Series

The Devil You Know

My Dog Thinks You’re My Boyfriend

Undercover Hearts

The Only S-Rank with a Crush

Blood on the Boardwalk

Silverstrand

One Shots

All Bets Are Off (And So Are the Clothes)

The Final Choice (Squid Game)

Escape From Camp Stray

Don't Get Them Wet

Dog Soldiers

Sharp Tongues, Sharper Claws

If Only Stray Kids Played Here...

The Hollow Beneath Us Part 2

When Nobody's Watching

I Shouldn't Want You, But I Do

Playing The Part

Earn It

The Night Shift Part 2

Only if You Want To (ft. Jisung)

Try Me

Wrestling with Desire

Paint Me Like One of Your Masterpieces

Confessions of a Fanboy

Distracted

Only if You Want To (ft. Minho)

Almost Yours

Storm Watch

Pretty Boy Problems

TBA

It’s a typical Friday evening when you drag him to an upscale designer boutique in a private shopping district. You’re draped in Daddy’s money, but eyeing something new, as per usual.

“Daddy,” you whine, dragging out the word like honey as you loop your arm through his. “Just one more. Pleeease?”

Chan doesn’t look up from his phone, barely sparing the Balenciaga bag dangling from your hand a second glance. He’s dressed in all black today, tailored button-up, slacks that hug his thighs too well, rings gleaming on his fingers. Casual, but dangerous. Like he owns the entire boutique... and you.

“You said that yesterday, sweetheart,” he murmurs, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. “And the day before. And the day before that.”

You pout dramatically, stepping into his space and pressing your glossy lips to the shell of his ear.

“But Daddy,” you breathe, “you love spoiling me.”

He quirks a brow. Calm, unreadable. The kind of stillness that makes your stomach flutter because it never means no. It means he’s calculating what kind of trouble he’s going to make you earn it with.

“I do,” he says, voice low. “But I also love when my baby knows how to behave.”

You scoff, straightening up and spinning the bag lazily on your finger. “So, I have to be good just to get what I want now?”

“Mmhm.”

“So boring,” you mutter under your breath, but loud enough for him to hear. You toss the bag onto the counter like it’s beneath you and strut across the boutique, hips swaying a little too much. You don’t miss the way Chan’s eyes follow you. Of course they do.

You pause by a display case of heels and let your voice go sugary sweet as the tall, handsome sales associate approaches.

“Could you grab these in a size seven for me?” you ask, flashing him a smile that’s just a little too flirty. “I’ve been dying to try them.”

You hear the sharp rustle of fabric as Chan shifts behind you. Good.

The sales guy doesn’t stand a chance, he nods and hurries to the back. You don’t even want the shoes. You just want Chan to stop pretending to be so unbothered.

He walks up behind you slowly, crowding your back with his warmth, his hand brushing over your lower back like a warning. His lips graze your ear.

“You having fun, baby?”

You tilt your head up, innocent eyes wide. “What do you mean?”

His voice dips into something darker, quieter.

“Flirting with some guy… after I paid for the necklace on your neck, the heels on your feet, and the panties I know you’re wearing underneath?”

You gulp. He smiles.

“You must want something else tonight. Cause you sure as hell aren’t getting that bag.”

Your pout deepens. “That’s not fair.”

His hand slides lower, resting just above your ass.

“No,” he says smoothly. “But you’ll say thank you when you’re dripping down my cock anyway.”

The second the boutique door closes behind you, you feel it, Chan’s silence. Not the relaxed kind. Not the kind where he's letting you get away with it.

This silence has weight.

Back home, you walk with him toward the private elevator, heels clicking on the marble, his hand no longer resting on your lower back like it usually does. He presses the call button without looking at you.

The doors glide open. You step in together. The second they close, it’s just you and him and increasing floors of quiet, slow-burning tension.

You lean against the mirrored wall with a huff, arms crossed under your chest, your reflection just bratty enough to be pretty. You know he’s mad. You also know he won’t stay mad. He never does. All you have to do is wait it out. Maybe pout a little.

“Really?” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

He doesn’t respond. Just adjusts his cuffs like he’s resetting his patience.

You roll your eyes and add, louder this time, “So you can drop a quarter million on my bracelet, but one little bag is too much?”

Still nothing.

“I was joking with that guy,” you push. “It’s not like I gave him my number.”

Slowly, finally, he turns his head. His expression is blank, but his eyes? Black ice.

“You think I give a fuck about your number?”

You swallow hard.

His voice drops lower. “You think I care about a stupid fucking bag?”

He steps forward. One slow, measured step.

“What I care about,” he murmurs, backing you into the elevator wall, “is how my baby acts when she’s already got everything she could ever need.”

Your heart kicks in your chest. His cologne clouds your thoughts. Your ass hits the mirrored panel and still, he keeps moving in, close enough to kiss, close enough to bite, but he doesn’t touch.

His mouth hovers beside your ear.

“Maybe I’ve spoiled you too much.”

You try to hold the attitude. Try to smirk.

“Maybe you have.”

He hums, amused. One hand lifts and pins to the wall beside your head, caging you in. You know this game. You know the way he holds back, watching you squirm.

“I don’t mind a brat, baby,” he says softly. “But I do mind when you act like someone else could ever take care of you like I do.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out. Your thighs are already pressing together. You hate how much you love this.

He doesn’t even look at your face, just watches the way your chest rises and falls, the way your knees start to lose their fight.

The elevator dings.

He leans in, lips brushing your cheek, and whispers:

“Inside. Now. Clothes off.”

Then he’s gone.

And you’re following, pulse racing, already aching with want.

The front door clicks shut behind you, but you don’t move. You stand there in the soft lighting of the entryway, clutching your little shopping bag like a lifeline, heart thudding in your throat.

Chan’s jacket is already off. He moves like a man with a purpose, rolling up his sleeves, setting his phone down on the marble island like he’s about to host a dinner party.

Except you’re the only thing on the menu.

“Strip,” he repeats, without looking at you.

You hesitate for just a second too long.

His gaze snaps to you. And it’s sharp.

Your fingers scramble for the zipper.

The dress slides off your shoulders like it was waiting to be peeled away. It pools at your feet, soft and expensive. You stand in black lace lingerie, all delicate straps and sheer panels he picked out weeks ago on a whim.

“You know why I buy you things like that?” he asks, slowly walking toward you.

You shake your head, mouth dry.

He stops in front of you. One hand lifts to trace the thin strap over your hip.

“Because I like watching you ruin them.”

Then he turns you around with a firm grip on your waist and bends you over the back of the leather couch.

Your breath stutters.

He takes his time. That’s the worst part. He doesn’t touch you right away, just steps behind you, watching the curve of your ass in the mirror across the room, letting the tension throb between your legs until you ache with it.

And then-

CRACK.

His palm lands hard on your ass.

You yelp.

“Count.”

You swallow hard, cheeks burning. “O-One.”

He groans low under his breath. “You sound so sweet when you’re sorry.”

Another slap, harder.

“Two- fuck-”

He soothes the sting with his palm, then rubs between your thighs.

“So wet already,” he murmurs. “All that attitude in the store, but you were soaking through your panties by the time we got to the elevator.”

You whimper. He pulls the lace to the side, just enough to run two fingers through your slick folds.

“And now?” he asks, voice thick. “Now you’re dripping.”

You bite your lip. “Please…”

“What was that?”

“Please, Daddy.”

He leans over your back, mouth right against your ear. “You don’t get to beg yet.”

One finger slides into you, slow and deep. You moan, gripping the edge of the couch as he adds a second, stretching you open while his other hand lands another sharp smack on your ass.

“You want to be a brat in public?” he breathes. “Then you’ll come my way. When I say. How I say.”

You’re squirming now, whining against the cushions, hips rolling back into his hand.

“Say you’re sorry,” he growls. “Say it or I stop.”

“I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry, Daddy, I’ll be good, I’ll be so good-”

He groans. “That’s more like it.”

He stands, undoes his belt in one smooth motion, and drags your panties down your thighs. You hear the sound of his zipper, the hiss of his breath as he fists himself.

And then, then, he’s inside.

You gasp, back arching as he pushes in deep, slow, owning every inch of you.

“Is this what you needed?” he grits out. “Needed me to fuck it out of you?”

You moan something incoherent. He just laughs, low and rough.

“You wanna act like a spoiled little brat? Then Daddy’ll ruin you just right.”

He fucks you until you’re crying his name, nails clawing the leather, his hands branding your hips as he pounds into you from behind.

Every slap of skin is punishment and reward all at once. Every thrust a reminder: he owns you. Not the bag. Not the shoes. Not the card. Him.

And when you come, clenching around him, sobbing, broken and obedient, he doesn’t stop until he’s filled you full and panting.

He pulls out with a groan, watching it drip from you, and presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“Now,” he murmurs, voice sweet again, “you wanna try asking for that bag one more time?”

You nod, trembling.

“Please, Daddy. Can we go back tomorrow?”

He smirks, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“We’ll go back,” he says. “And you’ll say thank you properly this time.”

You’re still catching your breath when he scoops you into his arms.

Not a word, not a grunt of effort, just a warm hum against your temple as he carries you through the penthouse like you’re weightless, like you didn’t just take every inch of him like a good girl after acting like a little demon all day.

He lays you on the bed with ridiculous gentleness, brushing your hair off your sweaty forehead.

“You okay, baby?” he murmurs, voice low and rough.

You nod, too blissed out to speak, lips parted and eyes heavy. Everything aches in the best way, your thighs, your hips, the tender sting on your ass. It makes you smile.

Chan kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then down your neck in a trail of soft apologies. His touch is a balm, warm and grounding.

“Atta girl,” he whispers. “Took me so well. Made Daddy so proud.”

He disappears for a moment, and you hear the bath running from the ensuite. When he returns, he’s got a warm towel and a glass of water, already kneeling beside the bed to clean you up.

You flinch at the first touch, too sensitive, but he hushes you gently, murmuring praise between strokes.

“Shh, I got you. Just breathe. Almost done.”

You sip your water while he wipes you down, then pulls the blanket up over your naked body and kisses your thigh like a reward.

“I was kinda awful today,” you whisper, voice hoarse.

He smiles, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“You were a brat,” he corrects, “but you were my brat. And I like when you give me a reason to remind you who spoils you.”

You pout. “You really weren’t gonna buy it for me?”

He gives you a look. The kind that says, Don’t insult me.

“I already had them hold it for you.”

Your mouth drops open.

“You what-”

He pulls his wallet from the dresser, flips it open, and slides his sleek black card across your chest.

“Tomorrow,” he says, leaning over you with a kiss, “you walk in and get the bag. You look that girl in the eye, and you say, ‘Put it on Daddy’s card.’”

You bite your lip. Your thighs squeeze together automatically. “That’s kinda hot.”

He chuckles. “I know.”

You roll onto your side, holding the card to your chest like a teddy bear.

“You’re gonna ruin me.”

He hums, sliding into bed beside you and pulling you against his chest.

The studio smells like instant ramen, coffee, and something vaguely sweet, probably Jisung’s fabric softener, judging by the hoodie he’s practically drowning in. You’re curled up on the ratty old couch he refuses to replace, laptop balanced on your thighs, typing with one hand while nursing the iced Americano he brought you twenty minutes ago. He didn’t ask if you wanted one. He never does. He just knows.

His latest track loops lazily through the speakers. It’s soft. Not sad, not happy, just warm. Cosy, even.

“You know you hum when you’re focused?” Jisung says suddenly, spinning halfway around in his chair, legs tucked up like a little goblin.

You blink up at him. “No, I don’t.”

He smirks. “Yes, you do. It’s this weird little off-key drone. Like you’re buffering.”

“I do not buffer.”

“You literally do. It’s like listening to a dial-up modem try to process emotions.”

You toss a balled-up napkin at his head. He lets it hit him square between the eyes, then fake gasps like you’ve mortally wounded him.

“You’re so mean to me,” he whines, dramatically slumping in his chair. “After I brought you coffee. After I slaved over this beautiful song and let you hear it first-”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, “here we go.”

“And all I get in return is violence.”

You roll your eyes and sip your drink. “You're so dramatic.”

“And you’re in denial about your weird humming quirk. It’s okay, though.” He grins again, this time softer. “It’s cute.”

