‧˚꒰ joe ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

The words slipped out in a panicked rush. Your stomach twisted nervously as you imagined Keonho waiting for you. You checked your phone again, even though only a few seconds had passed since the last time you did.

“Yn, just relax.”

Hyein stepped in front of you before you could continue your frantic pacing. She firmly grabbed your shoulders, forcing you to stop moving. Her steady gaze met yours, calm and reassuring.

“Take a breath.”

You blinked, then inhaled deeply. The tension in your chest loosened slightly as you let the air out.

Right. Why were you acting like this?

It wasn’t your first time going out with Keonho. In fact, you’d spent plenty of time together already. It wasn’t some terrifying blind date or a once-in-a-lifetime event. Yet somehow the thought of seeing him tonight had turned you into a complete mess.

“Yeah,” you muttered, feeling your cheeks warm with embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“What are you being sorry for?” Ian asked with a laugh.

She leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, as she watched the scene unfold. The grin on her face made it obvious she was enjoying every second of your panic.

“Seriously, you’re acting like you’re about to meet the president or something.”

“Maybe worse,” Wonhee added, earning a round of laughter from everyone else.

You shot them an unamused look. “Thanks. You guys are really helping.”

“Oh, we’re helping plenty,” Ian replied. “This is the most entertaining thing we’ve seen all week.”

Hyein finally let go of your shoulders and shook her head with a fond smile.

“You look great. Keonho likes you. Everything’s fine.”

Before you could respond, Wonhee suddenly snapped her fingers.

“Wait.”

Everyone turned to look at her.

“Isn’t your bag right there?”

She pointed toward the chair in the corner.

Your eyes followed her finger and immediately landed on the bag sitting exactly where you had left it.

“Oh.”

A beat passed. Then everyone burst out laughing while you buried your face in your hands.

“I hate all of you.”

“Sure you do,” Ian said between laughs. “Now go before you’re actually late.”

Right on cue, your phone vibrated in your pocket. The sound made your heart jump.

You pulled it out immediately, nearly fumbling it in your haste. The screen lit up with a message from Keonho.

[ Keonho ] I’m downstairs.

Your eyes widened. “He’s here.”

The room instantly erupted.

“What?” Wonhee practically shouted, springing to her feet.

“Already?” Ian glanced at the time. “Wow, he’s punctual.”

“Oh my God,” you groaned.

You looked up at your friends with pure panic written across your face. The moment they saw your expression, they lost it.

“Don’t make that face!” Hyein laughed.

“You look like you’re being sent into battle,” Ian added.

“I am being sent into battle,” you shot back.

“Yn, you’re literally going on a date.”

“Exactly!”

Wonhee grabbed both of your shoulders dramatically.

“Listen to me. This is important.”

You stared at her.

“You are going downstairs.”

“Okay…”

“And you are going to spend time with a guy who already likes you.”

You opened your mouth.

“No arguments.”

You closed it again.

“She’s right,” Hyein said, smoothing down a wrinkle on your sleeve. “You look amazing. Stop overthinking.”

Your phone buzzed once more. A second message.

[ Keonho ] No rush. Take your time.

“He said no rush,” you said weakly.

“See?” Hyein smiled. “He’s being nice.”

“No,” you said. “Now I feel bad because he’s waiting.”

Ian let out a dramatic sigh. “This is painful to watch.”

“Seriously,” Wonhee agreed. “At this point, Keonho is probably calmer than all of us combined.”

You glanced down at the message again. Just seeing his name on the screen sent a nervous flutter through your stomach.

You quickly typed back.

[ You ] Coming down now

The three dots appeared instantly.

[ Keonho ] Okay. See you soon :)

Your stomach flipped.

“Oh, that’s it,” Ian said, noticing your expression. “She’s gone.”

“What?”

“You got the smile.”

“What smile?”

“The Keonho smile.”

“I do not have a Keonho smile. Whatever that is.”

“You absolutely do,” Wonhee said.

“It’s disgusting.”

“Very disgusting,” Ian agreed.

“I’m leaving.”

“That's very good,” Hyein laughed, pushing your bag into your hands. “Because your date is waiting downstairs.”

You groaned, slinging the bag over your shoulder.

At the door, you paused and looked back. Three pairs of eyes were staring at you expectantly.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because,” Wonhee said with a grin, “we expect a full report when you get back.”

“Every detail,” Ian added.

Your face immediately heated up. “There won’t be any details.”

“Sure.”

“Bye!”

Before they could tease you any further, you hurried out the door and into the hallway.

The apartment door clicked shut behind you. The familiar voices faded, and suddenly it was quiet. Just you.

Just you and the realization that Keonho was waiting downstairs.

You took a deep breath as you stepped into the elevator.

The nerves returned instantly.

As the elevator descended floor by floor, you found yourself staring at your reflection in the mirrored wall, checking for whatever small detail you might have overlooked. 

You quickly smoothed down a few strands of hair that definitely hadn’t been sticking up before.

You glanced down at your outfit, brushing invisible wrinkles from your sleeves and adjusting your bag strap for what seemed to be the fifth time already.

You checked your reflection again. Was your makeup okay? Too much lip gloss? Not enough? Why was your hair suddenly not cooperating?

The doors opened before you could overthink too much.

Your heart started beating a little faster. 

And then you saw him.

Waiting just outside the building entrance, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. The warm glow of the streetlights cast soft shadows across his face as he looked down at his phone.

The moment he spotted you, his face lit up with a smile. A real one. One that somehow made every nervous thought disappear for a moment.

Your steps faltered for half a second.

Keonho straightened and slipped his phone into his pocket.

“Hey.”

His voice was warm and familiar, instantly easing some of the tension that had been building inside your chest during the elevator ride down.

His eyes lingered on you for a moment.

Long enough that you suddenly became aware of every detail you had spent the last ten minutes worrying about.

The way your hair fell over your shoulders. The outfit you’d changed three times before settling on. The nervous way you were clutching your bag strap.

A faint smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

“You look beautiful.”

The words hit you so unexpectedly that your brain completely short-circuited.

For a second, you just stared at him.

Beautiful?

Not nice. Not good. Not pretty.

Beautiful.

Heat rushed to your face so quickly you were certain he could see it.

“Uh… huh?”

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

Hours of preparation, and that was the first response you came up with.

Keonho’s smile widened slightly. A quiet laugh escaped him.

“You okay?”

You immediately looked away.

“Yeah.” The answer came out far too quickly. “Totally.”

“Really?”

“No.”

That earned a genuine laugh from him.

The sound made your embarrassment somehow even worse.

You buried your face in one hand. “Oh, my God.”

“That bad?”

“You can’t just say things like that.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Like what?”

“‘You look beautiful,’” you repeated, gesturing vaguely in his direction. “That’s not a normal thing to casually throw at someone.”

“It isn’t?”

“No.”

Keonho tilted his head, pretending to look confused.

“I thought it was.”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Hm.”

The thoughtful hum that left him made you narrow your eyes.

He was enjoying this entirely too much.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t act so innocent.”

His lips twitched. “What do you mean? I am innocent.”

You let out a laugh. “Keonho.”

“Yn.”

“You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Actually, I don’t.”

His expression remained completely serious. The effect was ruined by the smile threatening to break through at any second.

You pointed an accusing finger at him.

“That. Exactly that.”

“What?”

“That face.”

“What face?”

“The one you’re doing right now!”

Keonho finally laughed. The sound was warm and bright, echoing softly in the evening air.

“Okay, maybe a little.”

“A little?”

“Maybe I knew you’d react like this.”

Your jaw dropped. “You planned this? The betrayal.”

“I didn’t plan it.”

“You absolutely planned it.”

“I just said what I was thinking.”

The answer came so easily that it caught you off guard. Just like before.

No hesitation. No embarrassment. As if telling you that you looked beautiful was the most natural thing in the world.

The teasing smile on your face faded slightly.

For a moment, he simply looked at you, and suddenly you remembered why your heart had been acting up all evening.

Because when Keonho looked at you like that, it felt like he was seeing only you.

Not the crowd passing by. Not the cars driving down the street. Just you.

A faint pink dusted the tips of his ears when he noticed you staring.

“There it is.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“You’re giving me the look.”

“What look?”

“The one where you stop talking.”

Your face immediately heated.

“I do not have that look.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

“You get quiet and just stare at me.”

You looked away instantly.

Keonho only laughed, far too entertained.

“Oh, there it is again.”

“Stop.”

“I’m just making observations.”

“Then stop making observations.”

“Okay.”

He was quiet for a second, then, “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

You nearly choked.

“Keonho!”

His laughter was immediate. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No.”

The honesty made you groan.

He was impossible. Absolutely impossible.

Yet somehow, despite all your complaining, you couldn’t stop smiling.

Keonho noticed. Of course he did. His own smile softened.

“There.”

You eyed him suspiciously. “What now?”

“You smiled.”

“So?”

“I was waiting for that.”

Your heart betrayed you with another painful flip.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe.”

“And annoying.”

“I’ve heard that one before.”

“And way too confident.”

That earned a grin. “Well, you did just spend five minutes proving me right.”

You stared at him. He stared back.

The silence lasted exactly two seconds before you both started laughing.

And just like that, the nervousness that had followed you all the way down from your apartment began to melt away.

Because this was Keonho. Teasing, impossible, unfairly charming Keonho.

His eyes flickered toward the street before returning to you.

“Ready to go?”

You looked at him for a moment.

