No,” you say, “Because I’m first.”

The corner of his mouth rises before he can stop it. “Then I definitely need your notes.”

“You need attention,” you correct, closing your highlighter with a soft click. “There’s a difference.”

You turn a page, your tone still calm after shutting him up. “You ask questions you already know the answers to. You sit where you clearly aren’t wanted. You make jokes because you think being charming is the same thing as being interesting.” Your eyes lift to his again. “It’s not.”

Jake stares at you. Around you, the library stays quiet, and the air feels suddenly too still, like everyone else has been kind enough not to watch him being quietly dismantled. He tries to laugh it off. “Wow.”

“You asked for help.”

“I asked for economics.”

“And I gave you something useful.”

His mouth opens, but nothing decent comes out of it — the worst part of it all. Usually, he has a joke, a grin, a way to make people soften, but with you, every easy thing he reaches for turns useless in his hand.

You begin packing your papers into your bag with that same infuriating grace, not rushed, not flustered, not even angry. You stand, bag over your shoulder, eyes catching the light when you tilt your head slightly. “Also, next time you want to sit with me, try having a reason that isn’t your ego.” Then you walk away.

For a long moment, Jake just sits there, staring at the library doors after they close behind you. The silence settles back into place around him, heavy and humiliating. He exhales slowly and comes to one devastating conclusion: he can’t do this.

“Come on, dude! It’s barely been a week and nothing happened yet. I already gave you the cash!” Riki practically begs on his knees.

Jake frowns from the other edge of the pool table as he chalks the cue, the crumpled bills still existing somewhere in his pocket because, technically speaking, he hadn't earned them. At this point, the arrangement felt less like a job and more like repeated exposure therapy that would actively ruin his psychological welfare rather than heal it. 

“No.”

Riki stares. “No? Jake.”

“No.”

Across, Jungwon looks up after his turn in billiards, with the expression of someone witnessing a familiar trainwreck but still expecting it from a mileway anyway. “What happened?”

Jake isn’t entirely sure where to begin. Maybe the front porch, then the devastating situations after it. Collectively, all encounters had taught him one important lesson: you’re impossible, not in the fun way people usually meant when describing someone to be cute — but actually a pain in the ass.

“She’s difficult,” Jake finally says while adjusting the cue against his purlicue. Jungwon just shrugs because such inference wasn’t surprising at all, I mean it’s you. 

“She doesn't want anything,” he adds. “There's usually something. People want you to laugh, they want you to like them, or they want attention. Dude, people want conversation — or literally anything.” Jake scoffs. “And she doesn't.” he exclaims, coming out more frustrated than he intended, resulting in a miscue.

Social interactions followed a pattern and Jake knew that well, even if he wasn’t the most outgoing person on this planet, he still spent his entire life understanding that pattern. With you, it felt like throwing pebbles at a castle wall that decides public embarrassment for his punishment. Normally, being Jake Sim worked. He was hot, smiley, handsome, smart, well-spoken, and had great, healthy hair too. You treated all of that the same way you'd treat a weather report; filed away and forgotten before opening up an umbrella. 

The more Jake thought about it, the more absurd you seemed. You’re nineteen years old and somehow functioning as a parent, a student, a volunteer, and whatever terrifying responsibilities that you could have stowed in that pink planner. There was probably a reason you looked perpetually exhausted, and why every conversation felt like you were mentally checking a to-do list. Also probably why you looked at Jake the way someone looked at a pop-up advertisement — unnecessary. 

“Please,” Riki says, and for the first time all afternoon there was genuine desperation in his voice. “Just keep trying.”

Jake groans. “No.”

“Please.”

Jake rubs a hand down his face, because he already knows he’s going to lose this argument. Not through Riki’s annoying persuasion, but because somewhere between getting his face ignored at the Humanities building and getting dissected in the library, Jake had become painfully curious. Every interaction left him feeling like he'd only managed to scratch the surface of an entire unearthing no one yet has discovered. He hated that a lot, the mysteries and the unfinished conversations because you just can’t seem to bear him. 

Most of all, of course, he hated that he was already wondering where he'd find you next.

A few days later, Jake finds himself in a bookstore three blocks away from campus, flipping through a poetry collection he absolutely does not want to buy. His teacher has insisted on physical copies because apparently PDFs are destroying the educational experience, while Jake personally believes the educational experience would improve significantly if the book cost less than a decent meal.

The bookstore is small, old, and crammed from floor to ceiling with shelves. It smells like paper, dust, and someone’s grandmother’s living room. He is still pretending to care about Shakespeare when the front door chimes, and he barely looks up until he hears your voice. You step inside with a headband pushing your hair back, still dressed like you came from school, except this version of you looks nothing like the girl he has been trying and failing to understand. For one thing, you are smiling, which isn’t polite smile you use like a weapon, but something real and easy.

“Hi, Mrs. Park,” you greet.

The elderly woman behind the counter brightens immediately. “There you are.”

Jake stares because, apparently, his brain has decided blinking is no longer necessary. A fat orange cat sprawled across the counter lifts its head when you approach, and you reach over to scratch beneath its chin. The cat melts instantly, stretching into your hand while you coo at it under your breath. He has seen you annoyed, composed, sharp, and dismissive, but this version of you, smiling at an old woman and whispering sweet nonsense to a cat, feels almost impossible to place beside the girl from campus.

It startles him how much he wants to keep watching.

After telling Mrs. Park you are only going to browse, you turn toward the shelves and move right into his aisle. Jake steps back instinctively, half-hidden behind a row of books, but the sensible part of him lasts for about four seconds before he decides, unfortunately, to bother you.

“You come here often?” he asks, leaning against the shelf like this is a normal thing to say and not the opening line of someone who has clearly run out of better ideas.

Your hand pauses on the spine of a novel, expression already rising from irritation. Slowly, you look at him, then around the aisle, then back at his face. “What are you doing here?”

He blinks, as if the answer should be obvious. “To read books.”

You stare at him for a second before your expression flattens. “Wow. I didn’t know you knew how to read.”

His face shifts into immediate offense. “I know how to read.”

You hum, entirely unimpressed, and continue walking down the aisle. “Coloring books don’t count.”

He laughs under his breath, dragging a hand over his face like he is trying very hard not to look too entertained. Or annoyed at how plainly rude you are without masking it. “Wow,” he mutters, following after you. “For the record, real books. Little Women. The Bell Jar. Percy Jackson.”

You stop walking and turn to him properly, huffing once through your nose. “Percy Jackson is new. Is that a thing now? The male campaign for feminism?”

His eyebrows lift. “All I’m hearing is you also read Percy Jackson and that we have something in common.”

Your eyes lift to his, flat and unimpressed, but there is the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth. “Right, how exciting it is to bond over a children’s fantasy series.”

“Well,” he says, smiling. “It’s a start.”

You turn away, but he catches the tiny pause in your movement, the almost-smile you refuse to let happen. It feels ridiculous, how much that small reaction does to him even though he has won games in front of cheering crowds and accepted medals in crowded auditoriums, yet somehow, getting half a smile out of you in a dusty bookstore feels more victorious. “Since we’re apparently literary equals now, do you want to get coffee?”

You just stare at him, brows drawn together, lips parted slightly, as if you are trying to understand what series of events in his life has led him to think that was an appropriate thing to say to you. “No,” you say.

The answer comes cleanly, and he just blinks. “What? Why not?”

“I have coffee at home.”

For a second, he just stands there, disbelieved and a little done. You turn back to the shelf like the matter is settled, fingers skimming over another row of spines while he processes the fact that you have somehow rejected him without remorse or politeness.

“That’s not the point,” he says.

You scoff. “Then why did you ask?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Instead, he exhales a laugh, softer this time. “Because most normal people actually understand that getting coffee means spending time together.”

You hum, still not looking at him. “Then you should have asked that.” You reach for a book on the higher shelf, and when you glance at him again, there is the faintest flicker of amusement in your eyes.

He laughs under his breath, and this time, he doesn’t even bother hiding how entertained he is. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable.”

“Fine,” he says, straightening a little. “Go out with me?”

You stop moving for barely a second, but Jake sees the tiny pause in your hand against the shelf, the way your face goes still like the question landed somewhere you didn’t expect. For once, he doesn’t grin.

Then you pull a book from the shelf and shove it against his chest. “No,” you say, coming out quieter than before, less mean than before. “Read your book.”

Jake catches it automatically, turning it a little to see that it’s the poetry collection he came here for.

By the time he looks back up, you’re already walking away, but not before he catches the smallest curve at the corner of your mouth. And, unfortunately for him, that feels a lot like a maybe.

The annual charity gala occupied all three floors of the Grand Ballroom, transforming an expensive venue into something that looked less like an event and more like a display of wealth (though, yes, it is). Guests emerged draped in custom couture and tailored suits, while somewhere near the entrance, a string quartet played softly enough not to interrupt conversation. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead in cascading tiers, fresh floral arrangements towered from the center of each table (imported blooms flown in specifically for the event, you coined in the suggestion of peonies). Waiters moved soundlessly between guests carrying silver trays lined with champagne flutes. 

You had spent your entire life in diamond rooms where people discussed acquisitions over appetizers and spoke about money like it was weather. You'd sat beside CEOs at dinner because they were family friends, and investors shared laughter with your father over barbecue in your backyard. Without the pretense of acting remotely impressed, you boredly made your way through the halls as you passed by familiar faces. You smile, greet, remember names, and pretend you enjoy hearing about quarterly growth projections — your father did tell you to learn from what the older ones tell you, but now you learn to breathe deeply through your nostrils so as to not yawn.

The Elie Saab Spring 2003 gown skimmed against your legs as you moved through the ballroom, pale fabric catching the chandelier light whenever you turned. It was just something your father had pulled from storage for tonight, another piece of old couture that had spent more time preserved in garment bags than actually being worn. The fabric itched, the fit was annoyingly snug around your hips, and entirely wasted on you considering all you could think about how little room it left for dessert.

You'd just escaped a conversation about market expansion into the rural regions of the country when you reach for a glass of champagne from a passing tray.

"Wow."

You freeze immediately. Because you know that voice. Know it well enough that your eyes roll before you even turn around. Jake Sim stands a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, looking entirely too entertained by something.

Specifically you.

"What?" The question leaves you sharper than intended, but he has always had a talent for earning it.

His gaze sweeps over you once, slowly. It isn’t enough to be inappropriate, just enough to be annoying. "Nothing."

You narrow your eyes. Jake, unfortunately, appears completely unbothered by this, like he’s finally used to it and finds it amusing rather than frightening.

For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, shoulder to shoulder, watching guests drift across the ballroom that it almost looks normal — respectable, even, as if you’re two people attending the same charity gala with poise and tact instead of a high school bizarrerie of a situation this has become.

"You clean up well." His gaze drifts back to you for a brief second before returning to the ballroom. 

You turn so quickly towards him he actually laughs. "I always clean up well."

"Right."

"I do."

He bites the inside of his cheek, clearly trying not to smile. You take a sip of champagne as he steals a glass from a passing waiter, mirroring your movement to sip from his. "What are you doing here?" you shoot back under your breath.

He blinks at the question, looking almost offended on behalf of his own presence. "Are you asking why I'm at a charity event," he begins slowly, "or are you accusing me of stalking you?"

You practically glare at him but quickly shift to a warm smile when a familiar older face greets you, wrinkly and your father’s acquaintance. Once she leaves, you clear your throat and shrug casually. "I’m starting to think it's reached concerning levels."

That earns you a look — a long, disbelieving stare. He gestures vaguely to himself, as though presenting evidence before a jury, and that he clearly belongs here about as much as anyone else in attendance. "Come on." he chuckles as his eyebrows rise. "I look like this and your conclusion is that I trespassed just to see you?"

You hate how your eyes give in to immediately flicking toward him because, God, he's annoyingly right.

The black suit fits him unfairly well. His hair, usually left to do whatever it wants, has actually been styled for once, pushed neatly away from his face save for a single strand that has somehow escaped and fallen across his forehead. Standing beneath the chandeliers with a champagne glass in hand, he looks less like the guy who regularly shows up during the most random times and a prince, unfortunately.

You clear your throat and look away before that thought can do any more damage. "You make it hard not to think that way."

You almost forgot just how affluent the Sim’s are — that is, in your defense, was just a detail you overlooked. He isn't some random idiot who keeps appearing in your life through increasingly unlikely circumstances, his family name actually appears in newspapers and annual reports and conversations your father has over dinner. 

You drain the rest of your champagne before he can say anything. "Well," you say, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from your gown, "it's been lovely speaking with you, Mr. Sim." The title earns an immediate snort, and you continue before he can interrupt. "Please extend my regards to your family." Satisfied with yourself, you offer him the sort of polished smile that had been drilled into you and turn to leave, as you’ve decided that you will stop entertaining the jest.

A hand settles lightly at your shoulder. “There you are.”

You turn at the sound of your father’s voice and immediately straighten. It happens before you can stop it, your spine aligning, your expression smoothing, every loose, irritated part of you folding back into place like a napkin at a five-star restaurant. “Hi, Dad.”

He then guides you aside with the kind of effortless authority. “You’ve been doing well tonight,” he says.

The compliment should feel nice, and it does for half a second until you remember who it’s coming from and how rare it is, and suddenly it feels less like praise and more like something you have to catch carefully. “Thank you,” you say.

His eyes drift past you, scanning the room. “Where’s Riki?”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the stem of your champagne glass. The room remains warm with bodies and lights and expensive alcohol, but somehow you feel cold all at once. “He probably forgot. He had practice earlier, and his workload’s been heavy.”

Your father looks at you then, and you immediately hate the expression on his face. Because it’s disappointment dressed up as responsibility, one you know too well. “You’re his older sister,” he says. “You know how he is. You should have made sure he came.”

For a second, you only stare at him, at the neat way he fixed his hair and made his collar. Somewhere near the stage, the host tests the microphone and the feedback screeches faintly through the room. “I can’t force him to come,” you say carefully.

Your father’s mouth presses into a thin line. “You’ve never had a problem controlling him before.”

Something hot sparks behind your ribs. You didn’t care for anyone to think that way about you, but the way your father had borrowed the notion feels shitty. “He’s seventeen, he’s going to be careless — that’s expected. But you know better.” he looks at you this time. “So do better.”

For a moment, you can’t speak. Because how can you be nineteen, and somehow old enough to be held responsible for everyone else’s failures. “I should talk to some friends,” you say as you take a step back.

Your father nods, already looking toward another guest who has begun approaching him. “Good.”

You turn before your face can betray anything and walk away, heels clicking against the marble floor. By the time you reach the hallway leading away from the ballroom, irritation has burned through whatever hurt came first — your jaw aches from clenching and your chest feels tight with things you can’t say. You turn the corner too quickly and a hand catches your wrist, a gasp spilling as you’re pulled backward, your shoes skidding slightly against the polished floor before another hand steadies you just enough to keep you from stumbling.

Then you look up to see Jake. 

“What the hell?” you hiss.

He raises both hands immediately, though one stays close in case you lose your balance again. “Okay, bad approach.”

You stare at him, breath uneven. “Are you insane?”

“A little,” he admits. “But I just came from the restroom and you came out looking very mad.”

Your expression shifts before you can stop it. “Move,” you say, trying to step past him.

However, he doesn’t move. “You need air,” he says.

“I need people to stop telling me what I need. And I need you to stop appearing everywhere.”

His mouth twitches. “Fair.”

You narrow your eyes again. “Then move.”

He glances behind him toward a side door at the end of the corridor and you follow. Beyond it, you can see the faint spill of garden lights through the glass, and when you look back at him, you can see the words in his eyes. “Two minutes,” he says.

“No.”

“Then one.”

“Jake.”

“You can yell at me outside.”

You should go back into the ballroom, smile at executives, pretend your father didn’t just hand you responsibility for a brother he barely remembered to parent. Instead, when Jake gently reaches for your wrist again, you let him anyway.

The garden outside is cooler, quieter, and beautiful. Tall hedges line the stone pathway, trimmed carefully beneath strings of warm lights while white roses climb the trellises, their petals pale and some aging. The distant sound of the ballroom fades behind the closed door until it becomes nothing but a muffled noise as you walk further.

The cold reaches you almost immediately, slipping through the thin fabric of your gown and settling against your skin, but you refuse to shiver in front of him. For a while, neither of you says anything as you only tighten your arms around yourself, pretending it’s irritation and not the cold making your shoulders rise. He watches you for a second, like he’s debating whether saying anything will get him killed faster than staying quiet. Then, with both hands tucked into his pant pockets, he nods toward the stone path. “Walk with me?”

You stare at him, unimpressed, but eventually follow because the alternative is going back inside and smiling until your face cracks in half. The two of you move beneath the garden lights in silence, your heels clicking softly against stone while his steps stay slower than usual, like he’s matching your pace without making it obvious. You keep your arms crossed tight, eyes fixed on the roses ahead, while Jake walks beside you with his hands still buried in his pockets. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence just to fill it.

Which lasts forty-seven seconds.

“Riki told me he wasn’t going.”

Every strange thing that had happened to you recently could be traced back to your brother tonight. When you open your eyes again, Jake is looking ahead, hands still tucked in his pockets. “Right. You’re friends.” you say as you remember. “So he just tells you things.”

He shrugs. “Occasionally.”

“About me?”

He looks like he already regrets opening his mouth, but only halfway. “Not that much.” He falls into step beside you again, catching up with your pace. “Him not showing up must be why you’re upset?” he says carefully.

You turn your head slowly and he immediately lifts both hands, palms out, although the smile pulling at his mouth ruins the surrender. “I’m just asking.”

“You’re nosy.”

“Well, yes.”

You stare at him for a second longer, trying very hard to remain annoyed. Unfortunately, Jake has this terrible habit of making honesty look harmless. Although, he is very much a threat, maybe not the loud or dramatic kind, but the sort that slips past defenses because it smiles and asks questions and walks slower beside you when your feet are hurting.

You look away first, only for him to take that as permission, because he continues. “Let me guess. Your dad’s pissed because he didn’t show up.”

“No.” Still, your jaw tightens. And he notices. His expression shifts slightly, amusement dimming into something quieter. “You’re shitty at guessing.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He nods like he’s accepting the challenge. “Then maybe it’s the champagne. Bad year?”

You give him a look. “It’s champagne.”

“So yes.”

“No.”

“Is it the gown? You keep tugging at it.”

Your hand immediately stills at your hip, growing a little insecure. “I am not.”

“You are.”

You glare at him, but there’s a traitorous twitch at the corner of your mouth that you immediately force away. He catches it anyway and his eyes brighten. “There it is.”

“There’s nothing.”

“Well, I think there is something. The garden’s very enchanted tonight.” he sighs in relief, looking very pleased with himself.

“You are so annoying,” you mutter, turning your face away before he can catch the smile fighting its way onto your mouth.

“I’ve been told.”

“Frequently, I hope.” You roll your eyes and keep walking, but the anger inside your chest has loosened slightly, enough that breathing doesn’t feel like swallowing flute glass anymore. It irritates you a little that he helped without doing anything grand, only so much as walking beside you, filling the silence with stupid guesses, making it impossible for you to fully sink into whatever your father had left behind.

He looks at you again. “Is it one of the donors?”

“No.”

“Board member?”

“No.”

Then, because Jake really is bad at guessing, he says, “Or maybe it’s about a guy.”

Your head snaps up. “A guy?”

He shrugs, trying for casual and failing spectacularly because there is something too deliberate in the way he doesn’t look directly at you. “Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe a boyfriend.”

You actually laugh, disbelieving. “A boyfriend?”

“A shitty boyfriend,” he clarifies, like that makes it a more reasonable theory to hypothesize tonight. “Maybe he said something stupid. Maybe he’s the reason you look so grumpy in couture.”

You stare at him before you scoff, shaking your head as you look away. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

The silence that follows is immediate and loud. He doesn’t say anything, and because he doesn’t say anything, you look back to see he’s looking ahead now, with the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly.

“Good.”

Your heart trips over itself. You stare at him, horrified by the fact that your face feels warm. “Good?”

His mouth twitches. “Yeah.”

“You’re being weird.”

He turns back to you then, eyebrows raised. “How?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Explaining it would mean admitting that you noticed the difference between his usual and this one; it would mean admitting that you were paying attention to the boy that’s making space for himself in your life, little by little. So instead, you do the mature thing of looking away and walking.

He hums, pleased with himself, and the sound makes your hands tighten around your arms again without the cold having to do with it at all. For a few steps, neither of you speaks as the garden path curves around a fountain, water spilling quietly over stone. Out here, your hair has loosened from its pins and the night air has cooled your cheeks after learning warmth a little too much tonight.

“You know,” he says after a while, softer now, “for what it’s worth, I don’t think Riki skipping tonight is your fault.”

Your throat tightens before you can stop it, continuing to stare ahead. “I didn’t ask.”

For once, he doesn’t tilt his head with that pleased little smile, doesn’t turn your sentence into something lighter just because he can. He only keeps walking beside you in silence, letting the water from the fountain grow louder as you near it. You almost wish he would say something annoying, just so that it would give you something to swat at, something easy to roll your eyes over, something that didn’t require you to stand there with all the ugly feelings still sitting in your chest like stones.

A bench sits just in front of the fountain, tucked between two rose trellises and half-hidden from the ballroom windows. One second you’re walking, the next you’re lowering yourself onto the bench, careful with the fabric of your gown, your hands folding tightly in your lap like you’re trying to hold yourself together through posture alone. He stops a few feet away and after a careful pause, he sits on the opposite end of the bench, far enough that there’s a whole stretch of cold stone between you, choosing to understand that closeness right now might make you run.

He isn’t looking back when you look at him, his hands are clasped loosely in front of him as he stares at his fidgeting fingers instead, giving you the sort of space he knows you need. The kindness of it is small. A boy sitting a respectful distance away from you in a garden at a charity gala, saying nothing while you pretend you don’t feel miserable.

You bite your bottom lip, contemplating whether you’ll entertain words sitting at the back of your throat, heavy and stubborn, and you tell yourself not to say them. You don’t even know him like that because he’s not your friend; he’s Riki’s friend, an irritating hallway apparition, a boy who somehow knows too much and still not enough.

Your eyes stay on the building across the garden, right where you both came from. When you speak, your voice is quieter. “It’s not just because Riki didn’t show up.”

Jake remains still, but you notice the way his attention sharpens a little. “I told him about tonight,” you say. “I reminded him. I even texted him this morning.” Your fingers tighten around each other in your lap. “And he didn’t come. Which is annoying, yes, but it’s also just Riki. He forgets things, gets distracted, acts like nothing bad can happen to him.”

The fountain fills the silence for a moment, the ballroom doors open briefly, spilling faint music and laughter into the garden before closing again. “I don’t do it for fun,” you say, almost under your breath. “The controlling thing.”

You hate that word and how easily people use it, like it explains everything, like you woke up one day and decided being difficult was easier. “I don’t know how to parent,” you admit. “I know he’s my brother, not my child, but somehow it became my job anyway.”

Jake does not interrupt, he only looks at you, steady and quiet, and that makes it worse because it makes you want to keep talking. “My mom’s a long story, and my dad…” You laugh softly, but there is no humor in it. “He pays for things. He’s not cruel. He just doesn’t know the small things. When Riki has practice, or when he has exams, or when he’s sick and pretending he isn’t.”

You look down at your hands. “He doesn’t know who to call when Riki doesn’t answer his phone.” Your throat tightens. “And I do.” The words sit between you, heavier than you meant them to be. “I just did what I thought was right. I’m not a mom. I don’t know what I’m doing. But then my father looks at me tonight and tells me to do better, like I haven’t been trying since I was eleven.”

For a moment, Jake doesn’t say anything. His expression shifts again, losing the last of its teasing until all that’s left is something quieter, something you don’t quite know how to hold without feeling embarrassed.

He looks down at your hands. “Is that why you’re upset tonight?”

You press your lips together before you nod. His gaze lifts to your face again, his voice gentle when he asks, “Is that why you’re upset every day?”

The question catches you so off guard that you laugh, a soft and helpless sound that slips out before you can stop it. 

Then you nod again and he smiles a little too. “Okay.”

You huff, wiping beneath your eye quickly before anything can happen there. Somehow sitting beside Jake Sim in the cold garden after admitting the worst parts of yourself feels less humiliating than it should. Maybe because he hasn’t moved closer, even though some terrible, traitorous part of you wonders what would happen if he did. Instead, he stays on his side of the bench, careful and warm from a distance.

You look at him finally. “Do people really think I’m a bitch?”

He freezes instantly, so immediate that you sigh for even asking. His eyes flick to you, then away, then back again, like he is suddenly trying to navigate a conversation with several live wires tucked into it.

You raise your brows, but you’re smiling. “So yes.”

“No.”

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, looking genuinely shy, which is oddly enough to distract you from your own misery. “I mean, I don’t think that.”

You tilt your head, amusement softening your face. “Okay, so what did you think?”

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. “I thought you were scary.” He looks at you, then immediately adds, “I still think you’re scary.”

Your eyes narrow, almost to a glare. “You’re scared of me?” You try to make it sound like a joke but it doesn’t quite work.

His mouth tilts. “The first time you shut the door in my face? Yeah.”

A breath of laughter escapes you as you remember a very irritable night of a brother coming home drunk. “You should’ve stopped then.”

“I considered it.” He leans back slightly, looking at the fountain instead of you now. “But then you smiled at a cat named Chicken.”

Your head snaps toward him. For a second, he looks like he wants to physically pull the words back into his mouth after saying it too easily and comfortably, like the memory had been sitting there the whole time and slipped out before he could decide. He exhales, rubbing a hand over the side of his face. “I saw it,” he admits. “You were with Mrs. Park, and then the cat got up, and you just...” He stops, suddenly aware of how much detail he is giving. “You looked different.”

Your face warms despite yourself, but you keep your expression sharp. “So you were watching me.”

He lifts one hand like he is surrendering in court. “I know how it sounds. I just mean I noticed you before you noticed me.”

You fold your arms, still looking at him like he has committed some minor felony against your privacy. “And you remembered the cat’s name?”

“You called him Chicken.”

“Because his name is Chicken.”

“Which is insane, by the way.”

You almost smile at that, but you press it down immediately. Unfortunately, Jake sees the attempt; fortunately, he has enough survival instinct not to mention it, and to choose his words with more care this time. “I guess I just didn’t expect you to look less angry.” His gaze flicks to yours.

You scoff, but there is barely any bite in it. “So you watched me because I looked less angry?”

“No,” he says, then pauses. “Maybe. A little. I don’t know.” He exhales, looking down at his hands. “Everyone talked about you like you were this impossible person. Then I met you and, yeah, you were mean to me.”

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, quiet and a little disbelieving. “Yeah, well,” you say, looking away first, “I wasn’t exactly making myself likable.”

His smile softens at that, not teasing this time. “I’m not saying you made it easy.” His eyes stay on you, steady enough to make your chest feel weird. “I’m saying I still wanted to get to know you.”

For once, you don’t have anything sharp to say back. You study him, searching for the joke, the little loophole where he gets to wriggle away from accountability. But he only sits there on the far end of the bench, shoulders slightly hunched, looking embarrassed enough that it almost feels unfair to keep glaring. The two of you listen to the fountain where water spills over stone, soft and repetitive, while the ballroom continues humming in the distance like another life waiting for you to come back and behave.

“You know,” you say slowly, “normal people introduce themselves.”

He glances at you. “I did.”

You give him a look. “You followed me through campus.”

“I said hey.”

“That is not an introduction, that was stalking.”

He laughs, and you roll your eyes, though the smile threatening the corner of your mouth makes the whole thing less convincing than you probably want it to be. He turns his body slightly toward you, still careful not to crowd your space, his expression shifting into something softer beneath the amusement.

“Okay,” he says. “Then let me redo it.”

He straightens a little, smoothing one hand over his suit jacket like he is preparing for something far more formal than a conversation beside you. It should look ridiculous, but then he looks at you with an earnestness that makes your guard hesitate before you can stop it.

“Hi,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m Jake Sim. I’m Riki’s friend. I have a border collie named Layla. I play soccer, I’m good at math, and I’m apparently terrible at approaching girls who scare me.”

You stare at him. Surprised. Confused. Heart fluttering a little.

His smile softens, but he keeps going, quieter now, like the next part matters more than the joke. “I also know I made a bad first impression. And I know you had every reason to think I was annoying.”

“You are annoying,” you say automatically while your hand reaches his to shake.

“I know.” His smile grows a little. “But I’m trying to be less annoying.”

“Unlikely.”

“Probably,” he admits. “But I’d still like to try.”

For a second after that, neither of you says anything. Your hand slips out of his, and both of you look away at almost the same time, like you’re both processing that you’ve just held hands. Jake clears his throat and fixes his posture, sitting up straighter as if that might undo the way his smile is still refusing to leave his face. 

“Well,” you say after a moment, folding your hands over your lap, “you’re the first person who’s actually lasted this long with me.” You say it lightly, almost dismissively, but your eyes stay in front of you. “Most people usually give up before this part.”

His smile fades just a little, not into sadness exactly, but into something more attentive. “Because you push them away?”

You huff out a small laugh. “Friends, mostly.” Then your mouth twists, like you’re deciding whether to soften the words or not. “Apparently, people can’t handle a heinous bitch for very long.”

He huffs a small laugh, looking down at his fidgeting hands. You glance at him, confused. “What?”

He shakes his head once, like he’s amused by something private. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

His gaze lifts to yours again. There’s a strange look on his face now, which isn’t teasing exactly, but not shy either. 

Then he says, “I’m not trying to be your friend.”

The sentence lands so cleanly that, for one impossible second, your entire brain goes quiet. You stare at him and Jake stares back.

Somewhere behind the doors, people are still drinking champagne and discussing donations and waiting for you to return as the version of yourself they understand, while here, on this bench, Jake Sim has just said something far too simple to be misunderstood.

Your mouth parts slightly. “What?”

His confidence seems to flicker only after he realizes he has actually said it out loud and not something he kept in his head. His ears go faintly red, but he doesn’t look away, keeping his legs crisscrossed on the bench like an idiot prince, looking at you like he knows exactly what he meant and is terrified by it anyway.

“I mean,” he starts, then stops. He exhales, laughing under his breath, embarrassed now. “I mean, I can be. Your friend.”

“That is not what you said.”

“I know.”

“You said you weren’t trying to be my friend.”

“I know what I said.”

Your face feels hot. Horribly, unmistakably hot.

His eyes drop for half a second to your mouth before returning to your face so quickly you almost think you imagined it. You look away first because if you keep looking at him, something very stupid is going to happen to your composure.

You clear your throat. “I should go back.”

His gaze lifts immediately, but he doesn’t argue. “Yeah.”

You expected a joke, a dramatic sigh, maybe some irritating line about how tragic it is that society needs you more than he does. Instead, he only nods and begins unfolding himself from the bench. “You’re not going to convince me to stay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Jake stands, brushing one hand over his trousers. “Do you want me to?”

He looks at you, and something in his expression grows rigid again when he realizes what he just asked. So he corrects himself. “I mean,” he says, “I can. But I can also walk you back.”

You look away, pretending to adjust the fabric of your gown. “Fine.”

His mouth curves. “Fine?”

“Yes.”

He laughs under his breath, and you hate that you smile. You stand carefully from the bench, smoothing the skirt of your gown with both hands, only to freeze to find the pale fabric is stained. It’s not ruined, necessarily, but definitely marked where the garden path must have turned soft near the fountain, with a faint smear of mud that darkens the edge of the gown, and when you glance down at your shoes, the thin straps and pointed toes have flecks of dirt on them. You’ve spent all night holding yourself together, only to end up in a garden with Riki’s friend, exposing everything you’ve kept to yourself, and now covered in mud at your father’s charity gala.

“I can’t walk back in like this.” you can only sigh.

He grins, then his eyes drop again to your shoes, while the amusement fades into thoughtfulness. “Do you want me to carry you?”

You look at him so fast your neck nearly protests. “What?”

His face changes instantly and his ears go red again. “Sorry. I mean, not like that. I just meant because of the mud, and your heels, and the dress, and the path is kind of wet. It might get worse. Aren’t your feet tired?”

You stare at him as he exhales, glancing away for a second before looking back at you, steadier this time. “I can carry you back.” The correction is soft, because it’s not a question that leaves you to decide whether accepting makes you ridiculous. It’s an offer.

“In front of everyone?”

“No,” he says quickly, then gestures toward the side path. “Not everyone. There’s another entrance near the hallway, right? The one we came out of. I can take you there.”

You blink and the idea is absurd, too much for everything that has happened tonight. “I’m not letting you carry me.”

“Okay.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling again, and this time you don’t try to hide it anymore. 

The two of you start down the side path slowly, your steps careful over the damp stone and softer patches of grass. The garden seems colder now as the breeze slips beneath the thin fabric of your gown, crawling across your bare shoulders until you can’t stop the small shiver that runs through you. You tuck your chin, tighten your arms around yourself, and keep walking like your body hasn’t just betrayed you in front of the most observant boy alive.

One second he is walking beside you in his perfectly fitted black suit, and the next, warm fabric settles around you, heavy and soft, falling over your bare shoulders with a carefulness that makes your breath catch. You stop walking, letting his hands hover for half a second near your shoulders to make sure the jacket doesn’t slide off before he pulls them back.

You look down at the jacket, then back at him with a glare of concern. “You’re going to get cold.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re in a dress shirt.”

“And you’re shivering.”

“I was not.” You glare at him, but it has no teeth now, no bite, which he seems to know that too, because his smile turns softer. 

“Just wear it.”

The two of you continue toward the side entrance, slower than necessary, slower than you have ever been. Your gown brushes against the grass, stained hem gathered slightly in one hand, while his jacket hangs around your shoulders.

You should worry about the mud, the whispers, your father, the fact that Jake Sim’s jacket is currently covering your gown in a way that feels too intimate for something so practical. But you haven’t cared even though the vintage and expensive dress you wear is dirty. Instead, you laugh again when your heel sinks slightly into the damp ground. Your heels click against the marble as you step back into the hallway, the sound suddenly too clean after the wet grass and stone path outside. You can already hear the faint swell of conversation beyond the ballroom doors waiting at the end like a mouth full of gold light and noise; the clinking glasses, the polite laughter, the entire world you are supposed to return to with your posture fixed and your expression arranged.

You reach for his jacket before you can think too much about it. He takes it carefully, his fingers brushing the fabric where your hands had been. You smooth the front of your gown, trying to rebuild yourself enough to step back inside. “If you tell anyone what happened...”

“I won’t,” he says, before you even finish. “I won’t.” he repeats, softer.

For some reason, you believe him immediately. So you nod once, gathering yourself before pushing the doors open. The warmth and noise rushes back in at once, golden light spilling over your face as you step into the room again. 

It takes less than a minute for your father to find you, and once he does, his eyes move over you, first your hair, then the faint mud near your dress, then your shoes. His brows draw together. “What happened to you?”

Normally, you would straighten, explain and apologize, but this time, you only shrug. “I had a bit too much champagne,” you say lightly.

By the time you returned to your room that night, the mud had already dried along the hem of your gown, your hair had loosened almost completely from its pins, and even though Jake Sim’s jacket had been returned before either of you stepped back into the ballroom, the warmth of it still seemed to sit stubbornly across your shoulders — surreal until beneath the covers.

That was the irritating part, really. Things were supposed to end when they ended. Jackets were returned, doors were opened, conversations were folded away with the rest of the evening, but the garden did not leave with the night, nor did the memory of him sitting across from you on the bench, careful with the distance, looking at you like he had seen the worst parts and somehow decided they were not enough to scare him away.

Neither of you talked about it after. Not properly.

There were moments where it almost happened, which was perhaps worse than if nothing had happened at all, because the next morning at school, when you saw him across the courtyard with Riki and the others, laughing at something Jay said, his eyes found yours through the movement of students and sunlight, and for one strange second, the entire campus seemed to narrow into the space between you — before Riki shoved his shoulder like a dumbass.

Jake learns fairly quickly that he is feeling (concerned, of course, that’s all) for you. And it’s inconvenient.

At first, that is the only word he lets himself use, because it sounds harmless enough. It is easier to call you inconvenient than admit that somewhere between a porch light, a bookstore cat, and a garden bench, his original reason for approaching you has started to rot quietly in the back of his conscience.

Riki had paid him.

Not in a serious way, or in a way any adult would consider legally binding or morally sophisticated, but still enough that Jake sometimes thinks about the crumpled bills and feels something unpleasant crawl under his skin. At the beginning, it had meant a task, this whole idea of keeping you occupied so Riki could have room to breathe. You were a challenge then, a sharp-tongued older sister with a reputation, a schedule, a glare that could salt the earth, and a list of rules for a brother who needed to survive for his benefit.

It was getting harder to think of you as a job when you showed him what you thought were the ugliest parts of yourself, and he could only think you still looked pretty. 

He is also actively trying not to think about it on the pavement when his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

“Bro,” Riki says the second Jake answers, voice low and hurried. “I need you to take my sister out tonight.”

He pauses with one hand still on Layla’s leash, standing on the sidewalk outside his house while the dog sniffs a bush. Jake’s starting to think that Riki’s a bit more insane than you are, because he always asks the most unhinged favors. “What?”

“You know,” Riki says quickly, then seems to think about it. “Our deal. I need it badly tonight. I have plans.”

Jake’s expression flattens. “What plans?”

“A date.”

There is silence — one awkward silence.

Layla tugs at the leash and Jake lets himself be pulled two steps forward before asking, very carefully, “Does your sister know?”

“No, obviously not.”

“Riki.”

“It’s not bad,” Riki insists immediately. “I’m just going out with this girl from school, and I’ll be home early, but if my sister’s home and I’m not, she’s gonna start calling people and asking questions again. It’s part of her rules that I’m not allowed to date ‘til I’m eighteen.”

Jake rubs a hand over his face, already feeling the shape of the problem and disliking how familiar it has become. Especially not when he was just trying to control his little growing trouble that made up of you and your pretty eyes and adorable smile. “So your solution is to make me distract her.”

“I pay a hundred bucks a week for that!”

Jake almost laughs, because three weeks ago he might have been amused enough to play along with the joke, but now the whole thing sits differently in his chest. There is the old agreement, of course, the stupid one made at a party over drinks and Riki’s desperation, but there is also the garden, your face under the lights, your voice beside the fountain, your hand taking his jacket before you stepped back into the ballroom, and the way you had looked at him like you did not know whether to trust him but might have wanted to.

“I’m not doing this because you asked,” Jake says.

Riki makes a confused sound. “But I did ask.”

“I know.” Jake says, watching Layla sit neatly at his feet and look up as if even she understands this is going badly. “I’m saying if I take her somewhere, it’s because I want to.”

Then Riki says, with the kind of slow horror that proves he has begun realizing his plan may have developed organs and free will, “Oh.”

By the time evening settles over the city, you are in your room with your hair clipped back and a half-finished movie open in front of you when your phone lights up with Jake’s name, which is already annoying because he has apparently become someone whose name makes your attention trip over itself before you can discipline it with strict rules and bad parenting.

You stare at the screen for two rings. Then you answer. “What?”

There is a brief pause, and you can almost hear his smile through the phone. “Hi to you too.”

His voice slips through the speaker in a way that makes your room feel a little more warm than it did a second ago. You hate that he can do that now, that he can enter a space and rearrange the air without even being physically present, as though your life has become embarrassingly vulnerable to boys with good timing and probably bad intentions, because who calls at 9PM?

You lean back against your headboard. “Why are you calling me?”

“Because I’m going to the night market across town,” he says. “There are food trucks, stalls, probably overpriced shit,”

You cock a brow at relevance. “Okay?”

“Come with me.”

The sentence is too simple. Not do you want to come, or are you free, or any kind of question you can fold neatly into an excuse and return unopened. 

Your fingers tighten around your phone. “No.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and you expect him to push immediately, because that is usually what he does. He appears in hallways, sits at your library table, follows you through conversations until you leave, but now he only lets your answer sit there for a second.

Then he says, “Okay.”

You blink. The movie on your laptop continues playing in the background, but your attention has already abandoned it entirely.  “Then why are you still calling?” you ask.

On the other end, there is a small pause. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess I don’t really want to hang up yet.”

The movie keeps playing in front of you, bright colors moving across your laptop screen, but the sound has become nothing. You stare at the monitor instead, and try to ignore the way your face has warmed.

“That’s a terrible reason,” you say quietly.

“Yeah.” he laughs after. Neither of you speaks for a second until he breathes out softly. “I just thought you might like it.”

You smile down at your phone, suddenly brave because he can’t see your face. “You sound nervous.” 

He goes quiet for half a second before answering, softer, “I am nervous. A little.”

You press the phone closer to your ear without meaning to. “Why?”

Then, quieter, “Because I asked you to come with me and you said no.” he lets out a soft chuckle, like he can’t believe himself for what he’s about to say, “But I’m going to be there,” he says. “And I’d rather go with you.”

There it is again, that careless honesty of his, the kind that does not ask for anything too loudly. Despite the oddity of the situation, your brain is less of a shamble than it is mellowed out — which you should probably question and panic about. Later.

You stare at your laptop for a long second. And for reasons you cannot fathom, you wonder what’s so bad about going somewhere tonight. With Jake. “How far is it?”

He does not answer immediately, maybe busy weighing in what that means already. You can practically feel him trying not to sound pleased. “Across town,” he says carefully. “Twenty minutes, maybe.”

You still for a moment, playing with your blankets in between your fingers while you think this through. And like he can sense your hesitance, he helps you. “Give me one hour,” he says. “If you hate it, I’ll take you home.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “You’re very confident for someone I haven’t technically agreed to go out with.”

The silence that follows is immediate as your eyes open wide, just realizing it at the exact same time he does. You sit up straighter, heat rushing to your face because you didn’t mean it like that. “I mean go out to the market.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter now. “I know.”

Fifteen minutes later, you step out of the house in comfortable clothes, locking the door behind you before you can think too hard about the fact that you came out at all. The night air hits your face immediately, cooler than expected, and you hug your arms loosely around yourself as your eyes find him near the curb.

Jake is leaning against his car with his hands in his pants pockets, head slightly lowered, looking unfairly casual in a hoodie layered beneath a jacket, his hair falling over his forehead like he did not spend even one second thinking about how he looked before coming here. Which is ridiculous, because some people look better when they try, but Jake Sim has apparently been designed by nature to look the most when he appears completely unaware of himself.

His gaze travels over you once, slow to take you in. You usually look like you’ve been assembled by clothing that make people feel underdressed by association, but tonight you’re in sweatpants and a fitted tank top beneath a jacket, hair loose, face bare. He looks at you like he is taking in the fact that you came downstairs for him.