You pause. Just for a second. Long enough to register the way his eyes linger. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, forgotten.

“You think everything I do is cute,” you say, hoping your voice doesn’t come out too quiet.

He shrugs, turning back toward his desk. “Maybe I do.”

You stare at the back of his head for a moment longer, heart ticking a little faster than before.

The song loops again, gentle and hazy, layered with humming synths and faint vocals he hasn’t finished recording. You close your laptop and lean forward slightly, listening.

“This one’s different,” you murmur. “It’s not like your usual stuff.”

Jisung glances at you over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It feels like… I dunno. Like falling asleep next to someone. It’s warm.”

He goes quiet, turning back toward the screen.

“That’s kind of what I was going for.”

You hesitate, then ask lightly, “Is it about someone?”

He shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “Not really. Just… someone I wish I had.”

You go still.

There’s a flicker of something in his voice you’ve never heard before. Not exactly sad, but… raw. Honest.

Your fingers curl around your coffee cup.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

Eventually, he clicks something and the loop resets again. You hear a few bars of vocals layered into the chorus.

It sounds like him. But also not. It sounds like love, the quiet kind.

You lie back on the couch again, heart thudding behind your ribs in that annoying, echoing way it does whenever he says something that almost sounds like more.

He turns his chair lazily again to look at you, expression unreadable.

“You’ll tell me if it sucks, right?”

“Of course.” You smile, just barely. “I’m your harshest critic.”

He raises a brow. “Nah. You’re my biggest fan. Admit it.”

You snort. “Don’t push it, Ji.”

But you’re still smiling, and so is he, that soft, slightly smug grin he gets when he knows he’s gotten under your skin just enough.

Neither of you say it, but it’s there.

Something is shifting.

It starts with takeout, like most nights do when you’re all too busy, or too lazy, to cook.

You’re at Chan’s place, half the boys scattered around the living room with food containers balanced on laps, drinks sweating onto the coffee table, and a movie playing half-audibly in the background. You’re wedged between Seungmin and Jisung on the couch, a fried dumpling in one hand, your socked foot lazily resting on Jisung’s thigh.

He doesn’t complain. He never does. In fact, his hand casually rests against your ankle like it belongs there.

“So,” Felix says, his mouth half-full of noodles, “when are you two finally gonna get together?”

Your dumpling freezes halfway to your mouth.

You glance over at him. “Excuse me?”

Felix grins like the chaos gremlin he is. “Come on. You and Ji. The lingering looks? The way you bicker like an old married couple? The leg touching?”

Seungmin snorts. “She’s practically sitting in his lap right now.”

You look down, okay, maybe your foot has migrated further than you realized. Jisung’s hand is definitely resting on your shin now, thumb idly brushing back and forth like a subconscious tick. You pull your leg away quickly, feeling the heat crawl up your neck.

Jisung just laughs it off, mouth quirking. “Relax, Lix. She’s not that desperate.”

You give him a look.

“I’m just saying.” He takes a swig of cola. “You can do better.”

There’s a flash of something behind his eyes when he says it, teasing, yeah, but sharp around the edges. Like he doesn’t mean the joke.

Your chest tightens.

Someone changes the topic. Minho says something snarky about the movie. The moment passes. But the tension? That stays.

The night winds down with too much food and too many bad puns. One by one, the others peel off to head home or crash in spare rooms. You linger by the door, hoodie zipped to your chin as you slip your shoes on.

“You want me to walk you?” Jisung asks from behind you, tugging on his own jacket.

You blink. “It’s, like, two blocks.”

He shrugs. “Still.”

You don’t argue.

Outside, it’s quiet, the kind of city quiet that still buzzes faintly with distant traffic and occasional laughter from passing strangers. The sky is dark and heavy with clouds, but no rain yet. You share an umbrella anyway, just in case.

It’s too small for two people. Your arms brush. Shoulders knock. You can feel the warmth of his body through both your jackets, and your fingers itch with the temptation to loop your arm through his. You don’t.

“Sorry about earlier,” he says finally, voice low. “Felix just likes running his mouth.”

You glance up at him. “It’s fine.”

“Still…” He exhales a quiet breath.

You don’t answer. You’re afraid to say the wrong thing. Afraid to say too much.

He stops walking when you reach your building. The streetlight buzzes overhead, casting soft shadows on his face. He looks at you, really looks at you, like he’s trying to make up his mind.

“Jisung,” you say, almost a whisper.

His gaze drops to your mouth. Stays there.

Your pulse stutters. The world shrinks to the space between you, the narrow gap that’s always been there but feels unbearable now.

Then, as quickly as it came, the moment fades.

He steps back half an inch. Clears his throat. Scratches the back of his neck.

“Get inside before it starts raining,” he mutters, voice thick.

You nod, your throat tight. “Night, Ji.”

“Night.”

You slip inside. Close the door. Lean against it with your heart pounding like a drum.

Outside, Jisung stands still for a long, long time, staring at the spot where you just were, umbrella forgotten in his hand.

You 💤 you make it home?

Quokka 🐿️ yeah just walked in

You 💤 ok good thanks for walking me even though it’s literally 2 blocks lol

Quokka 🐿️ i know just wanted to make sure you got home safe and idk didn’t feel like leaving yet

You 💤 yeah me neither

Quokka 🐿️ is it weird that i keep thinking about that moment at your door?

You 💤 no bc i keep thinking about it too

Quokka 🐿️ i almost kissed you

You 💤 i know

Quokka 🐿️ if i had would you have let me?

You 💤 yeah i would’ve

Quokka 🐿️ fuck

You 💤 yeah

Quokka 🐿️ i’ll see you tomorrow?

You 💤 of course goodnight, jisung

Quokka 🐿️ goodnight, pretty

You don’t mean to bring it up. It just… slips out.

You’re both back in his studio, a few nights after the almost-kiss, pretending like nothing happened, like you didn’t nearly melt into each other under the buzz of the streetlamp. Like you didn’t stay up replaying those texts until dawn.

Jisung's fiddling with a beat, half-listening as you scroll through your messages.

“You remember Tae?” you say casually. “From uni?”

Jisung hums. “Tall, pretty boy who wore too much cologne?”

“Yeah.” You snort. “He asked me out. Said we should ‘catch up properly sometime.’”

That gets his attention.

The mouse stops moving. His head turns just slightly, jaw ticking.

“And you said…?”

You shrug, trying to play it off. “I dunno. Maybe. He was nice.”

Jisung leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest, posture loose, but his eyes? Not so much.

“He ghosted you for six months after graduation.”

You raise a brow. “Okay, damn. You keeping receipts now?”

“I just think it’s interesting,” he says, voice light but tight. “How someone ignores you for half a year and suddenly wants to ‘catch up.’ Sounds like bullshit.”

You blink. “Why are you so pressed about it?”

“I’m not pressed,” he lies.

“Ji.”

He runs a hand through his hair, eyes flicking toward the wall like it might help him dodge this conversation.

“I just…” His voice drops. “I don’t want you wasting your time on someone who’s only interested when it’s convenient.”

Your stomach twists. “It’s not like I’m marrying him. It’s just a coffee.”

“Right,” he mutters. “Coffee. Sure.”

Something about his tone makes your chest ache.

You stare at him for a long beat. “Why do you even care?”

He looks at you then. And it’s not teasing, not soft, not even flirty. It’s raw. Tight. Frustrated.

“Because I don’t want to sit around and watch someone else figure out what they have when I already know what I’m losing.”

The silence is immediate. Deafening.

You blink. “What?”

He exhales, dragging a hand over his face like he can shove the words back in.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. “Forget it. That wasn’t- fuck, just forget I said anything.”

You cross the room before you can think better of it, stepping right into his space.

“No,” you say firmly. “Say it again.”

He looks up at you from the chair, eyes flashing with something helpless and a little scared.

“I don’t want you with someone else,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to keep pretending I’m not in love with you.”

Your heart lurches.

“Jisung…”

“I know this is messy. I know we’re friends, and I didn’t mean to make it weird, I just…” He exhales shakily. “You’re the first person I think about when something good happens. The only one I want to tell when I’m falling apart. And it’s been that way for a long time.”

Your throat tightens. You reach for him slowly, fingers brushing his.

He squeezes your hand, desperate, grounding, like he needs the contact to keep from unravelling.

“I’m not seeing Tae,” you say softly.

His eyes flick up. “You’re not?”

You shake your head. “I didn’t want to. Not really. I just… I wanted to see if it’d make you jealous.”

He lets out a half-laugh, half-sigh, dropping his head to rest against your stomach.

“You’re the worst,” he mumbles.

You smile, hand tangling in his hair. “You started it.”

It’s well past midnight, but neither of you is in a rush to leave.

After that confession, that raw, unexpected thing Jisung spilled like he couldn’t hold it in any longer, everything has gone quiet. Not awkward, not cold. Just… gentle. Settled.

You’re lying on the couch in his studio, legs tucked up, blanket pulled around your shoulders. Your head rests against the armrest; your eyes flutter closed every few minutes, the kind of tired that only comes when you feel safe.

Jisung sits on the floor beside you, back against the couch, laptop open but untouched. His hand rests on your ankle under the blanket, not moving, just there, like a tether. Like he needs to keep touching you to believe you’re still real.

The soft instrumental he’s been working on plays from the speakers. No vocals yet. Just airy synths, muted guitar, and a heartbeat-like kick drum looping beneath it all.

“Is this the same track?” you ask, voice half-asleep.

He hums in response. “Yeah. Made a few changes.”

“It’s warmer now,” you murmur.

He turns his head, looking up at you. “You think?”

You nod slowly. “Mm. It feels like a song you’d fall asleep to with someone’s head on your chest.”

He smiles. Not his usual cocky grin, this one’s quieter.

“Is that your way of asking to use me as a pillow?”

You snort softly, eyes still closed. “You wish.”

A pause. Then: “I kinda do.”

You blink your eyes open and look down at him. He’s watching you again, always watching. But not in a way that makes you nervous. It’s the kind of gaze that’s steady, soft around the edges. Familiar.

You reach for him without thinking, threading your fingers through his hair. His eyes flutter shut at the contact, and he leans into your hand like it’s instinct. You feel the tension in his shoulders slowly start to fade.

“Ji,” you whisper.

He hums.

“Do you really mean it?” You bite your lip. “What you said earlier?”

He doesn’t open his eyes. Just nods against your touch. “Every word.”

Your fingers move gently through his hair, slow and careful, and when he sighs, like he’s been holding his breath for weeks, it makes your chest ache.

He shifts then, turning slightly to lean fully back against the couch, head resting just under your ribs. Your hand slips down to his shoulder, your palm spreading across the curve of it.

“I don’t think I know how to be without you anymore,” he murmurs, eyes still closed.

The words settle deep. No theatrics, no punchlines. Just truth.

You don’t say anything for a while. You just lie there together, wrapped in music and silence and the weight of what’s finally been said.

And for the first time in a long time, nothing feels confusing.

It just feels right.

The boys booked a cabin for the weekend, just a little getaway outside the city. Nothing fancy. A break from work. Nature, bonfires, board games. Too many snacks. Laughter echoing off the walls.

But of course, someone (Chan) miscounted the beds.

“Looks like you and Ji are sharing,” Felix says with a wink, tossing you a pillow.

You’re too tired to protest. The room is small, and the bed is even smaller, barely a double. Jisung’s already sitting on the edge, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, looking up at you like he’s waiting for permission to breathe.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

The lights are off now.

The bed is too small.

That’s the first thing you think when Jisung’s arm slips around your waist. The second thing is: finally.

He pulls you close, one arm banded around your middle, his chest pressed to your back, breath warm against your neck.

You’re so aware of him, every inch. His hand resting just under your ribs. The subtle twitch of his fingers against your skin. The way his hips shift like he’s trying not to get too close, like he's fighting it.

“Ji?” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

“Can I turn around?”

His breath catches. “Yeah.”

You roll slowly to face him, and your noses almost bump. His eyes are wide and soft in the dark, flicking to your lips, your cheek, then back again.

You swallow. “Are you nervous?”

He nods. “Terrified.”

You smile, sliding your hand up his chest. “Why?”

“Because I want this to be good for you,” he whispers. “I want you to feel everything I’ve been trying not to say.”

You lean in, brushing your lips over his. “Then stop trying.”

