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ERROR ⁴⁰⁴ : 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍

pairing — gamer!sunghoon x fem!reader

summary — Sunghoon is good at exactly two things: gaming and being ridiculously, unbelievably hot. Nothing matters to him more than leading the school's esports team to victory at regionals this year, but a certain summer course is getting in the way of all his practice time. Luckily, he thinks he's found himself the cheat code to an easy A and a clear schedule: you, a project partner so easily flustered by his presence that you'll happily take on all the work.

18+ mdni ⚠︎ smut with plot, humour, very mild angst, college au, slowburn, sunghoon pov, in which his face card is the only thing saving him, valorant, e-sports, gaming terms used, toxic gaming culture, emotional manipulation, morally grey characters, misogynistic themes & language, extremely possessive!sunghoon, objectification, sex as an apology, corruption kink, loss of virginity, virgin!reader, dom!Hoon, verbal consent, size kink, big dick hoon (couldn't help myself sorry), big dick=big ego, begging, multiple smut scenes, multiple positions, multiple orgasms, handjobs, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex (pull-out method), oral (f receiving), rough sex, hair pulling, light choking, scratching, slapping, spanking, heavy praise kink, light degradation, please guys do not lose your virginity like this FEAT. hyung line as roomies

wc — 30.7k

a/n — ah, what a treat it was to return to my comp sci major sunghoon roots. i love writing about losers and uh... i kinda went insane with this one. this is inspired by a comment left by @m-hypen on my other fic ♡ takes place in the same au but this is entirely a standalone. i might make more for the rest of the hyung line eventually? but we’ll see. happy reading!

"Sunghoon!"

Headshot, headshot, assist—that's all that's being processed when the front door bursts open hard enough to rattle the empty energy drink cans on Sunghoon's desk. He doesn't blink, even as one of them falls over, rolling around on the floor. He doesn't even stop to think about the remaining drop left in the can that's probably leaking onto the carpet somewhere.

"Sunghoon, get your ass out here!"

He's in game mode, and nobody stops him when he's like that. Not even his roommates, whose approaching footsteps he fails to register. The only thing that matters is the screen in front of him as he lines up his next shot, just waiting for the remaining enemy teammate to peek around the corner. His prey is right there. Right behind that wall. All they have to do is walk into his trap.

Just peek already, you little pussy bitch—

"Sunghoon!"

He yelps when a hand clamps on his shoulder. His arm jerks, aim twitching, and the enemy peeks at that very moment, landing a clean headshot on him. His teammates start cursing at him in the voice chat. A lovely, overlapping chorus of "kill yourself" and "delete the game" as if he hadn't carried them for the past two rounds.

Sunghoon mutes the mic and pulls his headphones down around his neck, glaring behind him at Heeseung, who is practically dragging him up from his seat. He tries to yank his arm away, but then another pair of hands is hauling him out of his seat. He directs his glare back at Jay.

"What the f—"

"Don't act surprised. I literally told you we needed your help an hour ago. It's your fault for queueing a ranked game," Jay states, patting his shoulder. Sunghoon is now on his feet, blinking at him. Annoyed, but... ultimately unable to argue back, given he had ignored all his texts.

"Can't you just get Jake or something?" He mutters.

Jay is already leaving his bedroom, and Heeseung nudges him forward, forcing him to follow. Sunghoon rolls his eyes, a heavy sigh escaping him. He moves with begrudging footsteps out into the hallway.

"It's a four-man job. Turns out my grandma's coffee table is heavy as shit."

"Your grandma's coffee table...?"

He's not exaggerating. The thing is solid oak—masterfully crafted, intricately carved, and so extremely fucking heavy that by the time they've wrestled it through the front door, all four of them go down, collapsing to the couch. Jake, already muttering something about needing a drink, Heeseung describing his physical decline in real time, and Jay, heaving in silence.

Sunghoon sinks into the cushions, and his vision blurs, wondering which is more to blame for it: the summer heat or the fact that he's been skipping the gym to play ranked and living off microwave ramen for the past few weeks. His headset is still around his neck, and he can hear his teammates losing without him. He doesn't care. He can't feel his arms.

"Fuck, I'm gonna feel that in my back for weeks," Heeseung announces to the ceiling, then his head lifts, "but look at that—really ties the place together, right?"

He gestures to the room. Sunghoon's eyes glaze over the sight. Bare white walls, curtainless windows, a TV that sits directly on the floor, and a trash bag in the corner full of takeout containers and red solo cups—and of course, now, the beautiful table, sticking out like a sore thumb amid the room's college-boy barrenness.

"We've lived here a whole year now," Sunghoon starts between breaths, not enough energy in him to glare at his roommates. "Not once has any one of us said, 'Oh no, where will I put my cup of coffee?'"

"Who says we have to use it for coffee?"

He blinks. He doesn't know when Jake left the room, but he's now returning with a six-pack of beer, setting it down on the new table. He cracks one open immediately, settling next to him on the couch.

"My grandma's downsizing." Jay reaches forward, patting the table's surface with genuine affection. "She gave it to us for free. You don't say no to a free coffee table."

"Well, it looks stupid." Sunghoon folds his arms, "Really helps the whole we have nothing aesthetic."

"Come on. We're adults now." Heeseung perks up, "Adults have coffee tables. It's about presentation. Besides, I heard chicks dig it. Something about owning real furniture and bed frames just does it for them."

"None of us are bringing girls home," Sunghoon starts, looking at each of them. He sees Jake's mouth open to protest, "And no, your weird situationship does not count."

"Maybe that's 'cause we didn't have a coffee table before," Jay shrugs.

"Yeah, tell the ladies all about your grandma's furniture. I'm sure they'll start lining up the block."

Sunghoon feels a headache starting behind his left eye, and when he hears the game end through his headset at his shoulders, he rips the device from his neck, shoving it to the cushion at his side.

"Shitty ass game," He mutters.

A sweat had gathered at his brow, and he now moves to wipe it as he's reaching for a beer, cracking it open and taking a large gulp like it's water.

"Rough match?"

"Nah. Would've been an easy match," Sunghoon replies, groaning, "Just stressed. Coach has been pressuring me, plus there's that stupid course I have to retake this semester."

"Tough life being Captain of the E-sports team, huh?" Heeseung jokes, "Or what is it you were called that one time? The school's biggest virgin?"

Captain of the E-sports team. A title Heeseung delivers like a punchline. Most people do. Sunghoon, on the other hand, wears it with pride, and had long since stopped trying to explain himself—both the fact that being the best player in the whole school is a legitimate accomplishment, and the fact that he is not a virgin. Effectively explaining either of those things would require Heeseung to actually care, which he doesn't.

Sunghoon had spent his whole life refining his skills for that sort of recognition. He shoots with precision and wins. He reads his opponents to filth, predicting their every move, and annihilates them with ease. He plays Valorant at a level that makes his teammates worship him like a god, and the enemy team start inventing new slurs to type in the chat. That is to say, he was very, very good at it. And very serious about it.

It's precisely why he doesn't have time for moving coffee tables. Or sitting around like this. Or—

His phone buzzes.

His is summer course. Right. The one he'd failed last semester, that his academic advisor had gently but firmly informed him he needed to retake if he wanted to graduate on time. He'd registered for it in a fog of dismissive irritation back in March, figuring it would be easy enough. And then the syllabus had dropped with the word group project, and he'd been assigned a project partner who had emailed him four times before the first week of classes had even ended, asking about meeting up weeks before the deliverable due dates.

He reaches for his phone, scrolling through the feed of missed notifications from you: One shared document link, more than a couple missed messages, and—he squints—a voice memo. Who the fuck sends voice memos about code?

"Is that the project partner you keep complaining about?" Heeseung leans over his shoulder, snatching the phone away, "She sends voice memos. How adorable. Don't tell me you're ignoring those?"

"Give it back."

He doesn't; instead, he hits play, raising the volume to the max so the whole room can hear it.

"Hey, Sunghoon. How are you? Um... I'm here at the library now. I know we agreed to meet at three o'clock, but I got here a little early," he hears you laugh a bit nervously through the speaker. You have one of those that's just a little too sweet, a little too apologetic for no reason in particular. "I booked a study room, so text me when you're here. And... that's all for now. Bye, Sunghoon."

The boys sit there in silence. Glaring in disbelief at their friend.

"Oh my god," Heeseung groans, "Sweet Jesus, your partner sounds like this, and you've been ignoring her?"

Jay snatched the phone, glaring at it, then glaring at Sunghoon, "She sounds like an angel. What the fuck is wrong with you? Like, medically. What kind of mental illness does a guy have to have to end up like this?"

"That's the long-term psychological damage of being a Valorant player," Jake scoffs, and Sunghoon rolls his eyes.

"Play it again," Heeseung demands, and Jay rewinds it a bit, just to hear the breathing and that nervous little laugh through the speaker, a smile forming on his lips, "Is she cute? She sounds cute. She's got the voice. You know the one that some girls have, that makes you think about what other noises they could—"

"I don't know. I haven't even met her—yet." Sunghoon snatches the device back, "She's annoying. She sends like twenty messages a day."

"Twenty messages a day," Heeseung looks at him, "From a girl who sounds like she whimpers when she's nervous. You know what I'd do with twenty messages a day? I'd be jacking off to the typing indicators."

"That's disgusting. Keep that shit to yourself."

"What's disgusting is you having a girl sending you personalized audio content, saying your name like that, and choosing to ignore it."

"Bet he's got it all in a folder somewhere," Jay snorts, "Keeps it hidden away, playing on loop while he queues ranked. Jacks off between rounds."

"I've never even listened to any of these," Sunghoon says flatly, "She sends so many. Seriously. She's like an organized freak. The kind who start projects early and shit."

"Oh, so she's one of those girls?" Jake grins, "super nervous, apologizes for nothing... You know the type?"

"I don't." Sunghoon deadpans, feeling like his friend is about to start describing a porno category rather than an actual person, given the smirk on his face.

"The type that acts all innocent and sweet on the surface," Heeseung nudges him, "you know what they say about them, right? That they're total freaks in bed. Shit, if a girl like that booked me a study room I'd—"

"Actually finish your degree and graduate?" Jake offers.

"I'd graduate with honours."

"She's probably been waiting in the library for how long, now?" Jay shakes his head, "She got there early. Early. She's probably sitting there with her little notes and highlighters and her 'bye Sunghoon' voice, checking her phone every thirty seconds, and you're here drinking beer and complaining."

Today. The meeting was today. He checks the time—forty minutes ago.

"Shit," Sunghoon's on his feet, sprinting towards his room, "Shit, shit, shit."

He starts digging around for his backpack in his room, under piles of laundry, and nearly trips on the can he forgot to pick up on his floor.

"Guys, the library!" he calls out in a panic, "I'm supposed to be at the library. I need a ride. Now. Jay?" "Not my problem." "Jake?" "Nope."

Sunghoon grabs his bag and stumbles back to the living room, bracing himself against the doorframe. Heeseung is already looking at him with that slow, insufferable smile, sprawled on the couch like he's been waiting for this exact moment.

"I dunno," Heeseung says, stretching his arms over his head with a theatrical groan. "I'm feeling pretty tired. That table was heavy." "I helped." "You complained the whole time." "I did not—" "And you kept voice memos hidden from me. From all of us. That's a betrayal of household trust." "I didn't hide anything. You're just a nosy degenerate." Sunghoon's grip tightens on the doorframe. "Are you driving me or not?" "Hm." Heeseung taps his chin. "Maybe if you ask me nicely..." Sunghoon takes a breath. Swallows his pride. "Heeseung." He says through gritted teeth, "Can you please drive me?" "Ah, I like the sound of that." Heeseung pushes off the couch and brushes past him with infuriating slowness. "Fine. But you owe me. I wanna hear more of cute-girl's voice notes, so be nice to her." "Okay. Whatever, you fucking pervert." Sunghoon scoffs, watching him snag his keys off the hook by the door. "Just drive."

The library's fairly empty. It's expected, given it's the middle of summer on a weekend, but it's still jarring as ever to walk past empty tables where people would go to war to get a spot during finals season. And, for the first time in a while, he's thankful to be in an air-conditioned building.

"Hi Sunghoon!" you greet him as soon as he enters the room, seemingly startled by the suddenness of his arrival. He watches you for a moment, how your back straightens, and your immediate, almost rehearsed smile.

She's got the voice. Heeseung's words ring in his mind as he takes you in, you know the one that some girls have, that makes you think about what other noises they could—

"Hi," he answers, slipping into the seat next to you, "Sorry for making you wait. Roommate stuff. Had to move a coffee table. Very adult."

You laugh a little too quickly, and he notes the way your hands tremble in your lap. He also notes the way you refuse to meet his eyes.

"That's okay," you glance towards your phone, which was still face-up with its messages open. You fumble with it, tucking it away. "I was just worried maybe, like, you got lost or something."

Lost? He has to resist the urge to scoff. He's late, and instead of being upset, you decided to make up lousy excuses for him. He looks you up and down again. You're cute, like you sounded over the phone. A nervous-looking mess. The type of thing his roommates would call endearing. Sunghoon, on the other hand, finds it frustratingly pathetic.

"So." You're already turning your laptop to face him, "I've been working on the backend structure. I commented everything, so it should be pretty straightforward. Here's the API setup, and the database schema..."

You click through files as you talk, your voice picking up speed, and he doesn't listen. He tries to. He swears, he does. But his eyes instead follow your posture, and how you sit uptight, spine straight. Your hands fumble around, twitching like you can't keep them still, and your knees bounce under the desk like a nervous habit.

Good god, you look like you'll crumble to pieces any moment. He can feel a headache creeping up on him already. It's exhausting just looking at you.

"...What do you think?"

"Huh?" He blinks, taking in whatever you're pointing to on your screen. You're looking at him all bright-eyed and earnest, as if his opinion would add any sort of valuable insight here. "I... think it looks good. You did well."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I mean," he shrugs, "Why do you sound so surprised?"

His question catches you off guard. He suspected it would, that's why he asked it. Not that he was trying to prod around in your anxious little head. Just that you seemed predictable. Now he knows you are.

"I just..." You're tapping the desk now. "I wanted it to be up to your standards. I didn't want to disappoint you."

"My standards?" He repeats. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs. Not at you—well, maybe a little at you. But mostly at the absurdity of the most competent person in the room, asking for his approval. "You're something else, you know that?"

You blink. "What does that—?"

"Here," He's still smiling. The headache from earlier has faded. He's not sure when. "Let me show you what you're working with."

He opens his laptop and spins it toward you. His frontend code sits there in all its tragic glory—bare bones, placeholder text, a CSS file with plenty of questionable styling decisions. Your take it all in, and for a split second, you forget to hide the horrified expression on your face.

"See? Trash. Actual garbage. I don't even show up to class. I'm not the guy whose 'standards' you should be worried about. Besides..." He leans back. "You're probably the best student in the whole class."

"I'm sure I'm not," you say, almost bashful, brushing it off as if it were a compliment. It wasn't. He was stating a fact. But you're too self-deprecating to know the difference, he supposes. "And your code isn't trash—"

"It is. We both know it's ass. You don't have to be polite."

"It's... disorganized. And a little rushed..." You hesitate, "Were you busy with something—?"

"Oh my god, you have no idea," he tilts his head back, a sigh of frustration leaving him almost immediately. "Regionals. Scrims every night. Coach breathing down my neck. I'm pretty sure I heard someone call for a flank in my dream last night, and I don't even think I was asleep. Or maybe that was just my roommates fucking with me again..."

You nod along as if you understand, though you definitely don't. You probably don't even know what half those words mean, but you're listening, and for some reason, that's less annoying than it was ten minutes ago.

"Anyway. I know it's rough. But like I said. Don't worry your head over anything else. I'll get to it, I swear."

"I'm not worried. I trust you. We still have another week, so it's not like it's last-minute. We just need to clean up some things here," You nod sweetly, then angle the screen toward him and lean in, your shoulder nearly brushing his. "The class labelling in the HTML is messing with the CSS styling. If you restructure the divs here, it should resolve most of the layout issues. And then here..."

You start explaining—specificity, nesting, the cascade. Your voice is steady now, in your element. You point at the screen with a capped highlighter like a tiny lecturer. He catches maybe sixty percent of it.

What he catches more of is your instinctive forgiveness. He shows up an hour late with half-done work that looks like a middle schooler's first project, and you're already pivoting to reassurance mode. It's okay. It's a good start. We can fix it. It's spineless. A little sad, honestly. It's also nice. You're a nice person. No bite, no sarcasm, no passive-aggressiveness, just pure, unearned kindness.

He sighs, leaning back in his chair, settling in as you continue. He makes himself comfortable as best he can in his plastic library chair, and subconsciously, his legs spread, his knee drifting outward until it presses against yours under the table.

It wasn't intentional, and he's about to mutter a quick apology and draw his leg back, but then you pause completely. Your mouth is still half-open around whatever you were about to say, but nothing comes out. Your eyes drop to the table. Your fingers freeze over the trackpad.

He notices. He absolutely notices all of it. The way you swallow, the way your lip trembles trying to find your next word, the way you glance at him from the side in a panic, checking to see his reaction. She gets flustered when I touch her, he thinks, filing the thought away like data, interesting. He doesn't move his knee. Doesn't say anything or make any sort of face. He just watches you scramble, suddenly feeling a lot less bored than he'd felt a few seconds ago.

"I—" You shake your head, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. "Sorry, what was I—the bullet points. Right. I'll email you."

You clear your throat. Find your place in your notes again, though your hands are fumbling slightly, your crisp efficiency gone. You're scrambling to recover, to be useful again, to reassert the order you're using as a crutch.

"Anyway," you manage, "That's everything from my end. We're in good shape."

You're already packing up. The laptop closed with a decisive click. Highlighters swept into your bag in a single motion. Notebook stacked on top. The organized girl, reassembling her armour. Trying to pretend the last thirty seconds didn't happen.

"You in a hurry?" He has to hold back a teasing grin as you scramble for your words. "No! I mean—yeah. Just. Gotta go, so... yeah. See you next week. Or something." "Yeah. Or something."

He doesn't move. He's thinking about the bus. The long, slow route across campus. The forty-minute wait. Maybe Jay will pick up if he calls. Maybe Heeseung will text him something unhelpful, like walk it builds character.

