Arisu 𐀔

The sound of your own breathing was deafening in the quiet of the weight room, a ragged, desperate rhythm that matched the thudding of your heart against your ribs. You were on your back on the bench press, staring up at the ceiling, trying to convince your protesting muscles that you could do one last rep.

Gunil was standing over you, his silhouette blocking the harsh fluorescent lights. He was spotting you, his hands hovering near the barbell, close enough to catch it if you failed, but far enough away to force you to do the work.

"Up," he commanded. "Don't lock your elbows. Keep the tension."

You gritted your teeth, a low groan tearing from your throat as you forced the bar upward. Your arms were shaking violently, the weight feeling twice as heavy as it had five minutes ago. You locked it out, gasping, and Gunil immediately reached in to help you rack it.

The metal clanged loudly, the sound echoing through the empty gym.

"Good," he said, but he didn't step back. Instead, he stayed leaning over you, one hand resting on the bar, the other braced on the bench beside your head. He was trapping you there, caging you in with his body.

You looked up at him, your chest heaving, sweat trickling down your temple. His eyes were dark, fixed on your face with an intensity that made your stomach flip. He was sweating too, a thin sheen on his forehead that caught the light. He smelled like iron and salt and that sharp, clean scent of his deodorant. It was intoxicating.

"You're done," he said, his voice low and rough. "Your form is gone."

"I can do more," you protested weakly, though you made no move to sit up.

"No." He shifted his weight, bringing his body closer. His thigh brushed against your knee, a casual contact that burned through your leggings. "You're pushing too hard. You're going to hurt yourself."

"I'm fine," you insisted, though your voice lacked conviction.

"Let me check."

He didn't wait for permission. He reached down, his hand settling on your shoulder. His fingers were warm and calloused, digging into the muscle with a firm, knowledgeable pressure. You flinched at the contact, your breath hitching in your throat.

"Relax," he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'm just checking for tension."

He kneaded the muscle, his thumb finding the knot that had been building there for days. You couldn't stop the soft moan that escaped your lips. The pain was exquisite, a sharp, sweet release that made your toes curl in your sneakers.

"Right there?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

You nodded, unable to speak. He worked the knot with a relentless focus, his other hand coming up to brace your neck, tilting your head to the side to give him better access. The position was incredibly intimate. You were completely at his mercy, pinned to the bench by his presence and his touch.

His fingers drifted from your shoulder, tracing the line of your collarbone, then down over your chest, right between your breasts. He didn't linger, just a feather-light brush that felt like an electric shock. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.

"Your heart rate is up," he observed, his hand resting over your heart. "Too much cardio?"

"No," you managed to breathe out. "It's... it's you."

He froze. The air between you seemed to thicken, charged with a sudden, dangerous tension. He stared down at you, his eyes searching yours. Then, a slow, dark smile spread across his face.

"Me?" he challenged, his hand sliding down your side, gripping your waist. "What about me?"

"You know," you whispered, your voice trembling.

"I want you to say it."

He leaned down, his face inches from yours. You could feel his breath fanning over your lips, warm and minty. The scent of him was overwhelming, clouding your senses.

"You're distracting me," you admitted, your voice barely audible. "You're always distracting me."

"Am I?" He leaned closer, his nose brushing against yours. "Or are you just finally admitting what you want?"

"I want you to touch me," you said, the words rushing out in a rush of breathless honesty. "Not like a friend. Like a man."

He let out a low, guttural sound, half-groan, half-growl. He didn't say a word. He just grabbed your hand, pulling you up from the bench and into a standing position. Then, without a word, he turned and started walking toward the locker rooms, towing you behind him.

You stumbled after him, your legs feeling like jelly. You knew you should stop. You knew this was a line you couldn't uncross. But the logical part of your brain had completely shut down, overridden by the desperate need pooling between your legs.

He didn't take you to the main locker area. He bypassed the rows of lockers and the benches, heading straight for the back, towards the private showers and the sauna. He pushed open the door to the small, tiled alcove that housed the showers, and pulled you inside.

It was dimmer here, the light muted by the frosted glass of the stall doors. The air was already humid, thick with the scent of steam and soap. Gunil closed the door behind you, sealing you in.

He turned to you, his eyes raking over your body, taking in the flush on your cheeks and the rapid rise and fall of your chest. He reached out, his hand cupping the back of your neck, and pulled you into a kiss.

It wasn't gentle. It was a collision, a bruising force that stole the air from your lungs. He tasted like mint and the lingering bitterness of energy drinks, and you moaned into his mouth, your hands instinctively grabbing his waist to steady yourself. He backed you up against the tiled wall, the cold surface shocking against your heated skin.

His hands were everywhere at once, roaming down your sides, gripping your hips, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the hard line of his cock straining against his sweatpants, hot and insistent against your stomach. You rocked your hips against him, seeking friction, desperate to alleviate the ache building inside you.

"Is this what you wanted?" he growled against your lips, breaking the kiss to nip at your jawline. "To be pinned against the wall in a locker room?"

"Yes," you gasped, your head falling back against the tiles as his mouth found the sensitive spot behind your ear. "God, yes."

"Filthy," he murmured, his hand sliding up under your sports bra, his warm palm cupping your breast. His thumb brushed over your nipple, and you cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Getting off on the risk of getting caught."

"Shut up," you whined, arching into his touch. "Just touch me."

He chuckled darkly, a sound that vibrated against your chest. He reached down with his free hand, shoving his hand into the waistband of your leggings and underwear in one smooth motion. You gasped as his fingers slid through your wetness.

"So wet," he observed, his voice thick with lust. "All this just from me spotting you? You really are easy, aren't you?"

You didn't have the capacity to be embarrassed. You just needed him to keep going. "Please, Gunil," you begged, your voice wrecked. "I need it."

"I know," he said, his fingers circling your clit with agonizing slowness. "I can feel how much you need it."

He applied more pressure, his fingers moving in tight, relentless circles. Your legs trembled, your knees buckling. He caught you easily, pressing his thigh between your legs to hold you up.

"Ride my thigh," he ordered, his voice a low growl in your ear.

You obeyed without hesitation, grinding yourself against the hard muscle of his leg. The friction of your leggings against his sweatpants was maddening, a rough drag that sent sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine. He watched you, his eyes dark and predatory, his hand still working your clit.

"Look at you," he murmured, his free hand gripping your chin and forcing you to look at him. "So desperate. So needy. It's a good look on you."

The praise, mixed with the degradation, sent you hurtling toward the edge. You could feel the coil tightening in your belly, the pressure building to a breaking point.

"Gunil, I'm gonna—" you gasped.

"Let go," he commanded. "Come for me."

You shattered. Your back arched off the wall, a silent scream tearing from your throat as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. He didn't stop, his fingers working you through every aftershock until you were slumped against him, boneless and spent.

He pulled his hand out of your pants, bringing his glistening fingers to his lips. The sight of him tasting you made your breath hitch, a fresh wave of arousal pooling in your belly despite your exhaustion.

"You taste incredible," he said, his voice rough. "But we're not done."

He grabbed your wrist, pulling you away from the wall and guiding you toward the shower bench at the back of the alcove. He sat down, pulling you to stand between his spread legs.

"Take these off," he said, tugging at the hem of your leggings.

You didn't argue. You shimmied out of the tight fabric, kicking them aside along with your underwear. You stood before him, naked from the waist down, your top still on. The

The air in the small, steam-filled alcove was thick enough to drink. You stood between Gunil’s spread legs, your bottom half bare, the cool tiles a stark contrast to the fire raging under your skin. He was still sitting on the bench, his gaze a physical weight as it roamed over you, from your trembling thighs to the hem of your sports bra.

He reached out, hooking his fingers into the elastic of the bra. "This too," he said, his voice a low command. "I want to see all of you."

You lifted your arms, letting him pull the fabric over your head. He tossed it aside, his eyes darkening as they took in your naked form. He leaned forward, his hands coming to rest on your hips, and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your stomach.

You whimpered, your hands tangling in his damp hair. He kissed his way up your body, his tongue tracing a path over your ribs, between your breasts, up the column of your throat. He was worshiping you, and the intensity of it was almost too much to bear.

"You have no idea," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and damp. "How many times I've imagined this. Seeing you like this."

He pulled you down, guiding you to straddle his lap. You sank onto his powerful thighs, your knees bracketing his hips. His sweatpants were still on, the rough fabric a delicious friction against your sensitive core. You could feel the hard, thick length of him pressing against you, a promise of what was to come.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. It was slower this time, deeper, a languid exploration that was just as consuming as the frantic one before. His hands roamed your back, tracing the curve of your spine, before settling on your ass, gripping you firmly and pulling you even closer.

You rocked your hips against him, a slow, deliberate grind that made him groan into your mouth. You were already wound tight again, the ache between your legs a desperate, pulsing need.

"Please, Gunil," you breathed against his lips. "I need you."

"I know," he said, his voice strained. He lifted you slightly, just enough to shove his sweatpants down his hips, freeing his cock. It sprang up, thick and hard, the tip already beading with moisture.

He looked at you, his eyes searching yours, giving you one last chance to back out. You answered by rising up on your knees, positioning yourself over him. He gripped his base, guiding himself to your entrance.

You sank down slowly, your eyes fluttering shut as he filled you inch by inch. The stretch was exquisite, a burning, full feeling that made your entire body hum with pleasure. You didn't stop until he was fully seated inside you, your hips flush against his.

You stayed like that for a moment, just breathing together, your foreheads pressed together. It was the quietest, most intimate moment of the entire night.

"Move," he whispered, his voice ragged.

You started to move, lifting yourself up and then sliding back down, setting a slow, steady rhythm. Each roll of your hips sent a jolt of pleasure through you, building on the last. His hands were on your waist, guiding you, his grip possessive and firm.

"Look at me," he commanded.

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze. The look in his eyes stole your breath. It was raw, unguarded, filled with a hunger so profound it made your chest ache.

"You feel so good," he groaned, his head falling back against the wall. "So tight."

You picked up the pace, riding him harder, faster. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the small alcove, mingling with your breathless moans and his guttural praises. The coil in your belly was winding tighter and tighter, the pressure building to an almost unbearable level.

He shifted his hips, changing the angle just enough to hit that spot deep inside you that made you see stars. You cried out, your body convulsing around him.

"Right there?" he asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

You could only nod, your words lost in a haze of pleasure. He hit the spot again, and again, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

"Come for me," he growled, his hand sliding between your legs to find your clit. He rubbed tight, fast circles, and that was all it took.

You shattered. Your orgasm ripped through you, a blinding, all-consuming wave of pleasure that left you shaking and gasping for air. Your body clenched around him, milking him, pulling him over the edge with you.

He followed you with a guttural groan, his hips bucking up into you as he emptied himself deep inside you. You could feel the hot pulse of his release, a final, satisfying confirmation of what you'd just done.

You collapsed against him, your body limp and boneless. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close as you both struggled to catch your breath. The steam from the showers curled around you, creating a private, hazy world.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just held each other, the frantic energy from before replaced by a heavy, lingering silence. You could feel his heart beating against your chest, a steady, reassuring rhythm.

Finally, he pulled back slightly, tilting your chin up to look at him. His eyes were soft, the hardness from before replaced by a warmth that made your heart ache.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice gentle.

You nodded, a small, tired smile playing on your lips. "More than okay."

He smiled back, a genuine, unguarded smile that you rarely saw. "Good."

He helped you off his lap, his hands gentle on your waist. He stood up, pulling his sweatpants back into place, then grabbed a towel from the nearby shelf, wrapping it around your shoulders.

"We should get cleaned up," he said, his voice soft. "Before someone actually does come looking for us."

You nodded, clutching the towel around you. The reality of what you'd just done was starting to sink in, but for once, you didn't feel panicked or scared. You just felt... calm. Like a puzzle piece you hadn't even known was missing had finally clicked into place.

Gunil turned on the water in one of the stalls, adjusting the temperature before motioning for you to get in. You stepped under the warm spray, the water washing away the sweat and the evidence of your encounter. He joined you a moment later, his movements slow and deliberate.

He took the soap from the dish, lathering his hands before gently washing your back. His touch was reverent now, his fingers tracing the lines of your muscles with a tenderness that made your throat tight. You leaned into his touch, letting him take care of you, letting him wash away the last of your resistance.

When you were both clean, he turned off the water and grabbed another towel, gently drying you off before drying himself. You dressed in silence, the air between you comfortable and easy.

As you were about to leave the alcove, he grabbed your hand, pulling you back to him. He looked down at you, his expression serious.

"This changes things," he said, his voice low.

"I know," you whispered.

"Is that okay?"

You looked up at him, at the man who had been your leader, your friend, and now, something more. You saw the vulnerability in his eyes, the silent question he was asking.

You stood on your tiptoes, pressing a soft, gentle kiss to his lips. "It's more than okay," you said, a genuine smile spreading across your face. "It's everything."

He smiled back, relief washing over his features. He squeezed your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours.

𐀔 Goo Gunil

Gunil didn’t slam the door when he came home.

He didn’t sigh loudly, or call out your name, or greet you with that soft half-smile he always had waiting for you.

He just stepped inside quietly, hung his coat on the wall hook, and stood there for a second too long — like he wasn’t sure what to do next.

You poked your head out from the kitchen.

"Hey," you said gently.

He lifted his head. Smiled.

Or… tried to.

It didn’t reach his eyes.

"Hi," he answered, voice calm, even, too steady for someone who’d spent twelve hours at the company. "I’m home."

You watched him toe off his shoes. The shoulders that were usually straight and proud were curled inward tonight. His movements were slower. He wasn’t meeting your eyes.

Everything in him felt… heavy.

You didn’t ask him what was wrong.

You didn’t say "Are you okay?" or "You look tired," because you knew he’d answer with something like "I’m fine," and then hold it in until he cracked later.

So instead, you walked over to the couch and sat down.

Then you patted your chest — the silent signal you’d only used twice before, both on nights he had come home looking like this.

His steps faltered.

"Come here," you murmured.

Gunil didn’t hesitate.

He crossed the room in three slow, tired strides, and the moment he reached you, he collapsed on the couch beside you — then onto you, turning and lowering his head until his forehead pressed against your sternum.

His arms came around your waist.

And then—

His breath hitched.

One small, broken sound.

He froze, as if embarrassed for letting it escape.

You slid one hand into his hair.

"It’s okay," you whispered. "I’ve got you."

He made another sound, softer, shaking.

Then he broke.

Just melted against you, hiding his face in your chest as the first quiet sob slipped out. His grip tightened, fingers curling desperately into the back of your shirt.

You wrapped both arms around him and held him closer.

Not asking.

Not questioning.

Just holding.

His breathing stuttered against you, soft and uneven.

"I’m sorry," he murmured, words muffled. "I don’t— I didn’t want to come home like this."

"You’re allowed to fall apart with me," you whispered into his hair.

His shoulders trembled again.

"I’m supposed to be the one holding everyone together," he choked. "I’m supposed to have answers. I’m supposed to stay strong."

"You’re human," you said gently. "Not a machine. Not a shield. Just… you."

He let out a shaky exhale, like the words hit somewhere deep.

Your fingers brushed soothingly at the nape of his neck, feeling the tension slowly unravel under your touch.

"You don’t always have to be the leader," you added. "Not here. Not with me."

He didn’t answer with words — he just buried himself closer, like he wanted to crawl into your warmth and never leave.

His breath warmed your skin.

You felt the way his chest rose and fell in uneven waves.

His tears soaked through your shirt.

And you held him through all of it.

Minutes passed — slow, quiet, heavy with the kind of vulnerability he never let anyone else see.

Eventually, his sobs softened. His breathing steadied. His grip loosened just enough for him to shift, cheek resting over your heartbeat.

You stroked his hair gently.

"Better?" you whispered.

He didn’t lift his head — he just nodded against you.

"I hate crying," he said softly, voice hoarse.

"I don’t," you said. "Not when you need it."

His hands tightened around your waist again, but this time in gratitude instead of panic.

He hesitated before speaking again.

"I didn’t know where else to go," he whispered. "I just wanted to come home to you."

You pulled him tighter. "You did," you murmured. "You’re home. You’re safe."

He let out a breath — a long, deep one — the kind that only comes after releasing something heavy.

After a moment, he finally tilted his head up to look at you.

His eyes were swollen. His cheeks were pink. His mouth trembled the tiniest bit.

He looked heartbreakingly soft.

"You always notice," he whispered. "Even when I try to hide it."

You brushed your thumb under his eye, wiping the tear he missed.

"I don’t need you to be perfect," you said. "I just need you."

Gunil’s eyes glistened again — but this time with something warm, not broken.

Slowly, carefully, he leaned up and pressed his forehead to yours.

No kiss.

Just a silent thank you.

"I love you," he breathed.

It wasn’t planned.

It wasn’t careful.

It wasn’t polished or steady like the way he usually speaks.

It was raw.

Emotion-soaked.

Beautiful.

You cupped his face, holding him gently.

"I love you too," you whispered back.

His eyes fluttered closed — and his whole body relaxed in a way you’d never seen before.

Like he finally let go of the weight he’d been carrying.

He rested his head back on your chest, arms wrapped around your waist, breathing slow and even.

You didn’t move.

You just held him.

Steady. Warm. Safe.

Exactly what he needed.

Gunil’s breathing evened out slowly — warm, steady against your chest, fingers still curled around your waist like he wasn’t entirely convinced you wouldn’t disappear if he loosened up.

You thought he’d fallen asleep.

Until—

His hand shifted.

Just a small movement. Barely there.

But it slid from your waist to your hip, fingers pressing in gently… almost possessively.

Your breath caught.

His did too.

He wasn’t asleep.

He tilted his head just enough for his nose to brush the fabric of your shirt — just enough for his breath to warm the bare skin at your collarbone.

"Thank you," he murmured, voice deeper than before. Raw.

But something else threaded in now — something warm, wanting, vulnerable in a new way.

His thumb traced a slow line along your hipbone, soft but deliberate.

You swallowed.

"Gunil…" you whispered.

He lifted his head.

Not all the way — just enough for his cheek to rest near your collarbone, his lips dangerously close to your throat.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet.

But too honest.

"Can I stay like this?" he whispered.

Asking permission.

But sounding like he already knew your answer.

"You can stay however you want," you whispered.

He exhaled shakily — not broken like before, but something warmer, heavier.

His fingers slid to the small of your back, pulling you a little closer.

Your legs tangled instinctively.

He froze for a moment, like he realized how close you suddenly were.

Then he didn’t move away.

He lifted himself slowly, bracing a hand on the couch beside your hip.

You felt the heat of him before you saw his face.

His forehead came to rest against your temple.

Not an accident.

Not comfort.

Intimacy.

You felt his breath on your cheek when he whispered:

"I didn’t come home like this just because I was overwhelmed."

Your lips parted.

He continued before you could speak, voice low and unsteady, like he was confessing something he’d been holding in for far too long.

"I needed you," he said.

"But not just the comfort."

Your heartbeat stumbled.

He pulled back half an inch — just enough so he could look at you.

His eyes were still puffy, still a little red…

but there was something new in them.

Something burning slow.

His hand slid up your side, stopping right below your ribs.

Barely touching.

Barely there.

Asking without asking.

The kind of touch that said: You can tell me to stop. Please tell me to stop… or don’t.

Your voice came out softer than you meant:

"Gunil…"

He leaned in closer — lips brushing the corner of your mouth, not fully touching.

Just hovering.

Testing.

Begging.

"Tell me you don’t want this," he breathed.

You didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

His fingers gripped your waist, holding you delicately — like he was both restraining himself and trying not to shake.

You whispered:

"I’m not saying that."

His breath hitched — a sound that wasn’t a sob anymore, but something deeper.

His forehead dropped to yours for a moment, as if he needed one last piece of control.

"Then tell me to kiss you," he murmured, voice trembling with emotion and restraint.

You didn’t answer with words.

You tilted your head — just slightly — enough that your lips brushed his.

Barely. But enough.

He inhaled sharply.

And the air shifted — warm, charged, heavy with everything you hadn’t said.

He didn’t kiss you. Not yet.

Instead, he pressed his lips to your cheek, slow and trembling — a single kiss that felt more intimate than anything else he could’ve done.

