mica

Standing next to Camille always felt like existing in two different worlds at once.

She grew tall quickly, with long legs, sharp shoulders, and blonde hair that caught the sun without effort. By the time you were older, people noticed her before she even spoke. When she did, her words were dry, cutting, and unapologetic. Sarcasm came naturally to her. Teachers let things slide. Boys laughed a little too eagerly. Girls whispered, part admiration and part fear.

Camille was obviously beautiful. The kind that didn’t need softness to be striking.

You were the opposite in nearly every way. Petite. Dark-haired. Rounded edges where she had sharp ones. You moved quietly through rooms, smiled instead of smirked, and listened more than you spoke. People described you as “sweet,” as if that was the whole of you. You were easier to overlook, easier to underestimate.

But somehow, it worked.

Camille stood in front of you without thinking. You steadied her without saying a word. Where she was blunt, you were gentle. Where she burned hot, you softened the fallout. You didn’t compete. You balanced.

Everyone saw how different you were.

What they didn’t see was how perfectly it fit.

College pulled you in different directions, but it never really pulled you apart.

Camille left first, chasing something bigger and louder. You stayed closer to home. Calls took the place of hallway conversations, and texts filled the gaps between classes and late nights. She always had a new name, a new story: someone intense, someone wrong, someone fun for exactly as long as it lasted. You listened, laughed, and learned her patterns by heart.

You had one boy. Just one. You loved him carefully, quietly, the way you loved everything. When it ended—sudden and messy—you called her in the middle of the night, voice breaking as you cried into the phone.

Camille listened. She always did.

“He’s not it,” she said, blunt but steady. “You’ll survive this. And you’ll find someone better.”

You believed her because she sounded certain, even when you weren’t.

Time passed. Degrees were earned. Suitcases were packed again. Eventually, somehow, you both ended up back in Sydney—older, changed, but still tethered by history. Same city. Same friendship.

Different lives, waiting to collide.

James came into your life quietly, the way most important things always seemed to. One minute he was just the guy from IT who fixed your computer twice in the same week, joking about how you were single-handedly keeping his department employed. The next, he was walking you to your car after work, making you laugh so hard your stomach hurt. He was handsome in an effortless way, confident without being loud, quick with charm. Dating him felt easy. Safe. He remembered your coffee order, kissed your cheek in public, and told everyone how lucky he was. You thought, this is it—this is what love looks like.

Camille met Chan not long after. When she mentioned him, you expected someone sharp-edged, someone who could keep up with her bite. Instead, you met warmth. Chan smiled with his whole face, laughed easily, and asked thoughtful questions. He listened—really listened—to Camille, never talked over her, never seemed intimidated by her bluntness. He worked hard too: a high school PE teacher who stayed late for his students, a swimming coach who showed up early and left tired, smelling faintly of chlorine and sunscreen.

He was the opposite of Camille in every way—and somehow perfect for her.

You approved immediately. You could see it in the way he treated people. Kind. Gentle. Steady. The type of man who chooses to be good every day.

And for the first time in a long while, everything felt aligned.

The apartment is in that stage of chaos that feels productive but probably isn’t. You wipe down a counter that’s already clean while James vacuums the same patch of carpet for the third time.

“They’ve been here a million times,” you say, watching him adjust the vacuum angle like it’s a surgical procedure. “Chan does not care if there’s a crumb.”

“I care,” James replies, serious. “What if he judges us silently?”

You snort. “Chris? The man who once ate pasta straight out of a takeaway container while standing over the sink?”

James pauses. “Fair. But Camille will judge us.”

“As she should,” you say, reaching for a dish towel. “It fuels her.”

Dinner nights with them are routine now. Easy. Comfortable. A rotation between apartments like an unspoken custody agreement.

Last time it was their place. Camille’s candles everywhere, Chris insisting he didn’t mean to overcook the chicken, only for it to be perfect.

Tonight, it’s your turn.

“One year together,” James says casually, unplugging the vacuum. “Feels longer.”

“A year and a half for us. Which means we’re winning,” you say playfully.

He grins at you. “Obviously.”

You check the oven, stir the sauce, and mentally run through everything that could go wrong. But nothing ever does. That’s the thing. This is just dinner with friends, with boyfriends—people who fit neatly into your life.

There’s a knock at the door.

Right on time.

You smile before you even open it, swinging the door open before the second knock can land.

Chris is already smiling, like he’s been mid-laugh the whole walk up. “Hey!” he says brightly, stepping forward with open arms. He smells like his cologne and outside air, and he squeezes you tight, lifting you just a fraction off the ground like he can’t help himself.

“Hi, Chris,” you laugh, muffled into his shoulder. “You’re going to dislocate me one day.”

“But worth it,” he says easily, finally setting you down.

Camille follows right behind him, arms already raised in mock obligation. “Alright, alright,” she sighs, rolling her eyes as she leans in. Her hug is quick, familiar—one arm, a brief squeeze, a pat on your back like you’re teammates who’ve done this a thousand times. “House still standing. Impressive.”

“You say that every time,” you reply, grinning.

“And every time I’m surprised,” she shoots back, slipping past you and kicking her shoes off without asking.

James appears at your side, greeting Chris with a clap on the shoulder that turns into a half-hug, half-wrestle. “Mate,” James says. “Good to see you.”

Chris laughs, easy and warm. “You too. I brought wine again. Camille said not to, but I don’t listen to her.”

“He never listens to me,” Camille says from the couch, already sitting. “That’s his charm.”

You close the door, watching them settle in like they belong there—because they do. Chris wanders toward the kitchen, peering into pots, offering unsolicited help. Camille comments on your throw pillows with dry approval. The room fills with noise, comfort, and familiarity.

It’s just another dinner night. Normal. Easy.

Dinner melts into that perfect middle space where plates are half-empty, glasses keep refilling themselves, and no one remembers who started which story.

Camille is sprawled back in her chair, wine glass permanently attached to her hand. “I’m just saying,” she declares, pointing vaguely at James, “if your IT department collapses when you take a day off, that’s not job security. That’s poor planning.”

James laughs, already flushed, beer in hand. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Camille.”

“I’m not jealous,” she says instantly. “I just hate computers.”

Chris snorts from beside her, reaching out to gently take her glass before she can refill it again. “You said that three glasses ago.”

“And I meant it more every time,” she replies, grabbing it back anyway.

You’re curled comfortably in your chair, sipping slowly, warmth buzzing pleasantly through your chest but never too much. Just enough. Chris sticks to water and the occasional soft drink, content and relaxed, one hand on the table, the other steadying Camille when she leans too far.

“I’m driving,” he reminds her gently.

“Yes, Dad,” she says, but there’s no bite in it.

You catch Chris’s eye across the table as another burst of laughter fades. He smiles at you, easy and bright and familiar, and something about the calm in his expression makes you smile back.

James launches into a story about a printer malfunction that somehow ends with Camille wheezing with laughter and accusing him of making it up. The room is loud, warm, alive.

You lean back, content, tipsy enough to feel floaty, grounded enough to feel safe.

It’s one of those nights you wish you could bottle.

James pushes his chair back with a groan. “Bathroom break before I explode,” he announces, already weaving slightly as he heads down the hall toward your room. “If I’m not back in five minutes, I’ve fallen in.”

“Tragic,” Camille says, standing too. “I’m not sharing a bathroom with that energy.” She points at him, then at you. “Tell him not to die in there.” With that, she disappears into the guest bathroom, door shutting with more force than necessary.

You glance at Chris. He’s already looking at you, elbows on the table, chin resting on his hands like this is exactly where he wants to be.

“Guess it’s just us,” you say lightly, lifting your glass.

“Yeah,” he replies, smiling. “They’ll be gone long enough to start a conspiracy.”

You laugh. It comes easily. It always does with him.

He reaches for the serving spoon, scraping the last bit of food onto your plate without asking. “You barely ate,” he says gently.

“I ate,” you protest. “I drank more.”

He nods, approving. “Balanced.”

There’s no awkward shifting, no scrambling for conversation. You talk about nothing—about his students, about a kid who keeps pretending to drown during swim drills, about how Camille definitely exaggerated her tolerance for wine. You tease him about being the responsible one. He shrugs, self-deprecating, charming.

Being alone with Chris feels the same as being in the group. Safe. Familiar. Like sitting next to someone you trust completely.

You don’t even notice how easy it is until the laughter starts again down the hall.

James comes back first, announcing himself before you even see him. “Okay, verdict. Our bathroom mirror is aggressively honest,” he says, rubbing his face as he steps into the dining room.

A second later, Camille appears beside him, laughing a little too hard at something you didn’t hear. She stumbles, and James’s hands go to her waist automatically, steadying her like it’s second nature.

“There we go,” he says, still smiling. “Careful, lightweight.”

“Rude,” Camille replies, but she doesn’t move away right away. She stays there a beat longer than necessary, leaning into him as if gravity has suddenly gotten personal.

You feel it before you really see it: the slightest hitch in your chest. Across the table, Chris’s smile falters for half a second too. Just a flicker. Quick enough to miss if you weren’t already watching him.

They separate. Camille drops back into her chair, James grabbing his beer as if nothing happened.

You glance at Chris. He lifts his eyebrows a fraction, tilts his head, a silent they’re drunk written all over his face.

You nod, mirroring it. Drunk. That’s all. They’re friends. James is a friendly drunk. Camille leans on people when she’s tipsy—normal things. Harmless things.

Conversation slides right back into place, laughter filling the space again. You tell yourself the moment didn’t mean anything.

Still, when Chris reaches for his water, his fingers curl tighter around the glass.

And you don’t know why you notice that, too.

By the time the night winds down, Camille is entirely gone.

“I’m fine,” she insists, swaying slightly as she stands, one shoe already abandoned somewhere near the couch. Chris has one arm loosely around her shoulders, the other collecting her bag, her keys, her dignity.

“You’re great,” he says patiently. “You’re also horizontal-adjacent.”

She laughs, loud and unfiltered, then turns to you with sudden seriousness. “I love you,” she declares, cupping your face. Before you can react, she leans in and plants a sloppy kiss near the corner of your mouth.

“Okay—yep—love you too,” you laugh, gently guiding her back. “That’s enough affection for one evening.”

Chris looks mortified. “I’m so sorry,” he says immediately. “She does this when she’s drunk. Last week, she tried to kiss the barista.”

“It was cute,” you say, waving it off. “Mostly.”

He exhales, relieved, then glances at the table, the dishes. “I can help clean up. I really don’t mind.”

You shake your head. “Absolutely not. You’re driving. And you’re already carrying a human liability.”

“As always,” he says fondly, adjusting his grip on Camille as she mumbles something unintelligible.

At the door, he pauses. “Thank you. For tonight. For everything.”

“Get her home safe,” you reply. “That’s thanks enough.”

Once the door closes, the apartment goes quiet again. You turn toward the bedroom and find James already sprawled across the bed, fully dressed, shoes kicked off, snoring softly like dinner never happened.

You smile, shaking your head.

Just another night. Normal. Easy.

You turn off the lights.

It doesn’t happen all at once. That’s the thing. It slips in quietly, disguised as nothing.

James starts taking his phone with him everywhere. Bathroom. Kitchen. Balcony. You notice the lock first—the screen no longer lights up with messages when it’s on the table, just a blank, guarded surface. When you tease him about it, he laughs it off.

“Work stuff,” he says. “You know how it is.”

You do. So you nod.

Calls start coming in at odd hours. He answers them with a glance at you first, then steps into the hall, lowering his voice. Sometimes the balcony door slides shut behind him, cutting his words off. When he comes back in, he’s the same: same smile, same kiss to your forehead. But something is off.

Affection becomes subtle in its absence. He still holds your hand, but lets go sooner. Still kisses you goodnight, but turns over faster. He listens when you talk, just not all the way. Like part of him is somewhere else, checking a clock you can’t see.

You tell yourself it’s stress, work, routine. A year and a half settling into something quieter. Love doesn’t always have to be loud.

Still, some nights, you lie awake while he sleeps beside you, phone face-down on the bedside table, and you wonder when exactly nothing started feeling like something.

It’s just after your guys’ second anniversary when things come to a head.

You’re halfway through the movie—some forgettable comedy you’ve already lost the plot to—when James’s phone lights up on the coffee table.

He glances at it once. Too quick. Then he’s already reaching for it.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, standing.

“Jamie,” you say, gentle at first. “Who is it?”

He doesn’t look at you. “No one. Work.”

You sit up. “At nine at night?”

He exhales like you’ve inconvenienced him. “I just need to take it.”

You reach out, fingers brushing his wrist before he can step away. He stops and finally looks at you.

“Why do you keep leaving the room?” you ask. Your voice is calm, but your chest is tight. “Why can’t you just answer it here?”

“It’s nothing,” he insists. “You’re reading into it.”

“Then stay.”

Silence stretches. The phone keeps buzzing in his hand.

“Y/N,” he says, exasperated.

That’s when it snaps.

“So there is someone,” you say, hurt bleeding through despite your effort to stay steady. “You lock your phone. You disappear. You don’t touch me like you used to. And now you won’t even say her name.”

He scoffs. “You’re being paranoid.”

“Don’t do that,” you whisper. “Don’t make me feel crazy for noticing.”

The phone stops ringing. He looks relieved.

“I can’t do this right now,” he says, already turning away.

You follow him down the hall before you can talk yourself out of it.

“James,” you say, sharper now. “Turn around.”

He does, arms crossed, expression already tired—like you’re the problem that needs managing.

The bedroom light is still off, city glow slipping in through the curtains.

“Are you cheating on me?” you ask. The words shake on the way out, but they land between you, heavy and real.

His face changes instantly. Not guilt. Hurt. Offense. He laughs softly, incredulous. “What? No. Of course not.”

“Then explain everything,” you say. “The phone. The calls. The distance.”

He steps closer, voice lowering. “I’m stressed. I didn’t want to bring it home. I didn’t want to worry you.” His hands come up, gentle, familiar, cupping your arms. “I love you. You know that.”

Your chest tightens. You want to believe him. You do believe him.

“You really think I’d do that to you?” he asks quietly. “After everything?”

Tears sting your eyes. He wipes one away with his thumb, slow and tender. He kisses your forehead, then your cheek. You sag into him, relief flooding in where fear had been.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He smiles, victorious but warm, pulling you closer. “Come here,” he murmurs, kissing you again, deeper this time—enough to blur the edges of doubt, enough to make you forget why you followed him in the first place.

You let him.

He kisses you like he used to—like he still loves you, like there’s no one else. You melt into it, desperate for reassurance, for the old comfort that’s been slipping away. His hands are in your hair, at your waist; everything feels right again.

He kisses along your neck, hands roaming your body.

You gasp as his palm slides between your legs.

You whimper softly at the touch, your hips pressing forward instinctively. He groans against your throat, fingers moving in slow circles through your clothes. The sensation is familiar, comforting—proof that he’s still yours.

It doesn’t stick.

James starts coming home later. Not drastically, but late enough to have excuses ready. Work drinks. Overtime. A mate who needed help. His phone never leaves his hand now. If you reach for it, even absentmindedly, his body tenses before his face does.

And then one night, he forgets to turn the sound off.

You’re folding laundry when his phone lights up on the bed. A message preview flashes before the screen locks again.

Can’t stop thinking about you.

Your stomach drops.

You don’t mean to snoop. You really don’t. But your hands are already shaking as you pick it up, heart pounding loud enough to drown out reason. The passcode hasn’t changed yet. Your thumb knows the pattern like muscle memory.

It’s on some random messaging app. Not the one programmed into the phone.

The messages load.

It’s not work. It’s not a stranger.

It’s Camille.

Your vision blurs as you scroll—inside jokes, late-night plans, memories you were never meant to see. Dates disguised as errands. Complaints about you. About Chris.

Pictures.

Selfies.

Nudes.

Your chest caves in.

All those nights. The dinners. Her leaning into him. Them laughing a little too loudly at each other’s stories. The inside jokes. His hands on her waist. Chris’ flicker of hesitation. Your own instinct screaming while you told yourself you were paranoid.

He lied.

No, he didn’t just lie—he looked you in the eyes and convinced you you were wrong. Made you apologize. Touched you like reassurance while he was already choosing someone else.

And her.

The girl who protected you. The girl you loved like family.

You sit on the edge of the bed, phone heavy in your hands, realizing the betrayal didn’t come from one direction. No, it came from both sides.

The bathroom door opens.

James freezes in the doorway the moment he sees his phone hit the mattress, toothbrush still in his mouth.

It bounces once. Lands screen-up. Messages still open. Exposed.

For half a second, the room is silent.

“Explain,” you say. Your voice doesn’t sound like yours.

He looks between you and the phone, jaw tightening, already calculating. He throws his toothbrush aside. “Why were you on my phone?”

You laugh—short, broken. “Don’t. Don’t do that. Not now.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once like he’s trying to find the right angle, the right tone. “It’s not what it looks like.”

You gesture wildly at the bed. “It’s exactly what it looks like. Say it. Say her name.”

He doesn’t answer immediately. That’s all it takes.

“Camille,” you whisper. Saying it hurts more than you expect. “It’s Camille.”

His shoulders drop. Not in guilt, but in resignation.

Seconds that feel like hours pass by.

“It started six months ago,” he says finally. “It was a mistake. One night. It shouldn’t have happened.”

“But it did,” you say. Your hands are shaking now. “And then what?”

“And then it just…kept happening,” he admits. “It turned into more.”

“How long?” You ask, dreading the answer.

He licks his bottom lip before biting it. “Six months.”

Six months.

You feel sick. Six months of dinners. Of smiles. Of lying to your face. Six months of him touching you after touching her. Of her hugging you like nothing was wrong.

“And you stood there,” you say quietly, “and told me I was paranoid.”

He steps toward you. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You manipulated me,” you snap. “You made me doubt myself.”

He opens his mouth to argue—and then you think of Chris.

Chris, steady and kind. Chris, holding her up when she drank too much. Holding her hair back. Loving her. Chris, who trusted both of them completely.

Your anger sharpens into something colder.

“What about him?” you ask. “What about Chris?”

James looks away.

And somehow, that hurts almost as much as everything else.

Something inside you goes still.

“Get out,” you say.

James blinks, like he didn’t hear you right. “What?”

“Get. Out.” Your voice is steadier than you feel. “I don’t want you here.”

He steps closer instead. Of course he does. Hands up, soft voice, the same one he used in the bedroom when he needed you to believe him. “We can talk about this. I messed up, okay? I’m sorry. I love you.”

You laugh, and this time it’s sharp. “You don’t get to say that anymore.”

“It didn’t mean anything at first,” he insists. “I swear. It was a mistake. I chose you—”

“You chose convenience,” you cut in. “You chose to lie. You chose to let me apologize for your guilt.”

He reaches for you, and you step back, disgust curling in your stomach. “Don’t touch me.”

That finally lands. He looks at you like he’s losing something real, like it’s only now occurring to him that this isn’t a fight he can smooth over.

“Please,” he says quietly. “Don’t do this.”

If he wasn’t leaving, you were.

You grab your keys from the dresser, hands trembling but determined. “You already did this. Six months ago.”

He watches you walk past him, out of the bedroom, out of the apartment you thought was safe. He calls your name once. You don’t turn around.

The night air hits your face as you lock the door behind you. You sit in your car for a second, heart pounding, vision blurry.

Camille and Chris’s address is muscle memory.

And as you pull out of the driveway, one thought stays with you—unmistakable, painful, unavoidable.

Chris deserves to know.

You drive with your hands clenched tight on the steering wheel, heart thumping so hard it echoes in your ears. The streets blur by, lights too bright, shadows too dark. You're running on instinct, driven by the need to protect someone you care about from the same betrayal that just shattered you.

The streets blur as you drive.

You don’t remember leaving your neighborhood. Don’t remember turning onto the main road. Your hands grip the steering wheel so tight your knuckles ache, speedometer climbing higher than you should let it. Red lights feel optional. Common sense feels irrelevant. There’s a pressure in your chest like if you slow down, you’ll shatter completely.

James’s laugh fills your head—lazy mornings, his arm heavy around your waist, the way you trusted him without question. The way you apologized to him. The way he touched you while knowing.

Then Camille—thirteen years old, standing in front of you like a shield. College phone calls. Her blunt encouragement. Her hugging you, patting your back, kissing your cheek. Her celebrating your second anniversary with you like nothing was wrong, like she hadn’t been taking pieces of your life for six months.

Your vision blurs. You wipe at your eyes angrily, but it doesn’t help. Tears keep coming, hot and uncontrollable, your chest hitching as sobs rip out of you without permission. You choke on them, gasping, pressing your forehead briefly to the steering wheel at a red light before slamming your palm against it.

“Why,” you whisper to no one. “Why both of you?”

Every mile closer feels heavier. Chris’s face flashes in your mind—kind, open, trusting. The way he smiled at you across the table. The way he continuously showed up for everyone.

Your stomach twists painfully.

By the time you pull onto their street, your body is shaking. You barely park properly. You cut the engine and sit there for a second, forehead against the steering wheel, crying so hard it hurts, breaths breaking apart.

Everything you trusted is gone.

You wipe your face with trembling hands, force yourself out of the car, and walk toward their building like you’re walking into a storm. Knowing there’s no turning back now.

You stumble up the steps to their apartment complex, hugging your arms around yourself like you can hold the pieces together. The night air is cool against your tear-streaked cheeks. You can hear the distant hum of the city, but here it's quiet—too quiet. Your shoes echo loudly as you climb the stairs. You reach their floor and pause outside their door, hand shaking as you lift it to knock.

Camille opens the door with a smile already in place.

“Hey—?” she starts, confused, eyes flicking over your face. “What’s wrong?”

You don’t answer. You don’t trust your voice. You step past her instead, shoulder brushing hers as you move into the apartment like you belong there—like you always have.

“Whoa,” she says, turning. “Did something happen?”

Chris looks up from the couch, remote in hand. He brightens instantly when he sees you, before falling into concern. “Hey,” he says gently, standing. “You okay? Do you want some water? We’ve got leftovers if you’re hungry—”

You stop in the middle of the living room, chest tight, heart hammering so hard you swear they can hear it. He looks so normal. So kind. Barefoot, soft jumper, hair a little messy like he’s already winding down for the night.

“I need to talk to Camille,” you say. Your voice cracks anyway. “Alone.”

Chris nods immediately. “Yeah. Of course.” He glances at Camille, then back at you. “Take the room. I’ll—uh—I’ll be here.”

Camille watches you closely now, something wary slipping into her expression. “Okay,” she says slowly. “What’s going on?”