You're standing, bag over your shoulder, then you pause, noticing he hasn't gotten up. "You're staying?"

"Hm? Just deciding if I want to beg my roommates for a ride, or suck it up and take the bus."

"Oh..." you adjust the strap of your bag, watching him thoughtfully. Your hand is already at the door, ready to go. But you don't. Your mouth hangs open slightly, hesitating on your next word. "Do you maybe want a ride? I have my car. If you want."

He looks at you. Still shrinking yourself. Still avoiding direct eye contact. And you're offering him a ride he didn't ask for. You're offering favours for him—a stranger you don't know. He files that fact away, too.

"Yeah." He stands, slinging his bag over one shoulder. "A ride would be great, actually."

You smile like he's the one doing you a favour, and he smiles back. Not for the same reason. Just because he's feeling really fucking lucky that his project partner is this nice to him.

What a stupid, stupid idea. Really, what on earth were you thinking? Having him, of all people, in your car? In your passenger seat?

Park Sunghoon. You'd read the name about a hundred times in email threads and shared documents. Now that same man is here, in your car, looking out the window with his jawline catching the late afternoon light like it's trying to blind you. Your blood pressure is rising by the second, trying to keep your focus on the road, while your heart threatens to beat out of your chest.

Admittedly, you were annoyed at first. You'd spend an hour in the library, checking your phone, re-reading the room booking confirmation, composing and deleting increasingly pathetic messages. Hey, just checking in! No rush!

You even practiced in your head the polite-but-firm speech you'd planned to deliver. It's a new thing you've been trying to do where you don't let people walk all over you—where you set boundaries and explain that your time is valuable. Then he'd walked in.

To call him hot would be an understatement. That man right there is not simply hot. Hot is a word for attractive people who still seem human. Sunghoon, on the other hand, looks like someone photoshopped a male model into your web programming course as a prank.

His hair is dark and slightly messy, like he just rolled out of bed and somehow falls perfectly into place. His jawline, so sharp it could kill you, and when he flashed that dimpled smile at you—that lazy, unbothered, gorgeous smile—your brain had performed a full system shutdown.

You don't offer people rides. You don't even like having your friends in your car. You get stressed by the thought of someone else in your space, watching you drive, listening to your playlist. And now he's in the passenger seat of your car, looking so gorgeous that you're wondering if he's even real, and you're freaking the fuck out. His knee bounces idly as he stares out the window, and your eyes snag on the movement—the way his hand, large and sprawled out, rests loose on his knee. You snap your gaze back to the road.

Deep breaths, you tell yourself, sparing him another glance from the corner of your eye. Stop thinking about weird stuff. Stop being weird. Just make conversation or something.

"So," you manage, and the fact that you manage to say it while sounding almost normal is a small victory. "You said you were busy? With, like, a summer internship or something?"

"Nah." He's still looking out the window, nodding his head slowly to the music. You don't even know what song you have playing. The sound of your own thoughts is too loud for you to notice, but a warmth floods your cheeks at the mere idea that he's enjoying your music. "E-sports. I'm on the school team. We've got regionals coming up."

You blink.

E-sports. You suppose it makes sense. He is in computer science, like you. Most guys in your program are into the whole video gaming thing. It's just hard to imagine him as one of them.

You try to picture it in your head: The E-sports team. A group of socially awkward loners who sit in darkened rooms with headsets, shouting at each other. And then there’s Sunghoon who, beneath the old hoodie and messy hair, looks like he's one photoshoot away from a skincare campaign.

"That's—" You search for the right word. "Cool. I didn't realize the school had an E-sports team."

"Most people don't." He shrugs, glancing over at you. "It's not exactly a spectator sport. But we're good. Made regionals last season. Coach says if we podium this year, we might actually get real funding."

He says it less with arrogance, and more in that matter-of-fact tone he seems to always have. There's something about the way he doesn't perform humility or pride, how he states his truth and moves on. It seems easy. You admire that. You also find it deeply unfair that his voice is making you feel all sorts of things while he's just... talking.

"What game?" you ask.

"Valorant. The shooter. With the agents and the abilities?" He glances at you. "You've heard of it?"

"Oh! My younger cousin plays." You think back, laughing a little at the recollection of the time he made you download it to your laptop. "I'm terrible at it. Like, genuinely embarrassingly bad. I panic and shoot at the floor."

He laughs. It's a real laugh, short and surprised, and a heat creeps to your cheeks. "Everyone's bad at first. It's all just practice."

"Right. Practice." You're smiling now, "I'll add it to my schedule. Between the project and avoiding my parents' calls."

"Your parents?"

"Strict. They mean well, but..." You shake your head, letting your words trail off.

You feel the weight of his stare, a soft hum leaving his lips. The intersection ahead goes yellow. You slow to a stop, grateful for the excuse to look away from him.

"So." You pivot, "E-sports. You must be practicing a lot then, right?"

"It's a lot of pressure," he says, and his voice has shifted slightly. Less casual. His brows scrunch together, and he's looking out the window again, passing streetlights catching the angles of his sharp, beautiful profile. "Coach says if we don't podium, our funding might get cut. Again. So I've been practicing nonstop. Scrims every night. VOD reviews."

Scrims. VOD reviews. Words that do not exist in your vocabulary, but you nod your head along like you understand. You think you get the idea, anyway.

"And then there's this course." He gestures vaguely at you, at the car, at everything. "This bullshit that I have to retake it."

"You failed web programming?"

"I was carrying the team through the playoffs. Sacrificed my homework for practice." He rubs the back of his neck, and your eyes track the shift of his shoulder, the way his fingers press into the muscle there, the brief glimpse of his collarbone where his hoodie shifts. You look away before he catches you staring. "Didn't think I'd end up failing, but. Here we are."

You think about his half-finished frontend. The skeleton components. The CSS file, full of god knows what. He'd shown it to you with the sheepish shrug of someone who knew exactly how bad it was and hated it. He hadn't tried to convince you it was better than it looked.

"But it's okay. It's worth it to make it to regionals." He's smiling to himself, "I'll fucking destroy those losers. They won't know what hit them."

You laugh, but he doesn't. You realize it's not a joke very quickly, and so you clear your throat instead.

"And I'll get my work done, of course," he tips his head towards you, his posture shifting. "Can't guarantee my portion will be as good as yours. But you can blame it on me in the group review doc."

"I'm sure you'll do great," you hear yourself say. "Not just the project. The tournament, too."

He turns to look at you. The late afternoon light catches the side of his face, and you have to force your eyes back to the road.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You clear your throat. "I mean, I don't know anything about E-sports. But you're the captain, right?"

"Yeah."

"So you must be good. Like, actually good."

He doesn't answer right away. When you glance over, he's not looking at the road—he's looking at you, head tilted slightly, like he's trying to figure you out.

"I am. I'm the best player on the team." He says it with that matter-of-fact tone again.

You pull up to his place. It's a student housing unit—one of those rundown ones that nobody cares about enough to fix up. Someone inside is yelling, the way guys yell when they're playing video games. You shift into park.

"Thanks," he says, unbuckling his seatbelt. "For the ride. And for... You know. Not being pissed about the code. Or the being late thing."

"It's fine," you smile. "Really. Don't worry about it."

He pauses with his hand on the door. Looks at you. There's something in his expression you can't read, the hint of a smile that you think might be lazy amusement, though you're not sure what he's amused by. He stops. Shakes his head slightly. "See you soon?"

"Yeah! I'll send the invite. And the notes."

He smiles. That damn smile. And then he's gone, walking up the path to his door, and you're sitting in your parked car with your heart doing something stupid in your chest. You watch him disappear inside. You're warm all over, and there's no good reason for it either. All he did was sit there and talk to you like a normal person, and yet you're here, feeling a deeply humiliating sort of heat forming in your lower stomach the more you think about it.

Through the front window, you can see movement—someone on a couch, the blue glow of a TV. His roommates, probably. You wonder if he'll tell them about you. You wonder if they even know you exist. Then you realize you're still parked outside his apartment, staring at his front door like a creep, and you pull away from the curb.

You have to drive all the way back to campus. It's a route you know by heart, familiar enough that your brain has permission to drift. And drift it does—back to the study room, the way he'd leaned back in his chair, the way his knee had pressed against yours. You'd frozen. Completely, mortifyingly frozen. You'd forgotten your own sentence and stammered through the recovery. And then he'd smiled at you in the car. And now you're smiling. You're smiling at a red light with no one else in the car, like an idiot, and you can't stop.

It's late, past two in the morning, and the place has gone quiet—Heeseung retreated to his room hours ago, Jake's been dead to the world the moment he got home from his summer job, and Jay's probably doomscrolling, given the amount of Instagram reels he keeps sending to the roommates group chat. The only light is the fridge, a dull white glow illuminating Sunghoon’s tired gaze.

Sunghoon stands in front of it, scanning the contents inside, none of it looking particularly enticing, but he just lost a ranked game, and he needs to eat his feelings. Leftover takeout. Someone's half-eaten burrito. A case of energy drinks. He grabs a container that looks decent enough—day-old noodles, probably Jay’s because nobody else in the house bothers to cook. Deciding that dealing with the aftermath of stealing his food is a problem for tomorrow, he shoves it in the microwave.

"Sup."

The floorboards creak behind him, and Sunghoon turns around to glare. Heeseung. Of course. The microwave beeps, and Sunghoon grabs the container, shoving his chopsticks around. It’s still cold in the center.

"Why do you always choose to enter the kitchen when I'm here?"

"Because we run on the same sleepless schedule," Heeseung moves to the sink, waterbottle held under the faucet and turns on the tap. His hair is a disaster, his shirt inside-out, and he watches Sunghoon eat Jay’s leftover noodles straight from the container, too lazy to comment on it. "And 'cause I wanna hear about your little library date. Was she cute?"

"Not a date."

"She drove you home. So it clearly went well." He turns off the tap and fastens the cap back on the plastic bottle. "Were you nice to her?"

"I was nice."

"You better have been. Most women would've called you a loser for being a grown ass man with no driver's license."

"Whatever."

"No, not whatever. I can't believe you." Heeseung points the water bottle at him, frowning, "I can't believe what I'm hearing. She waited an hour for you. Then she gave you a ride home.”

"I know. Real nice of her, right?"

"Too nice of her." Heeseung stares at him, watching him shove noodles into his mouth. "Jay's right. We really should do a scan of your brain. Admit you to a psych ward or some shit."

He doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want to think about it. But his brain, unhelpfully, is already thinking about it. The project. He should really start working on the project. That's the thought he keeps trying to hold onto. Not because he actually wants to do it, but because of you.

You'd been kind. Genuinely kind. You'd asked about regionals like you gave a single shit. You'd nodded along while he talked about Valorant, even though you don't understand any of it. Then there was his code—his shitty ass code that he knew was trash, that you knew was trash, too. There was no lecture. No guilt trip. Not even a hint of disdain. You just showed him how to fix it. Carefully explained it, even sent him an email after with an organized bullet-point list of all the steps he needed to implement.

An angel. That's what you are. Or a doormat. It’s the same thing, in his mind. A worse person would take advantage of that, wouldn't they?

His phone buzzes on the counter: One new email. An attachment. Then a second notification—a voice memo.

Heeseung's eyes immediately drop to the screen.

"Is that her?"

"Can you not—?"

Heeseung snatches the phone. Again. Sunghoon is too tired to fight him.

"She sent you another voice memo. At 2am." Heeseung's thumb hovers over the play button. "You know what girls send voice memos at 2am for, right?"

He's grinning as he presses play, and Sunghoon digs his chopsticks further into his noodles, ignoring his crude commentary.

"Hi, Sunghoon. Um. Okay, so I was thinking about earlier—about the whole esports thing, and how stressed you seemed about the tournament? And I just... I had some extra time, so I finished up the code. It wasn’t a big deal, really. Only took a few hours.” There’s a nervous laugh, then a pause like you’d forgotten your next words, “Hopefully, this helps? So you can focus on practice and not have to worry about the project on top of everything else… yeah. Just. Let me know if you have questions. I'm always happy to help. Okay. This is getting long. Sorry. Bye, Sunghoon.”

Heeseung sets the phone down on the counter, the movement slow and careful, like he’d just handled a sacred artifact.

"Dude."

"I know."

"This is insane."

"I know."

"You've got a girl doing all your work for you. At two in the morning. Because you mentioned you were stressed about a Valorant tournament. Said she’s always happy to help."

"I said I know. She's nice. Now leave me alone."

"No, I don't think you understand. Do you even realize what this is?" Heeseung is pacing now, the kitchen too small for his indignation. "This is the literal definition of pretty privilege. You literally just sit there, and she’s doing things for you—Holy shit, it's like when Jake was doing some hot chick's homework for an entire semester 'cause he was begging for a crumb of pussy—"

"Jake was manipulated." Sunghoon sets his leftovers down. "I'm not manipulating anyone. I didn't even—I never asked for this."

"Yeah." Heeseung stops pacing and looks at him. "But you could've. That's the fucked up part. You could ask her to come over right now and do your dirty laundry, and she'd say yes. She'd probably bring her own detergent."

Sunghoon wants to retort that, but... You would, wouldn't you? He drags two hands down his face, sighing as his roommate's mouth continues to run.

"Life's so unfair." Heeseung throws his hands up. "I send a girl one message. One. And she leaves me on read for three days. You ignore a girl for a week, and she's doing your homework, giving you rides home, and sending you audio porn. What is wrong with the world?"

Sunghoon's looking at his phone.

He should type something. Thanks, maybe. Or sorry—sorry you’re doing his work at 2am, sorry he didn't do it himself, sorry he's probably going to keep disappointing you. His thumb hovers over the keyboard.

thanks. you didn't have to do that. Deletes it. seriously thank you. i owe you. Deletes it.

He pockets his phone and walks past Heeseung, leaving the leftovers container behind.

"Where are you going?"

"Bed."

"You're not going to respond? You're just going to leave her on read?" He half-calls out, "You're really gonna act like you're not interested at all?"

He shuts his door. Sits on the edge of his bed, the room dark except for the blue glow of his monitor in sleep mode and with a heavy sigh, he opens the voice recorder. A hand runs through his hair, and he clears his throat, feeling like an idiot. Then he presses record.

"Hey. Got your email. Thanks. You seriously didn't have to do that." A pause. He doesn't know how to end these things. Your voice memos always ended with ‘bye Sunghoon,’ all soft and hesitant-sounding, but he thinks something like that would just sound awkward in his own voice. He then realizes he’s still recording and stammers, "I'll—yeah. I'll make it up to you. Goodnight."

He hits send before he can delete it and stares at it for longer than he should. Girls like that shit, right? The whole voice memo thing. He's not sure. He just felt like you deserve a little more than a thank-you text for doing his work for him.

He tosses his phone onto his nightstand and lies back on his bed, long limbs stretched out from a long day of doing mostly nothing (apart from moving that damn coffee table). His brain, unhelpfully, drifts back to the library. The way you'd frozen when his knee touched yours. The way you'd stammered through the rest of your sentence and then offered him a ride anyway. The way you'd looked at him in the car, wide-eyed and nervous. It's been a while since he'd seen anyone look at him like that.

Not that he's inexperienced with women—unlike what his roommates' constant teasing would imply. It's a lack of interest, something he had discovered about himself in high school with his first whopping three-month-long relationship. He'd gotten bored of her in the first month, and when she asked him to choose “me, or your stupid game,” it really wasn’t a difficult choice to make.

Then there was the odd fling here and there in his first year of college. Again, never lasted long. He didn't have the time or energy to commit. In his defence, he was upfront about his intentions. It's not his fault they never listened.

He stopped bothering after that. Girls are drama. They get clingy and weird. They pout and whine over not getting enough attention, trying to drag him away from his game. That shit is annoying. And he doesn't put up with annoying shit.

A part of him wonders if you'd be the same. You're cute, but insecure. The type to get attached too quickly, he'd assume. But you also listened when he talked about his game. You did his code so he could practice more and asked for nothing in return. That's maybe the most supportive any woman has ever been of his future E-sports career.

You could probably ask her to come over right now and do your dirty laundry, and she'd say yes. He scoffs at Heeseung's voice in his head. Then, a much crueller thought enters his mind: I could probably get her to do the whole project, too.

It's sharp and invasive—so much so that he's rolling over with a groan, burying his face into the pillows. Sunghoon's a lot of things. A shitty project partner being somewhere near the top of that list, but he is not a freeloading whore. He'll be grateful and move on. He'll do his work, he'll win regionals, and when the semester is done, he'll never see your face again.

Sunghoon did not, in fact, do his work.

He tried to—if opening up an empty file and staring at it for five minutes before queuing another ranked Valorant game counts as trying.

Bless your heart, you even sent him reminders. Texts of encouragement with little smiley faces, offers to help, to which he replied with empty promises. Don't worry, I'm working on it tomorrow. I've got it. All good.

All of that, until he woke up the next week with a calendar notification:

deliverable 2 meeting today

It's a weekday, which means Jay took his car to work. Which means he has to take the bus to the library. Which means he won't have time to string something together at the last minute for when he's supposed to meet you.

Sunghoon: can we meet at my place? Sunghoon: got no ride today You: sure :)

He grins at the text. Perfect. That's perfect. All he has to do is sit down, write some bullshit, and hope that you offer to fix it—which he's sure you will. You're nice like that. You're understanding.

But then he's at his computer, and he's looking at the Valorant icon in the corner of his home screen. And then he's queuing another game. Then another. And another... and— The doorbell rings.

Hours. He'd just spent hours playing instead of doing his work like a fucking idiot. And now he's in the middle of a ranked game, clutching up another round.

"Heeseung!" He yells, "Get the door!"

No response. Of course, there's no response.

Luckily, the last remaining enemy peeks, and he finishes the round with another win. With that, he's sprinting to the door. Swings it wide open. A wave of muggy outdoor air hits him, the summer sun beaming down, and you're there smiling slightly, hands gripping the strap of your bag. He doesn't have time to process you.

"Come in," he gestures, sprinting back towards his room. He calls out over his shoulder, "Sorry, I'm in a game. Ranked. Can't leave. Make yourself at home." He's sliding back into his seat, and your footsteps follow tentatively behind him.

“Ranked?”