Then another, closer to the corner of your mouth.

Then he stopped — breathing hard, forehead against your jaw, trying so hard to behave.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, voice shaking.

"I’m trying to be good. I don’t want to take advantage of how vulnerable I am."

Your hand slid to his jaw, guiding him to look at you.

"You’re not," you whispered.

"You’re choosing me."

His eyes softened — melted — and something inside him finally let go.

He cupped your waist, pulling you fully against him, chest to chest, breath mingling.

"Then…" he breathed, lips brushing yours again.

"Tell me I can have you close tonight."

You whispered back: "You already do."

And the way he exhaled — shaky, relieved, overwhelmed — told you exactly how close you were to crossing that line.

But for now, he tucked himself against your neck again, holding you tight, breathing you in like you were the first safe place he’d found all day.

And you held him.

Knowing exactly where this would lead when the moment was right.

𐀔 Kim Jungsu

Jungsu showed up at your apartment without warning, hood up, shoulders stiff, eyes red in a way he clearly hoped you wouldn’t notice. He slipped inside quietly when you opened the door, offering a tiny smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

You didn’t push. You just spoke softly.

"You okay?"

He swallowed, voice rough.

"I didn’t know where else to go," he whispered. "I walked out of the building and my feet just… took me here."

You stepped closer and cupped his cheek gently, your thumb brushing the corner of his eye.

"Good," you murmured. "This is where you’re safe."

The words broke something in him, and his breath hitched. You opened your arms without hesitation. He stepped into your embrace like gravity itself pulled him there, and he buried his face in your shoulder. His breath shook once… then again… and slowly his body trembled in your arms as he tried to hold it all in.

You held him tighter.

"It’s okay," you whispered. "Let it out. I’ve got you."

He didn’t sob loudly — Jungsu never would — but the quiet, broken exhale against your neck told you enough. You kept your hands steady on his back, grounding him until the tension slowly melted from his muscles.

After a long moment, he pulled back, embarrassed, rubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I didn’t mean to—"

"Stop." You took his wrist gently. "You don’t need to apologize to me."

He blinked at you, as if he didn’t quite believe that he was allowed this softness.

You brushed his hair back and guided him toward the couch.

"Come lie down with me."

His eyes widened a little.

"...Are you sure?"

"Yes," you said with a small smile. "Come here."

You settled onto the couch first, leaving space behind you. He hesitated for only a second before lowering himself onto his side, back facing you. You saw the tension in his shoulders — he was trying so hard to be careful, to not intrude.

You slid closer and wrapped your arm around his waist from behind.

He froze.

Then, slowly… he melted. Completely.

Your chest pressed against his back, your legs curling gently with his, your hand settling just over his heart. You felt him let out a breath that shuddered on the way out.

"...This feels safe," he whispered, voice thready.

"It’s supposed to," you murmured against the back of his neck.

Your fingers intertwined with his when he reached back shyly, as if asking permission. You squeezed his hand, reassuring him.

"It’s okay, Jungsu. I’ve got you."

He let out a tiny sound — half relief, half exhaustion — his entire body softening under your hold. You could feel his heartbeat gradually slowing, syncing with the rhythm of your breathing.

"Thank you for holding me," he whispered after a moment, so quiet you almost didn’t hear it.

You pressed a soft, grounding kiss to his shoulder.

"You needed care. So I’m giving it."

A faint hum slipped from him — tired, vulnerable, safe.

Your thumb stroked slow circles on his side.

Your legs tangled gently with his.

Minutes passed.

His breathing evened out under your arm. Jungsu — usually the calm, the steady one, the caretaker — finally let himself rest, small and fragile and tucked securely against you like he’d found a place to fall apart and rebuild.

And you held him like you were made for it.

𐀔 Kwak Jiseok

The room was dark, warm, and quiet — the kind of quiet that only existed at 3AM. You were half-asleep, curled in the sheets, when the shift in the mattress finally registered.

Cold air.

Empty space beside you.

No steady breathing you were used to hearing inches from your ear.

You blinked into the darkness, confusion turning slowly into worry.

"…Jiseok?"

Silence.

You pushed the sheets away and slid out of bed, your feet touching the cold floor. The apartment was dim, lit only by the faint glow from the city outside. And that’s when you saw it — the balcony door cracked open, curtains swaying gently.

A thin line of moonlight traced across the floor.

You stepped closer.

Gaon sat on the balcony sofa, back against the glass, knees drawn to his chest. He wasn’t shaking, not visibly, but the moment the light fell across his face, your heart dropped.

Tears. Silent. Uncontrolled.

He wasn’t sobbing — he almost never did — but the kind of quiet crying that hurt more because he wasn’t letting himself make a sound. His eyes were fixed on the sky, glassy under the moonlight.

You opened the door quietly.

"Baby?"

His head jerked slightly, like he hadn’t realized anyone was there. He wiped at his face too fast, too harshly, like he wanted to erase the evidence.

"I—…" His voice cracked. "Sorry. You can go back to sleep."

You stepped out and knelt in front of him, cupping his cheeks gently between your palms.

"Jiseok. Look at me."

He didn’t want to. His lashes were wet, his jaw tight, his breath shaky in that way he tried to hide.

"I’m okay," he whispered. "It’s stupid."

"It’s not stupid if it made you cry."

The words broke him a little more.

He pressed his lips together, exhaled a trembling breath.

"I don’t know why I woke up like this," he whispered, barely audible. "My chest just… hurt. And I didn’t want you to see me like this."

Your heart squeezed.

"Why not?"

He let out a hollow laugh.

"Because I’m supposed to be strong."

You shook your head and slid closer, settling between his legs, pulling him forward until his forehead rested against your shoulder.

"Jiseok," you whispered, wrapping your arms around him, "you don’t have to be strong for me. Not all the time."

He didn’t answer, but his hands reached for your shirt, gripping the fabric tightly. His breath hitched against your collarbone — a quiet, broken sound he tried to swallow down.

You rubbed slow circles along his back.

"It’s okay," you murmured into his hair. "Let it out. I’m right here."

His shoulders trembled once — just once — before melting into you completely. He hid his face in your neck, and this time he didn’t fight the tears. They soaked into your skin, warm and aching.

You held him tighter, shielding him from the cold night air.

"Why were you looking at the sky?" you asked softly.

He sniffed, voice muffled.

"It felt like… if I looked up long enough, maybe I’d stop feeling everything else."

Your heart shattered quietly.

You guided his chin up with gentle fingers.

"Then look at me instead."

He blinked at you — eyes red, cheeks damp, breath unsteady — and for a moment you could see all of it. All the overwhelm, all the exhaustion he never let people see, all the softness he only showed to you.

You brushed your thumb under his eye.

"You’re allowed to break. You’re allowed to need someone. And you’re allowed to come to me — every single time."

He closed his eyes and leaned into your touch like he’d been waiting for permission to collapse.

And you let him.

You pulled him into your chest, legs tangled, his head tucked under your chin. You were the warmth in the cold night, the calm in his storm.

Minutes passed.

His breathing softened.

His grip loosened, but he didn’t pull away.

"Can we stay like this?" he whispered.

"As long as you need."

He nuzzled into your neck, voice small — the smallest you had ever heard it.

"Thank you for finding me."

"I always will."

His arms tightened around you, slow and gentle.

And under the moonlight, Gaon finally let himself rest — held, safe, and completely loved.

𐀔 Oh Seungmin

The apartment was unusually quiet when you got home.

No music.

No humming.

No clattering from the kitchen.

Just… silence.

The kind that pressed against your ribs.

"Seungmin?" you called softly, dropping your bag by the door.

No answer.

Something in your chest tightened.

You walked through the living room, then the hall — all dark — until you noticed it:

A thin strip of light

spilling out from beneath the bathroom door.

But no sound.

Not even breathing.

You knocked gently.

"Baby? You okay?"

Still nothing.

Your worry spiked, but you pushed the door open slowly, giving him time to stop you if he wanted privacy.

He didn’t.

And then you saw him.

Seungmin was sitting on the cold tile floor, back against the wall, knees pulled up, elbows braced on them. His head hung low, fingers tangled badly in his hair.

He looked up when he heard you.

And your heart stopped.

His eyes were red — really red.

Not glossy. Not teary.

Fully cried-out, exhausted, raw.

He tried to wipe them quickly, but his hand trembled.

"Oh," he whispered, voice breaking on a single syllable. "I didn’t want you to see me like this."

You didn’t say anything.

You simply stepped inside, closed the door quietly behind you, and sat down beside him on the cold floor — close enough that your knees brushed, but not touching him too much. Not crowding him.

You knew him.

You loved him.

And you knew he needed silence first.

He sucked in a shaky breath.

"I didn’t hear you come home," he murmured, voice small.

"I didn’t want to scare you," you said.

He laughed weakly, a broken, tired sound.

"I’m already scared."

Your chest tightened.

Still, you didn’t push him to explain.

Instead, you rested your hand palm-up between you on the tile, offering yourself without forcing him.

After a few seconds, his fingers found yours.

Barely touching — just the tips.

But holding on like he’d drown otherwise.

He closed his eyes again, another tear slipping down.

You leaned your head gently against his shoulder.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t speak.

He just breathed — slowly, like he was relearning how.

And you let the silence hold him.

Minutes passed like that, the quiet kind that meant more than words.

Eventually, he whispered, voice cracking:

"I don’t know why it hit me like this. I just— it felt like everything stacked on top of me all at once. And I didn’t want to bother anyone. And I didn’t want to cry in the living room because you would hear and—"

His breath shuddered.

Another tear.

Another apology hiding behind his teeth.

You squeezed his hand lightly.

"You don’t have to hide from me."

He shook his head, breathing uneven.

"I didn’t want to ruin your night."

"Hey," you whispered, turning your head a little to look at him. "You’re not ruining anything. You’re allowed to break. You’re allowed to feel things. You’re allowed to sit on the floor and cry if that’s what your heart needed."

His lips trembled.

"And you’re allowed to need me," you added softly.

That was what undid him.

His hand tightened around yours — really tightened — like he was grounding himself on you. Another tear slipped down his cheek, then another.

You shifted only slightly, enough to lean your shoulder fully against him.

He leaned back — without hesitation this time.

He hid his face in the crook of your neck, letting himself be small for once, letting himself be held even without your arms around him.

Not sobbing.

Not shaking violently.

Just crying quietly, softly, constantly — the kind of sadness that sits so deep it comes out in silence.

You stroked your thumb slowly over the back of his hand.

"I’m right here," you murmured. "For as long as you need me."

His voice was muffled when he whispered:

"Thank you… for sitting with me."

You pressed a kiss to his hair.

"Always."

Seungmin didn’t try to get up.

Didn’t pretend to be fine.

Didn’t pull away.

He just leaned into you — tired, hurting, but finally letting someone hold the weight with him.

And you stayed on the bathroom floor with him, quiet and steady, until his breathing calmed and his fingers finally stopped trembling in your hand.

𐀔 Han Hyeongjun

You found him on the couch.

That was the first sign something was wrong.

Junhan was never the couch type.

If he was tired, he’d go to bed.

If he was stressed, he’d clean.

If he was overwhelmed, he’d disappear into music.

But tonight… he was just sitting there.

Fully dressed.

Lights off.

Guitar untouched beside him.

Head down, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose between them.

Still.

Too still.

“Han?” you called softly from the hallway.

He flinched — just a tiny twitch of his shoulder — then tried to straighten up before you could see anything.

But you saw everything.

His eyes were red.

Not from crying hard — but from crying quietly.

Crying alone.

Crying for a long time.

He sniffed once, quick and embarrassed.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice barely above a breath. “You’re home.”

You didn’t answer with words.

You walked toward him carefully, gently — like approaching a scared animal — and you knelt in front of him on the rug.

His gaze dropped instantly.

“Sorry,” he whispered, rubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. “I… I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

You placed your hands on his knees, light enough not to overwhelm, enough for him to feel you were there.

“Why are you apologizing?” you asked softly.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“I should be stronger than this.”

“Not with me,” you whispered.

Junhan’s jaw tensed.

He swallowed — hard — like the words were stuck in his throat.

Then, quietly:

“I didn’t want to burden you.”

Your chest ached.

You lifted your hand and brushed his cheek gently with your thumb.

“You could never burden me.”

He finally looked at you.

And the moment your eyes met, his breath broke.

No sob.

No collapse.

Just a subtle pull of his lips trembling, eyes glistening, shoulders falling like he’d been holding them up for days.

“Come here,” you whispered, opening your arms.

He didn’t hesitate for even a second.

He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face into your shoulder with a quiet, shaky exhale — the kind that said he’d been holding it in way too long.

You moved up onto the couch, guiding him gently until he was lying sideways, head in your lap.

He hid his face so deeply against your stomach you could feel the warmth of his breath through your shirt.

Your fingers slipped into his hair — slow, comforting strokes.

His breathing finally cracked.

A small sound escaped him — so soft it almost wasn’t there.

A quiet, shaky inhale.

Then another.

He wasn’t sobbing.

Junhan didn’t fall apart loudly.

He fell apart like rain on a windowsill: soft, steady, impossible to ignore.

Your hand kept stroking.

Your other hand rested over the one he had curled into your hoodie.

Minutes passed in silence.

Eventually, he whispered — voice muffled against you:

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”

“Nothing,” you murmured, thumb brushing his temple. “You’re just tired.”

A tear slipped onto your shirt.

“Everything feels heavy,” he whispered. “Like I’m running behind everyone else.”

Your heart squeezed.

“You don’t have to run tonight,” you said. “Just breathe.”

His fingers tightened desperately around your hoodie, pulling you closer like he needed your heartbeat to stay grounded.

“You make it easy to breathe,” he whispered.

Your hand paused for a second — because the honesty in his voice struck deep.

Then you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

“I’m right here,” you said. “No pressure. No expectations. Just stay with me.”

Junhan slowly exhaled — long, shaky, relieved.

His breathing evened out little by little.

His grip on your hoodie loosened but didn’t let go.

And eventually, quietly, with your fingers running through his hair—

Junhan fell asleep on your lap.

Still holding your hoodie.

Still letting you carry the weight with him.

Soft. Warm. Safe.

Like he finally allowed himself to rest because he wasn’t alone anymore.

𐀔 Lee Jooyeon

Jooyeon didn’t knock.

You only realized he was home when you heard the door click shut — slow, careful, like he didn’t want the sound to exist at all. No greeting. No "Babyyy~ I’m back."No footsteps pacing the apartment the way he usually did when his mind was racing.

Just silence.

Your heart knew before your brain did.

You stepped out of the bedroom and found him standing by the door, bass case still strapped across his shoulder, fingers wrapped around the strap like he hadn’t figured out how to let go yet. His head was lowered. Hair falling into his eyes.

Still wearing his shoes.

"Hey," you said softly.

He looked up.

And immediately looked away again.

"Hi," he murmured, voice low. Flat. Too controlled.

You didn’t ask what happened.

You didn’t ask how practice went, or if he ate, or if he was tired — because Jooyeon would answer all of those with practiced calm and swallow the rest whole.

Instead, you crossed the room and held your arms open.

Not wide.

Not dramatic.

Just enough.

He hesitated.

Just a beat — like his body wanted to move before his pride caught up.

Then he stepped forward.

And the moment he reached you, he folded.

Not collapsing — Jooyeon never collapsed.

He laced himself into you.

Arms wrapping tight around your waist. One leg stepping between yours instinctively. His forehead pressing hard into your shoulder as if anchoring himself there. Like if he didn’t hold on this tightly, he might drift apart.

Your hands came up immediately — one sliding between his shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of his head.

"Oh," you whispered. "Come here."

He exhaled — long, shaky — like he’d been holding his breath since the moment he left the building.

His grip tightened.

"Can I just—" His voice broke slightly. "Can I stay like this for a second?"

"As long as you want," you murmured.

He didn’t say anything else.

He just pressed closer.

Chest to chest. Hip to hip. Every inch of him finding contact, grounding himself in you like muscle memory. His fingers curled into your shirt, not desperate — just certain.

Like you were the only thing keeping him upright.

You felt the tremor before you heard it.

A small shudder through his shoulders.

Then another.

He buried his face deeper against your neck, breath uneven, warm against your skin.

"I didn’t mean to bring this home," he whispered. "I tried to leave it there."

“I know,” you said gently, rubbing slow circles into his back. "You don’t have to succeed every time."

His breath hitched.

"I hate feeling like this," he admitted quietly. "Like I’m heavy. Like I don’t know where to put it."

"Put it here," you whispered. "I can hold it."

That did it.

His arms tightened, pulling you flush against him, his weight leaning into yours fully now — not restrained anymore. One of his hands slid up your back, fingers spreading like he was checking if you were real.

He nodded against your shoulder.

Didn’t cry.

Jooyeon’s hurt came out differently.

In the way his breathing kept catching.

In the way he stayed so still, like if he moved too much he’d crack open.

You stayed with him.

Minutes passed.

Eventually, you guided him gently toward the couch, sitting down first and tugging him with you. He followed immediately, no resistance — settling between your legs, back to your chest, arms still wrapped around you like he didn’t know how to exist any other way right now.

You wrapped around him from behind.

He let out a sound — soft, almost embarrassed.

"…This helps," he murmured.

"I know."

Your chin rested on his shoulder. Your hands folded over his chest, fingers interlacing with his instinctively.

"I don’t always know how to say when I’m not okay," he admitted. "It feels… stupid."

"It’s not stupid," you said. "You came home. That’s saying enough."

His shoulders finally dropped.

All the way.

He leaned back into you fully now — trusting, heavy, real.

"Thank you for letting me be like this," he whispered.

You pressed a kiss into his hair.

"You don’t have to lace yourself together out there," you murmured. "You can come undone with me."

He closed his eyes.

And for the first time that night, his breathing evened out — slow, deep, steady — held together not by strength, but by you.

And you stayed like that.

Quiet.

Connected.

Your company’s headquarters was eighty floors of glass, steel, and ambition — but everyone knew the real battlefield existed on the top two levels.

One floor for him. One floor for you.

And the elevator?

A war zone.

No one remembered when the feud started. New employees whispered stories in the break room—

"I heard they once competed for a client and it got violent."

"No, I heard they hooked up at a conference and she rejected him."

"You're both wrong. They used to be friends—best friends—and something awful happened."

No one knew the truth.

Well… you did.

Because once upon a time, Jooyeon wasn’t your rival.

And he definitely wasn’t your enemy.

He was the boy who sat next to you during trainee rotations, sharing a single pencil because you kept losing yours.

He was the intern who always brought you coffee, insisting the caffeine "helped your genius."

He was the coworker who stayed late without being asked, leaning over your shoulder to help you correct presentations, his voice warm against your ear.

He was the man you kissed in the storage room after getting a promotion neither of you believed you deserved.

The man who touched you like he was memorizing every inch.

The man who whispered, "One day, we'll run this place together."

But then came the offers.

The bonuses.

The promises.

The subtle battlefield of corporate politics that pushed you two apart.

He took the first executive position.

You took the next.

He climbed fast.

You climbed faster.

And suddenly, the person who used to be your favorite part of the building…

…became your competitor.

Now every meeting was a duel.

Every presentation was a challenge.

Every shared glance was a spark thrown into a pile of gasoline.

Which is why when you stepped out of the elevator that Monday morning, heels clicking, skirt hugging your hips just right, and saw Jooyeon leaning against your office door like he owned the wall—

—you didn’t stop walking.

"You're blocking my entrance," you said coolly.

He smirked, slow and devastating.

"Good morning to you too."

"I didn’t say it was a good one."

"You never do."

His eyes flicked down your outfit, lingering way too long on the hem of your skirt.

"New look? Trying to distract the board today?"

You stepped closer, brushing past him like a challenge.

"Why? Is it working?"

His breath caught just slightly — victory.

But then he leaned in, lips close to your ear, voice low enough to make your spine tighten.

"Careful," he murmured. "Play with fire in this building and I might decide to burn you first."

You turned your head, meeting his gaze with equal heat.

"Oh, Jooyeon…" you whispered.

"You already tried that once."

His smile faltered.

Just for a second.

Just long enough for you to savor it.