You don’t answer. Just turn and walk toward the bedroom, every step feeling unreal, like you’re moving underwater. After a beat, Camille follows, closing the door behind her.

The click of it shutting sounds final.

You turn to face her, tears already spilling again, hands shaking at your sides.

And she still has no idea what’s coming.

Camille watches you carefully, concern etched into every line of her face. She's never seen you like this. Only heard it over the phone—tears streaming, hands trembling, chest heaving with silent sobs. She steps closer, reaching out instinctively, but hesitates. “Talk to me,” she says softly. “Whatever it is, just tell me.”

You don’t ease into it.

Your hands are shaking too badly for that.

“How could you?” you ask.

Camille frowns, arms crossing automatically. Defensive. “What are you talking about?”

You laugh, wet and broken. “Don’t do that. Don’t make me say it for you.”

Her eyes flick away for half a second. That’s all it takes.

“How could you sleep with him?” you whisper.

The color drains from her face. Not confusion. Not shock.

Recognition.

She exhales slowly, like she’s been holding her breath for months. “You went through his phone.”

It feels like a slap. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

She rubs her forehead, pacing once. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

“You didn’t want me to find out at all,” you choke out.

Her jaw tightens.

The room seems to tilt.

“You stood in my home. You hugged me. You looked me in the eyes while you fucked my boyfriend for six months.”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” she says quickly. “It was one night. You and Chris were both busy—”

“So you decided to take what was mine?” Your voice rises despite yourself. “Both of you?”

She snaps back, sharp. “Don’t act like James is some prize I stole. He came onto me.”

You laugh again, hysterical this time. “Congratulations. You still said yes.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating.

“You were my family,” you say quietly. “You protected me. You stood up for me. And you did this anyway.”

Her eyes glisten, but her voice stays flat. “I didn’t plan to fall for him.”

That completely breaks something inside you.

“You fell for him?” you whisper. “While I was sleeping next to him? While Chris was trusting you?”

At the mention of Chris, her face cracks—just a little.

“He doesn’t know,” she says. “I swear. I was going to end it.”

“You already ended something,” you say. “You ended us.”

Your legs feel weak. You step back, wiping your face angrily. “I came here for him. Because he deserves the truth.”

Camille’s head snaps up. “Don’t.”

“You don’t get to protect him now,” you say coldly. “You should’ve thought of that before.”

You reach for the door, hand on the knob, heart hammering so hard it hurts.

Behind you, Camille’s voice breaks for the first time. “Please. Don’t ruin everything.”

You turn, tears streaming, fury burning hot and clean.

“You already did.”

Camille moves fast.

Her hand clamps around your wrist just as you reach for the door. “Wait,” she pleads, voice cracking now, panic bleeding through the sharp edges she usually hides behind. “Please. Just—just wait.”

“Let go of me,” you say, pulling back.

She doesn’t.

“I can fix this,” she says desperately. “I’ll end it. Tonight. I swear. You don’t have to say anything—Chris can’t know like this, it would destroy him.”

“You should’ve thought about that,” you snap, yanking your arm free.

You get the door open an inch before she grabs you again, this time wrapping both hands around your forearm, nails digging in. “You can’t,” she says, breath uneven, eyes wild. “Please. You owe me this. After everything I’ve done for you.”

That makes you stop cold.

“You don’t get to say that,” you whisper, shaking with rage. “You don’t get to touch me.”

You shove her. Hard.

She stumbles back—but then she lunges, panic overtaking reason, arms wrapping around your shoulders from behind, trying to physically pull you away from the door.

“No,” she sobs. “No, no, no—don’t ruin my life—”

“Get off me!” you scream.

The sound bursts out of you, loud and raw, echoing down the hallway.

There’s a sudden crash in the living room. Footsteps.

“Hey—what’s going on?” Chris calls out, alarmed, already moving toward the bedroom.

Camille freezes behind you, breath hitching, realizing too late what she’s done.

And you don’t stop shaking as the door swings open.

Chris stands in the doorway, eyes darting between the two of you—your tear-streaked face, Camille frozen behind you like she’s been caught mid-crime.

“What the hell is going on?” he asks, voice calm but tight. Concern first. Always concern.

You step away from Camille, turning to face her fully. Your hands are shaking, your chest burning. “Tell him,” you say.

She swallows hard. “I—I don’t know what she thinks—”

“Tell. Him.” Your voice cracks, louder now.

Chris looks at Camille, confused, a little uneasy. “Camille?”

She shakes her head quickly, tears spilling now, hands twisting together. “It’s not—Chris, it’s not like that. It was a mistake. One stupid night and it just—got messy.”

You laugh, sharp and broken. “You’re lying again.”

Camille turns on you, frantic. “I’m trying to explain!”

“No, you’re trying to minimize,” you scream. “Say it. Say his name. Say how long.”

Chris’s face drains of color. “Say what?” he asks quietly.

Camille’s mouth opens. Closes. She looks at him like she’s drowning. “I—I slept with James,” she rushes out. “Once. It didn’t mean anything. We were drunk and—”

“Six months,” you cut in, voice steady in a way that surprises even you. “They’ve been sleeping together for six months.”

Chris stares at you. Then at her.

“What?” he whispers.

“She’s been cheating on you,” you say bluntly. Every word feels like glass. “With my boyfriend. For half a year. They lied to us. Both of us.”

Camille sobs now, shaking her head. “Chris, please, it wasn’t supposed to—”

He steps back like she’s struck him.

Six months replay behind his eyes—you can see it. Dinners. Laughing. Trust.

“You let me stand there,” he says quietly. “You let me be friends with him.”

She reaches for him. “I love you.”

He flinches away.

The room is silent except for her crying and your own unsteady breathing.

Nothing can be fixed now.

Chris doesn’t say anything at first.

He just stands there, staring at the floor like it might give him answers if he looks hard enough. His hands curl slowly into fists, then loosen again.

“I need air,” he says finally. His voice is quiet. Strained. “I can’t—” He swallows. “I can’t be here right now.”

He grabs his keys from the dresser, his hands shaking.

Camille panics instantly. “Chris, wait—please, don’t do this. We can talk about it. She didn’t have to come here like this, she didn’t have to—”

He doesn’t even look at her. The door shuts behind him with a soft, devastating click.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Camille turns on you like a cornered animal. “You ruined everything,” she spits, tears streaking her face. “If you’d just kept your mouth shut—”

You stare at her, exhausted and hollow, furious in a way that feels strangely calm.

“No,” you say. “You did.”

“I was going to fix it. You didn’t give me a chance.”

“You had six months,” you reply coldly. “Six months of chances. You just didn’t think you’d face consequences.”

She opens her mouth again, desperate, angry, searching for something to hurt you with—but you’re already done listening.

“You don’t get to be the victim,” you say. “Not after lying to me. Not after putting your hands on me to protect yourself. And definitely not after blaming me for telling the truth.”

You grab your jacket, your hands finally steady.

“I loved you,” you add quietly. “But I won’t carry your guilt for you.”

You walk past her, out the door, into the night air that feels sharp and real against your skin.

Behind you, Camille collapses into sobs.

Ahead of you, somewhere out there, Chris is alone with the truth.

But one thought keeps racing through your head.

Did you do the right thing?

James moves out in pieces.

A box of clothes by the door. A laptop charger forgotten, then retrieved. He avoids your eyes, moves quietly, as if that might soften the damage. You don’t help him pack. You don’t cry while he’s there. You sit on the couch and let the silence do the work.

The texts start almost immediately.

I’m so sorry.

I made a mistake.

Can we talk? Please.

You know I love you.

You don’t answer any of them.

Because love doesn’t lie to your face. Love doesn’t manipulate you into apologizing for instincts that were right.

You block his number.

Camille doesn’t reach out. Not an apology. Not an explanation. The friendship that spanned years ends without ceremony—just absence. Empty space where she used to be. You grieve it quietly, privately, the way you always grieve.

Days pass. Then weeks.

And then, one afternoon, your phone buzzes with a name you haven’t seen since that night.

Chris: Hey. I hope this isn’t weird. I was wondering if you’d want to get coffee sometime. Just to talk.

You stare at the screen for a long moment, heart tightening—not with fear, but something softer. Something honest.

You type back before you can overthink it.

You: Yeah. I’d like that.

The café smells like burnt espresso and sugar, loud in that comforting, familiar way. You spot Chris immediately—sitting by the window, hands wrapped around a mug he hasn’t touched yet.

He looks…different.

A little thinner. Tired around the eyes. Like sleep hasn’t been easy. But when he sees you, his face lights up so fast it almost hurts to witness. Like the room shifts just for you.

You slow down, suddenly unsure. Do you hug him? Do you wave? Do you pretend you’re not carrying the weight of the same betrayal?

You don’t get to decide.

He stands the second you’re close enough and pulls you into a hug like it’s instinct—arms firm, familiar, grounding. Like he’s been holding it in and finally gets to exhale.

“Hey,” he says softly into your hair.

You hug him back before your brain can interfere, fingers curling into the fabric of his jumper. He smells the same—clean, faint coffee, something comforting and steady. You hadn’t realized how much you missed this until now.

When he pulls back, his hands linger for half a second too long on your arms, like he’s checking that you’re real. “You look good,” he says, tentative. Hopeful.

“So do you,” you reply, and it’s only half a lie.

He smiles, small but genuine, eyes crinkling the way they always did. “I’m really glad you came.”

“Me too,” you say, surprised by how true it feels.

For the first time since everything fell apart, the ache in your chest eases, even if just a little.

You sit across from each other with coffee between you, steam curling up like it’s trying to soften the moment.

“So,” Chris says, wrapping both hands around his mug. “How’ve you been… really?”

You shrug, stirring your drink even though it doesn’t need it. “Getting used to the quiet. Turns out heartbreak is very loud at first.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. That tracks.”

There’s a pause. It’s not uncomfortable, just heavy.

“Have you heard from Camille?” you ask gently.

His jaw tightens for a second before he shakes his head. “No. And I don’t think I want to.” He forces a small smile. “I’m taking a break from dating. From everything, really. Thought my judgment was better than that.”

You nod. “Same. James tried to ‘fix things.’” You roll your eyes. “Apparently cheating comes with a repair manual.”

Chris snorts, nearly choking on his coffee. “They never read the instructions, though.”

You laugh despite yourself, the sound surprising and welcome. He relaxes a little when he hears it, shoulders easing like that was the goal all along.

“I’m focusing on work. Kids. Swimming. Trying not to overthink every red flag I missed.”

“Me too,” you say softly. “I think I need to be alone for a while.”

He nods, sincere. “Probably a good call.”

Then, lighter: “Plus, dating sounds exhausting. I can barely keep up with teenagers.”

You smile, warmth growing where sadness still lingers.

Time slips by without either of you noticing. Your coffee goes cold, then disappears, replaced by an easy rhythm of conversation that feels strangely familiar—like no time has passed at all.

Chris glances at his watch and winces. “I’ve gotta head out soon. Early swim practice.” He sighs.

You smile, gathering your bag. “I should go too. Work waits for no emotional breakdowns.”

He walks you toward the door, hands shoved into his pockets, suddenly quieter. Then, hesitant, “Hey…do you think we could do this again?”

You pause, looking at him.

“Not—” he rushes, then stops himself, smiling sheepishly. “Just this. Coffee. Talking. I…I missed you.”

Your chest tightens, but it’s gentle this time. Honest.

“Being your friend,” he continues softly, “was kind of the only good thing that came out of…all of that.”

You nod, swallowing. “I’d like that. I missed you, too.”

His smile is slow, genuine. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You step outside together, sunlight catching on the windows, the world moving on around you. He gives you a small wave as you head in opposite directions—no rush, no promises, just something steady forming in the space between you.

For the first time in a long while, you don’t feel alone walking away.

It becomes routine without either of you ever naming it.

Coffee once turns into coffee three times a week—early mornings before his swim practices, late afternoons when your workday drains you dry. You learn his usual order before he finishes saying it. He learns exactly how much milk you like without asking. Sometimes you talk about everything. Sometimes you sit in comfortable silence, legs brushing under the table, phones forgotten.

Then it stretches beyond cafés.

He invites you over to his new flat one evening, apologetic about the boxes still stacked against the walls like they’re permanent residents. “I swear I’m not a minimalist,” he jokes. “I just…don’t know where things go.”

So you help.

You sit on the floor surrounded by throw pillows that don’t match yet, debating where the couch should face. You tease him about his tragic lack of wall art. He lets you choose plants because “you seem like someone who knows which ones won’t die.”

You hang fairy lights. You build furniture badly and laugh harder. He cooks while you sit on the counter, swinging your legs, tasting things straight from the pan.

Sometimes it’s your place instead—him fixing the wobbly chair James never bothered with, rolling his eyes playfully when you thank him too much. Movie nights that end with you both half-asleep on opposite ends of the couch. No pressure. No lines crossed.

Just ease.

Somewhere between coffee cups and unpacked boxes, your friendship settles into something deeper. It’s still gentle, still safe, but it grows roots without asking permission.

And neither of you stops it.

A few months in, it shifts quietly, the way everything between you and Chris always seems to.

His flat is finished now. Lived-in. Plants you picked thriving by the windows, framed photos finally on the walls. You’re curled up on the couch with takeaway, legs tucked under you, some low-stakes show playing in the background that neither of you is really watching.

“So,” he says casually, eyes still on the screen, “one of the new teachers asked me out today.”

Your chest tightens before your brain can catch up. You keep your tone light. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he continues, scratching the back of his neck. “She’s nice. Teaches English. But I told her I wasn’t ready.”

You nod, forcing a smile that feels a second too slow. “Good for you.”

He glances at you then, searching, but you look away under the excuse of grabbing a chip. Inside, something unpleasant blooms sharp and unfamiliar. Jealousy. You hate it instantly.

Because you’re not dating. Because you don’t get a claim. Because you’re just his friend.

Still, the thought of someone else sitting here, laughing with him, knowing the sound of his laugh up close—it settles heavy in your chest. Chris clears his throat, changing the subject, unaware of the quiet storm he’s stirred.

You tell yourself it means nothing.

But you don’t quite believe it anymore.

You laugh when the show throws out a bad joke, but your mind is nowhere near the screen.

Why did that bother me?

The question loops in your head, quiet but persistent. You tell yourself it’s a protective instinct. Habit. Shared history. Trauma-bond nonsense that people warn you about in articles you read at three in the morning. Of course you’d feel strange about him dating—it would change things. You’d lose this: the coffee, the couch, the safety of knowing exactly where you stand.

That’s all it is. Right?

Except the feeling doesn’t feel like fear. It feels like loss. The idea of someone else learning the small things about him before you do makes your chest ache in a way that feels personal.

Is this even allowed?

You went through hell together. Betrayal that tied you in knots you never asked for. Maybe this closeness is just survival. Two people clinging to something steady after everything else burned down. You don’t want to mistake comfort for love. You don’t want to hurt him. You don’t want to be selfish.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye—relaxed, open, laughing softly at the TV. Still kind. Still gentle. Still choosing you, even when he doesn’t have to.

The thought lands heavier than it should.

I don’t want to lose him.

But maybe you already have more than a friend should.

Chris tells himself it’s nothing.

That’s what he’s been good at lately: naming feelings after they’ve already taken root, convincing himself they’re harmless until they aren’t.

He sits beside you on the couch, shoulder close but not touching, and tries to trace the line where friendship ends and something else begins. He wonders if there even is a clean line, or if it’s all blurred because of how you met again—because of hurt, because of shared wreckage.

Is this just comfort? he asks himself. Or am I lying the way I promised myself I wouldn’t anymore?

He’s always thought you were beautiful. Not the kind that stands out the moment you walk into a room. Not sharp or obvious like Camille was. Yours is quieter, softer, the kind that reveals itself in layers. He remembers noticing when you first met, how you were content to be in the background while Camille shone.

He liked that you were shy at first. That you listened more than you spoke. That when you did open up, there was playfulness there—quick smiles, dry humor that surprised him, laughter that felt earned. He liked your kindness most of all. The way it wasn’t performative—the way you chose it, again and again.

And the little things—God, the little things. Pastel sweaters. Ribbons that felt like a promise to your younger self. The way you made spaces softer just by existing in them.

He worries that wanting you is selfish. That maybe this closeness is just two wounded people leaning too hard on each other. He never wants to be the reason you hurt again. Never wants to cross a line that can’t be uncrossed.

But when you laugh beside him, easy and real, something warm settles in his chest.

Chris realizes the question isn’t when he started feeling this way. It’s whether he’s brave enough to admit he already has.

Work becomes manageable, but only with careful effort.

James is still there—unavoidable in the technical sense—but safely distant. A different department. Different floor. If your computer acts up, someone else shows up with a polite smile and a badge you don’t recognize. You’re grateful for that small mercy more than you admit.

Then the email lands in your inbox.

Subject: End of Quarter Party!

You stare at it longer than necessary. Open it. Skim the details. Drinks. Food. Music. Plus-ones encouraged.

Your stomach twists.

Going alone sounds miserable. Going and running into James sounds worse. You imagine him there—comfortable, charming, acting like he didn’t dismantle your life with a smile and a lie. You close the email, then reopen it.

Your thumb hovers over your phone before you even realize what you’re doing.

Chris comes to mind uninvited: coffee laughs, quiet nights on the couch, the way he always makes space for you without pushing. He’d be kind about it. He’d understand. He’d make it easier just by standing next to you.

You hesitate. Because asking him means admitting something—if not to him, then to yourself.

Still, the thought of walking into that room alone feels heavier than the risk.

You type his name into your messages and pause, heart beating a little too fast.

You stare at the screen for a full minute before typing anything.

You: Hey! Random question. 

You: My work is having an end-of-quarter party. Would you maybe want to come with me? Totally okay if not, I just don’t really want to go alone.

You read it three times. Too much? Too honest? You delete a word. Add another. Then, before you can overthink it into oblivion, you hit send.

The three little dots appear almost immediately.

Your stomach flips. You lock your phone. Unlock it. Pace two steps. Sit back down. The dots disappear. Reappear. You hold your breath like that might somehow influence the outcome.

Then his reply comes through.

Chris: Yeah, I’d love to. Thanks for asking me.

And then a second message.

Chris: Plus, I clean up pretty well for a PE teacher.

You laugh out loud, tension draining from your shoulders in one rush. Of course he’d make a joke. Of course he’d make it feel easy.

You smile as you type back.

You: Deal! But I’m warning you, office small talk is brutal.

Chris: I coach teenagers. I was built for survival.

You set your phone down, heart still beating fast, but lighter now.

Chris is halfway through setting up cones on the oval when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

He ignores it at first—muscle memory, habit drilled into him by years of whistles and schedules—but it buzzes again before he can blow the whistle. He checks it quickly, expecting a message from a student or the front office.

It’s a message from you.

He steps to the side, heart giving an unhelpful, very noticeable thump as he reads your text. A work party. End of quarter. Don’t want to go alone. Casual. Carefully worded in a way that tells him you do care, even if you’re trying not to show it.

He smiles before he can stop himself.

Of course you’re nervous, he thinks. You always are when something matters.

He doesn’t hesitate. Not really. The answer feels obvious—natural, like it’s always been his place to stand next to you when things feel hard.

He types back, leaning against the fence as students begin to trickle onto the field. He adds the joke almost automatically, because making you feel at ease has become second nature. Because he likes hearing you laugh, even if he can only imagine it right now.

He puts his phone away just as the bell rings and lifts his whistle to his lips.

For the rest of practice, he feels lighter.

The knock comes right on time.

You’re already nervous—hands smoothing down your dress for the fifth time, heart beating too fast for something that’s supposed to be casual. When you open the door, Chris is there, and for a split second, you forget how to breathe.

He’s in a black suit you’ve never seen before, tailored just enough to show off his broad shoulders and strong arms—a body you’ve only seen in soft jumpers and gym shorts. He looks clean-cut, grown, and confident. His hair is neatly styled, his jaw sharp, his eyes warm.

Then his gaze drops to you.

And he freezes.

“Oh,” he says, eloquent as ever.

You shift, suddenly self-conscious. The dress hugs you in ways you don’t usually allow. Waist defined, fabric flowing just enough to move with you. It’s still you. Just elevated.

“You look—” He clears his throat, laughs softly, like he’s embarrassed by himself. “You look beautiful.”

The word lands carefully, like he means it.

“Thanks,” you say, smiling. “You clean up pretty well yourself, coach.”

He grins, shaking his head. “This is going to sound dramatic, but I’m suddenly very aware of other people existing.”

You laugh, the tension easing as you lock up and step beside him. The Uber ride is easy. Knees brushing, shared jokes, the city lights sliding past the windows. There’s a buzz between you now, unmistakable.

The hall is already glowing when you arrive—music, chatter, lights reflecting off glasses. Chris offers his arm without thinking, and you take it just as naturally.

And neither of you misses the way it feels.

The night unfolds more easily than you expected.

Chris sticks close without hovering, a steady presence at your side as you weave through clusters of coworkers. You introduce him again and again—“This is Chris”—and every time, he offers the same warm smile, firm handshake, effortless charm. He laughs at the right moments, asks questions, and listens like he actually cares. People like him instantly.

“He’s lovely,” one of your coworkers murmurs when Chris steps away to grab drinks.

You smile, heat blooming in your cheeks. “Yeah. He is.”

He comes back with two glasses, leaning in to pass you one. “You doing okay?” he asks quietly. “You look amazing, by the way. I don’t think I’ve said that enough.”

“You’ve said it plenty,” you tease, but it still makes your stomach flutter.

Then the air shifts.

James appears like a bad memory made real. Too close, too familiar, wearing that same easy smile he used to weaponize. His eyes flick between you and Chris, lingering.

“Well,” he says lightly, passive-aggressive sweetness dripping from every word. “Didn’t expect to see you two here together.”

You stiffen.

Chris doesn’t.

He steps a little closer to you, not touching, but clearly present. Grounded and calm.

James arches a brow. “So… are you two a thing now?”

Chris meets his gaze without blinking. “That’s not your business.”

The smile slips off James’s face.

You exhale, realizing only then how tense you’d gone. Chris glances down at you, voice softening instantly. “You okay?”

You nod, heart pounding but steady.

James mutters something under his breath and disappears back into the crowd.

Chris stays right where he is.

Everything’s still light when you step outside. The music thudding faintly through the hall doors, cool night air cutting through the warmth of the party. Chris checks his phone.

“Uber’s two minutes away,” he says. “Perfect timing.”

You relax, shoulders dropping, laughing about something stupid he just said, when a voice cuts through the night.

“Oi.”

You freeze.

James staggers a few steps closer from the curb, drink still in hand, eyes glassy, jaw tight. He’s clearly had more than enough.