“Like, if I leave, I’ll be penalized and lose ranked points.”

“Ah.”

You stand behind him, a polite distance away, still gripping your bag. You shift your weight where you stand, squinting at the screen.

"I'll be done soon, don't worry. These guys are easy."

"Okay..." You sound a little confused, leaning over his shoulder, watching him move through the map.

Somehow, the feeling of your eyes on him as he plays feels like a power boost. And something in him feels the urge to show off just a little bit. You watch him easily take out two enemies with precision, and he smiles, cockily.

"Told you. Easy."

A voice perks up in the lobby chat. The enemy team. "Reported for aimbotting. This is fucking bullshit."

Sunghoon presses the button on his mic to talk, "Nah. I'm just better."

The voice on the other end proceeds to start cussing him out, mouth close enough to the mic that it cuts out every few words, calling him every slur and cuss word under the sun and from the corner of his eye, he sees your face drop in horror. He mutes himself for a second.

"It's just trash talk. Don't worry. Happens all the time."

"All the time?"

“Gaming culture. It’s not for the weak.”

He gets another headshot, and another voice joins in, "Yo, asshole, how does it feel being a basement-dwelling, virgin?"

"Wouldn't know.” Sunghoon quickly unmutes again, firing back, “Why don't you tell me about it?"

A third voice, "Don't bother with him. This guy probably jerks off to his own highlight clips. I guarantee he's never felt the touch of a woman."

Sunghoon's about to respond, but then you're leaning forward in one confident stride.

"Oh? You guarantee that?"

The mic picks up your voice loud and clear, and the lobby explodes. Both the enemy team and his own.

"NO WAY."

“WHO IS THAT?"

"Bro has a whole woman in his room, and he's playing Valorant right now."

"She sounds hot as fuck."

"Dude, I'll forfeit if you get her to moan in the mic."

"Can we get a whimper if we win the next round?" His teammate says.

“Fuck off,” He says immediately, glancing over at you. You’re shifting your weight, your arms around yourself, looking incredibly embarrassed, but you’re grinning proudly. He grins right back, unable to resist the urge to rub this moment in on every other loser in the lobby. “She’s a little busy under the desk right now.” Your eyes go wide at the implication, and the voice chat explodes.

“WHAT THE FUCK DOES HE MEAN BY—”

The whole lobby talks over each other, and when he gets his final shot, VICTORY printed across his screen, he leans back in his chair.

"Anyway, she’s waiting for me," He glances over at you, his voice terribly smug, and you visibly embarrassed. "Later incels."

The post-game stats load, and finally, there is silence in his headset. He lets it fall to his neck, still grinning.

"Sorry." You start, "I didn't mean to—"

"Sorry?" He raises a brow, "Sorry for what? That was badass. You just destroyed them. Now those guys have to cope with losing and being bitchless. They're gonna be crying over it for the next year, at least."

"Well... good. They deserve it." You say a little proudly, watching him report the guy who called him slurs for bullying. "I don't understand. How can people get so mad over a game?"

"Sore losers," he says simply, "they're mad because they're bad."

"Or they're mad because you're really good," you offer a smile, "I didn't see you miss a single shot. How is that possible?"

He opens his mouth to answer, but the words don't come. Instead, he’s blinking, really taking you in for a moment, because if his eyes don’t deceive him, you actually seem… impressed. Genuine admiration. The kind he only gets from his teammates and other losers in game.

"Practice," he starts, letting his gaze drop, taking you in. The skirt that rides up your thighs, your hands clasped in your lap, and those wide, attentive eyes of yours. "Years of aim training. Game sense. Good instincts."

Something stirs in him, and suddenly he’s thinking about how good you’d look underneath him, making that same wide-eyed expression for an entirely different reason. How nervous that little voice of yours would sound making other kinds of noises for him, what you’d actually look like if you were under his desk on your knees.

You'd give in so easy.

“Anyone can learn it.” He finally says, the intensity of his gaze half-wiped, replaced with something more polite. “It just takes dedication."

"I'm a lost cause with this stuff. Trust me," you laugh, "Anyway. We should probably get to the project."

Ah. The project. The thing he has nothing to show for on his end because he didn't do anything.

“There's a lot more ground we have to cover this time. There are a lot more features that need to be implemented this time and..."

You ramble on as you seat yourself at the edge of his bed, opening up your bag, and Sunghoon gulps.

He could rip off the band-aid and admit it right now. "Sorry, I'm an idiot, and I played ranked instead of doing my work, but I'll get it done in the next week, I swear."

But you already did his work last week. Already spent a whole week sending him reminders and sending sweet little voice notes—all of which he'd responded to with empty promises. He swears he never meant for those promises to become empty. He planned on doing his work. He just... didn't.

Instinctively, he stands, and mid-sentence, he's placing his headset on your head, adjusting it. You freeze up like last time, and look up at him with the most helpless gaze, all train of thought just gone. His train of thought is rather lost, too, if he's being honest.

"Better idea," he says, "What if I teach you how to play?"

"But—"

"You defended my honour in a Valorant lobby. That kind of bravery deserves a reward.” He pulls out his chair for you, "Sit."

You hesitate. He can see the war happening behind your eyes—the good, responsible side of you trying to fight the flustered one that wishes to give in.

"Just one game. For me?" He reaches out and nudges your shoulder. He lets the touch linger a second longer than it needs to, and he watches your breath hitch.

"Just one.”

The gaming chair swallows your frame, and he pushes it in, hovering just a little too close as he leans over you. He puts you in practice mode to start.

"Alright. Basics first. This is how you move." He guides your hand to the keyboard, his fingers deliberately brushing yours. "WASD. Forward, left, back, right. You know that already?"

You nod weakly, moving around, not quite with ease, but at least you know how to do it. He laughs a little at the jerky movements, and your flustered demeanour from him being this close. He's enjoying this.

"Good. Now shooting." His hand covers yours on the mouse. "Left click. Aim for the head."

The bot appears. You click. Miss entirely. Click again. Hit the shoulder.

"See? You're already better than half my ranked teammates."

"Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not, I swear."

He lets you get comfortable with the practice range. You're clumsy but getting the hang of it, your movements less awkward, your aim less panicked. By the time he queues you into a real match—comms and text chat both disabled, he's not having a repeat of earlier—you're at least facing the right direction.

He drags a chair from the kitchen and sits next to you.

"Real game now. Real players. They're going to be better than the bots."

The first few rounds are rough. You die early in the first. Then the second. By the fourth round, you've done exactly zero damage, and the enemy team is up 3-1. Your teammates are probably flaming you. He's glad he muted them before the round started.

"See? I told you I'm terrible."

"No talking. Just play."

Round five. Your teammates are dropping around you. It's a disaster—your teammates rushed in too soon, leaving you behind. And then it's just you. One versus two.

"Stay behind the corner," Sunghoon says, his voice low near your ear. "Wait for them to come to you."

"But our team is supposed to be attacking, right?"

"Yeah, but these players are stupid. They're playing too aggressively. They'll come to you."

His hand lands on your shoulder, and your hands are trembling slightly on the keyboard.

"Keep your crosshair at head level. Right there."

He adjusts your mouse, and you nod. In your ears, you hear footsteps. Then, the enemy peeks. You click. The headshot sound is unmistakable—a clean, crisp dink that echoes through the headphones. One enemy down. Pings explode from your dead teammates.

"Holy shit!" Sunghoon leans forward, grinning. "Look at that! You got a headshot!"

"I—I did?"

"You did. One tap. Clean as hell," he's beaming, "Now, don't lose focus yet. One more to go."

You're staring at the screen like you can't quite believe it. Your hands are still trembling, but you're smiling now—a real smile, wide and bright and unguarded.

Though you don’t have time to celebrate, because a body shot hits from behind you, not enough to kill you, but enough that you scream. You move behind the wall, frantically moving the mouse around.

"Don't panic. They're coming to you. Just wait—"

The enemy appears, and you click, your bullets spraying clumsily, and by some miracle, you outlive them with barely any health left—but you won. You won the 1v2.

"That's my girl!" He's grinning wide, "You're a natural, you see that?"

You play terribly the rest of the game, but your team locks in, their hope reignited by your clutch up, and carries you to a win. VICTORY. It appears in big letters across your screen.

You take off the headset, your smile unwavering, your cheeks warm. "That was... actually kind of fun."

"See? Told you."

"I still mostly did nothing."

"You won. Stop being humble." He nudges your shoulder, allowing the touch to linger. "Most people don't win their first game. Bet I can help you win your second, too."

"Sunghoon." You laugh, gently moving his arm away as he tries to queue another game. "We have to do the project."

"We can do that another time."

"We can do this another time. We need to work."

"Do we really need to?"

"Yes."

He pauses a moment. A beat of silence passes, and your gaze lingers on him.

"Sunghoon," you say again, gently, carefully. Like you already understand where this is going, "If your work is a little messy like last time, I don't mind. I just want to make sure we're on the same page."

"I just..." He looks at you. Still in his chair, still wearing his headset around your neck now, and the way you're looking at him—half-flustered, half-stubborn, trying so hard to be responsible and even going so far as to push back—makes him realize he'll have to try harder than he thought to distract you. "I just think with you, it's always: Project this. Project that. You work so hard. You know it's okay to relax sometimes, right?"

"I—"

"You know what your problem is? You worry too much. Whenever I see you, you're always worrying. What's up with that?"

He leans back in his chair, arms folded over his chest. Your eyes follow them, how his biceps strain in his shirt, and his knee bumps yours. He stays watchful, analyzing the way your breathing picks up. The way your eyes go wide again.

"I don't know... I've always been..." you manage, shaking your head, "My parents were strict growing up, so..."

"I don't see your parents anywhere."

"Right. I know it's silly, but sometimes it's like I still hear them in my head," you laugh nervously, avoiding his gaze, "it was always study, study, study. No fun, no friends, no boys—"

"No boys?"

All of a sudden, it clicks for him. The shyness. The stuttering. The way you'd frozen in the library when his knee touched yours—not just flustered, but genuinely short-circuited, like your brain had no protocol for what to do. The way you'd offered him a ride, even though you could barely look at him. The way you'd defended him in voice chat, fierce and uncalculated, with no idea of the attention it would bring.

It all makes sense now. Every single thing. You're not just anxious or sheltered. You're completely, profoundly inexperienced. He's likely the first guy who's ever been this close to you—and you’re here, in his room, wearing his headset. Every reaction you've had, every flush and stammer and nervous laugh, it's all because you've never done this before. He smiles, enjoying the thought more than he should. A lot more.

"No boys," he repeats, and his voice comes out slow and deliberate. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"It means no boys. Like." You're flustered already, and he hasn't even moved. "No dating. My parents were really strict about it, and I just—I never really—"

"Never really what?"

He knows exactly what you're trying to say. He just wants to hear you try to say it.

"Never really... dated?" he offers, tilting his head. "Never really had a boyfriend?"

You shake your head, barely a movement.

"Never really..." He lets the pause stretch. Watches you squirm. "...anything?"

You can't manage another word, so you don't speak. You don't have to. The silence speaks for itself.

"You've never done anything?"

The question hangs in the air. He watches you process it—the implication, and how you can’t hide from it.

"Never even been kissed?" "No." There it is. The confession, small and brave. "It's embarrassing. I know. I never really—" "It's cute, actually."

You look at him, wordless. Maybe he should feel bad. He should feel guilty for prying this out of you, for enjoying how uncomfortable you are and filing all of this away as useful information. Some distant, rational part of his brain knows that. Instead, he's thinking about how nobody has ever touched you. How he’s the first one now to have been close enough to see you all flustered and vulnerable and completely unguarded.

His hand finds your knee. It's innocent enough, not drifting any higher than above it, his thumb moving in slow circles, and he watches in real time as your mind goes completely blank.

He's going to kiss you. Honestly, he knew he was going to kiss you the moment he understood what "no boys" meant, and while part of him is still trying to distract you from the project by getting you all hot and bothered like this, another part of him wants to do it just because he can. Just because you're there, in his chair, looking at him like that, reacting to his touch like this. That kind of power is a drug. It only makes him want to see just how far he can push you.

"Sunghoon," Your voice comes out thin, breathless. Your hand flutters up, not pushing him away, just hovering, like you're not sure what to do with it. "The project. We really need to—"

"The project." He says it flat, like the word itself is a chore. "The project will be fine. It'll get done. Right?"

He tilts his head, lets the implication hang there: You did the last one. You'll do this one, too.

Your mouth opens, but whatever argument you'd prepared dissolves the second his hand moves. It slides up from your knee to the edge of your skirt, his fingers tracing the hem where it brushes your thigh, and you go absolutely still beneath his touch.

"You look cute today, by the way." His voice is low, and his eyes look you up and down. "I like this."

He toys with the hem of the fabric, his knuckle grazing bare skin. Your thighs press together involuntarily, and he catches it. The movement. The sharp little inhale. The way your hands grip the armrests, fingers curling into them.

A sound escapes your throat, something small and embarrassing. A whimper you clearly didn't mean to make. His eyes flick up to your face. Your lips are parted, and you're looking at him like you've forgotten how words work.

"That's it," he murmurs, "You'll be good for me, right?"

Your eyes drop to his lips. You nod. It's a tiny, helpless movement, and the last of your resistance crumbles.

His free hand comes up to cup your chin, tilting your face toward his. He's close enough now to feel your breath, shallow and uneven. Close enough to know that no one has ever touched you like this before, and you're terrified, but you're not pulling away.

He leans in, slowly inching forward, closer and closer and—

"Sunghoon!" The door bursts open, "Have you seen my charger? I think..."

Heeseung's voice trails off as he takes in the sight. You. Sunghoon. The proximity between you. His hand on your thigh. Valorant open on his PC.

"Well, well, well..." he grins, leaning against the doorframe, "do my eyes deceive me, or is that a girl? In your bedroom? Sitting on your throne?"

"Leave."

"And you're making the poor thing play your stupid game. That's no way to treat a lady," he gestures around, then looks to you, "You. Don't tell me you're pretending to be impressed by his KDA ratio?"

You shrink under his gaze, looking like you wished to flee any second.

"Listen, I get it.” He raises his hands in surrender, “He's a good-looking guy. But his personality?" He shakes his head, "He’s a walking red flag. And not in the hot bad boy way. In like, a discord-moderating, redditor way."

"Seriously, get out."

Sunghoon is on his feet now, jaw tight. But you're already up, already grabbing your bag, already not looking at anyone.

"Actually, I should go."

"You don't have to—"

"I'll see you soon." The words tumble out. You duck past Heeseung, out of the bedroom, into the hall. Your footsteps go fast—past the living room where the coffee table sits in all its carved, solid-oak glory.

Heeseung follows you as far as the hallway, leaning against the wall with the lazy confidence of someone who knows he ruined something, but has no idea what.

"Wait!" he calls after you. "Before you leave, what do you think of the coffee table? Real craftsmanship, right?"

The front door slams. Hard enough to rattle the empty energy drink cans still scattered on Sunghoon's desk.

Heeseung turns back to the bedroom doorway, where Sunghoon is standing rigid, hands at his sides.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Sunghoon spits.

"Me? What's wrong with you?" He strides on into his room, taking his lost phone charger from the port near his bedside. The one he took yesterday without asking, "You steal my shit, you get cockblocked. Sorry."

"You know that was my project partner, right?"

"I know who it was." Heeseung wraps the cord around his hand, watching Sunghoon with an expression that's sharper than before. "The one with the voice. The one who did your work at two in the morning. I guess now she comes over to stroke your ego too, huh?"

"I was this close to—"

"This close to what?" Heeseung quips, raising a brow. "Finish the sentence."

"This close to... to taking her mind off of worrying. She's a chronic worrier. It's annoying. It's..." his voice trails off.

Silence. Sunghoon notices the look in his roommate’s eyes: disapproving, doubtful.

"You know what I think?" Heeseung says slowly, "I think you're getting a little too comfortable with the amount of kindness she gives you."

"I don't know what you mean."

“The walls are thin, and I’m nosy. I know what I heard,” he scoffs, heading toward the door. "You’re pushing your luck. And trying to tongue your project partner so she can do your work for you is a new low. Even for you."

Sunghoon then gapes at the offensive, downright defamatory implications his roommate is making towards him.

"I didn't—" Heeseung leaves before he can defend himself. And Sunghoon stumbles to the hallway, calling out after him. "I didn't do anything wrong!"

Sunghoon slams the door shut on him, taking a second to breathe. There's a ping on his phone. A new voice note. He clicks it immediately, your voice rushed, the sound of your car running in the background.

"Hey Sunghoon. Sorry for leaving like that. I got kinda nervous when your roommate walked in. But I had a really good time with the game! And with you. And... oh, and about deliverable 2." You pause, then a sigh escapes you—heavy, but hesitant. "I've thought about it, and I know your tournament is coming up really soon, so I don't mind taking it off your hands. Anyway, goodbye for now, Sunghoon."

Sunghoon sinks into his gaming chair. Relief morphs into glee, a short laugh escaping him. He can’t believe it. He can’t believe you. Whatever guilt Heeseung was trying to make him feel fades instantly—easily. Too easily. He queues another game.

The basement is quiet. Still. Peaceful. Just Sunghoon, the ironing board, and his team jersey, steam hissing in the silence. His gamer tag stares up at him from the back of the jersey, crisp and clean. Tomorrow he'll be wearing it on stage. Tomorrow it's game time. Tomorrow, he's locked the fuck in, with his team at his side and everyone there to watch him take that victory.

He's in the zone. Has been all night. Showered, prepped, head clear. No distractions. No thoughts about the final project deliverable due next week that he definitely hasn't started, or thoughts about Heeseung's accusations, or thoughts about you, and your wide eyes, and the way you looked at his lips right before—Nope. He’s not thinking about it.

The basement door groans open, followed by footsteps. Sunghoon doesn't bother turning around. He knows it’s Jay, judging by the heaviness of the tread, and because he’s the only one of them who regularly uses the washer instead of letting clothes pile up until they smell.

"Game's tomorrow?"

"Yep." Steam hisses. Sunghoon runs the iron along a sleeve. "You're still driving me, right?"

There’s a pause. Too long a pause. Sunghoon turns. Jay's standing by the washer, suddenly fascinated by the lint trap.

