Cheesecream08

୨୧ ——————————♡ —————-————-୨୧

Most of your nights ended the same way.

You would be in bed, lights off, scrolling without really paying attention, when your phone buzzed on your nightstand. Not a text. Not a call.

A voice memo.

It was never surprising. If anything, you expected it. Han worked best at night, and when he worked, he sent things to you. Unfinished verses. Half-formed choruses. Random melodies he thought would disappear by morning.

You had been his first listener for years.

Sometimes he would send a quick message first. “Don’t judge this one.” Or, “I hate the second line, ignore it.” Other times he would just send the audio with no warning, like he trusted you to understand without context.

You always did.

You would put your headphones in, close your eyes, and picture him in the studio. Hoodie on. Chair pushed too far back. One hand tapping against the desk while the other hovered over the recording button. The soft hum of equipment in the background. The quiet pauses between lines when he was deciding whether to keep going.

You never really thought about how intimate it was.

It was just your normal.

You weren’t a part of his idol life. You had your own schedule, your own job, your own life that had nothing to do with comeback dates or livestreams. When you sat in that studio or listened through your phone speaker, you weren’t listening to Han from Stray Kids.

You were listening to Jisung, your best friend.

The version who forgot to eat when he got stuck on lyrics. The one who stared at the ceiling when he was doubting himself. The one who would glance at you after playing a track and say, “Be honest,” like your opinion mattered more than anyone else’s.

And maybe it did.

That night, you were already under your blankets when your phone buzzed at 2:47 a.m.

You smiled without meaning to.

You reached for it, unlocked your screen, and saw the notification.

Han: |Voice memo — 3m 12s|

No caption.

You settled deeper into your pillow and pressed play.

At first, it was just slow music humming through your speakers. Soft. Slower than his usual tempo. A little choppy, like he had not decided what the song wanted to be yet.

You could hear the faint creak of his chair. The sound of him adjusting the mic.

Then his voice came in.

Low. Careful.

“If I say it out loud, will you disappear.

If I let you hear it, will it change what we are.”

Your eyes opened.

You stayed still, listening.

The melody was simple, almost fragile. There was something about the way he sang it that felt closer than usual, like he was not performing even for you. The lyrics were about waiting. About loving someone quietly because the risk of losing them felt worse than staying silent.

You told yourself not to overthink it.

He wrote about love all the time.

Still, your chest felt tight by the end of the memo.

You replayed it once more before setting your phone down.

You didn’t text him about it. You rarely did right away. Sometimes he fell asleep after sending them. Sometimes he stayed up and waited for your response.

You turned onto your side and stared at the wall.

It sounded like it could be about you. Hoped it was about you.

But that would be ridiculous.

You pushed that thought away.

It was just another late night demo.

It had to be.

୨୧ ——————————♡ —————-————-୨୧

Weeks passed like normal. He sent other snippets. Shorter ones. A rap verse he was excited about. A chorus he couldn’t decide on. Nothing like the 2:47 a.m. track, but you didn’t bring it up.

Then one afternoon your phone started blowing up.

Social media notifications. Clips being reposted everywhere.

Han had uploaded a new song to YouTube.

He did that sometimes. Songs that weren’t on music services. Tracks that felt more personal. Less polished. Things he just wanted to share directly.

You opened the video without thinking too much about it.

The title didn’t give anything away.

The thumbnail was simple. Just him in the studio, head slightly tilted down, headphones around his neck.

You pressed play.

That soft music played through your phone again.

Your stomach dropped.

It was cleaner now. Layered. Produced. But it was the same melody. The same one from that night.

Your hand tightened around your phone as the lyrics continued.

You pressed your lips together and kept listening.

“I said you would always be my home,

But I never asked if I could be yours.”

You remembered that. A conversation from a night a few months ago.

You had been sitting on the studio floor at almost one in the morning. You had teased him about living there permanently because he spent more time there than anywhere else. He had laughed and said, “You’re my real home.”

No one else knew that conversation happened.

The song ended softly. No big vocal run. No dramatic finish. Just the music fading out.

Your screen filled with comments almost instantly.

People calling it his most vulnerable work. People guessing who it was about. Some joking. Some serious. Threads already forming with theories.

You stared at the screen.

He had never told you he was posting it.

He had never said that demo was turning into something public.

Your phone buzzed again.

His name.

Han: Did you listen.

Not even a question mark.

You swallowed before replying.

You: Yeah.

A few seconds passed.

Han: And.

You: It’s good.

Three dots appeared.

Stopped.

Appeared again.

Han: I almost didn’t upload it.

Your heart started beating harder.

You: Why did you?

A pause.

Han: Felt honest.

That was all he said.

You stared at the message, your thumb hovering over the keyboard.

You (typed): Was it about me?

The words sat there in the text box.

You deleted them.

Instead you sent,

You: I’m proud of you.

He reacted with a small heart.

୨୧ ——————————♡ —————-————-୨୧

After a few days, something shifted.

He was busy, of course. Schedules, practices, filming. That was normal. But the way he talked to you felt more cautious. Like he was stepping around something fragile, like one wrong word might crack everything open.

He stopped sending late night demos.

When you mentioned the song, he changed the subject.

You told yourself it was nothing.

But the space between you felt louder than usual.

It took almost three weeks before you saw him in person again.

The studio felt the same. The same dim lighting. The same faint smell of his cologne mixed with iced coffee. The same couch you had fallen asleep on too many times to count. The same low hum of equipment in the background.

He was already there when you walked in, headphones around his neck, fingers resting on the keyboard like he had been playing something but stopped when he heard the door.

He smiled when he saw you.

It was softer than usual. Almost careful.

You sat down in your usual spot. He adjusted his chair slightly without looking at you, making room like it was automatic. Like his body already knew where you belonged.

For a few minutes, you talked about normal things. Work. A funny comment someone left. A random story about one of the members messing up choreography.

You both laughed.

But the song hung in the air anyway.

You could feel it sitting between you.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

“Was it about me?”

Your voice came out quieter than you expected. Not accusing. Not angry. Just honest.

His hands stilled on the keyboard.

The room suddenly felt too small. Too quiet.

He didn’t answer right away. He looked down at the keys, then at his hands, then finally at you. His jaw tightened slightly like he was debating whether to lie.

“I didn’t think you would recognize it that fast,” he said softly.

Your stomach dropped.

“So it was.”

He nodded.

“I changed some lines,” he said. “I thought that would make it safer.”

“Safer for who.”

“For you.” He swallowed. “For us.”

The word us made your heart stutter.

You felt your chest tighten.

“I wrote it because I didn’t know how to say it to you,” he continued. His voice was quieter now, almost fragile. “I thought if I just kept it in songs, it wouldn’t ruin anything.”

“Ruin what.”

He looked up at you then, really looked at you.

“What we have.”

There it was.

He ran a hand through his hair, bouncing his leg up and down. A nervous habit he always had when he felt cornered by his own feelings.

You stood slowly and walked over to where he was sitting in his chair. Close enough that you could see the faint dark circles under his eyes. Close enough to feel the warmth of him.

“I’m in love with you,” he said. The words came out steady, but his hands were trembling slightly. “And I didn’t want to lose you by saying it out loud.”

The confession settled between you, heavy but not suffocating.

You felt strangely calm.

“You think I didn’t know?” you asked quietly.

He blinked, surprised.

“I was scared too,” you admitted. “You are not just my best friend. You are everything steady in my life. If this went wrong, I would lose that. I would lose you.”

His expression shifted. Something soft. Something relieved.

He stood slowly from his seat, hovering just barely over you now. Close enough that you could see the way his throat moved when he swallowed.

“I didn’t want to pressure you by releasing it,” he said quickly. “I didn’t think about how it would feel on your side. I just wanted to be honest somewhere. Even if it wasn’t directly to you.”

“You could have been honest with me.”

He gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “I’m better at writing things than saying them.”

You stepped even closer. There was barely any space left between you now. You could hear his breathing.

“Then say it now.”

He hesitated for half a second. Like he was letting himself fall.

Then he did.

“I love you.”

No music. No recording light blinking red. No hiding behind lyrics or layered instrumentals.

Just him.

Your heart felt like it might burst.

You didn’t hesitate.

“I love you too.”

For a second he just stared at you, like he needed to make sure you were real. Like he was waiting for you to take it back.

When you didn’t, the relief on his face was immediate. Almost overwhelming. His shoulders dropped. His eyes softened in a way you had never seen before.

He leaned his head down slowly until you could feel his breath against your lips.

“Can I kiss you.”

You nodded.

He cupped both hands around your face, thumbs resting gently near your jaw. Careful. Like you were something fragile.

The kiss was soft at first. Testing. A question.

Then it deepened just slightly, not rushed, not dramatic. Just warm and certain and real. Years of almosts and what ifs finally collapsing into something steady.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His hands didn’t move.

“It won’t be easy,” he said quietly. “It can’t be public. There will be rumors. And I’ll be busy. A lot.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I have been loving you in secret for years.”

His lips curved into that real smile. The soft one that never made it to interviews. The one only a few people ever saw.

He leaned in again, brushing his nose lightly against yours like he still couldn’t believe it.

And for the first time, nothing between you felt unspoken.

—

Later that night, your phone buzzed again.

2:47 a.m.

You laughed softly before opening it.

Han: |Voice memo — 3m 12s|

You pressed play.

That familiar tune flowed through your ears. Softer this time. More certain.

Then his voice.

“This one is ours,” he said at the beginning.

And this time, he wasn’t afraid of you hearing it.

time always seemed to crawl whenever you were there.

you scrolled through your phone in boredom, replying to messages with little interest, lazily flicking between unfinished conversations and videos of cats doing something adorable or ridiculously unnecessary.

the day was uncomfortably hot. the heat felt suffocating, sticky, heavy. and the laundry room wasn’t helping at all.

the man beside you, crouched down with a deep frown etched across his face, muttered curses under his breath as he shoved clothes into the washing machine like each piece was personally responsible for his misery.

you sat perched on top of the dryer, legs swinging idly near jisung’s face. the machine hummed beneath you, vibrating softly, blending into the thick tension filling the small room.

a mischievous smile slowly spread across your lips.

“maybe if you worked with a smile on your face, you’d finish faster,” you hummed, eyes never leaving your phone.

jisung clicked his tongue and tossed a shirt into the washer harder than necessary. then another and another until his patience finally snapped.

he let his palms fall heavily onto his knees before straightening just enough to look at you. his expression was tinted with that deliciously familiar, childish annoyance.

“this is unfair,” jisung declared, his voice thick with indignation, as though he were the victim of some elaborate conspiracy.

you rolled your eyes, letting out a soft laugh. setting your phone aside, you crossed your arms and looked at him with shameless amusement.

“you agreed to the bet. you lost,” you listed with mocking calm. “i don’t see the injustice.”

you leaned forward slightly, just enough to ruffle his hair. his scowl deepened instantly, making him look like a sulking cat.

"all i see is a sore loser, ji."

jisung jerked away from your touch as if it burned. he began stuffing clothes into the machine in careless piles, clearly determined to get it over with as fast as possible.

he was in a mood today.

which was… curious.

anyone watching from the outside would have assumed you were sworn enemies.

but not.

quite the opposite.

you had been best friends for years. changbin had been the original culprit. a casual introduction with no expectations that somehow turned into an instant connection.

since then, you’d been practically inseparable.

that didn’t stop the constant friction, of course. or the endless teasing.

provoking each other.

pushing boundaries with a dangerously comfortable familiarity. after all, you’d always known exactly how far you could go without crossing the line. or at least, usually.

this wasn’t supposed to be any different.

after a stupid bet based on "who could get someone to believe the most ridiculous lie" —which jisung had lost spectacularly in less than twenty-four hours— your teasing hadn’t stopped.

and there you were, two weeks later, on a sweltering summer afternoon at jisung’s place, arguing yet again about that same ridiculous bet.

“no. it’s unfair because you know how gullible felix is,” he shot back, pointing at you with genuine irritation. “of course you’d win if you talked to him!”

“and yet you never thought to do the same. there weren’t any rules against it, sweetheart.”

the detergent and fabric softener landed in their compartments with far more aggression than necessary. jisung clenched his jaw, clearly searching for inner peace somewhere deep in his mind.

he shouldn’t have been taking this so personally. he never really did.

but something felt different today. something tense that threatened the fragile thread holding your friendship together.

he simply clicked his tongue, shoved the laundry basket aside, and threw you a dangerous look before walking out of the room like a walking storm cloud.

maybe this was that limit you both knew so well.

maybe the smart thing would’ve been to leave it alone. go talk about something else, make tea, eat cookies, and watch one of those stupid dating shows you both loved mocking.

but not.

something in your brain urged you to keep going. to push him just a little further. to get some kind of reaction.

you didn’t know whether it was boredom or jeongin’s words from that morning.

“jisung’s been acting weird about you lately. i’m not saying anything, but… there’s something there.”

the slam of the refrigerator door pulled you from the memory. you walked into the kitchen with your usual calm, eyes landing on jisung’s tense back as he moved around gathering ingredients for a hastily made sandwich.

with an easy hop, you seated yourself on the counter. you watched him closely, studying how he reacted to tiny frustrations like the cheese tearing or the knife not being where he expected.

"what’s your problem now? you’re crankier than usual."

okay… maybe not the best choice of words.

jisung glanced at you over his shoulder. his dark eyes carried something you couldn’t quite name. he abandoned everything he was doing and turned fully toward you.

he closed the distance in long, determined strides, planting both hands on either side of your thighs. his knuckles were white from the unnecessary force. his body leaned in, face dangerously close to yours.

"you're being more bratty than usual,” he said, voice tight. “you haven’t stopped pushing my buttons since you got here. what’s up with that?"

you rolled your eyes, casually running your fingers through your hair.

"you're just being sensitive, ji. drop that and let's do something fun," you said sweetly, flashing him a gentle smile and batting your lashes.

your foolproof trick. jisung could never resist that.

except today… he didn’t budge.

“no thanks. you can go watch tv. i’m going to my room.” jisung cut, his voice sounding irritated.

but he didn't move an inch. he seemed to be waiting for something from you. your breathing stalled as you finally became aware of just how close he really was.

his breath brushed against your lips. his gaze locked onto yours. his tongue slowly swept across his own lips. your body reacted before your mind could catch up. a tense heat coiled deep in your tummy.

something dangerously familiar.

jisung suddenly let his head fall forward, resting against your chest. an old habit. one born from the first heartbreak he’d ever suffered. you’d always been his safe place. where he could breathe, reset, gather himself when the world became too heavy.

now you were the one unraveling him. and it was costing him more than he wanted to admit.

“you’re messing with my head…” jisung whispered, his voice vibrating against your skin.

saying it felt like a release. one that somehow trapped him even more. never, not once, had he imagined the day he’d stand this close to you and confess how completely insane you made him. he could feel your racing heartbeat and your uneven breathing against his neck.

you didn’t know whether to lean further into the moment or shatter it with some terrible joke like always.

but that was impossible now.

you were already far too deep. pressing your lips together, you gently stroked his hair, staring into nothing as you searched for some kind of answer.

“do you really not see it?” his voice cracked more with every word. “am i reading this wrong?”

you couldn't run now.

you swallowed hard. your pulse screamed at you to get out, to break away. but when jisung lifted his head and looked at you again, eyes glassy and painfully vulnerable, you knew you couldn’t leave him hanging there.

with a soft sigh, you cradled his face carefully, as though he were something fragile that might shatter with the slightest misstep. it had been so long since you’d seen him this distressed.

and it hurt like hell knowing you were the reason.

"hey, i don’t know what you mean. but we can talk. what’s going on?"

his silence only tightened the knot in your chest. adrenaline rushed through your veins. jisung’s hands settled against your waist with something almost reverent.

"do you like me...?"

not the usual way.

not as friends.

“of course i do. what kind of question is that?” you laughed weakly, thumb brushing lovingly across his cheek.

“no. i want to know if you like me… the way i like you,” jisung murmured, his voice barely rose above a whisper.

the world seemed to stop.

you hesitated before speaking. you needed to be careful. but his doe eyes simply made thinking rationally nearly impossible. they begged for something you weren’t even sure you could admit to yourself yet.

"and how exactly do you like me, jisung?"

he straightened abruptly, intensifying the electricity between you. his grip on your waist tightened as he looked at you with unmistakable urgency. your heart pounded, caught somewhere between anticipation and caution.

slowly, he pulled you closer, sliding you along the counter until your legs rested on either side of his hips. your hands trembled as they came to his chest, fingers curling instinctively into the fabric of his shirt.

your breathing grew heavy, erratic. the heat in your tummy deepened, clouding your thoughts completely. and your eyes traveling from his eyes to his lips only worsened the feeling that was growing inside you.

this was so fucking wrong.

but you were already leaning in.

“i can’t keep pretending this is nothing… i could kiss you right now,” jisung declared. his fingers pressed firmly into your hips.

it wasn't a warning or a threat. it was something even worse: a confession.

your grip on his shirt tightened.

the air between you became unbearably thick, charged with something that had been building for far too long beneath jokes, petty arguments, and lingering glances neither of you had ever dared analyze.

the consequences could haunt you later.

fuck it.

you yanked him forward by his shirt, and the collision of your lips was clumsy, almost violent. completely desperate. anything but graceful.

his mouth crashed into yours with a raw, unfiltered urgency that stole the air from your lungs, teeth bumped, breaths tangled, noses pressed awkwardly, but neither of you cared. it was messy, heated, years of tension detonating all at once.

jisung let out a strangled sound against your lips, something wracked and helpless, vibrating straight into your mouth. your tummy tightened violently at the noise.

your legs instantly wrapped around his hips, locking him in place, pulling him impossibly closer. the heat of his body slammed against yours, solid and overwhelming.

“y/n…” he breathed, the word dissolving between your mouths.

his hands slid down your sides with frantic impatience before gripping your ass hard enough to make you gasp. fingers digging in, possessive, desperate. and then, suddenly, you weren’t touching the floor anymore.

the sharp intake of your breath between you as jisung lifted you with startling ease, your bodies pressing together even tighter. your chest crushed against his, his racing heartbeat hammering wildly against your ribs.

the world shrank to mouths moving feverishly against each other. kisses turned erratic, hungry, borderline reckless. your tongues clashing without rhythm, teeth grazing lips, jaw, whatever skin they could reach. every breath came out shaky, broken.

jisung stumbled toward his bedroom, movements clumsy but determined. you could feel the tension coiled tight in his body, the barely restrained urgency in the way he held you. he bumped lightly into the doorframe.

“mmh– shit…”

you laughed softly against his lips, breathless, your mouth still chasing his.

even now, he was still jisung.

the moment you crossed the threshold, your lips abandoned his mouth, trailing down to his neck like gravity itself had taken control.

the reaction was immediate.

a violent shudder ripped through his body and ended on his crotch. you felt the way his hips jerked involuntarily as his grip tightened. a sharp, broken gasp tore from his throat.

“ah*–* wait– not there…”

his voice came out wrecked, trembling, completely betrayed by the way his body arched into your touch.

you didn’t wait for shit.

you sucked, bit, and licked at his skin like it was your final mission in life, lips moving hungrily along the sensitive column of his throat. his skin burned beneath your mouth, hot and slightly damp. jisung’s breathing completely lost its rhythm.

“f-fuck…”

his knees hit the mattress in a graceless collapse, dragging you down with him. the impact sent a jolt through both your bodies, a tangle of limbs, heat, and desperate hands.

the air in the room felt thick and charged. you settled astride his lap, thighs pressing against his hips. instantly you felt his hard, heated cock pulsing insistently beneath you.

the sensation sent a sharp spark of heat straight through your core. your hips reacted instinctively, a slow, testing grind that pulled a broken whimper from jisung’s lips.

“look at you…” you purred.

his chest heaved beneath you, breath coming shallow, eyes blown wide as he stared up at you like he couldn’t quite believe this was real. like you might disappear. his hands slid up your waist agonizingly slow, being a stark contrast to the earlier desperation.

his fingers dragged over your sides, memorizing, savoring, burning a trail across your skin. the touch was almost reverent, sending goosebumps racing along your body despite the heat pooling between your legs.

your hips moved again in a subtle, torturous grind. the friction was soft, maddening, yet utterly delicious. jisung’s head fell back with a shaky exhale.

his fingers slipped beneath your blouse without hesitation, sliding against bare skin. the contact drew a sharp gasp from his throat, his entire body tensing under you.

“i– i always wanted to…”

his voice fractured completely. he couldn’t even finish the sentence, no matter how much he wanted to. but you felt it in the way his hands trembled, in the way his breath stuttered, in the way his cock twitched beneath you.

his hands wandered everywhere like he’d lost all sense of direction: your belly, your waist, your thighs. fingers pressing, ripping, sliding, like he needed to feel everything at once. like he was starving.

and when his hands reached your breasts, the air left his lungs entirely. his mouth parted in a silent, stunned inhale. a broken, incoherent curse fell from his lips. the look in his face made heat explode low in your tummy.

pure awe and adoration.

like you’d just handed him something sacred.

the kiss that followed was different. it had become a slower, deeper motion that carried something dangerously intimate. mouths moving together in an intoxicating sway that made your head spin. his lips were warm, soft, slightly swollen against yours.

clothes vanished between clumsy hands and nervous laughter. a few stubborn buttons, a shirt caught around your wrist, a breathless “wait”, and suddenly—nothing. cool air kissed your heated skin.

you lay naked against his rumpled sheets, chest rising unevenly, skin buzzing with anticipation. jisung stared down at you like you’d committed some unforgivable crime. his pupils were blown wide, his breath completely wrecked, and his lips parted in stunned disbelief.

“what are you waiting for?” you whispered against his ear, teeth grazing softly.

jisung let out a trembling whimper that sent a sharp pulse of heat straight between your legs. "god... you’re driving me insane."

his hands gripped your hips tight, yet he still didn’t move. instead, his lips found your jaw, your neck, your mouth in slow kisses that burned and lingered.

kisses that made your body ache with every second he refused to give you what you both wanted. like he wanted to savor this. like he wanted to torture you.

“you’re always so bossy…”

“and you’re always so slow…”

that crooked smile appeared on his lips. the same smile you used when you challenged each other in the university cafeteria or when you started a dangerous fight that ended in raucous laughter.

and then, finally, jisung aligned himself with you.

the first push inside was slow enough to make your entire body jolt. a sharp, breathless moan tore from your throat as your walls stretched around him, the sensation overwhelming, almost too much.

jisung’s breath hitched violently and his forehead dropped against yours. neither of you moved. both of you just felt the fullness, the unbearable tension of being joined like this. completely. he didn’t move again until he was fully buried inside you.

the stretch made your toes curl. your fingers clutch desperately at his shoulders meanwhile your breathing collapses into something shaky and broken. and then his movements began slow, deep, and torturously deliberate.

each thrust dragging pleasure through your body like a slow burn. your nerves felt raw, hypersensitive, every tiny motion amplified. your breaths merged into one. jisung let out a broken sound.

"fuck…"

your nails dug into his shoulders as you felt him pulse inside you, warm and wrenchingly perfect. your eyes locked, and no words were needed.

you both knew you could completely lose control.

and jisung didn’t need anything more.

his hips began moving without mercy. the rhythm snapped violently from slow to desperate, thrusts turning chaotic, knocking the air from your lungs. your body jolted with every impact, pleasure crashing through you in violent waves.

your nails scraped down his back, leaving burning trails across his skin while his fingers dug brutally into your hips. the wet sounds of your bodies filled the room obscenely, mixed with gasps, moans, and breathless curses.

jisung's necklace brushes against your skin, the cool metal being a ridiculous contrast to the inferno consuming your body. each swing of it sent tiny sparks of sensation across your overheated nerves.

“shit… look at me, y/n…” jisung whined.

his fingers tilted your jaw, forcing your gaze back to his. his face was a work of art. he looked wrecked, beautifully ruined. hair damp and clinging to his forehead, lips bitten raw, and eyes blown wide with pure pleasure.

“look what you do to me… completely fucked because of you…”

each thrust tore sounds from your throat you could no longer control. pleasure rose like an unstoppable, hot, and overwhelming wave.

“mmh– just like that… fuck, ji–” all the words dissolved into muffled, broken moans.

your body trembled violently beneath him, muscles tightening, pleasure spiraling uncontrollably higher.

the rhythm faltered, movements turning erratic, desperate. like both of you were tumbling toward an unavoidable edge.

“i’m so close…” he gasped against your ear.

your legs shook and your tummy tightened violently. your entire body coiled around the unbearable pressure building inside you.

"ji… ah– fuck–" you whimpered.

the world seemed to shrink at the overwhelming sensation of his cock filling you completely.

your entire body tightened and shattered. the orgasm ripped through you like a brutal electric shock, pleasure detonating violently, your back arching as a broken cry escaped from your lips.

jisung completely lost control seconds later.

a few sloppy, desperate thrusts, a strangled groan, and then he collapsed. your walls tightening mercilessly around him, clenching and dragging the orgasm straight out of him as he came hard inside you.

he fell beside you with a weary gasp that lasted longer than necessary. there he was. your dramatic, teasing, hopelessly clumsy jisung. you laughed softly, still gasping for air, weakly hitting his bare chest.

the silence afterward felt deafening. your ragged breaths merged into one, your hearts pounded, and your bodies trembled.

that is, until the beep of the washing machine completely broke the atmosphere, announcing that its cycle had ended.

you both remained silent for a few seconds. then turned to each other in perfect sync and burst out laughing. because obviously that had to happen right now.

jisung tried to sit up first. yes, he tried.

“shit- my legs!” he groaned, touching his legs dramatically.

you laughed loudly, nudging him with your foot and receiving a dirty look. from where you stood, the view was dangerously tempting. biting your lip, you slipped on his oversized graphic tee before he could reach it.

“you should move the laundry to the dryer, ji,” you teased playfully.

your fingers traced his bare back and a shiver immediately ran through his entire body.

he turned to look at you, smiling at the sight of you wearing his shirt, hair messy, expression thoroughly satisfied. he gently wrapped an arm around your waist, pressing a soft kiss to your head.

“when I get back… you wanna…?” he tilted his head suggestively.

you flopped back onto the bed, wiggling your brows as you tugged the hem of the shirt higher, revealing your thighs with a shameless grin. jisung let out a low whistle, leaning against the doorway, eyes dragging hungrily over your body.

“don’t think i’m gonna stop calling you a sore loser after this, baby,” you stuck your tongue out.

jisung rolled his eyes with a fond smile, like he already knew he was completely doomed when it came to you. as he walked toward the laundry room, he started laughing under his breath like he’d just heard the best joke of his life.

and watching him disappear down the hall, you could only think one thing.

If you ask anyone in the firm who their best lawyer is, they’ll give you the same answer: Kim Seungmin.

In court, he’s a machine. Calm but deadly, he dissects opposing arguments with the precision of a surgeon and the timing of a stand-up comic. Today, he stands in the middle of the courtroom, hands in his pockets like he has all the time in the world, and delivers a closing argument so eloquently, so confidently the other lawyer looks like they might spontaneously combust.

The jury eats it up. The judge hides a smirk. Fifteen minutes later, the verdict comes in — his client wins. Of course they do. Seungmin never loses.

Back at the office, he’s adored. Not in the “oh my god, marry me” way but in the “this man makes our jobs easier and always remembers your coffee order” way. He’s respectful, brilliant, a team player. HR loves him. Clients love him. Even the interns, who usually fear everyone above them, think he’s approachable.

He’s the picture of a perfect employee.

At home? He’s like every other man his age. He’s sprawled on the couch in sweatpants, headset on, fingers furiously mashing buttons as he trashes twelve-year-olds in online games. There are empty cans of beer on the table, chips spilling out of its bag and socks scattered on the floor.

When the game timer runs out, he grabs his phone and orders kimchi stew from his favorite place. Twenty minutes later, his phone pings: Your order has arrived!

Seungmin bolts up, grabs his keys, and heads down the stairs of his apartment building. He’s halfway down when his left foot decides it’s had enough of being cooperative.

One slip. Two wildly flailing arms. A strangled yelp that echoes off the walls.

Kim Seungmin, the undefeated legal powerhouse, lands in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, staring at the ceiling while his kimchi stew sits tragically out of reach.

By the time the paramedics arrive, he’s already threatening to file a lawsuit against the stairs… and the building… and maybe the kimchi stew shop for emotional distress.

-

If Seungmin is a scalpel in the courtroom, Felix is… a hug.

It’s not that he isn’t competent — he’s brilliant. But where Seungmin slices through arguments with clean precision, Felix sometimes lets his empathy get in the way. He’s too emotional, too sympathetic toward his clients. The kind of lawyer who remembers their kids’ birthdays, offers them snacks during meetings, and lets them ramble for twenty minutes about their cats before getting to the point.

He’s too friendly. Too lenient. Too… kind.

And yet, nobody works harder than Felix. He’s the first one in, the last one out, and the guy who will stay up until three a.m. combing through contracts because he promised his client an answer “as soon as possible.” He’ll do anything to make sure they’re taken care of even if it means losing a little sleep… or a lot.

When he’s not buried in casework, Felix is at home in his kitchen. Baking is his therapy. He loves the routine, the way exact measurements create magic in the oven. He spends hours browsing recipes online or falling down YouTube rabbit holes of food vloggers taste-testing desserts from around the world.

Tonight, he’s in his happy place — apron on, hair a little messy, humming softly as the smell of his signature fudge brownies fills the apartment. He slides the tray out of the oven, the edges perfectly crisp, the center gooey, when his phone buzzes on the counter.

He wipes his hands on a dish towel and answers. “Hey, what’s up?”

The voice on the other end is rushed. “Felix, it’s HR. Don’t freak out, but Seungmin’s in the hospital.”

Felix freezes, spatula still in hand. “What? Why? What happened?”

A pause and then. “Something about… stairs and kimchi stew? He broke his leg.”

Felix sighs like he knows something like this would happen to Seungmin. “...Of course he did.”

He looks at the tray of brownies cooling on the rack. They look perfect — glossy top, gooey center — the kind of bake that deserves at least a taste test before being abandoned.

Felix hesitates, torn between friendship and dessert. “Okay, but… you’re not dying, right?” he mutters to no one in particular, already fishing a fork out of the drawer.

He takes one quick bite purely for quality control and immediately regrets it because it’s molten lava in the middle. “Ahh— hot! Ow— worth it.”

Then it hits him as he stares down at the fork mark in the perfect square. “Oh, no… I didn’t take a picture.”

Felix has a split-second of genuine mourning before shaking himself back to reality. With a heroic mouthful of chocolate still in his cheek, he grabs his keys, packed the brownies, and rushes out the door.

-

Felix slows when he reaches the doorway to Seungmin’s hospital room. The sight isn’t exactly what he expected. Sure, Seungmin’s leg is in a full cast, propped stiffly on a pillow like some tragic war injury, but he’s not grimacing in pain. No, he’s leaning toward the elderly man in the next bed, voice animated.

“Yeah, it was all a blur. I just remember seeing the poor cat dangling from that branch, crying for help. Didn’t think twice — scaled that tree like Spider-Man, grabbed the little guy, and then bam! The branch snapped under me. Honestly, the fall was worth it.”

The man in the next bed gasps. “You’re a hero.”

Felix presses his lips together to keep from laughing becaue that’s not at all how it happened, but Seungmin has always had this uncanny talent for weaving lies so convincing, even Felix sometimes wonders if they’re actually true.

Felix steps in, and Seungmin turns his head, breaking into a grin so sunny it’s almost unsettling.

“Felix! My best friend! My savior!”

Okay, definitely the painkillers talking. Felix mutters in his head.

Seungmin gestures dramatically to his cast. “Look at this! My leg! Gone!”

“It’s not gone,” Felix says, making his way over.

“Gone to me,” Seungmin insists, leaning back like he’s on his deathbed. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get injured at the peak of your career? My cases—! My beautiful cases—! I can’t work like this.”

Felix doesn’t even hesitate. “I’ll cover them for you until you’re back on your feet.”

Seungmin’s eyes light up with suspicious speed. “Really? You’d do that for me?”

“Yeah, you’re my friend,” Felix says simply.

Seungmin sighs happily. “Best friend, best lawyer friend, and now best temp replacement. I knew I liked you.”

He squints suddenly, eyeing what Felix carries. “Wait—what’s that?”

Felix follows his gaze to the container in his hands and freezes. Oh. Right. The brownies.

“I, uh… baked,” he says, offering them over.

Seungmin sits up like he’s been shot with adrenaline. “Gimme.”

He tears into the box and shovels a bite in like a man starved. Felix raises an eyebrow. “Haven’t eaten dinner yet?”

Seungmin swallows, then gives Felix a look that’s half insulted, half smug. “Felix. I broke my leg chasing after food. This is dinner.”

-

Felix gets to the office before most people — like always. The fluorescent lights are still warming up, and the only sounds are the faint hum of the HVAC and the swish-swish of the cleaning lady emptying bins down the hall.

“Morning, Mrs. Kwon,” he says warmly, pausing as she’s wrestling a trash bag out of the breakroom bin.

She looks up, smiling. “Ah, Mr. Lee! So early again. You’ll beat the sun next time.”

“Maybe I’ll race it tomorrow,” he jokes before heading to his office.

His morning routine is automatic: briefcase goes in the exact same spot beside his desk, coat hangs neatly on the rack, chair pulled out just enough so it’s ready for him. He powers on his computer, the familiar whir filling the quiet room. While it boots, he gets up, put a teabag into a cup, and pour hot water after. The smell hits first — warm, aromatic, comforting. The first sip is always the best part of his day.

He mentally lines up his schedule while leaning back in his chair. Client consultations at ten, court at two, maybe squeeze in lunch if the courthouse cafeteria isn’t doing anything… experimental. It’s shaping up to be a peaceful morning.

At least until a sharp knock rattles his door.

A junior intern pokes his head in, red-faced from pushing a groaning trolley piled high with folders. “Uh… these are all from Seungmin’s desk. His cases. All of them. He said you’re… covering?”

Felix stares at the mountain of paperwork like it just personally insulted him. “Right. Of course.”

The intern leaves, and Felix rolls up his sleeves, preparing for the incoming storm — only to have the worst part of the storm walk in right after.

You.

You didn’t greet him right away — just took a slow lap of the room with your eyes, like you were appraising it for sale. Your expression didn’t give away much, but when your gaze landed on the small shelf lined with ceramic mugs, your mouth twitched.

“…You decorate like a college student who just discovered Etsy,” you said at last.

Felix, tea halfway to his lips, arched a brow. “…Good morning to you too.”

You don’t linger on the mugs for long. Your gaze sweeps over his desk, the filing cabinet, the neatly stacked case summaries — taking it all in like you’re cataloguing his soul.

Seungmin hired you a few months ago, and Felix will be the first to admit — well, not out loud — that you’re good. Not just good, but too good to be “just” a paralegal. You get your work done with precision, handle pressure like it’s your morning coffee, and can out-argue most of the lawyers in the building without breaking a sweat.

On the other hand… you’re terrifying. Brutally honest, razor-sharp sarcastic, and a confident chaos that the entire office tiptoes around. Including Felix’s boss. Including Felix himself — though he’d die before saying so.

Now, with Seungmin temporarily sidelined by a broken leg and a questionable “hero cat rescue” story, Felix is assigned to take over his cases. Which means working with you.

And Felix isn’t entirely sure if the opposite personalities will make the two of you a great team or a slow-motion disaster. That’s if you even consider him part of the team, which with you… Felix can never tell.

Felix awkwardly lowers himself onto his chair, deciding that if this partnership is going to work, it’s best to start with something friendly. “So,” he says, forcing a warm smile, “I guess we’ll be working closely together for a while.”

You glance at his meticulously organized desk again. “Mm. I can tell.”

“Tell… what?”

“That you alphabetize your sticky notes.”

Felix looks down at the little stack by his monitor — color-coded, labeled, perfectly squared — and feels his ears warm. “I like being organized.”

“It’s called having too much free time,” you counter, pushing off the doorframe and strolling into his office without invitation.

Felix swallows, watching as you pluck a framed photo of him and Seungmin from the shelf. “You really like him, huh?” you say, glancing at the picture.

“He’s a good friend,” Felix replies, unsure where you’re going with this.

You set the photo down and turn to him, one eyebrow raised. “Hope you’re ready to be half as good at his job and twice as stressed.”

Felix carefully chooses his words before speaking. “Wow. That’s… encouraging.”

You smirk. “That was me being encouraging.”

Felix pivots in his chair, eyes flicking to the towering stacks of files the intern wheeled in earlier. “So… about Seungmin’s cases?” he asks, pen twirling nervously between his fingers.

You don’t waste time but point to the first stack. “These are in progress. That one—” you gesture to the second stack “—we’re waiting on court results. And this—” you slide a single, thin folder toward him “—needs to be handled as soon as possible.”

Felix glances at the folder, then at his already crammed to-do list for the day. His stomach knots. “Right, uh… that one might have to wait until tomorrow morning,” he says carefully, as if the wrong tone might set you off.

You lean over his desk to peek at his schedule. Your eyebrow arches. “Wow. Busy man. Court session, two client consultations, a meeting with the partners… and somehow you still found time to wear that tie.”

Felix’s hand absentmindedly flies to his tie, nervously touching at it. “What’s wrong with my tie?”

You straighten, lips twitching. “Nothing. But if you’re adding that urgent case tomorrow, you might as well book yourself into a styling class while you’re at it.”

Felix’s mouth opens, then closes again. He decides it’s safer not to respond.

You turn to leave, hand already on the door, then pause like something just occurred to you.

“Oh. Right,” you say, almost as an afterthought. “Seungmin has a client consultation in ten minutes.”

In ten minutes?

He looks at his neatly arranged schedule on the screen, the carefully planned dominoes of his day, and feels the first one tip over. He exhales slowly, the kind of breath that keeps panic polite and contained.

You tilt your head, watching him a little too closely. He doesn’t complain but straightens his tie, smooths his jacket, and looks back at you. “Can you… give me a rundown?”

“Client owns a small boutique. Got into an altercation with a customer. It escalated. Customer claims physical assault. Client says she didn’t touch her.”

Felix nods, absorbing it. He grabs the file, stands, and heads for the door. He gets there before realizing something’s off.

You’re not behind him and Felix turns to see you’re still by his desk, watching him like he’s the one being strange.

“Aren’t you coming?” he asks.

“Do you want me to?” You ask with exhausted tone.

“Yes,” he says, then hesitates, softens it. “I mean— yeah. You’re the paralegal.”

You stare at him for a beat longer than necessary, then sigh like you’re doing him a personal favor. You grab your notebook, tucking it under your arm.

“Well, if you need me that much,” you mutter as you walk past him.

-

Felix straightens his jacket as the client steps into the meeting room, she’s older than he expected and clutching her purse close to her chest like she’s in a crowded subway train.

“Good morning, Mrs. Choi,” he says, offering a warm smile and his hand at her. “I’m Felix Lee. I’ll be handling your case today.”

The client hesitantly takes his hand for a handshake before saying, “I thought I have an appointment with Kim Seungmin.”

Felix’s smile falters just a fraction before he recovers. “Yes—right. About that. Seungmin had an accident and is currently recovering, so I’ll be stepping in for him in the meantime.”

She clutches her purse even tighter. “Stepping in?”

Felix nods, hands folding together on the table. “I’ve been briefed on your case, and I’ll make sure nothing falls through the cracks.”

The client doesn’t look convinced. Her eyes flick past him and then straight to you. Felix follows her gaze instinctively, searching your face for backup and you give her a polite smile. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Felix swallows and turns back to the client. “I know changes like this can be unsettling,” he says gently. “But I promise I’ll do my best to represent you and see this through properly.”

The client turns quiet for a while and then nods. “Alright.”

Felix sits through the consultation with his hands folded neatly on the table, eyes steady on the client as she speaks. One hand is busy jotting down important details in her statements.

She talks fast at first, words tumbling over each other as she explains how the argument started — a disagreement over a refund, a raised voice, a crowd forming in her small shop. She swears she never laid a hand on the customer. Says the accusation blindsided her. Says she’s never hurt anyone in her life.

“I didn’t do it,” she repeats, again and again, palms pressed flat against the table like that alone might make it true. “I didn’t touch her. I wouldn’t. I swear to you.”

Felix listens and nods at the right moments, asks careful questions, lets her finish every thought even when it loops back on itself. When her voice starts to wobble, he leans forward slightly.

“We’ll look at all the evidence,” he tells her, calm and sincere. “Witness statements, footage, everything. I’ll do my best to make sure you get a fair shot at justice.”

Her shoulders sag in relief and thanks him at least three times before she leaves the room.

The door clicks shut and you don’t wait for the silence to settle to say, “You can’t seriously be buying all that bullshit, do you?”

Felix exhales through his nose but something catches in his chest. He turns to you, the words coming out before he can soften them. “She’s innocent until she’s proven guilty.”

You arch an eyebrow. “I didn’t say she wasn’t.”

“She’s scared,” he continues, voice firm now. “People don’t always sound perfect when they’re telling the truth.”

You don’t respond but start gathering your things into a stack. Your indifference somehow triggers something in him and encourage him to speak more.

“You know,” he says, quieter now but more intense, “most people who walk into this office don’t actually understand the law. They don’t know what words to use, or what matters, or how badly one sentence can ruin them.”

You stop moving and just watch him as Felix pushes his chair back slightly, hands moving as he speaks, like he can’t keep the thoughts contained. “They come here because they’re scared. Because someone with more power, more money, or more confidence decided to point a finger at them.”

He shakes his head once. “And whether they’re perfect or not doesn’t matter. That’s not the point. My job is to make sure they’re treated fairly. To make sure they don’t get crushed just because they don’t know how to fight back.”

He pauses, searching your face for something he doesn’t quite know what it is. “That’s what justice is to me. Not deciding who I like. Not guessing who I believe. Helping them get the justice they deserve.”

The room goes quiet again and in the next second, Felix suddenly feels too aware of himself and what he just laid bare the very thing that makes him choosing this career. He straightens, already pulling himself back into work mode. He takes a brief glance at you to see your reaction.

You’re nodding, eyes slightly squinting and then say evenly, “You’re right.”

Felix’s eyes look side to side, thinking that you were speaking to someone else in the room. “I–I’m right?”

You nod again and place your hands on your stack of things. “But you don’t need to shout, Miss Congeniality.”

“I’m not—” He pauses, genuinely confused. “I’m not shouting.”

You’re already gathering your things, already halfway to the door when you say, “Okay.”

Felix stands there for a moment longer than necessary, rubs a hand over his face, then glances at the clock on the wall.

It’s only 10.03 in the morning but it feels like a long day already.

-

Felix feels relief the moment he steps out of the office and into the hallway.

It’s not the courthouse he’s excited about — it’s the distance. The blessed, physical separation. A few hours where he doesn’t have to parse your tone or wonder whether he’s said the wrong thing or accidentally raised his voice without realizing it.

By the time he’s driving his car and heading to the courthouse, his shoulders finally loosen. He’s back on schedule. Back in familiar territory. Court makes sense to him because there are rules, structure, a clear beginning and end. None of the unpredictable sharp edges that seem to follow you around.

The hearing goes smoothly. Felix presents cleanly, answers questions with practiced calm, and walks out with a result that lands exactly where he expected it to. It feels good and reassuring like proof that the day hasn’t completely slipped out of his hands.

Instead of heading straight back to the office, Felix makes a small detour to the jewelry store. He steps inside because he has something to pick up. He checks it one last time, fingers hovering before closing around the box.

Back at the office later, Felix moves through the rest of his schedule with renewed focus. A few emails answered. A couple of documents reviewed. His jacket is folded neatly over the back of his chair, his bag half-packed, his mind already several steps ahead.

Everything is still on track and he tells himself that once he finishes these last tasks, he can leave on time and focus on what actually matters tonight.

But then you walk in. No knock. No warning. Just the sharp sound of a stack of files hitting his desk.

“A hot pile of boring for you,” you say, already turning away.

Felix’s shoulders tense for half a second before he forces them down. He looks at the stack, inhales, exhales.

“I’ll handle it tomorrow,” he says calmly. “I need to leave on time today.”

You don’t even look back. You’re already halfway out the door when you stop, one hand on the frame. “Not that you’ll be missed but we have team dinner tonight,” you add.

Felix straightens, fingers already sorting the files into neat piles. He slaps a bright URGENT label onto the top one out of habit, then says, a little too quickly, “I can’t make it.”

You glance over your shoulder, lingering there on the doorway of his office.

“I’ve got something planned,” he continues, warmth creeping into his voice as he continues. “I’m taking my girlfriend out. There’s this restaurant which took me a month to get a reservation, and they do this incredible tasting menu and I thought—”

“Okay, great, I’ll make sure everyone has so much fun without you,” you cut in.

Then you pause, just long enough to add, dry as ever, “Which I’m sure we will.”

Then you’re gone.

Felix doesn’t even notice the edge in your tone. He’s already smiling to himself, already imagining the night unfolding exactly the way he planned — perfect timing, good food, the right words said at the right moment. He closes the last folder, slips his jacket on, and glances once more at the clock.

Everything is under control.

Tonight is going to be perfect.

-

The restaurant is everything Felix hoped it would be.

Nice atmosphere. Great service. Plates that look like art. He can barely contain himself as each course arrives, leaning forward with bright eyes, explaining textures and techniques, pointing out flavor notes like he’s narrating a documentary.

“This one’s fermented for forty-eight hours,” he says, clearly delighted. “You can taste it right at the end—see? Like that.”

Across the table, his girlfriend, Laura, hums noncommittally and takes another bite.

Felix doesn’t notice as he focuses on the food and keeps talking, keeps smiling, keeps filling the space because that’s what he does when he’s excited. Because food is love to him, and sharing it feels intimate, important.

Laura eats quietly and only nodding to everything Felix says.

When dessert finally arrives, Felix’s hands go still because this is it. It’s time. His chest tightens as nerves flood in all at once. He takes a sip of champagne to steady himself, sets the glass down carefully, and looks at her across the table.

“Laura,” he starts, voice softer now. “I’ve been thinking a lot about us.”

She looks up, finally attentive. A hand holding her champagne flute like she can’t wait to have another sip of it.

“I really like you. I like how you laugh when you’re tired. I like that you always forget where you put your keys. I like that you listen—well,” Felix smiles nervously, “most of the time.”

His fingers slip into his pocket, closing around the small velvet box. His heart pounds so loudly he’s sure the entire restaurant can hear it.

“I know we haven’t been together that long, but when I imagine my future, you’re there,” he says, swallowing hard. “And I don’t want to wait for the perfect time if this already feels right.”

Felix stands. Then, before he can talk himself out of it, he drops to one knee.

The entire restaurant seems to hold its breath when he opens the box with both hands, presenting the ring like it’s something sacred.

His voice trembles, but the sincerity is unmistakable as he asks, “Will you marry me?”

Laura goes very still. Too still. Her eyes widen, not with excitement, but with something closer to fear. Conversations around them quiet. Someone gasps softly. Felix feels every second stretch unbearably long as he waits for her answer.

Instead of answering, Laura reaches forward quickly, grabs his arm, and forces him back into his chair. “Felix,” she says in a hushed, urgent tone. “Please sit down.”

He obeys immediately, sitting on his chair with his cheeks burning, heart racing and continues to look at Laura like she’s his only hopes and dreams.

“I like you,” Laura begins, her eyes darting around like she’s afraid someone could overhear their conversation. “You’re nice. You’re really nice. But this—this is too much.”

Felix blinks. “Too much?”

“We’ve only been dating for three months,” she points out matter-of-factly. “I don’t want to get married. Not now. Not like this.”

His chest caves in at her words. “So… you don’t want… to marry me?” he asks quietly.

She doesn’t answer but the way she turns quiet and avoiding his eyes, that’s answer enough. She opens her mouth and closes again. A beat later, she seems to have finally decided on something.

“This isn’t going to work,” Laura says instead, already standing and grabbing her purse. “I’m sorry.”

And just like that, she leaves.

Felix stays seated, frozen, the open ring box resting uselessly in his palm. The diamond catches the light as if mocking him for believing tonight would turn out the way he planned.

Around him, the restaurant slowly returns to life but Felix doesn’t move. He just stares down at the ring, heart splintering quietly, completely, as everything he thought was certain falls apart in his hands.

-

The next morning, Felix doesn’t ease into the day the way he usually does.

He sits in his office chair exactly where he dropped into it earlier, briefcase abandoned on the desk, coat still on like he might leave at any second even though he doesn’t move. His shoulders slump forward, spine curved inward, lips pulled tight into something that isn’t quite a frown but feels worse.

He doesn’t feel like doing anything. He doesn’t even have it in him to make tea or plan his day. The small rituals that usually keep him together don’t matter today. He just sits there, hollowed out, staring at nothing.

You swing into his doorway without knocking. “So what time are we leaving for the police office?” you ask.

Felix doesn’t respond. Not because he didn’t hear you. He just… can’t think. All he wants to do is fold in on himself, curl into a ball and cry until the ache dulls.

Getting no response, you walk up to his desk and knock on it. “What’s with the all-black outfit? Did somebody die?”

You prop a hand on his desk and catch a whiff of his strong smelling ‘mourning’ cologne. “I hope it’s whoever made that God awful smell,” you say while fanning the air around you.

Slowly, Felix lifts his head. His eyes are red already. His mouth trembles when he opens it. “Laura and I… we broke up.”

And just like that, Felix breaks into tears. His breath hitching as if the words tore something open that was barely stitched together. It hurts like picking at a fresh wound, like admitting it out loud makes it real in a way he wasn’t ready for.

You look at him. Unmoved. “Well, I always knew you’d die of sadness,” you say flatly.

Felix drops his forehead onto the desk with a dull thud and cries harder, shoulders shaking. “That might actually be better,” he mutters hoarsely.

You let him for a moment, unsure what to do with him. Then, you grab his shoulder and haul him upright before he can collapse entirely. “As much as I like that idea, you can’t die. You have a job to do.”

Felix doesn’t bother wiping the tears wetting his eyes and cheeks and chin. “I don’t feel like doing anything.”

You let out a long, heavy sigh and then cross your arms together in front of you. You stand there for a moment, clearly annoyed — not at him, but at the situation. With another sigh, you speak again.

“The what about your pageant-worthy speech yesterday?” you remind him. “About fighting for people who don’t have anyone protecting them from the law. Getting them fair chance... Or whatever.”

“Justice,” Felix corrects as he sniffles.

“Whatever,” you sigh.