The kiss is slow, deliberate, not a crash but a melt. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin as your mouths move together, soft and searching. He kisses like he’s learning you. Like he’s been waiting to.

You gasp when his hand dips beneath the hem of your shirt, palm flat against your waist. He breaks the kiss, forehead resting to yours.

“Okay?”

You nod. “Touch me.”

He helps you out of your shirt first, sitting up slightly so he can drag it over your head. His fingers skim reverently over your bare skin, eyes dark and full of awe.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, almost like it hurts to say it out loud.

You tug his hoodie off, then his shirt, and your hands explore his chest, his stomach, the dip of his waist, all lean muscle and warmth and softness you never thought you’d be allowed to touch like this.

When his mouth finds your neck, your breath stutters. He licks and kisses his way down slowly like he’s worshiping you. His hand cups your breast gently, thumb brushing over your nipple until it peaks, and then he leans down and takes it into his mouth.

“Ji-” you gasp, your hand flying to his hair.

He groans against your skin, sucking softly before moving to the other side. “You make the prettiest sounds,” he murmurs. “You always do.”

He moves lower, kissing down your stomach, tugging your shorts off with shaking hands. You lift your hips for him, thighs spreading slowly. He kisses your inner thigh first, just above your knee, then higher, and higher, until he’s eye-level with where you need him most.

“Can I?” he asks, breathless, looking up at you like he’s begging.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

His tongue slides through your folds slowly, reverently. He groans the second he tastes you, hands gripping your thighs like he never wants to let go.

He eats you out like it’s his favourite thing he’s ever done. Slow licks, gentle suckling over your clit, moaning against you when you squirm and whimper his name. He doesn’t stop until your thighs are trembling and your hand is tugging at his hair.

“Want you inside me,” you breathe, pulling him back up.

His eyes are blown wide, lips shiny. “You sure?”

You wrap your legs around his waist. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He reaches down between you, lining himself up, but he doesn’t rush. He kisses you as he pushes in, slow, inch by inch, until he’s buried fully inside and your arms are wrapped around him like you’ll never let go.

“Fuck-” he gasps. “You feel like heaven.”

Your breath catches at the stretch, the closeness, the intimacy of it all. You tilt your hips, meeting his rhythm, and he moans into your neck, fucking you with long, deep strokes that make your whole body tremble.

His forehead rests against yours. “I love you,” he whispers. “I’ve loved you for so long, I didn’t know how to stop.”

Your heart breaks open.

“I love you too,” you breathe, arching up into him. “I’m yours.”

That undoes him. He speeds up slightly, not rough, but needy, hips stuttering, teeth grazing your jaw, hands tightening on your waist like he’s trying to memorize your shape.

Your orgasm builds slow and deep, curling through your belly until you’re gasping and crying out his name, shaking in his arms.

He follows with a broken moan, holding you tight as he spills inside you, forehead pressed to yours, whispering your name like a prayer.

Sunlight spills gently through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the tangled sheets and two bodies still intertwined.

Jisung is the first to stir, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back as you lay curled against him, his chest rising and falling with every slow breath.

You blink awake to the soft warmth of him pressed close, his hair tousled, his eyes heavy but shining when they meet yours.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough but tender.

You smile, reaching up to brush your fingers over his cheek. “Morning, Ji.”

He laughs quietly, the sound low and happy. “I can’t believe I finally got to do that.”

“Do what?” you tease, stretching against him.

“Tell you how I feel. Hold you like this. Wake up next to you.”

You press a gentle kiss to his temple. “Me neither.”

He shifts to cradle your face, thumb brushing over your lips. “I want this to be more than just nights and stolen moments.”

You nod, heart pounding. “Me too.”

He takes a deep breath, like he’s steadying himself. “I want to be with you. Not just as friends, not just when it’s easy, but everything. All the time.”

Tears prick your eyes, but you laugh softly. “That sounds perfect.”

He leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips. “You’re my home, you know that?”

“I’m yours,” you whisper back.

The day is just beginning, but somehow, everything feels complete.

The whole crew’s at the park, sprawled on picnic blankets under the afternoon sun. There’s laughter and the faint hum of music from someone’s phone. Food’s scattered around, chips, fruit, takeout boxes, and Jisung’s animatedly telling a story, hands flying, his smile impossibly bright.

You’re sitting close beside him, your leg brushing his, fingers casually intertwined. No big announcements, no dramatic declarations. Just the kind of easy connection that makes your chest warm.

Chan nudges you with a grin. “You two look different. Happier.”

Felix winks. “Finally giving Jisung a break from being a meme, huh?”

You laugh, squeezing Jisung’s hand. “Something like that.”

Jisung leans over, lips brushing your ear. “Told you, no more hiding.”

You rest your head on his shoulder, sighing contentedly. “I like it. Us, out in the open.”

His arm wraps around you, pulling you close. “Me too.”

The sun dips lower, casting a golden light over the group, and you know this is only the beginning.

Your family has always loved Chan.

They loved him when he was the sweet neighbourhood boy who rode his bike to your porch with juice boxes and trading cards.

They loved him when you two grew into awkward teenagers who suddenly had too many inside jokes and not enough personal space.

And now they love him as your "boyfriend."

You let them believe it. It started as a joke. Then a cover. Then it became something comfortable, routine.

It works. You don’t get interrogated about your love life at every dinner. Your parents stop trying to set you up with sons of co-workers. And Chan? He gets homemade meals, free vacation stays, and your dad calling him “son.”

It’s always been easy. But this summer, something’s different.

He’s different.

You notice it in the small things, his hand resting longer on the small of your back. The way his eyes linger when you're wearing his oversized t-shirt to bed. The heat in his gaze when you come out of the bathroom in a bikini, towel tucked around your waist, hair dripping onto your collarbones.

He’s looking at you like he’s not acting anymore.

And maybe the scariest part is… you don’t hate it.

You’re both sharing a room at the beach house this year. The family doesn’t question it. Why would they? You’ve been “dating” for nearly two years now.

The first night, when you walked in and saw just one bed, you made a joke.

“Guess we’ll have to snuggle, huh?”

Chan didn’t laugh. He just arched a brow and said, “You say that like it’s a threat.”

Now it’s three days in. And there’s no pretending you’re still joking.

Not when you wake up with his arm draped over your waist, breath warm against the back of your neck.

Not when you catch him watching you laugh with your cousins like he’s seeing you for the first time.

Not when he towel-dries your hair with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

You keep telling yourself it’s for the bit. He’s just good at selling it. He always has been.

But today, lying beside him on the sand as the sun burns golden into the horizon, his fingers brush against yours, and they stay there.

You glance at him, but he’s not looking at you. He’s gazing at the water like nothing’s changed. Like your hands haven’t just laced together for the first time in your entire friendship, and you’re not holding your breath because of it.

“Your mom thinks we’re getting engaged soon,” you say, half-laughing, half-drowning.

Chan hums. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea you’ve had.”

You turn your head. “Excuse me?”

He smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “We’d have killer photos. Your family already loves me. And I look great in suits.”

You nudge his foot with yours. “You’re ridiculous.”

But your hand is still in his.

And neither of you lets go.

The thing about sharing a bed with your best friend is that it’s not supposed to feel like this.

You’ve done sleepovers a thousand times. Movie nights that bled into early mornings. Hotel rooms with double beds, or sometimes one. Piling into each other’s personal space used to mean nothing.

But lately, it means everything.

Tonight, you’re both lying on top of the covers, still in your swimsuits from earlier. Skin salty, legs tangled. You’d both fallen asleep after dinner, then woke up too drowsy to care. The room is warm. Too warm.

Chan shifts beside you, and his knee brushes between your thighs, innocent and unintentional.

Your breath catches anyway.

You pretend to be focused on your phone, scrolling aimlessly, but you haven’t registered a single post. Not when you can feel the heat radiating off his bare chest. Not when the scent of his sunscreen and sweat is thick in the space between you.

“You tired?” he asks softly, voice raspy with sleep.

You shrug. “Kind of. Not really.”

“Want me to braid your hair again?”

The question punches the air out of your lungs.

He’s been doing that lately. Quiet little acts of care that hit too close to the bone, braiding your hair while you sit between his legs on the deck, rubbing lotion onto your shoulders without flinching, cupping your face gently when your nose got too much sun.

You glance at him. He’s already watching you.

“Nah,” you whisper, throat dry. “I’m okay.”

Chan doesn’t push. He just nods. But his hand stays on the bed, just an inch from yours. Close enough to feel. Close enough to notice.

There’s a long stretch of silence, and then…

“I keep thinking about what your cousin said earlier,” he murmurs.

You frown. “Which one?”

“The one who said we should get started on kids already.” His tone is light, teasing. But his eyes don’t waver from yours. “She said we’d have ‘beautiful babies.’”

You laugh, mostly to deflect. “She’s always like that.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Still got me thinking.”

Your stomach flips. “About what?”

Chan leans in just slightly, eyes flicking to your lips before returning to your gaze.

“About how good you’d look carrying my baby.”

The words land like a thunderclap, silent, but deafening. You freeze. Your heart trips over itself, then slams back into rhythm hard enough to make your ears ring.

He’s still watching you. Waiting.

“Chan…” you start.

But you don’t finish.

Because part of you wants to ask him to repeat it.

Wants to hear it again. Slower. Dirtier.

You clear your throat. “You’re getting too good at acting.”

Something in his expression darkens.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Maybe I should stop pretending.”

And then he turns onto his back, arm behind his head like nothing happened.

But you lie there, wide awake, feeling his words echo through your entire body like a promise.

The sun presses warm on your shoulders, the salty breeze teasing your hair as you lounge on the sand. The laughter of your cousins and the distant splash of waves form a comforting soundtrack but somehow, you feel a little alone.

Chan had slipped away moments ago to get drinks and snacks for everyone. You figured you’d soak up some sun before he came back.

That’s when he shows up.

“Hey there,” a voice says, smooth and casual.

You glance to your side. A guy, tall, sun-kissed skin, wearing a confident smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You here alone?” he asks, voice low, testing.

You blink, caught off guard. “No, my boyfriend just went to get snacks.”

The guy raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Boyfriend, huh? Didn’t see anyone with you.”

You fumble for a reply, cheeks warming. “He’s around. I promise.”

He edges closer, gaze flicking over you like he’s making a mental checklist. “Lucky guy.”

You force a smile, but your heart’s pounding, not just because of him, but because you know Chan wouldn’t like this.

And just like that, Chan appears.

His steps are quiet but purposeful as he slides next to you, arm immediately wrapping around your waist.

Without breaking eye contact with the stranger, Chan leans in, his voice low and sharp, “She’s not single.”

The guy raises his hands in mock surrender and backs off.

Chan’s fingers tighten on your side as he presses a soft kiss just beneath your ear, breath warm and intoxicating.

“Mine,” he whispers.

You freeze, the word sinking deeper than you expected.

Your cheeks are aflame, but your heart is racing with something else entirely.

Because for the first time, you realize this isn’t pretend anymore.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed when Chan finally steps inside, the door clicking softly behind him.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak.

The silence stretches until it presses against your skin like heat.

You can’t hold it back any longer.

“What was that today?” you ask, voice trembling.

Chan exhales sharply, then finally turns, eyes dark and raw.

“I’m tired,” he says, voice low, “tired of pretending I don’t want you.”

Your heart beats so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

He steps closer, and suddenly the space between you disappears.

His hand cups your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“I’ve loved you for years,” he whispers, voice cracking with desperate honesty. “And I want everyone to know you’re mine.”

Your breath hitches when his lips brush against your neck, soft at first, then growing more demanding.

He presses kisses down your collarbone, leaving a trail of fire.

Then his mouth finds your skin, marking you with bruises in all the places everyone will see.

“Say it,” he murmurs against your pulse. “Say you’re mine.”

You swallow, heart pounding, then whisper back, “I’m yours.”

He grins, dark and wild.

“No more pretending.”

And then his hands are everywhere.

Chan’s lips trail fire down your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls your sundress up and over your head with no grace, just hunger. Your bare skin tingles where his hands skim, like every touch sets your nerves alight.

You arch instinctively when his hands slide beneath your bikini bottoms, thumb brushing over the slick heat that’s been building all day. His eyes darken, heavy with possession and desire.