"Jay."

"Huh?"

"The tournament," Sunghoon says it slower this time, the iron forgotten in his hand. "The thing I gave you the date for a month ago. The thing you swore you'd drive me to. Ringing any bells?"

"Right, right." Jay shuts the washer door. Doesn't meet his eyes. "Well."

"Jay."

"Thing is," Jay scrubs the back of his neck, "my grandma's moving. Already told my mom I'd help tomorrow morning."

“Dude.” Sunghoon blinks, gaping at him, "You promised me first."

"Sorry, man. Grandma over you."

"I gave you a month's notice."

"And my grandma gave me twenty-two years of birthday money." Jay shrugs, already turning toward the stairs. "Can't put a price on that."

Sunghoon sets the iron down with a little more force than necessary. "You could've said something before tonight."

"It's not the end of the world. Just take the bus."

"It's an hour drive. Longer by bus. On a Sunday. That's—"

"Tough luck."

"Jay." Sunghoon's voice sharpens. "This is the biggest day of my—"

But Jay's already halfway up, and the basement door clicks shut behind him. The washing machine hums into the silence. Sunghoon stares at the empty staircase.

The bus is not an option. Absolutely not. He didn't grind all season to show up to regionals late, all sweaty from sprinting across a transit terminal because the Sunday schedule runs once every forty-five minutes if he's lucky. And his teammates? He could squeeze into someone's car, knee to chest, listening to them argue about team comps and whose mom packed snacks. He'd rather walk.

But… there is another option. Someone who's given him a ride before. Someone who is always happy to help. Someone who did his code, who defended him in a Valorant voice chat, who can't resist him, no matter how many times he's proven himself incompetent.

He pulls out his phone. It seems like a shitty thing to do. He knows that. But, it's mutually beneficial, isn't it? He gets a favour, you get to see him. It's a win-win, really. Besides, it's not like he's only calling for the ride. He genuinely does like the idea of you there, front row, cheering his name. Watching him destroy the enemy team live instead of from his bedroom. You'd get all confused, trying to follow the game, and then he'd win, and you'd be proud even though you don't really understand what you're proud of and—hell, maybe he'd finally get to give you that kiss. Maybe more. It's been on his mind too much lately. Your eager, parted lips, your thigh tense beneath his touch, the way you leaned into it like a good little plaything. Always so desperate to please—you'd make him feel like a real champion, wouldn't you? All nervous and untouched and entirely his. His prize, his to guide, his to take. It's a perverse fantasy. It's also not entirely impossible. Though, he shakes his head at himself, not erasing the thought, but putting it back on the shelf. The ride. That's the priority now. Having a pretty girl at his arm is just a bonus.

You press submit. Deliverable two, done. Your portion, pristine, commented, tested, and complete. His portion—the portion you told yourself you wouldn't do—also complete. Also entirely yours. You close the laptop and sit there in the dark of your dorm room.

This is getting out of hand. You know it is. It's been out of hand, actually, ever since the library and the first deliverable that you fixed—the thing you should’ve never done in the first place but did anyway. He didn't do his work again, and this time he didn't even try to pretend otherwise. He just looked at you with those eyes, said ‘It will be fine,’ and you let the subject drop because his hand was on your thigh, your brain had stopped working, and the only thing on your mind was not wanting to let him down.

But what about him letting you down? It’s happened twice now. Not enough times to call it a pattern of behaviour yet, but enough to imply something about his character and where his priorities lie. He's unreliable. Lazy. Probably manipulative, if your best friend's theories are true. That's not the kind of guy you want. That's not the kind of guy anyone should want. You should be furious, actually. You should send him a firm email. You should stand your ground.

He’s hot, though, your brain unhelpfully reminds you. Stupidly, impossibly hot, and he almost kissed you—you think. Sometimes you replay it in your head, and you're certain of it. Other times, you wonder if you imagined the leaning in, the pause, and the way his voice dropped when he said you'll be good for me, right?

You sigh, hand twitching against your thigh. When you close your eyes, it's like you can still feel him touching you there. Every time you think about it, your whole body goes hot, and you think about it a lot—not just about what happened but what could've happened if his roommate hadn't walked in. You can't even keep track of the amount of times you've lied awake, drenched in your own sweat, thighs pressed together, just thinking about his hand slipping further up your skirt and relieving you of the torturous, wound-up feeling that's had you in a chokehold all summer.

Your phone buzzes.

Incoming video call: Sunghoon

You stare at the screen, still recovering from your fantasy. It takes you a minute to actually process that it is, in fact, him calling you and not a figment of your imagination. He's never called you before. Not once. All summer, it's been voice memos and texts and the occasional thumbs-up emoji.

It rings again, and you fumble reaching for it, nearly dropping it on the floor. You pick up, and as soon as you see the FaceTime video loading, you click to turn off your camera.

Your eyes are glued to the screen as you take in the sight of him. He's lying in bed, his hoodie pulled up over his head, shadows cutting across his jaw, and his hair falls over his eyes. You're almost pissed at the fact that someone can look that good so casually.

"Hey." His voice comes through your earbuds low and rough, and it travels down your spine. Your whole body shivers.

"Hi," you manage, small and a little breathless.

"How's my girl doing?"

My girl. That's the second time he's called you that. The first was during the game, when you landed the headshot. You'd assumed it was adrenaline, or a reflex. Something guys said to their duo partners, like "my man" or "my guy". But he's not gaming now. He's in bed. Talking to you.

"I'm good—fine." You swallow. "What about—?"

"Can I see you?"

"See me?" You glance down at yourself. Old t-shirt. Not a trace of makeup. Yeah. That's not happening. "I'm in bed. It's dark. There's nothing to see, so..."

"Hm," he sighs, and you hear the rustling of fabric as he adjusts himself. "Too bad."

"What's up?" You're trying to sound normal, clearing your throat, "Why'd you call?"

"Just wanted to chat."

His free hand finds the drawstring of his hoodie, twisting it idly around one finger. Your eyes follow the movement, staring at the veins, the size of his hand, the length of his fingers and—you drag your eyes back to his face.

"About?"

"You free tomorrow?"

He shifts again, and the camera jostles, this time a light groan escaping him.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow you have—nothing. You have absolutely nothing. And even if you did have something, you'd still say you have nothing because it's him who's asking. Your heart skips a beat, a stupid smile breaking on your face.

"Yes," you say, immediately trying to downplay the eagerness in your voice. "Yeah, I'm free. Why?"

"And you can drive?"

"Sure. Why—?"

"Good." He ignores the question again. "Then I'm taking you out."

Your heart does a full stop. "Where?"

"Surprise.” He smiles. “Just wear something cute, m'kay?"

Wear something cute. What does that mean exactly? Cute how? Cute like a dress? Or is a dress too much? Maybe a skirt. He said he liked your skirt last week. He toyed with the hem and said I like this and you made a sound you're still embarrassed to remember.

"Sleep well," he then says, breaking the long, silent pause with a slight chuckle, "See ya."

And before you can get another word in, he's gone. The reflection of yourself stares back at you in the darkened screen. Maybe you should call him back and ask what 'cute' means. What kind of 'cute'? Dinner cute? Coffee cute? Hanging out at his house, cute? But after a long time of staring at his contact, debating how to even ask, you decide it's too late.

You shower, scrubbing every inch of yourself. Exfoliate. Shave—you shave everything—carefully, methodically, in places you don't normally bother with because usually you're thinking "who's going to see?" But if his hand travels further than it did last time, you do not want to be stuck in your own head worrying about it, so you do it just in case. Just to be prepared.

Then you stand in front of your closet for forty minutes trying on everything you own, trying to decide what feels like too much, and what feels like not enough. You don't know.

Eventually, you settle. A skirt you usually avoid because it rides up your thighs too much. A top that's nice without trying too hard. You look at yourself in the mirror. You feel pretty. Normally, you feel clean, or presentable, or fine. But today, you feel pretty.

It's a dangerous feeling. You're getting dressed up for a boy who hasn't done a single assignment all summer. You're shaving your legs for him when technically you're still not sure what "taking you out" implies. But your heart is racing, and your cheeks are warm, and you find yourself smiling at your reflection in the mirror like an idiot, anyway.

So what if you dressed up for him? You're allowed to feel pretty. You're allowed to want him. You're allowed to hope.

You're shaking when you pull up to his place. Not visibly, at least, as you’re gripping the steering wheel hard enough to hide it. You’ve been talking to yourself under your breath for the last three blocks. Be normal. Be cool. Which would be a lot easier to do if this weren't the first time a boy had asked to "take you out" and you’ve been alone with your own anxious thoughts for so long now that you're starting to dwell on what that might mean again. Dinner, maybe? The thought simultaneously makes your heart flutter and your stomach churn. You're so nervous, you're not sure you could hold down any food. What if he asks why you're not eating—?

You're getting ahead of yourself. Maybe he's right. You do worry too much. You don't even know where you're going yet, and you're already jumping to conclusions.

Predictably, you're early. Of course you are. You'd left your dorm with an extra twenty minutes because you couldn't stand to pace around your room anymore, and now you're pulling up at the curb feeling like an idiot. But, to your surprise, he's already waiting on the porch.

He spots your car before you even have time to honk, jogging down the steps, and you roll down the window, smiling bright and stupid and probably too eager. Then...

Then your eyes drop to his chest. The jersey. The school's E-sports team jersey, to be precise. You know what it looks like because you've stalked the team's Instagram page about a hundred times just to stare at the photos of him on there until they were permanently burned into your retinas forever.

"Hey," he says, pulling open the passenger door. "Right on time."

"Hi," you swallow, smiling politely. "What are you wearing?"

"Team gear." He slides into the seat, dropping his bag at his feet. "Regionals are today. Didn't I tell you?"

Your blood runs cold.

No. No, he did not. He said I'm taking you out. He said to wear something cute. He said it was a surprise.

"Regionals," you repeat. "Right. The tournament."

"Yeah. It's at the convention centre. About an hour drive." He's buckling his seatbelt, "Coach said we could bring anyone we want. Figured I should bring my number one supporter, right?"

So it's not a date. Not at all what you were thinking when he called you late at night with his voice all low and asking if you were available—asking if you could drive. Still, you smile. You smile because even if your heart has sunk into your stomach, you know it's your own fault for thinking this would be anything more than it was. And, well, this matters to him. This is the thing he's been neglecting the project for. The thing he told you he’d been practicing for, talking about it in the car that first day you met him. He’s choosing to bring you to his thing. That alone must mean something... right?

"That sounds fun," you say, and the words feel like they belong to someone else. "I've never been to an E-sports thing before."

"You'll love it. You'll finally see me play for real. Not just some ranked lobby."

"Yeah." Your smile starts to hurt your cheeks. It strains and fails to reach your eyes. "Can't wait."

The drive is an hour. You spend most of it listening. He talks about the bracket, the teams they're facing, and some enemy team player who's been trash-talking him online. He talks about comps and strats and something called a meta. You nod, you smile. You ask questions. You try to seem engaged.

In a way, you are a little. Not because you care about the game, but because it's hard not to feel warm in the face when you see him like this. He's barely able to sit still in the passenger seat, gesturing with his hands, more animated than you've ever seen him, smirking with the kind of confidence you'd expect a star player to have. This is his thing. This is what he's good at. He invited you.

That has to mean something—you're certain of it now. Even if it's not what you thought. Even if you spent an hour getting ready, shaving everywhere and trying on countless different outfits just to sit in a convention centre folding chair.

You glance down at your skirt and your pretty top. All that effort you put into looking like you hadn't put in effort now feels wasted. Maybe people dress up nice for these things, you tell yourself. You've never been to an E-sports tournament, so you wouldn't know. At least, that's what you tell yourself, refusing to believe that he chose those words on purpose, knowing how they'd come across, knowing how they'd affect you. "You look pretty, by the way." Your head snaps toward him. He's looking out the window, and the words slipped out of him so casually that you almost don't catch it. Your heart furiously pounds in your chest, all doubt in your mind momentarily forgotten. "You too." The words tumble out before your brain can catch up, and immediately you want to grab them and shove them back in your mouth. You too? "I mean—you look good. The jersey. It suits you." There's a hint of a smile on his lips, and yours tug into one too—something small and hopeful.

You keep driving, trying to focus less on the quiet ache in your chest and more on the fact that he is here right now, in your car, bringing you into his world.

The convention center is freezing, the kind of cold that seeps through your thin top and settles into your bones. The air conditioning is blasting, likely to prepare for the body heat of the crowd that'll pack this place in a few hours. But right now, it's just you and a handful of other early arrivals and staff members scattered across folding chairs, listening to the distant sound of someone testing a microphone.

He didn't introduce you to his team. Didn't even glance back. Just pointed at the front row and said, "Sit there," and then he was gone—swallowed by a cluster of matching jerseys and equipment bags. You'd stood there for a moment, awkward, watching him disappear, arms wrapped around yourself against the cold.

That was hours ago. Hours in a hard plastic chair, scrolling through every app on your phone until you'd seen every post, every story, every notification that wasn't there. You got up once to buy an iced coffee from the convention center cafe—watery, gone in ten minutes. It did nothing to quiet the growling in your stomach.

You're cold. You're hungry. You're bored. You're wearing a skirt and a cute top in a convention centre full of strangers who smell like they don't shower, and you feel stupid. So, so stupid. But when he jogs over to you, twenty minutes before the tournament starts, everything brightens. Like you're not freezing to death where you sit. Like it all makes sense now, why, against your better judgment, you decided to stay.

He's got his headset looped around his neck, and his eyes have that focused, sharp kind of intensity you witnessed the first time you saw him play in his bedroom. He carries himself like he’s already won. It’s the kind of easy confidence—or arrogance, rather—that others would call obnoxious. To you, however, it’s captivating.

"Hey!" He squeezes your shoulder, just once. The warmth of his hand cuts through the chill. "Still awake?"

You blink up at him, smiling before you can stop yourself. Your head is foggy from too much fluorescent light and not enough food, but suddenly none of that registers.

"Barely.” You laugh, “But still alive. What about you?"

"I’m ready." He grins, that cocky, unbothered grin. "More than ready, knowing that you're here."

Your breath catches. Stupid. It's such a small thing yet the warmth that blooms in your chest catches you off guard, and for a moment you forget about the miserable afternoon you've just had. You just smile back at him, helplessly.

"Don't get too sleepy. I want to hear you cheer. Loud."

"I will." You say without hesitation.

"Good."

He flashes you one last smile, and then he's gone, slipping back toward the stage. You call after him, "Good luck!" He doesn't turn around. Just raises a hand in acknowledgment.

You sink back into your chair, still smiling, still warm from the brief press of his fingers on your shoulder. It's pathetic, honestly. You know it's pathetic. One touch, one sentence, and suddenly the hours of waiting and the overpriced coffee and the cold that's still seeping through your clothes don't feel like such a big deal anymore.

When the tournament starts, you come to realize you know a lot less about this game than you thought. There's a lot of terminology that flies past your head. Strategies you don’t understand. Names you don’t recognize. But you know enough that you understand when his team is winning, and when he's the last one alive on his team, wiping out the enemy team like they're nothing, and you definitely understand why the crowd cheers loudly when he clutches a 1v5.

They win. Easily. It’s not even close, and when the final round ends and the casters are screaming, and his teammates are out of their chairs—you're on your feet too. Clapping until your hands sting. Cheering, though you're certain you'll lose your voice for it.

He finds you the moment his team filters off the stage. One second you're standing alone, scanning the crowd of jerseys; the next, his hand is at your waist, fingers curling against the fabric of your top, pulling you into his side like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like he's done it a hundred times. His palm is warm through the thin material, his thumb pressed just above your hip, and he's wearing the world's biggest grin.

The hall is chaos—people talking in every direction, the music playing too loudly, a coach yelling something across the room. You can't really hear what he's saying, just the rumble of his voice near your ear, the occasional word breaking through: ...killed it... ...see that clutch?... You nod, smiling, hyperaware of the heat of his hand and the way his fingers tighten whenever someone jostles past. He steers you toward his teammates with that grip on your waist, guiding you through the crowd like you're an extension of his victory. The other boys are clapping him on the back, shouting over each other. Every time someone congratulates him, his hand flexes against your hip—not quite pulling you closer, but not letting you drift either.

"...You good with sushi?"

"Hm?" You furrow your brows, not quite catching his words still.

"Post-game celebration. Coach is treating us," he leans in right next to your ear this time, his words a little clearer. He grabs your arm. "Let's go."

The sushi place is in a strip mall across the parking lot from the convention centre. Laminated menus, lighting that's too bright for a celebration, and employees who look like they're regretting every life choice that led them to this shift. The sheer amount of noise coming from the table doesn't help.

The team has been going around making speeches—thanking the coach, thanking their friends, thanking Sunghoon, their number one captain and player. He soaks it up like a sponge, leaning back in his chair with the ease of a star player who knows he killed it. The table goes a little quieter when it’s finally his turn.

"I'd like to thank my team, of course, for putting their best foot forward. Coach, for keeping us in line. But most importantly..." He turns to you. His arm slides from the back of your chair to your shoulders. "I'd like to thank this one right here. For the support. For cheering me on louder than anyone." He squeezes your shoulder. "You made my life a hell of a lot easier this semester."

Easier. You're not sure why that choice of words doesn't sit right. Maybe because it felt too cold, or detached. He could've said you made his life better, brighter, happier… and maybe you're reading too much into it. You’re probably overthinking it and jumping to conclusions that aren’t there, like you always do. But easier implies convenience, nothing else, and you don’t really like the way that makes you feel.

He's being nice, you tell yourself. He’s thanking you in front of everyone. It's a good thing.

"Oh, and I got you something." He reaches into his bag and pulls out a jersey. Identical to his own. "My spare jersey. Since you know. I couldn't have done it without you."

You take it, the fabric stiff and unfamiliar in your hands. You open your mouth to say something—thank you, maybe, or you didn't have to—but nothing comes out.

"Put it on."

You do, and the shirt swallows your frame, the hem only a few centimetres above where your skirt ends. His gamertag is printed in bold letters on the back, and on you, it feels like a brand—a mark of his claim. You hold your breath, too overwhelmed by the scent of him, and your stomach does that flipping thing it always seems to when he gives you crumbs of affection like this, except this time with a newfound heaviness resting uncomfortably somewhere within you.