Felix realizes then that even his heart is breaking, he has people who relies on him and need his help with their real-life, legal problems. And it’s not fair for those people if Felix couldn’t do his job right just because of his love life is a mess.

“You’re right,” Felix nods weakly. He wipes his face with the back of his hands, sniffing as he glances at the clock on his desk. “Maybe… maybe we can leave in ten minutes.”

He reaches for a box of tissues and blows his nose loudly into one.

You grimace and quietly groan in disgust. “I’ll give you fifteen.”

Felix nods. “Thank you.”

You turn and leave his office without another word, and Felix sits there, breathing slowly, heart still aching but moving forward anyway. Because he has to.

-

The police office smells like stale coffee and paperwork.

Felix sits at the small table with the files spread out in front of him, eyes still puffy, lids heavy. He reads the statements once again and again until the words blur together — dates, names, contradictions that should matter more than they do right now. He tries to focus, but his heart isn’t in it. It’s still stuck somewhere else, somewhere softer and messier, replaying last night on a loop he can’t shut off.

Beside him, you’re busy flipping through the files while snapping photos of pages with your phone even though you’ll get the digital copies later. But Felix knows better not to question you on it.

Eventually, you look up and out your phone away. “So, what’s your take?”

Felix opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He stares at the papers again, like the answer might magically appear if he looks long enough. It doesn’t and there’s no use on lying to you, you’d see through it in a second.

“I can’t,” he admits quietly. “I can’t think properly today. I need to… look at everything again later.”

You let out a long, tired sigh like this is exactly the inconvenience you didn’t schedule. “You’re a sad, sad worm,” you mutter with just the tiniest bit of sympathy.

Felix winces and he doesn’t feel offended at all. He indeed feels like a spineless, weak creature and gets the urge to burrow himself into the ground.

“And being born as a worm is already sad enough,” you add, deadpan.

You shove the files back into your bag and stand. Then you hold your palm out at Felix. “Give me your car keys,” you demand.

The last thing he wants to do is getting another emotional jab from you so Felix doesn’t even hesitate. He rummages through his coat pocket and drops them into your palm.

You don’t thank him. You just jerk your head and hoist the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder.

“Come on,” you say, leading the way and Felix follows without complaint.

The drive is… fast and the city blurs past the windows as you weave through traffic like rules are optional. Felix grips the door handle once, then lets go. He wants to tell you to slow down a few times already but he figures it’s better for him to silently pray for his safety.

When the car finally slows at the entrance of the hospital, he knows right away why you’re taking him here.

“Go,” you say without taking your hands off the steering wheel. “Meet your best friend. Vent. Cry. Do whatever you need to do.”

Felix stares at you, unsure if that’s an order or a suggestion. Either way, he feels touched because you’re actually doing something that might help him.

“And if that doesn’t help,” you continue, staring straight ahead, “ask a doctor to sedate you.”

Felix really does need to talk. To say it out loud to someone who knows him. Someone who won’t look at him like he failed for wanting too much.

You don’t give him time to overthink it as you put the car on drive again and sharply say, “Out. Now.”

Felix scrambles to unbuckle his seatbelt and then opens the door in a hurry. Before he gets out completely, he pauses and looks back at you.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, sincerely.

You don’t look at him as you say, “Go sort your life out.”

You don’t wait for a second but drives away the second the door shuts. Felix stands there for a moment, watching it disappear, deeply inhales air and then heads inside.

-

Felix pushes the hospital room door open and finds Seungmin is mid-performance.

“…and that’s when I realized the delivery guy was losing control of the stack,” Seungmin says dramatically, one hand slicing through the air while the other rests on his cast. “I saw it in slow motion. Five boxes. Hot soup. No lid security whatsoever.”

The boy in the next bed leans forward. “No way.”

“I didn’t even think,” Seungmin’s brows knitted, eyes intense as he continues. “I lunged. Took two steps down at once. Managed to save four out of five containers before gravity betrayed me.”

“What happened to the fifth?” the boy asks, wide-eyed.

Seungmin sighs deeply. “Sacrificed. For the greater good.”

The boy’s mouth part open in awe, thoroughly impressed. “That’s so cool.”

Seungmin nods solemnly. “Somebody had to do it.”

Felix walks in right then, steps heavy, already knowing without a doubt that none of this is true. Then he stops at the foot of the bed.

Seungmin’s eyes flick to him and immediately narrow, scanning him from head to toe. “Whoa. What’s with the all-black outfit? You just attended a Matrix cosplay or something?”

Felix doesn’t even have the energy to entertain his joke and that’s all it takes for Seungmin to notice there’s something wrong with his always bright, always cheerful best friend.

“Hey,” Seungmin says, quieter now. “What’s wrong, man?”

Felix drags a stool closer and collapses onto it. He presses his palms to his thighs, breathes in slowly, counts in his head. He really, really does not want to cry in a shared hospital room.

“It was supposed to be perfect,” Felix says finally, voice weak, just barely steady. “The restaurant. The food. We even had a foie gras—”

“What’s a foie gras?” Seungmin cuts in with a genuine question.

“It’s a fattened liver of a goose—”

This time, Seungmin cuts in with a groan over Felix’s questionable food choice. “So, what really happened?”

“Well, everything went right…” Felix continues and he stops as his lips curl into a sad pout. “The desserts came and I told Laura how much I liked her and then I got on one knee…”

Seungmin nods along, already piecing it together.

“And then I… I proposed,” Felix continues, swallowing. “And I thought we were perfect for each other. I thought, I thought she wanted this too…”

His lips trembling now as he fights the urge to cry. He inhales air to brace himself to reveal the whole story, “and then we broke up.”

“…broke up,” Seungmin finishes his sentence at the same time.

Felix breaks anyway, tears spilling despite his best effort to keep them contained. He ducks his head, shoulders curling inward, trying to stay quiet.

Seungmin sighs and stretches his arm to reach for the tissue box on the little shelf next to his bed, shoving it into Felix’s hands. “Felix,” he says gently, “you’ve been dating her for what like? Three months?”

“That’s enough time for me to be sure about her,” Felix snaps weakly. “I knew. I wanted to marry her. I already planned the food for our wedding and we’d have tiered wedding cake and—”

Seungmin winces at that. “Yeah. See. That part.”

Felix looks up, eyes red, nose running. “What’s wrong with that?”

Seungmin doesn’t usually like this but he softens for Felix because he’s not stupid, Felix is just pure like that. “Nothing. Loving deeply isn’t wrong. But you rush things, man. You go all in before the other person even knows how to swim.”

Felix clenches the tissue, offended. “What’s the point of being in a relationship if I’m not allowed to love someone the way I want to?”

“You are,” Seungmin says quickly. “But you need to slow down. Let things breathe.”

Felix nods because he knows it’s true. Yet it still hurts. He doesn’t bother hiding his tear-streaked face as Seungmin reaches over and wipes his nose for him with another tissue.

“So what do I do now?” Felix asks quietly.

Seungmin doesn’t hesitate to answer, “You stop being in relationships.”

Felix stiffens. “What?”

“I mean,” Seungmin adds, waving a hand, “you try something casual. Bounce back.”

Felix’s mouth part, unsure what to say. “But I… I don’t know how to do casual.”

“That’s exactly why you should,” Seungmin says, holding his shoulder. “Learn not to pour your entire soul into someone immediately.”

Felix leans closer, lowering his voice, aware of the boy nearby. “Does that mean it’s just… physical?”

“Yeah,” Seungmin says without shame. “You always want to take me to try new restaurants. You can take a girl there and by the end of the night, you can take her to your place and her place—"

“And then bang?” Felix innocently finishes Seungmin’s sentence.

Seungmin tilts his head and gives a slow nod. “Weird word choice, but yes.”

Hearing it sound simple but Felix can’t quite grasp the concept about being with someone without feelings whatsoever. Like what’s the point in that?

But he nods slowly and says, “Okay. I’ll try.”

Seungmin grips his shoulder and squeezes. “You can do it. You can be casual.”

Felix nods again, whispering to himself, “I can do it.”

Felix walks through the hospital hallways with lighter steps than when he arrived.

The ache is still there, but it’s manageable now. And you’re right, talking it out helped more than he expected. Saying the words out loud, hearing them reflected back without judgment, without pity — it steadies him.

He realizes it now why his past relationships ended the same way. He’s too much. Too eager. Too intense. He loves like he’s afraid the feeling will disappear if he doesn’t hold it tight enough. There’s no halfway for him — it’s everything or nothing, heart wide open, consequences be damned.

That’s just how Felix is. It’s all in or nothing at all. But maybe… maybe that’s the problem.

Maybe it really is time to learn how to slow down. To hold back just a little. To feel without drowning in it. The idea makes him uneasy. He doesn’t even know where to begin — how do you love less without feeling like you’re lying to yourself?

He reaches the hospital entrance, the cool air brushing against his face and only then does it hit him that you took his car with you.

Felix stops short, groans softly, and scrubs a hand over his face. “Oh, shoot,” he mutters.

He doesn’t dwell on it but pulls out his phone, and calls a taxi instead. As the car pulls up, Felix slides into the backseat and leans his head against the window, watching the hospital disappear behind him.

Tomorrow, he’ll go back to work. Tomorrow, he’ll try to be… different.

He’s not sure how yet, but for the first time, he thinks he might actually want to learn.

-

Felix gets home and doesn’t let himself sit down.

If he does, he knows he’ll spiral. So instead, he drops his bag by the door, shrugs out of his coat, and goes to the kitchen. Because baking is safer than thinking.

He washes his hands, opens the cabinet and takes out all the ingredients he needs. He measures flour precisely. Levels it off with the back of a knife. Brown sugar. White sugar. Butter softened just right. The rhythm settles him.

He focuses on texture and consistency. On the exact shade the dough should be before it’s ready. There’s comfort in recipes, in the certainty that if you follow the steps, something good will come out of it. Unlike relationships.

He scoops the dough into even rounds, lining them up neatly on the tray. Slides them into the oven. Sets the timer.

Soon, the warm, sweet smell wafting around the room. Felix leans against the counter and exhales slowly. By the time the cookies cool, he’s calmed down. His thoughts are quieter, softened around the edges.

He carries a plate to the table and then he spreads the case files out again. One cookie in hand, he flips open the first folder. The sweetness lingers on his tongue as he reviews the footage, the statements, the photographs. This time, his mind doesn’t wander back to Laura or the proposal.

He focuses at the task at hand and takes another bite. And wow, work is easier with sugar.

And as crumbs scatter over the edge of the paper and he reaches for another cookie without thinking.

After reviewing everything from the grainy footages to witness statements, Felix concludes that this case doesn’t favor his client. And for the first time since taking it on, doubt creeps in — not about what he should do, but about what he’s up against.

Still… Even if the client’s wrong. Even if the client messed up. Even if the evidence keeps stacking against the client like it wants a confession out of him too.

Felix will still try because that’s the job. That’s always been the job.

Justice isn’t about liking your client. It isn’t about believing they’re perfect. It’s about making sure they’re treated fairly — that they’re heard, represented, protected from being crushed just because the narrative already decided their guilt.

Felix gathers the papers back into a neat stack. His chest still aches. His eyes still burn.

But tomorrow, tomorrow he’ll walk back into that office and do the work anyway. Because even when his heart is breaking, he doesn’t know how to do his job halfway.

With Felix, it’s all in or nothing at all.

-

The next day, Felix sits across from a woman who is crying quietly into her hands.

“I haven’t seen my daughter in five years,” she says, voice breaking. “My ex-husband keeps blocking me. Every time I try to visit, there’s another excuse.”

Felix gently slides a box of tissues across the table. She takes one without looking up.

He intently, patiently listen. He asks about the custody agreement, about visitation attempts, about documented communication. He writes everything down neatly, nodding when she struggles to find the right words.

When she insists, “I just want my daughter back,” her voice cracking around the word back, Felix feels that familiar pull in his chest — the instinct to protect. “I’ll do my best to help you. We’ll go through the legal routes properly. I’ll make sure your case is presented clearly,” he formally says with a polite smile.

She nods gratefully.

When Felix turns his head briefly, he catches you in his peripheral vision. You’re on your phone, using the camera to zoom in on the handbag resting by the woman’s feet.

Felix ignores it and returns his attention to the client, finishing the consultation with care, escorting her toward the elevator. “Take care. We’ll be in touch soon,” he says kindly.

She thanks him again before stepping inside and the doors slide shut not long after.

A beat of silence and then—

“She gives off stepmother-from-Cinderella energy,” you say flatly.

Felix stops mid-step. “What?”

You halt, turn around, and give him that look that intimidates him. “That’s only the first thing I noticed,” you say.

You tap your phone and hold it up for him to see. On it is an article. A family profile with a familiar last name.

“She’s the daughter of two very famous authors. Which means, she comes from a wealthy family.”

Felix’s mouth slightly part, genuinely impressed. “You found that already?”

“That bag she’s carrying,” you pause to emphasize what you’re going to say next. “Costs more than your yearly salary.”

Felix stares at you. “What does that have to do with anything?”

You squint at him, eyes scanning him up and down like you’re weighing something silently. The corner of your lips slightly curls at the sight of his butter yellow shirt. “Which means she’s more than capable to hire a better lawyer than one who can’t even afford himself a personal colour analysis.”

Felix hurriedly covering his shirt by clutching the lapels of his suit jacket together and silently curses himself for not choosing the light purple shirt instead.

Then you turn on your feet once more and say, “But what baffles me is that the daughter turns eighteen soon. Why fight for custody now?”

“You heard it yourself, her ex-husband doesn’t let her see her daughter,” Felix simply answers.

You give him the look again. “She didn’t see her daughter for five years. She can definitely suck it up for a few more months.”

Felix is both impressed and terrified. Impressed because you have all these interesting points just from one meeting. Terrified, because you’re too good at finding out things at such a short time. He makes a mental note, putting you on the top of the list of people he shouldn’t mess with. Which bum his upstairs neighbor with his very aggressive, very scary rottweiler that always barks at him whenever they share an elevator ride to second place and Gordon Ramsay to third place.

Done delivering your points, you lower your phone and walk away.

Felix doesn’t stay frozen for long. He jogs lightly after you down the hallway until he reaches your desk. You’re already seated, chair slightly reclined, phone in hand.

“Can you call Mrs. Choi, the client from yesterday?” he asks, slightly out of breath. “Arrange a meeting for tomorrow?”

You don’t look up. “No.”

“No?”

“I don’t feel like it.”

He hesitates to say but he does anyway, with utter cautiousness. “But it’s… literally your job.”

That makes you pause. You lower your phone just enough to consider him. The silence stretches and for a second, Felix thinks he’s won.

Then you shake your head. “Uhm… no.”

Felix exhales quietly. He doesn’t push it. He’ll just make the call himself later. “That’s okay. I’ll do it.”

He stands there awkwardly for a second before awkwardly leaning against the side of your desk and keeps talking anyway. “About the altercation case… I reviewed the footage again last night.”

You lean back further in your chair, lifting your phone again. Felix peeks instinctively to see you scrolling on e-commerce, looking for sequined dress. He chooses not to comment but continues talking.

“The evidence doesn’t favor her. The witness statements aren’t great either. You were probably right. She might’ve done it.”

Without looking up, without the slightest of zest in your tone, you say, “She didn’t do it.”

Felix whips his head toward you. “What?”

You glance at him briefly, expression flat. “She didn’t do it.”

Confusion creases his face. “How do you know?”

You turn your head slowly toward him and there it is. That look. The one that makes him feel like a specimen under the microscope and you’re about to dissect him open.

“Really? You’re going to make me do your job for you?” you ask calmly.

Felix gulps air because there is no correct answer when it comes to you. His palms start to sweat. His throat goes dry. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. If he says yes, he looks incompetent. If he says no, he risks irritating you.

He takes too long and finally, you sigh and say, “Guess I have to save the day again.”

You swivel your chair to face him and open the gallery on your phone. Your fingers move fast as you swipe through the photos. “As I was looking for the photo I took of this great dupe of Balenciaga city bag, I came across the ones I took at the police office and…”

Felix just stands there, slightly to the side, as you swipe through some more photos of the same shot of a glass of matcha latte and a butter croissant from different angles. Your fingers pause only when you reach the evidence with printed photographs. Close-up shot of the victim with clear red handprint across her cheek.

You use two fingers to zoom in and hold up your phone at him. “Look at it,” you say.

Felix already did see it, a handful of times already but he steps closer anyway. Even then, even now, all he sees is what it appears to be — a handprint. A proof that his client did physical altercation.

Then again, there’s no safe answer with you so Felix does the only method that works best, the one that he did earlier — by stalling. He narrows his eyes like he’s analyzing something new, buying himself time.

As expected, you sigh heavily and then, aggressively tapping on the screen. “Look at this part,” you say,

Felix leans in closer until his eyes are merely inches away from it.

“The handprint,” you say again.

He squints harder, but still nothing.

You finally say it. “It’s upside down.”

He blinks his eyes repeatedly like it would help to refresh his mind, his brain, his whole body.

“If your client slapped her,” you continue flatly, “the thumb would be at the top. Not the pinky.”

Felix grabs your phone and stares at the image again. He can see it now. The orientation. The angle. The shape. It’s all wrong.

“So… that means…”

“That she slapped herself,” you finish with a smug smile. You lean back on your chair and cross your arms together. “Impressive commitment, honestly. I admire the dedication to winning an argument.”

Felix almost swears out loud. He cannot believe he missed that. He wouldn’t have noticed if it wasn’t because of you. He looks at you and something shifts in his understanding. Part of Seungmin’s brilliance is yours, because you’re behind him.

“You’re a genius,” Felix says before he can stop himself, triumph spilling over. “That’s incredible. You just— you overturned the whole case. We’ll win this case”

You don’t even blink but lower your voice as you say, “Don’t tell people that I’m a genius or else, they’ll try to stop me and ruin my secret plan to rule the world from the underground.”

It sounds absurd but Felix nods immediately. “Right. Of course.”

Satisfied, you take your phone back and lean back in your chair, crossing one leg over the other, already scrolling through your phone again like you didn’t just hand him a winning argument.

“Now, scoot!” You order without looking away from your phone. “You’re bumming out my whole area.”

Felix scrambles to stand upright and takes a step back from your desk. “Yeah, sure. Sorry.”

With that, Felix retreats and walks into his office, heart still buzzing from the breakthrough, he realizes something new.

Maybe working with you won’t be a disaster after all.

-

The courtroom feels different today.

Felix stands straighter and speaks steadier as he presents the photo displayed on the screen behind him, enlarged just enough for everyone to see what he now cannot unsee.

“The orientation of the handprint,” he says calmly, pointer tapping the projected image, “suggests self-infliction rather than an external strike.”

There’s a ripple in the room. He walks them through it carefully — thumb placement, angle, trajectory. He keeps his tone respectful, measured. He doesn’t gloat. But when the judge nods slowly and the opposing counsel falters, Felix knows.

The verdict lands in his client’s favor and just like that, justice is served.

Outside the courtroom, his client grabs his hands in both of hers, eyes bright with relief.

“Thank you,” she says, voice trembling. “You believed me. You really believed me.”

Felix smiles gently. “That’s my job.”

“No, really,” she insists. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if I lost. You saved me.”

He shakes his head modestly, though something warm settles in his chest. “You saved yourself. I just… pointed something out.”

She keeps thanking him anyway and repeats it at least five more times. Blesses him. Promises to treat him meals.

Felix checks the time discreetly as he has another appointment across the city in thirty minutes. But he’s too nice, too polite to say that he has to go. Instead, he doesn’t rush her. He listens and nod and responds kindly every single time. Because even when he’s running late, even when his schedule is tight, Felix doesn’t know how to give less than he has.

Eventually, he gently extracts himself. “I’m really glad it worked out. Take care of yourself,” he says sincerely.

As he walks toward the courthouse steps, briefcase in hand, he feels it. Not just pride. Relief. Because today, he did the job right. And maybe, he’s starting to learn how to do it without losing himself in the process.

-

Felix returns to his office riding the small high of victory. He sets his briefcase down, glances out through the glass panel and notices that your desk is empty. So he steps back into the hallway and scans the office. No sign of you.

A while later, he finally spots you in the pantry. You’re perched on one of the tall stools, one leg crossed over the other, a coffee mug dangling lazily from your fingers. Your other hand scrolls endlessly on your phone. Your expression is neutral, unreadable, as always.

Felix approaches cautiously like one would approach a wild animal that might bite. He takes the stool next to you slowly, carefully, as if sudden movement might startle you.

You don’t look up and curiously, Felix pulls his head back to peek at what you’re watching on your phone. ‘Baddie makeup tutorial’, he reads on the search box.

He sits back on his chair, straightens and clears his throat. “Did you… have lunch yet?”

You hum without eye contact.

Felix nods to himself like that’s a complete answer. He decides it’s better to just get it over with. Less interaction, less friction.

“So, about the case,” he begins, bracing himself. “We won. The judge agreed about the handprint orientation.”

You hum again. Encouraging. Sort of.

Felix pushes on. “I just wanted to say thank you. For catching that detail. I— I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Silence, except for the faint sound of the girl narrating the makeup products and tools she uses in thick English accent in your video. He inhales and does it all at once. “I’d like to treat you to drinks tonight. As a thank you. You’re free to say no, of course, or if you want something else other than drinks—”

You finally lower your phone and look at him. “I’d like a vacation to the Turks and Caicos,” you say evenly.

“I— I don’t— that’s—” He scrambles mentally through his bank account. “That might be slightly outside my budget.”

You scrunch your nose, thinking. “Yeah, I figured.”

A beat later, you say, “I’ll take the drinks then.”

Relief floods him so fast it’s almost dizzying. “Great. Great. Perfect.”

“But I only drink exotic cocktails,” you add.

Felix nods immediately. “I know just the place,” he says confidently, eagerly.

You lift your mug to your lips, already turning your attention back to your phone. Indicating that the conversation is over. For you.

Felix lingers for half a second, unsure whether to stay or leave. “I, uh… can’t wait for tonight,” he says awkwardly as he slides off the stool.

No response as you’re already immersed in whatever’s on your screen.

Felix retreats slowly, heart still beating a little too fast for something as simple as drinks.

It’s just drinks. Casual. Just like Seungmin suggested.

-

The good news is, Felix knows the one bar to take you. Low lighting. Polished wood. A long marble counter lined with bottles that glow amber and jewel-toned under warm lamps. It’s a place that takes cocktails seriously.

The bad news is, it’s also the place he brought Laura once. He realizes it halfway through the door. The booth in the back corner, the exact one he sat with Laura is still there.

Felix’s steps falter for half a second but he straightens immediately. No, he can’t be moping. Not tonight. Especially not in your presence. He steers you toward a small high table instead, two stools tucked neatly under it.

You slide onto your seat and glance around, eyes scanning the shelves, the bartender’s technique, the crowd. Then slowly nod in approval.

Felix brightens instantly. He’s leaning forward slightly and says, “They have an incredible cocktail list. The lychee martini here is really good.”

The words catch in his throat. That’s what Laura ordered. He remembers her cute little gasp after taking her first sip and gushed about how refreshing it was. He swallows the memory down before it becomes visible.

You nod once. “Fine. I’ll try it.”

When the drinks arrive, the glasses are elegant, condensation sliding down the stem. The first sip is smooth, floral, just sweet enough and you don’t wait to take a second sip.

Then you say, almost casually, “I must say, I’m impressed.”

Felix beams because for a moment, the win feels uncomplicated. He’s enjoying his choice of cocktails, cherry Manhattan. Yet somehow, his gaze drifts toward the booth again. The memory replays, unbidden — Laura laughing there, leaning in close. Talking about traveling together. About drinking cocktails on a beach somewhere warm. And how they kissed at the end of the night.

The memory hits like a bruise and Felix tries his hard not to, but his face scrunches in sadness.

You notice immediately. “Aren’t we celebrating?” you ask.

Felix pouts, shoulders slumping. “I came here with Laura once.”

You groan as you stir your drink with the little straw.

“We talked about traveling and having cocktails on a beach somewhere tropical,” he continues anyway, voice soft. “Then we kissed for the first time. With tongue.”

“Ew!” You respond, visibly recoil. “Why would you tell me that?”

Felix shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know.”

He blinks rapidly, grateful for the dim lights and loud music as his eyes sting again. He doesn’t hide it well. He never does.

“You’re kind of ruining the vibe,” you tell him flatly.

“I just didn’t expect her to dump me,” he says honestly. “We were fine. We texted ‘I love you’ to each other every day. We had sex three times a week and—"

You cut in with a long, tired sigh. Then you stand and walk away.

Felix watches you go, chest tightening for an entirely different reason now. “Yeah,” he mutters to himself. “I wouldn’t want to hang out with me either.”

it’s just him and his drink now. And he doubts it would help him getting through the night without breaking apart.

But then you come back and set a bottle of liquor down on the table. Felix’s eyes widen as you put two shot glasses and pour a generous amount into his glass. Then into yours.

“Let’s drink something harder, so I can hear you worse,” you announce.

Felix stares at the amber liquid. He’s aware of his weak tolerance in alcohol and this seems rather reckless. Dangerous. But this ache in his chest? That’s worse.

So lifts his glass and you flash him a proud smile as you lift yours. “Atta boy!”

You both clink your glasses together and down it in one go. The burn is immediate and violent. He winces, coughs, gasps. But a second later, the warmth spreads and lightness creeps in. But the memory lingers, stubbornly.

“Laura doesn’t like hard liquor like this,” Felix shares with his mouth knotted into a pout.  

You don’t ask, don’t wait to refill both glasses until they’re full to the brim.

He picks up the cherry from his drink by the stem and looks at it. “Do you know that Laura is so good at tying cherry stem with her tongue? Which explains why she’s so good at—"

This time, you lift his glass and shove it into his mouth. “Down the hatch it goes!” you say.

Felix doesn’t have a choice but to take the drink as you hold the glass to his mouth and not letting go until he swallows it down. It’s just as bitter but less sharp, easier than the first one. He exhales slowly and completely forgets what he was talking about a moment ago.

And he thinks, the more he drinks, the more he forgets about things so when you refill his glass, he doesn’t hesitate this time.

If he’s going to learn how to move on… this might be the first step.

-

Felix barely remembers the taxi ride. But he remembers your hand fisted in his shirt in the elevator ride up to his floor. The next thing he knows, the door to his apartment is opening and closing in the same breath.

Your lips find his before the lights even turn on. It’s immediate and messy. Felix stumbles backward as you press into him, hands grabbing at fabric, at skin, at whatever you can reach. His fingers tangle in your hair. He’s laughing and breathless and not thinking at all, except the way you feel against him.

The two of you crash into the wall. Into the couch. Into the table. Somehow, between the drunken laughter and teeth and tongues and half-missed steps, the two of you make it to the bedroom.

The two of you only pull away to tear each other’s clothes off. Pieces of clothing hit the floor in no particular order. A sleeve caught on a wrist. A belt forgotten somewhere between the hallway and the bed. Felix’s head spins, but his body doesn’t hesitate.

He feels your lips on his jaw. Your mouth at his neck. Your skin rubbing against his. When he falls back onto the mattress, you’re already over him.

Pinned beneath you, Felix blinks up at the ceiling once before his focus settles on you instead. The dim bedroom light casts shadows along your shoulders, your collarbones, the curve of your mouth when you bite down on your lower lip.

His mind is hazy and slow but God, you’re a vision to him. Soft skin, soft curves and warmth that slowly kindling the fire inside of him. You lean down and he feels your lips on his, soft and warm, and gliding over his lips in a way that slowly drains the air out of his lungs. By the time you break the kiss, he’s gasping for air.

Felix almost whines at the loss of skin-to-skin contact but he stays there, watching you settle on him. This time, you’re facing the other way but even from the back, the shape of you tempts him the same.

“Oh…” he groans with his deep voice at the feel of your hand wrapped around his length.

His hands fly to your waist, gripping each side to ground himself as you begin to move your hand, up and down his length, tightening it and loosening it in the next second. All these combinations of stimulation make him squirming under you.

When he thinks it couldn’t get any better, you press the head of his cock to your cunt. Even without looking, he knows you’re rubbing his length between your folds, he can feel it from the way your essence lathering his skin, wet and warm.

Then he notices the way you lift yourself slightly, your ass jutting just a little as you lean forward, positioning yourself to take him in. Breath caught in his throat when he sees you slowly easing yourself down. Eyes are centered on the way you’re taking him in. It’s arousing, hypnotizing how a little thing can take so much.

But more than that, it’s the feeling of entering you, the way your walls welcoming him with that delicious tightness. He groans more, louder. His voice reaches a new depth in each groan.

Once you’ve taken all of him, you let out a satisfied, kittenish gasp. You sit there on top of him with his cock buried deep inside you. Your head tilted up, humming and squirming as you move your hips just a little, just enough to feel his whole length inside you.

“Oh, yeah, that’s it,” you breathlessly mutters, moving more, rolling your hips in slow circular motions now.

Felix grips at your waist, not sure if he tries to stop you or just needing something to hold on to as the pleasure overwhelms him. He lets you take control as you prop your hands on his thighs as support as you begin to move in bouncing motions. In this position, he can see the way his cock slipping in and out of you.

Your hands roam around, touching and feeling yourself. Your hips move with deliberate rhythm. Felix’s breath leaves him in uneven bursts as heat floods his entire body. Every nerve feels lit, alive, stretched thin.

For the first time, he doesn’t want to think. He just wants to feel. He likes the way you move on top of him. Likes the confidence in it. Likes that you don’t hesitate, don’t ask, don’t overthink. You chase your own pleasure like it’s something you’re owed. And the low, breathless sounds you make, full of wanting. They undo him.

His fingers pressing into skin as his body responds instinctively, chasing the sensation. His mind is slow and foggy, but the pleasure is intense and it builds and builds…

“Wait—” he mutters hoarsely. “I’m—”

He chokes on air as he tries to warn you. He tries again, fingers digging deeper into your flesh. “I’m close, I’m coming,” he says, strained and urgent.

But you don’t stop, you don’t slow. Instead, you look over your shoulder and simply say, “Not yet.”

You just keep moving, bouncing on him faster, deeper. Your moans grow louder and needier. A mix of both pain and pleasure blurring together.

Felix tries to hold on, tries to steady himself. He manages to hold back for a quite some time. But the warmth coils tighter and tighter until it snaps. The world goes white for a split second and then everything crashes down at once.

You’re still moving for a bit more until you’re also, falling apart and collapse onto the bed next to him, your breathing ragged, skin coated with a sheen of sweat. Your chest rising and falling just as hard.

Felix stares at the ceiling with his heart pounding in his ears and the last thing he remembers before sleep drags him under is the weight of you beside him and the strange, quiet relief that—for once—he didn’t think at all.

-

Felix wakes up to the warmth pressed against his side and a slow, steady breath brushing over his shoulder. He forces his eyes to open and the first he sees is the ceiling of his bedroom, the same one he’s been waking up to for the last couple of years.

But something feels different. Firstly, he feels cold, like he’s— Wait. He glances down and he’s right, he’s naked. He clutches the duvet instantly, scrambling to cover his body with it.

He turns his head to the side, to the warmth beside him and oh God, so are you.

Felix jerks upright and a sharp gasp leaves him before he can stop it.

Oh?

Oh!

OH???!!

The sound startles you awake. You squint at him, hair messy, voice thick with sleep. “I know you’ve never had a gorgeous natural presence first thing in the morning. But there’s no need to be that shocked.”

Felix’s mouth is hanging open but nothing comes out. He’s still processing everything. That you and him went for drinks last night and came to his place and… had sex. You and him.

You roll onto your back, then groan, dragging a hand over your face. “And we don’t even have work today.”

Right. It’s Saturday. Felix scrambles mentally for something, anything, that doesn’t make it obvious he’s spiraling.

“Nothing, I’m just— I’m late for the farmer’s market,” he blurts out.

You sigh and then you roll away from him. You slowly sit up like waking up naked in his bed is just another mildly inconvenient Tuesday.

Felix watches as you stand and begin collecting your clothes from the floor, putting it on as you go.

After a moment, he manages to stammer, “Are you… leaving already?”

You pull your blouse over your head and answer in a heavy, sleepy tone, “I need to leave before I get sober and wake up in this nightmare.”

Felix doesn’t even flinch anymore. That’s just you. So he stays quiet as you step out of the bedroom. Then panic kicks in and he scrambles, wrapping the duvet around his waist as he follows you to the living room.

You grab your bag from the living room floor and don’t look back.

“Careful on your way home,” Felix blurts, softer than he means to.

He doesn’t hear any replies, only the sound of the door closes. And just like that, he’s alone. Naked. Clutching a duvet like it’s a life raft.

His phone starts ringing somewhere in the apartment. He follows the sound, nearly tripping over the trailing duvet before locating it on the sofa. He answers, slightly breathless.

“Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Lee Felix speaking?”

“Yes, this is he.”

“This is from AVE Bank. We’re calling to confirm a potentially suspicious charge. Did you authorize a payment of one thousand, three hundred and twenty-five dollars at Le Tropique bar last night?”

Felix winces. He doesn’t remember spending that much. But as flashes of the night return — the extra bottle, the celebratory rounds, the bartender grinning as he insisted “put it on my card” — the number suddenly feels very possible.

“…Yes,” he says weakly.

Felix doesn’t wait for the lady to explain what’s going to happen next but ends the call. He lowers his phone slowly and walks back to the sofa, the duvet still wrapped awkwardly around his waist. He collapses onto the cushions, staring at the ceiling.

One thousand, three hundred and twenty-five dollars.

He groans softly, But then… he thinks of the bar, the drinks. The way you leaned across the table. The way you didn’t pity him. Didn’t baby him. Didn’t treat him like something fragile that needed to be handled gently.

He thinks about the way you kissed him first and how it felt nothing like he had before. No expectations. No promises. No “what are we?” hanging in the air.

Just drinks, laughter, heat. And sex.

Felix closes his eyes and exhales. His head is pounding from hangover but he actually had fun. He doesn’t feel the urge to text you immediately. To ask if you got home safe. To tell you how much he enjoyed himself. To send flowers later. To check restaurant reservations for next week. He doesn’t feel the itch to turn it into something more.

He went out for drinks with a girl, had fun, had sex and that’s it.

Felix lets out a small, surprised laugh. So this is what casual feels like. No attachment. No spiraling. No planning a wedding menu in his head. He rests his arm over his eyes and smiles.

Maybe Seungmin is right. Maybe this is what he needs. He can do casual.

Yeah. He can definitely do casual.

-

Felix wakes up before his alarm on Monday and that alone tells him something is different.

He doesn’t lie in bed replaying memories. He doesn’t stare at the ceiling wondering what something meant. He showers, dresses, and leaves his apartment with an unfamiliar lightness in his chest.

At the office, he’s early as usual.

“Morning, Mrs. Kwon,” he greets warmly as she ties off a trash bag.

She squints at him. “You look suspiciously cheerful. Did you win the lottery?”

Felix cracks a soft laugh. “I wouldn’t tell you even if I did.”

“Smart guy!” Mrs. Kwon says with a grin.

He slips into his office, sets his briefcase down, hangs his coat, and prepares his usual cup of tea, adding spoonful of honey at the end. He smiles at the steam curling upward as he reviews his planner. He feels… at ease, steady.

When the weekly meeting begins, everyone gathers in the conference room. Felix takes his usual seat. He doesn’t mean to look toward the door, anticipating a certain someone’s presence. But he does.

You’re late, as always. You step in without apology, eyes glued to your phone, and take your seat like you didn’t just make everyone wait. You look normal. Calm and unbothered. Paying attention to the meeting in that strange split way of yours — part engaged, part completely detached.

Felix finds himself glancing at you again. And again. He tells himself it’s just curiosity. Nothing else.

The head of the firm drones on about deadlines, new cases, quarterly projections. Felix nods at appropriate intervals, but he’s hyper-aware of your presence two seats away across the table.

When the meeting ends, chairs scrape against the floor. One of the other lawyers nudges Felix. “You look awfully happy today,” he teases. “You have a new girlfriend?”

Felix thinks he’s not obvious and that anyone won’t notice the grin plastered his face. “What? No.”

“You’re glowing,” the lawyer insists.

“Yeah, definitely a new girlfriend,” the other teases.

Felix opens his mouth to brush it off and that’s when he sees you. You’re at the doorway now, pushing it open, pausing just long enough to flash him a death glare that makes something inside him tighten instantly.

Felix feels his composure wobble. “Oh,” he says quickly, voice pitching up slightly. “It’s probably the honey.”

The room quiets. The others are exchanging confused look.

“Do you know that a drop of honey has a lot of benefits,” Felix continues, nodding too enthusiastically. “Just a drop in tea boosts energy levels and it’s rich in antioxidants and has natural antibacterial properties, so technically it’s good for the body— and affects your mood.”

The confusion continues for another moment but at this point, his colleagues knows Felix’s quirks and his strange taste in food.

Someone shrugs. “Makes sense.”

Another nods like that’s a perfectly normal explanation and thankfully, the moment passes.

Felix exhales quietly and as the room empties, he reminds himself firmly to control his emotions. Because casual means calm, casual means that the other night doesn’t mean anything other than sex.

It’s casual and he needs to act like it.

-

Felix is doing fine. He’s in his office, working. He’s focused, organized and calm. But all of those crumble in an instant when he sees you through the glass. You, walking toward his office.

He nearly jolts out of his chair and reminds himself again. Control your emotions.

He straightens immediately, smoothing his expression into something neutral, not at all aware that he slept with you two nights ago.

You walk in without knocking, as usual, and drop a stack of files onto his desk. “These are for the upcoming court date. Review the witness addendum. There’s a contradiction on page six.”

Felix nods and swallows air at the same time. “Got it.”

His voice doesn’t tremble but he decides not to say anything else. He’s afraid if he opens his mouth again, something disastrous will come out. Something overeager. Something humiliating.

“Thank you,” he manages, carefully measured.

You stay where you are, standing across his desk, arms crossing slowly over your chest.

Felix immediately feels that shift in air pressure. That sense of being evaluated. He feels small again under your intense gaze. You study him for a long second before speaking.

“Even a higher being like me makes mistakes sometimes,” you say evenly.

Felix stiffens on his seat like the slightest of movement would turn him into stone.

“The other night,” you continue, “was the worst I could do.”

His stomach drops but he nods quickly. “Right. Of course.”

You tilt your head slightly. “And I will not make the same mistake again.”

Felix’s brain short-circuits for half a second. He nods again, slightly too fast. “Okay.”

You take a step forward. Then another. You lean across his desk, hands planted on the wood, closing the distance just enough that he can feel your presence without touching you.

“If you so much as catch feelings,” you say calmly — dangerously calmly — “I will rearrange your internal organs alphabetically.”

Felix swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing slowly on his throat.

“And if you ever tell a soul, as much as a whisper of word about it…” your hand reaches for him, fingers wrapped around his tie and use it to reel him closer to you until his head only inches away from yours.

Then, you continue talking in a calm yet chilling voice. “I swear to God, I’d make you wish you were born as a mole rat and all you want to do is keep digging and digging and digging... until you reach earth’s core and burnt to crisp.”

He nods again, throat dry.

You tighten your hold around his tie and reel him closer. “You got it?”

“Yep, got it,” he says quickly, slightly stuttering “A hundred percent got it.”

You narrow your eyes slightly, assessing whether he’s serious. You see the fear flickered his eyes and that’s when you let go.

Felix lets out a short exhale of relief and quickly fixes his tie, flattening it with his palm.

Satisfied, or at least accepting, you straighten. “And I don’t ever want to see that hideous tie again,” you say.

Without thinking, Felix rushes to loosen the tie around his collar, prying it open. But you don’t wait to turn and walk out of his office without another word.

Felix stays frozen in his chair for a full five seconds after you leave and it feels like he’s out of the water, can finally breathe properly again.

He stares at the space where you stood a moment ago, replaying the threat in his head. He feels cautious now. Terrified, actually. Instead of feeling the urge to romanticize what happened. Or that familiar swell in his chest that usually signals the beginning of attachment.

And that’s good because there is absolutely no way he could develop feelings for someone who just threatened to alphabetize his organs and makes him wish he were a mole rat. Right?

Felix nods to himself, once. Twice.

He can do casual.

He just has to survive you first.

-

✨ CONFLICT OF INTEREST: CHAPTER TWO is available on Patreon ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!

You walk alongside her up the windy path that you'd be complaining about if you both didn't pregame as hard as you did. The house is rustic and down to earth. A stone chimney with warm colors, brown and green and a deep mahogany all over the front patio. You see the party through the front window, gold toned lights showcasing the blur of people, but it's casual at best. 

The most casual thing about your appearance is the neutral tones glossing your lips.

“Girl, what the fuck…” Your friend notices first and can't help but mutter to herself, heels clicking against the concrete path. You can't help but cover your laugh, “Nah, it's okay. We can't be the only ones.”

You go up the path, checking out the homey vibes and admiring it in its full glory. This house is straight out of a Pinterest mood board, undeniably so. The music gets louder the closer you get, and the worries about your outfit start to fade away as the bass sweeps them to the back of your mind. There's a few people sitting at the patio, smoking whatever it is they need to to be social butterflies. 

“Let's see,” Your friend whispers and presses her hands together briefly in a mock prayer, then reaches for the knob and pushes. It's more lively inside than it looks on the outside. The music is a good mix of y2k classics and current hits that make you instantly start to nod your head. You're glad you didn't take that extra shot beforehand or else you'd have an instant headache. 

The attire is casual with a few outliers, a relief. There are more than two pairs of unnecessarily tall heels and that makes you sigh, a grin on your lips. You nudge your friend, “See, I told you, bitch.” And nod your head in the direction of a group with more shiny jewelry twinkling under the warmth of the lights than you two. “Party in a villa, it's misleading as fuck. I told you.”

Your friend rolls her eyes with relief and visibly relaxes, shoulders uncoiled. “Thank you, God.”

“We splitting up or stayin–”

“Don't ask me stupid questions right now please,” she grabs your wrist and starts forward, forging her path and shaking her head. “Like, for real. Please.”

You throw your head back and laugh, “My bad, my bad.”

There are drinks somewhere. She can sense it, somehow. As if she's got an air tag on the kitchen, she leads you both to the island full of bottles and drinks, cups, ice, snacks. Everything. Tipsy girl heaven. 

“Hah, nice.” She nods, grips the neck of a bottle without reading the label. Your wrist is released in favor of a cup, so many cups you'd think Solo sponsored the party themselves. She grabs two and starts on filling them, laughing mischievously. “‘Bout to get into some shit tonight, I can feel it in my bones.”

You watch her pour up two cups while also surveying the party as well. There's oddly more space in the middle than the outsides, the deeper into the house you get the more chill it seems to get. Counterintuitive, but gives you room to breathe. She hands you your cup, overfilled but who really cares when it's free liquor? 

“Cheers, bitch.” She holds up her red plastic spark of joy, “To the fallen homies.”

You scoff, eyes narrowed. “We are from upstate.”

“To the fallen homies!” She insists, holding the cup closer to yours. “C'mon now, stop playin’ with me.”

“You know what? Fuck it.” You shrug, bump your cup to hers and tip your head in her direction. “To the fallen homies, whoever they are.”

You sip in unison, and only one of you gags. The burn in your throat tells you that it's definitely something authentic and probably too expensive to be at a random party, but you indulge nonetheless. 

“Aw, shit.” She grimaces, picking up the bottle to read the label, “Fuck me.”

“Should've done that before. Serves you right.” You shake your head and sip again, surveying the open floor plan further until you notice the fireplace. A group of people sat around the couch next to it. You're too nosey not to want to go over there.

You peek over shoulders and heads taller than you, obstructing your view. “Fuck they got goin’ on?”

Your friend looks in the same direction, shrugs. 

“Hm, adventure time.” She glances at you. “Tryna find out?”

“I meeean,” You start, then your feet answer for you and your heels click over to the couch. Your friend’s heels click behind yours, redwood flooring carrying you over to satisfy your curiosity. 

The deeper in you go, the more niche it seems to get. The party seems to have two groups, the flashy, aura farming, instagram story olympians, and the actual real people. Around the couch is a group of people dressed eclectically and seemingly focused on one person. 

There's a coffee table littered with beer bottles, red cups, and an empty box for Bicycle branded cards. You look along the line of people sitting on the couch and find the apparent center of attention. A white Fendi tank, a ring for his pointer and middle finger respectively, and flushed knuckles shuffling cards.

“He wanna be David Blaine so bad.” Your friend murmurs, you can't help but to blow a harsh breath of laughter through your nose. 

“Not that. Anything but that.” 

He offers the deck to who he was talking to last, the boy in front of him. “So, cards are shuffled. You just saw me, right?” He speaks with so much confidence, as if that in itself is the trick.

The boy nods. He continues, “And you believe me when I say I'd never cheat, right?” Another nod.

He smirks. “Good. So then, your card shouldn't be at the top of the deck. Go ahead, take that top card and see for yourself.”

The boy hesitates, reaches as if the card might bite him. “You're fucking with me. I can feel it.”

“Never.” He smirks wider, glances down at the deck. “Go ahead, it won't run from you.”

The boy waits, smiles. Snatches the top card and looks down, sighs. The smile fades. “This isn't my card.”

“Ah, fuck. It's not?” He pretends to be surprised. Scratches the side of his head. “Hm, that can't be right. Certainly it should be on the top. I mean, you saw me shuffle the deck. It shouldn't be…”

He slides his thumb along the side of the deck, cuts it and then repeats. Three times. Separates the deck as evenly as he can into three stacks on the coffee table. “Here.” He picks up the top card from the left stack. Three of spades. 

The boy's smile returns tenfold. 

“And your card,” He points to the boy next to his current subject, hand hovering over the right stack, “The fuck is it doing here? I thought I told you to hold onto it, hm?” Eight of clubs.

The group, or rather crowd, gasps and laughs, grinning with disbelief and dopamine. 

“How the– you can't steal the card I'm holding! I'm holding that one!” the boy, Changbin, shouts before he looks down and finds the Joker. His under eye twitches with confusion. “Chan, you fucking wizard.”

You share a glance with your friend, more intrigued than you'd both like to admit. 

“Hm. Chan.” She lifts a brow, mischievous again.

Chan chuckles, then shrugs. “Gotta pay attention,” He looks around the group and finds one last victim. Lucky for you, you stand out like a flower in the desert. He smiles, tilts his head up and eyes you from your heels to your ponytail. “Like her. She's payin’ real close attention.”

Your eyes widen with surprise at being called out, especially in the middle of an unfinished trick. “Aren't you supposed to be focused on the cards?” You say before the liquid courage drains out of you. You hear a faint ‘oop’ from next you, your friend brushing a strand behind her ear.

Chan raises a brow, “I can multitask. Thought that was a given.” He glances down, points at the last unrevealed stack in the center. “Wanna help me with this last stack, doll?”

“Oh, he has an accent.” Your friend whispers. You don't react because you're locked in and must stay focused. 

“Help you with what exactly?” You take a step closer, in too deep to back out now. He leans forward, elbows to knees, eyes never leaving yours. “A few little things. That alright?”

“Go ahead.” You stop right in front of the table. He looks down at your watch and raises a brow, scoots over on the couch.

“C'mere, get comfortable.” He pats the spot next to him, inviting and oddly alluring. You reciprocate the brow raise, sensing the tension he's skillfully building around you both. You oblige, clicking over to the empty spot and sitting with your back leaning against the arm of the couch, turned to face him.

“Now, just a few things I need from you.” Chan turns to face you too. “A number, a suit, and your magic touch. Gotta be your touch, or else someone will think I'm cheating.” He turns to look over his shoulder, the two boys from before watching with undivided attention.

They glance at each other, then at Chan. “Yeah, ‘cuz you're a fuckin' wizard.”

“Not a wizard,” He mumbles and shakes his head, looking back to your unwavering gaze. “Now, since you're dressed to the nines tonight, I suggest a nine. That okay with you, love?”

You prepare to agree, and one of his prior subjects, Hyunjin, points with accusation from next to him. “Cheater! Let her pick!”

“Hyunjin, you're way too into this.” Another boy, Seungmin, pats his shoulder from where he's stood beside the couch.

Chan closes his eyes briefly with a sigh, rolls his neck to one side, composing himself again and meeting your eyes with a fresh grin. “So, nine?”

You nod. “Nine’s fine.”

“Perfect. Next, a suit. Any suit you want.” 

You glance at your friend, she's already looking at you. She shrugs, mouths “I don't fucking know either.” You look back to Chan.

He smiles, eyes crinkled at the sides. “Need me to tell you the suits, don't you, doll?”

You nod again. “Read my mind.”

Chan scoffs, looks down at his lap. “You're lucky you're cute and I can't be mad at you.” Then back at you. “Four suits. Spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs. Any of those sound good to you?” 

You cross your legs, your knee brushing against his. Your back hits the corner of the couch, relaxed with a warm chest from the liquor and his subtle flirting that draws you into him and the trick he's setting up. “How about hearts, Mr. Fendi?”

He licks his lips, both brows raised now and an amused hum. “Ah, she knows her brands. A perceptive one. Trick might not work if you look too hard, you know.”

“You're the professional here, no?” You cross your arms over your lap, now it's your turn to look him up and down. You aren't subtle about it the way he was. 

Chan smirks again, leans forward to the coffee table again. “You said it, not me.” 

He runs his palms over his lap, points down at the untouched stack, “Alright, we got our number and our suit from the pretty girl in the pretty dress, and now all I need is your magic touch. If that's okay with you?”

“What kind of touch were you thinking of?” You sit up on the couch, more involved. 

He extends his hand to you, silently asking for yours. “May I?” 

“You may.” You give him your hand, acrylics neatly done and palm sliding into his. He doesn't look down at your joined hands yet, but his thumb runs across your knuckles before you can change your mind.

“Thank you, baby.” He smirks just enough to draw one from you, too.

He's clearly teasing now, testing the waters. It would be arrogant if he wasn't already two for three on the trick so far. “Now, see that top card there?” He points with his free hand.

“Mhm,” The back of your neck feels warm from the alcohol, your not so free hand brings your cup to your lips and sips more courage.

“Would you please be my good little doll and tap those cards for me?” 

“Just a tap?”

He nods firmly, a single nod. “Just a tap.” His thumb mimics his words, tapping the back of your hand before it rubs over the smooth skin, leaving a faint prickly sensation. “Promise.”

You can't help but to smile, tongue in cheek. If he's got nothing else, he sure does have audacity. “Yes, sir.”