“What?” you ask, already defensive.

He shakes his head, but the smile gets there before his denial does. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

He pushes himself off the car, one hand already reaching for the passenger door handle. “You look cute.”

You physically jerk to a stop and your face warms immediately. “You’re weird.”

“I’ve heard.”

“You can’t just say things like that.”

He opens the passenger door and looks at you, smiling in a way that is trying to be innocent and failing by a devastating margin. “Get in.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re bossy tonight.”

“Please get in,” he corrects, still smiling.

You stare at him for another second, mostly because your pride requires a brief fight before surrender, then walk past him and slide into the passenger seat with as much dignity as possible. He closes the door once you are settled, and through the window, you catch the small smile he tries to hide as he circles around the front of the car. 

The ride’s quiet with the memory of Jake flirting with you in the gala garden — it makes you feel warm despite how cold the night is. You look out the window, watching streetlights slide over the glass, trying not to notice how different this feels from every other time you have been near him.  The night market appears before you in scattered pieces first, a line of cars, a spill of warm lights, people crossing the street in groups, then the whole thing opens up beyond the parking area in a bright, crowded stretch of stalls and food trucks and lanterns strung overhead.

You step out of the car and immediately pause, because it’s loud and crowded, which means it’s not your thing. There is smoke from grills twisting into the cold air, music blasting everywhere, laughter rising and falling in waves — which feels less like a market and more like a small fair.

You look at the crowd, then up at Jake. “This is busy.”

He closes his door and comes around the car, following your gaze. “Yeah.” He laughs, but softly, and when you look at him, he is already looking at you with that careful smile again, the one that does not make fun of you for being cautious. He looks at the crowd, then back at you, and for a second you think he might offer to leave, which would be considerate and therefore deeply inconvenient, but instead he reaches over and gives the sleeve of your jacket a small tug.

“Come on,” he says.

Before you can decide whether to argue, he starts walking, slow enough that you can follow without feeling dragged into the crowd. You hesitate for another second, but then the smell of something fried and warm cuts through the smoke, and your stomach chooses betrayal.

At first, you keep maneuvering to avoid everyone. You move through the crowd with shoulders turning at sharp angles, arms tucked close, stepping aside whenever someone comes too near. He notices after the third time you dodge a stranger by nearly stepping into a potted plant.

He laughs and you sigh without looking at him. “People have no spatial awareness.”

“People are walking.”

“Badly.”

Jake looks like he is trying very hard not to enjoy you, which makes the smile on his face even worse. You are halfway past a food truck with skewers smoking over a grill when you stop so abruptly that Jake nearly walks into you.

He catches himself at the last second. “What?”

You are staring at a small stall tucked between two larger ones, steam curling from bamboo baskets stacked in neat towers while a woman behind the counter folds dumplings quickly with practiced hands.

“I’ve been craving dumplings.”

The sentence leaves you softer than intended, and his expression changes in a way you do not have time to analyze because you are already in front of the stall. He follows without comment. A few minutes later, the two of you are walking again, slower this time, both eating from your trays with the market moving around you in bright, noisy pieces.

For a while, neither of you says anything, though it is not uncomfortable. You take another bite, then he glances at you. “Do you want a drink with that?”

You nod, mouth still full, and he’s already turning toward a nearby cooler display. He comes back with two cheap glass soda pops, the kind with bright labels and caps that need to be opened on the side of the stall counter, and hands one to you without making a thing of it.

You take it, fingers brushing condensation. “Thanks.”

“Was that gratitude?”

You look at him over the rim of the bottle. He lifts both hands in surrender, still holding his own drink. 

You walk with him after that, and slowly, your shoulders unintentionally begin to loosen. The crowd is still loud, still too close, still full of strangers with elbows and sauce and terrible directional instincts, but it becomes less unbearable now. He notices when your attention starts catching, but he never comments, which is the only reason you allow yourself to drift toward a booth crowded with little trinkets and charms. There are cats, dogs, bears, strawberries, cherries, tiny books, moons, stars, and one orange cat keychain with a round face and a deeply unimpressed expression.

You pretend your decision is practical, of course, like owning a tiny orange cat charm is somehow a necessary purchase. He watches quietly while you pay, your expression focused and pleased in a way that makes him look away for half a second because apparently he has some survival instincts left.

You attach it to your bag immediately. He looks at it, then at the rest of the display, and his mouth twitches. “That one looks like you.” You follow his gaze to a small cat charm with narrowed eyes, pointed ears, and an expression so deeply displeased it almost feels personally designed to insult you.

Your face flattens. “No, it does not.”

He picks it up. “It does.”

You glare at him and he smiles at the charm. “See? Same expression.” he says as he holds it up beside your face to compare.

“Put it back.”

Instead, he pays for it and you stare at him. “Why did you buy that?”

He looks at it once, and then pockets it without explanation. “Come on.”

“No, why did you buy it?”

“I liked it.” He keeps walking, and you have to follow because the crowd is moving again. For some reason the gesture bothers you more than the teasing does. 

The next booth that caught your attention is almost obnoxiously catered to your weaknesses, with neat stacks of sticker sheets, tiny memo pads, washi tape, highlighters in soft colors, planner tabs, bookmarks, stamps, and pens arranged in little acrylic containers. You stop so completely that Jake has to step aside to avoid blocking a passing couple.

For the next several minutes, you become very busy with the most random things, all as Jake stands slightly behind you, holding his soda and yours because at some point you handed it to him without looking, and he accepts this responsibility without saying anything. The two of you keep walking after, and you look more relaxed now than you did at the entrance, less like you are bracing for the world to touch you and more like you have forgotten that you disliked it. You stop at stalls, drift toward anything cute or useful, and Jake continues to follow at your side with no complaint, carrying your soda when you need both hands and slowing whenever you slow.

Then, just as you lean slightly toward a booth selling handmade bookmarks and tiny pressed-flower frames, a pair of kids comes rushing through the gap between stalls, chasing each other with glowing toys in their hands. He moves before thinking, his hand finds the space near your lower back, hovering as he shifts closer to keep the children from bumping into you. His other arm angles subtly between you and the crowd, and he looks over his shoulder just long enough to make sure they pass without catching your side.

You do not notice because you are too busy looking at a bookmark with a little painted cat on it. For some reason, that makes him smile to himself as he lets his hand fall away before you can feel the absence of it.

You turn to him a second later, holding up the bookmark. “This is cute.”

He looks at the bookmark, then at you, still smiling faintly. “Yeah.”

At some point, the crowd gets worse, which you didn’t even notice at first, but then the path in front of you disappears almost entirely, swallowed by families, couples, groups of students, people stopping without warning, people cutting through gaps that do not exist — just people. For a moment, both of you stand at the edge of the crowd, watching everyone press forward in a messy current of shoulders and laughter and swinging shopping bags.

You sigh. “This is ridiculous.”

He looks thoughtful for a second, then makes a decision you do not see coming at all. His arm lifts slightly, hovering behind your shoulders, and you immediately turn your head to look at him.

Jake, to his credit, only looks mildly nervous. “It’s practical.”

Your eyes narrow. “Is it?”

He glances toward the crowd like it might help him build a better defense. “There are a lot of people.”

He presses his lips together, fighting a smile, but his arm stays there, careful and waiting rather than assuming. It should not feel like such a big thing, but it does, mostly because he looks like he is giving you every chance to refuse. “You don’t have to,” he says after a second, already starting to lower his arm.

You hate that the consideration makes it worse. So before you can think too much about it, you roll your eyes and step closer, letting his arm settle around your shoulders like this is somehow the most casual thing in the world (it is not). Jake goes very still for half a second, like he did not actually expect you to allow it, and the brief pause is so obvious that your face warms immediately.

“This is practical,” you say, staring straight ahead.

“Yeah,” he answers, voice lower than before. “Very practical.”

You glance up at him despite yourself, and he is already looking away, but the corner of his mouth is lifted, and his ears have gone faintly pink beneath the market lights.

“Are you blushing?” you ask.

Jake looks at you then, and the smile finally breaks loose. “No.”

“You are.”

“It’s cold.”

You should move away after that because the path opens slightly, enough for you to walk without being separated, and there is no official reason for his arm to stay around your shoulders anymore. But he keeps it there, loose enough that you can step away anytime, steady enough that no one can push between you.

So you stay.

He walks half a step beside you, not dragging you, only guiding when the crowd tightens again. His shoulder angles gently through the busiest parts, his arm drawing you closer whenever someone cuts too near, and each time it happens, your side brushes against him.

You stare ahead and try to remember that this is for crowd navigation, nothing else. Then someone with a swinging tote bag steps backward without looking, and Jake reacts before you do, pulling you in carefully until your shoulder presses against his chest for one quick, breathless second.

“Sorry,” he says near your ear, already loosening his hold. “You okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

You hate how much easier it becomes after that. Not the crowd, because the crowd is still awful, still shifting and pressing and stopping without warning, but moving through it with him is easier. He notices gaps before you do, and he shifts when people come too close. At some point, without asking, he takes the unfinished cake cup from your hand too, tucking the little wooden spoon beneath the lid and holding it in his free hand like carrying your dessert is normal.

You do not protest, and that is the truly alarming part. For once, your brain gets to go quiet. Not completely, of course, because you are still you, but some strict part of you loosens just enough to let him lead. It should bother you more. It does bother you. But it also feels good.

By the time you finally return to the car, the one hour has become more than one hour by a margin neither of you mentions — you both had stopped checking the time altogether. 

He only opens the passenger door for you, takes your bags long enough for you to get in comfortably, then hands them back once you are settled like this is all very normal. You start to think that’s the kind of person who knows where your hands are too full and fixes it without asking (which is bad because it detangles the wires in your brain). The drive back is quiet because you’re both tired, and the city slips past the windows in streaks of light while you sit with your head turned slightly toward the glass. He keeps one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely near the gear shift, his posture relaxed now, his eyes on the road.

When he finally pulls up outside your house, you both sit there. Then Jake unbuckles first, getting out already, and by the time you open your door, he is already there with your things gathered carefully in his arms.

“I can carry my own stuff,”

“I know.”

He hands you the paper bag first, then the little pouch from the trinket stall, then your phone, which you had somehow left in the cup holder without realizing. With your things in your hands, you stand across the passenger door while he leans back against it, spine resting against the car, hands slipping into his pockets after he has nothing left to hand you. He is closer like this, enough that the porch light catches the tired softness around his eyes.

Jake looks at you for a moment, and for once, he does not seem like he is trying to come up with anything clever. Then his voice goes soft. “Did you have fun?”

You look down at the paper bag in your arms, thinking that you could say it was fine, or tolerable, or simply that dumplings were good. Instead, you think about his hand around yours in the crowd, his laugh when you dragged him away from the flowers, the way he never made you feel strange for relying on someone.

“A little,” you say.

His smile appears slowly, like he is trying not to let it happen too fast. “A little?”

“Don’t get greedy.”

“I feel greedy.”

Your face warms immediately, but he seems to hear himself a second later because his smile widens just slightly. “I had fun,” he says and you hold his gaze. 

Your fingers tighten around the handles of your bag. “You’re very easy to entertain then,” you say.

“Only tonight.”

“Because of the market?”

“Sure.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What was it then?”

He leans his head back lightly against the window, still watching you through half-lidded eyes, his smile barely there now. “You really wanna know?” he asks.

You smile despite yourself, shaking your head before he can answer. “No.” because you know what he’ll say, and it feels dangerous to hear it out loud.

He laughs softly, head still leaned back against the window, the porch light catching the slope of his cheek and the tired softness in his eyes. For a second, he looks less like someone trying to win an argument and more like someone who would be perfectly fine just standing there with you until the night runs out. “I figured.”

You lift the paper bag in your hand. “The dumplings were good.”

He sighs, disbelieving but still completely okay with it anyway. “I’ll take it,” he says.  Then he straightens slowly, pushing himself off the car like he has finally accepted that the night has to end, but even after he says, “I should go,” he does not actually move.

You nod. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moves.

You should say goodnight, walk up the steps, unlock the door, and pretend the whole drive home had not gone quiet in a way that felt different from tiredness. But your feet stay planted near the passenger side, your bags looped awkwardly over your fingers, your phone pressed against the paper bag in your arms. The porch light spills softly over the driveway, catching the side of Jake’s face, and he looks tired in the gentlest way, hair slightly messy from the night air, hoodie sitting loose on his shoulders, eyes still on you like he is waiting for something without wanting to ask for it.

That is the worst part: he does not push, he does not tease, he does not make some stupid comment that would make it easier for you to roll your eyes and leave. He just stands there, patient in a way that makes your chest tighten.

“You should go,” you say, even though you are the one not stepping away.

His mouth curves faintly. “I know.”

“You’re not going.”

“Neither are you.”

You look away first, irritated by the truth of it. This is awful.

It is awful because you are used to handling things yourself, used to needing no one, used to being sharp enough that people stop trying. And then Jake Sim shows up, too warm, too persistent, too easy to like when he stops trying so hard, and suddenly your own brain feels like it has been rearranged.

He watches your face, his smile fading into something softer. “What is it?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

“Okay.”

He says it like he believes you have the right to keep it, and somehow that makes it harder to keep anything at all. You glance at him again, and he is still there, hands tucked into his pockets now, shoulders relaxed, giving you every chance to go inside.

You hate that. You hate him. You hate that you don’t hate him at all.

“You’re thinking really loud,” he says quietly.

You let out a small breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re very annoying.”

“I’ve heard.”

“No.” You look up at him properly this time, and your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. “You’ve been very inconvenient.”

He tilts his head, confusion crossing his face. “Inconvenient?”

You hate that he genuinely does not seem to understand. It makes the whole thing worse, somehow, because of course he would stand there looking at you like that, soft-eyed and patient, after spending the entire night making it harder and harder for you to pretend he was still just Riki’s friend.

“Yes,” you say, almost sharply. “Inconvenient.”

His mouth opens, probably to ask another stupid question, but you cannot handle another second of him being careful with you. So you drop your bags at your feet, step forward before you can change your mind, grab the front of his hoodie, and pull him down.

Then you kiss him. 

He goes completely still beneath your hands, so still that your heart drops almost immediately. The courage leaves you as quickly as it came, replaced by a sharp rush of embarrassment that burns all the way up your neck. You pull away before he can even react, fingers slipping from his hoodie as your eyes fall anywhere but his face.

“I —” You swallow, already stepping back. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have —”

But you’re already turning before you can finish. You barely make it half a step before his hand catches your wrist, gentle but certain. The next second, he turns you back toward him, and you stumble straight into his chest.

Jake is looking at you now like he has finally caught up with himself. His hands find your waist, careful for only a heartbeat before his grip firms, pulling you closer, and he kisses you back. It is warm and firm and breathless, like he is making up for the second he lost, like he cannot believe you almost walked away again. 

Your hands grab at his hoodie again, more out of surprise than anything, and he leans into you just enough that the whole world seems to narrow down to his chest against yours, his fingers at your waist, and the quiet night around you. He towers closer, holding you tighter when your knees buckle underneath you, especially when a gasp slips out of your lips and his tongue enters your mouth.

When he finally pulls back, he does not go far. For a moment, both of you just stand there, close and silent, breathing unevenly under the porch light. Then Jake lets out the smallest, stunned laugh, his forehead pressed against yours.

“You have no idea,” he says quietly with his hands steady at your waist. “How long I’ve wanted you to stop walking away from me.”

For once, there is no sharp answer on your tongue, no insult, no eye roll, no clean little exit you can use to save yourself from the way he is looking at you. There is only Jake and you.

“You froze,” you whisper, because it is the only thing your pride can still manage.

His laugh comes out breathless. “You surprised me.”

“That’s your excuse?”

His hands tighten at your waist, like even now he cannot believe you are still arguing with him. “That’s my apology.”

You lift your chin slightly. “It wasn’t very good.”

His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before coming back to yours, and this time, the smile he gives you is softer than it is teasing.

“Then let me do better,”

You barely have time to pretend you are annoyed before he kisses you again. This one is slower at first, like he is giving you the chance to pull away, but your hands are already gripping his hoodie and pulling him closer before either of you can pretend otherwise. You feel him smile against your lips as he deepens the kiss.

When you part again, your face is warm, his hair is a little messed up from where your fingers had caught in it, and both of you are breathing like the night has tilted beneath your feet.

You look toward the door, then back at him, suddenly shy now that the night has become quiet again. “Do you want to come in?”

His gaze lifts to yours, and the look on his face changes so quickly it makes your breath catch. The teasing is gone now, the stunned smile from earlier fading into something quieter, heavier, like he understands exactly what you just asked and is trying very hard not to make you regret saying it.

For once, he does not say anything clever. He only looks at you and nods.

You unlock the front door carefully, as if the sound itself might become suspicious, then step inside with him following after you. The house is dim, only the soft light over the staircase left on, and for a second the two of you stand in the entryway like you have smuggled the whole night in with you.

He closes the door quietly behind him as you slip off your shoes. Neither of you says anything, but when you glance back, he is already looking at you. You step toward him first, his expression shifting like he has not fully learned what to do with you when you are the one closing the distance. For once, he does not move first. He only stands there, still and watching, as your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie. You pull him in and his breath catches softly, then you reach up and kiss him again. He responds after half a second of surprise, hands lifting to your waist, like even now he is keeping some part of himself gentle.

The kiss is still sweet, still careful, but there is less hesitation in it this time. Your hand stays fisted in his jacket, and when he leans closer, you feel his smile against your mouth before he kisses you back properly.

He pulls away just enough to breathe, his face still close, eyes warm and slightly dazed in a way that makes your stomach turn uselessly soft. “You’re getting very bold,” he whispers.

You glare at him, which is difficult when you are still holding onto him. “Are you complaining?”

His smile breaks wider. “No. I’m not.” Then he kisses you again before you can argue, which is unfair because arguing has been your only reliable defense against him and he has apparently discovered a much better strategy. His hands stay at your waist, warm and steady, not pushing, only holding you close enough that you forget to keep track of where the hallway ends and where he begins.

Somehow, between one kiss and the next, your back meets the front door. You do not notice right away because all you notice is him, the warmth of his mouth, the careful way he keeps slowing down like he is reminding himself to let you breathe, the way his thumb shifts at your waist when your fingers tighten in his jacket. The whole house is quiet around you, but your heart is being so loud it feels impossible that he cannot hear it.

Then he pulls back just enough for his words to brush against your mouth. “I want to be your boyfriend.”

You go still, and his eyes open, searching your face. You look at him for a second, breath still uneven, then whisper, “Think you can wait a little bit more?”

His expression softens immediately. The shift is quick; the want in his face makes room for patience again, how fast he understands. He nods once, small and serious, his hands loosening at your waist like he would let go the second you asked him to. “I can wait,” he says quietly.

And he looks like he means it. Like he would stand there in your hallway with your lipstick slightly smudged on his mouth, with his heart in his hands, and let you kiss him while still waiting for you to decide what to do with it. Like he would take every almost, every maybe, every not yet, and still look at you like you are not being cruel for needing time.

Your hands slide up from his jacket to his hair, fingers threading carefully through the soft strands at the back of his head, and his eyes flutter like that small touch just ruined whatever patience he had left. You lean in again and he goes still for one startled breath before he melts into it, a quiet laugh slipping against your mouth as he realizes, too late, that you were not saying no. Your hands stay curled in his jacket, keeping him close, and this kiss feels different from the others, still soft, still careful, but warmer now, more certain, like an answer you are not ready to say out loud.

When you pull away (barely), he is smiling so openly that you almost regret letting him have this much evidence. His smile turns stupidly happy. “That sounds like a yes.”

“It sounds like you should kiss me again before I change my mind.”

He laughs, quiet and breathless, and does exactly that. Somewhere between the hallway and the kiss after that, the two of you become very bad at making responsible decisions. 

In whispered laughs and careful footsteps up the stairs, with your hand around his wrist and him following behind you like he is trying not to smile too loudly. The house stays dim around you, every creak in the floorboards suddenly dramatic enough. By the time you reach your room, your heart is doing something ridiculous again. You open the door slowly, letting the faint light from the hallway spill over your bed, your desk, the half-finished planner still open from earlier, the ordinary pieces of your life that suddenly feel less ordinary with him stepping into them behind you. He looks around for half a second, not nosy, just quietly taking it in.

You step toward him before he can say anything worse, catching the front of his jacket again, and he lets you pull him down with an ease that makes your stomach turn soft. The kiss starts as a way to shut him up, or at least that is what you tell yourself, but then his hands find the small of your back to steady you, careful and familiar now, and suddenly the room feels smaller.

You back up without thinking, until the backs of your legs meet the edge of the bed, and he stops immediately. He pulls away just enough to look at you. “Okay?”

You hate that he asks. You love that he asks.

Instead of answering, you sit down on the edge of the mattress and tug him gently. He follows, careful even when he looks like every bit of caution in him is being tested. The bed dips beneath both of you, your knees brushing first, then your hands finding his jacket again, pulling him close enough that he has no choice but to lean over you when you lie back against the pillows.

For a second, he just looks at you. It is almost funny, how still he goes, hands planted beside your shoulder like he has forgotten what to do with himself now that you are the one inviting him closer. His eyes move over your face, not rushing anywhere else, and something about that makes your chest feel warmer.

“You’re overthinking,” you whisper.

Jake lets out a quiet laugh, but it sounds strained in the softest way. “Yeah.”

“You usually have more to say.”

His smile appears, small and helpless, before he leans down and kisses you again. It is still gentle and careful, but being this close makes everything feel bigger. The quiet room, the faint light from the hallway, the warmth of him above you and being in between your legs, the way his breath catches when your fingers slip to the back of his neck. 

He pulls away, not far, just enough to look at you properly, his eyes searching yours. “Still okay?” he whispers.

You nod, but he does not move immediately, like he wants the answer to be something you choose twice. So you smile, softer than you mean to. “I’m okay.” The relief on his face is quiet, but obvious.

“You’re very careful.”

His mouth lifts faintly. “With you? Yeah.”

You look away for half a second, because that is a terrible sentence to hear while he is this close. He sees it, the way the gears turn inside your head, the way you’re suddenly pushing his jacket off him and your knees are tightening against his waist. He swallows, struggling as he keeps himself over you, trying not to dive into something he’s not sure you want.

Except, you do. And it is very obvious.

You pull him down again, kissing until you know you’ve bruised his plump lips, until his tongue finally slips into your warm mouth as you make a sound against him. You gasp when you feel his hips press in between your thighs and his breath hitches, like he’s in between behaving and giving in. He pulls away abruptly, mouths detaching with a pop, and you visibly grow annoyed.

“God,” he lets out an airy and startled laugh, “What the fuck.”

He hates that he really likes the way his growing bulge is pressing against your ass. The warmth of his body makes you so needy, embarrassingly enough, though you only pull him closer. “Why are you so far away?” you whine.

“We should probably stop,” he says, but it comes out more like a breathless laugh, his forehead dropping for a second.

But you frown. You grind your ass against his hips, feeling the imprint of his cock. “Your dick says otherwise,” God, you are so mean, and he loves it. 

A hand lifts from the mattress and slips towards your bare thigh that’s pressed against his waist, squeezing the soft fat there. You practically melt at the sight of veiny hand smoothing over the skin, until the tips of his fingers carefully disappear into the fabric of your shorts. You squirm against him and he shoots his eyes back up at you, eyebrows furrowed down to his lids. 

 “I don’t have a condom,” he says lowly, voice made of velvet and restraint.

You smile, evil and insatiable. “I don’t care.”

He sighs, disbelieving of how you’ve completely turned to a 180. “I’m trying to be good,” he says. “You’re making it impossible.” Yet he slips his shirt off his body, exposing the toned muscles of his abs, the deep grooves carved. His chest is flat and broad, expanding to the sculpted arms that are solid without looking heavy, just all quiet strength.

“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, “And I will.” right before he bows down to kiss you again. His tongue brushes into your mouth, meeting yours as your hands find the privilege of slithering down his exposed skin, fingers grazing against the muscles that twitch from your soft touch.

He kisses your cheek next, then your jaw, until his lips reach the soft skin of your neck. He sucks there, until it’s littered with hickeys. “This isn’t good, baby,” he whispers, contradicting himself when he continues to bite the flesh above your pulse. You can only smile and moan, fascinated with the way he’s quickly losing composure.

He helps you out of your sweater next, carefully lifting your upper body up. “Arms up,” you follow, staring into his eyes once he takes it off you. His hand slides to your back, leaning down a little where his lips ghosts above your forehead, then presses a kiss there as he unclasps your bra, the black material slipping off you. You grow a little shy, lips pressing to a line while your own arms curl around yourself. He chuckles softly, then reaches for your wrists with careful fingers and gently uncrosses them. “Where did all that attitude go now, hm?” he murmurs before leaning down to press a kiss to the inside of your wrist, then another just above it, slow enough to make your breath catch.

He circles your arms back around his neck and you pull him closer to you, so he presses a soft kiss to your lips right before he bends down to your chest. “You’re making this too easy,” he whispers. “I thought you liked arguing with me.” You can only bite down on your bottom lip when he takes your perked nipple into his mouth, all wet and warm, before he sucks and bites down gently. 

“Shut up.” you somehow still manage, and you can feel him smile against your breast.

His tongue swirls around the bud before he pulls away, then takes the other one into his mouth next. After he fondles your breasts, caressing you gently but firmly, he moves down your belly, his soft tongue trailing down your skin slowly. He presses kisses on the swell of it, smiling when you tense against him. His large, veiny hands tightens on your waist, attempting to memorize the way the dip feels under his palms. They find your hips next, thumb teasing the hem of your thin shorts, slipping into the fabric just to feel how soft you can get underneath.

“Miss Attitude is so fucking soft,” he murmurs. “They have no idea.” 

He hooks his fingers over the hem of your shorts and slides it off you along with your panties. You’re already feverish when his face meets your cunt after, his breath fanning your folds, large hands holding your thighs so tightly you know it’d mark. 

He can smell how sweet you are, your wetness glistening with so much arousal. He looks over you, sharp eyes through the hoods, like he wants to make sure you’re watching him. “I’ve got you.” Then, because he’s so cruel and careful at the same time, he presses soft kisses on your folds first. Then he kisses your clit next, a deep breath spilling out of you, your hands locking through his hair, attempting to pull him closer. 

He licks a stripe this time, from your hole to your clit, your sensitivity reaching an all time high. “Fuck, Jake, come on,” you practically whimper.

With a prideful grin, he pins your thighs back against the bed. Then he buries his face into your cunt, his tongue laps inside your folds like you’re his favorite meal. He kisses the flesh, then sucks on it like he’s mad, sounds so wet and frenzy.

“Oh my God — Jake, fuck —” Your eyes shoot to your ceiling before your eyelids shut. He groans against you, sending vibrations through your pussy, his moans muffled while yours echo in your bedroom. He stuffs his face in, tongue slurping your entrance before his lips latch onto your clit next, sucking it dry. Your fingers tug at his roots, while your thighs threaten to clench around his head. 

He pushes his long tongue into your hole next, the tip of his nose nuzzling your clip as he buries himself deeper, making sure to coat his face with your sweetness and his saliva. He thinks he can do this until the sun sets again and again, just latching his lips around your clit and holding your shivering thighs around his head. 

He shakes his head slightly, just drinking your juices and moaning into your cunt, not being able to have enough of you. When he pulls away, he’s breathing heavily and you’re pouting, unsure why he’s stopping. Though the sight’s going to kill you still anyway, black hair soaked in sweat, brushing over his eyes while his plump pink lips and chin glisten with your juices.

“I want more, please…” you sigh, attempting to reach for him.

His hand lowers from your thigh to your cunt now, thumb gently grazing over your clit before spreading the folds apart. Practically glimmering with how drenched you are, he teases by pushing his thumb in and pulling back right after. He watches your face, at the way your brows knit together and how you flush into a puddle for him.

He smiles, all of his teeth showing, before he leans back down. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” Then he inserts his middle finger in, impossibly longer than yours, stealing a gasp from your throat when he pushes his digits so deep inside, reaching his pink knuckles. 

The squelch of your walls squeezing around him should be sin, as he feels just how soft you are. He sneaks another one in, two fingers buried deep into your pussy that you clench so tightly. “S-shit — s-so fucking good…”

“Fuck,” he huffs a chuckle. “So tight. How would my cock fit you?” 

He licks his lips, swallowing the remnants of you from his mouth. Then he dives back down, open mouth attaching on your clit while his thick fingers pull, push, and curl inside you. Your legs spread for him while you whine his name as if in a desperate prayer.

He continues to retract his digits before pushing it all back inside, carefully picking up the pace with the thrusts. He sucks on your clit hard, the sheer overstimulation of both his mouth and hand working on your pussy makes you a whining mess, loud and fucked, that you have to cover your mouth with your palm.

Though it’s no use, your brother definitely knows now just who’s fucking you with just his fingers and tongue. After a few more thrusts, the tips of his fingers touches that spot that makes your cunt clench tighter and your spine curve against your sheets. 

“I-I’m gonna cum — Jake, c-cumming —” He drinks up all your liquid but then abruptly pulls back, fingers leaving your entrance and his mouth detaching with a wet pop, leaving you so bare.

You feel empty without him filling you up, that you’ve got to open your eyes and look over your breasts and belly, where he sits up, adjusting his weight on his knees while his face and fingers are sopping with your arousal, somehow still making you embarrassed. He licks it off clean, making sure not to waste any of you that you’ve given to him, and you sheepishly curl a little in your bed.

He leans forward now, propping himself on his hands as he hovers over you. Your hands reach up to soothe over the muscles of his traps, warm and bulky under your palms, before you find his hair again, stroking through the black locks. “You’re such a fucking tease,” you mumble, soft and spent.

Jake only has to bite his bottom lip to keep from grinning, eyes soft with the kind of fondness that makes you want to look away. Your gaze falls on the veins protruding from his arms, trailing up to his elbows that you just have to turn away again because is his dick just as veiny? When you look back up at him, there’s something unbearably gentle in his eyes, like he’s looking at the prettiest thing he’s ever been allowed to keep close. Without any words, he leans down, kissing you again, soft but firm, but he presses you deeper into the bed. 

He lifts your leg again, spreading you wider than your dignity lets you, taking your thigh against his hip before he jerks forward, pushing his clothed bulge against your exposed pussy. Your kiss stutters and he pauses a little, pulling away suddenly to let out a shaky breath. “S-shit…”

You whine, weak but pitched. “Take it out, Jake, please,” You buck into his cock, feeling the heavy outline of it slide into your folds.

He doesn’t even argue this time, he just nods, breath uneven, eyes fixed on yours like whatever fight he had left in him disappeared the second you said his name. His hand finds your waist like he’s been waiting for permission all night, squeezing you tightly.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low and completely gone. “Okay.”

He lets go of you for a bit to push his sweatpants off, revealing his boner so prominent and practically hanging in his boxers. You can see his hands shaking a little as he takes his boxers off next, before throwing them into a corner of the room.

His cock practically springs forward to you, desperate and leaking. He’s thick, long, veiny. And pink at the tip.

You don’t even pretend you’re not staring anymore, and you don’t notice the tips of his ears flushing pink this time, a little hint of sheepishness. You’ve never really considered yourself a sex addict, much less even lustful, but the way your pussy throbs at the sight of his pretty cock makes you think maybe you’ve been wrong about yourself in many ways. You want nothing more but to see how he tastes, or how it’d slap against your tongue. He strokes himself, thumb playing with his own slit, spreading his pre around his thick head.

“No condom, baby, I’m so sorry,” His mouth twists into a pout before he can stop it, eyes wide and miserably apologetic. “I’ll pull out, I promise.”

“I don’t give a fuck, Jake,” you urge him closer to you, hands roaming down his abs. “I need you inside me, please — “

If his cock wasn’t twitching in hand, begging to be inside you, he’d probably let out a chuckle at how cute and eager you look right now, practically squirming and begging underneath him. But he’s no better than you, so he adjusts himself forward, leaning once again before aligning the head against your pussy. He nudges your clit, a gasp tumbling from his mouth at the contact. 

“It will only hurt for a second,” he warns and you swallow, staring at his dick as you wonder if it will even fit at all. “Breathe, baby, okay?” You nod, biting down your lip. 

You lift your hips slightly with the help of his hand against your hip, letting the tip nuzzle against your entrance. He’s breathing heavily, taking one final inhale before he pushes forward and lets the head of his cocks slide past your folds, meeting your gummy walls. You gasp as the stretch, making you tense up and clench around him.

“Fuck, t-that’s so tight — ah —” Jake’s forehead rests against yours, the feeling of your pussy squeezing him in, practically sucking his cock inside until you feel him brushing your cervix. He finally sinks in fully, and all he can think about is trying not to fucking cum right now. Not even 10 seconds in and he’s gone like a horny loser, but seeing you so spread open just for him is undoing him anyway.

He sets a pace, slow to stretch you out, having to bury his head against your neck just to suppress his groans, shallow thrusts getting deeper and deeper. The way his member touches rubs on your walls draws the prettiest whines from you, his name coming out as uneasy breaths as his rhythm picks up. Your hands thread through his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, and so his veiny hand settles beside your head, balancing himself on top of you. You claw at his back when his tongue slips into your mouth, his thrusts growing faster.

“J-Jake,” you whimper, just as he pins your thighs down the bed. Your legs spreading wider pretty much heightens the feeling in your pussy, letting you feel his cock as he begins to pound into you. He shifts slightly, grinding on that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back and whine his name again.

“Y-you’re clenching — shit, you’re clenching too hard, baby —” he moans, sweat dripping down his neck to his chest. His hips snap forward harder and faster, breath coming in ragged gasps. 

Your brain is short-circuiting and your skin is on fire, hot coil tightening in your abdomen. He continues rutting into you, bodies warm and sweaty, while your nails dig deep into his back. “I-I’m coming, Jake — fuck, I’m — “

He steals your mouth for another kiss when you finish, your orgasm striking through you, pussy clenching tight around his dick as you feel white ropes spill into you, full and so fucking hot. “S-shit…” he breathes against your mouth, riding out the last few seconds of your pleasure. 

Jake rests his forehead against yours, catching his breath while his hand caresses your waist so firmly, soothing the skin up and down like a lover. His panting slow down, breathing matching yours as the height of your drives lower, his twitching cock coming to a stop inside you. He pulls out, drawing a wince from him, his cum oozing from your hole as he does. 

“Fuck,” he curses, licking the inside of his cheek. You can only laugh tiredly, wiping the sweat from your forehead.

“I did not fucking mean to,” he clears his throat before looking back up at you, “cum in you.”

You hit his arm without any real force, a tired smile etching on your face as you pull him back down. He kisses you, and you try not to melt at how slow he does it, at how much deeper it is compared to the others. When he pulls away, he presses a softer one on your forehead. He straightens on his knees, sharp yet weary eyes looking over your naked body, enjoying every dip and curve, hand somehow never separating from your thighs and hips. You get sheepish, despite it all, giving a quiet groan when he admires you shamelessly. “Stop staring,”

He can only smile, his hand reaching for yours in which you give. His thumb moving slowly over your knuckles, then he lifts it to his mouth and presses a quiet kiss to your fingers before leaning over to kiss your forehead. He kisses near your temple after, voice low when he speaks again. “I’m gonna go to the store.”

Your brows draw slightly, “Now?”

“Yeah,” he gives you a sly smile, “For Plan B.”

You give him a look, but it barely has any strength behind it. Then you laugh, shaking your head at how ridiculous it sounds. Jake gives you a look back, brows lifting slightly. “What?”

Before you can give a proper answer, you sit up and place your palms against his shoulders, pushing him down the bed. He follows obediently, eyes on yours as you find yourself climbing on top of him, legs bracketing either side of his hips once he’s laid down. His cock twitches against your pussy, slowly growing again.

“I’m trying to be a good boyfriend,” he says under his breath, uneven and clearly strained.

Your lips twitch before you can stop them. “Boyfriend, hm?” you hum as your hands feel his abs underneath your palms, taut at your touch.

Jake throws his head back, Adam's apple bobbing before he mutters a quiet curse. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers, almost laughing under his breath. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Your face heats, not being able to stop the smile that creeps to you. Your hands slide to his chest, and your ass rubs against his hardened length, a soft moan coming out of you when it slides against your wet folds. 

“Later, okay?” is all you say before you manage to slide his cock back inside you, stealing a startled gasp from his throat. 

The next few days have been… a turn.

Not an immediate one, because you are not the kind of person who wakes up one morning and becomes soft just because a boy fucked you to make your thoughts trip over themselves. It starts with stupid things, like letting Jake carry the heavier paper bag when you leave the convenience store instead of wrestling it back from him on principle, or handing him your empty cup before you can think too hard about why your fingers already moved toward him, or looking up from your phone in a parking lot and realizing he has already stepped to the side closest to the road.

The first few times, you still fight it, naturally, and there are moments when you hear your own voice sharpen before you can stop it, asking him whether he thinks you are incapable of holding a bag, opening a door, ordering your own drink, or to even function as a person, but Jake never flinches when your tone gets mean. He never waits for you to become easier. He only looks at you with that patience of his, and says, “I know you can,” like your competence was never in question, and the entire point is not that you cannot do it yourself, but that someone else can do it for you too.

You are used to being needed, to people looking at you when something breaks, when Riki disappears, when your father needs something handled, and you are used to stepping in so quickly. Needing someone has always felt too close to failing, and depending on someone has always felt like handing them a knife and hoping they do not use it on you, but Jake does not treat your reliance like victory, does not look smug when you finally stop arguing, does not make a monument out of every time you let him help. He just helps, and it gives you nothing to push against.

The hot stuff hasn’t ended either. At first, you both did try to be normal for the sake of your upheld pride of refusing to be easy, even to your own boyfriend, and his respect for your decision. It does come to an end right after 4 days it happened, when he comes over again and your father’s never home and Riki’s somewhere you don’t know, having a hot boyfriend in your room would always mean he’d end up pounding into you. Or that you graciously ride him so well that he has to run to the store for Plan B again.

Jake never ever made you feel like you have to do things for him, nor did he ever urge you to have sex with him. There were a few occasions though, when you two might have went against your own moral code when he fucked you in his car in the school parking lot — did you regret it? No. Would it happen again? You hope not.

You might have had a hidden trait that’s been opened after a few nights together. There were a lot of moments when Jake had to take a pause because he genuinely gets scared at how you look at his cock, all excited and famished (sorry for the lack of better term). And his nose, just before he lies down on your bed and lets you sit his face.

You never have prioritized sex, nor did you think there was anything good about having a wet pussy 24/7 other than it was pure lust. You did, however, also find out that you really liked being pushed against Jake’s desk and fucked at the back.

After that, things get a little more cliche, of course. You start expecting his hand at the small of your back when a hallway gets crowded, start assuming he will keep track of where you left your phone, when you start sending him photos of readings with a single question mark and receive back highlighted screenshots, voice notes, and brief explanations. You start asking him to pick you up without building a whole argument on why it’s practical. You start trusting him with the ugly middle parts of your day, not only the polished version you usually hand people.

Then, because you are still princess-y, petty you, you also start getting annoyed when he does not anticipate things fast enough. 

One evening he sits beside you at a café and does not immediately take the extra books from your arms because he is answering Sunghoon’s text, and you feel offended — makes no sense, of course. Now you stand there with your books pressing into your chest, glaring at the side of his head until he finally looks up and pauses. “What?”

“Nothing.”

His gaze drops to the books, then returns to your face, and the slow realization that crosses his expression is so unbearable. Jake reaches for them anyway, careful enough to give you time to refuse, smug enough that you want to kick him, and when you let him take the stack from your arms, he murmurs, “My bad, baby. I’ll be faster next time.”

With Riki, the change makes him jump quietly (of course) in glee. You do not stop worrying, because that would require medical intervention, but you stop overthinking every hour. Sometimes you don’t ask where he is until he tells you first. Riki starts texting more because the texts no longer feel like constant interrogation, and you start responding less as you remember that seventeen is not the same as helpless.

Then one day passes without you talking to him at all. You do not realize it until you are brushing your teeth and your phone lights up with a message from Riki that only says, alive btw. You stare at it for a long second, toothpaste foaming at your mouth, and the first thing you feel is panic because how did you go an entire day without checking — someone will kill you, for sure, right? Then the panic fades into the shape of relief. He is fine, he told you, comfortably at that too.

When you tell Jake later, expecting him to make some joke, he only nods and says, “That’s good.” then reaches for your hand like it is the easiest thing in the world. “You did good.”

You don’t have to be soft all at once, nor do you have to surrender your sharpness just to wake up as some easier version of yourself because someone decided to stay. Embarrassingly, it makes your brain turn off when your boyfriend takes the problem from your hands and solves it before you can turn it into another reason to hate yourself. You can still be competent, still be difficult, still be the girl who knows what to do in a crisis, while also being the girl who lets Jake highlight her readings, carry her books, order her coffee, pull her away, and hold her against his chest when she finally remembers it’s okay to be tired.

He does not make you less capable, he just makes you less alone with it. Most importantly, he does not act like the softer version of you is the only one worth liking.

Jake and Riki manage to convince you to go to a house party on a Friday night, which doesn’t take much, weirdly enough.

Riki starts first, of course, he says you never do anything fun, which makes you refuse again. Jake, unfairly, does not argue the same way, who only leans against your kitchen counter with one hand curled around a glass of water, watching you over the rim with that calm expression he gets when he knows you are already halfway annoyed. He tells you “it does not have to be a big thing, we can leave whenever you want. I’ll stay with you the whole time if you want me to”, and if you hate how kind he is. Which makes you say yes.

The house is already full by the time you get there, music pressing through the walls before Jake even parks. Cars line both sides of the street, voices spilling through the open windows, laughter breaking over the bass in uneven bursts — you’re not exactly uncomfortable, only uneasy in a way that this is not something you’re used to, not like how Riki and Jake soothes right in. 

Then Jake’s hand settles at the small of your back. “You okay?” he asks, voice low enough when he leans down to you.

You look at the room in front of you, then at Riki, who is already greeting someone. “This is loud.”

“Because that’s how parties usually work,” Jake’s mouth curves when you give him a look, before his hand rubs the small of your back up and down. “But we can leave.”

That is annoying, mostly because it is thoughtful, and you have learned there is very little to do with Jake’s thoughtfulness except either accept it or be a bitch about it and watch him keep being thoughtful anyway. You glance away before he can catch whatever your face is doing and mutter, “We’ll stay.”

He gets you a drink from the kitchen, not from one of the abandoned cups on the counter but from an unopened bottle in the cooler, twisting the cap and you take it without arguing. 