At the easy smile on his face. At the patience in his eyes. At the way he’d spent the last few minutes effortlessly turning you into a flustered mess and somehow making you laugh at the same time.

You found yourself smiling back. “Yeah.”

Keonho’s smile widened. “Good.”

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then he stepped aside, letting you walk ahead of him toward the sidewalk. As you passed, he opened the entrance door for you without thinking, his hand resting against the glass.

You murmured a quiet thanks and stepped through.

The evening air was cool against your skin.

You had barely taken a few steps when you heard him beside you.

Not in front. Not trailing behind. Right beside you. Like there was nowhere else he intended to be.

You tried to focus on the street ahead.

On the passing cars. On literally anything else that wasn't him.

Then Keonho spoke.

“You know.”

You glanced over. He was looking ahead, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

“Yeah?”

A small smile appeared on his face. “I was kind of nervous.”

You nearly tripped.

“Really?”

That got a laugh out of him.

“You looked so calm.”

“I was trying to.”

“Why?”

His eyes finally met yours.

“Because I wanted tonight to go well.”

The world seemed to go suspiciously quiet.

No dramatic confession. No grand gesture. Just a simple, honest sentence.

Yet somehow it hit harder than any compliment had.

Your heart probably did the tenth embarrassing little flip in the last fifteen minutes.

Keonho looked away first, a faint smile still lingering on his face.

“Come on,” he said lightly. “If we stand here any longer, we’ll never actually make it to our reservation.”

You laughed softly, still trying to recover.

Then you fell into step beside him.

And as the two of you started walking down the street together, you couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips.

You had to. 

There was no universe where you posted that bikini photo, the one where the teal fabric clung to your tits like it was painted on, water droplets rolling down your collarbone, sun making your skin glow like something divine, and didn't know what it would do to him. 

Heeseung had been the first person to like it. Three seconds after it went up. He reshared it to his story with a black heart emoji and nobody understood why. His friends thought it was sweet. His followers assumed it was a casual boyfriend thing. But they didn't know that his hand was already down his sweatpants when he did it, that his cock was achingly hard and leaking against his palm, that the black heart was a coded message: I'm losing my fucking mind.

Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. He counted. He wasn't proud of it.

The first two days were manageable. 

You sent him good morning texts with selfies, soft, sleepy, your hair messy and pillow creases on your cheek, and he could handle that. He'd smile at his phone like an idiot, type something disgusting like "you're so cute," and go about his day. But by day three, the photos started arriving. Not the public ones, those were a different kind of torture that he'd scroll through obsessively, zooming in on the curve of your waist, the glimpse of your thighs, the way your lips wrapped around that cocktail straw. 

No, the private ones were what broke him.

The first was innocent enough. You were changing after the beach, and you sent a mirror selfie from the hotel bathroom — your damp hair, a white shirt that was slightly see-through from the moisture, clinging to the shape of your breasts, nipples pressing faintly against the fabric, and a pair of black panties underneath. That was it. Just that. You added a caption: "oops, forgot u were on read 🫩" and he stopped breathing for a full five seconds.

He screenshotted it. He hated himself for it. He screenshotted it and then he stared at it for twenty minutes, thumb hovering over the call button, cock throbbing in his jeans, and he didn't call because he knew if he heard your voice right then he'd say something pathetic. Something like “please come home” or “I need you so bad it's making me sick” or “I've been hard for three hours and I can't make it stop.”

So he jerked off instead. Right there on the couch, phone in one hand, cock in the other, scrolling through your story, pausing on every frame where your body was visible. 

He came embarrassingly fast, under two minutes, with a broken sound that was half moan, half whine, hips bucking up into his fist, and when it was over he felt worse. Not better. Worse. Because his hand wasn't your hand, wasn't your mouth, wasn't your body, and his own orgasm felt like a consolation prize compared to what he actually wanted.

He cleaned up and stared at the ceiling and missed you so much it felt like a physical wound.

Day four was when you sent the photo. He'd later think of it that way, with reverential dread, the way people talk about natural disasters that ruin their lives.

It was a full body shot. You were wearing his black shorts, the ones that were baggy on you, the ones you'd stolen from his drawer before you left, the ones that had to be pinned at the back with a safety pin because they wouldn't stay up. They were slung low on your hips, and he could see the edge of your panties sticking out from underneath, pale pink, a thin strip of lace, the kind you wore when you wanted to feel pretty and not when you wanted to be practical. 

Above the waistband, your bare stomach, your navel, and then just a bra, black, simple, pushing your breasts up in a way that made his mouth water. And your hand. Your hand was on your breast, fingers splayed, cupping it through the fabric, and you were looking at the camera with this expression that knowing. It was cruel. You knew what this would do to him. You were doing it on purpose.

His favorite. His absolute favorite. He saved it, he screenshotted it, he sent it to his hidden album, and then he put his phone down and pressed his palms against his eyes and breathed through the wave of arousal that hit him so hard it made his vision blur.

you're wearing my shorts 🤨

That's what he texted you. That's all he could manage.

yeahhh 😿 they smell like u & imy already 🙁 i sleep in them every night, you sent back. 

He threw his phone across the couch.

Then he picked it back up, because of course he did.

Day five, you sent nudes. Not even strategically angled ones, real ones, the kind that left nothing to imagination. You were changing, you said, and you just had to show him. Your breasts, bare, your nipples peaked from the air conditioning, one arm stretched out holding the phone, the other covering just enough to be teasing but not enough to hide anything. A second photo: your back, arched, looking over your shoulder, the curve of your ass in those white panties, the dip of your spine, and he could see the strap marks from your bikini, tan lines that made him want to trace them with his tongue.

He sent a voicemail back. He couldn't type. He couldn't form words. So he hit record, and the sound that came out of him was filthy. He was jerking himself off, fast and wet, and he didn't even try to be quiet about it. 

He let you hear everything: the slick sound of his fist, the desperate little "hah, hah" of his breathing, the whine that built in his throat, the way he said your name like a prayer and a curse at the same time. "Fuck, baby, I—I need you so bad, I can't—"and then he came, mid-sentence, with a broken moan that cracked at the end, and the voicemail ended with him panting, shaky, barely audible: "Please come home."

You sent back a voice note of your own. Just your voice, breathy and amused: "Aww. Poor baby." And then, softer, almost tender: "Four more days. You can last four more days, right?"

He couldn't. He really, truly couldn't.

Day six, the sexting happened. It started with a check-in, him asking if you'd eaten, if you were staying hydrated, if you were wearing sunscreen, and somehow, inevitably, it derailed. You told him you'd been thinking about him on the beach. About how the water felt, cold and slippery against your skin, and how you wished it was his hands instead. How you'd touched yourself in the shower that morning and imagined it was him, imagined him pressing you against the tile, imagined his mouth on your neck, his fingers inside you.

He was hard before you finished the second message.

"I want to eat you out so bad," he typed, not even caring how desperate he sounded. "I want to put my mouth on you and not stop until you're crying."

"You want to make me cry?"

"I want to make you feel so good you can't help it. I want to taste you. I want—I want—" He couldn't finish. He was too busy coming again, cock pulsing in his grip, spurting over his knuckles, and he hadn't even been looking at anything. Just the words on his screen. Just the thought of you. He came from reading a text message. 

Heeseung, twenty-five years old, who prided himself on at least a little stamina, came from words on a screen like a fucking teenager, and he groaned through it, jaw clenched, and thought: I am so, so fucked.

Day seven, the last day, he didn't even touch himself. He just lay in bed and stared at your photos and throbbed. His cock was so hard it ached, flushed and angry and leaking, and he didn't wrap his hand around it because he knew it would be over in seconds and he'd feel even emptier afterward. He just let himself suffer. He let the want build until it was a living thing in his chest, a hollow hunger that no amount of his own touch could fill.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow you'd be home.

He didn't sleep.

You walked through the door at exactly 4:47 PM, and Heeseung was already standing in the hallway like he'd been waiting there for hours, which he had been, since you'd texted him your flight landed, since you'd texted him you were in the cab, since you'd texted him you were five minutes away. 

He was wearing his grey sweatpants and an oversized black t-shirt and his hair was messy and he looked like he hadn't slept in a week, and the look on his face when he saw you—

It was hunger. Pure, unfiltered, desperate hunger.

And you looked so fucking good. That was the thing. You knew you did. You'd changed at the airport, into the tiniest denim shorts you owned, the ones that barely covered the bottom curve of your ass, the ones that rode up when you walked. A white tank top, thin enough that the outline of your bikini top was visible underneath, thin enough that if you took that off there would be nothing between your nipples and the fabric but air. Your skin was tanned and glowing and you smelled like coconut and sunlight and he was on you before you even set your suitcase down.

"I missed you," he breathed against your mouth, and then he was kissing you, hands everywhere, your waist, your hips, sliding down to grip your ass through those ridiculous shorts, and he was already hard. You could feel him against your thigh, thick and hot, and he was pressing into you like he couldn't help it, like his body was moving on autopilot, chasing contact.

"I missed you too, baby," you murmured against his lips, and you felt him shiver at the endearment. Your hands came up to card through his hair, and you tugged, just a gentle pull, just enough to tilt his head back, and his breath caught audibly. A small, broken sound that went straight between your legs.

Heeseung, your boyfriend, your pathetic, beautiful, desperate boy, was already trembling.