“So this is what you do now?” he slurs, looking straight at Chris. “Move in on other people’s girls?”

Chris straightens instantly, calm but solid. “Mate, pull your head in.”

James laughs harshly, turning his glare on you. “What, you gonna deny it? Showing up dressed like that with him?” His eyes rake over you. “Slut.”

The word hits like a slap.

Chris moves before you can react, stepping fully in front of you. “That’s enough,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “You don’t get to talk to her like that. Ever.”

James scoffs. “Look at you, playing hero. You reckon you’re better than me?”

“I know I am,” Chris snaps back. “Because I don’t cheat. I don’t lie. And I don’t abuse people when I’m pissed.”

“Yeah?” James sneers. “Give it time.”

Chris takes another step forward. “Walk away, mate. Now.”

James laughs, ugly and loud, like he thinks he’s found footing again.

“Look at you,” he sneers at Chris. “White knight act suits you, mate. Bet you’ve been waiting for your chance. Bet you’ve been circling her since day one.”

Chris doesn’t move back.

If anything, he steps closer—close enough that James has to tilt his head up to keep eye contact.

“You really want to do this?” Chris says quietly.

James scoffs. “You reckon you’re some hero? Stepping in like you’re better than me?”

Chris lets out a short, humorless laugh. “I don’t reckon it. I know it.”

James opens his mouth, but Chris cuts him off, voice still calm—deadly calm.

“You cheated on her,” he says flatly. “For six months. With her best friend. You lied to her face, gaslit her when she trusted her instincts, and then had the nerve to call her names when she moved on.”

James bristles. “She wasn’t perfect—”

“Stop,” Chris snaps, eyes hard now. “This isn’t about you being hard done by. This is about you fumbling the best thing that ever happened to you and not being man enough to own it.”

That lands.

Chris keeps going, unwavering. “You had someone kind. Loyal. Someone who loved you properly. And you treated her like she was disposable.”

He gestures back toward you without even looking. “Now you’re standing here pissed, trying to rewrite the story so you don’t have to sit with the fact that you screwed it up.”

James’s jaw clenches. “You don’t know shit.”

“I know enough,” Chris says. “Enough to know she’s happier without you. Enough to know you don’t get access to her anymore—her time, her body, her name. Nothing.”

He leans in just a fraction more. “So do yourself a favor and walk away before you embarrass yourself any further.”

For a moment, it looks like James might swing.

Then he sees it—the certainty. The lack of fear. The absolute finality in Chris’s eyes.

James scoffs again, weaker this time. “Whatever.”

He turns and stumbles off into the night.

Chris doesn’t watch him go. He turns straight back to you, concern softening his face instantly.

Your Uber pulls up to the curb right then, headlights washing over the tension.

He opens the door for you, one hand hovering at your back, protective without being possessive.

The city lights blur past the windows as the Uber pulls away from the curb, James already shrinking into something distant and insignificant behind you.

You turn your head slowly, still riding the echo of adrenaline, and look at Chris.

He’s staring out the window too, jaw unclenched now, shoulders relaxed like the moment is already over for him. Like what he did was obvious. Necessary. Nothing to dwell on.

You don’t know what to say.

Because he didn’t yell. He didn’t puff his chest. He didn’t throw a punch or turn the moment into something violent or messy.

He just spoke.

He stated the truth as if it were solid ground, as if it didn’t need embellishment to be powerful, as if you didn’t need rescuing, just respect.

Your chest tightens.

“Hey,” he says softly, glancing over. “You okay?”

You nod, then shake your head, then laugh quietly through the emotion threatening to spill over. “I—yeah. I just…thank you.”

He frowns a little. “For what?”

“For not making it about you,” you say. “For not making me feel small. Or embarrassed. Or like I needed saving.”

His eyes soften immediately.

“I wasn’t trying to be a hero,” he says gently. “I just didn’t want him rewriting what happened. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You swallow hard.

He reaches over then, not rushing, just resting his hand over yours—warm and grounding. “You handled yourself,” he adds. “All I did was back you up.”

The Uber hums steadily around you, the world moving forward as always. But something inside you feels different now. Stronger. More certain.

You squeeze his hand, finally finding the words. “You made me feel…powerful.”

He smiles at that, quiet and proud. “Good,” he says. “You are.”

The memory of James doesn’t feel sharp anymore.

It feels finished.

The apartment is quiet when you step inside, the door clicking shut behind you like it’s sealing the night away. The adrenaline drains all at once, leaving your hands a little shaky as you kick off your shoes.

Chris lingers near the door, jacket still on, jaw tight like he’s holding something back.

“You alright, Y/N?” he asks softly.

“Yeah,” you say. “Just… a lot.”

He nods, then exhales slowly. “Hey. Before—before we call it a night, there’s something I need to say.”

You turn to face him.

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once, then stops. “I’ve been trying to convince myself this is just friendship. Or trauma bonding. Or us clinging to the one good thing that came out of a shit situation.” He lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “I really wanted that to be true.”

Your heart starts to pound.

“But tonight,” he continues, voice steady but raw, “listening to him talk about you like that—seeing you stand there and take it—I realized I was lying to myself.”

He meets your eyes and doesn’t look away.

“I feel something more,” he says. “And I’ve felt it for a while. I just didn’t want to rush it. Didn’t want to hurt you. Or cross a line.”

You swallow.

“When he called you those things,” Chris adds, quieter now, “all I could think was how badly I wanted to protect you, not like a mate. Not like a decent bloke should. But because I want more than that. I want you.”

The room feels impossibly still.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he finishes gently. “I just couldn’t keep pretending it wasn’t there.”

You stand there, heart aching in the best, scariest way.

You don’t answer right away.

Your heart is racing, every instinct pulling you forward while fear tugs just as hard in the other direction. When you finally speak, your voice is quiet but honest.

“I feel it too,” you admit. “I have for a while. And that terrifies me.”

Chris doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, like he always does.

“I don’t know if I can survive being hurt like that again,” you continue, hands twisting together. “I don’t trust easily. And I don’t want to lose you if this goes wrong.”

He steps closer, slow, careful, like he’s approaching something fragile. “I know,” he says softly. “And I would never do that to you.”

You look up at him, eyes shining.

“Not because I know what betrayal feels like,” he adds. “But because I know what you feel like. And I would never want to be the reason you hurt.”

He lifts his hand, stopping just short of touching you, letting you decide. “You’re precious,” he says, voice steady and full. “You deserve happiness. You deserve love that never makes you doubt yourself.”

Your breath catches.

“I can’t promise perfection,” he continues. “But I can promise I’d never be careless with you. Ever.”

You nod slowly, emotion pressing thick in your chest. The fear is still there, but so is something stronger.

Hope.

It doesn’t happen all at once.

It happens gently. Intentionally. Like you’re both afraid to move too fast and ruin something sacred.

Your first date is coffee again, but this time it’s different. There’s a quiet acknowledgment in the way he holds the door open, the way his knee brushes yours and doesn’t move away. He pays, waves off your protest, smiles like it’s his favorite thing to do.

Then there’s dinner. Proper dinner. He cooks for you, apron crooked, music low, asking what you like and remembering it. He pulls your chair out.

Chris learns you the way someone does when they plan to keep you.

He notices when you’re overwhelmed and wordlessly squeezes your hand. He kisses your forehead when you’re tired. He tells you you’re beautiful when you’re dressed up and when you’re in pajamas, hair a mess, curled into his side on the couch.

You learn him too. His quiet routines. His silly humor. The way he lights up when he talks about his students. How protective he is without ever being controlling. How he treats you like something fragile, but never weak.

You fall in love slowly. Safely. With laughter and trust and nights that end with you wrapped in his arms, feeling cherished instead of anxious.

He never makes you doubt. Never raises his voice. Never lets you feel small.

Chris loves you like a choice. Like a promise.

For the first time, love doesn’t hurt.

It heals.

The first time he kisses you is magical.

You’re standing outside your flat after a date that ran late—too much talking, too much laughing, neither of you wanting to be the one to say goodnight first. The air is cool, the street quiet, and he’s standing close enough that you can feel his warmth.

He looks at you like he’s checking for permission. Not rushed. Not sure of himself in a way that feels careful rather than uncertain.

“Can I—?” he starts, then stops, breath hitching just slightly.

You nod before he finishes.

His hand comes up slowly, fingers brushing your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast. When his lips meet yours, it’s soft. Reverent. A kiss that asks rather than takes.

It’s gentle, almost shy, and it makes your chest ache in the best way.

You pull back just enough to breathe, foreheads touching, both of you smiling like idiots.

And then the next kiss is different.

Still tender, but surer. His thumb strokes your jaw. You lean into him this time, confidence blooming as you realize he’s not going anywhere. That this is safe. Wanted.

Every kiss after that feels like a small revelation.

The way he kisses you when he’s happy—quick, smiling, full of laughter.

The way he kisses you when you’re tired—slow, grounding, lips lingering on your temple, your forehead, the corner of your mouth.

The way he kisses you goodbye, like it matters. Like he’ll be thinking about it all day.

Each one gets better, deeper. Not because it’s more intense, but because it’s more him. More honest. More love layered on top of love.

He never rushes. Never treats your affection like something he’s owed. Every kiss feels chosen.

You’re not bracing for the moment it breaks.

You’re letting yourself believe it won’t.

The first time he calls you baby, it slips out without ceremony.

You’re half-asleep on his couch, curled into his side, the credits of some forgotten movie rolling while rain taps softly against the windows. He’s absently tracing slow circles on your arm, grounding, familiar. You shift, murmuring something unintelligible, and he smiles down at you.

“Baby,” he whispers, barely louder than the rain. “You comfortable?”

The word lands warm and unexpected, settling into your chest like it’s always belonged there. You don’t tease him. Don’t joke it away. You nod, eyes fluttering open, and smile.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I am.”

He looks a little stunned himself, like he didn’t realize how true it felt until it left his mouth.

The I love you comes later. Quiet. Certain.

You’re sick—properly sick—wrapped in blankets at your flat, voice wrecked, eyes glassy. He shows up without asking, arms full of groceries, brow furrowed with focus like this is the most important thing he’s ever done.

He makes soup from scratch. Burns his tongue tasting it. Adds more salt. Sits on the edge of your bed and feeds you slow spoonfuls like it’s sacred work. Wipes your mouth gently when you miss.

When you finally fall back against the pillows, exhausted, he brushes your hair back, thumb warm against your temple.

“I love you,” he says, like a fact. Like a promise. No fear. No hesitation.

Your chest tightens, eyes stinging.

“I love you too,” you whisper, hoarse but certain.

He leans down and kisses your forehead, lingering. Protective. Tender.

And through the fever, even through the ache, you feel it clearly—

This is what love is supposed to feel like.

The trolley squeaks softly as you steer it down the aisle, absently nudging boxes aside while mentally checking off the list on your phone. It still feels a little surreal; doing mundane things like this together, planning meals for a place that belongs to both of you now.

“Don’t move,” Chris says suddenly, eyes lighting up. “We’re out of Vegemite.”

You laugh. “You say that like it’s an emergency.”

“It is,” he grins, already backing away. “I’ll be right back. Don’t let anyone steal our trolley.”

He disappears down the aisle at a near jog, and you shake your head, smiling to yourself. A year. A whole year together. Happy. Safe. You still catch yourself marveling at it in moments like this.

You reach for a bag of pasta—

And stop.

Camille stands a few feet away, frozen mid-reach, her hand hovering near a shelf of sauces. She looks different. Not bad. Just dulled around the edges. Like life has taken more than it’s given lately.

Her eyes meet yours.

“Oh,” she says.

The word hangs between you, heavy and unfinished. The supermarket hums on around you—carts rattling, kids whining, life continuing without care for old wounds.

“Hey,” you say quietly.

She swallows. “I didn’t know you—” She gestures vaguely. “Here.”

You nod once. “We live nearby.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“You look…happy,” she says, and there’s something fragile in her voice.

You think of Chris two aisles over, probably debating jar sizes like it’s a moral dilemma. Of shared mornings. Shared rent. Shared laughter.

“I am,” you say simply.

She nods, eyes dropping to the floor. “I’m glad.”

There’s nothing else to say. Not really.

Footsteps approach, familiar and light. “Found it!” Chris announces cheerfully, sliding in beside you and kissing your cheek without hesitation. “They moved it. Rude, honestly.”

He notices Camille then. His posture changes—not tense, just aware. Protective without being possessive. He gives her a polite nod.

Camille offers a small, tight smile. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he replies calmly.

She takes a step back. “I should—yeah. Take care.”

“You too,” you say.

She walks away, disappearing into another aisle, and you release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Chris squeezes your hand. “You okay, baby?”

You look at him—steady, kind, yours—and smile.

“Yeah,” you say. “I am.”

You watch her go for half a second longer than necessary.

Then something settles in your chest—quiet, firm, unmistakable.

“Camille,” you call out to her.

She stops. Turns back slowly, like she’s bracing for impact.

You take a step toward her, heart steady in a way it never was before. “I just wanted to say…I forgive you.”

Her eyes widen. “You—”

“Not for you,” you add gently. “For me.”

The words feel solid when you say them. True. Like setting something heavy down after carrying it for too long.

“I don’t want to keep dragging that hurt around,” you continue. “It doesn’t belong in my life anymore.”

Camille swallows hard, tears immediately filling her eyes. She nods, unable to speak, lips trembling. “Thank you,” she manages. “I’m—” Her voice breaks. “I’m really sorry.”

“I know,” you say. And you mean it. “Take care of yourself.”

She nods again, wipes at her face, and walks away—lighter somehow, but so are you.

Chris is right there the moment you turn back, his hands coming to your waist, grounding and warm. He looks at you like he’s just witnessed something extraordinary.

“I’m proud of you,” he says softly.

You smile. “It was time.”

He leans down and kisses you—slow, sure, full of everything the two of you have built together. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“That,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your jaw, “is one of the many reasons I love you. And also really sexy.”

You laugh softly, leaning into him as he presses another kiss to your temple, then your cheek, praising you in quiet little words meant only for you.

The past no longer owns you.

You chose peace. And love. And a life that feels whole.

Weeks slip by in a blur of shared routines—coffee runs at dawn before swim practice, lazy Sunday mornings tangled in sheets and laughter. Chris paints your shared bedroom wall a soft blue because he remembers you mentioning it once in passing. You cook dinner together every night without fail.

It’s a rainy night. He’s in bed watching sports or something. Didn’t matter. You would be taking his attention soon anyway. 

Ever since you and Chris started dating, he’s only built your confidence. You feel sexy, not just cute. So, in an act of bravery, you order a lingerie set. Nothing crazy. It’s still pink and frilly. But it leaves little to the imagination. 

You step out after telling Chris you needed to pee—quickly, grabbing the bag you put in a drawer and stepping inside before he could see. 

Now, you stand in the doorway, clearing your throat when he doesn’t look over right away.

He glances up immediately at the sound of your cleared throat, his eyes locking onto you and widening in surprise. The remote control clicks quietly as he pauses the TV, his attention fully captured by the sight before him.

The pink lingerie hugs your curves perfectly, the frilly fabric accentuating every dip and swell. His jaw drops slightly, his eyes trailing from head to toe and back up again. "Holy shit," he breathes out softly, completely forgetting about his rugby game.

You shuffle over to the end of the bed and do a slow twirl so he can see the matching little thong that came with the set. “Well? What do you think?” You ask, cheeks flushed.

Chris's eyes follow the slow twirl hungrily, taking in every angle of your figure clad in the delicate pink fabric. When you stop in front of him again, he swallows hard, his throat bobbing visibly. "I think..." he begins, his voice hoarse with desire. "I think you're the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen." 

He sets the remote aside and pats the space beside him on the bed. "Come here, please." His eyes never leave your body.

You laugh softly and start to crawl onto the bed before squealing as he pulls you onto his lap, his strong hands wrapping around your waist to steady you. He can feel the softness of the lingerie beneath his fingers, the warmth of your skin through thin lace. 

"You planned this, didn't you?" he asks playfully, but his eyes are dark with desire as he looks up at you. His voice is thick with need when he continues, "Because it's working." One hand trails down to your thigh, squeezing gently. "You look good enough to eat."

You giggle, squeezing his shoulders, leaning down to kiss him. “You always say that.”

He catches your lips in a deep kiss, his hands roaming over your back possessively. "Because it's true every damn time," he murmurs against your mouth before capturing your bottom lip gently between his teeth. His fingers hook into the thin straps of your lingerie, playing with them teasingly. The kiss turns hungry, passionate—a clear answer to your question of what he thinks of the little number. His other hand slides up your thigh, getting closer to the sensitive area between your legs.

His thumb traces the edge of the lace thong before leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss to your exposed shoulder.

And then he plants his mouth on your neck and sucks softly, full lips flush with your heated skin, which pulls a gasp from you and sends shivers down your spine. 

He knows exactly what he's doing, his lips and tongue leaving gentle marks as he trails kisses down to your collarbone. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing against the undersides of your breasts through the soft fabric. 

When you gasp again, he smirks against your skin before biting down gently on that sensitive spot just below your ear. His hands slowly push the straps of your lingerie down, baring your breasts to his hungry gaze.

He pulls back, his lips shining with saliva, groaning before pressing his face in between your soft mounds, his hands gripping your hips, pushing you down onto his growing arousal.

He inhales deeply like he's trying to breathe you in. His hands squeeze your hips possessively, grinding you down onto the hard ridge forming in his pajama bottoms. 

He groans, the sound muffled against your soft flesh. "God, you're fucking gorgeous," he mumbles, pressing kisses to the valley between your breasts. "This lingerie should be illegal." He looks up at you, his pupils dilated with desire. "It's like you're trying to kill me."

You smile, looking down at him. “So you do like it,” you say playfully, giggling when he growls into your skin, eyes locked on yours. You tangle your fingers in his hair as he slaps your ass playfully before squeezing the flesh.

"Like it?" he repeats, sounding almost offended. "I'm  obsessed." He squeezes both of your cheeks, pushing you down harder onto his now obvious erection. "This was a dangerous move, baby. You know I can't control myself around you normally, but add this lingerie?" He shakes his head, pressing kisses to your skin again. "I'm about two seconds away from ripping this off with my teeth."

“Don’t! It was expensive!” You say before moaning as he finally wraps his lips around a stiff peak, still kneading your ass in his hands.

"Expensive?" he mumbles around your nipple, giving it a gentle suck before looking up at you with a smirk. "I'll buy you ten more sets if it means seeing this view every night." 

He switches his attention to the other breast, sucking harder this time as his hands spread your cheeks wider apart over his lap. You can feel exactly how hard he is beneath you now—thick and straining against his pants.

You roll your hips into his, moaning as you let your head fall backwards, hands tugging at his dark curls.

He groans against your breast at the sting, his hips lifting to meet yours. The friction is delicious, his thick length sliding between your folds even through the fabric of his pajamas and your soaked thong. He wraps his lips around your nipple again, sucking hard as his teeth graze the sensitive bud.

And then he’s pushing you backwards—your head at the foot of the bed, hair cascading over the edge. He crawls over your bottom half, fingers curling under the waistband of your panties and sliding them down your legs. He kisses your thighs as he slides the drenched fabric down before throwing it to the side, eyes locked on the wet flesh before him.

His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of you lying before him—legs spread open for him. He kisses a path up your inner thighs, his hands pushing your legs further apart to give him better access. 

When he reaches the apex of your thighs, he pauses, blowing a gentle breath against your sensitive flesh before diving in with his tongue. He eats you like a starving man—loud, messy, and absolutely unapologetic. His hands grip your thighs tightly as he feasts on you.

You cry out, arching up and almost lifting off the bed before settling back into the comforter, body already writhing from immense pleasure. “Chris,” you moan out.

He smiles against you at the sound of his name, his tongue flicking over your clit before he sucks it gently into his mouth. "Mm..." He hums softly, the vibration sending waves of pleasure through your body.

His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your legs wider apart as he continues to devour you. When you moan his name again, he looks up at you briefly before focusing back on your sensitive flesh. "You're so sweet, baby," he growls softly before resuming.

You stare up at the ceiling as he continues to devour you—moaning into your pussy, gripping your soft thighs with his big hands.

He's messy about it, too. Sloppy licks, sucking kisses, occasionally diving his tongue deep inside you before returning to your clit. He knows exactly what you like now, has learned every inch of your body over months of exploration and gentle experimentation. 

He brings one hand up to press against your stomach, holding you down gently as he continues to eat you out like his favorite meal. Your juices coat his lips and chin completely—a testament to how turned on you are.

“Ahh! Oh! Chrissss,” you let out, fisting the comforter in one hand, his hair in the other as your body starts to move on its own.

He swallows your cries greedily, his tongue flicking faster against your clit as he feels your body tensing up.

He knows you're close. He can taste it in the way your juices are gushing against his mouth.

He doubles his efforts, sucking harder and faster, his fingers digging into your thighs to keep them spread wide open for him.

When you start to move your hips instinctively, he presses his face deeper into your pussy, moaning against you. "That's it, baby," he says encouragingly.

And then he slides a finger inside you, wiggling it around slightly before sliding it out. He starts pumping it in and out of you at a steady pace as he continues using his tongue on your clit, prodding at your swollen nub.

Your legs shake violently as he adds his finger, curving it to hit that sweet spot inside you. He keeps his eyes on your face, watching as your mouth hangs open and your eyes roll back.

He adds a second finger, stretching you open as he continues to lick and suck your clit. He can feel your muscles tightening around his fingers, knowing you're getting closer and closer to that sweet release.

"Come on, baby... come all over my face," he murmurs encouragingly between licks.

He’s so turned on from eating you out that he can’t help but tug his pajama bottoms down—wrapping his hand around his throbbing cock and fisting it in time with his fingers inside you.

You look down, needing to see his face as he looks up at you, his nose and lips deep in your wet folds. You look lower and see one hand pumping his cock, his pajama pants pulled down enough to free him.

His eyes lock onto yours, hazy with desire as he continues to eat your pussy like a starving man. His jaw is coated in your juices, his lips shiny and wet.

"Fuck, you're so pretty when you're like this," he groans against your folds, his tongue flicking over your clit one more time before pressing hard and sucking.

Your orgasm hits you instantly, making you fall silent, back arching, before you’re crying out, hips rocking into his mouth as you come hard. 

“Oh my God! Chris! Yessss!” You wail, thighs trying to close before he unwraps his hand from his cock and uses both to hold you down—licking you through your orgasm.

He groans loudly against your pussy as you come, his tongue and lips working overtime to draw out every last shudder and tremor. Your thighs shake violently in his grip as he holds you open for him, his fingers curling inside you and pressing against that spot that makes your vision blur.

