rin

“Five… ten… twenty… I know I asked the question, but the fact that you all had answers? You thought about it, and actually came up with a number. What if you met your soulmate, but their body count is six? Eleven? Twenty-one? Would you kick them to the curb? Would you say ‘Sorry, I don’t date whores’? Because that’s basically what you’re saying by even having a limit. You’re saying if someone crosses your personal threshold, then they aren’t worth considering a future with. It’s not because they’re liars or cheaters or shitty human beings, it’s because they’ve had more sex than you prefer before they even met you. Isn’t that baffling?

“At one point, I think I might have had that mentality, too, when I was younger and not as experienced. If it's a preference for you, fine, have your preferences, but if it’s because it skeeves you out or something that the person you want has once wanted other people, if it changes how you see them, it’s different. That number didn’t change the person, the only thing that number changed is how you view the person.

“I’ve met people with low body counts who are piece-of-shit cheaters, dirty fucking liars. Like, under ten, maybe even under five low. But I’ve met people with high body counts who have never cheated on anyone, who are painfully honest and are even picky about who they have sex with because their morals are strong. I’ve met people who save sex for relationships and stay in the relationship even if the sex is borderline awful. Isn’t it interesting that body count has nothing to fucking do with who you are as a person? 

“Body count doesn’t tell me who you are. It doesn’t tell me if you’re kind, if you’re generous, if you’re caring. It doesn’t tell me if you’re rude, selfish, or emotionally unavailable. All it tells me is that you’ve had sex. That’s it. And for us, at our age, somewhere in our twenties, god– who fucking cares? We all have sex! I’ve spent months telling everyone in great detail what I do, I’ve given tips on how to please your partner, I’ve been giving you all a goddamn manual to fuck. You want advice from someone who’s experienced, but if you actually meet someone who is experienced, suddenly they’re a whore. That just doesn’t sit right with me.

“I think this is my question: if I reached through the phone and handed you two people, both are your perfect type. Everything you could ever want in a partner. You share the same values, you want the same future, you feel the same about almost everything. The only difference is that one has a body count of five, and the other has a body count of fifty. Would the person with the higher body count really be of less value to you? Would they be less attractive to you, just because of that number? Think about it.

“Also, date whoever the fuck you want, have your preferences. Seriously. But a body count isn’t the fucking same as the Myers-Briggs, it doesn’t tell you anything about a person. It doesn’t tell you who’s kind, who will treat you well, who will see you when you can’t see yourself. The only thing a body count can tell you is that the person has had sex. That’s it.

“Sorry the think piece was a rant today, but that’s been bugging me. I needed to get it off my chest. Join me next week where hopefully I’ll have a few stories to tell, all of ‘em personal, all of ‘em about making my own body count higher. And they’ll be unscripted, as always.”

You pull your headphones out of your ears as your professor strides into the lecture hall. You need to get out of the habit of listening to your own episodes after you post them, because you can hear the frustration in your voice, the anger lining each syllable, the episode feels personal. And even if it is, even if the topic of body count and the concept of double standards has been bugging you since that evening you spent with Wooyoung, you don’t need another fucking megathread on r/Unscripted about Mister Piss-Me-Off. 

You’ve never been more grateful for a privacy screen on your phone as you pull up your own subreddit. There’s talk, of course, but not much. No one’s put two and two together. You hate that there’s an air of anxiety around the word yet.

You swipe out of Reddit, open up your messages instead.

yunho: are u in class yunho: wanting and needing coffee rn. and to see ur face

You smile at your screen. 

you: unforch i am in class you: i might leave tho idk im restless today i can’t focus

A bubble pops up with three dots immediately.

yunho: stop playing on ur phone then  yunho: pay attention and i’ll bring you coffee to ur building after

Your lips scrunch, disappointed. Fucker. 

you: fine </3 you: boo tomato tomato you: tell san to make it extra yummy today

yunho: im not texting u anymore yunho: pay attention

Your top lip lifts at your screen, but you listen, locking your phone and bringing your attention back up to your professor. He’s writing on the wide, thick whiteboard, and even if you’re trying your hardest to pay attention, your ears perk up to the conversation happening behind you.

“Did you listen?” A guy. You can’t remember his name.

“The body count one? The one she posted this morning?”

Your spine goes rigid, eyes widening. You bring your gaze back to the table in front of you. 

“It’s stupid, obviously someone got on her ass about her own body count.”

“So? I liked it, she’s right. Who cares about body count?” You’ve always liked that girl. She gave you a pen when you forgot your own, once. 

“Everyone cares about body count. It’s like, instilled in us as humans.”

“It’s instilled in you as a man.”

You can’t help the way your lips curve, staring at your desk. 

The professor clears his throat, and the two behind you go quiet. You look up through your brows, body on fire. He’s probably somewhere in his forties, dressed in business-casual, like a proper professor. He tilts his head, the movement youthful, “Don’t stop on my account, please, keep going. We can use it for today.”

You can feel the color drain from your face. He doesn’t mean what you think he means, does he?

The two behind you don’t make a sound. The professor points to the board, “We’re talking about source credibility. Who here has listened to the podcast that’s all over campus? Someone remind me what it’s called, Unwritten?” 

“Unscripted,” a girl from the front row corrects as her hand shoots upward. You look around the room, the stacked rows of seats, about seventy-five percent of the hands go up. Yours stay glued to the table in front of you. 

He pushes away from the board, looking up at the audience of students, “I hear the host is anonymous… Does that make her more credible, or less?”

The same girl from the front answers, “Less. She loses credibility with anonymity.”

The girl from behind you counters, “More. If no one knows who she is, then she can’t gain anything from the podcast. It’s popular, she could monetize it easily.”

A guy from the left side of the room adds, “She’s obviously experienced, I feel like she’s pretty obviously credible.”

Someone in the row before him turns around, “You think sleeping around makes her credible?”

You need to get the fuck out of here. You need to leave. 

The professor cuts in, “That’s a good question. Does having a lot of sexual experience make you a more credible source on sex?”

The girl from behind you answers, “Of course, why would you take sex advice from someone who doesn’t have sex?”

The girl from the front makes a noise like she doesn’t agree. “Doing it a lot doesn’t mean you’re good at it, though.”

The professor crosses his arms, his voice booming throughout the room, “Interesting. Now let me ask: if her identity was revealed tomorrow, how many of you would change your opinion on her? If she was someone you didn’t expect.”

Bile forms in your throat, your fingers gripping onto your pen like you’re pulling a trigger. You refuse to look, to see if any hands are raised. 

A smile curves his lips, “But did anything change? Her arguments, her advice, the facts?” You can feel the silence in the room. You could touch it. “So what changed, then? Other than putting a face to the name?” 

The girl in the front answers again, “It would decide her credibility. But if she revealed herself, she’d be judged ruthlessly as a woman. If she were to expose her own identity, people would be able to look into her life, see who she is, who she’s slept with. They would be able to find out real facts, instead of taking her advice at face value.”

“So, the discussion would become qualification,” the professor continues. “How many of you have imagined what she looks like?” 

Your throat constricts around nothing as you glance around the room, the hands raised in the air feel like they were all pointing at you. You might actually fucking cry. Unscripted being spoken about with your friends is one thing, but in class of all places?

He pauses between each question, “Did you imagine someone conventionally attractive? Someone older than you? Someone who looks like they’d have a lot of experience? Confident? Bold?” Then he smiles at the class, at the silence that’s covered the room like a blanket. “You all have invented a source, one you trust, in your imagination. That’s what an audience does when information is missing, they fill in the blanks.” 

You tune the rest out. You don’t even mean to, you don’t think your ears work anymore. He writes on the board, he speaks, the class answers questions, you feel like a ghost, counting down the minutes until the class is over. You don’t think your phone screen locked once with how many times you tapped it to show the time. 

Unscripted is getting too big. It’s reaching farther than you ever expected it to, farther than you ever fucking wanted it to. When you started posting, it was to give women an outlet, a safe space to exist where sex wasn’t a taboo topic to speak about. That women can love sex just as much as men do, and it’s normal. It’s natural. You can’t help feeling like it’s turned into something else entirely.

Something your friends can debate, something the campus can gossip about, something to be fucking lectured in your goddamn class. No one is just listening to enjoy it anymore, they’re analyzing it, they’re picking it apart piece by piece, they want to know who you are. They want to know you. 

You don’t want to be known.

You had your shit packed up before he finished the last few closing words and rushed out of the class like a bat out of hell. You feel exposed, like the bigger Unscripted gets, the smaller you are. They’ve imagined what your fucking face looks like. For the first time since you started Unscripted, there’s regret sitting heavy in your gut, and it beckons you to move to action. You should delete it all. Every post, everything, you should remove your online presence entirely.

“There’s my sunshine girl.” Yunho is standing right outside of the double doors, two coffees in his hands, a gray hoodie swallowing his upper half, bright blue shorts reaching mid-thigh. 

You don’t know when the last breath you took was. But seeing him, a grin on his cheeks, holding a coffee out for you, the air tastes sweeter. Fresher. Like you’re breathing relief into your lungs. You don’t take it from his hand yet, you walk into him, pressing your forehead into his cotton-covered chest. You breathe in his smell, laundry detergent, a little weed-y. 

“What’s wrong?” His elbows wrap around you, he presses his lips to the top of your head. “Bad class?”

You nod, forehead still pressed to his chest. “I knew I should have skipped.”

He huffs amusement. “The drama. Do you have any more classes today?”

You shake your head in his chest, probably fucking up your hair. “I want to go home and sleep.”

“Take a nap before the girls come over,” he leans back enough to make you lift your head to see him. “You guys are pregaming at your place, right?”

He slides your coffee in between your bodies, and you catch the straw between your lips, taking a sip. You moan at the taste, “Fuck, I’m making sure Jen fucks San extra good for this.” You grin for the first time all afternoon, taking the cup from his hand, “Thank you, and yeah, the girls are coming over.” Your lips scrunch as you stare at the coffee swirling in the plastic cup. “I don’t even feel like partying tonight.”

“You don’t have to,” he immediately reassures you. “There’s literally another one tomorrow, and that party will arguably be better than ours.”

You snort, “You have no faith in your own frat, Yunho. I always have more fun at your house.”

He shrugs. “I’d leave my own party for Jungwon’s. You don’t have to spare my feelings when I know the truth.”

You roll your eyes, “Come on. Let’s get away from this stupid fucking building.”

“Yes ma’am,” Yunho answers, amusement playing in his tone as he follows you away from your now demonic lecture hall. 

You're halfway home before the thoughts creep up again. Yunho always gives you space, lets you work shit out on your own before you present them to him. But you can’t explain this to him, you can’t tell him any of it, but his comfort is what you need right now. 

You turn your head to look up at him, “Do you want to nap with me?”

His brows furrow, “I have a party to set up, sunshine. I gotta go with Wooyoung to the liquor store.” 

“Make him go alone,” you pout. “There’s like, twenty more of you, he can find someone else to go with him. Make Mingi go.” 

“I’d tell Joong to go before I’d tell Mingi,” he laughs a little. “Joong is stronger, believe it or not.” 

Your lips curve, “Really? He’s so tiny.” 

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Yunho muses. “Mingi’s just tall. He’s not strong, he’s a softie in every sense of the word. You know him, you’ve been around him.” 

You shake your head. “I judged a book by its cover. I’m fucked up.” 

Yunho wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “I’ll nap with you if you promise to wake up with enough time for me to go back home.” 

“Deal,” you nod into his hoodie. “Pleasure doing business with you.” 

“Guys.” Your nose crinkles at the sound, like it might have come from the astral realm, certainly not from someone inside your bedroom. “Guys! Wake up.” 

Air gets trapped in your nose as a yawn pulls your body into movement, arms stretching over your head.

“Jesus fuck, did you even set an alarm?” 

Your eyes peel open to Yunjin standing over the other side of your bed, hands on her hips. You blink once, twice. “What?”

“Sannie just called me freaking the fuck out over Yunho not being home,” she’s whisper-yelling, because Yunho beside you hasn’t stirred the slightest bit. 

You look at him, hair fucked up, shirtless, softly snoring. You smile, “He’s so cute.” 

“He won’t be after San fucks him up for not being home,” she’s speaking in her normal volume now. “Wake him up.” 

“Fine, fine,” you say through another yawn, lifting yourself up on your elbows. After she leaves your room that’s as dark as night, you flip over, peppering kisses up Yunho’s chest, his neck, you feel him stirring as you place the last one on his cheek. 

He groans, turning on his back, rubbing at his face. His voice is groggy as he asks, “What time is it?” 

You feel around the bedsheets for your phone. You don’t find it. “I don’t know, but Jen just came in here saying San is blowing her shit up about you not being home.” 

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “How long have we been asleep?” 

“No idea,” you answer without a shred of care in your tone. You wish you could go back to sleep. “Let’s skip. You can stay here and we can go back to sleep.” 

Eyes half open, he reaches for you, pulling you into his chest. You let him, pressing your cheek against his bare skin, and the two of you lay there silently for a minute or an hour, you don’t care. 

“How do you feel?” he mumbles, voice still coated in sleep. 

You hum against his chest, “Like I don’t wanna get up.” 

One of his hands slides under your shirt, fingertips dancing up your back. “I don’t really want to, either.” 

“See?” You peel your face off his chest, looking at him. “We should just stay here.”

He smiles, leaning forward to press a quick peck to your lips. “I would if I could.” You immediately pout. He huffs a laugh, “If we lay here any longer it’ll just be harder to get up.” 

You crawl on top of him fully, your thighs landing on either side of his hips, your upper half perched on his chest. “Please?” 

He groans, palms finding your thighs like magnets, thumbs rubbing at your bare skin. “I have to go,” he squeezes your thighs. “I know what you’re doing.” 

You play coy, “I’m not doing anything.” 

He shakes his head before lightly smacking one of your thighs once, “Up.” You pout further, unmoving. “If I have to say it twice then I’m not fucking you later, either.”

You suck in a breath as you crawl off of him, a streak of need shooting up your spine. “That was mean,” you whine, on your back now, watching as he crawls off the bed. 

He laughs to himself, “You’re just easy.” 

“Not easy,” you correct. “I listen like you taught me to, there’s a difference.” 

He pulls his hoodie over his head, then leans onto the bed to press a kiss to your lips before saying, “I’ll see you later, you can listen to me then.”

“Fine,” you mutter. 

He huffs a laugh under his breath, “You’re pushing it, brat.” 

You grin, turning on your side, palm holding your head up. “How far can I push before you give in?”

He shakes his head, but there’s a grin on his lips. “You’re ridiculous. I’ll see you later.” 

“Bye,” you say, watching as he leaves through your door. When you hear the front door close, you frown. You don’t want to be alone with your thoughts. 

Luckily, you don’t have to be. Yunjin storms into your room right after, turning the lights on before she’s talking at a volume too loud for your just woken state, “I don’t get it.” 

You blink at her, staring at her hands on her hips, her tight jaw. She doesn’t give you a chance to ask. “You said you’re not exclusive, but why are you sleeping together at seven at night on a Monday?” 

Your brows furrow. “What’s wrong with that?” 

“Nothing,” Yunjin shrugs. “Nothing’s wrong, per se–”

You interject, already dumbfounded, “Per se?” 

“Girl,” she huffs, walking forward until she’s sitting on the edge of your bed. “You ended exclusivity before there was even something real between you and now you’re spending more time together than you were before. Isn’t this like, the opposite of how it’s supposed to go?” 

“Huh?” Your neck cranes forward. “We’re not dating, Jen. We’re both on the same page, it’s not like we’re eloping.”

She pops a brow. “With your track record I wouldn’t be so sure.” 

You smack your teeth, laying back down. “I had a shitty day, Jen. I’m not in the mood to figure this shit out, I just wanted to take a nap.” 

“With him,” she adds. 

You sit up on your elbows again, shooting her a flat stare. “Yes, with him. He’s comforting.” 

“Comforting,” she echoes in a breath. She lays down on her side, elbow propped up beneath her as she asks, “What happened? Why was your day shitty?” 

“My class discussed Unscripted,” you mumble, mindlessly kicking at the sheets around your feet. 

She sits up. “What? Your class?” 

You sigh, then groan, laying flat on your back to run your hands over your face, turning on your side. Your voice comes out muffled as you groan out, “They imagined what I fucking look like, Jen.” 

“What the fuck?” Her voice is pitched, shocked, a little disbelieving. “Wait, start from the beginning.” 

You lay there, knees tucked up on your side as you tell her everything. How your professor made your podcast into a lecture, the questions he asked, how many fucking people in your class not only listen, but engage. They listen hard enough to debate. 

You feel sick all over again. 

“That’s fucking terrifying,” she says when you finish, her face scrunched up in horror. “I’m so fucking sorry.” 

“I want to delete it all,” you whisper, chest feeling tight. Then your lip quivers before you can get the rest out, “I want to wipe Unscripted off the internet. Gone forever. I’m done.”

“No,” she leans closer, crawling up on the bed until she’s laying right beside you. “Don’t say that.” 

Your voice cracks, eyes filling with watery heat as you say, “I mean it, Jen. I don’t like this.” 

“I know,” her voice is softer now, comforting. “But Unscripted is a part of you, babe. Through everything, even when I couldn’t be there for you, she was.” She reaches over, moving a piece of hair out of your face, frowning as she watches your tears fall. “You love Unscripted.” 

You sniffle, lips quivering, nose twitching as you try to hold back your tears, your fear that wraps around you like a fucking straight jacket. You can’t. 

She lets you get it out for a minute or two, a light hand on your arm, thumb swiping across your skin. When you’re sniffling snot and you can feel how swollen your eyes have gotten, she speaks again. “I know how scared you are, but Unscripted is your voice. She’s you. And you’re not the only person she’s important to, I think Sannie would be destroyed if you stopped posting.” 

A laugh breaks through, just one, but it’s heavy and coated in your crying voice. You wipe your eyes, “He would be destroyed.” 

She's smiling at the sight of you smiling. “See? I know it’s scary, but people really fucking love you, even if they don’t know it’s you.”

You shake your head, sniffling. “I don’t know, Jen. The bigger it gets, the easier it will be to put the pieces together. I think I should cut it off before it gets to that point.” 

“Do it next week,” she offers. “Or in a few days, or whenever this feeling passes. Delete it when your head is clear, not when you’re scared or crying or upset.” 

You nod, looking at her, lips still quivering. You manage to mutter a small, broken, “Thank you.” 

“I’ve got your back,” she smiles. “I love you, I love Unscripted, I love every version of you that exists. I want you to love her, too.” 

“I’ll try,” you force out, managing a smile. “I really don’t want to go tonight.” 

Her lips tighten in a frown. “Unfortunately, now you kinda have to go.” She smiles again before saying, “I won’t let you sit in here and cry all night.” 

You pout, “But it’s been so long since I’ve laid in here and cried.” 

“Progress,” she nods, assured. “Let’s keep up the good work, girl.” You groan, rolling away from her, and she laughs before stretching her body over yours, searching for your face. “Come on, you deserve a night away from thinking about all this shit.” 

“We party every other day,” you groan out. “I need a break or I’m gonna gain the fucking freshman fifteen again.” 

“You work at a gym,” she argues, tone final. “You’re coming, end of story. No more arguing.” 

She pushes off your body to lift herself up, and all you can do is mutter a pained sound. You’re sure she’s in your doorway when she yells, “Get up!” 

You sigh, laying flat on your back, you sprawl your arms out on either side of you, searching for your phone again. You find it under you, hot as hell like you’ve been laying on it this entire time. You have two missed calls from San, texts from San, texts from Mingi, texts from Wooyoung. You don’t even open them, sighing as you throw your phone next to you again. A second goes by of you staring at your ceiling before you inevitably pick your phone up again.

mister rich: is yunho there mister rich: answer mister rich: tell him he owes me

You gnaw on your bottom lip, fingers hovering over your keyboard.

you: my bad you: hes on his way back now

The three dots pop up sooner than you thought they would. 

mister rich: next time can u wait to fuck him after he goes to the liquor store w me

you: we weren’t even fucking  you: we were sleeping

mister rich: thats even worse mister rich: u two gross me out

You smile at your screen while typing back.

you: be jealous ho you: i can smell the envy from here

mister rich: ur smelling the sweat lingering in ur sheets from that fatass nap

you: LMFAO you: ok that was funny you: fuck u

mister rich: r u coming tn

You gnaw on your bottom lip again, bending your knees up, ankles crossing.

you: yeah im coming

mister rich: make sure u shower so u dont stink up my house

You scoff, turning on your side. 

you: make sure You shower you: u probably still smell like whatever girl u fucked today

mister rich: i smell like a garden full of blooming flowers mister rich: and body wash i bought from lush

you: so manly

You hear Yunjin yell from her bedroom, so with a complaining noise, you force yourself out of bed. But you don’t close your phone, and you don’t leave it in your bedroom, either. Wooyoung keeps texting you, and then continues texting you while you get ready. You did your hair, your makeup, even when the girls start walking in your house to pregame, he’s in your phone sending witty messages every few minutes. 

Sitting with the heels of your feet propped up on the edge of your chair, you send him one last message before going out to the kitchen with the rest of the girls. 

you: ok fuck off now you: the girls are here 

mister rich: is jihyo there mister rich: did u decide if ur spending the night with her or yunho yet

you: ur so irritating you: yunho tho

mister rich: u sure?? mister rich: hes talking crazy to mingi rn

you: maybe ill end the night with both of them then you: only time will tell

mister rich: omfg ur turning into me. u really are my twin

You thumbs-down the message.

you: pray i dont see u tn deadass

Hopping off your chair, you’re only half-dressed as you walk out into the kitchen grinning, greeting Jihyo, Sana and Momo, the first three to arrive. Jihyo’s hair is slicked back, an open-front top on her upper half, baggy jeans on her lower. You kiss her on the cheek, giving her a hug, complimenting her as soon as you see her. Whether she’s in a dress or something casual, she always looks fucking incredible, it doesn’t matter what clothes she has on. Perks of being literally perfect.

Sana looks like a princess dressed in pink, Momo looks like she chose the smallest articles of clothing in her closet, both look to die for. Delectable. You’re glad they’re all here not only so you can stare at them in awe, but also so they can help choose an outfit for you. 

You make yourself a drink before becoming their personal Barbie doll. Four olives just because you can, you sip on your martini from the chair in your vanity while all four of your friends go through your closet like it’s a shopping mall. Music bleeds in from the kitchen, the same pregame playlist Yunjin always connects to your speaker, it serves to bring your mood up the rest of the way.

By the time the other girls barrel in, you’re dressed, a little tipsy, and you can’t seem to wipe the smile off your face.

Wooyoung sits on the counter in the kitchen. People started showing up a while ago, but he isn’t the one to approach with greetings. He sips on his beer, watching from the corner, listening as his brothers make their loud-mouthed greetings, instead. Well, it’s really only Yeosang who’s still greeting everyone, and mainly because he’s been drunk for the past two hours. 

Hongjoong, Seonghwa and Jongho were somewhere else, maybe on the back porch, smoking. San, Yunho and Mingi stand in different parts of the kitchen, yelling to each other over the packed counter, their voices bouncing off the bottles of liquor. Something about having enough beer, having enough weed, and Wooyoung almost makes his third jab toward Yunho about not coming with him to the liquor store. He had to get Mingi to come with him, and Mingi can only carry one case of beer at a time.

He decides to let Yunho off the hook, he doesn’t really feel like bothering the older man anymore. He doesn’t feel like doing anything except sitting, watching, sipping his beer. And checking his phone.

He pulls it from his pocket, tapping the screen. Approaching ten-thirty, his lock screen is empty, just like it was five minutes ago. He shoves it back in his pocket.

“Why do you keep checking your phone?” San asks, brows furrowed, leaning on the counter on the opposite side of the kitchen. He talks across the room like there’s no one else inside it, like other than the four of them, the kitchen is empty. “Who’s coming here that you’re so impatient to see?”

“Your mom,” Wooyoung quips before bringing his beer back up to his lips. 

Mingi snorts before anyone else can react, “How old are you?”

Like he had it locked and loaded, he responds, “Old enough to fuck his mom.” 

“It’d be funny if it wasn’t possible,” San grimaces from the other side of the kitchen. “With you, anything is fucking possible.”

“Not anything,” Yunho interjects. “There are plenty of people on campus he hasn’t fucked yet, there are entire genders he hasn’t tapped.”

Wooyoung’s bottom lip folds over with a shrug like Yunho has a point. Mingi gasps at the lack of rebuttal, “Did you just come out? Should we celebrate? Should we invite RuPaul?”

“I just mean he’s not wrong,” Wooyoung says before sipping his beer again. 

Mingi gapes at him while Yunho laughs, and San doesn’t pay it any mind because he knows Yunho’s not wrong. He probably knows Wooyoung is at the least curious about the idea, too. 

“When’s she getting here?” Mingi asks, leaning over Yunho’s shoulder as the blonde pulls out his phone. Wooyoung’s head turns, eyes narrowing like he might see past Yunho’s privacy screen. 

“She’s here,” Yunho answers, and Wooyoung fixes his gaze out toward the living room. Plenty of people he knows, plenty of people he recognizes, plenty of people he’s been inside of, but none that make him want to hop off the countertop. 

He grabs his phone out of his pocket again like maybe this time there might be a message waiting for him. There isn’t.

By now, usually he at least has his eyes set on someone. Usually there’s a woman who’s made eyes at him, flirted with him, already tried to get him upstairs. Sometimes he is already upstairs by now. Tonight, the faces blur together, or maybe that’s because he won’t even get off the counter to window shop. 

San lays his elbow on Wooyoung’s knee, he didn’t even notice his best friend crossing the room. Voice whiney, he moans, “I don’t feel like mingling. I want to drink with Jen and then have sloppy, drunk sex and pass out.”

Wooyoung snorts, “Magical Monday night for you.”

San pops a brow. “Not you? Usually I can’t find you by now.”

It shouldn’t surprise him anymore how well San knows him, but it always does anyway. Wooyoung sighs, “Waiting for her to come to me.”

“Or him, apparently,” San muses, then realizes he’s leaning half his body on Wooyoung’s legs. He raises his brows at Wooyoung like he might be interested.

He can’t help but laugh, pushing him off. “Go find your girlfriend to have sloppy, drunk sex.”

“She’s not my girlfriend," San answers, but he doesn’t sound happy about it. He lowers his voice just enough for Wooyoung to still hear him over the music, “Do you think she’d want to be my girlfriend?” 

“Of course,” Wooyoung reassures him. “You’re obsessed with each other.”

San grins ear-to-ear. “I’m obsessed with her.”

“Trust me,” Wooyoung lays a hand on his shoulder. “She’s just as obsessed with you.”

They sit in content silence other than the blaring bass for a moment before San ruins it completely. “Since when are you two texting?”

Wooyoung whips his head to look at San, surprise and disbelief written across his features. “How’d you know I was texting her?”

“Because I know you,” San answers simply. “I’ve never seen you actually care about someone who isn’t one of us. It’s weird, I can recognize it from a mile away.”

Wooyoung’s nose crinkles. Softly, he mutters, “I don’t care.”

San stands in front of Wooyoung, staring at the younger man like he’s actually fucking stupid. Then his face softens as he leans his elbow back into Wooyoung’s thigh again, “Jen told me she had a rough day today.”

“Why?” Wooyoung asks. “What happened?” San smirks. Wooyoung grimaces, “You’re an asshole.”

San shrugs, “Okay, I had to prove my point, but Jen did actually say that. Apparently, she didn’t even tell Jen what happened, all she said was something happened in class.” 

You never complain about school, about academics. Actually, Wooyoung doesn’t know if he’s ever heard you talk about school other than the fact that you’re studying journalism. 

“Is she still coming?” Wooyoung asks, even if he knows it’s a stupid question because you told him you’re coming. Maybe Yunjin gave San an update. 

San nods, “Yeah, Jen said she had to basically peel her off her bed, I don’t know what happened.” 

His gaze flickers back to the front door as he sips his beer. It couldn’t be that bad if you’re still coming, right? 

Yunho comes back into the kitchen, he doesn’t look at Wooyoung or San before opening the fridge, pulling out a beer. San grabs his attention, “Are they here?” 

Yunho nods while he sips from his can. “Up front talking to another group of girls, I don't know who.”

“Does your girl seem to be feeling better?” San asks. 

Yunho shakes his head, then shrugs. “She’s acting fine.” He stretches his neck from side to side like he’s trying to figure it out. “She seems off, I don’t know. She doesn’t wanna talk about it.” 

Damn. Yunho doesn’t even know? 

“She was texting me earlier and she seemed fine,” Wooyoung adds before he can stop himself. He’s aware that he shouldn’t be adding anything to this conversation, it’s not his place to pry. San’s elbow digs into his knee a little harder as if to say I knew I was right. 

Yunho sighs, “I don’t know. Maybe you can get it out of her.” 

Wooyoung huffs his amusement with a shake of his head. “She tells me what she chooses to tell me.”

Mingi calls his name from the outskirts of the crowd, and like a dog whose ears just flipped upward, Yunho turns and immediately walks toward him. 

San turns his head slowly, brows raised. “So you were texting her.” 

“Fuck off,” Wooyoung quips. “No shit I was texting her.”

San laughs before pushing off Wooyoung’s leg. “I’m gonna go find Jen.”

“Good, go,” Wooyoung points at the crowd. “I’ll be after you soon enough.”

Wooyoung chugs down the rest of his beer, hoping it’ll take the edge off of the conversation he just had. You were texting him for like, an hour, and not once did Wooyoung think something was wrong. Is it hard to tell over text? Is it easy to tell over text, and he’s just fucking dense? Wooyoung has never had to decipher a woman’s wellbeing over text before. 

Oh my fucking god, he thinks. He doesn’t have to. He doesn’t even want to. Maybe he kind of wants to. 

He wonders if you would tell him. If you didn’t tell Yunho, then it’s bad. If you didn’t tell Yunjin, then it’s really fucking bad. If Yunho thinks Wooyoung might be important enough for you to tell… he wonders if he is. But wouldn’t you have said something over text? Or is this another one of those times where you bottle it up inside you and refuse to speak? He can still see you looking out the window of his car, your fingernails plucking at your jeans, your body so stiff and fucking uncomfortable. He can still hear the sound of you apologizing to him,  which he hates, because he genuinely never wants to hear it again.

So weird. He hates it. He hates that he hates it.

He pushes off the counter, throwing his empty can in the big ass recycling bin the frat brings inside for parties. He grabs another from the fridge before facing the crowd in front of him.

Maybe he’ll make sure you’re okay. Make sure you don’t have that pathetic look on your face.

Then he’ll go shopping.

Your smile is nowhere to be seen when you inevitably cross the threshold into Yunho’s frat. Your anxiety persists even under the blanket of alcohol; the martini and the extra shot you took weren’t enough to clear your mind, to give you a clean slate before coming here. You don’t want to be here. 

The music is loud, the air is thick and humid, there’s too many people– you wonder if every single one of them listened to you talk about body count this morning. You wonder if they agree, if they disagree, if they’ve imagined what your face looks like. You pull your sleeves over your palms, walking at the back of your group, hoping that maybe if the girls are distracted enough, you could sneak out from right behind them.

“You’re here!”

Of course not. Does he have a tracker on you or something?

You plaster a smile on your lips as Yunho approaches from your left, and the usual relief that washes over you when you see him doesn’t come. He kisses you, and you wish it lingered for a second longer, just to see if it might help. 

“Do you want a drink?” he asks, sliding his fingers through the belt loops of your shorts. 

“I’ll get there,” you smile, letting him tug you toward him. Referring to the girls in front of you currently talking up another group of girls, you answer, “We’ll all go.”

“Hey, what’s up?” he asks, brows furrowing, head tilting. “Still upset about class?”

“Yeah,” you say softly, lips flat. You redirect your gaze to your boots. “I’ll be fine, though. I’ll get drunk or something.”

“Be careful,” he says, but there’s no warning in his tone. He slips his fingers out from your belt loops as he muses, “I don’t wanna have to hold your hair while you’re over the toilet later.” When all you give him is a weak smile in response, he adds, “I’d do it, though. If you needed me to.”

“I know,” you nod, standing up on your tippy toes. “I’ll find you in a little.”

He presses another kiss to your lips, then he’s back off in the direction he came in. Fuck, you fucking hate this. You hate acting like this, but you can’t force yourself to pretend any better, to make it any more believable. You feel like you’re nearing a fucking breaking point, and maybe a house party isn’t the smartest place to be. 

At least Yunjin was right about something. You’ve already cried, what the fuck else is there to do? Lay in your bed, thinking, weeping? You miss your bed. You think the tears would return just fine if you let them. 

You turn to Yunjin again, sneaking up behind her, tugging on her purse strap. “Jen, I think I should go.”

She whips around, pausing mid-conversation. “What? Fuck no, you just got here. Let’s go get a drink.”

You stop her before she has a chance to move. “I don’t think drinking right now is smart.”

“Who cares about smart?” She props her hands on her hips. “Is ‘smart’ laying in bed, crying? No. You’ll feel better eventually.”

You grind your teeth together, frustrated. You should have just fucking snuck out, but no, you had to fucking tell her. She doesn’t let you dwell on it, she grabs your hand and pulls you through the crowd like she has one, singular mission.

She guides you steadily, weaving between bodies until you catch the neutral, bright lighting of the kitchen. “My girls!” San shouts from the kitchen, still too far away for you to see him. Yunjin squeals, and your lips curve automatically, involuntarily. You’ve never seen her like someone so much that she squeals just hearing their voice.

When you finally see him, he’s standing with Yeosang who looks fucked up already, his blonde hair unkempt, splotches of liquor on his gray tee. San seems like he’s keeping him upright with his arm tightly bound around Yeosang’s bicep. You greet them before asking, “Is he good?”

“‘m so good,” Yeosang slurs, leaning his head into San’s shoulder. “Are you good?”

You laugh a little, unsure of the appropriate reaction to have right now. “I’m okay.”

“He’s done for,” Yunjin muses quietly, her hand covering her mouth in amused disbelief. “Yeosang, I fear it’s time for bed, babe.”

“He just got started,” San reassures you and Yunjin, holding Yeosang a little tighter. The sleeves of his black tee squeeze his bicep with his hold on Yeosang– you literally can’t help but notice. “He’s not ready yet. Right, Yeo? You’re not ready yet, are you?”

“Fuuuck no,” Yeosang pulls away with a lazy grin. “Jongho promised games.”

“He promised Nascar,” San says quieter to the two of you. “The relay flip-cup game.”. 

“We’ll play,” San nods, reassuring him. “Actually, go find him, we’ll play now.” When Yeosang scurries off, he turns to you and Yunjin, “Let’s get you drinks. That just bought us at least thirty minutes, Jongho is upstairs fucking.”

You’re shaking your head as you turn to the countertop filled with bottles. You reach for vodka immediately, and San makes a noise like he just remembered something. “We bought vermouth! Oh my god, I almost forgot, he bought vermouth.”

Your jaw drops. “For me?”

“Who else drinks martinis at twenty fucking one years old?” San asks, ripping open the fridge, reaching inside it. “This has been in the fridge for at least an hour. There’s another one in there, too.”

He hands you a chilled rocks glass in the shape of a v, keeping the jar of olives to himself. You blink at him, fingers burning against the chill of the glass. You can’t believe it. “You put a fucking glass in the fridge for me?”

 San rolls his eyes. “Don’t act like I just gave you a million dollars.”

Your jaw is pried open, you can’t stop blinking in disbelief. “Who?” you ask, moving with him toward the unopened bottle of vermouth. He cracks it as you ask again, “Who got it?”

He looks at you with a flat stare. “Who do you think? Gimme the glass.”

You hand it to him, and you watch as he poorly mixes your martini. Not enough olive juice, too much vermouth. You don’t care, especially not when he drops four fucking olives in the glass and hands it to you. Who do you think? You almost can’t believe it.

“Thank you,” you mumble, immediately plucking an olive out to pop it into your mouth. “This is so nice.”

You turn to Yunjin and she’s wiggling her eyebrows over the top of her shades. She mouths the words, “He loves you.”

“Go fuck yourself,” you fire back at full volume with a mouth full of salty olive. You turn on your heel, eyes on the crowd, focusing on individual faces until you catch one you recognize.

Bronzy skin, a head of wavy, shoulder-length black hair. You lift up on your tippy toes to see him better. He sees you, too, from where he stands on the edge of the mass of bodies in the living room, a small smile playing on his lips. You lift up your drink, stomach bubbling with gratitude, you hope he can see it on your face. As he lifts his beer in response, your smile grows. 

You turn back to Yunjin who’s guiding San through making her drink. You wish you’d done that, but at least the martini tastes better knowing someone who cares about you made it for you. You might go as far as to say someone who cares about you bought the ingredients, too. 

“Look who’s smiling,” Yunjin coos from beside San, leaning her head onto his shoulder. “I told you a drink would fix everything.”

“It didn’t fix anything,” you argue, “but it helped. When can we get Jongho down here to start playing that game?”

San looks up through his brows mid-pour. “You wanna play?”

You shrug, “I think so.” 

“Here, babydoll,” San hands her the bottle, the glass, wiping his watery palms on his jeans. “I’ll go get Jongho.” He stops after two steps, turning back around, “Fuck, I’m scared. If he beats the shit out of me, it’s on your hands.”

You huff a laugh, “I think you could take him.”

San looks at you like you’re fucking stupid before he says, “No the fuck I can’t.”

You glance at Yunjin who shrugs, then you snort. San is fucking huge, you called him Biceps for, like, the first week of knowing him for a reason. If Jongho could take him, you don’t want to know how fucking strong Jongho is. 

You turn around again, and you tell yourself you aren’t looking for him, but on him is where your gaze lands. Wooyoung’s outfit is like Yunho’s, but in shades of black instead of white and gray. Charcoal denim on his legs, his ankles are crossed, leaving a sliver of golden skin exposed below his black tee. His arms are crossed, too, you can see the edge of his tattoo from where you stand, the inky thorns, the veins surrounding them. He’s doused in silver, a contrast to his skin, it stands out, you don’t doubt that it’s intentional.

Your feet move before you can think about it. It doesn’t take you long to cross the room, and your mind is blank the entire time, like he’s plucked the thoughts from your head just by looking at you. He’s good at that, you think. 

“Hi,” you greet him, standing an arm’s length away. “Thanks for buying me… stuff.”

Wooyoung’s lips tug upward, “Stuff?”

“Martini stuff.” You hold up your drink, lips bent in a tight smile. “I had a really fucked up day and it’s helping. A little.”

He uncurls his legs, standing a little straighter, a little taller. You tilt your head to keep his eye. He laughs a little as he says, “Just a little? Y’know, you’re really good at insulting me, but you’re kinda shitty at saying thank you.”

“No I’m not,” you argue, top lip lifted. You thanked him after the night he brought you to the batting cages well enough. “This is just…” You look at your shoes. “Unexpected.”

“More the reason to thank me properly,” he grins. “I’m nice to my friends, and we’re friends now.”

“I’m learning that,” your brows pop at the sentiment. You give him a one over before teasing, “I’m not smelling a flower garden, by the way.”

“No?” he asks, then straight up brings his armpit up to his nose. Your eyes widen, grin spreading. “Smells floral to me.”

You crinkle your nose, but your amusement is clear. “You’re gross.”

“Sniff.” He holds his arm out, brows raised. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Fuck no,” you muster through a laugh, taking a step back. “What the fuck? Do I look like someone who would sniff a fucking armpit in the middle of a party?”

Wooyoung shrugs. “Who knows what you’re into these days.”

“Not armpits,” you shudder. “I’m sure there’s plenty of women in here who would stick their face in there, though. Why is the man who’s never alone, alone?”

“It’s early,” he says simply. “I’ve got time to choose.”

“Shopping,” you muse. Verbally inhaling, you mutter, “Choose wisely, I guess.”

“What’s up with you?” he tilts his chin as he asks, brows knitted together with curiosity. “You’re being too quiet.”

“Too quiet?”

“Yes, it’s weird.” He’s looking at you like he can see through you. “Why was your day fucked up?”

You should have expected the question. You sigh, shaking your head, “Don’t ask.”

“I already did,” he counters.

You take a swig of your drink. “Then don’t expect an answer.”

He takes a beat to stare at you with his brows furrowed, like he can’t figure out the issue. You let him look, because at least with this, you know he can’t. His eyes narrow, “You’re no fun tonight.”

“Then stop talking to me,” you answer simply.

“I didn’t start the conversation,” he argues.

You smile. “But you can walk away.”

“Fair enough,” his bottom lip bends over, like it’s checkmate. He stares at you for another second, like he’s really fucking trying to figure out what’s in your head. He takes a gulp of his beer before saying, “Come take a shot with me, Virgin.”

He starts walking before you have a chance to protest. You stay on his heel, talking at him from behind, “You? Taking shots? At a party?”

He turns his head halfway, brows furrowed like you’re not making sense. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen it,” you shrug, walking back into the kitchen. “But I don’t think we’ve ever hung out at a party before.”

“All of our interactions at parties are in bedrooms,” he points out, his tone full of amusement. There’s a grin playing on his lips, it’s subtle, but it’s there.

You smack your teeth, complaining, “Don’t say it like that.”

“It’s true,” he says through a tiny laugh, grabbing shot glasses, one of the bottles of vodka. He pours until the glasses are unnecessarily full, muttering a tiny, “Oops.”

“Oops, my ass,” you scowl. “Are you trying to get me fucked up?”

“Depends on the meaning of that question,” he muses, sliding a glass toward you. 

You pick it up, and the liquid sways against the edge of the glass. Focused on the glass, you don’t look at him as you ask, “How did you think I meant it?”

“Take another one after this and I’ll tell you,” he says simply, looking at you with his lips tight.

You clink your glass with his, and shoot the liquor back. You hiss, and to your satisfaction, so does he. His lips peel back from his teeth, neck straining, you smile through the burn in your own throat. “Jung Wooyoung can’t take shots, noted.”

“Yes I can,” he argues. “You just watched me take one.”

You grab the bottle of vodka, “Then take another one.”

He mimics your voice as he asks, “Are you trying to get me fucked up?”

You laugh out loud at that, spilling a little vodka onto the counter. You curse under your breath, then slide him a glass. “One more.”

He pushes out a heavy breath, then picks up the glass, clinking it with yours. It burns a little less the second time, it’s smoother, or maybe you’re just feeling it now. His face morphs into something unattractive, and again, you fucking laugh. 

“Okay. Tell me,” you cross your arms, leaning your hip into the counter.

He licks the front of his teeth under his top lip, “Tell me why your day was shitty first.”

“My class earlier was fucked up, and–” you cut yourself off, realizing how easy the words slipped out. “You fucking bitch, that was on purpose!”

He smiles, “Yes, I’m trying to get you fucked up, and that’s the reason why.”

“Conniving. Maybe we shouldn’t be friends after all,” you shake your head, but there’s still humor laced in your tone.

He shrugs, “Were we ever really friends in the first place?”

Your stomach flips before your thoughts are cut clean off. “Are you guys taking shots?” you hear from your left, Mingi. He’s in shorts, a hoodie, the hood hiding his head of black hair. Sunglasses hide his eyes, too, like he doesn’t want to be seen or something. Your brows furrow, but you don’t ask.

“Yeah,” you answer simply. “Want one?”

“Take one with me,” he smiles like he might be drunk already. “You too, Woo.”

“Three?” you mutter under your breath. You should find Yunho and warn him.

“Is it shot o’clock?” San yells, Yunjin and Jongho flanking him. You don’t have to find Yunho, because he follows their tail. 

Yunho wiggles his way through, sliding an arm around your waist, kissing the side of your head. “How you feeling, sunshine?”

At least it’s easier to smile now. “Like I want another shot,” you answer simply, leaning into him.

His eyes graze over the counter, taking in the mess of bottles. “How many have you had?”

“Just two,” you shrug, eyes drifting to your other side, at Wooyoung. His gaze is stuck on your waist, Yunho's arm around you. You wiggle your fingers in his line of sight, “Are you alive? Or did two shots kill you already?”

“You both took shots?” Yunho asks. “Sweet, I think we’re gonna play Nascar after this.”

“Play,” you tell Wooyoung, who still hasn’t answered you yet.

He finally meets your eye, silently nodding before he says, “Yeah. I mean, sure, yeah, I’ll play.”

Everyone lines up around the counter, passing the bottle of vodka down the line. You cough after your third shot, the burn fiery, worse than the last two. You look at Wooyoung, who looks the opposite of you this time. He laughs at your expression, your face bent up in suffering.

You smack him on the arm with the outside of your hand, laughing with him. “Shut up, bitch, that fucking hurt.”

“Good.” He’s still laughing, too. “I hope it makes you suck at the game.”

“What if we’re on the same team?” you argue. “Then you have an ass player on your team.”

He shrugs, grinning, “Better you than me.”

You shake your head, turning to Yunho who wears a simple smile, like he just watched and enjoyed the exchange between you and Wooyoung. He bends down to say quietly, “You’re smiling.”

“Out of pity,” you respond. “Wooyoung’s not that funny.”

“Yes he is,” Yunho disagrees. “I’m glad that he–”

“Are we fucking playing or what?” 

You all whip around as one to Yeosang yelling from across the kitchen, his grin wide, his eyes glossy. Oh, he’s fucked up. There’s somehow more liquor on his shirt now, his lips are wet, his hair is a mess… Everyone shouts their agreement as you turn to Yunho, voice quiet as you ask, “Is he okay to play?”

Yunho shrugs. “He’s fine, just fucked up.”

You chew on your bottom lip. “Are you sure?”

“He won’t need his stomach pumped, if that’s what you’re asking,” Yunho grins. “That’s just Yeosang.”

Your lips scrunch. How does someone that drunk even comprehend the logistics of a game? Especially the hand-eye coordination it takes to flip a cup?

“Let’s go,” San announces. “That way Jongho can get back to his boy-toy.”

Jongho’s eyes widen, cheeks going pink. He follows San through the hallway, yelling, “He’s not my boy-toy!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you hear from the hallway. “Your boyfriend.”

“He’s not that either!”

You turn to Wooyoung, then to Yunho, brows raised, amused. “Jongho likes guys?”

“Have you not noticed?” Yunho asks, a sly grin playing on his lips. He starts for the hallway as he says, “All of us do.”

You look at Wooyoung who seems to be considering it. He holds up a finger, “I don’t know yet.”

You grin, “Bi-curious?”

“I’m a whore,” he shrugs, like that explains it. And it does, you guess, but the way he says it makes you laugh out loud.

He’s drunk, you think. His cheeks are pink, his grin is lazy, his entire body language feels… soft. Easy. For some reason, you’re finding comfort in it, in him. Not the kind of comfort that tells you everything will be okay, but a steady reminder that everything’s okay right now. You hope he stays downstairs for a while.

There’s a table set up in the hallway toward the bathroom, two lines of red solo cups on either side. The music feels muted in the hallway, like the bass couldn’t turn the corner to meet you in here, but it tries to get through the wall, a hummed vibration bleeding through. 

“Teams,” San announces. “Jen’s on my team. I want Jongho, too.”

Wooyoung scoffs from behind you, following you to the table, “I’m not your first choice? Or your fucking second?”

“I want to win,” San argues, filling up his red solo cup with a shots’ worth of beer.

You laugh under your breath, head tucked as you line up beside Yunho, Mingi on his other side.

“The fuck are you laughing at?” Wooyoung says quieter, moving in close to you.

Your smile is still there as you answer, “He basically just said you fucking suck.”

“Here, sunshine.” Yunho passes you an already opened beer. “Fill up your cup, don’t put too much in, though.”