You opened your office door and walked inside, leaving him standing there — annoyed, flustered, and thoroughly defeated.

Of course, he followed.

Because the thing about rivals?

They always come back for round two.

Jooyeon closed the office door behind him without asking permission.

Of course he did.

You didn’t even turn around.

Just walked to your desk, set your bag down, and pulled up the morning reports.

"I don’t remember inviting you in," you said.

He answered with a scoff.

"Since when do I need an invitation?"

"Since always."

"You didn’t seem to mind when you were pulling me into supply closets."

You froze for half a second.

Not enough for him to see…

but enough for him to feel.

Because he walked closer.

Slowly.

Measured.

Predatory.

"I came to give you a warning," he said.

"How generous."

"And very unlike me. So listen carefully."

You turned in your chair, crossing your legs deliberately — watching his jaw clench when your skirt shifted an inch higher.

"What is it, Director Lee?" you asked sweetly.

He braced one hand on your desk, leaning down so he could look you directly in the eyes.

So close you could see the flecks of gold in his irises.

So close you could smell the cologne you once buried your face in.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

"I'm taking the Chen account."

You smiled.

Slow. Calculated. Dangerous.

"Are you?" you asked.

"Yes."

"Funny," you said, tilting your head, "because I already scheduled a lunch with Mr. Chen today."

He blinked.

That tiny twitch of shock you DESPERATELY wanted to see.

Then his tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek — his tell.

His little "I’m going to ruin your life" tic.

"You think you're clever."

"I know I'm clever."

His gaze flicked down your legs again.

His hand gripped the edge of your desk just a little tighter.

"You'll play dirty for this deal, huh?" he asked.

You uncrossed your legs.

Re-crossed them slower.

Let his eyes follow.

"I learned from the best."

He exhaled a breath that sounded almost like a laugh.

Almost.

Then he leaned in until your noses were barely a breath apart.

"You have no idea what you're starting."

"And you," you whispered, "have no idea what you're losing."

Silence. Thick. Electric. Hot as hell.

Then—

A knock on your door.

Your assistant poked her head in nervously.

"Director Y/N? The board meeting starts in five minutes."

You smiled without breaking eye contact with Jooyeon.

"Perfect timing."

You stood, brushing past him again.

He stilled completely when your hand accidentally grazed his stomach.

Not a flinch.

Not a breath.

Still.

Then, low enough that only you could hear…

"This isn't over."

You smirked.

"It never is."

[𓏲ּ𝄢]

The conference room was floor-to-ceiling windows and a table big enough to host the UN.

Directors, VPs, analysts—everyone was already seated when you walked in, calm, polished, absolutely lethal.

Jooyeon was already there.

And he watched you walk across the room like a sin he was trying not to commit.

You sat down directly across from him.

Of course you did.

It was tradition.

A beautifully hostile one.

The meeting started with quarterly projections, charts, numbers—boring to anyone who wasn’t obsessed with winning.

Both of you were there.

But today?

Jooyeon wasn’t hearing a single word.

Because the second you crossed your legs under the table, the fabric of your skirt sliding over your thigh?

His focus snapped.

It was gone, absolutely ruined.

He looked down.

Then up.

Then away.

Then back again because he had NO self-control.

He hated it.

He loved it.

He hated that he loved it.

And then—

He made the mistake.

The fatal one.

He let his eyes drift to your hands.

Resting on your laptop.

Long fingers, soft skin, nails perfectly done.

Suddenly, he wasn’t in the boardroom anymore.

Dim lights.

Your breath fanning against his mouth.

Your skirt up on your belly, as he lifted to make his entrance easier, once he lifted you onto the file cabinet, your legs bracketing him with zero hesitation.

Your fingers gripping his tie as you crashed your lips to his.

His hands on your waist—no, gripping it, molding it, dragging you closer like he’d die if you weren’t pressed against him.

"Joo…" you had whispered against his throat, voice breathy, warm.

He still remembered the sound.

Still dreamed about it.

Still hated himself for letting it go.

He remembered your laugh when he accidentally knocked over a box in the dark.

The way you covered his mouth to silence him.

Your body shaking with quiet giggles while he kissed your palm.

He remembered thinking—

"If she asks me to stay, I will. Right here. Forever."

Then—

"Director Lee?"

The voice snapped like a whip.

Your voice. Sharp and professional.

Sweet enough to slice arteries.

"Mr. Lee," you repeated slowly, every eye in the boardroom turning toward him,

"Is there a problem?"

His heart slammed in his chest.

He blinked, throat tightening, the ghost of that kiss still burning on his lips.

Every person at the table watched him, but he only saw you.

You. Perfectly dangerously composed.

The corner of your mouth lifted—so subtle no one else noticed.

You knew.

You ALWAYS knew when he was unraveling.

He cleared his throat.

Sat straighter.

Forced out a controlled, icy:

"No. No problem at all."

"Good," you said, leaning back in your chair like you owned the room.

"Because I’d hate to think you were… distracted."

His jaw tightened.

And God... DEAR GOD.

You enjoyed it.

You flicked your pen between your fingers—a habit that should’ve been harmless but, to him, was nothing but a loaded gun.

He hated how much of him you still controlled without even trying.

The meeting resumed.

Charts, graphs and financial forecasts.

Except every time he tried to focus—

his eyes dropped back to you.

Your legs. Your throat. Your lips pressed into that little smirk you wore when you won.

He lost and knew it.

You knew it.

Everyone else thought he was just tired.

Then, under the table your foot brushed his shoe.

Accidentally.

On purpose.

He inhaled sharply.

You didn’t look up.

Didn’t acknowledge it.

You just kept speaking, explaining your proposal to the board, the picture of professionalism while Jooyeon sat across from you, pulse racing, remembering the exact moment he stopped being your partner—

and became your rival.

And when the meeting ended?

You stood.

Collected your papers.

Gave him a single look that was all heat and poison.

"Try to stay focused next time, Mr. Lee," you murmured, passing him.

His fingers twitched.

His control cracked.

And he thought—

"I’m going to ruin you for ever looking at anyone else."

[𓏲ּ𝄢]

You walked down the hallway with your tablet tucked against your chest, heels tapping a perfect rhythm. Jooyeon trailed behind you, pretending he wasn’t watching the sway of your hips like it was hypnotic.

He was trying so hard to act unaffected.

It was adorable.

You stopped suddenly in front of the elevators, pulling a pen from your folder as you made a note.

He wasn’t expecting your abrupt stop.

He walked right into you.

His chest pressed to your back—warm, solid, unprepared.

"Watch it," you murmured, not moving.

He swallowed. "You stopped in the middle of the hallway."

"Mmm. Maybe you should pay more attention."

You turned, holding your tablet with one hand… and the other?

You lifted it casually — too casually — brushing it along the front of his suit to pivot.

Except the bottom corner of the tablet caught.

Just barely.

Just enough that it dragged over the very wrong place.

His breath punched out of him.

His hand shot out, gripping your hip to steady himself—instinctive, desperate.

Your eyes widened innocently.

"Oh," you said softly, looking down at where the tablet had bumped.

"That was… unfortunate."

He stared at you like you had personally unplugged his brain.

"That—" His voice cracked. Actually cracked. "You— you did that on purpose."

You tilted your head, stepping a little closer.

Just enough that he had to press himself backward against the elevator doors to hide the very real, very visible problem forming.

"Jooyeon," you whispered sweetly, "if I wanted to touch you there… trust me. You’d know."

His jaw dropped a fraction.

You pretended not to notice.

Instead, you reached forward to straighten his tie — but your wrist brushed his lower stomach in the process, right above the belt.

His breath stuttered.

His pupils darkened.

And oh… the way he tried to subtly shift to the side, angling his body to keep the front of his pants out of view?

Magnificent.

You fixed his tie perfectly and patted his chest once.

"There," you said, stepping back like you didn’t just collapse every ounce of dignity he had. "You look presentable again."

The elevator dinged.

You stepped inside, turning to him with a dazzlingly polite smile.

"Coming, Mr. Lee? Or do you need a moment before lunch?"

He stayed frozen, hands in his pockets, shoulders too stiff, voice one octave lower than usual.

"…I’ll take the next elevator."

You bit your lip to stop the smile.

"Thought so."

The click of the elevator doors closing was the loudest sound in the world. It was the sound of his defeat. Of his surrender. For a long moment, He just stood there, palms flat against the cool metal, his head bowed. The air in the hallway was thin, tasting of recycled oxygen and the lingering scent of your perfume—a phantom that was already torturing him.

His body was a traitor. It ached, throbbed, a relentless, pulsing reminder of how thoroughly you’d dismantled him. The accidental brush of the tablet hadn't been accidental at all. It was a declaration. A promise. A memory of what you used to do to him, and a threat of what you could still do.

He pushed himself off the doors, his movements stiff, and stormed back toward his office. His own floor felt alien without the promise of seeing you. His sanctuary felt like a cage.

He didn't bother greeting his assistant. He just walked into his office, the door locked shut with a decisive, final thud. The blinds were drawn, casting the room in a muted, gray light. It was quiet. Too quiet. The silence allowed every sound from the hallway, every phantom footstep, to echo in his skull.

His phone was on the desk. A sleek, expensive piece of glass and metal that was currently his worst enemy. He picked it up, his thumb hovering over your contact. He could call you. He could text you. "Don't go." "Cancel it." "Meet me instead."

But that’s what you wanted. For him to break. To beg.

He set the phone down with a clatter and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the city. It was a kingdom he was conquering, piece by bloody piece, but all he could see was your reflection in the glass, the smirk on your lips as you’d stepped into that elevator.

"If I wanted to touch you there… trust me. You’d know."

The words were a physical touch, a ghost of your hand on him. His body responded instantly, a fresh wave of heat pooling in his gut, his trousers already uncomfortably tight. He cursed under his breath, a low, guttural sound of frustration.

He was losing his mind.

He turned from the window and loosened his tie, yanking it from his collar and tossing it somewhere. He unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt, his fingers clumsy with impatience. He sat down on his chair, the leather cool and soft beneath him.

He closed his eyes.

And you were there.

Not in a stuffy restaurant with Mr. Chen, but here. In his office. In that storage closet. On the file cabinet.

He remembered the weight of you in his arms, the way your legs had wrapped around his waist, pulling him in. The desperate, hungry way you’d kissed him, like you were starving and he was the only thing that could save you.

His hand moved almost of its own accord, palming the hard length of his cock through the expensive fabric of his suit pants. The pressure was a temporary relief, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

He unmade his trousers, lowering his boxer, the sound loud in the silent room. He freed himself, his erection hot and heavy in his grip. He leaned his head back, his throat exposed, his breath coming in ragged pants.

He started to stroke, slow at first, his grip firm. He tried to think of anything else—spreadsheets, projections, the cold, hard numbers that usually grounded him. But it was useless. All he could see was you.

The way your skirt had shifted when you crossed your legs. The deliberate, maddening rhythm of your pen between your fingers. The innocent, wide-eyed look you’d given him after "accidentally" grazing him with the tablet.

He imagined you in that restaurant right now. Laughing at something Mr. Chen said. Leaning forward, giving him a view of the soft swell of your breasts. Touching his arm. Making your play.

The thought was a white-hot spike of jealousy and lust. It was vicious. It was poison. And it was the most erotic thing he had ever imagined.

His strokes grew faster, rougher. He pictured you standing before him in his office, that dangerous smirk on your face. He pictured you sinking to your knees, looking up at him with those knowing eyes as you took him in your mouth.

"Careful, Jooyeon. Play with fire and I might decide to burn you first."

You were burning him. From the inside out.

He remembered the sound of his name on your lips, a breathy whisper against his throat. "Joo…" He mimicked the sound in his own mind, a broken, needy groan escaping his lips.

He was close. The tension in his body was coiling tighter and tighter, a spring ready to snap. He thought of your challenge in your office. "And you have no idea what you’re losing."

He was losing everything. His sanity. His control. His goddamn mind.

With a final, brutal stroke, he came. His orgasm ripped through him, sharp and intense, leaving him breathless and trembling. He collapsed back onto the desk, his chest heaving, a fine sheen of sweat on his brow.

For a moment, there was only the sound of his own ragged breathing. The release was temporary. A fleeting moment of peace in a war he was losing.

Slowly, he sat up. He cleaned himself off with a tissue from his desk, his movements methodical, robotic. He tucked himself back in, zipped his pants, and stood. He walked to the small private bathroom connected to his office and splashed cold water on his face.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror. His hair was disheveled. His eyes were dark, wild. He looked like a man who had just been thoroughly and completely ruined by a ghost.

He straightened his shirt, ran a hand through his hair. He was Director Lee Jooyeon. He was in control.

But as he walked back to his desk, his phone lit up with a notification. A single text message.

From you.

"Having a wonderful lunch. Mr. Chen is a delight. Don’t wait up."

He stared at the words, the calm, polite message a more potent weapon than any threat you could have shouted. The fire you’d started in the hallway wasn’t just burning him anymore. It was an inferno.

And he knew, with a certainty that settled like ice in his veins, that he wasn't going to just take the Chen account.

He was going to burn your entire world to the ground and enjoy the warmth.

[𓏲ּ𝄢]

Your lunch with Mr. Chen ended exactly the way you expected:

You smiling.

He laughing.

The deal practically sealed in the palm of your hand.

Jooyeon never stood a chance.

You walked back into the building with your coat draped over your arm and your lipstick freshly reapplied — not because of Mr. Chen.

Because of Jooyeon.

You knew what your text would do to him.

You knew the storm you were provoking.

And God, you loved provoking it.

The elevator opened on your floor.

You stepped out.

And instantly — instantly — something was wrong.

The hallway was too quiet.

Your assistant wasn't at her desk.

The lights were dimmer than usual, like someone had adjusted them manually.

You took exactly three steps before—

"Enjoy your lunch?"

His voice.

Low. Controlled. Too controlled.

You turned.

Jooyeon stood at the end of the hallway, sleeves rolled up, suit jacket off, tie gone entirely. His hair was pushed back like he'd run his hands through it too many times, and his shoulders were squared with a tension you could feel from meters away.

He looked like a man who had been pacing for an hour.

He looked like a man ready to start a war.

You smiled, soft and venomous.

"It was lovely. Mr. Chen sends his regards."

"I'm sure he does," Jooyeon said, stepping toward you, slow and quiet like a predator closing in.

You didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Didn't give him the satisfaction of backing up.

"Did you seal the deal?" he asked.

"Yes."

His jaw flexed.

Dangerously.

"And did you celebrate with him too?"

The implication hit the air like gasoline.

You arched a brow. "Jealousy doesn't suit you."

"I'm not jealous."

"Oh, sweetheart..." — you stepped closer, lowering your voice to a whisper sharp enough to draw blood — "you're transparent."

His breath hitched.

Just slightly.

Enough.

"You think you can play this game with me?" he asked, voice dipping. "You think you can provoke me, tease me, walk around here acting untouchable?"

"I am untouchable," you said.

He swallowed.

Hard.

And then his eyes dropped — just for a second — to your lips.

A betrayal his body committed without his permission.

A spark ignited in your chest.

You stepped past him, brushing your shoulder against his — deliberately soft. His breath left him in a quiet, furious exhale.

But as you reached your office door, he spoke again.

This time, softer.

More dangerous.

"You're making a mistake."

You paused.

Hand on the door.

"Am I?" you asked without turning.

"You forgot something," he said.

You slowly looked back at him over your shoulder.

"What?"

The corner of his mouth lifted.

Not a smirk.

Not confidence.

Something darker.

"You forgot," he murmured, stepping closer, "that I know exactly how to beat you."

You scoffed lightly. "In your dreams."

He leaned in, his voice brushing your neck.

"No," he whispered, "in memories."

Your pulse spiked.

He saw it.

He lived for it.

"You can pretend you don't remember," he continued, "but I do. Every second. Every sound you made. Every way your body—"

"Director Lee."

You cut him off before he crossed a line neither of you were ready for.

But he only smiled, eyes gleaming with the thrill of finally having the upper hand.

Then he broke his silence, "Have fun trying to make a better proposal after I rewrote yours with my words and scheduled to be sent tomorrow morning, darling"

Your pulse lurched.

"…What?" The word left you sharper than intended, but he only reveled in it, leaning back in your chair like he’d owned it for years.

“My words," he repeated lazily. "My structure. My projections. My final approval."

His gaze slid to you, slow and deliberate. "Your name on top, though. I’m not a monster."

Heat prickled beneath your skin — fury, not embarrassment, though he’d gladly mistake the two.

"You had no right."

"I had every right." He rose, stepping close enough that you could feel the shift of the air. "You left your workstation unlocked. And you left me irritated." His smile curved, sharp and satisfied. "An unfortunate combination."

You tried to step around him, but he moved with you, blocking your path with infuriating ease.

"What do you want, Director?"

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he brushed an imaginary fleck of dust from your shoulder, far too familiar for someone who was technically your subordinate.

"Want?" he echoed, voice low. "I want you to stop treating me I'm a threat you can tease."

Your breath caught.

"But since you seem determined to keep doing it," he said lightly, “I’ll settle for this.”

He leaned in — not touching, just close enough that the hairs on your neck stood on end.

"Come to my office before the board meeting tomorrow. Seven a.m."

A beat.

"Unless you’d prefer the entire C-suite reading my version of your proposal."

Your jaw tightened. "…Blackmail now?"

"Leverage," he corrected softly. "And a meeting. Nothing more."

He stepped back at last, brushing past you on his way out.

"Oh," he added at the doorway, glancing over his shoulder with a wicked glint, "and try to sleep. I’d hate for you to show up flustered."

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone with the hum of the overhead lights — and the simmering dread that he wasn’t bluffing.

[𓏲ּ𝄢]

You didn't knock.

Of course you didn't.

You stormed straight into his office, heels sharp on the floor, anger hot enough to burn through the carpet.

Jooyeon looked up from his desk, pen stilling in his hand.

"Oh," he said smoothly, leaning back in his chair like he expected this. "There she is."

"Don't you— don't you dare," you snapped, slamming the door behind you.

His eyebrow arched.

"Director Y/L/N," he teased, "you seem upset."

"You undermined my proposal!"

"You tried to steal my expansion!"

"You sabotaged me!"

You weren't even sure what part of this fury was professional and what part was personal — but it was all aimed at him.

He stood up slowly.

deliberately.

Like a man walking toward a bomb he built himself.

"I didn't sabotage you," he said calmly. "I competed."

"You blindsided me."

"I gave you a challenge."

"You made me look incompetent!"

"You could never look incompetent," he said — too quickly, too intensely.

You froze.

His breath stuttered.

He hadn't meant to say that part out loud.

But he recovered instantly, jaw tense.

"This is business," he gritted out.

"This is personal," you shot back.

Silence.

Dangerous silence.

He stepped closer.

You stepped closer too, refusing to back down, refusing to give him an inch.

"Why," you whispered, "why does it always have to be like this with us? Why do we keep doing this? Fighting like idiots?"

His chest rose and fell once — sharply.

"Because," he said, voice low, tight, cracking at the edges, "you make me crazy."

Your breath hitched.

He swallowed.

"Because I walk into a room and you're there and suddenly I can't think straight. Because every time you succeed, I want to break something. Because every time you smile, I want to—"

He stopped himself, breathing hard.

Your heart pounded so loud you felt it in your fingertips.

"Jooyeon..."

It slipped out before you could stop it.

His eyes flickered— startled, hungry, soft all at once.

Now it was his turn.

"Because," he continued, voice barely a whisper, "I can't get over you."

You stopped breathing.

"I never could," he said. "Not then. Not now."

Silence swallowed the room whole.

Both trembeling.

You opened your mouth— but your voice wouldn't come.

So you stepped forward.

He stepped forward at the same time.

Your chest brushed his.

Your breath mingled.

And then, he kissed you.

No warning. No hesitation. No space left between your bodies.

His hand cupped your jaw with desperate gentleness, thumb trembling against your skin as if he'd dreamed of this moment so long he didn't trust it was real.

You grabbed the lapels of his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, closer—

He exhaled shakily into your mouth, like the kiss itself broke something open inside him.

You felt it too.

Years of tension, rivalry, of wanting and denying and wanting again.

All crashing into one impossible, perfect, devastating kiss.