“Mine,” he growls low in your ear, voice thick with need.

His mouth claims your collarbone next, teeth grazing as he presses marks into your skin, hickeys blooming like bruises in places no one but him will see. His hands roam your curves, memorizing every inch as if he’s afraid you might vanish.

You feel his breath hitch when you finally meet his gaze, lips swollen and eyes shimmering with want.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your bottom lip before he leans in, mouth hot and demanding.

The moment your lips meet, his hands travel down to your hips, gripping firmly as he pushes you back onto the soft bedspread. The air feels electric, thick with need.

Chan’s fingers trace slow, teasing circles over your bare skin, slipping back beneath the fabric that barely contains your heat.

When his fingers find you, slick and ready, you gasp and part for him, wanting everything he has to give.

He moves with slow, deliberate precision, fingers curling inside you, coaxing moans from your throat.

“Say it,” he commands between deep kisses along your jaw, voice rough and possessive. “Say you’re mine.”

Your voice trembles as you whisper, “I’m yours.”

No hesitation, no doubt.

He grins darkly.

His hands leave your hips to slide your bikini bottoms aside as his mouth trails lower, kissing and biting his way down your body until he’s pressing between your thighs, tongue swirling and teasing.

Your fingers curl into his hair, needy and desperate.

When he finally pushes inside you, bare and full, your breath catches, raw and deep and entirely his.

His hips move slowly at first, each thrust deliberate, claiming you with a fierce intensity that takes your breath away.

“Want you full of me,” he pants, voice low and rough, grinding his hips into yours. “Want everyone to know you’re mine.”

You tremble beneath him, heart racing, the rawness of him stretching you open in the most delicious way.

His hands clutch your hips, steadying as he picks up the pace, harder, deeper, marking you with every powerful thrust.

His voice drops to a growl: “Say it. Say you’ll let me give you a baby. That you’ll let me fill you up.”

Your world narrows to him, to the heat and the wetness and the desperate need swirling between you.

“Yes,” you moan, voice thick and broken. “I’m yours. Please.”

He groans, hips slamming into yours with renewed urgency as his fingers dig into your skin.

You both ride the wave, fast, messy, breathless.

When he finally spills inside you, it’s slow and heavy, a promise sealed beneath the summer moonlight.

Chan collapses beside you, lips pressing fiercely to yours as your fingers weave through his hair.

“Mine,” he whispers once more, voice soft and claiming.

You smile against his mouth, knowing you’ll never go back to pretending.

The morning light filters through the curtains, warm and golden as you stumble into the kitchen with a noticeable limp. Your neck and collarbone sting deliciously beneath your sundress, hickeys proudly on display.

Your family’s eyes zero in immediately.

“Well, well, looks like someone had a fun night,” your cousin teases, a sly grin spreading across her face.

You flush, trying to hide the marks, but Chan’s beside you, his hand sliding easily into yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles like a silent promise.

Chan leans in close, voice low but loud enough for everyone to hear. “She’s mine. All mine.”

Your family exchanges amused glances.

You glance at Chan, heart full and eyes shining.

He grins back, that same playful sparkle that made you fall for him in the first place.

You press a quick kiss to his cheek, loud enough for everyone to see.

Felix wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, honestly. He just happened to walk in while you were mid-laugh, brushing something from Hyunjin’s cheek with a flick of your finger.

You were glowing, easy, playful. The kind of energy that made people lean in.

Except when it came to him.

“Hyunjin, you always crease here,” you murmured, thumb gently pressing at the corner of his eye. “I swear, you make my job harder on purpose.”

Hyunjin only grinned in that smug older-brother way and wiggled his brows. “Maybe I like being manhandled by you.”

You snorted, swatted his shoulder, and moved on. No flustered reaction, no awkwardness. Just relaxed banter.

And when your gaze finally slid to Felix, everything changed.

The smile dimmed. Your voice levelled out. That warmth in your eyes shuttered like you’d pulled down a screen.

“Felix, you’re next.”

Same words you said to everyone else. But with him, they always felt like a formality. Like a closed door.

He sat down in the makeup chair, posture too straight, fingers clenched in his lap. You stood in front of him, your expression perfectly composed. Professional. Detached.

Too detached.

He watched your hands, the way you held the sponge, the soft press to his skin, the light brush of powder. You never lingered, never touched him longer than necessary.

It drove him insane.

He tried to crack the shell. “You know,” he said lightly, “if you don’t stop being so gentle with me, I might start thinking you’re scared of me.”

Your hand paused for half a second. Just half.

Then you continued like nothing had happened. “Wouldn’t want to mess up your skin. Stay still.”

He bit his tongue.

The others got teased. Shoulder squeezes. Playful smirks. You ruffled Seungmin’s hair once and made a joke about his baby face. You complimented Chan’s cologne and winked.

But with him? Always business.

Was it the way he looked? Was he just too much? Or not enough?

You stepped back, looked at his face critically, and nodded. “All done. You’re good to go.”

He stood slowly, brushing off invisible lint. “Thanks.”

You’d already turned away, cleaning off your palette. Like you couldn’t wait to be done with him.

He left the room with a tight jaw and a sour twist in his stomach.

He didn’t know what he’d done wrong, but whatever it was, it was driving him crazy.

You were alone now, finally. The rush was over. Brushes cleaned, palettes closed, your little station nearly spotless again. Just the low thump of bass leaking through the walls and the buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.

The door creaked open behind you.

You didn’t even turn. “Did one of you forget something again?”

“No,” came Felix’s voice. “Well. Yeah. Kinda.”

You glanced over your shoulder.

He was leaning against the doorframe. There was a faint smudge of foundation near his temple, barely visible, honestly, but it was there. A little streak from where someone must’ve bumped into him backstage.

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He shrugged. “Hyunjin said it looked bad. Said I should come back and let you fix it.”

You rolled your eyes, already reaching for a clean sponge. “He’s got a worse eye for makeup than he does for fashion.”

But as he stepped back into the room, there was something different in the air, tense, electric. He didn’t joke. Didn’t fidget. Just moved toward your chair and sank into it slowly, like he was settling in for something heavy.

You kept your movements precise. Quiet.

Until you felt it, his eyes on you. Not just looking. Watching.

You looked up, sponge paused near his cheek. “What?”

Felix’s brows furrowed just slightly. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

The words hit you like cold water.

You blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re different with me.” His voice was soft, but there was something simmering underneath it. “You act like I’ve got a fucking disease or something. Like you don’t wanna touch me unless you absolutely have to.”

Your hand lowered, slowly. “Felix-”

“I watch you,” he cut in. “With the others. You joke. You laugh. You don’t flinch when they get close. But with me?” His jaw clenched. “You barely look at me. You treat me like I’m just… a pretty face you can’t wait to finish painting and get rid of.”

The venue was quiet now. The kind of quiet that only settles in after chaos, backstage doors half-closed, stray cords coiled in corners, makeup lights dimmed to a low hum.

You were alone again, packing up brushes one by one. Moving slowly. Methodically. Like if you stayed busy enough, you wouldn’t think about how Felix had looked at you earlier.

That line still echoed in your head:

“I watch you. With the others.”

You hadn’t replied. Couldn’t. He was gone before you found the words.

The door clicked open behind you.

You stiffened, heartbeat thudding. Then, “Forgot my phone.”

You turned.

Felix stood there, hair still damp from sweat, hoodie hanging loose off one shoulder. His voice was low, unreadable, like he didn’t even believe the excuse himself.

You nodded toward the counter. “It’s there.”

He stepped forward, picked it up, but didn’t leave.

Didn’t move at all, actually.

Just held the phone loosely in his hand, then looked up at you like he was deciding something. Like maybe he’d finally stopped holding back.

“You like me.”

The words landed sharp. No hesitation. No question.

Your throat tightened. “Felix-”

“Don’t lie.” His voice dropped lower. “I make you nervous. You can’t even touch me the way you touch them.”

You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the makeup table. “That doesn’t mean I’m allowed to act on it.”

“So you do want to.”

You froze.

His gaze raked over you, soft, slow, filled with so much heat you swore your skin lit up in its path. “You think I haven’t noticed? The way your hands shake sometimes? How you look at my mouth and then look away like you’ve done something wrong?”

You opened your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to deny it, but the look on his face made your breath catch.

He took a step closer.

“I wanted it to be your hands, you know,” he said, voice rough. “Every time one of the other staff touched me, I wished it was you instead.”

Another step. Close enough that you could smell the lingering cologne on his hoodie, warm and woody and him.

“I thought you didn’t like me,” he whispered. “But now I get it.”

You barely had time to inhale before his hand came up, brushing your jaw. Gentle. Careful.

“You like me too much.”

His fingers traced your jaw slowly, each delicate stroke sending sparks rippling through your nerves. Your breath hitched, eyes locking on his, dark, intense, burning with a hunger you couldn’t ignore.

Then, without warning, he closed the small gap between you, claiming your mouth with a kiss that was fierce and demanding, yet tinged with a desperate tenderness. His lips moved against yours like he was trying to memorize every curve, every sigh, every soft gasp.

Your hands tangled into the hem of his hoodie, clutching fabric as if to anchor yourself. His tongue teased yours open, and the kiss deepened, growing hotter, rougher, his need evident in the slight tremble of his hands as they slid from your jaw to your shoulders, pulling you flush against him.

You stumbled back, bumping against the cold edge of the makeup counter. The smooth, polished surface pressed against your spine, grounding you even as your pulse soared. Felix’s hands roamed down your sides, tracing the delicate line beneath your shirt, fingertips feather-light but purposeful.

His mouth left yours for a moment, trailing hot, urgent kisses down your neck, teeth grazing softly along the sensitive skin there, marking you with invisible promises. You shivered, arching your neck, giving him better access, your fingers threading through his damp curls.

“Been wanting this for so long,” he murmured, his voice rough and low, thick with emotion. “Wanting you.”

Your lips parted, breath catching in your throat as his hands moved expertly to pull your shirt over your head. The cool air of the room kissed your bare skin, making you acutely aware of every nerve ending. Felix’s eyes roamed you hungrily, taking in the curve of your collarbone, the swell of your breasts.

Your own hands slid beneath his hoodie, feeling the heat radiating from his skin, the hard planes of his chest beneath the soft fabric. You traced slow circles over his ribs, memorizing the texture of him as his lips returned to yours with renewed hunger.

The dance between your mouths grew more urgent, tongues slipping and tangling, hands exploring without hesitation. Felix’s fingers slipped beneath your skirt, sending an electric thrill straight to your core. He was warm and steady, gentle and commanding all at once.

Your breath hitched as his fingers found their way beneath your underwear, teasing your most sensitive spot with slow, deliberate strokes. The slick heat pooling between your legs was immediate and intense.

He pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips, “You’re so beautiful.”

Your hands clenched at the edge of the counter as he slid you back until your knees hit the edge, giving him full access. Felix’s mouth left your lips to travel lower, kissing the hollow of your throat before dipping to brush over your exposed skin beneath your skirt.

Every touch was a spark, every kiss a wildfire racing through your veins. His breath was warm and ragged, and when his tongue flicked against your sensitive skin, a soft moan escaped your lips.

“You feel so perfect,” he whispered, lifting your hips slightly to get better leverage. “Want to taste you.”

You shivered, nodding, gripping his hair as he lowered his mouth to the most sensitive part of you. His tongue was soft and skilled, circling, flicking, and pressing in just the right way that your whole body tensed in exquisite pleasure.

Your hips moved involuntarily, chasing the delicious sensation as waves of heat rolled through you.

When he finally kissed back up your body, you were trembling, your breath ragged.

Felix caught you by the waist, lifting you gently off the counter. His hands slid under your thighs as he steadied you against his chest. His lips met yours in a fierce, hungry kiss that stole your breath.

He pulled away just long enough to strip off his shirt, revealing toned skin slick with sweat, muscles taut and alive.

Your hands ran down his chest, memorizing the hardness beneath your touch.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he aligned himself with you. The first touch was feather-light, almost teasing, before he pressed in fully, slow and deep, filling every inch with a delicious fullness.

You gasped, nails digging into his back as he began to move.

His rhythm was steady and sure, hands holding you tight, his breath hot against your ear.

Each thrust sent waves of pleasure crashing through you, your bodies moving together in perfect, fiery sync.