“Go on, then. I'll be waitin’ for ya.” He nudges his head over to the stack. You look at the card back, no clue what card is actually on top. You saw him do it, the shuffling and the cutting of the deck. He didn't cheat, couldn't have. Didn't have the time to. You stand up, pull your dress down before bending your knees to reach over, middle and ring fingers tapping the stack three times. 

“Third time’s the charm, huh?” Chan says, watching your every move. His eyes drift to your legs as you stand and he was right. He can multitask. He notices the body shimmer on your skin, a lotion maybe. Looks nice under the warm lights, like glitter on honey. Before he can lose focus, his eyes dart back between you and the coffee table. He knows what he's doing.

You sit back down next to him, a satisfied grin at your participation. “That is what they say, isn't it?”

“Certainly is,” He nods, voice lower and more smug the closer he gets to the revelation. “Now, I've got your number, or hopefully I will by the end of this trick,” He looks into your eyes, “I've got your suit, and your beautiful magic touch. Think I'll get lucky?”

“If you can pull this off, we'll see.” You say, a product of your sip of courage. The group around you two are spectators to more than just the trick, the chemistry palpable. You aren't sure if it's also just part of the trick, but you couldn't care less with your mind and body so loosened up.

Chan’s eyes widen for a moment and he straightens up a bit, adjusts his jacket collar. “Wow, I better not fuck this up then.” He mumbles, his smirk renewed. He rests one hand on your knee, thumb finding its place caressing the skin right beneath your dress’s hem. His attention turns toward the group. “My lovely doll here, she saw me shuffle. Saw me cut the deck. And she knows I'd never cheat, don't you?” He only turns half of his attention to you, eyes peeking from the side over his shoulder, knowing you're listening. Knowing you're paying close attention to him.

And you are. “Mhm.”

“That's my girl.” He knocks on the table twice, thumb tapping your knee with something like praise, “Let’s see, then. We take our new friend here, flip ‘er over, and one, two, three…”

He takes the card off the top of the stack, flips it over, and surely enough, nine of hearts. The group erupts with disbelief again, skepticism from some, but another dopamine hit nonetheless. “There she is.”

“You are a wizard! I know a wizard when I see one, hyung!” Hyunjin stands, pointing with determined accusation.

Seungmin reaches a hand to his shoulder, patting a small thud over his leather jacket. “No more beers– hey! No one give Hyunjin any more beers.”

Chan picks up the nine of hearts, shows it to you with a smug smirk. “This belong to you?” 

You look between the card, your pretty little magic card, and his brown eyes that seem to be looking for a prize. You can't confirm it, just a gut feeling. “Lucky guess.”

“I'm wounded.” He mutters low, shakes his head, eyes searching yours. “Thought you said I was the pro. Doubting the pro?”

“Don't get cocky now.”

He chuckles, eyes crinkled again. His hand pats your knee gently before it leaves entirely, body turned to face the table. “Never that.”

Chan picks up all the stacks, combines them and taps them against the refurbished wood to straighten them out before his fingers contort around them.

First, a riffle shuffle, both hands holding an even cut taut before the cards fly into a joined stack supported by fingers curled to the first knuckle, gliding against the pads of his thumbs. They sit over his fingertips as they fall to settle into a single proper stack with a final release of his curled fingers. Then, a faro shuffle, cutting the deck into two even stacks again and letting the edges slot together like pieces of a puzzle. His fingers curl again to keep them tight, not too tight as to bend the deck and dent the cards, and they fly neatly from one hand to the other. 

He's too focused on the cards to see you glance knowingly at your friend, that look you give when you know you can read each other's minds. If you had to guess what she was thinking, it would be, “And he's good with his hands.” 

“Alright, any other victims?” Chan looks up from his skilled shuffling and around the group, a boastful expression. They all look amongst each other, then Hyunjin gets up from the couch and shakes his head. “I need another drink before the wizard tricks me again.”

He walks past you and Chan, Seungmin hot and quick behind him. “It's like you hear me, but you don't ever listen to me.” 

“Hyunjin-a, get me one!” Changbin shouts, but ends up following too. The rest of the group lingers, chatting and acknowledging Chan while also diverting attention to the party they were temporarily distracted from. Your friend sees you comfortable on the couch with Chan and decides to linger too. Not too close as to eavesdropping, but close enough to have your back if shit hits the fan. 

“So, you always bring cards to parties?” You ask, turning your attention to Chan with another sip from your special red cup. 

He turns to you, more directly facing you now that he has more room to himself. He smoothly tucks the cards into the box, then the box into his jacket pocket. “Not always. Friends like to watch when they're wasted.” He hums a laugh, glancing at his own beer bottle before leaning over to grab it, “How ‘bout you? Always look so fancy or is this a special occasion?” 

“Want me to be honest?” You tip your head down, peering up from lashes adorned with mascara.

“Always, angel.”

“I was deceived.”

Chan laughs, hearty and genuine following a swig from his own bottle of courage. “Deceived? That your kink or somethin’?” He is the professional, the master of deception in his own rite. He's successfully deceived you, in the best way possible.

“I guess so.” You take another languid sip, ignoring the warmth that starts to sweep over your forehead and threatens to unslick your hair with a thin layer of sweat. You want to mentally scold yourself for not checking the proof of this alcohol, but you're too loose to care now. 

“Well, lucky for me you were. You're hard to miss, you know.” He sits back, one knee pulled up on to the couch as he makes himself comfortable. “Glad I got to deceive you, too. You're fun to play with.”

“Told you not to get cocky.” You warn, entertained by his nonchalant and certain attitude. He's so sure of himself, but somehow it's not repelling. Quite the opposite.

“Not cocky, just Chan.” He smiles, an honest smile without the smug little mask. There's nothing deceiving about it this time. “Nice to meet ya.” ────────── ♡

Your watch is useless. You haven't checked it since you've been here. Your phone is in your clutch, out of sight and out of mind. Chan is your entertainment even without the cards, and you're the same for him. The others came back with drinks and the music seems to have gotten louder, the air warmer. 

The couch is reserved for the two of you now, inching closer and closer every twenty minutes or so until your leg is draped over his knee, elbows propped as you lean into his personal space. He invites you, encourages you. A hand resting over your calf, then your knee, then your thigh. And eyes on you.

“You live around here?” You ask, tracing shapes over your cheek as your palms support your chin, relaxed and engaged, trying not to be a sleepy drunk.

You've already covered the basics. Name, age, who you came here with, how you got here. You asked about the accent, it made him laugh. He asked about yours, you rolled your eyes. It made him laugh.

“I do not actually, not too far out, though. ‘Bout an hour away.” Chan answers, head tilted lazily. His cheeks are tinted, blood flowing now that he's a few beers in.

You smile, teasing. “‘Bout an hour away,” In your best imitation of his accent. He tries not to smile. 

“Troublemaker, huh?” 

“Me? No, nah. Not me.” You look away, innocent. 

“No?” He asks again, playing along, hand squeezing your thigh. His fingers pretend to scratch over your dress, but it's too soft and makes you aware of every point of contact between you two. 

You glance down at it, but not long enough to let him know it's getting to you. Shake your head once, voice lower than intended. “Mm, nope. Not me.”

“Hm.” Chan's eyes narrow, playful but mindful. He knows what he wants his prize to be. 

Another thirty minutes go by, your legs draped over his lap now. He closes the distance with a tentative hand hovering near your waist, still testing the waters. You share a laugh with him about something you both observed around you, the center of the party starting to fill out more than when you came in. The music is more lively, there's more people dancing, more people to mentally undress, more prospects to explore. But still, your entertainment is right next to you.

“In school, workin’?” Chan asks, babysitting a half drank cup of what the fuck ever. His eyes aren't glassy, not really. But you can see your reflection a bit more clearly in them than before.

“Both. Schedule’s full, but I manage to make time when I can.” You answer, hand playing with the ends of his hair absentmindedly. Twirling around your full set of French tips. 

“Baby's busy. That's nice.” 

“You?”

“Me? Just work, just me. Music stuff. Been at it for years.” He sips, finally. 

“Oh yeah? Gonna write a song for me?” You joke, fingertips grazing the nape of his neck. He shifts his shoulders, your touch unexpected. Sits up a bit straighter.

“Gotta give me some inspiration.” He looks amused, considering. “Wanna be my muse?”

“For a check?”

“Pump the breaks.” 

“Hm, I'll think about it, then.” You lift a brow and take his cup gently from his loose grip, take a sip for yourself. Chan watches you steal it from him with no objection, your lips curling around the rim and leaving a shimmery brown gloss stain as proof that it happened. He smirks, chuckles. He could get used to this.

“Okay then, princess.” The nickname was supposed to be an insult, but he says it like an affirmation. “She knows what she wants and just takes it, I see.”

“Nice guys finish last.” You wipe the corner of your lips and then hand him his cup back. 

He looks down at it, then back at you, then down again. Brings it to his lips right over the glossy remnants and takes a sip, then another. Maintains that eye contact, just to fuck with you. 

“Mhm, eyes on me.” You murmur, unfazed. Your voice scratches an itch for Chan, his gaze softens against his will. His plan backfired and now he has goosebumps. 

The time becomes a blur. Your hair is down now, hair tie around your wrist and your watch in your clutch because it's heavy and impractical now that even your eyelids are weighted. Chan is your chair now, and his lap is warmer than the couch. His hands are more than certain by this point, resting on your waist with the same one from before still on your thigh. 

You hear a song that reminds you that you came here with someone. “Shit, did I lose this bitch?” You mutter to yourself and look around. Every turn of your head is like smearing paint across a canvas, definitely looking at something but can't decipher what. 

Chan scoffs, looks around with you. Then taps your waist and points ahead, “Nah, she's fine.”

You follow his finger in the direction of your friend and his friend, dancing like they might as well be fucking. Her arm is reached around his neck from behind, hips on hips. He's leaned into her ear, or her neck. It's hard to tell, but they're both smiling.

“She's not gonna remember this.” You laugh, but somewhere in your chest, you're happy for her. 

“Hm. Neither will Hyunjin.” Chan laughs and watches the two with a tinge of surprise, but at the same time, it's Hyunjin. He likes having hands on him, even if he'll never admit it.

“A match made in heaven.” You shake your head, turning your attention back to Chan. You peek into his cup that's now become yours somehow, then into his eyes with a deceptively innocent grin. “There's no more.”

He smiles, thinks it's cute how you've adopted his cup as your own over the course of the night. His hand on your waist rubs along your side, a light touch. “Want me to fix that, don't you?”

“Would you?” 

He pats your waist, signalling for you to stand. You shift off of him instead, occupying the spot you abandoned earlier, and he stands. He doesn't leave, just looks down at you expectantly. 

You look back at him, head tilted and slowly blinking. 

He smiles wider, offers his hand to you. “C'mon, baby.”

“You're comin’ back, aren't you?” You play as if you're challenging him, arms crossed over your chest. 

“You think I’d leave my doll to sit on this couch alone? When she's already blinking like she's half asleep?” He leans down, calling out over the music. “C'mon, I'm not losing you. Not for a second.”

He offers his hand out again, a more serious and stern expression underneath the smirk. “Today, princess.”

You look him up and down, run your tongue over the front of your teeth trying not to smile. But you give in, of course you do. Your hand slides into his just like earlier, just a bit clammy now, but it's mutual so it's fine. 

Chan pulls you up and into him, hand returning to your waist to steady you. He looks down at your heels, then back up to your eyes. “Atta girl.”

Before you can change your mind, he's guiding you through the crowded space and over to the kitchen, one hand on your lower back and the other one holding yours. On the way over, you pass your friend and lock eyes. You share a glance that reads, “You good? I'm good. Okay, cool.”

She found fine shit, you found fine shit. All is well, you have your phone and she has money for an Uber if things go left. 

Chan makes a path through people, heading to the kitchen with you like he's a bodyguard. Glancing to the side to make sure you're still there despite him feeling your warmth under his hands. 

“Here we are, let's see what's here.” He says, stopping at the kitchen counter. It's the only place that isn't surrounded by people, the only space where you two can breathe for a second. He lifts up different bottles and actually reads the labels.

You grab a new cup, or start to before he grabs your wrist loosely and moves you away.

“Just tell me what you want, baby.” 

You pause and do a kegel.

“Oh, I'm fine. Was just trying to be helpful.” You retract your hand, fidgeting with your necklace instead. You didn't expect that.

“I got our cup right here. Just stay with me and take it easy.” He pours something into the cup. Brown, and not much of it. It must be strong. 

“Yes, sir.” You watch him move with that glint shining and a grateful grin, eyeing him with admiration. Your ankles cross, thighs pressed together.

“Good girl.” It slips out before he can stop himself. He's been calling you pet names all night, but they're starting to hit different now that you're both warm and light as a feather. 

You decide to find a quiet spot away from the center of the party, away from the thumping bass and bumping bodies. Chan suggests outside, but it's too chilly and you don't want to ruin the warmth of your buzz with the breeze. He hesitates, but ultimately suggests upstairs. He hasn't seen the second floor and neither have you. You decide to bring him on an adventure with you.

This time, you guide him on your path while he holds the cup, your fingers digging into his pulse point as you lead the way. He watches you, really watches you, and takes a small sip of your shared drink as you click up the stairs in front of him.

The second floor is breathtaking, still rustic but elegant with the dark wood and pops of creme, tan, and that neutral lighting that isn't too bright and isn't too dull. Just perfect.

“Left or right?” You ask, looking at the doors on either side of the hallway. 

“Uh, left?” Chan replies as if there's a right answer. 

“Bet.” You go into the last door down the hall on the left without hesitation. You gasp in awe, even the bedrooms are perfect. “This is so adorable!”

You let go of his hand, walking into the room like you own it. Chan notices your confidence, it's hard to miss. The door creaks a bit and he closes it behind him, leaning against the wall as you explore. “It is pretty nice here, huh?” 

The music is still loud, but muffled through the wooden floors and insulation. More manageable.

You two chat here for a while, sitting on the edge of the bed together until the energy from downstairs follows you here. It's like magnets trying not to attract but failing miserably. Both a giggling mess, his jacket comes off and so do your heels, sat neatly at the foot of the bed. Chan insisted.

“Feel better without those heels?” He laughs, kneeling up on the bed.

“Would feel better if I took them off two hours ago.” You lay down next to him, dress ridden up but ignoring it. The fabric is starting to feel too tight, you want it off anyway. 

“Baby girl's feet are sore, are they?” Chan scoots down, picking up one of your ankles. “I can help with that.”

“Can you now?” You giggle, propped up on your elbows to look down at him.

“Mhm. If you want.” His thumbs are already hovering over the sole of your foot. “That okay with you?”

“If it's okay with you.” Who are you to say no to a foot massage from a kind stranger?

“More than okay.” He takes your permission and nods, thumbs pressing into your aching feet with purpose. Working from the sides of your foot to the middle, down to the heel, then up to the ball of your foot. 

You watch him work, how focused he is. There's a comfortable silence, but you don't know why it's comfortable. You try to dissect the moment.

“You gettin’ off on this?” It's playful, but you can't help but wonder.

He shakes his head, smiling as his thumb slides from the arch of your foot up between your toes. “Just wanna make you feel good, angel.”

You lie back on the pillows, the plush minky duvet cover is your own personal cloud. The lighting isn't too harsh, dimly lit and casting a romantic shadow across the room, across Chan's jawline.

“Is this your thing? Card tricks and foot massages?” You prod at the moment some more.

Chan chuckles, “Nah, it's not. Not really.” He shifts to position himself at the end of the bed between your feet, facing you fully. “Just for you.” 

“Just for me?” You repeat, voice dropping into a teasing rumble that's just barely slurred.

“Just for my nine of hearts.” He sits your foot down and taps your other ankle, “Next foot, angel.”

You get a pang of something in your chest, excitement maybe. Your foot practically levitates into his hand. He chuckles again, softer. “Good girl.”

You swallow down and watch him, “Say that again.”

Chan glances up at you, his smile fading but not completely erased. His eyes search yours with a new depth to them. His prize is getting closer.

“Good girl.”

“Yeah?” Your restraint is slipping.

He licks his lips, nods slowly. “Mhm.” Then returns to his task with a huskier tone than before, his restraint clearly being tested, too. “So good for me.”

His hands work out knots and put pressure on all the right places, then he finishes with your feet and starts on your calves. He didn't mention going higher, but you don't stop him. Just watch him. 

“Tense?” He asks.

“Loose.” You answer, only one beat between his words and yours. 

“Good.” He moves up higher, fingers applying pressure up your legs and stopping at your thighs. He looks up at you, “This alright?”

“Go on.” It's impatient this time. He picks up on it immediately and grins. 

“Yes, ma'am.” 

“Good boy.” 

His eyes widen a bit, but not in disapproval. He stretches the side of his neck, head tilted to one side and his eyes on you. His tongue darts out to moisten his lips again. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” You double down.

He takes a deep breath, hands warm on your skin and working to relax your pillowy thighs. His exhale is rough with growing need.

“Say it again.” He whispers. He figures he'll cut his losses if you don't hear him. But you do.

“Hm,” You giggle to yourself, reaching a hand down and threading your fingers through his hair. 

“Good boy.”

Chan blinks rapidly, clearing his senses to make room for you. Just you. He needs more of you.

“Good for you.” His hands trail up higher, bypassing your dress and pushing the fabric up as he explores your skin with barely contained hunger. “I'll be good for you.”

“Promise.” It's not a question, it's an order. 

“I promise.” He's leaning down, eyes on yours as he does. 

“Higher.” You say it just to see if he really does it.

Chan focuses on your body again, hiking the dress up higher over your hips and revealing your black thong. He can't help but admire you, his breathing more shallow with anticipation. 

“This is okay with you, right?” He makes sure, checks in before he indulges fully. 

You nod and hum, reaching down yourself and grazing your fingertips along the waist of your thong. “More than okay.”

He stops hesitating and takes your word, leaning down with one hand supporting him on the bed and the other holding your hip firmly. His lips press a kiss onto your stomach, right below your belly button, then another one under that. Peppering sweet, progressively sloppier kisses across your skin that makes you have to fight the urge to press your thighs together again.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.” He mumbles, eyes fluttering closed. His thumb circles soothingly over your hip, a gentle massage there too. 

“Keep going.” You instruct gently, skin ignited wherever he lays his lips. 

Chan gets a chill along his spine and listens, a barely audible moan following. He's free to indulge now, not shy about making you feel good. His hand on your hip slides down to your thigh, inching closer to your core. 

The music downstairs isn't as upbeat now, but certainly isn't slow. It's a steady pulse of kicks and bass and compliments the moment like the stars compliment the moon. He kisses down, down, over the mound and closer to the gusset of your dampening thong. 

You watch him, hand still in his hair and combing through as silent encouragement. 

“Skin’s soft.” He mumbles again, hot breath ghosting over the dampness. “So pretty.”

“Havin’ fun?” You purr, provoking another moan from him.

Chan hums, kissing your lips through the fabric. His hand moves one leg aside, hooked under your knee and lifting it up over his shoulder. You follow through and rest your leg where he puts it, your relaxed heel now pressing into his back. 

“Push ‘em to the side, love.” You encourage him more outwardly this time, watching him make out with your clothed core.

“Mhm, thank you, baby.” He's hungry, focused. His fingers hook around the only obstacle left, tugging the soaked gusset aside and revealing his prize. He opens his eyes for this, your pretty cunt glistening with excitement just for him. His fingers spread you open, pointer and middle and a wide V to see all of you.

“Fuck…” Chan's hips buck softly into the bed. His tongue tastes you with one slow, long stripe from your hole to your clit, and he watches your reaction closely to commit it to memory.

Your legs don't threaten to close, instead spreading wider with your knees up to give him room to work. “Wanna make me feel good?” 

His lips wrap around your clit, humming his answer while his tongue circles the soft flesh with determination. He pulls back enough just to say, “I do.”

Chan is a man starved, his lips puckered and sucking with passion as if he's got something to prove. As if he wants you to be glad you spent all night with him and not someone else. As if to say thank you. 

“Use your tongue. Licks, baby.” Both of your hands reach down to tangle in his hair now, hips grinding slowly into his face. He listens and flicks your clit with his tongue, spit pooling down to your hole clenched around nothing. You buck and gasp quietly, then exhale a moan like a sigh of relief and laugh beneath it all. “Perfect.”

He works steadily, building up the speed and intensity over time with his eyes closed again, savoring your taste. He hums moans to himself, his hips rolling into the mattress and partially satisfying his own excitement.

You reach over to the nightstand and grab the cup you're sharing with him, taking a sip and feeling the warmth spread through your chest again. That combined with his hands planted on your waist pulling you down into his mouth makes you breathe a bit heavier, moan a bit clearer. 

Chan pulls back for a second, but not long before he rips a hand from your waist and spreads you open again. His thumb gently slides through your folds and gives him room to massage your clit with his tongue, licking and sucking faster just to see you shudder. 

“Sh– hmm…” your face tenses with pleasure, a soft nod that you know he's looking up at and your eyes drift closed. “That's nice.”

He smiles around your clit, the same pointer and middle fingers sliding effortlessly as they press into you up to the rings. You give him the shudder he was looking for. “Fuck… that's really nice.”

The sound that gushes from you is lewd in every sense of the word. Wet and soft, a squelch that alludes to how much you want this. Chan hums a chuckle around your clit, pulls back just enough to speak. “This all for me?” 

Your cheeks burn from alcohol and the smile you can't hide. “Shut up.” You whisper, flustered.

“Gladly.” He laughs and concedes, wanting to be good for you. He knows his affect by now, he doesn't need to remind you. 

His fingers drive into you with a steady rhythm, opening you up more and more with each thrust. The flicks of his tongue match that rhythm with precision.

After a while, Chan closes his eyes too, enjoying this more than he imagined he would. 

“Like that… that's my good boy.” 

He hears you moan for him and doubles his efforts, your praise acting as fuel for him. His fingers dig into you and search for that special spot, knuckles curled and rubbing the ridges that make you gasp louder. 

Your hips buck again, your back and shoulders tense and slightly arched. The ball of your foot digs into his spine, but it's nothing but his cue that he can't stop now. Not when your body is asking so nicely. 

“Chan, yes– oh god, yes.” You moan and it's raspy for a moment, the sharp inhales of pleasure drying out your throat. Your hips move on their own and grind into his fingers and mouth, chasing your peak with him.

“Mhmm,” he hums around you, his fingers driving into you with a hard thrust and staying in deep while he rubs the inside of your pussy with maddening precision. His tongue lays flat licks over your clit, alternating between that and shamelessly loud slurps that make you accidentally clutch his hair in your fists. 

You start to apologize, but Chan growls in response and grips your waist tighter with his free hand. The pain is good, means you're using him the way he likes. 

“I'm gonna come if you keep that up, baby.” It's not a threat, it's a heads up. He doesn't let up, not even to respond this time. His breath hits you, out through his nose with moans of his vibrating around your clit. Your trembling legs tell him everything he needs to know.

“Please,” Chan murmurs, pulling his fingers out before stuffing you again, faster and deeper with urgency. “Come for your good boy.”

You tighten around him, the squelching obscene. His tongue flicks your clit, pushing you further off the edge each time until your walls clench and spasm around his fingers. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Your knees want to close, but his free hand pins your leg firmly before you can try and run. His tongue works you through your climax, helping you come down nice and slow as his fingers finally stop. 

He pulls them out of you, pulls back to look at the mess he's made. “Tastes as good as it looks.” Chan's voice is husky and crude, deeper than when he started. He sits back, gently letting your leg down from his shoulder and kneeling between your legs. His fingers, still drenched in your arousal, slip between his lips, tongue sucking off the rest of you like he was saving your taste as a souvenir.

You're breathless and your hairline is damp, glad you put your hair down. Your hands fall to rest over the bunched up fabric in your midsection. “You're so good f’me, Chan.” You watch him climb up to you, hovering with arms caging you in.

“I can be even better, perfect for you. You want that?” He asks, hopeful. "Please?"

You nod, sticking your tongue out in a silent order that makes his cock jump in his jeans. His eyes are hooded with lust, tongue working to pool up the remnants of you before his tongue sticks out and drools it onto yours. 

Both of you moan in unison, the calm before the storm. You taste yourself and smile, eyes twinkling in the golden lights. Chan's thumb reaches up and cleans up the corners of your lips, saliva threatening to spill.

“Mm mm,” He mutters, pushing it back into your mouth with a soft smile, “Don't run. All yours.”

Your lips wrap around his thumb and suck, head bobbing like it was something else. His cock twitches and his free hand reaches down to free it. “Such a pretty little thing, sucking me so nice. Love your tongue…” he watches, sits back on his knees and unzips his jeans, pushes them down desperately with one hand.

He finally manages to get them down enough to free his twitching length, instantly fisting and stroking with assistance from his leaking tip. He lets out a low, yearning sound, a cross between a moan and a whimper. Your tongue twirls around his thumb and if he closes his eyes, he can imagine it around his cock. Too vividly. 

“Fuck, fuck.” He moans through gritted teeth. “Can I please be inside you, please, baby?” 

You pull off of his thumb slowly with a soft pop, a thin trail of spit still connected before it breaks and you look at the longing in his eyes and his furrowed brow. “You want that?”

“It's the only thing I want.” He admits, breath thick with anticipation that's boiling over and becoming unbearable. “Please? I'll be good. So good and make you feel amazing. Please?” 

“Promise?” It's gentler than before, but there's an undertone of something dark and dominant. Like if he's not, he'll be met with consequences. You slip your thong off, hips raised as it slides down your legs and gets kicked aside.

The hairs on the back of his neck rise, he nods damn near frantically. “I promise. I swear, princess. I fuckin' swear.”

You don't say anything, just reach a hand down and replace his with yours, stroking his cock with the same speed as he was. Your legs are spread again, knees higher and eyes commanding for him to hold them up. 

Chan notices your intense gaze and blinks quickly, acting fast and hooking both hands behind your thighs to push your legs up higher. “Yes, baby.” He whispers as he obeys. 

Your hips are tilted up and you're still clenching around nothing from your orgasm, but you glance down and line his cock up with your entrance before grabbing his hip and running your thumb over his skin to prompt him. 

“Yeah?” He looks down at your face before gripping the back of your thighs and sliding in, the feeling of you stretching around him making him grip tighter. “Fucking hell, thank you, angel.”

He pushes in and your head falls back, balling handfuls of Fendi as he bottoms out. He twitches and you clench back, call and response. 

“S’big.” You slur a moan as he reaches to press that spot he found before. Your hips tilt and adjust on their own, your body knows what it needs and how to get it. “Deep… fuck, you're deep.”

“I can go deeper.” Chan rasps, wanting to impress you. He knows how to get the most out of his length, anything for you. He pulls out about halfway, then pushes in carefully but certainly does get deeper. His grip on your thighs press your legs as high as they can comfortably go, and his hips press into you until it's nothing but skin on skin. 

You feel his abs tense under your touch, but you don't see it because your eyes are shut tightly, mouth agape. Chan is watching you like it's his sole mission to make you fall apart on his cock, like nothing else has ever mattered. He's too gone off beers and brown liquor for anything else to matter, the buzzing of the bass downstairs adding to the blur of warmth crawling up his skin.

“I can do it. I can make this pussy mine.” He whispers, pulling back and setting an easy pace to start with. The sound of your wetness around him isn't lost on you, in fact it's one of the only sounds you hone in on. Unlike Chan, you couldn't give two shits about the muffled snares and hi hats, you're focused on the imprint his cock is making in your stomach. Or at least that's what it feels like.

“Faster, Chan.” You command it, voice unwavering and eyes reopened, peering down at where you're connected. Your fistfuls of his shirt pull him in, motivation. 

He growls and obeys, faster but not wild. He composes himself because he knows better. “Like this, love?” 

“Faster.” You repeat, jaw tight. You're watching him thrust into you, monitoring like it's a job. 

“Faster?” He asks, knowing he'll have to keep himself in line. That'll be hard when he knows he'll want to come so badly. 

Your gaze meets his, sharp and impatient. “What did I say?” 

“Fuck,” he whispers to himself, then bites the corner of his lip and speeds up. The bed creaks a bit and the springs of the mattress sing in tune with the muffled music, but again, motivation. 

“Like this?”

“Harder.” 

“Fuck,” he grits, thrusting up with more force. You obviously want him to struggle, want to see him try and hold back just for you.

You see his efforts to restrain himself, to let you feel good first and lend his cock to you with selfless thrusts that reach places you can't. It makes you tighten with satisfaction. 

You smile, laughing between moans, “There he is, so good for me. You can do it, baby.”

Your praise is like a drug at this point, each hit only adds more fuel to the fire. He grunts and presses your knees back higher, hands holding you firmly in place with hips drilling into you incessantly. Skin slapping, breaths clashing. 

Chan buries himself in again with a snap of his hips and groans, head lowered as he grinds up into you. You grip his shirt tighter, if that was even possible, neck and face flushed in a deep drunken blush. He evokes a sound out of you that makes you bite your lip to hide it. 

“Goddamn,” he moans, panting and thrusting shallow to reach as deeply as he can. He isn't too loud, just enough for you to hear. “You're makin’ it hard f’me… this pussy’s makin' it hard f’me.” 

“Don't stop. Not until I tell you to.” You give him a clear request and it almost sounds sweet, but that underlying commanding tone rears its head again. “You hear me?”

Chan grunts with each breath, the vein protruding from the side of his neck and the ones down his forearms giving way to how hard he's trying not to come. “Easy on me.”

“Don’t wanna be my good boy anymore?” You threaten to rip the rug of praise right from under him and he whimpers. Breathy and needy, he whimpers.

“Fuck, no, don't say that–” 

“Don't stop until I tell you to, baby. Trust me.” Your hands reach up to hold his neck, pulling his face closer. Your noses brush and your eyes lock.

“Can you do that?”

Chan swallows down any further protest and nods, forehead damp against yours.

“Yes, yes I can…”

He proves it when he picks up the pace, thrusting into you with devotion and determination to get all the praise he can fuck out of you. He growls through moans ripping from his throat, muttering a string of curse words that make his furrow tense up with pleasure. 

You pull him closer and press your lips to his, a stark contrast to his increasingly erratic thrusts. His lips are warm and you taste remnants of yourself and whatever he was drinking earlier. Your tongue slips against his, moans crashing into each other freely while his fingers dig into your skin with a bruising grip. 

There's a slight bulge in the pit of your stomach that shows exactly just how far he's reaching, but you're both too busy muffling moans and tasting each other to notice. You can feel yourself floating up into that familiar feeling, your next release right around the corner. The moans that pour out of your mouth into his are climbing in pitch. 

“Chan,” you murmur against his mouth, tearing a hand from his neck to reach between you two and frantically flick your clit, chasing once again. “Don't stop, don't you fucking stop.”

“I got you, I got you.” His deep rumbling grunts reassure you, pace steady and headboard knocking against the pretty dark wood walls. “Give it to me, let me see it.”

You tighten around him more deliberately now, clit throbbing under your fingers. You're panting until a single rough breath staggers in your throat, a moan you couldn't muffle quickly enough erupting from your chest. You look up at him, eyes glazed over as you flood around his cock. “Don't stop.”

“I'm close.” Chan watches you come undone and can't hold back much longer. Your hand wraps around his throat, squeezing the sides. A warning.

“Don't.” You demand, eyes locked with his again. His are wide, skin hot with desire. He shakes his head, panting heavily. “Baby, please. Please, please let me– shit, let me come. Please, I'll do anything. Please.”

He's whimpering and grunting, cock twitching with restraint. Once you're done riding out the highs of your orgasm, you squeeze his neck tighter. “Pull out.”

“Fuck, wait, wait–”

“I got you.” You tell him before he starts begging again. “Trust me.”

“Mmm, fuck… fuck, okay,” Chan pulls out and reveals his cock, stiff and dripping, covered with you. You reach down between the two of you, using the hand around his neck to push him back a bit. 

“Legs down.” You instruct him to let you go, knees lowering back to the bed as he listens and lets you jerk him off. He stays right where he is, sitting back on his knees with his head thrown back.

“Mm, princess,” he moans, covering his mouth with his hand. You reach up and grab his wrist, eyes soft for him. “Let me hear it.” You insist.

“Can't hold back,” he stutters, letting his wrist fall slack in your grip until you let it go, steadying yourself with a hand on his hip. “Can I? Can I, baby?” 

“Can you what?” You ask, deceptively calm. 

“Can I be…” Chan pauses to hold it in, groaning with struggle. “Be good for you?” 

“Only if you say it.” You grin, stroking him faster. “Say you're my good boy.”

“Shit, shit… Mm, I'm your good boy, princess.” He grins too, gripping the soft bedding beneath him. “I'm your good fuckin' boy.”

“Come for me.”

His eyes shut tightly at the command he's been waiting for, hips bucking forward with a broken moan as he spills over your fist. “Thank you, thank you, fuck, so much…”

He's coming hard, sticky and warm over your knuckles. His chest is tight with pleasure, but it starts to burn when he's weak and twitching and you're still stroking him, pace unchanging.

“Fuck, wait.” Chan's eyes open again, the pleasure crawling up his spine and mingling with the chills spiking over his skin. “Wait, wait, wait.” 

“Say it again,” you smile, watching the realization set in for him that you're not done yet. “Say thank you for letting you come.”

He seethes a quick breath through gritted teeth, growling and reaching a hand up to hold on to his hair. “Baby, please–”

“Say it, Chan.” 

He can't deny that he likes being used, even like this. Anything to be your good boy. He whimpers again, a slutty sound that's so adorably desperate. “Mm, I'm… thank you, princess. Thank you for letting your good boy come. Feels good, so good. So, so good.”

“Finished now?” You coo, watching his face turn bright red.

“Yes, baby. I'm done.” He's polite despite the overwhelming pleasure, eyes glossed over with proof of his control.

Once you start to slow down, he lets out a breath he's been holding and starts relaxing fully, shoulders slumped and shaky elbows barely holding him up. He leans forward and one buckles, nearly falling into the bed before you press your palms to his shoulders and keep him upright. 

“Easy,” you rub his shoulders with a softer touch, coaxing him to calm down and lie back on the bed, pulling him down with you. “C'mere. Breathe.”

Chan follows you, kicking his jeans off completely and getting more comfortable with you. His shirt is wrinkled and so is your dress, bunched up right beneath your bust. He ignores it entirely, resting between your legs with his head on your chest. He's still moaning, still feels your fist pumping him with unrelenting speed. It's etched into his brain now. 

You wipe the cum he spilled onto your hand over your tongue, curious. “Mm, my good boy tastes… sweet?” You sound pleasantly surprised. 

“Thank you.” He breathes more evenly, still focused on remembering how to. The compliment doesn't fully register, but he knows to say thank you. 

“Love?” You say, wiping the rest on the bedding that you'll probably never see again after tonight. 

Chan looks up at you, using your chest as a pillow. He's dripping sweat and thoroughly flushed, less bright but still very red. “Hm, yes, angel?”

“Doin’ okay?” You're soft again, sweet and gentle. 

He nods, “I'm good, yeah. Catchin’ my breath.”

“Take your time.” The palm of your hand rubs his back, the other one brushing his hair back. The silvery blonde strands are detangled between your fingers, smoothed out and more manageable after all the pulling. 

Chan is grateful for the gentle ministrations, helps him calm down from that very steep high. You both take a moment to just be, inviting the sounds of the party downstairs back into your awareness. Distant chatter and persistent bass fill your senses and remind you that you just met Chan tonight for the first time. It doesn't feel like it to you, not after all of that. 

His breathing evens out nicely after a few minutes and his hands pull you closer, “You okay?” 

You smile, brushing his hair out of his face, “I'm okay.”

“Need anything? Blanket or somethin’?” 

“Not right now.” You glance over at the cup on the nightstand and decide to pass. You need water. 

“Alright… I got you.” He taps your waist.

“Mhm. Take it easy.” You pat his back, then pause. “Think there's a bathroom nearby?”

“I really fuckin' hope so.” 

You giggle, warm in your chest for a different reason now. “We'll find one. Gotta be somewhere close.”

Chan nods, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. You press one to the top of his head.

“Good boy, Channie.” You whisper, scratching the top of his head.

You walk alongside her up the windy path that you'd be complaining about if you both didn't pregame as hard as you did. The house is rustic and down to earth. A stone chimney with warm colors, brown and green and a deep mahogany all over the front patio. You see the party through the front window, gold toned lights showcasing the blur of people, but it's casual at best. 

The most casual thing about your appearance is the neutral tones glossing your lips.

“Girl, what the fuck…” Your friend notices first and can't help but mutter to herself, heels clicking against the concrete path. You can't help but cover your laugh, “Nah, it's okay. We can't be the only ones.”

You go up the path, checking out the homey vibes and admiring it in its full glory. This house is straight out of a Pinterest mood board, undeniably so. The music gets louder the closer you get, and the worries about your outfit start to fade away as the bass sweeps them to the back of your mind. There's a few people sitting at the patio, smoking whatever it is they need to to be social butterflies. 

“Let's see,” Your friend whispers and presses her hands together briefly in a mock prayer, then reaches for the knob and pushes. It's more lively inside than it looks on the outside. The music is a good mix of y2k classics and current hits that make you instantly start to nod your head. You're glad you didn't take that extra shot beforehand or else you'd have an instant headache. 

The attire is casual with a few outliers, a relief. There are more than two pairs of unnecessarily tall heels and that makes you sigh, a grin on your lips. You nudge your friend, “See, I told you, bitch.” And nod your head in the direction of a group with more shiny jewelry twinkling under the warmth of the lights than you two. “Party in a villa, it's misleading as fuck. I told you.”

Your friend rolls her eyes with relief and visibly relaxes, shoulders uncoiled. “Thank you, God.”

“We splitting up or stayin–”

“Don't ask me stupid questions right now please,” she grabs your wrist and starts forward, forging her path and shaking her head. “Like, for real. Please.”

You throw your head back and laugh, “My bad, my bad.”

There are drinks somewhere. She can sense it, somehow. As if she's got an air tag on the kitchen, she leads you both to the island full of bottles and drinks, cups, ice, snacks. Everything. Tipsy girl heaven. 

“Hah, nice.” She nods, grips the neck of a bottle without reading the label. Your wrist is released in favor of a cup, so many cups you'd think Solo sponsored the party themselves. She grabs two and starts on filling them, laughing mischievously. “‘Bout to get into some shit tonight, I can feel it in my bones.”

You watch her pour up two cups while also surveying the party as well. There's oddly more space in the middle than the outsides, the deeper into the house you get the more chill it seems to get. Counterintuitive, but gives you room to breathe. She hands you your cup, overfilled but who really cares when it's free liquor? 

“Cheers, bitch.” She holds up her red plastic spark of joy, “To the fallen homies.”

You scoff, eyes narrowed. “We are from upstate.”

“To the fallen homies!” She insists, holding the cup closer to yours. “C'mon now, stop playin’ with me.”

“You know what? Fuck it.” You shrug, bump your cup to hers and tip your head in her direction. “To the fallen homies, whoever they are.”

You sip in unison, and only one of you gags. The burn in your throat tells you that it's definitely something authentic and probably too expensive to be at a random party, but you indulge nonetheless. 

“Aw, shit.” She grimaces, picking up the bottle to read the label, “Fuck me.”

“Should've done that before. Serves you right.” You shake your head and sip again, surveying the open floor plan further until you notice the fireplace. A group of people sat around the couch next to it. You're too nosey not to want to go over there.

You peek over shoulders and heads taller than you, obstructing your view. “Fuck they got goin’ on?”

Your friend looks in the same direction, shrugs. 

“Hm, adventure time.” She glances at you. “Tryna find out?”

“I meeean,” You start, then your feet answer for you and your heels click over to the couch. Your friend’s heels click behind yours, redwood flooring carrying you over to satisfy your curiosity. 

The deeper in you go, the more niche it seems to get. The party seems to have two groups, the flashy, aura farming, instagram story olympians, and the actual real people. Around the couch is a group of people dressed eclectically and seemingly focused on one person. 

There's a coffee table littered with beer bottles, red cups, and an empty box for Bicycle branded cards. You look along the line of people sitting on the couch and find the apparent center of attention. A white Fendi tank, a ring for his pointer and middle finger respectively, and flushed knuckles shuffling cards.

“He wanna be David Blaine so bad.” Your friend murmurs, you can't help but to blow a harsh breath of laughter through your nose. 

“Not that. Anything but that.” 

He offers the deck to who he was talking to last, the boy in front of him. “So, cards are shuffled. You just saw me, right?” He speaks with so much confidence, as if that in itself is the trick.

The boy nods. He continues, “And you believe me when I say I'd never cheat, right?” Another nod.

He smirks. “Good. So then, your card shouldn't be at the top of the deck. Go ahead, take that top card and see for yourself.”

The boy hesitates, reaches as if the card might bite him. “You're fucking with me. I can feel it.”

“Never.” He smirks wider, glances down at the deck. “Go ahead, it won't run from you.”

The boy waits, smiles. Snatches the top card and looks down, sighs. The smile fades. “This isn't my card.”

“Ah, fuck. It's not?” He pretends to be surprised. Scratches the side of his head. “Hm, that can't be right. Certainly it should be on the top. I mean, you saw me shuffle the deck. It shouldn't be…”

He slides his thumb along the side of the deck, cuts it and then repeats. Three times. Separates the deck as evenly as he can into three stacks on the coffee table. “Here.” He picks up the top card from the left stack. Three of spades. 

The boy's smile returns tenfold. 

“And your card,” He points to the boy next to his current subject, hand hovering over the right stack, “The fuck is it doing here? I thought I told you to hold onto it, hm?” Eight of clubs.

The group, or rather crowd, gasps and laughs, grinning with disbelief and dopamine. 

“How the– you can't steal the card I'm holding! I'm holding that one!” the boy, Changbin, shouts before he looks down and finds the Joker. His under eye twitches with confusion. “Chan, you fucking wizard.”

You share a glance with your friend, more intrigued than you'd both like to admit. 

“Hm. Chan.” She lifts a brow, mischievous again.

Chan chuckles, then shrugs. “Gotta pay attention,” He looks around the group and finds one last victim. Lucky for you, you stand out like a flower in the desert. He smiles, tilts his head up and eyes you from your heels to your ponytail. “Like her. She's payin’ real close attention.”

Your eyes widen with surprise at being called out, especially in the middle of an unfinished trick. “Aren't you supposed to be focused on the cards?” You say before the liquid courage drains out of you. You hear a faint ‘oop’ from next you, your friend brushing a strand behind her ear.

Chan raises a brow, “I can multitask. Thought that was a given.” He glances down, points at the last unrevealed stack in the center. “Wanna help me with this last stack, doll?”

“Oh, he has an accent.” Your friend whispers. You don't react because you're locked in and must stay focused. 

“Help you with what exactly?” You take a step closer, in too deep to back out now. He leans forward, elbows to knees, eyes never leaving yours. “A few little things. That alright?”

“Go ahead.” You stop right in front of the table. He looks down at your watch and raises a brow, scoots over on the couch.

“C'mere, get comfortable.” He pats the spot next to him, inviting and oddly alluring. You reciprocate the brow raise, sensing the tension he's skillfully building around you both. You oblige, clicking over to the empty spot and sitting with your back leaning against the arm of the couch, turned to face him.

“Now, just a few things I need from you.” Chan turns to face you too. “A number, a suit, and your magic touch. Gotta be your touch, or else someone will think I'm cheating.” He turns to look over his shoulder, the two boys from before watching with undivided attention.

They glance at each other, then at Chan. “Yeah, ‘cuz you're a fuckin' wizard.”

“Not a wizard,” He mumbles and shakes his head, looking back to your unwavering gaze. “Now, since you're dressed to the nines tonight, I suggest a nine. That okay with you, love?”

You prepare to agree, and one of his prior subjects, Hyunjin, points with accusation from next to him. “Cheater! Let her pick!”

“Hyunjin, you're way too into this.” Another boy, Seungmin, pats his shoulder from where he's stood beside the couch.

Chan closes his eyes briefly with a sigh, rolls his neck to one side, composing himself again and meeting your eyes with a fresh grin. “So, nine?”

You nod. “Nine’s fine.”

“Perfect. Next, a suit. Any suit you want.” 

You glance at your friend, she's already looking at you. She shrugs, mouths “I don't fucking know either.” You look back to Chan.

He smiles, eyes crinkled at the sides. “Need me to tell you the suits, don't you, doll?”

You nod again. “Read my mind.”

Chan scoffs, looks down at his lap. “You're lucky you're cute and I can't be mad at you.” Then back at you. “Four suits. Spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs. Any of those sound good to you?” 

You cross your legs, your knee brushing against his. Your back hits the corner of the couch, relaxed with a warm chest from the liquor and his subtle flirting that draws you into him and the trick he's setting up. “How about hearts, Mr. Fendi?”

He licks his lips, both brows raised now and an amused hum. “Ah, she knows her brands. A perceptive one. Trick might not work if you look too hard, you know.”

“You're the professional here, no?” You cross your arms over your lap, now it's your turn to look him up and down. You aren't subtle about it the way he was. 

Chan smirks again, leans forward to the coffee table again. “You said it, not me.” 

He runs his palms over his lap, points down at the untouched stack, “Alright, we got our number and our suit from the pretty girl in the pretty dress, and now all I need is your magic touch. If that's okay with you?”

“What kind of touch were you thinking of?” You sit up on the couch, more involved. 

He extends his hand to you, silently asking for yours. “May I?” 

“You may.” You give him your hand, acrylics neatly done and palm sliding into his. He doesn't look down at your joined hands yet, but his thumb runs across your knuckles before you can change your mind.

“Thank you, baby.” He smirks just enough to draw one from you, too.

He's clearly teasing now, testing the waters. It would be arrogant if he wasn't already two for three on the trick so far. “Now, see that top card there?” He points with his free hand.

“Mhm,” The back of your neck feels warm from the alcohol, your not so free hand brings your cup to your lips and sips more courage.

“Would you please be my good little doll and tap those cards for me?” 

“Just a tap?”

He nods firmly, a single nod. “Just a tap.” His thumb mimics his words, tapping the back of your hand before it rubs over the smooth skin, leaving a faint prickly sensation. “Promise.”

You can't help but to smile, tongue in cheek. If he's got nothing else, he sure does have audacity. “Yes, sir.”

“Go on, then. I'll be waitin’ for ya.” He nudges his head over to the stack. You look at the card back, no clue what card is actually on top. You saw him do it, the shuffling and the cutting of the deck. He didn't cheat, couldn't have. Didn't have the time to. You stand up, pull your dress down before bending your knees to reach over, middle and ring fingers tapping the stack three times. 

“Third time’s the charm, huh?” Chan says, watching your every move. His eyes drift to your legs as you stand and he was right. He can multitask. He notices the body shimmer on your skin, a lotion maybe. Looks nice under the warm lights, like glitter on honey. Before he can lose focus, his eyes dart back between you and the coffee table. He knows what he's doing.

You sit back down next to him, a satisfied grin at your participation. “That is what they say, isn't it?”

“Certainly is,” He nods, voice lower and more smug the closer he gets to the revelation. “Now, I've got your number, or hopefully I will by the end of this trick,” He looks into your eyes, “I've got your suit, and your beautiful magic touch. Think I'll get lucky?”

“If you can pull this off, we'll see.” You say, a product of your sip of courage. The group around you two are spectators to more than just the trick, the chemistry palpable. You aren't sure if it's also just part of the trick, but you couldn't care less with your mind and body so loosened up.

Chan’s eyes widen for a moment and he straightens up a bit, adjusts his jacket collar. “Wow, I better not fuck this up then.” He mumbles, his smirk renewed. He rests one hand on your knee, thumb finding its place caressing the skin right beneath your dress’s hem. His attention turns toward the group. “My lovely doll here, she saw me shuffle. Saw me cut the deck. And she knows I'd never cheat, don't you?” He only turns half of his attention to you, eyes peeking from the side over his shoulder, knowing you're listening. Knowing you're paying close attention to him.

And you are. “Mhm.”

“That's my girl.” He knocks on the table twice, thumb tapping your knee with something like praise, “Let’s see, then. We take our new friend here, flip ‘er over, and one, two, three…”

He takes the card off the top of the stack, flips it over, and surely enough, nine of hearts. The group erupts with disbelief again, skepticism from some, but another dopamine hit nonetheless. “There she is.”

“You are a wizard! I know a wizard when I see one, hyung!” Hyunjin stands, pointing with determined accusation.

Seungmin reaches a hand to his shoulder, patting a small thud over his leather jacket. “No more beers– hey! No one give Hyunjin any more beers.”

Chan picks up the nine of hearts, shows it to you with a smug smirk. “This belong to you?” 

You look between the card, your pretty little magic card, and his brown eyes that seem to be looking for a prize. You can't confirm it, just a gut feeling. “Lucky guess.”

“I'm wounded.” He mutters low, shakes his head, eyes searching yours. “Thought you said I was the pro. Doubting the pro?”

“Don't get cocky now.”

He chuckles, eyes crinkled again. His hand pats your knee gently before it leaves entirely, body turned to face the table. “Never that.”

Chan picks up all the stacks, combines them and taps them against the refurbished wood to straighten them out before his fingers contort around them.

First, a riffle shuffle, both hands holding an even cut taut before the cards fly into a joined stack supported by fingers curled to the first knuckle, gliding against the pads of his thumbs. They sit over his fingertips as they fall to settle into a single proper stack with a final release of his curled fingers. Then, a faro shuffle, cutting the deck into two even stacks again and letting the edges slot together like pieces of a puzzle. His fingers curl again to keep them tight, not too tight as to bend the deck and dent the cards, and they fly neatly from one hand to the other. 

He's too focused on the cards to see you glance knowingly at your friend, that look you give when you know you can read each other's minds. If you had to guess what she was thinking, it would be, “And he's good with his hands.” 

“Alright, any other victims?” Chan looks up from his skilled shuffling and around the group, a boastful expression. They all look amongst each other, then Hyunjin gets up from the couch and shakes his head. “I need another drink before the wizard tricks me again.”

He walks past you and Chan, Seungmin hot and quick behind him. “It's like you hear me, but you don't ever listen to me.” 

“Hyunjin-a, get me one!” Changbin shouts, but ends up following too. The rest of the group lingers, chatting and acknowledging Chan while also diverting attention to the party they were temporarily distracted from. Your friend sees you comfortable on the couch with Chan and decides to linger too. Not too close as to eavesdropping, but close enough to have your back if shit hits the fan. 