He sucks hard on your clit through it all, swallowing down every drop of release that spills out onto his tongue. "That's it... fuck... keep coming."

You can hear the obscene squelches as he fingers you through your high. Hear the way his tongue moves against your wet folds. His moans—as if he was the one being pleasured.

He presses a final kiss to your clit before he crawls over you and kisses you—your taste on his tongue as you kiss him back just as hungrily.

“Think you got another one for me, baby?” He asks, pushing his bottoms down frantically—desperate to feel you wrapped around him.

You nod, face damp with sweat. “Yes,” you whisper, pressing your lips to his as he slides his cock against your cunt.

He doesn't waste any time; his thick cock slides through your soaking wet folds easily before he pushes the head against your entrance. You're still contracting softly from your orgasm, your pussy gripping and pulsing around nothing.

He groans into your mouth as he feels it, kissing you deeply before pulling back slightly. "You're so wet for me, baby.” He presses the head of his cock against your entrance experimentally, coating himself in your release before sliding in slowly. Your pussy squeezes him immediately, still fluttering from your orgasm.

You whimper as he pushes into you, gently despite his desperation. You both groan at the feeling, foreheads meeting, lips brushing.

He bottoms out inside you with a low groan, his hips flush against yours. You're so tight and wet, it's like being squeezed in a velvet vice. He stays still for a moment, breathing heavily and kissing you softly as you adjust to his size.

His hands come up to cup your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks. "You feel so good,” he whispers against your lips before slowly pulling out until just the tip remains inside you.

And then he’s sliding back in, your eyes rolling back and toes curling at the pleasure. “Oh my—,” you cut yourself off with a loud moan, arms wrapping around his neck.

He swallows the sound, his hips snapping forward again to hit that spot inside you. He starts moving slowly but steadily, each thrust deep and deliberate. Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, pulling him closer with each pull back.

He kisses you messily, his tongue sliding against yours as he fucks you gently but firmly. "Shh...take it slow, baby,” he murmurs between kisses, his hands gripping your hips to control the pace. But his voice is strained, his body already begging for more.

You feel him adjust his position until he’s almost kneeling, using his thigh strength to rock his hips forward—thick cock hitting that spot to make you scream.

Your back arches, your eyes roll back, and you make the most beautiful, sex-drunk sound that has him completely addicted. He starts thrusting deeper, harder, faster—using that newfound leverage to pound into you like a man possessed.

"Fuck... fuck... fuck,” he groans loudly with every snap of his hips. He buries his face in your neck as he starts to lose control.

That spot is his new favorite thing.

He could live there.

You can hear the sounds of your sex even above your loud whimpers and his muffled grunts—skin slapping, wet flesh, bed creaking.

It was hot.

Filthy. 

Your lingerie looks almost out of place in the middle of everything: delicate pink lace stretched below your bouncing breasts. It’s a sharp contrast to the raw, primal passion between your bodies.

His thrusts are messy, desperate, his dick coated in your juices. His hands dig into your hips, pulling you down onto his dick with every thrust.

"Jesus Christ...you're so fucking—” He cuts himself off to let out a grunt.

“Chris,” you whimper out, unable to form a sentence as he pistons in and out of you, your nails digging into the muscles of his back.

He loves the sound of his name on your lips like that—needy, breathless, and completely overwhelmed with pleasure. It spurs him on, his hips snapping forward even harder.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his face twisted up in a mix of concentration and ecstasy. His hair is sweaty and disheveled, his chest heaving.

"You like that, baby? You like how deep I'm hitting you?" He growls, his thumb coming up to circle your clit lazily.

“Ah!” You cry out, staring up at him, nodding frantically.

You’re a vision.

Pretty face flushed and contorted in pleasure.

Gorgeous body taking him like you were made for him.

He groans and untangles your legs from around his waist and leans back before pressing your knees to your chest, folding you in half.

The new angle allows him to drive even deeper, hitting that spot inside you with brutal force. He starts pounding into you like a rabbit, his dick snapping in and out of your convulsing pussy with wet, squelching noises. His eyes roll back before he forces himself to watch his dick disappear into your body at an obscene angle.

“I’m so close!” You cry out, reaching down between your legs to rub your clit—his jaw dropping open as he watches you touch yourself. The sight, combined with the way your pussy is fluttering around him, is too much.

He starts fucking you even faster, his hips slamming against yours as he tries to keep up with your hand moving between your legs. "Shit...yes...keep touching yourself, baby...fuck,” he chokes out, his voice breaking as he feels himself getting closer. 

You do as he says and keep rubbing your swollen clit—face flushed, lips parted as your orgasm draws nearer. “Chris! I—oh my God! I’m coming!”

That's all he needs to hear. He leans forward, pressing your knees back even further as he starts fucking you through your orgasm, chasing his own release with desperation. "Come on, baby. Come on my cock,” he grunts, his balls tightening as he feels your pussy start to spasm around him violently.

You finish together, his hips thrusting forward desperately before he stills and groans loudly. He falls forward—face buried in your neck—as your body seizes, tightening around his pulsing cock. Your arms automatically wrap around him as you cry out his name breathlessly.

His entire body shakes with the force of his release, his dick throbbing and twitching inside you as he fills you with his hot, sticky cum. "Holy fuck... holy fuck,” he whispers over and over, his dick continuing to jerk as he drains his balls inside you.

You breathe hard into his shoulder, hands still clutching his back. “That was amazing. Should I wear this more often?” You ask playfully, kissing his shoulder.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his face flushed and covered in a light sheen of sweat. He smirks weakly, his eyes still glazed over with pleasure. "Abso-fucking-lutely," he replies, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your swollen lips. "Every damn night, in fact.” 

He looks down at where your bodies are still connected. "I think I'm gonna keep you like this for a while."

You make a face, already feeling the stickiness seeping out of you. “Chris,” you groan.

He laughs softly at your expression, kissing your nose gently. "I know, I know. But it's so hot feeling my cum inside you like this," he admits shamelessly before sighing and pulling out slowly.

The room is quiet in that soft, sacred way, with sheets tangled, bodies warm, and the world slowed down to something gentle.

You move first, slipping out from under the covers to grab a towel, laughing quietly when you almost trip over discarded clothes. Chris watches you from the bed, propped up on one elbow, eyes full and unguarded. Content. Peaceful.

“Come here,” he says softly when you return.

You sit beside him, both of you wiping away the last traces of sweat and evidence of your lovemaking, the intimacy somehow deepening instead of fading. He takes the towel from you at one point, careful, tender, like every touch still matters.

When you’re done, you curl back into his chest, head resting over his heart. His arm comes around you immediately, firm and sure.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, lingering.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice low and sincere, “every part of my life makes more sense with you in it.”

You lift your head to look at him.

“I don’t feel like I have to be anything else with you. Not better. Not stronger. Just… me.” His thumb traces slow circles along your spine. “And I want to choose you every day. In the quiet moments. In the messy ones. All of it.”

Your chest tightens in the best way.

He smiles softly, forehead resting against yours. “This—” he adds, kissing you once more, “you—are everything.”

And wrapped in his arms, heart steady against yours, you know, without doubt, he means it.

binniebb 2025 ™ pls do not steal or repost my work ♡

  “This is what you called me for?” Hyunjin’s voice filtered through the phone, tinged with an amused disbelief that made it difficult to tell whether he was genuinely concerned or simply entertained by your latest crisis.

  You balanced the phone against your shoulder, a damp dish towel in one hand and a half-soaked roll of paper towels in the other, glaring at the mess spreading across your kitchen floor. The sink had been making strange noises for weeks, a low gurgle that seemed harmless enough until it finally turned on you, sending water pooling across the counter with a mocking drip that no amount of frantic plunging could stop. The pipes—the stubborn, stubborn pipes—had defeated every attempt you’d made, leaving you knee-deep in irritation and suds.

  “Unless you know a better way to keep my apartment from turning into an indoor pool, yes, this is what I called you for,” you said, trying and failing to keep the exasperation out of your voice. “It’s either you or I start charging admission at the door.”

  A low chuckle resonated through the line, warm and infuriatingly self-satisfied. “You know, most people would just call maintenance. That’s literally what they’re paid for.”

  “I did call maintenance,” you muttered, squeezing the damp towel until droplets slipped between your fingers. “They said someone could come by next Tuesday. Unless I plan on living off takeout for the next week, that’s not exactly helpful.”

  “Ah,” Hyunjin replied, dragging the syllable out with a smugness that made your stomach tighten. “So I’m not just your first call… I’m your only option.”

  “You’re the only option that doesn’t involve my entire kitchen rotting.”

  He hummed, the sound low and thoughtful, as though he was weighing the gravity of the situation. “I just showered, doll. You trying to get me dirty again?”

  Your mouth opened, but words failed to spill out from over your lips. You stood still, pushing at the way his causal tone made your cheeks heat and heart thump, trying to conjure a quip back, or yell at him, perchance.

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Try not to cry without me.”

  The line went dead before the curses you had lined up rolled off your tongue, leaving you alone with the gurgling of the faucet and the uncomfortable quickening of your heartbeat.

  Hyunjin had a way of slipping beneath your skin without even trying, weaving himself into moments that should have been mundane and turning them into something you thought about long after they ended. You had lived next door to him for nearly a year, long enough to know he was the sort of neighbour who always seemed to appear when you least expected it—carrying groceries into the elevator at the exact moment you struggled with your own, lounging in his work clothes against the railing of the stairwell when you came home late, dress shirt rumpled and hair in a messy state no amount of intentional styling could replicate. He was helpful in an infuriatingly smug way that made it impossible to thank him without also wanting to throttle him.

  And he was handsome, although “handsome” felt like too simple a word for someone who could make you lose track of what you were saying in the middle of a sentence just by pushing his unkempt fringe off his forehead. Hyunjin had a way of existing that demanded your attention; tall and loose-limbed, all lazy grace and deep contours dwindled by the warmth of his stupid grin.

  You had told yourself, repeatedly, that this attraction was nothing but a harmless nuisance, an unfortunate side effect of close proximity and his vexing habit of showing up in your space like it belonged to him. You had convinced yourself the butterflies in your stomach were merely a byproduct of his teasing, the kind of thing anyone would feel when faced with a neighbour who always seemed to know how to get under your skin. Yet, every time you caught yourself watching him tighten a screw with those long fingers, or when his voice curled around your name in his low, unhurried drawl, you wondered how much longer you could keep up the act.

  A sharp knock at your door jolted you from your thoughts.

  When you opened it, Hyunjin leaned against the frame with an infuriating ease, his battered red toolbox hanging from one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his jeans, a dark wash you had grown accustomed to because these jeans were his handyman jeans—he wore them whenever he came over to help you fix up your kitchen cabinets, or install new tiles on the floor of your bathroom, or screw in a lightbulb you truly could’ve done yourself. The denim was littered with wood dust and gorilla glue and dried paint, tiny rips clawing into the fabric across his knees. 

  His white t-shirt clung to his arms and chest, and it felt deeply unfair—did he have to be so well sculpted?—and his hair was still damp from his shower, the strands spiking slightly as they dried. A warm, woody scent drifted past you as he stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, leaving you momentarily caught between irritation and the embarrassing awareness of how your heart had quickened.

  “Your knight in shining denim,” he announced, setting the toolbox on your counter with a dull clang before towering in front of the sink, his eyes sweeping over the small flood. “Wow. You weren’t kidding. You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”

  “I told you it was bad,” you mumbled, crossing your arms.

  “You undersold it,” he said, sleeves already shoved up, biceps already pulling the fabric taut as he examined the pipes. “This is a full-scale anarchy.”

  You leaned against the counter, trying to bluff indifference even though your eyes travelled with a mind of their own, skimming over the line of his shoulders, the sharp angle of his jaw as he focused. “Do you actually know hwo to fix it, or are you just here to gloat while I drown?”

  “Both,” he admitted without looking up, his mouth twitching at the corners. “But don’t worry, I’ve got this. You can trust me.”

  The words were casual, tossed out without thought, but the way they landed with unexpected weight, pulling at something in your chest, had forced your gaze to the dripping faucet, to the water-stained towels scattered across the floor, to anything that wasn’t him.

  “Tell me how it started,” he said, his words softened by the scrape of metal as he retrieved a wrench from the box, glancing up at you with a calm gaze that had the infuriating ability to both irritate and disarm you at the same time. “Did the water stop draining all at once, or has it been slow for a while?”

  You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, shifting your weight against the counter, carefully positioning yourself far enough from the watery mess that you refused to step into it again, though you knew he would never let it touch you even if it spread. 

  “It was gurgling for days, but I thought it would work itself out. Tonight, though, I washed a pan and suddenly the whole thing just… rebelled.” Hyunjin snorted. You continued, “I tried the plunger, I tried pouring boiling water, I even tried vinegar and baking soda. Nothing worked.”

  Hyunjin shook his head, his damp strands of hair falling forward until he brushed them back with his wrist, leaving a subtle streak of water against his temple that gleamed in the dim kitchen light. “You’re lucky it didn’t explode on you. Pipes don’t like being ignored, sweetheart.”

  Your heart tripped at the word, though you masked it with a curt roll of your eyes. “You say that like I had any other choice.”

  “You had one.” He turned back to the pipes, his voice rich with a smugness that fizzled beneath your skin. “Calling me before it turned into a flood.”

  The wrench twisted in his grip, veins straining against the skin of his forearm, his long fingers gripping deftly as he loosened one of the joints. A thin stream of water spat out at him, splattering across his shirt and streaking down the column of his throat, catching the faint sheen of sweat already gathering along his skin. He didn’t flinch, only muttered something under his breath as he reached for a rag and wiped his hands, the damp cotton of his t-shirt sticking more closely to his chest with each movement.

  That damn white t-shirt. He knew what he was doing wearing a white t-shirt to a job involving water.

  You tried not to stare, but when you catch the way his chest looks under the wet ghost-like fabric, your eyes started dragging down the lines of his body, tracing the subtle dip of muscle beneath the shirt, the stretch of denim housing dampened splotches across his thighs where he balanced on his heels.

  “Stop hovering,” he quipped tauntingly, breaking your trance. “You’re making me nervous.”

  “You’re not nervous,” you replied too quickly, the flush creeping up your neck exposing you far more than your voice did.

  A slow grin spread across his face, but his eyes stayed fixed on the pipes. “You’re right. I’m not.”

  The water hissed as he twisted another piece free, the sound filling the silence between you, punctuated only by the occasional clink of metal against tile. You stood with your arms crossed, feigning indifference even as your stomach fluttered, his voice threading through the space with an easy confidence making you want to lean closer just to hear more.

  “Honestly,” Hyunjin continued, “you’re lucky I like you. Anyone else, I’d have told them to call a plumber and left them to figure it out. But you–” He finally looked up, his canines cutting sharp against the dim light. “You get VIP treatment.”

  Your throat went dry, though you managed to roll your eyes, clinging to the veneer of irritation that had always been your armor with him. “VIP? Do you mean free labor?”

  “Free for now,” he corrected, tightening one final joint before leaning back to test the faucet. The water sputtered, then flowed smoothly sans restraint, the pool in the sink beginning to drain away in a whirl. He wiped his hands on the rag and pushed himself to his feet, his height crowding the space between you as he leaned close enough for you to catch the scent of his woody cologne on his skin again, mingling with the freshness of his shower and, now, the spray of pipe water. “But I’m starting to reconsider my rates.”

  You exhaled, both relieved and annoyed, watching the sink clear itself as though he had worked some sort of miracle. “So you’re done? That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” He tilted his head, water still dripping from the ends of his hair, sliding down the side of his neck in thin rivulets. “Good as new. No more indoor swimming pool.”

  You hesitated, then said, “Well… I suppose I should compensate you somehow.”

  A smirk found solace on his lips, entirely too knowing. He took a step closer, dropping his voice just enough to make your pulse stumble. 

  “You could always offer me a shower.” He let the pause hang and added, “Preferably one I don’t have to take alone. I did get all dirty fixing your sink, after all."

  Your lips parted, words failing to stitch along the tip of your tongue as heat surged through your chest, your body discarding the veil you typically hid behind. You tried your very best to hold his gaze, to avoid peeking at the sag of his damp clothes across his chest and torso.

  Hyunjin reached for his toolbox, his smirk loitering on his lips like he had said nothing at all out of the ordinary. “Call me if you need anything else,” he said, his tone smoothing back into something deceptively neutral as his lips curved. “And try not to wait until it’s an emergency next time.”

You could get him as wet as you wanted him, thought Hyunjin. And although a shower with you sounded like the epitome of all his wettest dreams (literally!), he really just wanted to take you out to dinner.

Hyunjin thinks he’ll ask you the next time he’s over to help you, his pretty doll.

THE BOOKSHELF was so desperately needed, it was almost incredulous that you hadn’t bought a new one already.

  The old one leaned in the corner of your bedroom like a tired old man, its frame straining under the weight of years of collecting, every shelf sagging, buckling under the burden of your affection for the written word. Books were piled not only vertically, but in sideways towers that grew dangerously tall, forming stacks on your bedside table and even finding refuge on the floor. There were just too many, some that had been well-cherished, others you hadn't even gotten a chance to indulge in yet. 

  You had laughed the first time you found yourself stepping over novels on the way to bed, but last weekend, when one had tipped over and startled you awake with a sharp thud against the hardwood, you had sworn it was finally time.

  The new bookshelf arrived that morning in a flat pack box, heavy with wooden panels and plastic-wrapped screws and a thick manual with all the information you needed to get it set up. You could have assembled it yourself, but the thought of untangling the fat manual with its poorly written instructions, tiny print and all, made you groan. 

  And, truthfully, when you had Hyunjin—a neighbor who had become both your rescuer and tormentor, a man whose hands could fix just about anything—why would you deny yourself the pleasure of watching him work?

  He knocked at your door just after six, right on the heels of his workday. You opened it to find him in a pressed white shirt, the sleeves pushed up hastily to his elbows, his tie tugged loose as if he had only just pulled it free on the walk over. The slacks he wore hung perfectly, his hair a little mussed from his hand raking through it, strands falling his forehead before he brushed them away absentmindedly. 

  There was something wildly attractive about the juxtaposition of him in work attire holding a toolbox, his frame filling your doorway and lips surrendering as the home to a lazy smirk.

  “You didn’t even change?” you questioned, stepping back to let him in, though the words came out lighter than you intended, possibly thanks to the sudden upbringing of your pulse.

  “You sounded desperate,” he replied, his mouth curving into a knowing grin that made you want to roll your eyes and melt all at once. “Besides, you think I can’t build a bookshelf in slacks?”

  “I think you shouldn’t risk ruining them.”

  “If I thought I’d ruin them, I would have come in those raggedy jeans you love so much,” he said with a wink, walking over to your bedroom and setting the toolbox down with a thud against the wall. “Tonight, though, you get the deluxe service. Tie and everything.”

  You exhaled slowly, half-annoyed by his cockiness and half enlivened by the way the undone buttons of his shirt revealed just enough skin to tempt the imagination. He was unfair in that way, managing to look immaculate while doing something as unglamorous as kneeling on your bedroom floor, sorting wooden panels into organized piles.

  The two of you began unpacking the box together. You crouched beside him, pulling out pieces of hardware, the brush of your hand against his every time you handed him a screw or a dowel bolt sending little ripples through your chest. Hyunjin worked calmly, his long fingers moving with practice, his veins flexing subtly under his skin whenever he twisted the screwdriver. He concentrated in bursts, brows pinching together whenever his tools called for focus, then broke the silence with a comment that made you laugh.

  “You know,” he said, aligning two boards and tightening a joint, his words laid-back and devoid of any uncertainty in his efforts, “you could have done this yourself if you wanted to. It’s practically foolproof.”

  You gave him a pointed look, steadying a side panel he’d asked you to hold. “I could have. But then I’d miss out on your charming company.”

  His head tipped to the side, a slow grin spreading across his face, and although he didn’t directly look at you, you caught the glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. “So you admit it—you just like having me around.”

  “I admit nothing,” you countered, ignoring how your heartbeat said otherwise, racing at the proximity of him. He had leaned close to reach for a screw, his chest brushing your shoulder, the fabric of his shirt warm against your skin, his scent wrapping itself around you, still woody, but mixing with his natural musk. He lingered, not inappropriately, but long enough for the moment to feel longer than necessary—not that you were complaining—and your hands wavered on the board you were supposed to be holding still.

  Hyunjin smirked, speaking low but teasingly, “Careful. If this collapses on us, I’m blaming your distraction.”

  You huffed, shifting your grip along the panel.

  The two of you had established a good workflow—him tightening, you holding, passing tools back and forth. Once, you fumbled a screw, and he caught it mid-air, flashing you a grin that made you scoff. Another time, he reached around you to adjust a joint, his arm caging you in without warning, body brushing behind yours and radiating a palpable heat you felt all over your back and arms. His breath ghosted over your temple when he spoke. “That’s it—hold it still. You’re good at this.”

  “I’m literally just standing here,” you muttered, but your voice was thin, affected by how his closeness coiled inside you.

  “That’s all it takes sometimes,” he said, and whether he meant building or something else entirely, you didn’t dare ask.

  By the time the final screw slid into place, the bookshelf stood tall and flawless, a sturdy replacement for the leaning disaster it succeeded. You stood with your hands on your hips, surveying it proudly, Hyunjin’s presence at your side stealing more of your attention than the new piece of furniture did.

  “Perfect,” you said, exhaling with satisfaction.

  “No shit,” he chortled, brushing his palms off on his slacks. “It was built by a professional.”

  “You are not a professional.”

  “Not by trade,” he agreed, turning toward you with his deviled smile.

  You rolled your eyes, trying to swat away the butterflies fluttering in your stomach. “You’ve earned a drink.”

  “I won’t argue.”

  You led him to the kitchen, where he leaned casually against the counter, peeking at the crevice of the sink he’d fixed just days ago. His tie hung loosely, the unbuttoned collar framing his throat, and you found your eyes drifting there before you forced them away. He touched the faucet lightly, testing it. “Still running smooth? No disasters to report?”

  “None.” You pulled open the fridge, sighing at the empty shelf where your favourite bottle of wine usually waited. “Although I did run out of wine.”

  He gasped, his voice theatrical. “A tragedy. How do you survive without it?”

  “Barely,” you admitted, holding up a bottle of peach juice instead. “This is all I’ve got. I’ve been too tired from work to stop at the store.”

  His gaze washed over you as you poured, something soft creeping into his expression beneath the usual teasing glint. He didn’t make any comical remarks about your back-up choice of drink, but rather watched you fill both the glasses in silence.