"Looks good," He hums, pleased, nodding to the rest of his team, "Right guys?"

The team cheers, someone whistling while the guy sitting next to him claps his back, and he takes it all in with pride, while you look down at your lap.

"Hey. Don't be shy." He leans in, voice dropping just for you. His knee bumps yours under the table. "I meant it. You do look pretty today."

The heaviness lifts. Just a little. Just enough to put on your brave face again, and the wait staff starts serving up whatever platters they ordered earlier. The boys descend like hawks, piling their dishes high, chopsticks clacking. Two of them fight over the remaining spicy salmon rolls, and someone orders another round of sake; meanwhile, Sunghoon is already talking about the next tournament.

You stare at your plate. You were hungry earlier. Starving, actually—your stomach had been growling through the final matches, but now you just poke at a piece of nigiri with your chopsticks, turning it over and over, watching the rice fall apart.

This isn't exactly what you had in mind when he said he was taking you out… but he thanked you in front of the team. Gave you a jersey. Called you pretty. And his knee keeps bumping yours under the table, making an embarrassing flush creep to your cheeks every time.

He wants you here. That should be enough. That should make you happy. So why do you still feel so hollow?

"Excuse me," a voice appears behind you both. You and Sunghoon turn to face him. "I'm with the school paper. Mind if I grab a few quotes?"

A guy with a press badge and a notebook is standing beside the table. You'd seen him earlier, sitting in the same section near the front as you. Reserved seating. It makes sense. Regionals are a big deal for your school; this is probably the most interesting story they've had in years.

"Yeah, sure."

"Just a few questions about the match. The clutch in finals—what was going through your head?"

"Oh. Easy. I locked the fuck in," he breaks into a smug grin.

Sunghoon talks about game sense. Instincts. Reading the enemy. The reporter scribbles notes, asks a few more questions. Asks about his training schedule, the responsibilities of being the team captain, and the pressure. You continue to poke at your food, assuming none of it involves you, until he glances at you.

"And I see your girlfriend is here. How does it feel to have that kind of support showing up for you?"

Your heart skips. Sunghoon glances at you, but his gaze isn't nearly as panicked as your own

"Oh. She's not my girlfriend." He says it casually. Like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like the idea had never even occurred to him.

Suddenly, the table is a little quieter, like everyone had hushed their conversations just to overhear. Feeling the weight of everyone's eyes, your fingers tremble around your chopsticks.

"Ah." The reporter looks at you—the jersey, the arm around your shoulder—then offers an apologetic smile, "Sorry, I just assumed—"

"She's more like..." He tilts his head, considering. "My lucky charm."

Lucky charm. Not a girlfriend. Not a friend. Not even my project partner, who gave me a ride here and did all my work for me. A lucky charm. Something you carry around for good fortune and toss in a drawer when you no longer need it. "Or maybe," he starts again, "She's like my prize. You know, you win the tournament, you get the trophy. She's kind of both. Good luck and a good reward. You know what I mean?"

You hear a snicker from across the table, and he laughs too. He laughs. His arm is still around your shoulder, heavy and warm, and his thumb is tracing idle circles against your sleeve like nothing is wrong. Like he didn't just reduce you to an object in front of a reporter and his whole team.

"I'm just teasing. But, really, the closer I keep her, the easier my life becomes. So, you asked how it feels, right? I'd say it feels pretty damn good," he pulls you closer for a second, giving your shoulder another squeeze, "I was telling the whole team earlier. It's all thanks to her."

"Wait, so she's single?" One of his teammates leans over, "Dude, you've been gatekeeping her all night—"

"Fuck off." He snaps, turning back to the reporter, "Next question."

The interview fades to background noise.

Lucky charm. You want to laugh. Or maybe cry.

As if luck had anything to do with it. The only reason he's here, celebrating, getting interviewed, is because of the labour, time and energy that you freely offered him like a fool. And now he's calling it luck.

You sit there in your seat, his arm heavy around you like he owns you. You realize only then that it means nothing. Absolutely nothing.

You slide out from under it. "Bathroom," you murmur, already on your feet.

He doesn't look up. His hand drops to the back of the empty chair without pause, and the reporter is already asking the next question. You walk toward the door, and the bell chimes as you leave.

The parking lot is hot. The heat, humid and suffocating, rises off the asphalt, and the air feels thick in your lungs. Your car is at the far end. Too far away, you think, as you make your way. You walk fast, the jersey still hanging off your shoulders, and it feels like the weight of it is slowing you down. You hate that you're still wearing it.

Behind you, the restaurant door opens, and heavy footsteps follow. "Hey! Hey, wait up—"

You don't wait. Obviously. But he catches up very easily, hand on your shoulder to halt your frantic steps.

"What's going on?" He catches up, slightly out of breath. "You just left. What gives?"

You spin around. "I'm a lucky charm? A prize?"

"What?" His expression shifts—not guilty, but confused. Like he genuinely doesn't understand. He takes a moment to gather himself. "Yeah. Like, it's a compliment. Like, I'm lucky to have you here with me. I mean, what did you want me to say? Project partner? Female friend?"

"Listen." Your voice is shaking. "I'm happy for you. You won. Congratulations. But I want to go home now."

"But why? We were having fun, right? And the team loves you—"

"No." You cut him off. "Your team loves you."

"Yeah, and you're with me."

"I'm with you?" The words catch in your throat. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Your heart thuds, watching him carefully. You hold your breath, hoping—desperately, pathetically—to hear something other than a lucky charm this time. Something meaningful. Something more.

"It means..." his voice is careful, processing every word in his head before he decides to say it, "You're wearing a shirt with my name on it, and I'll be the one taking you home after—"

A laugh escapes you. Not because any of this is entertaining, but because you truly cannot fathom how that is the best response he could come up with.

"You're taking me home?"

"You know what I mean."

"Sunghoon." Your voice drops. The frustration is bleeding out, leaving something softer behind. Something that hurts more. Your hands are trembling. "You told me to wear something cute. You said you were taking me out."

"So that's it?" He asks. You don’t know when he moved closer, or how you allowed him to, but suddenly his hand is at your shoulder again. He rubs it as if to comfort you, and his words tumble out, a little more frantic than he usually sounds, "You wanna go out? We can go out. We can go out right now. Just tell me where you want to go. I'll take you—”

"We aren't going anywhere." You say a little firmer this time, brushing his hand away. "I'm leaving."

You walk toward your car, but he doesn't relent. He came here with you, and his ride is standing in front of him, keys in hand, about to disappear. He can't let that happen.

"Wait."

He grabs your arm, his hand warm and familiar. You hate that it still makes your breath catch.

"Please." His voice is different now. Lower. The arrogance is gone—or maybe just hidden. "Don't go. I'm sorry. Okay?"

"Sorry for what?"

"For..." He runs a hand through his hair. "Calling you a lucky charm? And not taking you on a date? Whatever I did. Just… don't leave me here. Please."

"You don't even know what you're apologizing for," You hiss, your hand curling tighter around your car keys.

"Yeah. Because I'm confused." He tries, "I was being nice all night. I gave you the jersey. I don't know what I did wrong, so tell me. I'll do whatever you want. I'll fix it."

"Sunghoon," you frown, taking in a breath. You're going to do it. This is the moment where you stand your ground. "I am not some doll that exists to give you free rides whenever you want. Or do all your work. Or sit through your gaming tournaments and make you look good in front of your teammates."

"You're not—" his brows furrow, "That's not what you are."

"Then what am I?"

You try to step back, but your back meets your car door. Now you're cornered, and he still hasn't answered. Instead, his hand comes up. Hesitant, not quite sure if he's allowed, or if it's the right choice to make currently in the heat of the moment, but he does it regardless. His fingers brush your jaw, featherlight, just tracing it and his thumb settles under your chin. Everything else around you ceases to exist.

"Tell me what you want me to say." His voice is rough, and he tilts your face up, "What do you want from me? I don't understand what you want."

"Sunghoon—"

"I keep thinking about last week," He exhales, something between a laugh and a breath. His other hand finds your hip, fingers curling into the fabric of the jersey. "What we never got to finish. I know you think about it too."

His forehead nearly touches yours. His thumb still rests under your chin, holding you in place, and his eyes drop to your lips. "One last time," he asks, "What do you want?"

You realize he's doing it again. The thing where you try to talk about something serious—the project, the way he's been treating you—and weaponizes his irresistibility against you. You wonder if he even realizes that he's doing it. Regardless, you can’t help how you stare. He's just so... beautiful. So incredibly irresistible. The warm press of his body, caging yours to the car. The intense look in his eyes. His height, and how he towers over you. It's too much.

"You know what I want,” your voice comes out smaller than you intended. There it is. The part where you give in. You always do. How could you not? You’re just a girl, caged between the hottest man you've ever seen and your car door.

Your eyes drop to his lips. "That's all you had to say," he murmurs.

He kisses you. Your first kiss. It's not gentle. It's hungry, desperate, his hand sliding into your hair, his body pressing against yours. Your brain shuts off entirely. Your hands come up to his chest, and instead of pushing him away like you should, you're gripping his jersey, pulling him closer. You have no idea what you're doing, but the feeling of his tongue in your mouth and his hands all over you has you whimpering under his touch, melting into his arms.

"You're with me." He says against your lips, rough and unrelenting. "Stay here with me."

His hand slides from your hip to the car door behind you.

"Let me make it up to you. I'll treat you so well. I promise."

Your whole body is trembling. He's so close and so warm, and you've wanted this for weeks and—fuck, who are you kidding?

The back seat of your car is cramped, but he doesn't seem to mind. He's above you, his body a warm weight, kissing you, worshipping you with his tongue and his mouth, kissing along your neck. He takes his time, letting you get familiar with the shape of him atop you, his hard cock pressed against your thigh through his pants. You're embarrassed with the amount of slick between your legs and how your skirt has ridden up all the way at your hips to reveal it all. If you thought you could ever try to hide what he does to you before, you certainly can’t do it now.

"Look at you," he murmurs against your mouth. His fingers find the hem of the jersey—his jersey. "You look so good in this. So fucking good."

You can't speak. Your voice is gone. His hand slides up your thigh, pushing the jersey higher. Then he pauses. Looks down. A slow grin spreads across his face. His hand traces over your underwear, smooth skin separated by thin fabric.

"You prepped for this?" Your face burns. "All this?" His fingers thumb the lace edge of your panties, "For me?"

"I didn't—I wasn't—"

"You were expecting something." His voice is teasing. "Weren't you? All dressed up. All smooth." He kisses your throat. "Fuck, that's so cute."

A sound escapes you—a whimper you didn't mean to make—and he chuckles, the vibration of it travelling down your neck. His hand is still on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles against bare skin just above the hem of your skirt. You can feel the heat of his palm, the way his fingers splay wide like he's claiming territory. Your hips shift without permission, angling toward him, chasing the pressure he isn't giving you.

Then his hand retreats. Slides back to your waist. His lips capture yours in another open-mouthed kiss, and you make a frustrated little sound against his mouth—half protest, half plea. Your fingers wrap around his wrist and guide it back down, pressing his palm right where you need it, your thighs parting in invitation.

“Hm?” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyebrows raised, lips still slick. There's genuine surprise underneath his evident amusement. "You want—?"

“More.”

The word comes out sounding more certain than you expected. His expression flickers, both taken aback and deeply, thoroughly pleased, then his hand resumes its position, palm pressing flat against the lace of your underwear. He doesn't slip beneath the fabric, rubbing only slow, deliberate circles over it, letting the friction build until your hips are rolling into his touch.

It's a lot. The pressure, the heat, the way he watches your face the whole time like he's studying you. You're so sensitive that even just his hand over fabric has your breath catching in your throat.

"Like that?" he murmurs.

You nod, not trusting your voice. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeve, holding on.

"I've never—"

"I know." There's a teasing lilt to his voice, his lips curving against your throat. He likes this. Likes the way you're coming apart beneath him, all trembling and flushed and brand-new. His fingers don't slow. "You want to stop?" It's a dare. He already knows the answer. His thumb presses down just a little harder, drawing another broken sound from your lips.

"No." The word is torn from your throat too fast. Stopping is actually the opposite of what you want. You've been dreaming of his touch all summer. Even if he's a complete asshole, he's a beautiful asshole, and the ache between your thighs knows where its priorities lie.

"Yeah?" His voice drops, words brushing against your ear, "Then tell me what you want."

"Sunghoon..." you trail off, his thumb still circling your clit over your underwear, "I don't know. Just touch me more, please."

“Begging already?” He smiles against your mouth, and then his hand slides back down, dipping beneath the waistband of your panties. His fingers are warm as they brush through your slick folds, gathering the wetness that's been building since he first kissed you. He doesn't push in yet—he circles your entrance lazily, teasing, letting you feel the pressure without the invasion. "You're too good to me."

It's been a while since he's done any of this, but he's always been good with his hands. It’s like facing an opponent: The technique is muscle memory, and the strategy is played by ear. He just has to watch you, learn your weaknesses, and exploit them until he wins. Though when it comes to you, he's learning that you're weak to pretty much everything he does, watching your lips part and your brows scrunch together without his fingers even inside you yet.

“So wet. So worked up. You really wanted this, didn't you?" he whispers, "Don't worry. I've got you."

He pushes one finger inside you—slow, deliberate, sinking deep until his knuckle presses against your entrance. Your back arches, a sharp gasp escaping your throat, and he watches your face as he curls that finger, searching, finding the spot that makes your eyes flutter shut.

"That's it," he breathes. "That's my girl."

He adds a second finger, stretching you, and the wet, slick sound of your body accepting him fills the foggy car. He pumps them in and out, his thumb pressing circles against your clit, and you feel yourself clenching around him, your hips rolling to meet his rhythm. Your hands grip his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.

"Feels good?" His voice is in your ear, low and rough. You nod, unable to respond. Breath catching in your throat because you can barely breathe, think or do anything coherent. "Is this all you wanted? Needy girl just wanted my attention?"

In the midst of the fog, it catches your eye again. His cock, hard and untouched in his pants. You want to see him. All of him. And you reach out for the waistband, desperate to feel the weight of him in your hands.

"Wanna touch you, too," you manage, and his fingers slow inside you for a moment.

"Yeah?" He grins, watching you pull the waistband down and palm him through his boxers. He just watches you fumble around, looking up with that awestruck, wide-eyed gaze. "You sure?"

You pull him free anyway. And then you stop, staring for what you're sure is way too long. Because he's—well. He's big. Not that you have any real-life experience to compare him to, but still. It didn't take a genius to figure out that he's impossibly, unfairly big. So much that it makes you wonder if the universe just decided to give him everything: the face, the hands, the voice, and now this. Maybe you should've expected that the literal embodiment of the genetic lottery would have a pornstar cock.

"What's the matter?" He laughs, propping himself up on one elbow to get a better view of your face. "Nervous?"

“No.” You swallow, still staring. "You're just really—"

"Big?" He says it for you, clearly enjoying himself. "Yeah. I know."

The bigger the dick, the bigger the ego, huh?

You watch him grin down at you, and you really do want to pretend like you're not affected by it, but it's actually kind of terrifying and a lot more than you bargained for.

“Don’t think about that right now,” He takes his free hand and encloses it around yours, around him, not showing you how to do it. Just guiding you. “I’m enjoying this.”

Your fingers are gentle and trembling and completely unsure, but he doesn't mind. He takes in the sight, watching you try to please him with your hand while you fall apart on his fingers. You clench around him as he presses inside, finding the right spot that makes your eyes roll back, and you can't help the cry that leaves your parted lips.

"That’s it," he murmurs. "Good girl. Just let go."

You unravel around his fingers, back arching off the leather seat, and he has to press his free hand flat across your hipbones to keep you from bucking against his palm. Your thighs clamp around his wrist, trembling, and his name, broken and breathless, catches in your throat. It’s the most beautiful sound he's ever heard you make. He watches it happen, watches your mouth fall open, and your lashes flutter, watches the tension seize through your body and then release, all at once, around his fingers.

When you come back to yourself, you're still gripping him. Your fingers are wrapped around his cock, loose now, your palm slick with the precome that's gathered at the tip. He's still hard and aching. His breathing is ragged, his chest heaving, and for a long moment, he doesn't move—just stares down at the way your hand looks wrapped around him, your delicate fingers against the flushed, heavy weight of his length. Then his jaw tightens, and his hand closes over yours, repositioning your grip.

"Like this," he guides you, pumping your hand up and down his shaft. He tries to show you the rhythm, the pressure, the speed. And to your credit, you're trying. You are. And if he were in the mood to be a little more patient, he'd let you play with him. But currently, he doesn't have it in himself to torture himself any longer.

He closes his fist around yours, harder. Then he's moving, fucking into your hand with short, desperate thrusts. The sound of it fills the cramped car, skin on skin, his hips snapping forward in a rhythm that's too fast, too ragged to be anything but pure need. You watch him, still dazed from your own release, still sprawled across the back seat with your skirt bunched at your waist and his jersey twisted around your torso. Your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, and your eyes—wide, glassy, utterly fixed on where his cock slides through your palm—are the only thing he can look at.

"Fuck, look at you," he groans. His head drops forward, hair falling into his eyes, but he forces himself to keep watching his length disappear and reappear through your grip. "All spread out for me. My cute little reward. My prize. All mine."

His rhythm breaks. His hips stutter, and then he's spilling across the jersey with a low, broken groan, something primal and possessive curling in his gut at the sight. You lie there, still catching your breath, wearing his name and his release.

He braces himself above you, breathing hard. His forehead nearly touches yours. The windows are fogged opaque, sealing you both inside this cramped, humid quiet.

Your skirt is bunched at your hips. The jersey is twisted around your torso, damp and clinging to your sweat. You don't move. Don't speak. Just lie there beneath him, wearing the evidence of what just happened, still recovering.

He exhales, long and slow, and his eyes trace over you.

"Shit," he breathes, sounding almost in awe. "You're really something, you know that?"

You don't answer. You're still catching your breath, floating somewhere between the high and the slow, creeping return of reality.

He doesn't notice. He's too busy looking at you and the jersey he's made a mess of—at the way you're sprawled beneath him with something between satisfaction and wonder. All of his doing.