“So, you always bring cards to parties?” You ask, turning your attention to Chan with another sip from your special red cup. 

He turns to you, more directly facing you now that he has more room to himself. He smoothly tucks the cards into the box, then the box into his jacket pocket. “Not always. Friends like to watch when they're wasted.” He hums a laugh, glancing at his own beer bottle before leaning over to grab it, “How ‘bout you? Always look so fancy or is this a special occasion?” 

“Want me to be honest?” You tip your head down, peering up from lashes adorned with mascara.

“Always, angel.”

“I was deceived.”

Chan laughs, hearty and genuine following a swig from his own bottle of courage. “Deceived? That your kink or somethin’?” He is the professional, the master of deception in his own rite. He's successfully deceived you, in the best way possible.

“I guess so.” You take another languid sip, ignoring the warmth that starts to sweep over your forehead and threatens to unslick your hair with a thin layer of sweat. You want to mentally scold yourself for not checking the proof of this alcohol, but you're too loose to care now. 

“Well, lucky for me you were. You're hard to miss, you know.” He sits back, one knee pulled up on to the couch as he makes himself comfortable. “Glad I got to deceive you, too. You're fun to play with.”

“Told you not to get cocky.” You warn, entertained by his nonchalant and certain attitude. He's so sure of himself, but somehow it's not repelling. Quite the opposite.

“Not cocky, just Chan.” He smiles, an honest smile without the smug little mask. There's nothing deceiving about it this time. “Nice to meet ya.” ────────── ♡

Your watch is useless. You haven't checked it since you've been here. Your phone is in your clutch, out of sight and out of mind. Chan is your entertainment even without the cards, and you're the same for him. The others came back with drinks and the music seems to have gotten louder, the air warmer. 

The couch is reserved for the two of you now, inching closer and closer every twenty minutes or so until your leg is draped over his knee, elbows propped as you lean into his personal space. He invites you, encourages you. A hand resting over your calf, then your knee, then your thigh. And eyes on you.

“You live around here?” You ask, tracing shapes over your cheek as your palms support your chin, relaxed and engaged, trying not to be a sleepy drunk.

You've already covered the basics. Name, age, who you came here with, how you got here. You asked about the accent, it made him laugh. He asked about yours, you rolled your eyes. It made him laugh.

“I do not actually, not too far out, though. ‘Bout an hour away.” Chan answers, head tilted lazily. His cheeks are tinted, blood flowing now that he's a few beers in.

You smile, teasing. “‘Bout an hour away,” In your best imitation of his accent. He tries not to smile. 

“Troublemaker, huh?” 

“Me? No, nah. Not me.” You look away, innocent. 

“No?” He asks again, playing along, hand squeezing your thigh. His fingers pretend to scratch over your dress, but it's too soft and makes you aware of every point of contact between you two. 

You glance down at it, but not long enough to let him know it's getting to you. Shake your head once, voice lower than intended. “Mm, nope. Not me.”

“Hm.” Chan's eyes narrow, playful but mindful. He knows what he wants his prize to be. 

Another thirty minutes go by, your legs draped over his lap now. He closes the distance with a tentative hand hovering near your waist, still testing the waters. You share a laugh with him about something you both observed around you, the center of the party starting to fill out more than when you came in. The music is more lively, there's more people dancing, more people to mentally undress, more prospects to explore. But still, your entertainment is right next to you.

“In school, workin’?” Chan asks, babysitting a half drank cup of what the fuck ever. His eyes aren't glassy, not really. But you can see your reflection a bit more clearly in them than before.

“Both. Schedule’s full, but I manage to make time when I can.” You answer, hand playing with the ends of his hair absentmindedly. Twirling around your full set of French tips. 

“Baby's busy. That's nice.” 

“You?”

“Me? Just work, just me. Music stuff. Been at it for years.” He sips, finally. 

“Oh yeah? Gonna write a song for me?” You joke, fingertips grazing the nape of his neck. He shifts his shoulders, your touch unexpected. Sits up a bit straighter.

“Gotta give me some inspiration.” He looks amused, considering. “Wanna be my muse?”

“For a check?”

“Pump the breaks.” 

“Hm, I'll think about it, then.” You lift a brow and take his cup gently from his loose grip, take a sip for yourself. Chan watches you steal it from him with no objection, your lips curling around the rim and leaving a shimmery brown gloss stain as proof that it happened. He smirks, chuckles. He could get used to this.

“Okay then, princess.” The nickname was supposed to be an insult, but he says it like an affirmation. “She knows what she wants and just takes it, I see.”

“Nice guys finish last.” You wipe the corner of your lips and then hand him his cup back. 

He looks down at it, then back at you, then down again. Brings it to his lips right over the glossy remnants and takes a sip, then another. Maintains that eye contact, just to fuck with you. 

“Mhm, eyes on me.” You murmur, unfazed. Your voice scratches an itch for Chan, his gaze softens against his will. His plan backfired and now he has goosebumps. 

The time becomes a blur. Your hair is down now, hair tie around your wrist and your watch in your clutch because it's heavy and impractical now that even your eyelids are weighted. Chan is your chair now, and his lap is warmer than the couch. His hands are more than certain by this point, resting on your waist with the same one from before still on your thigh. 

You hear a song that reminds you that you came here with someone. “Shit, did I lose this bitch?” You mutter to yourself and look around. Every turn of your head is like smearing paint across a canvas, definitely looking at something but can't decipher what. 

Chan scoffs, looks around with you. Then taps your waist and points ahead, “Nah, she's fine.”

You follow his finger in the direction of your friend and his friend, dancing like they might as well be fucking. Her arm is reached around his neck from behind, hips on hips. He's leaned into her ear, or her neck. It's hard to tell, but they're both smiling.

“She's not gonna remember this.” You laugh, but somewhere in your chest, you're happy for her. 

“Hm. Neither will Hyunjin.” Chan laughs and watches the two with a tinge of surprise, but at the same time, it's Hyunjin. He likes having hands on him, even if he'll never admit it.

“A match made in heaven.” You shake your head, turning your attention back to Chan. You peek into his cup that's now become yours somehow, then into his eyes with a deceptively innocent grin. “There's no more.”

He smiles, thinks it's cute how you've adopted his cup as your own over the course of the night. His hand on your waist rubs along your side, a light touch. “Want me to fix that, don't you?”

“Would you?” 

He pats your waist, signalling for you to stand. You shift off of him instead, occupying the spot you abandoned earlier, and he stands. He doesn't leave, just looks down at you expectantly. 

You look back at him, head tilted and slowly blinking. 

He smiles wider, offers his hand to you. “C'mon, baby.”

“You're comin’ back, aren't you?” You play as if you're challenging him, arms crossed over your chest. 

“You think I’d leave my doll to sit on this couch alone? When she's already blinking like she's half asleep?” He leans down, calling out over the music. “C'mon, I'm not losing you. Not for a second.”

He offers his hand out again, a more serious and stern expression underneath the smirk. “Today, princess.”

You look him up and down, run your tongue over the front of your teeth trying not to smile. But you give in, of course you do. Your hand slides into his just like earlier, just a bit clammy now, but it's mutual so it's fine. 

Chan pulls you up and into him, hand returning to your waist to steady you. He looks down at your heels, then back up to your eyes. “Atta girl.”

Before you can change your mind, he's guiding you through the crowded space and over to the kitchen, one hand on your lower back and the other one holding yours. On the way over, you pass your friend and lock eyes. You share a glance that reads, “You good? I'm good. Okay, cool.”

She found fine shit, you found fine shit. All is well, you have your phone and she has money for an Uber if things go left. 

Chan makes a path through people, heading to the kitchen with you like he's a bodyguard. Glancing to the side to make sure you're still there despite him feeling your warmth under his hands. 

“Here we are, let's see what's here.” He says, stopping at the kitchen counter. It's the only place that isn't surrounded by people, the only space where you two can breathe for a second. He lifts up different bottles and actually reads the labels.

You grab a new cup, or start to before he grabs your wrist loosely and moves you away.

“Just tell me what you want, baby.” 

You pause and do a kegel.

“Oh, I'm fine. Was just trying to be helpful.” You retract your hand, fidgeting with your necklace instead. You didn't expect that.

“I got our cup right here. Just stay with me and take it easy.” He pours something into the cup. Brown, and not much of it. It must be strong. 

“Yes, sir.” You watch him move with that glint shining and a grateful grin, eyeing him with admiration. Your ankles cross, thighs pressed together.

“Good girl.” It slips out before he can stop himself. He's been calling you pet names all night, but they're starting to hit different now that you're both warm and light as a feather. 

You decide to find a quiet spot away from the center of the party, away from the thumping bass and bumping bodies. Chan suggests outside, but it's too chilly and you don't want to ruin the warmth of your buzz with the breeze. He hesitates, but ultimately suggests upstairs. He hasn't seen the second floor and neither have you. You decide to bring him on an adventure with you.

This time, you guide him on your path while he holds the cup, your fingers digging into his pulse point as you lead the way. He watches you, really watches you, and takes a small sip of your shared drink as you click up the stairs in front of him.

The second floor is breathtaking, still rustic but elegant with the dark wood and pops of creme, tan, and that neutral lighting that isn't too bright and isn't too dull. Just perfect.

“Left or right?” You ask, looking at the doors on either side of the hallway. 

“Uh, left?” Chan replies as if there's a right answer. 

“Bet.” You go into the last door down the hall on the left without hesitation. You gasp in awe, even the bedrooms are perfect. “This is so adorable!”

You let go of his hand, walking into the room like you own it. Chan notices your confidence, it's hard to miss. The door creaks a bit and he closes it behind him, leaning against the wall as you explore. “It is pretty nice here, huh?” 

The music is still loud, but muffled through the wooden floors and insulation. More manageable.

You two chat here for a while, sitting on the edge of the bed together until the energy from downstairs follows you here. It's like magnets trying not to attract but failing miserably. Both a giggling mess, his jacket comes off and so do your heels, sat neatly at the foot of the bed. Chan insisted.

“Feel better without those heels?” He laughs, kneeling up on the bed.

“Would feel better if I took them off two hours ago.” You lay down next to him, dress ridden up but ignoring it. The fabric is starting to feel too tight, you want it off anyway. 

“Baby girl's feet are sore, are they?” Chan scoots down, picking up one of your ankles. “I can help with that.”

“Can you now?” You giggle, propped up on your elbows to look down at him.

“Mhm. If you want.” His thumbs are already hovering over the sole of your foot. “That okay with you?”

“If it's okay with you.” Who are you to say no to a foot massage from a kind stranger?

“More than okay.” He takes your permission and nods, thumbs pressing into your aching feet with purpose. Working from the sides of your foot to the middle, down to the heel, then up to the ball of your foot. 

You watch him work, how focused he is. There's a comfortable silence, but you don't know why it's comfortable. You try to dissect the moment.

“You gettin’ off on this?” It's playful, but you can't help but wonder.

He shakes his head, smiling as his thumb slides from the arch of your foot up between your toes. “Just wanna make you feel good, angel.”

You lie back on the pillows, the plush minky duvet cover is your own personal cloud. The lighting isn't too harsh, dimly lit and casting a romantic shadow across the room, across Chan's jawline.

“Is this your thing? Card tricks and foot massages?” You prod at the moment some more.

Chan chuckles, “Nah, it's not. Not really.” He shifts to position himself at the end of the bed between your feet, facing you fully. “Just for you.” 

“Just for me?” You repeat, voice dropping into a teasing rumble that's just barely slurred.

“Just for my nine of hearts.” He sits your foot down and taps your other ankle, “Next foot, angel.”

You get a pang of something in your chest, excitement maybe. Your foot practically levitates into his hand. He chuckles again, softer. “Good girl.”

You swallow down and watch him, “Say that again.”

Chan glances up at you, his smile fading but not completely erased. His eyes search yours with a new depth to them. His prize is getting closer.

“Good girl.”

“Yeah?” Your restraint is slipping.

He licks his lips, nods slowly. “Mhm.” Then returns to his task with a huskier tone than before, his restraint clearly being tested, too. “So good for me.”

His hands work out knots and put pressure on all the right places, then he finishes with your feet and starts on your calves. He didn't mention going higher, but you don't stop him. Just watch him. 

“Tense?” He asks.

“Loose.” You answer, only one beat between his words and yours. 

“Good.” He moves up higher, fingers applying pressure up your legs and stopping at your thighs. He looks up at you, “This alright?”

“Go on.” It's impatient this time. He picks up on it immediately and grins. 

“Yes, ma'am.” 

“Good boy.” 

His eyes widen a bit, but not in disapproval. He stretches the side of his neck, head tilted to one side and his eyes on you. His tongue darts out to moisten his lips again. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” You double down.

He takes a deep breath, hands warm on your skin and working to relax your pillowy thighs. His exhale is rough with growing need.

“Say it again.” He whispers. He figures he'll cut his losses if you don't hear him. But you do.

“Hm,” You giggle to yourself, reaching a hand down and threading your fingers through his hair. 

“Good boy.”

Chan blinks rapidly, clearing his senses to make room for you. Just you. He needs more of you.

“Good for you.” His hands trail up higher, bypassing your dress and pushing the fabric up as he explores your skin with barely contained hunger. “I'll be good for you.”

“Promise.” It's not a question, it's an order. 

“I promise.” He's leaning down, eyes on yours as he does. 

“Higher.” You say it just to see if he really does it.

Chan focuses on your body again, hiking the dress up higher over your hips and revealing your black thong. He can't help but admire you, his breathing more shallow with anticipation. 

“This is okay with you, right?” He makes sure, checks in before he indulges fully. 

You nod and hum, reaching down yourself and grazing your fingertips along the waist of your thong. “More than okay.”

He stops hesitating and takes your word, leaning down with one hand supporting him on the bed and the other holding your hip firmly. His lips press a kiss onto your stomach, right below your belly button, then another one under that. Peppering sweet, progressively sloppier kisses across your skin that makes you have to fight the urge to press your thighs together again.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.” He mumbles, eyes fluttering closed. His thumb circles soothingly over your hip, a gentle massage there too. 

“Keep going.” You instruct gently, skin ignited wherever he lays his lips. 

Chan gets a chill along his spine and listens, a barely audible moan following. He's free to indulge now, not shy about making you feel good. His hand on your hip slides down to your thigh, inching closer to your core. 

The music downstairs isn't as upbeat now, but certainly isn't slow. It's a steady pulse of kicks and bass and compliments the moment like the stars compliment the moon. He kisses down, down, over the mound and closer to the gusset of your dampening thong. 

You watch him, hand still in his hair and combing through as silent encouragement. 

“Skin’s soft.” He mumbles again, hot breath ghosting over the dampness. “So pretty.”

“Havin’ fun?” You purr, provoking another moan from him.

Chan hums, kissing your lips through the fabric. His hand moves one leg aside, hooked under your knee and lifting it up over his shoulder. You follow through and rest your leg where he puts it, your relaxed heel now pressing into his back. 

“Push ‘em to the side, love.” You encourage him more outwardly this time, watching him make out with your clothed core.

“Mhm, thank you, baby.” He's hungry, focused. His fingers hook around the only obstacle left, tugging the soaked gusset aside and revealing his prize. He opens his eyes for this, your pretty cunt glistening with excitement just for him. His fingers spread you open, pointer and middle and a wide V to see all of you.

“Fuck…” Chan's hips buck softly into the bed. His tongue tastes you with one slow, long stripe from your hole to your clit, and he watches your reaction closely to commit it to memory.

Your legs don't threaten to close, instead spreading wider with your knees up to give him room to work. “Wanna make me feel good?” 

His lips wrap around your clit, humming his answer while his tongue circles the soft flesh with determination. He pulls back enough just to say, “I do.”

Chan is a man starved, his lips puckered and sucking with passion as if he's got something to prove. As if he wants you to be glad you spent all night with him and not someone else. As if to say thank you. 

“Use your tongue. Licks, baby.” Both of your hands reach down to tangle in his hair now, hips grinding slowly into his face. He listens and flicks your clit with his tongue, spit pooling down to your hole clenched around nothing. You buck and gasp quietly, then exhale a moan like a sigh of relief and laugh beneath it all. “Perfect.”

He works steadily, building up the speed and intensity over time with his eyes closed again, savoring your taste. He hums moans to himself, his hips rolling into the mattress and partially satisfying his own excitement.

You reach over to the nightstand and grab the cup you're sharing with him, taking a sip and feeling the warmth spread through your chest again. That combined with his hands planted on your waist pulling you down into his mouth makes you breathe a bit heavier, moan a bit clearer. 

Chan pulls back for a second, but not long before he rips a hand from your waist and spreads you open again. His thumb gently slides through your folds and gives him room to massage your clit with his tongue, licking and sucking faster just to see you shudder. 

“Sh– hmm…” your face tenses with pleasure, a soft nod that you know he's looking up at and your eyes drift closed. “That's nice.”

He smiles around your clit, the same pointer and middle fingers sliding effortlessly as they press into you up to the rings. You give him the shudder he was looking for. “Fuck… that's really nice.”

The sound that gushes from you is lewd in every sense of the word. Wet and soft, a squelch that alludes to how much you want this. Chan hums a chuckle around your clit, pulls back just enough to speak. “This all for me?” 

Your cheeks burn from alcohol and the smile you can't hide. “Shut up.” You whisper, flustered.

“Gladly.” He laughs and concedes, wanting to be good for you. He knows his affect by now, he doesn't need to remind you. 

His fingers drive into you with a steady rhythm, opening you up more and more with each thrust. The flicks of his tongue match that rhythm with precision.

After a while, Chan closes his eyes too, enjoying this more than he imagined he would. 

“Like that… that's my good boy.” 

He hears you moan for him and doubles his efforts, your praise acting as fuel for him. His fingers dig into you and search for that special spot, knuckles curled and rubbing the ridges that make you gasp louder. 

Your hips buck again, your back and shoulders tense and slightly arched. The ball of your foot digs into his spine, but it's nothing but his cue that he can't stop now. Not when your body is asking so nicely. 

“Chan, yes– oh god, yes.” You moan and it's raspy for a moment, the sharp inhales of pleasure drying out your throat. Your hips move on their own and grind into his fingers and mouth, chasing your peak with him.

“Mhmm,” he hums around you, his fingers driving into you with a hard thrust and staying in deep while he rubs the inside of your pussy with maddening precision. His tongue lays flat licks over your clit, alternating between that and shamelessly loud slurps that make you accidentally clutch his hair in your fists. 

You start to apologize, but Chan growls in response and grips your waist tighter with his free hand. The pain is good, means you're using him the way he likes. 

“I'm gonna come if you keep that up, baby.” It's not a threat, it's a heads up. He doesn't let up, not even to respond this time. His breath hits you, out through his nose with moans of his vibrating around your clit. Your trembling legs tell him everything he needs to know.

“Please,” Chan murmurs, pulling his fingers out before stuffing you again, faster and deeper with urgency. “Come for your good boy.”

You tighten around him, the squelching obscene. His tongue flicks your clit, pushing you further off the edge each time until your walls clench and spasm around his fingers. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Your knees want to close, but his free hand pins your leg firmly before you can try and run. His tongue works you through your climax, helping you come down nice and slow as his fingers finally stop. 

He pulls them out of you, pulls back to look at the mess he's made. “Tastes as good as it looks.” Chan's voice is husky and crude, deeper than when he started. He sits back, gently letting your leg down from his shoulder and kneeling between your legs. His fingers, still drenched in your arousal, slip between his lips, tongue sucking off the rest of you like he was saving your taste as a souvenir.

You're breathless and your hairline is damp, glad you put your hair down. Your hands fall to rest over the bunched up fabric in your midsection. “You're so good f’me, Chan.” You watch him climb up to you, hovering with arms caging you in.

“I can be even better, perfect for you. You want that?” He asks, hopeful. "Please?"

You nod, sticking your tongue out in a silent order that makes his cock jump in his jeans. His eyes are hooded with lust, tongue working to pool up the remnants of you before his tongue sticks out and drools it onto yours. 

Both of you moan in unison, the calm before the storm. You taste yourself and smile, eyes twinkling in the golden lights. Chan's thumb reaches up and cleans up the corners of your lips, saliva threatening to spill.

“Mm mm,” He mutters, pushing it back into your mouth with a soft smile, “Don't run. All yours.”

Your lips wrap around his thumb and suck, head bobbing like it was something else. His cock twitches and his free hand reaches down to free it. “Such a pretty little thing, sucking me so nice. Love your tongue…” he watches, sits back on his knees and unzips his jeans, pushes them down desperately with one hand.

He finally manages to get them down enough to free his twitching length, instantly fisting and stroking with assistance from his leaking tip. He lets out a low, yearning sound, a cross between a moan and a whimper. Your tongue twirls around his thumb and if he closes his eyes, he can imagine it around his cock. Too vividly. 

“Fuck, fuck.” He moans through gritted teeth. “Can I please be inside you, please, baby?” 

You pull off of his thumb slowly with a soft pop, a thin trail of spit still connected before it breaks and you look at the longing in his eyes and his furrowed brow. “You want that?”

“It's the only thing I want.” He admits, breath thick with anticipation that's boiling over and becoming unbearable. “Please? I'll be good. So good and make you feel amazing. Please?” 

“Promise?” It's gentler than before, but there's an undertone of something dark and dominant. Like if he's not, he'll be met with consequences. You slip your thong off, hips raised as it slides down your legs and gets kicked aside.

The hairs on the back of his neck rise, he nods damn near frantically. “I promise. I swear, princess. I fuckin' swear.”

You don't say anything, just reach a hand down and replace his with yours, stroking his cock with the same speed as he was. Your legs are spread again, knees higher and eyes commanding for him to hold them up. 

Chan notices your intense gaze and blinks quickly, acting fast and hooking both hands behind your thighs to push your legs up higher. “Yes, baby.” He whispers as he obeys. 

Your hips are tilted up and you're still clenching around nothing from your orgasm, but you glance down and line his cock up with your entrance before grabbing his hip and running your thumb over his skin to prompt him. 

“Yeah?” He looks down at your face before gripping the back of your thighs and sliding in, the feeling of you stretching around him making him grip tighter. “Fucking hell, thank you, angel.”

He pushes in and your head falls back, balling handfuls of Fendi as he bottoms out. He twitches and you clench back, call and response. 

“S’big.” You slur a moan as he reaches to press that spot he found before. Your hips tilt and adjust on their own, your body knows what it needs and how to get it. “Deep… fuck, you're deep.”

“I can go deeper.” Chan rasps, wanting to impress you. He knows how to get the most out of his length, anything for you. He pulls out about halfway, then pushes in carefully but certainly does get deeper. His grip on your thighs press your legs as high as they can comfortably go, and his hips press into you until it's nothing but skin on skin. 

You feel his abs tense under your touch, but you don't see it because your eyes are shut tightly, mouth agape. Chan is watching you like it's his sole mission to make you fall apart on his cock, like nothing else has ever mattered. He's too gone off beers and brown liquor for anything else to matter, the buzzing of the bass downstairs adding to the blur of warmth crawling up his skin.

“I can do it. I can make this pussy mine.” He whispers, pulling back and setting an easy pace to start with. The sound of your wetness around him isn't lost on you, in fact it's one of the only sounds you hone in on. Unlike Chan, you couldn't give two shits about the muffled snares and hi hats, you're focused on the imprint his cock is making in your stomach. Or at least that's what it feels like.

“Faster, Chan.” You command it, voice unwavering and eyes reopened, peering down at where you're connected. Your fistfuls of his shirt pull him in, motivation. 

He growls and obeys, faster but not wild. He composes himself because he knows better. “Like this, love?” 

“Faster.” You repeat, jaw tight. You're watching him thrust into you, monitoring like it's a job. 

“Faster?” He asks, knowing he'll have to keep himself in line. That'll be hard when he knows he'll want to come so badly. 

Your gaze meets his, sharp and impatient. “What did I say?” 

“Fuck,” he whispers to himself, then bites the corner of his lip and speeds up. The bed creaks a bit and the springs of the mattress sing in tune with the muffled music, but again, motivation. 

“Like this?”

“Harder.” 

“Fuck,” he grits, thrusting up with more force. You obviously want him to struggle, want to see him try and hold back just for you.

You see his efforts to restrain himself, to let you feel good first and lend his cock to you with selfless thrusts that reach places you can't. It makes you tighten with satisfaction. 

You smile, laughing between moans, “There he is, so good for me. You can do it, baby.”

Your praise is like a drug at this point, each hit only adds more fuel to the fire. He grunts and presses your knees back higher, hands holding you firmly in place with hips drilling into you incessantly. Skin slapping, breaths clashing. 

Chan buries himself in again with a snap of his hips and groans, head lowered as he grinds up into you. You grip his shirt tighter, if that was even possible, neck and face flushed in a deep drunken blush. He evokes a sound out of you that makes you bite your lip to hide it. 

“Goddamn,” he moans, panting and thrusting shallow to reach as deeply as he can. He isn't too loud, just enough for you to hear. “You're makin’ it hard f’me… this pussy’s makin' it hard f’me.” 

“Don't stop. Not until I tell you to.” You give him a clear request and it almost sounds sweet, but that underlying commanding tone rears its head again. “You hear me?”

Chan grunts with each breath, the vein protruding from the side of his neck and the ones down his forearms giving way to how hard he's trying not to come. “Easy on me.”

“Don’t wanna be my good boy anymore?” You threaten to rip the rug of praise right from under him and he whimpers. Breathy and needy, he whimpers.

“Fuck, no, don't say that–” 

“Don't stop until I tell you to, baby. Trust me.” Your hands reach up to hold his neck, pulling his face closer. Your noses brush and your eyes lock.

“Can you do that?”

Chan swallows down any further protest and nods, forehead damp against yours.

“Yes, yes I can…”

He proves it when he picks up the pace, thrusting into you with devotion and determination to get all the praise he can fuck out of you. He growls through moans ripping from his throat, muttering a string of curse words that make his furrow tense up with pleasure. 

You pull him closer and press your lips to his, a stark contrast to his increasingly erratic thrusts. His lips are warm and you taste remnants of yourself and whatever he was drinking earlier. Your tongue slips against his, moans crashing into each other freely while his fingers dig into your skin with a bruising grip. 

There's a slight bulge in the pit of your stomach that shows exactly just how far he's reaching, but you're both too busy muffling moans and tasting each other to notice. You can feel yourself floating up into that familiar feeling, your next release right around the corner. The moans that pour out of your mouth into his are climbing in pitch. 

“Chan,” you murmur against his mouth, tearing a hand from his neck to reach between you two and frantically flick your clit, chasing once again. “Don't stop, don't you fucking stop.”

“I got you, I got you.” His deep rumbling grunts reassure you, pace steady and headboard knocking against the pretty dark wood walls. “Give it to me, let me see it.”

You tighten around him more deliberately now, clit throbbing under your fingers. You're panting until a single rough breath staggers in your throat, a moan you couldn't muffle quickly enough erupting from your chest. You look up at him, eyes glazed over as you flood around his cock. “Don't stop.”

“I'm close.” Chan watches you come undone and can't hold back much longer. Your hand wraps around his throat, squeezing the sides. A warning.

“Don't.” You demand, eyes locked with his again. His are wide, skin hot with desire. He shakes his head, panting heavily. “Baby, please. Please, please let me– shit, let me come. Please, I'll do anything. Please.”

He's whimpering and grunting, cock twitching with restraint. Once you're done riding out the highs of your orgasm, you squeeze his neck tighter. “Pull out.”

“Fuck, wait, wait–”

“I got you.” You tell him before he starts begging again. “Trust me.”

“Mmm, fuck… fuck, okay,” Chan pulls out and reveals his cock, stiff and dripping, covered with you. You reach down between the two of you, using the hand around his neck to push him back a bit. 

“Legs down.” You instruct him to let you go, knees lowering back to the bed as he listens and lets you jerk him off. He stays right where he is, sitting back on his knees with his head thrown back.

“Mm, princess,” he moans, covering his mouth with his hand. You reach up and grab his wrist, eyes soft for him. “Let me hear it.” You insist.

“Can't hold back,” he stutters, letting his wrist fall slack in your grip until you let it go, steadying yourself with a hand on his hip. “Can I? Can I, baby?” 

“Can you what?” You ask, deceptively calm. 

“Can I be…” Chan pauses to hold it in, groaning with struggle. “Be good for you?” 

“Only if you say it.” You grin, stroking him faster. “Say you're my good boy.”

“Shit, shit… Mm, I'm your good boy, princess.” He grins too, gripping the soft bedding beneath him. “I'm your good fuckin' boy.”

“Come for me.”

His eyes shut tightly at the command he's been waiting for, hips bucking forward with a broken moan as he spills over your fist. “Thank you, thank you, fuck, so much…”

He's coming hard, sticky and warm over your knuckles. His chest is tight with pleasure, but it starts to burn when he's weak and twitching and you're still stroking him, pace unchanging.

“Fuck, wait.” Chan's eyes open again, the pleasure crawling up his spine and mingling with the chills spiking over his skin. “Wait, wait, wait.” 

“Say it again,” you smile, watching the realization set in for him that you're not done yet. “Say thank you for letting you come.”

He seethes a quick breath through gritted teeth, growling and reaching a hand up to hold on to his hair. “Baby, please–”

“Say it, Chan.” 

He can't deny that he likes being used, even like this. Anything to be your good boy. He whimpers again, a slutty sound that's so adorably desperate. “Mm, I'm… thank you, princess. Thank you for letting your good boy come. Feels good, so good. So, so good.”

“Finished now?” You coo, watching his face turn bright red.

“Yes, baby. I'm done.” He's polite despite the overwhelming pleasure, eyes glossed over with proof of his control.

Once you start to slow down, he lets out a breath he's been holding and starts relaxing fully, shoulders slumped and shaky elbows barely holding him up. He leans forward and one buckles, nearly falling into the bed before you press your palms to his shoulders and keep him upright. 

“Easy,” you rub his shoulders with a softer touch, coaxing him to calm down and lie back on the bed, pulling him down with you. “C'mere. Breathe.”

Chan follows you, kicking his jeans off completely and getting more comfortable with you. His shirt is wrinkled and so is your dress, bunched up right beneath your bust. He ignores it entirely, resting between your legs with his head on your chest. He's still moaning, still feels your fist pumping him with unrelenting speed. It's etched into his brain now. 

You wipe the cum he spilled onto your hand over your tongue, curious. “Mm, my good boy tastes… sweet?” You sound pleasantly surprised. 

“Thank you.” He breathes more evenly, still focused on remembering how to. The compliment doesn't fully register, but he knows to say thank you. 

“Love?” You say, wiping the rest on the bedding that you'll probably never see again after tonight. 

Chan looks up at you, using your chest as a pillow. He's dripping sweat and thoroughly flushed, less bright but still very red. “Hm, yes, angel?”

“Doin’ okay?” You're soft again, sweet and gentle. 

He nods, “I'm good, yeah. Catchin’ my breath.”

“Take your time.” The palm of your hand rubs his back, the other one brushing his hair back. The silvery blonde strands are detangled between your fingers, smoothed out and more manageable after all the pulling. 

Chan is grateful for the gentle ministrations, helps him calm down from that very steep high. You both take a moment to just be, inviting the sounds of the party downstairs back into your awareness. Distant chatter and persistent bass fill your senses and remind you that you just met Chan tonight for the first time. It doesn't feel like it to you, not after all of that. 

His breathing evens out nicely after a few minutes and his hands pull you closer, “You okay?” 

You smile, brushing his hair out of his face, “I'm okay.”

“Need anything? Blanket or somethin’?” 

“Not right now.” You glance over at the cup on the nightstand and decide to pass. You need water. 

“Alright… I got you.” He taps your waist.

“Mhm. Take it easy.” You pat his back, then pause. “Think there's a bathroom nearby?”

“I really fuckin' hope so.” 

You giggle, warm in your chest for a different reason now. “We'll find one. Gotta be somewhere close.”

Chan nods, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. You press one to the top of his head.

“Good boy, Channie.” You whisper, scratching the top of his head.

It wasn't as pleasant as Chris have imagined it the world would be. His parents abandoned him when he was still a child after he accidentally killed his father out of rage. That incident brought light to who he really was, diagnosed with Sociopathic tendencies at 13 years old, confused at how he will live the world as dangerous as the wild forest, when he's dangerous as he is. Thanks to this personality he has, he managed to survived up until on his 20's. Found a a group of people who he calls family, embracing the craziness his head gets. A Yakuza group where he is driven to do whatever he wants. His experiences made him realized how world is unfair and that world be cruel to someone it likes to be cruel with. It's just so unlucky that the world chooses him.

Right at that moment, He became the evil amongst the people living on an evil world and evil place. He ran havoc, killed people who crosses him, and have never cared of who he got involved with. As long as that emptiness that voids his heart be filled with ecstacy.

Since being aware of his surroundings, of how violent the sorroundings would be, the Yakuza who have stood up as his guardian and parents made him feel that he's not alone. That there are still people who are good enough to to accept a degenerate like him.

And then he met you. It wasn't real coincidence or nothing like he have planned. You were one of the top fbi agents that one of his gang members has been eyeing for ever since. And now, destiny have find it's way for the two of you to meet. You two met on a fight where you found out that one of his underlings has been distributing drugs that causes hallucinations to those who uses it. You found Chris talking with his member and thought that Chris have fallen on to their trap. Not thinking that Chris might have been one of them. You fought for him, tried rescuing him, which sends confusement on Chris, and feeling he has never felt before. It was new to him, and he doesn't know how to deal with it.

When his underling retreated, Chris remained from where he were standing as you try to look for probably wounds all over his body. If he was injured, and Chris let you misunderstand. Just like that, he let's himself be drifted to a unfamiliar feeling surging into his body. Heat, warm, confusement, love?

Your oblivious self believed that he was innocent, that he was a victim, that he wasn't rotten inside although he didn't really explained and introduced himself properly. All you know is, he is Christopher Chan Bang, who is a regular office worker that happened to be walking the down the exact alley where you are supposed to capture those drug dealers. It's not his fault you're naive. It's not his fault you trusts people easily. It's not his fault you make him feel something he wasn't aware of before. It's your fault for making him even more degenerate and insane.

"Chris." you breathed out as you try to free yourself from the ties he has put you into. The Christopher Chan Bang you thought was the softest person ever existed was here on a secluded room with you, you tied against his chair, him staring down at you. You look at him as if you don't tecognized him. You can't find the shy, stuttering always, always blushing Christopher Chan Bang you have been hanging out with. Or maybe that persona was a facade now that you knew he is a part of the largest Yakuza group in Seoul.

You saw his face soften from the nickname you use to call him from the past 8 months you've been hanging out with him, but it quickly faded after a second, toughening his resolves even more. And in hopes of maybe try to drag him into the light, you call him again, softer this time. But it only made Chris grew more feral this time.

"Yes, darling?" He answered. His voiced laced with poison, but he tries to calm himself down as he doesn't want to lash out to someone he likes, to someone he loves.

"Hm? Why are you calling me so soft as if you didn't stabbed me at the back just few hours ago, my love?" He cooed, ever so soft as he placed a chair in front of you backwards, with his arms settling at the back rest and leaning his chin against it so his face would level with yours. He's smiling, but unlike his usual smile at reaches his eyes, his smile right now is so sharp, so venomous.

Right. Once you've found out that he was actually a yakuza member, you felt so betrayed. You felt like you have been played. You felt like you trusted him way too much and it bites you at your butt because of it. But can you really blame him? You didn't exactly ask him, or anything to clear the first time you two have crossed your paths. If anything, you felt like it's somewhat you fault for jumping into conlusion, and for being absentmindedly not hearing Ryujin words when one time she said there's a certain psychotic yakuza member, when you were oh-so-sleepy from a hungover because of Changbin's birthday party the night before. It's partly your fault for letting your guard down, be comfortable around him and worst letting him kiss you even though it's only been 3 months that time you just met.

The Christopher Bang Chan you knew was a ray of sunshine for you, smiley, jumpy, and always blushing from the simple gesture you make for him. He was always shy, and always stumbles on his words whenever you try to close the distance between the too of you. His cuteness made you fall for him so unexpectedly that you mind and sight was clouded from the possibility that maybe Chris was not Chris after all.

"Cat got your tongue now, darling?" his voice mad, you snap out of your daydreaming, and made you look at him directly at his eyes. Soft, gentle, cooing. Chris now hates how you look at him— no. He still loves how you look at him but world be damned how he was hurt from you turning your back at him, setting him up with other fbi agents and get him caught. Imagine the pain that stings in his heart after he learned about your betrayal. Keeho was right afterall. All police and agents are rotten up to their cores. Just because they save lives, they think all high and mighty. Just because villains like him kill people doesn't mean they are evil. You don't even know how many bastards he killed that tried to harm you on your back just to keep you safe even though Keeho warned him that his softness for you will bite him in the ass one day. And low be hold, it did.

"I was hurt puppy. So hurt when I found out you asked for Ryujin and Lee Know to catch me as we go out for a date." Chris wooed, staring at your face with his hand softly caressing your cheek before his hand then grab you from your hair and pull it backwards.

"Chris—" You gasped, half moan. Groaning from the panging pain your scalp received from the harsh pulling Chris did on your hair. You look up at him— he's forcing you to look at him rather. With your eyes welling up with tears. Your heart sinking, trembling from fear. Was it fear? Watching him lose his mind from what happen a couple hours ago. You can't recognized him at all. Well, not that you knew him at all anyway.

"Chris, please..." Your voice broke. A tear finally rolled down your cheeks from the overwhelming feeling you have right now. You wanted to get out here. You want yourself out of his sight, that's what your mind is telling you what it wants. But your heart and body screams that you wanted to be hear. To be with Chris, to be with your Chris.

"Shhh, pretty." He cooed, releasing your hair from his grip now his hand is back from caressing your cheek. Wiping down your tears, and him leaning forward resting his forehead on to yours. You are so confused, so torn, so out of control of your own decision making.

"Please don't cry, my love. You brought it upon yourself." Chris hummed, placing a kiss on your cheek, ever so softly, but his tone is still as bitter as it can get. Bitter from the betrayal, bitter from the pain.

"'M sorry-" You choked between your sob. You biting your lower lip, trying to muffle all the cries that wants to came out of your mouth. At times like this, you wanted to be as strong as you could possibly be. You can't be seen as weak. You can't meek. At least not in front of Chris. You can't possibly give him more ideas that he makes you feel so many emotions. Fear, love, lust, anger, and pity. You feel basically everything for him. But you can't let him know or else, he'll used it against you.

"Are you really though, darling? I don't think you do. Especially with the stunt you just fucking pulled out on me just awhile back." He spat. Chris is now kneeling in front if you, one hand on your lap, one hand still caressing you're already messed up face from crying. It hurts him seeing you so vulnerable. He never intented to make you cry, heck that's the last thing he'd think of doing to you. But whenever he remembers of you stabbing him from the back, and pushing him to be caught by your co-agents makes his blood boil from anger. How could you? After all the love he has poured you and gave to you? After fulfilling all those lists you have wanted to fulfill and haven't been able to fulfill because of your busy pro hero work. After those kisses you gave him, those caring hugs, those warm and soft voice, those are all your act to capture him. That hurt Chris a lot as if the pain kills him from inside.

"It hurts so bad, y/n. What should I do? Only you could mend this pain." Chris huffed, forehead resting against yours, his thumb caressing softly on your cheeks, while his deep brown eyes are looking straight at yours.

"J-just let go of me, Chris. I d-don't like this." You practically sobbed. Tears nonstop streaming down your face, completely gone from being feared your life. Compared to your fighting experiences, his skills could kill you instantly and that send fear sheer on your spine. You never wanted to be away from him as like now.

Chris sighed, pulling away from the contact you two has. He huffed air on to his bangs and brushed his fingers against his hair back. He slouched at the chair where he sits, eyes piercing holes on the ceiling.

"You always makes it hard for us, don't you? Why Y/N? Am I that really hard to be with? Can't you really spare me your love because I am a villain?"

"No— t-that's not it! Of course not."

His eyes darted back at you, softer now, but eyes are still carying you don't know, disappointment? hatred?

"Then what? Why did you have to set me up? I only ever did was love you, Y/N. WHY!?"

You flinched, his voice roaring on your ears, making you tremble even more. Your sobs are louder now, and you can't keep it on your throat anymore.

"I-i'm sorry..." You choked on your own saliva, breathing heavily as you try to swallow all your sobs.

"Your words are no use to me already darling. You have to prove me you really are sorry."

You frantically nods your head on him. You weren't so use to this personality Chris is having right now. You're scared of him, you're scared for your life, you're scared of the things he could do to you, and more than anything, you're scared you won't be able to say no to him.

"Anything, Chris. Please..."

That put a genuine smile on his face. That smile you always see when he's enjoying, that usual gummy smile that reaches his eyes and his dimples showing up indicating satisfaction on his emotions. Your plans are working, you just need to distract him more by sweet-talking him, before he could ever distract you.

"Then stay still, darling. As much as I love it when you try to squirm and fight back, I'd really love it if you'll behave and be a good girl for me. You'll do that right?"

You gulped a lump the is forming on your throat, watching Chris drag his chair closer to you. His touches on your gentle, soft and calm makes you want to lean against his hand but he could feel how nervous you are. Your head trembling against his palm and it lurch a piercing pain against his chest. Even if he wanted to set you free from being tied, but your words bear no hint of trust for him anymore. He'd rather want you helpless like that rather than risk of you escaping.

"You'll take whatever I'll give you, yea? You'll let me do whatever I want to you, right darling? You said you love me. I do too, pretty. And I want you to prove that for me."

Chris suddenly grabs your jaw tightly, making you hiss in pain, forcing you to look up at him. Your eyes watered from the pain creating a small frown on Chris' face.

"Now don't look at me like that, sweetheart. I'm trying to be as good and kind as I can and you're wearing out my patience. Now, answer."

You could only whimper a yes ever so softly against his grip, now slowly releasing the grip on your jaw. Chris leaned over pressing a soft kiss on your swollen lips. That almost crumpled your resolve if not inly your own nails digging on your skin from behind the chair where your wrist are tied.

His left knee nodge in between your legs, parting them wide enough, whispering against your lips. “Open wide.” He huffed which you immediately complied, gasping when you felt his knee pressed against between your legs.

He used his arm to pull you closer to him until your lips locked together again. He caressed your lips softly with his but it grew intense as he traced the bottom of your lip with his warm tongue, silently asking for entrance to your warm mouth. You had instantly granted him access, his tongue sinfully dominating yours and swallowing around you, drawing out a soft moan from you. He tangled his fingers in your hair, trying to make you stay still from moving and squirming.

His arms constricted around your middle, his fingers digging at your pelvic bone. You both wanted each other, needed each other and that was enough for him to let go of the thoughts at the back of his mind. You moved your lips away from his to trace and feel the skin of his jaw and neck, admiring the pruding veins he has there from trying control himself, you couldn’t help but break the kiss to peck it and get in a needed shaky breath. Chris lets out a groan when you used your tongue to worship the veins on his neck, sucking between kisses and adoring the marks that remain behind. His hands were roaming your body, creeping below hip and waist.

This was all so overwhelming for you; it’s been a while since you felt deprived of any touch in general. You started moving closer into his knee, softly grinding yourself into the crevice where his own knee met and assuming he didn’t notice. Chris disconnected your lips from his for a moment to take another look at your beautiful face, brushing a strand of hair away and caressing your ear in the same movement, just watching you bite your lip and close your eyes in pleasure as you continued to get some friction against his knee, combined with how grip against yoir hair loosening a bit, just like how you wanted it, it felt heavenly. But he’s only just begun.

“Stay still, baby. Don't squirm.” Chris' voice were extra soft, smooth and sweet like honey. His breath fanning against your ear making you shudder. Sweat starts forming on your forehead, head lolling to the side.

“There we go. Good girl. Can you lift your hips up a bit, pretty girl?” Chris asked softly which you only nodded as a response, lifting your hips up a bit even though the restrain on your wrist makes it hard for you to do it. One second later, Chris is kneeling in between your legs, hands carefully lifting your skirt up, and pulling your panties down. You gasped when the cold air touches your femininity, shoulders slouching down.

“Look at this, you're all wet for me, baby. You're turned on from being tied and being kissed all over, hm?”

You didn't answer. You can't answer. Your brain starts to get foggy from feeling hazy. You forgot what certain plan you are doing to free yourself from this man. He successfully distracted you from the plans you are cultivating. Your now dancing around his palm and you can't even recognize if you are willingly doing it or Chris just successfully corrupted your mind. Either way, you're doomed for him.

His hand was dangerously close, but still so far away. He moved his lips from her neck to the valley of her chest, hopelessly sucking another bruise into her skin to relieve some of the frustration he was going through. You didn't even know how he managed to removed your top despite your hands being tied up on your back, all you could think is that his lips pressing heat against your skin, leaving lingerung feeling. His hands finally left your waist to replace it with his hand on your warm and soft breasts as he cupped them underneath it, sighing contented when he felt its firm roundness.

A soft moan escaped your lips, the combination of his lips on your nipples, sucking, biting, nibbling, and his hands on the other, groping, proving to be very effective as he lost any notion of space and time, relishing in his touches and the perfect sensations they inflicted on your body. He massaged your breasts eagerly, but so very gently, his thumbs occasionally flicking over your hardened buds and earning him a soft gasp or whimper from you.

You felt light in the head, the endorphins wildly surging through your system as Chris worked his way around your neck, chest, jaw, and shoulders to not leave a single spot unblemished and marked. He was done dragging things out as he thirsted for something firm to hold, so he moved his hand, completely disregarded your panties, threw it somewhere in the room before palming your core bare hand. As soon as his hand made contact with your aching wetness, you flinched and hissed in surprise before eagerly molding yourself into the shape of his palm. Chris could feel everything perfectly, his fingers settles perfectly on your folds, like it was made to be there, like his fingers are made and molded to be attached against your cunt. His fingers slipping against your folds, glides so easily because of the amount of slick your cunt is oozing. God, he loves it when your bare against his skin. He grabbed you through the textile, His fingers curling against your numbing clit and making you moan into his ear, your breathing heavy and on the brink of panting when you finally able to feel the relief you have been craving since earlier.

As time goes by very slowly, you were becoming impatient, yearning for the feeling of skin on skin, proper stimulation. Your fingers hooked against the skin of your wrist that you are sure would leave crescent marks after. You gently grind through his palm, getting his hand sufficiently slick and covered in your wetness, having him looking up at you, butung on his lower lip, watching your face, giving him the position that could easily get access to every inch of you. You gasped so harshly, mouth hanged open and eyes rolling at the back of your head when you felt the faint stretch after Christ slowly inserting 3 fingers inside you, wiping his mind clean of any thoughts other than the realization of what he is making you feel, until you softly whined against his fingers, Your teeth digging on your lips, you thought it would probably leave a small wound because of it.

You blinked through your haze of pleasure, noticing his hand had stilled entirely, letting you at least adjust against his digits that is by the way big enough to rip your insides apart.

“C-chris— please-hmp!” You whined, choking on your own moans.

You gasped and shuddered, answering your whine with a particularly deep thrust of his fingers and making you yelp in surprise. He added a thumb on your clit and started rubbing against it, his fingers steady rhythms in sync with your chest heaving up and down. You tried to close your legs but a stinging slap on your thigh woke you up, eaning a high pitched moan from you, head throwing back, and your hips jerking forward. A string of desperate mewls and moans fell from your lips while he tried his best to keep pleasing you, and little by little you could feel the building pleasure on your stomach. Your thighs shaking, your stomach churning.

“Hold it in, pup. I didn't say you can come already. Hear me? Hold it in.” he panted, trying to steady his voice despite the knot in his stomach tightening and tightening the more pressure he applied on every thrust of his fingers inside her, fingers curling up making sure to hit that gummy spot you seen to love. You blushed upon hearing her favorite nickname again, wordlessly nodding when your mouth was too busy falling agape in silent moans, your eyes squeezed tightly shut and your brows furrowed, so dangerously close to your release you could cry. He picked up the speed, his hand a blur as he listened to the slick sound that was the result of a fast and steady pace. His fingers went mad inside of you, hopelessly trying to vent his desperation for release on your poor, sensitive core before falling completely still when you moaned loudly, rising in pitch with every jerk of his hand that brought you closer to the edge. His other hand then pushed your stomach down, pinning your hips down with much pressure so you would stop squirming and it inly pushes you further and further. Your gummy walls clenching so tightly around his fingers as if you don't want him to pull out.

“Chris—please-fuck! I-i can't. I can't please— let me-” You sobbed in between your moans. Tears start streaming down your cheeks from sheer frustration and desperation. Chris watched every expression your face makes, every scrunch of your nose trying to hold yourself in, how your eyebrows furrowed, how you bit on your lip. It was a sight to see for him.

“Just a little more, baby. You're doing so so great for me. Just a little more okay? I know you can do it.” Chris cooed softly, but you're already so out of it, so gone from how his fingers abusing your insides and it's just his fingers.

And when you started wiggling your hips again, Chris hooked two fingers up, spreading your thighs wider, his face inching towards your cunt, hot breath fanning your sensitive skin, you almost came from it. He deliberately blew hot breaths onto your entrance, spreading your legs with his hands, watching you unravel.

Chris' scruff burned your inner thighs as he moved his head firther close. You clawed on your own wrist, feeling the burning sensation of being tied for so long, you whined. And when you finally let go, Chris finally butied his face on your wetness, tongue flat out on your clit, doing lazy long strokes while his fingers didn't stop from drawing you up your orgasm. Him suckling on your clit helped your orgasm lasting longer, making your whole body shakes. Your moans like music to his ear bouncing against the room's wall back to his ears.

“T-too much— too much! Chris, please— no more!” But seems like he isn't hearing anything. He continued to lap on your cunt, desperately sucking on your clit while his fingers ramming your insides. Your brain starts shutting down, melting from overstimulation. You shook your head trying to deny him but it was just way too much for you too handle, way too much for you not to cum for the second time around on his mouth, squirting all over his face while he tries to ride out your orgasm that felt like your whole world shake.

When you finally came down from your high, Chris then stood up, ever so gently removes your wrist feom being tied up. A small smirk plasterred on his face when he saw the marks it did on your wrist.

“You're not going to try runaway from me now, right darling?” He cooed softly against your ear, pressing soft kisses on your damped cheek and jaw.

You shook your head mindlessly, not that you have any strength left even after he just draw out 2 mindblowing orgasms out of you.