You thank him, then fill up your cup while Wooyoung keeps going, “I don’t suck, I used to be fucking great at this game. He’s just saying that because I haven’t played in a while.”

You hand him the beer, then plant your hands on your hips. “Why haven’t you played?”

“Too busy fuckin’,” he shrugs, pouring the beer into his cup then sliding the into the middle of the table.

“Do we all know how to play?” San asks the table. Everyone nods, and you nod too, figuring it’s just flip cup. Relay has to mean you go down the line, right?

Yeosang interrupts, “Wait, are these our teams?”

“It’s four and four,” Jongho points to the table with an open-faced palm. “Are you complaining?”

“You’re on my team, so no,” Yeosang beams. Jongho’s lips perk up at the corners.

Your team is you, Yunho, Mingi and Wooyoung. That has to be good, right? At least you’re not first or last. You find Yunjin’s eye across the table, or at least you think you do, she still has her sunglasses on. She smiles and it’s lazy, bent with liquor, as if she’s so light she doesn’t care what she’s doing. You smile back. 

“Mingi starts,” Wooyoung whispers in your ear. “As you go down the line, you flip the cup like a regular game of flip cup.” You don’t question how he knows that you’ve never played before. “At the end, whichever team wins gets to steal someone. Then someone on the losing team has to drink more to keep the amount of cups even.”

You lean in a little closer, whispering back, “What if the winning team steals two people?”

“Then two people have to drink three times,” he explains. 

“Oh,” your brows furrow as you put it together. “What if the winning team loses?”

“Then they steal someone back,” he answers simply. “So this game could go on all night if everyone is super good and speedy.”

You snort, looking up at him. “Speedy?”

“Speedy,” he shrugs. “You know, quick.”

You bark out a laugh, “I know what speedy means, it’s just funny that you said it.”

“Shut up,” he barks back, pointing to the head of the table. “Focus on flipping.”

You watch as Mingi and San bounce their cups off each other, and they hit the table once before knocking back the beer. San is faster than Mingi, but Yunho is quicker than Yunjin. Your heartbeat picks up as you lift your cup, but you don’t feel the pressure as you place the cup at the edge of the table. You knock it upward with the tip of your finger, and it flips once in the air before landing perfectly. 

You gasp, turning to Yunho, “Did you see that?”

“I saw it,” Yunho’s smiling, his cheeks pink, too. “Good job, baby.”

You turn to Wooyoung, and just as you look, his cup falls to the side. Your mouth is moving before you can think about it, “Flip it, bitch.”

“I’m fucking trying!” he yells back, bringing the cup to the edge of the table again. His fingertips flick the cup upward, and it flips once in the air, but bounces as it lands, tipping on its side. 

“Lighter,” you tell him. He doesn’t answer, bent over, your eyes sneak down his back, where the base of his spine is exposed. There’s dips in the back of his hips, dimples on his back. Abruptly, he stands up straight, his shirt covering his back again. 

He’s smirking as he gloats, “I flipped it.”

You blink back into focus before quipping, “After three tries.”

The other team is cheering, and you realize quickly that they won. You didn’t even look over to see if Wooyoung was in time or not, too focused on him flipping the cup, too focused on his silky, smooth skin.

“We’re stealing Yunho,” Jongho decides for the team. 

Yunjin pouts, whispering something to San. He nods, “We’ll pick her next round, I promise.”

Yunho slips to the other side without complaint. Mingi turns to you, “Who’s drinking three times?”

You and Wooyoung look at each other for a beat before you turn back to Mingi. In unison, you and Wooyoung say, “You.”

“You’re quicker than me,” Mingi pouts. “You drink more.”

You look back at Wooyoung, and his lips are tightly pinned in a line like Mingi has a point. You turn your head to glance at Yunho, “You’re sick and twisted for leaving me.”

He doesn’t miss a beat, “Then come over here with me.”

Your cheeks feel hot as Wooyoung fills up the glasses for you. You stare at them, shaking your head. At least it’s only a shot-amount of beer. 

You’re oddly good at this game. Mingi struggles, but you flip all three cups effortlessly. Wooyoung struggles a little less this round, flipping his cup on the second try instead of the third. You nod like you’re impressed, “Progress, Mister Rich.”

He wiggles his brows. “I told you I used to be nasty.”

“You’re still nasty,” you quip. “Just not at Nascar.”

Yunjin calls your name, “Come over here, we’re stealing you.”

You round the table with a pep in your step, sliding in between Yunjin and Yunho. You watch as Mingi and Wooyoung turn their backs to you, their arms hooked over one another, whispering, strategizing. You turn to Yunjin, “No shot they’ll win, right?”

“They both have to drink three times since there’s six of us, I think,” Yunjin slurs, leaning her body into you. “That’s what Sannie said. No shot.”

You nod, and when you look back at the table, Yunho is filling up your cup. You smile at him, “Thanks.”

“Duh,” he says with a silly smile, bumping his hip into you. “What are you doing tonight?”

Your brows lift, mouth opening, then it closes. You shrug. Shrug. He laughs at you, “I know I said I’ll be with you later, but it’s cool if that’s not the plan anymore.”

You have no other plan. You basically murmur, “Really?”

“Trust me.” He juts his chin toward Mingi. “It’s fine.”

“Are we fucking playing or not?” Jongho looks down the line, Yeosang’s smiling face popping up right behind him. “Let’s go.”

You turn, facing Wooyoung who’s finishing off the last cup. He looks to Mingi, completely assured, “We got this.”

You smile again as Mingi agrees, brows furrowed, focused. So cute.

San and Mingi start for a third time, and Mingi fumbles at the start, the first cup. Yunjin fumbles after San. By the third cup, you and Mingi are neck-and-neck. You fumble.

“Fuck,” you mutter, trying again. You flip it on the second try, and then step away from the table out of instinct, like you might fuck something up if you stay too close.

You watch Wooyoung, how his Adam’s apple bobs while he chugs. His focused face, his nimble fingers, you watch until accomplishment steals his entire face. His arms go above his head in a cheer, and you can’t process that they won, not when his shirt lifts halfway up his stomach, exposing his sculpted abdomen. Abs, several of them– what the fuck? Two sharp lines diagonally lead into the waistband of his low hanging jeans, curving muscle making it impossible to pull your eyes away. 

When his shirt falls back down, he says your name. Your actual name. You pick your head up, cheeks on fire, terrified that he caught you. Instead, he says, “We’re stealing you back.”

You swallow, looking at Yunho, giving him a half-smile. He returns it with a broad grin as you round the table again, newfound nerves biting at your heels with each step. It’s not like you forgot he’s sexy, and you know he works out, you’ve seen almost all of the upper half of his torso already. Now you have enough to piece it all together in your mind. 

“I told you I’m nasty,” Wooyoung is already smirking by the time you take your place between them.

“Yet you still brought me back,” you say effortlessly. You miss your martini. “Clearly, you need me.”

“You’re good at this game,” Mingi says from beside you, accompanied by a cute pout. “You’re the obvious choice.”

“Hey,” Yunho scoffs from the other side of the table. “Not me?”

Mingi’s lips spread in a wide grin, “She’s got you beat, babe.”

Your tongue pokes out when you look at Yunho, proud of yourself, taunting him just a little. He shakes his head, amused. The third round is quick, like the blink of an eye. All three of you fucking fumble, and your confidence plummets. You defend yourself immediately, “It’s not my fault, I’m drunk.”

Wooyoung chokes on a laugh, “So are we!”

“Who do you want?” Mingi asks across the table. 

Jongho’s lips are scrunched as he looks between the three of you. “No one, really,” he says honestly. Your lips flatten. But then he says your name, and your smile returns. You refuse to pay attention to the I guess he added onto the end.

“I think it’s fucked that you haven’t chosen me once,” Wooyoung complains from across the table, hand shooting out towards San. 

San’s returning laugh is coated in disbelief, “It’s not even up to me! Jongho is choosing.”

“I thought we had something special,” Wooyoung shakes his head, looking away dramatically. This might be the most inebriated you’ve ever seen him. “Whatever, I guess,” he continues, waving a hand behind him.

San doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m so sorry, baby. Next time we win, I’ll choose you.”

Wooyoung turns halfway, “You mean it?”

“Of course I do,” San places a hand over his heart. You watch them flirt, bicker, whatever it is in complete disbelief, in amusement, entertained like you’re watching a show. You saw a glimpse into this part of Wooyoung the night everyone came over to your apartment, but he wasn’t nearly as unguarded, as free as he is right now. You don’t want it to ever end.

You look up to Yunho, “Is this regular?”

“I still think they hooked up our freshman year and just won’t tell anyone,” Yunho answers in a whisper. “It comes out when they’re both drunk, especially Wooyoung.”

You laugh, almost in awe, bringing your hands up to your cheeks. “I love tonight.”

“Good,” Yunho leans in to press an obnoxious kiss to your cheek. You push him off, giggling, wiping at your wet cheek like it was gross. Then you kiss him when he starts pouting. 

The rest of the game goes by smoothly, your team wins again, San successfully steals Wooyoung, leaving a pouting Mingi by himself. Yeosang laughs so hard at Mingi’s helpless expression that you have to wait for him to take a pee break before he comes back to play the last round. When he comes back, the game finishes in one quick round, Yeosang didn’t even get to drink before the round was over. He drank anyway. 

Everyone breaks off, Jongho leaves to find his boy-whatever, Yeosang decides it’s bedtime. Yunjin and San leave to go upstairs, and you’re left with Wooyoung, Yunho and Mingi. Yunho finishes stacking the empty cups, leaving them underneath the table before he glances at the three of you who probably look like you’re standing around, waiting for him.

He laughs a little. “What?” You, Mingi and Wooyoung shrug at once. Yunho snorts, “You look like children.” He glances at Wooyoung beside you, then at you, then at Mingi, all separately like he’s making a choice. Finally, he says, “Min, wanna go smoke?”

Mingi nods, and Yunho winks at you before Mingi follows him down and out of the hallway. You chew on your bottom lip, gaze sneaking over to Wooyoung who’s watching them leave, too. You cut through the silence, “I left my martini in the kitchen.”

“Make a new one,” he says immediately. “There’s a lot of people here, no one was watching it. I bought two glasses, I think.”

Your smile returns as you walk ahead of him toward the kitchen. “Of course you did, Mister Rich.”

“Well, what happens when you finish the first?” he asks from behind you. “You have to wait for another drink while the glass chills? That’s stupid.”

“Or I could just use ice,” you offer, voice light as you spot your martini sitting lonely on the counter.

He follows you, weaving through the same people to get to the counter, “Who the fuck likes ice in their martini?”

“Not me,” you answer with a little laugh. You pour out the remaining liquid in your glass, then treat the kitchen like it’s empty as you make yourself another.

“Exactly,” he leans up against the counter, watching you. “No one likes ice in a martini. Two glasses.” You side-eye him as he holds up two fingers, a smile playing on your lips. He drops his hand, asking, “What?”

You shrug, still smiling, “Nothing. Get another beer.”

“Nah,” he shakes his head. “If I drink any more, I can’t fuck.”

You choke on a laugh while dropping three olives into your glass, “You won’t be able to get it up?”

“I don’t like having super drunk sex,” he shrugs, body swaying against the counter. He’s definitely drunk, but definitely not crossing the threshold into hammered. You think you’re both on the same wavelength. He looks at you, “What’s the point if you don’t remember? Or if you’re so fucked up you can’t focus on the sex? I hate that feeling.”

“I forget you have morals sometimes,” you say mindlessly, then slap your lips closed, realizing how it came out. You face him, “That’s not what I meant. I mean, like, you have a lot of rules about fucking people, even though you’re the only person I know who fucks so many different people.”

His grin is lazy, mindless. “I know what you mean.” He sighs, “Sex is only fun when it’s good sex. There’s ways to make it good, and there’s ways to make it bad.”

“It makes sense,” you lean up against the counter next to him, sipping your martini. 

He turns his head to you, “What makes sense?”

“Why everyone wants to fuck you,” you say simply. “You don’t just fuck to fuck. Even if you don’t really care about the person you’re sleeping with, you care about how you’re making them feel.”

His brows furrow, lips bending, “I care about the person, I just don’t care about what happens after we have sex. My care ends when I tie up the condom.”

Your nose crinkles. “Gross.”

“Condoms?” He pops a brow. “Yunho doesn’t use one?”

“I meant the visual of tying a condom is gross,” you shiver. “But no, he doesn’t.”

“Did he get tested before you fucked him?” Wooyoung asks, intrigued now. “Did you?”

You shrug, “No, I don’t know. I didn’t ask him, but I know we’re both clean.”

“You’re playing with fire,” Wooyoung looks away again, taking a deep breath. “Take it from me.” He takes another sip of his beer before asking, “Are you on the pill, at least?”

Your cheeks burn as you mumble, “Yeah. I never got off it after I broke up with Yeonjun.”

“At least you don’t have to worry about–”

“Don’t even say it,” you wave a hand. “Don’t speak that into the universe.” 

He lifts his beer, “My bad.” 

“Has that ever happened to you?” you ask instead. “A scare?” 

“Of course,” he answers like it’s obvious. “The very first time I had sex, a scare came after. Granted neither of us knew shit about shit, but that fear has been in me from the start.” You raise your brows. He shrugs. “It still took me getting chlamydia to realize condoms are helpful.”

Your grin spreads, a laugh tumbling past your lips. “Who are you fucking, then?”

“Huh?”

“If you can’t get too drunk because then you can’t fuck, then who are you fucking?” you explain, crossing your arms. You look around you, there’s at least three women in the kitchen alone that he has either fucked before, or would fuck. He looks, too.

His lips flatten as he makes a noncommittal sound. “Whoever asks me, probably.” You stare at him for two seconds before he notices. “What?”

“Whoever asks you?” you repeat, like you can’t believe it. “That’s it? You don’t have a type?”

His head tilts, “I’m sorry, is this our first time meeting? Should I introduce myself?”

“Asshole,” you mutter. “You have to have some form of a type, there’s no way you fuck whoever asks you.”

“I don’t have a type!” he insists. “If someone wants to fuck me, and I want to fuck them, then I do. Simple as that.”

You shake your head, looking away. He pushes off the counter, deadpanning, “You’re the one who said you understand me a little better now.”

“And I do,” you argue. “But that doesn’t mean I would just fuck whoever wants to fuck me, there has to be something there. Attraction, a little chemistry, at least.”

“See, I don’t have that issue,” he shrugs. “I have chemistry with everyone, and everyone thinks I’m sexy.”

“But do you think everyone’s sexy?” you counter.

“Good question.” His head tilts again. “I think only sexy people try to fuck me most of the time, to be honest.”

You choke on a laugh. “So you’ve never turned anyone down?”

He holds up a finger toward you. “I never said that.”

And you realize then that he has turned people down, you being one of them. Your smile drops as you turn away from him, bringing your martini back up to your lips. You can feel the energy being sucked out of the air, like you’re stealing it all, forcing it inside your body and transforming it into something dark before letting it out again. 

“Hello?” he says after a beat. “What’d I say?”

“Nothing,” you lie. “You’re fine. Go find someone to fuck.”

He says your name again. You whip your head to face him, “Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Your name?” he asks, brows tied together. “It’s your fucking name.”

“Okay,” you look away again. He makes a disbelieving noise, a laugh, maybe, but he doesn’t move. You watch the people in the kitchen, people laughing, smiling, with no idea that you’ve just ruined your entire night, your entire fucking day for a second time. 

“That’s not why I said no to you,” he says, softer now, all the bite missing from his tone. “I said no to you because of Yunho–”

“Do you know how mortifying it is?” You cut him off with the question. You refuse to look at him as you keep talking, “It’s embarrassing, knowing that the guy who has fucked literally everybody rejected me. Twice.” 

“I told you–”

“I don’t care,” you say plainly, finally looking at him. He looks confused for the most part, but there’s a sliver of guilt in his eyes, and you want there to be. “I don’t care what your reason is, I told you what I wanted, and you said no.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he answers just as plainly. “You can’t be mad at me for that. The very next fucking day I walked into the Penny to see you making out with Jihyo, don’t you think that was confusing for me?”

“Why do you care?” you press him, pushing off the counter. “You probably took someone home from the fucking Penny. Are you seriously pissed that I didn’t come running to you after I talked to Yunho?”

“Kinda, yeah,” he shrugs, like he’s actually saying no shit. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because it wasn’t about you!” you finally break, exasperated. “I didn’t go non-exclusive just to fuck you, Wooyoung, even though I’m sure your big fucking ego was thinking exactly that.”

“But you still wanted me,” he puts emphasis on the word, taking a step toward you. “And ever since that night, you’ve been acting like you don’t. Which one is it?”

“W-what?” you take a step back, keeping the distance. “You said earlier that we’re friends, Wooyoung.”

“When the fuck have we ever been friends?” he asks, stepping forward again. You can smell him now, and fuck him for being right, because he did spray something floral today. “The day we met, you asked me if I would’ve fucked you. If I would have done what your shitty ex didn’t.”

You laugh. “Did you take that as me coming onto you? Are you serious?”

“You know that’s not the point,” he argues, firmer now. Your back hits the counter. “I didn’t take anyone home from the Penny that night.”

Your voice lowers as you ask, “Why not?”

“Because I wanted you,” he says shamelessly. You think your heart stills in your chest. “Yunho told me you weren’t exclusive while I saw you making out with Jihyo. I left because I wanted you.”

Your stomach does a flip. You don’t know what the fuck to say, all you can do is stare at him. It shouldn’t be surprising, he wants everyone, he wants sex all the fucking time. But you can feel it spreading, the heat, stemming from your gut to every limb, every nerve ending. He wanted you. 

You swear it’s the alcohol that gives you the confidence to ask, “Do you still?”

His eyes, so dark, drop to your mouth. “Yes,” he basically whispers, right before his gaze meets yours again. It’s honest, the look in his eyes. There’s no smirk, there’s no witty response, there’s no fucking challenge. He means it.

Your thighs clench together, your knees feel weak, your heart is banging on your fucking breastplate. You want him. You’ve wanted him for too fucking long now, you want more than his face between your legs, you want more than a kiss in his car. You want him. 

“Let’s go,” you offer, almost coy. “Bring me upstairs, then.”

A quiet melody drifted from the stage as the pianist surrendered to the saxophone. Applause rose, polite and restrained, before dissolving into murmured conversation, crystal clinked against crystal.

Seonghwa inclined his head in silent thanks as his drink was served. “Much obliged.”

The bartender smiled, unaware that the gentleman thanking him had witnessed Napoleon’s empire rise and fall before his great-grandfather had drawn his first breath. People rarely looked twice at old manners, they simply assumed old money… if only wealth were the strangest thing he possessed.

Seonghwa lifted the glass, more from habit than desire, the bourbon no longer intoxicated him. Neither did music. Nor beauty. Nor the passing of seasons. Time had sanded every sharp edge from existence until centuries blurred into one another with exhausting grace. Faces faded, cities transformed, empires crumbled into museum exhibits, lovers became names carved into stone.

For fifty-three years, one thought had accompanied Seonghwa with unwavering devotion.

Enough.

Not desperation, not grief. Merely certainty that he had lived long enough to become a relic wandering through a world that no longer required remembering.

Outside, thunder rolled somewhere beyond the Mississippi. Inside, a woman laughed three tables away. She was young, perhaps twenty-five. She threw her head back with the careless abandon reserved for those who had not yet learned how quickly years accumulated. Seonghwa watched her for a moment, not because she fascinated him but because once upon a time he had believed laughter sounded eternal. Now he knew better. Give it twenty years, the corners of her eyes would soften first. Another ten, perhaps fifteen, and silver would begin collecting discreetly at her temples.

Then, inevitably… Someone would attend her funeral.

He lowered his gaze to the bourbon. Everyone became a memory eventually, Seonghwa simply remained long enough to remember them. Grief had once been a violent thing, he remembered weeping until sunrise over faces whose names he could no longer recall. Now grief resembled old velvet: it was soft, heavy, constant enough that he only noticed its absence.

The quartet played beautifully, Seonghwa knew because he remembered when the song had first been written. He remembered hearing it played badly in crowded rooms thick with cigar smoke. He remembered the man who had once claimed, with complete confidence, that jazz would never survive another decade. He had been buried for almost a century. The music remained. As did Seonghwa. Against both their wishes.

“Another bourbon, sir?” The young man could not have been more than thirty. Crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to the forearms, a smile practiced enough to appear effortless. There was youth in his face—not merely in smooth skin, but in certainty that tomorrow would arrive because it always had.

“If you would be so kind.”

The bartender inclined his head and reached for the bottle, “You’ve hardly touched this one.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Seonghwa’s mouth. “No,” his voice was soft, warm despite the years it carried. “I seldom do.” The explanation seemed enough, the bartender simply nodded before replacing the bottle and drifting toward another patron. People rarely questioned peculiarities when accompanied by impeccable manners. They invented explanations kinder than the truth: old money, an eccentric collector, a lonely widower. Any of those fit more comfortably than monster. Seonghwa rested two fingers against the cool crystal once more. The bourbon smelled of oak, vanilla, and smoke. He remembered when whiskey had been harsher, remembered when it had been poured into rough clay cups by men with dirt beneath their fingernails and hope in their eyes. He remembered the first distillery he’d ever visited, the owner had insisted his son would inherit it. Neither man survived the fever that winter. The distillery did, and it still produced award-winning bottles.

Time had a peculiar sense of humor.

Seonghwa’s eyes wandered lazily across the room, the club breathed around him. Conversation rose and fell, never loud enough to intrude upon the quartet tucked into the corner beneath crimson curtains. Couples leaned close enough to become silhouettes rather than individuals. A businessman loosened his tie as he laughed, an elderly woman, draped in emerald silk and pearls, tapped one gloved finger against her glass in perfect rhythm with the music.

Life.

Everywhere.

Ordinary.

Fragile.

Beautiful.

Seonghwa had once believed beauty could become ordinary only through abundance. He had been wrong. It became ordinary through repetition. The first sunrise after his turning had stolen every word from his mouth, three centuries later he scarcely looked toward the horizon. He had witnessed cathedrals rise stone by stone, wars begin over pride and end in silence. He had danced in ballrooms illuminated by thousands of candles, crossed oceans beneath sails, watched electricity replace fire, watched horse-drawn carriages surrender to automobiles, telegrams to telephones, letters to glowing screens small enough to fit within a pocket.

Humanity insisted upon moving forward. Only he remained. Always arriving. Never belonging.

Another woman laughed somewhere behind him, bright and unrestrained. Laughter had become strangely predictable over the centuries, Seonghwa could hear affection in its cadence. Hear uncertainty, the careful politeness reserved for strangers and the careless joy shared between old friends. There had been a time when he memorised voices. There had been lovers whose laughter alone could draw him from another room.

Now...

Now voices dissolved together, becoming part of the same endless symphony that accompanied every city, every century. He could scarcely remember the sound of the first woman he’d ever loved. He remembered her eyes, remembered the warmth of her hand. He remembered the way grief had hollowed him when the war took her away from him.

Her laugh… time had stolen that.

Perhaps that had been its cruelest theft, not lives but memories. A mortal lost someone and mourned them for decades, an immortal mourned until memory itself began to fray.

What remained after three hundred years?

Seonghwa closed his eyes briefly.

There had been so many names, perhaps too many. If he allowed himself, he could still recite them, not because he wished to remember but because he feared the day he no longer could. His maker, his first friend after the turning, the pianist who had hidden him during a fever epidemic, the child who had insisted he looked lonely and offered him half of her sugared pastry before running back to her mother. Soldiers, artists, priests, sinners, lovers, enemies. Every one of them beneath the earth, reduced to dates carved into stone. Except him. The realisation no longer hurt, pain required sharpness, and his had long ago worn smooth. It settled inside him instead, constant enough that he noticed only when, for the briefest of moments, it lifted. Seonghwa could not remember the last time that had happened. Perhaps fifty years, perhaps longer, the decades had begun bleeding into one another sometime before the twentieth century. He marked them now not by calendars, but by funerals, by the buildings that vanished from familiar streets, by the faces that stopped appearing. He had become intimately acquainted with disappearance.

It was why New Orleans had called him back. The city had taken almost everything from him. It had also given him eternity.

How strange that the two should prove inseparable.

His gaze drifted toward the rain-speckled window. Beyond the glass, the streets shimmered beneath gaslight-shaped electric lamps, reflections trembling in puddles left by an evening storm. The French Quarter wore time differently than other places. It accepted change the way old aristocrats accepted wrinkles—with dignity and no expectation of reclaiming youth. Some cities forgot, New Orleans remembered. Perhaps that was why he had returned, not to relive the beginning but  simply to decide whether he wished to witness another ending. His time has come. He had seen everything he had once longed to see, loved more deeply than he believed possible, buried everyone he had ever sworn never to lose.

If eternity was a gift, it had become one left unopened. No. That wasn't true. It had been opened.

Admired.

Treasured.

And, eventually, outlived.

Seonghwa wondered—not for the first time—whether the heart could simply grow tired in ways the body never would.

The quartet drifted into another song, someone near the stage applauded softly, rain whispered against the windows. And Seonghwa, elegant as a portrait left hanging in a house that no longer belonged to its owners, sat alone with a drink he would never finish, waiting for nothing at all.

Or so he believed.

The resolve he needed to end it all felt closer tonight than it had in decades. He could simply leave his daylight ring, walk out and wait on a secluded balcony for the unforgiving New Orleans sun to burn away the centuries. It would be a quiet conclusion to a loud existence.

The old oak door groaned on its hinges, a draft slipped into the room, cool with rain, carrying the scent of wet pavement. Someone laughed near the entrance, someone apologised for dripping water onto the hardwood floor, the quartet never missed a note. Nothing remarkable had happened.

And yet—

Seonghwa frowned.

It was... quiet.

No.

Not the room.

Himself.

For the first time in longer than he cared to calculate, the incessant drone inside his mind—the endless procession of memory and melancholy—had fallen still. The silence was so unfamiliar that he found himself searching for its cause. His fingers loosened around the crystal glass. An odd sensation unfurled beneath his ribs, not pain, nor hunger. Something... remembered. His brow knit almost imperceptibly.

Impossible.

He had not possessed a heartbeat in nearly three centuries. Yet, for the briefest instant, he could have sworn he felt the phantom echo of one.

Once.

Slow.

Heavy.

Then nothing.

His hand stilled entirely.

“...Sir?”

The bartender stood beside him, a bottle poised politely in one hand.

“Pardon?”

“You were saying something.”

Seonghwa blinked.

Had he?

“I beg your pardon,” he replied, smoothing invisible creases from his cuff. “I fear my thoughts wandered.”

“They’ll do that in this place,” the bartender smiled before moving on, Seonghwa remained motionless. That...

...had never happened before.

He had mistaken many things across the centuries: grief for love, loneliness for desire, habit for purpose. But never this, his body did not forget itself. It did not invent sensations, and it certainly did not… he almost laughed.

Heartbeat.

How absurd that he was allowing nostalgia to masquerade as memory. New Orleans had always been dangerous in that regard. He was simply tired, that was all.

He lifted the glass, the bourbon reaching his lips yet he didn’t drink. Someone had entered his peripheral vision, he paid them no mind. A woman removed her raincoat near the entrance, shaking droplets from the dark fabric before offering an apologetic smile to the hostess. She laughed at something the older woman said, warm and unforced. The sound drifted across the room with impossible clarity, threading effortlessly between the saxophone and the murmured conversations. Seonghwa’s fingers tightened around the crystal.

No, not the laugh.

The feeling.

There it was again, that impossible pressure beneath his ribs.

A second phantom heartbeat.

Then another.

Slow.

Measured.

His eyes lifted before permission could be granted.

The movement startled him, it was instinct, his gaze crossed the room and it found you immediately. Not because you demanded attention,  quite the opposite. You weren’t trying, you stood beneath the warm glow of the entrance lamps, one hand tucked into the belt of your coat while the hostess spoke animatedly to you. Rain had kissed loose strands of hair that framed your face animated by easy expressions—curious eyes, a crooked smile offered without calculation, the sort of smile that belonged to someone who still believed strangers might become friends before the evening was over.

There was nothing theatrical about you, nothing that should have undone three centuries of impeccable composure. You were simply… Alive. Not in the way every mortal was alive. There was a peculiar brightness to you, as though the world had not yet succeeded in convincing you to dull yourself for its comfort. You looked at people when they spoke as if every story mattered, as if every passing moment deserved to be witnessed. Seonghwa had forgotten such people existed. The realisation struck him because he had once been one of them. Long before hunger, long before blood, long before eternity had taught him that every bright thing was destined to fade. You thanked the hostess with a touch to the older woman’s arm.

Such a small gesture.

So inconsequential.

And Seonghwa felt something inside him fracture, not painfully. Quietly, like ice surrendering to the first warmth of spring. His immortal existence had been defined by one unwavering truth. Everything ended: cities, kingdoms, families, love. Even grief, if given enough centuries. Yet as he watched you smile at a stranger… A thought entered his mind that had not visited him in over fifty years.

Perhaps not tonight.

His fingers slowly released the glass.

For the first time in decades tomorrow did not feel like a sentence.

Seonghwa did not realize he was watching until you began walking toward him, well not toward him. Toward the empty seat beside him.

Of course.

The rest of the bar had filled sometime during the evening, every velvet stool occupied save the one at his right. You slowed, glancing first at the vacant chair before turning those impossibly attentive eyes upon him. “Excuse me,” your voice was softer than he’d expected. “Is this seat taken?”

For the briefest moment, Seonghwa forgot language, a ridiculous thing. He spoke six languages with varying degrees of fluency. Yet a simple question seemed to catch somewhere between thought and speech. He rose instinctively, one hand resting lightly against the back of the chair. “It is not,” his voice emerged calm, and measured. “If it would please you.”

A smile, small and grateful. “Thank you.”

The bartender appeared almost immediately. “What can I get you?”

“A dirty martini,” you paused, “...extra olives.”

“Coming right up.” 

The exchange lasted mere seconds. Seonghwa stared fixedly ahead, he had perfected stillness centuries ago, he would not be discourteous enough to stare. Nor discourteous enough to acknowledge the peculiar awareness that now occupied every one of his senses. Coldness reached him first, not unpleasant, not the biting chill of winter, rather the lingering coolness left behind by rain, clinging to damp skin and fabric. It radiated gently from you, dissolving against the warmth of the crowded room.

Then—

Your scent.

His eyes closed,  only for an instant. Rainwater,  jasmine. Something impossibly soft... vanilla, perhaps.

No.

Not vanilla.

Books, old paper. The faint sweetness of aging pages. 

Beneath it all… you. Every mortal carried a scent no perfume could disguise Blood, life, and warmth. His kind often described it crudely: hunger. Seonghwa had always found that description lacking, blood did not merely smell of sustenance. It smelled of memory. Of childhood scraped knees, of racing hearts before first kisses, of laughter that stole one’s breath, of tears, of fear. Of every beautiful, fleeting thing reserved for those destined to die.

Yours...

God.

He had never encountered anything quite like it. Not sweeter, not stronger. Simply… familiar. Like hearing a melody one had loved long ago without remembering where. Something inside him leaned toward it before his body could object, his fingers tightened against the crystal tumbler.

No.

Absolutely not.

He had spent nearly three centuries mastering every instinct that separated predator from gentleman. He would not falter now, not over one woman, not over a scent. He lowered the bourbon to the polished wood with deliberate care, the glass did not tremble. His hands never did, only his thoughts.

Beside him, you thanked the bartender as your martini was set upon its coaster. “Perfect,” you plucked one olive free with the little silver pick, smiling to yourself before taking a sip. “...Mmm.” The quiet sound of satisfaction drew his attention despite every effort to remain detached. Seonghwa looked, just once. You caught him. There was no accusation in your expression, no embarrassment, only amused curiosity. “Good bourbon?” The question arrived lightly, conversationally.

Seonghwa regarded his untouched glass. “I could not honestly say.” 

One elegant brow lifted. “No?”

“I’ve yet to drink it.”

You looked from the nearly full bourbon...

...to him.

“...Then why order it?”

For the first time that evening—

for the first time in what felt like an age—

the corner of Seonghwa’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t merely polite. It was small and almost imperceptible, but real. “I’m beginning to suspect,” he said quietly, “that was the question all along.”

You blinked. Then laughed. It was nothing like the laughter echoing from the tables behind you. Yours came quietly, escaping before you could stop it, accompanied by the smallest shake of your head. “That’s... incredibly cryptic.”

“I’ve been told as much.”

“Frequently?”

“Once or twice,” the answer was delivered with such unwavering sincerity that you couldn’t tell whether he was joking. You studied him from the corner of her eye. Everything about him felt... curated. Not artificial, rather intentional. His suit fit as though it had been tailored for him alone, silver cufflinks caught the warm light whenever he moved his hands, though he scarcely moved at all. His posture remained impossibly straight without seeming rigid, shoulders relaxed, one hand resting lightly beside the untouched tumbler. Even the way he occupied silence felt practiced, comfortable. Most people rushed to fill it. He simply... existed within it.

“You know,” you said after another sip of your martini, “I almost didn’t come tonight.”

“Indeed?” 

“Mhm,” you rolled the olive between your teeth before setting the pick back down. “I've had one of those weeks where staying home in pyjamas sounds infinitely more appealing than putting on heels.”

“I confess I know very little of high heels.”

Another smile threatened on your face, “I would’ve never guessed.”

“No.”

You glanced at him fully this time, his expression remained composed, yet there was something so perfectly dry in his delivery that you laughed again. “You’re funnier than you let on.”

“I assure you, that was not my intention.”

“Oh, I think it was.”

Seonghwa inclined his head ever so slightly. “You are entitled to your suspicions.”

God.

Who talked like that?

Not in an affected way, not like someone performing sophistication. It sounded... natural. As though every sentence had been assembled with care before it ever reached his lips. You wondered how old he was. Mid-thirties, perhaps. Older? It was impossible to tell. There wasn’t a single line on his face, yet there was something profoundly settled about him. A patience you’d only ever seen in elderly professors or grandparents who had nothing left to prove.

“You aren’t from around here.”

His gaze drifted toward the quartet, “I was.”

“Were?”

“A very long time ago.”

You smiled, “So... college?”

A pause.

“...Something like that.”

Seonghwa hated lying but it had become necessary centuries ago. Not because he feared discovery but because the truth burdened others more than falsehood burdened him.

How old are you?

Three hundred and eight.

Where are you from?

A country whose borders no longer exist.

Do you have family?

Not anymore.

The answers had only ever invited pity or disbelief. Tonight… he found himself wishing he could answer honestly. He could not understand why.

“I come here every Thursday,” you said, swirling your martini absentmindedly. “Well... almost every Thursday.”

“A habit?”

“I like routines,” you shrugged, taking another sip of the liquor from the crystal glass. “They make life feel less chaotic.” 

Seonghwa’s eyes settled on you once more. “What an extraordinary privilege.”

You frowned. “...Routine?”

“To believe there shall be enough tomorrows to justify one,” the words escaped before he could stop them. Silence followed but not awkwardly.

You looked down into the clear liquid of your drink. “...That’s a sad way of looking at it.”

“Is it?”

“I think so.”

“Why?”

You rested your elbow against the bar. “Because tomorrow isn’t promised.”

“No.”

“So I’d rather have a Thursday tradition than spend every Thursday wondering whether there’s any point.” His gaze remained fixed upon you. You continued, unaware that every word was lodging somewhere deep inside him. “I mean…” You smiled sheepishly. “Maybe that’s naive.” 

“No,” his answer came immediately. “...It is not."

You looked surprised by the certainty in his voice. “I think people overcomplicate happiness,” you went on. “Everyone’s chasing these huge life-changing moments,” you gestured vaguely around the room before continuing. “But sometimes...” Your eyes wandered toward the stage, where the saxophonist had begun a slow, aching solo. “...Sometimes it’s just this.”

“The music?”

You nodded. “And the rain outside. A martini,” you lifted your glass. “The extra olives,” a grin tugged at the corner of your mouth. “And accidentally making conversation with the mysterious bourbon guy who apparently buys drinks for decorative purposes.”

For a heartbeat—

a real one, or the phantom of one—

Seonghwa forgot to breathe.

Not because of the joke. Because of the ease with which you occupied the moment. That was what unsettled him most. Not your smile, not your warmth, not even the strange, impossible pull that seemed to draw him toward you despite every instinct he had spent centuries mastering. It was the simplicity of it. You had entered his evening as naturally as the rain had entered the streets outside. You had taken a place beside him as though you belonged there, as though his silence was not something to be feared or filled, but merely something that could exist beside another person.

As though loneliness was not an inevitable fate.

As though it could simply...

be interrupted.

The thought was absurd. And yet, his gaze drifted toward the untouched bourbon resting before him. For decades, he had ordered drinks he never intended to finish. A glass in his hand made him appear human enough; a small performance of normalcy he had perfected long ago. But tonight—

Tonight, he reached for it.

The crystal was cool beneath his fingers. Slowly, almost cautiously, Seonghwa lifted the glass to his lips. The bourbon was familiar, he knew every note of it before it even touched his tongue. The richness of oak, the faint sweetness of vanilla, the sharp warmth of alcohol that lingered afterward. But memory was not the same as experience. For so long, everything had simply passed through him. Music, food, seasons, years. Beautiful things had become distant reflections, things he remembered enjoying rather than things he could still enjoy. But this—

This was different. The burn was real, the warmth was real. For one brief moment, the world reached him. 

Beside him, you watched the amber liquid disappear past his lips, your expression brightening with satisfaction. “Look at that,” your smile turned teasing. “The spell is broken.”

Seonghwa lowered the glass, placing it carefully against the dark mahogany. “It would appear so.” 

You rested your chin in your hand, looking at him with amusement. “And who, exactly, deserves credit for such a miraculous achievement?”

His gaze moved toward you. For a moment, he had no answer. Not because he did not know but because the truth felt far too vulnerable to say. “My companion.”

Your brows lifted. “Oh?”

“Indeed.”

“And what did I do?”

The question was asked lightly but Seonghwa found himself considering it with more seriousness than it deserved. You had not done anything extraordinary, you had not performed some impossible feat. You had simply sat beside him. You had spoken. You had laughed. You had treated him as though he were not something separate from the world.

“You reminded me,” he said quietly, “of the value of an evening.” His fingers rested against the edge of the glass. “An art I fear I had entirely forgotten.”

For once, you did not immediately tease him, you only watched him. Then, slowly, a smile appeared. “Are you always this formal?”

Seonghwa inclined his head slightly. “I was taught it was discourteous to be otherwise.”

A soft laugh escaped you, a simple sound, human sound. And once again, that strange phantom sensation stirred beneath his ribs.

A heartbeat that did not exist.

A memory of something he had lost.

“Well…” You leaned closer, only slightly. “Don’t stop.”

His eyes found yours. “Excuse me?”

“It’s charming.”

The word struck him with a quiet force he had not expected.

Charming.

For centuries, he had been called many things. Elegant. Beautiful. Intimidating. Mysterious. Cold. Dangerous. People looked at him and saw old wealth, old power, old secrets. They saw something distant. Something untouchable. But charming? No. That was different. That was a word belonging to ordinary moments, to warm conversations, to someone you enjoyed sitting beside. It was not a word reserved for legends or monsters. It was a word reserved for people. And somehow, impossibly, you had looked at him and found one.

Time, which had dragged behind him for decades like a chain he could never break, seemed to loosen its grip. The quartet shifted into another song. The saxophone fell quiet, replaced by the smooth trumpet. The bartender polished the counter once, then twice, never interrupting the quiet corner you had claimed together. Your martini disappeared and was replaced with another, the silver pick holding three fresh olives. Seonghwa’s bourbon remained mostly untouched. And yet, for the first time in longer than he could remember, he was not counting. Not the exits, not the footsteps around him, not the heartbeats filling the room, not the endless years ahead of him. He was simply… there. Talking.

You spoke of books first. Not simply stories, but the feeling of them. The smell of old pages, the worn edges of a beloved novel, the strange comfort of returning to a world that had waited patiently for you. “Old books are the closest thing humans have to time travel,” you said.

Seonghwa found himself smiling faintly. “An interesting perspective.”

“It’s true,” you turned your glass slowly between your fingers. “Someone held that book before you. Someone loved it before you. Maybe someone read the same sentence and felt the same thing you did,” your eyes drifted around the room. “You can feel when something has lived.”

The words lingered.

You spoke of the French Quarter next. The architecture, and history. The way the city carried pieces of every person who had passed through it. “I love things that have survived,” you said softly, your voice lowered, almost reverent. “Antiques. Old buildings. Jazz. They have stories. They’ve seen thousands of lives, and they carry those secrets with them.”

Seonghwa looked at you and he wondered if you understood the irony of your own words. You admired things that survived, yet you had no idea you were sitting beside one. He was older than every object in this room. Older than most of the stories hidden within these walls. He carried too many memories. Too many names. Too many ghosts. Then your gaze returned to him. Bright, and curious, unburdened by the centuries he carried.

“What’s the oldest thing you’ve ever seen?”

The question was innocent, and that was why it was dangerous. Because Seonghwa answered before caution could stop him. “The construction of the—” he stopped, the words froze.

A mistake. But after centuries of silence, even the smallest crack could become an opening.

You blinked.

“Construction of what?”

The construction of the French Opera House.

Seonghwa lowered his gaze to the bourbon. He had spent his entire existence guarding this truth not because he feared what others would think but because he knew what would come after. Fear. Questions. Distance. People did not know how to love something that could outlive them. And yet, looking at you now, he found himself too tired to build another wall. He was tired of pretending, tired of weaving careful lies around a truth that had become heavier with every passing century. For just a moment… he wanted to stop. “I’m very old.”

The confession was not dramatic, there was no grand revelation, only a quiet truth spoken by a man who had carried it for far too long.

You gave a small laugh, assuming it was another piece of his dry humour. “I figured.”

His eyes remained on the glass. “You did not.”

That made you pause.

Slowly, Seonghwa lifted his gaze. “I am older than this country.”

Your smile faded, and your eyes searched his face for amusement. For any sign that he was playing some elaborate game. There was none.

The silence stretched.

Then you laughed again. But this time it was uncertain. “...You’re serious.”

“I have not lied to you this evening,” and that was when he heard it. The change in your heartbeat, the subtle shift in your breathing, the sudden rush of fear. He smelled the adrenaline before he saw the colour leave your face. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the bar, and immediately, instinct overcame everything else. Not hunger. Not self-preservation. Concern. “Look at me.”

You did.

Seonghwa softened his voice.

“You needn’t be afraid.”

The command was gentle.

The panic loosened its hold. Your heartbeat slowed, shoulders relaxed, mind remained clear. You drew in a slow breath. “...Did you just do something?” 

Seonghwa looked away, “Yes.”

“What?”

A pause. Then, quietly: “I allowed you to remain calm.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, “You can do that?”

“I can.”

It should have frightened you. Instead, you studied him. Then, somehow: “Do you sleep in coffins?”

Seonghwa stared. “...Good heavens, no.” 

A tiny smile appeared, “Can you go in the sun?” 

“I find it highly unpleasant.”

“So...” You tilted your head. “Sunscreen?”

For a moment, he simply looked at you. Then he sighed softly. “In rather excessive quantities, yes.”

The absurdity of the conversation settled over both of you.

And somehow—

impossibly—

you laughed.

So did he.

Quietly. Briefly. But genuinely. The sound echoed through the shadowed corner of the club. And that was what finally destroyed him. Not the fact that you knew. Not the fact that you were sitting beside a creature that should have terrified you. But that you knew exactly what he was… and you were still smiling. For the first time in decades, Seonghwa did not feel like a relic. Not a monster. Not a ghost. Just a man sitting beside someone who made the world feel alive again. The laughter faded slowly, not because either of you wanted it to. Because all laughter eventually ends, that was something Seonghwa knew better than anyone. His smile remained for a moment longer than it should have. Then reality returned. The woman beside him knew. Not everything but enough. You knew the impossible, the truth hidden beneath three centuries.

“I am weirdly calm about this,” you glanced at him.

“I told you to be.”

A pause. Then the faintest hint of amusement returned to your face. “Although I do have some questions.”

“I imagined you might.”

“First…” You lifted one finger. “Do you have fangs?” 

The question was so unexpectedly ordinary that he almost forgot how to respond. “Yes.”

Your eyes widened. “Really?”

“That is typically considered one of the more recognizable characteristics.”

“Can I see?”

“No,” it came immediately.

You laughed, “That was suspiciously fast.”

“It was also necessary.”

“Why?”

His expression softened. “Because you are still human.”

The teasing faded slightly, not entirely. There it was again, that small, inconvenient reminder: You were temporary. He was not. Every moment he spent with you was a moment he would eventually remember alone. 

“I have to admit something,” your voice pulled him from his thoughts. “I am not sure if I should be terrified or fascinated.”

A faint smile touched his lips. “Most would choose the former.”

“Most people aren’t sitting next to a vampire in a jazz club at midnight.”

“A reasonable observation.”

“Do you always answer like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve stepped out of a century-old novel.”

He lowered his gaze. “Perhaps I have simply remained in one.”

The answer should have been sad, you heard the sadness and that was what frightened him. Because you heard the things he did not say. 

“How long have you been alone?”

He looked at you. Silence, a dangerous one. Because that question was far more terrifying than any question about his immortality. He could answer how old he was. He could explain what he was. But loneliness? That required admitting something was missing. His fingers tightened slightly around the glass. “I do not remember.”

Your expression changed. Not into pity, something gentler. And somehow that was worse. The room had grown quieter. The musicians had begun packing away their instruments. The last notes of the evening lingered in the air, soft and fading. 

A goodbye. Everything eventually became one, Seonghwa knew that better than anyone. “I should go,” the words came automatically, the old instinct, old escape.

You tilted your head. “Do you want to?”

The question stopped him because the answer came too quickly.

No. He did not want to.

And that terrified him.

“You make things very difficult.”

A small smile appeared on your lips. “Do I?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

He looked at you for a long moment. Because you make me remember. Because you make me want. Because I had finally accepted the end, and then you walked through the door.

Before Seonghwa could answer, you closed the distance. Not dramatically, nor seductively. Your fingers brushed his. The contact was brief, barely there. Yet Seonghwa went completely still because every instinct told him to pull away. Every reason he had built over centuries rose at once. You were mortal. You would age. You would die. And Seonghwa? He would remain. He knew this ending. He had lived it countless times.

“Don’t,” the plea left him before he could stop it.

You paused, eyes searching his. “Don't what?”

He had no answer.

Don’t make me want this. Don’t make me remember what it feels like to be alive. Don’t give me something I cannot keep.

But you were already too close. “I don’t think you actually want to leave.” His breath caught, a human would have inhaled, he did not need to. But for a moment, he almost did. Your lips touched his for a brief moment, and Seonghwa forgot every language he had ever learned. For one impossible second, there was no history, no centuries, no graves, no inevitable ending waiting patiently in the distance.

Only warmth.

You.

The unbearable softness of being wanted.

His hands remained at his sides, he did not move because moving meant admitting that he wanted this. That he had wanted this from the moment you walked through the door. Then you pulled back slightly, enough to look at him, and that was when he realized something. You were giving him the choice: you were not asking him to take, you were asking him to stay. The realisation broke whatever remained of his restraint.

Slowly—

carefully—

as though approaching something fragile enough to disappear—

his hand lifted.