  “You’ve been working too hard.”

  You shrugged, handing him a glass. “It’s nothing. Everyone’s tired.”

  “You’re not everyone.” His words were quiet, but they landed firmly. For a moment, he didn’t look away, didn’t cloak the care in witty remarks or smirks. Then, as if sensing the air had grown too heavy, he tipped his glass toward you, his lips quirking again. “That’s why I come running, even when all you need me to do is change a lightbulb.” You blush at this and giggle, reminiscing upon the memory. “What’s next? The batteries in your remote?”

  You laughed. “Don’t jinx it.”

  “Don’t worry,” he mused, setting his empty glass down in the sink he fixed just days ago. “If it does, you’ll call me. I’ll come, just for you.”

Hyunjin did want to come for you. 

Or, cum, more specifically. Perhaps he would, after he finally grew the balls to ask you out to dinner, since there were clearly none between his legs given his lack of proactivity.

YOU were surprised to find Hyunjin outside your apartment door in his tattered handyman jeans, holding his trusty red toolbox in his right hand, a brown bag scrunched around the neck of a bottle in his left. His hair was disheveled, strands spiking out in random, and he wore a black t-shirt that stretched over his shoulders and chest. You hadn’t called him, yet there he was, leaning against—

  “The doorframe?”

  He nodded, shifting the weight of the toolbox against his thigh, his eyes running down the line of your satin dress with such intent focus, you felt your breath lodge in your throat. “Yeah, I noticed it when I came over to put up your bookshelf,” he began casually. His gaze dragged up again, loitering across the neckline of your dress, “I didn’t know you’d be going out, though.”

  The words carried a neutrality, but you knew him well enough to hear the subtle edge thumbing beneath them. The thought of you dressed up for someone else unsettled him.

  “It’s nothing,” you said quickly, brushing your hands over the fabric, smoothing it out along your hips. “Just a work dinner. A little celebration with my team.”

  Hyunjin’s shoulders drew down very subtly, his fingers flexing around the handle of his toolbox. “A work dinner,” he repeated, solidifying it in his mind. He gave a few slow nods before his chin tipped toward the brown bag in his other hand, a playful spark resurfacing in his eyes.

  “What’s in there?” you asked, nodding at it.

  “Your favourite,” he replied simply, lifting the bag just enough for the neck of the bottle to peek out. “I picked it up on my way home from work yesterday. I figured you’d eventually run out of excuses not to let me drink it with you, peach juice could only redeem me so much.” He smirked crookedly, his mischievous glimmering eyes crinkling into a squint.

  The thought of him walking past the shop, remembering the name of the exact wine you’d offhandedly mentioned, and buying it without knowing when he’d even give it to you, sent your stomach tumbling. “You remembered?”

  His smirk softened. “Of course I did.”

  The corners of your mouth tugged upward, a warmth blossoming in your chest that you thought best to ignore. “You really didn’t have to.”

  “Maybe not,” he said with a shrug, “but I wanted to.”

  The honesty in his tone was disarming, and before you could let it mess with your mind, you stepped aside, gesturing him in. “Come on. You’re already here.”

  He hesitated just enough to look at your dress again, his mouth pressing into a line that tried to be light but did nil to hide his interest. “I don’t want you to be late, though. If this takes too long–”

  “It won’t,” you interrupted, a lilt in your voice. “Besides, I’d rather spend my time with you than my crew at work.”

  His eyebrows rose, lips parting as if to confirm whether you meant it, but a determined glint overcame the look in his eyes, as though he’d taken your words as a challenge. “In that case,” he said, stepping inside with exaggerated seriousness, “this doorframe is about to receive the most meticulous repair of my career.”

  You laughed, shaking your head as you returned to the vanity in your bedroom, sliding into the seat you’d abandoned in your rush to answer the door. 

  The mirror reflected the sight of Hyunjin setting the bottle on your kitchen counter, returning to place his toolbox on your bedroom floor, and stretching his arms up to push at the panel lifting off the jamb of your doorframe, doing his own mister fix it investigation. He leans down into his open toolbox, hands getting busy pulling out screws and the drill.

  The panel itself wasn’t much—it was just a strip of wood peeling away from where it had once been flush—but Hyunjin treated it as though it were the most intricate repair he’d ever been asked to do. Every whir of his drill was unhurried, every lift of a screw rid of haste. He had decided keeping himself perched in your door was preferable to letting you walk out of it.

  He drilled in the first screw, the sound sharp in the air, his arm flexing with each turn of the tool. You caught his reflection in the mirror, the way the veins colonized his forearm and swelled with the effort, the subtle stretch of his shirt over the top of his back when he pushed and drilled at the panel. He paused between each screw, peeking over at you as though to check your progress, though the look in his eyes mused over you longer than necessary.

  What should have been a five-minute fix stretched languidly, his movements akin to a tortoise. He measured twice before driving in a screw, wiped his hands on his thighs even though they weren’t dirty, and spent a long time running his fingers along the wooden frame as if searching for invisible imperfections.

  You pressed a brush to your cheekbones, pretending not to notice, but your heart had long deceived you, thudding rampantly against the confines of your ribs. His shirt had ridden up slightly when he had to stretch further up to reach the end of the panel—his height could only do so much for him. The lack of fabric revealed the sharp cut of his waist, the shadow of his v-line dipping into the waistband of his boxers. You bit down gently on your lip, sliding gloss across it and pretending your sudden distraction was entirely the fault of your reflection.

  Hyunjin shifted again, kneeling lower, one hand braced against the frame while the other steadied the drill. His head tipped just enough for his hair to fall into his eyes, and he blew it away with a quick puff of air, his lips parting, the softest bite against the bottom one when the screw met more resistance than he’d expected.

  “You’re awfully quiet over there,” he said suddenly, in a low voice that travelled easily in the few feet separating you.

  “I’m trying not to distract you,” you consoled, your cheeks warming as you spoke.

  He glanced up at you through your vanity mirror from his crouch, the corner of his lips quirking, his gaze so direct it sent an icy bullet up your spine. “Too late for that.”

  You exhaled slowly, feigning nonchalance as you twirled an absentminded finger through the ends of your hair. Still, you couldn’t help sneaking glances, at the flex of his biceps when he leaned into the drill, at the way his jeans sagged just enough for the band of his boxers to peek through, at the lines of muscle carved into him even in the simplest of motions.

  The panel should have been fixed in five minutes flat.

  So why was it that twenty had passed, and he was still crouched there, examining his work, adjusting, pausing to wipe his palm against his denim-clad thigh, taking every opportunity to look up at you in the mirror?

  With one last turn of the drill, he leaned back on his heels, wiping a speck of dust from his forearm with the back of his hand. 

  “There,” he said, his voice casual, though the smug curve at the corners of his lips told you he was proud of his unnecessary patience. “Door closes smooth as butter now.”

  You twisted in your seat, eyeing him where he knelt on the floor, sweat beading faintly along his temple. “You made that take three times longer than it should have.”

  He shrugged, setting the drill back in the toolbox, the muscles in his arm flexing with the movement. “Maybe I just like fixing things for you.”

  The words landed heavy in your chest and echoed in your head longer than they should have, and you found your throat tightening because you weren’t sure how to respond. 

  With Hyunjin on your bedroom floor, his back pressed against the wall just beside the mended doorframe, the sight of him danced in your vision longer than it should have. The shadows of evening and dim light threw half of his face in a mellow shade. The sheen of sweat gathered along his temples caught the last strands of light, giving him a glow one only ever noticed when they were already looking too closely. 

  He sat with his legs stretched, denim tugged taut along his thighs, and even though he’d finished fixing what he came to mend, his body still held the languid tautness of a man in the midst of work, chest rising with each deep breath, fingers twitching as if reluctant to stash his tools away.

  You hesitated only a moment before speaking. “We should open the wine,” you kept your voice casual through your shallow breaths, smiling through a raging heart, “it would be a waste if I drank it alone, and after all your effort today, you deserve it more than anyone.”

  His mouth quirked, the curl of amusement playing at the commissures of his lips, but his eyes softened when they met yours. “You sure about that?” His voice was smooth, teasing. He knew you would never say no, but he wanted to hear you insist anyway.

  “I’m sure,” you replied, pushing yourself to your feet, walking across your room, stepping over his long limbs stretched out in front of the door, and moving toward the kitchen, acutely aware of his gaze trailing behind you. It was almost too much, the weight of it pressing against your back as you retrieved the bottle, found two glasses, and returned to the room where he remained on the floor, waiting quietly with patience and two twinkling eyes.

  You sank down beside him, close enough that your bare knees brushed against the denim stretched over his thighs. The cork slid free with a soft pop, the sound strangely intimate in the otherwise quiet room, and you poured the wine carefully into each glass, the liquid catching a blush of red as it swirled. When you offered his glass forward, his fingers grazed yours in the exchange, resting in their lingering, and the simple touch made your stomach clench far tighter than it had any right to.

  He lifted his glass, eyes never leaving yours. “Cheers, doll,” he said, the nickname slipping off his tongue with ease, the way it always had, and when the glasses clinked, the sound seemed more stark than it should have, echoing in the space between you.

  The first sip was warm, rich, and melted along your tongue. He leaned his head back against the wall, glancing at you sidelong with a smug, careless expression doing little to hide the intent in his pupils. “You’re not going to be late to that dinner of yours?”

  You shook your head, swirling the wine in your glass, watching the surface slant before peeking at him again. “I wasn’t really looking forward to going. Honestly, I’d much rather stay here.”

  Something flickered in his expression, a spark he smothered quickly under a chuckle. “What were you celebrating, anyway? Must’ve been something big if it meant dragging you out of the apartment in a dress that–” his eyes dropped briefly, unapologetically, before rising to meet yours again, “–looks like it was tailored onto you.”

  You smiled, suppressing a scoff. “It was just a deal we signed with another company. Nothing I was strictly required to attend.”

  “So you g’na tell them you were sick?” His lips curled around the words.

  “I could,” you admitted, tilting your head, “and I probably will.”

  The sound of his laugh rumbled in his chest. He turned his glass in his hands before taking another sip, then leaned his head back again, exhaling through his nose. “Shame for them, though,” he murmured, grinning, “they won’t get to see my doll all dolled up.”

  Your breath caught, but you narrowed your eyes and matched his tone easily. “That’s fine. At least you got to see me.”

  His grin dampened on his lips but not in his eyes. He paused, a flash of surprise quickly hidden, his jaw clenching briefly before he looked away, taking his time with his next sip. “Dangerous thing to say to me,” he said. He spoke in a mellow tone, even through the grit of his loitering wit.

  You smirked into your glass. “You’ll live.”

  His eyes snapped back to yours, and the air between you stilled almost imperceptibly. “You’re trouble,” he muttered, his gaze flicking down to your lips before returning to your eyes, “and you don’t even try to hide it.”

  “You’re still here, so it doesn’t seem like you mind,” you countered, lifting an eyebrow.

  His grin returned lazily. “I don’t,” he admitted, almost thoughtful, before his lips tugged further. “When it’s you, I think I like trouble.”

  The words sank into you faster than the wine. For a heartbeat, you forgot how to breathe, your pulse tripping unevenly, and it felt as if your body didn’t quite know what to do with the sudden weight of his admission, playful though it was. You shifted slightly where you sat, the hem of your dress brushing against your thighs, and you tried to focus on the swirl of red at the bottom of your glass rather than the man watching you so intently beside you.

  Perhaps it was the gentle buzz of alcohol, but you found yourself speaking before you could stop yourself. 

  “You know,” you said quietly, softer than your usual banter, “I really am grateful. For everything you do for me. You don’t have to, but you still always show up.”

  He tilted his head, his lashes lowering as though he was trying to decide whether to make light of it, but you didn’t give him the chance. You placed your now-empty glass down on the floor on the other side of you, reached out, and let your fingers graze the ends of the hair at the nape of his neck.

  The touch was simple, almost innocent, but the effect was anything but. His breath caught in the most imperceptible of ways, throat bobbing as he swallowed, and though he tried to mask the sudden tension in his body, you felt it waver under your hand.

  “I feel like I should pay you somehow,” you added, fingertips skimming from the ends of his hair to the warm skin just at the base of his neck.

  Hyunjin stilled, the glass halfway lifted to his lips before he finally tipped it back, draining the last sip as if it were needed armor. When he lowered it, his voice was firm. “I don’t want anything from you.”

  “That's not fair–”

  “No.”

  “But–”

  “No.”

  Your hand might have retreated if not for the way he leaned into it, surrendering himself into your touch as though he’d been waiting for it all along. The strength of him, the sharpness of his jaw, the unruly softness of his hair between your fingers—it all came together with a kind of inevitability that made your chest ache in built-up anticipation. Encouraged, you threaded your fingers deeper into the strands, scratching your nails lightly at his scalp.

  He closed his eyes briefly, his mouth parting, and when he opened them again, his pupils were wide, swallowing the warm brown into a dark chocolate. He looked at you with awe, as if the mere weight of your hand in his hair was liberating him, his lips tugging faintly between his usual grin and something far more vulnerable.

  The silence sprawled on, until his voice broke it with a confession so plain, so unguarded, it sent a shock straight through you. 

  “Haven’t you ever considered that maybe I just want you?”

  Your fingers froze mid-scratch. The words landed with the force of a blow, leaving your face blank as you scrambled to compose your inner self, to not let him see the way your chest had tightened or the way your breath had retreated from its post.

  Hyunjin opened his mouth to add more, but you didn’t give him the chance.

  For a fleeting second, he thought you might laugh, or scoff, or even slap him, the flash of your eyes unreadable, but when you leaned in, his breath left no room for comprehension as your lips molded upon his.

  He carefully placed his emptied glass down beside him—he almost would’ve let it slip from his fingers from how off-guard you had caught him with your lips, but he wasn’t going to ruin your pretty drinkware. His hands immediately sought you, almost desperately, one sliding beneath the soft fabric of your dress to cup your thigh, the other reaching for your waist to drag you  closer to him.

  His biceps bulged when he shifted you over his lap, your dress slipping against the denim stretched over his thighs as you settled onto him in a straddle. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your lips.

  You hummed in response, your lips moving hungrily against his, and he matched you without hesitation, kissing you with eyebrows pinched painfully together. One calloused palm rubbed up your side to your back, rough fingers leaving trails of fire as he found the back of your neck, threading through your hair, urging you closer until there was no space left to close.

  This should feel absurd, kissing your neighbour, your own personal handyman, but it was exhilarating. You had no idea just how bad you had wanted him—how bad your body longed for him—until your lips slotted against each other and hands gripped each other, whatever they could touch and hold.

  You were soft, warm, intoxicating, and he wanted all of you, every inch and sound and breath. He pulled you flush against him, his other hand tightening at your waist until your chest pressed against his and—fuck, you’re not wearing a bra?

  You shivered and broke the kiss to moan against his lips. He was hard beneath you, there was no mistaking it, the rough denim straining as he pulled you down onto him, greedy for the heat radiating through the thin barrier of your dress. The pressure made you arch and bite back a cry, his groan rumbling into your mouth as if the very sound was welded to your pulse.

  His hands dragged you closer, sliding up from your waist until his palms cupped your breasts, squeezing them with a hunger that made your blood beat harder. The fabric of your dress was ruffled now, bunched beneath his fingers, and the lack of a bra—a reckless decision you had barely thought about—was driving him mad. His thumb pressed over your nipple through the cloth, and the sharp friction made your lips part with a gasp he swallowed, his tongue catching yours in a kiss both messy and deliberate.

  He pulled back suddenly, lips glistening and breathing deeper. “Do you have any idea,” he murmured against your cheek, “what you’ve been doing to me all this time?”

  The words made you shiver again, though he didn’t wait for your answer. His mouth found your neck, wet and hot, kissing, sucking, biting in quick succession as if he couldn’t decide which sensation he wanted you to suffer through more. Your head tipped back, helpless, giving him room, and the moan that spilled out was involuntary, humiliating in its rawness.

  Your fingers threaded into his hair without thought, tugging lightly, guiding him, but he hardly needed encouragement. He licked a slow path down your throat to the swell of your breasts, pausing only to drag his teeth along your collarbone in a mark you already knew would bloom later. You felt his smirk against your skin as if he was entirely aware of the claim he was leaving behind.

  Your dress slipped lower with each kiss until his mouth pressed over your breast, heat seeping through the thin fabric, his tongue circling your nipple until it peaked against the damp spot his lips left behind. You whimpered, tightening your hold on his hair as he drew you deeper into his mouth, sucking hard enough that your back arched further into him.

  Your body had utterly surrendered to his touch. You were putty in his arms, his big, bulging arms that caged you to his front so perfectly. His big arms that had you wondering whether he’d lift and toss you on the bed, manhandling you into whatever position his dick was yearning for.

  Hyunjin groaned in frustration because it wasn’t enough. The friction was mocking him rather than giving him what he wanted. He writhed in discontent beneath you, jerking up his hips, and the pressure of his cock through his jeans against your core made you cry out, rolling your hips down in response.

  “Fuck,” he groaned, the sound ripped from his chest. His eyes peered up at you from where his mouth was still latched to your breast, pupils blown wide, gleaming with unrestraint. His grip on you tightened, fingers dipping into your spine as though daring you to move again.

  You did. You slowly rocked your hips, dragging your core from the base of his denim-covered cock to the tip, feeling how hard he was even through layers of fabric. His entire body shuddered, his groan breaking into something darker, almost pained, and you knew you had undone him.

  “Do you have any idea how long you’ve had me bricked up?” he muttered, smirking at his own confession and pulling away from your chest only long enough to speak before biting lightly over the other breast, sucking your nipple through the dress until you swore your body would combust.

  Your head spun, blood beating rampantly in your veins, and still he wasn’t satisfied. He pulled away entirely, panting, hair messy from your fists in it, and peeked at the floor beneath you with contempt. “Not here,” he murmured hoarsely, “I– shit, can’t have you how I want here.”

  Before you could process, his arms were wrapping around you, strong and determined, lifting you up with him. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, your breath hitching at the sheer effortlessness of it, at the sensation of his cock pressing directly against your core in the new position. He grinned at your reaction, lips brushing yours in a kiss too brief and taunting.

  He dropped you onto the mattress with a carelessness that was not cruel but desperate, his body already covering yours before you had time to adjust. His mouth returned to yours in a kiss that tasted of urgency and hunger, his hands sliding up your thighs, over your hips, until they cupped your breasts again, as though he couldn’t bear to let go of them for even a moment.

  Your dress was pulled higher, your thighs bare to the cool air of the room, and his hips pressed down, denim rough against your soaked core. He rolled into you once, then over and over, his teeth sucking at your bottom lip as he groaned into your mouth and cursed softly against your neck, every sound from him making you ache from exactly where he needed you.

  His restraint was fraying, you could feel it in the tremor of his hands and desperate way he pressed his hips harder against you. Yet, even now, he took his time, his tongue circling, teasing, claiming, leaving you on the verge of begging. And still, all you could do was hold him closer, your fists tangled in his hair, eyelashes fluttering, body arching into every touch, every kiss, every grind of his hips that promised more than either of you could stand to wait for.

  “Hyunjin–”

  “Yeah?” he answered back, breathing heavily and pressing his forehead to yours.

  You whined, tugging at his t-shirt.

  Hyunjin let out a ragged breath, his chest heaving. “Ah, shit.” He reeled back from you, his hair mussed, lips kiss-bruised, eyes dark and wild, and tried to ignore the way his cock jerked at the sight of you sprawled on the bed, your dress sliding dangerously low over your shoulders.

  His fingers gripped the back collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head in one smooth pull that left his torso bare, lean muscle stretching and flexing in a way that made your thighs squeeze together without you meaning to. Your legs felt weak just looking at him, your stomach flipping with every inch of golden skin he revealed. His jeans hung low, riding down his hips, boxers peeking just enough to tease before he shoved both down in one go.

  His cock sprang free, flushed and hard and glistening along the tip, thick veins straining, the sheer sight of it enough to send heat pooling at your core. Hyunjin caught your eyes flickering down, and his tongue darted across his lips—he knew exactly what the sight did to you.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than you, his voice husky from having been slotting his tongue against yours not too long ago, before he leaned forward again and hooked his fingers under the straps of your dress, sliding it down your body.

  He tried not to show how his cock twitched at the sight of your breasts bared, but the sharp exhale that escaped him had braced all the hot pressure that was building at the pit of his stomach. He didn’t dawdle, tugging the dress away until you lay there in nothing but your panties, blushed and messy-haired, your pouty lips parted to let the quick string of breaths out from the confines beneath your heaving breasts.

  Hyunjin froze for a moment, swallowing hard, eyes roving over you and trying to control the way the sight was making him almost feral. His chest rose and fell like he was composing himself, but it was already useless; he was wrecked beyond repair.

  “You don’t even know,” he whispered, leaning down again, brushing his lips across yours in a kiss that was soft despite the frantic hunger of moments before. His hand slid across your stomach, fingers toying with the waistband of your panties, tracing the elastic. “Tell me what you want.”

  You writhed, clutching at his broad shoulders. “Anything, Hyunjin– just anything. I’m so wet for you, I can’t–”

  His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and he let out a broken, desperate groan, the sound so raw it nearly had you cumming right then and there. 

  “Fuck, don’t say that,” He whispered, his hand slid down further, the pads of his fingers pressing against the soaked cotton of your panties. He felt the damp heat immediately and nearly lost it. 

  But he had lost it. 

  He had. He was so far gone, so taken by you, he was convinced the night would never end and he’d have you like this until time fizzled into oblivion.

  His voice cracked when he spoke again. “Shit, you’re– soaked.” He breathed slowly for a few beats. “You know how many times I’ve thought about you like this? And now…” His sentence dissolved into another curse, whispered into your skin.

  You whimpered against his temple, the ends of his hair tickling your cheek, squirming your hips against his palm. “Take it off, Hyune.”

  He wastes no time hooking his fingers into the waistband of your soaked panties, tugging slowly, dragging them down your legs until it was discarded ball of fabric with a wet splotch, leaving you utterly naked before him. 

  The sight confiscated the air from his lungs. His cock throbbed so fucking hard at the vision of your slick pooling between your thighs, proof of just how badly you wanted him too, and his jaw clenched as though the sheer need pained him.

  “Fuck, baby,” he groaned, rubbing his lips along your knee, your inner thigh. God, he’d thought of you like this so many times. He’d thought of you, his pretty neighbour, his doll in distress, sprawled atop the sheets of a bed, legs spread for no one but him, your core slick-sheened and dampening the sheets for no one but him. 