His friends find you almost immediately. Jungwon lifts his brows when he sees you beside Jake, then smiles. Sunoo says your name with delighted surprise, Jay gives you an exaggeratedly respectful nod that makes you narrow your eyes, and Sunghoon and Heeseung offers you a small, careful smile. They are nicer than you expected them to be, or maybe they have always been nice and you were too busy seeing them as Riki’s friends (with connotation, at that).

Jake does not leave your side at first, and tries to make sure not to make you feel tense. He notices when the kitchen gets too crowded and nudges you toward the living room without making you feel like he is moving you. He notices when someone you barely know tries to pull you into a conversation you clearly do not want and cuts in so smoothly that they don’t even realize. 

For a while, you stay like that, your back against his front, his mouth near your ear every now and then as he leans down to murmur things meant only for you. His eyes flick toward Jay guarding the snack table like a personal estate, toward some boy near the speakers dancing with more confidence than rhythm. You laugh quietly at first, then more openly later on, your head tipping back slightly against his shoulder for half a second as you both judge people’s tipsy decisions.

Someone nearby starts setting up beer pong on a long table, cups arranged into triangles, people crowding around with immediate excitement. You take one look at the cups, the ball bouncing once against the floor, the wet ring marks on the table, and the enthusiasm dies on your face so visibly that Jake folds forward against your shoulder with silent laughter. 

You stop paying attention to the shape of the night, and your guard lowers enough for the party to become just a party, not a list of potential disasters. With his hand on your hip, even when Riki’s off your field of view, you’re less anxious.

He brushes his fingers lightly against your wrist, making you turn to him slightly. “I’ll be quick,” he says. “I’ll just get another drink.”

For a minute, you stand alone near the edge of the living room, watching him disappear through the crowd. You decide to find his friends, partly because they are people you know now, partly because you are not yet the kind of girl who can stand alone in a house full of strangers. 

The hallway is too crowded, so you head for the front door instead, slipping past two people arguing over someone’s car keys and stepping out into the night air. The music dulls behind the walls as you walk down the porch steps and follow the narrow side path around the house. You only remember seeing Jungwon and the others near the backyard earlier, and going through the side seems easier than forcing yourself through the crowd. The side of the house is dim except for the spill of light coming from the backyard, and voices grow clearer the closer you get.

A voice says something you do not catch, followed by a louder laugh, and you stop before fully turning the corner, half-hidden behind the hedge lining the side yard. You do not mean to listen, but you hear Riki first. “Dude, I’m just saying,” he says, laughing carelessly. “I should’ve done this months ago.”

Someone snorts, Jay, probably. “You mean hiring Jake?”

Your steps slow before you fully reach them, deciding to still behind a stupid bush.

Riki laughs again. “I mean, clearly the money worked.”

“He really put those hundreds to use, huh?”

There is laughter, easy, stupid, and thoughtless laughter from boys who have no idea that the joke is standing right there, turning rigid again.

“Taming the lion,” someone says.

Your throat goes dry as the laughter grows again, freezing completely when someone says your name next.

The scary sister, the impossible girl, the controlling bitch with a curfew and a brother who apparently thought your entire life could be negotiated down to a payment and one patient boy you thought saw you differently — yet each memory with him reaches backward for a new shape, forming into one joke shared by teenage schemes.

Someone inside says, “Nah, but seriously, Jake deserves a raise. She actually smiles now.”

Riki says something you cannot fully make out, but it does not matter because your mind has already started blurring.

Then Jake’s voice cuts through, appearing through the patio door. “Hey, have you guys seen her?”

“There he is,” Jay says, too loud, too cheerful. “Man of the hour.”

“What?” Jake asks, distracted.

Then there is the sound of palms meeting, boys greeting him the way boys do, easy and stupid and physical. Someone daps him up, someone else claps his shoulder, someone mentions how great he did for convincing you to go to a party.

“Congrats, bro,” one of them says, laughing. “Hundreds well spent.”

Jake does not speak. Maybe he is processing, maybe his face has changed in some way you cannot see yet. Maybe, he would push the hand off his shoulder and tell them to shut up. But you do not get that far, because you turn a little to see him, and his eyes finally lift past them and land on you.

He sees you standing there, one hand around the bottle he opened for you, your face completely still. For one impossible second, you look at him and he looks back.

And it is awful, how quickly his expression breaks, because it isn’t confusion nor innocence, just the face of someone who knows. His eyes widen, his mouth parts slightly, and panic moves across his face so plainly that it feels like another admission you’re not supposed to hear.

Behind him, Riki turns and the color drains from his face when he sees you. Your name leaves Jake’s mouth once, low and ruined but you’re already stepping away.

You turn and walk.

Someone laughs from the inside, someone trying to go to the back bumps your shoulder and apologizes, but you do not answer. It’s a little shitty how your whole body feels strangely calm now, the way it does in emergencies, when adrenaline doesn’t need you moving your feet to handle something first.

You can hear Jake behind you, cursing under his breath, sharp and panicked, nothing like the careful voice he used when he told you to let him take care of you.

“Wait,” he calls, closer now. “Please, just wait.”

The front yard is crowded, so you shove through them and into the night air with your lungs burning and your hands cold around the bottle you forgot to leave behind. The street outside is quieter, only then do you realize how badly you needed it, how trapped you had been inside that house with all those walls and all that laughter and every memory of Jake rearranging itself into something ugly.

You make it halfway down the front path before his hand catches your wrist, not hard but you pull away like it burns.

He stops in front of you, breathing unevenly, hair messier than before, eyes wide in a way you used to love, but now it only makes something sharp twist in your chest. Behind him, Riki stumbles out onto the porch, face pale, panic written all over him like a child finally realizing the stove is hot after touching it, even after you told him no.

Jake takes half a step forward, then thinks better of it. “I can explain.” His jaw tightens. “It’s not what they made it sound like.”

“Really?” Your voice stays calm. “Because it sounded like my brother paid you to distract me, and your friends think you deserve congratulations for doing it well.”

Jake’s face goes white. Riki moves down one step. “It was my idea.”

You look at him then, not with the sharp little look you usually give him when he says something stupid, but actually look at him. For one strange second, he looks like the nine-year-old boy who used to stand in your doorway, the one who would deny crying even while his eyes were swollen, the one you learned how to comfort while you comforted yourself because mom is gone and dad is never home.

That is what does it, your eyes water before you can stop them. “You paid someone to get me out of the way?”

He shakes his head too quickly. “No. I just wanted you to have something else,” he says, and the words come out in a rush now, messy and panicked. “I thought if you were busy, if you were happy, maybe you’d stop worrying about me all the time. I didn’t know how else to get you to stop. You never listen to me. You never believe me.”

Your eyes return to Jake, and the worst thing is that part of you still wants him to fix it. Some pathetic, exhausted, newly softened part of you wants him to say the exact right thing, wants him to reach for the memory of every night you trusted him and pull it back from the edge. 

You hate that part of yourself instantly. You hate that it exists because of him.

“Is that true?” you ask.

His eyes flick down, then back to your face, desperate now. “At first,” he says, voice rough. “At first, yes, but it stopped being that.”

You stare at him.

“But I gave the money back,” he continues, voice rough. “I told him I was done. I told him I didn’t want any part of it anymore.”

Your throat tightens. “After I slept with you?”

He goes still.

That is the answer.

You stare at him, waiting for him to save it anyway, because some stupid part of you still wants him to. You wait for him to say no, to say you got it wrong, to say there was some other version of the story where he did not let you give him that much of yourself before telling you the truth. But Jake only looks at you with his mouth parted slightly, eyes wide and ruined, and every second he does not speak feels like another hand closing around your throat.

You shake your head once. “You let me think,” your voice is low and calm, “that for once, someone just wanted to be there. You let me trust you with the parts of myself I don’t even like,” you say. “And you knew. You knew what they didn’t.”

The gala. You see the memory land in him, the garden lights, the fountain, your stupid dress, the way you sat on the far end of a bench and told him things you barely knew how to tell yourself. Your mother being gone, your father being absent, Riki being more yours than he should have been. You remember how carefully he listened, how he stayed far enough not to scare you off, how safe his silence felt then, how you laughed with him because he saw you and didn’t think you were cruel at all.

He takes a step toward you. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice breaking around it. “I should have told you that night. I know I should have.”

“I thought you chose me,” you say.

“I did.” His eyes go red. “I did choose you.”

Your mouth trembles once, then stills. “For a hundred bucks?”

He looks like the words hit him somewhere physical.

“No,” he says, too quickly, too desperately. “No, not like that.”

You nod once, not because you believe him, but because your body needs to do something other than fall apart in front of them. “I want to go home.”

Jake straightens immediately. “Okay. I’ll take you home.”

You turn away from him and reach for your phone with shaking fingers. “No.”

His breath catches. “Please.”

You unlock your screen and open the app, feeling stupid because you can’t see through the blur as you type it in. 

“I can drive you,” he says, voice quieter now.

You keep your eyes on the street until the headlights appear at the end of the road, the car pulling toward the curb. You get inside and do not look back.

You hate men. Enough that you can prepare a presentation on the subject with credible sources, historical examples, and a conclusion about betrayal as a gendered epidemic. Evidence would be your absent father, your fraudulent ex-boyfriend, your seventeen year old brother, and his demonic friends.

Hating your brother is inconvenient because he lives in your house, eats your food, leaves his stuff everywhere, and now lives without you telling him what to do. For the first time in years, you do not ask what the hell he’s up to anymore. You simply sit at the kitchen island with your laptop open, spoon in hand, eating directly out of a tub of ice cream at seven in the morning. 

Historically, you have always cracked first when it comes to him. Historically, you cannot help yourself. Historically, your entire body starts to prepare for anything if it concerns Riki.

But history is dead. Men killed it.

Jake is hard to ignore only because he is not physically in the house, which means he tries to get creative. He texts first, of course, just once in the morning, once at night, and sometimes in the middle of the day — because he knows exactly how to overwhelm you. Then he leaves an iced latte with your name on top of your desk in one of your classes. You stare at it on your desk for a full minute, before you give it to your seatmate.

By the fourth day, you have finished the second tub of ice cream — not your proudest moment, but it is also not your worst, which says more about your week than your character. You have attended classes with perfect notes, no late submission, reorganized your planner, ignored messages from Jake, and pretended not to notice that Riki has started texting you when he arrives places without being asked.

On Friday night, Riki finds you on the couch in your oldest pajamas, hair tied messily back, third tub of ice cream open on the coffee table, watching a documentary about deep-sea creatures with the blank focus. 

“Jake’s been driving me from and to school,” he says carefully.

Your spoon pauses in the ice cream, before you resume. Onscreen, a glowing fish drifts through the dark, hideous and peaceful, which feels aspirational. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then sets his bag down properly.

“I’m sorry,” he says but does not step closer. “I know sorry doesn’t fix it. I just wanted to say it.”

You keep staring at the television, where the ugly little fish continues glowing alone in the dark, refusing to pay him any mind. 

By Saturday morning, Riki had started acting like a ghost. He moves quietly around the house, closes cabinets softly, and pe picks up his shoes before you can even see them. At one point, you find him wiping the kitchen counter after making toast, which is very disturbing. 

At school, Jake looks worse than he ever did. He waits by your classroom once, but you walk past him without slowing down, your expression polished into something calm. He says your name but you keep walking, because you refuse to give pieces of yourself to men, more than you already have.

Riki has also learned that you are not going to pack his lunch, remind him about assignments, ask whether he has practice, or save him from his own time management. This would be liberating for him if freedom did not apparently require the ability to know where his own socks are.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and your eyes slide toward the screen, just long enough to see Jake’s name there before the notification fades and the room goes dim again. A few seconds later, there is a knock on your door. It does not open but Riki’s voice breaks through. “Jake’s here,” he says. “He has food. He said he’ll wait ten minutes, and if you don’t come down, he’ll leave.”

Riki stays there for another second, clearly wanting to say something else, but maybe he has learned enough to know that pushing right now would only make you worse. For a while, you do not move and only tell yourself you are not thinking about it, that you do not care what food Jake brought, whether it is something you like, whether it’s because he’s making sure you ate.

At eight minutes, you sit up. At nine, your feet touch the floor. At ten, you stay where you are.

Then outside, his car starts. You sit at the edge of your bed with your hands curled into the blanket, listening until the sound disappears completely down the street.

The week passes, and you remain committed to silence. You do not speak to Jake. You do not speak to Riki unless it is absolutely necessary. 

That night, Riki knocks on your door. You do not answer, but unfortunately, he opens the door anyway and stops at the sight of you buried in bed, laptop balanced near your knees, looking at him like you have been for the past weeks: exasperated.

“What?”

He stays by the doorway, one hand still on the knob. “I’m hungry.”

You stare at him for a second, then look back at your screen. “Then order something.”

“I don’t want delivery.”

“Then make something.”

“I want to go out.”

You pause, because that is exactly the kind of sentence he used to say before you started the lectures about curfew, rides, locations, and whether he had enough sense to come home alive. This time, you only shrug against your pillows. “Then go out.”

Riki shifts his weight. “No,” he says, quieter. “With you.”

You keep your eyes on your laptop, even though the movie has become impossible to follow, because looking at him would mean seeing guilt, probably; hope, maybe. Both would be extremely inconvenient because you learned to soften when he used it.

“It’s late,” you say.

“I know.”

“And you have Jake, apparently.”

He flinches a little, and the guilt on his face finally becomes too obvious to ignore. You hate that it still gets to you, how young he looks when he is sorry, like some part of him has folded back into the boy who used to stand outside your room when he was scared and he had no one else but his older sister.

He swallows. “I don’t want Jake.”

You hate men. You hate your brother. You hate that the sentence works.

With a long, irritated sigh, you close your laptop. “Get your shoes.”

The drive is quiet, Riki sits in the passenger seat with his hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, looking out the window instead of at you. You keep both hands on the wheel and do not ask if he has eaten lunch, even though the question sits on your tongue the entire way there. The diner is still open when you pull up, its neon sign glowing red against the dark. 

When the food comes, the table fills with baskets and paper-lined plates, greasy burgers, fries, and mozzarella sticks with marinara sauce in a plastic cup between you. Riki burns his fingers because he has never once believed in waiting, and you call him an idiot before you can stop yourself. The two of you eat in silence after that — not the awful one from the house, but not comfortable either. It sits between you, filling the space while both of you act invested in fries and melted cheese.

Then Riki clears his throat. “I have a girlfriend.” Your hand freezes halfway to the basket.

For a second, the entire diner seems to mute itself around that one sentence. You look up slowly, genuinely caught off guard, and Riki looks terrified in the way only someone who has been hiding something huge.

“What?”

He shifts in his seat. “I have a girlfriend.”

You lean back against the red vinyl booth, trying to process this new piece of information without immediately becoming the girl who asks for her full name, address, grades, family background, and emergency contact. The questions rise anyway: Who is she? How long? Does she treat you well? Does she know you are stupid? Does she have standards? Does she encourage you to drink blue things at parties? Does she know about dad?

Riki looks down at his plate. “When Jake started taking you out, I was also taking her out.” His fingers pick at the edge of the paper liner. “That’s why I wanted more time and freedom. I know that doesn’t make what I did okay.”

You look at him, face unreadable.

“It was bad,” he says, before you can say it for him. “I know it was bad. But something good came out of it too. You were happier. I know you hate hearing that, but you were. You weren’t always watching me like something bad was about to happen. You went out and laughed and you had someone.”

You look down at the untouched mozzarella stick in front of you. “Right,” you say quietly. “So much for a hundred bucks.”

Riki’s face falls. “No,” he says, then stops himself because even he knows he cannot deny the beginning. “I know I can’t decide which parts hurt for you, but I thought I was helping both of us. That doesn’t make me right, I know that. But please don’t think that I wasn’t considering you along the way — because I did, I really did.”

The answer is too ready, too practiced, and for a moment you think that maybe he’s being foolish again. But now that you’re looking at him, you realize that he’s old enough to make cruel decisions, young enough to look shattered when he finally understands.

“I know you wanted me to stop controlling you,” you say. “I know I was too much.”

He exhales, miserable. “Okay. Sometimes. But not because you were bad. You raised me,” he says, quieter now. “And I hated it because I wanted you to just be my sister, but I also knew you were the only one checking. That’s why it felt so messed up all the time.” He wipes his palms on his hoodie. “I’m sorry I made you feel like something I had to escape.”

The waitress passes by with a coffee pot, and both of you sit there pretending you can steal breathe without feeling hot wax at the back of your throat. You reach for a mozzarella stick because your hands need something to do, and Riki pushes the marinara closer without thinking.

You dip the mozzarella stick and take a bite. “I’m still mad,” you say. “But I’d like to meet your girlfriend.”

For a second, he just stares at you, like he is not sure he heard you correctly. Then his face shifts, slowly, carefully, into the smallest smile. “Okay.”

For the first time all week, your mouth almost curves. The rest of dinner is still quiet, but not as sharp. He tells you her name eventually, softly, and you do not ask for details yet, only nodding. Outside, the air is colder than when you arrived. You make it three steps toward the car before Riki stops behind you.

“I really am sorry,” he says.

When you turn around, his eyes are red, standing there with his shoulders tight and his face crumpling despite how hard he is trying to hold it together. The sight pulls at something old and exhausted inside you, the same place that has always answered him before pride can interrupt.

“Riki,” you say, but it comes out cracking.

He shakes his head, wiping his face too fast. “I’m sorry. I know I ruined it. I know. I’m sorry.”

You cross the space before either of you can think too hard about it and pull him into a hug.

For a second, he is taller than you and somehow still the little boy from your doorway, the one who had no one else, the one you loved badly because nobody taught you how to do it gently. His arms come around you tight, and the first sob he lets out breaks something open in your chest.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

“Fuck you too,” he says, crying harder.

“You’re so stupid.”

“A dumbass, I know.”

You hold him tighter anyway. Eventually, he pulls back first, wiping his face with his sleeve. His nose is running slightly, and he looks so devastated that you almost call him gross just to make the moment easier.

“I don’t get to tell you what to do,” he says.

You look at him, already tired. “Great start.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “Especially not about Jake.”

Your face changes before you can stop it. He sees it and immediately raises both hands a little, like he is approaching an animal with a history of biting. “I’m not defending what happened. I’m not. But,” he continues carefully, “he did give the money back.”

Your eyes narrow at him.

“I know that doesn’t fix it,” he says quickly. “I know it doesn’t make the beginning less awful. I just… I was there, and I saw when it changed.”

The words sit there, too quiet and too heavy for the sidewalk outside a diner. You do not answer, only staring past him toward the parking lot, where your car waits under the lamppost.

He swallows. “At first, he was doing it because I asked him to. Then he started asking me things about you. What books you liked, where you went after school, if you were always that tired.” His voice gets smaller. “And then he stopped asking me altogether.”

Your throat tightens, which is infuriating.

“He didn’t need me anymore,” he says. “Not for you.”

“Riki.”

“I know. I’ll stop.” He wipes his face again, then nods like he is trying to obey before you even say anything mean. “I just wanted you to know that part.”

You stare at him for a long second.

“And what am I supposed to do with that?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Get mad — at me, at him, at dad too. Do nothing. Eat more ice cream. I just don’t want you to think every good part was fake. Because I know I messed it up, and he messed it up, but you were happy. And I don’t think that was fake.”

You hate him a little for saying it.

You hate him more because it makes you think.

The worst part has never been that Jake lied and everything after became nothing. The worst part is that it still feels real and they happened, regardless the truths and the lies, the half-truths and wrong intentions. All of it still sits somewhere inside you, refusing to rot properly no matter how badly the beginning wronged it. 

You wipe under your eye with your knuckle. “You’re very annoying.”

“I know.”

You sniff, looking away before your face can crumple again. “I’m not forgiving him just because you feel guilty.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“I’m not forgiving you either. Not yet.”

“I know.”

You look at him.

He looks back, eyes still wet, but this time he does not look like he expects you to fix it for him. He only stands there, accepting it, which feels new enough to hurt.

Then he says, quietly, “But can I still ride home with you?”

Your mouth almost curves.

“Unfortunately,” you say, walking toward the car.

That night, you cannot sleep.

It is annoying, because you are exhausted enough to sleep. Your body is tired, your eyes hurt, and your head has been heavy since you drove home from the diner. Still, you lie there staring at the ceiling, turning one thought over and over until it stops feeling like a thought and starts feeling like a pulse breathing beneath your weight — your brother’s words alive there.

You hate that Riki said it and that he might be right. You hate that all week, even through the anger, you still kept thinking about Jake when you made coffee, when you passed the hallway where he used to wait.

You are still in your sleep shorts, an old shirt, and house slippers when you grab your car keys. You do not bother changing, which should have been your first sign that you are not making a dignified decision at all. You only go downstairs without turning on too many lights, and leave before you can talk yourself into being a sensible woman.

The drive to Jake’s house feels longer than it should.

When you pull up near the curb, you keep your hands on the wheel for a second, staring at the front of his house like it might tell you what the hell you are doing here. Yet it only sits there, quiet and expensive and familiar.

The front door opens when you’re about to reverse. Jake steps out with his keys in one hand, dressed in sweats and a hoodie, his hair messy and soft around the mouth in the way you used to love. Still the boy who made you feel, for the first time in years. He locks the door behind him and turns toward his car, already halfway down the path when he sees you.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then, because apparently you have already abandoned all pride tonight, you get out of your car. The cold hits your legs immediately, so you hug your arms around yourself and stand there on the sidewalk in slippers, trying to look like a person who’ll stand on this and not someone whose feelings drove her here.

“Where are you going?” you ask.

His hand tightens slightly around his keys. “Store.”

You nod once. “Right.”

“I was just going to buy something,” he adds, quieter, like even he knows that does not matter.

You nod again, because now that you are here, you have no idea what comes after arriving — which is excessively dumb. The whole thing suddenly feels ridiculous; you in your sleep clothes and him standing by his car. 

“Okay,” you say, then you turn back toward your car.

You barely make it one step before he says your name, not loud nor desperate, just in that Jake way that makes your knees buck and feet stop.

He takes one careful step forward. “What are you doing here?”

You keep your eyes on your car door. “I don’t know.” The answer is embarrassing because it is true, and you’re glad you can’t see his reaction.

“Okay.”

You almost laugh, but it gets stuck somewhere in your throat. You look back at him with enough courage. “Riki talked to me.”

He goes still.

“I’m not here because of that,” you say quickly.

“Okay.”

“I’m still mad.”

“I know.”

“And you still hurt me.”

His jaw tightens, but he nods. “I know.”

You look away, because his face is making this harder. “I don’t even know why I drove here.”

He’s quiet for a long second, still careful as to not step on a mine. Then he says, “I was hoping you would.” He looks almost embarrassed by the honesty, but he does not take it back, not even when you look back at him. “I just kept thinking maybe one day you’d show up, or text, or yell at me, or anything.” His mouth pulls faintly, but it is not really a smile. 

“That’s pathetic,” you say, but your voice has no bite.

He lets out a breath. “Yeah. I know.”

You hate how gentle the night feels around the two of you, how gentle he still is, how easier it is to stand here than it was to stay in your room while your throbbing heart gnaws on your ribcage. You hate that even now, after everything, being near him makes some part of you calm.

Your fingers curl against your own arms, holding yourself tighter, because if you don’t, you might do something worse. Like forgive too fast or maybe even slap him or admit the thing sitting in your chest that looks a lot like a picture of you two.

Jake moves slowly, just before he stops in front of you, close enough that you can see the tiredness beneath his eyes, the way his mouth parts slightly like he wants to say something and knows better than to crowd you with it.

“I tried,” you say, barely above a whisper. You blink hard, still looking down. “Not thinking about you.”

He does not answer.

“I tried being angry enough that it would cancel everything else out,” you continue, and the words start coming before you can stop them. “I tried making all of it ugly. I tried telling myself that every good thing only happened because of a bad reason.”

Your voice shakes, and you hate it, but you keep going. “But it didn’t work.” You finally look up at him, and his eyes are already on you, wide and quiet and so full of hope because that’s just who he is. Your own mouth trembles once before you still it.

“I can’t not be in love with you, Jake.”

For one terrifying second, he says nothing, and your face burns so badly that you almost step back. But then his expression breaks, not with panic this time, not like the party after you find out — just something like relief and careful in one.

He says your name so quietly it barely reaches you. He lifts his hand slightly, then stops.

“Can I?” he asks.

You know what he means and you should say no — but instead, you nod once. His hand closes around your elbow softly, barely a grip at first, before he pulls you toward him.

You step forward before you can decide not to, and then you are close enough to feel the warmth of him through the cold night air. His hand slides from your elbow to your arm, then pauses there, carefully first. His eyes search your face, and you hate that he still looks at you like that, like all that matters to him is not to hurt you.

“You can still be mad,” he says quietly. He swallows, his thumb moving once against your sleeve. “I don’t want you to think I’m asking you to stop being hurt just because you still love me.”

You look down, because that is the exact kind of thing that makes your chest go weak in a way you cannot afford. “Then what are you asking?”

He is quiet for a second, and when he answers, his voice is lower, rougher. “For whatever part of you drove here.”

Your eyes lift to his, just to see he’s nervous after saying it, knowing it’s too honest and too close to wanting too much. But he does not take it back, his hand still on your arm, gentle enough that you could pull away, firm enough that you know he does not want you to.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

His mouth barely moves, not quite a smile. “Good.”

“You’re unfair because you hurt me, and then you still know how to hold me like this.” Your voice turns softer, more frustrated than sharp. 

His face changes. “I don’t know how to hold you any other way.”

For a second, you just stare at him, feeling your anger and your want and your stupid, impossible love all sitting inside your chest together, refusing to separate into anything clean and correct. You reach for him first, your fingers curling into the front of his hoodie, but he goes still and his breath hitches.

Your fingers tighten. “I hate the way I don’t hate you.”

He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but it sounds too shaky to be amused. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I’ll take that.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks down at your hand, then back at you, and his mouth does this stupid little almost-smile that makes your chest hurt. “I mean, it’s not ideal,” he says carefully. “But it’s better than you hating me normally.”

You glare at him, but it barely has any strength. “You’re not funny.”

“I know.” His eyes stay on you. “I’m nervous.”

He swallows, his hand hovering near your arm like he wants to touch you and is trying very hard to behave. The silence after that is small, not empty. You can hear the faint sound of a car passing somewhere down the street, the soft buzz of the porch light, the uneven way he breathes when you still do not let go of his hoodie.

Then Jake says, quieter, “I kept thinking about what I’d say if you ever looked at me again.”

The smallest, most traitorous shift at the corner of your mouth. His eyes drop to your mouth, lasting half a second before he looks back up, but it is enough to make your face warm. You swallow, “And what did you come up with?”

He stares at you like the answer should be easy, but now that you are standing in front of him, hand still curled in his hoodie, it looks like every version he practiced has abandoned him. His mouth parts once, then he lets out a quiet breath. He tilts his head down, close enough that his nose brushes yours first, and your breath catches anyway.

“I want you,” he says.

He swallows, eyes still on yours, voice lower now. “No deal, no money, no Riki asking me to.” His mouth moves like he wants to smile, but he looks too nervous to fully let it happen.

For a second, you forget how to be angry properly.

Even after everything, he says things too simply, too honestly, like he does not know that a few words can walk straight past every wall you spent weeks rebuilding. You stare at him, close enough to see the way his lashes lower when his eyes flick to your mouth againe

“You’re very annoying,” you whisper, because anything softer would ruin you completely.

His mouth twitches, but his eyes do not leave yours. “Then be annoyed at me,” he says quietly.

His hand finally settles against your arm. “Be mad at me. Yell at me if you want. Look at me like you hate me.” His voice drops a little, and something in it turns almost helpless. His face is close enough now that you can see how badly he is trying not to look at your mouth again. “To my face,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “So at least I know you’re still there.”

You forget your slippers, your car parked badly by the curb, the fact that you drove here with no plan and no dignity. All you can focus on is the boy in front of you, looking at you as he says your anger is better than your absence, and even the worst version of you would be easier to survive than no version at all.

For a second, you only stare at him, and then, because your body has apparently lost all sense of loyalty to your anger, you laugh. Just something that slips out because Jake Sim is standing in front of you looking genuinely wrecked over the possibility of you never glaring at him again, and somehow that is the stupidest, most unfairly sweet thing he could have said.

His eyes flicker, like the sound surprises him. “What?”

“You’re very stupid,” you whisper.

His mouth softens. “Yeah.”

You shake your head, but your fingers are still curled in his hoodie. You hate that your whole body seems to understand him before your brain can decide what to do, because all week you have been telling yourself to stay angry, stay away, stay untouched, and then he says one stupid honest thing and you are standing here in slippers, holding onto him like you were always going to come back.

His hand shifts at your arm, careful still. “I won’t ask for more than you want to give me.”

You tug him down and then your mouth is on his.

The kiss is soft at first because he makes it soft, because even now, even with your fingers pulling at his hoodie and your face tilted up to his, he still kisses you like he is waiting for you to change your mind. Then his hand slips from your arm to your waist, warm and steady, and he kisses you back like he has been trying not to think about doing this for weeks and failing every single day. He does not rush, does not take too much, but the relief in him is obvious in the way his breath leaves against your mouth, in the way his fingers tighten just slightly at your side like he cannot believe you are letting him hold you again.

Then he takes one step forward without thinking, and you take one back because he is close and warm and kissing him is already making your brain fuzzy. Your slipper catches the edge of the curb before either of you notices and you stumble. A small gasp slips into the kiss, immediately followed by a laugh you try and fail to swallow. His arm tightens around your waist at once, pulling you back against him before you can lose your balance properly, and he breaks the kiss only enough to look down between you.

“Careful,” he breathes, like he has any right to sound concerned when he is the entire reason you forgot how sidewalks work.

He kisses you again before you can complain further, and this time it is less careful, tugging at his hoodie until he has to bend closer. The cold air slips around your legs, and your car is still parked badly by the curb.

When you pull away, barely, Jake follows for half a second before stopping himself. His eyes open slowly, and the look on his face is so dazed and soft that your own face heats.

“Do you want to go somewhere?”

You blink. “Right now?”

“Yeah.” His thumb moves once at your waist. “I mean, not as a date if you don’t want it to be a date. Or it can be. Or it can be something else. I don’t know.” He winces slightly. “I’m doing badly again.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile. “Very badly.”

For a second, he only looks at you, still smiling a little, then he tilts his head like he has decided to be brave in the worst possible way. “I’m buying. I have cash.” he says. “Got it from some dumb seventeen-year-old who asked me to take his sister out.”

Your jaw drops. He starts laughing before you can even form a sentence, and that makes it worse. “Oh my God.” You immediately turn away from him, deeply offended, and manage half a step before his hand catches your wrist, enough to stop you before you can escape with what little dignity you have left.

“Okay, sorry,” he says, but he is still laughing.

Your back meets his chest, his arm slips around your waist again, and his laugh drops into something softer near your ear.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “Bad joke.”

His hand slides down from your wrist to your fingers, and before you can say anything else, he lifts your hand. His lips press softly against your knuckles, and every insult waiting on your tongue disappears like it never had a chance.

You hate him. You hate him a lot.

You sigh, like this is a great sacrifice and not exactly what you want. “Fine.” His smile grows. “But if you mention the money again, I’m breaking up with you. Again.”

He nods seriously. “Okay. No more money jokes. I can’t afford to lose my girlfriend twice.”

“Jake.”

“Sorry. Done. No more.”

It first started with ballet and pink. You fell in love with how the world slowed down when the piano started, how the first plié felt like a prayer, the spotlight after your pirouette.

And then there was Jake. The second thing. You, 9 years old and too delicate to ever tag along, would always spot him outside your lawn, waiting for Evan, your older brother. They were 10 and 11, said girls were not allowed.

Jake, with his soccer jersey and his grass-stained knees, white socks browned from rain and soil. Jake, who’d sit on the curb outside your house after practice, waiting for your older brother, spinning a ball on his finger, and asking if you ever got dizzy doing all those turns. You told him it was called spotting. He told you he could never do that, before mimicking it on the asphalt of the neighborhood street.

Okay, admittedly, it was a crush. That was not a crime. It’s not like you were writing his last name after yours in your notebook or anything (you were). 

It’s just – he was Jake. Jaeyun. The first boy you ever liked.

By the time you turned 13, he was taller, louder, smarter, suddenly full of everything that made all the other girls in middle school realize how cool Jake Sim was. Surrounded by people who’s got really shitty attitudes and personalities, Jake being way too good for them. You couldn’t really fight the fact that you liked him first, the same way kids would claim their favorite colors, saying they favorited it first. He was your brother’s best friend – which, by definition, is an unspoken rule of forbidden territory.

He’d come by after soccer practice, shoulders broader, voice lower. You’d hear the front door open and that familiar “Mrs. Lee, we have practice again!” from the hallway. He’d walk past you while you’re lounging on the couch, with just a small smile instead of a teasing grin, a quick “hey” instead of a whole conversation.

By 15, you had a boyfriend, Jay. Sweet, safe, the kind of boy your mom liked. He played guitar, texted you good morning, and called you pretty. And it was a good thing, of course. You liked him and he liked you. Jake told you Jay seemed nice, you told him he was.

Jake was busier too, as the captain of the soccer team, busy from girls leaving notes in his locker, laughter always following him down the hall, busy from becoming the picture of what it is to be a golden child that had greatness tail him like a shadow. He wasn’t particularly loud or cocky or smug, but that relevance surrounded him easily.

Jay was good to you. The kind of good that felt easy and nice and quiet, like Saturday afternoons. He brought you flowers on random days, not the fancy kind, but the ones you actually liked. There were nights you’d both curl up on the couch (snuggled but still dad-approved), a throw blanket safely between you, watching Netflix romcoms. He’d quote the cheesiest lines just to make you laugh.

Then the front door would open, and there they were: Evan and Jake, back from practice, loud and sweaty and too full of energy for 7 p.m. And for a long time, it worked. You went to Jay’s gigs, he came to your recitals, he kissed you goodbye before class. But somewhere between the months, something shifted, not in a dramatic, heartbreak kind of way – just slowly. You still cared about him, still wanted him to do well, still smiled at his jokes. You just didn’t feel that something you couldn’t name but always knew was supposed to be there.

The breakup was quiet, no yelling, no tears, just a long talk on a park bench. He said he understood, and that was it, one and a half years folded neatly.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆。

Tip #2: Don’t be a romantic. (please)

So yeah, maybe you fell in love too quickly, too softly, too much. You did what any logical, overly sentimental girl with a box full of old stationery would do – you wrote about it. Or, technically, to them. Because apparently, journals were too boring, why wouldn’t it be less obvious in floral envelopes and addressed to actual names? They were safely kept in the hidden compartment in your ballerina music box. 

Four letters. Four crushes.

You wrote them on quiet nights when your head was too full and your heart throbbed loud, when the real world wasn’t enough and you needed to spill everything somewhere safe. They weren’t meant to be seen or sent – just a way to put feelings back where they belonged: on paper, not in your chest.

At least… that was the plan.

“I’m never talking to you again,” you sob. 

“You’ll survive,” Evan teased, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into an embrace you willingly melt into. “Don’t cry too much, okay? It’s bad for your pores.” You hit the side of his torso, earning a laugh from him. “You’re insufferable.”

Evan, who decided to pursue that college scholarship miles away from home which he said was a big opportunity.

Jake was there too, of course. He’d always been there as Evan’s best friend since forever. Your brother’s other half, the duo who used to make all summers feel endless. Now, your entire childhood is split down by college, the final stamp that says, “it ends here”. It was Jake’s turn to say goodbye. You stepped back beside your mom, watching the two of them fall into that quiet rhythm of half jokes, half real things. They dapped, then pulled each other into a hug.

Evan turned back to you all, that same grin you grew up with now framed with a goodbye you couldn’t delay. You force a small smile, watching until he was just another person walking away and into the gate.

Jesus Christ, who will drive you to school?

Tip #3: If you write letters you don’t plan to send, don’t put actual stamps on them.

Another tip, for “HOW TO SURVIVE DRIVING 101”. Maybe just don’t fucking drive.

Not when it’s driving at night in a neighborhood you’ve never been to, and when your phone’s at 9%. 

You crashed the car. You’re shaking – half from the cold (and because you’re only in your stupid pajamas and this was supposed to be an errand), half from the fact that the front bumper is now kind of… detached and it’s looking at you like it doesn’t know what to do with itself. The headlights are still on, casting these long, uneven shadows across the empty street. 

Your first instinct is, obviously, Evan. “...what the fuck, dude,” his groggy voice comes through after the 6th ring, heavy with sleep and annoyance and confusion. “Why are you calling at – what time even is it? Wait – are you crying?”

You sniff, which answers that question. “I – I hit the curb – I didn’t mean to – it’s dark and I don’t – it’s not starting anymore, and I –” Your tears are wild as they cascade down your face, spilling everywhere while you pace back and forth across some street you don’t know.

“Jesus Christ.” He groans, rustling noises in the background. “Call Mom and Dad.”

“I can’t, Evan! They’ll freak out, and it’s – my phone’s at nine percent, I don’t even know where I am – wait,” You said, reading one of the street signs near you. “Cornelia Lane, yeah, where the fuck am I?” You sob again.

There’s a pause. You hear him mutter something under his breath, then a resigned, “Okay, okay, hang up. Wait. Don’t move. Don’t cry.” Then he hangs up. Which, frankly, feels cruel, like he shoved a knife right in the space between your ribcage. 

Two minutes later, your phone buzzes.

Evan 🦶: texted Jake. he knows that area. dont use ur phone. stop crying.

You let out a choked laugh – half disbelief, half desperation. Jake? Out of everyone? You’re sniffling, holding yourself like it could shield you from the cold and fright of solitude. 

And, you haven’t talked to Jake in weeks, after you dropped Evan off at the airport. Sure, the campus isn’t so big that you’d never cross paths with him after one month of returning back to school. Aside from the fact that he’s a senior and you’re a junior, you both haven’t really talked much the way little 13-year-old you and 14-year-old him did. Puberty was a jerk too, because who was once your best friend is now an object of probable discomfort.

Ten minutes later, sitting by the curb while your knees are pressed against your chest, headlights spill across the street. You squint through the glare, heartbeat picking up when the car turns the corner, familiar in color and shape – that army green Ford Bronco.  It pulls up beside you with a low rumble, engine humming even after it stops. For a second, you just stare, your mind running through every possible way this could be more mortifying just before the door opens, and there he is. Jake Sim, in a gray hoodie, a crease between his brows that softens when he sees you.

He takes one look at the car, then at you – teary, puffy, wrapped in your own arms – and exhales, stepping closer. “You okay?” His voice is low, calm, the kind of tone that feels grounding even when your pulse is anything but. You nod, though your throat tightens, and you start stammering to explain.

“Hey.” He cuts you off gently, waving a hand. “It’s fine. You’re fine. Just breathe, okay?”

You remembered. The Jake, who shared his juice box with you because you tripped over your own feet during tag and started crying, who brought you a popsicle after letting go of your bike. He’s here now, but gone are those days, now replaced his old bike by that SUV, his soft features sharper with age. Did his jaw always look like that? And his nose?

You sniffle again, and you see how he fights the urge to laugh. He squats down in front of you, tilting his head to chase your gaze. “Yo,” You look up, finding his eyes. “I’m here.”

You try to collect yourself with the heat of your palms pressing against your eyelids, grounding you somehow. “Am I screwed?”

He sighs, standing back up and checking on your car, which was awkwardly tilted over the curb. He whistles, rubbing the back of his neck, and then he straightens, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Kind of,” he murmurs, scanning the situation once more, “I’m calling Triple A, and then your dad. He’s gonna –”

You shake your head before he can finish. “No, please – don’t call him.”

Jake pauses, thumb hovering over his phone. The silence between you hangs thick in the air, broken only by faint chirping of crickets. He studies your face – the trembling lip, the way your shoulders are hunched like you’re trying to disappear. Then, softly, he exhales through his nose and sets his phone back in his pocket. “You know he’s gonna find out eventually, right?” he says, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You can’t exactly hide a bumper hanging off.”

You sniffle, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand, then tugging your jacket sleeve down like it would stop you from shivering. “I’ll tell him tomorrow. I just – I can’t tonight.”

Jake nods slowly, that smile settling into something familiar – the one that used to come right before he’d say something teasing but gentle. “Alright. You get the call, ballerina,” he says under his breath.

You almost laugh, but your throat’s too tight, eyelids too heavy, eyes still glassy. He glances back at the car again, hands on his hips. “We’ll wait for the tow, I’ll drive you home, and you can tell your dad in the morning.”

You hesitate, shaking your head. “You don’t have to stay.” You didn’t exactly think it through – like if he did leave, then what would you do? But thank God, Jake is Jake the way you’re you.

He turns to you, eyes catching the weak beam of the streetlight. “Yeah, I do.”

Something about the way he says it – quiet, steady, like there’s no argument to be made – makes you look down at your shoes, heart pounding. “We’re friends.” he says with a kind smile, just to remind you that he still is that sweet boy.

You’re both there, a little too still, and the silence stretches just long enough that it starts to feel… heavy. You shift your weight, hands twisting in your jacket sleeves, and he glances at you, eyes flicking away for a moment before going back to the car. Your heart’s in your ear, and you really aren’t sure what to do with your hands, or your eyes when it accidentally meets with his.

Shit, was it always this awkward with him? Did age also just guarantee the discomfort? 

Jake shifts his weight, glancing at the car again, then back to you. “Alright,” he says finally, with that familiar mix of firmness and calm, “let’s just sit in the Bronco. Heater’s on, it’s warm. We’ll wait here until help comes.”

You nod, silently grateful, and follow him into the car, your jacket sleeves still twisted around your hands. The door shuts with a soft thud, and the faint warmth of the heater pushes against the cold.

“Thank you,” You say quietly, eyes focused on your car propped so awkwardly in front of you. You could sink in embarrassment, avoiding looking at him now. He exhales a chuckle before nodding, trying to glance at you. “Yeah, no worries.”

When he dropped you off, you ran to your room and read the letter you wrote to him – stamped and addressed and all. An epiphany, probably, the fact that some things haven’t really changed, and he’s still the kind of person who’s always one call away. You feel floaty, like you once did, just as you do now. 

You’re back to the middle school handwritings in pretty letter parchments, which you specifically saved for the love messages. Carefully opening the envelopes, there they are, in the corny glory of immature feelings. You read it just to be reminded of how earnestly you used to feel things. How unfiltered it all was, no self-awareness, just feeling in its rawest, most embarrassing form. 

Tip #4: Learn how to run fast.