Your moans echoed softly around the empty room, mingling with the low thrum of music still playing somewhere nearby.

Felix’s lips found your neck again, biting gently, marking you as his own.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say you want me.”

Your voice came out trembling but fierce. “I want you. All of you.”

He smiled against your skin before picking up the pace, hands gripping your hips as he lost himself in the moment.

When you finally reached the edge together, it was explosive, a shattering rush of heat and release that left you both gasping, trembling.

Felix lowered you carefully back onto the counter, his forehead resting against yours.

The room felt still now, the echoes of your racing hearts slowly settling into a calm rhythm. Felix shifted beside you on the counter, careful not to jostle the soreness blooming between your legs.

He brushed a damp curl from your forehead, his fingers gentle, as if afraid you might shatter.

You leaned into his touch, letting out a shaky breath.

His thumb traced lazy circles over your bare shoulder, eyes soft and a little shy.

“Sorry if I was… intense,” he murmured, voice low.

You smiled, fingers curling over his wrist. “Don’t apologize. I’ve wanted this just as much.”

He chuckled quietly, warmth flooding his gaze. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

You snuggled closer, the cool surface beneath you contrasting with the heat pooling inside your chest.

Felix’s hand slid under your hair, fingers threading through the strands with effortless ease.

For the first time, the distance between you felt gone, replaced by something solid, something real.

You sighed happily, resting your head against his shoulder.

“Pretty boy problems,” you whispered with a grin.

He kissed the top of your head, laughter soft and full of promise.

It started so innocently.

Chan had only gotten up for some water. It was late, pushing 2AM, and the house was silent. He knew this place like the back of his hand by now, crashing here more weekends than not. Your brother, his best friend, was passed out upstairs after a long day of gaming and weed, probably snoring into a pillow.

And Chan? He was just wandering the hallway half-asleep, shirtless and barefoot, blinking blearily.

Then he passed your door.

Slightly cracked open.

And there it was.

A sound so soft he almost missed it. A faint breath, half gasp, half moan.

He froze. Brow furrowing. He leaned just a little closer, tilting his head toward the crack in the door.

Then he heard it again.

Whimper. Wet.

His breath caught. His body stiffened, heart suddenly pounding in his chest like a war drum.

No way.

You couldn’t be. Not you.

You were his best friend’s little sister. You barely even looked at him half the time. Always teasing, rolling your eyes when the guys were loud. Always in your own world.

But now…

Now you were behind that door, moaning quietly into the dark. And if he really focused, if he let himself listen, he could just barely make out the slick, obscene sound of your fingers moving between your thighs.

He should’ve walked away.

Should’ve kept moving, grabbed his water, gone back to the guest room like nothing happened.

But instead?

Chan stayed. Back pressed to the wall. Eyes closed. Breathing hard.

You gasped again, just a whisper of breath, and he swore he felt it in his dick.

He could picture you so clearly. Legs spread wide. One hand between your thighs, the other clutching your pillow. Biting your lip. Eyes half-lidded. Head thrown back.

He could picture it way too easily. And that was the first sign of a problem.

Then you said it.

“Fuuuck… feels so good…”

Soft. Sweet. A little desperate.

And that broke him.

Chan’s cock throbbed under his boxers so hard he almost reached down right there in the hallway like a fucking creep. But he couldn’t stop imagining it, couldn’t stop hearing that breathy little moan over and over in his head.

You didn’t know he was there.

Didn’t know he heard.

His hand was already down his pants by the time he shut the door to the guest room behind him.

He barely even made it to the bed. Just dropped onto the mattress like something possessed, back pressed to the headboard, legs splayed out beneath him, dick straining hard against the thin cotton of his boxers.

Chan hissed through clenched teeth, barely keeping quiet as he pushed the fabric down, his cock finally springing free, aching and already leaking at the tip. The rush of guilt didn’t even register. Not with his head full of you.

“Fuck…” he muttered, wrapping a shaky hand around himself. “Fuck, fuck, fuck-”

He started slow at first. Stroking the way he always did, tight grip, rough, fast, but it wasn’t enough. Not with your voice still ringing in his ears. That soft gasp. The sound of your slick fingers moving faster. That tiny, breathy moan like it was meant to be secret.

And then there was that word you whispered, just once, just barely…

“Please…”

Chan groaned. Head thudding back against the wall. His hips snapped upward, chasing friction like he needed it to live.

He imagined your thighs spread open, knees drawn up, fingers circling your clit just the way he imagined you liked. He imagined slipping into your room, watching from the shadows as you got yourself off. Maybe you’d pause when you noticed him. Maybe your fingers would stop moving. But maybe, fuck, maybe, you’d let him help.

He pumped his cock harder, breath ragged now.

“Bet you’re so fucking wet for it,” he whispered to no one. “Fucking dripping, aren’t you? All for yourself… fuck, for me.”

His strokes turned desperate. Sloppy. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, and he didn’t even try to hold it back. He pictured you sliding two fingers in, working your clit with the other hand, breath catching as you got close. That same whimper. That perfect, sweet little gasp.

He was already so fucking close it hurt.

“Let me taste it,” he growled under his breath. “Bet you’d fucking melt on my tongue. Ride my face like a needy little- shit”

He came hard. Guttural. Spine arching, teeth bared, hips twitching as thick ropes spilled across his hand and stomach. He jerked through the aftershocks, eyes fluttering shut, his whole body trembling as he rode the wave out in silence.

Then came the crash.

His chest heaved. His hand stilled. The silence crept in like guilt. Heavy. Unavoidable.

He looked down at the mess he made of himself, panting, skin flushed, cock still twitching, and all he could think was: What the fuck is wrong with me?

But even as he wiped himself off with the first shirt he could reach, even as he buried his face in the pillow and begged for sleep to shut it all off, he already knew he’d do it again.

It’d been months since he heard you that night.

He told himself it was just a one-time thing. That he’d get over it. That you were just a passing fantasy born out of a dry spell and poor impulse control.

But he had already begun seeing you in a different light.

And now? Now he noticed.

Noticed that you walked around the house in tiny little shorts, tank tops without a bra, licking popsicles on the couch like it wasn’t the most torturous thing he’d ever seen in his life.

You weren’t even trying and that was the worst part.

“Hey, Chan,” you called out lazily from the kitchen, bare legs on full display as you leaned over the counter. “Do you know if we have any more of that chocolate almond milk? I swear someone drank it all.”

He blinked up at you from the couch, eyes zeroing in on the way your ass stuck out while you rummaged through the fridge.

Fuck.

His mouth went dry. He looked away before he got caught staring. Again.

“Uh… nah, think your brother finished it,” he mumbled, praying the growing bulge in his sweatpants wasn’t too obvious. “He chugged like half the carton last night.”

“Figures,” you muttered, shutting the fridge with a sigh. You turned, popped the cap off a water bottle with your teeth, and tilted your head back to take a long sip. Drops of cold water slid down your throat, catching in the dip between your collarbones.

Chan bit his cheek so hard it hurt.

This was getting out of hand.

Every time you brushed past him in the hallway, every time your thigh touched his on the couch, every fucking time you tied your hair up in that messy little ponytail, he swore he was seconds away from doing something unforgivable.

You had no idea what you did to him. Or maybe you did. Maybe you knew.

Because last night, when your brother passed out early and the two of you ended up alone in the living room watching some random horror movie, your bare thigh had rested against his the whole time. He hadn’t moved. Couldn’t. Too scared you'd notice the hard-on he was hiding under the throw blanket.

Then you turned to him, eyes wide from a jump scare, and whispered:

“You’re warm.”

And laid your head on his shoulder.

He hadn’t slept all night.

His cock had throbbed against his own stomach for hours, just thinking about your skin on his. Your cheek resting against him, your breath warm through his shirt. If you’d shifted even an inch closer, he might’ve come in his fucking pants like a teenager.

Now, here you were again, leaning over the kitchen sink to rinse a cup out, shirt riding up just enough to show the curve of your lower back.

Chan’s jaw clenched.

He had to get out of here.

“Gonna… gonna take a shower,” he blurted, standing too fast. “Feel gross.”

“Okay,” you said with a little smirk, sipping your water. “Don’t take too long. We’re doing movie night again, remember?”

He barely nodded as he escaped down the hallway, muttering something incoherent under his breath.

The second the bathroom door locked, Chan was yanking off his shirt like it offended him.

His skin felt too tight, his sweats clung to his legs, and his dick had been pressing painfully against his waistband ever since you leaned over in those fucking shorts.

“You’re warm.”

That innocent whisper from last night played on a loop in his skull like a curse. You hadn’t even meant anything by it, he knew that. You were just being friendly, soft, a little sleepy.

But it wrecked him. The way your voice got all low and breathy. The way you looked up at him with those sleepy eyes like he was safe. Warm. Close.

Like you’d be okay with falling asleep in his lap.

Like you’d let him touch you if he asked.

He turned the shower on cold, hoping the freezing spray would shock some sense into him.

It didn’t.

The second he stepped in, eyes shut, head tilted back under the stream, you were all he could see.

You, standing in the kitchen sucking the water off your thumb. You, head on his shoulder last night, mouth parted like you wanted him to kiss you. You, behind that door again, fingers moving slow and slick while you gasped his name without even knowing it.

Chan groaned through clenched teeth, already hard and aching. His hand moved to wrap around his cock before he could even try to talk himself out of it.

“God, what the fuck is wrong with me…” he muttered, forehead pressed against the wall, palm stroking tight and fast like he could erase you from his brain with enough friction.

But he didn’t want to erase you.

He wanted to ruin you.

He wanted to slip into your room next time you touched yourself and stay. Sink to his knees at the edge of your bed and press his mouth between your legs until you were whimpering for real. Until you were tugging his curls and crying out his name, loud and shameless.

He wanted to hear the way you’d sound when you came on him.

Chan’s hips snapped forward into his hand, slick water dripping off his chest as he jerked himself hard enough to bruise.

“Bet you’d taste so fucking sweet,” he grunted, voice low, breath fogging the glass door. “Let me fuck you with my tongue, baby, wanna feel you shake for me…”

He was losing it.

He gripped tighter, thumb swiping over the swollen head, wrist working fast, breath coming out ragged and fast as he imagined you on your knees in the shower with him. Dropping the towel. Letting him see everything.

Would you blush? Would you look shy? Or would you smirk up at him with that same little look you gave him today in the kitchen, like you knew you had him wrapped around your finger?

“Fucking tease,” he hissed, eyes squeezing shut. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

He came with a groan, hot and heavy against the tiles, his thighs trembling under the weight of it. The sound of the water masked the sharp slap of skin and the wet string of curses that followed, but nothing could drown out how wrecked he felt afterward.

He leaned there for a minute, panting, forehead pressed to the wall, cum washing down the drain between his feet, trying to remember how to breathe.

He was so fucked.

So deep in it he couldn’t see straight.

Because this wasn’t just lust anymore.

It was need.

You were just trying to grab your clothes.

Laundry done, towel wrapped tight around your chest, hair up, body still warm from the dryer heat as you padded barefoot down the hallway. You planned to shower after Chan finished his, figured you had a couple minutes before he was out.

But when you turned the corner you ran right into him.

Chan froze mid-step, just outside the steamy bathroom, water still dripping from his curls and chest bare under the towel slung around his shoulders. He was only in sweatpants and he looked at you like you’d just slapped him across the face.

“Oh, sorry!” you gasped, clutching your towel tighter. “Didn’t think you were done yet.”

Chan didn’t answer at first. His eyes dropped fast, to your legs, to the curve of your waist, to the loose knot barely holding your towel up. You saw the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed, the tight line of his jaw.

He looked wrecked.

Like he’d seen a ghost.

Or worse, like he’d seen exactly what he wanted and knew he couldn’t have it.

“Nah,” he said finally, voice low and rough. “I’m done.”

You nodded, shifting a little. But he didn’t move. And neither did you.

The hallway was suddenly too narrow, too quiet. You could still smell the shampoo on him, feel the heat radiating from his chest. You hadn’t seen him shirtless in forever, when it hadn’t meant anything.

Now?

Your eyes dipped lower than they should’ve.

And he noticed.

Chan stepped back slightly, like distance would save him. Like not looking at you directly would make his cock stop twitching in his sweatpants.

It didn’t.