  When he sank between your legs and pulled your thighs over his shoulders, the scent of your arousal hit him so hard, he nearly whimpered and salivated like a Pavlovian dog, dragging in a breath through his nose as if your heady scent was the only oxygen he’d need for the rest of his damned life.

  “Need’a taste you,” he mumbled, lips fluttering over your folds and making you squirm at the lack of contact. 

  “Jinnie,” you whimpered.

  And whimpered once again, after you felt the chaste kiss he gifted your clit.

  “Taste so google, doll,” he panted between licks, his voice shaking. “Do you know how many nights I’ve fucked my fist thinking about sucking on this pretty cunt? About making you feel good, hearing you moan for me?” His words spilled hotly, desperate—the wit had left him. “I’d do anything for this, anything for you. Just let me make you come on my tongue.”

  Hyunjin’s mouth moved with a hunger that was nothing short of feral, his lips sealing against you in a messy kiss that had your thighs trembling against his shoulders. He licked at your folds, sliding his tongue between them, tasting you with greed, tongue dipping and circling before laving flat against your nub, doing everything to draw little gasps from your lips because they kept pushing him further.

  The only sounds filling your room were your whines and whimpers, Hyunjin’s groans muffled in your heat, and the wet, slick squelches of his tongue burning itself in you, his lips sealing over your bud and sucking, the kisses and licks he gave your clit.

  “God, you’re unreal,” he muttered, dragging his tongue over you again before sucking hard at your clit, his cheeks hollowing with the effort.

  Your fingers threaded into his hair, gripping onto his messy strands when his tongue pressed firmer. The sound that tore from his chest was a groan-turned-whine, his hips rutting into the bed as if even the friction of his cock against the duvet wasn’t enough. He ground himself down again and again, his cock leaking against the fabric.

  One long finger flit against your entrance, sliding in easily through the slick mess he had already made of you. You clenched helplessly around him, and he moaned so loudly it almost startled you, pulling away from your clit to mutter against your skin. “Tight– fuck, you’re so tight around my finger, I might– aah, I might cum before I even get inside you.” 

  He kissed your thigh, nipped at it, then sucked at your clit again, his finger curling deep inside until you were gasping.

  “Hyunjin–”

  “Yeah, baby, I’ve got you,” he said quickly, voice rough, before sucking harder, the obscene sounds of his mouth slurping at you filling the room. His hips rutted down against the sheets in frantic rhythm with his tongue, his need consuming him whole. 

  He slid in another finger, stretching you, filling you, working them both in time with his mouth until you were writhing, grinding up into his face and messing his hair with your fists.

  “N-nngh—Hyune, need you.”

  “Yeah? Need me?” He smirked against you. “You need me?”

  When he looked up at you, he thought he might cum from the sight alone.

  You’re panting, breasts heaving with each breath that escapes you. Your lips are glazed over and still puffy from your makeout. Your eyebrows are knotted together, cheeks flushed, temples sheening with sweat, and your eyes—gosh, your angel eyes are so, so fucked-out.

  “What do you need, baby?” he taunted, finger pushing at the gummy end of your hole, making you roll your hips and give him a desperate look.

  “Need you inside,” you whined.

  Hyunjin’s smirk widened, his fingers still relentless inside your walls. “Hmm, I think you’ll need to be a little more specific, doll.”

  You whimpered a bratty hmph, scrunching your eyebrows together and rolling your head back before you peered down at him again.

  He gazed at you, amused, fingers pumping. His thumb came up to rub at your clit just to tease you a little more. When you didn't say anything, he raised his eyebrows, and you mewled in defeat.

  “I– fuck, Hyunjin, put your dick in me. Fuck me, please.”

  Hyunjin ripped his fingers from your core, grabbed your hips, and flipped you onto your stomach, pulling at your hips until they lifted over the edge of your bed and your toes pressed into the floor.

  His thumbs slid up the insides of your thighs and pulled at the glistening lips surrounding your cunt.

  “Fuck, you’re a mess,” he marveled, voice shaking, catching some of your slick on his thumb and dragging it over the swollen tip of his cock. He smeared it over himself with a hiss through his teeth, gaping at the way it shined along his length. “So pretty like this, bent over for me, soaked for me.”

  He hoisted your hips further up when you arched back into him with a moan. You rolled your hips in his hands and peeked back at him over your shoulder.

  “Fuck me hard, Jinnie.”

  He snapped his eyes to yours, his chest heaving, his tongue darting out to wet his slick-coated lips, trying his best not to cum at the sound of those words in your voice.

  “Say it again.”

  “Fuck me, Hyunjin.”

  “Again.”

  “Fuck me, please. Fuck me so hard, Jinnie, I’ll–”

  Hyunjin slammed into you, cutting your words short. Your mouth hung open in a broken moan, and your cheek fell against the sheets of your bed. It mattered not whether your makeup smudged along the comforter. In fact, nothing mattered, apart from the hard, veiny drag of Hyunjin’s cock along your tight, hot walls.

  “Mmm, shit,” he choked out. “Fucking tight– God.”

  It took everything in Hyunjin to pull out, watching his cock glisten with your wetness, before rutting back into you harder, rubbing at your hip with one hand while sliding the other down your back to grip your waist.

  He thrusted in and out of you, his cock squelching along your wet walls. Little gasps and whimpers slipped from your lips and buried into the sheets, his groans filling the room with each drag of his cock.

  The hand on your waist slid up your back, his fingers running through your hair before he leaned down, chest flush to your spine, and kissed along your neck, wet open-mouthed kisses smearing heat into your skin. The grip on your waist never dimmed in strength, pulling you back into each thrust, rutting harder, deeper, until you were squirming beneath him

  “How long have you wanted this?” He mumbled into your neck, thrusting deep into you and clasping his fingers along the base of your skull. “Is this why you kept calling me over, hm? Wanted to see what I looked like all hot and sweaty for you, yeah?”

  You whined and jerked your hips back into him, nodding pathetically with the will of half your mind—the other half had long been sucked out of you.

  He rubbed the nape of your neck with so much delicacy it was almost a contradiction, at odds with the way his cock kept battering into you with ruthless precision. The hand in your hair snaked along your back, around your torso, sliding up the front of your warm body to grab the base of your neck. He drilled into you again and again, his words dirty against your neck and seemingly never ending.

  “Taking me so well, baby, fuck. You’re so good for me, my pretty doll.”

  “Feel that? Feel how hard you made me? It’s all for you, just for you.”

  “G’na fuck you full with my load. You want that? Want me to fuck a baby in you?”

  “Yes, Jinnie—mmph, please,” you whimpered into the sheets at his last words, your reply so fast and frantic it had Hyunjin’s eyes rolling back into his head, his jaw flexing as he groaned.

  “Yeah?”

  He needed to see you. He needed to see your face, your lips parted in an oh, eyes glazing over with a coat of tears that might spill at any given thrust. He wanted to see what he was doing for you, wanted so desperately—yearned—to watch you beautiful you looking breaking apart under him.

  He reeled back from you, slid his hand down your back, and gripped your hips with both hands before pulling out of your cunt with a wet drag and flipping you onto your back again, your body pliant beneath his grip.

  He wasted no time filling you full with his cock again, watching your face at the exact moment the head slipped back in, almost shaking at seeing how good it made you feel. Your legs wrapped him closer to you when he leaned down and smashed his lips to yours. He tasted of your arousal and nothing but.

  He flattened his hand against your back, curving you into his chest, groaning when your breasts pressed into him, the feeling of your hardened nipples rubbing along his chest making him rut harder. Then, he grabbed onto your hip so he could really start pounding into you.

  The squelch of your walls around his pumping cock filled the room, and your little sounds serenaded the fibres in his ears. His hot, open mouth rested against the base of your neck, his wreaked moans sinking into your warm skin. Your hands were in his already unkempt hair, nails digging into his neck and scraping over his upper back. 

  He snapped his hips, squeezed onto yours, and ground his dick deeper into you. His tip grazed your g-spot, and you clenched around him, trying to keep him in, trying to make him stay there and rut into your spot over and over until you were coming undone for him and only him. You squeezed your legs around him, attempting to bury him further into you.

  “Big.”

  He looked at you, into your half-open eyes, the way your lips part after weakly moaning out the singular syllable.

  “Yeah? It’s big?” He panted, a curl in the corner of his lips, adoration submerging his eyes. You nodded at him, a knot deepening between your eyebrows. “You’re taking it so good, though, baby. Taking me so fucking good.”

  His fingers wreathed through your hair, the pad of his thumb is circling over your hip bone, and he mumbled incoherent praises against the supple skin of your neck.

  The hand on your hip smoothed over your lower stomach, his palm pressing into it when he pounded into your g-spot again. You whimpered at the friction of his tip against your sweet spot, gripping whatever part of him you could get your hands on—his shoulders, his biceps, anything. 

  He slid his hand further down, his fingers pushing your swollen clit out from under its hood, and rubbed a languid circle down into your nub.

  That was all it took for you to feel the pressure rippling in the core of your being.

  “You’re clenching down so hard on me, baby, shit,” he groaned, pulling his head back to watch your face. “You’re cumming? You gonna cream on my dick?”

  “Yes—yeah,” you moaned, your eyebrows scrunching tight, staring into his dark, chasmic, heavy-lidded gaze.

  “Cum, baby. Cum for me, and I’ll fill you up so good. I’ll fuck my seed so far into you, I promise– shit.”

  His words were all it took to have you clenching down onto his dick rhythmically, the pressure exploding in your core and ripping through you until you spasmed against his frame and dug your head back into the pillow.

  Hyunjin plastered his forehead along your bare neck when his own orgasm threw him over the edge just after yours, after feeling the way your walls tightly hugged along his length over and over again, abs tightening and spurting his seed deep into you, coating your walls white hot, adhering to the promise he’d made just moments ago. He groaned the most beautiful, broken sound against your skin before his muscles relaxed and he hovered his face above yours, panting heavily against your lips.

  You could feel how hot his cum was inside you, how full you were with his seed and slowly softening dick still buried deep inside you, plugging you full with everything he’d given you.

  Your breaths leveled out together, Hyunjin giving you the softest kisses as you both calmed down.

  Your hands drifted along his bulging biceps that caged you in, along the contours of his shoulders until you had a hand wrapping along his neck, the other pushing at the messied hair that spiked over his forehead.

  He gazed at you with the warmest of eyes before a boyish grin lit up his face. You couldn’t help but smile back up at him, still full with his cum and softened dick.

  “You should come fix things spontaneously more often,” your voice wisped against his cheeks, so soft and hoarse. He laughed, eyes twinkling, crinkling at the angel beneath him.

  “I should keep you from work dinners more often.”

  In the comfortable silence that passed with the both of you smiling at each other, Hyunjin decided he was going to stay buried in you like this for the rest of his life. Then, you wouldn’t need him to fix anything ever again. He wouldn't need to show up with his bitchass toolbox and tattered jeans, hoping to see you smile at him, pleased at the work he did for his doll. Although, to his dismay, he knew he couldn’t stay buried in you forever, because—

  “Can I take you out to dinner sometime?"

Hyunjin finally grew a pair. He even felt them slap against the backs of your thighs.

Maybe all he needed was to work his doll in a different way.

৬ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝘰𝑠𝘵𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐  reblog, comment, slide into my inbox !! please let me how i did, it'll make me happy :D (i have a praise kink)

── thank you for reading ❝ work, doll ❞ ᝰ.ᐟ

“Wow,” he adds, glancing at the box. “You moving in or fleeing the country?”

You laugh before you can stop yourself. It comes out lighter than you feel. “Moving in. Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunate for the box,” he says. “Great for the building. I’m Changbin. You want help before gravity wins?”

You pause for just a moment before nodding. He lifts the box easily, holding it at his hip. You follow him up the stairs, trying not to stare but failing right away. He asks which floor, jokes about how stairs build character, and somehow makes the whole thing feel less miserable.

“Yah! We’re neighbors! I live next door,” he says, pointing to the front door one down from yours.

He greets neighbors by name and waves as they pass.

Halfway through unloading, a group of kids comes barreling down the hall, sneakers squeaking.

“Changbin hyung!” one of them yells. “Are you playing soccer today?”

Changbin lights up instantly. “Later,” he promises. “After I help our new neighbor. Same time as yesterday.”

They cheer and run off, and you’re left blinking at him.

“You’re popular,” you say.

He shrugs, a little bashful. “They’re good kids. Way better at soccer than me, honestly.”

You don’t believe him for a second.

Inside your apartment, he stacks the boxes neatly, asks where things should go, and jokes about labeling and how everyone promises to unpack right away but never does. You notice his hands again and the way he laughs with his whole chest. You realize you’re already in trouble—instant crush. No warning.

As he lifts the last box inside, footsteps echo in the hallway. A woman’s voice follows, light and familiar.

“Changbin?”

You freeze.

He turns, smiling softly as a girl steps into your doorway. She’s pretty, relaxed, and clearly comfortable enough to come looking for him. She glances at you, then back at him.

“Oh,” she says. “You’re helping someone move?”

“Yeah,” he replies easily. “She just moved in.”

Something in your chest sinks before you can stop it. Girlfriend, your brain supplies immediately. Of course.

They talk quietly as he sets the box down, and then, without any awkwardness, they step into the apartment next door together. The door closes gently behind them.

Changbin gives you one last wave before disappearing.

You stand alone in your half-unpacked apartment, surrounded by boxes and the echo of his laughter, trying to ignore the tight, unexpected disappointment in your stomach. You tell yourself it’s ridiculous—you just met him.

A few weeks go by, and Changbin stops being just the hot neighbor who helped you move in. He becomes something more dangerous: familiar.

You see him in pieces at first. In the mornings, when you’re rushing out with coffee balanced precariously in one hand and your phone in the other, he’s usually just coming back from a run, hair damp, breathing easy like it didn’t nearly kill you to climb the stairs. He always says hi. Always smiles and waves. Sometimes he asks where you’re sending people this week, like being a travel agent is the most interesting thing in the world.

With your busy schedules, you talk in short bursts. Five minutes in the hallway. A quick chat by the mailboxes. A laugh when the elevator breaks again. It all feels easy. Maybe too easy.

In the afternoons, you see him outside with the neighborhood kids. At first, you just watch from your balcony as he kicks a soccer ball with them, laughing when they gang up on him and pretending to lose. Then one day, he notices you.

“Y/N-ah,” he shouts, pointing up at you. “Come here. We need teams.”

You try to protest. You really do.

It doesn’t work.

Soon you’re out there too, your shoes scuffing the pavement while the kids shout rules that change every half minute. When one of them calls your name without the honorifics, Changbin stops playing.

“Yah,” he says gently but firmly, crouching down. “What do we call her?”

The kid groans. “Noonaaa.”

“Exactly,” Changbin says, grinning at you with pride. You feel something warm twist in your chest.

You start to notice a pattern. Different women come and go, sometimes the same ones. You hear laughter through the walls at night, then see polite distance the next morning. There’s no hand-holding or lingering kisses in the hallway.

The only red flag about him.

You tell yourself you’re fine with that. After all, you’re just neighbors. Friends, maybe. Still, every time he smiles at you, every time he chooses to sit next to you on the steps while the kids play, every time he casually exists in your orbit, you feel it settle deeper.

The first time it happens, you think you’re imagining it.

It’s late, Seoul humming softly outside, when a sound slips through the shared wall—laughter first, then a voice that obviously isn’t his. You freeze in bed, staring at the ceiling, heart stuttering. The walls are thin. You knew that. Still, your face burns as the sounds shift, quieter but unmistakable. You turn the volume up on the YouTube video you’re watching, willing it to disappear.

The second time, you recognize the pattern.

Laughing. Then later, the low moans bleeding through the drywall, followed by breathy noises you absolutely do not want to be hearing from your neighbor’s lovers. You shove a pillow over your head, mortified, annoyed at yourself for feeling annoyed. You tell yourself it’s none of your business. You tell yourself you don’t care.

Weeks go by, turning it into a montage you never wanted. Some nights it’s brief. Other nights it drags on, the rhythm so familiar your stomach twists before you realize it. You lie there, jaw clenched, feeling ridiculous—jealous of someone you never had, embarrassed for listening even though you tell yourself you’re not.

The worst part isn’t the noise.

It’s the mornings after. Changbin in the hallway, with a soft smile, and his hood pulled up. Joking like nothing echoed through your wall hours ago. Like you didn’t lie awake, annoyed now—not at him, not really, but at yourself for letting it get under your skin.

By the time it happens again, you don’t blush.

You sigh, roll over, and think, irritated and sharp:

Yeah. I get it.

You’re awake before it starts. 

You hear the familiar sound of his bedroom door closing, the soft murmur of voices, and instead of heat creeping up your neck, you feel resigned. You turn onto your side, pulling the blanket higher, and listen. It’s rhythmic, consistent, unmistakable. You count the beats, your heart beating in time with the headboard thumping against the wall.

Then you hear high-pitched moans. You wonder if she’s faking it or if he’s really that good. You sigh and turn onto your other side.

The moans keep going, getting louder and more dramatic. You roll your eyes and pull the pillow over your head, hoping it will block out the noise.

Suddenly, there’s a pause. Silence. Then you hear a muffled, "Changbin, oh my god" and you wince. He answers, his voice low: "Shh." The moans start again, even louder. You throw your pillow across the room in frustration. "Seriously?"

By the time you hear it again, you’ve had enough.

It’s 11:30 on a Wednesday, your alarm is set obscenely early, and your patience is already worn thin by weeks of this. You stare at the clock, then the wall, then sit up with a sharp exhale.

Another thump. Another moan.

That’s it.

You shove your feet into slippers, throw on a hoodie, and march out of your apartment before you can overthink it. You stop in front of his door, hesitate for half a second, then knock. Harder than you mean to.

The door opens a few moments later, and your brain immediately short-circuits.

Changbin stands there, shirtless, hair messy, in baggy sweats. Your eyes betray you, flicking once—chest, collarbones, the faint sheen of sweat—before you snap them back up to his face, mortified.

“Oh,” he says, blinking in surprise. “Hey.”

You swallow. “Hi. Sorry. I—I really hate to do this, but…” Once you start, the words just come out. “The walls are really thin, and it’s late, and I’ve been hearing…everything. For weeks. Could you maybe keep it down?”

Your face is on fire. You can’t believe this is your life.

Changbin’s expression shifts immediately. His eyes widen slightly.

“Oh,” he says again, softer this time. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t realize it was carrying that much.”

He glances back over his shoulder, then back at you. “That’s on me. I’ll fix it. Promise.”

Relief washes over you so quickly that it almost makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” you say right away. “I’m really not trying to be—”

“No, you’re totally right,” he interrupts gently. “I should’ve been more aware. Thanks for telling me.”

He smiles at you and steps back. “Get some sleep, yeah?”

You nod, mumble a goodnight, and turn to leave before your heart can embarrass you further. As you walk back to your apartment, the hallway feels quieter. Lighter.

Changbin watches you before closing his door softly.

The wall stays silent.

You think it’s finished.

The next morning, you step into the hallway with your bag over your shoulder, still tired but relieved. The silence lasted. You slept. You’re almost over it.

“Hey.”

The voice is sharp and accusing.

You turn, and there she is—the girl from last night. One you’d seen before. Up close, she looks irritated more than intimidating, arms crossed tight against her chest, eyes already narrowed at you.

“You,” she says, pointing like she’s confirming something she already decided. “You’re the one who knocked.”

Your stomach drops. “I—”

“You ruined my night,” she cuts in, words tumbling fast now. “Do you know we didn’t even finish because of you? He completely lost the mood. I mean, who does that? It was so embarrassing.”

You stare at her, stunned. Heat crawls up your neck, your brain scrambling for something—anything—to say. “I just asked him to keep it down,” you manage weakly. “The walls are—”

“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “It’s an apartment building. What did you expect—silence?”

Before you can respond, the door opens.

Changbin steps out of his apartment, now fully dressed, hair still a little messy, but his expression immediately sharpens when he takes in the scene. His eyes flick to you first, then back to her.

“What are you doing? Stop,” he says, calm but unmistakably firm.

She whirls on him. “Are you serious right now? She embarrassed me—”

“No,” he interrupts, voice steady. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

He doesn’t sound angry, but there’s a clear line in his voice. You can feel it between them.

“She didn’t do anything wrong,” he continues. “We were too loud. She asked politely. End of story.”

The girl splutters, clearly not used to this. “So you’re just kicking me out?”

“I’m asking you to stop,” Changbin corrects, stepping closer to her—not aggressive, just unmovable. “And don’t talk to my neighbor like that.”

The hallway goes quiet. After a beat, she huffs, bag swinging, and storms past you without another word.

Changbin watches her go, then exhales softly and turns to you. His expression gentles immediately.

“I’m really sorry,” he says. “You didn’t deserve that.”

You shake your head, still a little stunned. “I didn’t mean to cause problems.”

“You didn’t,” he says firmly. “I did.”

There’s a pause. The air between you feels heavier now—not uncomfortable, just real. He gives you a small, apologetic smile.

“…You okay?”

You nod, even though your heart is still racing.

Changbin hesitates instead of immediately going back inside.

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, gaze drifting down the hallway like he’s making sure she’s really gone. When he looks back at you, there’s something more serious in his expression than you’ve ever seen before.

“I should probably explain,” he says quietly.

You blink. “You don’t have to. Really. It’s not my business.”

“I know,” he replies right away. “But…I consider you a friend. And I don’t want you thinking I’m just an asshole.”

That makes you laugh softly despite yourself. “I wasn’t.”

He leans against the wall, arms loosely crossed, posture relaxed, but his voice thoughtful. “I don’t do relationships,” he says again, like he’s testing the words. “Not because I don’t like people. Or because I’m scared of commitment in the cliché way.”

You stay quiet, giving him space.

“My parents divorced when I was younger,” he continues. “Bad one. Lots of promises, lots of love talk, and then suddenly they couldn’t even be in the same room. Watching that mess up two people who were so sure…it broke the illusion for me.”

You open your mouth, instinctively wanting to soften it for him. “Changbin—”

“I know,” he says gently, shaking his head. “People fall in love and stay together. I’m not saying it never works.” He pauses. “I just don’t think romantic love is what people think it is. I think it’s something they confuse with comfort, or habit, or timing.”

His eyes flick to you, careful. “And I don’t want to promise something I don’t believe in.”

The hallway is quiet again, but this silence feels different. It feels intentional.

You nod slowly. “That actually makes sense.”

He smiles a little, relieved. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Still not my business, though.”

He chuckles at that, tension easing. “Fair.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. Then Changbin straightens, giving you that familiar, easy smile again.