"Let me—can I—" He couldn't finish a sentence. His hands were shaking where they gripped your waist. He was looking at you with those big, dark eyes, pupils blown so wide the brown was barely visible, and there was a flush creeping up his neck, staining his cheeks pink. "Please. I need—it's been a week and I can't—"

"Can't what?" you asked, and your voice was low and teasing, a dangerous lilt that made his cock twitch. You knew exactly what he couldn't do. You wanted to hear him say it.

"I can't think about anything except you," he said, and his voice cracked on the word you, cracked like he was about to cry, and god, that did something to you. "I've been—I've been so hard, all week, and my hand isn't enough, and I keep coming but it doesn't help, and I—"

"Shh," you said, and you pressed your thumb to his lower lip, and his mouth fell open instantly, pliant and willing, and his tongue darted out to wet the pad of your thumb and you felt a pulse of heat between your thighs. "I'm here now. I'm going to take care of you, okay?"

He nodded frantically, your thumb still on his lips, and he looked so pretty like this — desperate and flushed and hanging on your every word.

You pulled his hair again, harder this time, and he moaned. Actually moaned, loud and shameless, head tipping back to expose the long line of his throat, and you took the opportunity to bite his neck, not gently, not a love bite, a real bite, teeth sinking into the muscle, and he bucked against you with a sound that was dangerously close to a whimper.

"Bedroom," you said. 

Heeseung was on the bed before you finished the word, sitting on the edge, looking up at you with those wide, eager eyes, and you stood between his spread legs and looked down at him and felt powerful. You felt powerful alright. This boy, this beautiful, needy, pathetic boy, was literally shaking with want for you, and you'd barely touched him.

You reached down and took off your tank top, slow, dragging it up your body, and his eyes tracked the movement like he was hypnotized. Underneath was the bikini top, teal, the same one from the photo, the one he'd jerked off to four times. Your breasts were spilling out of it, the fabric barely containing them, and he made a sound — not a word, just a noise, like all the air had been punched out of him.

"You like this one?" you asked, running a finger along the edge of the fabric, pushing your breast up slightly. "You seemed to. You watched the story it was in about forty times."

"I—" His voice was raw. "I lost count."

"Take off your shirt."

He ripped it off so fast the seams made a sound, and his chest was heaving, skin flushed pink from his collarbones to his stomach, and you could see the tent in his sweatpants, could see the dark spot of precum soaking through the grey fabric. He was leaking. Just from this. Just from you standing in front of him in a bikini top.

"You're already making a mess," you observed, and you reached down and ran a single finger along the length of his cock through his pants, feather-light, and he jerked like he'd been electrocuted. His hips chased your hand the moment you pulled away, thrusting up into empty air, and he let out a whine that was so pitiful, so utterly desperate, that you felt your own arousal pulse, hot and slick, between your legs.

"Please touch me," he begged. "Please, I need—"

"In a minute." You unbuttoned your shorts and shimmied them down your legs, and underneath were the black panties. The ones from the mirror photo. The see-through ones. And he was staring at them like he was having a religious experience, mouth open, breath ragged, and you could see his cock twitch in his pants, could see another pulse of precum darken the fabric.

"Remember these?" You turned around slowly, letting him see the back, the sheer fabric clinging to the curve of your ass, the lace trim riding up just slightly, and you looked over your shoulder at him and bit your lip. "You came so hard to this picture. I heard the voicemail, baby. You sounded so pathetic. So needy. Were you that desperate for me?"

"Yes," he choked out. "Yes, I was—I am—please—"

You turned back around and stepped closer, close enough that if he leaned forward his face would be inches from your body, and you reached behind yourself and unclasped the bikini top. It fell away, and your breasts were bare, nipples hard from the cool air and from the way he was looking at you, like he was starving and you were the first meal he'd seen in a week.

He lunged forward, mouth open, aiming for your breast, and you grabbed his hair and pulled him back.

"Did I say you could touch?"

The sound he made was devastating. A sob, cut off halfway, and his eyes were wet, actually wet, glassy with unshed tears, and his lower lip was trembling, and he looked so wrecked, so utterly desperate, that for a moment you almost caved. Almost. But you wanted to draw this out. You wanted to make it good.

"Tell me what you want," you said.

"I want—I want to taste you." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I want to put my mouth on you. I want—gosh, I want to eat you out so bad, I've been thinking about it all week, thinking about how you'd sound, how you'd feel on my tongue, and I—"

"Then do it."

He didn't need to be told twice. 

His hands grabbed your hips and he pulled you forward and pressed his face between your legs, mouth against your pussy through the sheer fabric of your panties, and you felt the heat of his breath, the desperate slide of his tongue against the wet material. He was moaning into you, actual moans, vibrating against your clit, and the fabric was getting wetter, your wetness, his saliva, the barrier between his tongue and you becoming translucent with moisture.

"Take them off," you said, breathless, and he hooked his fingers in the waistband and dragged them down so fast the lace scratched against your thighs, and then his mouth was on you, bare, and—

Fuck. 

He was good at this. He'd always been good at this, enthusiastic and sloppy and absolutely relentless, but today, after a week of wanting, a week of desperate late-night phone calls and photos and voicemails, he ate you out like he was dying. His tongue was everywhere, broad strokes through your folds, pointed flicks against your clit, and then he sucked your clit into his mouth and you gasped and your hand flew to his hair and pulled and he whimpered against you, the vibration making your knees buckle.

"Shit, baby—"

He looked up at you from between your thighs, lips swollen and glistening, chin wet, eyes glassy and pleading, and he didn't stop, he kept licking, kept sucking, kept making those small, desperate sounds against your body, and you could feel his hips rutting against the edge of the mattress, grinding against nothing, chasing friction because he was so turned on he couldn't help it.

You pushed him back, and he made a sound of protest, raw and bereft, but you were climbing onto the bed, straddling his face, and then you lowered yourself onto his mouth and he grabbed your thighs and held you there and devoured you. 

His tongue was inside you, then on your clit, then inside again, and he was making sounds like he was the one being eaten out, little muffled whimpers and moans, and you were grinding against his face, chasing the pleasure, and you felt it building, that tight coil in your abdomen, and—

"I'm going—fuck, baby, I’m going to come on your face," you told him, and he doubled his efforts, tongue working your clit in fast, tight circles, and you came with a cry, thighs clamping around his head, body arching, and he kept going, kept licking you through it, kept moaning like your orgasm was his own, and when you finally pulled away, shaking, he was gasping for air and his chin was drenched and he was looking up at you with absolute, total devotion.

"Good boy," you murmured, and he shuddered. Actually shuddered, full-body, and you felt his cock jerk where it pressed against your thigh through his sweatpants. "You made me feel so good. You always do."

"Please," he whispered, and a tear rolled down his cheek. Just one, sliding from the corner of his eye, and he didn't seem to notice it. "Please, I need—I need to be inside you, I need—"

"Not yet." You climbed off his face and positioned yourself beside him, and you reached down and palmed his cock through his sweatpants, and he arched off the bed with a strangled cry. The fabric was soaked. Not just damp, soaked, a huge dark patch of precum, and you could feel how hard he was, how thick and hot and desperate, and you squeezed gently and his entire body seized.

"You're so wet," you said, rubbing your palm over the head through the fabric, spreading the moisture, and he was twitching uncontrollably, hips jerking up into your hand. "You've been leaking all day, haven't you? Just thinking about me coming home?"

"All week," he corrected, voice breaking. "All week, I've been—"

"Take this off."

He shoved his sweatpants down, kicked them off, and his cock sprang free, flushed dark, the head an angry red, slick with precum that was dripping down the shaft in a steady stream. He was so hard, veins prominent, twitching in the open air, and you wrapped your hand around the base and his whole body spasmed.

"Ah—fuck, fuck—"

You stroked him once, slow, from base to tip, spreading his precum, and his head fell back against the pillows and his mouth fell open and the sound that came out of him was barely human. You stroked him again, and he was already close, you could tell, his thighs trembling, stomach clenching, and you tightened your grip just slightly and twisted on the upstroke and he screamed.

Not a moan. A scream. Raw and desperate and overwhelmed, and his hips were bucking up into your fist, chasing the sensation, and you could feel him throbbing in your hand, getting close, getting—

You let go.

He sobbed. Actually sobbed, chest heaving, cock bobbing in the air, flushed and leaking and so close to the edge that a single touch would have sent him over, and tears were streaming down his face now, not just one but two wet tracks down his cheeks, and he was looking at you with the most destroyed expression you'd ever seen on another human being.

"Why—" his voice cracked, shattered, "why did you stop—"

"Because I want to do something else first." You shifted, repositioned, and you wrapped your hand around him again and leaned down and took the head of his cock into your mouth.

The sound he made was not a word. It was not a moan. It was something between a gasp and a wail, and his hands flew to your hair, not pushing, just holding, fingers tangling in the strands, and his whole body was trembling like a live wire. 

You swirled your tongue around the tip, tasting him, and then you sank down, taking him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, and he was falling apart above you.

"Oh god, oh god, oh—your mouth, your mouth feels so—I'm going to—I'm going to come, I can't—"

You pulled off with a slick pop and squeezed the base of his cock, hard, and he yelled, and the orgasm that had been building was throttled, stopped just short of the peak, and he was crying openly now, tears running freely, lower lip caught between his teeth, and the sounds coming out of him were sobs and whimpers and fragmented syllables that might have been your name.