Your parents found out about the car, and they weren’t really mad, but they said 18 was too old to let go of a responsibility like that. Half the repair cost would come from your savings, and the other half would come from them, just to be able to teach you a lesson that shit like that comes with a price. No big deal.

You decided to sell some of your things: clothes and bags, stuff you didn’t really use anymore. The process was a mess, and your things were everywhere that your procrastinating ass wasn’t able to fix it all in one go. Your mom helped. 

Today? Was going well! You had tests today, and you think you did great, managing to answer all of the questions with confidence. Your makeup was cute too, and you finally tried with your outfit, while your hair fell in this graceful way it rarely ever did. 

By all accounts, it was a good day. Even the drive to school wasn’t terrible, though you were hyper-aware of every turn you made. Your bumper was still fucked and you drive slow, but hey, it drives (you got honked at twice). 

After classes, you parked at your usual spot by the field, half-proud, half-exhausted, thinking maybe you deserved a nap before ballet practice. Your backseat was a disaster though – skirts, shoes, tote bags, and random receipts. So there you were, leaning into your car, muttering to yourself about where your left ballet slipper went – when a shadow passed across the window.

“Hey.”

You froze, glancing over your shoulder.

Jake.

He looked casual – black sweater, grey sweatpants, backpack slung over one shoulder – but there was something in his stance, like he wasn’t just passing by or trying to make a civil conversation. And he was looking at you but not really, and there was barely a second you think – he’s blushing, sorta. Must’ve been the sun or the heat; it was a particularly hot week anyway.

“Uh,” you blink, straightening, tucking your hair behind your ear as if that would make you less caught off guard. “Hey.”

“You drove here?” He nods at your car, and you’re still not sure what’s happening. 

“Yeah.” You respond, nodding.

He nods again, offering that polite, careful smile. “Can we talk?”

Your stomach drops, but you try to play it cool, shifting your weight to the other leg. You straightened your skirt, turning to him completely. “Oh. Um, sure? About what?”

He hesitates, eyes flicking to the ground before meeting yours again. “I think… we should clear a few things up.”

“What things?”

And that’s when he reaches into his backpack – slow, deliberate – and pulls out something that shouldn’t exist outside your music box, outside your room, outside the safety of you.

An envelope. Ivory-colored with black accents. Your handwriting on the front. His name in ink.

No, no, no, no –

You can’t breathe and it feels like the air just got ripped out of your lungs. The world tilts a little, and your body moves before your brain can even register what it’s doing. You’re gonna faint – you already probably are, and your feet are off the ground, or you’re probably just falling.

“Wait –” Jake starts, but you’re already gone.

You run. Away from the car, from him, from the stupid piece of paper that just blew your entire existence apart. You hear him call your name once, maybe twice, but your legs don’t stop. Your pulse hammers in your ears, and all you can think is –

He read it. He knows. How the fuck did he have it?

Your vision blurs, part adrenaline, part disbelief that this is your life now. You don’t even know where you’re running to – just away, as far as possible from the boy holding your 8-year-old to middle school heart in his hands like it’s something he accidentally found in his mail. A piece of you that was only supposed to be yours was between his fingertips – a part of your mind he’s seen, and you can’t ever take it back.

You’re walking now but you’re practically blacked out at this point. The pavement is uneven, the air thick, and your hands are shaking so hard. You’re just trying to breathe – in, out, again – when it happens.

You accidentally collide with something solid. Before you could stumble back, hands catch you by the elbows, steadying you back.

“Woah, you okay?”

The voice – low, calm, familiar – sends another jolt through you.

Your heart stutters when you see Jay, with discomfort and distress again. What the hell happened to this once-good day?

His face comes into focus through the blur of everything – warm brown eyes, hair tousled from the wind, that same reassuring presence you once thought would always mean safety. You let out a shaky breath, half a laugh, still trying to get your balance. “I’m fine. Sorry, I didn’t see –”

“It’s fine.” He gives a small smile, hands still hovering near you in case you stumble again. “You were running like someone was chasing you.”

You clear your throat, brushing invisible dust off your skirt, trying to sound normal, casual, human. “It’s nothing. Just – yeah, whatever. Doesn’t matter.”

Jay studies you for a second longer, like he can see right through the lie. Then, almost hesitantly, he nods. “Alright.”

You’re about to thank him, to excuse yourself, to crawl under the earth and never resurface because it’s just better that way than having to face your brother’s best friend, who now knows your sacred and confidential feelings, when he shifts the strap of his bag off his shoulder and pulls out something that makes your stomach drop again.

An envelope. Dark green in color. The same goddamn handwriting.

Your breath catches and you practically die again. He looks almost… awkward, holding it between his fingers, glancing down at your handwriting like he’s been trying to figure out what to do with it all morning.

“Look,” he starts, his tone soft but steady, “I just – I wanted to tell you that… past is past. Okay? I read it, and I get it. I really do. But I think we should just –” he exhales, scratching the back of his neck, “establish some boundaries, maybe. I mean, we had our thing. And it was great. It meant a lot to me. But… it’s been a year. And I’m –”

He pauses, glancing up at you, voice dropping slightly. “I’m talking to someone now.”

And for a moment, there’s no sound – just the ringing in your ears, the pounding of your heart, and the way the world seems to blur at the edges. The last time you saw that, truthfully, was 4 days ago. The last time you actually meant what the fuck was in that paper was specifically 1 year, 11 months, and 22 days ago. Freshly broken up with, with the raw love of a 16-year-old girl with a draft for a heart.

He keeps talking – something about memories, and respect, and how he hopes you understand – but you can’t hear any of it. Because all you can think about is how every single one was mailed. Jake. Jay. Kai. Yeonjun.

Your letters, your feelings, all the versions of yourself you thought you buried, floating out in the world for people to read. You just stand there, staring at him, your mouth dry, your face drained of color.

You want to disappear. You want to die on the spot. You want to rewind the past twenty four hours and stuff those envelopes so deep into the ground no one could ever find them again. Maybe take the fucking stamps off and scratch away the address.

You remember everything you’ve written there. Two years ago, immediately after the breakup, reeling in the feeling of losing your first boyfriend and first kiss. How you’ll miss when he played you the guitar, or when he buys you flowers, or his jokes that always make you laugh. 

That you did love him, truly, and there will be a part of you who will love him always.

That was two years ago, you’re not so sure you agree now. 

Tip #5: When your ex shows up, keep your mouth shut (seriously).

You open your mouth, and for a second, nothing comes out – just the sound of your heartbeat thrumming in your ears. Then, somehow, you find your voice, small and breathless.

“It’s – it’s not like that,” you start, shaking your head so fast you almost make yourself dizzy. “The letter, I mean. I wasn’t… trying to say anything, or get anything back. It’s old, Jay. It’s old. Like, two years old. I just…” You swallow, words tripping over themselves.

Jay’s expression softens, but he still looks a little uncomfortable, none of it making sense yet obviously. “Oh.” He blinks, nodding slowly. “I mean, yeah, no, I get that. It’s just – yeah, it caught me off guard, you know? Reading all that.”

“Yeah, no. Totally,” you nod slong. “Actually –” you try for a smile, the kind that feels steady but isn’t, which is worse because it looks like you’re smiling through the pain from the revelation of someone new in his life – which is not the case at all, “I’m, um… I’m seeing someone too.”

His brows lift, just barely, caught between polite curiosity. “Oh?” he asks, tone light but edged with surprise. “Who?”

And before you can stop yourself – before you can think – the name slips out.

“Jaeyun.”

You blink once, realizing too late what you just said. 

Jay blinks too. Twice. The silence stretches – long, tight, like the world itself just froze for a second. His eyebrows knit together, not jealousy but something between confusion and disbelief. And honestly, you probably have the same look too.

“Jaeyun… Jake… Sim?” he asks carefully.

You open your mouth. Close it. Nod. “Yeah.”

The air goes weird, like really fucking weird..

Jay’s gaze flickers somewhere past you, like he’s trying to piece the timeline together in his head – Evan’s best friend, your brother’s other half, the guy you practically grew up with (all in which he knew) – and when he looks back at you, he gives this small, uneasy chuckle. “Wow. Didn’t see that coming.”

“Yeah.” You force a small smile, gripping your skirt like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. “Me neither.”

You basically drive over the limit back home, storming into your room just to see that the fucking letters were indeed missing – all of them.

Your fault, of course, because you’ve completely forgotten to put the envelopes back into your music box after rereading them when Jake dropped you off, and even as you scramble through everything (under the bed, between the clothes, in the bags, and in the trash) they were nowhere. 

You’d practically jumped down the stairs, calling for your mom, finding her in the kitchen while she makes dinner. “Where–where are my letters? The ones I wrote? The four letters? They were on my desk and they’re not –”

Her eyebrows lift, just slightly, like she’s trying to place the context. “Oh… those?”

“Yes! Those! The letters! The ones addressed to–oh my God–” Your voice cracks a little, and you clutch your warm cheeks from the humiliation bubbling beneath your skin.

She wipes her hands on a dish towel, glances at you with that faint, you’re being dramatic smile. And except you wish you were. “I thought you meant to send them. So… I mailed them.”

Your knees nearly give out, jaw hanging wide open like the soul was personally snatched from your body. “You… mailed them?! All of them?!” 

She tilts her head, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like mailing your emotional soul is just part of a normal Tuesday. “Well, I figured you left them out for that reason. They looked ready.”

You’re so fucked.

Tip #6: If your brother’s best friend finds out you like(d) him, move countries.

Okay, one thing’s for certain (as far as your overthinking mind is concerned), you’re sure Jay did not believe you at all. You’ve always said that you saw Jake as your other brother (lie), the kind that went with Evan as a Buy 1 Take 1 promo – so saying that you’re seeing him?

Who the hell is buying that? Not Jay, who’s seen it all. So what if he thinks you’re still hung up?

You see Jake two days later. Your mom insists on going to the community fair because “you’ve been cooped up too long, sweetheart,” and you don’t have the heart to tell her you’d rather fall into a sinkhole than risk running into Jaeyun Sim in public right now. Because he’s always there, and that’s just the kind of guy he is.

But of course, fate has other plans. He’s there – standing by the lemonade stand, sun hitting his cheekbones just right, looking really flawless. Layla’s beside him, tail wagging, sitting obediently there. He spots you before you can turn away. For a second, you think maybe he won’t say anything because if he was a dear, he wouldn’t. Except he’s exactly that, and that he’s this friendly, social dork who looks just as jolly as his dog.

“Hey.”

Just one word, but it’s him, careful not to scare you away again. You smile because you don’t know what else to do, almost forced and strangled. “Hey.” You clear your throat, forcing a casual smile. “So… what are you doing here?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, looking down at Layla, who’s staring at you with her tongue out. “Was walking Layla.”

You nod once, trying to look relaxed. “Right. Of course.” You glance toward the next booth, hoping to make a graceful exit, almost turning away when suddenly –

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks quietly.

You blink, jaw clenching, pretending to be clueless. “About what?”

He looks at you with his a small smile – just a little. “You tell me.”

And then your entire face feels like it’s on fire. You shift your weight, suddenly aware of how loud your heartbeat is. “I don’t know what there is to talk about,” you say, trying for nonchalant but failing spectacularly. 

Jake laughs. “Uh-huh. Sure. Nothing at all.”

You glare at him. He smiles. Then you sigh. 

“I mean, it’s… old. The letter. It’s… history.”

“History, huh?” he nods, puckers his lips, all to tease you obviously. “So I’m supposed to just… pretend I didn’t read about how you were obsessed with me in – what? 4th to 8th grade?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, groaning internally. “Obsessed is a strong word, Jaeyun.” 

He falls into step beside you, Layla trotting happily between the two of you. “You know,” he says, voice calm but firm, “I really think I deserve a clarification.”

You snort, exasperated. “Fine. I liked you.” you dare glance at him and he’s got that smile so wide you basically sense its’ smugness. “Happy now? Can we move on?”

He tilts his head, pretending to think, still following you. “Hmm… vague. Are we talking fifth-grade-level-like or… high-school-heart-eyes-like?”

“Fifth-grade. Definitely fifth-grade,” you say, waving your hand like it’s obvious – because it is, the handwriting in glitter pens should sell it by now! 

He finally catches up, stepping just a little closer, the ever-so-annoying grin still on his mouth. “You know,” he says softly, nudging you lightly with his shoulder, “for someone who claims it’s all ancient history, you’re awfully… defensive.”

“Defensive?” you repeat, mock-offended. “I’m cautious – very cautious. And apparently extremely popular with dogs.” Layla barks happily at the two of you, as if she’s judging your banter. You look up at Jake too, who’s brows are raised at you, smile wide.

Dogs!

“Point is,” He starts again, but you start walking and he follows. “It’s hard to make sense out of this whole… ‘it’s ancient history’ and ‘childhood crush’ –” Jake falls into step beside you again, like he’s glued there. “Well, you say it’s old but,” he continues, voice casual, but the glint in his eyes tells you he’s deadly serious, 

“Jay told me something.”

You freeze mid-step, hand hovering over a jar of chocolate chip cookies. Their exchanges always shifted a gear inside you, like two worlds colliding – so what more is this now?

Jake quirks an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “He said that you said that you and I… are seeing each other.”

Your brain short-circuits. You feel like your entire chest has been replaced by a bucket of ice. “What?”

“That’s what Jay said,” he continues, eyes on you, amused. “So… tell me. That doesn’t sound like a fifth-grade, forgettable crush, does it?”

You die. You freeze entirely, turning to him fully with your hands up in surrender. “I said that because that’s all the excuse I could muster at the moment!”

Jake leans on the counter casually, clearly enjoying your flustered state. “Uh-huh. And yet, you said it like it’s nothing.”

You wave your hands helplessly. “It is nothing!”

He shrugs, giving you that infuriatingly calm look. “Honestly, I think you have a massive, massive crush on me right now. How can you even convince me that you didn’t just write that letter a week ago when I saved you?” He’s trying to look calm but you could see how amused he truly is about this. Like he’s actually enjoying torturing you.

You scoff, glare at him, but it’s a weak glare. He’s grinning, leaning in just enough that you can feel it.

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” you mutter.

“Right. Okay,” he says smoothly, snickering, “so I’ll just walk away. While Layla and I think… you’re absolutely in love with your brother’s best friend. That’s… crazy.”

You blink at him, scandalized. “Crazy? Okay, first of all –”

“Crazy.” He cuts you off. “I’m confused. Very confused. And I deserve an explanation, of course.”

You groan again, and you fight the very urge to throw the cookie jar at him. “Fine! It was ages ago.” You exhale, training your gaze away. “I wrote letters to guys I liked. They helped me figure out what I felt. Like journaling, but more… specific.”

He hums, pretending to think. “With a stamp and an address?”

You ignore him entirely. “There were four letters. They got sent out by accident and it wasn’t exactly planned.”

“Four?” he repeats, eyebrows raising. “Holy shit, you were a player.”

He laughs, and for a second, the tension dissolves – replaced by that stupid, easy warmth that used to fill every summer evening when you were kids. But the last thing you need is comparing that vibrant-lensed memory to your life now – because it is so, so different. No crushes, or whatever. You both sit at the bench, and he leans his elbows on his knees.

Jake’s still grinning, the kind of grin that makes you want to both punch him and crawl into the nearest trash bin. “Alright, so… four letters. One for me, one for the ex.” He voice drops just slightly. “Who were the other two?”

You sigh. “Why do you care?”

“Curiosity,” he says, though there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes – something sharp, a little too interested. “Come on. I feel like I deserve to know what kind of competition I had.”

You groan. “There wasn’t competition.”

“Then tell me.”

You give him a look but cave anyway, because you’ve never been good at ignoring that tone. “Fine. One was this guy in the community library. He’d lend me annotated books, and we liked the same books, so,” you shrug, “I thought that meant we were soulmates.”

He tilts his head. “I annotated for you.”

“You highlighted science notes for me.” you hide your smile.

He shrugs, trying to get a glimpse of your face again. “Same thing.”

You ignore him and continue. “The other one – well, it doesn’t even count. He was a senior during one of my summer camps. He helped me carry my canvases and smiled at me twice. He also said I was pretty and I danced nicely. End of story.”

“Smiled twice,” Jake repeats, pretending to take mental notes. “Tragic love story, really.”

“Exactly,” you deadpan. “Totally life-altering.”

He smiles, shaking his head, and for a moment, the teasing dies down. “So… four letters, huh?”

You nod slowly, tucking your knees closer to your chest. You feel like a solid-liquid matter, because half of you still can’t believe that this is all happening. He’s smiling, sometimes he’d lick the corner of his mouth like he’s fully processing the information. You could only feel the sink in your stomach. 

Right now, it’s not the popular, soccer captain, with straight A’s, and fanclubs – it’s the boy-next-door whom you grew up with. And he’s stealing glances at you like he’s really reeling in the fact this girl that always just kinda stuck to him and his best friend, liked him. Little you with the pink bows and orange popsicles, one who always laughed too loud because he messed up tying a ribbon. Little you and little him because he intentionally ruined the ribbons to make you smile.

Jake’s quiet for a moment, just watching you in the corner of his eye. Then – of course – he clears his throat.

You look up immediately. “What?”

He shrugs. “Jay already thinks we’re… you know.” He gestures between the two of you. “So, like… maybe we let him think that.”

You blink. “You’re kidding.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, just kicks a rock on the ground. “If you suddenly backtrack, he’ll know you lied just to save face. This way, it’s… consistent.”

You gape at him like he just grew a second head. “So your plan is to fake date?”

He looks up you like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah.”

You almost practically splutter. “Jake – what the actual – no.”

He laughs, which only makes you more flustered. “Relax, it’s not that deep. Just for a bit. Saves you the embarrassment.”

You squint. “What’s in it for you?”

Jake bites his lip, looks away, like he’s half-ashamed to admit it. “There’s this girl. Cheer squad. She’s… really trying. I tried too, okay? But I can’t – ” he exhales, running a hand through his hair, “ – I can’t like her. Not the way she wants. And if I were, you know, dating someone, she’d stop.”

You stare at him with the gaze of someone judging. “That is the worst justification I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, well,” he says with a crooked smile, “you were the one who started the rumor.”

You glare. “That wasn’t a rumor, it was a defensive maneuver.”

“Semantics,” he says, unfazed. 

You shake your head. “No. Absolutely not.”

He just nods once, like he expected that. “Yeah, didn’t expect it to be easy.” Then he tugs Layla’s leash, and she immediately stands. “C’mon. I can drive you home.”

You consider refusing, but the thought of walking back alone under this afternoon heat kills it immediately. So you sigh and follow him to the car. The drive’s quiet, the kind of quiet that hums with awkwardness. You hate it, of course, you’ve find very little reasons to not be hateful these days. When he parks in front of your house, he kills the engine but doesn’t move. Then he’s out, walking you to the front door like some kind of gentleman – except he was, since he was always kinder than Evan, everyone knew that. 

You’re fumbling for your keys when you feel a light tug on the back of your top. You look up – and damn, has he always been this tall? A tower that hovers over you? You swore you were the same height like, 5 years ago. The daylight hits his jaw, that stupid, unfair jawline.

“Just think about it, yeah?” he says softly. “The fake thing.”

You exhale, crossing your arms. “Fine.”

His eyes widen, and so does the smile that reeks of smugness at how fast this is turning out. You narrow you eyes at him, just to let him know that you still think it’s a tenth-rate idea. Before he can even comment about how easy you are with so little conviction and, well, thinking time, you turn to your door. 

“We’ll talk in school.” is all you say before you storm in and block him off today.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆。

Tip #7: Set some rules.

Now you’re sitting on the bench beside the vending machines, out of the way from people’s sight and hearing, and finally turn to him while you sit. “We need rules.” You pull out a sheet of paper.

Jake blinks while he clicks some buttons. “Rules?”

“Yes. Rules,” you say, trying to sound composed, even though you’re one second away from combusting. You are, in theory, very much dying – but you start writing on the paper. “If we’re doing this fake dating thing, we’re doing it properly.”

He tilts his head, intrigued, a smile already forming. “Alright. Hit me with your list.”

You take a breath, then you write. “Rule one: no kissing.”

He snickers, shaking his head. “Okay.” he says, tone dripping with mischief. Okay, Mr. Never-Had-A-Girlfriend! He laughs at the no kissing rule, weirdo.

“Rule two,” you continue, ignoring him, “we don’t act unless necessary. In the cafeteria, classes, school events. That’s it.”

He nods. “Sure.” Then, like he can’t help himself: “You know, most girlfriends actually want to spend time with their boyfriends.”

You shoot him a look so sharp he raises his hands in mock surrender. Then his snack is stuck on the other side of the machine, and he curses, calling it a complete scam. He’s frowning, hitting the vending machine like a loser.

“Rule three,” you finish, “you don’t get to call me ‘babe’ or whatever unless someone’s around.”

That earns you a full-blown grin. “That’s gonna be tough, babe.”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” Jake says, that infuriating glint back in his eye. “But admit it – you kinda like it.”

You look up at him, deadpan. “Rule four: don’t assume things.” This is very, very crucial.

He laughs, the sound echoing down the hall. “Guess I’ll have to find out which of these rules you break first.” He fishes his chips out the machine by shaking it and you try not to laugh at how he’s acting.

Jake huffs, leaning against the vending machine when he finally gets that godforsaken chips. “Alright,” he says. “Then I’ve got rules too.”

You narrow your eyes. “You? Making rules?”

He shrugs. “Fake relationship’s gotta look real. Means you come with me to games and parties.”

You blink. “Parties?”

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “People will notice if I show up alone. It’ll look weird if my ‘girlfriend’ never shows.”

You hesitate, frowning. “I don’t like parties.”

“That’s fine,” Jake says easily. “You don’t have to like them. You just have to be there. Plus, they’re just socializing, bit of drinking, nothing bad. I’m not a frat boy.”

You open your mouth to argue – something about how ridiculous that sounds – but he’s already looking at you, calm, steady, annoyingly reasonable, while munching down on his chips. “It’s just part of the deal,” he adds after a beat. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly. Otherwise, Jay’s gonna catch on. And cheer.”

You let out a quiet sigh, pressing your lips together. He’s right, technically. You just hate that he’s right. “Fine,” you mutter. “But don’t expect me to actually enjoy it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You wrinkle your nose, spine suddenly rigid. “Evan can’t know, by the way. Actually – my whole family can’t know. They’ll –” you wave your hands like you’re swatting away a swarm of angry bees. “They’ll freak. They’ll think I’m reckless or dramatic or that I’m trying to date within the family friend ecosystem. Mom will –” cheer, you know she will. “ – I don’t know, something. Evan will literally murder both of us.”

Jake watches you, amusement softening into something like understanding – because he knows your family like it’s just an extension of his. He nods. “Fair. Family stays in the dark.”

Relief burbles somewhere in your chest. “Good. Thank you.”

You feel slightly more human. Then he tilts his head, an eyebrow rising like he’s about to negotiate terms. “Okay – one more thing.”

You already feel the groan forming. “What.”

He leans forward, voice casual, practical. “So – if we’re not doing kisses because that’s your rule, people will still need to believe this. We should do believable stuff. Public stuff.”

Your first instinct is to say no. Your second instinct is to ask what “believable stuff” even means. Your third instinct is to picture yourself linking arms in the hallway and dying slowly. Not that you hate it but you are not fond of the way you’d react.

Jake watches your face closely. “Holding hands sometimes. Link arms when we walk into parties. Sit next to each other. Little things that read as couple-y without being, like, gross or personal.”

You blink. “Hold hands?”

He nods. “Not clingy.”

You fold your arms. “And the kissing thing?”

He shrugs. “We can do non-romantic stuff. A forehead peck at a pep rally, maybe. Or a quick head-kiss after a win at the game. You okay with that?”

You think about it. The idea of a staged forehead kiss makes your stomach flip in a very unnecessary way, but it’s not a full-on mouth kiss and it gets the job done. You don’t want to admit any part of you finds the image faintly tolerable. But honestly, a part of you is screaming that you don’t want that, just because something fake is too overly romantic for your lover girl heart. Still, you exhale, and nod.

“Fine,” you say finally, voice tight around the word. “And if anyone gets weird, we stop. Immediately.”

Jake’s grin is equal parts victory and relief. “Deal. Family stays clueless. Public stuff only. You call the line.”

You stand and pat your knees as if you’ve just concluded high-stakes diplomacy. “Okay. Rules set. Now let’s both try not to ruin our lives.”

He snorts. “No promises.”

You shove him lightly and start toward class, trying not to notice how natural his stride looks beside yours – the kind that makes a fake thing feel startlingly less pretend.

You sling your bag over your shoulder, ready to leave, when Jake calls out, “Okay – one more rule.”

You spin on your heel, exasperated. “Jake. We already have, like, a constitution. What else could you possibly –”

He’s grinning, that boyish kind that makes you want to throw something at him. “I need to watch your dance practices.”

You blink. “…What? That’s not even relevant to this plan.”

“Sure it is,” he says easily. “If I’m your boyfriend – fake or not – I should be supportive, right? Boyfriends go to their girlfriends’ performances. It’s believable.”

You cross your arms, trying to play it off, but your chest is doing this stupid flutter thing that feels way too alive. “You don’t have to. It’s just boring arts stuff. No one from school would even see.”

Jake raises an eyebrow, smirk tugging at his lips. “So? Maybe I just want to go.”

Your mouth opens, closes. “You don’t even like ballet.”

He shrugs. “I liked yours.”

And there it is – those five stupid words that make your pulse trip over itself. But you convince yourself that it’s the heart of 13-year-old you and not 18-year-old you, of course. It’s not logical and even plausible in this timeline now. You roll your eyes too fast, too defensive, too flustered. “That was, like, forever ago.”

“Still counts,” he says, pushing himself away from you. “Rule stands.”

You glare up at him, but he’s already walking backward, grinning like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Fine,” you call after him, trying to sound nonchalant, but your voice cracks a little. “You’ll regret it when I dance for one hour straight.”

He winks. “I never did.”

˚ ༘♡ ⋆。

Tip #8: Abide by the fake girlfriend etiquette.

When you were 10, things were simple.

Evan was 12, Jake was 11, and you were just the tag-along kid with the pink backpack and juice box, sitting cross-legged on the sidelines while they kicked around a soccer ball. Jake used to wave at you from the field before every practice – grinning, hair sticking to his forehead, yelling, “Watch this!” before missing half his shots but celebrating like he’d won the World Cup anyway.

You’d clap until your palms stung. His other flock of friends were there too, boys just as rowdy supporting him. Yet he’d always come running over to you and Evan first, all flushed and sweaty, asking, “Well? How’d I do?”

And you’d giggle, cheeks warm. “You were cool.”

Evan, naturally, ruined everything by aggressively poking your cheek. “You like him, don’t you?” You puffed your cheeks, shaking your head hard enough to make your ponytail whip around. “Do not!”

You snap back to the present just as you’re walking to the bus station, bag slung lazily over your shoulder, earbuds in. The air smells like asphalt and afternoon rain when your phone buzzes.

Jake Sim. You hesitate before answering. “What?”

“Hey,” he says, tone way too casual for your liking. “You gotta show up at my practice.”

You stop walking. “What, why?”

“Cheer’s here,” he says simply, and you can hear the exasperation through the line, like you can already see the image of girls swarming, and eyeing him down. You groan, tipping your head back. “Jaeyun, I have homework. Just let them.”

“Dude, that’s not fair,” he fires back without missing a beat. You roll your eyes so hard it’s almost audible. “Practices are not part of the rules.”

“Wow,” he says, fake offended, scoffing, overly dramatic, just the way he is. “You’re really gonna let your boyfriend play to a thirsty audience?”

“Fake boyfriend,” you correct sharply and he ignores you completely. “Field. Fifteen minutes. Look cute.”

“Jaeyun –”

The call ends.

You glare at your reflection in the black screen for a full five seconds before groaning out loud, clutching your bag tighter. “I hate him,” you mutter to no one.

But fifteen minutes later, you’re trudging your way across the field anyway. Of course you are. You’re a woman of your word, even with the guys you hate and used to like and have some stupid constitution with because you’re fake dating him. Junior year is crazy and stupid, and whatever you are now is beyond normal to even be analogous to be compared to other kids your age. You used to believe you’re smart, but now you feel like you’re one red wig away from looking like a clown anyway.

Okay, maybe you glanced a few times in the mirror before getting here. Not that you were trying to impress. Of course not. But when he sees you, you can’t help but think if you should’ve fixed your hair a bit more, your top and shorts – just to look part of whatever this is. 

Early September this year was unusually cold, but you blame the dawn. You tug your knitted cardigan closer as you find your way to Jake, who was already warming up on the field. Jake notices you instantly, breaking away from his teammates. He jogs over, breath visible in the chill, that easy grin already pulling at his lips. “You look ridiculous,” he says first thing, eyes flicking over your outfit. “It’s cold tonight.”

You sigh, rubbing your arms. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t particularly planning to stay at school beyond dismissal time, you know.”

He hums, nodding toward the sidelines where his duffel bag sits and you follow his gaze. “There’s a hoodie in there. You can wear it.” He says in a way that was more of a casual exchange than a proposed act.

You blink at him, unimpressed. “I’ll live.” You start toward the bleachers instead, but before you get far, his voice follows you – lazy, casual, loud enough for a few heads to turn. “Hey, get my wallet from the bag pocket and buy yourself coffee from the vending machine.”

You stop mid-step. What the fuck? Then you remember – right, act. You’re the supportive girlfriend. This is just theater and people like seeing that, the whole princess treatment.

You exhale through your nose and keep walking, pretending not to notice the amused looks from his teammates. You’re halfway up the bleachers when his voice rings out again, louder this time:

“No good luck kiss?”

You freeze. Half the field turns to look at you. You feel your face heat up, and you swear you hear someone whistle. You glance over your shoulder, glare sharp enough to cut through the cold. “Later, loser!”

Jake just grins – wide, boyish, triumphant – before jogging back to the field.

You can feel the eyes on you the moment you sit down. The cheer team is scattered nearby – half of them pretending not to notice, half of them definitely noticing. Whispers ripple between them like wind through grass, and you’re used to it or at least, you pretend you are.

Except there’s one girl who doesn’t join in. She’s sitting cross-legged on the bench, scrolling through her phone, totally unbothered by your presence. No sideways glance, no whispered comment, not even a flicker of curiosity.

She’s pretty. The kind of pretty that takes work but in an effortless way – soft waves that clearly came from a salon blowout, glossed lips, lashes that catch the light every time she blinks. You can tell she smells expensive, like vanilla and something floral. The kind of girl who journals at cafes and has a curated Instagram feed. 

You don’t even need to ask. You just know. That’s her. The cheer girl. And honestly, how could Jake not like that?

You press your lips together, dropping your gaze back to your notebooks and textbook. The game starts – cheers start their own practice drills, whistles are blown, the dull thud of shoes against turf – but you don’t care. Your pencil scratches against paper as you wrestle with pre-calculus instead of your own thoughts.

As the sky deepens into navy, the air turns sharper, colder. You rub your hands together, glance once, then twice, at Jake’s duffel bag on the sidelines, staring at you with temptation and oversized comfort and warm caffeine. The hoodie’s right there. He did offer and he did tell you to buy coffee.

You could. No one would even think twice.

But you don’t. Because this is fake – you’re fake, and letting yourself get comfortable with the pretend label feels like the first step into something stupid. 

You straighten in your seat, pull your cardigan tighter, and tell yourself your support here is enough. You deserve that much self-respect because this is an act, no need to be comfortable when you’re already deep in the pretend. So you keep your head down and keep working because pre-calculus sure as hell isn’t going to solve itself.

When the final whistle blows and you’ve finished the final question, flipping the cursed material closed, the soccer team is dispersing and Jake’s jogging towards you like he used to with Evan beside you, and still with that grin like he’s in the middle of impressing you.

“I scored half the team’s points in the practice game.” 

You raise a brow without looking up right away, feigning disinterest as you tuck your pencil in your case, and zip your bag closed. “Congratulations,” you say flatly. 

Jake huffs a laugh, hands on his hips, jersey clinging to him, hair damp with sweat. “You’re so supportive,” he says, sarcasm dripping. “Really feeling the fake girlfriend energy.”

You finally look at him, which was a mistake, because he should reek of sweat and look disgusting, but he’s neither. “Well, it’s not like I was supposed to actually enjoy being here.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he shoots back. “You didn’t even look up once.”

“Pre-calculus,” you reply, lifting your notebook slightly like evidence in court. “Some of us are trying to pass.”

He grins again, easy and boyish, and it makes something uncomfortable twist in your stomach. It’s cold, okay. That’s why.  “You’re ridiculous,” he says, but his tone’s softer this time.

“So I’ve heard.”

Jake crouches down a little, eye level with you now, his breath still uneven from the run. “You’re cold,” he murmurs, less teasing, more observant when his eyes trail to your hands and unmanicured nails. “Told you to take my hoodie.”

You shrug, refusing to meet his gaze. “Didn’t need it.”

“Right,” he says, unconvinced. He sighs, which you believe is the disappointment of you not playing further into the GF act yeah, obviously. “You look like you’re about to catch hypothermia out of spite.”

You snort, finally standing up and slinging your bag over your shoulder. “It’s called dignity.”

Jake tilts his head, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, taking his duffel bag as well. “You and your dignity are both freezing.”

You roll your eyes and start walking toward the gate, and he falls into step beside you like it’s second nature. It’s annoyingly easy, the way he matches your pace – not too fast, not too slow – and you wonder how something fake can feel this familiar already.

You’re on your way to the school gates, about to part ways with Jake when he calls you. You turn, confused. “What.”

He points to the parking lot to where he’s heading, and you shiver. Then you realize. You, Jake, Bronco, outside people’s field of view which eems excessive and unnecessary, maybe even scary.

“I can take the bus.” You nod, turning your heel but he laughs under his breath, that low, knowing sound that always seems to find its way under your skin. “You think I’m gonna let my fake girlfriend take the bus at night?”

You roll your eyes, pretending to scoff even though the corner of your mouth threatens to curve up. “You don’t have to, Jaeyun. You’ve done your civic duty. Played soccer, annoyed me, performed for the crowd – gold star.”

He shakes his head, walking backwards a few steps again, the parking lot lights catching the edge of his grin. “Get in the car, angel,” he says, teasing but somehow gentle, like it’s a line he’s not even aware sounds too easy on his tongue.

You blink. “Bro, I said no calling me –”

“Get in,” he interrupts, unlocking the Bronco with a beep. “You’re cold, and I have heated seats.”

“Wow,” you say, hugging your cardigan tighter to hide the way your pulse jumps, like it would help, like it could also stop the butterflies. “Bossy and selfless.”

Jake opens the passenger door for you, mock bowing. “It’s called good fake boyfriend etiquette.”

You sigh, fighting a smile as you walk over, trying not to show how much warmer it feels just standing near him. “Fine,” you mumble, brushing past. “But this doesn’t mean I owe you anything.”

He leans against the doorframe, eyes gleaming under the dim lights. “I can take a ‘later, loser’ as payment again,” he says softly, the hint of a smile ghosting over his lips.

You shake your head, pretending to be exasperated – but you still say it, barely above a whisper. “Later, loser.”

And the way his grin widens – just slightly, like he’s trying not to let it show – makes the night feel a little less cold.

It’s the second Sunday of the month, so you do the task of buying groceries. Everything’s as planned – except you don’t even know why you’re… sorta doing this out of planned. The list in your Notes app says “bread, toothpaste, detergent, blah blah essentials” and yet your cart is full of snacks you swore you’d stop buying, instant noodles, and a new body wash that smells really good. Right, as well as the basket loads of sweets that you swore you’d cut because you cannot live that sugary life anymore. 

The gray sky was hanging low, the grocery aisles nearly empty except for parents dragging their kids and college students attempt at adulthood. And the manager’s trying, okay? With the new pop music that’s hot in the radio, but they need to put the decade old speaker to rest.

You’re halfway through the snack aisle when you see him. Out of your plan because you look half-dead and it’s just embarrassing. He doesn’t though, because he never does. Jake’s hoodie is up like always, sleeves pushed past his wrists, a basket in one hand and a can of Pringles in the other like he’s been standing there deciding between flavors for ten whole minutes.

You blink, hoping maybe you’re hallucinating. Because why the hell is this dude suddenly everywhere? Like, sure, he always has been everywhere ever since the beginning, but it’s so frequently this time that it feels intentional. Why would you two be in the same aisle in the same grocery store at the same time?

He spots you, and that familiar grin pulls at his face, amused and wide that pulls his cheeks up. “Oh my god,” he says, like he’s genuinely shocked. “You actually grocery shop.”

You roll your eyes, pushing your cart forward, attempting to make this as trivial as possible. “Yeah, I do basic human things sometimes.”

But he doesn’t let you because he starts walking beside you, basket swinging lightly from his hand while you push the heavy cart. “Didn’t take you for a domestic type.”

“I’m not,” you say. “We just ran out of cereal.”

Jake hums, looking into your cart. “And chocolates, chips, ice cream, coffee pods, three packs of different drinks – real essentials.”

“Are you stalking my cart?” You glare up at him.

“Maybe.” He shrugs, grinning. 

You huff a laugh under your breath.

The aisle hums with fluorescent light which flickers sometimes, begging to be replaced. Your wheels squeak every few steps and the old front casters decides a mutiny to turn left when you mean right. However, Jake doesn’t leave. In fact, he follows you to the next section, sometimes he stays quiet and sometimes he’s still talking about nothing – milk prices, the weather, some inside joke you actually don’t get – like it’s the most normal thing in the world to tag along when your fake boyfriend just happens to bump into you at the grocery.

“Shouldn’t you leave me alone.” You say it not as a question but out of exasperation.

“Nah.”

You move on, pretending to check labels, but your focus is gone. You can feel him a few steps behind you, basket getting fuller with things he clearly didn’t come here for, looking at things he probably doesn’t care about. Simply because you’re here and he chose to be there too.

By the time you reach the checkout, he’s still there. He helps you unload your stuff onto the counter like it’s habit, then quietly plucks out the ice cream and sets it aside.

You frown, looking up at him. “Hey, that’s mine.”

“I’ll carry it,” he says simply, not even looking at you. “So it doesn’t melt.”

He pays for his things, and you both head out – the automatic doors sliding open, letting in the smell of rain. The parking lot’s damp, glowing faintly under the streetlights. The air is cold in a way that it seeps into your sleeves and makes you hold the bags tighter, and Jake falls into step beside you, shoulders brushing just barely, like he’s not really thinking about it. 

It’s drizzling and the droplets catches on your hair and lashes before you realize it. There’s a beat of silence before he lifts his hand slightly over your head, his hoodie sleeve brushing your hair as if to shield you from the drizzle. Not quite touching – but close enough to make you look up at him.

You blink up at him, caught, but he’s looking somewhere else, pretending to study the clouds. “There,” he says casually. “Problem solved.”

You roll your eyes, but your voice comes out a little softer. “That’s overreacting.”

“Yeah,” he says, grinning. “But at least you’re dry.”

With an arm over your head, you both head to your car. He helps you with your bags because you clearly have gotten way more than what your list said you needed. He tucks them in your trunk for you, smirks just a little when he sees your still very fucked bumper.

“Still haven’t fixed this?” he asks, tapping the dent lightly with his knuckles.

You roll your eyes. “Leave it alone, bro.”

Clearly, he laughs at that, bending a little and just adds a quiet comment about getting called ‘bro’. 

You adjust your bag, trying not to look at him when he nudges your shoulder lightly with his own. “See you, bro,” he says, soft. And when he walks the other way, ice cream still in his hand, you realize your groceries are lighter but your chest isn’t.

You’re gonna kill him. He stole your ice cream.

Fuck ass alarm clock, actually. For not ringing. And then, you missed the first bus but seriously, you’re not driving to school. Not when your bumper’s still fucked (repair shop said one month at least before it’s back to good condition) for the whole school to see.

You’re sprinting through the campus, late, backpack bouncing, hair barely held together by a clip that’s losing the will to live. The school is crowded today – student org booths, food stalls, music, chatter – everything you’d normally love if you weren’t racing the bell. 

And then – bam. You collide into someone hard enough that your said dying claw clip flies out of your hair.

“Oh my god, I’m so –” you start, but the words die somewhere in your throat. Because the girl in front of you is gorgeous. Effortlessly so. Tousled chestnut hair with blonde highlights (religious monthly retouch, you swear), glossy lips, eyes lined just enough to look like she woke up perfect. And you know her. You know her.

Jake’s practice. The girl who didn’t look at you. The one who acted unbothered while the others whispered. Her.

She smiles, soft and polite, like you didn’t just crash into her soul-first, like you’re not something that’s barely holding herself together while she’s the human embodiment of that Vivienne Westwood tartan in Pinterest. “Hey,” she says, voice smooth. “I see you around sometimes, but we’ve never officially met.”

Your stomach sinks. Oh, that line. The ‘I know exactly who you are’ line dressed up as small talk because no one actually ever says that to someone they bumped into even if they’ve seen them around in campus. It’s intentional, and meeting you was on purpose.

You force a smile, straighten your bag, try not to sound like you swallowed air wrong. “Right. Yeah. Sorry, I’m –”

“Yeah, I know,” she says easily, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, effortlessly, the kind of way someone like Jake Sim would like. “I’m Vivienne.”

Of course she is named the way she looks. Of course her name sounds like luxury brand. You’d half expect violins to start playing behind her and maybe even you’d start performing Giselle right there on the pavement, tragic and delusional, with her as the hauntingly beautiful lead.

You nod, flustered. “Nice to meet you. I gotta – I have class and –”

Her smile is gentle, too gentle, like she’s not even trying to compete because why would she need to? “Oh, sorry! Didn’t mean to hold you up. See you around, okay?”

You manage a half-wave before turning and bolting toward the hallway, heat crawling up your neck. You just met the girl who’s probably starring in Jake Sim’s next romantic subplot – and you looked like a winded raccoon doing it.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆。

Your footsteps echo down the nearly empty hallway, the faint hum of chatter spilling from open classroom doors. You’re just minding your business, totally normal, completely fine – until you see Jay.

And of course, he’s not alone. He’s leaning against the wall, head tilted slightly, smiling at the girl beside him. She’s laughing softly, one hand brushing his arm – it’s all so cinematic.

And then – just your luck – his eyes flick to you.

Oh no. Oh no.

You weren’t supposed to be here, alone, empty-handed, totally boyfriend-less. Because what kind of person fakes a relationship to their ex and then gets caught solo in the hallway while he’s out there looking like a K-drama poster? And your competitive ass would not lose to that. You swear you can feel his stare linger, assessing, amused – like he knows, like he’s already caught you in your own lie and that you suck and you’re still a sucker for him, the two-year-old letter was still the very symbol who you used to be and are now. 