"So," he murmurs, propping himself up on one elbow. His free hand traces a lazy line down your arm. "You forgive me?"

"Hm?" Your eyes finally meet his, blinking up.

"The tournament. The project. The stuff I said. Or did." He presses his lips to your jaw, peppering kisses until he meets the shell of your ear. His thumb draws a slow circle on your hip. "You're not still mad, right?"

Your chest rises and falls, not quite finding the words just yet.

"Because I meant what I said. You're with me. This—" he gestures between you, "—this thing we have. I like this."

His eyes are on you—his unfairly beautiful eyes.

It would be so easy to forget the whole night ever happened. Your hands twitch where you hold onto him, warm and solid, and the part of you that's still deeply infatuated with the sight of him like this wants so badly to pull him back down and discover all the other ways he could take you to heaven and back.

But then you look down at the jersey. His jersey. At the stain already drying on the fabric. He'd marked his territory and tried to present it to you as a gift, and you think the worst part of it all is that he really, truly does believe it's something to be grateful for.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, and you close your eyes. Your throat tightens. For a moment, you almost let it go. You almost fall back in.

"Also, like... you’ll still drive me back, right?"

Your eyes snap open.

You glare up at him. At his perfect, oblivious face. At the faint smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth. He's still braced above you, still warm, still inside the afterglow you were both supposed to be sharing. And for a moment, you wonder who’s more stupid: him or you.

"Get out."

He lifts his head, "Huh?"

"Get out of my car."

"We just—hold on," He pushes himself up, still dazed. "I made you—you literally just—"

"You made me cum. Great job." You shove at his chest until his back hits the door, and he fumbles with his pants. "You’re still an asshole. Now get out of my face."

"You're kicking me out?" He gapes, "You can’t do that to me.”

"There's a bus stop nearby."

Your hand reaches for the door behind him, shoving him out, and he stumbles onto the asphalt. His brows furrow.

"I'm not taking the fucking bus."

"Not my problem." You yank the jersey over your head. Ball it up. Throw it at his chest, and he catches it on reflex—his own name, crumpled, damp, ruined. "Find your own way home."

You slam the door and climb into the driver's seat, ignoring the way he pleads outside the window, knocking on the glass. He's frantic, still recovering from the whiplash, but you don't stop.

You start the engine and back out of the parking spot, speeding away and in the rearview mirror, he's still standing there. Jersey in one hand, watching you disappear.

The ride back to your dorm is quiet. Radio off. Just you and your thoughts, the sun bleeding orange across the horizon.

People always say your first kiss is supposed to be special or that your first time is supposed to mean something. Meanwhile, your first kiss was followed by getting fingered in the backseat of your car in a strip mall parking lot with a boy who treats you like trash, wearing his cum-stained E-sports jersey.

It's a tale as old as time: a girl who doesn't know any better gives everything to a boy who couldn't care less. Maybe you should feel used or ashamed. Maybe it should feel wrong, or cheap, or degrading. Yet, it doesn't really. Because honestly? You'd wanted it all summer. His hands on you, his voice in your ear, touching you in places you've never been touched before. It wasn't special. It wasn't romantic. But it was yours, and you took it.

There is a heaviness in your chest. You can't deny that. But there is something else that shines brighter, that courses through your veins, head to toe. Satisfied. You feel satisfied. A little giddy, even.

Park Sunghoon. Brilliant esports player. Terrible project partner—and terrible person, really. But fuck, if he wasn't good with his hands. And body. And words. And face.

You grin to yourself at the memory of it all, free of the anxiety that used to cripple you every time you thought of him. All those hours you'd spent wondering what he thought of you, if he liked you back. You don't give a shit what he thinks anymore.

He debated for a while who to call. Not Jay, obviously. Jay would take one look at the crumpled fabric in his hand and drive in the opposite direction. He could've called Jake—Jake wouldn't judge him for his sexual failures, given his pathetic history with women, but Jake would certainly judge everything else about the situation. Also, there’s no way he would drive an hour out on a whim just to pick him up. That left Heeseung. The one most likely to actually pick up, only because he’s a nosy little shit and he'll absolutely never let Sunghoon live it down.

Sunghoon finds himself sitting in the passenger seat, jersey crumpled in his lap, staring out the window, and Heeseung takes a loud, dramatic sniff.

"You smell like jizz." He glances at the jersey. "The fuck did you do with that?"

"None of your business."

"None of my business, my ass." Heeseung pulls out of the lot. "I'm doing you a big favour. Think I deserve to know."

Silence.

"Sunghoon. Spill."

Sunghoon exhales. Long. Slow. Staring straight ahead.

"I don't get it. I mean, I don't get her. I was doing everything right. I gave her the jersey. I told the team I couldn't have won without her. I made her feel good. Really good. Like, screaming-my-name kind of good." He pauses. "Not to brag. But I blew her fucking mind. And then suddenly it's 'get out of my car,' and she throws the jersey at my chest and drives off." He turns to Heeseung, genuinely bewildered. "What am I missing?"

"Let me get this straight," Heeseung changes lanes. Checks his blind spot. "She drove you to your game? On top of all the project shit she did for you?"

"She wanted to."

"Did she?"

"...Well, she wanted to see me." He folds his arms, "She had a good time. So I don't get the problem—"

"Sunghoon. Dude." Heeseung sighs, "The whole seduction manipulation thing you're trying to do? It only works if you're hot and smart enough to pull it off. You're just hot."

"I'm not manipulating her."

"Sure you're not."

"I'm not. I'm just trying to keep her happy. Which, judging by how hard she came, I thought I was doing my job right."

Heeseung snorts. "Your job?"

"What?"

"You're treating her like a resource. Like a side quest. Keep her happy, get the rewards. She's a human being, not an NPC, dumbass." "That's not—" The denial dies halfway out of his mouth. Sunghoon stops, brows furrowing at his roommate's words. "That's not what she is. No, she's nice to me. Like, genuinely nice." The corner of his lip tugs, almost involuntary. "She's fun to be around. Laughs at my jokes. She listens when I talk about Valorant. She has this look, like she's all impressed, even though she probably doesn't understand any of it. And man, you should've seen the way she cheered for me. It was like... the best feeling in the world."

He stops a moment, sighing, the memory of you beneath him in the car resurfacing itself. You, falling apart for him. "She's cute," he says, and the words feels a little too innocent for what he actually means, but he probably shouldn't say anything more in front of Heeseung anyways. "She's really cute." He stops. Blinks. His own words catch up to him, and suddenly the inside of the car feels very small.

Suddenly, he feels warm. These days, he always seems to feel that way when he thinks about you. It's annoying. It's distracting. It's—

"Hold the fuck on." The car comes to a screeching halt at a red light, and Heeseung turns. "You like her."

"What?" It comes out too fast. "Yeah, right. You know I don't do dating. Or any of that bullshit. It's a waste of—"

"I didn't ask if you wanted to marry her. I asked if you liked her."

Sunghoon looks out the window, streetlights passing.

He thinks about you. Your laugh, your smile, the voice notes you always leave and how he sometimes finds himself listening to them late at night when he has nothing better to do. He thinks about the way you looked in the crowd, sitting there for him. The way you always show up when he needs you and let him treat you like trash.

For a while, he told himself he was only getting close to you for convenience. Though there’s nothing convenient about the jittery feeling in his stomach right now, is there? He shoves it back down.

"No," he folds his arms. "Obviously no."

Heeseung gives him a long look. A very long look. Then he turns back to the road.

"Then stop bothering the poor girl and do your damn project."

Heeseung turns up the radio. The highway hums beneath them.

Sunghoon stays silent. The jitteriness in his stomach fades into something new. Something that aches. A terrible feeling—an awful one. He wonders how you might feel right now. Worse than him, he's sure.

"I will," he suddenly says. "I'll stop."

He'll do his work. He'll make things right. And next time, when you inevitably come back around, he'll apologize properly.

Sunghoon opens the project folder. Stares at the empty files, the frontend he never built. The CSS that's still mostly placeholder comments.

This should be easy. He'd always told himself I could pass this class in my sleep if I actually tried. But now he's trying, and his brain is a blank wall.

He types a line, deletes it, types again. Wrong syntax. The error at the bottom of the screen glares red and refuses to explain itself. He opens google, checks Stack Overflow, which presents and answer he doesn't understand. He copies the code anyway, slots it in, and five more errors bloom where one used to be.

This is bad. Severely bad. If he fails this course again, his GPA risks dropping below the minimum threshold for athletic eligibility. No GPA, no team. No team, no playing next season. And if Sunghoon can’t play next season, the team loses the tournament, and they lose funding. No funding means the program folds, which means he can kiss his E-sports career goodbye.

His hand twitches toward his phone. It's become a reflex now—reach for you the moment something goes wrong, except now you won’t help him. Because he fucked that up and asked for too much too quickly and made you feel used. And now he’s stuck, watching the errors keep piling up, knowing the deadline is three days away.

Leave the poor girl alone. He grabs his phone anyway.

He can't do it without you. He doesn't know the syntax, doesn't know the structure. You were always there, filling the gaps, smoothing the edges, making it look easy. And he let you. He counted on it. He counted on you, and he didn't even realize it until you were gone.

He needs you. He opens your chat and looks at his messages. Still unanswered. Still unread.

Sunghoon: hey. i'm sorry. Sunghoon: i know you're mad but Sunghoon: idk how to do this without you sent three days ago Sunghoon: hey Sunghoon: i don’t wanna bother you again Sunghoon: but i really am trying Sunghoon: and im stuck Sunghoon: please sent two days ago

"Hey. It's me. I don't know if you're listening to these anymore." He clears his throat, eyes on the timer of the voice recording. He’s sent a lot of these over the past few days, and he’s long since stopped hoping you’ll respond. He treats it almost like a confessional instead. "I'm sorry. For everything. I really am. I tried to do the project. Like, actually tried. And I can't. I don't know how. I never went to class, and I never—I know it's all my fault. And that I've dug my own grave. Just... I hope you know I'm trying. And..." A long silence. The recording meter ticks. "...I miss you—fuck. Sorry. Just. Yeah. Sorry"

He hits send, immediately shoving the device aside and burying his face in his hands. He keeps telling himself he doesn't want to bother you. That he can figure this out on his own. That he should leave you alone. But the cursor's still blinking on an empty file, and his phone's still dark, and the lie is getting harder to hold onto every time he reaches for it. He needs you.

Sunghoon waits outside the lecture hall.

He's never even been to this building before, even had to look up the room number, the time, and the building itself. But now he’s there, leaning against the wall, hood pulled over his head, arms crossed, watching the doors like he's holding an angle. Students trickle out in pairs and clusters. He scans every face.

Then he sees you.

You're near the back of the crowd, and you're not alone. Some guy is walking beside you—boring and forgettable. He's leaning in as you talk, nodding at whatever you're saying, and smiling at you, and Sunghoon wants to call him pathetic, but you're smiling back at the guy. His jaw tightens.

You haven't noticed him yet. You're still talking, gesturing with one hand, your bag slung over your shoulder, looking strangely relaxed. You never looked like that with him. He only knows you as the flustered girl who froze in the library when he knee touched yours. You, who melted into his touch in the backseat of his car. Not... this.

The guy says something, and you laugh, making Sunghoon's fingers dig into his own arm.

Then your eyes sweep the hall, landing on him. You hold for half a second before immediately looking away, starting to walk faster. You brush past him like he doesn’t exist, but Sunghoon’s already pushing himself off the wall, falling into step beside you.

"Hey." His hood falls back over his shoulders. "Can we talk?"

"I have somewhere to be."

"Five minutes. Please."

"Pretty sure she said no," The other guy frowns, then looks at you. "Everything okay? You know him?"

"She's my project partner," Sunghoon practically seethes, not looking at him. His eyes are on you. "Now leave us alone."

"Think that's up to her to decide—"

"She's with me." Sunghoon's voice is flat and final. "Right?"

You stop walking. Your shoulders square and you turn to face him, chin lifting, and for a split second, there's something almost amused flickering at the corner of your mouth. Like you'd been expecting this. Still, your eyes are cold, your jaw set. You’re pissed. He’s never seen you truly, completely pissed. You always hid it beneath a smile.

"It's fine," you say to the guy, your voice calm. "I'll catch up with you later."

The guy hesitates. Looks at Sunghoon, then back at you. He's probably weighing his options, and Sunghoon watches him do the math in real time.

"Yeah. Okay." He scoffs, walking off, "Later."

Sunghoon turns back to you immediately, his jaw still tight from watching that guy disappear around the corner.

"Who was that?"

"Classmate." You say it flat. You’re already walking again, your pace hurried.

"Yeah, right." He scoffs, falling into step beside you. "Does he know that? That he's just a classmate?"

"Why does it matter to you?"

"You're ignoring my messages." He avoids the question.

"Okay." You don't slow down. Don't even glance at him. "And?"

"And I'm kind of desperate here," His voice is rising now, frustration bleeding through the cracks. "I've been trying to reach you for days. I need your help."

You stop at the stairwell door, hand on the push bar, and finally, you look at him. Your expression is unreadable, but there's something almost pitying in the tilt of your head.

"You always need things, don't you?"

He blinks, and you're already pushing through the door, your footsteps echoing up the concrete stairwell. He hesitates for half a second, one hand braced against the doorframe, watching you climb, and then he's following, the door slamming shut behind him.

"You're greedy, Sunghoon. I've already given you so much."

"I know." His own footsteps fall heavy behind yours. "I know I don't deserve anything."

"Then stop wasting my time." You snap back.

You shove through the fire door at the top of the stairs, and suddenly you're both outside—the heat hitting him like a wall after the stale cool of the lecture hall, sunlight glaring off the sidewalk. You cut across the quad, weaving between clusters of students without slowing, and he stays on your heels like a shadow. You know he’s there, but you keep walking. Past the fountain. Past the library.

By the time you reach your dorm building, you're both breathing harder from the pace, and when you push through the glass doors into the air-conditioned lobby, he slips through behind you. Slowly, you turn.

"Why are you still following me?" Your frown cuts deep, brows furrowed. "Seriously, this is stalker behaviour."

Sunghoon doesn't flinch. Doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed.

"I won't leave until you help me."

"I dare you to tell that to campus security." You retort, chin tilted up, eyes locked on his.

Then you exhale through your nose, sharp and dismissive, and turn on your heel toward the elevator. You jab the call button with your thumb, harder than necessary.

"I dare you to call campus security." Suddenly, he stands beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulder nearly brushing yours, a ghost of that infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You won't."

The elevator dings, soft and cheerful, utterly indifferent to the tension coiled in the tiny space between your bodies. He steps in and stands close enough that you catch the familiar scent of him, and the doors slide shut, sealing you both inside.

"Because you don't scare me," you say, prodding a finger at his chest. He glances down at it, then back up at you, eyebrow raised. "You're like a whiny little toddler. Throwing a tantrum just because I won't give you what you want this time."

He doesn't step back. If anything, he leans into the prod, just slightly, letting your finger press into the fabric of his hoodie.

"Please," he says, and his voice has shifted—lower, stripped of the smirk. "The project is due in three days. None of my code works. I tried. I actually tried. I wanted to do better. But I don't know how to do this. I never learned, because you were always—"

"Always doing it for you." You stare at the elevator doors. "Yeah. I know."

"I'm sorry, okay? I know I fucked up. The tournament. The jersey. The lucky charm thing. All of it." He huffs, a short, humourless laugh at his own expense. "It wasn't very feminist of me. I shouldn't have treated you like an object, or something."

"No." Your voice is flat. "You shouldn't have."

The elevator dings, and you step out fast, keys already in your hand. Still, he's right behind you. His footsteps fall heavy on the carpet, matching your pace, refusing to give you even a stride of distance.

"Stop following me." You say again, firmer this time.

"I told you I won't."

"Well, you can cry in the hallway, then. I'm not dealing with this." You reach your door, and the keys jingle sharply as you slot them into the lock, missing the first time because your hands are not quite steady. You twist the knob and slip inside, already rolling your eyes, already swinging the door shut. "Bye—"

His hand catches it. Palm flat against the wood, fingers curling around the edge, arm braced. The door stops dead, half-open, and you're left gripping the handle on your side.

You stare at his hand. Then at him.

He pushes, though not very hard, and he steps through the gap, his body filling the frame and then clearing it. The door clicks shut behind him, and he leans back against it, his chest rising and falling with breaths that are just a little too fast to hide, like he’s equally as shocked as you are that he just forced himself inside your dorm room.

Your keys are still in your hand. Your knuckles are white around them, and you back up a few steps. Your chest is rising and falling to match his now, and the room feels suddenly very, very small.

“Listen, I just want to—”

"Get the fuck out of my room, or I swear to god I will actually call security."

"What do you want from me?" His voice comes out raw, louder than he meant. He pushes off the door, one step forward, then stops himself. "I apologized. I've tried to do my work. I'm trying to make things right. You want me to get on my knees and beg? 'Cause I will. I'll fucking do it."

"Sunghoon—"

He drops.

The movement is sudden and unceremonious. His knees hit the carpet with a dull thud, and for a second, he just stays there, head bowed, hair falling forward into his eyes, probably in need of a haircut. Then he looks up at you from the floor, hands clasped together.

"Please." His voice cracks. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

You stare down at him, distraught. A little horrified. Kind of cringing to yourself, honestly. And for a moment, you just watch him apologize over and over again. He mutters the same things he texted you about already. Missing you. Wanting to be better. Wanting to fix things. Needing to pass the class.

You drop your keys on your bedside table. The clatter breaks the rhythm of his apologies, and he goes silent. His head lifts, tracking the sound, tracking you as you take a step toward him. Then another. He doesn't move. Doesn't breathe, it seems like.

Stopping just in front of him, his clasped hands loosen, fingers uncurling, and then he's reaching for yours instead—slow, uncertain, like he's not sure he's allowed. His palms are warm, a little clammy. His fingers wrap around your knuckles and squeeze, and you can feel the tremor in his grasp. You think this is the first time you've ever seen this man experience any sort of real fear.

You lift his chin with your free hand, fingers pressing into his jaw, tilting his face up. The movement isn’t gentle or kind, as if the frown on your lips wasn't indicative enough of your displeasure with whatever this display is.

"You're pathetic."