“Thanks for listening,” he says. “And, uh…thanks for being cool about last night. Seriously.”

You watch him head back into his apartment, the door closing quietly behind him.

This time, your chest feels tight for a different reason. Knowing him better somehow makes wanting him both harder and riskier than before.

For the next few days, Changbin’s words sit with you like something unfinished.

They follow you on the subway, pressed between strangers, replay in your head while you answer emails and build itineraries for honeymoons and anniversaries. You keep thinking about the way he said it—not bitter, not angry. Just…resolved. Like he’d already closed a door and learned how to live comfortably without ever checking if it might open again.

You believe in love. You always have.

Not in the fairytale way, not in destiny or soulmates written in the stars, but in the weight of it. The way it settles in your chest. The way it’s emotional and physical all at once, tangled and messy and real. If love were just a chemical cocktail, you think, then heartbreak wouldn’t feel like grief. It wouldn’t hollow people out. It wouldn’t linger the way it does.

You know heartbreak because you loved.

That’s the part Changbin is missing.

You catch yourself watching him differently now: how patient he is with the kids, how he listens when you talk, how careful he is with other people’s feelings, even when he refuses to offer them more. Someone like that doesn’t lack depth. He lacks belief.

Belief can be challenged.

The idea forms slowly, then all at once: not a confession, not a grand gesture. You’re not going to corner him or try to change him overnight. You’re smarter than that. This isn’t about proving him wrong. It’s about showing him what love looks like when it’s quiet, consistent, and chosen.

You’ll start small. Conversations. Time. Moments that aren’t charged, just honest. Let him see that love isn’t confusion or habit. It’s showing up. It’s care without expectation.

You’re not trying to make him fall in love with you.

You’re trying to make him believe it exists.

And if your heart has to be involved for that to happen, well—

You already knew this wasn’t going to be safe.

You show up at Changbin’s door on a Saturday morning armed like you’re about to defend a thesis.

Binder tucked under one arm. Loose papers threatening to escape. A tote bag bulging suspiciously. You knock once, then adjust your grip, already rehearsing your opening line.

The door opens.

Changbin blinks at you. “Hey—”

You immediately hold up the binder. “I have a plan.”

He looks from your face to the binder, then down at the tote bag. “Should I be scared?”

“No,” you say quickly. “Actually, yes. But in a good way.”

That makes him laugh, the soft, surprised kind. He steps aside automatically. “Do you want to come in, or are you staging some kind of intervention in the hallway?”

You march past him, already unzipping the tote bag and spreading its contents across his kitchen counter like you’re revealing evidence in court.

“Okay,” you say, breathless. “So. You said you don’t believe in romantic love. I’ve thought about it extensively, and you’re wrong.”

Changbin leans against the counter, arms crossed, thoroughly entertained. “Wow. Not even easing into it.”

You flip open the binder. It’s color-coded.

“This,” you say, tapping the first tab, “is a structured itinerary designed to prove that love is not just chemical confusion. Section one: experiences. Museums, long walks, shared meals—”

He peers over. “Is this a flyer for the National Museum of Korea?”

“Yes.”

“And is it laminated?”

“Yes,” you repeat firmly. “Because love is about preservation.”

He snorts. “I like that you committed to the bit.”

You wave him off. “Please focus.”

You flip to another page. “Section two: media. Movies. Carefully curated. No toxic romances, no tragic misunderstandings that could reinforce your point. Emotional intimacy. Growth arcs.”

He reads a title. “You put Pride & Prejudice on here.”

“Obviously.”

“That movie ruins people.”

“Exactly,” you say triumphantly. “Why would it ruin people if love wasn’t real?”

Changbin laughs again, shaking his head. “Is this a debate or a hostage situation?”

“Both,” you say. “But friendly.”

You’re too excited to notice the way his teasing slowly softens into something quieter, more attentive. He lets you talk about emotional permanence, about heartbreak, about how love is an action, not a promise. He makes small jokes, tries to derail you, but you just barrel forward, glowing with purpose.

When you finally stop, breathless, he’s smiling—not amused now, just thoughtful.

“So,” he says gently. “You made all this for me?”

You blink, suddenly aware of how ridiculous you look standing in his kitchen with a binder full of feelings disguised as logic.

“…Yes.”

Changbin exhales a soft laugh. “You’re incredible,” he says, and this time there’s no joke attached.

The moment doesn’t last forever.

Changbin’s smile fades just a little, twisting into something gentler. Careful. Skeptical, but kind. Like he’s choosing his words so they won’t bruise.

“This is…a lot,” he says softly, tapping the edge of the binder. “And it’s sweet. Really. But I still don’t think—”

“Changbin,” you interrupt, already shaking your head. “You think too much. That’s the problem.”

He laughs under his breath. “You’re saying that to a man?”

“Forget about gender,” you shoot back.

He raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. But believing in love because of museums and movies feels optimistic.”

“It’s not about the museums,” you argue, stepping closer, animated. “It’s about shared experiences. About choosing to care. You already do that—you just refuse to call it love.”

“That’s different,” he says gently. “I care about people. Kids. I just don’t think romance is anything more than—”

“—chemicals,” you finish for him, rolling your eyes.

You go back and forth like this, voices calm but insistent, neither of you angry. He’s respectful, thoughtful, and frustratingly reasonable. And you can feel him slipping back into that emotional distance you hate—the polite wall he keeps up so no one gets hurt.

So you sigh and pull out the final card.

“Fine,” you say, flipping to the very last page in the binder. “Do it as a favor.”

He blinks. “A favor.”

“Yes,” you say, nodding seriously. “For me. For the weeks I had to lie in bed, listening to your…escapades. For my trauma.”

His mouth opens. Closes.

“That’s—” He laughs, incredulous. “That’s not fair.”

“Oh, it absolutely is,” you say sweetly. “I’m not asking you to change your worldview. I’m asking you to follow an itinerary. Museums. Movies. Conversations. That’s it.”

He studies you for a long moment, searching your face for something—pressure, expectation, a trap. You give him none of it. Just hopeful stubbornness.

Finally, he exhales, rubbing his jaw.

“You’re impossible.”

You grin. “You already knew that.”

He glances at the binder again, then back at you. “If I do this,” he says carefully, “it doesn’t mean I’ll believe in love at the end.”

“I know,” you say, softer now. “I just want you to try.”

Another pause. Then, reluctantly, fondly, Changbin nods.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll do it. For you.”

Your heart leaps, ridiculous and triumphant.

You don’t notice it yet—but that’s already the most dangerous thing he’s said.

You’re sprawled on Changbin’s living room floor with your binder open between you like it’s sacred text.

“This,” you say, pointing dramatically, “is where you confuse lust with love.”

Changbin snorts from the couch. “Already accusing me. We’re five minutes in.”

“You said romantic love is just chemicals,” you continue, undeterred. “Lust is chemicals. Dopamine. Adrenaline. That whole mess.”

“And love isn’t?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Oxytocin doesn’t exist now?”

“It exists,” you say, sitting up straighter. “But love stays. Lust shows up, wrecks your sleep schedule, and leaves through the fire exit.”

He laughs. “Wow. That’s harsh.”

“You’ve literally demonstrated this for weeks,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the shared wall.

“Ouch,” he says, hand to his chest. “Attacked in my own home.”

You grin. “See? Lust jokes don’t hurt. Love arguments do.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Okay, then explain heartbreak. If love is so real, why does it end so badly so often?”

You don’t hesitate. “Because it mattered.”

He pauses. You see it land.

“If it was just chemicals,” you go on, softer now, “people wouldn’t grieve it like a death. You don’t mourn caffeine withdrawal for years.”

“That depends,” he mutters. “Have you talked to me before coffee?”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it easily, laughing, but his expression shifts to thoughtful again.

“So you’re saying,” he says slowly, “lust is instinct, love is choice?”

“Yes,” you say immediately. “Choice. Action. Staying when it’s inconvenient. You already do that with everyone who lives here except yourself.”

He looks at you for a long moment. “That’s unfair.”

You shrug. “Truth usually is.”

Silence settles—not awkward, just full. Then he smiles, small and genuine.

“You know,” he says, “for someone arguing for love, you’re very aggressive about it.”

“Passion,” you correct. “Another thing you confuse.”

He laughs, shaking his head, and for a second it feels easy. Too easy. Like something is quietly shifting under the jokes.

Changbin flips the binder closed with one finger, like he’s drawing a line in the sand.

“Okay,” he says, sitting back. “My turn.”

You narrow your eyes. “I knew this was coming.”

He smiles, slow and thoughtful. “If love is real—if it’s more than chemicals and habit—why does it fade? Why do people wake up one day and feel nothing? My parents didn’t stop choosing each other all at once. It just drained out.”

The room goes quiet.

For the first time tonight, you don’t immediately answer. You blink, mouth opening, then closing again. He watches you carefully—not smug, not triumphant. Just curious. Waiting.

You exhale, then sit cross-legged, grounding yourself.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “That’s a good question.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “High praise.”

You ignore that. “Love doesn’t fade because it was fake. It fades when people stop protecting it.”

He waits for you to continue.

“It’s like language,” you say, seeing him not immediately rejecting the idea. “If you grow up bilingual and stop speaking one language, it doesn’t mean it never existed. It just means you stopped practicing. Love needs attention. Maintenance. Effort. When people assume it should survive on memory alone, it starves.”

Changbin doesn’t interrupt.

“Your parents didn’t fall out of love,” you finish quietly. “They stopped feeding it.”

Silence stretches.

Changbin looks away, jaw tight, eyes unfocused like he’s somewhere else entirely. When he looks back at you, his teasing is gone.

“That’s not fair,” he says again, but this time it’s softer. “You’re not supposed to have an answer for that.”

You shrug, gentler now. “You asked.”

He lets out a slow breath, leaning back against the couch. “I hate that that makes sense.”

You smile faintly. “You don’t hate it. You’re scared of it.”

He doesn’t deny it.

The moment lingers—quiet, heavy, unfinished—until a knock cuts through it.

Changbin glances at the door, then at his phone on the table. He taps the screen, and the time lights up.

“Oh,” he says. “…Right.”

You don’t need him to explain. You’re already reaching for your binder, stacking papers with exaggerated calm.

“It’s fine,” you say lightly. “Your chemistry experiment has arrived.”

He winces. “You don’t have to—”

“I absolutely do,” you reply, sliding everything back into your tote. “Can’t interrupt your ongoing research.”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I swear the timing just—”

“—is impeccable?” you finish, grinning. “Tragic, really.”

The knock comes again. You’re already on your feet.

“I’ll get it,” you say, breezing past him before he can stop you.

You open the door to find her standing there—one you haven’t seen before. Pretty, put together, clearly expecting a very different scene. Her eyes flick past you, confused.

“Oh—” she starts.

You smile warmly. “Hi! I’m his neighbor.”

Her confusion deepens. “Neighbor?”

“Yep,” you say cheerfully. “We were just…debating.”

Changbin groans softly behind you. “Please don’t say it like that.”

You glance back at him, amused. “Love versus lust. Very academic.”

The girl blinks.

You step aside, grabbing your bag. “Anyway, have fun. Walls are thin,” you add, sing-song sweet, then look at Changbin. “Remember—moderate volume. For science.”

He laughs despite himself. “You’re evil.”

“Convincingly loving,” you correct.

As you pass him, your fingers brush his arm—unintentional, fleeting. His smile falters for just a second.

You don’t look back as you head down the hall, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest.

Behind you, the door closes.

Movie night turns out to be a terrible idea.

Not because the rom-com is bad—honestly, it’s doing its job just fine—but because Changbin cannot shut up.

Five minutes in, he leans over and whispers, “Statistically, there’s no way she trips into his arms again.”

You shove popcorn into his mouth without looking. “Chew. Quietly.”

He chews loudly on purpose.

On screen, the leads make eye contact in the rain.

“Oh come on,” Changbin mutters. “If that were real life, someone would be getting pneumonia.”

You hiss his name. He grins.

Another dramatic pause. Swelling music. The almost-kiss.

He gasps dramatically. “Wait, is this the scene where they misunderstand each other because no one communicates like an adult?”

You grab a fistful of popcorn and stuff it into his mouth harder this time. “If you ruin this for me—”

He muffles, “Mmph. Aggressive affection. Interesting love language.”

An elderly woman in front of you slowly turns around. Her glare could curdle milk.

“Shhh,” she says, deadly serious.

Changbin straightens instantly. “Sorry, ma’am.”

She turns back.

He leans toward you again, whispering, “See? Even she believes in love. That look was passion.”

You snort despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

He steals popcorn from your bucket. “Yet here I am. On a date.”

“This is not a date.”

“Sure,” he says lightly, eyes on the screen. “Then stop smiling.”

You do. Immediately. Obviously.

Ten seconds later, you’re smiling again.

While you’re focused on the screen, Changbin isn’t.

He tells himself he is. He tells himself he’s watching the plot unravel, the predictable arc, the inevitable confession he’s already complained about twice. But his eyes keep drifting sideways, betraying him.

You’re leaning forward slightly, chin resting on your knuckles, eyes bright with focus. The glow from the screen softens your face, catches on your lashes. You smile at something small and earnest on-screen, like you believe in it completely.

Something twists in his chest.

It’s brief. Sharp enough that he notices, but quiet enough that he can dismiss it just as fast. He exhales through his nose and leans back, crossing his arms like that might contain it.

Friendly affection, he tells himself.

That’s all this is.

You’re his neighbor. His debate opponent. The only person who’s ever brought a binder into his apartment with the sole purpose of dismantling his worldview. Of course, he likes you. Anyone would. You’re funny. Passionate. Annoyingly convincing.

That doesn’t mean anything.

Still, his gaze flicks back to you when you laugh softly at a joke in the movie, unguarded and warm. He notices the way you tuck your hair behind your ear without thinking. The way your mouth curves when you’re fully absorbed in something you love.

He swallows.

You’re pretty, he thinks, then immediately corrects himself.

No. You’re beautiful.

The realization lands heavier than he expects. He shifts in his seat, jaw tightening, forcing his eyes back to the screen just as the characters on-screen finally kiss.

“Unrealistic,” he mutters automatically, more to ground himself than to tease.

You don’t hear him. You’re too busy smiling.

And that feeling in his chest—he doesn’t name it. He presses it down, buries it under logic and habit and old conclusions.

But it lingers anyway.

Quiet. Stubborn.

Waiting for him to slip up.

The museum trip is your idea. Obviously.

You march Changbin through the entrance like you’re leading a field trip, pamphlets already in hand. “Okay,” you announce, “today’s theme is Love as Artistic Motivation.”

He squints at the banner overhead. “I thought today’s theme was ‘I get dragged places against my will.’”

“Same thing,” you say brightly.

You start with classical paintings: lovers frozen mid-glance, tragic embraces, dramatic yearning. Changbin tilts his head at one canvas, arms crossed.

“See,” he says, “this guy looks miserable. That’s not love. That’s bad communication.”

“That,” you reply, pointing, “is devotion.”

“That,” he counters, pointing right back, “is neck pain.”

You move on to sculptures. Marble bodies leaning into each other, hands eternally inches apart.

“Explain this,” you say triumphantly.

He circles one slowly. “Okay, but imagine holding that pose forever. My arms would fall off. Romance ruined.”

You groan. “You’re impossible.”

He grins. “You love it.”

You pause. “Don’t say that.”

He raises his hands. “Friendly affection.”

In the modern art wing, you stop in front of an abstract piece—chaotic colors, overlapping shapes.

Changbin studies it. “This looks like what you described heartbreak feels like.”

You blink. “Okay, rude, but also accurate. I’ll be sure to tell my therapist you’re available for guest lectures.”

You read plaques aloud with dramatic flair. He pretends to yawn. You threaten him with the pamphlet. At one point, he catches you staring a little too long at a painting of two people dancing, faces soft, unaware of the world.

“You’re imagining us in that one, aren’t you?” he teases.

You scoff. “Please. That guy’s posture is terrible.”

But you don’t move on right away.

By the time you exit through the gift shop—him holding a postcard you forced on him “for reference,” you buzzing with victory—he sighs.

“I still don’t believe in romantic love,” he says.

You smile, satisfied anyway. “You don’t have to. Art already does.”

He doesn’t argue.

You’re still basking in your artistic victory lap when it happens.

You’re standing a little too close to Changbin, both of you arguing about whether a painting is “yearning” or “emotional constipation”, when an elderly couple shuffles up beside you. They’re holding hands, matching hats, the whole lethal combo.

“So sweet,” the old woman says warmly. “Young love.”

You and Changbin freeze.

“Oh—no,” you say at the exact same time he says, “We’re not—”

“—together,” you both finish, overlapping again.

The couple beams harder.

“Oh, you remind us of us,” the old man says, squeezing his wife’s hand. “Always bickering.”

“We fought all the time,” the woman adds cheerfully. “Still do.”

“Sixty years,” the man says proudly.

Changbin chokes. “Sixty?”

“Married at twenty-two,” she continues. “Everyone said love wouldn’t last. Look at us now.”

You and Changbin exchange a look—pure panic, mirrored perfectly.

“That’s amazing,” you manage.

“You’ll see,” she says knowingly, patting your arm. “You’re already halfway there.”

Changbin bows so fast he nearly throws his back out. “Thank you, but we’re really just friends.”

“Yes, yes,” the woman says, waving him off. “That’s how it starts.”

They shuffle away, still cooing.

The silence afterward is deafening.

You bow politely in their direction, then turn to Changbin, eyes gleaming. “Sixty years.”

He groans. “Absolutely not.”

“Exhibit A,” you say, pointing after the couple. “Love. Real. Durable.”

“That’s survivor bias,” he mutters.

“You’re just scared,” you sing.

He sighs, rubbing his face. “Why are strangers emotionally attacking me today?”

You grin as you walk on. “Because love is persistent.”

Behind you, Changbin shakes his head, but he doesn’t argue.

And you count that as another win.

You’re still mid-argument by the time you reach the apartment complex.

“Sixty years,” you repeat, jabbing the elevator button like it personally offended you. “That’s not a fluke. That’s commitment.”

“That’s endurance,” Changbin counters, stepping in beside you. “Very different skill set.”

The elevator dings, mercifully saving you from yourselves. You’re both grinning now, the fight purely recreational.

His phone rings halfway down the hall.

Changbin checks the screen. “Tattoo shop.”

You gesture grandly. “Put it on speaker. Let me hear more evidence that I’m right. If someone’s getting their ex’s name covered, that’s not heartbreak—it’s asset protection.”

He answers anyway. “Yeah?”

A pause. Then his mouth twists.

“…A name?” He exhales. “How big?” Another pause. “Mm. Yeah. Classic.”

He hangs up and looks at you like he’s been handed a winning argument.

“You called it,” he says. “Someone wants their ex’s name covered up. Love isn’t real. It’s a bad decision with a budget.”

You scoff. “Wrong.”

“Oh?” He crosses his arms. “Convince me.”

“They loved hard,” you say immediately. “Hard enough to put it on their body. You don’t permanently mark yourself over something fake.”

“Or,” he says, “they were young and impulsive.”

“And now they’re hurting,” you shoot back. “Because it mattered. If love wasn’t real, breakups wouldn’t cost money.”

He laughs despite himself. “That’s the worst argument you’ve made.”

“It’s also flawless,” you insist. “No one gets a cover-up for a casual crush.”

Changbin slows outside his door, considering it. “Still seems inefficient.”

“Love isn’t efficient,” you say. “It’s meaningful.”

He opens his door, shaking his head. “You’re exhausting.”

“You’re welcome.”

He pauses before stepping inside. “Same time tomorrow?”

Your heart jumps, but you keep your tone light. “Obviously. You still owe me movie number three.”

He smiles, easy and warm, and disappears into his apartment.

You linger in the hallway a second longer than necessary, keys cold in your hand, watching Changbin disappear into his apartment.

The door closes with a soft click.

And that’s when it hits you.

This isn’t just a crush anymore. It’s not just banter, stubborn debates, or proving a point. It’s the way you look for him without meaning to. The way your chest feels lighter when he laughs and heavier when he doesn’t. The way you keep building arguments for love that sound suspiciously like confessions.

That realization scares you enough that you finally turn away.

Inside your apartment, the silence greets you like an accusation. You lean back against the door, eyes shut, heart doing something reckless.

Don’t, you tell yourself.

He warned you. He drew the line. You’re the one choosing to walk closer.

Next door, Changbin drops onto his couch like gravity finally remembered him.

He stares at the ceiling for a beat, exhales, then pulls out his phone—meaning to distract himself, to scroll, to reset. Instead, he opens his camera roll.

Museum photos. Abstract art. Sculptures. A blurry shot of a plaque he definitely doesn’t remember reading. He swipes idly, then stops.

There you are.

Laughing mid-argument, eyes bright, hand frozen in a dramatic gesture. Another one: you squinting at a painting, head tilted, completely absorbed. He doesn’t remember taking them. He remembers wanting to.

Changbin swallows.

He tells himself it’s nothing. Familiarity. Comfort. He tells himself a lot of things.

Still, his thumb hovers, then goes back. Lingers. Zooms in without permission.

“Idiot,” he mutters, locking the phone and tossing it aside.

He stares at the ceiling again, chest tight in a way that feels suspiciously like the thing he doesn’t believe in.

That night, on either side of the wall, you both lie awake longer than usual.

And neither of you is ready to admit that something has already started.

And then things change.

A text pushed back an hour. Then another one canceled entirely.

Sorry—shop’s busy.

Rain check?

Next week for sure.

Next week never comes.

You still see him, technically. In passing. A flash of a black T-shirt on the stairwell. The sound of his door opening and closing at odd hours. Laughter bleeds through the wall again. Different voices. Familiar pattern.

Changbin buries himself.

In work first. You hear about it from neighbors before you hear it from him—late nights at the tattoo shop, double bookings, cover-ups stacked back to back. He looks more tired when you do catch a glimpse, shadows under his eyes, smile still there but thinner. Polite. Distant.

The women come back.

You don’t need proof. You recognize the cadence now. You sit on your bed staring at the wall, jaw tight, heart doing something stupid and bruised.

You tell yourself it’s fine. This is exactly what you knew would happen. He said he doesn’t do relationships. He didn’t promise you anything. You were the one who brought binders and belief into his apartment like a fool.

Still, it hurts.

And next door, Changbin knows exactly what he’s doing.

He stays late on purpose. Says yes when he should say no. Lets distraction pile up until there’s no room left to think. When he’s alone, the photos on his phone feel too loud. When he’s not, the silence afterward feels worse.

He calls it coping.

He calls it habits.