His fingers touched your cheek, cold against your warmth and for the first time in decades… he allowed himself to want. Only for a moment. He had spent so long measuring his existence in losses that he had forgotten what it meant to desire something without immediately mourning its ending. He knew better. He knew exactly what stood between you. He knew how this story ended. He had watched it happen before. So he should have stepped away, he should have thanked you for the evening, offered some elegant farewell, and disappeared into the night before this fragile warmth became something he could no longer bear to lose. That would have been the kind thing, the honourable thing, the thing he had always done. But then you looked at him and Seonghwa found himself making a terrible, selfish bargain. Just this once. One moment. One breath. He would allow himself this. He would not think of tomorrow. He would not think of the inevitable grief waiting patiently at the end of every human connection. He would simply exist here. With you. For one moment more.

The movement felt unfamiliar, almost impossible. As though his body remembered something his heart had long forgotten. His fingertips brushed your cheek, warm and alive. The contrast should have been unbearable. Instead, it was the most beautiful thing he had felt in decades. Your breath caught softly, not in fear but in surprise. And Seonghwa closed his eyes for the briefest moment. He should stop. He should stop now. Before there was more to regret. Before he crossed the final distance. But he had already crossed the most dangerous distance of all. He had let himself hope. Your eyes met his and in that quiet space between one heartbeat and the next, Seonghwa made the choice. Not forever, he was not foolish enough to believe in forever. Just now. Just this. His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, an almost reverent gesture, memorising something he already knew he would lose. Then he leaned closer. Slowly, giving you every opportunity to change your mind. You did not.

The kiss was gentle. Not the desperate hunger of a creature starved for centuries. Not possession nor taking. Something far more dangerous.

Tenderness.

For a moment, Seonghwa forgot what he was. Forgot what he would eventually have to do. There was only the warmth of you beneath his hand. The softness of your lips. The quiet sound of your breath. The impossible miracle of being close to someone who knew the truth. He had forgotten that he could feel this. That he could want this. That there was still some part of him capable of reaching for something instead of simply letting it pass. And that was the cruelest part. Because the moment it ended, he knew. He knew he would remember it forever. A mortal moment. A fleeting moment. A single evening in a New Orleans jazz club. And somehow, it would become one of the most permanent things he had ever known.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested lightly against yours. His eyes remained closed. For one final second, he allowed himself to pretend. That this was possible. That he could stay. That he had not spent centuries preparing himself for goodbye. Then reality returned, and with it came the terrible knowledge that he had broken the one rule he had never allowed himself to break.

He had given his dead heart something to lose.

The rain had stopped. New Orleans shimmered beneath the streetlights, the pavement dark and gleaming. Seonghwa had walked these streets for longer than most buildings had stood. He knew every turn, every shadow, every place where history had left its mark. And yet, tonight, the city felt unfamiliar. Because you were beside him.

“You are quiet,” your voice pulled him from his thoughts,  he looked at you.

“I am thinking.”

“About what?” 

“About how strange it is.”

You tilted your head, “What is?”

“That after all this time…” His voice softened. “I had convinced myself I wanted nothing,” the honesty of the confession lingered between you.

“And now?”

His gaze moved over your face.

Now.

A dangerous word. 

“Now I find myself wishing for things I have no right to ask for.”

“Who decides what you have a right to?”

He almost smiled, “If only it were that simple.”

“Maybe it is.”

And for one impossible moment, Seonghwa believed you. That was the tragedy. He believed you. The thought was so simple, so impossibly human. Maybe it could be that easy. Maybe a person did not need permission to want something beautiful. Maybe he was not destined only to watch life pass him by. Maybe, after centuries of saying goodbye, he could finally allow himself to stay. The hope was fragile and terrifying. And yet, for one fleeting moment, it was enough. His hand remained against your cheek, his thumb barely moving, as though he feared that even the slightest motion would break the illusion. You looked at him with such certainty that it almost hurt. As though you did not see the years behind his eyes. As though you did not see the graves. The names. The endless procession of people he had loved and lost. You only saw him.

And he had to let you go.

Not because he wanted to. Because the thought of you carrying the weight of him—the fear, the danger, the inevitable grief—was unbearable. He had spent centuries taking from life. Taking moments. Taking memories. Taking whatever little pieces of humanity he could hold onto. He would not take your future too. Slowly, he lowered his hand. The loss of warmth was immediate. And somehow, it was worse than any wound. “I am sorry.”

Your brows drew together. “For what?”

He looked at you, memorising everything he had no right to keep. The softness of your expression, the curiosity in your eyes. “I should not have allowed this evening to happen.”

You went quiet.

He hated that he was asking for something, he hated even more that you would give it. “I have lived long enough to know the consequences of wanting something I cannot keep.”

Your expression softened. “And what if I don’t care about the consequences?”

For a moment, Seonghwa saw another path. A different life, one where he stayed. One where he saw your smile again. One where he walked beside you through the years instead of watching you disappear from them. But he had seen that story before. He knew how it ended. The mortal heart was not built for eternity. Only moments. And perhaps that was what made them precious.

“You deserve a life untouched by my sorrow.”

“Is that what you think you are?” The question caught him off guard. “A sorrow?” 

For a moment, he had no answer. Because once, long ago, he had been a man. Then he had become something else. Something caught between existence and absence, something that survived. “Sometimes,” he admitted quietly, “I think that is all I have been for a very long time.”

“You don’t have to be.”

His eyes closed, only briefly because if he looked at you too long, he would fail. He knew it. He would choose selfishness, he would choose one more night. One more conversation. One more morning he had no right to hope for. And he could not do that. Not to you. Not when you had given him the greatest gift anyone had given him in decades. You had reminded him he was still capable of feeling. He would not punish you for it. His eyes opened. The decision was made. “Look at me.”

Your gaze met his.

The command was softer this time, not an order but a farewell. The world seemed to quiet around you. Everything faded. “I want you to listen carefully,” his voice was barely above a whisper. “You will remember tonight. You will remember the music,” a pause, “the rain against the windows,” another, “the taste of your drink,” his gaze never left yours. “You will remember that you had a wonderful evening,” the smallest fracture appeared in his composure. “But…” His voice softened. “You will not remember me,” the words hurt more coming out than he had imagined.

“Why?”

The question was so simple yet his throat tightened. Because you had asked the one thing he could not answer without breaking.

Because I love you. Because you are the first person in half a century who made me wish for another day. Because I would rather disappear from your memory than become the reason your life changes forever. 

His thumb brushed once against your cheek, the last touch, last thing he would allow himself. “I am sorry.”

“You will continue living, you will see places you have never seen, walk streets in cities you have yet to discover.”

The words became harder to say.

“You will meet people who will change your life,” but he continued. “You will fall in love,” his expression softened. “More than once, perhaps,” a tiny, sorrowful smile. “You will be loved in return,” his fingers brushed gently against your hand. “You will grow old surrounded by people you love.” The ache in his chest was unbearable but he endured it. Because this was what love was supposed to be. Not possession, not keeping. Letting someone go where they could be happiest. “You will have a long life,” his voice almost broke, “a beautiful one.” The final words left him barely above a whisper. “One that you will cherish.”

The compulsion settled gently, not like a command but like falling asleep. Your eyes softened, the tension left your shoulders, and Seonghwa watched the impossible happen. The evening remained. The memories remained. Everything remained. Except him. He stepped back and for a moment, you simply looked at him. Not knowing why your heart hurt. Not knowing why saying goodbye to a stranger felt like mourning something you had lost. Then you smiled and Seonghwa knew he had made the right choice.

You deserved every beautiful thing waiting for you.

Even if none of those things included him.

“Goodbye,” the word was barely audible but he knew you heard it even if you would never remember.

And as the city swallowed the last trace of your footsteps, Seonghwa finally understood that immortality was not the curse of never dying—it was the curse of remembering everything worth living for. 

He stayed awake for an hour, scrolling on his phone, opening and closing different social media platforms until his eyes started drifting closed again. He dreamt— he dreamt of something funny, something so funny he couldn’t breathe, clutching his stomach and choking on his spit. He dreamt of you, you laughed with him, tears streaming down your cheeks because neither of you could stop. 

Sleep was no longer comforting, no longer safe. He jolted awake, pushing himself off the mattress, he started hanging his clothes back up half-asleep, body moving on auto pilot. Something to do with his hands. 

He hears it, hands going still, spine rigid. Your laugh, all the way downstairs on the main floor, in the kitchen or the living room. It swims up through the vents, it sneaks under his door, it surrounds him and he’s drowning in it and he doesn’t understand why his life keeps boiling down to you you you. 

He stands there, staring into nothing, listening. Trying to see if he can map out any words, if he can hear the conversation downstairs, who and what has you sounding so bright. Fuck that. He showers, just for noise. Then he puts his headphones on, drowns himself in assignments instead just to keep his brain busy. Then when he feels like it’s been long enough–hopefully now the house is empty–he finally goes downstairs. 

Voices get louder with every step down the stairs, two. Four. He looks in the living room first, Hongjoong and Seonghwa sitting on the couch, laptops open, arguing about an assignment. Something they’re doing together. In the kitchen is Yunjin and San, giggling while mixing something in a bright orange bowl together, but they both stop laughing as soon as they see him. 

Yunjin starts, “Damn–”

San finishes, “Did someone die? Why do you look like shit?”

Wooyoung doesn’t change his expression, just a flat, blank stare. He gruffs out, “I didn’t sleep well.” 

“Clearly,” San huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he keeps mixing whatever’s in the bowl. 

“Is there a reason why?” Yunjin leaves the bowl to San, leaning her elbows onto the counter, slyly lifting her features. 

“No,” Wooyoung answers instinctively, defensively. He can feel her look, it’s hinting at something he doesn’t want to fucking hear. “I have a heavy workload right now.”

“Right,” Yunjin gives him a slow nod. “Assignments.”

San’s eyes peek upward from beneath his brows, glancing back and forth between Wooyoung and Yunjin. “What am I missing?”

Wooyoung moves for the cabinets, searching for the blender so he can make a protein shake; he needs something to do other than stand there and be fucking victim to Yunjin’s knowing eyes. The two of them didn’t even see him at the Penny last night. 

“Nothing,” she assures San, sticking her finger in the bowl, licking her finger. If he wasn’t so fucking hungry he’d leave the kitchen, instead he throws the blender on the counter and begins his hunt for ingredients. 

“Don’t eat the batter, Jen,” San hisses, tugging the bowl away from her. “Oh my god, you’re actually gonna eat it all.” 

“No I’m not!” she argues, leaning toward where he pulled it away. “One more. One more. Please?” 

San sighs, sliding the bowl toward her. Giddy as hell, she sticks her finger in again, licking it off. Wooyoung watches it all out of the corner of his eye, hoping they stay distracted. 

Of course not. Yunjin, that same sly grin painted on her cheeks again, turns toward Wooyoung. “So… What do you think about Yunho and my sweet baby angel being non-exclusive?” 

San picks his head up, immediately cutting it toward Wooyoung, brows tied together. 

He wants to sigh. He shrugs instead. “Good for them?” 

Yunjin’s eyes flare with amusement, grin growing wider. “You think so? I mean, she’s never been in that kind of relationship before, this is all pretty new for her.” 

Wooyoung’s jaw clenches as he shoves shit into the blender. “Again, good for her. I’m sure she’ll have a great time.” 

Yunjin’s grin turns borderline devilish. “She seemed to have a great time with Jihyo.”

Wooyoung slams the lid onto the blender harder than intended and slams his finger on the button. That was a little more intentional. He doesn’t dare look at Yunjin, but he can hear her giggling. 

“What am I missing?” San asks again, louder so Wooyoung can hear over the whirling of the blender. “I feel left out. Include me. Address me.” 

Wooyoung crosses his arms, leaning into the opposite side of the counter, and lets it run. San slides over, pressing the stop button, then puts his hands on his hips as he turns to Wooyoung. He doesn’t say anything, but his brows sit high. 

“Ask Jen,” Wooyoung points all five fingers toward Yunjin. “She’s the one who won’t just say what she wants to fucking say.” 

Yunjin sighs, defeated like he’s ruining her fucking joke or something. “Fine,” she stands a little straighter, bracing both hands on the counter behind her. “I wanted to know if that’s why you look so sad. Jihyo… Yunho.” 

“Why would that make him sad?” San asks, at the same time as Wooyoung asks, “Why would that make me sad?”

Yunjin blinks at San, then furrows her brows when she looks at Wooyoung. “Do you tell him anything?” 

Wooyoung pushes off the counter, “What did she tell you?”

“So there are things I don’t know,” San interjects, offended. “Why am I out of the fucking loop? One of you has about four seconds to fill me in on everything I don’t know.” Yunjin’s mouth doesn’t move, Wooyoung couldn’t speak if he tried. He wouldn’t know where to start. San’s eyes narrow as they bounce back and forth between him and Yunjin. “I’m trying really hard not to be hurt right now, someone tell me something for fuck’s sake.”

“I’m not sad,” Wooyoung finally answers, crossing his arms over his chest again. “She can fuck the whole campus for all I care, I’ve done it already.”

“But she didn’t fuck you,” Yunjin says plainly, then her lips scrunch like she regrets the way it came out. Wooyoung stiffens as the words sink in, cutting through his defense like a fucking blade. Quickly, she adds, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

Wooyoung can see San’s jaw slowly drop from the corner of his eye, and he feels like time has frozen for just a second as clarity cuts him wide open, his emotions showing in his wounded expression. It stings and he doesn’t fucking know why, her words sit heavy on his chest, they tie a knot at the base of his spine. His fists clench at his sides.

“Wooyoung,” Yunjin says carefully, her voice soft, another apology in the form of his name. 

He doesn’t know what to say. How to defend himself. All he can do is shake his head, “It’s fine.” 

He turns to the blender, pushes the button lighter this time. The loud noise it makes when it comes to life sounds a lot like the whirring in his mind. His bones feel heavy, his chest twists, his mouth runs dry. What the fuck is going on in his body?

Yunjin doesn’t press him any more, thankfully. San’s eyes are on alert, like the moment Wooyoung steps out of the kitchen he’s going to ask her for every detail imaginable. Fine. Wooyoung doesn’t care if he knows, but he wonders… he wonders what she’ll say. What you told her. 

He leaves the kitchen after pouring his shake into a cup, dragging his heavy bones back up to his bedroom. He barely drinks it, he showers again to wash the feeling off his skin, but he can’t scrub it off. His noise-cancelling headphones can’t even drown out his loud fucking brain. He can’t escape when he’s sleeping, he can’t escape when he’s fucking awake, he cannot live like this. 

He doesn’t realize how long he’s been in his room until he looks at the time at the top of his phone screen. He doesn’t even remember choosing to lay down on his bed again. He isn’t one to doomscroll for hours on the regular, but one video turned into another, and he supposes he needs the stupid videos today, because for the first time in hours, his brain feels quiet again. He stretches when he gets out of bed, grabbing his gym bag before dragging his body down the stairs. 

He grabs a banana from the kitchen island before walking out to the living room, stopping in his tracks when he sees Yunho and Mingi cuddled up on the couch, watching TV. Yunho’s laying halfway across Mingi, so comfortable, so normal it makes his stomach heavy. The two together isn’t surprising at all, but he can’t wrap his mind around how you went from someone who only allowed herself committed relationships to someone who’s okay with… this. Are you even fucking okay with it? Why didn’t you tell him? Isn’t he the person you come to for shit like this?

Mingi notices him first, eyeing him over the back of the couch, his dark hair unstyled and shaggy. “You headed to the gym?” 

Yunho’s head perks up as Wooyoung forces his voice into calmness, “Yeah. They close soon, want to run a little.”

“Run outside,” Mingi mutters, bringing his attention back to the TV. 

“Wait, that’s perfect, we’re all going over to Yunjin’s in a little.” Wooyoung can hear the stretch in Yunho’s voice, how his body is turned almost all the way around, blonde hair raggedy like Mingi was pulling on it. He wonders if you’d notice if you saw it. “Can you drive my sunshine girl home? You can come if you want.” 

“Nah, I’m good,” Wooyoung doesn’t miss a beat replying. Then he quirks a brow, “Her car isn’t fixed yet? Have you been driving her everywhere like her personal chauffeur?”

“Don’t be an asshole,” Yunho gruffs out. “Yes or no?”

His chest feels tight all fucking over again. “You don’t want to?” 

“It just makes more sense,” Yunho looks confused, like the answer is obvious. “Do you have somewhere to be?”

Wooyoung’s jaw clenches. “No,” he shakes his head, his body feels so fucking weird. “Yeah, I can take her. It’s fine.” 

“Thanks,” Yunho grins. “We’ll miss you later.” 

“You’ll be fine without me,” Wooyoung says through a breath before leaving through the front door.

Music plays full-blast through his car speakers. He doesn’t understand what the fuck happened in the time span of like, three fucking days. Three fucking days. You looked like you meant it, that night when you were a few inches away from where he’s sitting now, looking in his eye and telling him you want him. What did you want, then? Did you just want to kiss him? Did you just want to fuck him?

Why the fuck does that bother him so much? Why is he losing his goddamn mind?

His gut is still wrenching as he rips open the door to the gym. His palms feel sweaty against the metal handle, electricity in his fingertips, even his breathing is a little shallow. It’s instinct, taking two steps inside, his gaze darting to the counter. There’s a tall man with dark hair standing at the counter, leaning into it too casually, and just behind it he catches the tail end of you dropping to the floor, your hair moving a millisecond behind your body. 

“You’re kidding,” he whispers, fully under his breath. Did you just fucking duck? Are you hiding from him? Are you actually fucking joking?

You’ve worked at this gym for an entire year. A whole fucking year. And never once has Choi Soobin walked through the jingling doors, dressed in sweats and a tee like he belongs here or something. 

You haven’t seen him since that night in his condo when you walked in on Yeonjun and Beomgyu. But he looks the same, of course he does, mousey face, knowing eyes like secrets exist just for him to fucking find them out. The sight of him makes your blood boil, jaw clenching, eyes slanting like you could blow him up with your fucking mind.

You speak as soon as he’s close enough to hear. “The fuck are you doing here?”

It invokes a sly grin immediately. “I thought I’d come get a membership. It’s not expensive, right?”

You step back when he leans his elbows over the counter, peeking over it to see what’s behind. You hiss, “You’ve never worked out a day in your life, Soobin.”

“Maybe I want to start.” When he looks back up at you, a chill runs down your spine. “Sell me one. Do you make a commission?”

“No,” you answer, voice venomous. “It’s a commercial gym.”

“Damn,” he tugs his lips to one side, maybe pouty. “I wanted to make your paycheck a little fatter.”

“What are you doing here, Soobin?” You cross your arms over your chest, jaw tight. “If you’re here to watch another unveiling of a cheating scandal, I hate to break it to you, but I’m not dating anyone.”

“No?” His head tilts, a snarky smile stretching his lips thin. “Not even zip-tie Yunho?”

“We’re not exclusive,” you snap. “What does it matter to you?”

“Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice,” he pushes off the counter to stand up straight, shrugging. You can feel his height, head tilting upward to hold his eye. “Your real voice.” Your brows furrow, head tilting, ready to ask what the fuck he means, but he cuts off your thoughts. “Since when are you into non-committal shit, anyway?”

“Since now,” you answer, then your body does a full, disgusted shiver as his words sink in. “You wanted to hear my voice? Are you hitting on me, you fucking douchebag?”

He smirks, a small laugh tumbling off his tongue. “No, I’m not hitting on you. What made you switch sides? I heard a whisper about you and Park Jihyo.”

Your face warps into even more confusion. “Who did you hear that from?”

“It’s a small campus,” he shrugs. “I know lots of people.”

Now you’re just irritated. “Why the fuck do you even care? You’re like, speaking in fucking tongues, Soobin, spit it the fuck out.”

Soobin opens his mouth just as the front door jingles, and you catch the slightest glimpse of golden skin and black hair before your knees fold. Your heart drops to your ass, then your ass drops to the fucking floor. You’ve been wondering when you were going to see him since he rejected you in his car, but god, you could have had more time. You could have at least figured out what you’re going to say before you saw him.

Soobin’s head peeks over the counter, brows furrowed but eyes amused. “Are you good?”

“Go,” you whisper-yell, shooing him off with one hand. “Get the fuck away!”

Then Wooyoung’s head leans over the counter right beside his. He pops a brow, head tilting like a fucking dog, “Virgin?”

You force a smile, an awkward one at best. “I dropped something,” you blurt, then look beneath you at the spotless floor. You lean forward, praying to god your knees cover you grabbing whatever the fuck you can get your hands on from the bottom shelf. Holding it up, you pray to god it is what you think it is as you try to back yourself up, “A stapler. See?”

“That’s tape,” Soobin corrects you. 

You wince as you look at the tape dispenser. You stand back up too quickly, ignoring how your head goes light as you plaster a smile back on your face, “That’s what I meant. Tape.”

The corner of Wooyoung’s mouth lifts in a grin. “And what are you taping?”

You look around the desk that you’ve already cleaned twice, you can’t bullshit your way out of this. Instead you sigh, defeated, “Your mouth fucking shut.”

Wooyoung’s head turns to hide his laugh while Soobin’s eyes bounce back and forth between you. His lips scrunch like he’s figured something else out, and he taps one hand against the counter in farewell. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Never, please,” you shout in his direction as he turns on his heel, heading for the front doors again.

The jingle announcing his departure feels louder than usual. Your jaw clenches before you run both hands through your hair, pushing a long, heavy breath through your lips. Wooyoung is still present, hand resting on the strap of his gym bag, looking amused as fuck. 

“Oh, what?” you huff, irritated. “Is it annoy-me day? Is everyone gathering here just to bother me?”

His smirk grows. “You ducked.”

You push your shoulders back. “I did not duck.”

“You fucking ducked,” Wooyoung repeats, his laughter following. “You hid from me, you ducked. Why’d you duck, Virgin? Don’t wanna see me?”

“I dropped the tape!” your pitch raises, picking up the tape dispenser again. It’s a bullshit lie and you both know it, but it just makes Wooyoung laugh harder. “Oh, fuck right off. Go fucking run, you asshole.”

He’s still laughing as he turns away, he gives you a little wave over his shoulder, too. When he’s out of earshot you turn around, groaning, running your hands over your face like a child who’s about to throw a goddamn tantrum. Great. Now you have to get a new fucking job, far away enough that nobody will recognize you.

What’s worse is that you still have to do your job, the actual shit that’s left for your shift. Why is he here so fucking late anyway? He usually comes at least an hour before close, not thirty minutes. Your eyes betray you, eyes following him to the treadmills, watching as he puts his headphones on, starts the machine. You internally groan again knowing that you have to go over there, wipe down the machines, re-rack the weights on the Smith machines that are in perfect eye view from the treadmills. You feel sick. 

Don’t wanna see me? The jab lingers, even if it wasn’t really a jab. You do want to see him, you want to tell him about Yunho, you want to tell him about Jihyo. You want to hear what he thinks about it, if he agrees that it’s right for you. Your stomach twists when you realize you care more than you should about his goddamn opinion. 

You also want to know if you still want him. If he’d still reject you, with Yunho no longer an obstacle. 

Your cheeks heat up as you grab your cleaning supplies and head toward the machines. It’s muscle memory at this point, you try to let yourself breathe with the music playing from the speakers, the air conditioning doesn’t help dry the sweat forming at the base of your spine, nor does it cool you off. You swear you can feel him, his eyes on you, his presence is enough to distract you, to make you clean the same machine twice. 

“Was this one extra sweaty or something?” 

You yelp, jumping back a step. With all the mirrors in this fucking building, you should have seen him coming. His gray tank is drenched in sweat, a sheen laying over his bronzy, golden skin. His dark hair is pulled back, the strands hanging in the front heavy and full of moisture, his face glimmering. 

“Yes,” you answer quickly, turning away from him to the next machine. He pulls his bag farther over his shoulder, following you. You glance behind, coming to a stop, and he stops when you stop. “Do you need something?” 

His head tilts, like he’s thinking on it. But instead his bottom lip folds over as he shakes his head, shrugging. “I’ll be in the car, but don’t take too long. Gas is expensive.”

“Huh?” You verbalize your confusion. He’ll be in the car? Don't take too long? Yunho is supposed to be taking you home. To your home. His idea. His plan. 

Wooyoung doesn’t answer, instead he leaves the gym, and lets you put the pieces together yourself. You groan out in frustration after you hear the jingle over the front doors, nerves prickling at your scalp. How can you comfortably be around the person who’s slept with every single person on campus, but rejected you? 

Circumstances aside, that night was fucking humiliating. You haven’t been able to sit in the feeling since another can of worms was opened the moment you walked through the door to your apartment. Wooyoung rejected you. You told him you wanted him, and he said no. 

You take longer re-racking weights, cleaning mirrors, making sure the desk was organized for the opener tomorrow. Knowing he’s waiting just outside the doors makes your body move even slower, like if you made him wait long enough, he might leave. Then you don’t need to face the aftermath at all. Even if there’s things you want to say, things you want to ask, just to hear what he might respond. Like your body is split in two, you tug on the door handle after locking up the gym a third time, wishing your key would break in the door or something just to delay the inevitable further. 

He's there, in his blacked out sports car, engine running, LED lights brighter than the stage of a fucking rave. It feels like you’re walking to your demise, heartbeat picking up in your chest, moisture forming on your palms. 

At least the passenger side door is unlocked this time, opening as soon as you tug on the handle. He doesn’t give you a chance to speak, snapping as soon as you unfold in the passenger seat, “Were you in there trying to move machines by yourself or something? What the fuck took you so long?” 

“I’m sorry!” you immediately blurt, barely looking at him as you clip your seatbelt on. “I had to clean. Plus, I thought Yunho was picking me up.” 

“Don’t apologize,” he mutters, pulling the gear into reverse. “I hate it when you apologize, it’s like you’re speaking another language or something.”

You can smell the sweat on him, not a bad scent; it’s salty, human. Him. “Whatever,” you look out the window, not seeing anything as you pull out onto the main road. “Why are you taking me instead of Yunho?” 

“He asked me,” Wooyoung responds casually. Your jaw clenches, lips scrunching, nails picking at pilled fabric on your jeans. Yunho asked him. 

A minute goes by, and the silence feels awkward. You don’t think there’s ever been awkwardness between you and Wooyoung from the day you met. It makes you feel fucking weird, your stomach flipping, your body fidgeting with each second that goes by. 

“So,” he breaks it, and it takes you by surprise. When you look at him, his head is leaning towards you. “Since when do you like girls?”

Your cheeks heat up, heart beating even faster in your chest now. “How do you know?” you ask, the first words that come to mind. 

“You were making out with a girl at the Penny,” he says like it’s obvious. “Everyone that was at the Penny knows.” 

“You were there?” you ask again, facing him now, brows furrowed. “I didn’t even see you.” 

“I didn’t stay long,” he brushes you off. “Answer.” 

“Always,” you shrug, trying to feign casualty.

He pushes a breath through his lips like he’s choosing his next words carefully, or deciding whether or not he wants to say them. “Why didn’t you tell me you and Yunho aren’t exclusive anymore?”

Fuck. Your cheeks heat again, gut swirling with too many emotions to pinpoint which one makes your skin erupt with pins and needles. “I–” you start, then cut yourself off. Why does he fucking know so much? “I was going to.” 

“When?” he presses further, looking at you from his periphery. “You didn’t really seem eager to let me know at the Penny.” 

“I didn’t know you were there,” you defend yourself, but why the fuck are you even defending yourself? What is there to defend? “Why do I owe you an explanation?” 

“You don’t,” he answers with an attitude, short and clipped. “I just wanted to know.” 

Your eyes narrow, like you might see through his wall of ebony hair, straight into his mind. “Why did you want me to tell you, then?”

“Because you’ve come to me with all your other bullshit relationship problems,” he lifts his hand off the gearstick to shoot an open faced palm in your direction. “Excuse me for assuming that might be another one.”

You sigh, or try to, it comes out as a short breath of irritation. Your arms cross. “Why did you agree to take me home if you were just gonna be an asshole?” 

“I’m not being an asshole!” his pitch rises, sounding defensive. “Are you really not gonna tell me what happened?” 

“Say you want to know,” you turn towards him, a smile playing on your lips. “Ask me to tell you, and I will.” 

His laugh is full of pointed disbelief, “I’m not saying that shit.” 

“Say it,” you order him again. “Then I’ll tell you every single nasty detail I know you’d love to fucking hear, pervert.” 

His lips tighten, and there’s at least ten seconds of him fighting himself before he says plainly, “Fine. Tell me everything.” Then his voice gets smaller, uncertain as he adds, “I want to hear it.” 

“You didn’t ask, but I’ll let it slide,” you say, before starting the story when Yunho picked you up a few mornings ago to fix your car. You tell him that you learned how to jump a car, that you blabbed about wanting to kiss him, that Yunho was the one to suggest making your relationship non-exclusive. You tell him about the party, attempting to flirt with Jihyo, all the way up to dancing with her. 

“…she brought me into a coat closet,” you’re talking animatedly with your hands, eyes focused, mouth moving a mile a minute. 

“Wait,” he pauses, shaking his head. “She brought you into a closet to have gay sex?” 

You blink at him before it clicks together, and then you’re both laughing. You shake your head after a minute of laughter, jumping back into the story, “Wait– wait. Okay, so she’s really dominant usually, right? Like, always, that’s just Jihyo. But I challenged it, challenged her, and it worked.” 

“See?” His brows raise as he pulls onto your street. “I told you. You don’t get fucked, you fuck.”

“And you were correct, because I did fuck. I had her up against the fucking door, Wooyoung, oh my god– she was grinding against my thigh…” He quirks a brow. “And then I went down on her. Me. And it was liberating, like every single sound she made, every look on her face was like, getting me off. I felt like… I felt like–”

He parks in a spot, sits back in his seat, and looks at you like he might finish your sentence for you. And he might have, your ears are too busy ringing to hear anything, all the fucking color draining from your face. 

Use me. Let me hear you. Complimenting how she looked. You felt like Wooyoung.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, throwing a palm over your mouth as realization hits. You feel cold. The AC isn’t even on. Wooyoung loses his fucking mind. His laughter is loud, raw as he smacks his hands against his steering wheel. You cover your face with both hands, sliding into the seat, groaning out loud. You can’t believe this. This can’t actually be real. 

Wooyoung stops laughing just to choke on his words, “You– you copied me. You copied me!” 

You rip your hands away from your face, “I did not fucking copy you!” 

“God, should I call you my mini-me now? Fuck calling you Virgin, I’ll start calling you fucking twin,” he’s laughing as he says it, running his hands through his hair, sinking into the chair like this is the best thing he’s ever heard in his life. 

“I hate you,” you snap, unclipping your seatbelt. 

“No you don’t,” he’s still grinning wide. “You need me so you can steal all my moves, clearly. Do you want another lesson? Should we get in the backseat for when Yunho takes you to pick up your car from the shop?” 

You don’t answer, your entire body hot, feeling naked. Exposed, humiliated. This is fucking humiliating. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he stops, holding a hand up. It takes him three whole seconds before he starts laughing again. “You’re my fucking mini-me, I can’t believe it, Virgin. Who woulda thought?”

Your jaw clenches as you reach for the door handle. “You’re an asshole, and I’m leaving.” 

“Wait!” he shouts. “Wait, I’m sorry. I’m serious, I’m sorry. How did the rest of it go?” He snorts again, then forces his face into seriousness. “I’m sorry, I’ll stop, for real, twin.”

“Oh my god,” you bark out. “Oh my fucking god, I hate you. I actually fucking hate you.” 

“Okay, but seriously, how did the rest of it go?” he turns toward you again, brows high. “Did you make her cum?” Reluctantly, you nod. His head tilts, his tone playful as he asks, “Did she make you…?”

You shake your head no. He turns away from you to hide his laugh. You scowl, “I didn’t ask for anything back. She offered, but I said no.” 

“Fair, twin,” he turns back to say, and you launch yourself across the car, slapping him on the arm. 

“I wasn’t copying you!” you shout, slapping him again. “I wasn’t, that’s just how it went.” 

“I think it’s cute,” Wooyoung shrugs, his expression still reading playful. “That night stuck with you.”

“Nothing about you has ever stuck with me nor will it ever stick with me,” you snap, lying through your teeth, “I don’t even remember that night.” His brows raise. “Okay, that was a lie, but I meant all the other stuff.” 

He giggles again, but trails off, shaking his head, releasing a breath that sounds like relief. “I’m glad you had a good time. Did you learn something?” 

You nod before you say, “Yeah, I did. I don’t know, everything feels different now. Like, I feel different now. I understand you a little more, I think.” 

His brows furrow, “Me?” 

“You, asshole,” you reply, a smile tugging at your lips. “With casual sex and stuff. It’s kinda fun.” 

“Be careful,” he holds up a finger between you. “Next thing you know, you’ll have chlamydia.” 

You snort, deflating into the seat with laughter all over again. Then you shrug, turning your head toward him, “I think more people on our campus have had chlamydia than we know of.” 

He looks at you like he wants to say no shit. “You think?”

“Shut up,” you look through the windshield at your apartment, all the lights on. You turn your head to him again, “Are you coming up?” 

His brows scrunch, “Hell no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I see all of those people seven days a week. I need a day off.” 

Your lips scrunch to one side. “Do you want your hoodie back?” He thins his eyes at you, just as a smirk starts to form on your lips. You grab the door handle, “Come and get it then, bitch.” 

Wooyoung reluctantly drags himself out of his car just to hear you giggle your way up the lawn. He sighs as he closes the door, locking it by pressing his thumb onto the handle. He doesn’t have a reason to go upstairs, he doesn’t really care about getting his hoodie back. Is it weird that he hopes you didn’t wash it?

His dick feels twenty times bigger. He can’t believe you used his own moves on someone else. What does that mean? Other than the fact that you obviously enjoyed that night with him… it has to mean something more than that, right? He doesn’t know what he wants it to mean. All he knows is that he likes it, his chest hasn’t felt this light in a few days, and he wants it to feel lighter. He wants all that dark, depressing shit hanging over his head gone.

If that means being around you, he’ll take it. He doesn’t know what he wants that to mean, either.

He can feel the amusement radiating off of you as he follows you up to your apartment. The small laughs disguised as breaths with every step you take, he doesn’t comment on it, but he can hear it. You’re bright as you open up the door, and Wooyoung quickly realizes he’s been to your apartment twice. Once to fuck Yunjin, and another to rip into you, which ended in him rejecting you. He’s rejected you twice now, after he’s had you on his face.

What the fuck is happening to him?

You squeal your greetings, throwing your purse onto a little table next to your front door before skipping into your apartment. Yunjin sits over San’s lap, Mingi and Yunho are cuddled up together, Jongho sits on the other side, looking and probably feeling wildly out of place. Two couples, and Jongho. Wooyoung almost snorts at the sight.

His amusement leaves his face when you bend down to kiss Yunho. He closes the front door behind him, watching as Mingi pouts from beside him, “I thought I had custody tonight.”

You laugh, “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want a kiss, too? Would that make you feel better?”

Mingi’s grin is wide, and he nods before you even get the question out. You bend down to press a peck on his lips, and Wooyoung’s stomach does a flip. Who the fuck are you right now?

Yunjin whines from across the couch, “If you’re gonna kiss him, then you have to kiss me.”

You laugh even harder before skipping over to Yunjin, bending down to press a peck to her lips, too. And like fucking clockwork, San pouts, “Well, now I just feel left out.”

You kiss him, too. Yunjin watches with a smile like she couldn’t force herself to care if she tried.

Jongho leans over the back of the couch, glancing at Wooyoung, “Should we go before this turns into an orgy?”

Wooyoung quickly realizes he hasn’t moved an inch. He’s still standing there, completely still, face warped into shocked confusion. How much can a person truly change in just a few days? Who the fuck are you? And why did he miss all of the fucking changing?

“Oh, fuck,” you hiss, skipping around the back of the couch, holding your hair as you search the floor. You make your way toward him, still searching when Wooyoung sees it, his hoodie, crumpled in a ball two fucking feet away from the front door. “Yes! I knew I didn’t move it.”

You pick it up, and hand it to him with the widest grin he’s ever seen. His face still hasn’t changed as he grabs the ball from your hands automatically, blinking at you like he doesn’t know who the hell the person in front of him is. You pout, “Sorry it was on the floor. It was evidence.”

“Evidence?” he asks, but he doesn’t recognize his own voice. Or you. Or any of this.

You just laugh again before turning around, “I’m gonna go change, then we can watch a movie. Wait– did you guys start something without me?”

Everyone’s rattling off excuses for the TV being on, something playing, while you skip back into your bedroom with a frustrated groan. Without you in the room, he looks at everyone, and everyone looks at him. 

“What the fuck did I miss?” Wooyoung asks, suddenly feeling like his consciousness slammed into his own body again. He shakes his head as he makes his way to the couch, sitting right beside Jongho. He pulls his keys and his phone from his pocket, throwing them on the coffee table full of liquor, other drinks and snacks. He didn’t plan on staying, but he needs to know if there’s more he’s missed. He needs to be able to see the full puzzle again.

“Did we decide if we’re throwing on Tuesday?” San asks from beneath Yunjin. She’s sprawled out sideways, knees over his lap, her feet almost touching Mingi. Mingi seems to be aware of it, with how he’s turned into Yunho who has one arm stretched across the back of the couch, almost holding Mingi close to him. 

Jongho leans forward, elbows kissing his knees, “Isn’t Jungwon’s frat throwing Tuesday?”

Mingi’s brows tie together. “Who cares?”

“Ooh,” Yunjin sings, brows wiggling. “Frat rivalry?”

Wooyoung snorts. “There’s no competition. If they’re throwing Tuesday, they’ll have bodies in that house.”

Yunho suggests, “Why don’t we throw Monday, then?”

You come out of your bedroom still tugging a tee over your head, and you don’t shut the door behind you. Wooyoung can see the mess from where he sits, he can even see the white hair from one of your Gojo figures. You don’t seem to mind. 

“What’s Monday?” you ask, crawling over the back of the couch, sitting between him and Yunho.

“We might throw,” Wooyoung answers. “Jungwon’s frat is throwing Tuesday.”

“Jungwon?” You quirk a brow. “The hot one that tried to fuck me in one of the fuck rooms?”

Everyone except Wooyoung’s head turns toward you and asks, “What?”

You grin. “He brought me to the basement, that’s where people have sex, right?”

Then all eyes land on Wooyoung. He nods in confirmation. 

Yunjin asks, “When the hell was this?”

“The night you brought me out to get over Junie– I mean Yeonjun, woah,” you correct yourself, throwing your hands in front of you like you needed to recenter yourself. “Freudian slip.”

Jongho’s brows tie together, “I don’t think that’s what a Freudian slip is.”

You smack your teeth. “I’m not a psychologist, Jongho.”

Wooyoung looks away to hide his laugh. It’s a small snort, but fuck, you’re funny. 

You laugh, leaning over to smack his arm, “Don’t laugh at me. I’m a journalist, I don’t know that psychology shit.”

“Why are you hitting me so much tonight?” He grabs for his bicep that doesn’t hurt at all. “Are you abusing me for calling you twin?”

You gasp, eyes narrowing. “Don’t even bring that up right now.”

Yunho’s brows furrow, but his smile is amused, “Twin?”

You groan. Wooyoung can’t help the budding laughter, “It’s funny, actually–”

“It’s not funny at all!” you immediately argue. “Shut up, motherfucker.”

Yeah, he’s glad he stayed. “My bad, twin.”

You launch yourself at him again, and he’s laughing hard enough that the raincloud that’s been following him for days is finally nowhere in sight. His brain is blank, his chest is empty, his body feels weightless. 

He doesn’t know whether he should thank you, or blame you for causing it in the first place.

The key sticks before it turns. Just for a second. Enough to make you press a little harder, metal catching somewhere inside the lock like it doesn’t want to give. Then it gives all at once, and the door opens inward with a reluctant sound.

The apartment waits. Not empty. Not welcoming. Just there.

You don’t step fully inside at first. You leave the door open behind you, propped with one of the smaller boxes, the hallway light spilling in across the floor in a pale strip. The air is still. Too still. It doesn’t shift when you move. Doesn’t react. The floor creaks under your weight. A soft, low sound that feels specific.

A reset. That’s what this is.

You turn back toward the hallway, stepping around the door to grab the next box and nearly walk straight into someone. You jerk back, breath catching sharp in your throat.

He’s right there. Close enough that if you hadn’t stopped when you did, you would’ve hit him.

And yeah. He’s… a lot. 

Sharp jawline. Dark eyes. Hair that looks like it fell into place without trying. The kind of face that makes you immediately aware of how you must look right now.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, one hand lifting instinctively before dropping again. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

His voice is easy. Gentle. The kind that smooths things over without effort.

“It’s okay,” you say, a small, breathy laugh slipping out. “I didn’t hear you.”

That’s the strange part. You didn’t hear him at all. No footsteps. No shift in the hallway. Nothing.

He returns the smile, just a little. It’s soft. Unassuming. It reaches his eyes without trying too hard. It makes something in your chest loosen before you even realize it was tight.

“You just moved in,” he says.

You nod, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. Today.”

“I’m right next door.” He gestures loosely over his shoulder. “Hongjoong.”

You tell him your name. It comes out easy. Natural. Like this is normal. Like this place could be normal.

His gaze flicks briefly past you, into the apartment. Not intrusive. Just taking in the half-unpacked boxes, the way the light doesn’t quite reach the corners. Then back to you.

“You’ll want to keep the window closed at night.”

It lands lightly. Like advice. Like something small.

You tilt your head. “The window?”

“The draft carries everything.”

There’s a pause. Not long. Just enough to make you feel like you missed something.

“Oh,” you say, nodding. “Good to know.”

He hums softly, like that’s enough.

You shift your weight, about to turn for the next box, when he reaches out and takes it first. Smooth. Easy. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Here,” he says. “I’ve got it.”

“Oh—you don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” he replies, already stepping past you.

Not pushy. Just confident. He carries the box inside, setting it down near the wall without making a sound. You follow him in without thinking.

“The floors might creak a bit at first,” he says, glancing back with a small smile. “Takes a few days to settle.”

You glance down instinctively, like you might catch it shifting under you.

“Good to know,” you repeat, softer this time.

He nods again. There’s no awkward silence. No pressure to keep talking. He doesn’t linger, doesn’t stretch the moment past what it is. He just fits. At the door, he pauses, one hand resting lightly against the frame.

“If you need anything,” he says, “I’m home most nights.”

Simple. Easy.

You nod. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

He smiles again. Brief. Warm. Then steps back into the hallway. And just like that, the apartment feels different. Quieter. Not in sound. In presence. 

You don’t think too hard about it. You turn back to the boxes instead. The slow work of filling the space, placing things where they belong, trying to make it feel like yours.

Without realizing it, you already know which door you’d knock on first if something went wrong.

Hours pass without you noticing. The light shifts. The hallway dims. At some point, the door closes behind you without you really deciding to close it.

The apartment never quite warms. Even with everything inside, even with your things unpacked and placed, the space feels resistant. Not empty. Paused. You tell yourself that’s better. Paused means untouched.

By the sixth night, you almost believe it.

Almost.

The first time you hear it, you’re still awake. A low sound, somewhere behind the wall. Easy to ignore if you don’t focus on it. You do anyway. Just for a second. Then it fades, folds into the building’s usual noise. Pipes. Wood settling. Something older than you. You let it be that. It has to be that.

The next night, it returns. Around the same time. Not identical. Never identical. But close enough that your attention finds it before you do. You don’t sit up. You stay still, eyes closed, listening without meaning to. It comes and goes. Stops without warning. You miss the exact moment it disappears.

After that, it stops being an interruption. It becomes part of the apartment. Late night. Half sleep. That in-between space where your thoughts are too slow to stop it. 

Sometimes it drags again. Sometimes something lighter sits underneath it. A soft, uneven tap that never becomes a rhythm. You don’t track it. You don’t let yourself track it. But you start expecting it anyway. Like the hallway light flickering before it dies. Like pipes humming before water runs too hot. 

It folds into routine before you can name it as anything else. Then one night, it doesn’t come. You notice late. Not as a thought. Just a gap where something usually is. Your body registers it before your mind does. A faint, unsettled tension you can’t place.

The next night, it returns. Same as before. As if it never stopped. You don’t question it. Old building. Thin walls. People living their own lives on the other side of things that have nothing to do with you.

It makes sense. It always makes sense. Still, your shoulders don’t fully drop anymore. Sleep comes lighter now. Easier to break. Harder to sink into. 

And during the day, when the apartment is quiet again, you notice the silence a little too sharply. Like it belongs to something else. Not absence. Waiting.

A week later, you go out. It’s spontaneous. You’re in a crowded bar with music that settles deep in your ribs and laughter that feels a little unfamiliar in your throat. You drink more than you planned to. You talk to people you won’t remember.

For a few hours, it’s easy. By the time you leave, the air outside is cooler, quieter. The walk back feels longer than usual, your steps slightly uneven but steady enough. Familiar streets. Familiar turns.

Nothing follows you. Nothing feels wrong.

You fumble with your keys when you reach your door, the alcohol still warm under your skin, your balance just slightly off. The key turns easier this time. You don’t notice that. The door opens. You step inside, and something shifts under your foot. You look down automatically, expecting one of the flattened boxes you haven’t thrown out yet. 

It’s not. It’s a coaster.

You bend, slower now, the faint buzz thinning out as something colder slips in. Your fingers come away slightly damp when you pick it up. The logo is smudged, softened at the edges. You recognize it instantly. It’s from the bar. 

For a second, you just stare at it. Then a small, breathy laugh escapes you, more reflex than anything else. You shake your head, already moving past it, already placing it on the counter like it belongs there now. It makes sense. It must’ve stuck to your bag. You didn’t notice. You dropped it when you came in. That happens.

It doesn’t happen again right away. That helps. Enough that you let it go. Enough that you stop replaying it, stop trying to remember exactly how the coaster felt in your hand, whether it was wetter than it should’ve been, heavier.

You move on. And for a while, it almost works. Still, the apartment feels off. Not in a way you can point to. Not in a way you can explain if someone asked. It’s only when the air turns heavier than it should, when the room feels just a little too still, that you walk over and try the window again.

It doesn’t budge. You frown, fingers tightening slightly around the latch as you push, then pull, then try again with more force than necessary. Nothing. It’s not stuck the way old things get stuck. It doesn’t creak, doesn’t resist and give. It just doesn’t move. Like it was never meant to.

You let out a quiet breath, stepping back, wiping your hands against your jeans like that’ll fix something.

“Shit,” you murmur to yourself.

It’s fine. It has to be. Still, your gaze lingers on it a second too long. Then you reach for your phone and call him.

Hongjoong doesn’t take long. The knock is soft. Measured. You’re already at the door when it comes, like you’ve been waiting for him without realizing. When you open it, he’s there.

“Hey,” Hongjoong says easily, a small smile already tugging at his mouth like this is nothing. Like this is normal.

You lean slightly against the doorframe without thinking about it.

“Hi. Sorry— I hope I’m not bothering you.”

“You’re not,” he says immediately. No hesitation. No politeness layered over reluctance. Just simple certainty. “What’s wrong?”

You step back, opening the door wider.

“The window,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “I can’t get it open. I think it’s… stuck? But not in a normal way.”

He hums softly, stepping inside as you move aside.

“Let me see.”

The door closes behind him with a quiet click. It doesn’t feel strange. It should. But it doesn’t. He crosses the apartment like he already knows the distance, like he’s walked it before in a different version of this moment. His movements are unhurried, precise without being rigid.

You follow a step behind, watching him more than the window. He’s easy to look at. You’ve noticed that before. But it settles differently now. He reaches the window, testing the latch once, then again.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s not just stuck.”