When you finally pulled back, breaths uneven, foreheads touching, he whispered against your lips: "This is why we fight."

You whispered back "No, Jooyeon...This is why we stopped."

He kissed you again.

Slower. Softer.

More certain this time.

And for the first time in years neither of you pushed away.

His hands framed your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks with a reverence that contradicted the fury of the kiss. It was a desperate, searching kiss, one that asked for forgiveness without words and promised retribution with every slide of his lips. The anger, the rivalry, the years of calculated cruelty—it all dissolved into the taste of him, the feel of him, the undeniable fact that you were finally, finally touching again.

"This is a mistake," you whispered against his mouth, even as your hands tightened on his shirt, holding him to you.

"The worst kind," he breathed, his voice ragged. "But I'm not stopping."

He backed you up until your legs hit the edge of his desk, a solid, unyielding obstacle. The mahogany was cool against the back of your thighs. He didn't break the kiss, just lifted you effortlessly, seating you on the polished wood. The new angle was a surrender. You were no longer eye-to-eye; you were looking up at him, and the raw, unguarded hunger in his eyes stole the air from your lungs.

His hands left your face, trailing down your sides, mapping the curve of your waist, the dip of your hips. They settled on your thighs, his fingers digging into the fabric of your skirt. "I've hated this skirt all day," he murmured, his lips moving to your jaw, to the sensitive spot just below your ear. "I've hated thinking about Mr. Chen seeing you in it."

"He didn't," you gasped, your head falling back as he nipped at your throat. "He only saw the proposal."

"Good," he growled, and the possessiveness in that single word sent a bolt of pure heat straight through you. His hands slid higher, pushing the hem of your skirt up, up, up, until his palms were resting on the bare skin of your thighs. The contact was electric, a jolt of memory and need so potent it made your toes curl in your heels.

He paused, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing harsh and uneven. "Tell me to stop," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Tell me to stop and I will."

You looked at him—really looked at him. At the raw vulnerability in his eyes, at the way his body trembled with the effort of holding back. You saw the boy who shared his pencil, the man who promised you the world, and the rival who had tried so desperately to burn it all down. And you wanted him. All of him.

Instead of answering, you reached down, your fingers finding the knot of his belt. You tugged it open. The soft sound of the leather sliding through the loops was the only permission he needed.

He groaned, a deep, guttural sound of relief and surrender. His hands were on you again, frantic and sure. He unzipped your skirt, his knuckles brushing against your core, making you shudder. You lifted your hips, letting him pull the fabric away. It fell to the floor in a forgotten heap.

His shirt was next. You fumbled with the buttons, your fingers clumsy with haste, until he grew impatient and ripped it open, sending buttons skittering across the floor. The sound was obscene, a perfect reflection of the desperation clawing at you both.

He shivered as your hands explored the newly exposed skin of his chest, your fingers tracing the hard lines of muscle, the frantic beat of his heart. He remembered you. He remembered every touch. And when he finally entered you, it was less an act of passion and more an act of homecoming. There was no slow build, no gentle exploration. There was only the sharp, sudden, overwhelming relief of being whole again after years of being broken.

You cried out, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you again, deep and slow. Every thrust was a question, a memory, a confession. *I missed you. I hated you. I need you.* You met him move for move, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper, answering him with your body in a way your words never could.

The office disappeared. The eighty floors of ambition dissolved. There was only the solid wood of the desk beneath you, the warm weight of his body on top of you, and the frantic, desperate rhythm you fell into together. It was messy and raw and perfect. It was a fight and a surrender all at once. It was years of rivalry exploding into the one thing that had always been true.

When your release crashed over you, it was blinding. You buried your face in his neck, your nails digging into his shoulders as your body convulsed around his. He followed you over the edge a moment later with a strangled cry of your name, his whole body shuddering with the force of it.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was your combined breathing, harsh and uneven in the quiet office. He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome anchor, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

You didn't speak. You couldn't. Words felt too small, too inadequate for what had just happened. For the years of tension that had just been shattered.

Slowly, he pushed himself up, his arms bracketing your head. He looked down at you, his expression soft, unguarded, and utterly undone. The rival was gone. The enemy was gone. There was only Jooyeon.

He reached out, his fingers gently tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. The tenderness of the gesture, after the ferocity of what just happened, made your heart ache.

He stayed above you for a long moment, chest rising and falling, trying to tame the wild rhythm of his heartbeat. Then his hands slid from your shoulders down to your face, cupping it as though holding it could somehow anchor him back to sanity. His lips trembled as he spoke, voice rough, hoarse, laden with something you hadn't heard from him in years.

"I'm… I'm so sorry," he whispered, the words breaking through the last of his control. "For everything. For leaving. For letting… for letting this happen between us. For making you think I—"

You flinched slightly, heart clenching at the raw vulnerability in his voice. Vulnerable Jooyeon was a rare, dangerous thing—you didn’t know whether to comfort him or scold him for letting his walls crumble.

"You think I didn’t feel it too?" you whispered, your own voice catching, heavy with the weight of years. "I’m… sorry, Jooyeon. Sorry for pushing you away. Sorry for every time I let my pride win instead of… us."

His thumb brushed your cheek, tracing a path that felt like a promise and a confession all at once. He swallowed, pain and longing mixing into a low, ragged breath.

"I—God, I hated myself for it," he said. "I hated that I couldn’t tell you… couldn’t tell you that every fight, every game we played, it wasn’t about winning. It was about… keeping you close. And I failed. I failed at the one thing that mattered."

You reached up, fingers brushing against the back of his neck, feeling the heat of him, the tension in every muscle that still remembered you. "We both failed," you murmured. "We let ambition and… pride get in the way. But we’re here now. And I don’t want to waste another second."

He groaned softly, resting his forehead against yours, lips ghosting over yours in a tentative brush that said more than words could. "Please… forgive me. For everything. For being stubborn, for being a fool. For letting you think… that I didn’t care."

You closed your eyes, letting the sincerity in his voice wash over you. Your hands tightened on his shoulders, pulling him closer. "I forgive you," you said, voice shaking but firm. "And I’m sorry too. Sorry for every time I hurt you, every time I let my pride… and fear… keep me from saying what I truly felt."

He breathed you in, deep and shuddering, as if memorizing every ounce of your apology, every tremble in your voice. "I can’t promise I won’t fight you again," he said, a small, broken smile tugging at his lips, "but I can promise… I’ll always come back to you. No matter what."

You tilted your head, smiling softly through the tears that had started to prick your eyes. "Then we fight together," you whispered. "Not against each other."

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the room wasn’t filled with tension or rivalry or games of power. It was just the two of you—battered, raw, honest, and finally, finally home.

He pressed his lips to yours again, slower this time, gentler, tasting the apology, the forgiveness, the relief that had been years in the making. Your fingers threaded through his hair, holding him close, holding onto the promise that this time, you wouldn’t let go.

"This… us," he murmured against your lips, "I’ll never let it die again."

Friendship: the emotions or conduct of friends; the state of being friends.

Love: an intense feeling of deep affection.

Simple definitions.

Words you used all the time.

Words you never struggled with — until they started circling him.

You always talked about friendship and love like they were clean, separate things.

Categories.

Boxes.

Labels that made sense when you were describing other people’s lives, other people’s mistakes, other people’s almost-relationships.

But now you were standing in the middle of your own.

Gaon. Friend. Best-friend. Lover. Almost-lover.

Something in between.

The four words swirled together until none of them made sense anymore.

Three years of a friendship that was too close, too warm, too entangled — and you never questioned it. Not when he draped himself over your shoulders, not when he stole half your food, not when he stared at you too long, not when he texted good night and tell me when you get home like it was his job.

That was just Gaon.

Your Gaon. Your friend. Right?

So why did your stomach flip every time he grabbed your wrist? Every time he says your name? Why do you always starts malfunctioning at every interaction with him?,

Why did your memory loop all the "accidental" touches you two had?

Were you spiraling?

Were you imagining things?

Or worse — were you realizing too late something everyone else already knew?

[𓏲ּ𝄢]

Finally it was Saturday night — the company party.

The building buzzed like it had a heartbeat of its own.

Music, voices, laughter spilling through every hallway.

Everyone was there.

Producers, seniors, recent debuted idols, dancers, managers, vocal coaches.

And somewhere in the crowd, him.

You arrived a little late — on purpose, maybe — smoothing your outfit, adjusting your hair, pretending you weren’t scanning for a familiar face the moment you stepped inside.

The room was warm, golden, loud.

People talked in clusters.

Music thumped lightly from the speakers.

Lights caught on glittery fabrics and polished glass.

You were just starting to relax when you felt someone’s eyes on you.

You turned.

And there he was.

Gaon.

Across the room, holding a drink he clearly wasn’t drinking, mid-conversation with Junhan — but staring straight at you like the night had been waiting for this exact moment.

His eyes widened the slightest bit.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something even from across the room.

He straightened, shoulders tightening, jaw flexing in a way that hit you too hard for something so simple.

And your heartbeat responded instantly, embarrassingly, like it recognized him before you did.

He blinked.

Slow and focused.

Like he was trying to remember how to look anywhere else… and failing.

It felt like electricity caught between you two.

Like the room was full of people but only the two of you were awake in it.

You swallowed, looking away before you could melt under that stare.

But you could still feel it — burning, tracking, following.

Something was different tonight.

Something was shifting.

Something was about to break open, whether you were ready or not.

And you didn’t know if it was friendship slipping out of your hands… or love finally catching up to you.

The moment you looked away, your pulse still thundering in your ears, you knew one thing for certain:

Tonight wasn’t going to be normal.

Not with him watching you like that.

Not with your chest tightening every time someone brushed past you and you thought—hoped—it was him.

You tried to distract yourself.

Tried to mingle, talk, smile, pretend your brain wasn’t rewiring itself because Gaon had looked at you like you were the only person in the entire building.

But it didn’t help.

Because every time you glanced around, he was already looking.

Quickly. Softly.

Like he was trying to catch every version of you in every light.

And failing miserably to hide it.

At one point, Jooyeon passed by you with a drink in each hand and whispered:

"Relax. He’s gonna combust at this rate."

You glared at him.

He winked.

And you knew the boys had noticed everything before you even walked in.

[𓏲ּ𝄢]

An hour later, the music was louder, people looser, the energy brighter.

Someone from the dance team dragged a group of idols toward a corner of the room where they’d set up games.

Truth or dare. Basic, right?

Card picks, mystery drinks, lap dancing, kissing whoever they were dared to.

And then landed on the dare that made your stomach drop: Seven Minutes in Heaven.

You almost scoffed.

This was ridiculous.

Half the room was sober.

The other half was pretending to be.

But people were loud, laughing, daring each other, pulling names, disappearing into a hallway closet like teenagers at a sleepover.

And you would’ve ignored the whole thing—

—until someone called your name.

"Yn!!!"

You froze mid-step.

It was one of the female idols you were close to, waving the little bowl of folded papers like she was summoning you to your doom.

"You’re up next!"

Your brain short-circuited.

"No, no, no, I’m good—"

"Come on! Everyone’s done it tonight! It’s just fun! We need you!"

The group was already cheering.

You didn’t even have time to form a coherent protest before they shoved the bowl toward you.

You sighed, reached in, and pulled a name.

You unfolded the paper.

And your heart stopped.

Kwak Jiseok. Gaon. THAT GAON.

The world tilted.

Around you, the group EXPLODED.

"NO WAY—"

"ARE YOU SERIOUS?"

"THE ODDS???"

"SOMEONE CHECK THE BOWL—IT’S RIGGED—"

You felt heat climb your neck.

Your breath caught.

Your fingers tightened around the slip of paper like it was about to fly away.

And you didn’t even dare turn around.

Because you knew he’d be there.

You could feel him behind you.

Feel the air shift.

Feel the tension spike through the room like static.

Someone grabbed his wrist and dragged him forward.

Gaon’s eyes met yours.

Wide. Shocked. Flushed.

Like someone had just kicked open every secret both of you were pretending didn’t exist.

He swallowed—hard.

And that was it.

Suddenly the crowd was yelling, pushing, cheering, escorting the two of you toward the hallway.

Toward that small, dim closet.

Toward seven minutes neither of you were ready for.

Seven minutes that felt like they were going to change everything.

The door swung open.

Someone shoved you inside.

Then him.

And right before the door clicked shut—

you saw his face.

Nervous. Flustered. Breathing visibly uneven.

Like he wasn’t your best friend.

Like he was something else entirely.

The lock slid into place.

Seven minutes.

Just you and him.

Just all the tension you’d been running from for three years. And no escape.

You could hear the party outside, muffled laughter, footsteps, the countdown timer someone had gleefully set. But inside the closet?

Only breathing. His breathing.

Unsteady. Deep. Too close.

You didn’t move at first.

Neither did he.

You were both statues carved out of tension and panic and something far too heavy to name.

"Um…" you whispered, voice embarrassingly thin. "We don’t actually have to—"

"Don’t say that."

His voice came out low.

Lower than you’d ever heard it.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

You blinked in the dark, eyes barely adjusting, but you could feel him looking at you.

"Gaon—"

He stepped closer.

Not touching.

Not yet.

But close enough that your breath caught.

"I’m trying really hard," he said quietly, almost like it hurt. "Really, really hard not to do something stupid right now."

Your hands went numb.

"Wh—why?"

He let out a shaky laugh — the kind that meant he was absolutely losing it.

"Because you’re right there," he whispered. "And I’ve been—shit."

His hand brushed your waist.

Barely, but still felt like fire.

You sucked in a sharp breath.

He froze.

"Sorry," he muttered, voice shaking. "I didn’t— I mean, I did, but— God."

You could hear him swallow, feel the tremor in his breath against your temple.

Your own voice trembled.

"Jiseok… you can touch me."

Silence.

Immediate, heavy silence.

Then—

His hand slid back to your waist.

Slow.

Almost scared.

He exhaled, like he’d been punched.

"Don’t say things like that," he whispered into your hair. "I’ll lose my mind."

You felt yourself being gently pushed back until your spine touched the wall.

His palm flattened against the door beside your head.

His chest brushed yours.

Your knees nearly buckled.

You were breathing the same air now.

Barely an inch apart.

"Look at me," he said softly.

You did.

Even in the dark, you could see him.

The flushed cheeks.

The trembling lips.

The eyes that had stopped pretending.

He reached up—slow, careful—and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

His fingers lingered.

"You’re killing me," he whispered.

And that was it.

You didn’t even know who moved first.

All you knew was that suddenly his mouth was on yours.

Soft at first — like he was afraid to break you.

Then harder — like he’d been holding this in for years.

Your hands found his shirt, gripping, pulling him closer, making you more able to feel his hard.

He groaned — an actual groan — the sound vibrating into your mouth as his hand slid to your jaw, tilting your face up so he could kiss you deeper.

His other hand traveled down your side, fingertips pressing into your waist, anchoring himself to you like he was terrified you’d disappear.

You gasped against his lips when he pulled you fully against him.

"Sorry—" he murmured between kisses, "—I’m trying— I’m trying to slow down—"

"You don’t have to," you breathed.

He froze for half a second.

Then he kissed you like he absolutely forgot how to breathe.

Hot and desperate. Making all the years of tension snapping all at once.

He pressed his forehead to yours, chest rising and falling against you.

"We shouldn’t be doing this," he whispered.

But his hands were slowly sliding to your ass.

And his lips found yours again before he even finished the sentence.

You kissed him back, fingers sliding up to his neck, tugging him closer until his breath stuttered against your mouth.

The timer outside beeped once.

The timer didn’t stop the world.

It didn’t even slow it down.

It just beeped — sharp, distant, meaningless — because neither of you moved.

Neither of you breathed.

Gaon’s forehead was still pressed to yours, lips swollen, chest heaving like he’d just sprinted across the building.

Your fingers were still curled in his shirt.

His hands were still gripping your waist like he needed the contact to stay upright.

Another beep.

He shut his eyes, jaw clenching.

"…we’re supposed to go out now," he whispered, voice still shaking, breath ghosting your lips.

You didn’t move.

He didn’t either.

He swallowed.

"I can’t—"

His voice cracked.

"I can’t open that door yet."

Your heart thudded so hard it almost hurt.

"…why not?" you whispered.

He let out a low, broken laugh — the kind that sounded like he was fighting himself.

"Because," he murmured, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone, "if I walk out there right now, everyone is going to know."

You blinked.

"Know what?"

He opened his eyes.

And the look he gave you wasn’t friendly.

It wasn’t confused.

It wasn’t almost-anything.

It was raw.

"You have to know," he whispered. "You have to know what’s happening. What I’ve been trying not to do for months. What I just—what we just—"

You felt him press closer, like he couldn’t help it.

"Jiseok…"

He exhaled sharply, like the sound of his name on your lips hurt him.

"I’m trying to be good," he whispered. "I’m trying to be your friend. I’m trying not to ruin everything. But then you look at me, and you let me touch you, and you—"

He cut himself off, throat tight.

"You have no idea what you do to me."

Your fingers loosened at his collar.

"What do I do to you?"

He let out a shaky breath.

"You make me forget I’m supposed to be pretending."

Before you could respond, there was a loud knock on the door.

"TIME’S UP! HELLOOO?" someone yelled, laughing. "DON’T MAKE US OPEN IT FOR YOU."

Gaon’s entire body tensed.

"…shit."

You almost laughed at how panicked he suddenly looked — like he’d been caught stealing something.

Then the doorknob rattled.

"HEY! DON’T YOU TWO BE WEIRD IN THERE!"

You slapped a hand over your mouth, choking back a nervous laugh.

Gaon groaned under his breath and leaned his forehead back against the door with a soft thud.

"We’re gonna have to open it."

"Yeah," you whispered.

Neither of you moved.

He inhaled, then slowly backed up an inch — just enough to not look like he’d been kissing you breathless.

His hands slid off your waist reluctantly, fingertips trailing like he didn’t want to let go.

Your lips tingled.

Your heart was somewhere near your throat.

He reached for the doorknob, stopped, then turned back to you one more time.

And his voice dropped to a quiet, trembling confession:

"This isn’t over."

Your knees almost gave out.

Then he opened the door.

Warm light from the hallway spilled inside, and instantly—

The crowd ERUPTED.

Whistles. Screams. Cheers.

Junhan pretending to faint.

Jooyeon yelling, "LOOK AT THEIR FACES, I KNEW IT—PAY UP, EVERYONE!"

Both of you frozs.

But he didn’t step away from you.

Not completely.

His hand brushed the small of your back — barely there, almost hidden.

But you felt it.

And he kept his eyes on you, even with everyone watching.

Even with chaos exploding around you.

He leaned the slightest bit closer, voice low so only you could hear:

"Find me later."

Then he slipped into the crowd.

But he kept looking back.

Every time.

As if seven minutes hadn’t been nearly enough.

[𓏲ּ𝄢]

You didn’t see him for six days.

Six days of silence.

Six days of pretending your heart wasn’t bruised from the inside out.

Six days of replaying that kiss — the way he pulled you in, the way his breath shook, the way his hands didn’t know whether to hold you closer or let you go.

He disappeared into schedules.

You disappeared into yours.

Nobody asked questions.

None of you had the time or courage to ask anything.

You had gone six days without hearing his voice.

Six days without his stupid memes, his half-asleep texts, his "ate already?" messages. Six days without him hanging around your neck.

He didn’t even view your story.

And the more time passed, the more it felt like something inside your chest was collapsing slowly, painfully, like a building losing support beam after support beam.

You hated it.

You hated how much it mattered.

You hated that you missed him so intensely you couldn’t breathe right.

But on the seventh night — exhausted, irritated, spiraling — you stayed late in the studio.

Just to keep moving.

Just to keep from thinking.

The building was quiet.

Hall lights dim.

Only your small practice room lit up, warm and lonely.

You were sitting on the floor, back against the mirror, scrolling aimlessly — pretending your chest wasn’t tightening again — when the door clicked open.

You didn’t look up at first.

But you heard the breath.

Sharp.

Uncontrolled.

Like someone had been searching, running, panicking.

And then:

"…You’re here."

His voice made you froze.

Your head snapped up.

Jiseok stood in the doorway, hair messy from either from practice or stress or running to you — you couldn’t tell.