And then, you spot Jake. Thank god.

He’s walking down the opposite end, surrounded by his usual crowd, voice loud and laughter louder, sleeves rolled up, looking every bit like the boy everyone somehow orbits around. 

Your stomach twists. This is a bad idea. This is the worst idea. But Jay’s still there.

You feel it – that lingering awareness, that quiet amusement burning into your back – and suddenly, standing still feels worse than anything else. So you move.

You cut through Jake’s friends without really looking at them, fingers wrapping around his sleeve, pulling harder than you mean to. He stumbles mid-laugh, words cutting off as you pull him out of orbit and straight into you.

“Hey –” he starts.

You don’t give him time.

You back up against the lockers, the metal cold against your back when you press, his arm instinctively bracing beside your head to keep himself from knocking into you. He’s close – closer than either of you planned – breath warm, eyes wide with surprise.

Your heart is trying to escape your ribcage.

You tilt your head up, voice low, urgent. “Kiss me.”

Jake blinks. 

His eyes flick over his shoulder, quick and assessing – the hallway, the people, the goddamn fucking context as to why you’re acting the way you are – before landing back on you. Something shifts in his expression, seriousness cutting easily through the teasing.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs.

You nod surely.

That’s all it takes before he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, gentle and grounding. His hand settles lightly at your waist, steadying you, like he knows your legs might give out otherwise. Then he presses another kiss, lower this time, just on the bridge of your nose.

For a second, the hallway fades. You’re too aware of the way his breath ghosts your skin, the warmth of his palm, the fact that this feels… stupidly good.

When he pulls back, your eyes meet. There’s a beat where neither of you says anything and the air feels thick with something unspoken, something that doesn’t fit the excuse you just used. Jake studies your face like he’s trying to read it, then his mouth curves into a soft smile.

He reaches up and ruffles your hair, affectionate and familiar, like how it’s always been. He pulls away, putting a close but safer distance between you two.

“There’s a party later,” he says casually, thumb brushing your sleeve. “I’ll drive you.”

You scoff, leaning away just enough to breathe again. “I can’t. I have a paper due in, like, two days –”

“Hey,” he cuts in, grinning. “Contract.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he steps closer again, quick and deliberate, and presses a kiss to your cheek. It’s brief – almost teasing – before he pulls away entirely.

“Think about it,” he says, already backing up. “See you.”

You freeze, like someone just ripped the air from your lungs. Heart hammering, brain fizzing. 

And then, just out of the corner of your eye, you notice her. Vivienne who’s glancing at the scene, calm, composed, not giving anything away. For half a second, your eyes meet just before she turns her head and walks away, graceful as ever, leaving you blinking against the lockers.

Okay, yeah, that’s why. Obviously.

You want to punch him. You also want to melt. Both, simultaneously.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆。

The houseparty is loud and bustling from the inside – the kind you eye while walking past when you’re supposed to head for the convenience store at 10 p.m. Yet you’re here, standing by the entrance, Jake at your side while you tug at the hem of your low cut dress. You glance at yourself in the hallway mirror half a dozen times ever since you’ve gotten here – which is less than two minutes ago. 

Jake’s there too, just beside you, in a simple bomber jacket over a white shirt. You fidget with your hair, messing with a strand of hair that’s already fine, and it’s definitely not helping you feel more composed.

“You look good,” Jake says suddenly, low enough that it feels like it’s meant just for you, and not the thrumming crowd around you. For a moment you think it is, to help you not look so rigid beside your supposed boyfriend.

You glance at him, slightly flustered, trying to hide the flutter in your chest behind a scoff. “Thanks,” you murmur, not daring to let the hint of a smile slip.

“Not that you’d notice,” he adds, tilting his head, eyes flicking over the curve of your hips and the way your hands twist nervously. “You think too much.”

You can’t help it – a small, almost embarrassed laugh escapes, and you tug the dress down a bit, just enough to remind yourself that you’re standing here in front of Jake Sim, who somehow makes it impossible to act like you’re not completely aware of him.

Again, you think about how this is a bad idea. The whole fake dating thing. Because it’s Jake Sim and not just some random dude, it’s someone people know – which is not your kind of thing, and it does make you a bit nauseous when you think too much about it. Something about the fact that you’re pretending to be in love felt so wrong, like it’s going against a sacred scripture. At least, in your world, you are. Because when did something as pure as the romantics and butterflies have to be an act.

You let Jake guide you further inside, the bass of the music and laughs vibrating under your feet. Lights flash against faces you recognize, people who seem to exist on a higher plane of social gravity and took Instagram curation as serious as resumes. You stick close to Jake, letting him pull you along like a practiced partner in a dance you’re quite close to mastering.

“Drink?” he asks, voice low as he leans a little closer so only you can hear. He gestures toward the kitchen where a small crowd has gathered, laughter spilling out like a current. You nod, letting him pull you through the current.

Inside, the kitchen is chaotic but manageable – half-empty bottles, solo cups clattering on the counters, someone talking loudly about a prank from last week. You grab a cup and fill it with the fizzy liquid in the suspicious fishbowl at the middle of the counter – you only assume its safety from the hospitalable set-up.

“I ran into Vivienne the other day,” you say as if you’re trying to sound like you’re just passing the time.

Jake pauses with his cup halfway to his lips. “Oh. Okay,” he mutters, low and clipped, uninterested with the way he continues to drink, and how he doesn’t ask anything nor even glance back at you.

You frown slightly, but decide to keep going anyway by pressing on like a good narrator in your own story. “She’s… really pretty.”

His posture doesn’t change, he’s still relaxed against the counter but the way his fingers tighten slightly on his cup betrays something. You notice because you always notice things about Jake.

You scoff a chuckle, failing to act nonchalant. “She’s, like, perfect. For a guy like you.” 

Jake lets out a soft, almost amused sigh, finally loosening his shoulders a fraction. “A guy like me?”

You shrug, letting a smile twitch at the corners of your mouth. “Yeah. I mean, don’t the soccer captains usually fall for the cheer captains?” You drink the fizzy liquid, juicy with the alcoholic after taste – you hum at its surprisingly nice flavor.

Jake scoffs, and for a moment, he leans back a little, tilting his head as if weighing how much he should entertain this conversation. “Well, you’ve been reading too much romance novels, that’s for sure.”

You grin, sipping your drink. “It adds… flavor. Like a plot twist.”

He tilts his head, gaze locking on yours. It’s tall, steady, and a little intimidating in how calm he looks while you stare up at him. “Okay,” he says slowly, “then what about this plot twist?”

You freeze a little, trying not to overthink the weight in his tone and the way his eyes stay on you while you attempt to not look stricken. Your emotions move without authority, and suddenly you feel tingly when you look at him. But before you can respond, someone calls his name from across the room. He exhales, and does not waste a second longer to look for the source, slipping into the crowds for a more sensible conversation with his friends.

You take the cue, moving away into the crowd, thankful that the tight kitchen which reeks of questionable alcoholic beverages no longer becomes your stage of frightful beginnings. The living room feels spacious and easier, so you let yourself collapse onto the couch, settling in, feeling your tensed shoulders finally relax. Your drink fizzes in your hand, a cold reminder that you’re still very much here, alive, and playing a role of a dangerous act.

For a moment, you just sit there, letting the noise of the party blur around you, watching the way Jake moves through it, impossible to ignore even when he’s not looking at you. He easily mingles with the people, while you find yourself thinking too much in helpless solitude.

You might have been too lost in your thoughts because you don’t realize the presence sinking just a few feet away from you. And it’s nothing, really, until you look over and it’s Jay.

Okay, seems scandalous, because you’re both (essentially) seeing other people and this is too close for comfort. Though you don’t leave, even when he meets your eyes. 

He advances quick, starting with a friendly smile. “So, you and Jake?” His tone isn’t pointed or bitter – it’s just curiosity, and you laugh like you’re out of breath. Mostly because you are, but you cannot warrant a reason why. 

“Yeah.” you manage, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Since… when?” he asks, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. It’s not a jab – no. You know he’s thinking about the timeline: when Jake was always around, when he got there, when he left, and how it all fits together.

Honestly, yeah, it’s weird. 

You take a sip of your drink, steadying yourself. “Okay, so…” You grin a little, and it’s all part of the script you and Jake agreed on. “It kind of just happened. Evan left, and Jake and I got closer, hanging out more. That’s all. Nothing else crazy.”

“Yeah, I just,” he shrugs, eyes flicking down. “I just needed to piece it together, you know? He’s been around forever and then I came along. And when I left, Jake’s just… there. I guess I just wanted to know I wasn’t…”

“A placeholder?” you finish softly, your tone teasing but gentle.

He huffs a laugh, sheepish. “Something like that.”

You shake your head, smile easy. “No, Jay. It’s not like that.”

“I know.” He laughs, you shake your head. 

“There was space between timelines.” you mean for it to sound reassuring with the way you say it, and it does. He smiles, small and almost shy, and for a second, it’s familiar.

“Okay,” he says finally, nodding. “Good. We’re good.”

You chuckle, the corner of your mouth curling up. “Yeah. We’re good.”

Silence, but not the kind that’s not uncomfortable – that never happens with Jay. It’s the kind that makes you remember why it worked between the two of you before, and you think that softness you had for him for 1 year was always going to be there (in the corner of your heart).

He clears his throat. “How’s ballet?”

You blink. “Huh?” Then, softer: “Oh. Yeah. Still good. Not as consistent lately, but… I still love it.” You nod, more to yourself. “It’s nice to still have it.”

He smiles. “You always looked like you belonged there.”

You laugh, half embarrassed. “Yeah, well. I try.” Then, because you’re curious – or maybe because you want to know if he’s happy as the way long time friends do it – you ask, “How about you? How are you and –”

But before you can finish, a voice cuts through.

“Hey.”

You turn. 

Jake’s eyes flick between the two of you, quick, assessing, like he’s walked into a scene he doesn’t quite understand. 

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says, hands in his pockets. “Everything okay?” 

Jay leans back, “Yeah, man. Just catching up.”

“Right,” Jake says, and it’s not sarcastic, just… uncertain, which makes you sink into the cushion. His gaze lingers on you for a second longer before he nods. “Catching up.”

The air shifts, though it’s not awkward, just suddenly aware. “Yeah.” you pause and smile too quickly. “Just catching up.”

And that’s it – no one says anything else which is more distressing than it is good. The silence hums between you three, heavy and delicate at the same time. Jay’s hand drums lightly on his knee and Jake’s thumb grazes the edge of his pocket. You pretend not to notice the way Jake’s still looking at you like he’s trying to figure out what he just walked into. And maybe, if you’re honest, you don’t really know either.

Jay glances at his phone, the screen lighting up his face for a second. “Hey, I should probably head out,” he says, standing and giving you that small, polite smile. You nod, maybe too quickly. “Yeah, of course. I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah.” he looks at Jake for a second, something unspoken flickering in the air, then back at you. “Take care, okay?” 

You smile, small. “You too.”

He waves lightly before slipping into the crowd, and just like that, he’s gone. The space he leaves behind feels heavier somehow.

Jake’s still standing there, watching the retreating figure like he’s waiting for something else to happen. Then he lets out a low breath, half a laugh but not quite. “So…” he says, lowering himself onto the couch beside you, not in the Jay-feet-away, the Jake-way with your legs touching, and it makes your breath hitch a little. “What was that?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What was what?”

He tilts his head, studying your face. “That. You and Jay. You looked like –” He pauses, searching for the word, a corner of his mouth twitching. Then he shrugs like he’s really trying to look nonchalant. “Like something.”

You huff, defensive without meaning to be. “We were just talking.”

Jake lets out a small laugh, then he’s shaking his head while looking away. “Right. Just talking.”

You don’t answer. You can just feel how close he is now – the space between you shrinking until you can smell the faint trace of his cologne, especially when he leans back, arm resting on the back of the couch, failing to be casual. 

Then his knee brushes yours, and you face him with narrowed eyes. It feels as if he’s meaning to get close subtly even though it isn’t subtle at all. His jaw flexes slightly, eyes flicking away from you for a second.

Then, finally, he sighs, straightening. “It’s getting late.” He glances around the room, unimpressed. “And this party sucks.”

You manage a small laugh, bored and unamused. “Yeah. Kind of does.”

He stands, slipping his hands into his pockets, that easy Jake posture you know too well. “Come on. Let’s go.”

You hesitate, but he’s already headed for the door regardless. The room feels too loud, too crowded, and following him feels like the only option that makes sense rationally and irrationally.

You follow him out – through the hallway, past the half-empty red cups, the fading music, and people that tell him to stay – and into the cooler, quieter night that welcomes you with a crisp breeze. It actually wasn’t that late, only a quarter until 11, much unusual from the time he’d leave. You wrap your arms around yourself the way you always do, still following him while crossing the cold street, looking over everything before it moves to the back of Jake’s head.

The car’s parked out front, headlights catching the faint shine on the wet pavement. Jake unlocks it without looking back, the familiar beep echoing softly in the dark.

You walk to the passenger side, exhaling the chill of September through the mist of your breath. 

“So what did you guys talk about?” Jake breaks the silence while he rounds the front of the car, his voice casual but not really. He stops by the driver’s side, glancing at you over the hood.

You blink, hand already on the door handle. “What?”

He shrugs, unlocking his side and sliding in. You open the passenger door and climb in, the car greeting you with that faint leather smell and the low hum of the engine warming up. 

“You and Jay.” He says it simply, but there’s something underneath – something easy to miss if you weren’t listening closely – but thank God you actually don’t listen close enough and know nothing about his tone because you don’t care enough for that obviously.

Yeah, duh.

“Nothing,” you answer, buckling your seatbelt. “Just caught up. He asked about ballet.”

Jake hums, nodding like he believes you, though you can tell he doesn’t fully. His hands grip the wheel lightly, thumb tapping against the leather. “Right. Ballet.”

You glance at him, raising a brow, “Why do you sound like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t believe me.”

He lets out a small laugh this time, the kind that sounds like he’s trying not to sound bothered. “I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t have to,” you mutter, looking out the window. The reflection of the streetlights flickers, blurring in the glass.

Jake exhales, eyes still on the road. The car’s warming up and not moving, so you two sit in the boiling evidence of your bad decisions and the overcomplexities of trivial matters.

“I’m not –” He stops himself, jaw tightening before softening again. “Forget it.”

“No, what?” you press, turning to him.

“It’s nothing.” He glances at you briefly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, like he’s really trying to play it off. “Just… weird seeing you talk to your ex. That’s all.”

You blink, processing it, because that’s not something you thought you’d hear tonight – least of all from Jake. “Does it matter?”

“Well, yeah. If we’re trying to pretend like we’re dating, you’re not really supposed to be talking and getting cozy with an ex like that.”

“We were just,” you shrug, “talking. He asked about you and me. Because the timeline was kinda weird and he needed reassurance.”

He scoffs, a bit loud. Okay, way too loud than necessary volume. “Reassurance.” he repeats.

And there’s this part of you, teetering so close to the edge of asking if he’s jealous, but why would he be? Why was he acting that way? Why would it matter? His tone is weird and there’s a crease between his eyebrows, lips puckered just a little like he’s close to whining.

“It’s just, not. A good look.” he sighs like he read your mind and responded before you could ask. “It’s whatever. I feel whatever.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile, but failing a little. “You’re ridiculous.”

Jake laughs under his breath, but more disbelieved than it is amused. “Yeah, maybe.” His hand shifts on the gear, his tone becomes quieter now. “Still didn’t like it, though.”

You turn to him, surprised, but he’s already looking ahead – focused, expression unreadable. The dome light catches the edge of his profile: sharp jaw, steady eyes, lips pressed together like he’s not sure what he just admitted or got into.

For a second, neither of you say anything. The car hums softly beneath you, the night stretching quiet and long outside.

Then he exhales, mutters almost to himself, “This thing’s gonna kill me.”

Your pause and you turn to him. “What?”

But Jake just smirks, turning up the radio, avoiding your eyes like it will save him. “Nothing. You hungry?”

You stare at him, pulse loud in your ears, but he’s already pulling onto the road like nothing happened. He’s good at running away from you too, even though you’re only a center console away.

You exhale, sinking just closer down the softness of the passenger seat, unsure where the sudden need to explain comes from. “He really just asked when we started dating.”

He puckers his lips, looking as if he’s debating whether to ask further or not. Of course, he decides to feed his rumination. “And what did he say to that?” he taps the wheel, just stealing one glance at you. 

You scoff, maybe a bit disbelieved, also a tiny bit of enjoyment in whatever’s happening. “What matters was we didn’t look friendly, okay? And no one was looking.” You turn to him again even if he’s not looking back. “Not everyone has the spotlight on them 24/7 like you, Jaeyun.” 

Jake laughs under his breath, a single huff through his nose. “Spotlight, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.”

“I really don’t,” he says, though the faint grin tugging at his mouth says otherwise. “You make it sound like I’m out here doing press tours.”

“You kind of are,” you mutter. “Golden boy, soccer captain, girls whispering your name in the hallway – ring any bells?”

He chuckles, low and quiet, shaking his head. “You pay way too much attention.”

You bite back a smile. “I have eyes.”

The road hums beneath the tires, streetlights flashing rhythmically across the dashboard. The silence that follows isn’t heavy, but it’s charged – the kind that makes your chest feel too small for your heartbeat.

Later that night, when you’ve cleaned from alcohol and popular kid atmosphere, your phone buzzes from your nightstand.

When your phone buzzes again, you see Jake posted on his Instagram story. It’s you when you were fixing your dress at the mirror by the entrance of the houseparty, a candid shot you didn’t realize he took. With a caption: “my pretty girl”.

You stare at the ceiling for a long time before setting your phone down – because even when you tell yourself it’s all pretend, the thing in your chest still feels way too real.

“She hasn’t stopped.” Jake announces to you, leaning against the locker beside yours while you unload your things. 

You sigh. “It’s not my fault Vivienne-the-perfect actually isn’t a girls girl and would flirt with a taken man.” you give him a glance and try not to smile at the completely worried and concerned look on his face, like he’s clearly very offended by this revelation.

“That’s bullshit! Is that not – girl code, or whatever?” 

You close your locker and shrug. He frowns – pouts even. “She literally had her hand on my jacket and did the thing with her eyelashes. We should just try harder.”

You scoff and couldn’t control when your eyes rolled, which you hope he didn’t take for a different reason. You can’t just believe people like her existed! “I doubt making out in front of her would keep her hands off you if she doesn’t care you’re taken.”

You could’ve chosen better words, really, because now Jake’s smiling and leaning in. “Wanna try?”

Your book lands on his arm and he winces in pain, while you glare at him before walking down the hall, away from him, and to your next class.

Fake dating Jake was… easy. And that should be a good thing when you look at it in a perspective of… colleagues, or workers, or groupmates. People who are working in a system that needed to abide by a certain degree to be considerably functioning in the area of expertise. 

But in a perspective of a 18-year-old girl who’s in love easy and a hopeless romantic; it’s hell dressed in fluffy hair, easy grins, soccer practices, tall stature, kind personality (the kind your mom likes) and pretty brown eyes.

He shows up just as much as you do, in places that needed the presence of a good partner. In the school fields, classrooms, hallways, parties, games. Showing up was easy – he made it easy.

Sometimes it’s the smallest things.

Sometimes it’s the bigger ones. When it started getting harder because more were getting involved, and showing up became consistent unnecessarily.

When his mom had called you to come over to taste her baked treats – you immediately agree. You catch up and she asks mostly about school, ballet, college, and then Jake. Jake, who’s pretending he’s not eavesdropping from the living room.

You promised not letting your families know, and sure, she wasn’t asking if you were dating, but she looked at you like she was already welcoming you in their family anyway. In the “i’ll-start-expecting-grandchildren-soon” way now, mostly because you’ve always been part of the Sim when you were kids.

Jake would look at you with a kind of gaze that says sorry when he passes by to grab a glass of water. You’d shake your head and mouth ‘it’s okay’. Even though, deep down, you know it’s kind of not.

Or that time Jake was invited by your dad over for some ‘usual family barbecue night’. Usual would mean involving Evan, but he’s states away – so it’s just this kind of awkward set up of your parents plus Jaeyun. 

He’s laughing at your dad’s jokes and stories while they grill barbecue. He asks about school, soccer, and college, Jake responds easily, asks questions in return to keep it going.

You stay with your mom by the lounge while you eat your portion, and, well, ruminate your small acts of self-sabotage in the very form of barbecue night. Your mom notices, just like she always does. 

“Jake’s a good kid.” she says, testing the waters of your very deep thoughts.

You could only hum in response. Because it’s true. Which is what makes it particularly harder to fake date him.

Games were part of the contract, so you show up, of course. It was nothing crazy, just sitting by the sidelines beside the field, and cheering during the right time, screaming at the right time.

Friday nights always smell like rain and turf. The field lights blaze against the sky, and the air hums with that familiar game energy – cheers, whistles, the announcer’s voice echoing across the stands. You pull your jacket tighter and sink into the bleachers with the rest of his friends.

Jake looks very much in his element, all focus and motion, hair sticking to his forehead under the lights. He’s got that captain thing going on: steady, composed, easy smiles for his teammates, the occasional glance toward the stands. 

By the time the final whistle blows, they’ve won by a mile. The field floods with students and friends and noise, everyone rushing in to celebrate. You stay by the sidelines, waiting, watching him disappear into the chaos.

And then he finds you – sweaty, breathless, still smiling – jogging on his way.

You decide before you could think, rounding the fence and down the stairs towards the field. Not overly excessive, it’s part of the act if you really wanted to sell it, that’s what you tell yourself when the cold breeze makes you realize suddenly. 

Before you could reach him, you notice the familiar stature. Her perfect hair and perfect figure, hand brushing slightly against his arm while they talk. She’s all smiles – the perfect cheer captain – and honestly, you know they look good together. Like they make sense, more than Jake Sim and his best friend’s younger sister.

You slow down to give them space, just before she leaves. And then Jake finds you. Immediately, he walks over to you, smiling through the sweat and, well, an expression you can’t name. “She, uh, just congratulated me.” Maybe unease.

You nod, your smile coming out smaller. “Yeah. I saw.”

Jake runs a hand through his damp hair, chuckling nervously. “Didn’t even realize she was there until after the whistle. She’s… loud.”

You huff a laugh, trying to match his energy, but it’s thin. “Yeah. She’s your cheerleader.” You mean that literally, and you thank the divinity that it does not reek of bitterness.

He studies you for a moment – the way your voice dips, the slight tightness in your expression. Then, like he’s trying to smooth over something he doesn’t quite understand, he grins wider and nudges your shoulder. “You saw the goal, though, right? That was clean.”

“Yeah,” you say again, forcing the corners of your lips up. “Really clean.”

He grins, bashful and proud, but there’s still that tiny crease between his brows – the one he gets when he’s not sure what you’re thinking. The crowd’s still cheering faintly behind you, the smell of grass and sweat and aftergame chaos in the air. You should be used to it by now – the way people look at him, the noise that follows him everywhere.

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping closer, looking you over from his height. “You good?”

You blink, surprised by how easily he reads you sometimes. “Yeah,” you lie, voice light. “Are you?”

Up close, you notice the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his shoulders sag now that the adrenaline’s gone – like he’ll be sick by morning. But he’s smiling so widely at you. “Yeah, of course.” he says, as if you don’t know how fast he actually gets tired.

That easy grin places like what he’s feeling now is nothing. “Let’s get food after, yeah? I’ll even let you pick this time.”

You laugh – small but real from the amusement of his suddenness sometimes. “We don’t have to.”

Jake beams, slinging his towel over his shoulder. “Don’t play coy with me.”

Maybe you’re just overthinking. Maybe Vivienne’s hand on his arm really didn’t mean anything. And even if it does, it shouldn’t mean anything to you.

Still, when he turns to wave at his teammates, you can’t help but glance at her again – laughing with her friends, still watching him. And this time, you look away first.

Tip #9: If you have to fake-date someone, maybe don’t pick the boy you actually like(d???).

Liked. You are not the same 13-year-old girl who made stupid excuses to watch Jake beat Evan up in video games in the living room. You’ve grown out of that phase, and you know better than to be part of the crowds that fill his locker during Valentines day. 

But, maybe, you really should have taken into account who you blurted out when Jay asked who you were seeing. Because this, truly, was a predicament as it is awkward, when you finally had an eye-opening realization of who the entire campus knows you’re dating. 

Your older brother’s best friend? Seriously? Now he’s the (fake) boyfriend everyone won’t shut up about.

You hear the whispers get louder. “Wait, Evan’s sister?” and “Oh my God, they’re actually together?” followed by the inevitable, “Dude, that’s his best friend.”

And honestly, yeah. You get it. It’s weird. Messy, even. The kind of setup that belongs in some bad teen rom-com – except this time, you’re living it, and there’s no laugh track or fade-to-black scene when it gets complicated. You’re praying it doesn’t travel to Evan, whose texts you’ve been ghosting, and name have been avoiding when it gets brought up at the table. 

Your parents have been gazing a little longer, and implied multiple times the possibility of ‘someone’. But you never let it drag, quick to dismiss or retreat back to your room before it could be some topic.

What was a little harder was joining the hang outs and keeping the friends out. Not when it’s Jake Sim you’re dating – which by definition, was basically dating the entire soccer team.

It’s one of those boys nights (again) – spontaneous, loud, and absolutely unplanned. One second, you’re about to wash your face and call it a night, with your face lathered in moisturizer and serum. You’re ready for the comfort of your mattress when your phone is buzzing and he’s texting you.

So now you’re in Sunghoon’s living room – a mix between cozy and chaotic – with piles of notebooks, tangled chargers, and the faint hum of music from someone’s speaker. 

The group study isn’t as productive as it should be. Someone’s half-asleep on the couch, two of them are arguing over the whiteboard, and the rest – including you – are pretending to highlight notes that stopped making sense thirty minutes ago. 

You’re sitting on the floor, back pressed against the side of the couch, hair tied up loosely, currently chewing the end of your pen while the same sentence stares back at you for the fourth time.

Okay, no. You’ve been studying and you have been productive for the past few hours. Just not anymore when you’ve consumed 5 lessons and you’re surrounded by seniors who are bickering at each other for getting ‘this’ wrong and ‘that’s’ how you actually get the answer.

“Snacks!” Sunghoon announces as he comes from the kitchen, holding up a tray like it’s a peace offering. He sets it down in the middle of the circle and starts distributing, tossing and throwing, really. “Oh, hey, got you this one,” he adds, tossing a pack of chips your way. “Saw it on that story Lia posted – figured you liked it.”

You blink, smiling a little. “Oh, thanks –”

But before you can open it, Jake’s hand shoots out from beside you, plucking the pack from your grip. “Dude,” you protest, half-laughing. “What the hell are you doing?”

He’s already scanning the tray, unfazed. Then, without a word, he grabs another pack, the right one, the one you actually always buy, and tosses it into your lap. 

“This one,” he says simply. “You don’t even like that flavor.”

You blink at him, startled for a beat, then laugh, shaking your head. “Are you keeping tabs on my grocery list now?”

Jake just shrugs, reaching for his highlighter again, not looking at you. “Maybe.” 

The room hums with quiet conversation, pages flipping, pencils tapping. You swear your pulse shouldn’t be this loud in your ears. 

“Damn, we’re out of drinks,” Jungwon groans, standing and stretching. “I’m gonna run to the store.”

“I’ll come,” Jake says immediately, pushing himself up. Then, glancing down at you, “You want anything?”

You look up at him from where you’re sitting. “I’m good.”

He tilts his head, not convinced, and then pretends that’s not what you just said. “Your usual, then? Or –” A beat. His voice softens, almost casual. “Ice cream?”

You look up at him, blinking once, twice. You mean to say something, maybe a teasing “you don’t have to,” but the words don’t come out.

Jake tilts his head slightly, waiting. “Or both?”

It’s ridiculous, the way your heart trips over something that small. You try to play it off, the back of your pen still pressed to your lips as you shrug, then nod.

He nods too, easy, like you didn’t just short-circuit. “Got it.” Then he grabs his hoodie from the armrest, calling out to Jungwon to wait up before heading for the door, nonchalant like it’s nothing. Like you’re not going insane.

You stare down at your notes, highlighter hovering mid-air. The words blur into a jumble of letters that refuse to make sense. You realize you’re one paragraph off from where you left off but your brain refuses to process anything.

Because all you can see is him, brows furrowed, reaching across the table to swap out a snack just because he knows what you actually like. Because he doesn’t ask what your usual drink is, he asks if you want it.

And that stupid, fluttery feeling you’ve been trying to ignore for weeks creeps up again, crawling up your chest until you melt into the couch a little, pretending to reread the same line for the fifth time. When it doesn’t work, you sigh and fall back, letting the heat of your palms hide away your eyes from the rest of the world.

By the time they’re back, the air’s colder. Jungwon’s loudly announcing that Jake almost tripped on the curb because what an idiot, he wasn’t looking where he was goi– ack!, Jake’s hitting him, and your lips are puckering before you even look up because you’re in the middle of ridding him away and yet he just comes back every time.

He doesn’t even stop to talk to you – just twists the cap off your drink before handing it over, eyes still on Jungwon because they’re mid-argument about the change and who owes who, even bringing up the past 6 years when 13 year old Jake actually still very much has a balance to pay. 

His voice comes out distracted when he finally looks at you: “They didn’t have the big one, so I got two small ones.”

You blink down at the drink, the cap loosened just right, and before you can thank him, he’s already walking off toward the kitchenette. You catch the faint creak of the fridge door.

He’s putting your ice cream away first.

You don’t realize you’ve dozed off until your phone buzzes against your thigh – three missed calls, a text from your mom:

Mom 🫶: Where are you? It’s getting late.

You blink the sleep out of your eyes, seeing your disregarded textbook on the floor which must have fallen when you fell asleep. The room’s dim now, only lit by the soft glow of laptops and a lamp someone forgot to turn off, a background of key clicks and quiet murmurs as they recall their topics. The air feels heavier, quieter – half the group’s already passed out in awkward positions across the couch and floor.

You stretch a little, turning your head – and there he is.

Surprisingly, he isn’t sleeping like everyone else, but rather looks very focused. Jake’s on the couch right behind you, hoodie sleeves pushed up, one leg tucked under him, the other acting as a pillow for Sunghoon’s half-conscious foot that somehow found its way onto his lap. He’s hunched slightly over his laptop, typing something with one hand, writing notes with the other. There’s a faint crease between his brows, hair a little messy, face softened by the dim light.

You wonder what his study material is, and whether you could just stare a bit longer.

You tug at his sleeve. “Hey,” you whisper, voice still groggy. “I gotta go home.”

He looks up immediately. And he doesn’t argue, doesn’t ask why, just nods once, pushing Sunghoon’s foot off his lap with a quiet, “Move, man.” He stands, stretches, then heads straight for the fridge. You watch him grab your ice cream from the fridge, and then carefully grab your stack of notebooks from the table.

Jake leans down to Sunghoon, who’s barely awake, and murmurs, “Gotta get her home.” Sunghoon grunts something that might’ve been ‘okay, bro’ before they dap hands lazily, clearly too passed out for it.

You follow Jake out the door, the night air hitting your skin like cold water. It’s quiet, streetlights stretching in gold lines down the road.

“You don’t have to take me,” you say, hugging your things close to your chest as he unlocks his car. “It’s late, I can just–”

Jake scoffs, cutting you off with a sideways glance as he opens the passenger door for you. “Yeah, right. You think I’d see the next sunrise when your parents find out I let you Uber home?”

You blink at him, caught somewhere between flustered and fond. “You make it sound like I’m five.”

He smirks, motioning for you to get in with a nod. “Then stop needing supervision.”

You roll your eyes, but you get in anyway. And when the car door shuts, it’s quiet again – just the hum of the engine, the faint music from the radio, and the soft thunk of your ice cream settling in the cup holder after he cleared it from his things.

Jake glances over once as he pulls out of the driveway, eyes flicking to your face before the road again. “Seatbelt,” he says quietly.

You buckle up, still fighting the small, traitorous smile tugging at your lips.

Tip #10: Remember it’s not a big deal (you’ll fail).

The morning is still too pale to be real, and just the kind where tomorrow’s a Tuesday and you have 3 quizzes lined up so you actually kinda just want to die. You didn’t try either, face bare, wearing the first sweater you got from the pile, and Crocs. It’s pathetic, lowkey. It’s also the kind of quiet where footsteps echo too easily, lockers slam too loudly, and it’s feeling a lot like the monthly visit is coming. 

You’re barely awake, stacking books you don’t want to read, when a hand appears in your periphery – a paper cup in a pale brown sleeve.

You blink up. Jake. Hoodie up, hair just kind of dry, eyes a little sleepy.

“Here.” His voice is soft. Rough in that just-woke-up way. Like here’s here in a way that’s like, you know, you texted him to run an errand before getting to school and here it is. Except you didn’t, you haven’t even texted in 2 days actually.

You stare at the cup like it’s foreign currency. “What–”

“Coffee,” he says simply.

You hesitate. “Why?”

He looks down, kicks an invisible thing on the floor. “You looked like you needed it.”

That’s all. No smirk, no punchline (which you wait for) – just that, and the faint tap of his fingers when you don’t take it fast enough. But he doesn’t rush or add another half witty half mean comment.

So you finally do get it, reaching for it tentatively like you’re waiting for the joke to arrive. 

The scent: vanilla, a little caramel, smells exactly how you order it. You blink. “Uh, is this?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, hitting the locker beside yours without any real force, looking over your head from his height. 

You clear your throat, pretending to fuss with your bag, even though it’s perfectly fine. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.” He shifts his weight, shoulder leaning against the lockers. 

The hallway hums awake around you – lockers slamming, someone laughing down the corridor – but it’s all muffled. There’s only the heartbeat in your ear and the stupid warmth crawling up your neck. You’re racking your brain for something witty and rude, establish the banter you always exchanged.

Not this time. Not when he notices and remembers. Like there’s a part in his mind that’s specifically sectioned for your coffee order. He remembers and he’s so casual about it.

Jake’s watching you, your brows and nose and lips, eyes gentle in a way that makes it worse. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You nod too quickly, take a sip to hide your face. It’s perfect, of course. “It’s good.”

He smiles – not the wide, field-bright one. “Good.”

You stare at the cup again. “You’re weird.”

“Probably,” he says. “See you later.”

He just gently tugs the hem of your sweater when he passes. 

And then he’s gone – the smell of coffee and rain air trailing behind him – leaving you by your locker, awake for the first time that morning, pulse thrumming too fast for something that was supposed to be pretend.

“Hey, Jake’s shawty,” Riki says, sliding into the seat across from you with that shit-eating grin he’s so proud of. Jake’s already beside him with his tray, looking way too comfortable for someone who doesn’t even belong at this table. Your friend looks at you with exasperation and you can only return it.

You don’t even look up right away, still eating your mashed potatoes. “Don’t call me that.”

“Anyway–” he glances at Jake, smirking, “ –you’re going to the trip with lover boy here, right?”

That makes you look up. “What?” You laugh, an incredulous little scoff as you set your fork down. Because there’s no way that’s happening, not when you know Jake’s very enormous friend group would be going, consisting of those you do not hold goody-goody friendships with and a tolerable attitude to their excess thereof. “No way.”

Riki blinks, caught between amusement and confusion. “Wait – she’s not? You said –”

Jake just sighs, shoulders slumping as he shakes his head. “I told you,” he mutters, half under his breath, stabbing at his fries like they personally offended him. 

The Sim’s are just as their youngest son is: kind and hospitable. They own a lakehouse 4 hours away from the urban, and his family had always been welcoming that Jake and his friends make use of it. It had a dock that creaks when you run too fast, the canoe that always leaks a little, the porch light that stays on even when everyone’s already asleep – but it’s large and have always been cozy, making up the yearly bricks of your childhood. You’ve been there when you were kids, when Jake’s friend group was barely a group. Just you, Evan, Sunghoon, and Jake’s older brother. No teams, no cliques, no unspoken rules about who was “allowed” to come. 

You stopped going when the group got bigger with names you only knew through known Instagram handles in middle school, and something that once was your sanctuary stopped feeling like a place you belonged to. Really, you were the only girl Jake ever invited, so coming along (even if Evan was) stopped making sense and instead threaded closer to scandal.

Through the eye of the outside, Jake’s girlfriend should go. Of course, he has been attempting to convince you, while he drove you to the dance studio, held your bag, drove you back home – just any kind of bribes and sweeteners to get you to say yes, although they didn’t feel so absurd because Jake had always been sweet without the sweeteners.

You can’t help it – you bite back a grin, watching the way his jaw flexes in mild frustration. “What, were you planning without me now?” you tease, leaning forward.

Jake doesn’t look up right away. “Just thought it’d be fun,” he says finally, quiet, but there’s that lilt in his voice – the one that gives him away every time.

Riki, oblivious as ever, grins. “Oh, it’d definitely be fun. A cabin, really fucking cold lake, hot chocolate –” 

Right. Usually they’d go during the summer, but now they spontaneously decided to go during the winter break. The lake wouldn’t be frozen, just worthy of hypothermia.

You throw him a look. “It’s not working, by the way.”

Jake finally glances at you then, and there’s something small in his smile – not his usual teasing one, but the softer kind, the one that looks like he’s almost shy to have been caught hoping.

Riki, being Riki, props his elbows on the table, preparing to be the best wingman apparently.

“Yeah, I mean – the trip’s gonna be good. You know how it gets. There’s – uh –” it’s uncharacteristic of him, so it only makes you chuckle, “cold weather, everyone will have fun –” He gestures with a fry awkwardly. “Jake will totally miss you and I heard Vivienne and her friends are invited –”

You still your fork and cock your brow at him. “Really?”

Riki nods eagerly, conviction all over his face. “Yeah, like competition – ”

Jake clears his throat to hide the way he kicks Riki’s foot underneath the table, eyes flicking from you to Riki – who’s now blinking, finally realizing he might’ve gone too far. Jake’s eyes are wide, signaling the younger to shut the fuck up because clearly taunting through Vivienne’s name will not work on you, if not piss you off truly.

“What the fuck dude,” Jake mutters under his breath, voice low, before sending Riki a glare sharp enough to cut steel.

Riki holds his hands up, laughing nervously. “Fuck, went off script.”

The muscle in your jaw jumps at the realization that Jake had invited Vivienne to someplace you’ve preserved as something sacred refuge. The place where your summers lived and the air always smelled like pine and sunscreen and lake water, where you learned how to skip stones with Evan counting aloud, where Sunghoon once fell off the dock and laughed so hard he swallowed half the lake. 

It was yours before it was anyone else’s.

Why is she even invited? Since when did she get to sit on the same dock, drink from the same chipped mugs Mrs. Sim kept in the cupboard, laugh in the same rooms you once slept in with the windows cracked open?

The same place where you learned Jake, besides on the asphalt of your neighborhood. Before teams, before labels, before people like Vivienne ever had a reason to exist in his orbit and got to favorite your first-favorite-boy too. 

You don’t look up, stabbing and munching on the fries with the effort of duty to eat rather than enjoyment. Yeah you’re pissed off, not with Riki and his awkward reckless mouth, nor Jake with his friendly invites and decisions – but at yourself for letting yourself believe you could swim the damn lake called fake-dating-Jake-Sim and expect to float.

Jake’s still staring – not in the teasing way, not with that easy grin he always holds with ease; just watching you, quiet, like he’s trying to read the space between your words.

Tip #11: Listen to your mom.

With headphones on, wrapped in thick blankets, you rot in bed. Nothing better than that, usually, until your brain’s swarmed by the flies of suffering and overthinking. Your curtains are drawn shut. The soft hum of your playlist spills into your ears, dulling the outside world, like they’d help pull out the nightmares. 

Your phone buzzes once – Jake again, probably. You ignore it. It’s the plague no one has an ailment for other than avoidance and detachment.

Your room smells faintly like lavender detergent and indecision. You haven’t moved in hours (10 minutes). There’s a bowl of cereal on your nightstand – untouched, the milk soggy with regret, because life’s shitty and you’re a buildup of your worst flaws and you actually don’t know how to survive boys named Jake Sim.

There’s a knock on the door, light but purposeful. You yank the covers higher.

“Sweetheart?” your mom’s voice filters in.

You scramble to pause your music and pretend to be asleep, but your throat betrays you with a cough – dry and unconvincing, healthy and lying.

You’ve been lying to everyone for months now and you’re not sure if you could do it to the woman who can easily see through you. Your mom opens the door anyway. She stands there for a second, eyes flicking from your laptop (closed), to your cereal (dismal), to your face.

“You’re not at school,” she says gently, with the tone of someone who’s not mad. Not even concerned. Just… watching.

You groan dramatically. “I have a very contagious flu,” you mumble, stuffing your face deeper into the blanket cave.

She raises an eyebrow and walks in anyway. “Oh no,” she says, deadpan. “I’m probably already infected.”

Without asking, she kicks off her slippers and climbs into bed beside you. The mattress shifts as she settles against your side. She’s warm, familiar, her hand automatically finding your hair, stroking gently like she used to when you were little. And you could cry from this alone.

You sigh, long and full of static.

“So,” she murmurs, like it’s just the two of you in the world. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

“I’m confused,” you admit, voice small. The blanket muffles it, but she hears, which comes maternally probably.

Jake has been driving you to school, more usual than not. That’s a bearable routine – just not when he decided upon both of you to drive to the dance studio too. So, almost every single time, he’s waiting outside with the engine running.

He stays during practice, sitting on the floor with his back to it, holding your bag when you forget where you left it. Sometimes you catch him watching. When practice ends, he’s the one helping you gather your things, untying straps, carrying the extra stuff you said you can manage on your own. Then he drives you home.

He says it’s because you’re still kinda scared to drive, right? Then adds it’s fine, really, it’s not trouble.

Except it is. For you

Your mom doesn’t push. Just keeps combing her fingers through your hair until the silence makes your lungs tight like your ribcage is caging you in and that traitorous heart of yours is still growing larger.

“It’s not about Jake,” you say suddenly, a little too quickly, just to hide the fact that it is about him.

Her hand pauses, then resumes. “Didn’t ask,” she says lightly.

You roll your eyes. “You were going to.”

She chuckles. “No, but thank you for confirming.” Then, after a pause, “You know your dad and I love him, right?”

Your head shoots up. “Mom.”

“What? He’s always been around. And he’s funny! Kind. Polite. Good teeth.”

You groan again, dragging the blankets over your head like you can disappear into the fabric. “Please stop talking.”