“Ready for me now?” He asked, you stay stilled, couldn't utter any words for him that draws out an amused chuckle out of him. “I'll take that as a yes then.”

You gasped, when you felt Chris gripped on your waist, lifting you up from the chair and sat himself down. He then let you settle against his lap, just directly above his aching bulge, and it made you shudder in the direct contact. This became an opportunity for the Chris to slip his tongue inside your mouth and flick his tongue all over, tasting every corner of you, and all you could do wafist on his hair, tugging him closer to you. Your muffled moans made Chris' inner demons wake up from it's slumbers. One of his hands then travelled from your hips, to your abdomen, up to your chest, until it reached your neck. Your eyes fluttered, rolling up from the pleasure of him slightly gripping on your neck. Your voice already sounded so hoarse from moaning, you almost making a choking sound when he tighten his grip on your neck, and everytime Chris would buck his hips, you felt like you are ascending to heaven.

Using his left hand, Chris managed to grab both of your wrist and lifted it up your head, while his right hand was busy undoing his belt and pants. He again leans against your neck, placing swift and skimming kisses against your skin, and made you wrapped your arms on his nape. After pulling his cock out of his pants, Chris then starts rubbing his tip against leaking entrance. He heaved a deep sigh feeling how soft your folds on his tip, coaring its head with your slick, creating obscene noises. He hasn't even penetrated you yet but he felt like he could already cum just by rubbing against you. You could actually make Chris feel like he's going insane.

“Gonna put it in now, pretty.”

You could only nod your head as a response.

Chris then took a deep breath first, before he slowly moved, penetrating you inch by inch. You could feel your lips being torn and swollen just by how hard you were biting on ut, tasting yiur iwn blood on your tongue. 'Cause, holy hell you knew Chris is big if yiu're gonna base his size from how much he was bulging awhile ago, but you didn't expected he'd be this huge. You're experienced, but not experienced with someone who can ripped you apart all over again like it was your first time.

It was painful for a bit, and when Chris finally bottoms out, you almost forgot how to breath. You felt so full in your stomach, you could feel him twicth inside you that makes your wall flutter around his cock. A moan escaped her lips, feeling your walls clamp down on him. He wasn't moving yet, and yet you felt already satisfied just cockwarming him.

So imagine your shock when you felt Chris suddenly grabs you by the hair forcing you to look up, neck exposed for him so his hand would fit perfectly around your neck, seeing you shudder, sland shake as he started to buck his hips up, thrusting deep and with force. Chris wasn't being gentle, he has never been gentle when it comes to sex, and you are like poison to his blood and sanity. He can't think straight, all he wants to do right now is mess with you, fuck you stupid, make you scream and moan until you forget everything, until it incripts in your silly little mind that you are his and you are not gonna escape him.

The pitches of your moans changes every time he would thrust in, it makes your head wobble. You're fuck brainless already. You feel like you could float just by how pleasurable his cock it is inside you. Everytime Chris would thrust in, you could feel your soul ascending to heaven and oeaving your body. Your saliva dripped from too much pleasure and too much moaning. Your eye balls rolling backwards, while a smile formed on your lips, grinning because you can't do anything but that. You felt so good, you know you are about to fall apart. And Chris hitting your sweet spot over and over again isn't helping you either.

“Ah— Chris! Right there!” You cried out. Each word that came out of your mouth is like a fire that lights up Chris' match slowly building his orgasm on his stomach. It sounded to sexy, so enticing, so pretty for his ears. While you on the other hand is a moaning mess. Body slightly bouncing against his ungodly thrusts. Your hair sticking against your face, but you couldn't care less about any of it. You're feeling way too good to at least care for the hair that is covering your entire face.

“Chris! Chris! Chris! Ahngk—” you screamed for his name like a mantra. Your hands flying everywhere, not knowing where to cling on. Your nails raking on his back making Chris groan with the mix of pleasure and pain. His mind is so cluded with so much pleasure and Chris could almost lift you up by your waist just by how eager his thrusts are. You're so close. So so close, and so is Chris. Chris has been edging himself far more longer than he could, and now he could feel the churning sensation on his stomach. He's feeling way too good, way to absorb from how your walls flutter against his bulging cock. How your walls fit perfectly around him, milking all his got. It was sinful, devious, outright filthy.

“Fuck, baby. You feel so fucking good. I'm close!” Chris moaned against the skin of your neck. Your walls the starts clamping around him which made the him growl like a feral animal, throwing his head upwards as he fasten his moves even more. His moves are fast, deep, and aggressive making you shriek in overstimulation while he reach for his orgasm. And seeing you cry for pleasure on his lap is sending butterflies on his stomach. He loves seeing you like this, wrecked and ruined for him, taking all what he gives, like a good little toy you are. It was too pleasureable he swears his eyes rolled at the back of his head.

 A moan escaped Chris' mouth, hand tanggling against your hair and he leaned closer to your shoulder, taking a bite on your skin and shooting all of his seeds deep inside you, making sure not a single drop would escape. “Fuck!” He cussed in between his deep breaths as his thrusts slowly falters.

It took another 15 minutes if both of you not moving and just breathing for you to settle down. Your head lolling against his shoulders, shoulders sagged, too fucked out and tired to move. Your breath slowly settles down and you could feel his hand softly caressing your back, cooing you softly.

“You are mine, y/n. You hear me? You are not leaving this place, not leaving me. You are to stay here and be with me forever.” He heaved a sigh, still trying to catch his breath. “You are not escaping me.”

You didn't answer—more likely, you can not answer. Because even if you don't admit it yourself, you know you already fucked everything up, and what makes it worst is that you don't feel remorseful for any of it. You are very much willing to be with him even before he claims you. Maybe you are as deranged as he is, you just didn't know.

Not in the cold way he had at the wedding, not with sharp words or deliberate avoidance, but in the careful, almost painful restraint of someone who was afraid of his own instincts. He never reached for you first. Never tugged you closer, never slipped an arm around your waist without invitation. If your fingers brushed his, he didn’t pull away but he didn’t lace them together either. Every point of contact was yours to initiate.

And you always did. You were the one who curled into his side on the couch, resting your head against his shoulder as if it still belonged there. The one who slipped your hand into his when you walked side by side down the narrow hallway of his building. The one who leaned in just close enough that he could feel your warmth, your presence, your quiet insistence that you were still here.

Minho never pushed you away. But he never pulled you closer.

It wasn’t because he didn’t love you. If anything, that was exactly the problem. He loved you in the dangerous, unguarded way that made him stupid. Loved you in the way that had nearly destroyed him once already. So he kept his hands to himself, his emotions leashed tight, convincing himself that distance was safer. That if he didn’t let himself sink too deep, it wouldn’t hurt as much if you left again. Because you still went home.

Some nights, he came back from late shifts to an empty apartment, the cats curled up in their usual spots, your absence echoing louder than any noise. Other nights, you were there before him, shoes by the door, your presence soft and familiar like you’d never left at all.

And every single time, you came back. You walked through his door like you belonged. He never said it out loud, but he started waiting for you without realizing it. Checking the time. Listening for footsteps in the hallway. Pretending he wasn’t disappointed when the door stayed closed longer than expected. And somewhere along the way, without meaning to, he found a new way to love you. Desserts appeared.

A slice of cake wrapped carefully in foil. A box of macarons he claimed were “leftover.” A cupcake stole from work, frosting slightly smudged from being shoved hastily into a bag. He never made a big deal out of it. Just set it on the counter and shrugged like it meant nothing. It was easier for him than touching you. Safer than holding you. Food didn’t ask questions. Food didn’t risk rejection. Food couldn’t leave.

That night, though, something was wrong the second you walked in. He could tell immediately.

Your steps were slower. Your smile didn’t quite make it to your eyes. You thanked him for the cupcake voice soft, polite and instead of teasing him about “stealing” it, instead of laughing, you just leaned into him. Pressed your forehead against his chest. Curled into his side like you were trying to disappear. He stiffened for half a second out of habit. Then he relaxed, letting you stay.

He was about to murmur something, ask if you were tired, if your parents had kept you late again when he felt it. Damp against his neck.

His breath caught.

He froze, heart slamming violently against his ribs as the realization hit him all at once. You were crying.

“Hey—” His hands came up instinctively, fingers hovering before gently settling at your shoulders. “Hey, look at me.”

You didn’t want to. You shook your head, clinging tighter, your breath hitching in small, broken pulls. That scared him more than anything.

“Hey,” he repeated, firmer now, worry threading into his voice. He tilted your chin up despite your resistance, forcing you to meet his eyes.

Your face was wet. Eyes red. Lips trembling like you’d been holding everything in for far too long.

Minho swore under his breath.

He wiped your tears with his thumbs careful like you were made of glass. “What’s wrong?” His voice was low, urgent. “What happened?”

You tried to speak but nothing came out. Your mouth opened, closed, your breath stuttering as if the words were lodged somewhere too painful to reach. Panic flared in his chest. He pulled you into him without thinking, arms wrapping around you fully now, protective, solid.

“It’s okay,” he murmured into your hair, even though it clearly wasn’t. “You don’t have to talk yet. Just—breathe.”

You did unevenly. When you finally spoke, your voice broke so badly it barely sounded like you.

“I’m getting married.”

The world stopped. Minho froze completely.

It was like something inside him shattered, not loudly, not explosively but in a quiet, devastating way. Like glass cracking beneath pressure it could no longer bear. His arms were still around you, holding you together, while everything inside him fell apart. He forced a smile. It was small and fake.

“Oh,” he said. The word tasted like blood. “I see.”

You shook your head frantically, gripping the front of his shirt like you were afraid he’d disappear. “I don’t want to,” you sobbed. “Minho, I don’t want to get married. My parents are forcing me. They already decided. They told me I don’t have a choice.”

His chest ached. He held you while you cried, his jaw clenched so hard it hurt, his mind screaming with things he didn’t know how to say. Rage. Fear. Jealousy. Love. All of it tangled together, choking him. You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes desperate. “Say something.”

He swallowed. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t break one of you.

“There’s…” His voice faltered. He cleared his throat. “There’s nothing for me to say.”

Your face crumpled.

“Do you still love me?” you whispered.

The question hit him harder than anything else.

Yes.

The answer burned in his throat, loud and undeniable but he couldn’t say it. Not when everything felt so unstable. Not when admitting it would mean opening a door he wasn’t sure he could survive walking through again.

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking away.

Silence.

Your breath hitched.

You pulled out of his arms, wiping your face roughly with the back of your hand, hurt hardening into something sharper. “So that’s it?” Your voice trembled with disbelief. “You’re not going to stop me? You’re not going to tell me not to?”

“What am I supposed to do?” Minho asked quietly, pain seeping into every word. “You think I can just walk into your family’s world and demand they let you marry me instead? You know that’s not how it works.”

You nodded, tears spilling again. “I know. I know they’re too powerful.”

His heart sank.

“So… I’m getting married,” you said, voice hollow.

He reached for you then finally panic overriding caution. “Wait—”

But you were already grabbing your things, movements sharp and frantic. When his hands closed around your wrist, gentle but desperate, you shook him off.

“I just wanted you to fight for me,” you cried. “I wanted you to say I wasn’t getting married. That you loved me. That you’d help me escape.”

His voice broke. “You’re asking me to promise something I don’t know how to keep.”

“I know,” you snapped, tears streaming. “But I wanted you to try.”

You stormed out before he could stop you.

The door slammed and Minho stood there in the wreckage of it all, the cupcake still untouched on the counter, his chest caving in as the truth settled deep and merciless.

He still loved you and this time, loving you might cost him everything all over again.

—

Minho knew something was wrong the moment you didn’t come back. He waited.

At first, it was just the usual pacing he did when he pretended not to care, tidying up the living room, checking the fridge, feeding the cats but every few minutes, his eyes flicked to the clock, then the door, then his phone. You hadn’t texted. Not a word. Not even a message saying you were staying at your parents’ again.

He tried not to read into it. You’d pulled away before. You needed space sometimes. That’s what he told himself as he sat stiffly on the couch, scrolling aimlessly through his phone, not seeing a single word on the screen.

By the next morning, he’d barely slept. You always came back. This time, you didn’t.

The air in the apartment felt wrong without you. Cold in a way the heater couldn’t fix. The hoodie you’d worn was still draped over the back of the couch. The cupcake he brought you, frosting decorated with a strawberry heart sat untouched in the fridge. When he opened it that morning, the sight of it made his throat close up.

By the third day, he was snappish. Not in the way he used to be, not with his usual sarcastic flair or dry humor. It was sharper now. When Jisung came over, talking too loud and laughing at his own jokes, Minho barely looked up from wiping down the counters. Seungmin noticed immediately, he always did and raised a brow, but didn’t say anything. Hyunjin, as usual, tried to diffuse it with light teasing, tossing a pillow at Minho and commenting on how domestic he looked. Minho didn’t respond. He just scrubbed harder at an already clean plate, his jaw tight.

They noticed then, how your name hadn’t come up, how you weren’t in your usual spot curled up under the blanket, how the three bowls of popcorn sat untouched. You weren’t there. And Minho was different. But no one said anything.

Not until Hyunjin saw it.

He was scrolling on his phone, half listening to Jisung rant about something dumb when he froze. Minho was wiping down the table, not looking at them, but he heard the sudden inhale, sharp and unmistakable. Hyunjin’s breath caught like he’d seen a ghost. It made everyone immediately look over.

“What is it?” Jisung asked, voice cautious.

Hyunjin didn’t speak. His face had gone pale, mouth slightly open as he stared at the screen. Seungmin leaned in, eyes narrowing as he caught a glimpse. He swore under his breath.

That was enough for Minho to straighten up. He turned slowly, towel clenched in one hand.

“What?” he said, voice low.

Hyunjin locked his phone. “Nothing. Just—stupid article. Forget it.”

Minho’s eyes narrowed. “Show me.”

“No, it’s not important—”

“Hyunjin.”

The way Minho said his name left no room for debate. Still, Hyunjin hesitated, holding the phone close to his chest. Jisung reached out like he was going to grab it, but Hyunjin flinched back. Seungmin shifted uncomfortably, glancing between them.

“What the hell are you hiding?” Minho snapped, stepping forward.

“Don’t—Minho, don’t look at it,” Hyunjin said, panicked now. “Just—just forget it.”

That was enough. Minho lunged for the phone, and Hyunjin scrambled to hold on, but Minho was faster. Stronger. He ripped it out of Hyunjin’s grip and turned away before anyone could stop him.

The screen lit up again in his hand and everything stopped.

Your smiling face stared back at him but he knew that smile he it wasn’t real, he knew the tightness in your eyes, the way your mouth curved a little too perfectly. A mask.

You were wearing a wedding dress. Not just any dress, a designer piece, all lace and pearl and illusion, the kind people picked out for magazine spreads. The man beside you was tall, clean cut, his arm snug around your waist. His other hand rested on yours. His smile was wide. Proud.

The headline screamed at him in bold black letters:

"Heiress to Marry Business Mogul’s Son in Surprise Engagement: Exclusive Wedding Details Revealed!"

Minho’s eyes blurred as he scrolled.

There was a quote about how you met him at a gala, something arranged by both families. How your “values aligned.” How you “complimented each other perfectly.”

Minho’s throat went dry.

Plans for children. Names. Numbers.

You’d said you wanted three.

He stared. Long enough for the air to go still around him. Long enough for Jisung to slowly rise from the couch and walk over. He didn’t speak. No one did.

Minho’s fingers clenched around the phone. Then, all at once, he threw it. It hit the wall with a crack, not quite enough to break, but loud enough that the cats scattered. Loud enough that Jisung flinched. Everyone stood frozen.

Jisung spoke first, voice low, tentative. “Did you… did you know?”

Minho didn’t answer. Because yes. He knew.

Maybe not in specifics. But he knew this was what you were afraid of. He knew your parents wouldn’t let go. Knew the pressure was coming. That your quiet tears and long silences and restless hands meant something heavy was building. And now here it was.

Seungmin cleared his throat. “So you didn’t do anything about it?”

The question cut. Deeper than he expected.

Minho’s mouth twitched. A bitter sound left him, not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff. “She said the same thing.”

They looked at him.

“What the fuck was I supposed to do?” he snapped. His voice was raw, unsteady. “Go to her parents' mansion and demand they let her go? Challenge her fiancé to a duel? What do you want from me?”

Hyunjin stood then too. “We want you to stop acting like you don’t love her.”

Minho turned to him, eyes flashing. “That’s not your business.”

“The hell it isn’t,” Hyunjin said, voice rising. “We watched you fall apart for a year. You think we didn’t notice how dead you were without her? You think we didn’t see it all over your damn face every time someone said her name?”

Minho looked down. His fists clenched.

He could still feel the weight of you in his arms, the tremble in your voice, the way your eyes had begged him to say something, anything, to stop this from happening. And he hadn’t Because he was afraid because e didn’t want to hurt you more than the world already had because he thought saying “I love you” would only make things harder, not easier. But now?

Now your picture was on a screen. And someone else was holding you like they’d earned the right. Someone else was being told they were your future.

Minho’s heart twisted violently in his chest.

“You still love her,” Seungmin said plainly.

Minho didn’t deny it.

He couldn’t.

Hyunjin crossed his arms. “Then why the hell aren’t you doing anything about it?”

Minho looked at all of them. And for the first time since the photo hit his eyes, he let the fear show.

“Because if I fight for her,” he said quietly, “and she still walks away... I don’t know if I’ll survive it again.”

Jisung’s face softened. “But what if she’s waiting for you to fight?”

Minho didn’t answer. He couldn’t but the words echoed in his chest like a heartbeat he couldn’t ignore. Because what if she was?

—

The music was playing, something soft, orchestral, expensive. Strings rising and falling with elegance. There were flowers everywhere, white roses and baby’s breath in gold trimmed vases. Candles flickered along the aisle. A glass ceiling poured sunlight onto guests dressed in couture, silk, and smiles. It was exactly how you described it.

Minho stood there at the back of the venue, unmoving, dressed in something unfamiliar. a suit too stiff, a tie too tight. He didn’t know how he got there. He didn’t remember walking in. But he was there. He recognized the decor. The venue. The enormous floral arch where the ceremony would take place. He remembered it all because you’d told him.Back when your futures were tangled. Back when forever had a name and it was his.

You used to lie next to him on lazy Sunday mornings, scrolling through your phone, showing him pins on your vision board.
“I want a long aisle,” you’d said, smiling. “Like dramatic long. I want you to cry the second you see me.”

He had smiled, kissed your cheek, and whispered, “You won’t have to wait long.”

Because he knew. He knew he would cry. The second he saw you in white, walking toward him. The weight of that moment, everything it meant would’ve knocked the air out of him. He used to dream of that day too. The way you’d look. The way he’d look at you. The world falling away when your hands met.

He heard laughter behind a curtain, soft and breathless. Your voice. He would’ve known it anywhere. He turned, you were there.

Your hair pinned just the way you said you liked it, makeup soft and glowing, veil clipped into place with delicate pearls. Your dress shimmered beneath the lights, the same silhouette you used to describe as “timeless but sexy.” It was all exactly as you imagined. You laughed again.

Your mother stood beside you, dabbing her eyes, her voice gleaming with pride. “My baby girl,” she whispered, cupping your cheek. “You look so happy.”

Minho stepped forward. Your friends surrounded you in silk and sequins, squealing and teasing you.

“I can’t believe this is happening!”

“You look like a magazine cover, babe.”

“Don’t have too much fun on the honeymoon!”

Minho’s throat tightened. His hands curled into fists.
He opened his mouth. “You look beautiful.”

No one turned. No one heard him. His voice sounded dull, like he was speaking underwater.

He stepped closer. “You look beautiful,” he said again, louder. Still, nothing. It was like he wasn’t even there. And then your father appeared

“You ready, sweetheart?” he asked.

Your smile trembled, but you nodded. He offered his arm. You took it. Minho watched, frozen, as your father walked you toward the aisle. And that was when it really hit him. You were walking down the aisle. And it wasn’t toward him. He turned his head. There, at the end of the aisle was someone else. A man. Handsome. Tall. Rich, probably. Dressed in a tux that cost more than Minho’s entire apartment. Smiling like he deserved you.

The music swelled. Minho tried to move. He couldn’t. He tried to speak. His throat locked.

He saw Hyunjin in the crowd, seated near the front, staring straight ahead. Seungmin sat next to him, arms crossed. Jisung was beside them, too quiet, too still. None of them looked at Minho.

Minho turned again, frantic.

Your smile was soft now. Rehearsed. He could see it in your eyes. The way it didn’t reach. The way it didn’t shine. It wasn’t real. But no one else saw that. Only him.

When the officiant asked, “If anyone objects to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace,” Minho screamed.

“Stop—!”

But his voice didn’t come out. It was like trying to yell in a nightmare. Everything went silent. The crowd didn’t flinch. No one even blinked.

The groom lifted your veil. He kissed you.

The crowd erupted in applause.

Minho crumbled. He couldn’t breathe. His hands clawed at his chest. The lights were too bright, the music too loud, his lungs too tight. The sound of your kiss echoed, louder than it should have, like a wound tearing open in his ears.

He screamed and woke up.

The apartment was dark.

His shirt was drenched. He was gasping, heart slamming against his ribs, soaked in cold sweat.

It was a dream. It was a dream. But he didn’t calm down. Because it wasn’t just a dream.

That wedding was happening. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But it was real.
The date was set. The venue booked.
Your dress probably fitted. The headlines printed.

And you were going through with it. Unless someone stopped you. Unless he did.

Minho sat up slowly, pressing a hand to his face. His mouth was dry. His fingers shook.

If he didn’t move now, he would live that moment. For real. He would sit in that crowd and watch you belong to someone else. Someone safer. Someone richer. Someone who wouldn’t hesitate.

But none of them would love you the way he did.

He couldn’t let it happen. He wouldn’t let it happen.

Minho climbed out of bed, still breathing hard. His chest burned, his blood roared in his ears.

Whatever it took. He would stop that wedding. He would fight your family. He would take every consequence if it meant pulling you out of that lie and back into something real. He used to wonder what he would’ve done differently if he had one more chance. Now he knew.

And this time, he wasn’t going to stay silent but

Minho had never felt more paralyzed in his life.

He’d always been the kind of person who did. Who fixed things with his hands, who dealt with frustration by scrubbing floors until his back hurt or rebuilding a cabinet just because the hinge was squeaky. He wasn’t good with big emotions, not the messy, vulnerable kind. But now, no matter how many times he cleaned the counter or reorganized the fridge or folded and refolded the same pile of laundry, nothing made this go away.

You were getting married. He paced, looping the same five steps from his bed to the window and back. The cats watched him in confusion, occasionally chirping or brushing against his leg, but even their presence, usually calming didn’t help. He felt like he was unraveling from the inside. He knew he couldn’t not do something.

But what? He stopped pacing, ran both hands through his hair, and stared at his reflection in the dark window. His own face looked foreign to him drawn, tired, unshaven. His eyes were bloodshot. It had only been a few days since you walked out, but it felt like weeks. Years. He could go to you.

Show up at your house, stand on your doorstep like some ridiculous rom com hero and demand to see you. Except he already knew how that would go. Your family would open the door, see his face, and slam it in his direction. Or worse escort him out like a criminal. He could see your father’s expression already cold and final. He’d be lucky if they didn’t call the police. And you? You probably wouldn’t even be told he was there. They’d keep you hidden away like you were some delicate porcelain doll, groomed and sealed off until your wedding day. He scoffed under his breath and started pacing again.

Okay. Not that.

He could wait until the wedding. Walk in, sit in the back, rise when the officiant asked if anyone objected. He imagined it: the music stopping, heads turning, his voice cracking in the silence as he said your name. But what if you looked back at him with pity? What if you said nothing? Or worse what if you told him it was too late? That you’d moved on. That you loved the man you were marrying now. That you didn’t want to run anymore.

The very thought of that made his stomach turn. He gripped the edge of his desk and pressed his forehead to the cool wood, trying to breathe through it.

No. He couldn’t risk that. He couldn’t wait until the last second and leave it up to fate. He could call you.

Just… pick up his phone and dial your number. But what would he say? What if you didn’t pick up? What if you did, and he froze, and the only thing that came out was silence? Worse what if your mother answered? Or your fiancé?

His hand hovered over his phone. Trembled. He let out a frustrated groan, dragging his palms down his face. His skin felt raw. His mind wouldn’t stop spiraling.

He thought of the version of himself from before calm, composed, always a step ahead. The version of himself who held you through your breakdowns, who whispered that forever didn’t scare him if it was with you. Who made you laugh so hard once during an argument that you both forgot what you were even fighting about.

Where had that guy gone?

Minho sat heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

And then, like a whisper through the fog, Dara came to mind. Your best friend.

The only one who had known about him when you were together. The only one you trusted with the truth of your secret relationship, back when your family’s scrutiny had made every moment feel like stolen time. She’d been there. She’d met him. She’d sat across from him at coffee shops, teased him about how soft he looked when you were around. She was the one who used to sneak you out, cover for you.

Minho hadn’t seen or spoken to her since you left. She hadn’t reached out. Hadn’t texted him. Not once. He didn’t know if that meant she was on your parents’ side, or just protecting you. Or maybe she’d just… vanished, like you had.

Still, she knew you. If anyone could tell him where you stood, how much of this was choice, how much was fear it was her. He stared at his phone again. Could he really call her? Would she even pick up? Would she hang up the second she heard his voice? But then again… what choice did he have? He couldn’t do this alone. Not anymore. Not if he was really going to fight for you.

He had to know where you stood. He had to know if there was still time.

With shaking hands, Minho unlocked his phone and scrolled to the old messages, buried beneath a hundred others. There it was.

Dara: thanks for getting her home safe lol. she’s still drunk. good luck

He swallowed hard. The timestamp was from a year and a half ago. He tapped the call icon before he could change his mind.

It rang once. Twice. Three times.

“...Hello?”

Her voice was so quiet and cautious that he froze.

“Dara,” he breathed. “It’s me.”

Silence. Minho sat up straighter, heart pounding.

He didn’t know what she would say. But the fact that she didn’t hang up right away, that had to mean something.

“…Minho?” she said, barely above a whisper.

“Yeah.”

A long pause.

“I was wondering when you’d call.”

His heart stilled.

Minho sat on the edge of his bed, phone pressed tightly to his ear, his free hand gripping the hem of his shirt until his knuckles turned white. His voice came out lower than usual, a raw edge to it like all the frustration, fear, and helplessness were finally boiling to the surface.

“Dara… what the hell am I supposed to do?”

There was a beat of silence on the other end.

He could hear her shift, a faint inhale, but no immediate answer.

Then she asked quietly, “What happened when she told you?”

Minho exhaled, long and tired, closing his eyes like maybe it’d help him make sense of it all.

“I…” His voice faltered. “I didn’t say anything. Not really. I asked what she wanted from me. Told her I couldn’t fight her family. That it was… unrealistic. I didn’t tell her how I felt. I didn’t stop her.”

He didn’t say the part where you cried in his arms. Where you asked him to tell you not to do it. Where you begged with your silence.

There was a sharp scoff on the other end of the line.

“Idiot,” Dara snapped.

He deserved it. He didn’t argue.

“She told me it was nothing when I asked how you reacted,” Dara continued, her tone sharpening. “Said it was stupid. That I was overthinking. She wouldn’t even let me bring it up again. Changed the subject every time I tried. Every time. And you’re telling me that when she did come to you with it, you just let her walk away?”

Minho dragged a hand over his face, wincing. “I didn’t know what to say. It felt like no matter what I did, I’d lose her anyway.”

Dara didn’t say anything for a long moment. He assumed she was going to yell again, but instead, her voice was softer now. Tired.

“She hasn’t been herself lately. Not since her parents brought it up. Not since they told her it was happening. You think you’ve been a mess? You should’ve seen her.”

That hit harder than anything.

He swallowed. His voice cracked as he asked again, more desperately this time. “What should I do?”

More silence.

It stretched for so long he pulled the phone away to check the screen, wondering if she’d hung up. But the call was still active. “Hello?”

A loud sigh came through, exasperated and annoyed. “God, shut up. I’m thinking.”

Minho blinked, then let out a quiet huff that almost resembled a laugh. It was so you. That sass. That tone of voice that always meant, ‘Stop panicking, I’ve got you.’ No wonder you two were close. Dara was still the same. And still the only other person who gave a damn.

“She’s having an engagement party.”

Minho stilled. “What?”

“Big one,” Dara confirmed. “Black tie. One of those ridiculous upper class family things they throw together to prove they’re richer than they actually are.”

He felt his stomach drop. “When?”

“Three days from now.”

His mouth was dry. “And she’s going?”

Dara laughed humorlessly. “She has to. It’s her party.”

Minho stood up, pacing again. “And you want me to what, exactly? Walk into the lion’s den? In what world do you think your best friend’s ex.. the one her family hates, can just show up to that?”

“I don’t want you to do it,” she said bluntly. “I’m telling you.”

He rubbed at his temples. “You do remember the part where her parents basically wanted me dead?”

Dara groaned, clearly unimpressed. “Just dress nice. Like—nice. Borrow a suit if you have to. Get your hair done. Wear actual shoes, not those beat up things you live in. I’ll get you in.”

He blinked. “You’re serious?”

“I’m your plus one,” she said. “Nobody’s gonna question it. I’ll handle security.”

He felt like he couldn’t breathe for a moment.

You. In a dress. The whole world celebrating a future you didn’t want. A future that was being forced on you. And him, standing in the corner again, powerless. Unless he changed something.

Minho swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

“Shut up,” Dara muttered again, but not unkindly this time.

He smiled faintly, almost despite himself.

“I mean it.”

“I know you mean it, and I still don’t want to hear it. You think this is for you? You better make this count.”

“I will.”

“You better,” she warned. “Because if I have to watch her walk down that aisle knowing you let it happen, I swear I’ll kill you myself.”

“Deal.”

Dara sighed again, this time softer. “Just… be ready, Minho. She’s not okay. She’s barely holding it together. If you’re going to do this, don’t be a coward this time.”

“I won’t be.”

He meant it. He hung up and stared at the ceiling, the weight of it all settling onto his shoulders but this time, not crushing him. This time, he had a direction. A plan. Three days. He was going to the engagement party. And he was going to stop the woman he loved from marrying someone else before it was too late.

-

Minho stood in front of the mirror, his hands trembling as he fumbled with the tie for what had to be the fortieth time. He’d been at it for over thirty minutes, maybe longer, he’d stopped keeping track. The silk felt foreign in his hands, like it had a mind of its own, twisting the wrong way, slipping through his fingers, folding over itself until the knot looked more like a tangled shoelace than anything elegant.

The suit was new. Expensive. Way too expensive for someone who lived paycheck to paycheck and never attended events that required more than a nice button down. He hadn’t even let himself cut the tags off, just in case he needed to return it later. Still, he’d chosen the best one he could afford, black, tailored, sharp enough to draw attention, but subtle enough not to scream for it. If he was going to walk into that engagement party, he had to look like he belonged. Even if he didn’t feel it. But the damn tie. Minho groaned and pulled it loose again, the knot sliding apart uselessly. His reflection stared back at him, hair slightly damp from a rushed shower, cheeks flushed with nerves. He could feel his pulse pounding in his throat.

He was sweating through his dress shirt already.

He didn’t know how he was going to survive the night. Just as he gave up and yanked the tie down around his neck, the front door opened with a click.

“Minho?” Dara’s voice called from the hallway.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” he said, voice hoarse.

She stepped into the room a second later, the sound of her heels echoing softly on the floor.

And she looked stunning.

Dara was dressed to the nines, long black dress, makeup flawless, hair swept back into a sleek bun. She was elegant, sharp, and had the kind of presence that made people turn their heads when she walked into a room. For a second, Minho just blinked at her, distracted. Then she narrowed her eyes. “What the hell is taking you so long—”

She stopped mid sentence, eyes dropping to the lopsided mess of silk hanging around his neck. A beat passed. She blinked. And then let out a long, exasperated sigh that seemed to come from her soul.

“Are you serious right now?”

“I’ve never tied one before,” Minho mumbled defensively.

She groaned. “Move.”

Before he could protest, she marched across the room, grabbed the tie with one hand, and pulled him toward her like a ragdoll. He stumbled slightly, catching himself on the dresser behind him as she began to twist, fold, and tuck with alarming precision.

He watched her, wide eyed, as her fingers moved with practiced ease. “How the hell—?”

“Don’t ask,” Dara said, not looking up. “My dad taught me when I was like ten. Said I needed to know for my future husband.” She rolled her eyes. “Guess who still doesn’t have one?”

In record time, the knot was neat, centered, perfect. She stepped back and gave him a once over, smoothing his lapels. “You clean up okay.”

Minho stared at the tie in the mirror like it was magic. “You’re a witch.”

“I prefer miracle worker,” she said, then crossed her arms and tilted her head. “Alright, Romeo. What’s the plan?”

Minho opened his mouth then closed it.

“…I’m not sure yet.”

She blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

He winced.

“I knew you’d say something stupid like that.” She turned away, muttering to herself as she grabbed her clutch. “You’re walking into one of the most high profile parties of the season, in front of her entire family and friends, and you don’t have a plan?”

“I was going to wing it.”

“You were going to die,” she corrected, voice flat.

He didn’t argue.

She turned back to face him, serious now. “Okay. Listen. You have to act natural. No stalking her from across the room with your sad eyes. No big speeches in the middle of the party. Definitely no yelling. Security will throw you out the second your name hits their radar.”

He nodded quickly.

“Try to avoid her parents,” Dara added. “If they see you, you’re done. They’ll make a scene, and I really don’t want to be part of a scandal tonight.”

Minho swallowed hard.

Dara softened just a little. Her voice dropped.

“This is for her, Minho. For you. I know she wants to fight this deep down, but she’s scared. She thinks no one’s going to come for her.”

Minho looked down at his shoes.

“I’ll do anything I have to,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “Anything. I won’t let her marry him.”

Dara nodded.

“Good.”

She smirked as she walked past him toward the door. “Then you better follow my lead and try not to look like you’re about to pass out.”

Minho took a deep breath, smoothed his jacket, and followed. Three days ago, he didn’t know what to do. But now? Now he had a tie, a suit, and a plan that was half desperation and half hope. And he was walking straight into the fire for you.

-

The second they stepped through the grand entryway of the ballroom, Minho could feel his heartbeat thundering in his throat.

It was like walking into another universe, one draped in crystal chandeliers, flooded with warm golden light, soft classical music floating through the air. Waiters in tailored black uniforms glided across the polished marble floors with trays of champagne. Everything smelled like money, polished oak, and imported florals. It was the kind of party you used to joke about wanting one day. The kind you never thought you’d actually have.

But now here it was, your engagement party. And you were being celebrated for something that wasn’t real. Minho felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Dara, standing beside him with the poise of a seasoned diplomat, didn’t miss a beat. She looped her arm through his with an easy grace and leaned in close. “Act natural,” she murmured under her breath. “You’re just a guest. We’re just here to congratulate the happy couple. Smile, for god’s sake.”

He tried. The muscles in his jaw twitched, but his lips barely moved. It felt wrong to smile here. Wrong to stand in the middle of a celebration that felt like mourning. As they wove their way through the crowd, Dara subtly pulled him left and then right again, once to dodge your father, whose voice rang loud and authoritative near the champagne fountain, and again to swerve away from your mother, who stood near the string quartet, her elegant silhouette unmistakable.

“Eyes down,” Dara hissed, yanking slightly on his arm. “You’re too obvious.”

Minho ducked his head, focusing on the floor, on the rhythm of his steps, on keeping his shoulders relaxed even as tension wound through him like a spring ready to snap. The music swelled. Laughter echoed around him. It all felt far away, until Dara pulled him to a quiet corner near the balcony doors, finally out of immediate sight.

“Okay,” she said, brushing imaginary lint off his lapel. “Safe zone. For now.”

Minho barely heard her.

Because when he looked up, he saw you.

You were across the room, surrounded by a semicircle of guests, some he recognized from events he had to work, others strangers in expensive suits and glittering dresses. And standing beside you, hand lightly resting on the small of your back, was him. The man you were supposed to marry. Minho’s breath caught in his chest. He felt like someone had gripped his lungs and squeezed. You were smiling but not like you meant it. Your shoulders were tense, your posture perfect in that way it always was when your mother was around. You looked poised. Beautiful. Untouchable. But Minho could tell. He could feel it. The way your fingers twitched slightly, how you tilted your head just a second too late after a joke, how you didn’t lean into the man at your side. You were performing but you looked breathtaking. The silk of your dress shimmered with every step you took, hugging your figure like it was made for you. Your hair was swept back in soft waves, pinned delicately with small pearls, your makeup perfect. You looked like a dream.

And Minho had never felt further away from you.

Dara snapped her fingers in front of his face, pulling him back.

“Focus,” she hissed. “What’s the plan now?”

Minho blinked. His mouth opened, then closed. He watched you nod politely to some distant relative as your fiancé turned to accept a glass of champagne.

“I… I’ll wait until she’s alone,” he muttered.

Dara’s expression immediately twisted into a grimace. “Minho. You do understand that she’s not going to be alone tonight, right?”

He frowned. “What?”

“She’s the bride to be,” Dara said, waving her hand dramatically. “Everyone’s here for her. They’re going to be surrounding her all evening family, friends, society people trying to get close to her parents. It’s a feeding frenzy.”

Minho swallowed hard. His shoulders slumped. “Then I don’t know.”

Dara groaned and looked at him like he was some pitiful little man who had just been dropped in the middle of a war zone with no gear. “Okay, what about… approach her like a guest? A regular person. Say congratulations, all polite and neutral. Just enough to get her attention.”

Minho hesitated. “Would that even work?”

“It’s not terrible,” she said. “But you need to be careful. Her parents see you, and it’s over. Don’t give them a reason to have you thrown out.”

He took a shaky breath and nodded, eyes scanning the room again.

“Dara.”

The voice sliced through the air like a cold wind.

He froze. Dara went rigid beside him. It was your mother. She was approaching from behind, voice clipped and precise. The kind of voice that could command a room, ruin reputations, and freeze blood all in one breath. Dara reacted fast.

She spun toward him, pressing her hand to his chest like they were mid conversation, a soft, practiced laugh tumbling from her lips. “Don’t look,” she said under her breath. “I’ve got it. I’ll distract her. Don’t. Look.”

Minho nodded quickly, panic flaring in his chest. He kept his eyes locked on you, standing so poised across the room. Still, you hadn’t seen him. You didn’t know he was here. He needed a moment longer to breathe, to think, to be brave.

This was it. He had made it inside. He’d worn the suit. He’d snuck past security and your powerful parents with Dara’s help. He was standing in the same room as you. And now, he had to find a way to get to you before the night ended. Before they sealed you into a life you didn’t want. Before you said yes to someone that wasn’t him.

Minho almost reached you twice. The first time, he’d taken two careful steps forward, rehearsing a dozen versions of congratulations in his head, forcing his shoulders to relax, his expression neutral. He’d even lifted his hand slightly just enough to get your attention. And then he appeared. Always him.

Junho slid seamlessly into your space, hand settling at your waist like it belonged there, body angling just enough to close you off from the rest of the room. He leaned down to murmur something in your ear, and you stiffened for half a second before smoothing it over with a polite smile. Minho stopped short, heart sinking.

The second time, he waited longer. Watched the flow of the party, watched guests peel away and reform around you. He told himself to be patient. Dara had said you’d be surrounded all night, this was normal. But when he finally stepped forward again, ready to risk it. Junho was there. This time, it was worse. Someone said something congratulatory. Someone else raised a glass. And then, without warning, Junho cupped your face and kissed you. It wasn’t a quick peck. Not something perfunctory or polite. His lips lingered on yours for too long. He pulled back only to kiss you again, slower, deliberate. Like how Minho used to kiss you. Minho felt like the floor dropped out from under him.

The room blurred. The music dulled to a low, distant hum. His chest tightened so sharply he had to gasp for air. He turned away before anyone could see his face twist, before the jealousy and pain spilled out in ways he couldn’t control. Dara noticed immediately.

She caught his arm just as he veered toward the hallway, fingers tightening around his sleeve. “Hey—where are you going?”

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely, not meeting her eyes. “I just—I need a breather. Five minutes.”

She searched his face, concern flickering through her irritation. Then she sighed, nodding. “Go. Don’t disappear.”

He didn’t answer. He pushed through the doors leading outside to the smoking area, the cool night air hitting him like a slap. He leaned against the railing, hands braced, chest heaving as he dragged in shaky breaths. The smell of smoke and expensive cologne clung to the air, groups of guests clustered together, laughing softly as they lit cigarettes and shared hushed conversations.

Minho didn’t smoke much anymore, but his hands were shaking badly enough that he accepted a cigarette from a passing guest without thinking. He lit it, inhaled, and immediately regretted it but the burn in his lungs grounded him just enough to keep him standing. He told himself it didn’t mean anything. That kiss. Engagement parties were for show. For appearances. That’s what Dara had said. That’s what you’d said once, long ago, about things like this but the way his lips lingered on yours didn’t feel like a performance.

Minho stared out into the dark, jaw clenched, cigarette forgotten between his fingers as his thoughts spiraled. What was he supposed to say to you now? What right did he have to interrupt anything when you looked like you were already… moving forward?

He stayed out there longer than he meant to.

One group filtered back inside. Then another. The chatter faded, leaving the night quieter, heavier.

He was almost alone when the doors opened again. He didn’t look, he was too busy thinking about what he should say when he approaches you.

Don’t marry him sounded desperate.
I love you sounded too late.
Run away with me sounded like a fantasy.

He exhaled slowly, staring at the glowing tip of his cigarette. That’s when he heard your name. He didn’t look at first. He didn’t want to. He already knew it wouldn’t end well.

“She’s a catch,” someone said, voice smug and slurred with alcohol. “Still can’t believe Junho actually got her.”

Minho’s jaw tightened.

Another voice, Junho’s answered with a scoff. “Got stuck with her, more like.”

Minho’s head snapped up. Junho was there, standing with a small group of men in expensive suits, ties loosened, drinks in hand. They looked relaxed. Comfortable. Like men who had never been told no in their lives.

“What do you mean?” one of them laughed.

Junho shrugged. “I didn’t exactly have a choice. She’s… fine. Decent looking.”

They laughed. Minho’s blood began to boil.

“Not beautiful or anything,” Junho added casually, taking a drag from his cigarette. “Just… acceptable.”

Someone elbowed him. “At least tell me she’s good in bed.”

Junho laughed louder this time. “She’s alright. Nothing special. Nothing I can’t teach.”

Something snapped. Minho crushed his cigarette under his heel and turned to leave before he did something he couldn’t take back. But they kept talking. Laughing. Minho spun around.

He crossed the distance in seconds, grabbing Junho by the collar and slamming him back against the railing.

“Watch your fucking mouth.”

The group fell silent. Junho blinked, confused more than scared, then shoved Minho hard in the chest. Minho stumbled back a step.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Junho snapped, brushing imaginary dust from his lapel where Minho’s hand had been. “Do you know who I am?”

Minho didn’t answer.

Another man squinted at him. “Wait—don’t you work events? I’ve seen you before. You’re a server or something, right?”

They laughed again. Minho swallowed hard, humiliation burning hot but it was drowned out by something stronger. Rage and exhaustion. Years of being looked down on. Of being dismissed. Of watching people like this treat you like a prize they didn’t even appreciate. Junho turned away, still laughing, waving a hand dismissively.

“Ignore him.”

Minho grabbed him again. This time, he didn’t warn him. He punched him. Once, hard, clean, right in the face. Junho reeled back, shock written all over him. Minho punched him again. Harder.

Gasps erupted around them. Someone shouted. Someone dropped a glass. Minho barely registered it as hands grabbed his arms, pulling him back, voices rising in panic.

Because only then did he realize, they weren’t in the smoking area anymore, they were right at the edge of the ballroom. And everyone had seen.

Everything happened at once.

Hands grabbed Minho from behind strong, unyielding. Security. He barely had time to register the sharp yank on his arms before he was being shoved backward, shoes scraping against marble, voices overlapping in alarmed shouts.

Gasps rippled through the crowd like a shockwave, conversations dying mid sentence. Glasses clinked as people turned, eyes wide, phones already half raised. You gasped.

The sound cut through Minho sharper than any blow. He twisted his head just enough to see you rushing forward, dress flashing white against the gold lit room. You dropped to your knees beside Junho, hands hovering, frantic.

“Junho—are you okay?” you asked, voice breathless, panicked.

That hurt more than the fists ever could.

Dara was suddenly beside you, her face pale, jaw tight, eyes flicking between Minho and the chaos unfolding. Minho knew that look, furious, horrified, calculating. She was probably already running through every possible way this could go wrong, every door that was now slamming shut.

You looked at Minho then. Barely a second.

Your eyes met his just long enough for him to see it shock, confusion, something wounded and raw flickering beneath the surface. And then you looked away.

Junho groaned and sat up, anger overtaking the shock as he wiped blood from his lip. “Get him out,” he barked, pointing at Minho. “Get him out now.”

Security tightened their grip. You reached for Junho’s arm, trying to help him up but he shoved you away impatiently, rougher than necessary.

“Don’t touch me right now,” he snapped.

You stumbled back. Minho didn’t think.

He ripped one arm free from security with a force that surprised even himself, stepping forward, fury blazing through the humiliation and fear.

“Don’t touch her like that,” he shouted, voice cracking through the stunned silence.

The room froze.

He pointed at Junho, chest heaving. “You don’t get to lay a hand on her. Not after the shit you were saying about her. About her body. About how you were ‘stuck’ with her. About how she’s ‘nothing special.’”

Gasps echoed louder this time.

People stared. Whispers sparked instantly, fast and sharp.

Junho’s face went red. “What the hell are you talking about?” he snapped, spinning toward security. “Why is this guy still here?”

Minho looked at you again. This time, you wouldn’t meet his eyes. Your gaze was fixed somewhere over his shoulder, lips parted like you wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Your hands trembled at your sides, fingers curling into the silk of your dress.

Security grabbed Minho again, harder now. He swallowed thickly. The fight drained out of him all at once, leaving only exhaustion and something hollow and aching in his chest. He didn’t struggle this time. He yanked his arm free just enough to straighten his jacket, his voice low but steady.

“I’m leaving.”

The words felt final. As they escorted him toward the exit, Minho caught Dara’s eyes one last time. She wasn’t angry. Just sad in the way of someone who understood exactly why he’d done it, even if it had ruined everything. She gave him a tiny nod.

I know, it said. I know you had a reason.

The doors closed behind him with a heavy thud, cutting off the music, the laughter, the glittering lie of celebration.

And inside, the party staggered back into motion quieter now, fractured, buzzing with whispers that would never fully die.

Outside, Minho stood alone in the cool night air, the sounds of the city rushing back in, chest tight, hands shaking. He’d come here to save you. And instead, he’d shattered everything in front of everyone.

But even as the weight of it crushed down on him, one thing remained painfully clear, If loving you meant being the villain in their perfect story, he would still do it. Every time.

The air outside the venue was sharp and cold, but Minho barely felt it. He stood still, jaw clenched, shoulders hunched like he could physically hide the shame burning in his chest. The sounds of the city, distant traffic, even the occasional flash of camera lights from guests who hadn’t yet heard what happened, it all blurred into static.

He couldn’t breathe right. His fists were still aching from the punch, and his chest felt like it had been hollowed out. He didn’t know if he regretted it but he knew he’d ruined everything.

Then he heard the sound of heels approaching, the steady, purposeful rhythm of someone who wasn’t afraid to walk straight into a mess. Dara’s voice followed.

“I was expecting drama,” she muttered, dry and exasperated, “but I was not expecting that.”

Minho didn’t turn around. He couldn’t. He kept his eyes locked on the street, hands shoved deep in his pockets, heart thudding hard against his ribs.

“I’m trying to lighten the mood,” she added after a second, her voice softer.

He huffed bitterly, “Well, don’t.”

Dara gave him a look.

He shrugged, the motion hollow. “You barely even look at me back there. I get it. You’re probably pissed. And her parents—” He laughed quietly, dark and defeated. “They’re probably plotting ways to erase me from the planet.”

“No,” said another voice quieter, softer, trembling just slightly. Minho froze. He turned around so fast it made his breath catch.

There you were.

Wrapped in Dara’s coat, eyes red and glassy, your hands twisting in the fabric like you didn’t know what else to do with them. Dara stood beside you, her arm still around your shoulder. She looked between you both, then sighed and stepped away.

“I’ll give you two a minute.”

And then she was gone. Minho’s heart was in his throat. You looked at him for the first time that night. You were crying. And he hated it. Hated seeing your face twisted in pain. Hated that it had to come to this, outside a venue that celebrated a future you didn’t want, after a fight that should never have needed to happen.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted. “For the scene. For everything. I just—”

“I’m angry,” you said, your voice thin and tight with emotion.

Minho swallowed. “I know. I—”

“Not at what happened.”

He blinked.

Your eyes met his, sharp and wounded. “Junho deserved that. He yelled at me this morning,” you said, voice cracking. “Told me I wasn’t ‘giving my 100%.’ That I was making his family look bad. That if I didn’t want to embarrass my own, I needed to ‘act more grateful.’”

Minho’s fists clenched so tight he thought his nails might draw blood. You wiped at your face furiously, frustrated tears falling faster now. “I was angry because you waited so long. I told you. That night..when I came to your apartment. I begged you to say something. I was hoping you would tell me not to go through with it. That you still loved me. That you’d fight for me.”

“I was scared,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want to hurt you again. I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“I did,” you snapped. “I wanted you to grab me and say I was yours. That you weren’t going to let me marry someone else. I wanted you to save me.”

Minho’s breath trembled.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should’ve said it then. I should’ve said it a long time ago.” He stepped closer, slowly, afraid of pushing too far again. “But I’m saying it now.”

You looked up at him.

“I love you.”

Your breath hitched.

“I love you,” he said again, firmer this time. “I never stopped. Even when you left. Even when I thought I’d never see you again. Even when I tried to convince myself I was over you..I—I wasn’t.”

Your lip trembled. You took one step forward.

And then you were in his arms, burying yourself against his chest like you were trying to hold the world together. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, protectively, like he’d been waiting for this moment for years.

You clung to him like your life depended on it, sobbing into his suit jacket, the tears soaking through, your fingers clutching at his shirt.

“I was hoping,” you choked, “that you’d come. That you’d save me. And you did.”

Minho pressed his face into your hair, breathing you in, the silk of your dress cold against his hands, your body trembling against his.