"Please let me come," he begged, and his voice was so raw, so ruined, that you felt a rush of wetness between your own thighs. "Please, I can't—it hurts, I need to come so bad, please—"

"I know, baby," you murmured, and you stroked his hair back from his forehead, gentle now, tender, and he leaned into your touch like a touch-starved animal. "I know it hurts. You've been so good for me. So patient and all. Let me make you feel better."

You reached between your legs with your free hand, you were soaking, absolutely drenched, your fingers sliding through your folds with no resistance, and you touched yourself while you stroked him, and the dual sensation made you both groan. You rubbed your clit in slow circles while you jerked him off, and you were so turned on from watching him fall apart, from the power of having this beautiful, desperate boy at your mercy, that you were already close to another orgasm.

"You want to know a secret?" you asked, voice low and sultry, and he blinked up at you through tear-blurred eyes. "I touched myself thinking about you too. On the trip. In the hotel room. I'd look at the photos you sent—your voice notes, those sounds you made—and I'd fuck myself with my fingers and pretend it was you."

He twitched violently in your hand, and a fresh wave of precum spilled over your fingers.

"I'd come so hard, baby," you continued, squeezing him, stroking faster, your other hand working your own clit in matching rhythm. "But it wasn't enough. My fingers aren't your cock. My fingers aren't you. I needed you just as bad as you needed me."

"I needed you more," he gasped, and it was so pathetic, so utterly heartfelt, that you felt your orgasm crash into you without warning, your body seizing, cunt clenching around nothing, and you moaned loud and long, and the sound of your pleasure pushed him right to the edge again and this time you didn't stop.

You felt the moment he broke. 

His cock pulsed once, twice, and then he was coming, thick ropes of cum spurting over your hand, over his stomach, and he was crying out, sounds, raw and broken and overwhelmed, and his whole body was arching off the bed, and the tears were flowing freely now, mixing with the sweat on his face, and you kept stroking him through it, kept your hand moving, and he kept coming, more than you'd ever seen from him, spurt after spurt, and you realized he was still hard. Still hard and still coming and his body didn't know when to stop because it had been wound so tight for so long that the release was overflowing.

"Stop, stop, it's too much—" he sobbed, and you let go, and he lay there, wrecked, chest heaving, cum splattered across his stomach and your hand, tears on his face, and his cock was still hard, still flushed and twitching, and you knew one orgasm wasn't going to be enough. Not after a week. Not after all that buildup.

"That's one," you said, and you brought your cum-covered hand to your lips and licked a stripe up your palm, tasting him, and his eyes went impossibly wide and his spent cock actually jerked back to full attention. "You've got more in you, don't you?"

He nodded, wordless, still crying, and you thought he'd never looked more beautiful.

You stripped off your panties, the last remaining piece of clothing on your body, and you straddled his waist, and you felt his cum between your bodies, slick and warm against your stomach, and you didn't care. You wanted to be messy. You wanted this to be filthy. You wanted him to remember what it felt like when you finally, finally gave him what he'd been begging for.

"I'm going to ride you now," you told him, and you saw the hope bloom in his eyes, the desperate, grateful hope, and you leaned down and kissed him, properly kissed him, tongue in his mouth, tasting yourself on his lips from when he'd gone down on you, and he kissed back frantically, hands coming up to cup your face, and he was making small sounds into your mouth, little whimpers and sighs, and you could feel his cock pressing against your ass, hot and hard and still leaking.

You reached behind you and positioned him at your entrance, and you sank down, just the tip, just the head, and you both groaned. He was big, you'd forgotten, in a week, just how big, how the stretch of him made your walls flutter and clench, and he was so sensitive from his first orgasm that the mere sensation of your heat around the head of his cock had him whimpering, hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise.

"More," he gasped. "Please, more—"

You sank down, slow, torturous, and you watched his face as you did, the way his eyes rolled back, the way his jaw dropped, the way his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. When you bottomed out, when he was fully inside you, you paused, and you felt him throbbing, felt every twitch and pulse, and you clenched around him deliberately and he sobbed.

"Don't—please—if you do that, fuck—I'll—"

"You'll what? Come again?" You clenched harder, and he cried out, hands scrabbling at your hips. "That's the point, baby. I want you to come inside me. I want to feel it. I've been thinking about this all week—your cock inside me, filling me up, making me yours again."

More tears fell, and you realized he wasn't crying from sadness or from pain. He was crying from feeling. From the overwhelming intensity of finally, finally having you, finally being inside you, after a week of his own inadequate hand and your cruel, beautiful photos. He was crying because it felt too good to process. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"

You started to move. Slow at first, a grinding roll of your hips that pressed his cock against your front wall, against that spot that made your vision blur, and you braced your hands on his chest and rolled your hips and watched him fall apart beneath you. He was gone. Completely gone. His head was thrown back, throat exposed, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed convulsively, and his hands were on your hips, holding on. Holding on like you were the only solid thing in a world that was spinning too fast.

"Faster," he begged. "Please, faster, harder—"

You obeyed. You lifted your hips and slammed back down, and the sound that rang out was so obscene that he yelled, and you did it again, and again, setting a brutal pace, riding him hard, and the angle was perfect, the pressure on your clit from the base of his dick, the stretch of him inside you, and you were already close again, already feeling that coil tightening.

"Touch me," you commanded, and his hands flew to your breasts, squeezing, thumbs rolling over your nipples, and you moaned and threw your head back and bounced on his cock harder, and he was meeting your thrusts now, hips snapping up to meet you, and the wet slap of your bodies was the filthiest, most beautiful sound in the world.

"You feel so good," he gasped, voice raw and destroyed. "You feel so fucking good, I can't—I'm not going to last—"

"Then don't." You leaned down and bit his earlobe, then whispered against the shell of his ear: "Come inside me. Fill me up. I want to feel it dripping out of me for the rest of the night."

He shattered. His back arched off the bed, his fingers dug bruises into your hips, and he came with a sound that was closer to a scream than a moan, long, drawn-out, broken in the middle by a sob, and you felt it, felt the pulse of his cock inside you, felt the heat of his cum flooding you, and it pushed you over the edge too, your orgasm ripping through you, cunt clenching and fluttering around him, milking every last drop, and you collapsed against his chest and both of you were shaking, trembling, crying — the hell, when had you started crying?

You didn't know, but your bodies were tangled together and it was too much, everything was too much, in the best possible way.

You lay there for a long moment, catching your breath, his cock softening inside you, and you felt the trickle of his cum leaking out around the seal of your bodies, and he was still sniffling, still trembling, and you pressed kisses to his jaw, his cheek, his tear-streaked face, and he turned into your touch like a flower toward the sun.

But this was the thing about Heeseung, you shifted your hips slightly, and you felt it. Still half-hard. Twitching. Recovering. And you knew, with a rush of heat between your legs, that he wasn't done.

Neither were you.

"Baby," you murmured against his ear, and you felt him shiver. "You still want more?"

"I always want more," he whispered, and his voice was wrecked, hoarse from crying and moaning, and the honesty in it made your cunt clench around his half-hard cock and he hissed. "I always want you. It’ll never be enough."

"You’re too greedy, no? How can someone be that greedy," you teased, and you bit your lip and looked down at him through your lashes, and his eyes darkened.

"Only for you."

You lifted your hips and let him slip out. You saw the mess, his cum and yours, smeared across his stomach and yours, and you reached down and ran your fingers through it, and you brought them to his lips, and he opened his mouth without hesitation, sucking your fingers clean, tongue swirling around the digits, and his cock, which had been softening, jerked back to full hardness.

"Dirty boy," you murmured, and he flushed darker, and you saw the conflict on his face, shame and arousal warring behind his eyes, and arousal won, as it always did with him. "You like being dirty for me, don't you?"

"I like being anything for you," he said, and it was the most sincere thing anyone had ever said to you.

You turned around. You positioned yourself on your hands and knees, and you looked over your shoulder at him, and you stuck your tongue out, just a little, just a tease, the way you knew drove him insane, and you wiggled your hips and said: "Then come prove it."

He was behind you in a second. His hands gripped your ass, spreading you open, and you felt his gaze on you, on your pussy, still dripping with his cum, still puffy and flushed from your orgasms, and he groaned, low and hungry, and you felt his cock press against your entrance.

"Wait," you said, and he froze instantly, ever obedient, ever desperate to please. "I want you to eat me out first. Again. I want your tongue inside me again. Then you can fuck me."

He didn't hesitate. His face was between your legs again, tongue sliding through your folds, tasting both of you and he moaned against you like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. His tongue pushed inside you, fucking you with it, and you could feel his cum dripping onto his tongue, and he was swallowing it, swallowing everything, and the obscenity of it had you pushing back against his face, grinding, chasing more.

"Such a good boy," you gasped, and he whimpered into you, and you felt fresh tears, his tears this time, wetting the inside of your thighs as they fell, and the vulnerability of it, the raw submission, had you hurtling toward another orgasm. "My good boy. Only mine. Nobody else gets to see you like this, nobody else gets to have you—"

"Only you," he confirmed against your body, the words muffled by your pussy, vibrating against your clit. "Only you, only you, only—"

You came on his tongue, again, thighs shaking, and he held you up and licked you through it and when you finally pulled away you were boneless and trembling and he was looking at you with those red-rimmed, tear-stained, absolutely wrecked eyes, cock jutting out from his body, hard as steel, and you felt a rush of tenderness so fierce it almost hurt.

"Come here," you said softly, and you turned onto your back and opened your arms, and he crawled up your body and kissed you, and you tasted yourself and him on his tongue, and you wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him into you in one fluid motion.