“He makes you laugh,” she says softly. “That’s all I’m saying.”

You don’t answer. Your throat’s tight again, but for a different reason now, like you’re completely clogged and everything’s piling on top.

After a while, you say, “He invited me to go on their lakehouse again.”

“You should go, sweetie. It’s been a while.” she says.

You shift restlessly. “I don’t like his friends.”

“You can learn to like them.”

“And I don’t know what to do.”

She gives you a look. “About making friends?”

You let out a breath. You don’t have the words for it – and it’s not like you’re trying to tell her the fake dating and the not-so-fake feelings. The way Jake looked at you the other day like he knew and that maybe he didn’t know what he was doing either. In theory, it should be a good thing because then you’re both balancing on a rope that’s starting to snap, and that in itself should give you some sick kind of comfort.

Except appearance doesn’t equate reality (thanks Roy Bhaskar), and how he’s been looking and acting shouldn’t ever make up for the space he could easily fill with clarification. You know better than to fall for the theatrics of the guy every girl liked because he was too friendly and maybe too close all the time. He invited the girl he wants to get rid of! Because he’s a decent guy who’s friends with the girl who likes him and finds no faulty in that kind of order.

Mixed signals, basically. It’s not new when it came from guys who knew they looked good and even if he’d try humility, his eyes glisten with the awareness of the public's fondness for him.

Your mom doesn’t need the details. She just hugs you a little closer and says, “It’s okay not to know.”

You nod against her shoulder, the warmth of her shirt soaking into your cheek.

“But I will say,” she continues, “you’ve looked like you’re having a lot of fun lately. Real fun. Not the kind you fake.”

You close your eyes and then take a deep breath, because that sounds more like a nightmare than solace. Not here, not when the main point was to fake it, yet even then the player is fooled by his jests.

“You’re different when he’s around,” she says, almost to herself. “Softer.”

You whisper, “I wasn’t supposed to be.”

“Some of the best things aren’t,” she replies. She doesn’t exactly get what you mean and you’re thankful for that (because you will be getting an earful), that even then, she knew the right things to say.

She kisses the top of your head like she did when you were a kid with actual fevers and actual tears. Though you refuse to cry. You’re not crying for a boy who probably isn’t thinking twice about this.

“You don’t have to go,” she says. “But you might want to think about it. It might be fun.”

You lie there in silence, the question hanging like fog in your chest. Because pretending stopped feeling like pretending somewhere along the way, or maybe the truth in your heart remains that even when you believed it was gone in the presence of your feelings for another, it really hasn’t. Just kept and stagnant in a warmer, refusing to spoil. 

Your mom gets up, brushing your hair out of your face one last time. “Let me know if your flu miraculously clears up by tomorrow,” she teases.

The door clicks shut behind her, and you're left with the silence again.

You’re 9, Jake’s 10, and Evan’s 11, the perfect age for scraped knees, loud laughter, and tears you think you’ll never forgive.

It happens in the backyard. Evan’s teasing you again, something about how you “throw like a baby” when you join their catch game, and everyone laughs, even Jake at first. But then Evan goes too far by muttering something about how you’re always ruining things.

You try to blink it off, try to laugh with them. But it catches in your throat, that sharp, stupid sting behind your eyes, and before you know it, you’re crying.

“Hey!” Jake’s voice cuts through the air, a little panicked.

You’re already running toward the porch, sniffling, wiping your face with the back of your hand, muttering about how you hate all of them. The world’s blurry and hot, your chest tight in that awful way that makes you hiccup and sob.

When you turn, Jake’s there, breathless, holding the ball in his hand, dirt smeared across his cheek. He looks like he sprinted the whole way just to fix it.

“Don’t cry,” he says, voice soft and unsure, like he doesn’t really know what to do with crying girls yet. He just holds the ball out awkwardly. “Evan’s just dumb sometimes.”

You sniff, arms crossed. “He said I ruin everything.”

Jake frowns. “You don’t.”

He looks down at you then, eyes all earnest and serious in a way that 10-year-olds shouldn’t manage. Then he steps forward, small arms wrapping around you in this clumsy, tight hug. It’s warm, smells like grass and sunlight.

“Come on,” he says, holding out the ball. “We’ll team up on him this time.”

Tip #12: Never call your fake boyfriend when you’re sad.

Because apparently, he’ll show up.

It’s 11:38 p.m. when you cave – when your room feels too quiet and your chest too heavy and your notebooks are a mess on your desk and your textbooks and empty highlighters feel useless and your phone screen’s too bright as you stare at his name for a full minute before hitting call. You don’t even know why you do it. Maybe because Jake talks and doesn’t run out of things to say, and you need something that sounds like that right now.

He answers on the 6th ring, voice low and groggy. “What,” he mumbles, like you woke him up mid-dream. He’s tired from a whole day of classes and soccer practice, which had ended when the sun has long dipped. 

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Just a sniffle, quiet and shaky. “Jaeyun?”

That’s all it takes. You hear the sheets rustle, then a faint thud, and his voice suddenly sharper, awake. “Hey, hey – what’s wrong?”

You try to laugh, to make it sound stupid and lighter than it really is. “Nothing. Sorry. I just–” You sniff again, tugging your blanket tighter around you, eyes closing while the streaks of tears finally start pouring. “It’s dumb.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, “Stay on the phone.”

And before you can ask what that means, the line goes quiet – except for the sound of car keys jangling and a door closing. 

Seven minutes later, he’s outside your window, hoodie and sweatpants and all. You stare at him, eyes wide, half-horrified. “Are you insane?” you whisper-shout.

He just grins, breath fogging in the cold. “You called.”

You should shut the window or just tell him to go home because that’s the right way to do this shit. But instead, you grab a jacket and your phone, climbing out as quietly as you can. He helps you down, hands firm and warm, and before you know it, you’re in his car, city lights passing in soft blurs through the window.

You don’t even ask where you’re going, you just let him drive.

Turns out, it’s that McDonald’s on the hill, the one at the edge overlooking the city, glowing faintly like a secret that never closes. But still, it makes you smile. 

The parking lot’s almost empty, the air smelling faintly of fries and rain. Jake parks near the edge, taps the hood. “Come on.”

You climb up beside him, the hood cool beneath you. The city sprawls below, quiet and endless.

For a while, you just sit there.

In his company, with the ghost of your thoughts silenced for a moment. Like you’re saved without much attempt, all because he’s here. Then you talk, trying to make the noise in your head lighter, the thing you’ve been trying not to say out loud, because Jake always had the thing for showing up. 

“Evan’s on this full scholarship, you know that, right? My parents keep bringing it up. How proud they are. How amazing he is.” You laugh, but it sounds thin, and your voice is breaking. “And then they ask how my application for my scholarship’s going, and I just–”

You shake your head, not fast enough to wipe that tears that managed to fall. “I’m trying. I am. But it’s like nothing’s ever enough. I’m tired… and I just want a break.”

Jake doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t fill the silence like he usually does. He just listens, legs stretched out, hands in his hoodie pocket, eyes soft and focused on you like you’re saying something that matters.

When your voice cracks again, you look away, embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to –”

“Hey.” He shifts closer, voice low. “You don’t have to apologize for that.”

You nod, and before you can stop yourself, your head drops onto his shoulder. You feel him tense for a second, then his body eases. A few seconds later, he leans his head against yours, careful, like he’s afraid to break something fragile that just so happens to be you.

Neither of you speaks for a while.

Then, when he’s sure that you feel lighter and your breathing is more stable, he says softly, “You know… that trip might be your break. Like, a reset or something. Fresh air. New view.”

You laugh through the last of your tears, nudging his arm. “You never quit, do you?”

“Not when I’m right.” though he doesn’t it with smugness, just an attempt at comfort.

You sit up then, wiping your face with your sleeve, turning to him. His hair’s messy from the wind, his hoodie slightly pulled at the neckline. He looks… tired, too. Maybe he is, from school, senior year, and soccer expectations – because behind the golden name, he’s just like you. But he doesn’t look at you like this is burden, that he’d rather be in the confines of his sweet bed than the cold breeze of the city night.

He doesn’t look at you like you ruined anything.

He looks at you like this is his rest too. 

Like you are.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

He blinks. “Okay?”

“If I do well on my finals,” you clarify, trying to sound casual, but your smile is too wide for anything like that. “Then I’ll go.”

Jake’s smile starts small, just a twitch, before it grows into that bright, boyish grin that used to make you clap from the sidelines years ago, and shows the teeth your mom likes. “Then you better do well.”

You laugh, the last remnants of your vulnerability wiped by his thumb. He’s just watching you – the corners of his eyes soft, the glow of the dashboard painting his face in gold. When it finally dies down, you sigh, still smiling, and rest your cheek on his shoulder.

Under the flickering streetlight, with the city glowing beneath you and the air smelling faintly of salt and fries, you think maybe calling your fake boyfriend when you’re sad isn’t the worst thing you’ve ever done.

Tip #13: Survive hell week first.

It’s finals week. Hell week. The kind of week where your brain feels like it’s being roasted slowly over the fire of pre-calculus, history essays, and chemistry equations.

You wake up early, already rehearsing the formulas in your head before your feet even hit the floor and while you’re brushing your teeth, you swear they stack as tiles instead of the ones on your bathroom bricks. You keep scrolling through your planner like it might magically rearrange itself into something manageable – but honestly, it’s working out for you even when you’re basically brain dead with information. You’re not confident (and healthy) enough but at least you know you’d be able to answer.

Library becomes your second home. The smell of paper, ink, and desperation is sickening in a way you don’t want to admit. Every table is littered with notebooks, highlighters, pens uncapped and you’re growing tired of them all. Your desk has its own ecosystem of sticky notes and half-drunk coffees.

Every time you think you’ve conquered one chapter, three more take its place. The world outside? Frozen and inconsequential and time exists only in increments of “exam period” and “study break,” and even those breaks are spent panicking about the next exam instead of actually relaxing. 

Which, in hindsight, is really fucking exhausting and is not healthy for you.

Failure is not an option. Not when Evan Lee is your brother, succeeding in life as an ace.

Yeah you’re still doing really well and your grades are still pretty high, but the amount of times you didn’t have time because you were with Jake or at least rotting because you were overthinking about him: way too much time was spent. 

You’ve been definitely spent more time offline and… might have ghosted everyone. Even Jake. And he understood – you think – because he doesn’t bug you even when he knows where you’d be. He doesn’t show up with coffee or good luck sticky notes.

You don’t wish for them but – okay, whatever.

He just doesn’t show up and you don’t find for him. It becomes that way throughout the entire week, and although you don’t linger in the hallways, he doesn’t stop when he sees you there.

It’s weird. You overthink. 

Sometimes you’d pass one another like the deal had ended and something flipped completely. You try not to let it sting, really only because it wouldn’t make sense because you’re ghosting him and he’s letting you. A girl could only really be dramatic, okay.

This whole routine was not good for you and your social life but it was what works. Plus, it was a sort of reality check from his distractions.

Tip #14: Never trust your mom with visitors.

You’re not sure whether it was some sort of planned comedy stage or truly a well thought out exam schedule that was somehow strategic in someones perspective? Because you did try to understand why physics was on a Friday and the last exam of your week.

Sure, people liked that shit. Some. Not you. When when you’re exhausted by the studying and you’ve extinguished all your efforts throughout the entire week until there’s none left for the devil’s spawn itself. Not a good idea probably and maybe you should’ve given it more thought, but there you are, on the brink of death anyway.

Which, might be some kind of dramatic thing to say. But physics never understood you compassionately.

It’s Thursday. You’re perched on your desk, notes spread around like a desperate fortification, textbooks stacked in uneven towers. You’ve been staring at the same word problem for what feels like decades, and somewhere deep inside, you start questioning your entire grasp of the English language. Is this even a sentence? you wonder, because clearly, the words have formed themselves into some sadistic riddle meant only for the scholars of the universe.

And you didn’t notice. Not once. Because you’re dead focused, remember? You don’t see the notification.

Then the bedroom door creaks open, and you whirl around like a startled cat.

It’s Jake.

You freeze on your desk, blinking. In all his glory after ghost town, he’s here in your fucking room.

“What – what the hell – what are you doing here?” you stammer, half whispering, half shouting, standing to get to him. “Who even let you in?”

Jake just grins, slow and amused, eyes sweeping lazily over your room. “Your mom,” he says, tone too fucking annoyingly sarcastic for you not to roll your eyes. “She said you needed to cool off.”

You groan, smacking your forehead so hard it actually stings. “Oh my God.”

He laughs – quiet, low, the kind that comes from somewhere deep in his chest – and takes a slow step inside, glancing around like he’s trying to take everything in.

It’s… surreal, kind of. Seeing him here, in your space, grown and not the kid with scraped knees to muddle with your stuffed toys. The place that’s so painfully you – the fairy lights pinned along your wall, the photos taped near your mirror, the pile of books that you swear you’ll return to someday. It’s warm and soft and just slightly chaotic. You’re not messy, but you’re not exactly organized either.

Jake hums, running his fingers along the edge of your desk. “Looks different,” he says, eyes trailing across your shelves. 

You’re suddenly very aware of what you’re wearing. Tank top. Shorts. Hair messy. Unprepared for a visit from the boy who’s been messing with your brain as of late (3 months).

You fold your arms instinctively, like maybe it’ll make you less visible and bashful. “You could’ve at least texted before – you know – invading my room.”

He raises an eyebrow, that teasing half-smile appearing again. “I did. And I was literally invited in by your mom, so, less of invading.”

You give him a look.

He chuckles, glancing at the fairy lights again. “Still cute,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Didn’t think this room could fit more pillows.”

You sigh, slumping back into your chair, attempting to concentrate back despite his discernible presence behind you. “Jaeyun, you’re not supposed to be here. It’s finals week.”

Jake raises both hands in mock surrender, still laughing softly. “I know, I know. You’re in full-on scholar mode.” He walks closer though – slow, careful steps that make the space between you feel smaller and tighter. “But I figured if I didn’t see you soon, you’d forget to look after yourself.”

You roll your eyes, even though your heart’s already tripping over itself. “I’m fine.”

He glances at your desk – three empty mugs, crumpled notes, a highlighter graveyard – and raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? This looks real fine.”

You grab a pen just to look busy. “Don’t start, Jaeyun. I only have two exams left.”

Jake hums, leaning against your desk, close enough that you can smell his cologne. “That’s why I’m here.”

You blink, squinting your eyes at them. “To distract me?”

“To help,” he says simply, smiling like he knows exactly what effect that word has on you. “Or, you know, make sure you don’t forget how to chill. Or eat.”

You purse your lips. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

He licks the inside of his cheek, shaking his head in exasperation. 

“Dude, you really are impossible.” He glances back at you. “Maybe I just missed you, no?”

You freeze. For a second, you think you misheard him.

Jake doesn’t look away this time. His tone’s still playful, but there’s a trace of sincerity – like a line he’s tiptoeing past without meaning to. “You disappeared on me, angel.”

That nickname slips out like muscle memory. And God, it shouldn’t make your stomach flutter the way it does. You should hate it, because it’s part of your stupid constitution – one you set up, but you’re the one reeling in it now.

“I didn’t disappear,” you mumble, eyes dropping to your notes. “I was just busy.”

“Too busy to even text?” he asks softly, and there’s no accusation in it – just quiet curiosity.

You sigh. “You know how it gets.”

“Yeah,” Jake says, voice low now. “I know. That’s why I didn’t push. But –” He leans closer, bracing one hand on the back of your chair. “I don’t know.”

You turn your head, and suddenly, his face is right there. Too close. His eyes flicker down to your lips before he quickly looks away, smiling like he didn’t just do that.

“Jaeyun,” you whisper, because you don’t know what else to say.

He grins – small, soft, utterly devastating, teeth and dimples that could ruin everything – like you and your life. 

“Relax, genius. I’m not here to ruin your study streak. I’ll just sit here quietly and –” He gestures at the open textbook. He pauses mid-step, considering that for half a second before leaning against your desk. “How bad?”

You gesture helplessly at the notebook open in front of you, full of scribbles, eraser dust, and one very sad-looking free-body diagram. “Bad enough that I might actually cry.”

Jake hums, stepping closer to peek at your work from behind you. You can feel the faint warmth of him – close, but not too close – as he bends slightly, one hand on the back of your chair for balance.

“Ah,” he says, in that low, thoughtful voice of his. “Projectile motion. Classic pain.”

You turn, squinting up at him. “What, you know this?”

He gives you a look that’s somewhere between offended and amused. “Move over.”

You blink. “You’re kidding.”

He isn’t. He pulls your chair a little to the side and slides in next to you, the scent of his cologne faint but distracting – something like cedar and laundry detergent and boy.

You scoff. “You’re seriously helping me? You, Jaeyun Sim?”

He grins, already picking up your pen. “I think I’m pretty okay with numbers.” He glances at you, eyes glinting. “Now, what’s killing you here?”

You hesitate, pointing at the question. “This one. The angle. I don’t get how they got the answer.”

Jake hums again, his brow furrowing as he starts to explain – slowly, clearly, patient in a way that’s both unexpected and weirdly comforting. He gestures a little as he talks, tracing imaginary parabolas in the air, and when you don’t get it right away, he doesn’t tease. He just grins and tries again.

“See? You just overcomplicated it,” he says after a minute, nudging your pen toward the solution. You look back at your paper, then up at him, and realize – annoyingly – you actually did, and it’s starting to make a bit of sense. 

“Okay,” you mutter. “Fine. You’re kind of a genius.”

Jake leans back in his chair, smug. “Kind of?”

And for a few quiet seconds after that, with your playlist humming softly in the background and the faint glow of your fairy lights against the window, it feels strangely normal.

Because the problem’s on paper, but the real one’s sitting right next to you, smiling like he has no idea what he’s doing to your heart.

You continue working on the equations and solutions, finally getting the hang of it while he watches just to keep an eye for a mistake. Okay, fake boyfriends really aren’t that bad when they help with the numerical homeworks, and maybe, possibly, might not actually be the worst idea one ever had.

Jake watches you scribble down the last line, then hums approvingly. “See? You’re getting it.”

After some time, you both decided to move over your bed. You gather your notes and textbook, then you climb onto the bed and sit cross-legged near the headboard. The sheets are cold, slightly rumpled, unmistakably yours with the cute little prints. Jake’s sitting beside you, back against the pillows, long legs stretched out, your bunny stuffed toy resting on his lap like she’s part of the discussion.

He sets the book between you, close enough that your knees brush, enough to make your thoughts go static even though physics require full attention.

“Okay,” he says, businesslike, pointing at the page. “Same concept, different numbers. Walk me through it.”

You swallow. “Uh. Okay.”

You start explaining, a little shaky at first, but he listens, nodding, occasionally interrupting gently to correct you or ask why you chose a certain step. When you mess up, he doesn’t laugh, he just tilts his head, then pretends he doesn’t notice how embarrassed you look explaining.

It’s fine. It’s fun.

“Try that again,” he says softly. “You’re almost there.”

At one point, you frown at the page, frustrated. “I don’t get why the time changes here.”

Jake leans closer, shoulder brushing yours as he reaches over to tap the equation. His arm stays there, warm against your side. “Because the vertical and horizontal motions are independent,” he explains quietly. “Think of it like –”

He pauses, searching for a metaphor. “Like us.”

You blink. “What?”

He grins, sheepish. “Bad example. Ignore that.”

He continues explaining, his voice low and steady, and you find yourself focusing less on the numbers and more on how close he is – the way his knee nudges yours when he shifts, the way his sleeve brushes your arm, the way his eyes soften when you finally nod and go, “Oh. Ohhh.”

“There you go,” he says, smiling like he just watched you win something. “Told you.”

You laugh, light and breathy. “Okay. You’re officially helpful.”

He shrugs. “Fake boyfriend perks.”

You ignore him. You focus on the work on hand, writing your formulas down and then solving the problems with a focus that is straightforward and unforgiving – the kind Jaeyun gets to see while you busy yourself.

He’s across you now while you continue writing, mumbling to yourself the little keywords he mapped for you just so you wouldn’t get lost.

He smiles, inevitably.

The next problem takes longer. And you’re way too concentrated that the hair that keeps falling forward, slipping loose from behind your ear, is far from noticeable to you. Though of course, he notices.

Then, quietly, “Hold on.”

Before you can react, he reaches out and gently tucks the strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers barely graze your skin – careful, deliberate, like he’s unaware of exactly how close he is.

Your pen stops mid-sentence. You look up at him and he seems to realize what he’s doing.

Jake pulls his hand back like he’s touched something hot. “Sorry,” he says quickly, a sheepish and awkward smile already forming. “It was just – it was in your face.”

“Yeah,” you manage. “I – yeah.”

Silence stretches. Your heart is doing something unhelpful.

He clears his throat. “Uh. Continue.”

So you do, blinking away back to the number that demands your attention just so you’d finally be able to get this over with. Except now, the focus isn’t as directed – it’s in fragments, and you’re more aware when he shifts, leans close to check your work, and when he’s looking at you instead of the paper.

You finish the problem, it’s the easiest, but Jaeyun comments.

“That’s not right,” he says gently.

You didn’t notice the mistake in your work, you’re a number off, and now you’re scrambling for your eraser. 

“I know,” you say. “I just –”

When you look up at him to leave a witty reply, he’s already looking at you. No smirk or tease. Just Jaeyun.

So you automatically look down and stare at the page, pretending you’re thinking on how to move on to the next step. Except it does the opposite. Jake watches you stare at the page a little too long, eyes unfocused, pen hovering like it’s forgotten its purpose.

“Break?” he asks gently. “Just to chill for a bit, yeah?”

You hum in response, noncommittal, already shifting. You scoot down the bed and flop onto your back with a dramatic sigh, your brain is scattered like broken shards that reflect the way he’s looking at you. He’s trying to help and he has been, but you’re still distracted and nothing will cure the nuisance of a fake boyfriend you’re secretly in l–

“Oh wow,” Jake says, amused. “She’s down.”

Silence settles when you close your eyes, still pretending to be relaxed even though you’re hyperaware of every little movement and presence. Jake quietly watches you for a few more seconds, letting the soft hum of your playlist fill the spaces between breaths. Then he shifts a little closer, stretching his legs out until they lightly brush against yours.

You feel it before you see it – his fingers brushing your knee, absentminded, like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. He traces a small shape there, slow and lazy.

Then another.

Your breath catches into a breathy laugh. “Jaeyun.”

“Yeah?” he says easily, still drawing.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” He looks down at you still lying down with your eyes at him, his brows lifted, lips twitching like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You swallow. “That.”

He pauses. Just for a second. Then he stops, pulling back and starts playing with the bunny on his lap, flopping its ears. 

Then you decide to sit up, hugging your knees to your chest, letting your hair fall loosely over your shoulders. You watch him idly play with your bunny, at the way his fingers pinch the ears, how carefully he flops them back and forth. You notice how pink his knuckles are, and the difference of size between his hands and the bunny is almost comical.

Your eyes wander to his face, noticing the way his brows crease when he concentrates, the slight pout on his lips. And then you tilt your head, giving him a look that’s both playful and slightly challenging.

He catches it.

His eyes snap to yours. And you notice his pupils dilate slightly before he looks away.

You smile, small and slow, keeping your eyes on his face. You look at the high point of his nose, and the lines of his cheekbones. 

He looks back at you just to check, and when your eyes meet again, he quickly looks away. He laughs nervously, flopping the bunny more aggressively. 

“Stop that.” Jake says.

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Stop what?” you pretend.

Then he suddenly he starts punching your bunny as some sort of stress-relief, earning a gasp and laugh from you before you snatch it away from him. Then now, he flops dramatically on your bed, closing his eyes while he tries to retrieve his cool back – one you successfully stole.

You hover, just a little, because you’re still not done checking him out apparently.

You poke his cheek and he smiles so wide you can’t help but return it. “Stop what, Jaeyun?”

Jake opens his eyes slowly, stretching lazily across the bed like he owns the space. You’re sitting near his head, hugging your bunny close, knees tucked to your chest, leaning just slightly over him but not so close that it’s obvious you’re hovering.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. 

Your eyes just meet, and it’s like the world narrows until all you can see is him. 

The sharp line of his jaw, the smirk tugging at his lips, his dilated pupils that makes your chest tighten.

You blink first, maybe out of nerves, maybe because you’re caught, but he doesn’t look away. He just holds your gaze calmly.

Then, casually. 

“You’re so pretty.”

It’s not whispered nor is it shy. It’s said with that steady, sure confidence that makes your stomach flip and your heart stumble over itself.

You snicker, hiding your face behind the bunny for just a second, pulling away slightly. “Okay… back to physics,” you mumble, trying to sound authoritative even though your heartbeat is anything but. 

You straighten up, flipping open your notebook, pen poised. You try, really try, to focus. The numbers blur a little at first, your mind still tangled around his words, the way his eyes lingered on yours. Jake sits up too before casually sliding over to sit beside you. His shoulder brushes yours, and suddenly, the space you just claimed for concentration still feels scattered all over, some in his grasp.

You grit your teeth, forcing your eyes back to the notebook for numbers, angles, trajectories. You try to drown out everything else while scribbling formulas. Jake leans closer, elbow lightly bumping yours. “Check your units here,” he says, pointing at the line you’ve miswritten.

You sigh, muttering, “Yeah, yeah, I see it.” You fix it, trying to maintain a straight face.

You’re hunched over your notebook again, pen moving in a flow state, numbers lining up in a way that finally makes sense. Your brow furrows, lips pressed together in concentration as you work through this, murmuring little reminders under your breath.

Then you notice him shift beside you, and when you glance –

Jake’s chin is tucked against his chest, shoulders hunched forward ever so slightly, eyes peeking up at your face from under his lashes like a bored cat trying to look innocent. His lips are pressed together, fighting a smile.

You snort, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Stop.”

He lets out an oof and immediately commits to the bit, flopping backward onto the bed with zero dignity, arms splayed like he’s been taken out by a sniper.

“Oh,” he groans. “She hates me.”

You shake your head, continuing what you’re doing, deciding to ignore him.

After a surprisingly productive half-hour, you shut your notebook with a decisive snap. “Okay, genius,” you say. “You should go now.”

Jake pouts slightly, groaning a long one while he falls back on your bed. Then he rises, glancing at the time on his phone because he decides to be good now. “Kicking me out after all that is crazy, by the way.”

You wave him off, smiling. “Yeah. It’s still finals week, Jaeyun.”

You both climb down the stairs, forgetting completely your parents are in the living room, having just finished a show. They immediately greet him when you both get down, and seeing Jake must always flip a switch because they’re immediately smiling – well, your mother, who you are quite sure favors Jaeyun more than anyone. 

“Jake! Good to see you!” your mom chirps, eyes lighting up while she scoops her ice cream. Your dad grins, nodding. “You became her tutor, huh?”

Jake laughs, that easy, friendly laugh that makes everyone instantly comfortable, with a kind of charm so polite and likeable. He’s Jake Sim, after all. “Yeah. Just helping her out,” he says, voice smooth, the very thing that makes him easy to like and talk to.

They talk about classes, mutual friends (like Jungwon, who your mom likes, then Sunghoon, who your mom also likes), and even your parents’ favorite TV shows, nodding along, laughing at the right moments. You can see it in the way he occasionally glances at you, you try not to look back.

Your mom leans forward slightly, curious. “So, were you good with her?”

Jake nods, smile so wide his cheeks practically rip. “We did okay. She’s a fast learner,” he says with enthusiasm. 

After a few more minutes of polite conversation – Jake: still charming, careful, a little sheepish under the scrutiny – you finally wave him along. “Okay, Jaeyun, let’s get you back outside,” you say, lightly steering him toward the door.

Once you’re outside, the winter air hits. He says you should stay inside, although he also tugs your hand in his so you wouldn’t leave. You walk with him to his car, as the night’s quiet around you.

He pauses at the car door, turning toward you with a glint in his eyes. “So… one more goodbye?” he asks, voice low.

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your fluttering heart. “No. Go home, Jaeyun.”

He pouts while he leans down at you, his breath fogging in the cold, and his face way too close for someone who’s supposedly leaving. His bangs fall forward again, grazing his lashes, and he ducks his head just slightly to catch your eyes and meet your height.

“Come on,” he murmurs, lips tugging into that soft, borderline smug smile. “Just one? I was a really good tutor.”

You scoff, though your pulse jumps. “You were average at best.”

Jake hums, pretending to be offended, pouting, glancing down at your mouth. “Wow. That’s cold, baby.”

You laugh. “It’s cold, yes. Get in your car.” you shoot back.

He grins, teeth showing this time. “Well, someone won’t let me leave properly.”

You open your mouth to retort – but he gently uncrosses your arms, fingertips brushing your wrist like he’s memorizing the feeling. His hands slide up to your elbows, warm even through your cardigan. 

He leans a bit closer, voice lowering. “I’ll go,” he whispers, “but I’m not leaving without something.”

Your heart stutters. “Jaeyun.”

“Hm?” he tilts his head, innocent in the fakest way possible. 

“You’re impossible.”

“And you,” he says, smile softening, breath misting in the cold, “make me want to be.”

You exhale sharply – half laugh, half surrender. And maybe it’s the cold, or the quiet, or the way he looks at you like he’s trying really hard not to be stupidly happy (he is, he really is)  – but you rise onto your toes and press a quick, graze of a kiss to his cheek.

Jake freezes. Then his entire face lights up – hollowed cheeks, shy grin, eyes flicking away like he can’t handle it.

“That wasn’t what I meant,” he whispers, pretending not to melt, “but that was… very okay.”

You smack his arm. “Get in the car.”

He laughs – bright, giddy, a little breathless – and finally opens the door. Before slipping inside, he catches your hand again, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“Text me when you’re in your room?” he asks.

You roll your eyes. “You’re already going to text me before you get to the end of the street.”

He grins. “Yeah. Probably.” He sits, door half-closing. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Jaeyun.”

The door clicks shut. His car starts. He gives one tiny wave through the window before pulling away, and you’re left standing in the cold, smiling like an idiot, heart absolutely swept and taken into the Bronco pulling out your street.

You stay out there for a second longer, breath puffing in the cold, watching the red taillights drift down the street. The second they turn the corner, you let out a tiny, ridiculous squeal into your hands.

Your bedroom door shuts and you flop on your bed, face buried in your pillow for exactly one second before your phone buzzes.

You turn off your phone and immediately press it to your chest, kicking your blankets, because there is absolutely no surviving this boy.

honestly, if you could turn back time, you would have ignored your classmate the moment she insisted on entering this ridiculous place after classes last week. you still remembered how excited she had looked while dragging you around the cramped little shop, pointing at random bottles and charms displayed across the shelves like a child in a candy store while you only wanted to go home and finish your unfinished assignment.

then, somehow, for reasons you still failed to understand, you walked out of the shop carrying a tiny pink bottle labeled “love potion.”

and that was where your problems began.

more specifically, they began three days later when euijoo accidentally drank the entire bottle.

not one drop. not half of it. but the entire thing, which, as it turned out, was enough to completely ruin your peace.

according to the label attached to the potion, one drop alone could make someone fall deeply in love. drinking the entire bottle, however, was an entirely different matter. the effect would become stronger depending on the feelings already existing inside the person who drank it.

at the time, you hadn't thought much about that part.

you should have.

because the potion turned euijoo—your quiet crush from the literature department whom you occasionally met in the library—into the most affectionate person on earth.

for the past week, he had been following you around campus like a devoted boyfriend straight out of a romance movie. he waited outside your lectures, carried your bag without asking, constantly held your hand whenever the two of you walked together, and looked at you with so much adoration that people had already started assuming you were secretly dating.

the worst part?

he said the most insane things with complete sincerity.

“you look pretty today.”

“did you eat properly?”

“i think i could stare at you forever.”

you nearly lost your mind every single time.

one time, he had even shown up outside your lecture with three different drinks in his hands because he couldn't remember which one you liked best.

“you can just ask me,” you had told him, staring at the drinks in disbelief.

“but then it wouldn't be a surprise.”

“euijoo, you bought three.”

“i wanted to make sure you got the right one.”

you had almost cried. not because you were touched, but because you were tired.

so here you were now, standing in the suspicious magic shop again and desperately hoping the old lady had something that could return your life to normal.

the old woman hummed softly behind the counter as if she remembered the potion immediately. “ah… that one.”

hope instantly appeared in your eyes.

“so there is an antidote, right?”

“no.”

your soul practically left your body.

seeing your horrified expression, the woman laughed lightly before continuing. “don't look at me like that. the effect naturally disappears after one week.”

“…really?”

“of course.” she adjusted her glasses calmly. “although, i should tell you something.”

you immediately became suspicious.

“what?”

the old lady leaned slightly closer across the counter.

“the potion doesn't create feelings out of nowhere, dear.”

you froze.

“it only brings whatever feelings are already there to the surface. the stronger the feelings, the stronger the effect.”

for a moment, you could only stare at her.

“so…”

“once the potion wears off, he will return to normal.”

relief immediately washed over you.

then the old lady added, “though he may not remember everything clearly unless something strongly reminds him of it.”

you nodded quickly, already trying not to think too deeply about what she had just said.

after thanking the old lady at least three times, you immediately left the shop with the determination to never touch anything magical ever again.

seriously, never again.

***

the next morning, you walked toward campus feeling lighter than you had in days.

finally, everything would return to normal.

no more random forehead kisses. no more euijoo waiting outside your classes with drinks in his hands. no more him carrying your bag despite your repeated insistence that it wasn't heavy. and definitely no more hearing him call you cute in front of other people without a single ounce of shame.

you were free!

or at least, that's what you thought.

because the moment you arrived near the campus gate, you spotted euijoo standing there with his backpack hanging loosely over one shoulder while scanning the crowd nervously.

your heart immediately dropped to your stomach.

there was no way... did he remember everything?

before you could turn around and escape, his eyes landed on you.

almost instantly, a small smile slowly spread across his face as he started walking in your direction.

“you're [name], right?”

you stared at him in confusion.

“…what?”

his ears immediately turned red as if he realized how ridiculous that sounded.

“i mean—obviously you are. sorry. i just got nervous.”

nervous.

the word alone caught you off guard because this version of euijoo was completely different from the overly affectionate man who had practically acted like your husband for the past week.

“y-yeah,” you answered carefully. “that's me.”

he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, avoiding your eyes for a moment before finally speaking again.

“i was wondering if maybe you're free this afternoon? after classes, i mean. only if you want to.”

you blinked at him silently while your thoughts slowly tangled together.

suddenly, every moment from the past week replayed differently inside your head.

the way he constantly stayed close to you, the way he always remembered the smallest things, the softness in his voice whenever he called your name, the warmth in his eyes every time he looked at you, and the way he had bought three different drinks just to make sure you received the one you liked.

maybe the potion hadn't created those feelings after all. maybe it had only made them impossible for him to hide.

euijoo seemed to misunderstand your silence because his expression became noticeably flustered.

“you don't have to say yes,” he added quickly. “i just thought maybe we could get coffee together sometime.”

without realizing it, a small smile appeared on your face.

“i'm free after three.”

his entire expression brightened so quickly that your heart skipped a beat. “really?”

you nodded softly while finally letting go of the breath you had been holding since yesterday.

“really.”

the smile on his face only grew wider.

“okay. then i'll see you after class.”

as euijoo walked beside you toward campus with an unmistakably shy smile still lingering on his face, you couldn't help but glance at him from the corner of your eye.

for the first time in a week, he wasn't holding your hand nor telling you how pretty you looked. he was simply walking beside you, looking just as nervous as you felt.

and somehow, that made your heart beat even faster.

'so... that's what she mean by that.'

apparently, your feelings for him had never been one-sided.

and perhaps, this time, you wouldn't need a love potion to find out where things between you could go.

౨ৎ author's note! IM BACKK WITH ANOTHER SOHEE SMAU!!!! (i love sohee so much.) i'm really really excited and happy to share this one with you guys 🥹 it may sound somewhat repetitive if you also read always and forever (my other sohee smau & also first smau EVER), but this one means a lot to me <3 i came up with this plot over a year ago? before i even posted anything on tumblr LOL like i was just writing a long ass fic in my google docs but i thought it'd work rly well as a smau 🥹❤️ that being said, i do think my plotlines are improving with each work i write, so this currently feels like my best work and top potential!!! yes—yn and sohee are, once again, childhood friends. and yes, sion is (once again) the love interest. but guys, the plot is much more developed than always & forever and those are the only things that are repetitive so please give this a chance :333 yn is a messy, young girl navigating her first experiences of love, and sohee is a boy who yearns (notice a pattern in my work? lol). i have soso much love for this couple <3

side note: i am a little sorry for writing sohee vs sion again but... also not , like this is my blog lol

🔖: @karebearyu @haruharua @banez @letteredwings @onlyjungchan @renisprobablyonthetoilet @yoursyuno @amortiff @jaellymint @zznblr-reads @flaminghotyourmom @baelittleddori @softieluvsyou @noisyknight69 @jvngw0nlvr @rksbae @matchabearz @voucearse @secretiny @namedinwinter @222brainrot @the-phantomss @poutybzby @wenoberry @dearmynayeon @daeengz @mbella607 @kyubing

started: 09.03.25 completed: 10.31.25

(w) - written portion

i. profiles ii. profiles 2

once you arrived at the camp, you fell in love with it immediately: the forest scenery and beautiful greenery surrounding it, the small, wooden houses sprawled all around, the chirping of flowers from high up in the trees. you couldn’t help but look around, completely enamored with the sights gracing your eyes, almost in a trance as you twirled in the spot you stood in, taking everything in. it looked like something you had only seen in books and cartoons before — and you were more than ready to make your time here just as interesting and adventurous as those you’ve read about or those you’ve seen on the tv screen. you just weren’t exactly sure how you’d go about it yet — but the moment you met yuma, you were sure that your time spent at the camp would be eventful. 

you noticed him on your first day, the moment you stepped inside the cafeteria — a frown on your face and one of your favorite plushies in your hand, an orange cat with white stripes you got for christmas after begging your parents for it all december. normally, you would’ve been happy walking with it, it was the plushie you were most attached to, after all; but the betrayal of your parents replacing all your packaged things with actually useful and important stuff made you grumpy the moment you opened your suitcase. that was, of course, until you sat right next to him and it just so turned out that he had the same exact plushie. same brand, same size, same attachment to the toy… just different colors. his was black with white socks and a gorgeous, white spot around its eye, while yours was orange with vibrant, pinkish ears and nose. 

he chuckled at your frown and how stupid you looked with it on your face. you giggled at the way his cat plushie resembled his own features. that alone was enough for your friendship to bloom — and for the most notorious and mischievous duo this camp has ever known to be born. 

everyone knew of you, from the new-coming camp counselors to the other children and their parents — they’ve heard about your shenanigans, about the pranks you’ve pulled on the adults during each year you’ve spent at the camp which somehow doubled in size every single time. it became almost a legend, a myth told by the older kids to the first timers when the sky dimmed into a shade of dark blue and the bonfire stood proudly, its warmth hitting their little faces as they sat around it. the tale of the two menaces was known to everyone and albeit dramatized, as kids have the tendency to do so, it left a lifelong impression on the camp and the kids attending it — so long that it has outlived both your and yuma’s days there. well, not quite — for when your age far exceeded the limitations set by the camp’s organizers, you decided the next best thing was to start working there every summer, starting the very moment you were old enough to do so.

and oh boy, was working with yuma fun.

both of you greatly enjoyed taking care of the kids: creating games to keep them entertained, making sure each and every one of them was having fun and being included in the activities. it came to you naturally, maybe because you’ve lived through these rules and duties from the other side all these years — you could’ve swore you had them memorized before they even presented you with the list on the first day of work. 

while yuma was the camp counselor which children would always claim to be the most fun one to play with, you were the more responsible, sensible one — always making sure nothing gets forgotten, providing the kids with advice and comfort whenever they were in a rather gloomy mood. truthfully, your dynamic hasn’t changed almost at all since you were kids: still as playful with each other, still willing to play little pranks on the children of the camp and giggling to yourselves when they worked out perfectly. but the air between you was different now. thicker, heavier somehow. and you knew more than well what the reason behind it was. 

summer camp was the one thing which connected you two, and with each passing year, each passing summer, the journey with this place has neared its end. endings, in your book, meant closing a chapter of your life and leaving it behind — everything once tied to it now a precious memory stored inside your brain like a catalogue of colorful photographs. endings meant change. they meant loss. and the last thing you wanted was to lose a certain man from your life: especially considering that whenever you looked back at your favorite moments of your existence, he was always there as the common denominator to all of them. 

the thought of possibly losing yuma scared you — it haunted you day and night, growing more intense and harder to ignore with each passing summer.

so on your last night of camp, while the children were long asleep, you went out to sit by the lake. 

a string of smoke escaped your lips, the cigarette resting loosely in your right hand as you looked out at the image in front of you — the midnight sky beautiful, dotted with little stars creating beautiful patterns everywhere you looked. the water was calm and steady; unmoved and stagnant like it always was, reflecting the imagery of the night sky on its surface. your hand moved up to your face once more, cigarette resting on your lips. a sigh escaped your lips before you inhaled the smoke once more, the tiny, orange light at the other end of it flickering aggressively. 

‘some example you’re setting for the kids.’ a voice came from behind you and you didn’t have to turn around to recognize who the teasing tone belonged to. 

yuma. 

his pink hair, a hot topic amongst the camp attendees, still looked vibrant even in the dim lighting as he approached you, snatching the cigarette from your hands and inhaling the smoke. you frowned at his actions; which only made him chuckle under his breath.

‘you have your own pack.’ you mumbled as he sat down next to you, the blanket which you had set for yourself big enough to fit two people on it. ‘and yet you continue to steal mine anyways.’

‘because then i get the reward of seeing you frown.’ he chuckled, nudging your shoulder with his as he handed you the cigarette back, earning yet another annoyed glare from you. ‘your annoyed face has to be one of my favorite sights.’ 

you didn’t know what you hated more — the fact that his words were making you flustered or the fact that you knew that he was saying nothing but the truth. 

the two of you sat in perfect silence after his words, another shared cigarette flying from hand to hand. the smoke filled up your lungs and left a nasty aftertaste in your mouth, but you’ve learned to tolerate it over time — it didn’t bother you as much anymore, certainly not the same as when you and yuma first tried them behind the camp counselors backs at your last year of camp. now, smoking has become a habit for both of you; not to the point of addiction, but more so serving as an unhealthy treat to indulge in on late nights or particularly stressful days. after all, you both shared the same belief: an occasional cigarette didn’t truly count. 

you looked up at the night sky and as it gazed down upon you, you couldn’t help but reminisce about all those previous summers, all the precious moments and memories of the past, all the nights you snuck out to gaze at the same moon, the same stars. 

they have heard everything — your silent cries, your laughter, your meaningless stories as you talked to yourself freely. not to be heard, not for someone to listen; but to let it out into the world and off of your heavy heart. the moon didn’t judge, after all. the stars didn’t ask meaningless questions or laughed at your fears and doubts. sometimes it was better to speak into the void than talk to people who would eventually misunderstand you. 

yuma wouldn’t. he always understood. but there were things you couldn’t tell him, either: and when those things hung heavy on your aching heart, you resorted to talking to yourself, mumbling little stories which were only listened to by the moon, the stars and the ever so tranquil waters of the lake.