“I’ll always come for you,” he whispered.

You looked up at him, tears streaking your cheeks, eyes full of everything you hadn’t said for months. Minho held you like the world might pull you away again. Your arms were wrapped tight around his middle, your face pressed into his chest, soaking the expensive lapels of a suit he definitely hadn’t planned to keep. His heart was still racing, his adrenaline barely beginning to settle, but his hands moved gently, one cradling the back of your head, the other smoothing slow circles along your spine, grounding you both.

He could feel your tears through his shirt. A reminder that you were really here, really in his arms, crying for him. He smiled softly, the corners of his lips twitching upward despite everything, and he pulled back just slightly to look at you.

“You know,” he said, voice hushed with a hint of a smile, “I really wasn’t planning on keeping this suit.”

You blinked up at him, confused for a beat, your cheeks blotchy from crying.

“What?”

He grinned, a little crooked. “It was too damn expensive. I left the tags on, figured I’d return it after tonight.”

Your eyes widened as you realized what he was saying. Then he added, mock serious, “But now you’ve cried all over me. Got makeup on the collar, too. I think you’ve officially ruined the refund.”

Your lip quivered.

And then, just like he hoped you let out the tiniest, watery laugh.

“Oh my God,” you sniffled, trying to wipe at his chest with the edge of your sleeve. “I’m so sorry—”

He caught your wrist gently and smiled, shaking his head. “Hey. I’m kidding. It’s fine.”

You hesitated, then laughed again, quieter this time. A fragile sound, like something long buried finally breaking the surface. Minho reached up and cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears that kept slipping down. You leaned into his hand like it was the only thing holding you up. Your eyes, red rimmed and shimmering, searched his face like you were memorizing every inch.

From a distance, anyone would’ve mistaken you two for the ending scene of a love story, the kind people envied, the kind they dreamed about but rarely believed in. The way Minho looked at you, like the rest of the world didn’t exist. The way you looked at him, like he was the only man you’d ever seen.

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. His breath caught as he leaned in, lips hovering just above yours, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his ears.

“Y/N.”

The voice cut through the moment like a blade.

Your entire body went stiff. Minho’s stomach dropped. Cold dread pooled in his gut as he instinctively turned toward the voice.

Your mother.

She stood at the top of the venue steps, backlit by the golden lights of the ballroom, her heels clicking sharply against the stone as she stepped outside. Her dress was flawless, her posture straight, her presence undeniable.

And she was furious.

Her eyes flicked between you and Minho, taking in the closeness, the tear streaked cheeks, the way your hands were still tangled in the front of his suit like you couldn’t bear to let go. Her jaw clenched.

“Inside,” she snapped, pointing to you.

Minho felt every part of you tense again, like a string pulled taut. But this time, this time he didn’t let go. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t shrink. Instead, he shifted in front of you, just slightly, putting himself between you and the storm approaching. His arm slid protectively around your shoulders, anchoring you to his side. His body went still and steady, like a wall being raised brick by brick.

If she came closer, she’d have to go through him.

Your mother’s eyes narrowed at the gesture. Her voice, cold and clipped, cut through the air again. “You need to come inside. Now.”

Minho’s hold on you tightened.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel scared of her. Not because she wasn’t powerful, she definitely was but because this time, he had something more powerful standing beside him.

You.

He didn’t know what would happen next. Whether this would explode into something bigger, something public. Whether this would end with screaming or headlines or a million things worse.

But he knew one thing. He wasn’t letting go of you again not without a fight. This wasn’t his fight. It was yours.

Your mother’s voice sliced through the cold night air, commanding and venom laced, her heels clicking in warning as she stepped closer. “I said, come inside. Now.”

Minho’s arm tightened protectively around you, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Not this time. He wasn’t shielding you out of fear, you could feel it in him. He was standing beside you because he knew you weren’t that girl anymore. The one who flinched. The one who stayed silent.

You didn’t move an inch.

“I’m not going,” you said quietly, but with a strength that surprised even you.

Your mother blinked, once. Then her expression hardened.

“I am done with you.”

You flinched, but you didn’t move.

“I told your father we shouldn’t have trusted you to behave. That you’d ruin this. And now, look at you. Crying in the arms of that—”

She looked at Minho like he was dirt. Her mouth twisted into something cruel. “That boy who has nothing. No name. No place. Do you think this is some storybook romance, Y/N? That we’ll let you throw away everything we’ve built for someone like him?”

Her words were cutting. Delivered like a surgeon’s scalpel meant to draw blood. Minho didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to because that was the moment you stepped out from behind him.

You felt Minho’s arm tense around you as you moved, like his instincts wanted to pull you back, shield you again. But you reached up, touched his hand gently, and he let go. Not fully, but enough to let you stand.

You turned to your mother, chin lifting.

“I’m not marrying Junho,” you said, stronger this time. “And I’m not coming back inside.”

The silence that followed was loud.

Your mother stared at you, face hardening with every word.

“If you walk away from this, you’ll regret it,” she said. “You think you’re in love, but you’ll be broke, alone, forgotten—”

“Then I’ll be broke,” you cut in, your voice shaking. “And free.”

Her eyes widened slightly.

You continued, voice cracking but clear. “You’ve been trying to mold me into someone I’m not for years. And I tried. I really did. I let you choose my schools, my clothes, my future. I sat through dinners with strangers and smiled through meetings about who I should marry. But I’m done. I’m done pretending I don’t know what I want.”

Your mother opened her mouth, but you didn’t let her speak.

You stepped forward, matching her tone for tone.

“Freeze my accounts. Take everything. If money is the only thing that mattered to you, then keep it. But don’t you dare speak about Minho like that again.”

She went still.

“Minho was the one who held me when I cried over the life you trapped me in. He’s the one who listened, who stayed, who waited. He fought for me even when I didn’t know how to fight for myself.”

You were shaking.

And then Minho was there again, not in front of you, not shielding you, just behind you. Supporting. Present. Quiet strength at your back.

Your voice softened, but didn’t waver.

“I choose him.”

Your mother stared at you, stunned silent for the first time in your life.

When she finally spoke, her voice was venom. “You’ve humiliated your family.”

“No,” you said simply. “I just finally stopped letting you humiliate me.”

You turned away before she could reply.

You reached for Minho’s hand, his fingers immediately closing around yours and the two of you walked down the steps together, your heart hammering as the door closed behind you.

You didn’t look back. And for the first time in years, you felt free.

—

Minho woke up drenched in sweat.

For a few seconds, his breathing was shallow and panicked, his mind spiraling in that liminal space between dream and waking. The haze clung to him, images flashing too fast to grasp, fists flying, your mother’s voice sharp with disgust, your tears, your lips trembling as you told him you’d hoped he’d come for you. And the kiss that followed, soft and shattering.

He blinked rapidly, his heart still pounding.

It felt too perfect to be real. The dream had played it all out a thousand times. And every time he’d woken up alone. But this time he turned his head to the side and there you were.

Curled up beside him, the sheets tangled around your legs, one arm tucked under your cheek, the other lightly resting over his stomach. Your hair was a little messy, your mouth slightly open in sleep. Soft breaths passed through your lips, peaceful and slow.

You were really there.

Minho stared at you for a long moment, still trying to believe it. He didn’t know how this version of the story ended, he’d been bracing himself for heartbreak for so long that happiness still felt fragile, like if he moved too fast, it might slip away but when you let out a tiny sleepy sigh and shifted closer, your cheek brushing his chest, he felt something unspoken settle in his bones.

He smiled.

One of those crooked, teasing, fond smiles that only you ever got from him. He shifted slightly, brushing your hair back, tucking it behind your ear, then leaned down and kissed you, slowly just below your temple. You stirred.

“…What happened?” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“Nothing,” he whispered. “Just... making sure this is real.”

You blinked up at him, sleepy and warm, your brows knitting slightly. You studied his face for a moment, his flushed cheeks, his wide eyes, the way his hand still hovered just over your skin like he was afraid to let go.

Then you smiled too. “It’s real.”

Minho exhaled, finally, like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

You rolled onto your back beside him, staring up at the ceiling, your fingers brushing his. “I’m not really sure what happens now.”

“Me neither,” he said, but there was no fear in his voice this time. Just honesty.

“I guess…” you began slowly, “I’ll find a job. I’ll help with bills, and groceries. And cleaning. And taking care of the kids—”

He cut you off with a sharp laugh. “Kids?”

You smirked. “The cats, obviously.”

He rolled his eyes but smiled, wide and boyish, as he turned onto his side to face you. “You scared me for a second.”

“You should’ve seen your face.”

“I thought we missed a whole chapter.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “You’re the one who feeds them and gives them kisses and talks to them like they’re toddlers.”

“I do not—”

“You do.”

He groaned and buried his face into your shoulder, laughing softly against your skin. You wrapped your arms around his head and held him there, both of you breathing in the quiet joy of being together without anything hanging over you.

“I don’t want you to worry about money,” Minho said after a while, his voice muffled. “I’ll find something better. A job that pays enough so we don’t have to stress. Maybe not like… your family’s kind of money,” he added, lifting his head to meet your eyes again, “but enough for us to live well. Decently. Together.”

You reached up and traced his cheekbone with your thumb. “I don’t care about that anymore. I just want you.”

Minho leaned down again, his lips brushing yours. This kiss was slower. Deeper. It wasn’t about lust or even relief. It was about everything you’d lost and finally found again.

You kissed him back just as slowly, your hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer. The sheets rustled as your bodies aligned instinctively, like muscle memory like your bodies remembered even when your minds tried to forget.

You shifted, swinging a leg over his hips, settling on top of him with ease. His hands came to your waist, sliding up your sides, grounding you there like he couldn’t believe you were real. He kissed you again and again, like he had years of kisses to make up for every missed moment, every goodbye you hadn’t wanted to say.

Your fingers toyed with the hem of the shirt you were wearing, his shirt. Oversized and wrinkled from the night before. Minho watched as you slowly pulled it over your head and tossed it aside. His hands followed the curve of your spine, your ribs, pausing reverently over your heart.

He kissed the hollow of your throat. You sighed his name.

You reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, eyes dark with want, lips swollen and parted then came the pawing. At first, you ignored it. Then came the scratching.

“Are they serious right now?” he muttered, head falling back against the pillow.

You giggled, hiding your face in his neck. “They’re your children. You trained them too well.”

He made a noise of protest, refusing to move, instead wrapping his arms around your waist and rolling slightly so he could bury his face into your stomach. “Just… one more minute. Maybe they’ll give up.”

Meow.

You bit back a laugh. “They’re going to break the door down.”

“They’ll be fine for five more minutes.”

Thunk. Something fell just outside the bedroom.

“They’re breaking things.”

Minho groaned again, and you kissed his forehead, fingers threading through his hair. “Come on. Don’t keep the babies waiting. They’ll starve to death.”

“You’re too good,” he mumbled, sitting up with a sigh. “This is betrayal.”

You laughed and shoved him playfully toward the edge of the bed. “Go. Be a responsible cat dad.”

He stood reluctantly, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips, raking a hand through his hair as he grumbled under his breath. He paused at the door, turned back to look at you, naked under the sheets, smiling at him like you’d never stopped.

Minho’s expression softened.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

“I know.”

And as he opened the door and was immediately greeted by three very impatient cats, you leaned back on the pillows, heart full, finally at peace.

You had no idea what the future would bring.

But for the first time in forever, you wanted it.

//

masterlist.

You’re surprised the first time you see him—relaxed, sitting in the comfort of his home, on the sofa in his living room on a hot summer afternoon, shirtless, a dainty crucifix necklace caught between his incredible pecs, and his strong legs wearing shorts. Yang Jeongin. The same Yang Jeongin you’ve known for years, but clearly, the years have been kind to both of you, and consequently, somehow, they’ve been kinder to him. He’s a very handsome man now.

He’s sitting there, casually, checking his phone with a certain disinterest, cooling his body with the air conditioning. You feel the coolness of the room, but your body gets even hotter than it already is as you move from the hot weather outside to the Yang’s residence. In particular, the heat travels to your cheeks. You just can’t believe it. Is he really Jeongin? The scrawny boy you used to know? Impossible.

His appearance completely dazzles you. You convince yourself that he’s probably your best friend’s cousin... but that characteristic Yang eye shape and those high cheekbones are undeniable. It was him. Besides, your friend Jeongseo clearly said, “Can you get Jeongin? I think he’s in the living room.”

Jeongin. A moment ago, you were excited to see him, since you hadn’t seen him in 10 years, and the last thing you remember is that he was like your annoying little brother, always meddling in Jeongseo’s and your business.

But now you are more than surprised.

Jeongin senses your presence in the room and looks up, leaving you even more stunned. The way he does it seems so unreal, his perfect, handsome, chiseled face staring at you. He smiles mischievously as soon as he sees you standing there, a few feet away from him... in awe.

You can’t believe it. You even forget why you’re standing there. Since when did he become so hot? His face now so manly and chiseled, his black hair going in perfect harmony with him and his body... perfectly sculpted, now with incredible abs and pecs... everything is suddenly so hard to take in. Someone you haven’t seen in years and remember... as unattractive, has become simply breathtaking.

Jeongin’s smile widens even more. He knows that look in your face. You like what you see, of course you like it, him.

He knew you would come to visit and that at any moment you would bump into each other again... a reunion. In fact, he knew you’d be there before the summer, so he got ready for you after so many years... he would finally see you, and he was determined to make you notice how different he is now. And of course you do. So, in part, being like that—so hot, nonchalantly shirtless— is intentional. He knows he’s attractive and will use his charming power to get what he has always wanted since he was a kid. You.

“Oh, hey! Y/n! You’re here! I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

And he calls your name casually, confident, dropping the honorifics, and you’re okay with that. He stands up quickly and his closeness makes you even more nervous. You almost flinch when he stands right in front of you. He’s incredibly better up close. Even the sound of his voice is better; everything is.

And there you are too, before his eyes. His first and biggest crush. He licks his lips. You’re such a woman now, too. Not longer a kid anymore, you’re hotter than his hormonal teenage brain recalls. And he’s excited you’re starting to see him for what he is now, a strong man that can handle you.

It’s hard to look him in the eye when his prominent, perfect pecs are right in front of you, with that crucifix necklace hanging and swaying gently with grace. You do your best to regain your composure, but it’s too late; he’s already noticed how you feel about him and his “new look,” and you end up looking like a nervous, shy young girl in front of her crush. How are you supposed to react?

“Hey, Jeongin! How are you?” you say, in a higher tone than planned.

Your voice. Jeongin feels happy to hear it again, now more mature, but still with that characteristic sweetness that drives him crazy, just as it did years ago, almost making him tremble.

You feel a little bad for never having been the slightest bit curious enough to look him up on social media or anything like that, because, of course, you didn’t expect to meet someone like this.

“I’m fine. How about you? I heard you got an internship at my uncle’s law firm. Good luck.”

That’s one of the main reasons you’ve come back to town and, as a result, reconnected with Jeongseo.

“Oh, thanks. I... I’ve been fine too. And... I heard you were in Europe.” You don’t even know what you’re talking about; you’re still swooning over him.

“Oh, yes. I just came back from Italy. I studied in Milan for two years.”

Of course someone like him would study abroad. You think for a moment that if he’s a model, he’d have a great opportunity... although in a way, you don’t want anyone else to see him now, you feel like you’ve made a great discovery. The charming Yang Jeongin is now handsome, a muscular, radiant, incredible man. And, of course, that’s why you distanced yourself from learning about your best friend’s family. Everyone went their separate ways. You know very little about him now.

You analyze Jeongin more, as there is still something too sweet and innocent about his appearance, besides the fact that he is obviously still a young adult, younger than you... but behind his manly and strong body, that mischievous smile is innocently naughty. He still looks sweet, in contrast to his body. How is that possible?

You suddenly blink as you feel a short, slight, uncomfortable silence. You snap out of your trance; it’s your turn to speak, but you’re speechless. His incredible arms completely distract you; his soft abdomen is so tempting.

Jeongin notices and laughs softly... he doesn’t believe for a second that you’ve fallen for him so quickly.

“Oh, yes, of course—your sister wants you to come see her. She’s in the kitchen,” you say, trying to save the situation.

“Oh, really? Okay. It’s really good to see you again, it’ll be a different summer... like the old days, but different.”

Jeongin says, exuding a confidence, charm, and charisma that makes you shiver. He licks his lips and bites them attractively as he walks away... and you catch him... checking you out, alluringly, his gaze going up and down your figure, with a certain dominance and mischief.

You stand there, perplexed; unable to comprehend that this man is the same shy boy who went to church classes, aspired to be a priest, and had an awkward, pure but adorable crush on you. When you both were younger, he used to annoy you, but when he entered puberty and adolescence, he behaved so nervously around you, you still remember it very well... that’s the last image you had of him.

You admire his strong back as he leaves the room and drool over him one last time. You even feel weak, breathless. You sigh softly... still in shock that this confident man is the bundle of nerves he used to be... sweet, tender, young, and... inexperienced.

Your thoughts betray you, perhaps because you’re a little turned on by the new image of Jeongin that you’re still trying to process, but to you, he has always been that innocent boy with a love for his catholicism... always wearing his purity ring. So your first intrusive thought is... will he still be inexperienced? Is he still awkward around girls, as you used to remember him? Is it possible that the sweet Jeongin is still there and that impression was just a facade?

And if so... the idea turns you on even more. How did the sweet Jeongin, almost a priest, survive the liberal and new traditions of Europe, unknown to him? The idea of him being, in a way, even younger and “inferior” to you ignites you irreversibly and uncontrollably.

You go crazy, and the rest of your days at home with the Yangs become sweet martyrdom, torture. It’s inevitable not to fantasize about him, and it becomes more difficult when he clearly makes more and more attempts for you to surrender.

He approaches you, looking better every day, subtly reminding you how much he has grown, what he does in his gym routine, proudly showing you his results, showing off his muscles, his long fingers squeezing his biceps... while you are just in a very compromising and tempting situation. Meanwhile, you can’t stop fantasizing about him, everything about him, and how he must fuck now. Does he? He no longer wears his purity ring. But fantasizing about him isn’t tiring, not in the least. It’s, sometimes, what keeps your summer entertaining,

Jeongin starts teasing you again, maybe like he did when he was a kid, but this time they’re not pure, and there’s nothing innocent about any of his actions. You rebuild what you left behind in the past, your bond and trust, but now, the situation is very different. You both desire each other and fall into the exhausting and feverish game of almost temptation... should you... or shouldn’t you...

Until the dream comes true for both of you. Jeongin has been preparing for you; his greatest dream is to satisfy you like no other man has ever done before. His goal is, perhaps, to make you forget any inept and incompetent man you have dated before. There is no one better for you than him, Jeongin. He has known you practically forever and longs to have you.

And it happens in such a hot and unconventional way. It’s the afternoon of the Yang family’s traditional summer party weekend. They invite close friends, more family members, such as your friend’s parents’ siblings and Jeongin and Jeongseo’s cousins, and everyone celebrates happily, enjoying the hot summer day, eating, talking, having fun, and getting drunk without limits.

And unlike any other summer you’ve spent there before, this time you find yourself restlessly nervous. You’ve changed your outfit three times, and to do so for the fourth time, you go back up to your room, but you hesitate to enter. You know that Jeongin is in the same hallway as you and that he hasn’t come down to the party that is just beginning, so, on a silly impulse, you redirect yourself to his room, without knowing exactly what you would say to him, what your perfect excuse would be.

But there is no perfect excuse. You just want to see him and... maybe just ask him if he likes your outfit, why not?

Now you find yourself standing in front of his bedroom door, noticing it is slightly ajar. You don’t think twice and are about to enter, without hesitation or embarrassment… since at that point between the two of you, the “trust” had returned, just like in the old days. You genuinely didn’t expect to encounter him in a specific way. However, you stop dead in your tracks, completely surprised by the beautiful image that pleases your eyes and spirit.

You open your wide eyes in panic and freeze as you see Jeongin coming out of his bathroom with a towel wrapped around his manly hot body, his waist. Your heart races, and for a second, you feel like a pervert snooping around, but the sight of his toned, wet abdomen and the way his muscles pop out as he roughly dries his hair with the towel on his broad shoulders simply clouds any other thoughts.

You enjoy looking at him from all angles you can visualize, from the side, with his attractive profile, from behind, with his broad back, and… finally you get a front view, just for yourself, but not in the way you wanted. Jeongin smiles mischievously, narrowing his eyes and showing his perfect teeth and dimples; he realizes you’re watching him and feels quite flattered… and happy that his plan worked; in fact, leaving the door slightly open was a very intentional move, just if by coincidence, in case you might decide to come in. And there you are.

You get the perfect view of him from the front as he turns around and walks straight towards you. He throws the towel off his shoulders and keeps walking. His sculpted, glorious figure gets closer and closer to you, and you can’t help but feast your eyes as you shamelessly look down, delighting in his abs and pronounced V-shaped pelvis, and of course, his member bulging and moving subtly as he walks, covered by that stupid, lucky, useless towel.

“They never taught you that spying on people is bad manners, huh? I bet you were enjoying it,” he says smugly with a playful smirk on his face. He opens his door wider and rests one hand on the doorframe, flexing his muscles even more.

Jeongin raises his eyebrows, tilts his head, waiting for a response, and runs his tongue over his teeth. You don’t know exactly what to look at first, whether it’s his face with that smug expression, his biceps in front of you, his pecs with that crucifix in the middle, his abs, and a little further down there… However, you blink in confusion, almost gulping, not believing that you’ve just been caught.

Jeongin doesn’t let you process it; you can’t even think clearly. Your cheeks are just starting to flush when he pulls your wrist and forces you into his room, pushing you against the door as soon as he closes it.

“Je-Jeongin—”

“Jeongin, what? What’s your explanation now? Did you need something?”

You look him in the eyes. He brings his face increasingly closer to yours. Your heart rate accelerates… you think that this is no longer the same tender and innocent Jeongin you knew. In a way, there is a change in his gaze… a tone of lust that doesn’t bother you at all, but rather excites you effortlessly, shortens your breath, and you find it overwhelming. But you think… what kind of situation is this? What have you gotten yourself into? You’re ridiculously aroused, and he just has you defenselessly pinned against the door. You’re inexplicably so turned on that it even bothers you, frustrates you, because you’re wet at the idea, and you want him now, you’re pissed off because it seems absurd… because you want him terribly.

“You should close your door,” is all you mutter, senselessly, somewhat sharply.

“I just did,” he jokes.

“I mean—while you’re changing,” you add nervously.

“Why? I thought I was free in my own home... that no one would come to my door at such a time.” He’s teasing you and enjoying it. “Oh, so what? Now it’s my fault? You shouldn’t be snooping around in the first place. What are you doing here anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be at the party downstairs?”

The party. Meanwhile, while Jeongin provokes you by speaking slowly and sensually in his room, Jeongseo is already welcoming the guests and getting nervous as soon as she sees one in particular, who she knows is a former lover of Jeongin’s… a girl his age. Jeongseo knows very well that they had something, a very intimate sort of thing or fling, so as soon as she sees that girl, Jeongseo decides not to bother her or her brother at all; that’s why she doesn’t concern herself with where her brother is right now.

But Jeongseo’s decision, without realizing it, is opening up the perfect privacy that you and Jeongin need right now. No one would go looking for him, and you’ve already gotten lost right in his web.

“Jeongin—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—” you stammer. You try to regain your senses and look away from him.

You want to get out of there, but you can’t. You’re stuck there, highly intimidated and aroused. A little uncomfortable but curious.

“No,” he stops you, his left hand pressing against the door. “You came here for something... what do you want?” he challenges you, somewhere between playful and serious.

You become the uncontrollably nervous version of yourself. You think there’s no turning back. You don’t know how to respond and just try weakly to get out of there, but your attempt is so subtle that it’s futile, besides your clear intention that you weakly try to hide of not wanting to leave at all. You also feel a little pathetic; all it takes is to move your body, behave, and speak for yourself.

Have you really been struck speechless?

“Don’t you think…” Jeongin repeats, almost breathing on your skin as he moves dangerously close to you, “that we’re both old enough to stop playing games and we can express what we want. And, if you like, I’ll start. I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you. What else do you need to know now? I recognize exactly the way you look at me… Don’t you ever think I’m a fool… or just the kid I once used to be.”

You’re stunned by his direct words, by him finally confessing what you wanted to hear so badly. And for his raw truth. He’s right—he’s a man now. If something like this had happened in the past, a confession, or him playing sexy, you’d reject him and feel a little cringe... but oh wow, he is who he is now. Yang Jeongin. A man in his early 20s, handsome and strong. Is this situation true, or is it a dream?

“And you?” he says again with a cheeky half-smile. “What do you want…? Aren’t you supposed to be the older one here, to speak up for yourself?”

Fuck. It is true, it’s your time to speak, move, do something. You’d never thought beyond your fantasies… What are you supposed to do now? Fuck him? Fuck your best friend’s little brother? Since the sexual tension is so thick by now, right after his confession, the position he has you in, and your subtly hitched breath.

“Jeongin—” It’s hard for you to communicate, and he knows it perfectly well. Jeongin knows the tremor in your voice and the nervousness that possesses your agitated body, so, still being somewhat provocative, he helps you a little, giving you that push for initiative, to unleash all the pent-up desires that you both possess.

“It’s okay, you can touch me, please—touch me,” he asks, perhaps more frustrated than he had initially planned.

That phrase makes you shudder. You look back at his face and an expression of confusion is reflected in yours. Jeongin relaxes his arms and dangerously shortens the already minimum distance as his figure wobbles softly, like magnetism. And then, you let him take your right hand and guide it to his abdomen.

You gasp as you feel skin against skin, his large hand over yours, guiding you, inviting you to revel in the sensation that is finally touching each other.

Joengin closes his eyes deeply, moans softly, and bites his lip to keep himself from making another sound. Excitement runs through his body like a shock, and it’s so easy for him to start getting hard... from your closeness, your soft palm descending over his body... and from the hot idea of all the things he would do to you if you were as willing as he is.

But he can’t wait any longer.

“So... please, please, say you need me as much as I need you right now,” he whispers, delighted by your touch even with his eyes closed.

You watch his expression of pleasure for a few seconds and admire your hand on him, and it’s easy for you to notice how hard he’s getting under that towel. You’re more nervous again and you weaken more... but what did it matter? It’s the perfect opportunity, it’s just the two of you, and you really need him, maybe since the first day you saw him again.

You try to control yourself. Your whole aroused body reacts for you. You’re even slightly wet, and your clit throbs with euphoria once you’ve adapted your brain to accept the fact that you’ll have Jeongin.

“Jeongin—yes,” you sigh, you’ve given in. “Should... we...?”

It’s hard to talk and breathe at this point.

He opens his eyes and smiles contentedly, raising his eyebrows mischievously. Every word filled him and brought him to the most sensitive and overwhelming point of arousal, his member throbbing, ready to be used.

He directs his lips to you with an attractive speed and desperation, but the movement of his mouth on you is quite the opposite. His kiss is slow, passionate, hot, and goes along with the caresses he now gives you. He lets go of your hand, and his arms embrace your body, pulling you sharply toward him. Your hand remains on his abdomen, and the other holds his bicep.

You adapt to his slow and hotly exasperating rhythm. His lips are soft, his movements skillful... you never thought you’d be kissing Yang Jeongin, or even that you’d feel this heated for him, with such a strong attraction... but there you are, without realizing it, fulfilling his biggest dream and fantasy—his first crush, that woman slightly older than him, his sister’s best friend. Jeongin had fantasized about this moment for years; what would your first time together be like? What does it feel like to be with you...? Jeongin can confirm that it’s a million times better than he imagined.

You feel his patient kiss one moment, and the next, he controls it at will, making it erratic, passionate, and dirty, his tongue playing with yours, cutting off your breath. He begins to play with your skin, his warm lips descending your neck and then returning to take your mouth with desperation and haste, while his hands enjoy your body, simply wanting to explore and enjoy everything he has longed for so much.

With one hand, he caresses your face for a moment, his fingers gently intertwining in your hair while his palm feels the warmth of your cheeks. He runs them over your arms exposed by your dress and finally embraces your body again in a more abrupt movement, drawing your entire figure to him, feeling his excitement press against you. You almost sigh between kisses, but you don’t even have time to process your emotions and sensations as Jeongin kisses you intensely, making up for all the time he wanted you.

Your body heats up, your heart races, and the need for quick pleasure in your intimacy increases. In the distance, you can faintly hear the music from downstairs and people’s voices, but your mind and every inch of your body tremble at the tense atmosphere—inside Jeongin’s room, filled with the hot sound of your mouths joining, collapsing. Your heavy, ragged breathing, the soft, subtle sound of his strong arms wrinkling and crumpling your dress, as he fights his immense desire that overwhelms and clouds his mind.

You timidly take the initiative, and that nervous hand that was resting on his abdomen moves up to his face, feeling his sharp jaw move as he continues to pleasantly overwhelm you with his lips and the dirty play of his tongue on you.

You try not to think about anything else, you’re enjoying it and letting yourself go, but for a moment, it’s inevitable that the fact that you've never kissed anyone else so erratically and intensely crosses your mind. Not even in your wildest makeouts. It was almost like exploring something new, as if Jeongin, in his most desperate and horny moment, was teaching himself and taking out his desires on you. Still, at the same time, you notice the precision and experience with which he does it, leaving you surprised. Since when had he learned to kiss like that, to lick and breathe on your neck so damn hot? Who could have told him that this is a secret that drives you crazy—how incredibly hot his breath sounds against your skin?

He surprises you more and more. And will continue to do so.

Jeongin fights his impulses, but he presses his body closer and closer to yours, rubbing his very obvious hard cock with a certain torturous pleasure, and feeling it makes you hotter, more impatient, anxious with dirty thoughts flooding your mind of when the long-awaited moment of having him inside you will come; of the curiosity to enjoy and know what he looks like and what sex with him is like. You can almost taste the act, and it makes you shiver.

You slowly lose your shyness, gently and subtly rubbing your body more against his erection, believing that at any moment that towel could slip off his hips. At the same time, Jeongin can’t take it anymore, panting softly at your obvious actions to drive him wild. His big hands slide down your back, until they reach the curve of your ass, caressing it over the fabric of your dress for a moment, then finally enjoying his own daring and you as he lifts your garment and finally touches your buttocks firmly, massaging them at will, guiding your pelvis with his obvious strength and the friction movements against his well erect dick, deeper and not at all gentle.

He felt like a pervert for a second, completely blinded by sex, and the flame in him burned even brighter when his hands made contact with your skin and your panties... imagining in his mind that this was how you were going to go out to that insipid meeting—in a damn short dress and nothing underneath it but panties, since at this point he can tell that you’re not wearing a bra, but rather relying on the shape of the dress. Oh, you’re pretty lucky right now, Jeongin thinks as he pulls away from you and admires your reaction, that he hasn’t ripped off your panties, pushed you harder against the wall, lifted your dress, and just fucked you roughly, satisfying himself and his pent-up arousal, but no... He wants to show you that he’s not just some kid who fucks you and penetrates you harshly without knowing exactly which parts of you make you tremble.

Jeongin is about to show you quite a few things, so in the meantime, he breathes heavily and drowns in his patience with every vein of his pulsating, rigid cock ready to be used. He continues to massage your ass, admiring your sensual bedroom eyes and swollen lips from the previous intense kiss-sucking. Enjoying your frustration and pleasure.

And for you, the sight of him in front of you is not far behind. Jeongin’s dark hair is now drier than wet, his handsome face shining as his dark eyes watch you hungrily and intently, his eyes quickly studying every detail of your face, never losing his smile and cocky, haughty expression, proud of everything he is getting. He looks so handsome that you want to fuck him like that, watching his glorious sculpted face as he makes you come.

He enjoys one last moment of the softness of your ass, slightly tense from the tension you carry within you; even so, Jeongin slides his hands inside the fabric of your panties and can’t stop thinking about how delicious it will be to have you and taste you, so he takes his hands out of your butt, pulls you by the waist, takes a step back, and you see that he begins to guide you to his bed.

You feel a pleasant fear as you realize that this is really happening. Your nerves increase, your desire rises, and you become a very uncontrollable, wildly horny version of yourself. Before reaching his bed, you let him lead you there, both of you looking deeply into each other’s eyes and countless dirty thoughts running through your minds—all the positions and things you could do with Jeongin and his very young, healthy, and strong stigma... And just savoring the fantasy makes your panties even wetter, more than they already are, with your intimacy pulsing, lubricated, and softly suffocated, begging for pleasure.

Jeongin touches his bed first and then turns nimbly to leave you in that position. He bites his lip once more, holding back his most intense desires, and kisses you again as he gently pushes your body so that you fall softly onto the bed.

Once there, he steps away a little and watches as you position yourself on the bed, dragging your body closer to the pillows and headboard for more comfort. Jeongin gives you a mischievous and playful smile. You, for your part, admire him in front of you, on the edge of the bed, still half-naked, wearing his towel, his defined muscles and, notably, his prominent cock behind the fabric.

So it is happening.

Your nerves get the better of you again for a brief moment and intensify when he approaches you like a seductive hunter about to take his prey, the muscles in his strong arms flexing as he crawls toward you, his attractive veins standing out, exuding the rich, soft scent of soap and pure masculinity.

You’re so hot that you lose control of yourself again—your muscles contract, you start to tremble, you’re certainly nervous and eager, even though you know you’ve done this before, casual, hot sex... but never before with someone as fucking sexy as Jeongin. You want to rip your clothes off because you’re starting to feel suffocated... you genuinely want to feel him already.

You sigh weakly as his hands caress your calves and knees to spread your legs and position himself between them, on top of you. Once again, in a hot and dangerous closeness that makes your body react on its own. You have nothing to say, other than to accept, enjoy, and let yourself go; however, for Jeongin, whose ego and excitement are sky-high right now, having his lifelong crush in front of him, seeing you so vulnerable, horny, and willing for him... it drives him crazy in a sweet way that makes it difficult for him to control himself.

“You’re trembling,” he says in a deep, playful voice. Jeongin’s heart also wants to jump out of his chest; it feels like the most victorious day of his life. Not even when he modeled for one of his dream brands had he felt this special. He wants to be perfect for you, so he hides his slight nervousness and desperation with more comments, playing a little with what he knows perfectly well is your vulnerable, horny state. “Isn’t this what you wanted... since you saw me again after so long? Or do you think I didn’t notice all those looks you gave me for the past days? Relax. You’re gonna enjoy it.”

And you will. You can feel it. It would either feel soft, tender, since he’s just a young guy in his early 20s, perhaps not so open with sexual matters... or he would blow your mind, surprise you in every aspect. Jeongin is pointing towards the second option.

Then, you don’t know his next move as he straightens up and moves away from you. You think he could do anything, but a moan almost escapes your lips when you see his attractive, bony, veiny hands finally touch his towel. That’s when you know exactly what's coming, and every sense in your body awakens. You settle gently on the bed, your pussy throbbing with impatience, your mouth salivating, and your eyes nervously darting to his face, then to his hands.

You watch carefully as his hand easily undoes the fold that holds the towel at his hips, and finally, Jeongin, attractively carefree, strips off the only thing covering him from being completely naked. You sigh inwardly. The attractive image of someone like him, so vulnerable at that precise moment, completely dazzles you. Not only are you truly pleased just to see him, all of him, from his face, his toned chest and abdomen, and the incredible sight of his prominent cock, springing out, erect, fully aroused, his tip reddish, his thickness pulsing, moving along his length as if it had a life of his own. He is blessed and perfect in every aspect, as you can now see.

But for Jeongin, seeing you like this is like torture. A truly pleasurable torture. His greatest fantasy in front of him, vulnerable and submissive; your bright eyes, hungry to see him naked, so his instinct is to hold his restless cock, holding back a moan due to the sensitivity that runs through his entire rigid length.

Your eyes follow the erotic movement of his hand on his cock, stroking it from tip to base a little roughly, his hand gripping it in an exquisite back-and-forth motion. Jeongin bites his lip and thinks that he can and that he might be about to cum just by masturbating and seeing you half-lying down with your legs open. As pathetic as it sounds, it’s true, so he moves closer.

You, on the other hand, in the heat of the moment, looking at him intensely and feeling him approach, you believe that this is what he wants, that you please him, so you sit up straighter and adjust your position to a more upright one. Jeongin notices this, as well as your impatience. He lets out an arrogant chuckle, playing with his tongue, scraping it gently against his teeth. He can’t help but feel flattered, as you can’t take your eyes off his well-endowed cock.

“So wanna touch it, huh?” he says, moving closer to you.

You feel caught. At this point, he is dangerously close to you, his cock almost at the level of your mouth, right in front of you in such a suggestive way. However, Jeongin had another plan, just to please you… but upon discovering your intentions as you adjust yourself and with your, in a way, pleading eyes, his perspective changes.

Your gaze—bright and pleading—moves up from the glorious image of his swollen manhood to his face, and before you can say anything, even though you’re speechless, he adds, so seductively that it makes you shiver and swallow, moistening your throat.

“Then enjoy yourself, noona. You know how much I’ve always wanted this…”

That turns you on even more, and you almost feel a shock running through your whole body. How is it possible that he makes you feel this way?

Jeongin takes your face in his free hand, lifts your chin, and waits for your next move from that angle, until you make it. He releases his cock as soon as he feels your hands do so, closes his eyes deeply with great pleasure, enjoying it like never before, and then fixes his gaze on you.

You stir up all of your arousal, drag your buttocks a little further, and move closer to his cock. Your gaze is fixed on the hot and dirty image of both your hands on his throbbing and swollen dick, hard and sensually exuberant. Your mind is blocked from any thought other than the sensation of his sex in your hand, your restless body begging for more, and the pleasure you are both about to receive. There is no turning back now.

Jeongin looks down and admires you doing it—your right hand holding part of his member, near his base, the other just at his tip. You caress and pull his cock for a few seconds, causing a hot moan to escape from him, which motivates you and turns you on even more. You think about how dirty it would be to act boldly and resign yourself to the fact that there is no other option, so you begin to act on a hungry impulse that pushes you to do things. Your hand near his thick base takes his balls, and unable to resist any longer, your head tilts so that your lips brush against and meet his manhood, giving a loud kiss to his pink glans while your mouth salivates in anticipation and your intimacy throbs without being touched.

He breathes heavily, and his abdomen contracts at the wet sensation of your tongue on his penis. Jeongin quickly grabs your hair, getting a better view of you and ensuring that nothing interrupts you in the act.

You pull away slightly, inhaling sharply and excitedly, mentally preparing yourself and wanting to do it right; and that’s when your lips first encircle just the tip, slowly advancing along his rigid length more and more, taking inch after inch of it into your mouth. You look up to find Jeongin frustratingly focused, his brow furrowed, memorizing your every move. You make eye contact for a moment, and desire takes hold of you again.

You think everything about him is fucking sexy, even the fact that you’re there, locked in his room—almost, since you’re sure he didn’t lock the door—sneaking around, doing dirty things while strangers, to you, visit the house of the guy whose cock you have in your mouth. Even that is fucking sexy… you go crazy, it’s like doing something wrong, not at the best time, with a person you shouldn’t, and that makes it better.

So, you take his cock more desperately for a few seconds and then you stick out your tongue to wet his entire erection and give yourself pleasure with the texture of his masculinity, without wasting a single inch or part of his anatomy, even sucking his balls from time to time. You can’t help but want him so badly; you’re desperately aroused, almost feral.

Jeongin has certain throbbing, noticeable veins on his penis that drive you crazy every time your tongue glides over them. Your gaze doesn’t remain fixed, you see your action—a very hot, passionate, and spontaneous oral sex, and then you see him and every part of his body reacting, his abs rising and falling as he breathes heavily, his abdomen tightening, his attractive face reflecting pure pleasure, enjoying it.

Your restless hands caress his abs, play with his testicles, and run over his body. Each action is quick, fleeting, but quite persistent and intense in its own way. You taste his precum oozing out, sucking on his tip, and then spitting a little to moisten his length and start jerking his cock more easily. At this point, everything is a mess, a very pleasant and gently obscene one.

You feel soaking down there, and your saliva has become slightly sticky after sucking him a little; the sensation in your hand is slippery… but nothing compares to the moment when you stop and raise your gaze again to appreciate and delight in his gasps and face. His grip on your hair gets tighter, you feel him tense up, tremble, and start to whimper, a sound that turns you on and even makes your nipples hard. Having him like this is indescribable, so while he whimpers, you go back to sucking him off, cupping his balls to feel his twitching orgasm. You suck hard, stuffing as much of his throbbing member into your mouth as you can, noticing how you have to open your mouth wider and wider to accommodate his size, fantasizing about how it would stretch your entrance once he shoves his cock inside you and fucks you.

But now you feel the need to savor his climax. Still… that’s not what he wants yet. He wants yours, all of you.

Jeongin is overwhelmed; he thinks he might cum right there. He can feel his orgasm building. Just the way you suck him so fantastically and your hands playing with every inch of him, from his sensitive testicles to every inch of his erection, you are wonderful, there’s no doubt about that, and as much as he’d like to cum hard, fill your mouth with his semen, see his fluid obscenely spill out of your mouth and drip onto the bed, or even take it out and shoot it onto your pretty face—the thoughts and sensations are killing him and even hastening his climax.

“Fuck… fuck,” he whimpers. “Stop, please stop,” he whimpers, yet his voice remains deep.

You don’t believe what you hear at first. You stop, thinking you did something wrong, and look at him, confused.

He clears his throat, noticing your expression, and tries to be clear.

“How about it’s my turn now?” he adds.

You blink, still confused, and understand as soon as you see him take a step back. You lick your lips and wipe your mouth. Jeongin leans toward you, gently positioning himself on top of you again as you are forced to lie back down.

You couldn’t agree more. You begin to feel even more genuine, intense, the fact that your sexual appetite will be satisfied, and you swallow nervously once again as he positions himself on top of you. You think he’s going to take off your panties and fuck you hard, and you’re fine with that; you can almost feel it. However, his hot, stolen kiss takes you by surprise. He captures your lips deeper this time, desperate and hungry, savoring himself in the act, and then drifts down your neck, his cold chain brushing your skin, until his hot breath stops at your chest.

Jeongin roughly grabs your dress and pulls it without measuring his strength, simply to remove it from your breasts and expose them. He admires them, so perfect, better than he ever imagined. Your nipples harden, and you feel the warmth of the soft rays of sunlight peeking through the window, gently embracing your skin. But that warmth is combined with Jeongin’s mouth, which roughly takes one of your breasts at first, squeezing the other.

His mouth opens, first to lick your nipple and then to take as much of your tit as he can, humming with pleasure. You bite your lip, almost holding back. His hands and lips burn on your skin, his tongue exquisitely claiming what is his. You see him, his mouth pressed against your breasts, his large hand massaging you.

“You like this, huh? How I lick your tits—? Oh, they’re so soft and mmm…”

Jeongin moans. It’s a dream for him in every way. He is prolonging his orgasm while yours is just beginning to build slowly, just from having him on top of you, touching you.

Meanwhile, you feel his comment makes you blush. Hearing his voice echoing so loud and sensual between the moans and breaths, combined with the soft background music enjoyed by the guests downstairs, makes your intimacy crave more of him. You can feel your desperation so strongly that your whole body, and especially your femininity, cries out to be used by him, to have him enter you and fuck you hard and roughly, with the same intensity and passion promised by the foreplay that clouds your vision and teases your arousal. You think you can’t take it anymore, your legs becoming impatient, rubbing against his sheet, looking for a way to escape the overwhelming sensation that you can’t calm down, and for a moment, you wonder if you really… should beg Jeongin to start touching you, right there.

Your breathing becomes more ragged, and you moan when he sucks your breasts and nibbles lightly on your nipple. Jeongin could lose himself there, but he knows there’s a better part to play with and give pleasure to, and consequently cause a very good reaction in you.

He notices your impatience, pulls away from you after leaving your breasts sensitive, and smiles once more, with such pleasure that his characteristic dimples are visible on his handsome face.

“So impatience, baby, I see.”

Jeongin lifts your dress, exposing your abdomen and panties. You sigh at the sudden, abrupt act. He begins to act quickly but precisely. Despite being as desperate as you are, his actions are steady and confident—like he knows exactly what he’s doing, like having you like this is nothing new, like he already knows what you want.

He bites his lip at the sight of your panties, the thin fabric stretched tight, caught between your lips. His heart races, though his movements stay calm, controlled, meant to show you exactly what he’s capable of making you feel.

His fingers entangle themselves in the elastic of your panties, and he pulls them down quickly, sliding them between your legs and sensually removing them. He admires you again, naked and exasperated, just as he had desired in his deepest and most erotic dreams, healing in him the memory of his younger self, blushing and feeling ashamed at the slightest sexual thought he used to have about you.

Jeongin notices your wet folds and, allowing himself to be dominated by his intrusive thoughts, he inserts two of his fingers into you without warning. You moan, and he slowly digs in, then pulls them out of you and licks his fingers coated with your lust with relish. He is fulfilling and satisfying his perverse fantasies.

Then, he says in a slow, confident, and lewd tone.

“You’re so wet... and I haven’t even touched you yet. I’m sorry, my bad. Let me make it up to you. I want you to cum in my mouth and say my name.”

And in his mind, he repeats how good it will make you feel, boosting his ego and spirits.

Once again, he doesn’t let you process what he’s said or what just happened, as your judgment is clouded by his quick and skillful action. Jeongin positions himself, pleasurably crushing his erection, enjoying aligning his mouth with your pussy. He stretches your skin, parting your folds, giving the first hot and deep lick to your cunt.

You tremble a little, your hips jerk in response, hands already fisting the sheets, you can already feel how intense it will be.

His lips work wonders on you. First, he kisses your entire femininity slowly, deliberately, and sensually, just to tease you, to taste and moisten his lips with your already anticipated arousal. And, when you least expect it, his upper lip rests on the skin of your pubis and his tongue presses right on your clit, performing a series of movements that make you gasp, relieved and overwhelmed at the same time.

Jeongin smiles at your reaction, his mouth still pressed against you, watching the way your body grows impatient, restless. The rush of desire surging through him hardens him again, making him feel almost too capable of the slightest thing could push him over the edge, overwhelmed by the pleasure of finally tasting you, of hearing you moan for him.

He first sucks slowly, precisely, almost just to test you, to revel in the subtle way you ask for more and more of him, impatient. Then he holds your thighs, squeezing and massaging them with exquisite force, trying to keep you still. And that’s when he slowly loses control, delighting in you. Jeongin loses track of time, and all his mind and body focus on is the pleasure he is giving you and, consequently, the very hot benefit for himself. He licks, sucks, and slurps against your pussy, occasionally taking the time to appreciate how he leaves it, shiny, stimulated, and lubricated, throbbing softly. He couldn’t like anything else more right now.

You moan perhaps louder than planned, sighing his name and earning provocative glances from him from time to time. You don’t want him to stop. You want him to stay there until he makes you come. And that’s exactly his goal.

“Mmm, that’s it, y/n. Mmm—fuck, baby, you’re delicious, I can’t—I—” Jeongin hums, between a hot, restrained groan, his warm breath and the vibration of his masculine voice against your center making you shiver.

But nothing compares to when he plays with your sensitive clit, and he knows it very well; he knows it’s a very sensitive spot, and he can read your body perfectly, knowing that when he touches you there, you become increasingly aroused, almost begging senselessly in weak sighs. Jeongin takes his time, pressing your clit delicately with his tongue, increasing the pace when he feels you getting impatient, sucking, licking, and tracing circles on you, making you shift your hips more abruptly, writhing with pleasure, seeking some kind of release at the same time.

You get frustrated, subtly whimpering his name. You feel your orgasm approaching, heavy, slow, tensing every muscle in your body.

Jeongin appreciates your reaction and, just as you gasp, he decides to speed things up, taking complete control of everything, your body, rhythm, climax, and the situation, as he slowly inserts two of his long fingers into you, pushing you even further.

He moans softly as he feels your insides, rushing your voracious orgasm. He pulls away from your pussy a little and concentrates on penetrating you with his fingers, slow at first, increasing the pace more and more ruthlessly, steadily, deeply, filling you, exquisitely touching your insides.

“Je-Jeongin—” you gasp breathlessly, seeing his attractive expression through a soft, cloudy vision.

But you whimper as you feel the fingers of his free hand stimulate your sensitive clit again. Your eyes slightly roll back, you bite your lip and cling tighter to the sheets… it’s been a long time since you came with such an almost embarrassing and thunderous intensity.

You whimper more consistently, you’re sensitive, and his touches are becoming more and more violent… but you don’t want him to stop, not when you’re so close. And he feels it, in every inch of him, your sweet gasps making him shudder, so he encourages you, without losing that soft, teasing, proud tone.

“Come on, princess, cum for me. Do it. You’re doing great—come…”

His caresses and fingers increase with each word. Giving them meaning.

You feel subtly embarrassed, suddenly thinking about all the time you’ve spent there in his room doing something you shouldn’t… but your climax is so good, breathtaking and intense that you arch your back and let yourself go in an exasperating, weak gasp.

Jeongin’s smile widens, revealing his adorable dimples and perfect teeth, his eyes narrowing. He pulls his fingers out of you and savors your orgasm that coats them, licking his digits and mouth as he wipes every taste of you.

You continue to recover slowly… taking in what you just saw, finding it so damn hot and sexy. Damn, the man that Yang Jeongin is now… capable of leaving you gasping and trembling with only the skills of his mouth and hands. At what point did you end up like this—a mess on the bed in his family home?

He tastes your pussy one last time, causing you to let out a quick squeal. His chest swells with pride, and to climax too, he positions himself, taking his very erect cock and aligning it with your already wet entrance, still throbbing from your recent climax.

His glans teases your entrance and slides along your pussy lips. And, before you can say anything else, Jeongin reaches into the drawer of the nightstand next to his bed to get a condom… because if he wanted to be a gentleman, a real man and prove it to you, he wouldn’t be immature enough to fuck you without protection… at least not now, that’s not the first impression he wants you to have of him.

You watch him closely. Jeongin puts on the condom skillfully, extremely casually, biting his lip, holding back a moan as he stretches the latex to his full length. And he repositions himself, exquisitely on top of you, his crucifix dangling in the air.

“You’re gonna take me, huh, noona…? All of me…?” he says, innocently fake, licking his teeth and raising his eyebrows flirtatiously.

He can’t wait any longer and slides his cock inside you slowly. You both moan at the sensation, both sexes finally meeting and connecting—stimulated and highly sensitive. Your insides still throb with slow, sharp spasms that squeeze and tease Jeongin’s cock.