He sank to the hilt and you both gasped, and this time it was slower, not the frantic, desperate pace of before, but something deeper. He was moving in long, grinding strokes, hitting every sensitive spot inside you, and his forehead was pressed against yours, and you could see his eyes up close, overflowing with feeling, and you cupped his face and brushed the tears away with your thumbs and he turned his head to kiss your palm.

"I love you," he whispered, and his voice broke on love, broke open like he couldn't contain it, and you pulled his hair and he moaned and you bit your lip and he watched your mouth like it was the center of the universe.

"I love you more," you said, and then you tightened your legs around his waist and rolled your hips and he made a sound that was half sob, half moan, and you swallowed it with a kiss.

He fucked you slower but deeper, each thrust deliberate, purposeful, hitting that spot that made your breath catch, and you could feel another orgasm building, your fourth, his third, and this one felt different, bigger, like something immense was gathering at the base of your spine, and you broke the kiss and gasped against his mouth.

"I'm close," you warned, and he nodded, and his pace increased, hips snapping faster, and he was hitting so deep, so perfect, and you were clenching around him, and he was groaning with every thrust, and—

"I'm—I can't—" He was crying again, silent tears streaming, and his face was scrunched up in an expression that was almost pain, almost pleasure, something in between that was too intense to name. "I'm going to—again—"

"Do it," you commanded. "Come with me. Now."

You clenched around him and his mouth fell open in a silent scream, and you felt him pulse inside you, felt the heat of his cum, and that triggered your own orgasm, this one different, deeper, your whole body shaking, cunt clenching rhythmically around him, and you were both crying, both gasping, both clinging to each other like you were the only two people in the world, and he was still thrusting through it, shallow and twitching, and you could feel the overstimulation making him shake, making his breath come in hitches and hiccups, and he collapsed against you, full body weight pressing you into the mattress, and you held him and he sobbed against your neck.

"I'm sorry," he wept, and you could feel his tears hot against your skin. "I can't stop crying, I'm sorry—"

"Don't apologize," you said, and your own voice was thick, wavering. "Don't you dare apologize. That was—you were perfect. You're always perfect."

He lifted his head and looked at you, face blotchy and wet and so, so beautiful, and you kissed his eyelids, his cheeks, the tip of his nose, and he smiled, and you felt your heart crack open in your chest.

"You're mine," you told him, and it wasn't a question.

"Yours," he agreed, and he buried his face in your neck and breathed you in, and you felt his cock twitch one last time inside you, and you both laughed, the sound of it echoing off the walls of your shared apartment, your home, the place where you belonged, together, tangled up in each other and the mess you'd made.

Later, much later, after showers and water bottles and the kind of gentle, exploratory touching that was less about arousal and more about reassurance, you lay tangled in bed together, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing absent patterns on your shoulder.

"I have a confession," he said quietly.

"More confessions? After all that?"

"I screenshot every photo you sent. Even the ones from your public story. I have a whole album."

You laughed, bright and surprised. "I know. I can see your screenshots."

He groaned, covering his face with his free hand. "Fuck, that's so embarrassing."

"That's so hot," you corrected, and you bit his chest playfully, and he squirmed. "I love that you were that desperate for me. I love that I had you on a chokehold."

"You always have me on a chokehold," he muttered, and there was no heat in it, just fact. Just the simple, unvarnished truth. "You could wear a garbage bag and I'd still be hard for you in three seconds."

"Ew, that's so… disgusting and romantic and I'm going to think about it every time I miss you."

"Don't go anywhere for a while," he said, and his voice was small, and when you looked up at him his eyes were earnest and vulnerable and still slightly red from crying. "Please."

You reached up and stroked his hair, and he melted into the touch, and you pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

"I'm not going anywhere," you promised. "I just got back to you."

He pulled you closer, tighter, like he could fold you into himself and keep you there permanently, and you let him. You let him cling and you clung back, because the truth, the truth that neither of you said out loud but both of you knew, was that the desperation went both ways. You'd sent those photos on purpose, sure, but not just to tease. You'd sent them because you needed him to want you. You needed to feel wanted from five hundred miles away. You needed proof that the ache was mutual.

And it was. God, it was.

"I'm already hard again," he mumbled against your hair, and you felt the evidence pressing against your thigh, and you laughed again, incredulous, fond, so deeply in love it made your chest hurt.

"What a weirdo," you accused.

"Only for you," he said, and it was the second time he'd said it tonight, and you believed it completely.

You rolled on top of him and pinned his wrists to the pillow and leaned down and whispered against his lips: "Then let's go again."

And his eyes lit up, bright, eager, desperate, yours, and he said:

"Please."

⭐️ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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💿 ࿐ . . i want you around by snoh aalegra

✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !

The moment you pulled over in front of the bar, you regretted it. There stood a very drunken Sim Jaeyun, stumbling on his own feet as he held onto the pole whilst he kept mumbling nonsense words to the security guard, you already knew this was going to be a long ride.

It was a little bit selfish on your part, you would be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t want to hear what came out of a drunken Jake, especially after the messages he had sent you. It wasn’t that you were going to forgive him, or go back to him after this, you were just curious.

“There she is!” Jake excitedly pointed right at you, making you realize you were actually there, for him. You don’t even say anything as Jake made his way to you, again, stumbling on his feet. All you could do was look away, tapping your fingers on the wheel anxiously.

Without saying anything, you unlocked the door so he could get in, mentally preparing yourself for a very quiet and awkward silence, or a non-stop blabbering from the guy. Both ended in a very unfinished discussion.

“I didn’t think you’d come get me. I thought I was hallucinating.” Jake said in a pout, fumbling with the seatbelt. You said nothing and instead stared down to where the seatbelt was. “I hate seatbelts, they never work.” He mumbled.

You pushed his hands away softly, taking the seatbelt from him and connecting it to the buckle for him before leaning back to your seat.

“Thanks.” 

He gave you that sweet smile. The one that used to make you smile so hard. When he noticed your blank expression, he sighed, anxiously starting to tap his fingers on the arm rest between you. For a moment, you closed your eyes, trying to calm yourself before you could throw him out the car. When he didn’t stop, you pushed his legs to the side, opening the small compact in front of his seat to take out the small star squishy, handing it to his left hand. “Oh.., thanks, Y/n.”

He mumbled, a little more quiet but comfortable now.

Instead of responding, you started the car, turning the radio’s volume up in hope there was a good song playing to interrupt whatever was happening.

As you started driving away from the bar, you couldn’t help but to glance at Jake a few times, hoping he’d be asleep from how quiet he was. But instead, you found him leaning back on the seat, staring right at you. The look in his eyes, it was different but scarily similar from the one he used to look at you with when you were together, almost as if he were reminiscing what used to be.

“What?” You asked when you caught him.

He chuckled softly, looking at the window with a small “nothing” leaving his lips.

For a second there, you almost smiled when you heard his laugh, and you hated yourself for it.

“Where are you taking me?” He mumbled, licking his lips as he sat up straight, watching as your hands moved smoothly around the wheel. “Are you kidnapping me?” He snorted a small laugh.

You furrowed your eyebrows, looking at him from the rear view mirror. “Sure, Jake.” You muttered.

He nodded, fidgeting the small toy you had given him between his fingers. “I thought you were joking about picking me up.” He confessed.

“You sound pretty sober for someone who kept messing up his text messages just a few minutes ago.” You showed a bland smile, not to him, just ahead.

He giggled, the sound of it echoing on your ears. He pinched his fingers together, raising it right in front of him, holding it close to his face as he smiled. “Still a liiiittle bit drunk. The security guard took my drink away because I told him you were picking me up.” He frowned.

“He knows me?” You asked, glancing at him for a quick second.

He shrugged, laughing continuously. “I told him that my ex was picking me up because I messed up and because I wanted to apologize,” you froze for a second. “then he was like “maybe you should be sober when you do it” and I’m like “sir, no offense—“ well, actually, I’m not sure what else I said, if I’m being honest.” He said in between laughs.

When he quieted down after hearing no response from him, he sighed, loudly this time. “You’re pretty quiet.”

“I’m driving.”

“Remember that night when we went for a late night drive and you started saying I drove like a grandma?” He chuckled, “you looked so pretty that night. I mean, you always do but that day was just very special. We had our first kiss that night and it was raining, I remember you said it was so magical.” He lied back on the seat, looking at you with a soft smile. “I remember that night well.” He mumbled quietly.

You slowed down the car as the light turned orange, putting your foot on the brake. “Why were you out here alone, Jake?” You asked, completely turning your attention to him once the light went red. “Were you just...drinking for no reason?” You looked at him up and down, with sympathy.

Jake pouted then gave you a flat smile, “I guess.”

“You guess?” You scoffed.

“Yeah, can’t I just drink to drink? Is that so bad?” He furrowed his eyebrows, looking for answers in your eyes before you opened your mouth, watching as you blinked away. “Do–do you not like that I drink?” He mumbled the question. “I can stop if that’s what you want, you know? I’m not an alcoholic, I’m just in my feelings. I swear, if you tell me to stop drinking, I will.” He sat up straight.

Before you could say anything, you heard a honk coming from behind you, causing you to snap out from the conversation to drive, making Jake sigh very out loud.

“It’s none of my business if you drink or not, Jake.”

You said after a few seconds of silence, putting your hands back on the wheel.

“Okay.” He whispered.

“Okay.” You whispered back.

He nodded, looking out the window to distract himself. “Are you and Jay dating?”