“You okay?” you asked lightly, trying to fill the silence.

He nodded too quickly. “Yeah.”

You reached up without thinking, fingers brushing his damp hair. “You missed a spot. Shampoo’s still in your curls.”

The moment you touched him, he froze.

He wasn’t breathing. You could see it, the stillness in his chest, the sharp set of his shoulders. And when your hand pulled back, he finally let out a quiet breath.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered.

Your head tilted. “Like what?”

His voice dropped lower, strained. “Like you don’t know what you’re doing.”

That gave you pause.

You blinked, slowly, feeling the air shift between you. Then let the corner of your lips pull into the faintest smirk.

“I don’t,” you said, soft and curious. “Why don’t you tell me?”

That did it.

Chan cursed under his breath and turned fast, storming off down the hall like he was trying to outrun his own thoughts.

You watched him go.

And smiled to yourself.

You didn’t mean to hear it. Didn’t mean to stop.

But the second you stepped out of your room and heard the low, muffled groan from behind the guest room door, you froze.

You knew that sound.

Your heart thudded, skin prickling with heat, and you took one step closer until you were standing just outside the door. It was cracked open less than an inch, not enough to see anything clearly.

But enough.

His voice came again, soft and low. Broken.

“Fuck…”

You could hear the slick, steady rhythm of his hand, the quiet thump of the bedframe shifting under his weight. Every sound went straight to your core. You hadn’t even meant to look, had told yourself just hearing it was already too much.

But then you heard it. Heard your name.

“…God, baby, can’t stop thinking about you…”

Your breath caught in your throat.

He didn’t know you were there.

Didn’t know the door hadn’t latched. Didn’t know you were standing right outside, barefoot, flushed, towel still clinging to your body.

You swallowed hard, eyes locked on the sliver of the room you could see through the door. His silhouette shifted. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand braced behind him, the other pumping slow and desperate over his cock.

Your name fell from his lips again, quiet this time, like a prayer.

“Say my name again,” he groaned under his breath. “Wanna hear you say it like that again, fuck.”

Your thighs pressed together instinctively.

You bit your lip as his hand sped up, movements messier now, breath coming out in harsh, ragged gasps. He let out a sharp, frustrated moan, head tipping back, curls falling into his face.

You could feel how close he was.

His voice cracked as he muttered, “Bet you’d taste so fucking good, just wanna eat you up, baby, please…”

And then he came.

With a sharp, strangled groan, hips jerking up into his fist. His abs tensed, legs spread, cum spilling over his hand and stomach as he gasped your name again, lower this time. Softer.

Wrecked.

Completely ruined.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stood there, watching through the door as he fell back onto the bed with a heavy breath, arm over his eyes, chest heaving. He didn’t even know he’d said your name out loud. Didn’t know he’d been heard.

Didn’t know that your towel was slowly slipping as you turned away, heart pounding, thighs clenched, breath shallow.

He would.

Soon.

The next morning, you woke up with a plan.

You knew Chan was still trying to recover from last night, maybe embarrassed, maybe frustrated, maybe both.

So you decided to have a little fun.

You made sure your room door was just cracked open, the perfect angle for anyone who might be wandering the hall. Fortunately, your brother was working.

You pulled the softest cotton robe on, one that barely covered anything, the kind that slipped off the shoulders if you didn’t hold it right.

Then, moving slow and deliberate, you started your morning routine.

You brushed your hair, every stroke exaggerated, letting the strands fall just so.

You stretched, arms high over your head, the robe slipping dangerously low.

You bit your lip, pretending not to hear the faintest thud of footsteps outside.

Obviously it was Chan. Maybe he was watching.

You didn’t care.

You dropped the robe.

Naked, standing in the sunlight streaming through your window, you moved toward the mirror.

Your fingers traced lazy patterns over your skin, fingertips sliding over curves you knew drove him crazy.

You took your time.

You knew his eyes were on you.

You could almost hear his breath hitch, feel his gaze burning holes into your back.

You folded the robe back over your body at last, turning just enough to flash the faintest smile over your shoulder.

He didn’t want to be caught staring.

He really didn’t.

But there you were, door cracked open just enough for him to see.

And God, you moved like you knew exactly what he was doing.

Every brush of your hair was a damn invitation. Every stretch, every careless slip of the robe,  it was like you were teasing him just by existing.

Chan’s breath hitched. His chest tightened, heart pounding like a drum in his ears.

He wanted to knock, to tell you to stop. But he couldn’t move.

Couldn’t look away.

And when you dropped the robe completely, standing there naked in the sunlight, he felt his knees go weak.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice barely audible. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He swallowed hard, biting his lip to keep himself quiet.

That little smile you gave over your shoulder? It was the final blow.

He wanted to run in and wrap his arms around you.

But all he could do was stand frozen, breathless, and wonder how the hell you always managed to have this power over him.

It happened the next day.

You were sitting on the couch, scrolling through your phone, when he appeared in the doorway.

His hair was still damp, but his eyes were burning with something fierce, something different.

He swallowed hard, stepping inside without a word. Then, before you could even say anything, he dropped the towel from his neck and took a slow step toward you.

“I can’t fucking hide it anymore,” he blurted out, voice low and rough like he’d been holding it in for too long. “I’m obsessed with you. Like, every fucking second. I hear you in my head when I’m trying to sleep. I see you when I close my eyes.”

You blinked, heart pounding.

He wasn’t done.

“I know I shouldn’t want you like this, like that, especially since you’re my best friend’s sister. But I can’t help it. I want you. I want all of you. And the worst part is,” he bit his lip, eyes darting away for a second, “I think you want it too.”

His gaze snapped back to yours, intense and raw.

“So, what the fuck do we do about it?”

You didn’t say anything at first.

Just watched him, his eyes searching yours, raw and unguarded.

The way his chest rose and fell, the slight tremble in his hands, the heat radiating off him, it was all too much.

Slowly, a smirk tugged at your lips.

“So,” you said, voice low and playful, “you’re obsessed.”

Chan swallowed hard, stepping closer, his breath hot against your skin.

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice rough. “And it’s driving me crazy.”

You reached up, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the tension there.

“If I wanted this,” you murmured, “would you? Or are you just all talk?”

He smiled, half cocky, half desperate.

“Try me.”

The space between you vanished in an instant.

His hands were on your waist, pulling you close, and the world narrowed to just the two of you.

Your heart slammed in your chest as he dipped his head, lips brushing yours, soft, tentative at first, then deepening into something hungry and desperate.

The kiss stole your breath, hands tangling in his damp hair as you pressed into him, the weight of all the months you’d both been holding back finally melting away.

When you pulled back, just enough to look into his eyes, you whispered,

“Guess we both wanted this.”

He grinned, that fire in his gaze burning brighter than ever.

“Yeah. No more hiding.”

Chan’s hands were hot and possessive on your waist, fingers pressing into your skin as if he could burn the memory of this moment into his bones. His lips trailed fiery kisses along your neck, each bite making you shiver and arch into him.

“God, I’ve wanted this for so long,” he groaned, voice low and thick with need.

You smiled against his mouth, your fingers threading through the damp curls at his nape, pulling him closer as you pressed your body fully against his. His chest was warm beneath your palms, heart hammering a frantic rhythm that matched your own.

Slowly, deliberately, your hands slipped beneath his shirt, feeling the smooth skin beneath the damp fabric. He shivered as you traced your fingers down his ribs, your touch light but full of promise. Then you tugged the shirt up and over his head, revealing the lean, muscular form you’d been dreaming about for months.

Chan’s eyes darkened as he watched you, breath hitching when you slid your own clothes off, letting them fall to the floor. Your skin was flushed and glowing in the soft light, every curve a silent invitation.

His hands didn’t hesitate, roaming over you with a hunger that made your knees weak. He cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened beneath his touch. You gasped, head falling back as he pressed his mouth to one, sucking hard, biting gently.

Your hands explored every inch of his back, feeling the muscles tense and flex beneath your fingertips. When your fingers caught the waistband of his sweatpants, you tugged at it, your eyes locking with his in a silent question.

He nodded, breathless, and you slid the pants down his hips, your hands spreading his legs just enough to reveal the hard length straining beneath the fabric. You stroked him slowly, fingers warm and sure, feeling him pulse under your touch.

Chan groaned, dropping his head to your shoulder, lips brushing hot kisses down your collarbone as his own hands moved lower, tracing the lines of your hips and thighs. He bent you backward gently onto the couch, one hand supporting your back while the other pressed your legs apart.

He kissed his way down your body, lips trailing fire across your stomach, dipping lower to the curve of your hips. His tongue flicked over your inner thigh, sending electric jolts through you.

When his mouth finally found your slick heat, you arched your hips instinctively, fingers tangling in his hair. His tongue moved slow and deliberate, circling your clit, teasing and tasting until your breath hitched and your body trembled.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured against you, fingers sliding inside with expert ease. The slow, curling motion made your hips lift off the bed, desperate for more.

Chan’s mouth left you with a wet kiss, lips trailing back up to meet yours. The kiss was deep and hungry, teeth grazing lips as his fingers continued their maddening rhythm inside you.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer as he pressed into you, his length sliding home with a shuddering groan. The couch shifted beneath you, the world narrowing to the feel of his skin against yours, the sound of your breath mingling.

He moved slow at first, savouring the moment, but soon the pace quickened, hips snapping against yours with increasing urgency. Your hands roamed over his back, nails digging into his skin as waves of pleasure built higher and higher.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Chan growled, voice thick with need.

Your climax hit like a tidal wave, breathless screams of his name filling the room as your body convulsed around him. He followed close behind, hips stuttering as he came deep inside you, holding you tight as you both rode out the heat.

When the storm passed, he collapsed beside you, pulling you close until your bodies were tangled and warm. His breath was slow and steady now, fingers tracing lazy circles on your back.

“Damn,” he whispered, breath hot against your ear. “You’re such a tease.”

You smirked, fingers trailing up his chest. “Says the guy who just lost his mind over me.”

He groaned, tightening his grip around you. “Yeah, well… you are impossible to resist.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away. Instead, you traced lazy circles on his bare skin, watching the way his eyes fluttered closed.

“Think you can keep your hands to yourself now?” you teased.

Chan’s eyes snapped open, mock horror on his face. “No fucking way.”

He kissed you again, slow, playful, like a promise of more mischief to come.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, voice soft but sure.

Minho’s room is dim, the only light coming from the glow of his monitor still running something in the background. The air is warm, still humming with leftover energy from whatever half-assed argument had started earlier in the night. You’re both standing too close now, the kind of close that begs for someone to break first.

Minho leans back against the edge of his desk, arms crossed, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek as he eyes you with a slow, calculated gaze.

“You always gotta act like you're in charge,” he says, voice low, laced with challenge.

You scoff, stepping in and crowding his space on purpose. “That’s funny, coming from someone who’s all talk every time I get near you.”

His eyes flicker. He shifts his weight but doesn’t back down. “Keep pushing me, and we’ll see who really folds first.”

You smile, just a little cruel. “You think I’d fold for you?”

He lets out a laugh but there's tension behind it. You know he’s been waiting for this. Maybe you have too.

You lean in, your chest brushing his. “What’s the matter, Min? Scared if I got on top of you, you’d actually like it?”

Something in his jaw twitches. He doesn’t move away, but his voice dips even lower. “You really wanna test me in my own bedroom?”

“Why not?” you whisper. “Unless you’re worried about Jisung hearing the way you moan.”

He pushes off the desk before you finish the sentence, one hand gripping your jaw, not rough, but firm, asserting pressure. His face is close now, eyes boring into yours.

“If you’re gonna run your mouth,” he murmurs, “you better be ready to back it up.”

You tilt your chin up, smirking. “Then try me.”

A beat.

Then his mouth is on yours, and it’s not sweet or hesitant, it’s sharp, a collision of lips and teeth and stubborn pride. You grab at his hoodie, pulling him closer, and he presses you backward until your thighs hit the bed.

The kiss breaks just long enough for you to breathe, and even then, barely.

He stares down at you, pupils blown wide. “You really want to do this here? With Jisung two doors away?”

“I’m not the one worried about getting caught,” you taunt, falling back onto the mattress like an open invitation.

Minho follows, slow and predatory.

“You’re gonna regret that.”

But the way your legs spread to make room for him says otherwise.