‘anything going on in that pretty mind of yours?’ his words were barely above a whisper, eyes still focused on the night sky. ‘come on, humor me.’

silence took over for a moment more as you thought about his offer. a sigh left your lips — deep and heavy, as if there truly was something bothering you.

‘it’ll only bore you.’ you mumbled. yuma shook his head.

‘nothing you say ever bores me.’ 

you hesitated for a second.

‘it’ll be weird.’ you finally stated, voice small and unsure of what you planned on saying next. ‘spending a summer without this camp being a part of it.’

yuma’s smile faltered — his expression changing into a more serious one, eyes finally tearing away from the night sky and locking with yours for a split second. you immediately knew he understood what you meant from the look in his eyes; the dark brown orbs sparkling in that specific way you recognized only from your late night conversations, those you usually pretended didn’t take place the next day. those conversations always brought out the vulnerable sides in both of you, sides you had promised to keep only to yourselves. 

he exhaled, the smoke from his cigarette floating upwards into the night sky, swirling around in the cold air. 

‘you’re right.’ he said, fingers gently brushing yours as he handed you the cigarette, the contact electric despite its delicacy. you inhaled the smoke one last time before putting it out in the sand, leaving the bud there to throw it out later. yuma’s eyes carefully followed each of your actions; like a quiet cat observing what was happening around him. 

silence took over once more as the leaves rustled in the midnight wind. 

‘i’ll miss this.’ yuma mumbled, hands resting on both sides of his body as he sighed. his eyes flickered to you for just a second — so short that you hadn’t even noticed. ‘i’ll miss us. i’ll miss you.’

and suddenly, upon hearing him, all the words died in your throat for a good minute — the thought of him missing you has never once truly crossed your mind. maybe it was because, at the end of the day, you thought he didn't view this friendship with as much importance as you did. a foolish thought, truly; but your fragile mind loved playing tricks on you, and this was only one of many. but hearing it from him, without an ounce of hesitation in his voice, made something shift inside your brain.

'i'll miss you, too.' you said quietly, letting your confession linger in the air between you like the cigarette smoke which has now completely disappeared. 'and this camp. all of it.'

'well, it'll remain a happy memory, won't it?' he stated, straightening his back just a little. 'everything in life is meant to pass eventually, but we can still preserve the memory of it for as long as we exist.'

'since when have you become so-'

'intelligent and amazing?' yuma cut you off.

'performatively philosophical.' you corrected, a chuckle falling from his lips.

'i'm just saying the truth.' his voice was gentle and calm as he spoke, staring up at the sky. 'this chapter of our life's will pass, but that doesn't mean there aren't other beautiful things awaiting us in the future. it's not like i'll stop talking to you just because our journey with this camp is coming to an end.'

'but it'll be different.' you stated, seemingly deep in thought. yuma nodded.

'different doesn't have to mean worse.'

he was right, you thought. and yet the idea of losing this part of your life and going forward scared you still — with everything around you changing at such a rapid pace as you slowly entered the serious part of adulthood, losing the only thing that has been a constant for years upon years felt like a nightmare.

'there's something i've been meaning to tell you.' yuma mumbled after a moment of silence, your head immediately turning to face him, brows furrowed in slight confusion. 'it's nothing bad, i promise! quite the opposite, actually.'

'oh, really?' you said, curiosity taking over you as you awaited his revelation. 'what is it, then?'

'i'll be moving into a different city.' he stated simply, slight excitement in his voice. 'i'm taking my master's at a different university. your university, actually. which means-'

'you're moving to my city?'

'precisely.'

yuma was met with silence on your end — a fact both worrisome and confusing. maybe he expected a different reaction from you. maybe he expected fireworks and proclamations of joy, of complete and utter happiness. and yet what he got was silence; an oddly calming one, he had to admit, but it was still not what he anticipated.

his eyes caught sight of you in the corner of his vision, head turning your way just slightly to get a better look. there you sat — quietly, with your gaze focused on the tranquil waters of the lake, the softest of smiles gracing your face. and that alone was enough for him to know. you were happy. of course you were. but there was something else in your expression, a different feeling lingering in your eyes like a delicate sparkle only noticed by some. yuma didn't quite understand what it was; but it wasn't his place to interrogate you about it. to know that you were happy was enough for him to be satisfied, too.

'i'm glad.' you finally mumbled out, smile growing as your eyes met his for a couple of seconds. yuma felt his own lips curving up, too — the look of adoration in his eyes unmistakable as he laid his gaze upon you.

'well, i'm glad that you're glad, then.' he answered, a chuckle escaping his lips. he could feel there was something heaving on your chest still — something left unsaid, still hidden from him. but he knew not to pressure you to tell him; he knew you will eventually, when you're ready to share whatever it was you were still caging deep in your heart.

besides, yuma was guilty of it, too. how could he judge you for hiding something from him when he had kept all his true feelings for you locked away in the furthest depths of his aching heart for years?

he'd tell you when the time is right — and surely you'd do the same.

'have you thought of what you'd do?' you asked, the sound of your voice pulling him out of his thoughts. 'you know, next summer.'

'hm, not really.' he answered truthfully, hands resting on his sides. 'maybe i'll take the chance and travel somewhere.'

'i'm somehow not surprised.' you giggled, fixing the loose strands of your hair that had gotten on your face. 'you've been mentioning that since you were a kid. i don't think i'd be able to count all the times you've yapped my ear off about going on crazy adventures all around the world during lunch.'

'let's not discredit me now.' yuma huffed in pretend annoyance. 'i yapped your ear off about it all the time, not just lunch.'

'yeah. and annoyed me with it every single day.'

'i don't think asking multiple follow-up questions would count as being annoyed.' he mumbled, shaking his head in disbelief. 'but sure.'

'okay, okay. don't go grumpy now.' you said, clearly amused by his antics. yuma felt you nudge his shoulder slightly in an almost playful manner, his smile appearing back on his face immediately. 'any ideas on where you'd like to travel first?'

'i have all the time in the world to plan it out.' he said. 'what about you, though? any plans for the future summers?'

you thought about it for a good minute.

'i don't think so.' you stated finally, voice quiet and unsure. 'i repressed that thought as much as possible until now.'

'well, wouldn't you like to travel, too?' yuma followed up with another question, curiosity taking the better of him. you nodded after a few seconds.

'probably, yeah.' you finally answered him, hands falling to your sides and resting on the blanket under you. 'i'd have to find someone who'd want to do it with me, though. definitely couldn't do it alone.'

'you could always travel with me, you know.'

'huh?'

'well, if you're not sick of me yet, that is.' yuma chuckled, head thrown back as he gazed up at the stars. 'would be nice to have someone familiar to travel the world with, wouldn't it?'

you could only nod in response. yuma was right, of course — to have something you knew, something familiar along with you on your travels was the best possible thing. a reminder that even in foreign places there's someone bringing you comfort, someone who knows you. and who better than the boy you had spent every summer with and quietly loved since day one?

'yeah, it would be lovely.' you finally answered, a smile gracing your lips. 'and for the record, i could never get sick of you.'

'right back at you, lovely.'

silence took over the lakeside, the quiet sounds of leaves rustling in the wind and small animals in the distance filling the scene as yuma's hand gently brushed yours — fingers grazing yours just slightly as he readjusted his seating position, instinctively moving closer to you. his palm was burning hot against yours, and yet the sensation felt comfortable. it felt right. so, despite your heart beating out of your chest, you let yourself enjoy this moment; head moving to rest against his arm, body leaning closer to his.

and in the quiet of the night, while the camp was sound asleep, love continued to grow and bloom — unsaid and not yet acknowledged, but oh so visible. there was no need to rush it, after all; you and yuma had all the time ahead of you to nourish it and let it grow outside the little cages you had hidden it in.

perm taglist: @nichozzystuffs @woonhakfeet @haorangis @choco-scoups @littlegummystar @mxriitaesz @luvkeiiii @ikigaijo @7yataki @xionvlog

&team taglist: @starshuas @minhosimthings @makizdoll @ricewithjo @livelaughloveseventeen @solairemelo @pageraf

“You’re going out again?” you hear Taehyun call out from the kitchen, the said man able to hear you approaching from the hallway from the jingling of your jewelry— something he was always on your ass for, never failing to comment how you’re like a walking tambourine with that stupid quirk to his lips— the sound of his voice teeming with judgment only brought about a roll of your eyes, trudging over to the kitchen to send him a harsh glare; you made a point of placing your bangle clad wrists on your hips, the action bringing about another soft jingling. 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, raising a brow expectantly; Taehyun seems unfazed by your sudden confrontation, not a single muscle twitching at your accusatory tone— his back remains turned to you, leaning on the kitchen counter leisurely while he scrolls on his phone— at the sound of your persistent hmm? He peeks over his shoulder to meet eyes with you. 

“You were out till three yesterday,” he says nonchalantly, only turning so he can properly look at you whilst keeping an eye on the stove, “Is partying all you do?”

You can tell he’s trying to provoke you— but you know better than to fall for it and get angry, already victim to his constant mocking and teasing to realize that he seems to enjoy getting a rise out of you— so you simply roll your eyes and scoff, crossing your arms over your chest before you’re turning on your heel and beelining back to the door. 

“You know damn well…” you mutter to yourself, sneering at the chuckles you’re able to pick up on, “It’s none of your business anyway!” 

“Yeah, it kinda is!” Taehyun retorts, but you’re too busy slipping on your shoes and your jacket to voice out a rebuttal— swinging your purse over your shoulder, you’re able to catch his final comment right as you’re slipping out the door; “I’m not making the hangover soup again!” 

“Fuck you and your soup!” 

You shut the door behind you before Taehyun can get a word out. 

   ☆☆☆

“How are you two still living together?” 

The natural light that streams in through the windows and the sound of Yeonjun’s raspy voice is enough to have you wincing with pain and ducking your head down; hot steam from your bowl soothes your skin and puffy eyes, your body still sore from the night before as you sink into the chair with a tired sigh. 

“Because as insufferable as she is, she still pays her share of the rent,” Taehyun mutters bitterly, setting down a second bowl of soup before your mutual friend, pulling out the chair across from your as he goes to sit with crossed arms, “aren’t you gonna eat? You were begging me for this earlier.” Your lips automatically go to form a scowl, but your hand still goes to reach for your spoon— because as much as you hated feeding into Taehyun’s big fat ego, you couldn’t deny that he makes some killer hangover soup; you could already feel the tension easing from your muscles from the first bite—- your eyes remained glued to the table, knowing better than to glance back up and catch the stupid triumphant look Taehyun never bothers to hide. 

“Fucking insufferable,” you mumble between bites, glancing at the way Yeonjun seems to catch onto your words, shoulder shaking with the soft laugh he huffs out. 

“Me?” Taehyun gawks, leaning forward as though to make sure he was hearing things right; neither of you respond, which only serves to make him more irked.

“As far as I’m aware, I’m the one that has to deal with you— always coming back late and drunk as hell—” Taehyun’s pointed glare jumps over to Yeonjun, who simply flinches and averts his gaze down to the table, “you said you’d be watching over her last night.”

“I’m not a baby,” you butt in, ignoring Taehyun’s look of disbelief, “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“And yet you’re always asking me to take care of you.” 

You shrug dismissively, the last bit of your energy spent as you find yourself no longer interested in arguing; staring down at your bowl, you found that you were so busy trying to ignore Taehyun’s piercing glare that you ended up scarfing down your soup in a haste— standing abruptly, you go to place your dishes in the dishwasher before you’re spinning around and sending Taehyun a bright, innocent smile. 

“It’s not my fault you always jump to come help me out,” you coo, wincing at the soreness of your body and the sharp ache in your head as you make your way over to him, cupping his face and squeezing his cheeks together, leaning in close to him even as he begins to fuss and swat at your hands angrily, “and you’re just soooo caring and sweet with me— it’s in your nature, don’t lie.” 

“It gets tiring listening to you complain around the house,” Taehyun sneers grabbing your wrists firmly and pulling your hands off his face swiftly— the sudden strength catches you off guard, hands falling dumbly at your sides as you can only stare at Taehyun as he continues, cold and aloof as always, “It’s the only way I can get you to shut up.”

“Sureee… sure,” you mumble offhandedly, clearly unimpressed by his excuse as you saunter off to the living room instead, making yourself comfortable on the couch before you’re yelling back to the kitchen one last time. 

“Jjunie,” you call, waiting for the muffled hmm? of the said man before you continue, “are we still down for the part next Saturday? Jake’s place?”

“Oh… uhhhm,” he pauses, and you’re sure Taehyun is probably sending him a deadly glare right now, “sure, if you want to.” 

“Of course I want to,” you grin, pulling out your phone to look up Jake’s instagram page, scrolling through his feed to get a refresher of what he looks like, the satisfaction of what you see seeping into your voice as you speak, “Partying’s all I do.”

You swear you hear a scoff; it only serves to make you anticipate the weekend a little more. 

   ☆☆☆

“You’re leaving like that?” 

Your body is jolting in surprise, the mascara wand in your hand clattering on your desk as you curse in shock— Taehyun stands in your now opened doorway, unable to sense his presence due to the focus you were putting in to make sure your makeup came out perfect— meeting his gaze through the mirror, you frown, nose scrunching in distaste at the way he clearly judges you; your hand reaches for your phone, turning down the music you were playing in order to actually hear him properly. 

“Don’t you know how to knock?” 

“I tried. I’ve been trying. For the past three minutes,” Taehyun says, ignoring your complaints as he makes his way into your room, coming up behind you as he scans your setup— he ignores the way you continue to glare at him harshly, eyes running slowly over the mess you’ve made before he’s leaning down and reaching across the vanity; you’re pressed back against the chair and left to watch as his arm obscures your vision, hoping he didn’t pick up on the way your eyes glued onto his muscles that bulged slightly as he reached for the charger plugged into the far outlet. 

“You never gave this back,” Taehyun sighs, and before you can refute that you were just about to, he gives you a pointed look with that raised brow of his. “It’s been three days.”

“My bad,” is all you can bring yourself to say, picking up your mascara wand again as you go back to applying your makeup carefully— but it’s hard to concentrate, especially with the way Taehyun continues to linger behind you, able to feel his warmth due to how close he is— and you glance over your shoulder, scanning him up and down before you’re turning back to your vanity, “is there something else I can help you with?” 

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“What, the whole why are you dressed like that thing? Are you seriously expecting an answer to that?” you ask, putting your mascara away as you move to your lips instead, “It’s nothing new, I don’t know why you’re so fixated on that right now.”

“Nothing new?” Taehyun repeats, and through the reflection of the mirror, you’re able to catch the way he frowns in disbelief and scans you once more. “You never dress like this for house parties.” 

“Hmm,” you hum softly, doing your final touch ups before you’re standing abruptly, spinning around to face Taehyun with a pout, “it’s the skirt right? It’s throwing the whole thing off.” 

Taehyun watches as you push past him and head straight to your closet; glancing over your shoulder and nodding at him to sit on your bed, turning back around before you can catch the way he hesitantly follows your command— and you’re turning back around with three more garments in your hand, each option smaller than the one before— the sight has his brows jumping briefly. 

“I was thinking this one at first— I think the darker denim is cuter though, like this one,” you press each skirt to your waist, peeking at yourself in your body length mirror before you switch to the next option; again, you’re pouting and shaking your head, throwing the first two options aside before you’re turning around to show Taehyun the last option proudly. 

“But actually, I think this one is the one— look at the pockets, they’re sooo cute,” you smile, flipping the garment over to show him— and indeed, they’re blinged out and sparkly, just like the rest of you; you hold it against your waist, checking yourself out in the mirror with satisfaction. 

“That— that barely covers you.”

“So?” you effortlessly reply, tilting your head and meeting Taehyun’s gaze through the mirror; dramatically, you gasp, mouth falling open and brows rising as you proceed to blatantly mock him, “Oh, is this too scandalous for you? Sorry, I forget you’re a bit more… reserved. It’s okay, you don’t have to stay in here if it makes you uncomfortable.”

You’re biting your tongue as you listen to Taehyun sputter behind you in confusion; through the corner of your eye, you’re able to watch as his brows knit together, leaning forward and tilting his head as he struggles to find a response. 

“Where the hell did you get that from?”

“Oh,” you trail off, tsking awkwardly and amping up your dramatics as you pause— Looking over your shoulder, you meet Taehyun’s prying gaze, returning it with a faux apologetic smile. “Y’knoww… Yeonjun told me. About you.”

If anything, that only serves to confuse Taehyun even more— and worry him, if the way he stares off into space, visibly deep in thought, serves as any indicator. 

“What did he tell you,” Taehyun mutters, the question more directed to himself as he racks his mind for possible answers— but you beat him to it, continuing your efforts to keep a poker face as you shrug innocently. 

“Just… about you. Relationships, experience…” and you’re turning your back to him, muttering the last part and taking in the way Taehyun leans forward even more to catch what slips out your mouth, “or, lack thereof.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“We were talking about our own stuff and you kinda just came up in the conversation randomly!” you say defensively, “It’s nothing to be ashamed of! It’s okay to shy away from… this lifestyle, or whatever you like to call it— there’s nothing wrong with being your little introverted self, tyunnie.” 

You’re provoking him— you’re setting up quite the bait, and it’s working, because Taehyun can only find himself able to gawk at you in disbelief, mouth parted slightly in wonder of it all— your cute nickname flies over his head in favor of processing the fact that you basically just called him a homebody. A virgin. 

Just when Taehyun thinks he’s found the words to respond to such an outlandish accusation, your phone dings with a notification— you’re all but bouncing over to it excitedly, hovering over the device and letting out a soft ah! In excitement— sending Taehyun a pleading smile, he’s already able to guess what you’ll ask of him. 

“Junie’s here! Can you please please please go answer the door for me? I need to change.” you watch Taehyun hesitate for a moment; he then nods reluctantly, getting up slowly before he trudges out of your room, your words still bouncing around the walls of his mind as you shut the door and yell out a cute thank you! As you do. 

Taehyun opens the front door to find an equally flashy Yeonjun on the other side— the sight of his over the top outfit is enough to catch Taehyun off guard and have all his thoughts tumbling out of his mouth without restraint. 

“Did you tell her I was a virgin?”

Yeonjun’s brows jump up in disbelief— he’s halting mid step through the doorway, sending Taehyun a confused look before he steps inside and closes the door behind him— looking at his friend for further explanation, Yeonjun is only met with Taehyun crossing his arms with an expectant look. 

“Dude. What the hell are you on about.”

“Why is ___ acting like I’m a total prude— saying you told her I was inexperienced,” Taehyun isn’t exactly sure why tonight’s comment was what set him off— you’ve been like this for as long as he could remember, always portraying Taehyun as someone pure, innocent, and stuck-up— he always thought you were joking, but as it turns out, that might not be the case. 

“Oh— she’s probably not being serious, don’t worry,” Yeonjun shrugs, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, craning his neck to try and get a glance down the hallway, seeing if you’re finally ready— you’re nowhere to be seen, and Yeonjun sighs impatiently.

“Okay, but what did you say to her?” Taehyun presses on, eyes narrowing at the sight of Yeonjun pressing his lips together hesitantly, “Yeonjun.”

“I just said that it’s… rare to ever see you get interested in anyone,” Yeonjun pouts, but Taehyun can tell that’s not the full truth— Yeonjun caves in after a moment, gulping softly and lowering his voice to nothing but a murmur, “and that she should stop flirting with you, cause you wouldn’t even know how to handle all that.”

“You what?!”

“Yeonjunnie, what do you think?” your voice is sweet and lilted as you finally come out of your room, interrupting Taehyun’s heated outburst with your jingling jewelry— the two men are turning over to you, Taehyun too busy taking in your appearance to notice Yeonjun sighing in relief at your well-timed interruption. 

“So?” you ask, doing a cute spin that has Taehyun’s eyes widening and his hands clenching— yeah, that skirt was practically a belt, your pretty skin lotioned up and shining under the lights, the spin only allowing him to get a perfect whiff of your addicting scent, “Y’think I can get Jake’s attention with this?”

The name has Taehyun frowning before he can even process it— behind him, Yeonjun whistles at your dolled-up self, doing a once over as he proceeds to hype you up. 

“Are you kidding? I’m gonna have to fend you off from everyone in that place,” he says, reaching out for your hand and grinning at the way you giggle and take it, your fingers interlacing naturally, “he’s gonna be all over you.” 

“Jake? You can’t actually be attracted to that douchebag,” Taehyun frowns, watching the way your expression immediately drops at his comment.

“I am, actually. It’s nothing serious, just a hook up at most,” you roll your eyes, voice turning undeniably bitter as you bend down to slip on your shoes, the sight of your panties peeking out from the skirt, tucked neatly between your thighs not lost on Taehyun, “Plus, I heard he really knows how to treat a woman.”

Taehyun’s gaze snaps up to meet Yeonjun’s; his glare is lethal enough to kill, and the recipient can only shrug sheepishly in return. 

“Sleep well Taehyun,” you remark, clearly poking fun at the fact that Taehyun usually sleeps much earlier than you, never failing to call him a grandpa for it, (which is ridiculous, considering that you barely sleep.) “You don’t have to worry about me— probably won’t be home tonight.”

You’re closing the door and dragging Yeonjun with you before Taehyun can respond, probably off to pregame outside while you wait for your uber; he’s left staring at the spot you just stood at, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed in anger— a minute goes by, and something decidedly shifts within Taehyun. 

He’s gotta do something about this image you have of him. He should probably fix that attitude of yours too, while he’s at it. 

   ☆☆☆

“Where the hell is he?” it’s something you seem to have asked for the umpteenth time tonight, leaning against the wall and pouting at your friend while you stand in line for the bathroom— you’ve been at the party for a solid hour now, and you still have yet to see Jake around. And to think, he was the one who invited you to his place in the first place. How rude. 

“I told you not to give him a chance!” Yeonjun yells, leaning in closer so you can actually hear him through the booming music and the crowds of people singing along to whatever’s blasting from the living room, “this party fucking sucks, too.”

You can only exaggerate your pout further with a petulant humph. Your body slouches and you can already feel your heart getting heavy with disappointment, unable to refute the way your best friend proceeds to mutter something about Jake probably being too busy sucking off another girl’s face in a random room of the house. 

“You never gave in to his advances— you said he was a man-whore,” Yeonjun continues to recall, wincing at the sight of two random girls rushing past him and to the front of the line, carrying their clearly shit-faced friend and screaming about how she’s going to throw up all over— the two of you cringe, exchanging a glance and mutually agreeing that you two can hold it a little more; you slowly trudge your way back to where everyone else is. “What changed? Why’d you give in?” 

You scoff, lips upturned with distaste as you send your friend a glare— the wound still as fresh as ever, voice dripping with venom as you lean close to Yeonjun’s ear so he can actually hear you. 

“Junnie, you know why!” you whine, smacking his shoulder and ignoring the way he childishly yelps, “I’ve officially decided to move on— I can’t stand flirting with a brick wall anymore, I need to… need to…” 

You’re trailing off, gaze wandering off to a foreign point, Yeonjun’s brows furrowing before he begins to follow your line of sight— and just like you, Yeonjun remains speechless, the unexpected sight leaving your jaws gaping. 

“This can’t be real.” 

But it is. The way Taehyun is currently leaning casually against the wall, drink in hand and coy smile on his face as he talks to some random girl, is very real. You can recognize that man anywhere— even in this crowded room of dancing and jumping bodies, your eyes still remain glued to him. 

But, the more you look at him, the more you realize something— he looks… different. It’s subtle, but it’s still there; the mischievous glint in his eyes, his relaxed posture and the hair that falls into his eyes, he has a confident, sly air to him you’ve never seen before— the girl leans up on her tippy-toes to whisper something in his ear, a hand on his shoulder to get stabilized, and the two laugh; your mind is too preoccupied with the way her hand lingers, the way Taehyun tilts his head in amusement, to realize the frown that has pulled your face together. 

Taehyun brings the can of beer in his hand to his lips— he turns his head, and his eyes find yours effortlessly. 

“He actually came,” Yeonjun awes beside you, and that’s enough to have your head whipping toward him, trying to ignore the way your face burns at the sudden eye contact, still able to feel his eyes linger on you for a moment after. 

“What are you talking about? Did you give him the address?” you say, your voice whiny as you speak, surprised to find that you’re not exactly sure how to feel at his sudden appearance— torn between the sudden interest he piqued within you and the disappointment that festeres in your stomach, knowing that now that Taehyun is here, you won’t think twice to give anyone else any attention. 

“Hmm? No, he was invited,” Yeonjun says, glancing back to where Taehyun is, looking back to find your confused expression, “him and Jake go way back.”

You’re kidding. 

“Nope. Those two were fucking menaces,” Yeonjun laughs— it seems as though the words must’ve slipped out of your mouth, the shock painted on your face more amusing to your friend than anything, “they used to host the craziest parties— now that I think about it though, that was probably all Taehyun’s work.”

“Wait… don’t tell me that…” you glance over to where Taehyun remains, then glance back at Yeonjun, reading his expression carefully and gasping, “was Jake Taehyun’s old roommate?”

Yeonjun nods, as though the news wasn’t earth-shattering to you. 

“After a while, I guess Taehyun just didn’t feel like keeping up with the fast life… I don’t blame him though.” Yeonjun shrugs, his eyes beginning to drift behind you, drawing you to turn around at the sound of the crowd on the dance floor cheering and yelling obnoxiously— and sure enough, Jake can be seen in the middle of a circle, flashlights of phone cameras recording lighting him up clear as day— you wince at the sight of a random girl dancing up on him, the sight leaving you to shudder and wonder why you were even gonna give him the time of day.

Ah, right.

“I can’t believe I was about to rebound on him with an old friend,” you breathe out, bristling at the sound of Yeonjun’s laughter, whipping your head around to send him a harsh glare, “and you were going to let me!” 

Yeonjun raises his hands up defensively. 

“Hey, I was just being a good friend,” he says, but with the way he smiles mischievously, you don’t buy it a bit. “I support women’s wrongs, or whatever.” 

“You prick,” you mutter miserably, gaze inevitably wandering back to where Taehyun remains; frowning at them now being visibly closer, Taehyun’s hand resting leisurely on the girl’s waist as they talk. 

And again, his eyes flicker back to meet yours.

“You know, he’s only here for you,” Yeonjun murmurs in your ear, watching your interactions like a spectacle, “he doesn’t care about that girl— probably just trying to get you jealous.”

“Stop lying,” you say, but your voice is weak and your brain is susceptible to his words; you tell him to shut up, but the way you perk up with interest is saying otherwise. 

“If I’m lying, then why is he giving you fuck me eyes?” 

As if on queue, Taehyun glances back again— his gaze is dark and inviting, scanning you slowly before he turns back to the unknown girl— and his eyes soften; they’re less intense, aloof, clearly uninterested. The final piece of your resolve crumbles to pieces.

“I think I’m about to do something stupid,” you say sheepishly, eyes still glued on the man across the room; beside you, Yeonjun chuckles.

“Do it,” he says, giving your back an encouraging push, sending you stumbling forward, “I support it.”

You don’t bother looking back at your friend for one last word of reassurance— your feet have begun to take you before you could even stop and think. 

You’re pushing through bodies; it’s crowded and hot and sweaty, cringing and jumping at the feeling of hands brushing against your bare skin— whether it be intentional or not, you try not to dwell on it, honed in on your goal instead.

It takes a moment for you to finally find yourself on the other side of the crowd— but you’ve lost Taehyun, eyes darting back to where he was just a second ago, frowning and scanning the area for the familiar man— he’s nowhere to be found. 

You’ve begun to wander around— exploring the layout carefully, eventually abandoning the living room and making your way into the kitchen instead— and like before, you’re unable to find Taehyun, growing increasingly frustrated the longer it takes to find him; it isn’t until you’re making your way to the back porch that you finally spot a familiar, broad frame leaning against the railing. 

“Taehyun,” you call out, the said man not flinching at the sound of his name; his back remains turned to you, but he listens to the sound of your nearing footsteps and your jingling jewelry, the scent of your perfume following soon after; you’re standing behind him, hands undoubtedly on your hips and a pout on your face as you speak. “What are you doing here?” 

He huffs out a soft chuckle— his relaxed, slouched posture only serves to annoy you, going to stand next to him so you can get a good look at his face— you try to hide the shock that’s blooming on your face, but then again, you’ve never been good at hiding your emotions. 

Taehyun cracks a small, lopsided smile; your eyes are wide and you seem like a deer caught in headlights, watching with fascination as Taehyun continues his attempts to light up the joint caught in his lips— your mouth is falling open to say something, but you’re closing it immediately after; this proceeds to repeat for a few seconds more, only able to find your words once you’ve watched Taehyun take a relaxed, languid hit. 

“You… you smoke?” you ask softly, unsure of what else to say as you stand staring at Taehyun dumbly— he raises a brow in amusement, pulling the joint away from his lips and turning to blow the smoke out into the night— it’s a slow, deep sigh, and you’re left in awe as you watch the smoke fall from his parted lips and disappear into the air; his eyes fall back on you, and you gulp. 

“Yeah?” he says casually, turning so that he’s leaning his side against the railing, tilting his head and drinking up your every reaction eagerly. “What about it?” 

Now that you’re before him, you’re finally able to get a proper look at Taehyun— a good look, unable to stop your eyes from wandering; he’s wearing that usual baggy tee and cargo pants combo that he’s so fond of, but even so, everything just feels so different; his undercut is styled cleanly, his nimble fingers glint with the aid of silver rings, a chain hanging from his neck to match— his tan skin glows under the single light placed on the porch and fuck, has he always smelled this good?

“Nothing, it’s just—” you stop yourself, biting your lip and thinking carefully over what to say; Taehyun quirks up a brow curiously, bringing his hand back up to his lips, taking another slow drag from the joint, watching the end light up before he pulls away— and you huff, hands gesturing hopelessly as you find yourself unable to properly articulate your thoughts, not when he’s staring at you so intensely, “Where did all… this, come from?”

Taehyun doesn’t answer; he simply stares at you with amused eyes. So, you continue.

“You’re always judging me for going to parties, now you’re here? And—” you stammer, pointing at the joint between his fingers in confusion, “I’ve always asked if you wanted to smoke together, and you always said no.” 

Gently, your voice trails off— and suddenly, any confidence you had when you initially approached Taehyun is wilting, your gaze averting as you begin to recount his behavior, his words, everything.

“Do you hate me or something?” 

Your words are accusatory and petulant; the question is meant to be lighthearted, but Taehyun can tell there is some genuineness to it. 

It’s silent; you’re tense. Your gaze remains glued to some distant irrelevant point, finding yourself too nervous to look up at Taehyun’s reaction to your sudden outburst— but nothing happens. Seconds feel like hours, and after what feels like eternity, a hand is gently reaching to tilt your chin up; your gaze meets Taehyun’s, and he smiles— his other hand slowly comes up your face, the joint centimeters away from your lips. 

“Wanna hit?”

His evasion to your question is not lost on you. Bitterly, you chuckle, reaching up to take the joint from him— but he’s pulling it away from you before you can grab it, tutting softly and placing it back at your lips; you reach for it again, but this time, Taehyun grabs your wrist to stop you. He taps the joint against your lips and raises his brows expectantly— what he’s asking of you finally clicks in your mind; your lips part, and he holds the joint for you as you inhale. 

Taehyun watches you with dark, intent eyes— as though analyzing every move you make, from the way you lean your head forward to the way your eyes flicker up nervously to look up at him— your face is oddly innocent and shy, feeling a lot smaller under the man’s gaze as you finally pull away; you’re exhaling slowly, your mouth slightly bitter from the taste as your swallow nervously. 

“So? Are you just gonna ignore all my questions?” you ask softly, suddenly feeling a lot weaker as you lean on the railing, crossing your arms and watching Taehyun bring the joint back to his lips— the edges of his mouth quirk up at the sticky feeling of your lip gloss that lingers on it. 

“Well… first of all… I’ve been like this, you just met me during the time I decided to back off and change my ways,” Taehyun jokes, the joint still caught between his lips as he speaks, hanging precariously, “and second of all, I definitely don’t hate you.” 

“You don’t?” you ask hopefully, doe eyes lighting up and your hand subconsciously reaching out to ask for the joint; he chuckles and hands it to you, shaking his head and watching you take a long hit with a raised brow.

“No. You’re just annoying,” he mutters, watching the way you bristle with annoyance, “what? It’s true. You drive me crazy, always forcing me to take care of your reckless ass.”

“Seriously? I literally don’t do anything to you— you’re the one who always decides to get involved,” you sneer, your snarky attitude finally back as you glare at an unfazed Taehyun; your eyes run over his appearance once more, unable to control your childish mouth as you continue, “even now— you come here out of nowhere and suddenly you’re all badass.”

“Are you trying to prove me wrong? You gonna go find some girl to bring back to the apartment?” you pout at him, taking one last hit from the joint and smiling wickedly, “I wouldn’t mind if you did, there won’t be anyone else home anyway— I have the same plans as you tonight, remember?” 

Your back is suddenly pressed against the railing; Taehyun is close, he’s pressing against you, caging you in and looking down at you with a gaze that makes you feel small— your skin warms and your eyes widen, unsure of what else to do but stand there and take the way he smiles meanly at you.

“Yeah? Where is Jake, anyway?” he asks, taking the joint from your hands and placing it between his own lips, hand steadying himself against the railing as the other suddenly lands on your bare thigh, just below your ass; you jolt at the feeling, his eyes flickering down at your outfit, at the tiny pieces that barely leave any room to the imagination; his skin is warm but his rings are cool against you, fingertips barely digging into the flesh, “or wait— is it not your turn yet?” 

Your body flushes with an unexpected heat; his voice is downright degrading, his eyes filled with pity, telling you things that his mouth doesn’t have to— look at you, all dressed up for a man who hasn’t even looked your way tonight. 

He looks at you as though you were nothing short of pathetic; it makes your knees feel weak and your stomach flip with an unexpected need. 

“Jake isn’t worth my time,” you confess, watching as Taehyun raises his brows as though to say oh really? “I can easily find someone better than him.”

“You could,” he muses, voice mocking and coy, taking another small hit before he speaks, “but who?”

“I— I’m sure there are plenty of other guys here right now,” you breath out, heart thundering in your chest; Taehyun’s face is close, so close, your bodies slowly beginning to get firmly pressed together— your brain is starting to feel foggy, your limbs suddenly much heavier and tingly; your eyes feel heavy and you’re beginning to list off names absentmindedly, all of men who you spotted in the party, all with a reputation as equally notorious as Jake’s. 

“Heesung’s in there… and Sunghoon… and…” Taehyun is giving a big nod to every name you list; he’s patronizing you, staring at you with deceivingly big puppy eyes as he hums a soft mmhmm, and who else? His eyes never leaving yours as you both try to pretend that you don’t notice his lips inching closer to yours, the way every exhale of smoke from him goes directly into your parted lips, your voice breathy and weak as you hold back a whimper that threatens to slip through, “And… fuck, and Beomgyu’s in there too… he wanted to come to the party together, y’know. Said we should go to his place after.”

“Hmm, you’ve got quite a few options lined up,” Taehyun hums, his voice sweet and light to your ears, a shuddered sigh leaving you as his hand squeezes your skin teasingly, caressing it softly and wandering up and down, up and down; he tilts his head, low lidded eyes glued to your lips as he murmurs the last part so softly you almost missed it, “but would any of them be able to fuck you right?”

Your mind reels; your chest is heaving with shallow breaths, the two of you stuck in a state of limbo as you feel yourself get lost in the feeling of him, unaware of the way your eyes have begun to gloss over, your hand reaching out to steady yourself on his bicep— your fingers wrap around the thick muscle, and his hand slides up your leg, bold and strong as he squeezes your ass— a soft whine slips out. 

“Well?” he asks again, unable to hold back a lethargic, fond smile at the way your other hand reaches up for the joint that’s still between his lips, putting it between your own, pretty glossed lips begging to be devoured— after a second, you shake your head softly, turning your head to the side and sighing slowly; with your eyes averted, you finally decide to bite the bullet. 

“No,” you say softly, “don’t want any of them anyway.”

“Then who do you want?” he asks oh so softly, leaning in to place a soft kiss at your jaw; goosebumps erupt all over your skin, and you shudder at the way he hums softly in question, persisting after seeing you get hesitant to respond— after what feels like forever, you turn to look at him; his low lidded eyes, his plump lips— and your nails dig into his bicep subconsciously. 

“You.”

There’s no chance for you to take back your words; Taehyun’s lips are rough and desperate against yours, all teeth and tongue as he groans at the feeling of your sticky gloss transferring onto him, your soft whines only aiding him to press himself more against you, to really cage you in and keep you right where he wants you. He’s biting your lip teasingly, sneaking his tongue in and toying with you, feeling him smile lazily against your mouth, wandering hand continuing to caress your skin, fingertips venturing under the hem of your tight denim skirt. 

After a while, it becomes too much— your body feels hot, your hand is gripping onto him tightly, as though he could escape if you let him go— your lungs burn and you’re barely able to keep up with him anymore, but Taehyun doesn’t seem to mind; you’re whining and crying softly at the way he continues to squeeze your ass teasingly, jolting at the way he suddenly slaps it— your fingers jump up to tangle themselves into his roots, tugging roughly at them in hopes of getting him to part from you; he seems to understand what you want, but he continues to ravish you for a few seconds more before he finally pulls away. 

In Taehyun’s eyes, this is the best you’ve looked all night; out of breath and flushed, pressed between the railing and his body, his cock already half-hard as he wills himself to not rut against your soft exposed skin like an animal— his hand leaves the railing to grab onto your waist, the other reaching for the joint that is still in your weak hold— he inspects the half-smoked, almost extinguished item before he looks back at you; a small, mischievous grin spreads on his lips, and he slips a thigh between your legs. 

“Taehyun…!” you gasp, bouncing up as Taehyun presses the firm muscle against your poor dripping pussy; your panties stick to your cunt and quickly create a wet patch on Taehyun’s jeans, and he can already feel the warmth of you through the denim— your thighs close around his own shakily, your free hand grabbing onto his shoulder for support; the glassy, wide eyed look you give him  is almost enough to make Taehyun lose it and fuck you then and there. 

“Hmm? What’s up,” Taehyun asks apathetically, fishing in his pocket for his lighter, letting go of your waist to relight the joint with a dark, concentrated gaze; his thigh continues to move against you, flexing and bouncing against your cunt, and all you can do is cry softly and plead for him to stop teasing— his lips quirk up into a mean smile, and his eyes flicker back up to your hazy, fucked out face, tucking the lighter back in his pocket and tilting his head curiously at you. 

“What do you want, baby?” he asks softly, bringing the joint to his lips and taking a long, slow hit, his eyes never leaving yours as he does. 

“Please… please stop teasing,” you whine, and judging by the way Taehyun raises a brow at that, it’s not enough; his thigh has stopped moving, so you resort to grinding pitifully against it, eyes shining with a desperation that intrigues him, “not enough… need more.”

He huffs; his hand comes up to grab your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks and forcing you to open— you follow his command without a second thought, the last thing you see as your eyes flutter shut being Taehyun leaning in, his own mouth an inch away from yours as he exhales the smoke directly into your mouth. 

“Oh yeah? Want it?” he murmurs, feeling you nod in his hold, “tell me then. Tell me how you want it.”

“I— I…” words seem to have escaped you; it’s hard to find the confidence to tell him what you want, the world around you a blurry and lethargic mess, your senses heightened to only feel Taehyun, his skin on yours, his rings that dig into your cheek, his warm thigh that you grind against— peeking through your low lidded eyes, you watch him shake his head disappointedly, taking another hit and proceeding to blow out the smoke into your awaiting mouth once more. 

“C’mon baby, use your words. I know you can,” he insists patiently, clicking his tongue and scolding you as you proceed to blank out once more; his fingertips dig into your cheeks roughly, blunt nails threatening to leave indents as he forces you to look at him. 

“Want it rough? Want it hard?” he spits out, listening to your whiny mmhmm, mmhmm! with narrowed eyes, and he laughs— it’s mean and condescending, just like his next words, “fucking slut, ‘course you do.”

He’s capturing your lips in another harsh kiss before you can protest; the joint in his hand is snuffed out on the fence and tucked away, his hands falling onto your hips as he begins to press you firmly against him, guiding your pace entirely and forcing you to ride his thigh; you whine and you moan against his lips, fingers tugging at his hair as you grind your soaked cunt against his jeans— when Taehyun pulls away, your lips chase his without a second thought, hands tightening your hold against him in fear that he’ll leave.

“You want it?” he asks once more, bouncing his thigh against your messy cunt, grinning at the way you yelp, “Tell me baby, go on, say it; tell me you want it.” 

He won’t let you go quite easily this time. Sharp, intense eyes prying the words out of you, brows furrowing together at the weak, quiet attempts that come from you, fingers leaving a bruising grip on you as he silently commands for more.

“Taehyun, c’mon…” you pout, an embarrassed heat rising up your face, not used to seeing this side of him— you didn’t even know it existed, to be fair, “I want it, please, stop being a tease.”

Taehyun has you regretting your words in the blink of an eye; hand pressing the small of your back, forcing you to arch and proceeding to land a harsh smack on your ass that has you gasping, the skin stinging from the feeling of the rough metal of his rings landing on it— but his hand doesn’t fail to caress the place soothingly, a total contrast to the ruthless glare he gives you.

“A tease?” he sneers, landing another, gentler smack, as though the words are enough to get him angry all over again.

“You mean like when you were showing off this cute little skirt to me? Hmmm? Bending down and showing me your panties? Or when you were talking about getting fucked by my friends?” he can feel you tremble against his hold, your mouth opening to retaliate— but you’re not quick enough, Taehyun’s smart mouth running faster than yours, “Or how ‘bout when you force me to watch you run off to parties and bring a man over to your room, just to have me take care of you in the mornings? Is that what you mean by a tease?” 