"I know."

"You're an entitled, egotistical, manipulative loser."

"I know."

"Get up."

He does, and now you're the one craning your neck to look at him.

"For the last time." You say it slowly, "Leave me alone."

He doesn't move. His eyes trace your face. Your throat. The line of your collarbone. Your lips, still pulled into a tight frown.

"I can't do that." A silence follows. "You don't want me to do that either."

"I do."

"Maybe you do," he clarifies, hand finally reaching out until his fingers meet your throat, grazing your skin until they meet your chin. You lean into the touch. It’s your weakness. Your fatal flaw. You can say whatever you want, but when he has his hands on you, you crumble in his grasp. "But your body wants something else."

His thumb brushes your lower lip. Your mouth parts without permission.

You hold his gaze. Your breathing is shallow, your pulse hammering at the base of your throat where his fingers just were. You hate the way you can't pull yourself away. “Tell me what you want,” He rests leans in closer, his voice rough. "I can make it up to you. I'll make you forget what you were even upset about. You just have to—" You kiss him. Hard enough to shut him up. Hard enough that he makes a small, surprised sound against your mouth before his hand tightens in your hair and he kisses you back. It's different from the parking lot. Slower, a little hesitant because you're still learning how this all works. Desperate still, but less immediately urgent. His hand cradles the back of your head, and his lips work yours like they have something to prove. Your hands come up to his chest, and this time you don't push him away. When you break apart, you're both breathing hard. His forehead presses to yours, his eyes dark and a little dazed. The look of someone who knows they're about to get exactly what they wanted. You despise it.

"Are you really whoring yourself out for grades?" Your voice comes out breathless, undermining the bite you'd intended.

He laughs, low and warm against your mouth.

"If I'm whoring myself out for anything, it's forgiveness." His hand drops to your waist, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip. "I meant it when I said I missed you."

"Oh, I'm sure you do." You laugh bitterly, but his lips are already trailing down your jaw. "I'm sure you miss the way I did all your work and drove you around and—"

"I miss when you were mine." He says it against your throat, the words vibrating against your skin. His hand tightens on your hip. "And not laughing at some other asshole's jokes."

You can feel the shift in him, his possessiveness bleeding through the charm.

"Seriously, who was that guy?"

"Told you. Nobody." Your head tips back as his mouth finds the hollow beneath your ear. "Just a classmate."

"Did you do anything with—?"

"No. Obviously, no." The sigh that escapes you is half-frustration, half-surrender. "Just you. You know it's just you."

"That's right." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's satisfaction in his eyes—warm and smug and entirely undeserved. "Just me."

His hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him.

"What we did in the parking lot was just the start." His lips brush your ear, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. "I can do so much more for you. You know I can."

Your back suddenly hits the mattress. You didn't feel him walking you there—didn't register the steps, the turn, the careful way he lowered you down. But now he's above you, braced on his forearms, looking at you with a kind of hunger and hope.

"Let me apologize properly." He squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing your knuckles. "Will you?"

You look up at him. At his jaw. His mouth. His dark, beautiful eyes. You nod without questioning it.

His lips find your throat first. Soft. Slow. He traces the line of your pulse with his mouth, feeling it flutter beneath his attention. Then lower—your collarbone, the hollow at the base of your throat, the warm skin just above the neckline of your shirt. He pushes the fabric aside, just enough, and presses a kiss there. Then another. Then lower.

His hands move with the same precision he brings to his game, but slower. Like he's memorizing the landscape of you as he strips you of your clothes. His mouth traces a slow path down your stomach. You’re near-bare when his fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, and he pauses, looking up at you through his lashes.

"Just lay back."

You nod again, not trusting your voice.

He pulls the fabric down. His breath is warm against the inside of your thigh. Then his mouth is there—gentle at first, testing, learning what makes you gasp and what makes you go still. His hands hold your hips, thumbs tracing circles into your skin, steadying you.

"Too much?" He murmurs against you, the vibration of his voice sending a shiver up your spine.

"No," You swallow. "Don't stop."

With that, he's grinning, lowering himself between your thighs.

He takes you apart slowly. Thoroughly. His tongue works in patterns you can't track, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs, his voice a low murmur of praise against your skin. So good for me. So pretty. Just like that.

When he feels you getting close, he doesn't speed up. He holds the rhythm steady, deliberate, drawing it out until your hands are fisted in his hair and your back is arching off the mattress and his name is the only word left in your vocabulary.

"Who's making you feel this good?" His voice is rough, muffled against your skin. "Tell me."

"Sunghoon."

"Say it again."

"Sunghoon—please—!"

You shatter. The wave crashes through you, and he works you through every second of it—his mouth never stopping, his hands grounding you, holding you together even as you fall apart. When the last tremor leaves your body, you're gasping, your fingers still twisted in his hair.

He kisses his way back up. Your hip. Your ribs. The curve of your shoulder.

"All mine," he murmurs against your skin, pressing the words into you like a claim.

Finally, his lips find yours. Still slow, none of that frantic hunger that had him pressed against you before you could think in the back of your car. His hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and his mouth moves against yours like an apology he doesn't know how to put into words.

But you're not done with him yet. Not even close.

Your hands drop from his chest to his waistband, fingers finding the drawstring and tugging. You fumble—too eager, too impatient—and the knot catches, your knuckles pressing into the hard plane of his stomach as you work at it. His abs tense under your touch. He pulls back, eyes wide, lips still swollen.

"What are you doing?" His voice is rough, caught between surprise and something else. His hand hovers over yours, but doesn't stop you.

"Want you." You meet his eyes and hold them, your chin tilting up. "Inside me."

He nearly groans at the sound of that, dick twitching in his pants. But, for the first time, he hesitates. Even now—even with you laid out beneath him, even with the taste of you still on his lips—there's a flicker of concern in his expression. "You sure?"

"You want forgiveness." Your voice is steadier than you feel. "Show me how sorry you are."

He stares at you for a beat. Something in his expression shifts—surprise giving way to something darker, more amused, thoroughly impressed. A low chuckle escapes him, warm and rough, and he shakes his head like he can't quite believe you.

"You want it that bad, huh?"

You push his hoodie up over his shoulders, suddenly self-conscious of how much skin you’re showing compared to him. He finishes the job for you, peeling off the hoodie and shirt beneath it in one motion, and then he’s reaching for the waistband.

You barely notice how his sweatpants are gone in a single impatient shove, too focused on him; the broad sweep of his chest, the tight lines of his stomach, the way his arms flex as he braces himself above you. Your hands flatten against his chest without second thought.

"How the hell are you so..." You trail off, too stunned to finish.

"Gym. Sometimes." He shrugs, "What? I'm not a complete loser."

"You're worse than a loser." You retort, but your words betray your actions as you find the waistband of his boxers.

"I am?" He's grinning now, watching your hands fumble, "You don't seem to mind."

He shifts his weight as you pull them down, and then you have him—hard, bare and intimidating, grinding against the inside of your thigh. Your breath catches.

"I'm serious, though." His voice drops. His forehead presses to yours, and his hips still. "You sure you want this? It feels sort of wrong. Like..."

"Like what?"

He doesn't answer right away. His thumb traces a slow line along your hip, grounding himself, grounding you. Like you should save it for someone else, he thinks. Someone more deserving. The thought makes him shudder. He can't stand it—the image of someone else's hands on you. Someone else seeing you like this, all flushed and open and unguarded. He's too obsessed with the way you react to his touch. Too greedy to give it up.

"Sunghoon," you sigh, "I literally don't care. Just put it in."

He sucks in a breath.

"Well, I care." He presses closer, and you feel him at your entrance. He doesn’t push in yet, just rests there, heavy and warm. His eyes find yours. "So tell me if it hurts. Tell me—" He pushes in just barely, just the head of him, and your mouth falls open. "—fuck, you're gorgeous."

He's not fully in yet—just working his way inside, pausing to let you adjust to each inch. His thumb strokes the back of your hand in slow, soothing circles. And yet still—

"So big," you whimper, glancing down between your bodies, almost disbelieving. You already feel so impossibly full of him. Your fingers squeeze around his, your other hand gripping the back of his neck. "So much..."

"I know." He whispers it, and you catch the corner of his mouth twitching—trying not to smile too smugly, trying not to let it get to his head. But he's still just a guy, and the way you're looking at him, all wide-eyed and overwhelmed, is doing things to his ego he can't quite suppress. "Too much for you?"

You shake your head in denial, your nails pressing little crescents into his shoulder blade as he sinks in deeper. The stretch is intense, almost too much, but the thought of him stopping is worse.

"I know it's a lot." There's a trace of that smugness in his voice now, but it's tempered by something softer. Something almost tender. "But it feels good when you get used to it, angel. I swear."

He's fully in now. You feel him everywhere—a deep, satisfying fullness that borders on overwhelming. His palm presses flat against your lower belly, and you watch his jaw go slack as he feels himself there, buried inside you, just beneath his hand.

"Fuck," he breathes, almost to himself. "Feel that? That's me. Right there."

You can't speak. You can only nod, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your body still adjusting to the size of him.

You feel him in your guts, an almost unbearable fullness that borders on pain before it tips into something else. When he starts moving, shallow and careful, it's like your whole body shakes with the sensation. Want. Need. Anticipation. You've wanted him so badly. All summer, every night, every time his knee brushed yours or his voice dropped low. And now here he is inside you, above you, finally, and you're barely able to handle it. The frustration prickles at the edges of your bliss.

A strained sound escapes you with each shallow thrust. Your face is still tight, your body still struggling to accommodate him, but you are so, so determined.

"More," you manage, the word half-demand, half-plea. "You can go harder. Faster. I won't break."

He just laughs, Low and warm.

"Not yet." He purrs. "Not this time. You'll take it like this."

He fucks you slow and deep. His thumb finds your clit and circles it in a lazy rhythm, matching the roll of his hips. The discomfort lingers at the edges from the stretch of him that still borders on too much, but then he shifts, angling your leg slightly higher, and something inside you ignites.

A raw, involuntary noise escapes you, and he catches it immediately.

"Right there, huh?" He does it again, same angle, same depth. You bite back a cry. "Feels good?"

"So good." Your nails rake down his back. "Fuck, it’s so—"

You don't finish the sentence. You cum around him, rather abruptly, a broken cry on your lips, your back arching. He groans, low and strained, and rocks you through every pulse of it, his hips rolling gently, letting you ride out your high.

When your eyes blink open, hazy and unfocused, you stare up at him. At the sharp cut of his jaw. His mouth, still slightly parted. The dark hair falling over his gorgeous eyes. He looks like a fucking pornstar—it's actually unbelievable. Every inch of him is perfect, and it just makes you even more pissed.

And he hasn't finished yet. Still hard. Still inside you. Still watching you with that smug, knowing look, like he's got all the time in the world.

That also makes you pissed.

With a single-minded focus, you’re pushing him to his back, mounting him, your legs still shaking from the aftermath of your orgasm.

“What are you—” His voice is genuinely startled. His hands come up to your hips on instinct, not guiding, just holding, like he's bracing for impact. His eyes are wide, fixed on your face.

You lower yourself onto him, slowly. Sinking down until you’re fully seated there. It’s a lot. A lot more than it was trying to take him from just lying down. You feel all of him, even deeper than before, filling you to the brim, and your eyes squeeze shut, trying to swallow the slight discomfort that still lingers.

“I don’t know if you should—” His voice is strained. He's trying to be decent. Trying to hold still. You can feel the tension in his thighs beneath you, the effort it's taking him not to thrust up into the heat of you.

You start to move. Mostly to shut him up. There’s no rhyme or rhythm. No technique. Only directionless desire. Your hips rock in a shallow, uneven pace because you can't really handle what you're trying to take—the angle is different, and every downward stroke punches a gasp from your lungs. Your thighs burn with the effort. Your balance wavers. But you don't stop.

"Fuck." The word tears out of him, strangled and reverent. He's leaning back against your pillows now, propped on his elbows, watching you with helpless awe. "Just take it. Take what you want. It's yours."

Your nails drag down his chest, leaving angry red lines in their wake. The sting makes him hiss, but he doesn't stop you—doesn't grab your wrists, doesn't flip you over. He just watches, enthralled, as you claw at him like you're trying to leave a mark he'll feel for days.

You're cursing at him under your breath. Asshole. Entitled. Selfish. Using me. Words he can't quite catch but definitely deserves. Your rhythm stutters and breaks, your hips faltering as the pleasure builds too fast, too intense, and you can't keep the pace steady when every nerve in your body is screaming.

Maybe he should feel terrified that you're clawing at him like an animal, cursing his name with the same breath you use to moan it. But he's captivated. He's never been more attracted to anyone in his life. Your lips are parted, your chest bare and heaving, and you're riding him with zero grace and a summer’s worth of pent-up fury and sexual frustration.

"Shit," he breathes, his hands sliding up from your hips to your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your hipbones. "Look at you. So fucking hot when you're mad. Maybe I should—"

You slap him across the face.

As hard as you can.

It shocks you, even.

It’s not very hard—he's basically a wall of muscle—but the sting is real, and the crack of it echoes in the room.

For one suspended second, he doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. His head is still turned from the impact, a faint pink bloom already rising on his cheek. Still trying to wrap his head around the fact that you—the girl who stutters over her words and whimpers from a single touch—just slapped him across the face while riding him.

His eyes find yours.

"Shut the fuck up." You hiss.

He should probably feel pissed, right? Offended, maybe? He's never been slapped in his life—not by a girlfriend, not even by his roommates, though he’s sure sometimes they want to. And yet the sting on his cheek is radiating down his neck, into his chest, settling low in his gut where it twists into something insatiable.

His dick twitches, and a sound he's never made escapes him—which he does not have the time to unpack currently. He'll think about it later, probably, when he's alone and confused and trying to figure out what the hell just happened to him.

A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Make me."

You slap him again, and his smile only widens.

His cheek is definitely pink now. He can feel the heat of it, the slight throb, and it's doing something to him. His hands tighten on your hips, not to restrain you, just to keep you there, like this. Steadying your hips.

You're breathing hard, staring down at him, the stretch of him wearing you thin. He splits you open in a way that borders on too much, your body still struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him even now, even after everything. Every inch is a presence you can't ignore, and for a dizzying second, you wonder if this is what it feels like to be completely consumed. Still, you take him. You take what you want.

You finish with a broken cry, your rhythm shattering completely. Your hips stutter, lose their pace, and then you're collapsing forward, forehead pressed to his chest, your whole body seizing and releasing around him in waves that don't seem to stop. His hands find your hips and hold you steady through it, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your hipbones, grounding you while you shudder apart on top of him.

For a moment, he lets you rest there. His hand cradles the back of your head. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek. He's still hard—achingly, painfully hard—and the feeling of you fluttering around him, spent and trembling, is almost enough to finish him right there.

But not quite.

He flips you onto your back.

It's fast. One arm wraps around your waist, and then the world tilts, and suddenly you're beneath him again, your back sinking into the mattress, your legs falling open around his hips. He doesn't give you time to adjust—doesn't give himself time to think. He just drives back into you, burying himself to the hilt in one desperate thrust.

"Hoon—!”

"Take it," he chokes out, hand reaching for your neck, "Don't tap out on me, now. Fucking take it like a good girl."

The pace is different now, a lot less considerate. He's been holding back all night—letting you adjust, letting you set the rhythm, letting you take what you wanted. But now he's wound too tight, every thrust driven by a pure, animalistic need.

His breath goes ragged. His jaw clenches so tight it aches. The hand around your neck tightens, not enough to choke you, but enough to keep you in place, and he fucks into you like he's trying to outrun something—the guilt, the fear, the dawning realization that this isn't just about getting off anymore and that it probably hasn't been for a while.

"I'm—" His rhythm breaks, stutters, and then he's pulling out at the last possible second. His hand wraps around himself. He finishes on your stomach with a low, broken groan that sounds like it's been dragged out of him against his will, and he stares at the image of it all: You, covered in his cum. Finally his again.

He stays there for a moment, braced above you, his arms trembling. His head hangs low, breath coming in ragged gasps. The mess between you is warm and slick, pooling on your skin, and neither of you moves to clean it up. Not yet, anyway.

The room goes quiet, the two of you only breathing.

He blinks down at you. At the mess. The way you're still catching your breath, still flushed, still looking up at him with those wide, unreadable eyes. Something flickers across his face—something almost tender, almost frightened—and then it's gone, replaced by the ghost of that infuriating grin.

"Shit," he breathes, and it comes out half-laugh, half-apology. "Come here."

He kisses you. Soft. Gentle. Nothing like the desperate, driving intensity of a few minutes ago. This kiss says something different—something he can't quite put into words and isn't sure he's ready to. His lips linger on yours for a beat longer than necessary before he pulls back. "You got anything to clean up with?"

You point him to the drawer at your bedside, and he reaches over. A pack of wet wipes. He cleans you up with careful, methodical hands, wiping the mess from your stomach, between your thighs, his touch efficient but gentle. Like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like he's done it a hundred times.

He tosses the wipes toward the garbage bin in the corner. It lands short. He doesn't pick it up. Instead, he climbs back onto the bed and lies down beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

"Does it hurt anywhere?" He turns his head on the pillow to look at you. His hair is a disaster, still damp with sweat at the temples. "I was trying to be careful, but you were kind of intense. You were a virgin, like, two hours ago."

"A little sore." Your voice comes out hoarse. "I'll survive."

"You sure? I can get you Advil." He's already half-propped up on one elbow, ready to go searching through your bathroom cabinets. "I don't know where you keep your Advil."

"I'm sure."

He nods, settling back down. His arm finds its way around your waist, pulling you closer until your head rests against his shoulder. His hand traces idle patterns on your hip—slow, absent shapes, like he's not even aware he's doing it.

"You're staying?"

He looks down at you. The question catches him off guard—not the words, but the way they sound to him. Soft and Uncertain, like you're bracing for him to leave. Clingy already, he thinks, but the thought makes him smile, rather than feel annoyed.

"Come on." He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "I'm not a complete asshole."

"You're not?"

"I'm staying." Another kiss, softer this time. "I'm not going anywhere."

You hum, a sigh leaving your body, head settled against his chest. His heart does something inconvenient in his ribcage—a flutter, a stutter, something he refuses to name. He pulls you a little closer anyway.