Minho’s weight settles between your thighs like it belongs there. He doesn’t rush. His hand slides up under your shirt, warm fingers dragging across your stomach like he’s claiming the space inch by inch. You arch just a little, more to provoke than invite.

“You gonna play nice now?” he murmurs against your throat.

You let out a breathy laugh. “Not even close.”

Your fingers tangle in the neckline of his hoodie, yanking him down until your teeth scrape the edge of his jaw. He makes a low sound, something between a growl and a groan, but you don’t let him linger. You flip him fast, thighs tightening around his hips as you push him onto his back. The look on his face is priceless, surprised, impressed, turned on.

You straddle his waist, smug and slow as you roll your hips down against him. “Didn’t think I’d pin you that easily, huh?”

His hands flex at your hips, but he doesn’t push. “You think this means you’re winning?”

“I know it does.”

He scoffs, gaze dropping to where your bodies grind together, friction heavy even through clothes. “You’re cocky.”

“And you’re hard.”

That earns you a sharp slap to your thigh, more a warning than punishment. You smirk.

But Minho’s done letting you lead.

In one swift move, he sits up, grabs your wrists, and flips you underneath him again, this time with intent. The mattress dips beneath the shift, and your back hits the sheets with a soft bounce. He looms over you, knee nudging your legs apart.

“Didn’t think I’d pin you that easily,” he echoes, voice pure sin.

Your wrists are pinned above your head now, held with one hand while the other slips under the waistband of your shorts, his fingertips dangerously close to heat.

“You gonna be a good little brat and take what I give you?” he whispers, lips brushing your ear.

You shiver but tilt your head defiantly.

“Make me.”

His grip tightens.

“Oh, I intend to.”

He kisses you again, messier this time, all teeth and tongue, biting at your bottom lip hard enough to make you gasp. It’s punishment for mouthing off, and it works. Your thighs twitch around his hips, body reacting even if your mouth won’t give in.

His hand finally slips inside your shorts, knuckles brushing your slick.

“Already wet?” he murmurs, almost disappointed. “Guess you do like being under me.”

You hiss through your teeth, back arching. “I’m wet cause I’m winning, asshole.”

Minho’s smile is all teeth as he drags his fingers down slow, teasing. “Not for long.”

Minho’s fingers slide through your slick folds like he owns the place. The look in his eyes is unforgiving, focused, sharp, like he’s got something to prove. You’re not surprised. He always plays like he has a point to make.

He circles your clit slow, infuriatingly light, just enough to make your hips twitch.

“You're gonna come so fucking fast,” he murmurs. “And then you’re gonna beg me to let you do it again.”

You glare up at him, breathing hard. “You’re dreaming.”

He presses his thumb down suddenly and your whole body jerks. The moan escapes before you can catch it, but his hand slams over your mouth almost immediately.

“Uh-uh,” he taunts, voice low and threatening near your ear. “Don’t let Jisung hear how pathetic you sound.”

Your eyes flutter as he keeps working you, two fingers sliding in, curling just right. Your thighs shake, breath caught somewhere between a curse and a cry. You’re close, so close, and he knows it.

But then he stops.

Just… gone. His fingers pull out and leave you empty, clenching around nothing. You bite back a scream as he pulls his hand away, smug and shining with your slick.

“Oops,” he says, sucking one finger into his mouth. “Guess you don’t get to come yet.”

You lunge.

Your legs wrap around him and twist, flipping him onto his back again before he can blink. You’re on him in seconds, knees planted on either side of his chest, pinning his wrists to the bed.

He blinks up at you, breathing just as hard, face flushed. “So you do like being on top.”

“I like seeing you squirm,” you snap.

And you make good on the promise.

You slide down, grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, dragging them down enough to free him. He’s hard already, leaking at the tip, and you waste no time wrapping your hand around him.

“You’re gonna come so fucking fast,” you echo mockingly, stroking him slow and mean. “And then I’ll make you wait while I fuck myself on your face.”

He curses under his breath, hips jerking up into your hand. But you don’t speed up. You slow down, just enough to tease, to make him twitch.

When his head falls back, throat exposed and lips parted, you lean in.

“You moan too loud and Jisung’s gonna know who really breaks first.”

His breath stutters, body tensing, but then his eyes snap open, feral.

“You think this is breaking?” he growls, and suddenly he’s moving again, fast and violent.

He grabs your wrist, yanks you down by the back of your neck, and kisses you like he’s starving. His free hand sneaks between your bodies, finds your clit again, and rubs you in tight, furious circles.

You gasp into his mouth, hips stuttering. “Fuck, Minho!”

“Come on,” he snarls. “Do it. I dare you.”

You’re both panting now, foreheads pressed together, locked in a battle of stubborn pleasure. You’re so close you’re seeing white, clenching around nothing, his cock pressed between your bodies, angry, leaking, neglected. But you won't beg. Neither of you will.

You pull your hand away from him just before he tips. He does the same to you.

You lie there, ruined, chests heaving, sweat dripping down your backs, and neither of you has come.

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

Minho laughs, breathless. “You’re trying.”

The room is heavy with sweat and unfinished lust. Your bodies are tangled, flushed, tense like a live wire stretched too far.

Minho’s hair is stuck to his forehead, chest rising and falling with short, frustrated breaths. Your thighs are trembling from being worked up and left empty, but neither of you is willing to say it, not yet.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes roaming your body like he’s memorizing every twitch.

“You’re shaking,” he says, smug and soft.

“So are you,” you snap, but there’s less heat behind it now.

You crawl over him again, straddling his thighs this time, and when you reach for his cock again, slick and throbbing, his whole body jolts.

“Don’t you fucking-”

But you’re already sinking your mouth onto him.

Minho lets out a sound that might’ve been a growl, might’ve been a moan, he doesn’t even know. Your hand works what your mouth doesn’t reach, and you’re ruthless, punishing. His hips twitch but you hold him down, using your weight and grip to keep him still.

His hands grab at the sheets, jaw clenched tight, but his eyes flutter. “Fuck, fuck, you’re not gonna, shit, stop-”

You don’t.

He’s so close you can feel it in how he stiffens, how his abs lock under your arm. He moans your name, almost pleading, almost like surrender. But you pull off at the last second, lips soaked, mouth smirking.

“Thought you said I was gonna fold.”

He sits up fast, furious and flushed. “Get on the bed. Now.”

“You gonna make me?”

He grabs your thighs, flips you over like you weigh nothing, and shoves two fingers inside you so fast you gasp, back arching.

“Still so fucking wet,” he grits out. “You love being ruined like this.”

You try to buck against him, to bite back your cries, but your body betrays you. You’re soaked, sensitive, and on the edge again in seconds.

And this time he doesn’t stop.

He fucks you with his fingers while mouthing at your throat, sucking hard enough to leave bruises, pressing his palm against your clit until your legs jerk and your breath hits a high, shuddering pitch.

“Go on,” he growls. “Come for me. Fucking do it.”

You snap.

Your orgasm crashes over you so hard you cry out, sharp and involuntary, thighs clamping around his hand. You try to muffle it, biting your wrist, but it’s loud enough to echo.

From the living room you hear Jisung, “Jesus Christ, are you guys serious?”

You’re too far gone to care.

Minho pulls his hand away, licking his fingers like a reward, but you’re not done.

You push him back, panting, and sink down on his cock without warning.

He shouts, not expecting it, not prepared, and you ride him like you're trying to kill him.

Fast, punishing, furious.

“You wanted this?” you hiss, nails dragging down his chest. “Take it.”

His hands grip your hips so tight you’ll have bruises tomorrow, but he doesn’t stop you. He lets you fuck him raw, lets you chase your own pleasure, until it’s his, too.

Minho’s eyes squeeze shut. His mouth falls open. “Shit, fuck, I’m-”

You clench around him, and he spills with a strangled groan, back arching, fingers bruising your waist. The two of you collapse together, a tangled, wrecked mess of sweat and pride and stubborn, burning want.

Silence.

Just heavy breathing.

Your head rests on his shoulder. His hand strokes your spine without thinking. You’re both too wrecked to move.

After a long beat, he mumbles, “You didn’t win.”

You hum against his skin. “Neither did you.”

Another pause.

Then, muffled through the wall, “Can you two not do this while I’m alive?”

You snort. Minho grins against your temple.

“Next time,” he says, “I’m gagging you.”

“Next time,” you say, “I’ll make you beg.”

The room smells like sweat and sex and Minho’s cologne. Your limbs are heavy, stuck to his with skin-on-skin dampness and no desire to move. Your chest rises and falls against his as you both try to remember how to breathe.

Neither of you says anything for a while after that.

Then…

“You drooled on me,” he mutters.

You snort into his collarbone. “You came like a virgin.”

He slaps your ass, half-hearted. “You rode me like you hadn’t come in a year.”

“Maybe I hadn’t,” you mumble. “Was waiting for you to stop running your mouth.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t tie you up.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t ride your face.”

He groans, dramatic, arm thrown over his eyes. “Stop talking. You’re gonna make me hard again and I just recovered.”

You hum smugly, tracing idle shapes across his chest. “Sounds like a you problem.”

He peeks at you from under his arm. “Give me five minutes.”

“Three,” you challenge.

A pause.

His lips twitch. “Done.”

You grin.

But before either of you can make good on that threat, a sharp knock hits the door.

“I swear to God,” Jisung’s voice comes through, exhausted, “if you two start round two while I’m still in this dorm, I’m calling Chan.”

You both burst into laughter, lazy and giddy from the high, limbs tangled like you forgot how to be separate people.

“Maybe we should invite him next time,” you say, deadpan.

Minho smirks. “You’d let someone watch you submit to me?”

You turn your head slowly. “I submitted?”

“You came first.”

“Did you hear yourself when I got on top of you?”

“Because you were milking me like a fucking machine-”

“Didn’t hear a complaint.”

“Because I was too busy seeing God-”

You kiss him quiet.

Not gentle. Not sweet. Just honest.

His hand comes up to your cheek, holding you there, like maybe you’re not going anywhere this time.

When you finally break apart, he whispers against your mouth, “So… what are we calling this?”

You raise a brow. “Friends with very competitive benefits?”

“Terrifying benefits.”

“Earth-shattering benefits.”

He grins. “Rematch tomorrow?”

You tilt your head, smug.

The hotel room was dark, save for the soft, flickering light of some random Netflix show playing in the background. You weren’t watching it. Not really.

You were lying across the bed, hair still damp from the shower, body sore from the endless chaos of the day. Soundcheck. Press. Scheduling nightmares. Then wrangling eight hyperactive men through a three-hour concert while running on caffeine and pure willpower.

You’d barely managed to scrub off your makeup, slide into one of the plush robes, and collapse face-first onto the mattress.

You were too tired to even respond to texts. The do-not-disturb sign was on the door. Your body was jelly. Your brain was soup.

So when the soft, almost hesitant knock came you blinked like you’d imagined it.

Then it came again.

You sighed, dragging yourself upright with a groan, tying the robe tighter around your waist. Maybe staff had the wrong room. Maybe a delivery mix-up.

You padded over to the door and cracked it open and immediately forgot how to breathe.

Chan stood in the hallway, still damp from the shower, dark curls clinging to his forehead. He wore nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants that sat low on his hips and a white t-shirt that was tight around the biceps.

His eyes met yours.

Your fingers tightened around the doorknob instinctively. “...Chan?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned against the doorframe like he had every right to be there.

“Why do you act like you don’t want me?”

You blinked.

That exhaustion you’d felt seconds ago? Gone.

“Wh- what?” you stammered.

His head tilted just slightly. “You act like I’m just another artist on your schedule. Like you don’t look at me the way you do.”

Your brain scrambled for something, anything, professional to say. “Chan, I’m your manager. This isn’t-”

“I know what you are.” His voice dipped lower, a thread of heat underneath it. “You keep your distance. You’re careful. But I’m not blind.”

He pushed off the doorframe, stepping a little closer.

“I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”

Your breath hitched.

He was too close now, just one step outside your door. Your heart thudded against your ribs, warning bells in your head trying to outpace the slow, rising pull in your stomach.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said. “Not tonight.”

You crossed your arms, mostly to ground yourself. Definitely not because his eyes had just dropped to the neckline of your robe like it was something to devour.

“Chan,” you said carefully. “It’s late.”