You shift your weight. “That’s what I thought.”

He glances back at you briefly, just a flicker of a smile.

“You’ve been trying to force it, haven’t you?”

You huff a small laugh, a little embarrassed. “Maybe.”

“Don’t,” he says lightly, turning back to it. “You’ll make it worse.”

You step closer without realizing you are.

“Good to know.”

He adjusts his grip, pressing at a slightly different angle, testing the frame instead of the latch this time.

“Old buildings do this,” he adds. “Things shift. Expand. Sometimes they get… stubborn.”

“Stubborn,” you repeat under your breath, watching his hands.

He glances at you again, closer now. “Like people.”

You blink, caught off guard just enough to smile. “Are you calling me stubborn?”

“Just observant,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

It’s not flirting. Not really. But it lingers in the same space.

“Here,” he says softly, shifting just enough to make room for you instead of stepping back. “Try now.”

You reach past him, your hand overlapping his for a second on the frame before you realize it. You pull the window. It doesn’t open. But it gives. Just slightly.

“Oh,” you breathe, surprised.

“Again,” he says, quieter now.

You do. This time it shifts a little more, a faint crack of movement breaking the seal that held it in place. Air slips through. Cold. Thin. Real. You let out a small laugh, relief loosening something in your chest.

“Okay. That’s— that’s better.”

“It just needed the right pressure,” he says.

His voice is closer now. You turn your head without thinking. You’re standing too close. Close enough that you notice the way his gaze drops to your lips before returning to your eyes.

“Thanks,” you say, softer than you meant to.

“It’s nothing.”

But he doesn’t move. Not immediately. Your fingers are still resting lightly against the window frame. His hand is still there too, not touching yours anymore, but close enough that it would take almost nothing.

The air shifts again. Not from the window. From something else. You don’t know why that makes your chest tighten. Then he steps back. Space returns. Air returns. You exhale without realizing you were holding it.

“Try the lock again later,” he adds lightly, like nothing shifted, like everything is exactly where it should be. “Same idea.”

You nod. “Yeah. I will.”

He glances around briefly, not searching, not lingering. Just aware. Then back to you.

“You settling in okay?”

The question lands gently. You nod.

You’re halfway out the door one evening, shoes on, keys already in your hand, when your phone lights up.

Something came up. Rain check?

You stare at it for a second longer than you should, thumb hovering over the screen before you type back something easy.

Yeah, of course.

You slip your shoes off. Set your keys back where they were. It’s fine.

Then it happens again. A different friend this time. Same apology. Same vague excuse. You start checking your phone more often than you mean to. Messages sitting there, unanswered longer than they should. Conversations that stall out mid-thought, like the other person just lost interest halfway through.

A date that never confirms. Another that does, and then doesn’t even show up.

You try to adjust. Suggest different days, different places, make yourself more available, more flexible, like maybe you’re the one slightly out of sync with everything else. But it keeps slipping. Always just out of reach.

It’s frustrating, mostly. Annoying in a way that sticks under your skin. And then, slowly, something quieter settles underneath it. A kind of loneliness you don’t really want to name.

By the third time you’re left staring at your phone in the same week, waiting for a reply that doesn’t come, you give up. Not dramatically. You stop trying for the night. The laundry basket has been sitting in the corner of your room all day anyway. You grab it, more out of restlessness than necessity, and head downstairs.

The laundry room is warm when you push the door open. Thick with the scent of detergent and fabric softener, machines humming steadily along the walls. Comforting, in a dull, predictable way.

He’s there. Hongjoong glances up when you walk in, like he caught the shift in the air before the door even opened, like he’s been half-aware of you this whole time. He’s leaning back against one of the machines, sleeves pushed up, a small pile of neatly folded clothes resting beside him.

“I was starting to think you’d vanished,” he says, easy, light, almost playful.

You adjust the basket on your hip, suddenly more aware of yourself than you were a second ago. Of your clothes. Your hair. The quiet.

“Yeah, well… I’ve been kind of out of it.”

It comes out a little sharper than you mean it to. You move past him, crouching to pull open one of the empty machines, giving yourself something to focus on that isn’t the way his attention follows you.

His smile doesn’t disappear, but it pauses. Just for a second. Like something in him recalibrates. You notice it immediately. Your gaze flicks up, then away. An apology you don’t say out loud landing in the space between you instead.

A second passes. His voice shifts, softer now. Less playful.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “You’re different today.”

You glance back at him for a second, then away again.

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, too quickly. “Just… I had a long day.”

It doesn’t sound convincing even to you. You start loading your clothes in, slower than you need to.

“I thought you did laundry on Sundays,” he says after a moment, easing back into casual again. He’s gentler this time, like he’s testing the ground.

A small huff leaves you, half laugh, half sigh.

“I usually do.” A pause. “Plans fell through.”

It comes out lighter than it feels. You toss a shirt in, a little sharper than necessary, your fingers lingering on the fabric before letting go.

“It’s been happening a lot, actually,” you add, before you can stop yourself.

The words sit there for a second. You don’t look at him. You don’t mean to make it a thing. But it is now. You straighten slowly, brushing your hands together, leaning back against the machine like you’re done.

“My plans keep getting canceled,” you continue, quieter, the frustration slipping through despite you trying to smooth it over. “Or people just stop replying, or they say they will and then don’t.” You shake your head, a soft breath leaving you. “It’s weird.”

The machines hum. Water shifts behind metal. You glance at him then, expecting something easy. A joke. Agreement. Something light enough to carry it away. But he’s watching you. Not casually. Not distracted. Focused. Like he’s actually listening. It catches you off guard in a way that makes your breath slow just a little.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, softer now. “Maybe it’s just bad timing.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He pushes himself off the machine, the movement unhurried, closing the distance between you just enough to feel it. Not close enough to crowd you.

“Or maybe,” he says, voice calm, steady, “you keep making space for people who don’t know what to do with it.”

Your breath catches slightly. That lands deeper than you expect.

“That’s a little—” you start, a faint smile tugging at your mouth, “harsh.”

He tilts his head just slightly, studying you in a way that feels almost curious.

“Is it wrong?”

The question hangs there, quieter than the rest. You don’t answer right away. Because you’re not sure. You look away first, a small breath slipping out.

“Maybe not.”

When you look back, he’s closer than he was before. Not by much. Just enough.

“People don’t deserve you,” he says. No hesitation. No softness to dilute it.

The words settle into you, heavier than they should be, like they’ve found something already waiting for them. Your fingers curl slightly against your palm. You let out a slow breath, your shoulders easing without meaning them to.

“That’s a little dramatic,” you murmur, but there’s no weight behind it now.

He doesn’t smile. 

“Not really.”

And something about the way he says it makes it easier to believe than it should. You glance down, then back up again, caught for a second in the way he’s still looking at you. It’s not uncomfortable. If anything, it’s the opposite.

“You always say things like that?” you ask lightly, a small hint of teasing slipping in before you can stop it.

One corner of his mouth lifts. 

“Only when I mean them.”

Your stomach tightens. Not unpleasant. Just new. You turn slightly, reaching for the machine, pressing the button a second too late just to have something to do. It clicks on, the low rumble filling the space between you. When you look back, he hasn’t moved away. If anything, he’s settled there more comfortably, like standing near you is the most natural place for him to be.

“Besides,” he adds, quieter now, “if people keep walking away…” His gaze flicks briefly to your lips, then back up so quickly you almost miss it. “That sounds like their loss.”

The air shifts. Subtle but real. You exhale softly, something loosening in your chest, something else tightening underneath it.

“Maybe,” you say.

And this time, it doesn’t feel like you’re just agreeing to end the conversation. It feels like you’re stepping into something. When the machine starts its cycle, the sound fills the room, grounding, steady. But you don’t move away. And neither does he. And for a moment, standing there with him, you don’t feel quite as alone.

Morning comes too fast. It always does now. Thin. Incomplete. Like sleep never fully settles before it’s taken away again. 

You move through it on habit. Coffee. Half-cold. You leave it on the counter while you get ready, drifting through the apartment in small, automatic steps. Your body remembers where things are even when your mind doesn’t quite follow.

You light a cigarette. The ashtray is by the window. You reach for it without looking, then pause. You frown, lifting it, turning it slightly in your hand. It’s clean.

You stare at it longer than you should. You remember last night. The cigarette burning low between your fingers. The soft tap of ash. The way you didn’t think about it. You don’t remember emptying it.

You set it back down, slower this time. Maybe you did. Maybe it was automatic. You’ve been tired. Distracted. It makes sense. It has to. You move on.

The next day, you’re halfway out the door, keys in hand, bag slung over your shoulder, when you realize you can’t find your jacket. Your favorite one. You check the chair. The hook. The couch. Your movements sharpen, quicker now, less patient. Nothing.

You stop in the middle of the room, breath catching slightly. You wore it. You remember wearing it. Taking it off.

“…Laundry,” you murmur, already turning away from the thought before it settles too deep. “It’s probably in the laundry.”

You don’t check. You grab something else and leave.

Your brush is gone three days later. You notice it in the middle of getting ready, hand reaching automatically for where it should be on the counter. Nothing. You blink, scanning the surface, moving a bottle aside, then another. Still nothing.

A quiet, creeping irritation replaces the confusion this time. You check the drawer. The floor. The edge of the sink like it might have slipped there somehow. It hasn’t. You stare at the empty space for a second longer than necessary. You end up using your fingers instead.

After that, it starts to blur. Not all at once. Never enough to stop everything.

Your cologne disappears between one morning and the next. You notice when your hand closes around empty air.

Your favorite mug is gone a week later. The one you always use. The one you instinctively grab without thinking. You open the cabinet. It’s not there. Weird. You pick a different one.

Some things take longer to register. A passport photo you kept on the fridge. Small. Easy to miss. You only notice because something feels wrong before you understand why. Your eyes land on the empty space. 

You don’t remember taking it down. You don’t remember why you would. Your stomach turns slightly. You look away.

It gets more personal after that.

Your underwear drawer feels off. You don’t count them. You don’t line them up and check. You just know. There’s something missing. The black lace thong. The expensive one you bought last month. The one you wore on that date.

You distinctly remember peeling it off when you got home, still a little damp, and dropping it into the hamper. You remember that clearly. You don’t remember what you did with it after. You stand there with the drawer half open, fingers resting lightly against the wood. Then you push it closed.

A few days later your vibrator is gone. You notice when you’re half-asleep one night, hand sliding lazily into the drawer like muscle memory. Your fingers meet empty space where the sleek black toy should be.

You sit up, suddenly wide awake, face burning even though you’re completely alone. You tear through the drawer, then the one below it, then under the bed almost desperate. Nothing.

Did I move it? Did I throw it away by accident?

You blame the move again. The boxes. The chaos. The fact that you’ve been so distracted lately. Yeah. That has to be it. 

You don’t sleep much that night. But it keeps happening. Your bra from the day before. Gone.

Your lipstick. The one you always keep in your bag. Gone. 

Your exfoliant. Gone.

Small things. Intimate things. Things no one else would notice. Things no one else would want.

Your laptop stays where it is. Your headphones. Your keys. Your wallet. All untouched. It would be easier if those were gone. Easier to name. But it isn’t that. It’s this. Selective. Careful. Close.

You stop thinking about it. Not because you decided to. It just feels pointless. There’s always an explanation if you don’t look too closely. Laundry. Forgetfulness. Being distracted. Being tired. You’ve been all of those things. It fits. It has to. Until it doesn’t.

You’re standing in your bedroom when something in your chest finally settles into a shape you can’t control anymore. You’re not losing things. You’re not misplacing them. You’re not forgetting. Someone is taking them.

The thought lands clean. Your skin prickles. You glance toward the door without meaning to. It’s closed. Locked. You remember locking it. You always lock it. Your throat tightens. If you didn’t lose them… If you didn’t forget… Then someone has been inside.

The apartment feels different again. Occupied. That’s the word that settles, whether you want it to or not.

You don’t leave as much after that. Not all at once. Just less. You come back earlier. Stay out shorter. Keep track of time in a way you didn’t before. Always aware of the door. The lock. The space you’re leaving behind. You tell yourself it’s precaution. Temporary. Until you figure it out. You don’t.

Days pass. Then more. Your world narrows quietly. Fewer messages. Plans that never quite settle into something real. Conversations that fade before they take hold. It’s easier not to reach out. Easier not to explain something you can’t prove, can’t fully say out loud without hearing how it sounds. So you don’t. You stay in more. And somehow, Hongjoong becomes part of that. Not in a way you notice at first. Just there, consistent in a way nothing else is.

The first time, it’s coincidence. You step into the hallway one morning and he’s there, locking his door, like he’s always belonged to the space.

“Good morning,” he says, easy. “How’s it going?”

You stop. You answer. Because it feels normal to. Because he feels normal. 

The second time, you wonder if it’s a pattern. The third, you’re paying attention.

You start leaving your apartment a few minutes earlier. Just in case. You tell yourself it’s nothing. Just timing. Sometimes you catch him at the elevator. Sometimes by the stairs. Once, in the lobby, already holding the door open like he knew you were right behind him.

“Perfect timing,” he says, a small smile pulling at his mouth.

And something in your chest lifts. Light. Unexpected. You start noticing the quiet ways he fits. The way he always slows his pace just enough to match yours without making it obvious. The way he listens, like whatever you’re saying matters, even when it doesn’t.

You tell him small things at first. Work. Being tired. The kind of details you don’t usually bother sharing. He takes them like they’re worth keeping. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t drift. You find yourself looking for him. Not consciously. But you linger a second longer in the hallway. Take your time locking the door. Check the elevator twice before taking the stairs.

Once, your sink starts leaking. It’s minor. You could’ve called maintenance. You don’t. You knock on his door instead. You tell yourself it’s convenience. He’s closer. That’s all. He opens the door like he wasn’t doing anything else. Like you didn’t interrupt something.

“Everything okay?” he asks, softer this time.

You explain. He listens. Then he steps aside without hesitation.

“Show me.”

It takes him less than five minutes to fix it. You stay longer anyway. Leaning against the counter. Talking about nothing. He doesn’t rush you out. Doesn’t make it feel like time is passing at all. It becomes easier. To knock. To ask. To stay.

And through all of it, he never pushes. Never asks for more than what you give. Never makes you feel like you owe him anything for the way he shows up. He’s just there. Steady. Uncomplicated.

You don’t question it. You don’t question him. Because when everything else feels slightly off, he doesn’t. And without realizing it, you start to rely on that. You start to want it.

You don’t know what wakes you. Not a sound. Something thinner than that. The absence of something you didn’t realize you’d gotten used to.

Your eyes open into the dark, heavy with sleep, but the feeling comes immediately anyway. Wrong. Not imagined. Just present in a way the room wasn’t a second ago. You don’t move at first. Your gaze drifts toward the corner of the room where the shadows sit thicker, where your chair should be.

For a moment it doesn’t look empty. It doesn’t look clear either. Inhabited.

Your heart stutters once. You blink. It doesn’t change. Your hand moves before you decide, groping for the lamp. Your fingers knock against the base once, twice, before finding the switch. Light snaps on. The room settles instantly. Nothing there. Just your chair. Your clothes draped over it. Exactly where you left them.

Your breath returns in uneven pieces, but it doesn’t fully settle. You keep looking anyway, like if you stare long enough something might re-form out of the space. Nothing does. Only then do you notice the cold. Not normal cold. Something sharper. Localized, like it doesn’t belong to the room.

You sit up slowly, feet meeting the floor. The air feels thinner the closer you get to awareness. You stand and walk toward the living room. 

That’s when you see it. The window. It’s open. Not wide. Just a small gap in the frame letting in a thin line of air that moves like it already knows the room.

You stare at it. You’re sure you closed it. You remember closing it. You reach it too quickly, fingers gripping the frame. The glass is colder than it should be. You push it shut. It gives easily. Too easily. The latch clicks into place.

You don’t move for a second after that, hand still on the frame, eyes fixed on the glass as if it might show you something other than your own reflection. Nothing changes.

You step back slowly. Force your shoulders down. Your breath follows a moment later, but not all the way. The cold lingers longer than it should, as if it’s deciding whether it has permission to stay.

You return to bed, but your eyes keep drifting to the corner of the room. Nothing is there. Still nothing. Yet the room doesn’t feel empty anymore. Eventually, you lie down. You don’t turn the light off. Sleep comes late and shallow, and when it does, it doesn’t feel like rest.

The next day, you decide you need something certain. Something you can verify without memory getting in the way. Something small. A paperclip.

You place it carefully over the top of the door frame, balanced just enough that if the door moves, it will fall. You memorize it before leaving. The angle. The weight. The exact placement.

When you come back, it’s still there. Relief hits too fast. Too clean. You almost exhale a laugh. You check it again anyway before closing the door. You lock it.

The next day, it’s still there. The day after, still there.

The tension loosens slowly, not disappearing, just receding enough to make you believe it might have been nothing. Maybe stress. A new place. A new rhythm you haven’t adjusted to yet. You let that thought stay.

So you start going out again. Coffee before work. Same café. Same seat by the window. You stop checking the glass constantly, though your attention still drifts there more than it should.

You sit. You breathe. You stay. It almost feels normal. 

At work, faces blur. Names half-stick, half-slip. Conversations that don’t quite land anywhere. Except him. He doesn’t. He passes behind you too closely. Closer than necessary. Once, his hand brushes the back of your chair. Then again on another day. Never enough to name, never enough to confront.

He asked you out once. You said no. After that, he stopped looking at you directly, except when he does, briefly, like he forgot to stop. When he speaks, it’s clipped. Controlled.

“Did you finish that?” “Send it again.” “You missed something.” 

Nothing you can point to. Nothing you can report. 

In the break room, you reach for the same mug at the same time. His hand doesn’t move. Yours does. You step back and laugh lightly, covering it. He takes it anyway.

“Thought you didn’t like sharing,” he says.

You don’t remember telling him that.

Later, he stands behind you at your desk for longer than necessary. Not touching. Not close enough to accuse. But close enough that you feel him there. You don’t turn around until he leaves.

You see him looking at you afterward. Not curious. Not interested. Something flat you can’t settle into meaning. You look away first. It would be easier if there was something clear. Something you could hold and name. But there isn’t. Just small things that don’t sit right long enough to become real.

So you let it settle on him anyway. It makes sense. It’s clean. Explainable. Still, you don’t say most of it out loud. Not to anyone. Not even to Hongjoong.

The takeout containers sit open on the coffee table, half-forgotten between you. You told yourself it was just a thank you. Takeout for fixing the sink. The light. The door. Again. You don’t linger on that thought. You lift your beer instead, nudging his foot lightly with yours. 

“You’re getting a little too comfortable here.”

He shifts, letting his shoulder brush yours again. It keeps happening. Never quite accidental.

“Yeah?” he says, glancing at you. “You complaining?”

“Maybe.” A small smile tugs at your mouth. “Depends how useful you plan on being.”

His gaze drops to your lips for a second too long before sliding back up. “Careful,” he murmurs. “You keep talking like that, I might think you want me around.”

Your grip tightens on the bottle. You look away first.

“Free labor is hard to find.”

“Mm.” A quiet huff leaves him, softer now. “Right.”

You stand before the moment can stretch any further, lifting your empty bottle.

 “Want another?”

When you look at him again, he’s already watching you. Not the bottle. Not the fridge behind you. You.

“…yeah,” he says, voice lower than before.

The kitchen light spills cold across your hands as you open the fridge. You grab two beers, shifting them in one hand, and then you see it. His things, placed neatly near the edge. Wallet. Keys. Phone. Cigarettes.

You pause, fingertips hovering just above the pack, like touching it might mean something.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” you call out.

Behind you, fabric shifts. Slow. “Sometimes.”

You lean your hip against the counter, still looking at it. “…that’s funny.”

A small pause.

“Why?”

You glance over your shoulder. He hasn’t moved much, but his attention has. It’s sharper now. Settled. “Same ones I buy.”

Silence. Not empty. Not light. Then, softer—

“Huh.” A faint smile ghosts his voice. “Guess we’ve got good taste.”

Something warm curls low in your chest. You don’t question it. You don’t want to. He studies you for a second. Something unreadable flickers there, gone just as quickly. 

 “Take one.”

You hesitate just enough to feel it. Then pull one free.

“You sure?”

He leans back, but not far. Never far. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Trying to quit anyway.”

It sounds offhand. Casual. But he doesn’t look away.

“Thanks.” 

When you drop onto the couch again, you tuck one leg under you. The cigarette rests between your lips, unlit. You hand him the beer, avoiding his eyes for just a second too long. He takes it. Doesn’t drink. Instead, his gaze drops to your mouth.

“Hold on.”

He’s already leaning in, lighter flicking open in his hand. The flame blooms between you, but he doesn’t hand it to you. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, his hand lifts, cupping the flame, pulling himself deep into your space. Close enough that the warmth of him reaches you before anything else.

“Stay still,” he murmurs.

You do. You lean in slightly, the cigarette catching as you inhale, slow. The flame flickers between you, but it’s not what you feel. It’s him. His hand. Steady. Close enough that your fingers could slip into his if you wanted to. His face. Near. Too near. His eyes, focused on your mouth now.

You pull back slowly, exhaling smoke. He doesn’t move away. Neither do you. Your knee presses against his thigh. You don’t pull back. He doesn’t either.

“…thanks,” you repeat, quieter now.

He hums, almost absent.

You take another drag, then hold it out. He takes it from you, fingers brushing yours, slower this time. Intentional enough to notice. He leans back, but his leg stays against yours, solid. Grounding. Like he’s making sure you’re still there. Like he needs you to be. You glance at him, catching your lip between your teeth before you can stop yourself.

“Do you always accept dinner invitations like this?” you ask.

His mouth tilts, but his eyes stay glued to your eyes.

“Like what?”

You shrug, looking down at the cigarette between his fingers. “Last minute. No warning. Questionable motives.”

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose, amused.

“I don’t usually get invited… Not like this.”

You look back at him, surprised despite yourself. Something in your chest pulls tight. Without thinking, you reach for his free hand. Your fingers wrap around his. He lets you. Then turns his hand and holds yours back, thumb slowly stroking your skin. It surprises you as much as it surprises him.

“…what’s ‘like this’?” you ask, softer.

For a second he doesn’t answer. His grip tightens. Just once. Then he exhales, slow, like something heavier almost slipped out with it, and tips his head back against the couch. He doesn’t pull away. But he doesn’t look at you either.

“Like you actually want me here.”

It’s quieter than anything he’s said before. Your chest aches at his honesty in a way you don’t recognize fast enough. You don’t let go of his hand. You don’t think you could. He’s still looking away, throat exposed slightly with the tilt of his head, lashes low, like he’s given you something he didn’t mean to.

And for a moment, you just watch him. The way his fingers still hold yours, even now. The way he keeps just enough distance everywhere else. The way he doesn’t look at you, like that might be the line he won’t cross unless you ask him to.

Something shifts. Not sudden. Not loud. But certain. It’s not just that you like having him here. It’s that you’ve been finding reasons to make sure he is.

You shift closer on the couch until your thigh presses fully against his. Slowly, you lean in and rest your head on his shoulder, your temple brushing his jaw. You can feel how warm he is. You can hear the way his breathing changes. He doesn’t pull away.

Your thumb moves against his hand before you can think better of it. Small. Careful. He notices. His fingers tighten again, just slightly this time. For a long moment neither of you moves. The air feels thick, charged with everything you’re both dying to do but won’t. Not yet.

The cigarette burns quietly between you. Neither of you reaches for it anymore.

Your eyes rise, without meaning to. His mouth is close. Too close. You could—

The thought slips in fast. Uninvited. What it would feel like to close the distance. To tilt your head just slightly. To press your lips to his and see if he’d—

You stop. Your fingers tighten faintly around his hand, like that alone is enough to ground you back into yourself. You don’t move. You don’t dare. Because if you do, if you lean in even a fraction, you’re not sure he’d stop you. And that thought? That’s worse.

So you stay exactly where you are, cheek against his shoulder, breath steadying slowly as if nothing happened at all. As if your heart didn’t just trip over something it won’t be able to forget now.

A new gift is waiting when you get back from work the next day. You almost miss it. You step inside, closing the door behind you, your gaze dropping automatically. A napkin. Folded. Placed neatly on the floor. 

Your breath stutters. You don’t move at first. Then you crouch slowly, fingers hovering before you touch it. Like it might react. It doesn’t. It’s just paper. Light. Harmless. 

There’s a faint stain along the edge. Pale. Smudged. Your lipstick. Or your drink. You unfold it. This time, there’s a message. The handwriting is clean. Measured. 

“You ordered the iced vanilla latte again. You always bite the straw when you’re anxious.”

Your chest tightens so fast it almost hurts. You stare at the words. Your brain scrambles, who saw you? who was close enough? who was watching? You were alone. You checked. Weren’t you? Your grip tightens around the paper. A sound slips out of you, quiet, uneven. It doesn’t sound like you believe it.

The next day, it happens again. A wrapper. Smoothed flat.

“You dropped this at the crosswalk. I don’t like when you litter.”

Your stomach twists this time. Not confusion. Recognition. You don’t throw it away immediately. You stand there. Reading it again. Trying to place the voice. That coworker flashes in your mind. The way he watches. The way he doesn’t smile anymore. The way he said your name that one time, too familiar.

A week later. A dried petal. Your fingers shake when you touch it. “These looked better before you took them home.” Your fingers shake when you touch it. Because you remember. You picked those up on your way back. No one was there.

Your subway ticket. Perfectly flattened. “You almost missed the 7:42 ride. I was happy you made it.” Happy. The word sits wrong. Too personal. Too close.

A couple of days later. A straw. Straightened. Placed inside a small envelope. “Stop hanging out with those idiots after work. They’re the reason you destroy things with your teeth. I hate seeing you like this.” Your throat tightens. You didn’t tell anyone that.

Your coworker again. His voice. His face. You try to attach it to him. Force it to fit. But something doesn’t line up. He doesn’t feel careful enough.

The next day. A cigarette butt. Cleaned. Sealed. “You shouldn’t smoke. It makes your lips taste bad and your hands shake. If you stayed home like you’re supposed to, you wouldn’t need these.” Your hand jerks. You drop it this time. It hits the floor with a soft sound that feels too loud. Too final. Like something snapping.

The tone never changes. No anger. No urgency. No threat. Just observation. Correction. Adjustment. Like someone is watching something slightly out of place and guiding it back where it belongs. 

Your chest feels tight more often now. Your movements smaller. Quieter. You stop staying out as long. Stop talking as much. Stop laughing as loud. You don’t notice it happening. Not at first. Because every time you step outside, every time you do something that belongs to you, it comes back. Flattened. Folded. Seen. 

It becomes habit. Open the door. Look up. Relief. Look down. Fear. You don’t even think about it anymore. Your body does it for you, like breathing, like blinking, like checking your reflection without meaning to.

The bar across the street is louder than it should be for a weekday. Music low enough to talk over, loud enough that you have to lean into Hongjoong to do it.

You didn’t plan to stay long. Just a drink. Maybe two. Something to shake the feeling out of your chest. Hongjoong sits beside you, one hand wrapped loosely around the neck of his beer, the other resting against the bar. His gaze already on you before you say anything.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says, leaning in just enough for you to hear him. Not accusing. Just noticing.

You huff lightly, eyes dropping to your drink. “There’s this guy at work,” you start, more direct than you meant to be.

His fingers still around the bottle. Not moving. “What about him?” he asks.

You roll your shoulders, trying to keep it casual.

“He asked me out. I said no.” A small pause. “He’s been weird since.”

Hongjoong’s expression shifts. Subtle. But it’s there.

“Weird how?”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know, but because suddenly it feels smaller. Harder to explain out loud.

“He barely talks to me unless he has to,” you say. “And when he does, it’s like—” you frown, searching for the right words, “like I did something wrong. Like he thinks I owe him something.”

His jaw tightens. You see it this time. Clearer.

“What’s his name?” he asks. Too quick.

You glance at him, a flicker of something crossing your face.

“What?”

He exhales, like he hears it too, how that sounded.

“I just—” he shakes his head slightly, adjusting his grip on the bottle. “If he’s making you uncomfortable, you shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

“I’m not filing a report,” you say, a little sharper than before. “I just—” you huff softly. “I just wanted to know what you’d do.”

He goes quiet for a second.

“I think,” he says more carefully now, “you shouldn’t be around people like that.”

“It’s work,” you point out, softer. “I can’t really avoid him.”

“You could,” he says.

Then he stops. Like he hears himself. A small pause. His gaze drops briefly to the bar, jaw flexing once.

“…Sorry,” he mutters, quieter now. “That wasn’t—” he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do.”

That’s new. You blink at him. He lets out a small breath, almost a self-conscious huff.

“I just don’t like the idea of someone making you feel like that,” he adds, more honest now. Less controlled. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Something in your chest softens. It’s not sharp anymore. It’s real. 

“I can handle it,” you say, gentler this time. Not defensive. Reassuring.

“I know,” he says quickly. Too quickly. Then, softer, “I know you can.” A beat. “But you shouldn’t have to.”

There’s no edge in it now. Just something quiet. Steady. Almost unsure. You study him for a second. The tension is still there, but it’s different. Not pushing. Not closing in. You don’t think about it when you move. Your hand comes up, cupping his jaw lightly, turning his face toward you.

“Hey.”

His eyes lift to yours immediately. The shift is instant. Whatever was sitting in his chest loosens at the contact alone.

“It’s okay,” you say, softer now, a small smile pulling at your mouth. “Really.”

For a second, he just looks at you. Then his eyes close. Slowly. His head tilts, just slightly, pressing into your palm. Not demanding. Not taking. Just letting himself have it. You feel his breath against your skin. Warmer now. Steadier. Your thumb brushes once over his cheekbone without thinking. Small. Careful. Something in your chest pulls tighter. You don’t move your hand away. Not yet.

“It’s just a guy at work,” you murmur. “That’s it.”

His hand comes up, resting lightly over your wrist. Not holding you in place. Just staying there. When he opens his eyes again, they’re softer. But there’s something deeper sitting underneath now. Quieter. Darker. Not at you. Past you. You pull your hand back. Slowly. He lets you. Just as slow.

You both lean back into your seats like nothing happened. Like the air didn’t shift. Like his breath didn’t linger against your skin. You take a sip of your drink. Cold. Bitter. Grounding. Beside you, Hongjoong picks his up again.

“Next time he tries something,” he says, voice light again, almost teasing, “you tell me.”

It sounds easy. It isn’t. You nod anyway.

“I will.”

The music fills the space between you again. And just like that, it passes.

The music is low. Sunlight spills through the open windows, warm against the floor. It’s the kind of morning that stretches slow and easy. You move through it without thinking much, bare feet against the tiles, one hand trailing along the wall as you pass the front door on your way to the kitchen.

That’s when you notice it. Something out of place. Small. White against the wood. You stop. There’s a polaroid on the floor, angled slightly like it had been pushed under the door and left there.

Your chest tightens, as you crouch down to pick it up. The paper is smooth between your fingers. You turn it over slowly, and everything in you goes cold.

It’s you. Mid-step, caught in motion. Crossing the street near your building, your head turned slightly to the side like you’d heard something. Your bag slipping down your shoulder. Your expression unguarded in a way that makes your stomach twist.

You remember this. Yesterday. Late morning. You’d been thinking about something stupid, checking your phone, not paying attention to anything around you. 

The angle is wrong for coincidence. Too close. Too clear. Whoever took it wasn’t across the street.  They were near you. Watching you.

Your grip tightens without you realizing, the edges of the polaroid bending under your fingers. There’s nothing written on it. No message. No name. Just you. A broken sound leaves your throat as you crush it in your hand, too fast, like getting rid of it will undo it. It doesn’t.

You’re already moving before you think, crossing into the kitchen, your other hand digging into the drawer for your lighter. It slips once. Your fingers aren’t steady. You try again. The flame sparks to life. For a second, you just stare at it, the small, controlled burn of it, and then you press it to the corner of the photo.

The reaction is immediate. The glossy surface darkens, curls inward, the image warping as the heat eats through it. Your face distorts first, the features melting into something unrecognizable, something wrong.

You don’t let yourself hesitate. You drop it into the sink before the heat can reach your skin. The fire spreads fast, licking across the paper, turning it black, then brittle, then nothing. You grip the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening, eyes locked on it while you turn into ash in seconds. 

When the flame finally dies, all that’s left are curled, charred fragments. You don’t move. Your apartment is still quiet. The music still playing, soft and distant like it belongs to a different place.

The windows are still open. The air still warm. But it doesn’t feel like yours anymore. Because someone stood outside your door. Slid that under. Close enough to touch the space you live in. And you didn’t hear a thing.

A week later, you almost don’t look. Your routine carries you forward automatically, your body already loosening before your mind catches up. Key in hand. Your door in front of you. You pause. Look up. It’s still there. The paperclip. 

For a second, your chest softens. Then tightens. Something is wrong. You don’t move at first. You just stare at it, breath catching higher in your chest than it should.

It’s not where you left it. Not exactly. The angle is off. Barely. So small it shouldn’t matter, except you know it does because you memorized it, because you looked at it too long the first time. Now it leans differently. Not fallen. Not disturbed. Placed.

Your stomach drops. It didn’t fall. Someone caught it. Someone noticed.

Your hand rises slowly, almost against your will, and pulls it free. The metal is colder than it should be. They saw it. They knew what it meant. They put it back. Your thoughts rush ahead of you. You can’t go in. You can’t stay here. You can’t—

Your body moves before the rest of you agrees. His door. That’s where it lands. Not logic. Not thought. Just direction. Your steps are too fast. Too loud. His door feels further than it should, like the hallway has stretched, but you don’t stop. You reach it and knock. Once. Twice. Too sharp. Too urgent. 

For a moment, nothing. Then movement inside. A pause.

“Who is it?”

Cold. Flat. Not the voice you know. It cuts through you, sharp enough that your breath stutters. You freeze.

“It’s— it’s me.”

Your voice comes out wrong. Small. Thinner than it should be.

“Hey— hey, okay. Give me a second, angel.”

Soft. Warm. Familiar. Like nothing happened. The shift is so immediate it makes your stomach twist. You hear the lock turn. The door opens just enough. The chain still in place, holding it there, a narrow gap between you and him.

Hongjoong looks at you. His gaze moves over your face, your shoulders, your hands. Quick, precise, taking everything in. You don’t realize how hard you’re shaking until you see it reflected in the way his expression tightens.

“Hey…” His voice drops, all the way down. “What’s wrong?”

You try to speak. It sticks.

“I—” Your voice shakes. “I didn’t know where else to go.” Your breath stutters. “I think… I think someone’s been watching me.” 

His expression doesn’t change dramatically. That’s the thing. It tightens instead. Controlled. Focused.

“Get inside. C’mon.”

You step inside. The door shuts behind you with a soft click that feels louder than it should. His apartment is warm. Quiet. Steady in a way yours hasn’t felt in weeks.

“Sit,” he murmurs, gentler now.

You do. Your hands stay clasped in your lap, fingers picking at each other, something small and repetitive to hold onto. He doesn’t sit next to you. Not yet. He takes the chair across from you instead, elbows resting on his knees, leaning forward slightly. Watching. Not just looking. Taking you in.

“When did it start?” he asks.

His voice is steady. Even. You latch onto it without thinking.

“A while ago,” you say, breath catching on the words. “I thought I was just being forgetful at first, but… things started going missing. Small things. And then—”

You swallow.

“There were notes.”

His brows pull together, just slightly.

“Notes.”

You nod, faster now, words starting to slip out without control.

“Things I’d done. Places I’d been. Stuff I dropped— they knew, Hongjoong. Like they were there when it happened.”

Your hands tighten in your lap. “I think someone’s been inside my apartment.”

Silence. Not disbelief. Calculation. His gaze drags over you again, slower this time. Thinking.

“Okay…” he murmurs. Then, sharper, “who’s been around you?”

You blink. “What?”

“Your place,” he clarifies, tone tightening just enough to catch. “Who’s been there. Recently.”

You hesitate. And that’s enough.

“That coworker,” he says, more focused now. “The one you told me about. The one who keeps hovering around you— what’s his name?”

Your stomach drops. “I don’t know if it’s him,” you say quickly. “I mean, I— I don’t think so, I just—”

“Does he know where you live?” he presses, leaning forward now, tension threading into his shoulders. “Has he ever followed you? Stayed too close? Said anything that didn’t sit right?”

Your breath stutters. 

“I don’t know,” you repeat, quieter this time. “I didn’t— I didn’t think about it like that.”

He exhales, short, frustrated, dragging a hand through his hair. “Of course you didn’t,” he mutters, low.

Not at you. But it lands anyway. 

“I didn’t want to make it into something bigger than it was,” you say quickly, voice thinning. “I thought if I just ignored it, it would stop but it didn’t and I don’t—” Your breath catches. “I don’t feel safe there anymore.”

That’s the moment. He moves. Not abruptly. Not overwhelming. But closer. The couch dips beside you, his presence settling in like something steady, something certain.

“Sweetheart…” His voice drops immediately, softer now. Anchoring. “Okay. No— no, come here.”

His hand finds your back, slow enough that you could pull away. You don’t. Your breathing breaks before you can stop it, quiet at first, then sharper, your chest hitching against itself. 

He doesn’t hesitate. His arm comes around you, firm, careful, pulling you in just enough to hold you together. His hand moves against your arm in slow, grounding strokes.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, low. Close. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You shake your head against him, fingers curling into his shirt, needing something solid.

“I don’t feel okay,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says, just as soft. “You don’t have to.”

That makes something inside you loosen. You lean into him fully then, your forehead brushing his shoulder, your body giving in to the weight of it.  His hand slides slightly higher along your arm, thumb pressing in slow, deliberate passes, like he’s mapping where you’re tense.

“You’ve been dealing with this on your own this whole time?” he asks quietly.

There’s something under it now. Not just concern. Something tighter. You nod against him.

“I didn’t want to sound crazy,” you admit, voice small, breaking at the edges. “I thought maybe I was just— making it worse in my head but it doesn’t feel like that, it doesn’t feel like it’s just me—”

“It’s not,” he cuts in, low and certain. No hesitation. No doubt.

His arm tightens, just slightly.

“You don’t imagine things like that,” he adds, quieter now. “Not like this.”

Your breath stutters, something in your chest loosening at the certainty.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper. “I don’t know if I should go back there, or call someone, or just— I don’t know, I feel like I’m missing something and it’s right there and I just—”

Your voice cracks. He doesn’t rush you. Just holds you there. Steady. Thinking.

“We’ll figure it out,” he murmurs after a moment, voice low, controlled again.  “I’ll handle it.”

It slips out clean. Like it’s already his. His hand stills briefly against your arm before resuming, slower now.

“Whoever it is,” he adds, quieter, something colder threading underneath, “they don’t get to keep doing this to you.”

His head dips slightly, almost without thinking, and his lips brush against your hair. Soft. Lingering. For a second, it feels like nothing more than comfort. Something gentle. Grounding. You let yourself lean into it. There’s a quiet pause there. Subtle. Easy to miss. Then his hand resumes its slow movement along your arm, steady as before.

Your body softens against him without you realizing it. For the first time in months, you don’t feel alone in it. You pull back slightly after a moment, just enough to look at him. You’re close. Closer than you’ve ever been. 

His hand is still on your arm, but it’s not just resting there anymore. His fingers have tightened, just enough that you feel the pressure, like he doesn’t want you to move too far away. 

His thumb drags slowly along your sleeve. Not absentminded. Measured. His eyes don’t leave yours. There’s something different there now. Not softer. Something deeper. Fixed. Like he’s looking at something he’s already decided is his. 

Your breath catches again, but not for the same reason. 

It happens before you can think about it. He leans in. The first touch is warm. Careful. Like he’s afraid you might vanish. His lips are softer than you expected, and something inside you just gives. 

You’ve both been waiting for this. You can feel it in the way he breathes against you, in the way you lean into him without thinking. You don’t pull away. You don’t want to. You kiss him back, desperate for the solid warmth of him, for something real in the middle of all this chaos. 

Your hand slides up into his hair, fingers curling gently at first. For a few seconds it stays soft. Almost sweet. But Hongjoong’s hunger wins. The kiss deepens fast. His tongue slips into your mouth, slow but greedy, tasting you like he’s been starving for this. A low sound rumbles in his chest as he pulls you closer, his hand sliding down to your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to make your breath hitch. 

You tug lightly at his hair when he kisses you harder, and he groans softly into your mouth, the sound sending heat rushing through you. You’re panting against his lips, breathing each other in. 

He presses you back into the couch with his body. His thigh presses between yours, hips rolling forward so you can feel how hard he is, how much he wants you. Your fingers tighten, harsher this time, in his hair. You kiss him deeper, chasing that heat, letting yourself drown in it for just a moment longer.

He holds you tighter, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t. For a moment, it feels perfect. Like everything else can wait. Then reality starts creeping back in.

You turn your head slightly, trying to catch your breath. “Joong— wait—”

He doesn’t stop. His mouth follows yours instantly, chasing the space you tried to create. He turns the kiss messier, wetter, more desperate. His hand slides up under the hem of your shirt, palm hot against your bare skin, gripping your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. He sucks on your bottom lip, then bites it. Not hard, but enough to make you flinch.

“I just—” you try again, voice shaky, pushing weakly at his chest. “I think we should—”

He cuts you off with another kiss, deeper this time, almost punishing. His hips press harder between your legs, grinding slow against you, letting you feel how painfully hard he is. Like he can’t stop himself even if he tried.

“Shh,” he breathes against your mouth, barely pulling back. His voice is hoarse, trembling with restraint and something darker. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

It should soothe you. It doesn’t. You grip his bicep tightly, nails digging in as you try to push him back. He groans against your lips, low and pleased, like the pain only excites him more.

“Joong, please—”

The words barely leave your mouth before he moves to your neck. His tongue drags a slow, wet stripe up your skin, then he presses his face there, breathing you in deeply.

“Fuck… you smell so good,” he whispers against your throat, voice hoarse and trembling with something unhinged.

Your eyes squeeze shut. Your whole body tenses. You grab a handful of his hair and try to pull him away, but he moans louder at the pull, the sound vibrating against your neck. Then he bites down gently, sucking on the sensitive skin.

A small, helpless cry escapes you. He doesn’t seem to hear it. He keeps kissing and licking your neck while his hand travels higher, cupping your breast fully. He squeezes it hard, letting out a desperate, broken moan like finally touching you there is driving him insane.

“You’re always like this when you’re overwhelmed,” he says softly, almost to himself, lips still brushing your neck. “You just need to calm down.”

That finally snaps something in you.

You push both hands against his shoulders with real force. “Hongjoong— stop!”

He doesn’t listen right away. For two long, suffocating seconds his mouth stays on your neck, sucking greedily, while his hand gives your breast one last hard, possessive squeeze. He looks like he doesn’t know how to let go. Like stopping is something his body has to learn.

Then he suddenly yanks both hands away and sits back on his calves, still positioned between your legs. His breathing is uneven. His lips wet and slightly swollen. His eyes are wrong. Too dark, too steady, like something sharp is being forced back behind them.

“I’m sorry— I just—” you say quickly. “I just—this is a lot. I can’t— not like this, I can’t—”

Something sharp flickers across his face. Gone almost instantly.

“I know,” he says, voice rougher than before. “I know.”

He exhales through his nose, then drags a hand through his hair, like he’s trying to reset something in himself.

“I went too fast,” he admits after a beat, quieter now. “That’s on me.” His voice softens, almost self-deprecating. “You’re just… hard to stay away from.”

His shoulders drop slightly as he leans back, giving you space without you asking for it. Too careful. Too precise.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he adds. “I just—” A pause, jaw tightening. “I got ahead of myself. I promise it won’t happen again.”

His gaze stays on you, but softer now. Watching, not pressing.

“I like you,” he says finally, like it slips out before he can polish it into something safer. “More than I should, probably.”

That lands differently. He seems to realize it too, because his mouth tightens faintly.

“I don’t want to ruin this before it even starts.”

Silence settles between you, thick but no longer chaotic. You push yourself up into a sitting position, still breathing too fast, still trying to rebuild your edges.

“I just… I need a second,” you say quietly. “I think I should go home. Clear my head.”

You shift like you’re going to stand. His hand catches your wrist immediately. Not hard. But certain.

“Wait.”

The word is softer than everything before it. His thumb moves once against your pulse. Slow. Grounding.

“I don’t want you going back there tonight,” he says.

Your breath stutters. “It’s probably nothing. I was just overthinking—”

“Were you?”

That stops you. Not because it’s loud. Because it’s too calm. His eyes don’t leave your face.

“Things missing. Notes. Someone getting into your apartment,” he continues, voice steady now. “That doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“I’m fine,” you insist, but it comes out weaker than you mean it to.

“You’re not,” he says simply. Not harsh. Just decided. The grip on your wrist loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go.

“You’re not going back there alone tonight.”

It doesn’t sound like an order. That’s what makes it hard to refuse. You shift your wrist carefully, not pulling away, just creating space.

“Hongjoong…” you say, quieter. “I didn’t say no to you. I said no to how you were doing it.” 

A breath slips out of you, uneven.

“I was okay with this. You just… pushed past it.”

You don’t accuse him. But you don’t soften it either.

“I need to go home.”

A flicker crosses his expression. Quick. Controlled. Something sharper underneath. Then he lets out a small breath, like he’s choosing a different path entirely.

“Or you can stay here,” he says.

Too smooth now. Like he’s already decided that’s the reasonable option.

“You can sleep in my bed,” he continues. “I’ll take the couch. Lock the door, forget about everything for a night.”

His gaze holds yours steadily.

“I’ll take care of it.”

Your skin tightens at that.

“I don’t need—”

“I won’t touch you,” he interrupts, immediately softer. Adjusting. Correcting himself. “Not unless you want me to.” A beat. “I just want you safe.”

Safe. The word sits heavy between you. Almost comforting. Almost convincing. You ease your wrist back slowly. He lets you. Not a fight. Just release.

“Thank you,” you say, quieter. “Really. I just… I need to be alone for a bit.”

Silence. This time it’s different. Not heavy. Not warm. Measuring. Then—

“Okay.”

He lets go. Just like that. But the second you stand, he’s up too. Close again. Always close. Before you can step away, his hand lands on your shoulder and gently turns you back toward him. Not rough. Not forcing, just insistent. Like he assumes you’ll follow the direction.

“Angel,” he murmurs, softer now. Almost fond. “Look at me for a second.”

Your stomach tightens. He doesn’t pull you closer. He doesn’t need to. He’s already too near.

“I don’t like letting you leave like this,” he continues, thumb brushing slowly over your shoulder. “All tense. All stuck in that pretty head of yours.”

A small exhale, like he’s thinking aloud.

“Let me fix it a little.”

The words land warm. Wrongly warm. He leans in again. Not rushed. Not unsure. Like it’s something that has happened before, or something that should. 

You turn your head at the last second. His lips catch your cheek instead. Warm. Unhurried. Lingering just a fraction too long. Your eyes close on instinct. You don’t move away. That realization comes after. It sits under your skin like something you didn’t consent to noticing.

“Hongjoong…” Your voice is quieter now, steadier in shape but not in feeling. “I meant it. I need space. Really.”

A beat. He pulls back just enough to look at you properly.

“Okay,” he says. Easy. Calm. “I hear you.”

It sounds like agreement. But nothing about him changes. You force a small smile anyway. Thin. Carefully made.

“Thank you.”

You turn. This time, he lets you. Almost. His hand slides down your shoulder blade, trailing along your spine in a way that feels like it should be nothing, until it reaches your ass. He squeezes hard, fingers digging in just enough that your balance shifts backward, your back pressing into his chest before you can stop it. The contact is immediate. Solid. Trapping.