You shake your head, scrambling to come up with a response; Taehyun seems to have gotten quite fed up with you, because his hand is coming up to wrap around your neck, adding a subtle pressure that leaves you light headed and mushy.

“What, can’t talk now? What happened to that mouthy girl I had here earlier?” Taehyun says, his voice mean and dripping with venom, “tell me you want it, or I’ll leave you here— you said you had some other toys to fuck with inside, right? I’m sure they could help give you what you want.”

“No, no, please, I want it, need it,” you cry, attempting to chase any pleasure and grind your cunt against him; you’re quickly stopped by his firm, bruising hand, “Taehyun, Taehyun, please, please fuck me, I want you, please?”

“I don’t know,” he mutters lowly, eyes glued to the way your hips buck and cant, trying desperately to break free from his hold that prevents you from moving, “think you deserve it?”

“Yes,” you immediately sigh, body restless and hot and overwhelmingly needy, feeling as though you’ve gotten tunnel vision for the man before you; your hand slips from his shoulder and down his chest, finding the hardened bulge that has been pressing against your body with ease— his jaw clenches, and his face remains stoic— but that doesn’t mean you don’t notice the way his lips part or his hips press against your palm reassuringly, “yes– give it to me, want it, only wanted you from the start.”

“Fuck,” he breathes out, heavy eyes locked onto the way you look up at him so prettily, your hand palming and rubbing at his clothed cock only serving to cloud his thoughts further, “C’mon.” 

He’s stealing one last slow, messy kiss from you before he pulls away; fingers intertwined with yours, stepping back and proceeding to tug you along— you stumble at the sudden action, your airy self giggling softly at the way you tumble into Taehyun’s broad back; he sends you a fond smile, squeezing your hand reassuringly before he’s opening the door to the house and leading you back inside. 

It feels as though the whole environment of the party has changed; the neon lights, blasting music and humid air is a little more welcomed than it was before, unable to contain the dopey smile that grows on your face as you allow Taehyun to lead you wherever; you trust him. 

“Wherever” leads you to a bedroom upstairs— Taehyun is slamming the door shut and grabbing your waist, spinning you around and pinning you against the wall before you can even react; his face is inches from yours as he mutters a safeword for the two of you, waiting for you to nod and repeat it back before his lips are back on yours— but this time, he seems to want to take his time with you; plump, swollen lips beginning to trail along your jaw, wandering until he’s peppering kisses along your neck, teasing mouth nipping and sucking at your jaw until you’re holding onto his shoulders and begging for more. 

Slowly, he begins to walk the two of you backwards; lips never leaving yours, hands caressing your skin and toying with the hem of your shirt as he sits down on the bed, making you stand between his legs— pulling away, you put your hands on Taehyun’s firm shoulders, sighing shakily at the way he looks at you; as though he were holding back from devouring you entirely, a fondness that makes you weak in the knees undeniably there in his pupils. 

“Fuck, pretty girl, pretty body,” he breathes, leaning forward to pepper kisses wherever he can— pushing your shirt up to expose your chest, burying his head in your tits and placing open mouthed kisses, biting teasingly at the flesh, chuckling at the feeling of you jolting and jutting your chest out, your body much more reactive and sensitive— and he trails down slowly, down the valley of your breasts, down your stomach, lingering there for a bit as he kisses and sucks marks into the vast canvas; his hands trail up and down your sides, pulling you in every time you try to squirm away. 

“What, you getting shy on me now?” he tuts, nipping at your side and listening to the squeal that escapes you— his hands tighten and he’s forcing you forward, leaning back until he’s laying down and you’re straddling him precariously; your knees dig into the mattress and you’re trying your best to remain stable, but Taehyun doesn’t seem to be satisfied yet— you frown in confusion at the feeling of him trying to tug your hips up more, resisting the motion with a tilt of your head; Taehyun pouts. 

“Don’t be like that,” he groans, hands shifting from your hips to the back of your thighs, one cupping your ass and the other falling just below— and you yelp, Taehyun’s muscles flexing as he moves you up forcefully, much too strong for you to retaliate; you’re tumbling down, face burning and planting into the mattress as Taehyun shifts below you— your dripping cunt hovering just above his face, skirt riding up and bunching at your hips, any whines of protests falling on deaf ears as he begins to press soft kisses on your inner thighs. 

“T–Taehyun, wait, you don’t—” you stutter through moans, fingers gripping onto the sheets below you as you feel him beginning to trail up, your body revealing just how much you don’t mean your words, “you don’t have to— mmh–!”

His hands are coming up to your middle, pulling and signaling for you to sit up; you do, partly from your own efforts but mostly from his, easily moving you as though you were nothing but a doll— and your cunt is hovering over his face, hungry eyes flickering up to meet yours— he sees the hesitation on your face, the way you’re beginning to ramble once more, and he scoffs; the smack that lands on the back of your thigh is enough to get you to stop mid sentence. 

“Just shut up and let me taste you,” he says sternly; his fingers dig into your hips and he’s tugging you down, sneering at the way you continue to hesitate, only allowing yourself to hover over him— he bites at your inner thigh in retaliation, the sensitive feeling bringing out a cry from you, hips bucking and thighs squeezing around his head for a second, “C’mon baby, sit on my face— I can take it, you know I can.”

The hesitant hum you let out is enough for him; he rolls his eyes, and with a strength you forgot he possessed, he forces you to plant your cunt directly onto him. 

It feels like a switch has flipped within him. Fuck, you think, your lips parted in a silent scream, a hand scrambling to tangle itself in his hair, fuck! 

He hasn’t even bothered to move your panties to the side; he’s eating you out through them, tongue pushing into your hole and lips kissing and sucking at your clit like a man starved, groaning and praising you with a muffled voice; his fingers dig into your ass, making sure to keep you planted firmly on his face as he eats you out.

You think you’re losing your fucking mind. 

Just when you thought it was too much, that your body felt like it was buzzing with electricity, filled with a euphoria and pleasure that had you mewling and crying desperately, Taehyun’s nimble fingers finally push the ruined cloth that covers your pussy to the side— and oh, oh, your eyes are rolling back and your mouth is stuck open, Taehyun’s hot tongue lapping and fucking into your hole and his nose pressing firmly into your clit— he’s panting and sighing against your cunt, slurping up any arousal that leaks from your poor hole— his head shakes from side to side, humming into your pussy, and the last bit of resolve within you shatters. 

“Taehyun— oh my god, Taehyun—!” you cry, hips grinding down into him, thighs closing around his head; you can feel him fucking smiling lazily into your pussy, rough hand slapping your ass and guiding your movements against him, as though to silently reassure you and ask for more. “Please— oh god, oh— fuckfuckfuck, m’close, I’m close, hnng—!” 

Your words are nothing but fuel to the man beneath you— his tongue is flattening against your hole, licking up and flicking at your clit before he begins to suck on it; two fingers prod at your clenching entrance, proceeding to push in without warning, curling expertly and finding your sweet spot with ease; your body shivers and you wail, muscles growing weak as you fall forward once more— burying your head in your arms as you cry about how close you are, the new position only allowing Taehyun to move your hips firmly against him, rocking you back into him; his fingers pull out of your cunt in favor of shoving his tongue back in instead, following every buck and twitch of your hips with ease— his nails dig into your skin as he holds you still, eliciting a dull feeling of pain, and everything falls apart. 

Too much, too much! you think— maybe you say it out loud, your mouth open and gasping as you grip onto the bed sheets, feeling as Taehyun continues his same, intense ministrations; letting you ride out your orgasm but not stopping, even after you’ve begun to sniffle and cry about how sensitive you feel— after a while, Taehyun finally gives in, pulling away from your cunt to lick you clean, pressing firm, sloppy kisses against your hole and puffy clit, smiling at the way you twitch with each one. 

You feel as though your bones have all melted; you can’t move, face burrowed into the mattress and chest heaving as you try to catch your breath— beneath you, Taehyun moves, slipping out from under you and hovering behind, hungry eyes taking in the sight before him eagerly; ass up and back arched, glistening hole on display as you continue to shudder and breathe shakily— you hear the sound of clothes rustling behind you, followed by the feeling of the bed dipping— Taehyun’s hand rubs at your ass fondly, and you jump at the sudden sensation, eyes screwing shut and a quiet whine leaving you.  

“You’re so fucking hot,” Taehyun sighs, biting at his lip and stroking your skin, up your back and to your shoulders, leaning over and kissing gently at the nape of your neck as he whispers, “think you can take more?” 

“Yes– yeah, please,” you beg quietly, unable to feel an ounce of shame from how immediate your response is; you can feel his cock rubbing against your ass, the stickiness of his tip that ruts against you subtly— you look over your shoulder with a hazy eyes and a soft, blissful smile, meeting Taehyun’s equally fucked out gaze as you push your hips back, “wanna feel you inside— I’m on the pill.” 

The sharp breath of air Taehyun sucks in isn’t lost on you— his cock jumps from the way you grind against him, no longer able to keep up that cold and uninterested facade he’s kept up since the moment you two met up for the first time— he wants you, bad. And to his delight, you seem to feel the same. 

“Jesus, you drive me so fucking crazy,” Taehyun breathes, the soft giggle you let out not helping him remain calm; he sits back, a hand grabbing at your waist and the other wrapping around his length— he’s squeezing the base, pumping at it slowly, the gruff sighs and moans you hear behind you enough to have you clenching around nothing— just when you think you’ll have to beg again, you feel his thick tip begin to prod at your entrance. 

You think you could cum from the feeling of him stretching you out alone— a broken moan leaves you at the feeling of him entering inside you, so thick and big that you think he might just break you; your head drops back into the mattress and your hips are pulled back against Taehyun’s, soft cries leaving you at the feeling of him bottomed out inside you. 

“P-perfect, so… damn perfect,” Taehyun rasps out, head falling back and eyes squeezing shut at the feeling of you clenching around him— you’re so tight and sensitive, walls fluttering around him and sucking him in, tempting him to lose control and pound you straight into the mattress; he has to take a deep breath and concentrate on not cumming then and there, because the way you’re beginning to whine for more like a cockhungry bitch is really getting to him, “shit– stop— ugh– stop squeezing me like that princess, won’t fucking last long if you do.”

You can only whine in protest at that; it’s so hard to remain still, your hazy mind already fucked out beyond belief from your first orgasm— but even so, you still want more, you crave it, you need it; you make sure that Taehyun is aware of it, too, whiny and breathy as you cry and cry for him to fuck you. 

“Tyun, come on,” you pout, impatiently moving your hips back, in search of any stimulation you can get, “please, wanna get fucked already, want it hard, don’t tell me that was all talk earlier.”

If there’s one thing you’ve figured out about Taehyun, it’s that he hates when you try to act up on him— because as he tightens his fingers into your plush skin and slowly begins to pull his hips out, you realize quickly that he’s most definitely not all talk. 

“Ah—!” 

Your body is being driven forward with each thrust— Taehyun is fucking you hard, muttering angry words that you can’t even pick up over the sound of your own moans; his cock is thick and his hips are angled so his head bumps against your sensitive spot with each thrust, harsh pace not allowing you any reprieve as you simply fall limp, unable to move your hips back in tandem with his pace; if anything, Taehyun is doing it for you, rough hands bringing you back against him like it’s nothing. 

“Fucking slut— got such a dirty mouth, should make sure you to fuck you good so you can’t talk back to me,” he growls, feeling you clench like a vice around him, even more when he stops thrusting in favor of pulling you back like a doll for him to use, “Oh, you’d like that huh? Like it when I use you like a toy? Stupid pussy’s nothing more than a fucking cumdump for me— yeah, c’mon, move your hips, thaat’s it, just like that.” 

His mouth continues to spew filth, a stark contrast to how Taehyun usually is— he’s always been quieter during sex, but the sight of you trembling and struggling to take his cock is enough for his mouth to run faster than his mind— that, and the aid of his high that seems to have gotten rid of any self-control he usually exhibits. 

Your movements have become sluggish and weak— you’re getting tired, he can tell, so with one last slap to your ass that has you yelping, he finally decides to take control again. 

“God, can’t even fuck me for more than a few minutes? Where’d that cocky girl from before go, hmm?” He asks, voice patronizing as he begins his harsh thrusts— only pulling out halfway before he’s sinking in all the way, hips slapping against your ass creating a lewd sound; your cunt only tightens and gushes around him, hiccupped moans leaving you as he picks up his pace, watching as your arms give out beneath you and your face gets planted into the mattress; he huffs out a laugh, and reaches out to grab a fistful of your hair— yanking your head back, you yelp, left to his mercy as he begins to pound into your ruthlessly. 

“Taehyun, wait– slow down…!” you cry, scratching at the bed sheets and feeling tears prick at your eyes— and he does, for a second, waiting for you to say something else, for the safeword you both agreed on— but you don’t, and the laugh he lets out after catching on is enough to have your face burning with humiliation— and his pace picks back up— no, he’s meaner than before, degrading you below his breath and pulling at your hair, pulling you back against him, a hand sneaking down to place sloppy circles at your clit— you’re keening and clenching like a vice around him, a sharp hiss leaving him at the feeling. 

“Mmmh, too… too much,” you manage to say softly, immediately given another harsh tug at your hair in response, your eyes watering at the feeling. 

“Too much?” Taehyun repeats, and you can practically hear the pout on his lips from the patronizing tone, “thought you wanted it hard? Don’t tell me it was all talk.”

He’s spitting your exact words back at you, watching with amusement as you try weakly to prove him wrong. 

“That’s right. You’ll take it like a good girl should,” he grunts, slowing his pace down and punctuating his words with rough, deep thrusts, “Fucking. Take it. All.” 

You’re close, he can feel it, he can hear it— and the thought of watching your pretty face screw up into pleasure and bliss is enough to send Taehyun’s mind reeling, not hesitating to pull out and let go of your body— his lips quirk up with satisfaction at the way you’re immediately falling limp, fucked out face peeking behind in confusion, about to complain about why he stopped when he begins to move you. 

It feels dizzying, the way he’s able to manipulate you and force you into any position he likes; you’re sure Taehyun can read it all over your face, because he smiles meanly at you, patting your cheek fondly before he begins to busy himself with your clothes. 

“Don’t think I never noticed you staring, pretty,” he grins, tugging your skirt and panties down swiftly, eying the soiled underwear before he throws it off to the side, landing directly on his discarded pile of clothes— and he sends you another sleazy smile that has you bringing your knees up and closing your legs shyly— it’s all futile though, because he’s immediately kneeling before you and spreading your thighs open with his warm, large hands, holding onto the underside of your knees as he scoots closer to you, “always getting so touchy with me, grabbing onto my arms and thighs— dumb little thing, bet you thought you were getting away with it each time, hmm?”

“Shut up,” you whine, resisting the urge to cover your face and hide away— but you really can’t, especially with the way his thick cock ruts against your pussy, tip sliding up and down your slit as he teases you by putting it in, only to pull back out again, “Taehyun…”

“C’mon, grab onto me,” he muses, slipping the tip in once more before he begins to slide in slowly, watching your mouth fall open and your eyes grow glassy, “wanna watch you cum on my cock.”

This new position practically has you seeing stars— Taehyun hovers over you and watches intently, chain hanging over your face as he presses your thighs against your body, fucking you straight into the mattress; you tremble and you gasp, a fire festering in your stomach as you beg for more— “m-more, please, faster, harder, s-shit—!”

Taehyun listens to your every request intently— his stamina is impressive and ruthless, and his cock is reaching and hitting places you never knew were there— your back arches and your hands scramble to grab onto something to stabilize yourself, inevitably falling onto Taehyun’s body in the end; one on his shoulder, the other on his bicep that flexes from the effort of keeping your squirming body still. 

“So… fucking… pretty,” Taehyun groans, watching your chest heave and your eyes blink away tears, leaning down to suck and bite at your breast, frowning at the bra that still covers them— throwing a leg over his shoulder, Taehyun pulls your bra up roughly, hips continuing to pound against yours as he latches his mouth onto your pretty nipples— you gasp, nails digging into his skin as you begin to cry to him, good, s-so good, fuck! 

“Shit, I’m close,” he says after a moment, pulling off your breasts with a lewd pop! That has your eyes rolling back; he moves up to press a sloppy kiss to your lips, murmuring your name sweetly and waiting for you to respond. “I’m close baby, so– so fucking close– where— hah, where do you want it?”

“Inside,” you immediately mewl, hearing him groan unabashedly in response, “Please, pleasepleaseplease, inside, inside—! Fill me, want your cum, wanna be full—!”

“Okay baby, okay,” he says sweetly, kissing at your neck and wandering up to your ear, “gonna fill you up good, just like you want.”

“Oh, are you close too?” he asks, and you nod furiously, watching as he goes back to hover over you, watching every change in your expression intently, “I can feel it, pretty cunt’s squeezing me so good– c’mon, cum for me baby, wanna see it, wanna watch your pretty face, will you let me? Yeah, only for me to see— gonna cum, fuck, make you mine, you’re mine only, okay?”

His words are enough to send you over the edge; you let out a long whine and scratch at his skin, crying out his name desperately as your nails rake down his back, down his arm; he hisses at the feeling, the pain enough to set him off and join you right after; his hips stutter and his face screws up from the pleasure, brows knitting together and teeth gritting together as he lets out soft moans— but his eyes never leave yours, deft fingers circling your clit as he lets you ride out your orgasm— your legs tremble under his hold, eyes rolling back and face smoothing out from the pure euphoria you feel.

“Yours… just yours,” you sigh out, feeling his hips finally still, thick cum beginning to leak out from you, falling onto the sheets and ruining them completely; you pant and try to regain composure, but it’s really, really hard— you feel like you’re on cloud nine, words tumbling past your lips before you can second guess them, “y’have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that.”

“Really?” he asks; the panic you feel in your chest is short-lived, because as soon as you see the soft look in Taehyun’s eyes, you melt. 

“Yeah…” you say softly, suddenly a lot more shy under his gaze, “this was like. Attempt number one hundred of me trying to get over you. Or make you jealous.”

“Hmm… well, you don’t have to do that anymore. I’m all yours,” he mumbles, swooping in to steal a slow kiss from you; you can’t control the giddy laugh that leaves you at that, lazy hands tangling into his hair to keep him close. 

“Good,” you murmur against his lips, “I was running out of guys to use against you.”

His hand squeezes at your hip in warning— you smile coyly. 

“Joking, of course.” 

Nipping at your lip, Taehyun sends you a half-hearted glare. 

“You better be.” 

You give him a giddy nod; after tonight, it wasn’t like anyone would be able to compare to him, anyway. Shifting underneath him, you wince at the feeling of your sweaty body rubbing against the sheets— Taehyun is able to read your face before you can get anything out.

“Wanna go home?” he asks softly. 

“Please,” you say, giving him a shy smile that has his heart flipping pathetically, “will you carry me?” 

He laughs, placing a chaste kiss on your lips and sneaking his arms under your figure. 

“Always.” 

Those hundreds could always breach into the thousands— but those were on especially good days, like his annual Valentine’s Day stream he always held for his lonely, single viewers. 

Beomgyu was quite the sweet talker— he got the practice from his day-to-day shifts, watching girls his age and older fawn at his words and flutter their eyes playfully. It was clear they enjoyed the attention just as much as he did, a cute smile on his face as he faked a shy laugh whenever they would compliment him.

Your hair looks really nice today. You smell amazing. Do you work out? You have a really nice voice. 

He got that last compliment a lot.

“Do I?” he would purr, a sultry smile crawling on his face each time, like a practiced action as he would tilt his head teasingly— the reaction would be positive each time, without fail, and he would always end up with a collection of napkins with scrawled phone numbers every time he would clock out— his coworkers would poke fun at him every time they watched him dump them all out apathetically. 

You weren’t into that one person? Dude, the lady at table seven was so fucking hot.

Beomgyu never really paid mind to their teasing— he could care less for the men and women that tried to butter him up during his shifts, forced to act as though their shameless flirting didn’t make his stomach twist unpleasantly— instead, he would be forced to smile, laughing sheepishly before he would slip away with one last comment. 

“I’m flattered, really— but, I have someone I’m interested in.” 

That someone was you— the pretty girl that sat across from him during his ten am lecture, finding himself spacing out every time and staring off into your direction; though you never seemed to notice, much too caught up in taking notes as he watched the way your brows would furrow, biting at your lip and adjusting your glasses as you remained focused— whether those glasses were for reading, blue light, prescription, or even decoration, he didn’t care— all he cared about was how unnecessarily attractive you looked in them. 

He thought about you more than he liked to admit— it was frustrating at first, his thoughts starting as nothing more than puppy love to something worse— it was only after you piqued his interest that he began streaming more. 

This was both a good and bad thing; good because, well, he began to climb the ranks of popularity and earn more, but bad because he would find himself thinking of you. Each. And every. Time. 

“Wish I could fuck you,” he would sigh out, his comments going too fast for him to keep up with as his eyes fluttered shut; leaning back against his headboard, he shifts, making sure everything but his lips remain out of frame before he’s back to closing his eyes, “would you let me make you feel good? God, I’d do anything just to feel you, taste you…”

As far as his audience knows, he’s speaking to them— the comments grow wild and tips flood in, all asking him to stop being a tease as they watch the way he palms himself through his sweatpants; grabbing at his length, stroking it slowly as he lets his imagination run wild. 

He’s not wearing boxers; Beomgyu knows it drives his viewers mad, able to see as a wet spot begins to form on the light material, his tip leaking furiously as his other hand tugs the hem of his sweater over his chest— his vision is hazy as he reads the requests, laughing softly as he allows his fingers to trace along his chest absentmindedly— tracing over the muscle of his abdomen, circling his nipples slowly as he reads a comment under his breath.

Stop teasing and hurry up already !! >///<

The comment has him rolling his eyes— yet his usual tippers begin to request the same thing, and his hand is slowly tugging at the tied strings of his pants as he smiles, mocking and mean as he bites his lip. 

“Hurry up? You want to command me while you’re over here throwing money at me like a whore? All just to watch me fuck myself, dreaming that it could be you?”

The comments start speeding up; it’s all a blur to him, but the sound of money coming in is enough to tell him that his usual audience is active again.

“Pathetic,” he sighs, his voice deep and grumbly as he reads over the requests that come in with the money: yes, i wish it were me there… please, can we see your cock?

“Desperate little sluts,” Beomgyu hums, tugging his waistband down and allowing his cock to spring up; it smacks against his stomach, and though the people in his comments attempt to regain his attention with dirty words and useless requests, he knows it’s all because of you— guiltily, he finds his thoughts straying the moment his hand wraps around his cock. 

His streams have a certain formula to them; the more money, the better the show. Which is exactly why he ends up kneeling in front of the camera, fucking his cock into a clear flashlight as he listens to the sounds of tips coming in left and right— but his eyes remained shut, spilling enough filth to have his audience satisfied as he allows to let his imagination run wild. 

In every stream, he cums to the thought of you; he has to bite his lip to not moan out your name like a pathetic bitch in heat, flooding his fleshlight with cum and continuing to fuck into it until his next orgasm.

In every stream, he finds himself thinking the same thought at least once— do you watch his streams?

»»»

The concept of camboys is ridiculous to you.

Why in the world would you spend all your money and emotions on a single person, when you can just go on Twitter and find the next best account that has yet to be suspended? Well, it’s not as though you find the idea of sex work appalling, but you don’t think you’d ever feel good about yourself spending a hard-earned paycheck because you were horny. 

You’re not stupid; you know sex workers make bank, and you know that there are people in the world that love emptying out their bank accounts to such workers; whether it’s due to a kink or to feed into their parasocial relationship, you’re not sure. 

You find that a good session on Twitter and your fingers usually does the trick— maybe a toy or two, if you find yourself feeling that needy. 

Today’s session quickly becomes both disappointing and humbling; every account you try to look for has either been suspended or deleted, and every video you come across is something that’s not to your taste or something you’ve seen many, many times. 

You feel weak as you come across the same account again; guiltypleasures— and he’s damn right, because you’re unable to resist the urge to click on his icon, feeling your thighs rub together with impatience as you sit back in bed— scrolling through, you’re surprised to see that he’s posted another video— without a second thought, you’re watching it. 

“Fucking pathetic,” he sighs out, the familiar growled phrase making you gulp; you never found yourself to be too attracted to men who are extremely dominating and mean, but the man on your screen is somehow able to make it work as you find yourself getting wetter, “are you touching yourself right now? Don’t you wish I was there with you?”

And shit, you think you know why he’s able to make you come back to him every time, even if he’s posted nothing new and you’re forced to rewatch old videos most of the time; maybe it’s because of his hands, delicate and thin as they wrap around his favorite pocket pussy, or maybe it’s the way he slowly fucks into the said toy; stretching it out, his tip poking out and oozing enough cum that you can hear the wet squelching sounds that come from every thrust.

Or maybe, it’s his voice, deep and breathy and addicting as he mumbles out filthy things like it’s the only thing he knew how to do; his lips are red and swollen as he groans, hissing through his teeth as you watch the way his hands tighten around his toy. 

“Shit, I’d fuck you so good,” he sighs out, hips rutting into the toy in his hands as he laughs; his head tilts, and though you’re only able to see his lips, you know his eyes are teasing as he looks into the camera, “fuck you so that you’d never want anyone else but me.”

His thrusts are picking up— you didn’t even realize the moment you began touching yourself, embarrassing whimpers and breaths falling from your lips as you keep your eyes honed in on his motions; you’re close, so close, your ministration speeding up as you fight to keep your eyes open. 

“You’d be my good little cumdump, just for me to use— right?”

The video ends shortly after.

God damn it! your mind screams, the sudden cut-off catching you so off guard that you completely ruined your orgasm; you feel insanely embarrassed by how frustrated you feel, not realizing how short the clip he posted was until now. Clicking away, you feel as though your mood is ruined as you read the contents of his tweet. 

A small clip from the stream. Watch the rest here: https://…..

Shit. Of course he would be a camboy. How did you not realize this sooner?

Honestly, if you sounded like that, you would be one too— and frustratingly enough, the brief cutoff is a damn good marketing strategy, because after a moment of thought, you’re clicking on the link.

You could just rewatch the video— you could also just go rewatch his previous videos, or even use your imagination to help you finish— but the idea of doing so is much more unpleasant than usual. (And humiliating, because you’ve found with horror that you’ve begun to memorize how his previous, equally as short, clips go.)

Your resolve begins to weaken the moment you click on his page— because of course, everything costs money— It costs to see his previous streams, costs to message him, and costs to get a fucking membership. 

Who is paying for all this?!

You, apparently— because after some serious, slightly horny-impaired thought, you decide that getting a low-tier membership wouldn’t be too bad, right?

The cost is monthly (because of course it is, this website seems to want to charge you for just looking at his page) and you wince slightly as you watch your transaction go through. 

Once you see the notification of your purchase pop up on your phone, you feel dreadfully sobered. 

Because shit, being a low-tier subscriber only gets you a part of his most recent streams— about less than half of it, you notice— only able to get full access to streams prior to this month. It’s enough for now, but you can’t help but feel as though you’ve become the very thing you’ve despised as you lay back in your bed, staring at your ceiling for a moment before you’re sighing.

You’re still horny. 

»»»

You think you can get behind the whole camboy thing. One may say you’ve been swayed, and quite honestly, you don’t think you could dispel such claims at this point.

Because it’s been a few months, and you’ve managed to stay through the whole thing. You’re surprised that you’ve begun to keep his streaming times in mind as you go about your day, ending your study sessions early or wondering if you’ll get home from work in time to watch his streams. 

You always do. Maybe it’s a deity above making sure you get your money’s worth, or maybe it’s the fact that guiltypleasures is a human too, with a normal life and better shit to do than sit in front of a camera and jerk off all day. 

The idea of following in his footsteps has crossed your mind more often than you expected; anything would be better than being a hostess at this god-awful job you have, forced to sit through the way people take out their anger on you and proceed to flirt with the servers— one of those servers being Beomgyu.

You were able to realize how popular Beomgyu was after your second shift— it didn’t take a genius to figure out why as you were left to deal with the way women of your age and older (mostly older. So many older women.) would creep up to you shyly, putting up a front of innocence as they asked you is Beomgyu here today? Could we sit in his area, please?

Seeing him rack up tips after a busy shift is always enough to have you wondering if you should switch to being a server— but then you see the way the women are treated, your stomach flipping in disgust at the way men leer and comment at them— you’ve even seen Beomgyu get cursed at plenty of times as well, shivering at the jealous partners and the way they’ve been blacklisted for threatening him. 

Tonight is one of those nights. You’ve clocked out, shrugging on your jacket and gathering your belongings when you see Beomgyu storm in through the employee entrance; you don’t think you’ve ever seen him angry, but the sight has your eyes widening as you watch the way he frowns at his uniform, cursing angrily under his breath as he approaches the break table you stand by. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, low and breathy and mean as he continues complaining, berating the customer that had the audacity to throw their drink at him— but you, in your very depraved state, remain stuck on the way he sounds, his voice far too attractive for a person who is spouting out filth.

This feels familiar. 

“Hey, you okay?” you ask softly, feeling awkward as you mentally slap yourself for your train of thought; it seems as though Beomgyu hadn’t even realized you were there, his head snapping up as he stares at you like a deer caught in headlights— his mood is immediately shifting as he sends you a sweet smile, acting as though his clothes aren’t soaked as he waves you off causally. 

“Yeah. Just some ridiculous customers,” he says, laughing softly as he grabs at a pile of napkins on the table; you wince as you watch him scrub roughly at the stains, unable to stop yourself as you jump to his aide. 

“Here, you’ll only get the stains in deeper if you do that,” you say, taking the napkin from his hands as you begin to dab at his uniform without much thought; you’re much closer than you should be to someone you’ve never really talked to, but you don’t seem to realize it as Beomgyu practically forgets to breathe from your proximity. 

Shit, how did he find himself in this situation? He might as well go back out and thank the jealous, “tough guy” boyfriend that threw his drink at Beomgyu, because he feels as though every guilty fantasy is coming back to mind as he takes in your concentrated expression, your hand placed firmly on his chest for support as the other dabs at the stains in his uniform. 

You smell so good. Even though you’ve been in the restaurant just as long as him and have been around food this whole time, he’s still able to pick up on your scent with every shaky breath he takes. 

You’re wearing your glasses, too.

Beomgyu’s mind is wandering off to dangerous places; he knows he needs to get himself under control, because the danger of him popping a boner just from how close you are is a higher probability than he’d like to admit. It seems as though you’re snapping out of your trance the moment he clears his throat, your face growing hot and slightly horrified as you jump back; Beomgyu can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips at the sight, finding your embarrassment oddly endearing. 

“Sorry, got carried away,” you say, smiling shakily as you take in the way Beomgyu practically beams at you— always a sweet, nice guy, waving you off without a problem as he laughs softly.

“No, it seems to have helped,” he says, and you can’t help but notice how oddly charismatic he is even now, during this mundane interaction that has you stuttering over your words stupidly— but to be fair, how are you supposed to give him advice on how to get the stains out when he’s looking at you with the cutest god damn puppy eyes you’ve ever seen, his brown eyes round and sparkly as he listens intently to every word you say? 

“I wouldn’t have thought to do that,” he smiles, his cheeks puffing up cutely and oh, is it weird that you want to coo at how cute he is and pinch his cheeks…? 

Definitely weird, you decide, letting out a soft laugh as he tells you that he’ll try it as soon as he gets home. 

“Speaking of which, I’ll let you go; you probably don’t want to be here longer than necessary,” Beomgyu is so kind and considerate even as you tell him it’s fine and that you didn’t have any plans after work anyway. 

“I’ll let you get back to work,” you can’t help the soft laugh that escapes you as Beomgyu asks you to wish him luck, the smile he sports coy as you follow his command without any hesitation— you take this as your chance to leave before things get awkward, but a part of you itches to go back and talk to him more. 

Beomgyu’s good, you realize as you’re exiting the building, a bewildered laugh escaping you as you realize that he managed to charm you just from that short interaction. 

You get why he’s so popular. 

»»»

Any plans to go to bed early and rest are immediately thrown out the minute your phone buzzes beside you. 

You were just about to put your laptop away— just on the verge of falling asleep, until your eyes reluctantly drifted to read the words that take over your screen— it’s a Twitter notification, the username making your eyes widen as you’re scrambling to unlock your phone and read the rest. 

guiltypleasures

had a shitty shift today, let me take it out on you? https://…….

Oh. oh, oh lord… you can feel the exhaustion lifted off in an instant; suddenly, you’re wide awake, eyes widening as you quickly copy the link of his tweet into your browser— while your mind scolds you for trying to stay up and possibly ruining your sleep schedule, the other, much more sinister part of it tells you that you’re paying for a reason. 

The stream starts in five minutes. 

While you wait anxiously in your room, your hands swiftly going to your nightstand to take out some toys— your trusty vibrator and a dildo you recently bought, all because of him— Beomgyu paces around his setup, gathering his own toys and changing into something that the viewers might like; today's ensemble is a bit more bothersome than usual, but he knows how much his viewers like when he dresses up and role plays a bit with them. 

He was tired; today's shift took a toll on him, and he’d rather be fast asleep than putting on a stream— but after looking at today's earnings, he couldn’t help but feel unsatisfied with it all, deciding on impulse that he would put on a stream to make up for his lack of tips— instead, he’ll earn tips in another way. 

“Hey,” he starts quietly, sitting back in his seat as he takes a glance at his monitor, making sure his face is out of frame. The viewer count rises and comments flood in no time, all of them freaking out about how good he looks in the suit he wears; the all-black ensemble feels stifling to him, but he knows taking it off will be worth it in the end. 

Bad day today? Let us make you feel better :( 

His top tippers are all begging for his attention, desperate and needy as always as they beg for him to get started— but he feels a lot more sluggish than usual, his gloved hands caressing his thighs slowly as he reads the comments out loud. 

“Yeah, today’s shift wasn’t that great,” he speaks, his voice deep and sultry as he allows a moment to pass, reading all the comments that beg for him to use them, “I only thought about you though. Just wanted to see you.”

There he goes again— he’s no longer talking to his audience, but to you instead, closing his eyes and imagining a world where you’re in front of him, or even on the other side of this screen, one of the many faces that lusts over the way his cock begins to harden, the bulge becoming much more apparent as he lets his mind wander.

Unbeknownst to him, you are on the other side of your screen; a shy and flustered mess as you shift in your bed, watching the comments fly by as you wonder if you should join in— not that you could, anyway, your low-tier subscription excluding you from doing such things, as ridiculous as it is. 

You’re practically devouring the man on your screen with your eyes; taking in the way he’s dressed, his pretty hands covered with leather gloves as he runs them slowly over his black trousers; stopping as they run back to his hips, a hand beginning to palm at his bulge as he spreads his legs a little wider in his chair— today's setup is a bit different, along with his attitude as he seems to sweet talk the audience more than usual. 

“Seeing you is the only good part of my day,” he sighed, his free hand trailing up his chest before it stops at his tie— he’s tugging at it, loosening it and allowing it to hang around his neck as he continues, “Can’t stop thinking about how much I want you, how I’d fuck you until all you can remember is my name.”

The offer is tempting; you groan a little as you watch him begin to slide off his blazer, throwing it to the side before he’s unbuttoning his white shirt— he’s making quick work to become undressed, you notice, untucking the material and undoing his belt as the sounds of it jingling ring out in the room. 

Yet, no one knows his name— no one knows anything about him, except the tattoo that runs across his side as he slides off his shirt, the sharp, elegant lines running all along his ribs, trailing down to his hip bones and disappearing under his pants— the rest of him remaining a mystery as you’re left to lust over a nameless, faceless stranger. 

That’s probably where the appeal comes from; you’re able to imagine anything about him, from what his face looks like to what he may do when the cameras are off; you’re free to mold him into the perfect fantasy, using him and projecting onto him as you watch him slowly unzip his pants, a hand slipping under as he begins to jerk himself off teasingly, slow as always as he waits for the requests to come in— like clockwork, your eyes fall to the end of his tattoo, taking in the cute heart that rests by his hip bone, the ending of the elaborate piece that always has you wondering what it’d be like to see in person. 

“Hmm? You want more?” he says, tilting his head slightly as he smiles; it’s mocking as always, biting into his lip as he begins to roll his hips into his hand— making a show out of it, throwing his head back and letting out a breathy moan that has you shivering.

“How about you show me just how much you want it,” he sighs out, smiling evilly as tips begin to come in left and right as a response; you find the way he’s able to manipulate the audience impressive, always able to get them to blow their money on him without hesitation. 

He leans forward, towards the screen, and you’re able to admire his lips as he reads the comments, mouthing them as the lights cast a glow on his pretty, pouty mouth, his neck tempting and begging to be marked as you watch the way he displays it so teasingly. 

“Good girl,” he laughs softly, your eyes flickering to the comment section for a moment; his top tipper has spent an egregious amount on him yet again, and you listen to the way he softly begins to fulfill her request, the rest of the audience momentarily disappearing as he begins to speak to her. 

“Always such an obedient thing for me, hmm? Tell me, what do you want to see?” 

His manipulation is seamless as he watches another tip flood in; all from the same person, the amount doubled in order to get his attention past all the others that blow a measly twenty on him, nothing compared to the three hundred that is highlighted in gold, the comment momentarily pinned for the man to read it.

I want you to fuck your favorite fleshlight and use a vibrator while you think of me. Can you moan my name please? It’s—

Her comment has your eyes widening for a second; it’s bold and demanding, and the idea of requesting such a thing from the camboy in front of you is daunting as you read her request over and over— your face feels hot and you’re already taking off your sweatpants from how needy you are, wondering if the man on your screen will accept such a request.

The first two are nothing to him— in fact, it’s more on the tamer side as he already finds himself reaching for the aforementioned toys. 

The problem lies in the last request. 

He’s not one to moan names on a live stream; he usually saves it for personal requests he gets, the videos much more personal and calculated as he gets to take his time with them— so for his top tipper to request such a thing on his livestream is a bit more difficult; especially when he spends this time thinking of you. 

But then again, it’s three hundred dollars. 

“Okay then, is that what you want? Hmm?” he teases softly, purring out her name at the end as he watches the way she tips him again; it has him laughing in amusement, sitting back in his chair before he’s crossing his arms over his chest, singing out her name with a soft lilt as he watches the way she continues to pour money at him like it’s nothing. 

Soon enough, more requests come in; all with the same amount and request, hoping that they’ll be able to hear their names fall from his lips as he slowly begins to tug down his pants, raising his hips as he’s left in nothing but his underwear, the briefs straining painfully as his cock twitches, begging to be free. 

“One at a time,” he murmurs sweetly, patronizing as he mumbles that it’s her turn now, watching the way she seems to react with every purr of her name. 

The sudden trend of requests makes his stream slightly difficult; he’s always found himself to be a lot more into them when he’s mentally moaning out your name, lips ghosting over the syllables every time he’s coming undone. Instead, he’s forced to moan out the name of a stranger as he begins to palm himself slowly, even though his mind thinks back to you and the small interaction you had today. 

He feels his cock twitch at the mere thought. It’s painfully hard and won’t stop leaking as he takes it out, not needing to use any lubricant as he begins stroking it slowly, hips jumping at the feeling of the leather against his skin— and though his lips moan another’s name, his eyes remain closed, thinking about you. 

You and your meek personality, always letting guests take out their anger on you before they’re turning around and sucking up to Beomgyu— he’s always had to resist the urge to fuck them up as a response, knowing that you think no one else notices your sullied mood and your crestfallen gaze every time they seem to get away with it. 

He’s never free to comfort you. You’re both far too busy to be around each other for longer than a few minutes, and today was like a blessing as he caught you at just the right time— he would have stayed the rest of his shift back there talking to you, if only he hadn’t been playing the part of a sweet, considerate guy. 

He thinks back to how you felt against him. How, even though your actions were innocent and you were much more focused on taking out the stain of his uniform, he still felt the warmth of your hand against his chest, delicate and smaller than his as you leaned in close enough to allow himself to get a whiff of your sweet scent.

And those glasses. 

He never thought he would find himself hung up on such an item, but the way they make your eyes look big and sparkly is practically enough to make him cum on the spot. Instead, he grabs a hold of his newest fleshlight, soft and tight, just how he imagines you would be. 

It’s perverted, but as he slides his cock into the tight sleeve, groaning slightly at how he’s barely able to push through, he imagines that it’s you. His mind begins to wonder what it would be like if you were above him right now, your thighs encasing his and your pussy leaking onto his cock as he fucked into you without abandon. 

As he turns on his vibrator, running it along his balls and letting out pathetic moans, he imagines what it would be like to use it on you while he fucked you, imagining the way your tits would bounce and your eyes would squeeze shut as he made you cum until you were unable to hold yourself up. 

On the other side of the screen, you imagine the same thing. Your legs are shaking and you’re fighting to keep your eyes open as you follow the pace he’s set, pressing your vibrator firmly against your clit and letting out weak whimpers at the sensation. You try to ignore the way he calls out the same name over and over, wondering instead what it would be like to hear your name from his lips— the sound is ringing throughout your mind the moment you imagine it, burying your face into your pillow as you increase the intensity of your toy. 

“Let me fill you up, want you dripping with my cum,” he growls out, the sloppy sounds of his thrusts only spurring you on as your thighs close around your hand, hips grinding into your dildo as you sink your teeth into your lip ruthlessly— it’s almost enough to draw blood as you watch the way he cums into his toy, hips continuing to rut into the it even long after he’s come, a white ring forming at the base as he turns the vibrator off from the overstimulation. 

“_— Shit,” Beomgyu almost slipped up for a second, proceeding to moan out his requested name repeatedly as a distraction. 

And you know you’re imagining it, but you’re briefly coming undone after that, your pussy tightening against your dildo and your legs shaking as you run your vibrator along your clit, imagining that it’s him inside you, that he’s currently spilling his load in your cunt— your mind swearing that you almost heard your name slip from his lips for a second— and it isn’t until you recover from your orgasm, the sound of another name leaving his lips repeatedly making you come to, that you realize it was your brain playing trick on you to help you get off. 

But you weren’t imagining things. 

Beomgyu hopes his audience didn’t pick up on his small mistake, but he’s relieved to see that they’re none the wiser as they continue to request to hear their name next.

“Let’s see…” he says, and you’re barely able to keep your eyes open as you watch the way he leans towards the camera again, reading requests off the monitor as he grinds his hips into his toy absentmindedly throughout it.

He’s barely getting started.

In turn, so are you. 

»»»

Beomgyu is the sweetest guy you’ve ever met. 

After your brief conversation at the restaurant, you quickly found yourself talking to him more often. 

It turned into him sitting next to you during the one class you shared, your friendship growing stronger day by day as you got to know him better.