You stopped at the red light, instantly turning to him with a confused expression on your face. “What?”

“You and Jay. I don’t know, you guys act like you like each other or something.” He shrugged his shoulders, “Always hanging out with each other. Seriously, ever since you came back, it’s like you’ve been inseparable.”

“We aren’t dating. But even if we were, it’s none of your business, Jake.” He rolled his eyes, signaling you to drive. You did as he said, looking ahead, “Why do you even care, anyway?” You asked with a sour look.

“I don’t.”

“If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be asking.”

He scoffed, “I don’t like the idea of my best friend and my ex-girlfriend dating, sue me.”

You blinked multiple times, trying to understand the words that came out of his mouth. “How is that bad compared to you dating the girl that spread rumors about me?” You scoffed back.

“I’m not dating her anymore.”

“Still did. Jake, is this why you got drunk? Because you don’t want me dating Jay?” You asked carefully, your hands gripping on the steering wheel tighter than before. “Because if that’s the reason, then that’s insanely immature.” You shook your head in disbelief.

“So what if that is the reason? Yeah, maybe I got mad that my best friend fucking ditched me to hang out with my ex-girfrliend.” You froze at his sudden raise of voice, making you flinch. “Or maybe it’s the fact that after I tried to speak to you to apologize, you decided to ignore me to hang out with my best friend!”

“I’m actually going to crash us into a tree if you keep talking, Jaeyun.” 

You threatened, making him freeze on the spot and slip back on the seat. “Y-you brought it up.” He muttered.

“Because I didn’t think you’d actually tell me the reason.” You responded back bluntly.

Jake bit his bottom lip, playing with the star squishy. “Well,” He paused, calming his voice. “Do you like him? Jay?”

You glanced at him for a quick second. “We’re just friends.”

“We were also friends.”

You sighed, not knowing what to say. “That’s…different. Why are you asking me this? All of a sudden you care?” You shook your head.

“I’ve always cared about you, Y/n.”

You scoffed, pulling over to his apartment complex, “You have a funny way of showing it, Jake.”

He sighed, reclining his seat back to its original position as you parked before turning to your side. “I know. And I plan on fixing that. Fixing myself. I know I messed up but I promise I’ll change, Y/n.” He tried to reach for your hand which you gently took away, making him frown.

“What made you change your mind all of a sudden?” You ask in a hesitant tone. “Was it Jay?” He slowly nodded, “So it wasn’t even me?” You scoffed.

“What do you mean?” He tilted his head in confusion. “Of course it’s because of you.”

You grabbed your face in your hands in frustration before looking back at him, “Did you just realize you’re wrong because of Jay? Because you don’t like that we’re friends?” You looked him up and down.

“One of the many reasons, yes, but–”

“You’re unbelievable!” You raised your voice at him yet it stood with disappointment, making his whole expression turn into a sad puppy-ed one, “So after all this time, you still can’t listen to me and not someone else?” Jake stayed quiet, his mouth moving but no words coming out, making you sigh. “Just save it, please. You’re drunk, you should rest.” You unlocked the doors, not looking at him.

“I’m not leaving until we talk, Y/n.” He reached to lock the door, his cologne hitting you harder than it ever did before. “Please.” 

His breath hit you, the scent of alcohol making you realize how dumb this was. “We’re doing this when you’re sober. Now go.” You unbuckled his seatbelt, causing him to fall back on his seat.

“Okay.” He stepped out of the car in a second. “Can you walk me to my apartment? I don’t know where my keys are.” He mumbled as he started fumbling through his pockets.

With no hesitation, you got out of the car and quickly turned it off, rushing to his side. Jake, as if it were routine, snuck his arm around your shoulder, holding on to you. His hand gently fell on your arm, making you stiffened for a second before you started walking into the apartment complex. You said nothing on the way, only listened to Jake’s little rant about the series he recently started watching–the same series you had said was your favorite because it reminded you of Jake. But you looked past it, not wanting to draw attention to yourself, to remind the drunken man you were carrying, that it was you who was carrying him back to his place.

“Can you give me your key?” You asked in a quiet and gentle voice as you both stepped out of the elevator.

Jake fumbled his pockets, looking at you with a drunken smile as he handed you his keys.

“Thanks.” You mumbled as you stopped in front of the apartment. Smoothly, you opened the door and pushed both of you inside, closing the door behind you as you made your way straight to the guy’s bedroom.

Jake started saying words, words you somehow chose not to hear as you pushed the door to his bedroom open and basically threw him on the bed. Unfortunately for you, his grip on you hadn’t loosened up and you fell right beside him on the bed, making you roll your eyes as you sat up.

“Take your shoes off.” You ordered, completely ignoring how he was still holding onto you.

“Can you help me, please?” He pouted, reaching for his feet but failing to grab them.

You sighed, taking his shoes off and going to stand up to put them in his closet. Before you could stand up, Jake grabbed your arm, stopping you from doing so. 

“What?”

“Don’t leave.”

You stared at him, another sigh escaping your lips as you gave him a flat smile. “I’m just putting your shoes in your closet, Jake.” At your answer, Jake nodded, letting go of your arm.

You quickly stepped into his closet, placing his shoes where the others were. As you were about to walk out, your foot bumped into a hardened box, making you glance at its way to move it away. A pastel-yellow colored box stood out from his hung jackets, making you stare at it, frozen in place.

That same box looked exactly like the one you had given him for his birthday last year, one that he had said he’d keep forever. And it hadn’t crossed your mind that maybe he did mean it when he said that.

You glanced at Jake, whose eyes had been fluttering open, trying to stay awake, before you looked back down to the box. You couldn’t. You couldn't meddle into his things. It took everything in you to push the box back in the dark to pretend it wasn’t there and not open it for a quick peek.

“I’m going to get you some water and Advil, don’t fall asleep yet.” You mumbled quietly as you stepped out of the closet and walked past Jake.

“Okay, Y/nnie.”

You smiled at yourself at the nickname, quickly making your way to the kitchen to find Advil and a glass of water, then walked back into the room. You put the stuff down on the nightstand and patted Jake’s arm to wake him up.

“Jake.”

He hummed.

“Take the Advil first and then you can sleep.”

He hummed again.

You sighed, already running out of patience. You pushed him further into the bed, taking a seat next to him, the bed shifting its weight under you. You took the Advil and with the other hand grabbed Jake’s chin to softly open it. “Tongue.” You simply said. Jake stuck his tongue out just a tiny bit for you to be able to place the Advil on it, “swallow.” He closed his mouth, wincing as the Advil went down his throat, making him sit up.

“Water?” He nodded. You passed him the water and he took with a flat smile and shut eyes, then he sipped all of it, the only sound in the room being the gulps of water.

When he finished, he opened his eyes and stared at you. “Thank you.”

You gave him a small smile, “of course.”

He bit his lip, putting the glass back on the night stand before falling back on the bed, making you smile a little bit. He looked exactly like a little kid. Face buried in his pillow, shirt lifted slightly up to reveal the small belly skin. You almost felt like you were back to six months ago, a very familiar place. 

You began to stand up, but the softness of his voice stopped you.

“I’m sorry for hurting you, Y/n.”

You froze in place, not wanting to make a sound.

“I’m so sorry.” He cried into his pillow, making you shut your eyes. “I-I should’ve known. I should’ve believed you before anyone else. I should’ve asked you. I should’ve listened to you.” He stumbled with his words. “I wish we could go back. I know we can’t. But I wish.”

His voice sounded shakier, sadder, and it made your heart hurt. Because you had never seen Jake like this before, this vulnerable. It made you believe he had finally changed.

“I want to change, trust me, I do. I want to be better for you. B-but you hate me, you deserve someone better. You deserve to be with someone who sees you.” He choked on his words.

You didn’t know what to say. It’s as if the cat had cut your tongue.

“I don’t hate you.”

You don’t. You could never hate Jake.

“You should. I hurt you.”

He said, still with his face buried in the pillow, making his voice sound muffled.

“You did. But that doesn’t mean I hate you.” You said in a soft tone, turning around to take a look at Jake.

He unburied his face, taking the pillow in his hands as he looked at you with reddened eyes. “D-do you think one day, you’ll forgive me?” He asked in between breaths.

“That’s if you have a good apology, Jake.” You smiled at him.

He chuckled, looking down at his hands as a tear fell down. “I’m sorry I let you down, Y/n. I promise I’ll make it up to you.” He said, his voice trembling. “I don’t care how long it takes for you to forgive me, but I’ll make it up. I’ll do anything.” He nodded repeatedly.

You stared at him for a moment before you smiled sadly, “Jake…I’m happy that you’re trying and everything, I really am. But us—“ you paused, making Jake frown. “—it’s over between us.”

At his reaction—his puffed, and teared up eyes and frown—you looked away, your own eyes betraying you by tearing up.

“B-but couples fight all the time. That’s how their relationships get stronger, no? They communicate and—“

“—Not our relationship, Jake.” You cut him off, making him sigh. “That’s why we broke up in the first place. I can’t deal with that again.”

Jake shook his head, standing up and grabbing your hand. “I’ll work on it.”

“Jake.”

“Please.” He begged.

You looked down at his hand holding yours, “Jake, you can’t just expect us to go back together because you apologize. It doesn’t work like that.” You stated, very firmly. "at least not now." You added with sincerity.

He looked at you, tears spilling down his cheek. “Okay.” He whispered.

You smiled. “Okay?”

He nodded.

“Okay.” You stated softly.