Hoodie half-zipped.

Chest rising and falling too fast.

Eyes wide, exhausted, furious, terrified, relieved — everything at once.

Like seeing you punched all the air out of him.

You couldn’t speak or move.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, back pressed against it like he needed it to stay upright.

"Why didn’t you answer me?" he asked, voice low, trembling underneath.

Not angry.

Wrecked.

Your eyebrows pulled together. "You… You didn’t text me."

"I did."

A beat.

"…Drafts don’t count, I know. But I… I tried."

He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once before stopping halfway across the room — like crossing the rest of the distance would be too dangerous.

"I didn’t know what to say," he admitted.

"I didn’t know what I would do if I saw you again. I didn’t trust myself."

You swallowed hard.

"Why?"

He laughed — bitter, breathless — almost like he hated himself.

"Because seven minutes wasn’t enough," he said quietly.

"Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Because I haven’t slept. Because every time I close my eyes, I feel you pulling me in again and I—"

He cut himself off, shaking his head like the rest was too much to confess out loud.

Your heartbeat climbed into your throat.

"And you?" he asked, almost whispering.

"You’re avoiding me too."

"I wasn’t avoiding—"

"You couldn’t look at me," he said, stepping closer before he could stop himself.

His voice cracked.

"You wouldn’t even be in the same hallway."

"Because I didn’t know what you wanted," you burst out.

"Because you acted like nothing happened. Because you kissed me like— like you wanted more and then disappeared. What was I supposed to think?"

He inhaled sharply through his nose, like your words physically struck him.

Then he moved.

Slow at first.

Then faster.

Crossing the room before your brain even caught up.

He stopped right in front of you — close enough that you could feel his breath on your cheek, but not touching you.

His hand hovered beside your face, shaking, like he wanted to hold you but was terrified you'd pull away.

"What I wanted," he whispered, "was you. Only you. I just didn’t know if I was allowed to want that."

Your breath hitched.

He leaned just a little closer.

"Tell me I didn’t imagine it," he said.

"Tell me you felt something too."

You didn’t answer with words.

You reached up — uncertain, trembling — and grabbed the front of his hoodie.

His breath choked in his throat.

That was enough.

He broke.

He exhaled like he had been drowning for days and finally surfaced; hands coming up to cradle your jaw, forehead dropping to yours with a soft, desperate thud.

"I missed you," he whispered into the space between your lips.

"More than I should’ve."

You swallowed, voice thin.

"I know, I missed you so much."

He laughed — pained, relieved, disbelieving.

And then he pulled you in.

Not kissing.

Not yet.

Just holding you.

Arms tightening around you like he needed to convince himself you were real.

Your fingers clutching his shoulders without thinking.

Your faces buried against each other’s necks, breathing hard, shaking, overwhelmed.

And in that silent, burning, trembling embrace, everything became clear.

It was never just friendship.

Not for a long time.

Gaon was still holding you — arms wrapped tight, forehead pressed into your shoulder like he was trying to memorize the shape of you, the warmth of you, the relief of you.

But then…

Something shifted.

You felt it before you saw it.

His breathing changed — deeper, unsteady.

His hands, gripping your waist, flexed like he was fighting something.

His forehead lifted from your shoulder, slow, almost unwilling, until his nose brushed yours.

Both of you froze.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

Not quickly.

Not accidentally.

He traced them with his stare like he’d been starving for six days and finally found food to eat.

Your heartbeat slammed into your ribs.

"Jiseok…" you whispered.

"Don’t," he breathed back, voice wrecked.

"If you say my name like that I—"

He didn’t finish.

He couldn’t.

Your lips were centimeters apart, maybe less, ghosting, breathing the same air, trembling in sync.

You felt him shiver.

"We shouldn’t," he whispered.

It wasn’t a warning.

It was a confession.

You swallowed.

Your hands slid up from his shoulders to the sides of his neck, fingers brushing his hair without thinking.

He inhaled sharply — like your touch made something inside him snap.

“We shouldn’t,” you echoed softly.

But neither of you moved.

Neither of you stepped back.

Neither of you broke the tension that was pulling you together like gravity.

His thumb brushed your cheek — slow, gentle, shaking.

"Tell me to stop," he said, but his voice was already gone, already losing to the desire in his eyes.

"Tell me you don’t want this."

You didn’t say anything.

Your silence was an answer.

A loud one.

His jaw clenched.

His hand slid from your cheek to your jawline, tilting your face up just a little — not claiming, not demanding, just pleading.

"I tried," he whispered. "I really tried to stay away."

Your breath hitched.

"I never wanted you to," you replied.

That was it.

That was all it took.

He kissed you.

Not soft. Not cautious. Not shy like the party kiss.

This one was different.

This one was everything the two of you pretended wasn’t there —

the longing, the confusion, the restraint that finally snapped.

His lips met yours with a desperate, almost painful urgency, showing he’d been holding himself back for years — not days.

His hands slid to your waist, pulling you impossibly close, making you again feel his hardness.

You gasped into his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair as he deepened the kiss at the sound.

It wasn’t neat.

It wasn’t slow.

It was raw and overwhelming and perfect in its messiness.

He broke the kiss just long enough to breathe your name and start kissing your jaw.

"God… we really shouldn’t be doing this."

But his lips were already brushing your neck.

You whispered, breath trembling,

"Then… why are we?"

He let out a breath that sounded like defeat.

"Because we can’t stop."

Another kiss — slower this time, but deeper, lingering, the kind that says I missed you everywhere.

His hands slid up your back.

Yours cupped his jaw, guiding him closer when he was already as close as physically possible.

He laughed softly against your mouth — the kind of laugh someone makes when they’re overwhelmed, ruined and relieved.

"This is bad," he murmured, kissing you again. "We’re in so much trouble."

"Then we don’t stop," you whispered.

He didn’t.

He kissed you again, harder this time, he deepened the kiss inserting his tongue. His grip tightening and your hands exploring more each other's needy body.

His mouth was still on yours when the shift happened — subtle at first, barely noticeable, just a small change in the way he exhaled against your lips.

But then his hand slid.

Slow. Lower. Bolder.

Fingers tracing the hem of your shirt like he was testing the boundary he’d promised himself he wouldn’t cross.

Your breath hitched — loudly enough that he froze for a split second.

"Don’t…" he whispered, voice shaking,

"…don’t make that sound. Please."

You weren’t sure whether he meant it as a warning or a confession.

Maybe both.

His hands sliding up from your hips to your waist.

Your back arched without meaning to.

And that did it.

He swallowed hard — you felt the motion with your whole body — and his hand slipped under your shirt.

Just his palm at first.

Warm. Careful.

Like he was afraid to move too fast and terrified to stop.

Your breath stuttered against his mouth.

"Ji—"

"Tell me to stop," he said, but he was already brushing his thumb along your skin, sweeping slow circles that made your knees weaken.

"Shh, just take me," you whispered.

His whole body reacted — chest rising sharply, jaw tightening, a quiet curse leaving his lips.

And then he kissed your neck.

This kiss wasn’t the frantic, desperate one from before.

This one was slower, heavier, intentional — like he wanted to feel everything, memorize everything, ruin both of you in the process.

You felt him lean in, press you tighter against him, his other hand sliding up on your body, pulling you up against him so there wasn’t a single inch of space left.

Fabric caught between your bodies.

Breaths tangled.

Heartbeats tripping over each other.

His hand under your shirt moved higher.

He paused again — breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours.

"Okay?"

It came out rough. Barely made.

You nodded.

Too fast.Too needy.

He let out a shaky breath — relief, hunger, surrender all tangled together — and lifted your shirt a little higher, bunching the fabric slowly, like he wanted you to feel every inch of his intentions.

When his thumb brushed a new strip of skin, you gasped softly.

His eyes fluttered shut like the sound physically hit him.

"God…" he whispered, breath unsteady,

"…you don't know how much I wanted this."

Your hands moved on their own — sliding up his chest, gripping his shirt, tugging the fabric lightly.

He sucked in a breath.

"You want this off?" he whispered, voice almost breaking.

You nodded again.

He kissed you — quick, fierce — and then broke away just enough to grab the back of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one rough movement.

It fell somewhere on the floor.

He didn’t care.

You didn’t either.

He was back on you instantly — hands at your waist again, sliding up the curve of your body, pushing your own shirt higher with every breathless second.

But he stopped one last time, mouth hovering over yours, voice low and wrecked:

"If I take this off you… we’re not going back. You know that, right?"

Your fingers curled around his forearm.

"Then take it off."

He exhaled — hard, shaky — like he’d been waiting years to hear that.

And his hands slipped under your shirt again.

Slow. Reverent. Hungry.

Fabric lifted. Cold air hit your skin.

His breath stuttered.

He pulled your shirt up — not yanking, not rushing, just guiding it inch by impossible inch — like he wanted to feel the reveal as much as he wanted the result.

Your shirt rose above your ribs—

Your arms—

And then—

He lifted it off you completely.

The air between you changed.

He looked at you and to the outline of your breast hungrily, unconsciously licking his lips.

“Yn…” he whispered, barely holding himself back, "…you really make me go insane."

But his hands were already on your bare waist again.

And his lips were already finding your shoulders.

And there was no part of him that was stopping now.

"Jiseok... I need you" you breathed.

His eyes darkened making something inside him snapped, he guided you to the studio sofa never taking his mouth from you and your upper body.

He guided you backward until the back of your knees touched the sofa, and you sank down with a soft gasp.

He followed, but didn’t touch you right away.

Instead, Gaon stopped.

He just stood there for a heartbeat — chest rising, breath uneven, pupils blown wide — staring at you like the sight alone was enough to break him.

Slowly, he leaned over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other hovering above your waist like he was afraid he’d burn himself if he touched you too quickly.

His gaze traveled over your body, lingering on every place he’d wanted to touch for far too long.

"God…" he exhaled, voice trembling.

"You don’t even know what you’re doing to me."

You shifted slightly, and something about the movement snapped the last thread of restraint he had.

He lowered himself, lips brushing your jaw as his fingers finally found your waist, sliding under the edge of your pants with a careful, shaky breath.

"I had to look at you," he whispered against your skin. "Just once. Like this." he kept brushing his nose into you. "To make sure it’s real… before I let myself continue."

His forehead pressed to your cheek, his hand gliding up your side, slow and reverent.

"And now that I know it is…" his lips trailed down to your neck, "I’m not stopping."

He quickly unbuckled his belt, while trailing kisses from your neck to the middle of your covered chest, keeping eye contact, his hand hovered to your upper back waiting for a answer to remove your bra.

You nodded, and he kept kissing the middle of your breast then moved his mouth to one of them and one of his hand to the other. Gaon savored your breast, each lick, each suck making you moan ever higher.

The warmth of his breath against your sensitive skin sent shivers cascading down your spine. Each caress was a silent promise, each kiss a declaration that neither of you needed to voice aloud. The dim light of the room cast shadows that danced across his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the intensity in his gaze whenever he looked up to meet your eyes.

Heat bloomed across your skin, a flush that traveled from your face down to your cunt as his tongue traced delicate patterns against your sensitive flesh. The world beyond his touch seemed to dissolve into nothingness, leaving only the two of you suspended in this moment of intimacy.

"Is this okay?" he whispered against your skin, mouth near the waistband of your jeans, his voice a rough velvet that vibrated through you, making you more needy. You nodded breathlessly, your fingers threading through his hair, anchoring him to you as if he might disappear at any moment.

His fingers traced the waistband of you pants, trembling slightly as they lingered at the button. Time seemed to slow as he undid it, the small metallic click resonating through his body like electricity. He tugged at the zipper, the sound amplifying the gravity of the moment. His heart hammered against his ribs, a primal rhythm that matched the dizzying anticipation building within him.

As he slid the fabric down over her hips, he felt a rush of desire wash over him, the heat pooling in his core. His breath caught in his throat, and he couldn't help but salivate at the sight before him, the way your skin glistened in the dim light. The trust he saw in her eyes nearly overwhelmed him, drowning out everything else as he reveled in the moment.

"Are you sure?" he whispered, his voice low and needy, searching your gaze for confirmation.

Jiseok knew he had his answer, the moment you pressed your legs together arching your back. He putted both your legs on his shoulders leaving him with a clearer vision of visible soaking cunt.

"Haven't done much and you're already dripping for me..." he said while leaving a kiss against your wet panties making you moan and grip harder on his hair.

His eyes darkened with desire as he watched your reaction, savoring the way your body responded to his touch. With deft fingers, he hooked the sides of your panties and slowly dragged them down your thighs, his gaze never leaving yours.

Jiseok smiled against your skin, feeling your body tremble beneath his touch. The gentle scrape of his stubble against your inner thighs sent shivers cascading through you, igniting every nerve ending as he drew closer.

"I want to taste you," he whispered, his voice rough with need, laced with a deliberate patience that made you whimper.

"Please," you breathed, your voice barely audible, heat rushing to your cheeks as you thought about this for so long.

The anticipation was unbearable, your body aching with need as he gazed at you with those dark, hungry eyes.

"Please what?" he asked, his breath hot against your most sensitive area, making you squirm beneath him.

"I need you," you managed, feeling your chest rise and fall with each desperate breath.

His fingers tangled in your hair, neither pushing nor pulling, just holding you in place as he leaned closer, his warm breath ghosting over your exposed skin. The way he looked at you—like you were something precious yet something he wanted to devour—made goosebumps rise along your arms.

"Tell me what you want," he urged, his voice low and filled with desire, a mix of vulnerability and hunger that sent another wave of heat coursing through you.

You could feel the tension building, the connection between you two intensifying as you surrendered to the moment, already giving in to the pleasure.

You nodded, breathless, and he grinned before finally pulled your panties and threw them aside, revealing your glistening core. His tongue flicked out, teasingly slow, as he licked a long stripe along your folds, savoring your taste.

"You’re so sweet," he murmured against you, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. He took his time, licking and teasing, his tongue dancing around your clit, building the tension higher and higher with each deliberate movement.

You squirmed beneath him, the sensations overwhelming as he played with you, his mouth working magic that made your body arch toward him, desperate for more. Each flick of his tongue sent shockwaves of pleasure through you, and you could feel the heat pooling in your core, ready to explode.

"Please don't stop," you whispered, your fingers tangling in his hair, guiding him. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark with desire, a knowing smile playing on his lips before he returned his attention to your most sensitive spot.

"Don't stop," you gasped, holding him in place as he lavished attention on your sensitive flesh.

"Please," you begged, your voice trembling. "I'm so close..."

He hummed against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body as he worked his magic. The tension built rapidly now, coiling tighter with each expert stroke of his tongue. Your breathing became ragged, punctuated by soft moans that grew more desperate with each passing second. He anchored you in place, holding your thighs firmly as you writhed against him, the pleasure overwhelming. "Let go for me," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin, urging you closer to the edge.

With a sudden flick of his tongue and the addition of a finger curling inside you, he found that perfect spot, the sensation sending you spiraling. The combination of his mouth on your clit and the rhythmic thrust of his finger pushed you over the edge.

Your orgasm crashed through you, waves of pleasure washing over you as you cried out his name, your body trembling in ecstasy. He continued to lick and suck, drawing out your pleasure until you were left gasping, your body still quaking from the intensity of it.

As you came, he pulled back, his eyes dark with need. He leaned in to kiss you, the taste of you still lingering on his lips, igniting a new fire within him. You could feel his urgency as he pressed against you, his hands roaming your body, desperate for more.

His kiss was hungry, a deep, consuming heat that stole the air from your lungs. You could taste yourself on his tongue, a heady, intimate reminder of the pleasure he’d just given you. The raw need in his movements was exhilarating—his hands roamed your body, mapping every curve like he was trying to commit you to memory. But as he pressed against you, a new urgency took hold. You wanted more. You wanted to give him the same mind-shattering pleasure he had just given you.

Breaking the kiss, you pushed gently on his chest. He went willingly, a look of confused desire in his eyes as you maneuvered him to sit back on the sofa. You knelt before him, the plush carpet a soft cushion beneath your knees. His eyes widened, his breath catching as he realized your intent. "You don't have to—" he started, his voice raspy.

"Shh," you whispered, your hands tracing the strong muscles of his thighs. "I want to." Your fingers hooked into the waistband of his jeans, and you slowly, deliberately, pulled them down, along with his boxers. His erection sprang free, hard and heavy, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip. The sight of him, so vulnerable and so wanting, sent a fresh wave of arousal through you.

You leaned in, your breath ghosting over the sensitive head. He shuddered, a low groan escaping his lips. You took your time, exploring him with your hands first, learning his shape, his heat. Then, you flicked your tongue out, tasting the salty drop on his tip. His hips jerked, and his hand came up to tangle in your hair, not guiding, just holding on.

Encouraged, you took him into your mouth, slowly, inch by inch, until he hit the back of your throat. You hollowed your cheeks, sucking gently as you began to move, your hand stroking the part of him you couldn't take. His breathing grew ragged, his grip on your hair tightening as you set a rhythm. You looked up at him, meeting his dark, lust-filled gaze. The raw, unadulterated need you saw there was your undoing. You increased your pace, taking him deeper, your tongue swirling around him, tasting every inch.

"Fuck, Yn," he groaned, his head falling back against the sofa. "Just like that." His praise spurred you on, and you worked him with a renewed fervor, your mouth and hand moving in perfect sync. You could feel his body tensing, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he neared his peak. Just as you felt he was about to lose control, you pulled back, releasing him with a soft pop.

He looked down at you, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing with a mixture of frustration and desperate need. "Why did you stop?" he asked, his voice strained.

You gave him a sly smile, crawling back onto his lap. "Because I want you to come inside me," you whispered, your lips brushing against his ear. He growled, a low, primal sound, and in one fluid motion, he stood, lifting you with him as if you weighed nothing. He laid you back down on the sofa, his body covering yours, his mouth crashing down on yours in a bruising, demanding kiss.

He fumbled with the condom he’d pulled from his wallet, his fingers shaking with a desperation that mirrored your own. Once he was ready, he positioned himself at your entrance, his eyes locking with yours, searching for any last trace of hesitation.

Finding none, he pushed forward slowly, the stretch a sweet, burning pleasure that had you gasping. He paused, letting you adjust, his gaze never leaving yours. "You okay?" he asked, his voice strained. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, a silent plea for more. He groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours, as he began to move.

His thrusts were slow at first, deliberate, each one a testament to the years of unspoken longing between you. The build was maddening, a slow burn that fanned the flames of your desire until you were writhing beneath him, begging for more. "Faster," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Please, Jiseok, faster." He obliged, his movements becoming more urgent, more erratic, as he lost himself in the rhythm, in the feel of you, in the moment he’d dreamed of for so long.

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a primal beat that matched the frantic tempo of your heart. He angled his hips, hitting that spot deep inside you that made you see stars. Your orgasm built quickly, a tidal wave of pleasure that crested and crashed, leaving you screaming his name as your body convulsed around him. He followed you over the edge a moment later, his own release a powerful, shuddering wave that left him collapsing on top of you, his body slick with sweat, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your chest.

For a long moment, you just lay there, tangled together, the only sound your ragged breaths slowly returning to normal. He shifted, rolling to the side but keeping you close, his arm draped possessively over your waist. He pressed a soft kiss to your temple, his lips lingering against your skin.

"I meant what I said," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "This isn't over."

You turned in his arms, your hand coming up to cup his cheek, your thumb stroking the stubble there. "I know," you replied, your voice soft but certain.

He smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile that reached his eyes, crinkling the corners. "Good," he said, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip. "Because I'm not letting you go. Not now. Not ever."

You leaned in, capturing his lips in a soft, lingering kiss—a promise, a sealing of a new beginning, built on the ashes of a friendship that had always been destined to be something more.

You lay in comfortable silence for a few more minutes, his heartbeat a steady, reassuring thud against your back. A soft, rhythmic chime broke the quiet. It was faint, coming from across the room. "Is that your phone?" he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep and satisfaction.

"I guess," you sighed, not wanting to move. But the chime kept going, a persistent reminder of the world outside this little bubble. With a reluctant groan, you carefully extricated yourself from his embrace, grabbing his discarded hoodie to wrap around your naked body as you padded over to your discarded jeans. Your phone was face down in the pocket.