Every sensation is heightened. You whimper louder as your walls try to adjust to him as he shoves his entire cock inside… but you’ve been waiting for this, and in slight desperation, you beg weakly:

“Jeongin, please—fuck me.”

His ego and desire grow. He’s deep inside you, warm, still, trying to hold back and pretending that your throbbing pussy isn’t squeezing him even tighter. But he can’t help it… it made his stomach knot up—you begging, asking, you letting him have you right now.

“Say it again, please.”

Once isn’t enough, and you’re impatient.

“Please… mov—fuck me, please, Jeon—.”

That’s all he needs. And suddenly, something in him just takes hold of him.

“I’ll make you feel better than all the other fucking men you’ve been with, sweetheart. You’re going to love the way I fuck you,” he adds, surprisingly intimidating and quite confident.

You believe every word he says... Jeongin is turning out to be the best sex you’ve ever had, and you reaffirm this once again as soon as he starts moving.

You’re still slightly sensitive, but that makes the sensation of his hard cock sliding mercilessly into you even more intense. You whimper softly every time his cock hits your cervix, when his rough but precisely accurate thrusts rattle you to your core, his pelvis and the rest of his manhood pounding you hard, steady. At first, it’s a gentle burning pain, pleasurable, which soon becomes so satisfying and addictive. You want more and more.

Jeongin caresses your thighs and, in an impulsive movement, handles your body as he pleases, bending your legs, pressing your thighs against your body, fucking you hard, briefly placing your calves on his shoulders... wanting to have you from every possible angle, hopelessly admiring you as he grunts with the force of each thrust.

Then he lets your legs rest and moves closer to you, his chain dangling as he watches you intently and keeps up the steady rhythm of his hips penetrating you. He makes it look so easy, not stopping or giving up, leaving you completely wrecked and panting, but it takes incredible energy and strength from him, which your expression and body writhing beneath him encourage, as he is just as tense, his veins standing out on his strong, attractive arms resting on the bed, every inch of him is alive, pumping, so close but painfully restraining himself to fulfill his slightly masochistic and perverted side, to satisfy you.

And your sighs, the sensation of your walls squeezing and throbbing from the constant friction of his member against your soaked pussy, the sound of your moans, and both of your skins colliding are simply the best for him. You caress his arms for a moment, seeking to calm the overwhelming sensations by wrapping your legs around his body, and your hips jerk more, a sign of the second orgasm building inside you, making your muscles burn with pleasure.

So he doesn’t take long to notice or point it out to you, since part of him can’t help thinking that something like this would have been impossible a few years ago... when he was nothing more than your friend’s scrawny little brother, just another kid... and now here you are, moaning his name, begging him to make you come again.

“Aww, noona, look at you, you’re just—” he thrusts harder, causing a slight growl and purr in his voice, “begging for me to fuck you more. You like this—me fucking you this hard? Oh, you’re so dirty, baby. You feel so good... Gonna cum for me again, huh?”

Jeongin doesn’t lose his cute, proud smile for a second, except for the few seconds when he concentrates and is overwhelmed by his building climax. But his comments are true, your eyes slowly tearing up and you start to feel your cheeks flush, you know he’s saying this just to tease you... and he does it very well. You can’t take it anymore; his constant pounding hits a key spot in you.

“Jeongin... Jeongin!” you whimper weakly but desperately.

“Oh yeah, that’s it, come for me.”

He can't resist either; he feels so close that the vein in his forehead is subtly noticeable. In a desperate move, Jeongin gently grabs your neck, squeezing it with his large hand as he feels you finally collapse into a trembling orgasm. He doesn’t stop and penetrates you until the reaction of your climax—walls tightening and throbbing—brings him to the edge. Jeongin cums, softening his thrusts, cursing as he whimpers and both of you let yourselves go completely.

The two of you find yourselves processing the frenetic and pleasurable moment that still lingers within you, but Jeongin takes the opportunity to move his hand from your neck to your face, gently caressing your lips with his thumb, then leaning in closer and giving you an unexpected kiss that you gladly receive.

Finally, he comments flirtatiously, still inside you, with a light and soft chuckle:

“Let’s not let so much time pass without seeing each other again.”

♡  taglist @rylea08 @hann1bee @iovecb97 @armystay89  @houseapologist @bubblebisk  @ayyonoona @do-you-remember-summer-127 @wildtokay @korthbum @hyune-sssne @cherricola-star  @oddracha @choso4u @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @bokkiesluv @thvsuga @myrkhive @enhacolor @nightmarenyxx @smuttaburger @mintchocoddeonut @ysljoon @wonniecutie @staytinyluva @rockstarkkami @lyuuu88 @vxyselectric @rekussk @eyes-ofhell   @lezleeferguson-120 @Memo2003 @deffnot-ramiyah @ch4nniebang @xesqz @bitesizd @jellyfishmushroom @axlenbear  @127ismylife @ye0lkkot @soonie1010 @geni-627 @whoa-jo

So the subway awaited you. It took some time to figure out how it worked. Metro Cards demanded refills from nearby tills. People maneuvered in every direction, filling the underground tunnels with the murmur of humans. Two weeks ago, you embarrassed yourself at the turnstile, swiping your Metro Card multiple times. You didn't realize you'd used the last of the money on your card until the person behind you pointed it out. 

The small built-in screen flashed zeroes, leaving you mortified. Not only did you feel embarrassed about being called out, but you held up the growing line behind you. Everyone seemed to access the subway during the evening. You mumbled an apology quickly, but it didn't soothe the anger of those who were restless. You hurried away, shoving your Metro Card into your jacket, vowing to never experience that embarrassment again. 

You pushed the distant memory away and shut your eyes. Your head tipped forward and you sucked in a slow breath. This late, the trains continued to run. The crowds dwindled drastically. When you waited on the platform, only a few people followed behind you. Most of New York slept and those who weren't, were likely working the graveyard shift. 

The train shifted beneath you, wobbling along a sudden turn. Somewhere, a loose screw rattled. The window panels vibrated and the tunnels passed quickly. Fluorescent lights above your head left nothing uncovered. The bright white shone in every direction, as if you and the three other passengers in your car were lab rats. The darkness outside didn't matter, those lights didn't dim. 

You curled your fingers against your knees mindlessly, replaying the past few hours in your head. Deep down, you knew you shouldn't have been hurt from the fling, but you were. When your best friend finally convinced you to download a dating app, "just for something to do," you found yourself regretting it. 

How real can it be? Everyone pushes dating apps, but most of the time, it leads to broken hearts, bad hook-ups, and a quiet hollowness. It all felt fake. You listed your quirks, the things that make you who you are, and you hope someone gave you a chance. You put yourself out there like a dog in a shelter, attempting to get the attention of the person that walked in. All that hard work to get their attention, just for them to adopt the dog beside you. 

Tonight was date two, if you could even call it a date. You should have known what happens when you go to people's houses this soon. The moment you walked through the door, you greeted your Tinder match with a wide smile. A casual jeans and t-shirt, you prepared a plate of homemade cookies. 

An hour making them, another hour waiting for them to cool, and another twenty minutes spent arranging them on the plate, so they didn't look silly. You over-thought everything, but you liked your match. The first date, you spent it at a nearby cafe getting to know each other. How naive to think you really had something. 

You never got the meal they promised to make. You spent the past few hours at their place, pretending you weren't feeling well. The moment you found out their motives, the desire for merely a fling, your heart dropped to your stomach. Was it foolish to believe a stranger's words on the first date, back when they said they wanted something more? 

Bodies are the latest hot commodities, always being used, but never truly being known. Casual hookups, the quickest kiss-to-go, and you wanted none of it. You didn't want goodbyes, you craved the see you laters. It wasn't just love, you desired loyalty, the slow burn of finding someone and falling in love over a period of time. 

You knew it was foolish to dub dating hopeless these days, but it sure did feel like it. The right people were out there, but you hadn't stumbled across one of them yet. Your eyes fluttered shut. The train's rhythm calmed your heart.

The couple across the way hadn't let go of each other's hands yet. They stepped into the train attached to one another and for the past ten minutes, they'd still not let go. Love looked at you and laughed. It mocked you, even on a Thursday at two in the morning. What were the odds? 

The train jerked to the side and your head slammed into the back window. You jerked upright with a wince, quickly cupping the back of your head. "Damn it," you mumbled beneath your breath. 

A brake hissed and the train came to a sudden stop. You looked over, finding a distant view of the city. The train finally expelled from the darkened tunnels, just in time to freeze along the track without warning. The couple on the other side of the train frowned and shared a dreaded look. The moment the loud speaker clicked on, you knew you were all fucked. 

The words came out mumbled and incoherent. 

"Train delay... switch malfunction." 

You rolled your eyes, unable to hide the annoyance. Just fucking great. Not only did you have a horrible time on your disaster date, but now you were stuck on a train. As if it couldn't get any worse, your stomach grumbled. Self-consciously, you tugged your arms over your torso. 

"Shut up," you whispered. 

Your eyes narrowed at the floor. An unknown stain sat parallel to nearby seats. A big glob of ugly red something. You pulled your eyes away, hoping it was ketchup and not the alternative. Trying to calm down, you moved and brushed your hands over your knees. 

Subways are constantly delayed for a plethora of reasons. Of course, they'd figure it out and then you'd start on your way again. You'd get off at the right station, find a convenience store and find something to satisfy your unhappy stomach. By the time you'd get home, you'd indulge in something salty and forget the entire evening. 

Something flickered out of the corner of your eye. A matte-black pair of headphones slipped off a guy’s head. You didn't remember him getting on the train when you did, but he must have. He tugged out a phone and pressed a few buttons, speaking quiet Korean into it. 

You knew you shouldn't stare, but you did. Faded denim draped wide over a pair of black converse. A dark crew neck covered his shoulders and hung around his torso. Something sat embroidered on his baseball cap, but you couldn't read it from this distance. An angled jaw, kissable lips, and- 

Your cheeks dusted scarlet. You shifted sideways, pulling yourself away from him. The plastic seats beneath you provided no relief. No cushion, no padding, just an eagerness to bruise your tailbone. Could the night get any worse? 

"Um." 

Your heart quickened at the sound of the man's voice. His eyes narrowed and he shifted his head, looking at the map. The canvas secured itself to the top of the metal plating, showing all the stops for the train. He stood up, walked over, and cocked his head. 

"I don't know, hyung." 

More Korean. A little more English. A combination of the two blended together, creating the best sound you'd ever heard. Maybe you were just like everyone else when it came to dates. When one person didn't work, you were onto your next, trying to find someone who fit into your life's puzzle. 

His left hand dangled down at his thigh. You squinted, trying to see through the brightness. You moved further forward and then the brake hissed. A distant ding sounded. The train lurched forward with little warning and so did you. 

With a yelp, you were thrown from your seat. You hit the floor loud enough to grab everyone's attention. Every curse word flew through your head, but you forced yourself up and slipped into your original spot. With flared nostrils, you brushed your hands together, attempting to get off all the germs. 

"I'll figure it out." 

The denim of your own jeans provided no relief. You brushed your hands among them, too. A sharp breath turned into a sigh. You moved back against the seats, no longer paying attention to the few people around you. Too humiliated, you didn't look up. 

The woman gestured to you. She mouthed something to her boyfriend, but neither of them came over to check on you. Not that you expected them to. Quite a few New Yorkers were known for keeping to themselves and you couldn't blame them. It was foolish for you to move out of your seat like that to begin with. 

That guy was a stranger. You knew nothing about him and you were rolling around a handful of losses like marbles. The city is so big, people are here one day and gone the next. Just by the fluent Korean and the Korean accent tangled in his English, you highly doubted he was a native New Yorker. 

People came to New York for multiple reasons; career work, networking, vacation, family reunions, and the list went on. It was so late, certainly he had a reason for being here, but it had nothing to do with you. 

Settling into your losses, you sank down in the plastic seat. At least, the engine rumbled beneath you. The night skyline disappeared further and further from view. Thousands of bright lights twinkled like stars and then they were gone. The train turned, following the right path to get where you were going. You'd be home soon and for that, you'd be grateful. 

"Excuse me?" 

You glanced up at the voice and froze. The Korean man gestured to your hands. "Are you okay? I saw you fall." 

You quickly nodded, sitting up. "Yeah, yeah. I wasn't expecting the train to jolt forward without warning." 

"May I sit near you?" 

You blinked, not sure if you heard him right. He stood back, waiting for an answer. His headphones looped around his neck. The phone came up missing, probably pushed into one of his pockets. This close, you could see what laid on his baseball cap. The letters Y and N were embroidered over one another, creating the logo for the New York Yankees. 

You reached over and tugged your bag back towards you. "Sure. Go ahead. New York Yankees? Do you like baseball?" 

"Baseball?" 

You gestured to his hat. 

"Oh. That's what that is? I borrowed this from my friend." 

"Your friend has good taste." 

He chuckled and moved further down, putting some space between you. "I like baseball. I'm not sure about the Yankees. I've never watched them." 

"You're on their home turf. If you have the time, their field is in the Bronx. You should check it out, if you get a chance." 

He nodded and shifted, attempting to get comfortable. Your heart skipped a few beats here and there. You wanted to keep the conversation rolling, but the words failed to come out. Silence engulfed the two of you and for a bit, that's how it stayed; two strangers caught in a moment. 

Eventually, he pulled out his phone and moved it your way. Panic squeezed your heart. How could he want your number already? The two of you just met and it hadn't been five minutes yet. 

"Can you help me? I think I'm lost." He pointed to an address on his phone. "I need to get here. I might have took the wrong subway." 

You glanced at the address and your face softened. "I know where that's at. If you get off at the same stop with me, I can get you there. Staying temporarily?" 

"Ah." He smiled shyly and reached up, grabbing the back of his neck. "I've been here a few times, but yeah. I work in music and I'm producing something here with my group." 

"This hotel is nice. You guys must have a big budget. I've been there before." 

"It is nice." 

"Great bathrooms, too. I can't vouch for the rooms, but the downstairs toilets have an impeccable shine. I slipped inside to use them one day. It's pretty difficult to find public bathrooms in New York, right?" 

High-pitched laughter tumbled between his lips. You joined in with your own laughter, enjoying the sudden melody. He clicked off his phone, still smiling. "You're funny, I like that." 

"Thank you. I have my moments of humor." 

When the laughter settled, he questioned your own intentions in New York. 

"Oh? Me?" You shrugged. "Not nearly as cool as you. I moved here a few months ago. I had a savings account and a dream." 

"And you moved to New York to pursue it?" 

"Sounds cliche, doesn't it? Many people crave city life, so they can follow their dreams." 

"But New York has a certain charm, so it must be a good dream." 

You nodded and looked away, blushing again. "I like to think so, yeah." You opened your mouth to speak, but your stomach growled once more. Loud and fierce, it threatened to deafen you. The moment your eyes widened, Changbin's laughter blossomed again. You mumbled an apology, nursing the embarrassment yet again. He waved it off, enjoying the small talk.

After a few more minutes, he introduced himself. 

"I'm Changbin." 

"Changbin? That's a nice name. I don't think I've ever heard it before." 

"Good. I like to be the only one of me. It's Korean. I was born in South Korea and my mom worked hard to pick it out just for me. Millions of names out there and she settled on Changbin." 

"A lovely name for a handsome man." 

You regretted the words the moment they slipped out, but Changbin drank them up. "Handsome? You think so? You're too kind." 

"I know so." 

His head tipped down, but the ear-to-ear smile gave away his true thoughts. A dimple appeared and warmed your heart. Maybe you weren't as horrible at small talk as you thought you were. The train shifted along the track, parting on the rails, and moving to another. 

"You're not so bad yourself." 

"I'm flattered." 

When he looked up, his attention turned to the windows on the other side of the train. Above ground, the train screeched against metal tracks. The industrial area turned otherworldly in the darkness. Pockets of orange shined in every direction, thanks to the littering of outdoor lights. 

Your own gaze followed. Big block letters pushed up against one another. Art existed where it shouldn't have. A looped graffiti tag written in a dark color. It was there and then it was gone. The train hurried ahead and rattled over a bump. 

Changbin's breath hitched. His hands moved up and he curled his fingers around the plastic edge of the seat. You noticed his discomfort immediately. "Have you ever used the subway?" 

"Not much. I wish it had..." He trailed off, wishing he could think of the right word. A hand shifted and tugged across his shoulder. "The safety strap thing." 

"A seat belt?" 

He nodded, weakly chuckling at his distress. "Yeah. The tracks are wobbly. Back in Seoul, the subways don't make this much noise. They're quieter, brighter, and it feels nice. New York's subways are-" 

"Thrilling and dangerous? Loud and chaotic?" 

"I don't wish to be rude." 

"A simple observation isn't rude." You shifted, turning in his direction to face him. "What are the subway stations and trains like in Seoul?" 

"New York has a darker color scheme. Seoul is white and clean. People are quieter, time slows down, and there isn't much talking. People talk loud here, you know? Not a bad thing, just... different." 

"New York is good at that, it has grit. Loud, demanding, and passionate. People don't settle for silence here. Phone calls on speaker phone, music leaking from headphones, and I've even seen people bring their small dogs and put them in their purses." 

"Dogs in subways are rare in Seoul. They have to be brought in a proper carrier, no bag. Most people don't." 

You hummed softly and nodded. "Interesting. It must be strange going from a place like that to the hustle and bustle of New York." 

"Yes," he perked up, "but I like it. This is scary, but fun. New and exciting, so I like it." 

"Good." 

"But..." His smile fell. "Not when I'm lost. I don't like being lost." 

"I'll make sure you're delivered to the right hotel in one piece, I promise." 

The silence grew between the two of you again. Your eyes moved around the train, wondering what it was like in Seoul. You'd never thought about the heavy contrast between the two before. The cleanliness striking through the steady grit of New York. New York attracted a plethora of people. 

You weren't sure when the train’s floor had been cleaned properly. The glob of red across the way remained untouched. Every time you touched one of the metal poles within the train car, you could feel the thousands of germs lock onto your hand. It was hard to tell who grabbed the pole before you. 

The rumbling beneath you quieted and the train eased to a slow stop. Another faint ding and a murmur of the crackling speaker from the conductor. You pushed yourself up and grabbed your bag. "Come on, this is our stop." 

He followed after you, brushing his hands against his back pocket to make sure he still had his phone and wallet. His hotel room's key sat near his driver's license. He should have waited for Jisung and Chan to finish up at the studio, but he didn't. 

Every member of Stray Kids was in New York for the next week. 3racha were working with a new producer for a few songs. A film crew would appear the day after tomorrow. A music video needed to be shot to make next month's deadline. Jeongin was supposed to have a meeting with some new brand about a potential ambassadorship. 

A Spotify advertisement sat somewhere in Times Square with their faces on it. Fans posted about it non-stop on social media. The guys wanted to head out tomorrow and take some photos. There was time to kill before the rush of the city held them hostage. 

Changbin had finished writing the lyrics he had been working on. Meanwhile, Jisung and Chan were swept away by the inspiration of being somewhere new. He wanted to go back to the hotel, but the guys didn't want to leave yet. He was certain he could figure out the subway system himself, but he couldn't. 

You stepped on the cement floor, moving further away from the sliding door. A group of people stood to the side, eager to get on. After moving forward a little ways, you glanced back. Changbin walked after you, glancing around at all the signs. 

Uptown and downtown. Arrows pointed in different directions. People murmured beneath hazy lights. The subway station turned into a liminal space. A police officer stood tall. Thumbs injected into his utility belt, he scanned the area, waiting for some type of action to excite his shift. Little did he know, it'd never come tonight. 

You led Changbin off to the left. One of the overhead lights flickered in the distance, threatening to burn out and go dead. Someone whistled behind you. The stairway to lead out of the subway wasn't too far away. Changbin remained quiet, trailing behind you. When the silence became unbearable, he spoke up again. 

"So what brings you out at this hour? It's late, don't you think?" 

"Me?" You shrugged. You kept moving forward, not wanting to turn around. "I had a date tonight. Well, it was supposed to be a date. It was a waste of time, really. We wanted two different things, so uh..." 

"Sorry to hear that." 

"Don't be. It's New York. Plenty of fish in the sea, right? It's statistically impossible that I won't be able to find my person some day."

You said the words playfully, as if it was funny, but he could tell there was hurt beneath them. Dating wasn't the easiest when it came to such a large place. Everyone lived their own lives. How much commitment are people really committed to when there's so many people and so much variety? 

Not wanting to talk about it for too long, you switched the subject. Cemented stairs appeared around a corner, leading out into the neon streets. You grabbed the metal rail and headed out of the tunnels. "You should have gotten off at the last stop, it was closer to your hotel. That's okay, walking isn't crowded this time of night." 

"I'm sorry." 

"Don't be," you waved him off. "It'll be a nice adventure. It's been a couple of weeks since I've been out that far, it'll be nice. Unless," you glanced back, "you want to call an Uber?" 

Your stomach rumbled once more, causing your face to fall. You cursed beneath your breath and hiked yourself up the last few stairs. Changbin followed. "Are you hungry?" 

"A little, but it's not a big deal. My date promised to make dinner hours ago, but they never did." 

"Should we find something somewhere? I'm a little hungry, too." 

"Are you okay with that? The people you work with, are they waiting for you?" 

"They can wait longer. I texted them. They know I'll be delayed, but I didn't say how much." 

On the top of the step, you sucked in a deep breath. A chill sat in the air and brushed against your bare arms. You wished you would have brought a jacket, but you didn't. Cars came to a slow crawl at a red light. You walked away from the subway exit and off to a distant building. 

"I'm sure we can find something. It's late, but there's plenty of places that are still open. The perks of living in a big city." You reached back and tugged out your phone, silently grateful he wanted to get food. 

Changbin stood beside you and leaned back against the building. It was easy to feel like an ant. Buildings towered high above you. The stars were swallowed by light pollution and overtaken by a new kind of star. Lights shone high above, somewhere on the twentieth floor of an apartment complex. 

Sirens whirled to life on another block. Despite the buildings and lull of traffic, they still reached your ears. You flipped through Google searches, trying to find the right place. As you searched, Changbin watched the cars head down the street. Even in the dead of night, both New York City and Seoul had late night drivers in common. 

"There's a bodega a few blocks away from here." 

"Bodega?" 

You put your phone away. "Like a small convenience store. They have prepackaged stuff and it's great for hitting the spot. Come on, let's go. I'm sure you'll be able to find one thing you like." 

He pushed himself off the wall and followed, eager to learn more about you. You struck up another conversation, not caring that it was this late at night. Despite the darkness, you didn't show fear. With your head held high, you moved through the sidewalks like you were on a mission. 

"Do you always come out this late?" 

"Rarely ever," you admitted. "I left the person I was seeing. I was supposed to stay there overnight, but it didn't end well. I left before an argument developed. I would have been home sooner, but my train was delayed." 

"I'm glad. Not to be rude," Changbin quickly defended his harsh words. "I'm glad I bumped into you. I don't know many people from the city. If my friends would have to stop working and come get me, well..." 

"They're working this late?" 

"Writing lyrics." 

When a stranger came around the corner, you shifted your position, staying to the side, so he could get through. As you passed, you uttered a faint greeting. He mumbled a faint "hello" before heading over to a vehicle. 

 Cars speckled throughout the side streets for parking. Some places had warning signs, equipped with the threat of a parking ticket if you parked near them. Other spots had signs for handicapped parking. The main streets speckled with vehicles driving towards the unknown. 

"What kind of songs?" 

"Whatever their heart wants. Our company gives us free reign when it comes to music. I like writing upbeat raps." 

You paused and spun around, narrowing your eyes at him. He shifted beneath your gaze, unprepared for it. You spun back to the front and continued walking. "I wouldn't have guessed you rapped at first glance. You live in Seoul, right? It must pay pretty well if you live there and you're here working with people." 

He wanted to tell you the name of his group, but he ultimately left it unsaid. He liked the playful energy you radiated and didn't dare ruin this. If you found out the fame attached to his name, would you still be this authentic? Would you still want to stick around, if you knew about the hoards of jealousy that stuck clumps of his fans together? The constant illusion of a parasocial relationship, would you understand it? 

"It has perks and money is one of them." 

"You're a lucky man, Changbin." 

"I think so, too." 

"And in ten minutes, you'll be luckier. The Google reviews said this place has a great selection of sandwiches. They're prewrapped in plastic wrap. A sandwich, a bag of chips, and a drink, it's practically a New York staple when you're on the move." 

"Sandwiches?" He quickened his pace, trying to keep up with your quick strides. "Did they say what kind?" 

When you realized you were making him rush, you slowed down. It was something you'd gotten used to when you moved here. If you didn't walk quickly, you'd be walked over. Even worse, someone would tell you to go faster or move out of the way. You adapted to their fluid movements quite quickly. 

"Probably the basic stuff. Ham, turkey, tuna, egg salad. Usually, there's a whole bunch and they're delicious." 

"We have things like that back in Seoul. Our convenience stores are open all day and all night. Plenty of things to pick from. I like going out and getting ramen every now and then." 

"Oh! I've heard about that! You have a bunch of different flavors?" 

"Many." 

The two of you continued to talk side-by-side. Without meaning to, you moved closer to him at some point. By the time you noticed, it'd been a while and he didn't pull away. You continued talking, as if nothing was quietly brewing between the two of you. Your heart quickened again, but you forced yourself to put on a brave face. 

In the middle of a conversation about drinks, a sharp horn cut you off. Someone slammed on the brakes in front of another car. Both you and Changbin looked over. A window rolled down and a middle finger was thrown towards a car in front of them. 

"Watch where you're going, asshole!" 

You snorted and quickly threw a hand over your mouth, not wanting to offend the driver. Changbin's eyes widened at the crude remark. "Wow. Does this happen a lot?" 

"Welcome to New York City." 

The conversation never ended. By the time you reached the bodega, you grabbed the door handle first. You pulled it open and gestured for Changbin to head inside. "After you." 

"Thank you." 

You followed and stepped into the brightly lit store. Out front, the welcome neon sign flickered every few seconds, trying to catch the attention of the people passing by. Changbin looked left and looked right. It was much smaller than the convenience stores he was used to. 

Only a few shelves sat in the area. Coolers lined the far side of the building. Glass and plastic bottles lined different areas. Soda, energy drinks, water, sports drinks, and alcohol sat in rows, begging to be purchased. Cellophane bags held a variety of savory and sweet snacks. A cooler near the cash register held the sandwiches and prepackaged items you were talking about. 

"Welcome to one of the best parts of New York." 

At the sound of voices, the elderly man behind the cash register looked up. Salt and pepper hair sat parted to the side. He dropped the newspaper he was holding and straightened his spine. You shot him a smile and he returned it with a blink. 

"What do you like?" You asked. 

Behind you, an ATM's electronic screen droned on. The shelves held a collection of toiletries and personal items. The Charmin Bears stood proudly on the front of the toilet paper packaging, demonstrating how soft their toilet paper was, by pressing it against their furry cheeks. 

Your favorite deodorant sat on another shelf. You ignored that section and moved towards the food. Your stomach let off another growl, cutting through the hum of the coolers. 

By the time Changbin joined you, you had a small bag of chips and a candy bar. He shuffled behind you, trying to keep a respectable distance. The aisles were far too narrow for comfort, cluttered with an array of items. Picking what you wanted felt nearly impossible. 

One bag of chips sat in your hand, but when you noticed a new savory mix of pretzels and crackers, you hesitated. "Decisions, decisions," you mumbled beneath your breath. 

A gasp put a wrench in your plans. Beside you, Changbin plucked off one of the bags of chips. "They have these here? I've had them. Really good stuff." 

"Those? Good pick. They're practically a classic and you can never go wrong with them." 

When you finished grabbing your stuff, you walked out of the aisle. Changbin continued to browse, taking everything in. The employee kept his eyes on the two of you. Every so often, he glanced up. Neither one of you were regulars, so he hadn't seen you before. 

The faintest meow made you pause. You searched the shelves, trying to find the source of the noise. Something creaked. A box of sweet treats wobbled and hit the floor with a faint thud. You reached down to pick them up. 

From where they fell, a black and white cat dangled off the shelf. You laughed at the sight, finding amusement at its predicament. Changbin arrived shortly afterwards. He froze when he saw the cat. "A cat?" 

You placed the box of treats on top of another. "It probably lives here. Hi, baby." Your hand slowly eased up to the cat's face. It sniffed for a moment and shifted, brushing a furry face against your hand. 

"In the store?" 

"Yeah, it's a bodega cat. They're pretty normal here in New York. Do you want to pet it." 

"Wow. We don't have them in Seoul. I can't. I want to, but I'm allergic." 

"Oh." You frowned, gave the cat one last scratch beneath its chin, and pulled away. "I didn't know." 

"It's a cute kitty. Hello, kitty, nice to see you." He waved, nearly dropping his own bag of chips in the process. "Whoops. Uh-oh." 

The purring stopped the moment you removed your hand. The cat shifted, let out a yawn, and stretched out its paws again. Claws revealed themselves and retracted. Yellow eyes drooped and its chin found the edge of the shelf. 

"Come on," you uttered quietly. "Let's let it sleep. The drinks are over here." 

It took a bit of wandering before you found what you wanted. On the other hand, Changbin reached for the fizzy drink that felt the most familiar. With your quiet conversation, despite the occasional stare from the employee, the two of you were locked in your own little world. 

Near the register, you looked down, surveying all the options for the freshly made subs and wraps. You faintly hummed, wiggled your fingers, reached in one direction, and then paused. One sandwich sounded good, but so did another. The corners of your lips dipped into a frown. 

Changbin's tongue clicked. He waved his fingers, happily reaching for one of the ham and swiss cheese subs. The rest of his snacks and his drink sat cradled against his chest. When he finished, he stepped back, waiting for you to finish picking your items. 

Behind the register, packs of cigarettes were displayed in long rows. A lottery ticket machine faced the employee, waiting for someone to gamble their money away. The chances of hitting the jackpot were low, but never zero. 

"I think I'll go with this one." You finally grabbed one of the subs and turned around. "Do you need anything else?" 

"I'm good." 

At the counter, you unloaded all your products. When you finished, you turned behind you and gently tugged Changbin's sandwich from his arms. He pulled away, guarding it instantly. "What are you doing?" 

"Paying." 

"I can pay for my stuff." 

"Do you have cash?" 

"Cash?" 

"This place is cash only." 

"Uh..." 

You chuckled and placed the sandwich on the counter. "Yeah, I thought so. Don't worry about it." You added the rest of his items to your mix. 

The employee worked in silence, manually typing in the prices to his register. The faint click of the register's keys brought back distant memories. It'd been so long since you'd seen someone with an older register. No harsh beep of a scanner, just concentrated typing. 

"This all?" The man asked when he was finished. 

"Yes." 

"Okay." 

Meow! Meow! Meow! 

The meows came down one of the aisles. Changbin looked back to find the black and white speckled cat bumbling towards him. It ran forwards, around him, and leapt onto the counter. Another meow appeared and its head dipped in front of the employee, begging to be pet. 

He placed the last few items in the bag and told you your total. His fingers brushed against the soft fur. A white patch of fur covered the cat's left eye. Changbin's face softened. His fingers tightened in his palm. Despite being allergic, he wished he could pet it. 

You pulled a few green bills from your bag and handed them to the employee. "We like your cat." 

"Molly. Good company. Keeps away the pests." 

"She's beautiful." 

He nodded, not giving you much to work with. The bills went into his till and he handed you a few coins. As you put them into your bag, he pushed the plastic bag in your direction. "Night." 

Before you could grab it, Changbin snuck around you, accidentally brushing your shoulder. He thanked the man, gave the cat a final longing look, and started towards the door. You followed, still fumbling with the wallet in your bag. 

Outside, the cool air hit your arms again. You slung the bag over your shoulder. "Do you want to stop somewhere to eat?" 

"Around here?" Changbin raised an eyebrow. 

You chuckled and nodded. Around you, sidewalks stretched out among the busy streets. Besides the brightly lit bodega, most businesses in this area were closed. You waved him in your direction. As you walked, your eyes darted around, trying to find what you were looking for. 

More rumbling engines. When a car broke away from the others, drifting through a red light, the shriek shrill of sirens started. Blue and red cut through the darkness, chasing after the offender. Changbin's eyes widened, but you acted like it was no big deal. 

"I can't believe he did that. Going through red lights is illegal." 

"Some people, unfortunately, don't care about the law." 

"Ticket for that?" 

"Yep." 

He shook his head. You came to a stop and turned left. "I found one!" You moved forward, heading down a narrow alleyway. 

Down the way, a large blue dumpster sat beneath a street light. The building couldn't be much more than four or five stories high. Metal stairs led out of a back door from above your heads. It spiraled around and around, until it led to the ground. 

You headed over and plopped down about six stairs up. You patted the metal, trying to get Changbin to come sit with you. He approached with a slow stroll, not going near the stairs yet. "What is this?" 

"It's a fire escape. If there's a fire in the building, people can use this for an exit." 

"Is it okay to sit?" 

"Well," you craned your neck back. "I don't see a sign saying we can't, so I think it's alright. If we need to move, we can move." 

He finally shortened the space between you and dropped down on one of the lower steps. "This is new for me." 

"It's so much fun. Look," you pointed to the main street, "we can watch the traffic while we eat." 

"You are something." 

You laughed and shoved your bag beside you. He opened the plastic bag and handed you your drink. Your sandwich came next. He read the label before handing it to you. "I like that one, too." 

"Did you get a sandwich?" 

"Ham and swiss." 

"A total classic." 

His carbonated drink hissed as he opened it. He moved the bottle to his lips and took a sip of the cold liquid. "Wow." He smacked his lips and licked them. "Just as good as home." 

You tried not to laugh at his reaction. Even without trying to be, he was cute. You moved your sandwich to your lap and reached for your chips. At the same time, he reached for his. Your cheeks darkened, but he couldn't see them in the faint orange haze that coated everything in the alley. 

You uttered an apology and so did he. When your words came out the exact same at the same time, you both laughed. He apologized again, grabbed your bag of chips and handed them to you. 

"Thanks." 

He tugged out his bag and opened them. "Can I ask about your bad date?" 

"You want to know about it?" 

He shrugged and reached for a chip. "What about it was bad? You said you wanted two different things." 

The smile slowly dissolved from your face. You looked away and nodded. "It was silly, I suppose. I haven't dated in a while and my best friend set me up on a dating app. They thought dating would be good for me. I found a person through it and we went to a restaurant together. It was great. We scheduled another date, but..." You trailed off.

"But it never happened?" He questioned.

"It was tonight's date. Some people like hooking up and some people enjoy taking things slow. I struggle with hooking up. I don't want to be used like that, I want someone to know me. I want to fall in love with someone. I don't want to be another body count." 

"They didn't want long-term?" 

Your head shook. 

He sighed and looked down at his bag of Doritos. "I think they're missing out." 

You shrugged. "Maybe it wasn't completely worthless. I did happen to stumble across you and this is a thousand times better than the bad date." 

"They didn't even feed you?" 

"They didn't even feed me," you echoed. 

He pointed the bag in your direction. "Chip?" 

"Are you sure?" 

"A good man makes sure his date gets fed." 

"We're not dating." 

"Chip." He shook the bag, taunting you. "Smells yummy. Really good. Mmh." He moved the bag closer, waving his hand, and wafting the scent towards your nose. 

You caved instantly and reached forward. "Okay, maybe one." 

From that point on, you lost track of time. Your laughter pierced the air and tangled with his own paradisaic giggling. You probably should have been quieter, considering the time, but the conversation didn't stop. It flowed out naturally and the thought of stopping became impossible. 

You shared your treats with each other. At some point, you ripped a chunk from the lower half of your sandwich, so he could try it. His eyes widened and his entire face lit up. He chewed, placing a hand over his mouth and swallowed with a loud gulp. 

"We might have to go back there and get another one of those." 

"It's so good, right?" 

"Yes!" 

When you were full, you placed the trash in the plastic bag, but you didn't get up. Your hands laid on your knees and the conversation continued. He asked about your life in New York. You questioned his life in South Korea, wondering what Seoul was like. 

"A million more people than New York."

"What?" You shook your head. "No way. Seoul? Over eight million people?" 

"Over nine million." 

"Holy shit." 

He snorted at your profanity, finding it amusing more than anything. He mentioned the buildings, the way they towered over you, just like in New York. The scent of grilled meat, the sudden punch of cravings that he gets when it hits. Juicy pork belly, the tang of spicy Tteokbokki, the familiarity of kimchi. 

There's a subtle awareness in Seoul. Phones are out, but people do their best to stay out of the way of others. In New York, it feels like every man for himself, the constant rush of city life waits for no one. Seoul is cleaner and quieter. 

"Yesterday, I stopped in front of someone and got told to get out of the way." 

You looked away, covering your mouth, trying not to laugh. 

"What did I do wrong? I saw something. I wanted to take a long look. I didn't mean to harm them." 

"Some people here have no patience." 

A sharp squeak filled your ears. A shadow moved, darting across Changbin's feet. He shrieked and jumped up, nearly falling on you in the process. You moved forward, preparing to balance him if he fell. His Dorito fell from his hand and hit the pavement. 

A large rat lunged forward and rushed away, carrying the chip between tiny teeth. His hand went to his heart, trying to stop the sudden rush of adrenaline. "What was that? A monster?" 

"Just a rat. Are you okay?" 

"Nearly had a heart attack. Why are they so bold? I think it tried to kill me." 

You pushed yourself upright, placing a hand on his shoulder. "No. It must have realized you had food. The rats around here are known for doing daring things." 

"We don't have man-eating rats in Seoul." 

Your laughter bubbled up again. He shook himself, trying to shake off the fear. "Why are you laughing? It ran over my feet." 

"They're harmless for the most part. Annoying? Yeah, but they're just trying to survive." 

"They were in the subway, too." 

"They usually are." 

He patted his chest, tipped his head back, and sucked in a deep breath. With his head back, he paused. "Oh?" 

You tipped your head back as well. Neither of you were prepared for the sight above you. The sky had lightened. It wasn't enough for you to see the sun, but so wrapped up in your conversation, neither of you realized how much time had passed. 

"Uh-oh." Changbin shoved a hand in his back pocket and tugged out his phone. "It's nearly five in the morning. My friends are gonna kill me. I should call them." 

"Go ahead, I'll take care of this stuff." 

He stepped down the stairs, heading further into the alley. While he did, you gathered his trash and added it into the plastic bag. You screwed the cap on his drink and set it beside yours. He dialed Chan's number and when the call connected, Chan's panicked voice came out. 

"Changbin? Where are you? Are you okay?" 

"I'm sorry, hyung. I lost track of the time. I'm okay. I got lost on the subway and someone offered to help me get back to the hotel. We stopped at a place to get food." 

"You're okay?" 

"I'm fine." 

"You sound out of breath." 

"I got scared by a rat." 

"What?" 

"A big rat, you know? New York rats. Like the one photo of the subway rat dragging away a slice of pizza?" 

On the other end of the phone, Chan pinched the bridge of his nose. He shut his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. Their manager raised an eyebrow, wondering what was going on. Chan and Jisung had come back to the hotel nearly an hour and a half ago, but after visiting everyone's rooms, Changbin was nowhere to be found. 

They'd called and texted non-stop, but he never responded. Chan worried and with Changbin missing, Jisung couldn't sleep. In a panic, they woke the rest of the guys, wondering about Changbin's whereabouts. 

"Hello?" A new voice took over Chan's. "Hyung?" 

"Hi, Felix." 

"Are you good? Chan said you were missing." 

"I'm coming, I'm coming. I'm about... uh... hold on." Changbin spun around to find you. 

You were down the way with your bag of trash. You threw it into the dumpster and turned around to head back. He waved an arm and called your name, asking about the distance to the hotel. 

"About twenty minutes," you responded. 

He flashed you a thumbs up and took his attention back to Felix's voice. "Twenty minutes, roughly. I didn't mean to freak you out." 

"Tell him I'm going to shove his ass in an air fryer! This is ruining my beauty sleep!" 

Felix ignored Minho's words and continued speaking into the phone. "Please get back safe. We're waiting for you. Chan looks like he's about to collapse in relief, so I should help him. Call us if you need something." 

"Okay. I'll see you soon." 

When Changbin hung up the phone, you appeared and handed him his drink. "Is everything okay?" 

"Yeah. I forgot the time and made them worry." 

You grimaced, uttering your own apology. "I shouldn't have kept you out so late." 

"Don't be sorry. This was nice." 

He took his drink and you led the way towards his hotel. You checked the map on your phone, making sure you were headed in the right direction. The conversation between the two of you faded away. 

Traffic started to pick up again. A trash truck appeared with a high-pitched whirling. The metal compactor crunched down, compacting all the trash in the back, making room for more. Sirens kicked into high gear. More traffic meant more officers prowling around, ready to hand out tickets for speeding. 

When you reached the front of the hotel, you turned to face Changbin. "Ta-dah." You said the words, but you didn't feel victorious. He was a stranger, but you'd gotten to know more about him in a few hours. You knew more about him than your previous date. 

Your arms crossed over your chest. Despite the black sky becoming an ice blue, waiting to turn into a bombshell of tropical citrus colors, the chill had finally gotten to you. It cut through your bones, penetrating your soul, making you feel more colder than you'd felt all night. 

"Thank you for getting me here." 

"It was a delight. I hope your friends can relax once you find them. Despite the rat nearly killing you, I hope you had a good time." 

"I did." 

He took in your face, the smallest dip of a frown. The way you looked, it was exactly the way he felt on the inside. He didn't want to turn around and walk away. He'd been up all night, but he didn't want this to end. 

"Are you cold?" 

"I'm okay." 

He shook his head and reached up, tugging off his black crewneck. "I should have given you this earlier. I thought you were cold, but I didn't ask." 

"You don't have to do that." 

"How else will you stay warm getting back?" 

He tugged it over his head and shifted the cotton fabric. Beneath it, he stood in a white t-shirt. Without asking, he walked over to you and lifted the head hole over your head. Your head poked through and you moved your arms, slipping into it with ease. He stepped back again. "Better?" 

"Yeah, thank you." 

"The least I can do. You paid for my food, remember?" 

You faintly smiled and nodded. Your gaze went back to the hotel. Multiple cement steps led up to the entryway. Behind glass doors, the lobby lay with soft lighting. Tile floors sat equipped with leather furniture. A woman stood behind the check-in desk with her hair in a tight bun. The dress shirt came equipped with a silver engraved name tag. 

His sweater smelled like him. Some kind of laundry soap you couldn't place. The faintest hint of something herbal, probably from his deodorant. You shifted your arms, settling into the fabric. 

"So this is it." 

"I suppose so." 

"How am I supposed to give you this back?" You tugged at the bottom fabric. 

"I suppose I'll have to give you my number, if you're okay with that." 

You paused. Your heartbeat increased, drowning out the noise of the city. "Really?" You whispered. 

"Really." He tugged out his phone and unlocked it. "It was nice. Who am I supposed to call if I get lost on the subway, again?" He hit the button to add a contact and handed you the phone. 

You took it to add your number. 

"Maybe we can go on another date before I go back to Seoul?" 

Your eyes met. A quiet hope brewed in his chest. He held his breath, waiting for his response. When you grinned, his heart soared. 

"I'd love that." 

"Me too." 

You added your contact information and handed him his phone. You quickly tugged out your own phone. In the process of rapidly clicking the screen, you nearly dropped it. 

"Careful there. What are you doing?" 

"I'm deleting my Tinder page."

His high-pitched laughter filled the air. It was interrupted by the sound of his name being called. Both of you glanced over to find a handful of guys standing outside of the glass doors. He held up a hand, wanting to have a few final moments with you. You turned off your phone and pushed it back into your pocket. 

"I suppose that's my cue." 

"To be continued?" He questioned. 

"To be continued," you agreed. 

"Careful with that sweater, it's my favorite." 

"I'll keep it safe." 

"If the rats give you any trouble, let me know." 

You snickered, soaking in the moment. "Believe me, I've got it covered. If something comes up and they hold me hostage, I'll let you know." 

"I'll have to bring Molly to fight them off." 

Your memory went back to the speckled bodega cat. You shared another fit of laughter and sighed. Your fingers entered the back of your jeans pockets. "So I'll see you later?" 

"Probably sooner than you'll know." 

"Get some sleep, okay?" 

He nodded and turned towards his friends. You watched him reunite with them. Arms wrapped around him in a relieved hug. Someone swatted him along the back of his head, lecturing him about not responding to their messages. You left to the sound of his apologies. As much as it hurt to turn away, you had hope in the future. He seemed different from your usual Tinder dates. Kinder, too. 

Maybe there wouldn't be a goodbye this time. 

"Who was that, hyung?" 

"Is that the person who helped you?" 

Changbin nodded. 

"Did you get their number?" 

"Yeah." 

Chan shook his head and let out a sigh of relief. "I'm just glad you're back." 

"They look cute. We saw you give them your sweater. What a gentleman you are." Felix reached out and slapped Changbin's shoulder playfully. "Good for you, tiger." 

He grumbled, brushing Felix's hand away. The tips of his ears turned red and Minho laughed. He flicked the tip, cooing at his obvious embarrassment. Jisung made a kissy noise and that's when he snapped. He lightly pushed them in the direction of the door, telling them to shut up. He didn't know if you could hear them and he didn't want you to. 

When he looked over, you were still walking away. He let out a sigh of relief and started to turn back to the door, but he noticed movement. You must have felt his gaze. When he looked your way, you waved. He waved back and smiled. 

"I've never seen you crush this easily," Jisung commented. 

Changbin swatted at him again. You laughed and spun back in the direction you came from. As you walked, calmness settled over your heart. You walked back to your place quietly, rethinking the events of the previous hours. You hoped, minus the rat and his friends’ panic, you'd be able to experience it all again soon. 

Later that afternoon, after a much needed nap, Changbin would go to text you and realize you added a heart emoji after your contact name. 

Little did you know, he'd never erase that heart. 

Taglist: @lia-linny @seungnishi @stellasays45 @emilyywhyy @rockstarkkami @flightlessackerman @inlovewithstraykids @velvetmoonlght @chrizrizz @ari-hwanggg @m-325 @justcallmewhatyoulike @bokkiesluv @phinnyphinnegan @zayn-210 @beal-o @geni-627 @princesskrystix @itsraininghyunebuckets @makaira-nina2005 @enhacolor @ayedomino008 @iconicallyher @emeraldgem22 @sapphirewaves

Masterlist

Taglist and inbox rules

ROCK’S NEWEST RIVALRY? THE BANG THEORY AND SSICK SET TO DROP ALBUMS ON THE SAME DAY

The rock scene is buzzing this week as two of its most talked-about bands—The Bang Theory and SSICK—have officially announced album releases slated for the exact same date. The coincidence has already sparked heated debate online, with fans and critics alike dubbing it a modern echo of the legendary Oasis vs. Blur chart battle of the ’90s.

The Bang Theory, fresh off their acclaimed tribute concert performance, are preparing to release their long-anticipated record, an album rumored to mark a turning point in the band’s sound. Meanwhile, SSICK—known for their raw edge and unapologetic stage presence—are riding a wave of momentum following their own explosive live shows and a rapidly growing fanbase.

While both camps have publicly brushed off talk of rivalry, the timing alone has been enough to ignite speculation. Social media timelines are split clean down the middle, streaming playlists are already being prepped for release night, and industry insiders are quietly placing bets.

Is this simply unfortunate scheduling—or a battle brewing beneath the surface?

One thing is certain: when release day arrives, all eyes will be on the charts. And the only question left is—who will come out on top?

-

Chris wakes up to the sound of someone knocking like they’re trying to break the door down.

“Christopher.”

The voice alone makes his head throb. He groans, rolling onto his side and immediately regretting it when the room tilts unpleasantly. His skull feels too tight, like it’s being squeezed from the inside. There’s a sour taste in his mouth, his tongue dry, his limbs heavy. He rarely experiences it but he knows it’s a hangover. A bad one.

The door opens anyway and Joan marches in, sunglasses perched on top of the mess of her pink hair. “Oh good, you’re alive,” she says flatly. “I was starting to consider kicking the bed.”

Chris pulls the pillow over his face. “Five more minutes.”

Joan yanks it away without hesitation. “Nope. Get up. It’s late already.”

He squints at the ceiling, eyes dry and burning. “Why is it so bright,” he mutters, voice rough. He brings a hand up to his forehead, massaging his temple like that might undo last night’s decisions. “Why does my head feel like I let a drumline rehearse inside it.”

“Because you got drunk,” Joan says, unimpressed. “On the worst possible night.”

Chris groans again, rolling onto his back and pressing his arm over his eyes. “I don’t even drink that much.”

“And yet,” Joan replies sweetly, “here we are.”

“You have a music video shoot in exactly one hour. Call time is in thirty minutes. So I need you vertical, conscious, and preferably not vomiting.”

He exhales slowly, blinking up at her. “You’re telling me this now?”

“I sent everything on the group chat and knocked for two whole minutes.”

“That’s cruel.”

Joan snorts as she starts pulling at the duvet, exposing Chris in bare chest and with his jeans still on. “What’s cruel is me dragging your hungover ass through twelve hours of shooting because you decided last night was a good time to emotionally self-destruct with alcohol.”

Chris winces at that, pushing himself up into a sitting position. The room spins again and he pauses, breathing through it. “Do not say it like that.”

She points at him. “I will say it exactly like that.”

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, shoulders slumping. His hair is a mess, his jeans feel uncomfortably tight around his waist, and he feels about eighty years old. “Please tell me I didn’t do anything stupid.”

“You didn’t kiss anyone if that makes you feel better,” Joan says with hands planted on each side of his waist.

Chris drops his head into his hands. “That’s not reassuring.”

“Get in the shower,” she adds, already turning toward the door. “Drink water. A lot of it. And don’t be late, or I swear I will personally write ‘hangover’ into your Wikipedia controversies section.”

She pauses at the doorway, glancing back at him. “Half an hour, Chris.”

Then she’s gone, door clicking shut behind her.

Chris sits there for a moment longer, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, groaning softly.

“Never drinking again,” he mutters to the empty room, fully aware it’s a lie as he forces himself to stand.

-

Chris sits slumped in the makeup chair, chin tipped slightly up while someone dabs concealer under his eyes like they’re trying to erase the evidence of every bad decision he made last night. His head still hurts, but it’s manageable, annoying rather than painful. His hair gets tugged gently as the stylist works product through it, and he keeps his eyes half-closed, letting the hum of the room wash over him.