You pulled away from his hand, guiding him back to his bed. He went along, not doing anything but looking at you on the way. As he lay back on the bed, he looked up at you.

You smiled and leaned closer, making him shut his eyes. You let your lips touch his forehead just for a second, before you walked away to turn the light off and walk away.

“Y/n?”

You looked back just as you were about to shut the door. “Yeah?”

“I love you.”

You stared at him, even in the dark, you could tell his eyes were drifting to sleep.

“Good night, Jake.”

mars yap uuuuu what do we think... team Jake, team jay, or team y/n...

guys this story has been getting so much attention I'm scared lol thanks for showing support and love I love all of you guys

⠀ join the taglist 💌 perm taglist ( send and ask or comment ) ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ or join the love me back taglist only !

26th May 2026

Clark K.: Take all the time you need!! READ

27th May 2026

Clark K.: Morning. Clark K.: I got you your oat-milk vanilla latte. Are you coming down soon?

You: Sorry. I left earlier. See you at work?

Clark K.: Ok! No worries. 🥸 See you. READ

28th May 2026

Clark K.: I know you said you wanted a little space from our morning walks. I put a gift card from the coffee shop on your desk. In case you fancy a cup on your way to work. READ

3rd June 2026

↳ CLARK K. FORWARDED AN ARTICLE.

HOW TO GIVE SOMEONE SPACE: IT'S TIME TO LET GO.

Clark K.: I'm so sorry. Ignore that. I didn't mean to send it to you. READ

5th June 2026

Clark K.: Are you free this weekend? Let's talk about it. Please.

Today

Clark K.: I miss you so so much. Please let me talk to you. READ

You: I thought about it. Let's give this a shot.

the message sends off with an ominous woosh with the added liquid courage you had in your system. you hadn't expected a response so soon, considering the emotional whiplash you were giving him.

"t-this, am I hallucinating? do you mean it? do you really mean it?"

you certainly hadn't expected clark to spring right up from his slouched position beside your front door. looking like an absolute and utter mess. his glasses were nearly tucked in his breast pocket, hair combed upward in one spot he must've been running his hand through all night while waiting for you.

clark's shadow towers over you, like an anxious spirit, bouncing on his heels, too wary to touch you.

your heels hang loosely by the way you hold them by the straps.

"i—you're here. i didn't—…"

"i know," he cuts in, shaking his head, barely being able to contain the relief coursing through his veins. "too soon, zero buffer time. i was…just here to apologise for that…'i miss you' text. it was awfully pushy. and i felt really silly, especially when i promised you time and space —"

you quickly close the distance, cupping his jaw with both palms. tip-toeing to kiss once. completely sure of yourself. his surprised hum melts the second your lips slot between his. and he sighs, content and deep to curl his arm by your hips, lifting you up in the process.

"had my fill —" a soft, separation, and then you press another kiss, "all the time an'space." you continue, words broken by the urgent need to have him as close as you could.

clark turns you around, with your legs locked around his hips. he presses you flush against your front door, hiking you securely around him. he lets you have the room to speak, dragging the gentle curves of his nose down your jaw. his own bated breath warms your sensitive skin.

you tilt your head, panting in the aftermath of your confession. "i'm sure." you whisper, breathily, his mouth leaving urgent pecks to the column of your throat.

"i want you, clark."

Dating James wasn’t normal—it wasn’t meant to be. He’s an idol. And well, you are…a student. That should’ve been your first warning. You should’ve understood that, but you didn’t. Of course you didn’t.

You and James started dating long before he became James from CORTIS. You knew him as James from Trainee A, James post Trainee A. To you, he was just…James. Now the world knows him differently. With stacked schedules, comeback showcases, and intercontinental interviews, he was busy. Obviously. 

It hadn’t always been like this. Back then, everything felt simpler. His world didn’t stretch as far, didn’t demand as much of him, and somehow, you fit into it without having to try so hard. You didn’t have to think about timing, or schedules, or whether he’d be free. You just… were. And so was he. It never crossed your mind that one day, being with him would start to feel like something you had to work around instead of something that just existed. But things change. Slowly, quietly—until you don’t really notice it happening at all.

Nights where you both could ramble endlessly—about anything. Whether it was the absolutely rigorous schedule James had, or your worries about university. Nights like that? Long gone.

You wish you’d cherished them more.

Fuck, you really do.

Because now that he’s actually achieving his dreams, you’re almost sidelined. Back then, you ran parallel to them—but now it feels like you’ve been left at a pit stop.

“James, stop that!” your voice—accompanied by giggles, echoed through the living room of your apartment as he tickled you.

“Give me the remote,” he whined, grabbing your wrists and trapping you, making it easier to steal it from you.

“It was my chance to pick a show.” You muttered, trying to push him off. 

He only laughed, the sound soft and close, before leaning down and nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“Let’s not watch anything today,” he murmured instead, arms wrapping around you—warm and grounding, like he had nowhere else to be. 

“Jami, you good?” you murmured, fingers absentmindedly playing with his hair.

He only hummed in response, tightening his grip around you—like you might slip away if he didn’t hold on. As if leaving him had ever been that easy.

You used to wake up tangled in him. Used to fuck up making pancakes together at 2 a.m. because neither of you could cook and neither of you cared enough about the pancakes. But now? Now you’re lucky to even receive a text. You shouldn’t be mad, it’s his job. You knew that before you started dating. But something about getting replaced by his job hurts. 

It started simple, a simple ‘Sorry love, won’t be able to make it tonight.’That was fine. He was busy—he had dreams. Gradually it got worse. Missed anniversaries, missed birthdays. All with the same excuse—’Sorry love, got practice. Love you tho.’ 

One thing you hated was when people said things just for the sake of saying them. ‘Love you’ but you don't feel it anymore. Now, you're staring at a 2 tier cake with one dimly lit candle that says, ‘happy 6 year anniversary’. Sounds wrong, 6 years out of which you don't remember the last 3. Yet again, he’s not here. Sometimes, it feels like you’re dating whatever pieces of him his career leaves behind.It sounds egoistical—you know that. How hypocritical of you to support him and then conclude that the only reason you’ve been sidelined is because of something you supported him in.

The wax from the candle had almost melted onto the frosting by the time a notification snapped you back into reality

Waiting 2 hours for an explanation was bad, but waiting for an explanation on your anniversary? That's insanity. You put your phone down, a heavy sigh slipping past your lips. Your mind is flooded with thoughts—maybe he doesn’t need me anymore, maybe I'm just a burden.

But for some reason, James didn’t try to fix it either. Who just leaves it at being busy? It’s your anniversary. You know better than reaching out to him. 

A day doubled to two, two to four and from four days, it's suddenly been a week. James has been quiet.

And honestly? You’ve stopped waiting.

On the other hand, James has been trying everything to keep you out of his mind. Out of sight, out of mind, they say. But how was he supposed to keep you out of sight when you were everywhere? James opens his phone? A picture of you two. He opens his wallet to pay for something? A polaroid of you. He opens his laptop to produce music? A picture of you again. Fuck that, he even found a polaroid of you both in his pocket.

Martin slides his chair closer, “What’s with you?” Keonho chirps in from the couches, “You’ve been very lowkey with mentioning Yn, what’s mom up to?”

Juhoon chuckles beside him, “Ask her yourself, she loves you anyway.” James doesn’t look up from his screen. He stays quiet for a while before finally mumbling,

‘Don’t.

His words catch everyone's attention. Seonghyeon slides his chair closer too, leaning forward. “What do you mean don’t?”

James murmurs, “We broke up, I think…” 

Everyone erupts with questions— “How?” “What?? WHEN?”

“‘We’re fighting.’”

Juhoon rolls his eyes. “‘What did you do?’”

James finally looks up from his laptop, brows furrowing. “‘What do you mean what did I do? It could be her fault too.’”

Seonghyeon snorts, pushing James’ chair back with his foot. “‘Sure, man.’”

James lets out an annoyed sigh before launching into the story—missing your anniversary because of schedules, not showing up for your anniversary because of the live, the argument that followed. How you asked why Keonho could skip the live for his sister’s birthday while he couldn’t do the same for you.

Keonho immediately sits up straighter. “Wait, you told her that?”

“I mean… yeah?”

“Well that makes you look horrible.”

Martin blinks. “No, because hold on—you missed your anniversary bro?”

“‘I said I was busy, I got her cake for it too.”

Juhoon stares at him for a second before laughing in disbelief. “No way you actually think cake is a valid excuse.”

“We had schedules—”

“You always have schedules,” Seonghyeon cuts in. “That’s literally her point.”

James presses his lips together, jaw tightening. Keonho tilts his head. “And you seriously didn’t see why she got upset when I skipped for my sister?”

“I couldn’t just leave.”

“You could’ve, I did too.” Keonho says carefully. “You just didn’t think you needed to.”

Juhoon frowns. “Okay, but you guys talked after that, right?”

James goes quiet. “…Right?” Martin repeats slower this time.

James rubs a hand over his face. “Not really.”

“What does ‘not’ really mean?”

“We haven’t talked in a week.”

Then all at once, he’s bombarded again—

“A WEEK?!” “ARE YOU INSANE?” “JAMES????”

Juhoon asks again, “‘And you said you think you broke up?’”

James finally looks irritated, defensive more than anything. “I don’t know, okay? She stopped replying and I figured she needed space.”

Seonghyeon just stares at him. “James,” he says slowly, “I genuinely think your girlfriend hates you right now.”