A quiet sound leaves him, close to your ear. Not words. More like a groan.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs. “You don’t even realize what you do to me.”

His breath lingers against your skin. His hand moves to your hip. The pressure doesn’t increase. It doesn’t need to.

“You’re gonna have me thinking about you all night,” he adds softly.

You move. Not sharply. But decisively. You step forward just enough to break the contact, turning in the same motion until you’re facing him fully again.

“Hongjoong—” you start, sharper now.

Your pulse is loud in your ears. His expression is unchanged. That same smirk. Easy, amused, like none of this is real. Like this is just a game the two of you are playing. 

“I’ll behave,” he adds lightly, almost amused now. “For tonight.”

Your fingers curl at your sides.

“That’s not—” you stop yourself, swallow. Reset. Your voice steadies, but your chest feels tight. “I’m serious. I need you to actually listen to me.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Gone just as fast.

“I am listening,” he says, soft again. “That’s why I’m letting you go.”

Letting. The word sits wrong in the air.  You don’t respond. You turn back toward the door. This time, your movement is real. Your hand reaches the handle. But your breath doesn’t follow cleanly. It catches somewhere in your chest, tight and uneven, like your body is only now realizing what just happened.

“Hey,” he calls softly.

You freeze. Slowly, you turn your head just enough to look at him over your shoulder. He hasn’t moved. He’s still where you left him. Still watching you like he’s memorizing something he doesn’t want to lose.

“If anything feels off tonight,” he says, voice gentle again, “you call me. Yeah?” A pause. “I’ll be there before you even finish speaking.”

Your grip tightens on the handle. You manage a small nod. “Okay,” you murmur.

His gaze lingers. He nods once, like that settles something in him.

“I mean it,” he adds. “Leave your bedroom light on for me. I’ll know you’re okay if I can see it from my window.”

Your breath catches slightly. You don’t answer. A small smile tugs at his mouth.

“Sleep well, pretty.”

You open the door. Step out. You glance back once, and you regret it immediately. Because he’s still there.  Watching. Then you leave. And only when the door shuts behind you, soft and final, do you let a tear finally slip down your cheek.

The hallway feels colder when you step into it, like the air shifted while you weren’t looking. You don’t run, even though you want to, you don’t. So you walk all the way to your door, key in, turn, and step inside. 

The click of the lock lands too loud in the silence that follows, and you freeze immediately, listening. Nothing. No footsteps, no voices. Still, your shoulders don’t drop. Your hand stays on the door a second too long before you turn away.

The apartment looks exactly the same, familiar in a way that should calm you but doesn’t, because nothing about it feels right anymore. You already know you’re not alone here. You step further in slowly, carefully, like the floor might shift under your weight.

Your arms wrap around yourself without thinking, fingers pressing into your sleeves like you can hold something in place if you just grip hard enough. Your breath doesn’t settle. And then it hits you all at once, the memory snapping into place so clearly it turns your stomach.

Him. The way he looked at you. The way his hands held you like there had never been a question about whether you would stay or move away. Like your body was something he could keep. Your throat tightens immediately.

“He didn’t mean to,” you murmur quickly, the words rushing out before you can stop them. “He just—he got carried away—”

But your voice breaks before you finish, because even as you say it, something inside you rejects it. It didn’t feel like that. Not when you think about the way he  didn’t stop. Not when you pulled back the first time. Not when you said his name like that. Like you were trying to pull yourself out of something you couldn’t control anymore.

Your hand comes up to your mouth, pressing there as if it can hold everything in.

“He was just—”

The sentence never completes. There isn’t a version of it that fits anymore. Your skin prickles, awareness crawling under it, because you can still feel him in ways you don’t want to name, not just what happened but what stayed after it. The pressure of his grip, the heat of him too close, the way your body didn’t react fast enough to stop it becoming what it became.

Your fingers tighten around your arms until it hurts. A thought slips in, heavy. You let it happen.

“No,” you whisper immediately, shaking your head once. “No, I didn’t—”

But you didn’t stop him right away. For a second, you froze. For a second, your body didn’t move at all.

“I did this,” you murmur, and it lands heavier than you expect.

Because you came here. You chose this. You left everything behind thinking you could start over somewhere quieter, somewhere safer. Your chest hurt. Because it followed you anyway. It always does. Everything does. Always at once.

Your thoughts start to spiral, overlapping, louder, faster. You’re running again. You never stay long enough to fix anything. You think changing the place will change you.

“I just needed space,” you whisper, and it already feels worn out as you say it.

Your breathing shifts, too shallow, too fast, before you notice it fully.

“I’m fine,” you try.

It comes out wrong. The air doesn’t reach where it should. Your lungs don’t listen. Air goes in, barely comes out. Again. Shallow. Too fast. 

You lean back until your shoulder hits the wall, harder than you mean to. It grounds you for half a second. When you close your eyes, it gets worse. The apartment presses in. You open them again quickly. Nothing has changed. That’s worse.

“I can’t—” you start, but it stops there.

Your breath catches and doesn’t complete. Your hand presses into your ribs, forcing it through. In. Out. In. It falters.

Your vision blurs slightly at the edges. Everything feels too close, too physical. Your hands move without thinking, dragging over your arms, your sides, like you can wipe it off. Like it’s something physical. It doesn’t go away. Your stomach turns. You push off the wall too fast, your steps uneven as you move. Somewhere, anywhere…

The bathroom. You don’t think. You just go. The light flicks on too bright. Too harsh. Your hands are already pulling at your clothes, clumsy and urgent, like they’re in the way of something you need to fix now. Fabric sticks for a second. You yank harder. Gone.

You turn the shower on without checking the temperature. Water hits your skin too cold. You flinch but don’t step away. You step in. The shock pins you there, sharp and immediate, and your inhale breaks. It’s freezing. Good.

Your hands move instantly, scrubbing at your arms, your waist, your skin like it’s something you can remove if you press hard enough, like memory has weight that water might wash away. Before him. Before that second. Before you didn’t move fast enough to stop it.

Your breath shakes as water runs down your face, your neck, your chest, and you don’t know anymore if the wetness is only from the shower.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, and it breaks.

And under the water, your body burning with cold and memory and something you can’t name, you don’t know if you’re trying to convince yourself or erase yourself.

The doorman greets Hongjoong like always. A nod, brief enough to disappear the moment it happens.

“Evening,” Hongjoong answers without slowing, keys already turning between his fingers.

The elevator takes him up in silence. He leans back against the wall, eyes half-lidded, letting the day fall off him in layers. 

Work had been loud again, people speaking in problems that weren’t really problems, asking for answers they already knew they wouldn’t like. It stays behind when he gets off the elevator. It always does.

Upstairs is different. Upstairs, things are the way he left them.

The doors slide open. The hallway stretches out dim and still, and his gaze finds your door the way it always does, automatic, almost absent. Closed. Good.

He passes his own without a pause. Yours, however, he stops at. The key slides in. Familiar resistance, familiar release. 

He lifts his hand on instinct, two fingers hovering in the small gap between door and frame, already expecting the paperclip to give him that quiet confirmation it always does when the door opens. It doesn’t fall. His fingers close on nothing.

That pause lasts a fraction longer than it should. Not concern, not yet. Just a faint shift in attention, like something slightly out of rhythm.  Then he pushes the door open anyway and steps inside, closing it behind him with the same ease he always does.

The apartment greets him in silence. Dark. Still. Untouched. It should feel normal. It does feel normal. He moves through it without hesitation, not bothering with lights, already knowing where everything is supposed to be. 

He walks straight to your bedroom, already palming himself through his pants, the other hand working his belt open like he always does. The familiar hunger settles low in his stomach, already half-hard at the thought of burying his face in your pillow and finally breathing you in again. 

Except when he reaches your room, something in him slows. Not fully. Not enough to stop. Just enough to register that the air feels wrong before his mind gives it a shape. 

The bed is empty. Not messy. Not slept in. Not touched. Stripped bare in a way that feels deliberate, almost clinical, like someone erased a surface instead of living in it. His hand presses into the mattress anyway, as if contact might correct what he is seeing. There is nothing. No warmth. No fabric. No trace of you.

A sound leaves him before he can stop it, small and disbelieving.

“No…” It should be a thought. It comes out broken instead. “No… no, no — that’s not—”

He straightens too fast, belt still loose, breath already tightening in his chest as he crosses the room and yanks the closet open hard enough for the door to slam against the wall. Empty. Completely fucking empty. Only naked hangers left behind like bones. 

The bathroom is the same. Worse, somehow. He nearly slips on the tile with how fast he moves. The counter is wiped clean. Toothbrush gone. All your products gone. Every little thing he used to touch, smell, memorize. Erased. Gone. Like you were never here. 

You left.

His hands curl against the sink, knuckles whitening as he leans over it. His reflection catches him in the mirror and for a moment he just stares at it like it belongs to someone else. The eyes are too open. Too fixed.

“You were fine,” he says under his breath, but it doesn’t sound like reassurance. It sounds like confusion trying to become logic. “You were getting better.”

The words don’t settle. They multiply instead. Because this doesn’t match anything he understands. People don’t leave like this when things are improving. When things are being corrected. When they’re finally starting to make sense. You don’t run when someone is fixing you.

“You were almost right,” he adds, quieter, like it should explain something.

It doesn’t. His gaze darts again, scanning the apartment as if you might still be there, as if this is some mistake in perception rather than absence itself. Something in him tightens.

“You don’t just disappear.”

Silence answers him. Thick. Final. His hand curls against the sink, knuckles whitening.

“You don’t leave me.”

That lands differently. He feels it settle, not as anger first, but as structure. As fact trying to form itself. Because he had been careful. He had been present without being seen. Close without being intrusive. He had fixed what needed fixing. Quietly. Consistently. The little things that made your life unstable, interrupted, inconvenient. 

He even made sure no one could hurt you. The cancellations. The delays. The people who stopped showing up when they weren’t supposed to. That wasn’t random. That was precision. That was protection.

“I was helping you,” he says, but now it’s firmer, like he’s correcting something outside himself. “I was fixing it.”

The mirror cracks under his fist before he decides to hit it. The sound is sharp enough to cut through the room. Glass fractures outward, spilling into the sink, across the counter. Blood follows a second later, warm and immediate, but he doesn’t look at it. He only looks at what’s left of the reflection.

Still wrong. Still not enough. Because you’re not here. And that is the only variable that doesn’t resolve.

His hand hits the wall next, leaving a smear that doesn’t belong in a place like this. His breathing is no longer steady. It’s uneven now, edged, like something inside him is trying to move too fast for the shape of his body. 

You’re not gone. Not really. You couldn’t be. You don’t have anyone. Not anymore. He made sure of that.

He starts tearing through the apartment like a storm. Drawers ripped out and thrown. What little furniture remains gets kicked over, searching not for you exactly but for proof that you were still supposed to be here. But everything answers the same way. Empty. Clean. Final.

And underneath it, something begins to settle in him, slow and inevitable, not grief yet, not loss, but the first shape of refusal. Because if you left, then something is wrong. And if something is wrong, then it can still be fixed.

A month later, the elevator ride feels longer than usual. Or maybe shorter. He doesn’t check. He doesn’t need to.

His body already knows where it’s going. The doors slide open. The hallway unfolds in front of him exactly as it always has, unchanged, untouched, obedient to time in a way you weren’t. 

And then, your door.  Open. The sight hits him like a quiet release. Something coiled for weeks finally loosens in his chest. Of course. You tried to leave. You panicked. It didn’t work. It never does.

He slows his steps, not out of hesitation, but restraint. This matters. This is where everything corrects itself, where you step back into the version of your life that makes sense. Where you come back to him.

He’s close enough now to hear movement inside. Soft. Clumsy. Cardboard brushing against walls. A breathless little laugh. His pulse quickens with something almost like hope.

You’re there. You’re actually—

A figure appears in the doorway. He stops. It’s subtle. Almost nothing. Just a fraction too still, a fraction too quiet, like something inside him misfires and corrects itself in the same breath.

The girl shifts the box in her arms, pushing the door wider with her hip. Hair slipping forward as she exhales a small laugh, distracted, unguarded.

Not you. The thought arrives cleanly. For a second, something hollows out. A space where expectation had been sitting too long without permission. Then it closes. Because it’s not you. But it is something. Something present. Something usable.

He watches her struggle with the box, the way her fingers slip, the way she adjusts her weight like she hasn’t learned the rhythm of the place yet. Soft. Unfinished. Easy to interrupt without resistance. Perfect.

His steps resume, smooth and natural. He reaches her before she can adjust her grip, steadying the box with both hands. Their fingers brush. She startles, then looks up at him with immediate relief, her expression opening without resistance.

“Thank you,” she says with a smile, trusting him instantly in that effortless, careless way people do when they think they’re safe.

He nods, calm and reassuring. “Of course.”

Inside his head, the new plan is already forming.

“You’ll want to keep the windows closed at night,” he tells her gently, voice low and helpful.

She blinks, adjusting the box against her hip. “Why?”

He looks at her then. At the imbalance. The distraction. The small, correctable things already revealing themselves without her knowing. This time, when he smiles, there’s no flicker of anything unfinished. Only intent.

“The draft carries everything,” he says softly, like it’s a simple fact, like it’s for her own good.

She laughs a little, thinking he’s being friendly. Sweet, even. For a moment, she looks at him like she’s grateful. Like she’s safe. Like she has any idea what just stepped into her life. He’s seen that look before. He knows exactly what comes after it. The questions. The habits. The small, necessary changes. The way they settle. The way they stop fighting it. They always do. 

He smiles wider. He adjusts his grip on the box, steadying it for her before she even realizes it’s slipping. A small correction. The first of many. 

This time, he’ll take his time with it. This time, he’ll get it right.

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© All rights reserved. Do not edit, or translate without permission. Credit to @mingi-buffering-24-7.

Coming back feels stranger than you expected. Not wrong. Just slightly off. Like the city learned a new rhythm while you were gone, and your steps don’t land exactly where they used to.

The streets are familiar enough to be comforting, but there’s a thin layer of distance over everything. Storefronts you recognize but don’t remember entering. Corners you could navigate blindfolded, yet still double-check.

You’re not sad about it. That surprises you a little.

It’s more awareness than ache. Nostalgia without the dramatics. You notice things instead of mourning them. The way the air smells different at night. How the noise carries. How you feel present, but not anchored yet.

Hongjoong texts you two days after you arrive.

Drinks tonight? No pressure. Just catching up.

You stare at the message longer than necessary, thumb hovering. 

You could say no. You’re still settling. Still unpacking more than boxes. But the invitation doesn’t tug at you, doesn’t ask for anything. It’s an open door, not a hand pulling you through.

You type back yes before you can overthink it.

The bar is warm in that lived-in way. Low lights. Scuffed tables. The kind of place that holds onto laughter even after people leave. 

Familiar faces greet you easily, like you never really disappeared, just stepped out of frame for a while.

You slip into conversation without effort. You’re open. Curious. Letting yourself enjoy being here without scanning for exits. You listen more than you talk at first, clocking how people have changed. Who leans closer now. Who talks with their hands. Who still interrupts when they get excited.

And then you notice him.

Not because he’s introduced. Not because someone points him out. You notice him the way you notice a shift in temperature.

A laugh cuts through the hum of the room. Loud, unrestrained, contagious.

Heads turn without irritation. Chairs angle subtly in his direction. He leans over the table when he talks, all long limbs and easy confidence, dark hair falling into his eyes when he tips his head back to laugh, a smile that shows too much teeth and somehow gets away with it.

He’s not performing. That’s the thing. There’s no sense of effort, no awareness of being watched. He takes up space because space seems to offer itself to him.

People gravitate. You clock it instantly.

It’s mildly annoying.

You watch him a moment longer than necessary, curiosity sharpening into interest despite yourself. The way his shoulders shake when he laughs. The warmth in his expression when he listens. How his hands move, relaxed and sure, like they know exactly where they belong.

He reaches across the table without hesitation, stealing peanuts, nudging someone’s leg with his knee. Comfortable. Familiar. Liked.

He’s the kind of person rooms rearrange themselves for, you think, and file it away without judgment.

You absolutely do not linger on the fact that you get it.

Then Hongjoong says your name.

He pulls you into the circle with a hand at your shoulder, smiling, proud to have you there.

“You remember Yunho, right?”

You do.

He’s taller up close. Broader than you expected. All clean lines and quiet confidence, the kind that doesn’t ask for attention and gets it anyway. Intimidating in that effortless way that makes your pulse kick before you can tell it to relax.

Your smile comes easy. Wide. A little nervous. A little bright.

Yunho looks up.

The shift is immediate.

It’s subtle enough that someone else might miss it. Like a door being closed without a sound. His smile doesn’t vanish, it just cools. The warmth drains out of it, leaving something polite and distant behind. His posture stays open, but his eyes go unreadable.

“Hey,” he says, polite and flat in a way that feels practiced.

He stands and offers his hand.

You take it.

The handshake is textbook. Firm. Brief. No linger, no squeeze. Skin meeting skin and nothing else. An exchange so correct it might as well have come with a receipt.

You clock all of it in a second.

It doesn’t hurt. Not yet.

Confusion comes first. Clean, almost clinical. Your brain scrambles for explanations. Bad timing. Bad day. Maybe he’s just not great with people he doesn’t know.

You don’t take it personally. Not right away.

“Nice to meet you,” you say, still smiling, instinctively matching his tone.

“Yeah. You too.”

And that’s it.

Hongjoong moves on. Someone cracks a joke. Conversation swells again, filling the space between you like it always does. You slide back into the rhythm, laughing when appropriate, answering questions, letting yourself exist without forcing anything.

You don’t seek Yunho out. But you watch.

You notice how his laugh comes back full-force when Mingi says something ridiculous. How he leans in close to Hongjoong, listening intently. How he thanks the bartender with a grin, how he shifts to make room for someone squeezing past.

He’s generous with everyone. Except you.

It’s not overt. That’s what makes it strange. He doesn’t glare. Doesn’t ignore you outright. When you speak to the group, he listens. When you make a joke, he smiles. 

Just never at you.

His eyes slide past. His attention redirects. Conversations curve around you instead of pulling you in.

You clock it all, neat and methodical.

Still, you don’t chase it. You don’t adjust your behavior or reach for his attention. If anything, you soften a little, refusing to harden around something you don’t yet understand.

You assume there’s a reason that has nothing to do with you.

But as the night stretches on, laughter layering over music and clinking glasses, one thing becomes clear. 

Whatever it is, it’s intentional. And you notice everything.

Time doesn’t fix it. That’s what surprises you most.

Weeks turn into months, and instead of distance smoothing the edges, proximity sharpens them. You keep crossing paths with the same group, the same easy invitations looping back to you. Birthdays. Casual dinners. Game nights that stretch too late. Nothing forced. Nothing staged.

And Yunho is always there. Always loud. Always magnetic. Always at the center. And always different with you.

It becomes predictable in the worst way. 

You’ll arrive a few minutes late, shrugging out of your jacket, and his laugh is already filling the room. You feel the familiar flicker as you clock where he is, how he’s positioned, who he’s leaning toward.

He notices you too. You know he does. But he never gives you the satisfaction of acknowledging it.

You try, at first.

Nothing big. Nothing that could be misconstrued.

You comment on the music playing, something light. He answers dryly, two words, with no invitation to continue.

You toss out a joke, dry and well-timed. Mingi snorts. Hongjoong laughs. Yunho plays with the table’s edge, face flat, eyes flicking away before they ever land on you.

You ask him a genuine question once. About work. About something he mentioned earlier.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s fine.”

That’s it.

No follow-up. No return question. The conversational door shuts firmly, like it was designed to.

You tell yourself not to read into it.

You pride yourself on reading people. It’s one of the things you trust about yourself. You notice tone shifts. Microexpressions. The way someone’s shoulders tense or relax. You’ve been warm. Open. Kind. You haven’t pushed. You haven’t demanded space that wasn’t offered.

You run through every interaction in your head, searching for the misstep.

There isn’t one.

And that’s what starts to get under your skin.

Because confusion is manageable. Mystery can be interesting. But impotence? Not knowing what to fix, or if there’s anything to fix at all?

That gnaws. It settles in your chest and refuses to leave.

The public settings make it worse.

At dinners, Yunho always ends up sitting across from you. Close enough that you can see the way his fingers drum against the table when he’s thinking. Close enough to catch the flicker of expressions that never quite make it to you.

He talks animatedly to everyone else. Leans in. Teases. Argues playfully. 

With you, his gaze skims past like you’re furniture.

Even strangers get more warmth than you do. He lets it show, just enough, like you’re supposed to notice.

At game nights, the room fills with noise and competition. Yunho is loud, encouraging, a menace when he’s winning. He cheers for Mingi, groans dramatically when Hongjoong pulls ahead.

You win a round.

The room reacts. Someone whoops. Someone groans.

Yunho goes quiet.

Not sulking. Not angry. Just bored. He claps once, slow and polite, then turns his attention back to the board like nothing happened.

It’s subtle enough that no one else comments on it.

You notice anyway.

There are jokes that start in his direction and end just short of you. Laughter that swells and curves around, leaving a clean pocket of space where you stand. Not exclusion exactly. More like omission.

It doesn’t hurt all at once. It accumulates.

You start bracing without realizing it. You enter rooms already aware of where he is, already preparing for the familiar coolness. You stop trying to bridge the gap because every attempt feels like tossing a coin into a well and never hearing it land.

And the worst part?

You still find him fascinating.

You hate that you notice when his laugh changes. When he’s tired. When something clearly irritates him and he swallows it down. You hate that your attention keeps orbiting someone who refuses to meet it.

Something clicks the moment you stop trying.

It’s subtle. Internal. Like setting down a weight you’ve carried too long.

You don’t announce it. You just stop offering him a soft place to land. No gentle questions. No easy smiles angled his way. You don’t avoid him. You simply stop adjusting. Stop rounding your edges so he doesn’t cut himself.

You’re still yourself. Observant. Quick. Just sharper now.

You start meeting his distance with your own version of it. That’s when it turns. The banter sharpens into something charged. Something with intention behind it.

The next time you see him is in a gathering at Hongjoong’s place. Too many people for the size of the living room, conversations layered over one another, music low enough to pretend it’s background.

You’re on the arm of the couch, drink sweating into your palm. Yunho is across the room, leaning against the dining table. Close enough to hear. Far enough to ignore.

You manage it. For a while.

Someone is talking about your time away. A harmless story, told by someone else. Laughter. A few nods.

“It must’ve been nice,” Hongjoong says, casual. “Starting over.”

You shrug. “It was… clarifying.”

And of course, Yunho can’t resist butting in.

“Some people mistake distance for growth,” he says, eyes still on his glass. “But it’s just avoidance with better scenery.”

The room doesn’t go silent. It just thins. Like everyone leaned back at once.

You don’t look at him right away. You take a sip. Let it sit.

Then, evenly, “That’s an interesting take.”

Yunho glances up, finally meeting your eyes. Calm. Watchful.

“I’m just saying,” he adds, mild, “not everyone comes back improved.”

You smile. Not warm. Not sharp. Controlled.

“No,” you agree. “Some people stay exactly the same and call it stability.”

A flicker. Barely there.

Yunho’s jaw tightens for half a second before he smooths it out, shoulders easing like he’s practiced the motion.

“Didn’t realize you felt that strongly,” he says. “You didn’t strike me as sentimental.”

“I’m not,” you reply. “I just notice patterns.”

He straightens, turning more fully toward you now. The air between you shifts.

“Patterns can be misleading,” he says. “Especially when you’re only seeing part of the picture.”

You tilt your head.

“True. Though it helps when someone keeps repeating the same behavior.”

A pause.

You see it then. The smallest crack. His eyes drop, just for a second. His mouth presses thin. He exhales through his nose like he’s steadying something.

Then the mask slides back on.

“You seem very invested in what I think,” he says lightly. 

You don’t hesitate.

“I’m not. I just don’t like being talked around.”

Mingi shifts uncomfortably. Someone laughs too loudly at a joke that wasn’t told.

Yunho’s smile returns, sharper now. Defensive.

“Maybe you’re projecting.”

That lands closer than he means.

Your voice stays level.

“Maybe you should stop aiming if you don’t like where it hits.”

That one does it.

He flinches. Not dramatically. A blink too slow. A breath that catches before he schools it. His hand tightens around his glass, knuckles whitening before he loosens his grip.

When he looks at you again, he’s composed. Polite. Distant.

“Excuse me,” he says, and steps away, disappearing into the kitchen like nothing happened.

The room exhales.

Someone starts a new conversation. Someone else turns the music up a notch.

You stay where you are. Heart steady. Spine straight.

It feels like a win. Small, but earned.

You give it a minute before you move.

Long enough for the room to reset. Long enough for the tension to sink back into music and glass clinks and overlapping voices, like it never existed.

Then you stand.

“Drinks,” you say, already collecting empty glasses. Casual. Easy. Controlled. 

You head for the kitchen.

You don’t see him at first. You hear him. A voice angled low, careful. That’s what makes you stop.

Yunho is by the window, half-hidden by the doorway, leaning against the sill like he belongs there. His posture is loose in a way you’ve never seen directed at you. His attention is fixed on someone you don’t recognize.

A girl stands in front of him, shoulders slightly drawn in, fingers twisted into the cuff of her sleeve like she’s not sure where to put herself.

And he is different.

Not guarded. Not sharp.

He leans closer so she doesn’t have to raise her voice. He waits when she falters. Lets the silence breathe instead of cutting through it.

She says something small. Something that sounds like an apology.

Yunho smiles.

Not the polite one. Not the defensive one. The real one.

“It’s okay,” he says gently. “You don’t have to apologize for that.”

The words hit you like a slap.

Harder than anything he’s said to you all night. Harder than the cold looks, the clipped replies, the careful distance.

He hands her a drink, deliberate, careful not to touch. His focus stays on her, steady and warm, like she’s the only person in the room.

So he knows how to be careful.

You don’t wait to see what else he offers her.

You turn away, glasses still empty, jaw tight, chest burning, and head back to the living room.

Mingi clocks it instantly. His expression shifts, softer, concerned. He pats the space beside him without a word. No questions. No commentary. Just an opening.

You sit. He slips an arm around your shoulders, solid and grounding. Not possessive. Not flirty. Just there.

The room keeps going. Laughter swells. Someone raises their voice over the music. Life moves on like nothing cracked open in the kitchen.

But you don’t let it go.

Because it is not sadness sitting in your chest. It is heat.

Anger, sharp and bright and deeply unamused.

What is his fucking problem?

You don’t need to be adored. You don’t need to be special. That was never the point. But this? This deliberate softness for everyone else, this pointed distance only for you?

That makes your blood boil.

You’ve been trying. Being polite. Being warm. Giving him patience he never earned. Offering kindness by default, because that’s who you are.

And he treats you like you’re not even there.

Like you’re something to be managed. Avoided. Cut around.

It’s intentional. You know it is. And that’s what makes it unbearable.

You don’t deserve this. You shouldn’t have to shrink or edit yourself just to exist in the same room as him.

And the worst part is how much it gets under your skin. How furious you are that it does.

Because it shouldn’t matter.

And yet here you are, jaw clenched, pulse sharp, already bracing for the next time he decides to remind you exactly where he’s decided you don’t belong.

Your fights are never loud. They’re precise. Measured. Almost intimate in how contained they are.

Yunho doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t lose control. His words are carefully chosen, his tone calm even when it’s sharp. Occasionally, he lets something a little mean slip through. Not enough to call him out. Just enough to sting.

You meet him there every time.

You keep your tone light. Your smile easy. And when you cut, you cut clean. You don’t insult him. You just refuse to bend around his presence anymore.

Neither of you is trying to win.

You’re not proving anything. You’re not seeking validation. You’re just reacting instinctively to how he makes your skin prickle. Like standing too close to a live wire.

And choosing, every time, not to step away.

Rooms feel different when you’re together now. Taut. Charged. Conversations stumble when the two of you start in on each other. Mingi and Hongjoong share looks across tables, across rooms, the same unspoken thought passing between them: This is bad.

Because it’s no longer indifference. It’s attention sharpened into focus.

And underneath it all, the questions keep circling you, relentless.

You don’t know why he disliked you from the start.

You don’t know why you catch him watching you when he thinks you’re distracted. Why his gaze lingers when you laugh with someone else. Why he always seems to end up in the same spaces you occupy, like gravity is a shared inconvenience.

You hate that you notice these things. Hate that even now, even irritated, even bristling, part of you stays alert around him. Not drawn. Just aware.

You hate that part of you prefers this to being ignored.

So you stop.

Not dramatically. Not with a declaration or a final sharp exchange. You simply withdraw.

No more sparring. No more precision cuts wrapped in politeness. No more meeting him where he stands.

You decide he doesn’t exist.

When he speaks, you don’t turn. When he makes a pointed remark meant just for you, you let out a soft, dismissive laugh, like it barely registered, and continue the conversation you were already having. If he says your name, you act like it belongs to someone else.

No hellos. No goodbyes. No fights.

Nothing.

You omit him.

It’s quieter this way. Cleaner. And if there’s a flicker of satisfaction in watching his carefully maintained composure falter when he realizes you’re no longer engaging, you ignore that too.

You tell yourself it’s not punishment. It’s self-preservation.

But somewhere between the sarcastic laughs and the deliberate turns of your back, you feel it shift. The air changes again. Not charged this time.

Empty.

And whatever this is now, whatever you’ve just taken away from him, you can tell by the way his attention sharpens, by the way his restraint starts to look strained, that it won’t last.

The night everything snaps feels ordinary right up until it isn’t.

It’s a bar this time. Loud enough that conversations blur together. Dim enough that everyone looks a little kinder around the edges. A celebration for something vague. A birthday. A promotion. An excuse.

You’re two drinks in. Warm, loose, unguarded in a way you haven’t been around this group in a while.

You’re laughing with someone else, easy and unselfconscious. Your shoulders stay loose, your head tipping back without you thinking about how it looks.

That’s when you spot him moving in your periphery.

Yunho, angling closer.

You don’t tense. You don’t brace. You just think, of course. A flicker of irritation sparks and settles. He definitely has a talent for finding the exact moment you forget he exists and deciding that won’t do.

Does he really hate you that much? That he can’t let you have five uninterrupted minutes? For someone who acts like you’re an inconvenience, he tracks you with impressive dedication.

You don’t look at him once.

He notices.

He drifts closer under the pretense of space tightening, stands just near enough to be heard without interrupting. Waits for a lull that never quite comes.

“Can we talk?” he asks.

It’s not soft. Not sharp either. Just dry. Controlled. Like he’s already braced for the answer.

You don’t turn.

You smile at something the person beside you says, laugh again, and keep the conversation rolling as if no one spoke at all.

For a second, Yunho stands there. Still. Watching you like he’s recalibrating.

Then he exhales through his nose and steps away.

You catch the movement in your periphery. See him fold into another cluster near the bar. He says something low. Someone laughs. He lifts his glass, nods along. Looks fine. Looks normal.

You let yourself ease back into the moment.

A few minutes later, the space behind you goes wrong.

Heat presses into your back. Too close. Broad and unmistakable. A presence settles there like it’s always had permission, warmth bleeding through the thin space between bodies. The scent of him reaches you and your stomach tightens, recognition landing before logic ever gets a say.

You stiffen.

The girl you’re talking to trails off mid-sentence. Her smile falters, eyes flicking past you, then back. Concern settles in, quiet but unmistakable. She knows this dynamic. Everyone does.

You still don’t turn.

You could make a scene. You could step away. You do neither.

His hand closes around your arm. Too firm.

Not violent. Not cruel. Just decisive. A grip that doesn’t ask. A pull that assumes compliance.

The conversation around you fractures. Someone shifts uncomfortably. Someone looks down at their drink. No one intervenes. The room decides, collectively, to pretend this isn’t happening.

He pulls.

You stumble, half a step off balance as he steers you out of the noise and into the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms. The music dulls behind you. Your arm throbs where his fingers dug in, not badly, but enough to register. Enough to matter.

“Don’t touch me like that.”

Your voice cuts clean through the moment. Sharp. Immediate. No hesitation.

Yunho freezes. Like the words physically stop him.

His hand opens instantly. Drops away like it burned him. He steps back, palms lifting slightly, eyes wide with something that isn’t anger.

It’s realization.

Horror, almost.

“I—” He swallows. Shakes his head once, like he’s trying to reset his own body. “I’m sorry.”

The silence stretches. Heavy. Pressurized.

You steady yourself, rolling your shoulder once, grounding back into your body. Your heart is pounding now, adrenaline rushing in late.

You look at him.

This is the first time you see it. The crack in the control. The way his chest rises too fast. The way he can’t quite meet your eyes anymore, gaze dropping to the floor, then flicking back up, afraid you’ll disappear if he looks away too long.

He doesn’t reach for you again. Doesn’t crowd your space. He stays exactly where he is, like he’s drawn an invisible line on the floor and forbids himself to cross it. Like stepping closer would be a failure he doesn’t trust himself to survive.

“I shouldn’t have,” he says, quieter now. Stripped of bite. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The words sit between you, fragile.

You believe him.

That’s the problem.

Because this isn’t arrogance or entitlement. This is something messier. Something that slipped for half a second and scared him enough that he’s been paying for it ever since.

The hallway feels too narrow all at once. Too close. The walls seem nearer than they were a moment ago. Your arm still aches faintly, a reminder you can’t quite shake.

You don’t soften. Not yet.

“Are you talking about my arm or my sanity?” you say calmly. Not accusing. Just factual. “Because you've been an asshole for months.”

He flinches. Not visibly. Something in his chest pulls sharp and quick, like your words landed exactly where he keeps things locked away.

His jaw locks. His breath stutters, then evens out again.

For the first time since you met him, Yunho looks exposed.

And you realize this wasn’t about pulling you away. It was about not being able to stand where you were.

The silence presses in, thick and heavy, not dramatic but insistent. It crowds your ribs. Makes every inhale feel calculated.

Yunho drags a hand through his hair, fingers catching, tugging a little too hard. He turns away from you, pacing once, then back again like the hallway is a cage he suddenly can’t stand.

His voice comes out wrong.

Flat. Defensive.

“I didn’t ask for this.”

You don’t interrupt him. You stay where you are, close enough to feel the heat of him, far enough that neither of you can reach without meaning to.

“I didn’t ask them to choose you.” His jaw tightens. “Didn’t ask them to decide I needed… this.”

He laughs once, sharp and humorless, the sound bouncing off the walls and coming back too loud.

“And I didn’t ask to want you.”

That one lands crooked in the air between you.

You frown, confused. “Them…?”

“Yes, them,” he says sharply, voice tight. “Hongjoong and Mingi tried to set us up,” he admits, eyes fixed on the wall instead of you. “Before you even got back. They thought I needed… someone. Thought I was stuck. Or lonely. Or whatever version of me they decided needed fixing.”

You blink. Processing. The connection isn’t immediate. You feel a tickle of confusion, like a puzzle missing a piece.

“So you decided to prove them wrong by being cruel,” you say, not biting. Just connecting the dots.

His mouth twists.

“I felt cornered,” he says. “Managed. Like I was a project.”

He laughs again, softer this time. Self-aware. Bitter.

“So I decided I wouldn’t play along. I chose distance instead of being honest. Chose being cold instead of admitting I was scared.”

He finally looks at you.

“I didn’t want to meet you,” he says. “I resented the idea of you. And then you showed up and—” He cuts himself off, swallows. “You were exactly what I didn’t want to want.”

The truth of it sits heavy between you. Rewrites every moment. Every sharp word. Every withheld glance. Every moment you felt him and didn’t understand why.

Something in your chest loosens. Not relief. Clarity.

It was never you.

The anger doesn’t disappear. It sharpens. Refocuses.

You step closer. Just one step. Enough that he has to look at you. 

Your chest tightens, but your voice stays even. “Then why did you keep punishing me for it?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Keeps talking instead, like stopping would let everything collapse.

“You make me lose control,” he says, eyes snapping to yours. Too intense. Too honest. The space between you feels suddenly fragile. “You make me feel seen when I don’t want to be. When I’m not ready to be.” His chest rises hard. He looks furious with himself. “And I hated you for that.”

“You could’ve just said that instead of freezing me out,” you reply quietly.

His chest rises hard again. He looks furious with himself. The words echo. Sit there. Ugly and bare.

Then the fight drains out of him.

His shoulders slump. His gaze drops to the floor. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, worn thin around the edges.

“I hate that I treated you the way I did.”

Something in him gives.

He exhales long and shaky, like his lungs finally remembered how to empty.

“You made it very clear how you felt about me,” you say, voice steady. “You spent months making me feel this way, and now you don’t get to unload it all just because you finally ran out of ways to avoid it. The damage is done, and you shouldn’t be surprised it stuck.”

That’s what breaks him.

His face folds just slightly, like the words found the exact place he’d been avoiding.

“You’re right,” he says immediately. No defense. No justification. “You’re right. I was wrong.”

He presses his lips together, nodding to himself, like he needs to hear it out loud.

“I don’t lose focus,” he says, almost to the wall. “I don’t spiral. I don’t let people get under my skin.”

His eyes flick back to you.

“Except you,” he says, breath catching. “And that’s the problem. That’s always been the problem.”

A short, bitter laugh slips out of him before he can stop it. His hands clench at his sides. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t step closer. The restraint is visible now. Intentional.

“I couldn’t stand how close you got without even trying. How I stopped thinking straight when you were in the room. I’d tell myself it was nothing, that I had control, and then you’d look at me and I’d lose it. Every time.”

He swallows.

“So I kept you at a distance. On purpose. I told myself if I never crossed the line, if I never let it start, it would end. That you’d get tired of me. That you’d hate me. And I could survive that.”

He swallows.

“And the fights…” he exhales through his nose, like he hates admitting it. “I hated them. Every one. But they gave me an excuse. A way to talk to you without admitting why I wanted to. I could argue. Push back. Pretend it was irritation instead of interest.”

His jaw tightens.

“It was easier to be sharp than honest. Easier to clash with you than risk wanting you out loud.”

His voice dips. Not broken. Just strained.

“I didn’t want to admit Mingi and Hongjoong were right. That they saw it before I did. That they knew I’d fall and I wouldn’t be able to stop it. Because admitting that meant admitting I wanted you. And that scared me more than being the bad guy.”

He steps closer without realizing it, then catches himself and stills.

“I know this is selfish,” he says, faster now. “I know I don’t get to say this after everything I did. But I panicked. I chose distance because it felt safer than wanting you this much. And now I’m standing here realizing I might’ve already lost you, and I don’t know how to live with that.”

His eyes don’t leave yours.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me. I just need you to know I didn’t push you away because you didn’t matter. I did it because you mattered too much.”

He doesn’t look away when he keeps going. That feels important.

“You’re smart,” he says quietly, like it costs him something. “Not loud about it. You clock everything. You think three steps ahead and still pretend you’re just reacting. That drove me insane.”

A breath. Another.

“You’re funny in that dry way that sneaks up on people. You never try to be the center of the room, and somehow you still end up shaping it. You’re good at things without making a show of it. Games. Conversations. Reading people.”

His mouth twitches, almost a smile. It doesn’t last.

“And you’re kind,” he adds. “Not performative. Not strategic. You kept trying with me even when I gave you nothing back. You were polite. Patient. You gave me grace I didn’t earn.”

His jaw tightens.

“Every time you did that, it made it worse. Because it meant I couldn’t tell myself you were shallow, or careless, or just passing time. You were choosing to be decent. Choosing to keep the door open.”

He swallows hard.

“So I kept slamming it in your face. Because if I let myself want you, really want you, I wouldn’t be able to stop. I knew that. I knew exactly how badly I’d lose control if I stood too close, if I let it turn into something real.”

His voice drops.

“And then you stopped.”

That’s where it cracks.

“You didn’t get colder. You didn’t get cruel. You just withdrew. You stopped trying. You stopped looking at me like I was worth the effort.”

His voice drops.

“Even the fights stopped.”

A beat.

“At least when we fought,” he admits, barely above a breath, “you were looking at me.”

The breath he lets out sounds wrecked.

“That felt like running full-speed into a wall I’d built myself. I thought distance would protect me. I didn’t realize I was the one who wouldn’t survive it.”

He looks at you then.

“I know I don’t deserve anything from you. I know this might be too late. But I need you to understand that none of this was because you weren’t enough.”

A pause. Bare. Unshielded.

“It was because you were everything I didn’t trust myself to handle.”

Then, softer still. Almost a surrender.

“If you walk away,” he says, “I’ll understand.”

The hallway hums. Music from the bar seeps through the walls, muffled and distant. Life going on inches away, completely unaware of how tight the air is here.

For the first time, Yunho isn’t sharp or distant or controlled.

He’s just a man standing in front of you, stripped down to the truth, waiting to see what you’ll do with it.

You tilt your head, letting a slow smile tug at the corner of your lips.

“Funny,” you murmur, lips twitching. “You made it impossible to like you… and I did anyway.”

He freezes. That one line lands like gravity. He sees it. Feels it. Realizes you’re not backing away. You’re leaning in, just not giving him the victory yet.

He doesn’t mean to move.

His body betrays him before his pride can catch up, a half-step forward like gravity shifted and pulled him in. His hands come up without permission, cupping your face with a fragility that makes your breath hitch. 

They’re warm. Broad. Careful in a way that surprises you. Like he’s afraid even pressure might be too much. His thumbs settle just beneath your cheekbones, not urging, not claiming. Just there. Steady. Devout.

Too close. Too intimate. Too fast.

Your breath stutters anyway.

He leans in until your noses brush, foreheads nearly touching. You can feel it now. The want. Raw and unguarded. His breath trembles when it hits your mouth.

For a split second, you think he might kiss you.

For a split second, you almost let him.

Then you step back.

Not abrupt. Not cold. Just grounded.

The loss of you hits him immediately. His hands drop, empty, fingers curling like they don’t know what to do without you there.

He looks wrecked in a way you didn’t think was possible. Like he misread the moment and is already apologizing with his eyes.

“You’re not there yet,” you say gently.

It’s not a punishment. It’s a fact.

He swallows hard, nodding once. Accepting it without protest. His eyes shine but he doesn’t look away. He doesn’t hide.

“Okay,” he breathes. Rough. Earnest. “Okay. Sorry.”

The breath he lets out next is sharp, uneven. Something finally gives in him, the last of that careful control slipping loose.

“Let me take you out,” he says quickly, like if he doesn’t say it now he’ll lose the nerve. “One real date. No group. No pressure. Just me doing this right.”

He pauses. Gathers himself.

“I’ll show up,” he adds. “I’ll listen. I’ll be better than I was.”

There’s no charm in it. No practiced confidence.

Just want.

“Please,” he says, quieter now. Open. Vulnerable in a way that presses right under your ribs. “Let me try.”

You study him for a moment.

The man who chose distance over honesty. Who learned the hard way that control is a lonely thing. Who is standing here now, asking instead of taking.

Your mouth curves, slow and knowing.

“Okay. But you’re going to have to work for it,” you say lightly, like it doesn’t matter, like it means nothing.

His nod is immediate.

No hesitation. No negotiation.

“I will,” he says. “Whatever it takes.”

For a second, you just look at him.

You hold his gaze a second longer, then reach up and smooth a single strand of hair from his forehead. A small touch. Intentional. The kind that lands deeper than anything reckless ever could.

He stills completely, breath catching like he doesn’t trust himself not to lean into it.

“Good,” you say simply.

Nothing else is needed.

You tilt your head toward the bar, a quiet question. Want to go back?

He nods, just as quiet, and steps aside, palm open in a subtle gesture. After you.

You walk first.

You don’t touch again.

But it’s different now.

You move in sync, close enough to feel him beside you like a low current under the skin. The tension hasn’t disappeared. It’s just changed shape.

No longer sharp. No longer bruising.

Electric.

At the bar, Yunho signals the bartender without looking away from you.

“I’m fine,” you say automatically, already reaching for your wallet.

He hesitates. Then gives you a look. Soft. Almost helpless. 

Puppy eyes. Actual, sincere puppy eyes. Ridiculous in a way that should annoy you. 

It doesn’t.

You exhale through your nose, rolling your eyes. “Of course you’d do that.”

He tilts his head, a little guilty, a little desperate.

You shake your head, lips pressing together, caught between fond and exasperated.

“I don’t even know why I let you get away with this.”

And still, you let him.

The drink slides toward you. You take it. Your fingers brush his when he nudges it closer, just barely. 

He flinches like the contact meant something. It did.

You feel his attention as you take the first sip. Not watching your mouth. Watching you. Like he’s relearning how to be near you without armor. Like proximity is a privilege he doesn’t want to misuse.

When you glance back, your smile lingers half a second longer than it used to.

His ears go pink.

Across the table, Mingi pauses mid-sentence. Hongjoong follows his line of sight, then looks between the two of you.

They exchange a look.

Not smug. Not relieved.

Just deeply confused.

What the hell happened in that bathroom?

Yunho doesn’t notice.

He’s too busy standing beside you, shoulders loose for the first time all night. Like now that he’s been given permission to stay, he refuses to waste a second of it.

Not taking.

Not pushing.

Just choosing you.

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“Then keep it vague,” you shrug. “Say what you think without saying too much. Just enough to keep him entertained.”

She smacks her teeth, heels scruffing against the pavement. “You’re a good liar, not me. Clearly.” You whip your head around to narrow your eyes at her. Shades covering her eyes, she grins, “Am I wrong?”

“No,” you huff. “But you’re either mad at me or you’re not. Don’t drag it out.”

She whines again, the vodka on her tongue already speaking for her, “I’m not mad at you, I’m sorry. It’s just fucking crazy and I’m scared I’m gonna slip up.”

You come to a full stop at the entrance, crossing your arms over your chest. “You’re not gonna slip up because you’re my best friend and you love me and you’d hate yourself if you ruined my life.”

She nods. “Yes. Yes to all of that. You’re right.”

“Okay,” you nod, assured, then rip the front door to the Penny open.

Immediately you’re hit with the scents of grease and liquor, bright music pounding through the dimly lit bar. The small tables were put away again, replaced with taller ones, they premeditated the standing room needed tonight. And thank fucking god, because once again, the Lucky Penny is packed.

There’s streamers, balloons, a banner for whoever the fuck’s birthday it is. You think Jihyo invited all of you to get bodies into the bar, even if the Penny is usually packed on weekends anyway, they rarely have any issues getting people inside. 

You and Yunjin decided to match again, different versions of the same outfit, long pants on your legs, heels on your feet. You have on a white, high-necked top while hers is low-cut and black, your jewelry even complimented one another. Your shades are on your head instead of over your eyes, she insists that you get at least one picture with them on. 

You spent the second half of yesterday together, once again discussing the technicalities of Unscripted, how you’ve managed to keep a double life for so long. You answered all her questions, broke down stories, told her every little secret she wanted to know. By the end of it she came to the conclusion that even though you kept so much from her, it’s kinda cool that it’s you. She lives with a micro-celebrity. Her words. 

It’s strange, liberating, in a way, that someone knows. Terrifying, but freeing that there’s a person who knows all of you, the secrets, the voice, the humor, all of it. Thank god it’s Yunjin. 

“I see them,” Yunjin says from behind you, pointing towards the back of the bar. You follow her line of sight, spotting San, Yunho, Mingi, Jongho. “Should we get a drink first?”

“Should we get a drink and find the girls first?” you counter. “We’re here for someone’s birthday. Whose is it again?”

“Mina,” Yunjin reminds you. “Jihyo’s friend, I think they’ve been friends for a long time, I don't know. Let’s go to the bar.”