He didn’t budge. “I know.”

“You should rest. We both should.”

“Maybe.” His gaze flicked back up to yours.

There was no smirk, no playful grin. Just quiet honesty. Raw and exposed in a way you weren’t prepared for.

You tried again. “You’re still running on post-show adrenaline. You’ll feel different in the morning.”

His voice lowered to a near whisper. “I won’t.”

You could practically feel it, the shift in the air, the way the space between you felt too charged, like something waiting to break.

“You’re my job,” you said softly, trying to stay firm. “Technically, you’re my boss.”

He took one slow step forward. You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“You want me to treat you like an employee?” he murmured. “If that’s what you’re into…”

That made you laugh. “Not funny.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

There was something dangerous in his eyes now, not reckless, but deliberate. Like he’d already made up his mind.

“You don’t get it,” you said, voice tight. “I’ve worked too hard to cross a line like this. One night, one mistake, it could ruin everything.”

“It’s not a mistake if we both want it,” he said. “And it’s not one night.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to say something that would restore the distance, but he stepped even closer, and your brain blanked.

You could smell the faint scent of his body wash, familiar in the way only someone you spent almost every waking hour with could be.

His voice dropped, almost too soft to hear.

“I think about you all the time,” he said. “On stage. In the van. When you’re pacing around with your iPad and that little crease in your brow, fuck, I want to kiss it away.”

Your stomach flipped.

“I’ve tried to ignore it,” he went on. “Tried to respect your space. Let you be the professional. But do you even realize how hard you make it?”

Your throat was dry. “Chan…”

“I’m not asking you to love me,” he said. “I’m just asking you to be honest.”

He was so close now you could feel the heat of his skin against yours. One inch more and he’d be touching you.

Your fingers curled tighter around your arms. “You’re not being fair.”

“I know,” he said, and this time, he did smile. “But I can’t walk away from this hallway without trying.”

You looked at him then, really looked.

At the vulnerability in his expression. At the way he was trembling slightly, like underneath all that confidence was someone just as scared to be rejected.

It would be so easy to tell him to leave.

To remind him of contracts and PR scandals and the weight of everything on your shoulders.

But your heart was thudding for a different reason now, and the warmth between your thighs wasn’t exhaustion.

You could still tell him to go.

But you didn’t.

You didn’t say anything.

You just stepped back.

Chan’s eyes searched yours for half a second longer, looking for regret, maybe. Doubt. But you didn’t give him any.

So, he stepped inside.

The door clicked shut behind him like a secret sealed. Your fingers hovered at your sides, too aware of everything.

“Just to talk,” you said, more to yourself than to him.

He nodded once, like he was willing to play along. For now.

You sat on the edge of the bed. He stood in front of you, not touching, but close enough to make your skin ache.

Neither of you spoke.

The tension thickened between the walls. The quiet stretched long and loaded, and you could feel his gaze on you.

Then…

“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” he murmured.

You looked up at him, about to ask what he meant.

But his hand came up, slow and deliberate, and he cupped your jaw like he was afraid you’d pull away.

You didn’t.

His thumb brushed across your bottom lip, feather-light. You exhaled a soft, shaky breath.

Then he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t careful. Not really. Not after all this waiting. His lips were warm, sure, a little desperate. Yours parted before you realized you were doing it, and he groaned quietly, like that was all he needed.

His other hand slid behind your neck, pulling you deeper into it, and you let yourself fall, hands gripping his waist, mouth opening under his like you’d been waiting years.

He stepped forward, pushing you gently back onto the mattress, one knee between yours.

You weren’t thinking anymore. Just feeling.

His body covered yours, the weight of him intoxicating, his hips rocking down right where you were already starting to throb.

You gasped into his mouth.

His lips trailed down to your jaw, then your neck, sucking a mark low enough to hide.

“I knew it,” he murmured, voice wrecked and full of want. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”

You arched up against him. The robe slipped open beneath him, and his skin pressed to yours.

He groaned again when your hips rolled up to meet his.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, mouth ghosting along your collarbone.

You just whispered, “Don’t.”

And he didn’t.

His hand found your thigh, dragged it up around his waist as he rocked against you, dragging slow, grinding friction between your legs that made you moan into his shoulder.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” he whispered, lips at your ear. “Let me make you feel good. Let me take care of you.”

And God help you, you let him.

You didn’t know when the kissing turned into undressing, when your robe slipped off your shoulders or when his sweatpants started to ride lower from how he moved against you.

All you knew was the feel of his hands on your skin.

So careful. So reverent. Like he was touching something holy.

Chan kissed down your neck like it was something he’d dreamed about. No rushing, no fumbling, just hot, open-mouthed kisses dragged along the column of your throat, down to your collarbones, like he was memorizing every inch of you with his mouth.

He paused above your chest, breath warm, eyes flicking up.

“Can I?” he asked, already undoing the knot of your robe with maddening slowness.

You nodded, breath catching.

When the fabric opened, his mouth dropped open just slightly, then curved into something softer.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re so beautiful.”

You flushed under the weight of it. No one had ever said it like that before, like it hurt him to hold it in.

His hands came up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing lightly over your nipples before he dipped down to kiss between them, then over one, tongue warm and wet.

You whimpered, hips shifting under him.

He looked up again with a small, crooked smile.

“Sensitive?”

You tried to glare. It came out as a gasp when he flicked his tongue again, teasing, suckling lightly until your hands flew up to tangle in his curls.

And that only spurred him on.

He licked down the slope of your stomach, kissing every dip and curve as he made his way lower. When he reached your thighs, he gently nudged your legs apart and settled between them like he belonged there.

Then he looked up at you again, eyes hooded, voice like velvet.

“Been thinking about this for so long,” he murmured. “You, falling apart on my tongue. Just like this.”

You tried to respond, but your breath caught in your throat when his hands slid under your thighs and lifted them over his shoulders.

You were so exposed now. And he looked like he was starving.

The first slow lick made your hips jolt.

“Fuck- Chan”

“Mmm,” he hummed, dragging his tongue through your folds again, savouring it. “Say that again.”

He licked you like he had all the time in the world. Soft, unhurried strokes that made your whole body tremble. When your fingers curled tighter in his hair, he moaned against you loudly, like getting to taste you was as good for him as it was for you.

“You don’t have to hold back,” he murmured, breath hot against your soaked core. “I want to hear you.”

And when he flattened his tongue and dragged it up slowly before sucking your clit between his lips, you did. You moaned, needy and unfiltered, thighs tightening around his head.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispered. “God, you taste so good. So wet for me.”

He didn’t stop. Tongue working you over until your back arched and your hands fisted in the sheets, hips canting up as he devoured you. His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you still so he could keep going deeper, harder, just the way you liked.

“You gonna cum for me like this?” he asked, mouth glossy, voice wrecked. “Let me feel it, baby. Let me have it.”

You were already there, clinging to the edge, breath hitching, legs shaking.

And when he sucked just a little harder, groaned against your clit like he needed it, you shattered.

Your body seized with the force of it, the orgasm crashing through you like a wave, and Chan didn’t stop, kept licking you through it, kept whispering praise you barely understood.

“Fuck, that’s it, baby… just like that… perfect for me.”

When you finally came down, you were boneless, trembling, breathless.

He kissed his way back up your body, slow and sweet. Your chest still heaved. Your thighs were soaked and still twitching.

But his eyes?

Still dark. Still hungry.

“I’m not done with you yet,” he murmured, mouth brushing your ear. “Not even close.”

You were still catching your breath when he kissed you again, slow and tender, like he wasn’t the same man who’d just made you cum with his mouth.

Your hand curled around his nape, fingers dragging through damp curls as his weight pressed into you, grounding you in the best way.

“Still with me?” he asked softly, kissing the corner of your mouth.

You nodded, dazed. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m not letting you go now.”

His forehead rested against yours, and his hand slid between your bodies to tug at his waistband. You felt his cock brush against your thigh and your body responded instantly, another ripple of arousal blooming low in your belly.

“Chan-”

He looked down at you, gaze dark but gentle. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

You didn’t even hesitate. “I don’t.”

He nodded once. Then reached down, guiding himself to your entrance.

He slid in slowly, giving you every inch with careful precision, hips rolling shallow as he filled you. Your back arched. Your mouth fell open.

“F-fuck,” you gasped. “You’re… you’re big-”

Chan groaned like he was in pain. “You’re so tight, baby. Taking me so well.”

His arms wrapped around your waist as he buried himself fully. Your legs locked around him, pulling him closer.

For a while, he didn’t move.

He just held you, breathing into your neck, letting you adjust to the stretch of him.

“You feel like heaven,” he murmured. “Been dreaming of this. Thinking about it every damn night.”

Then he started to move.

Slow, deep thrusts that hit just right. The kind that made your toes curl. The kind that made your eyes flutter shut.

You clung to him, moaning softly with each gentle drag of his cock.

He kissed your cheek, your jaw, your temple.

“You’re so good for me,” he whispered. “So fucking perfect.”

Your body shuddered beneath him. The praise, the weight of him, the slow rhythm, it was blissful.

But then his pace started to pick up. His hips snapped a little harder, a little faster, his restraint fraying with every breathless sound you made.

“You want it rough now, don’t you?” he growled, lips brushing your ear. “I can feel you clenching. You want me to take you.”

You nodded, helpless. “Please…”

His mouth curled into a wicked grin. “Say it.”

“Please, Chan. Need you to fuck me, hard.”

That was all it took.

He flipped you with practiced ease, your back against the mattress now, legs spread wide. His hands pinned your wrists above your head, and when he thrust into you again, it was rougher. Deeper. Brutal in the best way.

Your head tipped back, a cry tearing from your throat.

He fucked you into the bed, hips slamming into yours with every stroke. Sweat dripped from his temple. His abs flexed as he rolled his hips, grinding into your sweet spot until you were writhing under him.

“Say my name,” he panted, voice full of grit.

“Chan,” you gasped, eyes glassy. “Oh my God, Chan!”

“Yeah? That’s it. That’s my girl.”

He dipped down and sucked a mark into your neck, groaning against your skin like he couldn’t help himself.

“You’re mine,” he growled. “When we’re off the clock? You’re fucking mine.”

You came again, clenching around him with a choked sob as he slammed into you, chasing his own high.

He followed moments later, hips jerking, breath breaking as he spilled into you with a rough moan of your name.

When he collapsed onto you, he didn’t let go.

Didn’t pull out. Didn’t say a word.

Just held you close, arms trembling slightly, breath ragged against your collarbone.

The silence that followed was heavier than anything either of you had said.

But this time, it didn’t hurt.

It was soft. Close. Breath-warm and skin-slick, his chest rising and falling against yours as he stayed inside you, not ready to let go.

You could feel the beat of his heart as his arms tightened around your waist.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, quietly, Chan whispered, “You okay?”

You nodded, cheek resting against his shoulder. “Yeah.”

He shifted back just enough to see your face, brushing damp hair from your forehead. His fingers were gentle, so gentle it made your throat tighten.

“I mean it,” he said softly. “You’re okay?”

You blinked up at him, dazed from pleasure and too many emotions you hadn’t let yourself feel. “I am.”

He smiled, small and sweet. “Good.”

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Then another to your temple. Then one to the corner of your mouth, slow and lingering.

You exhaled, finally letting yourself melt into the moment.

Into him.

Chan pulled out gently and reached for the sheets, covering both of you before curling his arm back around your waist. You let him tug you into his chest, your leg draped over his hip, your hand resting on the soft plane of his stomach.

It felt easy.

It shouldn’t have. But it did.

“You’re gonna hate me in the morning,” he murmured after a while, voice low and tired.

You cracked a smile against his skin. “Not sure I have the energy for hate right now.”

He chuckled, the sound soft and fond. “Don’t go back to pretending, okay?”

You lifted your head, meeting his gaze. It was open, unguarded in a way you rarely saw from him. No jokes. No walls.

Just Chan.

“I see you,” he said quietly. “Even when you’re working. Even when you try to hide it. I see the way you look at me. The way you protect me.”

You swallowed hard.

He leaned in, kissed the tip of your nose.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore. Not with me.”

You didn’t answer right away.

But when your hand slid up to rest over his heart and you tucked yourself under his chin with a whisper-soft, “Okay,” it felt like a promise.