You picked it up and the screen lit up, displaying a notification that made your blood run cold.

Voice Memo - Recording - 47:32

Forty-seven minutes. The app was still running. The red recording bar pulsed mockingly at the bottom of the screen. You remembered now—you’d been humming a melody earlier, a new idea for a song, and had quickly hit record to capture it before you forgot. You’d thrown the phone onto your clothes and never thought about it again.

Until now.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, a frantic, panicked rhythm that had nothing to do with pleasure. It had recorded everything. Every whispered confession, every ragged breath, every desperate plea. It had recorded him saying, "I can't open that door yet." It had recorded you begging, "Please, Jiseok, faster." It had recorded the sound of skin slapping against skin, the sound of him groaning your name as he came.

"Yn? Everything okay?" Gaon's voice, soft and concerned, cut through your horror.

You couldn't speak. You could only turn around, your face ashen, the phone held limply in your hand. He saw your expression and sat up instantly, the lazy contentment in his eyes replaced with sharp alarm. "What? What is it?"

You couldn't form the words. You just walked back to the sofa and sat down heavily, turning the screen to face him. His eyes scanned the notification, and you watched in real-time as the color drained from his face. He stared at the phone, then at you, his mouth slightly agape as the horrifying realization dawned on him.

"Oh," he breathed out, the sound barely a whisper. "Oh, god."

Silence descended, heavier and more suffocating than before. This wasn't the comfortable afterglow; this was the raw, exposed nerve endings of a catastrophic mistake. Every intimate, vulnerable thing you had just shared was now a permanent digital file.

"We…" he started, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat, running a hand through his already messy hair. "We have to delete it."

You just nodded numbly, your thumb hovering over the screen. But as you looked at the running time, a new, terrifying thought struck you. This wasn't just a mistake. It was evidence. It was a choice. A raw, unfiltered document of the moment your friendship had irrevocably shattered and been reborn.

He reached out, his hand gently covering yours, stilling your thumb. "Hey," he said softly, his gaze intense and serious. "We'll delete it. Together."

But you didn't move. You looked from his panicked eyes to the phone, and a strange, hysterical laugh bubbled up in your throat. "Three years of 'we're just friends'," you whispered cupping his face. "And it took a 47 minutes voice memo to prove we were lying the whole time."

𐀔 Goo Gunil

The backstage hallway is crowded, people running around before the next stage.

You’re waiting for Gunil to finish makeup when an idol from another group spotted you.

He leaned against the wall besides you waiting for you to notice him, already smirking.

"You look gorgeous today, Yn-ah."

You laughed politely trying to hide your surprise. "Oh, Th—"

The idol leans in a little closer, cutting you off before you can even finish your "thank you."

"Are you free after the show?"

His voice drops—smooth, confident, way too familiar for someone you’ve barely spoken to.

He’s close enough that his shoulder almost brushes yours.

You blink, caught off guard. "I— um—"

Before you can answer, a shadow falls over both of you.

A warm hand lands lightly on your shoulder.

"Y/N?"

You look up.

Gunil is standing right behind the idol—tall, calm, and terrifyingly unreadable.

His eyes flick briefly to the idol, then to you, checking your expression with that quiet, protective intensity of his.

"Is everything okay?"

His voice is gentle, but firm enough that the idol stiffens.

The idol turns around, clearly startled. "Oh—Gunil! I didn’t see you there."

Gunil steps slightly forward, positioning himself subtly between you and the flirt.

Not touching the idol—just close enough that the message is obvious.

His hand slides from your shoulder to the small of your back, warm and grounding.

"You looked uncomfortable," he says to you softly, eyes never leaving your face.

Then he looks back at the idol, expression perfectly neutral but absolutely lethal in its calmness.

"What were you asking them?"

The idol laughs nervously. "Nothing bad—just if they wanted to hang out later."

Gunil’s jaw tightens for half a second.

Only a second—so fast anyone else would have missed it.

But you felt his fingers curl slightly against your back.

He tilts his head.

"They’re not free."

The idol raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

He looks at you. "Are you busy?"

You don’t even get to speak.

Gunil answers for you—still gentle, still polite, but this time his fingers press a little firmer into your waist.

"Yes." he answered without a beat. "With me."

The hallway suddenly feels very, very small.

The idol lifts his hands in surrender, chuckling awkwardly. "Got it, got it. No harm done."

He leaves with a grin, clearly entertained.

As soon as he disappears around the corner, Gunil exhales—slow, controlled—but doesn’t take his hand off you.

If anything, he pulls you a little closer.

"Ynnie, I'm so sorry..."

His voice is low, almost a whisper.

"But were you really going to say yes to him?"

He’s looking straight into your eyes now, all calmness gone, something vulnerable burning beneath.

Your breath catches.

You’ve seen Gunil calm.

You’ve seen him teasing, focused, tired, soft

But this? This is different.

Raw. Honest. Unguarded.

Your voice comes out small.

"I… I don’t know. He surprised me."

Gunil swallows hard, his fingers flexing against your waist like he’s fighting the urge to pull you even closer.

"Surprised you," he repeats quietly, like he's testing the words on his tongue.

Then, softer—

"…or cornered you?"

You open your mouth to answer, but he steps closer, just half a step, but enough that your bodies almost touch.

He lifts a hand to your cheek—hesitant at first, then steady once you don’t pull away.

His thumb brushes your cheekbone in the lightest, safest, most unbearably tender touch.

"Yn…" He says your name like a confession in itself.

"You looked uncomfortable. And the thought of him pushing you into something—"

He stops, jaw tightening again. "—I couldn’t stand it."

Your heart thuds hard against your ribs.

"Gunil…"

He lets out a breath that sounds like he’s been holding it for months.

"Tell me the truth," he murmurs, voice deeper now.

"If he’d asked again… would you have said yes?"

Your lips part, but no words come.

Slowly—carefully—he moves his hand from your cheek to the side of your neck, fingers resting right where your pulse beats fast under his touch.

His eyes flick down to your lips for half a second before snapping back up.

"I need to know."

His voice cracks.

"Because I shouldn’t have answered for you. But if the only reason you didn’t say yes was because I interrupted…"

He leans in, forehead almost touching yours.

"Then I’ll walk away now."

Your breath stutters.

He closes his eyes, just for a moment, like the idea physically hurts him.

"But if you didn’t say yes because you didn’t want him…"

His thumb strokes your pulse again, slow and claiming.

"Then tell me that, Yn-ah."

His eyes open again—soft, scared, and full of something he’s been trying to bury for too long.

"Tell me you didn’t want him."

Silence hangs thick between you.

His hand on your neck, his chest barely a breath from yours, the hallway buzzing around you but feeling miles away.

You whisper "…I didn’t want him."

Gunil freezes.

Completely.

Then his grip tightens just a little—not enough to hurt, just enough to show everything he feels.

A shuddered breath leaves him.

"Thank God…"

It comes out like he didn’t mean to say it aloud.

He leans his forehead to yours, finally closing that last inch of space.

"You almost killed me today," he murmurs, voice low and shaking with relief.

"If I saw you leave with him…"

His nose brushes yours gently.

"…I don’t think I could’ve stayed quiet anymore."

You whisper back, "Then don’t."

His fingers curl behind your neck, pulling you the tiniest bit closer—

Right until a staff member bursts into the hallway calling:

"GOO GUNIL, YOU’RE ON IN TWO MINUTES!"

He doesn’t move. Not immediately.

He just looks at you—really looks.

Like he’s memorizing you.

Then, softly "When I come back…"

His thumb brushes your lower lip once, slow and deliberate.

"We’re finishing this conversation."

And he walks away with one last look over his shoulder—eyes dark, sure, and absolutely yours.

𐀔 Kim Jungsu

You and Jungsu are sitting in the green room, knees touching, whispering jokes.

The tension is thick enough to chew. Your body was against his, his arm over your shoulders. Both were so close to each other and lost in your own world.

Your shoulder is tucked under his arm, your thigh pressed along the length of his.

Jungsu’s warmth is everywhere—his breath brushing your ear when he leans in to whisper another joke, his fingers absently playing with the fabric of your sleeve like he doesn’t realize he’s touching you.

Or maybe he does.

Maybe he really, really does.

You whisper back something stupid, something small, and he laughs—the soft kind he only uses when he’s close to you.

His nose brushes your temple.

His fingers squeeze your shoulder.

The whole room could disappear and neither of you would notice.

"Jungsuuuu," you tease quietly, nudging your knee against his.

"You’re too close."

"And?" he murmurs back, low, amused, leaning even closer until his cheek almost touches yours. "You’re warm."

Your heart does a very disrespectful flip.

Before you can respond, the door swings open.

A male idol from one of the other groups steps inside, scanning the room—then freezes when he sees you.

"Y/N!" he grins, already walking over.

"Wow, you’re really pretty today."

Jungsu tenses beside you.

His arm stays around your shoulders, but suddenly it’s not relaxed—his grip tightens just enough to pull you a fraction closer into his side.

You give the idol a polite smile. "Oh, thank you—"

He cuts you off with a smirk—

Almost predatory.

"Are you free later? I’d love to take you out after the show."

Jungsu doesn’t move at first.

Doesn’t speak.

You can feel his jaw clench against your temple.

The idol steps closer—too close—leaning down as if he’s going to whisper something to you.

Jungsu’s arm shoots from your shoulder to your waist, wrapping around you completely and tugging you flush against his chest.

It’s not subtle.

Not gentle.

Not friendly.

It’s possessive.

Instinctive.

Like he can’t help himself.

"Yn has plans," he says, voice suddenly low, rougher than you’ve ever heard it.

The idol raises an eyebrow. "Plans? With who?"

Jungsu stands up, pulling you with him, his hand sliding from your waist down to your hip—holding you there, claiming the space like he was born to.

He looks the idol dead in the eye.

"With me."

Silence.

Thick. Heavy.

Your breath catches at the same time the idol’s smirk widens.

"Ohhh,” he nods, amused. “I didn’t know you two were—"

“We are,” Jungsu says before he can finish.

Your face burns.

The idol just backs off with a laugh. "Alright. My bad."

He leaves the room with a wink thrown your way.

As soon as the door shuts behind him, Jungsu exhales—shaky, frustrated, too emotional for his usual cool demeanor.

He’s still holding your hip.

Still close enough that his chest brushes yours with every breath.

"…Yn,"

he murmurs, voice quiet and trembling at the edges,

"please tell me you weren’t going to say yes to him."

You blink up at him. "Jungsu—"

He steps forward.

Just one step.

But it forces you back until your legs hit the couch behind you.

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he’s memorizing the shape of it.

"You’re mine…"

He stops, corrects himself with a shallow breath.

"I mean— you’re not. But—"

You pressed your forehead against his.

"I want to be."

Your heart pounds.

His voice drops to a whisper.

"Seriously?."

He swallows, thumb brushing your lower lip.

"Say that again, please."

He’s so close his lips almost ghost yours.

"Say that you want to be mine"

His breath hitches—so soft you almost don’t catch it.

But you feel it. Right against your lips.

Your forehead is pressed to his, his hand warm on your cheek, his other still gripping your hip like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

"Jungsu…" you whisper, and his eyes flutter shut like your voice alone is undoing him.

You lift your hand and lay it over his chest—right where his heart is pounding, fast and uneven under your palm.

"I want to be yours."

He freezes. Completely. Every muscle going still like the world just stopped spinning.

Then—very slowly—his eyes open.

Dark. Wide. Shaking.

"…Yn" he breathes, like your name just knocked the air out of his lungs.

"You don’t know what you’re doing to me."

His thumb strokes your jaw, softer this time, reverent, like you’re something he’s scared to break.

"You really mean that?"

His forehead presses harder against yours, desperate for closeness.

"You want me?"

You nod, and it’s all he needs.

His hand on your hip tightens, pulling you closer until your chests are flush—his breath mixing with yours, his lips hovering so close they brush yours when he speaks.

"Say it again," he whispers, voice low and wrecked.

"Please. I need to hear it."

You don’t hesitate.

"I want to be yours, Jungsu."

He inhales sharply—like he’s been drowning for months and you finally let him breathe.

His fingers slide into your hair, and he tilts your face up with a tenderness that makes your knees weak.

"God…" he murmurs, voice breaking, "you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that."

Your hands grip his shirt.

His lips brush your cheek, barely, like he’s giving you one last chance to pull away.

You don’t.

He smiles—shaky, relieved, completely undone by you.

"Then I’m done holding back."

His nose grazes yours.

His lips hover over yours, warm, trembling, wanting.

"Y/N…"

It’s a confession.

A promise.

A surrender.

"From now on," he breathes, lips ghosting over yours, "you’re mine."

And then—

He kisses you, finally closing the distance between you two.

𐀔 Kwak Jiseok

The waiting area is loud—staff shouting cues, idols rushing past, walkie-talkies crackling—but none of it matters because Gaon is sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with you, showing you some stupid meme on his phone.

Your arms are touching from elbow to wrist.

He pretends not to notice.

You pretend not to notice.

Both of you absolutely notice.

He leans in just a little closer, chin nearly brushing your shoulder, and you feel the warmth rise up your neck.

Then—

"Yn!!"

You both look up.

Another idol approaches—older, painfully handsome, dripping confidence. He smiles at you like he already knows the answer.

"You look beautiful today," he says smoothly. "When you’re free later… want to grab dinner with me?"

Gaon freezes.

Then his entire body goes rigid.

Before you can even open your mouth, he stands—so fast the chair legs scrape loudly. His hand comes down on your shoulder, protective, pulling you just slightly behind him.

"Dinner?" Gaon echoes, voice tight. "Dinner with who?"

The idol laughs, amused. "With them? Unless… you’re their manager?"

Gaon’s jaw twitches.

He steps forward—too close. Close enough that the other idol actually blinks.

"She's not going with you."

Your eyes widen. "Jiseok—"

He whirls around to face you.

And suddenly the posture cracks.

He takes both your hands—both—and lifts them to his chest, right over his racing heart. His fingers lock around yours desperately, like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.

He looks at you with that mix you know too well—fear and determination tangled together.

"Please don’t go with him," he murmurs.

His voice isn’t loud.

It’s not angry.

It’s soft. Hurt. Scared.

You blink, stunned by the rawness on his face.

"Why?" you ask gently.

He closes his eyes for half a second, leaning his forehead against your intertwined hands like he’s steadying himself.

His breath comes out shaky.

"Because… I like you," he admits, barely above a whisper. "A lot. More than I should. And I can’t… I can’t pretend anymore."

Your heart flips.

Gaon opens his eyes again—wide, worried, begging.

You burst out laughing.

Not mocking—soft, relieved, warm.

His eyes widen in panic. "Why are you—? Did I say it wrong? Are you—"

You cup his face with both hands before he spirals, thumbs brushing over his cheeks.

He goes completely still.

"Gaon," you whisper, smiling at him.

"I would never go out with him.”

He blinks. "You… wouldn’t?"

"He’s a walking red flag, a known womanizer, and completely not my type."

You lean closer, your forehead brushing his.

"You are."

His breath stutters.

You feel his hands come up, trembling slightly, holding your waist like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

"Me?" he whispers. "You… like me?"

You smile wider, brushing your nose against his.

"I like you, Gaon. Not him."

His whole face melts—relief, disbelief, happiness all fighting for space.

And then, very quietly, he breathes:

"Thank God…"

Before pulling you into his chest, arms tight, like he finally let himself have you.

Gaon pulls you into his chest, arms tight around you like he’s been waiting months for this. You melt into him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt—

But then you hear a sharp scoff behind you.

The other idol.

You almost forgot he was there.

He stands with his arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. Not amused anymore. Not confident. Not smirking.

He looks irritated.

Offended.

Like he cannot believe he just watched a younger and shorter guy steal his moment.

"Wow," the idol says, voice dripping with annoyance. "That’s… cute. Didn’t think you’d actually pick him over me."

Gaon doesn’t even turn around.

He just tightens his arm around your waist, pulling you even closer, his nose brushing your cheek like the idol doesn’t exist.

But you can feel Gaon tense.

He heard it.

He hated it.

Slowly—very slowly—Gaon lifts his head and turns to face the idol with the calmest "I dare you" expression you’ve ever seen.

"She didn’t pick me," Gaon says, voice low and steady.

"She rejected you."

The idol scoffs again. "Seriously? You think this is gonna last? Yn, you really want him?"

You don’t even answer with words.

Instead, you slide your hand up Gaon’s jaw, turn his face toward yours, and kiss him.

Not shy.

Not hesitant.

Full, warm, claiming.

Gaon freezes for half a second—shocked—then melts completely, kissing you back like he’s wanted this forever. His hands grip your waist, locking you against him, his heart pounding into your palm where it rests on his chest.

The idol makes a disgusted noise.

Gaon pulls away just enough to breathe against your lips.

Then, without looking away from you, he lifts one hand behind your back—

and gives the same guy a very slow, very deliberate middle finger.

You snort into Gaon’s chest.

The idol curses under his breath and storms off, muttering something about "Fucking ass kids."

Gaon just holds your face between his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, staring at you like he’s still processing reality.

"You kissed me," he whispers, stunned.

"You flipped someone off for me," you whisper back, laughing.

His lips curl into the softest, proudest smile you’ve ever seen.

He leans in, forehead pressed to yours.

"If he comes back," Gaon murmurs, voice breathless and happy,

"I’m kissing you again."

You grin. "Promise?"

Gaon laughs—quiet, relieved, overflowing.

"I promise you everything."

𐀔 Oh Seungmin

The cafeteria is nearly empty—just the hum of fridges, clattering dishes, and soft conversations far away.

You sit across from O.de, but your legs are wrapped together under the table like you’re trying to fuse into one person.

His ankle hooked behind yours.

Your toes brushing up his shin.

His foot pressed warm against the side of yours.

Every time he moves even a millimeter, your breath catches.

He pretends to focus on his food, but you see it—

the way his jaw ticks,

the way his eyes flick to your lips whenever you shift,

the way his calf nudges yours like he needs the contact to stay grounded

Then—

A tray drops loudly beside you.

Both of you jerk.

A tall, gorgeous male idol slides into the seat beside you, not across—beside, leaning into your space.

"Yn," he beams. "You look stunning today."

O.de’s foot stops.

Completely.

Like someone cut the power.

The idol smirks. "Are you free later? Want to go out with me?"

Before you answer, O.de’s foot moves again—but not away.

He slides it up your leg.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Possessive.

Your breath stutters.

He keeps eating like nothing’s happening, but under the table he presses his knee against yours, locking your legs together so tight the table shakes.

The idol leans closer. "So? What do you think? Dinner?"

That’s when O.de finally looks up.

His voice is dangerously calm.

"They’re not available."

The idol scoffs. "Why? Are you taking them out?"

O.de doesn’t move, doesn’t blink—

—but his foot drags higher up your leg under the table.

You almost choke on your breath.

You look at O.de sharply, but his expression is pure poker face.

Except for his eyes.

His eyes are burning.

He’s daring you to deny him.

You inhale, pulse racing.

Then you turn to the idol with a polite smile that does not match the chaos under the table.

"We’re busy now."

Oh's chopsticks freeze mid-air.

Slowly, very slowly, he lowers them.

He lifts his gaze to you.

And the look he gives you—

holy hell.

It’s quiet shock

mixed with relief

mixed with something hot and hungry that he usually hides too well.

The idol raises an eyebrow. "Busy? Doing what?"

You press your foot firmly against O.de’s calf. He inhales sharply, eyes snapping to yours, pupils blown wide.

Your voice comes out lower than intended.

"We're on a date."

The idol looks between the two of you—your flushed face, O.de’s trembling hand on his chopsticks, your legs clearly close under the table—and scoffs.

"…Right. Have fun with your… date."

He leaves.

The cafeteria falls quiet again.

You and O.de stare at each other across the table, breathing uneven.

Underneath, his leg is still pressed tightly against yours—more than before.

He finally speaks, voice barely above a whisper.

"We're really on a date, Yn?"

You slide your foot up the inside of his calf, slow and soft.

His lips part.

"You don't want to?" you whisper back.

His hand shoots out across the table—grabbing your wrist, firm but trembling.