You follow behind her after she skirts in front of you, leaving her wrist for you to grab as she pulls you into the mob of people. You should be used to it by now, swimming through the horde of people gathered in layers around the bar, but getting pushed and shoved while you’re also pushing and shoving just to get a fucking drink is too aggravating to be considered regular. 

Yunjin spots Sana and Momo before you do, tugging you forward until you’re in their line of sight, screams and squeals from the two making the crowd part to let you through. Your greetings were the same, shouted in squeals and pitched noises, side hugs and cheek-kisses like you haven’t seen each other in a month.

“You made it!” Sana beams, chocolate brown hair similar to Jen’s down, waved like she went to a salon for a fresh blowout. “Ji will be so happy, she put her whole soul into planning this.”

Your chest warms at another mention of her name, remembering your conversation with Yunho.

“Beer is free tonight,” Momo explains, her grin wide and excited. “We bought two kegs from the Penny. Miller, unforch.” You can’t help your smile, fully amused. She brings her gaze to you, “We should have gotten barrels of vodka and vermouth for you, Martini Girl.”

You shake your head, waving a hand, “I can pretend to be a frat boy for the night, don’t worry about me.”

“Just tell the bartender you’re here for Mina’s party and they’ll hook you up,” Sana adds. “Start chugging, though, two kegs will go quickly. There’s more people here than we thought would show.”

You and Yunjin take the advice quickly, switching spots with Sana and Momo to flag down the bartender, double-fisting to ensure you both end up catching a buzz. You didn’t drive since your car is in the shop, but you still want the twenty-dollar Uber to be worth it. Knowing Yunho, he’ll pay for the Uber ride home. 

Wait— can you even assume you’re going home with Yunho anymore? Since you’re no longer exclusive, that means he… He could go home with someone else. You could go home with someone else. You don’t know what feeling is blooming in your chest, but it doesn’t feel right. 

You find yourself beelining toward him, feet moving without a second thought, you don’t even tell Yunjin or the other two that you’re leaving. Your beer sways in the two glasses, toppling over the sides as you skip over shoes and slide between pockets of bodies, pushing yourself toward the tall table the four massive men stand at. 

Your glasses hitting the table introduce your presence before anyone has noticed you snuck up. Yunho’s head snaps, mid-sentence, brows tied together before his face expands in a beaming smile. “There you are, sunshine.” 

Relief washes over you at the sight. He bends down to press his lips to yours, a short peck, soft and sweet, he tastes like beer, like chapstick. Like Yunho. 

“Double fisting?” he asks, teasing, eyeing up your two beers. “Planning to get fucked up?” 

You snort, “Just ensuring I milk the kegs before they’re tapped.” You greet the rest of the table as Yunjin finally catches up, sliding between San and Jongho, setting her two draft glasses on the table, too. 

“Damn,” Jongho says, gaze bouncing between your four glasses taking up half the table, including their own glasses. “Might as well have brought a pitcher over.” 

“Can we do that?” Yunjin pops a chocolate brow over her shades. “Is that allowed?” 

Mingi asks, “Why wouldn’t it be?”

You’re quick to jump in, “Because the beers are free and a pitcher feels…” Your lips scrunch, brows furrowing, “I don’t know. Feels mooch-y.”

San laughs, “And four beers isn’t?” 

“Sana told us to get it before it’s gone!” Yunjin is laughing as she brings her beer up to her lips, taking a deep gulp. 

Jongho is about to argue again but Yunho cuts him off, “You go get a pitcher.” 

“Yeah,” Yunjin nods, glass hitting the table again. “You go get a pitcher, since you want one so bad.”

Your eyes are bouncing back and forth to each face, smile growing with each interaction, every comeback. Jongho scowls as he moves from the table, no doubt thinking about what a climb it will be to get back up to the bar. At least he brings his beer with him. 

“So,” Yunho starts, leaning down to get close to your ear. His breath is hot against your skin, it makes you shiver. “See anyone yet?”

Your cheeks heat up, eyes widening at the question. You take a swig of your beer, hoping the chilled carbonation will cool you off a bit. “No,” you mutter softly, turning your head to face him. His hair is down, curly over his forehead, almost touching his lashes. “I came straight to you.” 

His face flattens out, but there’s humor in his pretty eyes. “Boring.” 

You smack your teeth with your lips and smack his arm with the back of your hand, a laugh falling out of your open mouth. “Not boring, Jeong Yunho.” 

He giggles, goading you, “Come on, it’s your first night of freedom. Start shopping.” 

Shopping. You push the memory out as your eyes travel over the crowd, loosing a heavy breath as absolutely fucking no one catches your attention. Not that no one here is attractive– but there’s no one who you’d want one night of really hot, intense fucking with. 

You’re pouting as you glance back at Yunho. “I don’t think I’m gonna be good at this.”

“You don’t think so?” His brows sit high, a playful grin on his lips like he knows something you don’t. His chin dips in the direction you were just looking at, “Look again, baby.” 

You turn, faces blending together, bodies moving as one until you see her. As if she’s beneath a fucking spotlight, her golden, tanned skin sparkles in the pockets of her cut-out, black mini dress. Her dark hair flows down her back, curled, shiny, so pretty. She looks so fucking sexy your heartbeat picks up in your chest. 

You look back at Yunho, cheeks hot, the tips of your ears on fire, “Fuck.” 

He laughs with his head tipped backward before he brings his beer up to his lips. “Told you,” he says with a little shrug. “You’ll be just fine. Go talk to her.” 

“No!” you whisper, well, more like a whisper-yell. “I can’t go hit on her.” 

“Why not?” he’s still smiling as he asks, amused by you. “Fine. Go tell her she did a great job with the party or something.” 

“That’s so fucking corny,” you groan, shaking your head as you bring your beer back up to your lips again. 

San cuts in from across the table, “What are you two whispering about over there?” 

You’ve barely swallowed your gulp of beer before you’re blurting, “Nothing!” Your gaze lands on Yunjin, and her eyes narrow. “Fine,” your lips flatten. “Yunho wants me to go hit on Jihyo.” 

The table falls into a confused silence. Mingi breaks it by asking, “You’re gay?” 

“Aren’t you two together?” San adds on. 

“Like, our Jihyo?” Yunjin adds on, and your head bobbles between the three of them, each question adding another layer of frustration. 

All you can do is groan. A pitiful, droning groan, instinctively you bring your beer back up to your lips. 

“We’re not exclusive anymore,” Yunho answers for you. “And she has her eye on your Jihyo, yes. Gay question isn’t mine to answer.”

“Mind you, you had all day yesterday to tell me about this,” Yunjin’s eyes are still narrowed at you. 

Your cheeks are flaming, hiding beneath your glass of beer. “Baby steps?” you offer with a tiny shrug. 

Yunjin sighs, “I’ll take it, I guess.”

The conversation moves on, but your head keeps turning involuntarily, taking small glances at her. She's in heels, her muscled calves flexing each time she moves her body, shifting her stance. Fuck, she looks hot. She always looks hot. She looks especially hot tonight. 

When you look back at Yunho, he’s already looking at you. Then his brows raise as if he’s saying you gonna do it, or what? Your lips purse, heartbeat picking up again. You don’t think you’ve ever approached someone with the sole intention of flirting with them in your life. 

This past month has been filled with so many firsts for you. What’s one more?

You pick up your beer and chug the rest of it down, it’s screaming all the way down your throat, the taste not wonderful but not unbearable either. It’s the bubbles, the carbonation, but you wipe your lips with the back of your hand, look at Yunho with a determined expression, and nod. 

He grins, “That’s my girl.” 

“Are you going?” San asks, thick, dark brows wiggling. “Should we give you a pep talk? Act like we’re sending you off to war?” 

You try to scowl at him, but your lips curve at the corners. “Go fuck Jen in the bathroom or something.” 

“Go fuck Jihyo in the bathroom or something,” he fires back automatically. 

“Maybe I will, bitch,” it comes out of your mouth before you can think about it and your palm flies over your mouth, shocked that you just fucking said that. Maybe the Miller gave you a little more than just courage. 

San howls with laughter. “Fuck yes, do it.”

Your cheeks are warm, and that definitely wasn’t a pep talk, but for some reason it feels like what you needed. You turn on your heel, breath pushing out of your circled lips shakily as you wipe your sweaty palm on your pant leg. Your other hand holds your other, full beer. 

She’s mid-conversation as you approach her, and before speaking, interrupting, you lay your hand softly on her shoulder blade. “Just wanted to say hi.” 

She just about fucking screams when she sees you. Forgetting her conversation completely, she throws her arms around you, yelling, “You came! You came! I’m so happy!” 

You laugh into her arms, pretending you don’t care about her body pressed against yours, that you didn’t come over here with an ulterior motive. “Of course I did, you invited me.” 

She keeps her hands on your shoulders as she pulls away, barely keeping space between you, she’s beaming, her cheeks flushed. You keep catching the gloss on her lips as she barrages you with questions, “How are you? Who are you here with? Is Jen here?” 

You point behind you, and her eyes follow. “She’s here, we invited some of the guys we’re friends with.” 

“Oh,” her brows furrow as she waves her manicured hand. “They’re already all looking over here.” 

Your face drops, you turn your head and scowl in their direction, just to catch them all staring at you. When they catch your expression they all turn away, caught. Guilty. Fuckers. 

“Isn’t the blonde one yours?” she asks, brows wiggling. “He’s hot. Tall.”

“He’s not mine,” you blurt, shaking your head. Fuck, this is harder than you thought it’d be. “We’re not exclusive, I’m– I’m fully single.” 

“Oh,” she says like this is the most scandalous information she’s ever heard. “My girl who’s committed to being committed is in a non-exclusive relationship? Who are you?” 

“I’m me,” you smile, eyes finding the floor for a millisecond. You shrug, “Just… different now. I guess.” 

“I’m proud of you,” she nods, one arm that was holding onto your shoulder sliding down to pet your bicep. You physically have to stop yourself from shivering at the contact. She’s taller than you in her heels, looking down at you as she says it, her soft palm brushing your bare skin…

“Thank you,” you murmur, cheeks heating up again. “This place looks great– I– you look great.” 

“Yeah?” She beams, taking a step back to look down at her own outfit. “I know it’s Mina’s birthday, but since I planned it I figured I have to look good, too.” 

“You do,” you affirm her, looking at her outfit with her, nodding your head. You run a hand through your hair. Why is this so hard? How do you start flirting with a girl who’s your friend? How do you un-friend your friend? How do you even flirt?

Someone grabs at her wrist, a small girl, long, black hair, she’s beaming at her. You can only assume that’s Mina. “Ji! There’s someone I want you to meet!” 

Jihyo nods toward her, and then the girl is tugging at her arm, and Jihyo shoots you an apologetic look. “I’ll find you later!” 

“Don’t worry about it!” you wave your hand, feeling a pang of disappointment in your gut. Fuck. You absolutely fumbled that. Fuck. 

You turn back to your friends with regret heavy in your eyes. You take another gulp of beer before deflating into the table, debating guzzling the pitcher Jongho brought back. 

“How’d it go?” Yunho asks as soon as you’re back in ear shot. You scowl. His lips flatten. “Can you give me more than just a look?”

You pout. “I barely got to say anything before the birthday girl pulled her away. Damn, I didn’t even say happy birthday.” 

“You have all night,” San assures you from across the table. 

Mingi cooes, “Oh my god, baby’s first gay-crush.” 

You don’t even have the time to roll your eyes before Jongho starts cracking up, “What the fuck did I miss?” 

“A lot,” you gruff out, picking up your beer again. 

Yunho lowers it before you can bring it up to your lips, “Pace yourself, sunshine. We literally have all night.” 

“Damn, no Jihyo and now no beer?” you complain, but your words are playful. “So bossy.” 

“You know bossy, and that wasn’t bossy,” he reminds you, voice sliding into that velvety cadence. 

Your gut warms. “Don’t start with that or else I’ll really give up on Jihyo.” 

His grin is bright, satisfied. “You’re funny tonight.” 

“I’m always funny,” you quip, slightly offended. 

“I don’t even know how to flirt with her,” you’re talking to the table now. “How do you flirt with a girl who’s your friend?” 

Yunjin answers, “You do know she’s super gay, right? Like she fucks with dudes but not nearly as much as women? I don’t think you even have to try that hard, she probably saw you all cute and flustered while you were talking to her.” 

If your cheeks get any hotter, you might overheat like a cell phone on a fucking beach. Your elbow lands on the table, palm hitting your forehead. “I’m not cut out for this life.” 

The table responds by laughing. The conversation moves on, San talks about the gym, Yunho talks about the really good weed he bought from a guy in his public speaking class, Mingi talks about the girl he slept with last weekend, and Jongho tells him he slept with her the weekend before.

You don’t have anything to add except a joke here and there or laughing along with the table. You can feel the absence of one, you catch yourself scanning the room, looking for a familiar head of black hair and bronzy skin. You don’t see him. You let the thought pass. 

Mingi pulls you back to the conversation by asking, “Did you guys listen to the new episode of Unscripted?” 

Yunjin’s eyes lift to yours. Your expression doesn’t so much as flicker. 

“I listened!” San beams. “I think every single person in this room listened. Who’s side are you guys on?” 

Yunho, without missing a beat, answers, “Mister Tall and Dominant.” 

Your expression cracks, a smile forcing its way through the mask. He didn’t tell his friends it’s you— well, that it’s him. 

Yunjin nods, “Same.” She’s definitely speaking just to add something to the conversation, because you know she’s team Wooyoung. 

“What?” San gawks at the table, “Are you shitting me? She’s obviously in love with Mister Piss-Me-Off.” 

“No she’s not,” you find yourself arguing. Defensively, too. 

San looks at you like you’re ridiculous. “Did you listen to the way she talked about him? It was word vomit, she’s obsessed.” 

There’s warning in the hinge of Yunjin’s jaw. You shrug, “I don’t know. I just don’t think it’s that serious. Unscripted fucks a new person every week, let’s be honest with ourselves here.” 

“That’s true,” Mingi adds. “Just another fling. Content for the pod.” 

“I didn’t even listen,” Jongho reveals, “but everyone keeps fucking talking about it. Who cares who she fucks?” 

“We do, apparently,” Yunho adds with a little laugh, picking up his beer again. You should buy him something. Or fuck him really, really good tomorrow. 

Yunjin’s body is so tight you think she might explode. “Can we go to the bathroom?” she asks, keeping her voice light, but you can hear the panic lining her tone because you know her. 

You nod, sliding from the table, meeting her on the other side before walking with her toward the bathroom. She waits until you’re out of earshot before exploding, “How did you do that? How do you do that? I feel like I’m gonna have a heart attack!” 

You snort, rolling your eyes, “You did fine, Jen. You’re fine.”

“Does Yunho know?” 

“He thinks I submitted the story,” you explain, approaching the neon pink Girls Room sign. The line isn’t too long, you lower your voice as you walk towards the end of it. “He knows it’s about him, but he doesn’t think I’m… Her.”

“How the hell did he figure that out?” 

You shrug, “Don’t know, but he came to the conclusion on his own. I just agreed.”

Yunjin sighs. “He’s so fucking smart, but he’s kinda stupid at the same time.” 

You giggle. “I don’t think he’s stupid at all, he’s like, one thought process away from putting all the pieces together.” 

She presses her back up against the wall, brows furrowed over her shades. “That doesn’t scare you?” 

“It does,” you nod. “I don’t know… he’s kind. I trust him. He didn’t tell everyone else the story was about him, I think if he ended up figuring it out, he’d keep it to himself, too.” 

Her head tilts. “You don’t think he’d be upset that you kept it from him?” 

“I mean, do you think he has a right to?” 

Her lips purse, shoulders shrugging. “Maybe.” 

You think on it, taking the spot beside her, sighing as you back up against the wall. You turn your head to her, “Do you really think Jihyo saw my flustered-ness as cute?” 

She wears a lazy grin as she turns her head to you. “I think you’re cute when you’re flustered, so there’s no way she didn’t.”

Your smile brightens, cheeks warming all over again. It’s too fucking early into the night to break the seal, but you do anyway because the sound of the sinks running makes your bladder feel heavier than it’s ever been. 

On the way back to the table, you spot her again. She’s talking to someone else you don’t know, a guy, tall, buff. He’s kinda hot. Her body language is friendly but your stomach jumps in warning, your mind and your legs are in agreement as you part ways with Yunjin to purposely interrupt her conversation this time. 

“I found you first,” you say, cutting off whatever this fuckass guy is saying. 

Jihyo beams, “And thank god you did.” 

The guy pouts, “Why’s it suddenly fuck me?” 

Jihyo laughs, smooth and pretty, “Sorry, Johnny.” She introduces the two of you, and then turns her attention fully on you. “Those pants make your legs look so fucking long. Is your top backless?” 

You do a little spin, and she whistles. Whistles. Your cheeks are fucking burning when you turn back to her, and you desperately wish you had your beer. 

She reads your mind. “Where’s your drink?” 

You look at her empty hands. “Where’s yours?” 

Her lips tighten in a grin. “Touché, let’s go to the bar.”

She grabs your hand and electricity shoots up your spine, excitement, adrenaline. Is this working? Are you doing it? You can’t tell. Your eyes drop while following behind her, taking in her curves, the way her hips way with every hurried step. She cuts through the layers of people before the bar like she’s the human version of a sword, shoulders back as she tugs you all the way up to the front. 

She doesn’t let go of your hand when she gets up to the bar. She swings her upper half over the deep oak, giving you a perfect view of the way her shiny hair glistens under the lighting, how her back arches, ass poking out. She calls over the bartender like he’s working for her. 

She orders two shots and two beers. Your brow pops as you lean in almost over her shoulder, “Shots aren’t free, Ji. Just get beers.” 

Her head tilts, a tiny smirk on her lips. “I can’t buy you a shot?”

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. “Oh. Yes, you can. Thank you.” 

Her smile widens, a tiny laugh falling off her tongue. “You’re so cute.” 

Coming from her, you think maybe you don’t want to be cute. Coming from Yunjin, sure, cute is fine, but coming from Jihyo? You want to be as sexy as you think she is. You chew on your bottom lip, your cheeks flame anyway. 

The bartender brings your shots and she thanks him, yelling an ‘add it to my tab’ before she hands one to you. It’s clear, vodka, your throat is already burning before a drop has touched your tongue. 

“Cheers to new beginnings,” she holds up her plastic shot glass to you. “New beginnings, a new mindset, and freedom that you didn’t have before.” 

You tease, “We’re still celebrating my breakup?” 

“No, baby,” she shakes her head, smirk still playing on her lips. “I told you that you’re not a passive girl. You’re out of the funk.” 

Baby sounds different on her lips now. Heat curls as you clink your plastic shot glass with hers, and shoot the vodka back. You whistle as you slam it back on the bar, sipping the beer that was waiting for you, letting it wash the aftertaste off the back of your throat. 

“Fuck, I drink vodka, and taking shots still fucking burns,” you’re wiping off your lips again as you turn back to her, she looks unbothered as ever. “How are you not cringing?” 

She shrugs, “I’m older than you. More experience.” 

“You’re older than me by one year, Ji,” you almost roll your eyes, smile bending your lips. “How much more experience can you have?” 

“A lot,” she says coolly before sipping her beer. “Trust me.” 

Are you still talking about vodka? You can’t tell. Heat blooms, and whether it's from her words, the liquor, both, you don’t care. 

“Tell me about the guy,” she starts again, still leaning up against the bar. She's holding her glass with two hands, hair off her shoulders, chest on display. She's radiating the same comforting dominance she always has, the one that makes you want to obey without even realizing you’re doing it. 

“Yunho?” you question. “The tall, blonde one?” 

“The one you’re casually fucking,” she corrects, or points out, you don’t know. 

Your legs cross as you lean up against the bar, too. “He’s sweet. He takes care of me.”

She hums, looking you up and down, and doesn’t do a damn thing to hide it. “Do you need to be taken care of?” 

“Sometimes,” you answer, feeling the weight of her gaze. “Sometimes not.”

Her smile grows. “Good,” she leans forward a little more, closing some of the distance between you. “Is he taking care of you tonight?” 

Your heartbeat picks up, mouth going dry. You sip your beer, and then shake your head. “N-no, he’s not.” 

She looks like she’s won, satisfied as hell. “Do you want to dance with me?”

You’re nodding profusely, you don’t even say the word yes before she’s grabbing your hand again and tugging you toward the dance floor. 

Wooyoung’s getting real sick of the Lucky Penny. He feels like he’s spending his entire fucking week in the step-above-shithole bar, but maybe he’s just allowing himself be angry at the Penny because the alternative is too damning. It’s been two days and it’s still eating him alive, the way you looked at him in his car, like you never want to speak to him again. He doesn’t know why that hurts the way it does.

He shouldn’t care, oh, he shouldn’t give a flying fuck. But he does, and he fucking hates it.

The way he came home to Yunho with fucking word vomit, getting the entire sequence of events off his chest because he felt guilty. He didn’t even do anything and he felt fucking guilty. The batting cage, the diner, he never should have done any of it knowing that you and Yunho are exclusive. He shouldn’t have let himself get to know you any better, and he sure as hell shouldn’t have let you know him.

But it’s so fucking hard to stop himself when he’s around you. Usually it’s his dick controlling him, and… and– and it still is. He just wants to fuck you. He’s gotten a taste of you, and he’s hungry for the rest. 

He has to tell himself that with every pretty face that looks at him inside the Penny. Every wink, every longing stare, every fuckable face he sees he has to remind himself that the only reason you’re on his mind is because he’d rather fuck you. 

He didn’t mean to be late tonight. Every outfit in his closet didn’t seem appropriate, and by the time he was on the fifth outfit he almost yelled out in frustration because when the fuck has he ever cared about his outfit? No one in the Penny is looking at his goddamn outfit. Every woman whose eyes land on him is thinking he’s sexy, or they’ve heard he’s great in bed and they’re wondering if it’s true, every woman is debating if they’ll have a chance to find out, tonight. And they won’t. None of them will fucking know because you’re suddenly a drug, a fucking poison he accidentally injected into his veins. 

It’s disgusting. He needs to get drunk. 

He approaches the bar, slams his card on the oak. The bartender tells him something about a keg, he orders whiskey on the fucking rocks. He’s not drinking draft Miller fucking Lite tonight.

“Oh no,” Sana approaches him, a glass of beer in one hand. She looks pretty, hair tied back, showing enough skin that usually would make Wooyoung want to find out what the rest looks like. “It’s gotten worse. What’s wrong with you?”

He takes a swig of whiskey, doesn’t cringe as it burns its way down. “Nothing,” he answers. Short, definitely not sweet.

“Should you be here with an attitude like that?” she asks, brows raised. “Drinking hard liquor, of all things?”

He gives her a blank stare. “I don’t have an attitude.”

“Let me ask you something, then,” she stands a little straighter. “If I asked you to fuck me in the bathroom right now, would you do it?”

“I just got here,” he answers, voice flat. “Can you ask me after I’ve made my rounds? Scouted the rest?”

She laughs, but it’s hollow. “Glad to find out the whore is still in there. For a second, I thought you were upset about a girl.”

He gives her a look, eyes hard, brows flat. His jaw clenches as he swallows down some more whiskey. “I’ll never be upset about a girl, Sana. You know that.”

She looks at him sideways like she doesn’t really believe him. “Whatever you have going on, you better fix it real quick. No one wants a miserable man drinking hard fucking liquor at a birthday party.”

She turns on her heel, miniskirt dancing on her hips as she disappears into the crowd. Something tight within his chest unwinds as her words sink in. She’s right. Anger isn’t a fucking party favor. He sighs, more so pushes whatever he can get out from his chest, hoping it’s all the frustration and confusion that’s bottled up inside him. 

He rolls his shoulders before walking through the crowd, ignoring the eyes, saying hi here and there to those who say hi to him, he spots San before anyone else. He doesn’t know how he recognized him, he’s currently mauling Yunjin’s face off, standing beside a tall table filled with a half-filled pitcher of beer and eight tall glasses. Some empty, some full, some half-empty. 

Mingi and Jongho are talking, clearly trying to ignore the way San’s basically having sex in the middle of the bar. He approaches the two, “Not watching the show?”

“That’s something only someone like you would enjoy,” Jongho grins, clasping Wooyoung’s hand.

Mingi does the same before adding, “Are you about to?”

“Not in the mood,” Wooyoung shrugs his shoulders. “Who else is here?”

Jongho points toward Yunho, who’s standing a foot behind Wooyoung. His brows furrow, “The fuck is he doing?”

“Go find out,” Mingi says, full of amusement.

Wooyoung’s brows furrow, but he walks up to Yunho anyway, curious. He’s facing the dance floor, Wooyoung follows his line of sight, squinting as he tries to find what the older man is looking at.

His stomach drops when he sees it. You’re… you’re kissing someone. You’re kissing a girl. You’re kissing the only fucking girl in that goddamn friend group that he hasn’t fucked. Yunho might have to pick his jaw up from the floor. 

“You’re– you’re watching this?” Wooyoung’s voice is shakier than he wants it to be.

Yunho smiles. “I’m about to stop, it feels weird to watch. They just started making out.”

Wooyoung doesn’t understand. His mind is moving a mile a fucking minute. He asks, “You’re okay with that?”

Yunho finally looks at him, and he’s wearing a prideful smile. “Of course I’m okay with it.” Wooyoung blinks at him. Once, twice. Yunho laughs like he can’t help it. “We’re not exclusive anymore.”

Wooyoung’s jaw might be on the floor again. “Are you serious?”

Yunho nods, “Sorry it didn’t happen before she tried to kiss you.”

Wooyoung’s face drops, and so does his stomach. You told him?

He starts, guilt lining his tone, “Yun–”

“Don’t apologize,” Yunho shakes his head. “We’re cool.”

Wooyoung nods, and his eyes betray him as they lead out to the dance floor again. He doesn’t even fucking know her name, but your hands are on her cheeks, her hands on your waist, no– one hand is on your waist, the other is on your ass, squeezing it. You’re kissing her like you can’t get enough of her, like there isn’t a single part of you that’s second-guessing it, like you want it more than you’ve ever wanted anything. 

He swallows. He can feel the whiskey at the bottom of his stomach, heavy, leaden. You’re– you’re kissing someone else. You’re kissing a fucking girl. You just ended exclusivity with Yunho and you’re kissing someone fucking else?

He turns, walking past Yunho, past Mingi, Jongho, past San and Yunjin who look like they don’t even need air to breathe anymore. He sets the half-full glass of whiskey on the table, and announces to anyone who can fucking hear him, “I’m leaving.”

Jongho calls from behind him, “You just fucking got here!”

Wooyoung ignores him, then ignores every other person who tries to get his attention before he leaves the Lucky Penny.

Jihyo kisses you differently than Yunho kisses you. Different from Wooyoung. From Yeonjun. She kisses you like she’s trying to prove something, no, like she wants you to prove something. Like there’s still a part of you shielded, a part of you that’s begging to be released, and she wants to be the one to pull it out of you. Where her hands go, you arch into her touch. When her tongue pries your lips open, you let her explore until it evokes a soft moan from the back of your throat. When your hands finally find her cheeks, when one drops to her waist, her soft sigh makes your brain short-circuit. 

You made her make a noise. A sound. Of pleasure. You did that.

Your eyes open in surprise just to see her lips parted, her head tipped back, her spine bent toward you. The sight of someone else swimming in a haze of pleasure has never been so fucking beautiful. It’s sheer instinct to kiss her again, harder this time, your tongue pushing past her lips, your hands on her hips, needing more of her. 

You’ve imagined this a thousand times, usually alone, in your bed, sometime around twilight. You’ve imagined her, her face blown out with pleasure, dark eyes heavy with arousal, and in each and every daydream, you’ve been the reason why. You didn’t think it could feel this good, even just from some fucking kissing, to make someone else feel good. 

Her nails dig into the fabric of your pants, sinking into your skin beneath. You hiss into her mouth and she smiles into the kiss, “What is this, baby?”

“What?” you ask, brain cloudy, consumed with lust. 

“Are we just gonna make out on the dance floor?” she asks, then her teeth grab onto your bottom lip, biting soft enough to tease. “Or do I get more of you?”

Her chest presses against yours, your brows furrow, jaw cracking open. “You– you want more?”

“Are you kidding me?” she asks with a little laugh, and even that makes your gut churn with heat. “Do you want more?”

“I–” you’re panting, breaths layered. “Yes– yeah, I want– yes.”

Her grin turns to a nasty smirk, “Come.”

She tugs on your hand, pulling you through the crowd, and your eyes drift over the heads to your left. He’s exactly where you left him, with Mingi, with Jongho, they’re laughing about something. Like he can feel your gaze, his head turns, meeting your eye. He smiles, and it’s so fucking full of warmth that it eases something inside you that you didn’t realize needed to be eased.

You’re smiling, too, as Jihyo tugs you through the crowd, turning a corner around the entrance to the bathrooms, tugging on the bronze door handle to what looks like a coat closet. Or a supply closet. 

You don’t have time to decipher which, because as soon as she gets you inside the closet, she has you pinned to the door. Her lips are on yours again, sloppier, like her restraint is running thin, you hear the door lock before her hands push your hips into the door. 

Your hands fly to her hair, fingers tangling at the nape of her neck, tugging ever so slightly. Her neck bends backward with a sharp sound, and you follow, attaching your lips again because even a fucking second without it is too long. 

Her hands slide up your waist, cupping over your chest, squeezing your boobs through your bra. Your hips twitch, canting forward, the tips of your tongues still touching. 

“This your first time?” she asks, panting. “With a girl?”

You nod, voice breathy and layered, “Yeah.” She smiles wide, her eyes flaring. You laugh a little, “What?” 

“You should be happy it’s me,” she whispers, huskier now. Her hands slide down to your hips, one hand coming to the center to toy with the button to your pants. 

“Yeah?” There’s cockiness in your tone, from a part of yourself that you haven’t cracked open yet. It’s dark in the closet, the light seeping through the bottom of the door lighting her face from below. “You wanna take care of me?” 

“Do you need to be taken care of?” she asks again, head tilting. One of her fingers slips into the waistband of your pants, tugging them toward her. 

You don’t. You want to show her that you don’t. 

One hand slides around her waist, turning her swiftly until her back is pressed up against the door. She laughs, and it’s arrogant as hell, “You wanna take care of me?” 

“I can take care of you,” you murmur, now the words feel less foreign on your tongue. You think of the sound she made earlier, the soft noise of pleasure you pulled from her. You want to hear it again. 

The way her grin beams with pride only makes you kiss her harder, more confidence in your hands, pressing into the skin you can feel in the cutouts of her dress. She hooks a leg around you and you slot one leg between hers, pressing exactly where you know she needs it. 

She gasps, her manicured nails finding your shoulders, her hips immediately grinding up against your pant leg. You dip your head under her jawline, leaving open-mouthed kisses down her neck as her hips work against your thigh. 

One hand finds her ass as you murmur, “Yes.” She moans and a surge of heat boils through your blood, especially as her head dips back. It thuds against the door, giving you access to her neck. Your lips suck at the spot where her neck meets her chest, just above her collarbone. 

She moans a little louder, mumbling a choked out ‘fuck’ as she works up a rhythm against your thigh. You can feel the heat, the wetness seeping through, you want to clench your thighs together. You want to feel it. You want to taste it. 

Your hands slide up her waist, fingers settling over her chest, squeezing. She squeaks out another moan, one of her hands tugging at your roots, making you moan, too. 

You tug at her straps, sliding them down her arms until she gets herself free. You reach behind her, two hands working the clasp of her bra until you pull it off of her, throwing it on the floor. 

Fuck. “You’re so fucking sexy, Ji, oh my god.” 

“Please,” she whimpers. Whimpers. You think you might have moaned again at the sound. “I wanna see you, too.” 

You untie your top at the back of your neck, letting it fall over the front of your pants until it pools at your hips. You don’t give her a chance to compliment you back, kissing her again, and her hips pick back up the rhythm against your thigh, harder this time. 

“Shit, Ji,” you choke out, grabbing at the hem of her dress, tugging it upward, watching how she drags her panty-clad cunt over your thigh. “Yes, use me, fuck.” 

“Want you,” she mutters, thick with arousal. “Want more. Mouth, fingers, I don’t care.” 

Her panties, thin, black and lacy, you slide your palm underneath the waistband, greeted with a thick wetness, so much fucking wetness that you gasp. 

“Holy shit, you’re wet,” you marvel. 

She giggles, throwing her head back against the door again. “All for you, baby. You wanna taste it?” 

Keeping your eyes on her, you pull your hand from her panties, and bring your fingers to your mouth. Tangy sweet, her brows knit together at the sight of you shoving your fingers past your lips, tasting her, enjoying her. 

“Sweet,” you tease, and her hips jerk at the word. You want more. You want to taste all the wetness that's built up for you. 

Sinking down to your knees, she watches as you reach up for her panties, slowly dragging them down her toned, muscled legs. “Tell me…” you trail off, searching for the words. “Tell me if you like it. Okay?” 

“You know what to do,” she assures you, nodding. “But I’ll tell you, baby.” 

You throw her leg over her shoulder, fingers dancing over her soft skin, feeling the dips of her muscles as your lips press small kisses toward the apex of her thighs. Her breathing grows labored, her hips twitching toward you. 

You finally look at her core, glistening even under the darkness of the closet. You curse under your breath at the sight, so fucking beautiful, you’re throbbing, your own hips twitching, trying to get some kind of friction in your pants. 

Like a dog to a fucking bone, you bring your lips to her core, pressing one soft, steady kiss to her clit. She hisses, one hand flying to your hair and you welcome it as your tongue pokes out from between your lips, tasting her from bottom to top. 

Her moan is soft, coated in relief. It gives you a little more confidence, massaging your tongue against her clit, her fingers tightening in your roots as a sharp, gasped moan tumbles off her tongue. 

“Yes,” she moans out, hips twitching into your tongue. “Just like that.” 

You look upward, taking in her tight brows, her parted, glossy lips. She’s enjoying this. She’s enjoying you. 

One hand stays on her thigh over your shoulder, the other holds the skin just above her knee. You keep your tongue flat as she grinds herself against it, head tilting backward as she chokes out a heavy, “Fu–uck.” 

Your brows tie together, a moan falling past your lips. You wrap your lips around her clit, sucking, and you feel her spine go rigid, you can hear her toes curl against the leather of her sole, the heel poking at your back. Her hips stutter, jaw clenched like she was too aware of the noise she’s making. 

“Let me hear you,” you break away to say quickly, fast enough that you barely register that the words feel familiar. “Fuck whoever else hears.” 

“Uh-huh,” she’s nodding as you dive back into her core again, tongue lapping at her folds, flicking at her clit in a steady rhythm. 

“Holy shit,” she gasps out. “Fuck, fuck, keep doing that.”

You do, you will your head into stillness, a wall that she can fuck herself against. Her hips roll, using your head for purchase as she uses you, uses your face, your tongue. 

You can feel it, the tremor in her legs, how her hips start to lose rhythm. You keep it instead, never faltering, watching as her mouth stretches wider, as her brows tie further together. She’s close. 

Feeling, knowing she’s almost there is enough to keep your body a rock, you want to watch her come undone. Her moans heighten in pitch, breaking up in staccato until her breath gets caught in her chest, and then she starts to shake. 

She cries out your name as she comes, fingers tightening in your hair like she might rip it out of your head, but you don’t fucking care. You eat her through it, letting her shake and convulse on your face, you lick up every last drop. 

“Easy,” she finally says, breathing labored, letting go of your head. She collapses into the door, chest heaving as you sit back into your thighs, running a hand through your hair, too aware of the sweat gliding down your spine. 

After a minute of just breathing, she starts to laugh. You blink at her before a smile curves your lips, and then you start laughing, too. 

“I didn’t even know you liked girls,” she says, fixing her panties into place. “I’m learning so much about you tonight.”

The grin you give her is lazy, your head tilting, falling onto your shoulder. You wipe at your wet chin, “I’ve always liked girls, you’ve just always known me with a boyfriend.” 

She’s shaking her head as she picks her bra up from the floor. “He’s a demon.” She’s clipping it behind her back as she asks, “Can I take care of you now?” 

Your head tilts to the other side, thinking. You don’t really need more, you already got what you wanted, and the satisfaction of making her come on your face is enough. And it’s strange, different in a way you can’t pick apart, that you chose this, and you got it. And Jihyo’s still your friend. 

Your grin is coy, “I don’t really know how to say no, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, or think I don’t want you or something. But I’m kinda good.” 

Her brows raise as she crouches down into her calves, almost eye level with you in her heels. She smiles like she’s amused, “You’re kinda good?” 

You laugh, grabbing for your straps, attempting to tie them around the back of your neck. “Not that I don’t… I don’t know. I’m tired.” 

“I’m sure you are,” she drawls, amused. “You just ate pussy for the first time and did an incredible fucking job.” 

Your cheeks warm. “You enjoyed it?” 

“I came, did I not?” Her brows raise before she stands up again, moving around you to help you tie your top at the back of your neck again. She presses a kiss to the top of your head after finishing off the knot, “You’re like… I don’t know. Different than you were with the demon. I really am proud of you.” 

You tilt your head backward to see her, and she’s just as beautiful upside down. “You think so?” 

“In a good way,” she nods. “You’re more comfortable in your skin. Confident. It looks good on you.” 

You beam, “Thanks, Ji.”

“Come on,” she stands up straight again, reaching for your hand. “I’m hosting, people are gonna start to notice I left to fuck one of my friends in a closet.” 

You erupt into laughter as she pulls you up, shaking your head in disbelief. You can’t believe you just did that. You can, actually, because you chose to do it. You can’t wait to tell Yunho.

When you leave the closet again, everything feels brighter. It's almost as if the music is turned back on, or someone fucked with the dimness of the lighting, you aren’t sure. She keeps your fingers locked until you spot Yunho again, letting you go with a kiss to your cheek and a whispered ‘love you’ in your ear. 

Your cheeks are warm again as you approach Yunho, “You’re lucky you made it, the Uber’s out front.” 

You gasp, “You would have left me?” 

Yunho beams. “No, silly. I would’ve sent Yunjin and San home, absolutely, but I would have stayed for you.” 

“Good,” you lean into him as you sort through the mass of bodies, following behind Yunjin and San who were somehow still making out. They take a step, kiss, take a step, kiss. You look up at Yunho, “Has it been that way all night?”

“He owes me for it,” Yunho says nonchalantly. “That’s all I’m saying.” 

You laugh, then you notice your purse over his shoulder, poking into your back. It warms you all over, you think this might have actually been the best day of your life. The most affirming day of your life. Almost as if you’re really one with Unscripted. You might be getting closer. 

“Did you have fun?” he asks when you get outside, while San and Yunjin, then Mingi and Jongho pile into the minivan Uber. 

You nod, “I can’t wait to tell you all about it.” 

“I can’t wait to hear,” he says, letting you climb into the car first, then following behind you. 

You think Yunjin might’ve sat on San’s lap the entire ride home. You think they might have done more in the backseat besides makeout, but you didn’t look. Ignorance is bliss. 

You’re still in that state of bliss as you walk through the front door of his frat, climbing all the way up the stairs, and collapsing in Yunho’s bed as soon as it’s in sight. 

Yunho closes the door behind him, “Oh, she tired you out, huh?” 

“I think I tired her out,” you turn your head so you can see him, smirking at him. 

He undresses himself quickly, yawning, back arching in a stretch as his pants pool at his ankles. You kick all your clothes off, too, your pants, your top. 

When you climb into bed together, you lay on opposite sides, but neither of you feel the distance. And then you tell him everything, every detail, until you can’t keep your eyes open anymore. 

She covers her mouth with one hand, chocolate brows tying together above wide eyes. “Oh my god. You’re— do you have any idea what people are saying about you?” You nod, timid, body still tight. She rips her hand from her mouth while putting the pieces together, “How fucking long— I don’t even understand— you don’t sing.” 

“I don’t sing,” you repeat, still whispering because you don’t trust your voice at any other volume. 

Still holding onto the back of the couch, she lowers herself until she’s sitting on her calves, eyes still wide, jaw still slacked. She looks up at you and there’s a ghost of a frown on her lips, her voice shaky as she realizes, “You lied to me.” 

“I didn’t lie,” you’re quick to defend. “I just didn’t tell you.” 

Your name falls from her lips coated in disappointment. “You deliberately kept it from me.”

Disappointment is worse than anger. “I kept it from everyone, Jen.” 

“I’m not everyone!” she nearly whimpers, her voice cracking, strained. “This is a whole side of you I don’t know, this is— this is like a whole half of you that I know nothing about! Do you know how many episodes I listened to before I even recognized your voice?” 

Your bottom lip quivers, jaw hinged tight. Her words are like an arrow through your fucking chest. 

“I only realized because you told a story about me. I recognized my own story on my best friend’s secret fucking podcast,” she doesn’t move as she seethes, like she’s frozen in place, too. Your heart wrenches with guilt. “Don’t you think maybe you should have asked me, maybe run it past me that this exists before posting my story online?” 

You’re nodding, fumbling over your words. “I’m sorry, that’s why it’s anonymous—”

“I don’t care!” she yells, standing up off the couch. “I know it’s me, and now I know it’s you.” 

Panic surges through you with force. “Please— Jen, please don’t tell anyone.” 

She stares at you, arms flat at her sides, face twisted in heartbreak. You almost open your mouth again, ready to beg, but she cuts it off by asking, “You don’t trust me, do you?” 

You shake your head. “Of course I—”

Her voice raises again, “You didn’t trust me with your secret, and now you don’t trust me to keep it. You think I’d expose you after you created an entire double life based on fucking anonymity?” 

A double life. Is that really what Unscripted is? A different half of you? Another person detached from yourself, your own personality? Is anything about her, you? Is anything about you, her?

You try a step forward. “I trust you, Jen. That’s not what I meant.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice cracks again, shoulders slumping, face going round. This is so much fucking worse than anger. The sadness, the disappointment… She feels betrayed. 

Your lips part, a strained, guilty noise forcing its way through. You can’t form any words, you don’t know what the fuck you could possibly say to make any of this better. 

Words you’ve said too often lately, you find them inside you again, “I don’t know.”

Now, it just sounds pathetic. A sorry fucking excuse for lying to, for hurting your best friend, your roommate, your sister. But you don’t have a reason; you knew she wouldn’t judge you, you knew she wouldn’t tell anyone, and yet you still didn’t tell her. You don’t know why. 

“You don’t know?” she repeats, like she didn’t hear you the first time. “You’ve spent months strategically hiding this from me, and you don’t know why?” 

Your lips quiver, eyes stinging, chest growing tight. She sees it, but she holds her ground, “Were you ever going to tell me?” 

You don’t trust your voice, so you shake your head. You could have gone your entire life without anyone knowing you’re the face behind the name, the voice behind the stories, the advice, the vulgarity. Tears fall. 

She shakes her head like she can’t choose which words she wants to say first. She looks at the floor. “We live together, we share everything. You know everything about me.” She looks up again, nose twitching with what you’re sure is tears trapped in her chest, “You trusted hundreds— maybe thousands of people with personal, sensitive information I don’t know about you. How is that fair?” 

“They don’t know who I am, Jen,” you blurt, your voice coated in a cry. You still haven’t moved from the door, there’s too much space between you, and it feels wider with each exchange. 

“I do!” she finally shouts, pointing at her chest, a single tear falling down her cheek. “I know you and I fucking love you, what are you so scared of? That I’m not going to love you anymore because you make up stories on a podcast?”

“I don’t make them up,” your voice drops in defense. “They’re all true, at least a piece of them is, even if they didn’t happen to me.” 

She laughs, but it’s hollow, you can hear the congestion in her sinuses. “That’s what you took from that? You think I’m calling you a liar?” 

“No—”

“Do you even understand why I’m upset?” she shouts, patience thinning. “We’ve known each other for years! I thought I knew you down to the fucking bone, and you hid something this— this huge from me. This is huge, the episode you posted today, everyone is talking about it!” 

“I know!” you shout back, taking another step forward. “I know they’re talking about it and I’m terrified! I didn’t mean for this to happen—”

“Who are they?” Her voice is suddenly calm again as she brings the heel of her palm up to her nose. “I know the tall one is Yunho, who’s the other one?” 

You pause, heart dropping. You don’t want to tell her. You have no choice but to fucking tell her. You think your heart might fall out of your ass fully as you mumble, “Wooyoung.” 

She blinks at you. “Wooyoung? Like, Jung Wooyoung? Black hair? Whore? The one I’ve slept with? That Jung Wooyoung?” Embarrassed, terrified of what her response will be, all you can do is nod. Her palms hit her forehead as she circles the coffee table, pacing. She stops again when she’s facing you, piecing it together, “So Tall is Yunho, PMO is Wooyoung. You asked Wooyoung for sex advice about Yunho because you had sex with Wooyoung.”

“No,” you answer with certainty. “I haven’t had sex with Wooyoung.”

“What?” Her hands find her forehead again. “You said you trust him, that he knows you or whatever. Fuck, I fucking knew something was weird with you two at the Penny. What the fuck did you do?” 

You look down at his hoodie still on your body, you remember everything you said to him fifteen fucking minutes ago. What did you do? Too much. Too much to come back from. 

Yunjin looks too, apparently. “Whose hoodie is that?” Your head snaps up, mouth going dry. “I recognize that fucking hoodie, he– what did you do?” 

As if it’s instinct, you drop your shit at the small table beside the door and rip the fucking hoodie over your head, throwing it to the floor like it’s on fire. It feels criminal to be wearing it, like he’s in the room with you, sharing your defeat. She watches it fall to the floor then looks back at you, then to the hoodie again like she’s buffering, trying to put pieces that you still haven’t given her together.

“Why him?” she mutters from across the room. “Why does he know you? Why does he get to know things I don’t?” 

“He doesn’t know about Unscripted,” you mutter just as quietly, chest rising and falling with every single nerve beneath your skin. 

“We’ll circle back to Unscripted,” she’s quick to fire back. “Trust me. Right now, I want you to tell me why Jung Wooyoung knows things about you that I don’t.”

You hate the words that you swear you can taste now, “I don’t know.”

“Yes you do,” she argues, voice edged with frustration. “Tell me. Or is this something else you can’t trust me with?” 

“I don’t fucking know!” your voice raises, strained because you fucking mean it. “I don’t tell him anything, I asked him for advice about Yeonjun and now he knows things about me. I don’t sit down and tell him my fucking secrets, he just— when he says things about me, they’re right.”

“It started with Yeonjun?” Her eyes widen, hands flying to her roots again. “What the fuck? How long has this– I don’t even know what the fuck to call it. When did you hook up?” 

“The night you took me out to get over Yeonjun,” you answer without a second thought. “He found out– whatever, we hooked up in a random bedroom. We didn’t have sex, though.”

Her brows are knitted together. “Then what did you do?”

“I– he– did you listen to the episode about overstimulation?”

Her face drops. “That was him?” 

You nod, bringing your hands up to rub at your face, the words falling from your lips like water now, “That was right before Yunho, and like, literally right before Yunho. And since Yunho, him and I have been weird until I asked him for advice at the Penny, now we’re normal again and he picked me up from work because my car died and then he took me to a batting cage and a diner and then I told him I want to kiss him–”

“What?” she interrupts you, blinking rapidly. “What? Tonight?”

Your voice heightens in pitch, “Like, maybe fifteen minutes ago?” 

“What the fuck,” her palm covers her mouth again. “What the fuck?”

“I didn’t kiss him,” you whisper, cheeks heating all over again. “He said he couldn’t do that to Yunho.”