"I mean it," he says, and the words start coming faster now, tumbling out in a ramble he hadn't planned. The afterglow loosened something in his chest. "I'm gonna make it up to you. For real this time. Not like the parking lot. I know I said that then, but I mean it now. I'm gonna take you out. An actual date. No tournaments. No sushi—unless you want sushi? But a nicer place than that one. Just you and me. A real restaurant. Not some strip mall junk."

You're quiet, your thumb drawing lazy circles against his chest. It's a soothing, steady rhythm that has his eyes growing heavy.

"And I'll stop calling you a lucky charm or prize or whatever. That was stupid. I shouldn't have said that. I don't even know why I said it. I was just—the reporter was there, and I was still hyped from the match, and my teammates were all listening." He presses another kiss to your hair. "You're not any of that. You're good to me. Really good to me."

Still no response. Your thumb keeps tracing those slow circles, but you haven't looked up at him. You must be tired. Poor thing.

"Oh, and I'll teach you," he adds, a chuckle escaping him. "How to ride me. Properly. Not that I'm complaining. It was cute watching you struggle up there."

A yawn cracks his jaw. He tries to smother it, but it's too late. His body reminds him that he got zero sleep trying to work on the project, and that he just made you finish three times. The adrenaline is gone. What's left is heavy, dragging exhaustion. Almost peaceful.

"Anyway," he mumbles, eyes closing. "I'll be better. I swear. Actual date. No name-calling. Riding lessons. Sunghoon 2.0. The redeem—" Another yawn. "The redemption arc."

You turn your head on his chest. Your voice cuts through the haze of his exhaustion.

"Sunghoon."

"Mm?"

"What did I say about shutting up?"

He blinks. The question catches him off guard, and then a laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep in his chest—genuine, surprised, a little bit giddy. A laugh only you seem to be able to pull out of him.

"Yes, ma'am," he says, grinning. "Shutting up now."

You settle back against his chest. Your hand resumes its position over his ribs, but the circles have stopped. He doesn't notice. He's already sinking, the warmth of you pulling him under.

He closes his eyes. The weight of you against his chest is warm and solid and real. His, some quiet, possessive part of him whispers. And the taste of you still lingers on his lips, tasting a lot like victory.

It's been two weeks. Sunghoon has learned a few things about you. He's learned that you're insatiable—and that Heeseung was right when he said something about the innocent ones being the freakiest in bed. He's learned that you like it when he pulls your hair—not hard, just enough. He's learned that you like to pull his hair and dig your nails into him and cuss him out, while begging him to go harder and faster. He's also learned that you still won't let him take you on an actual date. And trust him, he's tried.

"Let me take you out," he'll say, and you're cutting him off with your sweet, irresistible lips. "I'm serious," he'll insist, and your hand is down his pants, teasing him for being hard already. "I'll buy you dinner. Anything you want," he'll try, and you're sinking to your knees, taking his dick down your throat like it’s nothing. Then he forgets whatever he's arguing about.

It bothers him. Not the sex part, obviously—he enjoys that more than he's ever enjoyed anything—but he doesn't want you to think that's all he wants. He's been trying to prove otherwise. Trying to show you that he actually gives a shit. That he's not an asshole. That he's changed. You don't seem to believe him—that's the only reason he can think of why you keep avoiding his advances, anyway. Every time he brings up a real date, you dodge, distract and deflect with your hands and your mouth and the warm press of your body. He's determined to prove you wrong.

Today is no different. You're in his bed, head pressed into the pillows as he fucks you from behind, and he's covered in a layer of sweat. "Shit," he seethes, watching himself disappear inside you, your greedy cunt taking all of him. "So fucking gorgeous." "Faster," you whine, predictably. He almost laughs. "Let me take you out." He slows deliberately, his cock dragging along your walls at an agonizing pace—so slow you can feel every inch of him, the thick ridge of his head catching on just the right spot before he pulls back again. "Tomorrow. Dinner. Real restaurant." "Sunghoon." His name is muffled against the pillow, half-moan, half-protest. Your fingers twist in the sheets. "Somewhere nice." He rolls his hips, just barely, just enough to make you gasp. "No sex. Not before. Not after. Not even a little. Just talking." "You're already talking right now." You push back against him, trying to take him deeper, but his hands tighten on your hips, holding you still. "And it's very annoying." "I'm serious." "So am I. Now faster." "No."

A squeal escapes you as his palm connects with your ass—not hard, just a sharp little crack that makes you jolt forward. The sting blooms warm across your skin. He rubs the spot immediately, his palm soothing over the heat he left behind, and the contrast makes you shudder. "Just say yes." He leans over you, his chest brushing your spine, and you can feel the heat of him, the slick slide of his skin against yours. His lips find the shell of your ear. "Lemme hear it, and I'll fuck you right." His hips rock forward—barely an inch—and you moan at the shallow stretch. Then he pulls back again, leaving you empty and aching. "Fine," you huff, "Maybe." He stops moving entirely. You wait for the next thrust, the next tease, but nothing comes. Then he's pulling out completely, his hands leaving your hips, and the sudden absence of him is so jarring you actually whimper. "What are you—?" "No date, no dick." You crane your neck to glare at him over your shoulder. He's kneeling behind you, cock slick and ready, one hand wrapped lazily around himself. He strokes himself, just watching you squirm. "That's not fair." "It's completely fair." Trying not to grin, seeing the look of frustration on your face, "Seriously, what am I, a piece of meat to you?" "Yes," you don't even hesitate, "So put your dick back inside me and stop talking." "So demanding," he raises a brow, hands leaving his cock to return to your hips. You whine when you feel the tip of him tease along your slick heat, absolutely dripping for him. You huff, dropping your forehead to the pillow. Your body is aching. Empty. You can feel how wet you are, how ready, and he's just kneeling there, smug and gorgeous and utterly infuriating. "Please." Your voice drops, softening. "Please give it to me." He bites his lip, hands gripping your hips tighter as he grinds against you. The begging. You know he can't resist the begging. He sucks in a breath. Don’t give in, don’t give in, don’t— "Want it so bad." You push back onto your elbows, arching your back, presenting yourself to him. "Need you inside me. Need you to fill me up. Please, Sunghoon. Please." "Fuck." He stutters and lines himself up, the head of him pressing against your entrance—just barely, just enough to make you gasp and push back—and then he sheathes himself in one brutal, devastating thrust. "So fucking needy." You cry out, face buried in the pillow, your whole body jerking forward as he sheathes himself to the hilt. He doesn't give you time to adjust, nor does he give himself time to be careful. His hand presses flat between your shoulder blades, pinning you to the mattress, and his other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise. The headboard slams against the wall in a frantic rhythm, his pace punishing. Your fingers curl into the sheets, twisting the fabric, trying to anchor yourself against the force of him. Every thrust punches a broken sound from your throat—half gasp, half moan, muffled by the pillow. He watches himself disappear into you, the slick glide of his length, the way your body stretches to accommodate him, the way you push back against him even now, even pinned, even helpless. "That's it," he grits out, his voice wrecked. "Take it. Take all of it." You're babbling something into the pillow—his name, maybe, or just incoherent pleading. He can feel you tightening around him, your walls fluttering, the telltale tremble in your thighs. He reaches around, finds your clit, and the sound you make when he touches you there is almost enough to finish him on the spot. "Come for me," he breathes, his rhythm stuttering as his own control starts to fray. "Let go. I've got you."

You shatter. He feels it—the clench, the pulse, the way your whole body seizes and releases. Your cry is muffled by the pillow, but he hears it anyway, feels it in the way you grip him, in the way you shudder beneath him. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release now, and when it hits him, a low, broken groan is torn from his chest as he spills inside you.

He collapses forward, bracing himself on his forearms so he doesn't crush you. His forehead presses to the space between your shoulder blades, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your damp skin. Beneath him, you're still trembling—small aftershocks rippling through you. The room is quiet now, just the sound of breathing and the distant hum of his PC.

He stays there for a long moment, letting his heart rate settle, letting the sweat cool on his back. Then he shifts, pressing a kiss to the center of your spine. Then another, higher. Then another, at the nape of your neck. He works his way up slowly, reverently, like he's memorizing the landscape of you.

"Come here." His voice is wrecked, barely more than a rasp. He eases out of you gently and tugs you down onto the pillows with him, pulling your back against his chest. His arm drapes across your waist, heavy and warm. His nose brushes the curve of your ear. But then he’s watching you slip from the bed, and he can’t help but frown. The sheets pool around his waist as he sits up, reaching for you. His fingers catch your arm before you can stand.

"Where are you going?" "Back to my place?” “Why?” “Because.” You break from his grasp, “I’m busy.” "With?"

"Studying. Work. Social life." You're pulling on your clothes with that efficient, no-nonsense energy he's come to recognize—underwear, shirt, the quick twist of your hair into something presentable. "Some of us care about our lives." He ignores the jab, tugging you back toward him. You stumble, one knee landing on the mattress, and he takes the opening—his mouth finding the curve of your neck, pressing slow, deliberate kisses along your throat.

"Sunghoon..." Your voice wavers, a warning and a surrender all at once. "I want to take you out." He murmurs it against your skin, his hand sliding up your arm. "Wanna do more than just this. Wanna do this right." You pull back just enough to look at him. Your expression is hard to read—something between exasperation and something softer you won't name. "This is fine. I like this." "I know. I like it too." His thumb traces your jaw. "But—" "I have to go." You lean down and kiss him. Brief. Almost dismissive. Then you're pulling away, grabbing your bag, and he's left in the bed, still warm from your body, still tasting you on his lips.

He groans, dragging himself upright. Hastily, he’s tugging his sweatpants on, and throwing a hoodie over his head, and he follows you down the hallway, catching up just as you reach the living room.

The usual suspects are in position—Heeseung on the couch, Jake in the armchair, Jay sprawled on the floor doing something on his phone that's making him smirk. Three heads lift in unison as you pass.

"Leaving so soon?" Heeseung calls, not looking up from his phone. "Not even cuddling? Sunghoon, man, don't tell me you fumbled that bad?" "I have places I need to be," you reply simply, not breaking your stride, "Bye, guys—"

He catches you at the door. His hand finds your waist, spinning you back toward him, and then he's kissing you—not the brief, dismissive peck you tried to give him in the bedroom, but something a lot more intentional.

He ignores the wolf whistle from the couch and the “get a room!” comment, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt at the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, and when they part on a surprised breath, he deepens the kiss without hesitation. You make a sound against his mouth—half embarrassment, half something else—and he grins into the kiss, pleased with himself.

"Sunghoon—" You pull back, hand pressed to his chest. "Next time." His voice is low, meant only for you, his forehead nearly touching yours. "I'm taking you out. Even if I have to keep my hands to myself the whole night." "Sure," Your smile is unreadable, but you don't pull away. "Next time." Then you're gone. The door clicks shut, and Sunghoon turns to face the room. Three stares bore into him.

"Bro," Jake says, "That was disgusting." "Downright pornographic," Jay agrees from the floor. Heeseung just shakes his head slowly, "You're down bad. Like, down bad, down bad." "Catastrophically down bad." "You guys don't get it." Sunghoon flops onto the couch. "She's perfect. Like, actually perfect. She's smart, and she's funny, and she puts up with my shit. And..." he cracks a smile as he gestures to his bedroom, "You know." "We know," the three of them say in unison, flatly.

His head falls back, and he sighs, the scent of your perfume still lingering on him. The one trace of you that stays behind whenever you leave too soon. "But," He pauses, his brows scrunched, "I don't think she believes me when I say I want more. I think that she thinks that I'm just trying to get in her pants." "To be fair," Jake says, "you have been in her pants. Multiple times." "And you literally spent the first half of the summer ignoring her while she did your coursework," Jay adds. "And you made her take you to your E-sports tournament, then came on her—" Heeseung starts. "I know. I did a lot of shitty things I regret." He stares at the ceiling. "It’s different now. I want to show her I actually care. That I'm not using her for her body or something. But every time I try, she changes the subject. Or distracts me. Or—" "Distracts you with sex?" Heeseung raises an eyebrow. "That must be terrible for you. Imagine that? Trying to take a girl out for dinner, and she just wants one order of your load down her throat instead. How awful." "I’m serious." "Sunghoon." Heeseung puts a hand on his shoulder. "You're complaining that a girl who's hot and smart and good in bed won't let you take her to Olive Garden. Do you hear yourself right now?" "She's got you whipped," Jay says, not looking up from his phone. "Never thought I'd see the day. The guy who once said 'relationships are a debuff' is now begging for a dinner reservation." "I'm not whipped." He retorts. "I just want her to know that I care. That's all." "Simp," Jake coughs. Sunghoon's head snaps toward him. "Oh, you did not just say that—" "Right message, wrong messenger," Heeseung interrupts him, "You are objectively a simp now. You, the guy who famously chose video games over his last relationship, who once said 'dating is a distraction from the grind'—" "The grind is still important." "—is now begging a woman to let him buy her overpriced appetizers."

Sunghoon would normally fire back with some well-aimed jab about Heeseung and Jay's own nonexistent love life or Jake's shit show of a dating history. But he's distracted. Thinking about you. About next time. About how he's finally going to convince you that he means it. "I am," he says simply, a smile on his face, "I'd buy her everything on the menu if she asked me to." A beat of horrified silence passes, the three boys sharing glances with each other. "Seriously, what happened to him?" Jay whispers to Jake, who shrugs in response, matching his look, "This is terrifying." "I'd almost rather hear him screaming at his ranked teammates." "Or cry over a broken Nintendo Switch controller." "Or talking to himself in the mirror before games. 'You got this, Sunghoon. You're him. You're cracked.'" "It's hard to believe," Heeseung says, lowering his head between them and pulling them into an impromptu huddle, their voices dropping to stage whispers, "but maybe love really did change him." "He's not in love," Jake rolls his eyes. "He's in heat or something." "Yeah, well, it's the closest he's gotten to love in like, what, years?" Heeseung replies, "Look at what he's wearing. That's a brand new hoodie. Clean, pristine condition, not a single stain or wrinkle. When's the last time you saw him in something that didn't come out of the laundry pile?" "It’s like when male birds start doing those weird dances to impress the females," Jay shudders, "Puffing up their chests. Spinning in circles. Except it's Sunghoon doing it. Which just feels—" "Gross?" Jake offers. "Unnatural.” "Wrong.” "A crime against nature." "You know I can hear you guys, right?" Sunghoon deadpans. "Literally everything." "We know," Heeseung says without turning around. "We don’t care. Go back to daydreaming."

Sunghoon opens his mouth to fire back, but his phone buzzes on the cushion beside him. A notification. He glances down, expecting your name on the screen—a text, maybe, or one of those voice notes he's learned to listen to the moment they arrive. His lips quirk up. Then he reads it.

Transcript Updated: Summer Semester — Web Programming Final Grade: F

The smile freezes on his face like a video paused on a single frame. "What?" Heeseung leans over, trying to see the screen. "What's that face? You look like you just watched your favourite vandal skin get vaulted."

Sunghoon doesn't answer. He opens the grade portal. Opens the project submission page. There it is: The final project. Submitted. Your name, alone. His? Nowhere to be seen.

"I failed." His voice is small, hollow. "The class. She took my name off the project." Silence.

Then Jay starts laughing. A sharp, incredulous bark. Heeseung joins in, his shoulders shaking. Jake sets down his controller with the slow deliberation of a man who wants to fully savour what's about to happen.

"No way," Heeseung manages between breaths. "She didn't." "She did." "Oh, this is beautiful." Jay wipes his eyes. "This is the most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed." “So dicking her down didn’t get you anywhere after all,” Heeseung is grinning widely, “Tried to use her for grades, then caught feelings.” "That's not—” "You thought you had it all, huh? The A, the tournament win, the girl—" He wheezes, "You thought you were out here playing her, and she played you." "I told you it wasn't like that—" "Bro." Jake sets down his controller. "It was exactly like that." Sunghoon stares at the screen. At the F. At your name, alone on the submission page. His chest feels strange. Hollow. Like someone reached in and scooped something out and left a Sunghoon-shaped shell on the couch. He doesn't even have the energy to fight his roommates anymore.

He stands up from the couch, words dying on his lips. One moment he’s there, staring at his phone, and the next he’s walking—feet carrying him down the hallway toward his room. The laughter of his roommates fades behind him, muffled by the closing door.

His room is dark except for the blue glow of his monitor. The Valorant home screen stares back at him, waiting for a queue that won’t come. He sits at the edge of his bed and stares at the transcript notification again, as if looking at it long enough might change the grade.

His thumb hovers over your contact. The last message from you—a short, simple text from earlier that day. On my way. He'd smiled when he read it then. He presses the call button. "Sunghoon." You pick up after a few rings, "What's up?" "What's up?" His voice comes out strangled. "You failed me. You took my name off the project. I thought—I thought we were—" There’s a laugh on the other line. "You thought what?" You ask, clearly amused. "You really thought that because you fucked me, suddenly I'd decide to let you keep your name on a project you didn't contribute to?" "No, I—" He's stammering. "Not like that. But you made me think—" "I didn't make you do anything." "You let me believe—" He runs his hand through his hair, pacing. "Had me under the impression we were good. With each other. That things were fixed. That I apologized and you forgave me." "Oh? Do you feel misled?" You tease, a content sigh, then leaving you, "I never promised you anything, Sunghoon. It's not my fault you assumed things."

His stomach drops. He sits there, in the middle of his dark room, phone pressed to his ear, and the silence stretches long enough that he's not sure why you haven’t hung up on him yet.

"I like you." The words tumble out before he can stop them, earnest and vulnerable and nothing like how he usually is. "I wasn't just trying to get in your pants. I want to take you out. I've been trying to take you out for weeks. I wanted to show you—"

"Oh, I know. You made that very clear." "Then why—" "But I'm sorry to break it to you," you continue, "I don't date guys who can't fix their own broken code." He swallows, phone trembling in his grasp. "Call me when you want to fuck again, 'kay? That's all you're really good for." You say. It’s not smug or cruel. It’s just honest. "Bye, Sunghoon."

note ✰.ᐟ this work exists in the same au as this fic here

nav ✰.ᐟ m.list ✰.ᐟ thanks for reading ♡

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