His thumb strokes your skin.

His voice is low, deeper than before.

"Of course I want."

His hand stays around your wrist, warm, tight, almost trembling with how hard he’s trying to stay composed.

But his eyes…

His eyes are completely, hopelessly undone.

You feel his foot shift again under the table—pressing between your ankles this time, guiding your legs apart just slightly.

Barely.

But enough that your breath catches.

He swallows hard.

"Y/N…" he says your name like it’s something sacred, something he’s afraid to break. "Don’t play with me."

"I’m not playing," you whisper.

Your foot drags up his calf again—slow, teasing, a deliberate slide that makes his fingers tighten around your wrist.

He inhales sharply through his nose.

His composure cracks.

Just a little.

"Don’t," he whispers, voice rough, "do that unless you mean it."

"I do."

His eyes flick down to your mouth.

Then back to your eyes.

Then down again.

"You… really want this?"

His thumb brushes your wrist bone, slow circles that betray how badly he’s shaking underneath the calm exterior.

You lean forward slightly, closing the space across the table.

"I want you."

The chopsticks slip from his other hand, clattering onto the tray.

He doesn’t even look at them.

He leans closer too—just an inch, then another—like gravity is pulling him in and he’s finally done fighting it.

"Say it again," he murmurs.

You let your toes brush up the back of his ankle, trailing higher.

"I want you, Seungmin"

His breath stutters.

Then—something shifts.

He stands abruptly, chair scraping back.

You blink up at him, startled—

Until he walks around the table.

His gaze never leaves yours.

He stops right beside your chair, towering over you, one hand gripping the edge of the table so tight his knuckles go white.

The other drops to your shoulder.

Warm. Steady. Claiming.

He leans down, his nose brushing your temple, lips hovering so close you feel the ghost of his breath on your cheek.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice wrecked, “how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”

Your pulse thunders.

"Seung..."

His fingers slide under your chin, lifting your face to his.

He looks at your lips like he’s trying to memorize the shape of them just in case he never gets this chance again.

"Yn..."

Your name falls from his lips like a confession.

"You say we’re on a date…"

He tilts your face up another inch, forehead almost touching yours.

"…then I’m not letting anyone else interrupt us again."

Your hands grip his shirt without thinking.

"You’re not going anywhere," you whisper.

A slow smile breaks across his face—soft, relieved, dangerously fond.

He leans closer.

"So kiss me," he breathes.

You don’t even hesitate.

You grab the front of his shirt and pull him down—

And he meets you halfway, lips crashing onto yours with a quiet, desperate sound like he’s been waiting ages.

His hand slides to your jaw.

The other comes to your waist, pulling you into him, anchoring you to his body like he’s terrified you’ll disappear.

He kisses you once—slow, deep, lingering—

Then again, hungrier.

And again, softer.

When he finally pulls back, he keeps his forehead pressed to yours.

:We’re still on that date," he whispers, smiling against your lips.

"Good," you murmur. "I’m not finished with you."

He laughs—low, breathless, amazed.

"Then don’t stop."

𐀔 Han Hyeongjun

The band is still on break, scattered around the building.

You open the practice room door expecting it to be empty… but Junhan is already inside, sitting on the floor, guitar on his lap, back against the mirror.

He looks up at you slowly, eyes widening before he quickly looks down again.

"Oh— Yn. It’s just you."

You close the door behind you.

The sound echoes.

Junhan swallows.

"I—I can leave if you’re practicing," you say lightly.

He shakes his head a little too fast.

"No. Stay. Please."

You sit beside him, closer than intended.

Your knees brush.

Junhan freezes like he’s been electrocuted.

You pretend not to notice.

He definitely notices.

His grip tightens on the guitar neck.

"What are you working on?" you ask.

He clears his throat. "Nothing serious. I was just… playing whatever came out."

He hesitates, then nudges his knee against yours—barely, just an inch.

You nudge back.

Junhan goes absolutely still.

Then he exhales through his nose, eyes flicking to your knee like it betrayed him.

"You’re doing that on purpose," he mutters quietly.

You grin. "Doing what?"

"Yn…"

His voice comes out low, warning, almost pleading.

You tilt your head.

"I’m just sitting."

"You’re—" he breaks off, biting the inside of his cheek, "—you’re too close."

"Should I step back?"

Junhan looks at you with that soft, overwhelmed look he only does when he’s panicking internally but trying to look cool.

"No."

You shift slightly, your thigh pressing fully against his.

Junhan inhales sharply.

He lifts his hand from the guitar strings, letting it hover in the space between you two—hesitating—until he finally rests his fingertips on your knee.

Barely any pressure.

Just enough to make your stomach flip.

"Yn..."

His voice drops even lower.

"If you keep getting this close, I’m not going to be able to pretend anymore."

You blink. "Pretend what?"

He meets your eyes, terrified and determined all at once.

"That I'm not in love with you."

A beat.

"That I haven’t wanted you for a really long time."

Your breath catches.

Junhan slowly slides his hand from your knee to your thigh, stopping halfway, giving you every chance to pull away.

You don’t.

He lets out a shaky breath.

"Tell me to stop," he whispers, "or I’m going to—"

You lean in until your forehead brushes his.

"I’m not stopping you."

Junhan swears under his breath, soft and shocked, and his hand tightens on your thigh like he’s been waiting months for this moment.

Junhan’s hand is still warm and tight on your thigh when—

The door swings open.

You both jolt apart.

A loud, overly confident voice fills the practice room.

"There you are, Yn! I was looking everywhere."

It’s another idol. Tall. Smirking. The type who never knocks and always thinks he’s welcome.

Junhan’s whole body tenses beside you.

He instinctively shifts forward, almost shielding you with his shoulder before stopping himself.

The idol steps in, eyes flicking between your flushed faces.

"…Did I interrupt something?"

Junhan’s jaw clenches so hard you hear it.

He doesn’t say a word.

You do.

You stand and—without hesitation—grab Junhan’s hand.

His eyes widen like you just set him on fire.

"Sorry," you say, smiling politely at the idol.

"We were actually called to a meeting. Right now."

The idol blinks. "A meeting? Which—"

"Urgent," you cut in.

"Super important."

Junhan stands with you, lacing his fingers between yours so smoothly it feels natural, like he’s been waiting to do it forever.

You tug him toward the door.

The idol calls your name again, confused, but you don’t look back.

You and Junhan walk fast down the hallway.

He keeps your hand firmly in his, gripping tighter every time someone passes.

Anyone looking wouldn’t think you were heading to a meeting—

They’d think you were running away together.

You turn a corner.

Junhan suddenly stops.

"Jun?"

He pulls you.

Quick, decisive.

Into a narrow, unused stairwell.

Cold metal door shuts behind you with a heavy thunk.

You’re alone.

Junhan presses yourback to the door, breathing hard, eyes locked on your mouth like he’s been starving.

"That wasn’t a meeting," he whispers, stepping closer.

"No," you breathe.

"You lied."

"I did."

He reaches for your waist, fingers brushing your shirt, almost trembling.

"Why?"

You slide your hands up his chest, curling into his hoodie.

"Because he was going to interrupt us."

Junhan’s breath shakes.

He grabs your waist and pulls you in—slow, careful, almost reverent.

Your bodies press together in the dim stairwell light.

"Yn…"

His voice breaks, low and desperate.

"You were so close to me. And then you took my hand. And I— I couldn’t think."

Your noses brush.

He looks like he’s trying to control himself and failing.

“Hyeongjun” you whisper. "Kiss me."

He doesn’t hesitate.

He kisses you like he's been holding back for months—

soft at first, then deeper, needier, his hand sliding up your back, the other gripping your hip so tight it pulls a gasp out of you.

Your back hits the wall gently, and Junhan follows, mouth moving with yours like he never wants to stop.

You tug his hoodie.

He groans—quiet, surprised—breaking the kiss for a second.

His forehead drops to yours.

"Yn... I—"

He’s breathless, voice rough,

"—I like you. I’ve liked you so much it’s been driving me insane."

You cup his face, thumb brushing his cheek.

"I like you too," you murmur. "I think I’ve been waiting for you to finally do something."

He laughs softly—shaky, relieved, a little overwhelmed.

His fingers slip into yours again, squeezing.

"I’m not letting go now," he says quietly.

You smile.

"Good. I wasn’t planning on it."

Junhan leans in, kissing you again—

slower this time, sweeter, like he’s memorizing it—

hands pulling you even closer as the stairwell door muffles the world outside.

Just you. Just him. Finally together.

𐀔 Lee Jooyeon

The hallway outside the practice rooms is warm and buzzing with noise, but Jooyeon stands beside you in his usual way — close enough that your shoulders brush every few seconds, pretending it’s accidental.

He’s talking about something stupid, something small, something so Jooyeon, and you’re watching his lips more than listening.

Then—

“Yn!”

Both of you look up.

A familiar male idol walks toward you, handsome, too confident, smiling directly at you.

Jooyeon goes silent instantly.

Like someone unplugged him.

The idol stops in front of you, ignoring Jooyeon completely.

"Wow, you're always looking gorgeous" he says smoothly. "Are you free after practice? Maybe grab a lunch or something?"

Jooyeon doesn’t move.

Doesn’t say a thing.

His hands drop to his pockets, his shoulders stiffening.

He’s listening, but his eyes are on the floor, jaw tight.

You glance at him.

He’s so still it’s almost funny.

You turn back to the idol with a sweet smile.

"Sorry. I already have plans."

The idol lifts an eyebrow. "Oh, really? With who?"

Your answer is immediate.

"Jooyeon."

Jooyeon’s head snaps up so fast you swear you hear his neck crack.

The idol blinks, clearly thrown off. "You two? Really?"

Jooyeon opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

Just a tiny, strangled breath.

You don’t let him suffer.

You slide your hand into his — bold, sure — your fingers threading through his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Jooyeon’s breath stops.

The idol watches, confused, then laughs lightly.

"Alright, I get the message. My bad."

He walks off.

Silence settles.

Jooyeon still hasn’t moved.

He’s staring down at your joined hands like he’s afraid to blink and lose it.

You squeeze his fingers gently.

"Why are you quiet?" you ask softly, tilting your head to look at him.

He swallows, throat bobbing.

"Didn’t…"

His voice cracks.

"Didn’t think you’d say no to him."

You laugh — warm, soft, comforting.

"Of course I did. I’m hanging out with you."

His eyes go huge.

Like a puppy hearing the treat bag.

"Me?" he whispers, barely audible.

"Yes, Jooyeon. You."

He inhales sharply, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s trying — and failing — to hide a smile.

Quiet excitement practically vibrates off him.

"…You really said no because of me?" he asks, voice lower now.

You step closer, your chest brushing his arm.

"Not just because of you," you whisper.

His breath catches.

You lift your free hand and gently cup his cheek.

He melts instantly — eyes fluttering, shoulders dropping, the softest, most vulnerable expression crossing his face.

"I like you," you say.

You feel his pulse jump under your fingers.

"I didn’t want to go out with him. I want to be with you."

Jooyeon stares at you like he’s trying to memorize every millisecond.

Then—

Very quietly. Barely controlled.

"…Say it again."

You lean in, lips nearly brushing his.

"I'm in love with you, Lee Jooyeon."

His breath shudders.

And finally — finally — his hand squeezes yours back as he whispers:

"Good… because I’ve been waiting for you."

The hallway is empty now.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

Jooyeon still hasn’t let go of your hand.

He keeps looking at your fingers laced with his like he can’t believe they’re real — like any second you’ll pull away and he’ll wake up from the best dream of his life.

"Jooyeonie," you whisper gently.

He looks up fast, eyes wide, breath uneven.

"C-Can we go somewhere?" he asks suddenly.

His voice is low, shaky, almost pleading.

You blink. "Where?"

He doesn’t explain.

He just tugs your hand and leads you down the hall —

past the practice rooms, past the vending machines, past staff offices, until he finds a quiet corner behind the stairwell door.

He slides inside with you and lets the door close softly.

It’s dim. Private. Out of sight.

Your backs are almost touching the wall.

You open your mouth to speak, but—

Jooyeon steps closer.

Close enough that your breath mixes.

Close enough that his chest brushes yours.

Close enough that you can hear how fast his heart is beating.

He lifts a hand hesitantly — then cups your jaw with a tenderness that makes your knees weak. "Yn…"

His voice breaks. "Did you really mean it?"

"Every word."

A shaky breath leaves him.

You watch his eyes drop to your lips.

He swallows hard.

Then, so quietly you almost miss it:

"Can I—… can I kiss you?"

You don’t answer with words.

You grab the front of his jacket and gently pull him down to you.

His breath hitches right before your lips touch.

The kiss starts soft — trembling, uncertain, warm.

Then Jooyeon exhales against your mouth like he’s been holding it in for months and finally let himself feel everything.

His other hand slides to your waist, fingers curling into your shirt like he’s terrified you might disappear.

You kiss him deeper, and he makes a tiny sound in his throat — surprised, breathless, needy.

He presses you lightly against the wall, still gentle, still careful, but unable to hide how badly he wants this.

When he finally pulls back, he’s flushed, lips pink, pupils blown wide.

His forehead rests against yours.

"Yn…"

He laughs softly, breathlessly.

"You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that."

You smile, brushing your thumb over the corner of his mouth.

"Maybe you should show me."

Jooyeon’s breath catches again.

Then he leans in slowly—

soft, hungry, shy, desperate.

—and kisses you again, deeper than before.

𐀔 Goo Gunil

— Prison guard:

⭑ would love to have you absolutely under his control (pls imagine those hands holding your wrists)

⭑specially if he's jealous or mad, he definitely would >> RUIN << you, like, not listening to you begging to lay down a bit because of your legs are trembling

— Captain:

⭑yes, again I'll be mentioning his hands and his arms.

⭑INTENSE EYE CONTACT + combo with craving your hands/ holding onto his thighs when you're almost in hitting your orgasm

— Double decker:

⭑(I don't even know how to explain this) but imagine him fucking you while holding your jaw forcing you to look into his eyes or forcing you looking at him penetrating you

⭑would absolutely love to play with your breasts (licking it, sucking it, biting it, squeezing it) while it

— Kneeling lap dance:

⭑ KISSES & EYE CONTACT!!! watching you bouncing on him with his bobba eyes and kissing you

⭑would definitely guide you and, the velocity would increase when he is about to have his orgasm

𐀔 Kim Jungsu

— Spork:

⭑he loves making you feel good, the position is THE combo of eye contact (allowing connection), deep penetration and clit stimulation = perfect combo for both of you

⭑definitely would kiss your legs + your feet (no, not feet kink), also wouldn't be able to take off his hands of your clit

— Cowgirl:

⭑absolutely loves grabbing your ass, would leave hand marks on it (intentional or not) + spanking would be his favorite thing to do, just to see you moaning louder

⭑I think it will be the most sex position used between you two, specially on morning sex (or any time of the day)

— Missionary:

⭑literally intense physical contact.

⭑would loose his mind if you wrapped your legs around his waist (prepare to be unable to walk properly for a few days)

— Dream:

⭑is obsessed over fucking you against anything (secretly dreams about fucking you against his keyboard, but I think he'll ne too scared to try, BUT will fuck you against an piano

⭑neck kisses, would call you to make you turn your face to him and kiss him + hold this man neck to see him going crazy

𐀔 Kwak Jiseok

— Doggy:

⭑God... imagine him pulling your hair and whispering the most filthy things into your ear while fucking you hard

⭑obsessed with having you submissive and HE KNOWS that you like being manhandled

— Spooning:

⭑lazy morning sex or late night sex

⭑loves this position because he's able to make you relax with neck kisses, shoulder kisses and massages, also he would be able to hold your waist so he can squeez or massage your hips

— Love seat:

⭑if he can play guitar in any pose, he can definitely fuck you in any position (let's be honest here)

⭑he's boob man, definitely loves to dive his face into your boobs (sucking it, licking it, biting it, playing with it)

— Reverse cowgirl:

⭑SPANKING and GUIDING YOU WITH THE THRUSTS

⭑loves this position, an obsessive man being obsessed with his lover body (he's crazy about every inch of you, but his favorite part is definitely your back)

𐀔 Oh Seungmin

— Face-off:

⭑slow/fast, sensual sex with intense eye contact

⭑kissing, biting your lips, he absolutely smirks when he accelerate the thrusts making you moan and cry louder

— Pretzel dip:

⭑okay, imagine him jealous and possessive fucking you and making you look at him, he'd definitely fucks you like this just to make you see how fine he looks

⭑sex position with an amazing view of his extremely well built body 🙏

— Corner doggy:

⭑definitely infront of a mirror.

⭑depends if facing the mirror or sideways, but he always makes sure that you're watching, watch him entering you, watch on the mirror him or/and yourself moaning

— Drill:

⭑force your nails on his back to see him going insane and making everything thrust faster and stronger than the other

⭑wrap your legs around his waist and this man will definitely come inside you lol (will be THE position for you two, because double orgasm)

𐀔 Han Hyeongjun

— Man missionary:

⭑definitely a switch position, or you or him taking the role as active

⭑depends on both humor, he also enjoys when you take the lead, pls make sure to pin his hands over his head and kiss him while bouncing on him

— Mastery:

⭑he's not a very skinship fan, but he'd be so so physical attached to you

⭑definitely a unwritten competition to see who gets to see the other pleasure face, since both would loose senses with the sensation, moaning and consequently the orgasm

— Sitting:

⭑there's two situations I imagine, one is both resting together or eating something together backhugging your ass pressed on his crotch, and then having sex OR him teaching you how to play guitar, again, your ass pressed on his crotch and sex

⭑definitely backhugging you or just wrapping his arms on your waist to make you lean your back against his chest and kiss your back, shoulders, and neck

— Corkscrew:

⭑free hands to play with you breasts or/and with your clit (personally doubling the pleasure for you and also for him by watching you)

⭑gentleman, would brush his thumb on your cheek to show more affection to you, but mostly to make sure if you're okay

𐀔 Lee Jooyeon

— Sideways:

⭑just to see you playing with your own clit while he's fucking you from behind would make him cum on the spot, but he tries hards not to

⭑loves intensely this position just to moan loudly on your ears (he knows that his moaning/whimpering turns you on)

— Leapfrog:

⭑seeing you all bent underneath him makes him go crazy

⭑yes, prepare yourself to be buying another pair of sheets because you're definitely ripping this one (specially if both of you are having rough sex)

— Deckchair:

⭑distribution of kisses on the entire length of your legs

⭑would switch his view from your face to him penetrating you (don't know which one he likes more)

— Doggy:

⭑brute, possessive, obsessed, rough, raw

⭑will pull your hair, your arms, your neck

𐀔 Goo Gunil

⭑ would act super super gentle with you (would be feeling guilty thinking he acted to brute or went too hard, but you would reasure him that everything was fine)

⭑"Sunshine, did I went too far? 🥺"

⭑would hold you close, making sure you're comfortable and feeling okay

⭑"You're beautiful", "I'm so lucky to have ypu", "You handled that so well", "You're always amazing, love" and more compliments and praises

𐀔 Kim Jungsu

⭑definitely would loose himself while observing you, watching your expressions while talking or just silently cuddling or just sleeping

⭑wouldn't let you get up off the bed even with you reassuring him that you were feeling okay

⭑playful teasing, whispering praises, compliments and "I love you" into your ear

⭑"You're the best thing that happened in my life"

𐀔 Kwak Jiseok

⭑I have a huge feeling that he would clean you up, like, you two would be laying wherever y'all had sex for a few minutes until he looks at you and say something like "Oh love, let me help you clean up"

⭑would subtly smirk noticing you flustered and blushing when he started cleaning your swollen heat

⭑holds your waist or shoulders, letting you rest against him

⭑teases softly, makes you meet his gaze while giving you reassurance

𐀔 Oh Seungmin

⭑light kisses on neck, shoulders, foreheads or arms (specially wrist kisses) while holding you

⭑ gives you messages on any part of your body

⭑would love you tracing your fingers on his abdomen or on his back (pls, his back)

⭑soft love bites!!