“Wooyoung said no,” she repeats like she can’t fucking believe it. You nod. “I can’t believe you were the one– since I’ve met you– what the fuck is going on?” 

“Wooyoung!” you finally yell. “Ever since I met him my life has been derailed. He knows me, but the more he knows me the less I know me, like he can see through me, I- I can’t explain it.” 

She gets quiet before she says your name, it sounds pitiful, like she feels bad for you. Your stomach fucking hurts. 

“Come sit down,” she says calmly, pointing to the couch. 

You blink at her, “Jen–”

“Sit down or I swear to god,” she cuts you off, voice stern. You jump into movement, feet carrying you toward the couch as she commands, “You’re telling me everything and you’re going to be honest.”

You’re nervous as you sit on the farthest cushion, knees pinned together, fingers curling into the plush beneath you. “What about Unscripted?” 

“I didn’t forget about it,” she sits on the other side of the couch, pulling her knees up to her chest. “But my best friend who has always been in a committed relationship is acting really out of character right now and I need to know why.”

You run your fingers through your hair as you sink into the couch, your heart split in two. But you tell her, you tell her every single detail, from the night you met Wooyoung to the night you brought Yunho home to what happened before you walked through the door to your apartment. 

“Do you remember the night you found out about Yeonjun? The basket?” she asks when you finally finish, as if she’s been sitting on the question. You nod. “I asked you if he saw you, if he made you feel special.” 

“He didn’t, he never did, I know that–”

“He seems like he does,” she dips her chin. “Wooyoung.”

“Yunho sees me,” you argue. “Yunho is good to me. I’m fucked up for wanting Wooyoung like that.”

“No you’re not,” she quickly argues. “I mean, I don’t think you’re fucked up. It's instinct. You were together the whole night, it makes sense.”

Your voice goes quiet, “He was right, though.”

“Yes, and you didn’t kiss him,” her upper body moves like she’s telling you the obvious. “You didn’t act on the impulse.” 

“Because he stopped me,” you laugh a little on the words. “If he had kissed me, I would have fucked him, Jen.” Yunjin stays quiet, thinking, chewing on her bottom lip. Your head dips backward, “Fuck, I should tell him, shouldn’t I?” 

“Yunho?” She asks. 

“Yes,” you sigh. “It’s not fair if he’s committed to me and that’s all it takes for me to jump some other guy’s bones.” 

Yunjin snorts, “I don’t think this is just some other guy, babe, but I get what you’re saying.” Her lips scrunch to one side, “Do you even want to be committed to Yunho? Do you want to be committed to anyone right now?” 

Your chest feels hollow. “I don’t know.” She nods like she was expecting that answer. “Isn’t that bad?” You lean forward a little. “I don’t– that’s not me.”

“Why can’t it be you?” She shrugs. “You’ve been in a relationship for almost all of your adult life, you don’t even know what it means to fuck around.”

“I don’t want to fuck around–”

“You sure?” she teases, a playful smile on her lips. “It sounds to me like you’re dying to fuck around, especially with Woo–”

“What’s he like?” you cut her off. Purposely. “In bed. Is it valid that everyone wants him?” 

Her lips scrunch again, “Hate to break it to you, but yeah. Absolutely. Like, two-hundred percent–”

“Okay,” you cut her off again. “I get it.” 

“This is all I wanted, by the way,” her voice is low again, serious.

Your brows tie together. “Huh?”

“With Yeonjun, when you finally let me in I felt like I understood you a little better. I love you, I want to know all of the things that make you, you.” 

You frown, heart cracking in two all fucking over again. “I’m sorry, Jen.” 

“And just to reassure you, I won’t tell anyone that you’re Unscripted,” she sits up a little, pushing herself up by the cushions. “But I will say that the more you say, the easier it is to connect you. How the fuck do you even sound like that? You barely sound like yourself.” 

“I tweak it a little,” you grin. “Just a pinch, and it’s worked for me so far.” After another pause, your face rounds out as you say, “Thank you for keeping my secret. I’ll be more careful.”

“Sannie would lose his fucking mind if he knew,” she shakes her head, laughing a little. “Like, lose his fucking mind. Yunho, too. How do you keep a straight face?”

You shrug. “I do what I have to.” 

“Scary,” her head tilts away from you. “You’re scary.” 

“Prepared,” you correct her, holding up a finger. “If you’re gonna keep your identity a secret, you have to be prepared to defend that secret with your life.” Her eyes thin out, and your returning smile is coy. “My bad. I'm referring to everyone else now.” 

The sun is fucking hot. Morning sun is different from evening sun, the air feels clearer, drier, the UV feels ripe, especially if there’s no breeze. There’s not a lick of wind brushing past you as you skip from your stairs into Yunho’s car, heart beating a mile a fucking minute, the sun stripping you as raw as you feel.

Yunjin knows, and she doesn’t hate you. Yunjin knows, and she still loves you. It should be enough to have you feeling on top of the world, relieved, light. But it’s not enough, and you don’t feel even the slightest bit relieved, because there’s more. You almost don’t believe that you have problems bigger than someone finding out you’re Unscripted, at one point you didn’t think it was possible. 

You give him your cheek when you get into his car, but he doesn’t back from it, he doesn’t mind at all. He presses his lips softly into your skin, “Morning, sunshine.”

You can barely muster a smile. “Morning,” you mutter, giving him a one-over. Blonde hair pushed back, comfortable clothes on his body, that sliver of skin out to play like it always fucking is. Damn. 

“Do you want to get coffee or something before we go?” he asks, already reversing his car out of the parking space right in front of your apartment. 

You shake your head, hands sitting politely in your lap, “No, I’m okay. I had coffee already.”

“O-kay,” he hums, pulling out of your development, onto the main road. He looks at you from his peripherals as he asks, “Are you mad at me for not answering last night?”

“What?” you ask, abruptly. “No, oh my god, of course not.”

“Just checking,” he says casually, his head shaking a little. The silence you fall back into is palpable. You’re acting weird. You’re acting fucking guilty and you know it. You try to relax, stretching out your legs, your arms, you try to let your body deflate into his passenger seat. You think you might look like a drunk baby instead, trying to take up as much space as you can.

The drive seems infinitely longer than it usually is because you can’t get your head on straight. You’re paranoid, guilty, you know Yunho can feel that there’s something off but you can’t bring yourself to fucking speak. 

Hey, just so you know, I wanted to kiss Wooyoung last night.

Before you do this favor for me, I want to tell you that I wanted to fuck your friend last night.

You shouldn’t have ever entered exclusivity with me because I’m a fucking mess.

You sigh. He feels it as he pulls into the parking lot of the gym, parking his car in the spot right next to your car. You think of last night, Wooyoung in this exact parking space, you screaming at him to unlock the door under a blanket of rain. 

You never deserved Yunho to begin with.

“Can I ask you something?” Yunho asks, turning his key in the ignition, engine going dead. You nod, sitting up a little, heart knocking against your breastplate. “Did you submit a story to Unscripted?”

You blink. “What?”

He tugs on the handle of his door, climbing out of the driver’s seat. You do the same, keeping your eyes on him the entire time. He talks as he walks up to your car, popping the hood, “Her newest episode is going viral, and it just… sounds familiar.”

You lean your backside up against the passenger side door, “How does it sound familiar?”

He ducks to give you a flat stare around your car’s hood. “Mister Tall and Dominant? Asked him to be more dominant, and he did it as soon as she brought it up?”

You reach for ignorance, at least for a little while longer. “That could be anyone, Yunho. Why do you think it’s you?”

“Because the other guy is Wooyoung,” he says, bringing his attention back under the hood. You feel like your fucking world has been swept from under your feet. How does he know that? What does he know? How is the conclusion that you submitted something to Unscripted, and not that you’re fucking Unscripted?

“He–” you start, already stumbling over your words. “Are you crazy?”

“He told me you asked him for advice, sunshine,” he sing-songs from under your hood. “He told me about last night, too. The batting cages, the diner. Can you grab the bag from my backseat?”

You’re on autopilot as you grab what looks like a black toolbox– tool bag from his backseat, talking as you lay it over the side of your car, in reach for him to go through it. “What else did he tell you?”

Yunho looks up at you. “What else is there to say?”

“Nothing,” you answer immediately. “There’s nothing else. Do you know what’s wrong with my car?”

“Not yet,” he shakes his head, lips scrunching to one side. “I’m gonna try to jump it. Do you know how to jump a car?” You shake your head no, and he smacks his teeth. “We’re fixing that today.”

He digs into the toolbag, grabbing what looks like a power bank, two thick cables. He holds them up to you, “Red and black.” You nod, moving beside him so you can see what he sees. He points into the guts of your car, “That’s your battery.”

You lean forward a little, and he lowers his finger so you can see exactly what he’s pointing at. “Plus sign, red cable,” he explains, then hands the cable-clamp thingy to you. Your brows furrow. “Attach it,” he says like you’ve done this a million fucking times.

“I’m not gonna blow up my car, right?” you ask, holding the cable-clamp thing like it’s an explosive. 

He laughs, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t let that happen, baby.”

You squeeze the clamp, attaching it where he showed you. You look up at him for reassurance, “Is that okay?”

“Perfect,” he says, then holds up the black clamp.

You pop a brow, “Negative?”

“Close,” his head tilts as he sticks the clamp somewhere else in the guts of your car. “Ground point, unpainted piece of metal or a part of the engine so you don’t blow your car up.”

Your lips make the shape before you say the word, “Oh.”

“Try to start it for me,” he says, and you nod, grabbing your keys from his car before slotting yourself in your own driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition. The dash lights up, but the only sound your car makes is a big fat fucking click. 

“One more time,” you hear him over the hood, so you try again. You’re going to hear the clicking in your fucking dreams tonight. You deflate, groaning as he gathers the cables back into his bag, closing the hood. “This is out of my area of expertise, I fear.”

Your top lip lifts, “But you’re Handy Manny.”

He throws the bag back in his backseat, “Sorry, sunshine. I’ll call a tow truck for you.”

You don’t answer because he’s already in fix-it-mode, his phone in his hand, pacing with the other hand on his hip up on the curb while you watch from your driver’s seat. It’s unbearably hot, but you’re too guilty to care. You just let him teach you how to jump a fucking car while you tried to kiss his friend last night. 

You tilt your head, watching him. He turns, meeting your eye through the pocket between your windshield and your open door, eyes focused. It’s unbearable. You blurt, “I tried to kiss Wooyoung last night.”

He holds up a finger. Your jaw drops. He points to his ear and mouths I’m on the phone.

“Hi, yeah, I need a tow, please,” he looks up at the sky as he speaks, and you actually genuinely wish you could fucking disappear. You sink further into the seat, running your hands over your face, into your hair, knees spreading. You wish your brain wasn’t so fucking complicated. You wish you never tried to fuck Yeonjun in Wooyoung’s bedroom. 

“Sorry, they’ll be here within the hour,” he says, sounding refreshed as he hangs over your open door, arms crossed over the top of it. “So, you tried to kiss Wooyoung?”

You lower your hands, face blank. “Yes, last night.”

“Hm,” his head tilts. “He left that part out.”

“He said no,” you’re immediately defending him, defending yourself through him. “I didn’t kiss him.”

“But you wanted to,” his brows furrow from above the door. 

You look at your lap, guilty. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” he says simply. 

Your head snaps upward, brows tied together. “Okay?”

He shrugs. “Do you want me to be mad at you?”

“Kinda,” you shrug, bewildered at the answer. “We’re exclusive and I tried to fuck your friend.”

His brows raise, “You said kiss.”

“I did say kiss,” your lips tighten. “I meant kiss.”

He watches you for a second, eyes dancing to the floorboard beneath you, your steering wheel, the pile of shit in your passenger seat. Finally, he asks, “Do you still want to be exclusive?”

You speak before you can think, “I like you, Yun–”

He grins. “Not what I asked.”

Your lips flatten. “I don’t know.”

He nods, “Okay.”

“Oh my god,” you gruff out, the heels of your palms finding your bare eyes. “Can you please say something else?”

He huffs a laugh, “What do you want me to say? We aren’t dating, we’re exclusively sleeping together.”

“I know,” you basically whine. “But what happens if we aren’t? I like you.”

“I like you, too,” he nods. “It’s not like I’m going to hate you forever if we aren’t exclusive, sunshine. Did you think I’d throw a fit? Call you a cheater?”

Even Unscripted is a fucking cheater. The tips of your ears run hot, “Yeah, kinda.”

He walks around the car door, bending down into his calves beside the floorboard. “I didn’t start this thinking we were gonna get married. You’ve had four boyfriends in total in your entire life. I like you, but I’m not the type to stop someone from doing what they want to do.”

“But you–” you argue. “You’re not hurt at all?”

His head tilts, exposing his teeth in a way that says well, maybe. “I wouldn’t say hurt, but I wouldn’t say I’m emotionless, either. Mingi will be excited.”

Your jaw drops, a punched laugh escaping you. “You’re thinking about Mingi right now?”

He grins, “I think about Mingi often.”

“Have you ever been exclusive with him?” Yunho makes a show of shaking his head no. You deflate into your seat again, “I don’t understand that. Sleeping with someone without having… attachments. The security that they’re into you.”

His brows furrow, “Isn’t sleeping with someone confirmation enough that they like you?”

“No,” you answer quickly. “I mean, like, they’ll wake up tomorrow and still like you.”

“Have sexual attraction and romantic attraction always gone hand-in-hand with you?” he asks, and it’s honest. You nod. His face flattens out. “Have you ever wanted to fuck someone just to fuck them?”

Your lips scrunch as you look up at the roof of your car, thinking. You’re shaking your head as you respond, “No.”

He pops a brow, “Really?”

“No!” you say through a laugh. “I mean it. You know I’ve only had sex with long-term boyfriends, you’re the only exception.”

“And I’m flattered, but you’ve never seen someone walking down the street and just wanted to bang ‘em? Didn’t even want to learn their name?”

“No,” you say with a little more certainty. “The romantic aspect… It's part of it for me. The attraction.”

“So you have to really like someone in order to fuck them?” he asks, clarifying. You nod. His brows furrow, “But you don’t have to date them in order to fuck them.”

“What?” you ask, brows tied together. “No–”

“So you wanted me to be your boyfriend,” he assumes, brows raising. “That night at the party when we kissed, you were thinking in your head, ‘I’m gonna make Yunho my boyfriend’.”

“Don’t talk about yourself in third person, it’s weird.” His head tilts, face flat. You release an aggravated sigh, “Fine, no, I wasn’t thinking that about you. I wanted to sleep with you.”

He grins, “So everything you just said was a lie, basically.”

“I’m confused!” you argue, poking a flip flop at his knee. “I don’t know what I do. I don’t know!”

He laughs, smacking your foot away from him. “Okay, think of someone you want to fuck. Someone who’s not Wooyoung.” Your hands hit your face so hard they clap. He’s laughing again as he reaches up for your hands, pulling them off your face as he sits on the floorboard of your car. “I’m serious, sunshine. Think of someone that you’ve never imagined yourself dating. Someone you’re really, really attracted to, and want just one solid night of really hot, intense fucking.”

Oh, your face is on fucking fire, but you think. You think hard. You think of every single man you’ve ever met, all the guys on campus, the ones that go to your gym, none of them have ever piqued your interest enough to want a solid night of really hot, intense fucking.

But there is someone you’ve wondered about. Someone who gets the back of your neck prickling with sweat whenever you’re around them.

The answer comes naturally, “Jihyo.”

His brows raise. He chokes on a laugh, “Jihyo? Park Jihyo? Friends with Momo, Sana….?”

You nod, “Yes, that Jihyo.”

He pops a brow, “Huh.”

“What?” you immediately press, sitting up a little. “What’s wrong with Jihyo?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head quickly. “I just wasn’t expecting you to– I wasn’t expecting a woman.”

“Are you homophobic when you literally stick your dick up Mingi’s ass?” 

His face goes flat again. “Did you seriously just ask me that?” You giggle. “Okay, Jihyo. Do you want to date Jihyo?”

Your head tilts, eyes dancing around your car again, “I’ve never thought about it.”

“Well, don’t start now,” he says like you’re fucking ridiculous. “Have you thought about fucking her?”

You finally meet his eye again, shrugging. “Once or twice.”

“So everything you just said was bullshit, basically,” he says like he’s caught you, a smirk playing on his lips like this is the most amusing thing he’s ever encountered.

You gasp. “No, it was not bullshit. I like Jihyo, she’s my friend.”

Yunho leans in like he’s telling you a secret, “Have you ever even kissed a girl?”

Your top lip lifts, “Yes, I've kissed Jen!”

“I mean, like, seriously,” he explains with his hands. “I really didn’t take you as fruity.”

“Maybe you have a shit gaydar,” you counter, arms crossing over your chest.

“We’re getting off topic,” he shakes his head. “Would you survive if you had sex with Jihyo tomorrow and she didn’t call you after? Didn’t ask you to be her girlfriend?”

You shrug, “I don’t know.”

“I didn’t ask you to be my girlfriend,” he counters.

“But we talked about exclusivity the next morning,” you fire back. 

“But what if I didn’t bring it up? Would you have fucked me again?”

Your lips scrunch, cheeks heating up. “Yeah.” Yunho gives you a look like you’re trying to bullshit a bullshitter. You moan a noise of aggravation, “It’s different, Yunho. I knew you liked me before I slept with you.”

He shrugs, “Jihyo likes you.”

“Jihyo likes me as a friend,” you raise a finger between you.

He lowers it back down again, wrapping his palm around your finger. “Have you ever asked?” You barely get your no out before he’s sighing. “What are you scared of, sunshine?”

You’re tired of that question. And people asking you what you want. And any other fucking question that you don’t know the answer to.

“Being exclusive with someone doesn’t mean they won’t hurt you, baby.” He’s still holding your fingers as he says it, frowning. “And I know you know that already.”

First Wooyoung, and now Yunho? Your body sags, head drooping forward like the weight of his words sat directly on your back. Is this the aftermath? The mark Yeonjun left on your soul? You thought you were moving on, pushing forward, that Yunho was the very physical proof of your growth. It hurts to know it’s still not enough, that there’s embers left of the fire Yeonjun lit. But Yunho’s right. Wooyoung was fucking right, too, just like he always fucking is.

You look up again, eyes cloudy, face bent up in a frown. “How do I fix that?”

The smile he gives you is soft, comforting. “You don’t need to fix it, baby. I just wish you would live.”

You pout. “Does this mean we’re breaking up?”

His grin widens, a chuckle falling past his lips. “Is break-up the term to use here? Are you asking if we can still be friends? Still sleep together? What are you asking me, sunshine?”

You shrug, “I don’t know. What are my options?”

He runs two hands over his face, laughing into his palms. “Jesus Christ, you’re a piece of fucking work.”

“In a good way?”

He shakes his head before his palms find his lap. “Do you want to keep seeing me?”

“Of course I do,” you answer, that’s a no-brainer.

“Do you want to keep fucking me?”

You blink at him, slowly nodding before you quietly mumble, “Yes.”

“Do you still like me?”

You nod profusely, “Yes, I like you a lot.”

“Then why would we stop seeing each other?” he asks, his voice light. He reaches forward, moving a piece of hair out of your face. “We like each other, the sex is great, there’s no reason to stop.”

“But if you…” you start, then trail off. A little firmer, you ask, “But if you sleep with other people, are you still going to like me?”

His face softens. “Of course I will.”

You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “This is scary.”

“Then I’ll show you that it’s not,” he answers, reassurance lining his words. 

Almost a whisper, coated in fucking anxiety, you ask, “Can you kiss me?”

Without a word, without a second of fucking debate he’s reaching forward, palms swallowing your cheeks like they always do as he presses his lips to yours. It’s soft, just a peck of a kiss before he splits your lips, reassuring you of every word he just said, letting you feel that he’s still here, he still wants you, even if you aren’t fully his. 

He wants you to experience freedom. He wants you to be happy. He wants you to start living your life the way the raw, unshielded fucking part of you wants to live it. Everyone wants you to, apparently.

“Be careful,” he whispers into your mouth, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “If you keep going, the tow-truck guy is gonna catch us fucking in the backseat.”

All you do is laugh, and kiss him harder.

It’s hard to remember why you decided to come here.

If it was a typical night out, it’d be different. Normally, you and your friends are dressed up in your cutest outfits with your cutest cherry lip gloss and headed to one of your regular clubs in the city. There’s a strip of many, lined with any vibe you could ever want; cocktails, hard liquor, anything. The music is decent enough, the drinks aren’t too expensive, and most importantly - it’s safe.

It’s a lot safer than what people typically call hot spots floating around these days, the places where vampires spend their time. Ever since the existence of vampires was confirmed to the general public, there’s been as much fear as there has been fixation, so the typical hanging out spots of vampires are regularly discussed and known. You’ve been warned to stay away from these places - the dark lighting, heavy bassline, threatening as much as alluring type of clubs - because it’s dangerous for humans, although plenty of thrill-seeking humans go there anyway. 

You’ve always felt like it’s not such a black and white predator-prey dynamic, but that doesn’t mean you’re not standing outside of the nightclub with a tinge of anxiety in your chest. What if the stories are true? What if a vampire uses some sort of mythical power to lure you away from everything you’ve ever known, to compel you to let them feed on you and rid you of any purity you may still have lingering?

Still, you remind yourself that’s silly and you’re safe - you can spot them from a mile away, but not for what one may assume. They’re not walking around at night in centuries old clothing with pale skin and blood glistening fangs protruding over a swollen, heavy bottom lip - they’re just like humans, really, but they have a specific aura. There’s something about them, whether it be expensive designer clothing styled with the expertise of someone who’s spent thousands of years doing so or radiant skin that doesn’t quite look real; it’s something otherworldly that sets them aside from everyone else. 

But more importantly, vampires simply aren’t as bothered with humans as you assumed them to be. A few vampires have strutted past you and your friends tonight as you wait outside in the queue, dressed in dark materials and nails long and sharp, but it seems the availability of blood banks and willing donors after the big announcement has left them pretty docile. They don’t snarl and growl like the legends say - in fact, they seem pretty damn uninterested.

The bouncer on the door even displays little pointy white teeth as she checks your IDs and raises an eyebrow at Jihyo who’s dyed her hair and looks a little different. Still, she shoots you a nod, arms crossing back over her strong chest and lets the three of you inside the club.

Well, it’s exactly what you imagined. Red lights drape the partygoers and inside of the club, and the interior is like a church, with stone pillars and arches overseeing everything. You have to teeter downstairs on unstable platform heels to the actual main part, tugging at the bottom of your dress like it’ll help the way it rides up with your movement. 

The bass only gets louder when you enter the room with the dancefloor, crowds of people inhibiting your movements so you’re almost locked in the little space you have. Curiosity strikes you and you want to move through the crowd to walk around, check the other rooms now that you know it can’t be that bad, but your friends drag you off to the bar.

“Don’t tell me the cocktails are vampire-themed,” You quip, and Jihyo elbows you, scoffing.

“Get into the mood, please,” She waves a hand in your face, grin bright and hair swept into a perfect ponytail, “the music is good, the atmosphere is good, the place is packed and it’s only midnight. I told you Sana was onto something about this place!”

Sana chirps up from your other side, already leaning onto the bar, “I’ve come here a few times! It only gets better later, you know, we should stay as long as possible.” 

It’s surprisingly not sticky like your regular places are when you lean on the bar next to her, and although there’s a lot of people at the bar the bartender doesn’t take a long time to get to you. Jihyo orders you three drinks, something sweet with the kick of too much alcohol, and the three of you take to the dancefloor with drinks in hand.

“Do vampires even drink?” Jihyo murmurs, staring at the drink in hand. 

Sana hums, “The ones here do, from what I’ve seen.”

You swear there’s something else floating in there, glittery and tempting and unknown, but when you swirl your glass it disappears. Taking a swig, you know when it hits your tongue that it’s just your typical vodka and lemonade, but that doesn’t change the clenching in your gut that something just isn’t right, like something’s looming and you haven’t gotten the ability to see it yet. 

Still, Jihyo was right - the club is beyond busy even though it’s early, and the song is slowly getting you moving in your spot. The dancefloor twinkles, entrancing as you all move to it, and within minutes you’re dancing with your girls, the uneasy feeling leaving your body as literally no one bothers you. It’s beginning to become apparent that this spot might be even better than your usual places; despite the dark, gloomy atmosphere outside and as you walk in it’s pretty inviting once you’re in there, and they’re playing classics that you haven’t heard in years.

A few drinks and a few songs later, you’re reasonably buzzed from the amount of vodka in your system and feeling even more free. Sana wobbles off to the bar again, a little too tipsy to walk in a straight line, and you and Jihyo take the time to look around the club.

The main part you’re stood in is pretty centre, so you get to look around and take everything in. A DJ at the front, pretty generic but she’s focused on the task at hand, crop top short enough to show a navel piercing that glints in the lights - she seems to peruse the dancefloor at who the attendees for tonight are.

What catches your attention is the sections beyond the area you’re in, the VIP booths that seem to be obscured by curtains, yet you can see shadows moving behind them, clearly occupied. You dare to wonder what’s going on behind there. Your vision tracks through it all until you land on an area right at the edge, just over from the bar but with the curtains open, where two men stand in the entryway. You feel a pair of eyes on you before you fully register who it is - the culprit is right there, in that end section, long hair falling over his forehead in black waves.

Two pairs of eyes are on you, to be exact, two dark pairs that you swear to god you’ve seen before. When you wrack your brain, you can’t recall despite the fact they seem so familiar, and the men are still staring at you - one shorter, one taller, clad in all sorts of black leather and tight, dark clothing that your thighs start to tremble. It’s like they work together, their eyes wracking your frame with a million promises that go unsaid, their minds working silently. The shorter man’s lips curve up when he sees you looking back at them.

Radiant skin, an otherworldly aura - you know exactly what they are, but you’d be damned if you didn’t say they look beautiful, so enticing that you feel some sort of gravitational pull towards them, a feeling strong and all consuming that makes you need. 

They’re positioned on the side of the club, up towards the VIP booths that you examined but separate, like they booked an area all to themselves. While the entrance is covered in black-out curtains intended to save privacy, the two men have hooked the curtains to the side and you can see inside the booth. There’s a leather couch, an abundance of burgundy-coloured drinks, and rolled up notes that you can only imagine the purpose of. 

Jihyo’s talking to you. You hadn’t realised, but you slowly fade back into reality, and she’s flailing, trying to get your attention. “What are you looking at?” She shrieks, spinning next to you to follow your line of sight. It doesn’t take long for Sana to join her too, three drinks in two hands, and the impressed hums they let out are nothing short of embarrassing. “Oh, I see. You should go over there.”

“Definitely,” Sana says, and you notice the men haven’t even acknowledged them - they’re staring right at you still, and the taller man’s eyes follow the straw in your drink as you lead it back to your lips. You wonder what’s got them so interested in you, considering the vampires’ flippant attitudes outside - these men look beyond insatiable in comparison. She laughs in disbelief, “oh, you’re going over there. Like, now.”

You side eye them, mumbling behind your glass in a way that you’re hoping the men can’t see, “They’re vampires.”

“Even more reason,” Jihyo shoves you, pushing you forward before you can retort. “We’ll see you when you’re done.”

It’s a bad idea. It’s such a bad idea, especially given everything you know, how vampires can hurt you and compel you to do things you’d never do normally. However, you just can’t seem to help yourself - you down the rest of your drink, sliding the empty glass onto the bar before you’re walking right over to where the men stand. 

The shorter man is laughing before you even get there. You feel embarrassed for a moment, but the taller man cocks his head towards you in interest, as if he can’t believe you’ve made the first move - as if he can’t believe you’re brave enough to. You can’t believe it either, but you stand at the entrance to their section like you belong there with them.

“Mm, can we help you, love?” The taller man speaks, almost accusatory like they weren’t the ones staring at you. His voice is smooth, steady, just barely audible over the music. The shorter man has retreated to the table, arms stretched over the back of the sofa and legs stretched out in front of him, the picture of confidence. He swirls his drink in his glass as he watches you, a smirk pulling at his lips like he knows you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. 

You flush, and the taller man reaches out to bring your attention back to him, pushing your hair behind your ear. Up close, he’s ethereal, shoulder length hair that falls in dark layers around his sculpted face. His lips are full and with a pronounced cupid’s bow, causing your eyes to linger just a second too long - he sees it, lips quirking with amusement.

The silence is causing you to hesitate, and you want to turn around and leave, abort the mission completely, but he speaks again. “I’m Seonghwa,” He says, and you think it’s a pretty name to match a pretty face. “That’s Hongjoong. He’s friendly, I promise.”

Hongjoong turns to you with a grin that looks more predatory than friendly, and Seonghwa ushers you over to the table. You don’t miss how he pulls the curtains down behind you once you walk in, obscuring the three of you from the rest of the club - are the rest of the booths full of vampires with their picks for the night? The idea doesn’t make you uneasy, rather exciting you; deep down, there’s something within you that is raving that you may be their pick.

The leather of the sofa is a little too hard when you fall down upon it, dress rolling up a little, and you’re not surprised to see Hongjoong is just as pretty up close too. His hair is messy, dark brown and long enough to almost obscure his pretty, feline eyes, and when he finally drops his smile his lips are pouty, almost cute if you didn’t know who he is - what he is. When he finally speaks, his voice is level, commanding, so strong you’re not sure you can find your own. 

“Do you want a drink, sweetheart?”

“I..” You hesitate, glancing at the liquid. What exactly are they drinking? You were still a little tipsy from the pregame, and the drinks that the girls got you at the bar are going straight to your head now that you’re in the company of the two most attractive men you’ve ever met. It’s hard to formulate ideas and Seonghwa blinks, tilting his head again before he finally meets your gaze on the large pitcher in the middle of the table.

He bursts out laughing. “Oh,” He chortles, clapping his hands together. “Did you- sorry, did you think we were drinking blood? Honey, this is rum.”

“Well…” you start, “you’re- y’know.”

It’s Hongjoong’s turn to chuckle, sipping his drink again before he finally turns to you. Instead of letting his friend pour you a drink, he hands you his own glass and you leave a pretty lipgloss stain when you taste some. It’s nice, a little bitter for you but the men seem happy enough drinking it, and you’re honestly just pleased that it’s not human blood. 

“What do you know about vampires?” Hongjoong asks, tone teasing, “I mean, surely not a lot. You approached two on your own in a nightclub and then you thought we were drinking blood in here. You seem pretty dumb, little thing.”

It’s said flippantly, but neither of them miss how a shiver runs down your spine - how could they? Hongjoong’s brow lilts in intrigue and Seonghwa takes a sip of his own drink, perching himself on the seat across from you both. He spreads his lithe thighs, too relaxed in the company of someone he doesn’t know - you suppose it’s easy for them. 

“I know enough,” When you speak, your voice is quiet, but sure. They hang off your every word, quiet and interested, “you don’t need to hurt people, not really.”

“Mm, you’re right, we don’t need to,” Seonghwa leans forward, elbows on his knees. “We like to, though, me and Hongjoong.”

Your breath catches in your throat. They don’t look any less unsure at your hesitation, only curious, like they’ve waited their entire lifetimes for your answer. You stare at Seonghwa, and then Hongjoong - where have you seen these eyes before?

“L-like,” You stammer, “in what way?”

“Do you know what a little vampire blood does to a human, love?” The taller man’s voice captures your attention. “Just a little bit - not nearly enough to turn you - can make you a horny little love. Even pain feels good. Anything feels good. It can make you beg, even when you’ve cum so much your cunt feels numb, did you ever hear that?”

You stare. You hadn’t heard that, no, but now the idea of the two was seeming even more enticing, if it was possible. 

“If you want us to stop, you can tell us to stop,” Hongjoong offers you, and it’s comforting knowing that they’re not totally deranged, but you would never want to tell them to stop. Crossing your legs, you take another sip of the other man’s drink and hand it back to him - his gloves brush you on the way and you don’t know what it is but you want more, inhaling deep, swallowing hard enough for them to notice. He beams, and you swear his eyes flash red for a second, “ooh, I don’t think you do though, do you?”

They notice everything, and you feel like you can’t hide at all.

“So, would you like some, sweetheart?” Hongjoong’s voice is closer now, right at your ear, and it sends shivers through you, down to the tips of your toes. “I think you’d be gorgeous with us inside you,” a thinly veiled innuendo, but you moan too easily, and he laughs, excited with something you’re a little scared of underneath, “mm, why don’t you come here, let me have a look at you properly.”

He’s already had enough of a look, you think, sat next to you for so long, but he pats his lap and you follow. Slinging one leg over his lap, completely ignorant to the happenings of the nightclub behind you, you face Hongjoong. He grips your jaw with two gloved fingers, turning you this way and that like he’s not just going to devour you as soon as he can. 

In fact, he leans in just a little closer to look at your eyes, at the way they dilate from something - arousal, fear - and you swear you see two pointy teeth come out to nip at a surly lower lip. His legs spread further, and with the movement you feel him dig into your core underneath your dress, making you squirm where you’re sat. He’s already hard. You wonder if Seonghwa is, too, and the idea of having these two vampires so hot for you… your gut burns.

“Pretty,” He murmurs, and one thumb comes out to dip between your lips, past them into your mouth. It runs over your tongue, and you taste the buttery leather - it doesn’t taste of a lot, the rum perhaps, and he knocks your mouth open to look at your teeth. “Look at these,” he smiles, and you can’t help it; you nip his teeth, gentle but teasing, and he gasps playfully, falling for it, “wow. She bites, Hwa.”

“That’s nice,” He says, almost uninterested. When he crowds into your space, front against your back, you feel his cock, hard and firm against your back that tells you he’s very much interested. He takes your chin from Hongjoong’s hold to pull your head back towards him. You gaze at him upside down, and he smiles, gentle but threatening, “do you want some of this now, love?”

He’s holding a vial, small and clear, with a red liquid moving around inside. This time, you’re sure it’s blood, and you’re even more sure that it’s vampire blood like they were talking about earlier. One of theirs, you presume, but you’re too eager to question it - your lips part, tongue lolling out dumbly as he pops off the cap. Both men look delighted at your eagerness, Seonghwa letting out a little noise of appreciation as he grips your chin.

The cap falls somewhere and rolls on the floor, neither of the men questioning it as Hongjoong’s hands move to your waist to keep you steady. Seonghwa’s fingers hold you more firmly, and he taps once, twice, on the end of the vial, two drops of metallic hitting your tastebuds that have you wanting to screw your face up. 

Your head immediately rocks back forwards, eyes scrunching shut as you adjust to the taste. While your ears ring, Hongjoong leans back, gets more comfortable against the sofa and you feel the telltale dip of Seonghwa settling next to him. It’s overwhelming for a moment, and you swallow hard, hoping to get rid of the taste; it’s too much, too strong, too-

Oh.

“Oh my god,” Your hands go to Hongjoong’s chest before you can help yourself, and this time they both watch your pupils dilate, eyes fixated way too intently on yours. A telltale burning spins in your gut, like the same feeling you get when you’ve been building an orgasm and you’re finally, finally about to let go, except the bubble never pops - your hands move eagerly, impulsively. You’re rocking your hips before you can help it, grinding your cunt down against that bulge you’d tried so hard to ignore, sharp whine hitting your ears before you realise you’ve opened your mouth, “fu-uck, oh my- oh, please-”

“How much did you give her, Hwa?” Hongjoong’s voice is gruff, but not at all displeased, his hands moving down the slope of your waist to the plush of your hips, fingers digging in. The pressure guides you to move against him and you feel feverish, desperate, head falling back as your hips fuck forwards. Your pussy starts to slick in your panties, messy and pathetic and ultimately untouched despite your intense movements against his clothed erection, and it builds and builds and never pops.

“Two drops,” Hwa muses, voice level, staring at where you buck against his friend. Your dress rocks up properly from the movement, exposing your panties and where you’re leaking through the fabric, onto Hongjoong’s undoubtedly expensive leather trousers. You run your hands down, over the plush pectorals and over his arms and back down to his belt - even touching him like this feels euphoric, your mouth opening in another strangled noise.

Hongjoong chuckles, seemingly unaffected by your frantic behaviour, “That’s all it took? She really is a slut, isn’t she? Gonna let us bite you tonight too, pretty?”

The idea makes your head spin, and you nod eagerly, “G’na- gonna let you bite me, if you want, would’ve anyway-”

“Would you, little love?” Seonghwa says, and it’s the first time he sounds affected, eyes flickering to the curve of your neck. He reaches over with slender fingers to brush the hair off of your neck, exposing the skin there, and runs one fingernail up as if he can’t wait to split it open. “Isn’t that good to know, Joong?” He’s pleased, lips curving, “she’s just that eager. I think she’d let us do anything to her.”

Seonghwa’s teeth poke out, and you gasp, nodding, eager. Hongjoong’s hand moves suddenly to your neck where his friend’s lips lay, covering the flesh where he intended to bite you, eyeing his friend with a loaded glance. 

“I think we need to go home,” he gushes, too fast, a little more panicked than you’ve heard him. The vampire at your neck pauses, before he seems to come back into himself and hum deeply. “Hwa,” Hongjoong murmurs, “you can’t do that here, you know that.”

The other man tilts his head, considering, “Let’s take her back to ours.”

It’s said without an ounce of thought as to what you’d want to do, but you assume they know, can tell by the way your hands roam on Hongjoong and you grab Seonghwa’s waist with one hand, pulling him into you both, hips bucking in short, stuttered movements.

The shorter man huffs out a laugh, hand weaving through your hair and pulling, just slightly. “I think she likes that idea,” his hand smooths down your dress, over your tummy, landing on the soft plush at the bottom, “this little pussy can’t help but move on me, can it? So pathetic.”

You wail. If you grind just right, rubbing your clit against his leather trousers you swear you can cum, if he gives you a little bit, grinds up into you, keeps talking to you like that. He seems to know that’s all you’d need to fall over, and he nudges you off his lap with his knuckles and stands up straight like his cock isn’t tenting his pants. It looks big, thick and promising and your legs fall apart without realising, exposing what’s underneath your dress - simple, cotton panties that are definitely soaked.

Just a few blocks away, Seonghwa says. He seems decisive that you’re coming back with them after your little show, and you wouldn’t have it any other way - you follow them out of the club, leaving the bottles and glasses behind you like they own the place, and you briefly see Jihyo and Sana occupied with their own counterparts for the night. Oh well, you suppose a text will suffice - they seemed to have thought you were safe enough with these men, and although you’re not too sure, you’re the one trailing behind them outside of the club with a stupid little smile on your face.

As soon as you’re outside, Seonghwa lights a cigarette and Hongjoong hands him a lighter from his pocket. The fresh air has you feeling a little clearer, vampire blood wearing off, but surely you can’t be seeing a vampire smoke right now. 

“Can you even get addicted to things?” You blurt.

Hongjoong’s eyebrow lilts. “It’s a habit. He smoked when he was human, and he still smokes now.”

He inhales, scratching the back of his head before pointing down the street. You suppose Hongjoong’s right, but it still makes you laugh. He sets off on the journey, leaving you and Hongjoong walking behind him. You’re a lot less colder than earlier with your liquid confidence but the man next to you still takes his leather jacket off and puts it over your shoulders wordlessly, hand wrapping around your waist, keeping you steady and warm. 

They were right - it really was a few blocks away, their house, and you’re affronted by how normal it looks.

Their house is modern; it’s sleek and dark and tempting, just like its owners, but painfully normal, and you kick off your uncomfortable shoes at the door next to a potted plant. Without your heels, you feel at a disadvantage, shorter than you were before, but you have no other choice than to walk in and make yourself at home. The sofa is a lot more comfortable than the one in the club, softer fabric and not dipping as much when you sit on it, and Hongjoong walks over to their kitchen and pulls out three glasses. 

You wonder if they do this a lot, bringing pretty humans home and taking them apart so nicely they can’t think of anything other than coming back, staying forever, being theirs. It’s already on your mind and they haven’t even touched you properly yet. 

Seonghwa sits next to you, legs akimbo. You’re able to see them better now that you’re out of the club, lighting bright - it would be too jarring if they weren’t so fucking beautiful. Turning to Seonghwa, your eyes follow the soft slope of his nose, down to full, plush lips that form as he has a conversation with his friend; you’re not paying attention, wanting so earnestly that you think you might die before they touch you. 

A glass of something - whiskey, you think - is placed down on the glass coffee table in front of you, but you don’t touch it, preferring to focus on the men. Hongjoong gives Seonghwa a glass and he sips it, humming at the taste before he finally turns towards you. 

His voice cuts through the tension, “What do you want us to do to you tonight?”

What do you want them to do? That’s something you can answer, moreso now that you’ve got your wits about you again, eyes flickering to his lips to give him enough nonverbal consent as you can - you want them to do fucking everything. 

With another sip of his drink, he stands up sharply, offering you a hand. Hongjoong’s already gone somewhere, you realise, the shorter man gone from the living room. 

Taking Seonghwa’s hand before you can doubt yourself, you decide you’ve already come this far, and he takes you further, leading you down the hallway to the bedroom. Every joke you had stored about vampires not sleeping dies on your lips as soon as you see it, the large bed and pretty much nothing else in the room. The bedposts are clad in canopies just like the club, the mattress clad in dark, satin sheets and with one of your men for the night perched on the edge. He looks satisfied, like he knew this was coming, and Seonghwa leads you to sit on the bed.

“If you need us to stop at any point-”

“I know,” You cut the taller man off, situating in front of him on the bed. The vampire blood has pretty much worn off by now but your gut is still clenching, arousal building up from the simple idea of you having these two men at once, although you can’t help all of the questions you still have. “Do you do this often?”

“Do what often?” Hongjoong says from in front of you, lips curling up like he knows exactly what you mean.

Seonghwa’s hands move to your dress, pulling the fabric up just enough to your waist to expose your panties. “Um,” you start, breath heavy, “bring- bring humans back, and-”

“Oh, that?” He says, eyes dropping to between your legs. You’re know you’ve soaked through the cotton already, and you’re definite his eyes flicker red this time, telling you that he sees it. You squirm with embarrassment. “No, we don’t. Humans break too easy.”

“More like you’re too heavy-handed,” Seonghwa murmurs like an afterthought. His hands roam over your body, too warm for someone who’s meant to be cold. His fingers hook in your panties, teasing, and Hongjoong sips on his drink, content to watch for now. “Should I take these off?”

“Yeah,” you mumble, and Hongjoong’s head tilts. Without him needing to say anything, you straighten up a little, toes curling into the sheets, “yes, please, Seonghwa.”

The “good girl” you get from them both is enough to make you preen, and the man behind you rewards you with taking off your panties, like he was waiting for his friend to tell him he was allowed.

“Keep this up for me,” he motions, and your hands move to your dress, obediently holding it up just enough to show your core. You’re wet, you can feel it - the arousal slicks up to your swollen bud and down past your pussy, dripping to the other hole between your asscheeks. It’s killing you that neither of them are touching you, so content with waiting, letting you feel the tension.

Seonghwa’s fingers finally dip down between your legs, forming a vee up your folds and just barely brushing against the pudge of your clit - you whine, knuckles whiting where they hold your dress up and Hongjoong just watches, across from you both with the two top buttons of his shirt undone, drink in hand. 

“How’s she looking?” The man behind you says, quiet in your ear but seemingly loud enough for Hongjoong to hear it - he lets out a noise of amusement in response, placing his glass down on the table. It clatters, glass on glass sharp against your ears, and Seonghwa’s fingers continue their inspection; your legs tremble as they slide down to your hole, prodding teasingly, but you’re in such a position that all you can do is sit there and take it, Seonghwa’s forearm firm around your tummy. You’re convinced this was intentional.

Hongjoong rises from his seat, feet heavy as he struts over to the two of you. He’s on his knees in a beat, pretty face only a few inches from your cunt, and your hips buck desperately.

“I’m not eating it, little thing,” He chuckles, reaching up to swipe his own thumb through your arousal, making a few tight, quick circles around your clit. It wracks a moan from your chest, hoarse and so airy you’re a little embarrassed, but he coos at you, “how long have you been this wet? Since before we gave you that blood?”

“W-way before, since- since I saw you,” You admit, chest heaving, and he rewards you a few more circles against your bud. Seonghwa keeps you spread, and when his friend gives you a few more touches at a rhythm that makes your eyes cross he pulls your thigh back towards him, forcing you to take it. “I- it’s so sensitive there, please-”

“Side effect, honey,” Seonghwa says it like you’re stupid, and you nod dumbly because you’d believe anything he said right now, proving his point. “Why don’t you just feel it, hm? Try not to cum though, yeah?”

It feels impossible right now. Hongjoong’s thumb circles your clit, fast and steady like he knows exactly how to take you apart already, and your hole gushes dumbly down onto their bed. You’re making a mess, you know you are, squirming and writhing on a vampire’s lap while his just-as-dangerous friend rubs your pussy better than your own hands ever could, but you can’t help it - you moan and whine and whimper, hands impatiently moving from your dress to grip at Seonghwa’s thighs.

“We told you we’d make you a horny little thing, but this,” Hongjoong eyes your cunt, looking nothing but thrilled, “this is pathetic. I bet you want to cum so bad already, little clit so fucking swollen you can’t take it.”

It brings your brain back to life, remembering what Seonghwa said, digging your nails into the leather on his thighs with a sharp buck of your hips, “w-why- why can’t I cum?”

“Why would you be allowed to cum already?” Seonghwa laughs mirthlessly. “Have you earned it? I don’t think you have.”

Your head spins. Hongjoong presses down further, slides his hand down until he’s pushing two fingers into your pussy, past the initial resistance and deep until he can curve his fingers up, forcing through slick and mess to reach that spot. 

“Mm, she hasn’t,” He says, “all she’s done is been a slut all night. I think she could use learning some manners. Learning how to wait for things, especially.”

His fingers tap against your g-spot and your jaw drops, thighs threatening to close where they’re held apart, voice warbling, “but I w-wanna cum.”

“You do?” Hongjoong laughs, “are you close?”

Voice raising higher, your bottom lip trembles, nodding, the tension in your stomach building with each curl of his fingers, “mmhm!”

His fingers leave you, and although it’s your first proper edge it feels cruel, mean, and your gasp is accompanied by a harsh clenching of your hole around nothing. Slick cascades down your folds, ignored, and you cry out, head rolling on Seonghwa’s shoulder. He shushes you gently, stroking your hair.

“Soon, honey, soon,” He says, and you’re not convinced but you’re still coming down from a denied orgasm and can’t understand fully. “How did that feel?”

“H-hurt,” you strain, and the shorter vampire flicks your clit to laugh at the way you squeak. “It hurt, I- I don’t- I wanna cum-”

His hand still strokes you, kissing at your hairline and down your face until he presses his lips against yours - you hadn’t even realised they hadn’t kissed you but now it feels like a reward, Seonghwa’s tongue claiming your mouth while you lean at an awkward angle to get more. You can’t help the feverish moan you let out, coming down from a harsh edge and being given a pretty man’s lips; it would fully overtake your senses if not for the feeling of the other man moving between your legs. He keeps your jaw positioned against him, hold firm, distracting you with wet, dominating kisses. 

You whimper into his mouth, legs still so open, and the feeling of something wet hitting your folds makes you try to pull away and watch.

“No, don’t you worry about that,” He murmurs, and you see the flickering of his teeth - your back arches, skin almost tingling with the need to have him bite you, drink your blood, be his favourite. He rewards you with a nip to your lower lip, just strong enough to break the skin. As soon as the blood hits his tongue he moans, so deep and strangled that you moan right back, scrambling at his arms.