James groans, shoving his face in his palms. He lets out a muffled, “Fuck, what did I do.”

Martin lets out a deep sigh, “God you’re so dumb for your age, go talk to her.” He pauses, staring at James still sitting there like an idiot. Seonghyeon and Martin both kick the legs of his chair hard. ‘I said go!” 

For some reason James doesn’t move. He looks at martin and says

James thinks the worst part about all of this should’ve been the fighting. It’s a fight, it happens. You move on. That’s what usually happens. Disagreement, argument, apologising and moving on. That’s how you both rolled, but this time—this time it was different. There wasn’t any apologising or even attempts to talk it out. Just, silence.

This week for James was full of reminders and pieces of you he carried everywhere. You mattered a lot to him. It hit him how much he actually relied on you. Being the oldest, he carried responsibilities and sometimes he just needed someone like you to talk to. Someone who didn’t expect anything from him. Someone who just wanted him. Not any idolised version, no expectations, no nothing. You just wanted him for him. 

James didn’t realise how much of you existed in his life until suddenly, there was nothing. No texts asking if he’d eaten yet. No random instagram reels or tiktoks at weird hours into the night. No missed calls from you because you “just wanted to hear his voice for a second.”

Nothing.

That terrified him more than the fighting ever could. Because arguments meant you still cared enough to be upset. Silence didn’t. Silence felt like a verdict. The worst part was that James knew this wasn’t sudden. Looking back now, the signs were painfully obvious. The shorter replies. The way you stopped complaining when he cancelled plans. The way you started saying “it’s okay” too quickly.

God.

How did he not notice it sooner?

Or maybe he did notice. Maybe he just thought you’d always stay anyway. That thought alone made guilt twist violently in his stomach. James had gotten so used to you understanding him that he stopped trying to understand you back. Every missed dinner, every forgotten date, every “sorry baby, schedules got extended”—he always assumed there’d be another chance to make it up to you later.

Later.

Everything with him was always later. Later when promotions ended. Later when schedules calmed down. Later when he could finally breathe again. But you waited through all of it. And he just…let you.

Fuck.

The anniversary. James squeezes his eyes shut, the memory making his chest ache. You sitting alone with that cake while he was busy doing a live he barely even remembered now.

The realization makes him feel sick.

Because Keonho was right. He could’ve left earlier. He could’ve skipped it. He could’ve chosen you for once instead of assuming you’d understand again. But he didn’t. The worst part about all of this wasn’t even that you were angry at him.

It was the possibility that you were finally done understanding him at all. 

He rushed to your house. 

Heavy and continuous knocks echoed throughout your apartment. You open your door just enough to take a peek at who’s at the door. 

James. He’s breathing a little too heavily, his forehead has a thin layer of sweat and he’s looking at you with those eyes. Those eyes that spoke before he could. 

You freeze for a second, door opened completely now. “James?” You let out shakily. 

He looks at you, “Can I come in?” He pauses, “Please?”

You let him in. He followed you to your couch hesitantly. When you sat down, he didn’t sit down beside you. Instead, he got on his knees. His forehead resting on your knees. 

He didn’t look up. “I’m sorry.” 

Silence. He took a deep breath, “I’m sorry for being an ass, I'm sorry for being the worst boyfriend ever, I’m sorry for never making time for you, I’m sorry for just…just–” the words caught up in his throat. 

James inhales shakily, shoulders trembling slightly. ‘I-I’m sorry.” His voice cracks halfway through it. Before you can even react, he buries his face deeper into your lap, palms pressing harshly against his eyes like he’s trying to stop himself from falling apart completely.

The room falls quiet again. You don’t know what to say. Because this is James. Your James. The same boy who always kept himself together no matter how exhausted he was. The same boy who laughed through stress and brushed everything off with an easy smile. But right now, he looks ruined. ‘James…’ Carefully, you try lifting his head from your lap, but he only shakes his head stubbornly, fingers curling tighter into your hoodie.

‘James, get up.’ Another small shake of his head. ‘James,’ your voice softens despite your anger, ‘I can’t talk to you like this. Look at me.’

And when he finally does, your breath catches in your throat. His eyes are red and glossy. “Don’t cry.” You say pushing him away slightly. “I won’t accept your apology simply because you’re crying.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, James’ eyes get more watery, he looks up trying not to let the tears slip. His lips part slightly for just a second before he quickly nods. “I know,” he says quietly. “I know that.”

You pull yourself away from his grip gently, creating a little distance between the both of you. Distance allowing you to think, allowing you to breathe—because god, seeing James cry was never easy.

Not when he was the type to hold everything in until it consumed him whole—untill it got so bad he couldn’t keep it in anymore.

“You don’t get to do this now,” your voice shakes despite your attempts to steady it. “You don’t get to ignore me for a week and then show up crying and suddenly expect everything to be okay again.”

“I know.”

“You always know, James.” A sarcastic laugh leaves your lips. “That’s the problem. You know and then you do it anyway.”

He lowers his gaze again..

“I waited for you,” you whisper, and somehow those four words hurt more than yelling ever could. “Do you even understand how horrible that feels? To wait for someone only for them to never show up?”

James swallows harshly.

“I sat there like an idiot waiting for you, I thought you were late because of late night practices or your company, or something but–”  voice cracks, “—You decided not to show up. The live clearly wasn't important enough. Not important at all if Keonho and Seonghyeon could skip it.”

James squeezes his eyes shut.

“Every single time you cancelled on me, I told myself it was okay because you were tired. Because you were busy. Because your dream was finally happening and I wanted to support you so badly.” Tears blur your vision. “Do you know how hard I tried not to become someone that held you back?”

“Baby—”

“No, let me finish.”

He goes quiet again. “I kept understanding and understanding until one day I realized you stopped trying altogether.” Your breathing grows uneven. “You missed our anniversary, James.”

His face crumbles instantly.

“You missed it and somehow I still ended up feeling bad for you because you were stressed.” A broken laugh escapes you. “Do you know how messed up that is?”

“I know,” he says again, voice hoarse now. “I know and I hate myself for it.” Then quietly—“I fucked up.” James finally looks at you properly again, eyes red and swollen. “I got too comfortable,” he admits shakily. “I got so used to you always being there that I stopped being careful with you.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“I kept thinking there’d be more time.” He laughs weakly through his tears. “Later after promotions. Later after schedules calmed down. Later after everything settled.” His voice breaks again. “I didn’t realize later was hurting you. I never stopped loving you,” James whispers desperately. “Not once. I swear to god, not once.”

“Then why did I feel so alone?”

James lets out a shaky breath before dropping his forehead against your knees again. “I don’t know,” he chokes out miserably. “I genuinely don’t know when I became someone that could hurt you this much.”

The room falls silent except for his uneven breathing. You hate this. You hate how much you still love him despite everything. Hate how one look at him falling apart makes your anger weaken around the edges.

“I was angry,” you admit quietly. “But after a while I just…” You pause. “I got tired.”

James looks up immediately at that. That hurts him more than anything else you’ve said tonight. You weren't tired or angry. You were just done. You’d given up. “No, no—” he shakes his head quickly, panic slipping into his expression again. “Please don’t say that.”

“You made me feel like loving me was inconvenient.”

“I know.”

“You made me feel stupid for missing you.”

“I know.”

“You made me feel like I was asking for too much when all I wanted was you.”

James physically winces. “I know,” he whispers again, tears spilling over finally. “I know, I know and I’m so fucking sorry.”

You stare at him for a long moment. “You really hurt me.”

“I know.” His voice cracks again. “And if I could take it back, I would. I swear I would. I’ll fix it.” 

You don’t respond. 

“I mean it,” he says quickly, crawling closer without even realizing it. “I’ll do better. I’ll make time. I’ll answer your calls even if I’m exhausted, I’ll leave schedules early if I need to, I’ll—”

“James.”

“No, please.” His hands grab yours carefully. “Please let me fix this. Take me back. Please.”

Your eyes sting again, tears welling up.  “I hate how much I love you,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.

His entire expression changes. “You still love me?”

You let out a watery laugh. “Unfortunately.”

James actually sobs at that. A pathetic, relieved sound leaves him as he presses your hands against his face. “Oh my god,” he laughs through tears, “oh my god, I thought I lost you.”

“You did.”

That makes him immediately. And for the first time tonight, James truly understands how close he came to losing the best thing in his life. “I’m serious this time,” he says softly. “I’ll do better.”

You study his face carefully. “You don’t get another chance after this.”

“I know.”

“And if you start making me feel alone again, I’m leaving.”

James nods so fast it almost looks ridiculous. “Okay. Okay, I understand.”

Silence settles between the both of you again. Then finally, quietly—“I’ll give you another chance.”

James freezes. Like he physically stops breathing. “What?”

You sniffle, looking away from him. “I said I’ll give you another chance, idiot.”

His reaction is instant. “Holy shit.” Before you can even process it, James shoots up from the floor so quickly you nearly yelp as he suddenly pulls you up with him. “James—!”

He wraps his arms around you impossibly tight before lifting you clean off the ground. A startled laugh escapes you as he spins you around the living room. “Oh my god,” he keeps repeating breathlessly against your cheek. “Oh my god, I love you, I love you so much—”

“James!”

“I’m serious,” he says frantically, setting you down only to cup your face immediately after. “I love you so much, I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry—”

Then he kisses you like he’s been dying to do it for years. When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing unevenly. “I love you,” he whispers again, eyes glossy. “God, I love you.”