𐀔 Han Hyeongjun

⭑ like Gaon, would definitely help you clean yourself up and would be SO SHY while helping you (lol a competition to see who's blushing harder)

⭑super concerned if you're going to walk properly after a rough sex

⭑presses you close during cuddles, murmuring sweet, possessive comments

⭑soft love bites too (like him lightly biting Jooyeon’s arms on Jungsu birthday live)

𐀔 Lee Jooyeon

⭑in clingy king we believe

⭑possessive, clingy + extremely in love comments whispered into your skin and ears

⭑would tease you, sliding his hands towards your swollen heat just to see you whimpering and softly moaning

⭑ "You're mine, mine, mine, mine"

𐀔 Goo Gunil

Gunil had been patient about your situationship — too patient.

He liked the slow burn, the way you always drifted toward him during practices, how you always ended up sitting next to him without thinking.

But when he heard from Jungsu that you were out on a date?

He shut his laptop.

Hard.

He paced around the dorm the entire time you were gone, folding and unfolding his arms, sighing deeply, checking the door every five minutes like he was waiting for his soul to re-enter his body.

When you finally stepped inside, Gunil was already standing there.

"Y/n… did you really go on a date?"

You froze. "Uh— yeah? Is that a problem?"

He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, stepping closer.

"That guy. Did you like him?"

You blinked, surprised by the edge in his voice.

"Why does it matter?"

Gunil exhaled shakily.

"Because I thought we had something. And I really don’t want to pretend I’m okay with losing you to some random guy you barely know."

Jealousy, possessiveness — but wrapped in sincerity.

You stepped closer. "I only said yes because I thought you liked that girl you were talking to."

He stared. "Girl? She’s my cousin."

"Oh."

Gunil laughed — breathless, relieved — and cupped your cheek gently.

"Let’s stop pretending. I want you. Officially."

And that’s how the date you went with a random guy ended up pushing you and Gunil into a real relationship.

The second you whispered "okay… let’s date", something in Gunil snapped — in the gentlest, hungriest way.

He cupped your jaw and kissed you like he’d been holding himself back for months.

Deep, slow, claiming.

His tongue brushed yours and you melted instantly.

Gunil walked you backwards until your back hit your bedroom door.

"Open it," he murmured against your lips.

You fumbled for the handle.

The moment it closed behind you, he had your hips in his hands, lifting you onto the bed with surprising strength.

"Do you know," he breathed against your neck, "how insane you made me tonight?"

Your hands slid into his shirt. "Gunil—"

He bit down gently on your collarbone.

“No talking. I need you to hear this.”

His fingers slid under your thighs, pulling you closer.

"You went on a date with someone else… and all I could think was that I should’ve made you mine earlier."

His hand slipped between your legs, slow and warm.

"You’re only mine, right?"

You nodded breathlessly.

Gunil smirked, lips brushing your ear.

"Good girl." he whispered, sliding his hands around your thighs and hips while he ignored your needy cunt on purpose.

"Now lie back and let me show you exactly what I wanted to do the second I heard you left with another man."

He took his time — fingers, mouth, slow deep strokes, eye contact, praise whispered into your skin — until you couldn’t even remember the name of the guy you’d gone out with.

𐀔 Kim Jungsu

Jungsu didn’t get jealous easily…

Or so he claimed.

But when Jooyeon casually mentioned,

"Hey, I think y/n went on a date tonight,"

Jungsu literally dropped his water bottle.

He tried to act normal, but thirty minutes later he was at your door.

You opened it mid-sigh, removing your earrings from the date.

Jungsu’s eyes narrowed.

"So it’s true."

You frowned. "What?"

"You went on an actual date."

He looked almost offended. "With a guy."

"Last time I checked, dates usually are with guys, Jungsu," you teased, but his expression didn’t change.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

"Y/n, why? Did I do something wrong? Did I make you think I didn’t like you?"

Your lips parted.

"You were with that girl the other day…"

"That was a staff stylist," he groaned. "She was asking my hair preferences!"

"Oh."

Jungsu rubbed his face. "I— I got jealous. Like, really jealous. And I hated it."

He reached for your hands, squeezing them firmly.

"I don’t want to just be your ‘buddy you hang out with’. I want to date you."

Your heart flipped.

Then you nodded softly.

“Finally. You're finally my boyfriend.”

His smile lit up the whole hallway.

Once you confirmed your relationship, Jungsu’s whole body relaxed — then tensed again for a completely different reason.

He pushed you gently against the wall, hands on either side of your head.

"Can I kiss you now?"

You nodded.

He didn’t just kiss you — he claimed you.

Jungsu kissed like he had something to prove, like he’d been starving for you. His hands slid under your shirt, trembling slightly, and he groaned when he felt your skin.

"You have no idea," he whispered into your mouth, "how jealous I was."

You tugged him closer, and he let out a low whine — the prettiest sound you’d ever heard.

He lifted your leg around his hip, pressing against you so you could feel exactly how hard he was.

"You drove me crazy, y/n… walking in here all pretty after letting another guy take you out."

His lips trailed down your neck, sucking lightly.

"But you said yes to me. Not him."

His hand slipped inside your waistband.

"I need to feel you say yes again."

Your breath hitched. "Jungsu—"

"What do you want, baby?"

His fingers lowering slowly, teasing, feeling you squirm and arch into him.

"I want you."

His eyes darkened instantly.

"Bedroom. Now." he demanded. "I’m going to take my time with you… until you forget every man’s name except mine."

𐀔 Kwak Jiseok

Jiseok played it cool.

Except he wasn’t cool at all.

When he heard you’d gone on a date, he slammed his phone down so hard Seungmin flinched.

The second you walked into the practice room, Gaon cornered you.

Not touching — just close enough to make your breath hitch.

"Where were you?"

You arched a brow. "Out."

"With him?"

You blinked. "…Gaon, are you jealous?"

His jaw tightened.

"I don’t like seeing you with other men."

You crossed your arms. "We’re not dating."

"Because you keep running away every time I try to get serious with you!"

That… stunned you.

Gaon exhaled sharply, getting closer, his voice lower.

"Y/n, I’ve been crazy about you for months. And thinking of some guy taking you out—"

He shook his head, swallowing hard.

"No. I want you. I want us. Tell me there’s a chance."

You stared up at him, heart pounding.

"There is."

His smirk softened into something warm and relieved.

"Good. Then let’s make it official."

Gaon didn’t give you time to think.

The moment you told him there was a chance — the moment you said you liked him too — he grabbed your waist and kissed you like he’d been waiting all year.

His hands wandered immediately.

He was desperate, messy, breathy — but still gentle when it mattered. Your fingers curled in his shirt without meaning to, pulling him closer, your pulse thundering in your ears.

He pushed you against the practice room couch, lips moving from your mouth to your jaw to the spot under your ear that made your knees weaken.

"Do you know how jealous I was?" he mumbled against your skin.

"How pissed I was thinking about him touching you?"

You moaned softly and he bit your neck just enough to make you gasp.

"Yeah. Exactly like that," he growled, lifting your thighs around his waist.

"I want to be the only one hearing those sounds from you. Only me."

His hands slid under your clothes, fingers digging into your hips as he kissed down your chest.

Then he pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes — pupils blown, cheeks flushed, lips swollen.

"I want you so bad it hurts."

You tugged his shirt.

"Then have me."

That was it.

Gaon exhaled sharply, pushed you down into the cushions, and murmured while removing his belt:

"Don’t worry, baby." he said "I’m gonna ruin you… nice and slow… so you never think about anyone else again."

𐀔 Oh Seungmin

O.de heard about your date because Jooyeon is a menace and cannot keep his mouth shut.

When he found out, he did what any emotionally stable man would do:

he sulked for two hours, wrote three unfinished rap verses, and paced the hallway rehearsing what he’d say to you.

When you walked into the dorm, he stood in front of you instantly.

"You went on a date."

It wasn’t a question.

You nodded slowly. "Yes…?"

He stared at you like he was trying to solve a math equation.

"Why him?"

"…Why not him?"

Seungmin clicked his tongue and looked away, shoulders tense.

"So you didn’t think about me? At all?"

Your heart dropped. "I thought you were into that girl you were laughing with."

"What girl—? Y/n, she’s literally my parent's new neighbor. I was greeting her."

"Oh."

He stepped closer.

"Look… I thought we were getting somewhere. You and me. And thinking you might choose someone else— it sucked."

His voice cracked just a little.

You touched his arm gently.

"I wasn’t trying to choose anyone else."

He met your eyes, hope flickering in his.

"Then… can I be your someone?"

You smiled.

"Yeah. You can."

O.de was already emotional from confessing — and now he was emotional in a very different way.

He kissed you the second the words "you can be my someone" left your mouth.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t rushed.

It was hungry.

He backed you into your room, lips never leaving yours, his hands already sliding under your thighs to lift you. You wrapped your legs around him without thinking, and he groaned — a deep, shaky sound you felt everywhere.

He laid you on your bed and hovered over you, breathing hard.

"Y/n… tell me you wanted me like this. Tonight. Before the date."

You nodded breathlessly, but he shook his head.

"I need to hear it."

"I wanted you," you whispered. "I always did."

O.de’s control snapped.

He kissed down your stomach, slow and desperate, as his fingers hooked into your waistband.

"You could’ve come to me," he murmured, lips trailing lower.

"I would’ve taken care of you. Like I'm going to do it now."

He pulled your clothes off with trembling hands, kissing every inch he uncovered.

When his hands finally encountered your dripping cunt, your back arched.

"There," he whispered, voice rough.

"I'm always going to be the only man in your mind."

𐀔 Han Hyeongjun

Junhan acted like he wasn’t affected.

Everyone knew he was affected.

He didn’t talk, didn’t smile, didn’t even practice properly — the minute he heard you were out with another guy, his mood dropped through the floor.

When you returned home, Junhan was already leaning against your doorframe, arms crossed.

"How was the date?"

His tone was calm. Too calm.

You swallowed. "Fine."

"Did you like him?"

You hesitated. "…Why do you care?"

Junhan finally looked you in the eyes — really looked — and the jealousy was unmistakable.

"Because I thought we were something, y/n."

Your breath caught.

"That girl you saw me with— she’s my cousin. I tried to tell you the next day, but you wouldn’t talk to me."

"Oh."

Junhan stepped closer, voice low.

"I don’t want to watch you date someone else. I don’t want anyone else touching what I—"

He stopped himself, ears reddening.

You whispered, "What you… what?"

He exhaled shakily.

"What I want to be mine."

Silence.

Then you smiled softly, stepping closer.

"Then ask properly."

Junhan’s lips curled into that small, shy smile of his.

"Let me be yours, y/n."

You nodded.

Junhan kissed you the moment you said yes — a soft kiss first, almost shy.

Then the second your hands slid up his chest, something changed.

He deepened it instantly.

His hands slid down to your hips, pulling you closer until your bodies were pressed together. He groaned quietly — a sound so low and pretty it sent shivers through you.

"Do you know how mad I was when I heard about your date?" he whispered against your lips.

"How angry I got imagining someone else holding you?"

You swallowed, your chest tightening — you'd never seen him look at you like that. "Junhan…"

He brushed his nose against yours, voice barely above a whisper.

"I want you. I want all of you. Can I?"

"Please."

That was all he needed.

He lifted you onto his lap on your bed, fingers grabbing your waist as he kissed down your neck, slow and reverent.

His trembling hands slid under your clothes, tracing the lines of your ribs, your back, your hips, your tits — exploring like he’d been dreaming of this.

"Tell me what you like," he whispered against your skin.

"I want to learn everything."

He moved you against him gently, both of you gasping.

“And I want to make you feel… really, really good tonight.”

The sex was like poetry — slow, warm, deep — whispering your name like a prayer.

𐀔 Lee Jooyeon

Jooyeon is dramatic.

So of course when he heard about your date, he made it everyone’s problem.

He paced.

He ranted.

He threw himself on the couch like a Victorian widow.

"My heart is BROKEN. MY GOD. SHE’S DATING SOMEONE ELSE—"

When you finally arrived home, he was waiting at the entrance with his arms crossed and a pout on his face.

"Where were you?"

You blinked. "Out."

"With HIM?"

"…Yes?"

He stomped toward you.

"I don’t like it."

You tried not to laugh. "Why not?"

"Because you’re supposed to like ME!"

You froze.

"…Jooyeon?"

He grabbed your hands dramatically.

"I thought we were flirting! I thought we had a connection! I thought we were gonna confess at some point— AND THEN YOU GO OUT WITH SOME RANDOM GUY?!"

You snorted. "I thought you were flirting with that girl the other day."

"Girl—? THAT WAS A STAFF NOONA HELPING ME WITH MAKEUP."

"Oh."

Jooyeon huffed. "You’re not allowed to go on dates with other people."

You raised a brow. "Says who?"

"Says ME— your future boyfriend!"

You laughed, cheeks heating. "Future?"

He squeezed your hands.

"…Present, if you want."

You smiled nodding.

Jooyeon lit up like a Christmas tree.

Jooyeon kissed you like he’d been WAITING, like he was mad, relieved, thrilled — all at once.

He pushed you back against the door, hands sliding to your waist as he pressed his forehead to yours.

"Do you know how insane you made me today?"

His breath was hot.

"I was losing my mind thinking about you with him."

You teased, "Are you still mad?"

"Yes," he said, kissing down your neck.

"But I’m more mad that I couldn’t do this earlier."

He grabbed your thighs and lifted you effortlessly, carrying you to the couch.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pressing your heat on his hard, making him moan into your mouth.

"You’re so warm," he whispered.

"So soft. So… mine."

His hands were everywhere — your waist, your thighs, your back, breasts — pulling you as close as possible.

"Tell me you wanted me today," he whispered, kissing your collarbone.

"Tell me you thought about me instead of him."

"I did," you breathed.

Jooyeon smirked darkly.

"Good. Then let your boyfriend show you exactly why you should’ve come home to me in the first place."

He kissed down your body, slow and eager, moaning softly every time you whimpered.

Jooyeon loved it messy — loved your reactions, loved the sounds you made — loved having you wrapped around him while he whispered:

𐀔 Goo Gunil

You’re at an after-party, dressed elegantly, your lace pantyhose hidden under a simple skirt.

Gunil sits beside you, legs crossed, pretending to listen to someone talk.

But his hand slowly finds your thigh.

His hands secretly carresing your thigh. Up and down

Then his hands started rising higher and higher, near your heat.

You inhale, quietly.

You feel his breath at your ear.

"Your outfit is… distracting," he murmurs, voice deep.

You try to drink your water calmly — and that’s when he traces the shape of the garter clip under the hem of your skirt with one lazy finger.

"Don’t do that here," you whisper receiving a squeeze on your thigh.

He smiles like he absolutely will.

"You wore it knowing I’d notice."

A small kiss brushes your shoulder — hidden by his suit jacket.

So soft you almost doubt it happened.

𐀔 Kim Jungsu

You’re sitting together at a event, pretending to just be colleagues.

But Jungsu leans back in his seat, eyes dropping to your legs for half a second too long.

The lace pattern shows just a bit when you cross your legs.

He swallows.

Then, casually — like nothing — he leans in and whispers:

"You shouldn’t look that sexy in public."

You blink. "Why?"

His fingers slide to your knee, squeezing gently.

"I’m supposed to behave."

He pretends to wave to the fans, smiling, but his hand stays there… warm… firm…

Moving just enough to make your breath hitch, sliding his fingers inside your black thights.

When no one’s looking, he presses a soft on your neck.

𐀔 Kwak Jiseok

You two are backstage together, waiting your turn.

You’re fixing your hair when Gaon just freezes.

He sees the garter around the lace of your stockings when you adjust your coat.

His ears go bright red.

"Why— why would you wear— that? HERE??"

You laugh. "I didn’t do it for you."

He blinks, offended. "Yes you did."

Before you can tease him more, he steps closer.

Much closer.

His fingers graze your thigh through the fabric — the lightest touch, but it shuts you up instantly.

"That’s what I thought, baby," he whispers, smirking like he finally won.

Then he kisses the corner of your jaw quickly — panicked — and jumps away like he didn’t do anything.

𐀔 Oh Seungmin

You’re both doing a photoshoot together

A normal photoshoot between coworkers.

Except O.de keeps looking at your legs.

Looking so much you could've feel his eyes marked on your skin.

"Look at my eyes"you whisper.

He doesn’t listen.

Instead, he places one hand on your waist, thumb grazing the lace edge hidden under your sweater.

"Sorry, love," he murmurs, "i wish I could fuck you right now."

You almost trip.

He catches you by the hips — both hands — steadying you, holding you longer than necessary.

Then he drops his head just enough to let his lips brush your neck through your hair.

"Careful," he whispers.

"I’m not letting you fall… unless it’s for me."

𐀔 Han Hyeongjun

It happens at a rehearsal.

You bend to tie your shoe and your skirt lifts just enough.

Just enough.

Junhan sees the lace. The garter strap.

He stops playing guitar mid-note.

"...wow," he breathes.

He walks over slowly, eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the room.

His hand slides to the small of your back.

Firm. Claiming.

You straighten, breathless.

"Jun, the cameras—"

"I don’t care."

His hands slowly drafts down to your hips, to make his fingers more able to toy with the hem of your skirt, lifting it a fraction before dropping it again.

"You’re beautiful," he murmurs.

"And you know what you’re doing to me." he says while slightly pulling you towards him, and making strong enough so you could feel the hard between his legs

Then, when no one’s looking, he kisses your neck.

Deep and slow.

You nearly melt.

𐀔 Lee Jooyeon

You’re at a music show, sitting side by side.

Jooyeon glances down—and smirks instantly.

"Lace? Really, babe? For who?"

You roll your eyes. "Not for you."

"Liar."

He stretches his arm behind your seat, thumb brushing the back of your shoulder.

Then, he leans in.

"Lift your thigh a little."

"What? No—"

He does it for you — barely lifting your leg just enough to catch a hidden glimpse of the pattern.

“Pretty,” he murmurs.

“So pretty... Remember that tonight and forever you're mine.”

You gasp as he trails a feather-light touch down the inside of your thigh, stopping right above the garter line.

He smiles against your ear.

"Try not to react too much. People are watching."

𐀔 Goo Gunil

⋆ He would stop working for a few minutes ans then act like nothing happened

⋆ "Beautiful, darling, can you twirl with it?"

⋆ You'd be telling him about the store, the employee that assisted you and when you finally look at him, he would be shirtless

⋆ So imagine, you're telling your experience, then you look to the set for minutes and then you look back and he is just staring at you, shirtless, with the shiniest eyes ever

𐀔 Kim Jungsu

⋆ I think he would scream, nothing too scared, just a medium "AH"

⋆ Would grab your hand to make you swing while he justs stares while smiling widely at you

⋆ I honestly think he would be with a lot of touching, like "Oooh, this fabric looks different" but it's an excuse to put his hand over you

⋆ Will be silently thanking for the beautiful scene infront of him

𐀔 Kwak Jiseok

⋆ "OMG BABY WE'RE MATCHING :D" and then proceeds to show his boxer

⋆ Ngl, I can imagine him just laying down on his belly wherever he is, just to stare at you like this (◕ᴗ◕✿) while air kicking his feet

⋆ Would worship you and your body

⋆ Kisses!! (specially on your shoulders and belly)

𐀔 Oh Seungmin

⋆ Would stop whatever he was doing just to watch you (with a pair of very tight pants because of his booner)

⋆ "Darling, I think this suited you... look how the design draws attention to your boobs"

⋆ Would backhug you just to trace his fingers and hands around your body pretending to "show you how pretty is the set" when you know his intentions

⋆ Instead of starting and ending the sex on one place, y'all definitely would dance almost the entire house/apartament and then ending up on a bed

𐀔 Han Hyeongjun

⋆ shy shy shy shy shy

⋆ Imagine teasingly asking him if it looked ugly or weird and he just freaking out saying no

⋆ Would start feeling less shy and would show more of his crazy side, moving his hands around your hips, caressing your body, messaging your neck

⋆ Will surprisingly start kissing your shoulders, neck, back and then would kiss you and y'all would have sex on the spot

𐀔 Lee Jooyeon

⋆ Surprised at first, then very very happy

⋆ Same as Gunil, would randomly start undressing himself

⋆ (would take off from you the matching set if it's actually bothering him, but mostly he preferred on)