A wet suck on your pussy, and your hips surge far away from him and towards whatever that was. He finally lets you go, your chin smudged with your own blood, eyes fluttering open to see Hongjoong between your legs. 

His tongue flicks over your clit, fast and precise, eyes moving up to you and landing directly on your to gauge your reaction. 

You’re loud, face crumpling in ecstasy, moans tumbling from your lips quicker than you realise, hand moving to his hair to keep him right there so you can chase it. He lets you, surprisingly enough, groaning at the sensation and rewarding you with his tongue delving deeper into your folds, sucking arousal straight from your hole to spit it back on your pussy again. 

The other man seems to savour the taste of your blood on his tongue, licking over his own lips to make sure that he’s gotten as much as he can before moving from behind you. Without the sturdiness of his body behind you, you’re left to fall against the sheets, and your hands automatically come to the pillow, grabbing and pulling and almost ripping your nails right through the fabric. 

Seonghwa settles between your legs, right next to Hongjoong. You’re not able to question it because he noses at Hongjoong’s cheek until he looks at him with lust-filled eyes, your slick drowning his chin and his surly lips. The loss of stimulation doesn’t have long enough to bother you because the shorter man pulls at Seonghwa’s hair, yanking him towards him and enveloping him in a messy, spit-filled kiss, both of them sharing the taste of your blood and arousal.

“Mm, fuck, tastes good,” He moans, sucking on Seonghwa’s bottom lip. You moan at the sight, hips bucking for something, anything, but the two men continue to fuck each other’s mouths with their tongues, lips meeting in a heavy exchange - they’ve done this before, you’re sure, too natural in the way they take over each other’s lips.

It only lasts a second longer before they’re pulling away, only this time both men’s lips are on you, Seonghwa sucking your labia into his mouth and letting them go with a wet pop. Hongjoong moves up to your clit, sucking it into his mouth harshly and giving you the stimulation you need, almost too much but not enough. Your body starts to slick with sweat, too warm in your dress but unable to do anything but take it, both men’s tongues swirling around your cunt like they’ve done it a million times.

“Oh- oh my god,” you cry out, in disbelief at the sight in front of you. Both men’s heads move against you, mouths wet and sloppy against your core. Seonghwa moves to lick over your clit, quick kitten licks that have you chasing the pleasure, itching to hold them against you - you imagine they wouldn’t let that slide now that they’re both down there, having their fix. Gripping onto the pillow with another sharp noise, you buck your hips against them, staring down at the mess of tongues and slick that ruin you. It feels so good, so messy but so imprecise and if you just have a little bit more on your clit- “fuck, fuck, feels so good, I-”

“You’ll take what you’re fucking given,” Hongjoong pulls off enough to say, and it’s said so simply that there’s no room to argue. You try to stop squirming but you can’t help it, toes curling and messy cunt rocking to meet their mouths, Hongjoong darting his tongue inside your hole to clean you from the inside. The new sensation makes you gasp, fingers tightening where they grip the pillow, and he does it again, again, curling it a little to see the way you moan, loud and broken.

When their eyes flit up to you this time, you’re surprised to see they’re both fully red now, hungry, dangerous. Seonghwa’s fingertips reach your mound, pulling back to expose your clit to their mouths. It’s too much, too sensitive, and when he sucks over it again you realise you’re dangerously close to cumming. A brief, bratty thought flashes through your mind - could you just let go? - but you remember who they are, what they’re giving you, what they’ve promised to do. You’d rather stay on their good sides if it means getting all of that.

“I’m- I’m close again,” you breathe, and Seonghwa hums, sucking on your clit like it’s a damn popsicle. He doesn’t stop, pushing you right to the brink, and the other man reaches up and slides two fingers past your folds just to really torture you. It’s the most difficult thing you’ve ever had to do, avoiding moving so that the tiniest thing doesn’t send you over the edge. You whine when he taps against your g-spot, shaking your head so rapidly you make yourself dizzy, hips trying to crawl away from the pleasure. 

“So good she’s denying herself now,” Seonghwa murmurs, stroking your mound, “don’t be cruel, Joong, look at her trying so hard.”

The man in question does look, eyes round and amused and so red as he watches your struggle. You squirm and writhe until he eventually slides his fingers out, and you fly backwards from the precipice so fast it makes you sob wetly, tears begging to fall from your eyes. Seonghwa pecks your clit softly; Hongjoong doesn’t look bothered, leaning back on his haunches to finally pull some of his clothes off.

You’re exposed to a lot of skin, plush yet firm muscle that begs your hands to touch it when he unbuttons his shirt and throws it to the floor. Seonghwa enters your vision, looming over you and making quick work of your dress - it’s like something goes unsaid, like they know what they both want to do to you and when. It lands on the floor next to Hongjoong’s shirt and you’re moved onto your tummy, automatically scrambling onto your hands and knees with an arch to your back that has the taller man groaning in appreciation.

The sound of a belt buckle is loud, mocking to your ears as you can’t see anything. You hear the sound of fabric hitting the floor again, and then the feeling of a man behind you - not as much of a presence, so you assume Hongjoong, slighter but firmer; heavy-handed too, if the harsh slap he lands on your ass is anything to go by.

Knees crawl closer to you on the bed. Seonghwa positions himself in front of you, shirt now gone too - you wonder when he did that, but you’re so overwhelmed by the men and their two edges have you so dizzy that you can’t question it, mumbling blissfully. You’re able to watch him undo his belt, his trousers being pushed down to his ankles and further onto the floor, his boxers being moved just under his balls to expose his cock.

Seonghwa’s cock is long, thick enough to make your mouth water but not so thick that you think taking him will be a challenge. In fact, your pussy gushes wetly looking at it, the way his tan, erect shaft lays in a smattering of dark hair that leads up to his navel. He grips his base, shows it to you because he can see you can’t stop looking; the way he starts to pump it inches away from your face is cruel. 

You inhale sharply at the feeling of a cockhead swiping through your folds, intentionally teasing but capturing your attention effortlessly. Hongjoong’s hand comes down on the small of your back, firm, “do you want it, sweetheart?”

“Yeees,” you writhe eagerly, Seonghwa’s hand coming into your hair to keep you still. He jerks his shaft inches from your face and moves your head onto his thigh, and you lick your lips, wanting nothing more than to be stuffed from both ends. Will they let you cum now? You have a feeling it’s a no, but still, “want it. Gimme both, lemme- wanna cum on it, please-”

“Greedy bitch,” Hongjoong laughs, using his thumb to push his shaft downwards. The tip just about catches on your hole and you whine, thighs shaking as you try to move back towards him - his hand keeps you still, keeping you between him and his friend of eternity. “What did I tell you?” He asks, and your head spins, unknowing of anything but getting yourself full, “stop thinking with your cunt. We’ll decide when you cum, if you cum.”

He’s playing with you, you’re sure, but you’re also sure that he’s mean enough to leave you high and dry once he’s finished using you if you’re not good. With your eyes fluttering shut, you let out a loud whimper of defeat, and he chuckles again from behind you.

“That’s right, quiet now.”

If Seonghwa’s bothered by his friend’s teasing he doesn’t show it, hand tightening at his head and focusing on pleasuring himself. It’s daunting, the way his head rolls back against the headboard but his eyes stay on you, the strings of drool that fall past your lips at the sight, wetting the sparse hair on his thigh. His grip tightens in your hair, tongue curling over his teeth and you see them, sharp and protruding now, and it’s too much to take.

“Please,” You gasp, “please, please, please, fuck, I’ll beg, I-”

“You are begging,” Hongjoong hums, “it’s not very good, though. Beg better. Beg better for me to shove my cock in your little human pussy.”

It’s embarrassing how quickly you respond. “Mm- mm, fuck, please, please, please, want it so bad, want you to- want you to fuck me, bite me, claim me, please, I’ll be yours, both of you-”

He doesn’t say anything, no praise, no confirmation of your hard work - he slides home in one deep thrust, cock so thick your pussy has to stretch to accommodate it despite his fingers spreading you open earlier. It feels like everything you’ve ever wanted, one thrust taking you apart and putting you back together again, and he doesn’t wait; he starts to fuck you vigorously, hips kicking up a rhythm against the plush of your ass. 

“Tight little thing, aren’t you?” He sounds unaffected, tone level, “wet enough to drip down to my fucking balls, too. How’s it feel?”

“Mm, I- oh, oh-”

“Yeah,” he smiles, and pushes your head onto Seonghwa’s cock. It’s silent permission for you to start, and you immediately surge forwards to suckle around the head. After his teasing it’s leaking pearlescent drops, and you lick straight from the piss slit with your tongue, swirling it around the head with a delighted moan. Seonghwa swallows hard, sighing, and although you want to take your time Hongjoong grips onto your hips tighter and fucks into you so hard your head slides down the other man’s length too quickly, too fast, hitting the back of your throat and making you gag. “Oh, sorry,” he laughs, “did you think you were in control then? Gag on it.”

You moan, delighted, pussy throbbing so hard Hongjoong feels it and lets out a sharp inhale, sucking his teeth. He starts to bounce against you quicker, fucking you down his friend’s cock, and Seonghwa’s hands move to your hair to control your movements a little more. 

Managing to breathe through your nose for the most part, it isn’t too bad, but Seonghwa’s dick is long and it hits the back of your throat so hard you wince and whine through the pain. He bucks his hips upwards, full lips parting in silent, eager little breaths and fucking against the back of your mouth a few more times before he lets you up for air. As soon as your head hits his thigh again, you start whining, too full of Hongjoong’s cock still and Seonghwa laughs breathlessly.

“Shit, you’re just like this, aren’t you?” He grips himself at the base, slapping his cock against your cheek, “don’t even need the blood,” he murmurs, in awe, “you’re just this fucking desperate.”

Hongjoong’s thumb slides down, just barely passing over where his cock stretches you, and the extra stimulation reminds you of your ruined orgasms. You begin to babble something incoherent, some form of pleading, and he sighs wetly and hooks it into your gummy hole alongside his shaft. The stretch is too much - you let out a loud squeal, feet kicking where they lay and he has to pin you down with his hips while Seonghwa teases himself in front of you, starting to strip his shaft again. 

You land on your tummy, Hongjoong fucking into you without abandon, and the sheets just barely brush against the pudge of your clit. Suddenly, you’re sobbing, too sensitive and too close, trying to writhe away from the pleasure but the pressure of his body keeps you there. 

“I- too much, please, I’m close-”

“Just a little more,” Seonghwa groans, forcing his cockhead past your lips again, “suck on this and stay quiet, honey.”

You’re barely suckling on it, but it’s something to focus on while you try to quell your orgasm. Your thighs burn and your cunt drools but you have to be good, have to do what they say, or- well, you’re not sure, but the need to please them is stronger than any need you have to cum. Seonghwa moves your head on his shaft, softly up and down just to keep him sated for now, and you hum and whine around a full mouth.

“F-fuck, yeah, gonna cum,” Hongjoong breathes, and it’s the first time you hear him sound affected. His hips snap into your ass, eyes fixated on the way the flesh ripples every time, and he fucks inside of your wet cunt a few more times before he pulls out with a sharp inhale. You hear the sound of him stripping his shaft, slick wet noises that make your ears turn red because you’re responsible for that, and on a tight grip upwards you feel the beginnings of his release. “Fuck, yeah, mm- there you go, honey, t-there you go.”

He sounds almost soft, but you know better, the hot strips of his white cum burning his mark into the small of your back. It drips down your skin when you squirm from the feeling of it, and he smears it down to your ass, messy and territorial. 

Seonghwa pulls you down to the base of his shaft once more, so deep your eyes water, and then he rips your head up by your hair sharply. 

“On your back,” He urges, cheeks flushed and teeth permanently out now, so sharp but alluring. They nip at your jugular when you listen to him, rolling onto your back despite the mess undoubtedly staining their bedsheets. He pushes your thigh back to your chest, long hair cascading over his forehead, gripping the base of his dick firmly, just barely angled downwards to your pussy, “do you want it, my love?”

“Please,” you groan, hole sore but so desperate, clenching rhythmically where it tries to pull him inside. “Please, give it to me, please-”

“I’m not that mean,” He murmurs, clearly referring to his counterpart - Hongjoong only laughs, sprawled on the bed naked with his cock softening against his muscled thigh. The sight causes a fire to burn in your gut; you want them both again, but you’re also very aware of the fact you haven’t cum yet, and Seonghwa seems like he might give that to you. With your leg pulled back, you’re spread open, and from Hongjoong’s ministrations it doesn’t take a lot to shove his cock inside, impatient and longer than the last one you took, so deep it knocks into your cervix when he’s fully inside and you squeal, hands moving to his shoulders for purchase. “Fuck, you are wet,” he says, other hand moving to your tummy to keep you flat, “how much of that is from our blood?”

“I-” he starts moving, and you gasp sharply, eyebrows knitting in a moan of pleasure. He’s good at this, just like Hongjoong was, and after a few hesitant thrusts he’s able to aim specifically at the spot that makes your eyes cross. “Fuck, I- it’s just from you, please-”

“I know, I know, I shouldn’t tease you,” He coos, hand smoothing over your hair. He starts to fuck you quicker, rocking against you at such a pace that you can’t help the way your orgasm starts to build already, pussy gushing a river and smearing over his pubes, his happy trail, his thighs. You start to buck your hips from the delicious sight, clit burning with need, hands gripping onto him for dear life. “I’m gonna let you,” he says, like he knows you were wondering, “you’ve waited so long, hm? I know, baby, let me make it happen.”

It’s a promise that he makes quick work of, both of his hands pushing your legs into a vee. It allows him to fuck you deeper, shaft slick as it moves in and out of you, his lips parting in a moan as he watches it. It doesn’t take long to get the same sensation Hongjoong gave you, hands gripping your trembling thighs as he picks up the pace, “Fuck, so warm, how did you- how did you last so long?”

“I didn’t get my cock sucked by her,” Hongjoong says, head tilting as he perceives you. Your eyes water, so close but not allowed to let go until they say, and he smiles, pleased, “looks like she’s broken in now, Hwa. She’s gonna cry for it.”

“Oh, yeah?” Seonghwa’s breath stutters, thumb and finger gripping your cheeks and squishing them like he’s scolding a child. A shiver runs through you at the treatment, tears spilling over, and your arousal starts to cream at the base of his cock, a white ring that has him groaning. “Should we let you cum, honey? Have you earned it?”

“Have, I have,” you manage, nails digging deep, and he groans at the feeling, kissing you again so hard his teeth bite against your lower lip without him meaning to. When he tastes your blood again he sucks it, straight from the plush of your lip, something painful that has your orgasm threatening to break, about to shatter you from the inside out - you can’t take it anymore, writhing, humping your cunt on his cock, “please, I- I can’t, I’m gonna-”

Seonghwa doesn’t look at his friend for permission this time. He pulls away, mouth slick with the dark red, metallic liquid, and starts to rock into you so hard you start to cry. His cock hits that spot inside you deliciously, over and over, more intense than anything you’ve felt in your life, and you can’t even warn him. Your pussy starts to quiver, walls clenching around him in warning, and he doesn’t stop, fucking you in just the right way to pull you over the edge with him.

“F-fuck, I-” you gasp, trembling. The sensation overwhelms every single one of your senses, finally letting go after so long of being their plaything, and your cunt clenches down hard on his cock as you cum. It’s so tight it stops him from moving, but he grinds his pubic bone against you in small, aborted thrusts, just enough to keep you writhing and riding it out, moaning high and airy in your throat. 

Your hole relaxes once you’ve finished soaking him, rivulets of wet stringing his pubes together and his breath hits your neck. He starts to fuck you without abandon again, your pussy screaming in overstimulation but you want him to cum so badly you’d take it three times over, legs falling uselessly against the bed, nails scratching down his torso.

“Just a b-bit more, my love,” he sounds apologetic, his thrusts proving otherwise, cock digging into your cervix hard. You whine, and he kisses the noise away, smearing blood over your lips, dropping his head back to your neck. If you focus on the pleasure enough, you’re sure that you can come again, but another sensation distracts you - Hongjoong, the other side of your neck, still naked and still soft but with something else flickering in those red eyes. 

You realise too late. Soft lips press against either side in a gentle kiss, one each, and then two sets of teeth dig in hard enough to break skin. Seonghwa pulls out, cumming messily on your pussy in his way of marking you, and the two men let out satisfied groans when your blood hits their tastebuds.

You wonder if this is what they wanted all along. As your vision goes black, you realise it’s definitely what you wanted. 

Waking up, you blink sleep out of your eyes. It was clearly a good sleep, because god, you feel heavy, limbs tired and taking what feels like an age to move. While they warm up you notice the taste in your mouth, something sour that tells you that you may have drunk more than you remember because you had definitely forgotten to brush your teeth last night.

Speaking of last night… you’re still trying to wake up, but it seems to be a bit of a blur. You remember getting to the club with your friends, and talking a bit with those men, and then having a few more drinks, and then… what happened then? It feels like a dream, like you didn’t really go, like the entire night wasn’t real. When you open your eyes, you’ll surely see the same walls of your bedroom, the same pyjamas you wore the night before-

You open your eyes, and you’re definitely not in your bedroom.

Where your room has your band posters and desk with all of your trinkets, you seem to be in some sort of extension of the nightclub you were in last night, room draped with dark reds and black satins. The bed is the comfiest thing you’ve had the pleasure of laying on, where the mattress and blanket seem to dip and cling wherever you move like sand, and although the burgundy canopy obscures your vision you can see other furniture around the room. Dark wood mostly fills the room up, solid, sturdy furniture that looks as clean as it is old, and there’s a man sitting in the corner of the room staring at you.

There’s a man sitting in the corner of the room staring at you.

With the survival instincts of a gnat, you surge forwards and yank the canopy away, facing your intruder. Unmoving, he stares at you knowingly and you blink wildly, hair sticking up every which way, before it comes to you.

“Seonghwa,” you murmur, “shit, I almost-”

“Almost forgot?” He says, amused, “it happens. How did you sleep?”

“Amazingly,” you admit, “I-”

Something clicks in your brain. When you turn around, looking behind you, a shorter man with a pleased little smile is gazing at you, not at all tired and with something in his eyes that has your gut burning again. 

You remember. Two men- no, not men, two vampires, and they took you apart and made you cum so good that you never want to leave. Is this what everyone had been warning you about? 

Seonghwa rises from his seat. “Did you want anything for food? You must be starving, love.”

It has you faltering. Starving. You are starving, but there’s something else to it, a carnal need that can only be sated by-

“Get back into bed,” you urge. Seonghwa doesn’t look surprised, already moving to the canopy and pulling it aside to let himself onto the mattress. “I- can we-”

Hongjoong tuts, “You really are dumb. All it took was one good fucking, huh? Now you’re running away with the bad men, nowhere to be seen ever again-”

You grip him by the forearm, pulling him on top of you. Instead of showing shock, his grin forms predatory, slow like it has all the time in the world, and you see those two teeth poking out again. It reminds you of last night, and your eyes flicker to your chest, where you can see the remnants of a plethora of two-prong shaped holes.

“I want it again,” you blurt, “want more-”

“Right,” Seonghwa grins, decisive, crawling onto the bed. He’s already ridding his shirt again, exposing planes of tan skin that make your mouth water. His teeth stick out at you, something that should be threatening but it only causes you to whimper in need. “And you know how to ask nicely, don’t you? Not as dumb as you pretend to be.”

Hongjoong finds this amusing.

The finish line was maybe forty seconds out. You could see the flare of the orange cones in your rear view, the silhouette of the flagger already lifting his arm. Another racer had fallen back to a full car length. This was yours. This was already—

Clunk.

You felt it before you heard it. A vibration through the pedal, through the floorboard, through the bones of your right foot. Not the good kind.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

Your stomach dropped.

There was a rattling now, coming from somewhere beneath the driver’s side—under the dash, maybe, or lower, somewhere in the guts of the transmission tunnel. It was rhythmic, metallic, and getting louder with every press of the accelerator. 

You glanced at the dash. No lights. No temperature spike. Nothing on the gauges to tell you what was dying under the hood.

“Come on,” you muttered, gripping the wheel tighter. “Come on, baby, just thirty more seconds. Give me thirty.”

You eased off the throttle. Just barely, just enough to keep the rattle from becoming something you couldn’t drive home from. The headlights behind you swelled in your mirrors like something hungry. Whoever it was had sensed the hesitation. Their engine climbed in pitch, closing fast.

Not tonight.

You dropped back into gear and put your foot down, and the rattle became a groan that you felt in your back teeth, in the base of your skull, but the car gave you what you asked for. It always did. You crossed the line with that sound still filling the cabin like a bad omen, and you had no idea by how much, and you didn’t care.

The crowd was already moving toward you. A flare went up somewhere near the overpass, throwing red light across the ground. They were chanting something—your car’s name, probably, or the name they’d given it, which had stopped feeling separate from your own a long time ago.

You cut the engine at the turnout and sat in the silence that followed, listening to the metal tick and settle around you. The rattle was gone. Clean as if it had never happened. You’d learned not to trust that. The car only ever confessed when it had no choice.

A window rolled down somewhere behind you. “No way your shitty car beat mine”

“Well...” you said, and forced a laugh you didn’t feel. “It is what it is. Get good next time, yeah?”

They laughed and drove off to collect their losses from the betters, and you were left alone with the hood of your car and the creeping dread that something expensive had just given up on you.

You popped the hood. The engine bay looked normal, from a racers eye anyway. The wires ran they should be, belts tight, no obvious leaks. You ran your hand along the underside of the frame near the transmission mount and came away with nothing but grease and road grit. Whatever was wrong was hiding from you, somewhere you couldn’t reach without a lift and a full set of tools.

You pulled out your phone. Scrolled past three missed calls from your roommate and a text from your mother asking if you’d eaten dinner. Found the number you needed—the one you’d saved three months ago after your last catastrophic breakdown, the one with the shop logo as the contact photo. You dialed. It rang twice.

“ATZ’s Auto, this is Mingi speaking.”

You exhaled, and some of the tightness in your chest loosened just hearing his voice. That low, unhurried drawl that always made it sound like he’d been expecting your call. A part of you hoped so, anyways.

“Hey—”

“Hi, sweetheart.” There was a smile in it already. You could hear it, the way his voice went soft at the edges. “What did you do to her this time?”

You leaned your hip against the fender, phone pressed between your ear and your shoulder, and let your free hand rest on the warm hood. The metal was still ticking, still settling, and somewhere deep in the chassis, you were pretty sure something was still dying.

“I didn’t do anything,” you sighed, hearing your own defensiveness. “She just—I don’t know. She started making this sound on the last stretch. Like a clunk sound? Like something’s swinging loose under the driver’s side.”

“Clunking?” He repeated, and you could hear the scratch of a pen on paper. Mingi always wrote things down, even the small stuff, even the things you thought were nothing. It was one of the reasons you kept coming back. “If it's under the driver’s side... Maybe it's the transmission tunnel area?”

“Maybe? I couldn’t tell. It was rhythmic, though. Tied to the rotation. Got worse when I gave it gas, went away when I let off.”

“Mmm.” The sound was thoughtful. You heard the creak of his chair, the muffled thump of what might have been his boots coming off the desk. “No dash lights?”

“Nothing. Gauges looked fine. The temperature was steady. I popped the hood and poked around but I couldn't see anything obvious from the top.”

“Of course you can’t,” he teased, “Because the car knows better than to show you what’s wrong. It’s saving it for me.”

“Don’t be smug.”

“I’m not being smug. I’m being right. There’s a difference.” You could hear him moving through the shop—the familiar background percussion of a metal door swinging open, the overhead lights buzzing to life. He was already walking toward the bay. “Where are you? Still on the industrial stretch?”

“Yeah, just by the turnout by the overpass."

“I know the one.” There was a pause, and you heard the jingle of keys. “Stay put. I’ll come get you. Twenty minutes, tops.”

“Mingi, you don’t have to—”

“See you soon,” the line went dead before you could argue.

You stared at your phone for a second, then slipped it into your back pocket. The crowd had thinned out now. Most of them following the money to the next unofficial bet, a few stragglers lingering near the guardrail with their phones still recording the aftermath. Someone had brought a speaker. The bass was thumping low and lazy, and someone else was laughing too loud about something that probably wasn’t funny.

You slid down onto the curb and pulled your knees up to your chest. The asphalt was still warm from the day’s heat, and the night air smelled like diesel and the distant, greasy promise of the all-night diner three blocks over. You let your head fall back and stared at the underside of the overpass, at the graffiti someone had painted in fluorescent pink that you’d never been able to fully read.

Twenty minutes.

You closed your eyes and listened to your car breathe. The ticking had slowed to something almost peaceful, the way a person’s pulse slows after a scare—still elevated, still wary, but pretending to be fine. You knew that rhythm intimately. You’d felt it in your own chest more times than you wanted to count.

The tow truck arrived in eighteen. You’d know the sound of it anywhere—that particular diesel grumble, the squeak of the suspension that Mingi kept meaning to fix and never did because, in his words, it gives her character. The headlights swept across you in a wide arc before settling, and then there he was, climbing down from the cab in that oversized mechanic’s jacket with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, grease already smudged along the inside of one forearm like he’d been working on something else before you called.

He was tall enough that he had to duck under the tow rig’s boom, and the motion made his dark hair fall across his forehead in a way that was, frankly, unfair. His eyes found you on the curb before they found the car—which, coming from Mingi, was basically a love confession.

“There she is,” he announced as he walked over to where you where seated.

You couldn’t tell if he meant you or the car. Maybe both. He was looking at you like you were the one making the concerning noise. “You in one piece?”

“I’m fine. The car’s the one—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Just messing with ya,” he was already crouching beside your driver’s side door, one hand flat against the frame, the other reaching underneath. You watched his fingers move with the kind of practiced confidence that made your stomach do something complicated. He’d barely touched the car, and already he looked like he understood it better than you did. “Can you pop the hood for me?”

You reached through the window and pulled the release. He stood, and the hood swung up between you like a shield, and for a moment you could only see his hands—long fingers, silver rings decorating them, a thin white scar across the knuckle of his right index finger that you’d asked about once and he’d shrugged off with "kitchen accident, don’t worry about it." You worried about it.

He leaned into the engine bay, and you heard him hum. A low, considering the sound he made when he was cataloguing damage. You’d heard it enough times to know the variations.

“Transmission mount,” he noted, pulling back. A streak of fresh grease ran from his wrist to his elbow now, and he didn’t seem to notice. “Or something connected to it. The bolt’s either sheared or backed out entirely. I can hear the play from here.”

“Well... Can you fix it?”

He looked at you over the hood, and his mouth did that thing—the half-smile, the one that meant he was trying very hard not to be charmed by the question and failing. “Can I fix it?” He repeated, like you’d asked him if water was wet. “Sweetheart. I could fix this car with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back.”

“Then why do you charge me so much?”

“That's because you keep breaking it in increasingly creative ways, and my emotional labour isn’t free.” He closed the hood with a soft thunk and wiped his hands on a rag he pulled from his back pocket. “C'mon. Help me get her on the flatbed and I’ll take you to the shop. I can pull it apart tonight if you want to watch.”

You stood, brushing the grit off your jeans. “You’re not going to lecture me about racing, are you?”

“I’ve given up on that.” He was already walking toward the tow controls, but he glanced back over his shoulder, and the streetlight caught the line of his jaw and the curve of his smile in a way that made your breath catch. “Besides. You won anyway, didn’t you?”

“Huh? How'd you know?”

“You called me from the turnout instead of a ditch.” He shrugged like it was obvious. “Winner stays. Loser limps home. That’s how it works.”

You helped him hook the chains—your hands under his direction, his voice low and patient beside your ear, his fingers guiding yours when you fumbled with the latch. The car went up onto the flatbed with a groan that sounded almost relieved. You stood there in the red glow of the tow lights with grease on your palms and Mingi’s jacket brushing your shoulder, and something in your chest that had been rattling all night finally went quiet.

He gave the last strap a snap to check the tension, then straightened up and wiped his hands on the rag. You walked together back to the truck and the gravel shifted under your boots and his footsteps were easy and unhurried beside yours, like he had nowhere else to be. He opened the passenger door before you reached for it. An old habit, one he never skipped, even though the hinges groaned like they were protesting the gentleness—and you climbed up into the seat, settling into the seat that still smelled like him. Coffee, motor oil and that cedar-sandalwood cologne he wore ever since the day you mentioned that combination smelled good.

The engine turned over with a rumble that vibrated through the floorboards and up through the soles of your boots. Mingi pulled out onto the industrial road with the kind of unhurried confidence that came from knowing every pothole and crack by heart, his left arm resting on the door frame, his right hand loose on the wheel at the bottom. You watched his profile in the dashboard light—the sharp line of his nose, the way his jaw worked when he was thinking about something he wasn’t saying.

“You’re staring,” he said, without looking over.

“You have grease on your face.”

He touched his cheek, found nothing. “Where?”

“Nah, it's on the other side.”

He touched the other cheek. “What a little liar.”

“You’ll never know.”

The smile he gave you was small and private, just for the dark of the truck, and you turned to look out the window at the streetlights blurring past. The tow rig swayed gently with each turn, and your car rocked on the flatbed behind you with a soft metallic creak that sounded almost like a lullaby. You hadn’t realized how tired you were until the adrenaline drained out of you all at once, leaving you hollow and heavy-limbed.

You pressed your forehead against the cool glass and let your eyes drift half-shut. The engine hummed quietly. Mingi’s thumb tapped a rhythm against the steering wheel tapping along to a beat of a song you couldn’t quite recognise. The streetlights strobed across your closed eyelids in warm amber pulses.

You didn’t remember falling asleep. One moment you were watching the city slide past in streaks of neon and shadow, and the next there was nothing—just the deep, dark quiet of a body that had decided it was done.

You came back to consciousness in pieces.

First: the smell. Motor oil and metal and something warm—cotton, maybe, or the inside of a jacket? You couldn't tell. Second: The feeling of being carried. Strong arms under your knees and across your back, the steady rise and fall of someone’s breathing close to your ear, the careful way they shifted their weight to keep from jostling you through a doorway that was too narrow.

Then: a voice, very low, and very very close. “—she’s fine, she’s just—no, I’ve got her.”

You forced your eyes open. The ceiling was familiar, you think. Not to mention the acoustic tile and water stain in the shape of something that might have been a rabbit if you squinted. A fluorescent light buzzed somewhere out of sight, casting everything in that particular shade of institutional pale yellow.

You were in Mingi’s office.

You came to that conclusion after you recognized the framed poster on the wall. It was some vintage Porsche ad he’d found at a flea market and hung crooked because he thought straight lines were boring. The desk was covered in invoices and a half-eaten sandwich on a paper plate.

You were on the couch. Or—not a couch, not exactly. Mingi had pushed the two waiting-room chairs together and draped them with what looked like every clean shop towel he owned, layered thick enough that the metal armrests had disappeared entirely. A folded hoodie served as a pillow. He had tucked your boots off to the side, lined up neatly against the baseboard like they were standing at attention.

You tried to sit up but unfortunately your body said no.

“Hey.” His voice came from the doorway, and you turned your head to find him leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching you with an expression that was equal parts amused and something softer. “You’ve been out for twenty minutes. I was starting to think I’d have to check your pulse.”

“How did I—”

“You fell asleep in the truck. Like, fully. Head against the window, mouth open, the whole thing.” The amusement won out. His smile was wide and unguarded, the kind he only wore when he thought no one was looking. “It was very dignified. Very graceful and adorable”

You groaned and pressed the heel of your hand against your eye. “You carried me in here.”

“Yes, I did.”

You pouted, a flush of pink creeping up your cheeks. The thought of Mingi carrying you alone sent shivers down your spine. "You didn't have to, could've just woken me up too."

“And be a dickhead for waking up sleeping beauty? Absolutely not.” He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room in three long strides, and before you could protest, something heavy and warm settled over you—his jacket, the oversized mechanic’s one, still carrying the heat of his body and the smell of him up close. He tugged it up to your chin with the same careful precision he used on engine bolts, making sure it covered your shoulders. “Go back to sleep. I promise the car isn’t going anywhere.”

“But… I wanted to watch you work on it," you yawned, clearly your body betrayed what your heart wanted.

“You can watch me work on it tomorrow, when your eyes are open and you are fully conscious.” His hand lingered on the collar of the jacket, adjusting it, and his knuckles brushed your jaw. You held very still. “I’m just going to get her up on the lift and take a look. No heavy lifting tonight. Scout’s honour.”

“You were never a scout.”

“How do you know? Maybe I had a very brief and disappointing scouting career.” His thumb traced a line along the edge of the jacket—once, twice—and then he pulled his hand back like he’d remembered himself. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be right outside if you need me, okay?”

He left the door open a crack—enough that the sounds of the shop filtered through: the hydraulic hiss of the lift engaging, the clank of a toolbox being rolled across concrete, the low murmur of whatever he was saying to your car under his breath. You’d heard him do that before. Talk to engines like they were old friends. Tell them it was going to be okay. You’d always found it endearing in a way that made your chest ache.

You pulled his jacket tighter around you and buried your face in the collar. It smelled like him—the coffee and the oil and the cedar and something underneath that was just warmth. The makeshift bed was more comfortable than it had any right to be. The shop towels were soft from a hundred washes, and the hoodie-pillow held the shape of his head like a confession.

Outside, the lift groaned as it took the weight of your car. You heard Mingi’s boots on the concrete, the metallic click of a drop light being positioned, the soft whistle he made when he was concentrating—the same three-note tune every time, becoming your lullaby for the night.

You closed your eyes and listened to him work, and the sound was steadier than any lullaby, and you were asleep again before the first bolt came loose.

══════════════════

Light came through the half-closed blinds in thin, dusty stripes, and you woke to the sound of water hitting glass. Not rain. Something more deliberate. The measured pour of a coffee machine doing its one job in the world with quiet, mechanical devotion. You blinked against the soft morning light and found the ceiling tile rabbit still there, still watching over you with its water-stain eyes. You were on the couch. Or—the chair-couch. The shop towels had shifted in the night, bunched up under your left hip, and Mingi’s jacket was still draped over you like a promise he’d made and kept. Your neck had a crick in it that felt like it had been personally installed by someone with a grudge.

You turned your head.

Mingi was standing at the small counter he’d wedged into the corner of his office. The one that held the coffee maker, a stack of paper cups, and a jar of sugar packets that had been there so long the paper had gone soft at the edges.

He had his back to you. White tank top, the ribbed kind, worn soft from too many washes, and dark denim that sat low on his hips—not a mechanic’s uniform, not a work shirt. Something he’d changed into. His hair was damp at the temples, like he’d splashed water on his face recently, and you could see the shift of muscle in his bare arms as he measured something into the machine with the kind of focus most people reserved for open-heart surgery. He’d either gone home and come back or kept a change of clothes in the shop. Knowing Mingi, you weren’t sure which answer was more like him.

The machine gurgled and hissed. He reached for two mugs from the shelf above, the ceramic kind with the shop logo chipped along the rim from years of being knocked against the sink. One was blue the other green. He set them side by side with the care of someone arranging chess pieces.

He pulled the carafe and poured it into the blue mug first. Two sugars. A splash of the creamer from the mini-fridge under the counter—the oat milk kind, the specific brand you’d mentioned exactly once, six months ago, when he’d handed you a black coffee and you’d said "oh, I usually take it with—" and he’d cut you off with "oat milk, two sugars, I know, I was testing you."

He didn’t look over. Didn’t ask. Just poured the oat milk in with the same steady hand he used on transmission fluid, stirred it twice with a spoon that had the ATZ logo printed on the handle, and set it on the edge of the desk closest to where you were lying.

The green mug got black. Nothing in it. He took a sip straight from the carafe before setting it back on the warmer, and you watched the line of his throat move when he swallowed, and you thought about how unfair it was that a person could look like that at—you squinted at the clock on the wall—seven-forty in the morning.

“Morning,” he greeted, his back was still facing you. “You snore, by the way. Just so you know. It’s not loud. It’s more of a—” He made a small, rhythmic puffing sound with his lips. “Like a cute little engine trying to start on a cold morning.”

You scoffed. “I do not snore.”

“You absolutely snore.” He turned finally, leaning his hip against the counter with his mug cradled in both hands. “It’s cute, though. Don’t worry about it.”

The morning light caught his eyes and made them warmer than they had any right to be. The cut on his left thumb was wrapped in electrical tape because of course it was. His hair had dried crooked from wherever he’d splashed water on his face, pushed back and slightly flattened on one side, and there was a shadow of his stubble catching the light—along the line of his jaw. You looked at all of it and felt a low, private irritation settle in your chest. Just how could someone look so beautiful?

You sat up slowly, wincing as the kink in your neck announced itself with a crack that echoed off the acoustic tile. His jacket slid down to your lap, and you caught it before it hit the floor and pulled it back over your shoulders. The coffee was right there, steam curling up in lazy spirals, and you reached for it and wrapped both hands around the mug and let the warmth seep into your palms.

“How long have you been up?” you asked, taking the first sip. The coffee hit your bloodstream like a jumpstart cable.

“Since about four.” He took a drink from his own mug, watching you over the rim. “Got as far as I could on the car, then hit a wall—parts house doesn’t open until eight. So.” He lifted a shoulder. “I reorganized the tool wall.” You raised an eyebrow, “At four in the morning? Really?” “The socket wrench set was out of order,” he insisted, like that explained everything, and in the context of Mingi’s brain, maybe it did. “It was bothering me.”

You held the mug against your chest and studied him—the way he stood in the morning light like he’d been built for it, all long lines and easy posture, the white shirt doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he spent most of his waking hours lifting things heavier than himself.

“How’s my car?”

Something shifted in his expression. He set his mug down on the counter and crossed his arms, and you watched the fabric pull across his chest and tried very hard to focus on his words and not the way the morning light was doing something illegal to the line of his shoulders.

“Transmission mount bolt sheared clean through,” he explains, “Right at the base. The threads are still in the block, which is the good news—I didn’t have to drill and tap new ones. The bad news is that the mount itself took some damage when it came loose. There’s a crack along the bracket on the driver’s side. Not catastrophic, but it needs replacing.”

You closed your eyes. “Thank God it wasn't that bad. How much do I owe you?”

“Taking into everything into account,” He paused, and you could hear him doing the math in his head, always honest, never padding. “Three-fifty, maybe four hundred. I’ll have to call the parts house when they open to confirm the bracket price.”

You opened your eyes. He was watching you with that careful, measured look—the one that meant he was already running through the options, the payment plans, the ways he could make it hurt less.

Mingi had never once pressed you for money. He’d let you pay in installments more times than either of you could count, and there was a running tab on a sticky note on his monitor that had your name at the top and a number that would have made a bank manager faint.

“I can pay up front,” you weren’t entirely sure that was true, but you said it anyway because pride was a thing you’d never fully excised from your system. “I’ve got some cash from—from last night.”

“From the race.” He replied it flatly, without judgment, but you heard the the underlying concern he always had for you. “How much did you take?”

“More than enough, thankfully.” You took another sip of coffee. “The other racer had a big ego and a bigger wallet. It worked out.”

“Mmm.” The sound was noncommittal, which from Mingi meant he had opinions he was choosing not to share. He picked up his mug again and tilted his head toward the door. “You want to see her?”

You were already standing. The shop towels rustled to the floor as you swung your legs off the makeshift bed, and you pulled Mingi’s jacket over your shoulders because the morning air coming through the cracked window was sharper than you expected. Your boots were still lined up by the baseboard, and you stepped into them and laced them quickly, fingers still clumsy with sleep. He held the door open for you as you walked past him into the shop proper.

The overhead fluorescents were already on, buzzing their familiar yellow-white hymn, and the air smelled the way it always smelled in here—metal and solvent and the particular sweetness of fresh rubber. The shop was organized chaos: tool chests along the far wall, each drawer labeled in Mingi’s careful handwriting; a rolling cart stacked with parts bins; the hydraulic lift in the center bay, and on it—

Your car.

She was up on the lift, raised to chest height, and the undercarriage was exposed in a way that felt almost intimate—the transmission tunnel open, the exhaust piping curled along the frame like veins, the differential housing gleaming with fresh grease where Mingi had been working. You could see the damage from here: the empty bolt hole where the mount should have been secured, the cracked bracket hanging at an angle that made your stomach clench. There was a new bolt already threaded partway in, shiny and clean against the old, oil-darkened metal around it.

Mingi came to stand beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours when he pointed. “See there? The crack runs along the weld line. It’s been stressed out for a while—this didn’t happen last night. This has been a gradual build up”

You crouched down to get a better look, and Mingi crouched with you, his knees popping softly. His shoulder pressed against yours, warm and solid, and you could feel the heat of him through the jacket, through your shirt, through the thin barrier of everything you both weren’t saying.

“How long has it been building?” you asked.

“Hard to say. A few weeks, maybe. You said you tuned it yourself—when was the last time you had the transmission out?”

“Three months ago. When you replaced the clutch.”

“Right.” He reached past you—his arm extending over your shoulder, his chest nearly against your back—and tapped the bracket with one finger. The metal gave a dull, hollow sound that confirmed everything he’d already told you. “The mount was probably already compromised then. The new clutch put more torque through it, and the racing just—” He made a sound with his tongue, a soft tch, like he was scolding the car. “She held on as long as she could. She’s a good girl.”

The last two words landed somewhere low in your stomach and stayed there. You’d heard him say it before—to engines that turned over after a hard rebuild, to cars that limped in and left running clean—but with his jaw close enough to your temple that you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, the phrase did something it had no business doing. You wondered how much better it would be if those words were directed at you.

You looked up at him. He was close—closer than he needed to be, his face inches from yours. You tear your gaze away to reassess your car.

“You fixed the bolt already?” you gasp, pressing your lips together to fight a smile.

“Started to. I couldn't sleep, remember?” His voice had dropped to something quieter, something that belonged to the space between the two of you and nowhere else. “The bracket’s the holdup. I’ve got to call the parts house soon. If they have it in stock, I can have her back on the road by this afternoon.”

“That quick? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I‘m sure.” He held your gaze, and his eyes did that thing—that slow, warm thing that made your chest feel like it was full of something too big for your ribs. “Unless you had somewhere else to be?”

You didn’t. You looked back at the car—at the cracked bracket, the new bolt, the careful way Mingi had already cleaned the mating surfaces and applied thread locker to the fresh threads. He’d been working on your car in the dark hours of the morning while you slept on his makeshift bed in his office, wearing his jacket, drinking coffee he’d made exactly the way you liked without being asked.

He’d cut himself on your transmission and wrapped it in electrical tape and kept going. He’d reorganized the socket wrench set at four in the morning because the disorder bothered him, and he’d remembered your oat milk, and you realized, belatedly, that it wasn’t just about the car and it wasn’t just about the coffee and it wasn’t just about the sharp sting of a cut wrapped in cheap tape. It was the sum of it, the way it all stacked up into a scaffolding of care, a habit of showing up for you that had never announced itself as anything special but now, under the ugly shop fluorescents and the pale creep of morning, felt like the kind of thing people wrote songs about. It hit you with a force that absolved every sleepless night you’d ever spent wondering if you meant anything to anyone outside of a set of hands on a steering wheel, or the numbers on a finish line clock.

You remembered the first time you’d stumbled into his shop: rain in your hair, a half-dead alternator in your trunk, and a chip on your shoulder big enough to wedge open the front door. Mingi had looked at you over the top of his glasses, rainwater pooling under your boots, and said, “No offense, but you look like you lost a fight to a lawnmower.” He’d fixed your alternator for half what the dealer quoted, showed you the basics so you could DIY next time, and called you “boss” with a straight face even as you stripped a bolt and almost started a small electrical fire.

You remembered the way he never commented on your hands, even when they shook after a race, even when you cut them on cold steel and stained the shop rags dark. He’d hand you a fresh towel, or a bottle of water, or a protein bar from his desk drawer, and just say, “You good?” Like he already knew you weren’t, but he’d be there when you started to be.

You remembered that night you lost by a nose and blew out the input shaft. You’d expected nothing—maybe a lecture, a bill, perhaps even silence. Instead, you’d found a note under your windshield wiper: “Nice launch. Shift faster next time. Come by tomorrow, I’ll fix her up. - M :)"

You remembered a lot of small things. The way he’d always find the one good song on the radio and turn it up just before the solo. The way he’d set his jaw when he was about to say something he thought might piss you off. How he’d talk to your car when he worked on them, in the low, careful voice some people reserved for frightened animals or babies. How he’d stand close, when you both leaned under the hood—shoulders bumping, elbows knocking—and none of it ever felt accidental.

You looked at him now, this tall, loose-limbed mechanic with his wild hair, goofy smile and hands that looked like they’d been built to break and repair the same things over and over. The cut on his thumb was leaking through the electrical tape, and his shirt was streaked with something dark.

You thought about every time you’d tried to pay him back, every time you’d tried to balance the emotional ledger, and how he always found a way to tip the scales in your favour. You thought about all the ways you’d failed to say thank you, or I owe you, or just—anything that would make it clear that you noticed. That you noticed everything.

The weight of it all landed on your chest with the slow, terrifying certainty of falling in love with the exact person you’d told yourself that would never fall in love with you. It didn’t hurt—it just rearranged some things inside you, made space for something that might not have a name but absolutely had a pulse.

You reached for the coffee again, just for something to do with your hands, and took a sip that was mostly oat milk and sugar from the lack of stirring. Mingi watched you, waiting, like he knew you were on the verge of some personal catastrophe and was already prepping the metaphorical fire extinguisher.

You finished the coffee in two long swallows and set the mug down on the edge of the lift, where it wobbled once before settling. Mingi caught it with the edge of his hand—a reflex, the same one he used to catch falling tools before they hit concrete—and set it somewhere safer without comment.

“I should go,” you cleared your throat, your voice came out steadier than you expected. “Don't want to bother you more while you're working on my baby."

He straightened up from his crouch, and you both rose together, and the distance between you was exactly the same as it had been a moment ago—close enough to feel the warmth, far enough to pretend it was nothing. He nodded once, that slow, easy nod that meant he understood and wasn’t going to make it difficult.

“Like I said, I'll phone the parts house and if, hopefully, they have the shit I need I can have her buttoned up by—” He tilted his head, calculating. “Three, maybe four this afternoon. I'll call you as soon as I'm finished”

You nodded, finding a sense of calm with his reassurance. “Sounds good! Also, don’t bother calling 'cause I might not answer. Text me instead.”

“Of course.” He pulled his phone from his back pocket and held it up like proof. “Go home. Sleep in a real bed, please.”

You pulled his jacket tighter around your shoulders and walked toward the office to collect your things. Your phone was on the desk where you’d left it, the screen lit with three new notifications—your best friend asking if you were alive, a group chat you’d muted, and a weather alert you didn’t read. You shoved it into your pocket and hesitated at the door, one hand on the frame.

“Mingi?”

He was already turning back toward the lift, a socket wrench in his hand, but he paused and looked over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Thank you. For—” You gestured vaguely at the car, the shop, the jacket, the coffee, the entire architecture of care he’d built around you without ever asking for permission. “All of it.”

His mouth did the half-smile thing—the one that meant he was trying not to be charmed and failing. “Don’t mention it, it’s my job after all.”

You left before he could see whatever was happening on your face.

══════════════════

You showered in water hot enough to turn your skin pink, scrubbing road grit and engine grease from under your nails until your fingertips went raw. You changed into clean clothes—jeans, a t-shirt that had seen better days, a hoodie that smelled like your own laundry detergent and not someone else’s cologne. You ate a bowl of cereal standing at the kitchen counter and stared at your phone, waiting.

The text came at 8:47.