He can’t remember much about last night and that’s the problem.

The night comes to him in fragments—people, noise, lights, Nico’s words cutting through everything else and how those words twisted something in his chest into something bad and ugly. Chris exhales slowly through his nose as he remembers the reason why he drank.

Jeongin drops into the chair beside him with a soft thud, already in wardrobe, scrolling through his phone, probably considering which photo to post on his Instagram. He looks annoyingly fine for someone who also drank last night.

Chris opens one eye. “Hey.”

Jeongin hums in response.

“Did I do anything stupid last night?”

Jeongin looks up immediately, brows lifting. “Define stupid.”

Chris groans. “Don’t do that.”

Jeongin grins, then shrugs. “Nah. Not really. You were just—” he makes a vague wobbling motion with his hand, “—very drunk.”

“That’s already bad.”

“Yeah, but not bad bad.” Jeongin pockets his phone. “Joan and I carried you up to your room. You were dead weight, by the way. Respectfully.”

Chris winces. “Sorry.”

“You should be.” Jeongin pauses, then adds, “You kept mumbling about your laptop.”

Chris blinks. “I did?”

“Yeah. Even when you’re drunk, you’re still you.” Jeongin laughs quietly. “Joan almost lost it.”

Chris rubs at the back of his neck. “Is… that all?”

Jeongin tilts his head, thinking. “That’s all I saw. After we got you onto the bed, Joan told me to go back to my room ‘cause I was a bit drunk too so I left.”

Chris watches his reflection in the mirror as the makeup artist steps back to assess her work. He looks fine, too fine, considering the faint, unsettled feeling twisting low in his chest.

“Nothing else happened, right??” he asks, carefully.

Jeongin shakes his head. “Not that I know of.”

“Okay,” Chris says as he nods, slow and thoughtful.

He chooses to believe Jeongin because it’s the simplest explanation. The most logical one. If something else had happened, someone would’ve said something by now. Still, there’s this strange sense of absence, like a question hanging unanswered. He exhales and looks away from the mirror as the make-up artist moves on to someone else.

Probably just the hangover, he tells himself. Probably nothing at all.

-

The convertible smells like leather and heat, sun baking straight into the open cabin as the crew adjusts their positions around the car. Someone calls out for quiet. Another voice counts down. The engine is off as it’s being pulled by another car.

Chris settles into the passenger seat, one arm slung lazily over the door, sunglasses pushed up into his hair instead of where they’re supposed to be. Jeongin stretches out in the backseat, alone back there, legs spread, a pose that is both natural and intentional.

You’re in the driver’s seat, hands on the steering wheel, pretending to drive with a focused, calm expression.

“Rolling!” someone calls.

The cue hits, and Chris turns toward the camera, his mouth lip-syncing to the lyrics as the car starts moving. Wind cuts through the space between them, tugging at his shirt, at your hair.

Between lines, he glances sideways, coaxing an interaction and you look his way, making a quick eye-contact with him.

“Cut!”

The car slows to a stop. Crew members swarm in again, adjusting angles, checking playback. Jeongin leans forward, peering between the seats. “Do I look cool back here?”

“You look like a kid whose parents forgot him,” Chris replies automatically.

Jeongin scoffs, deciding not to respond to his words and pulls his phone out of his jeans pocket, busying himself by taking photos of himself and the set.

While the crew resets and make-up artist coming in to do some touch-ups. Chris shifts in his seat, taps his fingers against his thigh once, twice. Then he looks at you again.

“Hey,” he says, casual. Too casual.

You hum in response, keeping your head still as someone dabs a fresh layer of powder on your nose and cheeks.

“About last night,” he shyly says. “When I was drunk.”

Once the make-up artist left, you finally glance at him. “What about it?”

“Did I… do anything stupid?”

You shake your head, slow and a tiny bit hesitant. “No.”

The answer comes quick, clean and a tiny bit suspicious. He searches your face anyway. “Nothing at all?”

You shrug slightly. “You dropped your phone in the hallway. I picked it up and brought it to your room.”

Chris frowns faintly. “That’s it?”

“Yeah.” You tilt your head, thinking. “And oh, you asked for water.”

That lands somewhere in his chest. He’s afraid to ask further, but he needs to know, he needs to control the damage as soon as possible.

“Nothing else?”

Your fingers tighten briefly on the steering wheel and with a soft smile, you add. “I helped taking your shoes and shirt off.”

Chris’s eyes dropping to his hands as he quietly winces at the thought of you taking his shoes and shirt off. This reminds him why he avoids drinking in the first place.

“Please tell me that is it and nothing else happened?” he asks with desperation wrinkled his forehead.

Silence stretches between you and him, filled only by the low chatter of the crew and the distant sound of traffic. The anticipation almost kills him and after a moment, you look back straight ahead as you finally answer, “No, nothing else happened.”

You reach up to adjust the rearview mirror, then glance back at Jeongin. “You ready back there, or are you still emotionally wounded?”

Jeongin snorts. “I’ll survive.”

Chris watches the way you shift, the way your voice stays light as you change the subject so neatly it’s almost impressive. But, there’s something in the way you don’t quite meet his eyes when you answered him. Something careful. Like you’re choosing each word instead of letting them fall naturally. Or maybe that’s just him projecting.

The director calls for places again. The lights and cameras are ready. Chris turns back toward them, lips forming the opening line as the car rolls forward once more.

Still, the feeling lingers like there’s a missing beat in a song he knows by heart.

-

The shoot moves indoors not long after—lights dimmed, set dressed to look moodier, heavier. The air smells like dust and warm equipment, cables snaking across the floor while crew members shuffle around with quiet urgency.

You, Chris, and Jeongin are ushered onto a tall platform for a group shot. Everyone stands on their own narrow but steady platform, elevated just enough to make you aware of your footing. You take your place on the right side, your bass guitar slung across your chest, the camera rig humming softly in front of you.

“Alright,” the director calls out. “Let’s roll.”

The first take goes smoothly. You fall into it easily, naturally playing your instrument even though it’s not plugged and only making dull, plucked noise. You make eye-contact with the camera once in a while, keeping your expression checked and body poised. The three of you framed like a unit.

When it cuts, the director squints at the monitor. “Okay, good. But—” he points vaguely in your direction, “you, can you shift a bit to the side?”

“Yeah,” you say, nodding.

You glance down instinctively and it’s darker on your side of the platform, shadows pooling where the light doesn’t quite reach. You move carefully, testing your foot before putting weight on it.

“That’s good,” the director says. Then, a beat later, “A little more.”

You hesitate. “Just a sec—”

“A bit more to the side,” he repeats, distracted.

“Yes, but it’s uh… It’s dark. I—”

“Just a little,” the director urges you.

You don’t want to make filming longer than necessary for everyone so you decide to trust the platform. You step to the side, the foot comes down and there’s nothing there.

There’s no time to scream as the world tilts violently. Your stomach drops, your balance gone in an instant. The side of your face hits something hard first—wood? metal?—before the rest of you follows, your body slamming onto the floor with a dull, sickening thud.

Sound rushes in all at once. Gasps. Someone shouting your name. Footsteps pounding toward you.

For a second, everything feels far away, muffled, like you’re underwater. Your cheek burns, your body aches in places you can’t immediately identify, and embarrassment hits you almost as hard as the fall. You curl in on yourself instinctively, arms wrapping around your middle as the pain fully registers.

“I—don’t move,” someone says urgently.

“Oh my god.”

“Call it—cut, cut, CUT!”

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to breathe through it, aware of hands hovering near you, afraid to touch, afraid to make it worse. You feel exposed on the floor, heart racing, cheeks hot—not just from pain, but from the sudden attention.

You’re hurt. You know that much. And surrounded.

-

You’re sitting on the sofa in the changing room, legs tucked in, shoulders hunched slightly forward. A bag of ice is pressed firmly to the right side of your face, the cold biting enough to distract you from the dull, throbbing sting underneath. You can already feel the skin tightening, the tender heat, the promise of a bruise forming no matter how much you hope it won’t.

Joan is pacing in the room, hands flying all over the place as she curses under her breathe.

“I swear,” she says, voice sharp with anger, “I’m blaming everyone. The director, the stage manager, the lighting team—who puts a drop like that without proper marking?”

You shift on the sofa, wincing as you do. “It’s really not that bad,” you mumble, though it comes out strained.

The pain flares anyway, sharp enough that all you manage next is a low groan. You press the ice harder to your cheek and close your eyes, breathing through it. You don’t want to be that person—the one who halts production, the one everyone has to tiptoe around. You’re embarrassed enough already.

Joan stops pacing and looks at you. “Do you want anything? I still think we should go to the hospital to get you—”

“Painkiller,” you cut in quietly. “If you have one.”

She immediately scowls. “See, this is why you should’ve gone to the hospital.”

“I’m fine,” you insist, eyes still closed. “Just—please.”

She sighs but starts rummaging through her purse anyway. She pulls out a strip of pills and then grabs a bottle of water from the table, pressing it into your free hand.

“Take it,” she says firmly.

You do, swallowing the pill with a few careful sips, the cold from the ice numbing your fingers. Then, you’re slumping back on the sofa, ice bag pressed to the side of your face that can hardly feel anything at this point.

Joan watches you for a moment, like she’s debating whether to argue again, then exhales. “I’m going to see if they’re stopping the shoot or just rearranging,” she says, already halfway to the door. “Stay here. Don’t even move an inch.”

The room goes quiet after she leaves but you can hear the distant murmur of crew outside. After a minute, you push yourself up slowly, ice still pressed to your face, and drift toward the doorway. You don’t step out. You just linger there just enough to check the situation.

That’s when you hear Chris. His voice is low, tight, edged with something sharp you don’t often hear from him.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” he says, clearly holding himself back. “She told you she couldn’t see. You don’t rush someone on a platform like that.”

Someone else speaks, too low for you to catch.

“I don’t care whose call it was,” Chris snaps. “You’re responsible for the safety of everyone on that set. She could’ve cracked her skull.”

You lean your shoulder lightly against the doorframe, guilt blooming despite yourself. Whoever Chris is talking to sounds thoroughly chastised, and you almost want to step in, tell him it’s okay, that you’re fine, that no one needs to get torn apart over this.

But another part of you understands him. He’s angry because his bandmate is injured, is hurt and more than that, he’s angry for you.

And even through the sting in your cheek and the ache in your body, you can’t help the small, grateful exhale that slips past your lips.

-

Whenever Chris remembers that moment of finding you curled on the floor with your face twisted in pain, anger flares up his chest. He doesn’t feel bad for saying all those words to the set director, expressing how he’s mad that he’s putting his bandmate’s safety at risk and how it could’ve gone worse than just an injury.

His jaws still tight, anger still buzzing in chest when he turns away and sees you standing just off to the side of the doorway, half-hidden, a bag of ice pressed to your face. He was sure you’d already been taken to the hospital.

He’s moving before he fully thinks it through, boots carrying him across the floor in long strides. He doesn’t stop to wonder how much you heard—doesn’t soften his expression, doesn’t lower his voice.

“Why are you still here?” he asks, sharp with worry. “Why aren’t you at the hospital?”

You blink at him, clearly startled, and your grip tightens around the ice. “I—uh—it’s really not that bad,” you stammer. “I’m okay, Chris. I just—”

“No,” he cuts in immediately.

The word comes out harsher than he means, but he doesn’t take it back.

“You don’t know that,” he says, voice rising despite himself. “You hit your face. You fell from a platform. God knows what else you hurt and you’re just brushing it off like—like it’s nothing.”

“I can still film,” you try again, quieter now. “I don’t want to slow everyone down. I’m fine, really—”

“Stop,” he snaps, stepping closer. “You’re not continuing anything. You’re going to the hospital.”

You open your mouth, stubborn even now, and he can see it coming—the protest, the minimizing, the way you always try to make yourself smaller for everyone else’s convenience. He doesn’t give you the chance.

“Joan,” he calls out, loud and firm.

Joan appears almost instantly, eyes flicking between the two of you.

“Take her to the hospital,” Chris says, tone leaving no room for discussion. “Now.”

Joan doesn’t even try to argue. “Okay. Yeah. Come on.”

Your shoulders slump, defeat written plainly across your face. You just look down, clutching the ice to your cheek as you turn away, Joan’s hand already guiding you back toward the changing room.

Chris stays where he is, watching the two of you walk away.

The anger drains out of him all at once, leaving something heavier behind. Guilt. Regret. The sinking realization that he didn’t just sound protective—he sounded harsh. Controlling. Too sharp with someone who was already shaken and hurt.

He drags a hand through his hair and exhales slowly. He knows he crossed a line. But even knowing that, the thought of you brushing off a fall like that—of something worse going unnoticed—makes his chest tighten all over again. He tells himself he’ll apologize later.

Right now, all he can think is that he’d rather you be mad at him than hurt.

-

The apartment is unusually quiet.

Too quiet, Chris thinks, as he sits cross-legged on his bed, laptop balanced on his thighs, headphones on but doing a terrible job of drowning out his thoughts. Music hums in the background but he hasn’t added a single new note in the last ten minutes.

His fingers hover over the keyboard, frozen. Instead, his mind keeps dragging him back to that day.

The platform. The way you fell off of it. The thudding sound of your body hitting the concrete floor. His chest tightens as he recalls the moment, how his heart had practically stopped when he saw you curled on the floor in pain, people crowding around you. He remembers sprinting without even realizing it, shouting your name, anger and fear crashing together so hard he could barely see straight.

And then… after. How he talked to you, how he treated you harshly even though he knows you were in pain.

Chris winces, pulling one side of his headphones off. “Why did I do that?” he mutters to himself, rubbing at his face. He knows why, really—fear dressed up as anger—but that doesn’t make it sit any easier in his chest.

He’s still staring at the blank screen when a figure appears in his doorway.

“Why do you look so surprised?” Jeongin asks, brow furrowed.

Chris nearly jumps, heart thudding. He pulls his headphones fully off. “Nothing. What—What’s up?”

Jeongin squints at him like he doesn’t believe that for a second, then shrugs. “Anyway. You know she’s moving into the unit next door today, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jeongin says casually. “I thought you knew.”

There’s a brief pause before Jeongin tilts his head. “You wanna come with me to visit her?”

Chris doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. Sure.”

Jeongin’s lips curl into a grin. “Good. ’Cause I already ordered a lot of food. Like—a lot.”

That earns a short huff of a laugh from Chris. He closes his laptop, the weight in his chest shifting just a little as he stands.

As Jeongin turns and walks away, Chris exhales, shoulders dropping. Maybe this is it.

Maybe this is his chance to say what he should’ve said the other day—to apologize properly, without barking orders or raising his voice. He grabs his hoodie from the chair and follows Jeongin out, hoping he’s not already too late.

-

Julian has ordered you staying close by. Close to the agency, close with the other bandmates. Same floor, two different units. Easier pickups, tighter schedules, less room for things to go wrong. You get it. You really do.

Still, standing in the middle of the apartment, you can’t help feeling like a guest in a space that’s far too big for just you.

However, calling this moving feels a little dramatic when you’ve only brought the essentials—music instruments, clothes, your laptop, toiletries, a few comfort items you couldn’t part with. The rest of your things are already on their way to your dad’s place, packed and labelled and out of sight until the foreseeable future.

Joan hovers nearby, hands on her hips as she surveys the apartment for the third time. “You have a lot of space for yourself,” she says, like she’s trying to convince herself. “And it’s bright. And safe.”

“Very safe,” you echo, smiling faintly.

Joan insists on helping anyway, dragging the boxes to where you’re going to place them and unboxing them, even though you were perfectly fine leaving it there yourself.

When you lift one of your duffels and start dragging it toward the bedroom, the doorbell rings.

“I’ll get it,” Joan says immediately.

You’re halfway down the hall when you hear the door open and then a familiar voice fills the apartment.

“Hyung, I told you not to squish the bag like that.”

Jeongin.

Your lips curve into a smile without you meaning to. You turn back toward the entrance just as you hear another voice.

“It’s fine. Nothing’s gonna spill.”

When you reach the doorway, Joan has already stepped aside, and there they are—Jeongin standing there with an easy grin, arms loaded with takeout bags, and beside him, Chris. He’s holding a couple of paper bags too, hoodie pulled over his head, eyes lifting the second he sees you.

For a brief moment, no one says anything and then Jeongin breaks it first.

“Housewarming,” he announces proudly, lifting the bags a little higher. “You didn’t think we’d let you move in without food, right?”

You let out a soft laugh. “You didn’t have to—”

“We did,” Jeongin cuts in, already stepping inside. “Because you definitely weren’t gonna eat properly.”

Chris lingers just a second longer before following him in. When he looks at you again, his expression softens.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hey,” you reply, stepping aside to let them in.

The apartment suddenly feels a little less empty.

-

The coffee table disappears under takeout boxes and paper bags within minutes—plastic lids stacked crookedly, fries spilling out of their containers, the faint smell of grease and comfort filling the room. Jeongin hands out beers like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and soon you’re all standing there, each holding a cold can.

Joan clears her throat, lifting hers first. “Alright,” she says, eyes moving around the room. “To the upcoming album release. To surviving the chaos that comes with it. And to… new places, I guess.”

“To new places,” you echo, raising your can higher.

Jeongin nods, softer but just as sincere. “And to making it through the next few weeks alive.”

Everyone laughs and soon, cans clinking together, metal tapping metal, and you take a sip—grimacing slightly at the bitterness before swallowing anyway. The tension you didn’t even realize you were holding loosens a notch.

After that, the night settles into something warm and unguarded.

Everyone sprawls wherever they can—Jeongin on the floor with his back against the couch, Joan perched comfortably on the armrest, Chris sitting across from you, elbows on his knees. Conversations overlap and weave together, jumping from topic to topic without much structure. Jeongin tells a story about a rehearsal gone wrong, exaggerating the details until Joan rolls her eyes and calls him out. Chris counters with his own anecdote, dry and understated, but the way his lips twitch gives him away. You find yourself laughing more than you expect to.

At some point, Chris starts talking about the album with a weight to his voice, pride layered with exhaustion.

“We really worked hard on this one,” he says, staring down at his can for a moment before looking up again. “It’s… coming soon. Feels unreal.”

Jeongin grins immediately. “I’m excited,” he says, no hesitation. “Like—actually excited. Nervous too, but mostly excited.”

You watch them both, the way their faces light up when they talk about it, the shared history sitting between them. You smile without thinking because under the fame, the rockstars façade and the charts and the headlines, they’re just people. Tired. Hopeful. Human.

It’s comforting to know that they’re just like you.

The night eventually, gently unwinds. Joan’s the first to leave after her second beer as Julian needed her to go somewhere, do something, work. Jeongin doesn’t last much longer after that. You notice it when his replies start slowing, his head tipping back against the sofa cushion, eyes blinking a little too heavily. Eventually, he just… gives in. Out cold. Curled slightly on his side, stomach full, cheeks and ears flushed pink from the beers.

You smile without realizing it.

Chris watches him for a second, then snorts quietly. “He’s the cutest thing when he sleeps.”

You nod. “He really is.”

There’s a beat where none of you moves and then you say, “You should get him home.”

Chris shakes his head immediately. “Yeah, but let me help you clean this up first.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he’s already standing, sleeves pushed up like he’s decided this is non-negotiable so you let him.

The two of you working together quietly. Chris gathers trash into a plastic bag while you stack the dirty glasses and cutlery, carry them into the kitchen. It’s domestic in a way that sneaks up on you, the kind of silence that isn’t awkward, just… comfortable.

As you set the plates down and see the pack of meds, you remember you haven’t taken any today. You grab a glass, fill it with water, and take the pills quickly. You’re swallowing when Chris steps into the kitchen to toss the trash into the bin.

The soft thud of the lid closing seems to snap his attention right to you. His eyes narrow slightly. “Those for your injury?”

You shake your head a little too fast. “No—no. I’m okay. The doctor just said I’m really low on iron. Vitamins.”

He studies you for a second, then nods, like he’s filing it away. The trash can closes with a quiet click, and instead of moving away, he steps closer.

“How’s your face?” he asks, voice lower now.

“It’s not as painful as it looks,” you say honestly.

He doesn’t look convinced. “Can I see?”

You hesitate for a second and then nod.

He lifts his hand slowly, like he’s asking permission all over again, and when you don’t pull away, his fingers gently tuck your hair behind your ear. The touch is careful, gentle. His knuckles barely graze your skin as he moves your hair aside, exposing the bruise you’ve been hiding. You watch his expression change as he sees the dark purple and blue bloom across your right temple, a scrape cutting through it.

“It’s pretty bad,” he mutters as his fingertips lightly grazing the skin around it.

“The doctor gave me an ointment for it,” you assure him. “No worries.”

His thumb hovers close but doesn’t touch. “You should keep icing it.”

“I will.”

Your eyes meet, closer than you realize, and the world narrows down to the space between you. There’s something in his gaze—subtle, but unmistakable—like a realization clicking into place. Like he’s remembering something he didn’t know he’d forgotten.

The moment stretches and Chris steps back too quickly, clearing his throat. “I—uh. I should probably take Jeongin home.”

You nod even though Chris is already walking back into the living room, crouching down beside the sofa. His voice softens immediately as he wakes Jeongin, gentle and patient, like he’s coaxing a child out of a nap.

Jeongin groans, eyes barely open, clinging to Chris as he’s guided to his feet. You hurry to the door and open it for them.

“Goodnight,” Chris mutters, steadying Jeongin as they step into the hallway.

“Goodnight,” you echo.

You watch them shuffle into the unit next door, the door closing quietly behind them.

Only then do you turn back into the apartment. The place is quiet now and as you reach up absentmindedly to touch your face, there’s a faint tingle there — Not from the bruise, but from where Chris’s hand lingered.

-

Chris dreams in fragments.

It starts the way memories do when they blur into something. Your apartment lit low, the almost non-existent space between his body with yours, the way you’d looked at him like you were still deciding something.

In the dream, you don’t pull away when he leans in. Your lips meet his, but there’s no surprise—only intention.

He feels it everywhere. The warmth of you, the way your breath stutters when he deepens the kiss, the way his hands find your waist like they’ve always known where to go. The dream fills in what he can’t remember from that night, what his mind has been circling around since he woke up with a hangover and a hollow feeling in his chest.

You’re close. Too close. Pressed into him. Your breath hot against his lips. And God, he wants you so badly.

The kiss turns hot and heavy, the kind that steals the air from his lungs. His body reacts before his brain can catch up, heat pooling low in his stomach, every nerve lit up, every thought narrowing down to you. The dream promises more—hands slipping, mouths lingering, the space between you disappearing completely—

“Hyung.”

Chris jolts. His eyes snap open, heart hammering, sheets twisted around his legs like evidence. Sunlight filters through the curtains, cruel and bright and real.

Jeongin stands by the bed, already dressed, phone in hand. “We’re gonna be late,” he says, deadpan. “Meeting in thirty.”

Chris groans and drags a hand down his face, needing a second—no, several—to reel himself back into his body. His pulse is still racing, his thoughts still stuck somewhere between dream and memory.

“…Give me a minute,” he mutters.

Jeongin squints at him, then smirks. “You look like you need more than that.”

Chris throws a pillow at him but Jeongin quickly closes the door just as it’s about to hit him. Chris exhales and stares up at the ceiling, jaw tight. Because the worst part isn’t the dream.

It’s how real it felt and how his chest aches with the certainty that something already happened… something he just can’t remember.

-

Chris grabs his cap from the hook by the door and follows Jeongin out into the hallway, still half-stuck in the remnants of that dream, his brain moving slower than his body.

The elevator dings down the hall and as they pass your unit, he slows, just a fraction.

“Shouldn’t we—” he starts, glancing at your door. “Pick her up?”

Jeongin doesn’t even look up from his phone. “She’s already in the car.”

“What?”

Jeongin lifts his screen, shoving it an inch from Chris’s face. The group chat is open with messages stacked neatly, timestamps mocking him.

you: downstairs already! joan: car’s here you: see you guys 😌

Jeongin lowers the phone, unimpressed. “Try reading. Revolutionary concept.”

The elevator doors slide open and they step inside. As it descends, Jeongin keeps grumbling, voice echoing faintly off the metal walls. “You’re usually the punctual one. Now you’re the last to know everything…”

Chris hums something noncommittal, eyes fixed on the numbers ticking down. He hears Jeongin, but his thoughts are already ahead, spiraling toward the image of you sitting in the car, probably scrolling on your phone, probably looking completely normal like you didn’t haunt his sleep.

The doors open to the basement and their van is right outside the entrance, engine idling.

Chris opens the door and freezes when he sees you there, sitting in the back with sunlight spilling through the windshield and catching in your hair.

When you look up and smile at him, it’s warm and easy. “Morning,” you say.

For half a second, his brain shorts out. Jeongin barrels past him, oblivious, and plops down next to you with a yawn, immediately launching into a complaint about the meeting. Chris takes the hesitation as a gift, sliding into the middle seat instead.

The car pulls away from the curb and Chris tells himself to focus on himself. On the schedule. On literally anything else.

It lasts maybe thirty seconds because without meaning to, he glances back, just once, catching your reflection in the window as you laugh softly at something Jeongin says and his chest does that stupid, traitorous thing again.

-

A lot of times have passed since the day you were offered to be in a rock band and yet, you’re still nervous whenever you’re in this meeting room with Julian. You sit with your hands folded on the table, posture a little too straight, like you’re afraid that if you relax, the weight of everything will knock the wind out of you.

Julian’s voice fills the room as he talks about the album release—timelines, strategies, rollouts. Promotional schedules stack up quickly: interviews, radio shows, late-night appearances, pop-ups, things with names you’ve only ever seen in press releases before. Events to attend. Shows to perform. Cities to fly to. You try to absorb it all without letting your face give you away.

“Then there’s the tour…” Julian announces with a smile. “Chris, I know you’re mostly excited for this.”

Everyone shifts their attention to Chris and you glance over, expecting his usual laser focus but he looks… elsewhere. His gaze is fixed on nothing in particular like part of him is still stuck in another room.

For a heartbeat, you wonder if it’s just exhaustion. Jeongin nudges Chris’s elbow and he slightly jolts on his seat like he’s just waken up from a trance.

“Yep, I’m here,” Chris mumbles as he straightens in his chair.

Fortunately, Julian doesn’t question it. Whatever had pulled Chris away loosens its grip, and the meeting rolls on.

Julian reaches down and lifts a box onto the table. “Everyone, meet your creations,” he announces as he takes out a stack of The Bang Theory’s new albums and puts it on the table.

You reach for one without thinking, fingers curling around the edge of the case. It feels heavier than you expect, solid and real. You open it slowly, taking in the artwork, the tracklist printed neatly inside. Your name is there, tucked among the others as part of the band, as if you belong. It feels like looking at proof that all those late nights, the nerves, the falls—literal and otherwise—have turned into something you can hold in your hands.

Joan moves to the front next, helping Julian roll out the poster for the upcoming tour. It unfurls smoothly, glossy and bold: the band’s photo at the top, dates and cities listed beneath. And then, at the bottom written in teasing words: and more to be announced.

It’s a lot to process at once because you’ve never done this before. Not knowing your life is about to stretch across maps and months and stages you’ve only dreamed of. It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. It’s real in a way nothing else has ever been. You don’t realize you’re smiling until Julian catches it. He meets your eyes and returns it—not amused, not teasing. Just… proud.

“For now,” Julian says, clapping his hands once. “Let’s put our focus on the listening party.”

Everyone is bubbling with excitement and thrill that they burst into cheers almost at the same time, the sound filling the room, overlapping voices and laughter.

But you, you look at the new album you’re still holding in your hands and Gosh, you’ve never been more ready for what’s coming.

-

It’s only been a month since the last time you were practicing at the band’s studio up the hill but it feels like forever. You’re running through the new songs again, muscle memory slowly locking into place, each track settling deeper into your bones and yet, you keep noticing it.

The way Chris doesn’t look at you, not the way he usually does when he’s counting everyone in or checking that you’re locked with him. His focus slides past you, over you, anywhere but your eyes. He’s sharper than most people would notice, but you do. You always do.

Halfway through one song, he misses a transition. It’s subtle, something only the three of you would catch. You brace yourself, instinctively. For the tension. For the snap. For the sharp edge of his perfectionism turning outward.

It doesn’t come and when the song ends as Joan calls for a short break, you hesitate only a second before walking over to him. He’s adjusting his guitar strap like he’s already preparing an excuse no one’s asked for yet.

“Hey,” you say quietly. “Are you… okay?”

Chris looks up, surprised you’re standing there.

“You’ve been kind of… off,” you add, choosing your words carefully. “Did I do something wrong?”

He blinks. “What? No.”

You don’t move away. “You can tell me if I did. Seriously. I can fix it.”

For a moment, it looks like he might say something else but then he shakes his head, a short, dismissive motion. “It’s nothing. Just nerves. Album’s coming out. You know how it is.”

You search his face, trying to read between the lines, but he’s already closed the door. So you nod, forcing a small smile. “Okay. Yeah. That makes sense.”

From across the room, Jeongin cups his hands around his mouth. “Are we practicing or having a secret meeting?”

You snort despite yourself and step back. “Coming.”

You return to your spot, adjusting your bass, planting your feet. Chris glances at Jeongin, gives a short nod, and counts you all back in.

The music starts again. This time, instead of watching your hands, you watch him. The way his shoulders loosen as the song builds. The way his playing finds its groove again, instinctive and sure. Whatever’s tangled in his head, it hasn’t stolen this from him.

You make a choice then, that you decide to trust him because if you want him to trust you, this has to go both ways.

Midway through the song, Chris looks up and catches you looking at him. For a split second, something flickers across his face, like he’s been caught off guard. You don’t look away but smile at him. After a beat, he smiles back, small and almost shy. Then he looks down at his guitar again, but this time, the tension in his shoulders is gone.

By the time the last chord of the final track fades out, the room goes quiet in that charged way that only happens after a good session. Your fingers buzz, your shoulders ache just enough to feel earned, and suddenly all the nerves you’ve been holding in have nowhere to go.

You let out a cheer before you can stop yourself—half laugh, half squeak, pure adrenaline.

“Oh my god,” you say, dragging a hand down your face. “The album’s coming out. Like—actually coming out.”

Jeongin grins at you like this reaction is his favorite thing in the world. “There it is. I was waiting for that.”

You groan, pacing a little. “I’m excited. I’m terrified. I might throw up. But in a good way.”

“That’s how you know it’s real,” Jeongin says wisely, nodding to himself.

Jeongin tightens the screws on his drums instead of setting it down. “One more song before we call it?”

Chris hums in agreement, wiping sweat off his neck with the hem of his shirt.

Jeongin turns to you, eyes bright. “Your pick.”

You open your mouth and then stop. Instinctively, you glance at Chris instead, like this is something he should decide.

He catches the look, surprised again, then thinks for a second. “White Stripes? Seven Nation Army?”

You nod immediately. “Yeah.”

Jeongin nods too, already counting in his head. “Good choice.”

You take your positions without thinking about it. No second-guessing, no hesitation. Just three people standing where they belong.

“One,” Jeongin says.

“Two.”

“Three.”

The opening washes over the room and you fall into it like muscle memory you didn’t know you had. Your bass lines thread between Chris’s guitar and Jeongin’s rhythm, not competing, just fitting. Breathing together. Listening to each other.

Halfway through, it hits you. This feeling. Not like you’re trying to prove yourself. Not like you’re filling a space someone else left behind. But like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, playing something bigger than yourself with people who hear you.

Right now, standing there with them, you know that you’re not just playing with the band anymore.

You’re in the band.

-

There are roughly two hours left to the listening party but Joan makes everyone signing hundred or so albums. Chris’s wrist aches in that dull, repetitive way that comes from signing his name over and over again, but he keeps going anyway—marker to paper, slide the album aside, next one forward.

Across the table, you’re doing the same thing, shoulders slightly hunched, hair falling into your face every now and then as you sign. Jeongin’s beside you, fuelled by cans of orange soda, humming under his breath while Joan stands behind all of you like a hawk, counting stacks, straightening piles, making sure every single album gets all three signatures.

“All right,” Joan finally says as she shifts one Chris just signed. “That’s enough for now.”

Chris lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and drops the marker onto the table. You blink up from the pile in front of you. “For now? Does that mean… there’s more?”

Chris snorts, rolling his shoulder. “Oh, yeah. You’ve still got a lot more to sign.”

You groan dramatically, slumping back in your chair and begin rolling your wrist.

He grins, unable to help himself. “I mean—” he gestures vaguely with the marker, “—for the rest of your life, probably.”

You sigh like the weight of the world has just been dropped onto your shoulders, then laugh anyway. “Great. Love that for me.”

You gather a few albums into a neat stack, hesitating. “Um Joan… can I take one home?”

Joan waves a hand. “Sure. Take a few.”

Your face brightens immediately, and Chris watches you tuck them closer to your chest like something fragile.

Jeongin doesn’t even look up as he keeps signing. “For your dad?”

You nod. “Yeah. And his assistant. And his assistant’s niece.”

Chris’s ears perk up at the mention of your dad. He tries to sound casual as he asks, “Is he coming tonight?”

You shake your head. “No, he’s working out of town.”

“Oh,” Chris says, a little too quietly. He hides it by flipping to the next album, but the disappointment settles anyway. There goes another missed chance of meeting your dad — his idol.

Before he can bury the thought, Jeongin speaks up, far too casually. “Chris is a big fan of your dad’s band, by the way.”

Chris’s mouth hangs open, well, he initially wants to deny but somehow, he can’t get any words out.

Jeongin finally glances over at Chris, eyebrows raised. “What? It’s true.”

“I didn’t—” Chris opens his mouth, then closes it again, heat creeping up his neck. He tries to laugh it off. “I wouldn’t say big fan.”

Jeongin squints. “You absolutely would. You made me listen to their entire discography on that road trip.”

Chris stares at him, betrayed.

You look at Chris then, amusement softening your eyes, like you’ve been waiting for this moment. He braces himself, ready to explain, to defend, to say literally anything, but you just chuckle.

“I kinda knew,” you say lightly.

Chris pretends to not care but failed. “You—what?”

Jeongin perks up now. “Huh? How did you know?”

You don’t answer him. Instead, you look straight at Chris and give him a small, knowing smile. “I just knew from the first time we met.”

His mind flashes back instantly to the first time he met you, in the elevator, months ago. The way he’d caught you taking pictures of him. The way he’d reprehended you for doing it. The way you’d looked at him in anger after.

Oh.

Oh no.

Chris drags a hand down his face, groaning under his breath. “That’s—wow. That’s really embarrassing.”

You laugh softly, not unkind. “It’s kind of… sweet.”

That somehow makes it worse.

Jeongin grins, satisfied, and gulps the last of his orange soda like he didn’t just blow Chris’s cover wide open.

Chris exhales, shaking his head, cheeks warm but beneath the embarrassment, there’s something else. Something almost fond. Because if you knew back then… it means you noticed him before he even realized how much you mattered.

-

The listening party always feels a little unreal as the selected fans attending the even sitting with their faces half-lit, bodies leaned forward, waiting to hear something that used to exist only inside his head.

Chris settles deeper into his chair as the lights dim, the low murmur of the room softening into something expectant. You’re seated a few chairs away, close enough that he can see the way your foot bounces when the first snippet plays. Jeongin’s on your other side, nodding along already like he’s counting beats in his head.

Chris folds his hands together, trying to look relaxed, trying not to overthink the fact that this is the first time the world is hearing these songs. He listens with half an ear to the music and half an ear to the room, gauging reactions, watching shoulders lift, heads nod.

When the snippets end, the lights come up a little, and the host steps forward to open the Q&A session. Dozens or so pair of hands shoot up almost immediately. A few questions go by about touring, about the sound shift, about how it feels to be releasing another album.

Chris answers automatically, comfortably. He’s done this enough times that the words come easy.

Then a fan near the front raises their hand, voice steady but excited. “This album feels really personal,” they say. “What was the writing process like? And do you have a favorite song you worked on?”

Chris exhales softly into the mic, smiling. “I don’t really have a favorite. They’re all… kind of pieces of different times in my life. In our lives. Different headspaces.”

The room is quiet as he pauses to think before continuing. “But there’s one song I remember enjoying writing a lot.”

Out of instinct, his eyes drift sideways. You’re focused on the fan, quietly interacting with them, completely unaware of him. Oblivious. Which, somehow, makes this better.

“I wrote it on a night that was… rather interesting,” Chris continues, choosing the word carefully. “A lot was happening. I wasn’t really planning to write anything, but it just sort of poured out.”

He catches himself smiling as his gaze flickers back to you. There’s something almost fond about the memory, about writing the song after you and him made-up that night at the barn, about the way you don’t even realize you’re part of it.

The fan nods eagerly. “Does that affect how it sounds?”

Chris nods just slightly. “Yeah, I think so. It’s honest. Maybe a little messy. But it felt right.”

You glance at him then, just briefly, offering an encouraging smile like you always do, completely unaware of the why behind his expression. He looks away before he gives too much away, amusement settling quietly in his chest.

Toward the end, the lights dip again as the band takes their place on the stage. Chris adjusts the strap of his guitar as the host announces that The Bang Theory will be closing the listening party with a live performance, the first, from the new album.

There’s a ripple through the room as fans get to their feet, heads tilted toward the stage, eyes wide and expectant, attentive.

He glances to his left and finds Jeongin is already settling into focus. To his right, you step up to your spot, fingers ready on the fret. Chris nods once, a silent you good? You nod back.

The second the first chord rings out and the room stills. Chris sings with the steadiness in his voice, but there’s something new threaded through it, something raw, as the song unfolds, he lets his gaze drift past the lights, past the monitors, to the crowd.

They’re listening. Really listening to their song. A girl in the front row presses a hand to her chest. Someone else closes their eyes. Heads sway. When the chorus hits, there’s a collective intake of breath, like the room knows it’s standing inside something vulnerable.

Chris feels it in his chest. This is what he’s missed. Not the noise, not the chaos, but this exact exchange. The moment where something that lived in his chest now lives in theirs too. Where a song stops belonging to him and starts belonging to everyone.

He glances at you mid-verse, just for a second. You’re in it, completely immersed, playing like you’ve always been here. The way you move with the song makes something in him ease, settle. The bridge builds and Jeongin comes in strong.

Chris steps closer to the mic, pouring the last of himself into the final lines.

When the song ends, there’s a heartbeat of silence. Then the room erupts. Applause, cheers, someone shouting the band’s name. Chris lets the sound wash over him, breathless, grinning despite himself. He lowers his head for a moment, eyes closed, letting it sink in.

There is no other feeling like this. He looks out at the fans again, at you and Jeongin beside him, and Chris knows it with absolute clarity—

This is special.

-

When you step out of the venue, you really don’t expect to see fans clustered behind barricades and the moment they spot you walking out of the door, first comes the shouting and then flashes of light.

It catches you off guard, but you smile anyway. You walk over, signing a few album sleeves, a ticket stub, someone’s phone case. You pose for photos, lean in close so everyone fits the frame. A couple of them tell you they’re big fans of the band, that they can’t wait for the album to drop, that they’re excited to see you on tour. You thank them, over and over, because it still feels unreal that anyone is saying those words to you.

It's overwhelming how the fans keep holding out things to you — gifts, letters, even their phones. You don’t notice that their enthusiasm slowly pushing the barricade forward, cornering you until you feel a solid body against your back and then a pair of hands gently holding your waist.

“Sorry, but we have to leave now,” Chris says from behind you, smiling while apologizing to the fans for not being able to stick around and cater to their wishes. “We’ll see you next time, okay?”

Security comes and gently urges the two of you along as more people start pressing forward, the noise swelling as Jeongin emerges behind you. You give a final wave, a soft apology, and let yourself be guided by Chris’s hand on the small of your back toward the van.

The door shuts after Jeongin gets in, muting the outside chaos. A second later, Joan climbs in last, already mid-sentence about timing and schedules, and then the van pulls away from the curb.

Only then do you exhale and pull out your phone, thumbs flying as you reply to the messages you missed. Your dad checking on you, a relative hyping you up about the new album, Felix sent a photo of him practicing with his band, SSICK.

Felix: wyd?

You: on the way to the album release party now.

You don’t expect an immediate reply but before you can look away from the screen, your phone buzzes again.

Felix: Do you mind if I come?.

You frown slightly, rereading it. Come? How? Isn’t he in the middle of practice. But you reply anyway.

You: Of course.

-

The listening party is intended for fans, to build excitement and get early responses to the album, bonding, interacting. The album release party, on the other hand, is one that the label put together for the band.

The label rented the whole bar for the night, it’s private, invitation only, no screaming crowd, just familiar faces, label people you’re starting to recognize, a few press folks lingering politely at the edges. In the end, it’s all about business after all but it’s cozy, intimate. Almost domestic, in a strange, grown-up way.

You think, not for the first time tonight, that your dad would’ve loved this. The open bar, the cocktails names after something related to the band, the way everyone’s leaning in to hear each other talk. You smile to yourself at the thought, then let it go.

Someone clinks a glass for attention, and before you know it, a cake is being brought out with THE BANG THEORY written across the top along candles and sparklers. Jeongin immediately counts down too fast, and the three of you blow them out half-laughing, half-off-beat. Applause breaks out, cameras flash, and Jeongin insists on taking pictures right after. You lean in, shoulder brushing Chris’s, Jeongin grinning like he’s already picked the caption. A few takes later, he nods, satisfied as he takes a look at the results.

As the night stretches on, it stops feeling like an event and starts feeling like a hangout. Jackets come off. Laughter gets louder. Conversations overlap. You’re chatting with a girl who introduced herself as an editor from a magazine and she’s talking about a big sum of their readers getting interested in rock bands ever since you became a bassist for The Bang Theory. You express about how exciting that is and that rock and even music in general has no gender and it’s for everyone but it’s interesting that more girls are drawn toward rock music.

Your words trail off when you catch a familiar face entering the bar, from the blond hair and lean body, you can tell that it’s Felix. He scans the room once, then spots you and his whole face lights up.

Your eyebrows lift in surprise. “Didn’t think you’d really come,” you say when he reaches you.

You and Felix exchange a quick hug. You pull back, still smiling, and shake your head. “I thought you were joking. Weren’t you at practice?”

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “We wrapped early.”

You lead him toward one of the booths tucked into the corner, where Jeongin is already sprawled comfortably beside Joan, drink in hand. Jeongin perks up the second he sees Felix.

“Oh?” Jeongin says, genuinely surprised by Felix’s presence.

Felix slips into the booth, you grab him a drink on the way back, and soon the three of you are deep into conversation. You mostly listen, chiming in here and there, smiling as Felix and Jeongin bounce off each other like they’ve known each other longer than they have. Joan watches them fondly, shaking her head like she’s seen this dynamic a hundred times before.

You wait for a natural lull, then slide out of the booth, already halfway standing when Felix glances up. “I’m gonna grab another drink. Be right back.”

They barely register it as Felix and Jeongin are already back in their own orbit so you let yourself drift toward the bar. You just linger there, not ordering, just observing them from across the room. You turn your head slightly and find Chris leaning against the bar a few seats away, nursing a drink like it personally offended him.

You glance at the glass, then at him. “You better be careful,” you tease, nodding toward it. “Or the three of us are dragging you home tonight.”

Instead of answering, he tilts the glass toward you. “Have a sip.”

You pause. Eye him. Then, against your better judgment, you take a small sip. Immediately, you wince. “Oh—what is that?” you ask, pulling a face.

“Kombucha,” he says calmly.

You scoff a laugh. “Of course it is.”

That earns you a soft laugh, the kind that barely makes a sound. You shake your head, chuckling. “Everyone’s drinking alcohol and you’re over here with fermented tea.”

“It’s good for you,” he says, unapologetic.

“That’s such a you thing.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, watching the room hum around you. Then Chris speaks again, voice casual. “Felix seems… close to you.”

You absentmindedly snort. “Relax. He’s not trying to recruit me into his band or something.”

Chris laughs at that, soft and easy, eyes crinkling. “No. I just—never mind.”

You consider him for a second and you decide that it’s safe to share a secret with him. You step closer, close enough that your shoulder brushes his arm. Closer still, until you’re leaning in, lips near his ear.

“Okay,” you whisper. “But this stays between us.”

His posture shifts instantly. “Okay.”

“Felix likes someone.”

Chris pulls back just enough to look at you, eyebrows shooting up. “…You?”

You shake your head, smiling. “No.”

You lean in again, even closer this time, and when he follows your gaze, you flick your eyes toward the booth, toward Felix and Jeongin, still deep in conversation, bodies angled toward each other without realizing it.

Chris’s eyes widen. He looks surprised but also confused. Like he’s not sure about something. Like he can’t decide if it’s good or bad. “Are they even—”

You wave him off with a grin. You straighten, satisfied as you cross your arms together. “I’ve done my part. That part — that’s for them to figure out.”

Chris exhales a half-laugh, half-stunned. “You’re playing cupid.”

You shrug, utterly unbothered. “What can I say? I love love.”

Chris shakes his head, still unsure about it.

You turn back to the bartender. “Can I have a glass of soda?” you order.

The bartender nods and whips a glass of soda fast, the fizz catching the low bar lights. You take it, then shift back toward Chris, who’s still holding his kombucha like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You raise your glass toward him, initiating a toast. “To the album. Out tomorrow.”

He meets your gaze, his eyes warm and steady, and lifts his glass to match yours. “To the album.”

You hesitate for half a beat, then add, smiling, “And to good choices.”

Chris huffs a quiet laugh. “Especially those.”

The two of you clink glasses—soda against kombucha, light and unceremonious but it feels right. Easy. Full of good spirit and better intentions.

-

Morning light spills through the windows as you move around your apartment, half-awake but buzzing, your phone balanced on the kitchen counter with your dad on speaker.

“I’m serious, kiddo,” he says, voice warm and loud enough to follow you into the bedroom. “The album sounds so good. I keep replaying that second track—who let you do that?”

You laugh, tugging on a hoodie and grabbing your bag from the chair. “We did. Collectively. Poor choices all around.”

“Oh please,” he scoffs fondly. “Have you seen the tour announcement too? Because I saw it. Big fonts. Multiple cities. ‘And more.’ Very dramatic.”

You grin, zipping your bag. “Yeah, I saw it.”

“So I guess this means you’re officially a rockstar now,” he continues, teasing. “On the road, no fixed address, probably forgetting to call your old man—”

“Dad,” you groan, dragging a hand over your face as you head back into the living room. “Please stop.”

He laughs, clearly enjoying this way too much. “I’m just saying, I’m proud. Scared. Proud and scared.”

A knock sounds at your door.

You glance at the time and nod to yourself. “I think that’s my cue.”

“Go,” he says. “Be great. Tell the boys I said hi. And good luck today.”

“Thanks, Dad. Love you.”

“Love you more.”

You grab your phone and bag, press the phone back to your ear, and open the door only to blink when you’re met with Jeongin’s grin and Chris standing beside him, hands in his pockets.

“Oh,” you say, smiling instantly. “Hi.”

“Morning,” Jeongin chirps.

Chris gives you a small nod. “Ready?”

You step out, locking the door behind you, and fall into step with them toward the elevator. “Yeah. Just finishing a call.”

You lift the phone back up as the elevator doors slide open, stepping inside with them. “Okay, I gotta go, dad. I’ll call you later.”

“Go make noise,” your dad says. “And tell—”

“I will,” you laugh. “Bye.”

You hang up as the doors close and slip your phone into your bag. Turning to them, you smile. “My dad says hi.”

Jeongin’s eyes light up immediately. He elbows Chris without mercy. “Do you hear that? Her dad says hi.”

Chris straightens a little too fast. “He—uh—cool. That’s cool.”

You and Jeongin exchange a look, both of you biting back laughs as Chris stares very intently at the elevator numbers like they’ve suddenly become fascinating. The ride down feels lighter than it should, and you can’t help smiling to yourself as the doors finally open.

-

The photoshoot goes smoothly—too smoothly, maybe. You laugh when the photographer asks for something “more natural,” Jeongin cracks a joke that makes everyone loosen up, and Chris finds himself watching the two of you through the lens instead of worrying about how he looks. It feels… easy like the band has finally settled into its skin.

Afterward, the three of you sit down for the interview still dressed in the photoshoot outfits, make-up and hair. Simple chairs, neutral backdrop, a small table of water bottles in front of you. The interviewer smiles, professional but warm, and starts with the expected questions.

The new album. The inspiration. Late nights, trial and error, scrapped demos, moments where everything finally clicks.

Chris answers most of them out of habit, words coming smoothly, but when the questions drift toward specifics, you or Jeongin step in naturally. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t correct. He trusts you both completely to answer them.

When the interviewer says, “For the next few questions, are you okay addressing some broader topics?”

Chris glances sideways at you and then at Jeongin, seeking everyone’s approval before moving forward. You both nod.

“Yeah,” he says, also nodding. “We’re good.”

The comparison question comes first—The Bang Theory being likened to SSICK.

Chris answers carefully, measured but genuine. He talks about identity, about how every band has its own color, its own frequency, and how exciting it is that rock feels so alive right now because of that variety. He can see the interviewer nodding along, scribbling notes.

Then comes the chart question. The Bang Theory versus SSICK, competing to top the chart.

“There was never a battle to begin with,” Chris says, shaking his head slightly. “We’re just… doing our thing.”

The interviewer tilts her head. “So what’s your relationship with SSICK like?”

That one’s easy.

“We’re quite close,” he says, warmth slipping into his voice without effort. “We admire them a lot. Their musicality, their choices, the way they take risks. Honestly? They’re one of the coolest rock bands out there right now.”

It feels good to say it out loud because it’s coming from his heart, with sincerity and admiration.

Then the interviewer brings up the Oasis versus Blur comparison.

You answer that one before Chris even has the chance, playful and light, saying The Bang Theory wouldn’t mind being either because both bands are great in their own way.

The interviewer smiles, clearly pleased, and Chris relaxes, thinking that’s probably the peak of it. But, he’s wrong.

“So,” she says, glancing at her notes, “there’s been some recent news about your former member, Nico.”

Chris’s spine stiffens as the interviewer continues, gently but directly. “He commented on the new album saying that The Bang Theory ‘sounds different’ without him. How do you feel about that?”

Different. Without him. The words land heavier than he expects.

Chris keeps his face neutral, but inside, something sharp twists. This is the first he’s hearing of it—here, now, under studio lights and microphones. His mind blanks for half a second, noise rushing in his ears.