He calls it anything but what it is.

Avoidance.

Because every time he thinks about you—laughing in the museum, arguing on his floor, looking at him like love is something he could still learn—his chest tightens in a way that scares him more than loneliness ever has.

So he runs.

The problem starts with one drink.

Then another.

Then the third, which you absolutely did not need but finished anyway because your thoughts were loud and your apartment was too quiet. The wall stays silent tonight.

You check your phone.

Working late, he’d said earlier.

You hear a thud from next door.

You laugh into your glass, humorless. “Liar,” you tell the room.

By the time you slip on your shoes, you’ve decided this is less a bad idea and more a necessary confrontation. Liquid courage counts as courage. Probably.

You knock on his door harder than you mean to.

Nothing.

You knock again, swaying slightly. “Changbin,” you call, muffled by the wood. “Open up. I know you’re in there.”

There’s a pause. Then the door opens.

Changbin blinks at you, startled. He’s fully dressed, hair soft and undone, the glow of the TV spilling out behind him. The sound is low—some late-night documentary murmuring calmly about marine life or history or anything other than a rom-com.

“Oh,” he says. “Hey.”

You stare at him, then past him. At the couch. The blanket.

“You’re not at work,” you say flatly.

He hesitates just long enough. “I got home early.”

You laugh, sharp and tipsy. “Funny. You couldn’t come over early. Or text. Or—” You gesture vaguely between your apartments. “Exist.”

Changbin’s expression tightens, guilt flashing before he smooths it away. “You’ve been drinking.”

“Congratulations,” you say. “You still have eyes.”

He steps aside automatically. “Come in before you fall over.”

“I’m not—” You stumble slightly. “Fine. Maybe I am.”

You walk past him, pointing accusingly as you go. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

He closes the door softly, like volume control matters. “I haven’t.”

“Oh, please,” you scoff, turning on him. “You canceled movies. Museums. Arguments. Lunch. You disappeared into work and random women like it’s a full-time job.”

He winces. “That’s not fair.”

You laugh again, voice wobbling now. “Neither is ghosting your friend.”

Silence.

The TV hums quietly behind you.

Changbin exhales slowly, rubbing his face. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“But you did,” you say, quieter now. “So congrats. Very efficient.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once like he’s trying to bleed the tension out of his body.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he says carefully at first. Too carefully. “I didn’t ask you to insert yourself into my life and start trying to fix me.”

The word lands harder than anything he’s said tonight.

You straighten, blinking. “I wasn’t fixing you. I was helping.”

He lets out a short laugh, incredulous. “By what? Giving me homework? Debates? A syllabus on how to feel?”

“Yes,” you snap back, stepping closer. “Because you shut yourself off, Changbin. You pretend you’re fine, but you’re terrified of wanting something real.”

“That’s not true,” he says quickly.

“It is,” you insist. “And I didn’t do it for fun. I did it because I care about you.”

Something in his face shifts at that—panic, maybe—but it hardens just as fast.

“I don’t need help,” he says, louder now. “I didn’t ask to be your project.”

Your chest tightens. “You think this was a project?”

“What else was it?” he fires back. “You deciding I’m broken because I don’t want the same things you do?”

“I never said you were broken,” you say, voice shaking now. “I said you were scared.”

He stops pacing and looks at you, jaw clenched.

“I’m happy,” he says, voice rising despite himself. “I like my life. I like my work. I like not promising things I can’t keep. I like not waking up one day and realizing I ruined someone because I tried to believe in something I don’t.”

The words hit like glass.

“Then why run?” you ask softly. “Why avoid me?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it.

Because the answer is standing right in front of him, eyes too bright, heart too open. Because you make things feel real in a way he doesn’t know how to control.

Instead, he says, “Because you don’t listen.”

You laugh, hollow. “I listened to everything you said. I just didn’t agree.”

Silence crashes between you, heavy and messy and full of everything neither of you wants to admit.

The TV keeps murmuring uselessly in the background.

His frustration finally snaps.

“Maybe this isn’t about love at all,” Changbin says, voice sharper now, words coming faster. “Maybe you’re just…jealous.”

It’s tossed out casually at first like a theory, like he’s testing it in the air between you.

“Because it kind of feels like you like me,” he adds, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “And you don’t like that I don’t—”

The room goes silent.

Your breath catches so hard it’s embarrassing. You stare at him, and whatever expression crosses your face gives you away instantly. There’s no covering it. No joke. No argument ready.

Changbin freezes. “Oh,” he says quietly.

The realization hits him all at once, crashing straight through his defenses. His jaw slackens, chest tight, eyes searching your face like he’s hoping he’s wrong.

“Wait,” he says, panic creeping in. “I didn’t mean it like that. I shouldn’t have—”

You step back. “Don’t,” you say, voice trembling but firm. “Don’t try to take it back now.”

“I’m sorry,” he rushes out. “I didn’t think—I wasn’t trying to hurt you—”

“You did,” you cut in. The words sting your throat on the way out. “And you’re right. I do like you. Which is exactly why I shouldn’t be here.”

He takes a step toward you instinctively. “You don’t have to go—”

“Yes,” you say, already reaching for the door. “I do.”

Your hand shakes as you open it. You don’t look at him again.

“Leave me alone, Changbin,” you say softly. “You’re good at that anyway.”

The door closes behind you before he can answer.

Changbin stands there in the quiet, heart pounding, the weight of what he said echoing louder than any argument—knowing, too late, that calling it jealousy was the first honest thing he’s admitted in years.

The first text comes an hour later.

Bin: Did you make it home okay?

You see it light up your phone while you’re brushing your teeth. You flip the screen face down and don’t answer.

The next day, he tries again. Casual. Safe.

Bin: So when’s the next “love seminar”? Museum round two?

Nothing.

That evening, a joke.

Bin: I just walked past a flower shop and thought, “wow, she’d definitely use this as evidence.”

Three dots never appear.

Changbin stares at the screen longer than he should, thumb hovering, then drops the phone onto the couch like it burned him. He tells himself you’re busy. You’ll cool off. You always bounce back. You’re stubborn, not gone.

Except you are.

You rearrange your life with surgical precision. Longer hours at work. Extra clients. You say yes to things you used to put off. You come home late, leave early, and if you hear his door open, you turn the other way. When you pass him once in the stairwell, you nod politely like he’s just another neighbor.

That hurts more than yelling would have.

Three days later, his resolve cracks.

Bin: I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.

The next day.

Bin: I shouldn’t have said that.

And then the day after.

Bin: I miss you.

You read them over and over, chest tight, fingers numb.

You don’t reply. You archive the conversation like it’s a closed chapter, even though it feels unfinished.

Changbin throws himself into work again. Late nights. Ink-stained hands. Clients who tell him their worst stories and leave pieces of themselves behind. He listens. He’s good at that.

But when he’s alone, his phone always ends up in his hand.

Museum photos. You laughing. You arguing. You looking at art like it’s speaking directly to you. He tells himself he’s just deleting clutter.

He never does.

Instead, he scrolls back. Lingers. Zooms in. Then locks the screen and stares at the ceiling, jaw tight, heart heavy.

On either side of the wall, life goes on.

Just not together.

At first, Changbin does what he always does.

He fills the space.

A text sent. A door opened. Someone new stepping into his apartment with an easy smile and expectations he knows how to meet. It should work. It used to work. Familiar motions. Familiar laughter. A practiced version of himself that never asks for more.

But it’s different now.

The moment they sit on his couch, he’s aware of the wall.

Of you on the other side of it.

Every laugh feels too loud. Every touch feels misplaced. When someone leans into him, his chest tightens—not with excitement, but with a strange, creeping discomfort. He finds himself listening instead of participating, mind drifting to whether you can hear this, whether you’re awake, whether this is hurting you.

It ruins everything.

One night, in the middle of a kiss, he pulls back without thinking.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, already standing. “I—this isn’t a good time.”

She looks confused. Hurt. He apologizes, because he always does. He lets her leave with grace, with kindness, with no explanation that would make sense.

After that, he tries again. Once more. Just to be sure. Same result.

The wall feels louder than any sound ever did before.

Eventually, he stops answering messages. Stops inviting people over. Stops pretending that distraction feels like freedom. The quiet settles in—not peaceful, but honest.

He lies on his couch at night, staring at the ceiling, phone in his hand, your photos open again without him remembering how he got there. You smiling. You arguing. You looking at him like he was something worth fighting for.

His chest aches now when he thinks of you.

And there’s no one left to blame for it but himself.

Changbin doesn’t numb it.

He lets it hurt.

You’re not doing any better.

It hits you at the most inconvenient times—standing in line for coffee, halfway through answering an email, brushing your teeth before bed. Something small reminds you of him, and suddenly your chest aches so sharply you have to stop what you’re doing.

You cry quietly when you think about how close you got. Every “lesson” you dragged him into hadn’t felt like a project at all. It felt like dates. Like choosing each other, even if neither of you ever said the word out loud.

That’s what hurts the most. Because it was real to you.

You fell in love somewhere between banter and honesty, between shared popcorn and quiet glances. You fell in love with the way he listened, the way he cared without realizing it, the way he tried to protect himself so hard it broke something anyway.

And now you hate yourself for it. You hate that you started it. That you knocked on his door with a binder and belief and hope like you weren’t walking straight toward a cliff. You tell yourself you should’ve listened when he said he didn’t do relationships. You should’ve stayed just neighbors. Just friendly. Just safe.

Instead, you wanted more.

You curl up in bed, wishing you could go back to when the silence didn’t hurt. When wanting him felt harmless.

Now it feels like grief. And the worst part—the part you don’t say out loud—is that even if you could do it over again, you’re not sure you’d choose differently.

Two months is supposed to be enough time to move on.

That’s what you tell yourself as you walk back to the apartment complex, heels clicking, arm loosely trapped in Eunwoo’s grasp. He’s handsome in a way that feels rehearsed: perfect smile, perfect hair, and perfectly aware of it. Dinner had been fine. Conversation less so. He talked about himself like he was pitching a brand.

You’re tired. More than tired. You’re done.

At your door, you fish for your keys, already planning your polite goodbye. Eunwoo steps closer instead, crowding your space, smile turning confident.

“So,” he says, leaning in, “should we keep the night going?”

“No,” you reply lightly, stepping back.

He follows.

“I had a really good time,” he insists, hand brushing your wrist, then your waist.

“I didn’t say I didn’t,” you say, firmer now. “But I’m going inside.”

He laughs like you’re joking and leans in again, clearly expecting compliance.

“Hey,” you snap, pushing his chest. “Get off.”

Your voice echoes down the hallway, sharp and unmistakable.

The door next door opens immediately.

He’d been listening since he heard your soft voice travel down the hallway.

Changbin steps out of his apartment, eyes immediately locking onto the scene—Eunwoo too close, your posture rigid, your hand still braced against his chest. The shift in Changbin’s expression is instant. Gone is hesitation. Gone is distance.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, voice calm but edged with something dangerous.

Eunwoo scoffs, straightening. “We’re fine, man. Just saying goodnight.”

You don’t hesitate. “I told him to stop.”

That’s all it takes.

Changbin steps fully into the hallway, placing himself just slightly between you and Eunwoo. He doesn’t touch you, just makes himself unmistakably present.

“She said stop,” Changbin says evenly. “So stop.”

Eunwoo bristles. “This is between us.”

Changbin meets his gaze without blinking. “Not anymore.”

The silence stretches. Finally, Eunwoo throws his hands up. “Whatever. Didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

“I don’t,” you say flatly.

Changbin doesn’t correct him.

Eunwoo mutters something under his breath and storms off, footsteps fading fast.

The hallway goes quiet, and you’re suddenly very aware of your breathing. Of Changbin standing close. Of how familiar and unfamiliar that feels all at once.

“You okay?” he asks, softer now, turning to you.

You nod, swallowing. “Yeah. I am now. Thank you.”

He hesitates, like there are a hundred things he wants to say and none of them feel safe. Finally, he nods.

“Good,” he says. “If you ever—” He stops himself, then exhales. “Just knock. Okay?”

Your chest tightens, but you don’t respond.

As you turn back to your door, fingers fumbling with your keys, Changbin doesn’t move away.

“So,” he says, quieter now. “Have you been going on dates?”

The question makes your shoulders tense. “Yes,” you answer shortly, metal clinking as you miss the lock the first time.

He hesitates, then asks, “Do you—are they…good?”

That does it.

You stop trying to unlock the door and turn on him, frustration sharp and sudden. “What do you want, Changbin?”

He looks startled by the directness, like he didn’t expect to be called out so plainly. For a second, he says nothing. Then his voice drops.

“I’ve missed you,” he admits. “The past two months. I think about you. A lot.”

Your chest tightens, anger flaring hot enough to burn through the ache. “You don’t get to say that now.”

“I’m just being honest—”

“No,” you cut in. “You were honest when you avoided me. When you canceled. When you disappeared.”

He winces. “You didn’t text back.”

You laugh, bitter. “Because you made it very clear where I stood.”

“That’s not—”

“You don’t do relationships,” you remind him. “You don’t need help. You’re happy. Remember?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it.

You turn back to your door, finally finding the lock. “I’m your neighbor, Changbin. That’s it. That’s all I ever was.”

The words land between you, heavy and final.

As the door closes, he stands there in the hallway, realizing too late that distance was the one thing he asked for—and now it’s the only thing you’re willing to give.

You don’t even make it halfway to your bedroom before there’s a knock.

You freeze, hand still on the strap of your bag. For a moment, you consider pretending you didn’t hear it. Then it comes again.

You open the door just enough to glare at him. “Changbin, go home.”

“I can’t,” he says quietly.

“That’s not my problem.”

You try to shut the door, but he steps forward, determined. His hand braces the doorframe, and slips inside with an apology already on his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I just—please. I need to say this.”

“Changbin,” you warn, heart pounding. “You can’t just—”

“I know,” he interrupts, gentle but urgent. “I know. And if you tell me to leave again, I will. I swear. Just…let me say it first.”

You stand there, torn between anger and exhaustion, before opening the door wider, letting him in. You watch him take in your apartment like it’s something fragile. He doesn’t touch anything. Doesn’t move closer. He just looks at you like he’s been carrying a thought for two months and it’s finally gotten too heavy.

“I messed up,” he says. No jokes this time. No deflection. “I thought distance would fix it. I thought if I buried it long enough, it would go away.”

You cross your arms. “And?”

“And it didn’t,” he admits. “It got louder.”

The silence stretches.

“You told me to leave you alone,” he continues softly. “I tried. But seeing you tonight—someone else touching you like that—” He swallows. “I realized I don’t get to pretend anymore.”

Your voice shakes despite yourself. “Pretend what?”

“That I don’t feel anything,” he says.

The word hangs there, fragile.

You look away, jaw tight. “You don’t get to decide this now.”

“I know,” he says immediately. “I’m not asking you to forgive me. Or to believe me. I just needed you to know.”

You finally meet his eyes. They’re earnest. Unarmed. Terrified.

“Know what?” you ask.

“I was wrong,” Changbin says.

The words come out steady, but his hands give him away—fists opening and closing at his sides like he’s bracing for impact.

“I know I said I didn’t believe in love,” he continues, voice low. “I know I said it was confusion, chemistry, convenience. I was wrong.” He swallows. “Because whatever this is—what I feel when I think about you—it’s not any of that.”

You don’t move. You don’t trust yourself to.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says, the admission raw. “Everything reminds me of you. Movies. Shows. Something I see on my way home. Music. Arguments I rehearse in my head like you’re still there to interrupt me.” A breath, shaky. “I tried to bury it. Work. Women. Silence. None of it worked.”

He takes a step closer, careful, like he’s approaching something fragile.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For everything. For making you feel small that night. For acting like you were a problem I needed distance from. For pushing you away because I was scared of wanting something I couldn’t control.”

Your chest tightens; your eyes burn.

“I know I hurt you,” he goes on. “And I know apologies don’t erase that. But I need you to know I see it now. I see you.” His voice cracks, just barely. “And I can’t spend another day pretending I don’t.”

He stops in front of you.

“I don’t want to not talk to you,” Changbin says softly. “I don’t want to not see you. I don’t want another day where you’re just a wall away, and I act like that’s enough.”

The room is quiet except for your breathing—uneven and unsteady.

“I’m in love with you,” he says. “And that scares me. But losing you scares me more.”

You swallow, arms crossing tighter over your chest like you’re holding yourself together.

“What about the women?” you ask quietly. “The ones you buried yourself in.”

Changbin doesn’t flinch. If anything, he looks relieved you asked.

“I stopped,” he says immediately. “After the first week you stopped answering me.” He shakes his head. “It felt wrong. Every time. I couldn’t do it knowing you were on the other side of the wall, not talking to me.”

You hesitate. “You expect me to just believe that?”

“No,” he says quickly. “I don’t.”

He pulls his phone out of his pocket like it’s been waiting there for this moment. Unlocks it. Opens his messages. Then, almost too fast, he presses it into your hand.

“Look,” he says. “I deleted the contacts. I stopped replying. I stopped inviting anyone over. I didn’t do it for points. I did it because it made me feel sick.”

You scroll despite yourself. Empty threads. Names erased. Unanswered messages left on read weeks ago.

His voice is tight now. “I know this doesn’t erase anything. And I know you don’t owe me trust just because I say I changed.”

You hand the phone back slowly, skepticism still buzzing in your chest. “People say things when they’re scared of losing someone.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s why I’m not asking you to take my word for it.”

He looks at you—really looks at you—eyes open, unguarded in a way you’ve never seen before.

“Tell me what to do,” Changbin says softly. “Not grand gestures. Not promises I don’t understand yet.” A breath. “What can I do to show you I’m in love with you?”

There’s no confidence in the question. No charm. Just honesty. And fear. And hope tangled together.

You stand there, heart racing, realizing this is the part where belief becomes terrifying. Because whether you do or don’t answer, things have already changed.

You take a breath, steadying yourself.

“Consistency,” you say finally. “That’s what I need.”

Changbin stills, listening like every word matters.

“I don’t need promises about forever,” you continue. “I don’t need labels or grand declarations. I need you to show up the same way tomorrow as you are right now. I need you to respect my boundaries. To be okay if I’m not ready. To not disappear the moment things get uncomfortable.”

He nods immediately. “Okay.”

“You don’t get to rush me,” you add. “And you don’t get to punish me if I need space.”

“I won’t,” he says, voice firm. “I swear.”

You search his face, looking for cracks, for hesitation. There isn’t any, just resolve.

“I’m not saying yes to anything,” you clarify. “Not yet.”

“I know,” Changbin says gently. “And I’m okay with that.”

He steps back, deliberately giving you space. “I’ll be consistent. I’ll be here. And if you tell me to stop, I will. No arguments.”

Something in your chest loosens—not trust yet, but the possibility of it.

You nod slowly. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Changbin exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for months.

“Then that’s what I’ll do,” he says quietly. “As long as it takes.”

He does exactly what he promises.

It starts small. A good-morning text before you even open your eyes. A good night one when you’re half asleep, no pressure attached. It’s him letting you know he’s thinking of you. He never misses a day. Not once.

Every week, without fail, there are flowers. Always fresh. Sometimes sunflowers. Sometimes something soft and pastel. Once, something wild and imperfect that makes you laugh because it’s so Changbin. He never asks if you like them. He just leaves them on your doormat when he knows they’re probably starting to wilt.

On nights you come home late—exhausted, shoes kicked off by the door—there’s a text sent right away.

Bin: I made too much. You hungry?

He hands you containers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. No expectations. No hovering. Just food made with care, still warm, still yours even if you don’t eat it until midnight.

And when you allow him into your home again, he tells you he loves you in a hundred quiet ways.

By asking how your day actually went and listening. By remembering things you said weeks ago. By showing up when he says he will. By never disappearing again.

You still live in your apartment. He still lives in his. The wall remains, but it doesn’t feel like distance anymore.

Some nights, when you’re brushing your teeth or lying in bed, music seeps through the wall. Love songs. Old ones. Soft ones. Sometimes embarrassingly earnest ones. Just loud enough for you to hear.

You smile every time.

He doesn’t rush you. He gives you consistency like it’s sacred. Like it’s the proof you asked for.

And slowly and carefully, you start to believe him. Because love doesn’t have to be loud to be real, sometimes, it just has to keep showing up.

A few weeks into this—into flowers and food and songs through the wall—Changbin finally asks.

It’s not dramatic. No big speech. Just him standing in your doorway, hands a little nervous at his sides.

“Would you…go on a real date with me?” he asks. “No binder this time.”

You don’t even pretend to think about it. “Yes.”

The relief on his face is instant and breathtaking, like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he first knocked on your door months ago.

And then the dates. So many of them.

Late-night street food runs where he insists you try everything and pretends not to notice when you steal bites off his plate. Long walks along the Han River, shoulders brushing, fingers brushing until he finally intertwines his with yours. Quiet cafés where he watches you talk like it’s his favorite pastime. Arcade nights where he’s ridiculously competitive and dramatically offended when you beat him.

They always end with him walking you to your door and lingering like he’s afraid to blink.

And then the kisses start.

The first one is soft, tentative—outside your apartment, his hand hovering at your waist like he’s asking permission even now. You say yes by leaning in.

After that, they happen more easily.

Before you part ways. In the quiet after laughter. Under streetlights. In doorways. Slow, warm, and certain.

And now, every date ends with his forehead pressed to yours, lips finding yours like it’s exactly where they belong. And every time, he pulls back just enough to smile at you like he still can’t believe this is real.

You don’t debate love anymore. You live it.

Date night this time is accidentally themed.

“You wore black,” Changbin says, eyeing your outfit as you step out of your apartment.

“You wore black,” you shoot back.

He looks down at himself, then grins. “We’re coordinated. This is basically destiny.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” you say, locking the door. “I dressed like this because I was late.”

Dinner is easy. Comfortable. He tells a ridiculous story about a client who brought in three reference photos of completely different people. You laugh so hard you nearly knock over your drink. He dramatically saves it, bowing like he deserves applause.

Outside your apartment, you both linger.

“This was fun,” he says, then pauses, suddenly more serious. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you say immediately, like you’ve been waiting to say it all night.

His smile is slow, stunned, like he still can’t believe he’s allowed to be this happy. He leans in and kisses you—soft at first, then deeper, laughter caught between breaths when you bump noses.

You pull back just long enough to tug him toward your door. “Do you want to come in?”

He raises an eyebrow, teasing. “Are you inviting me, or is this another experiment?”

You grin. “Strictly practical research.”

He laughs, steps inside with you, and the door clicks shut behind you.

Once inside, you both take your shoes off at the door, quietly and slightly nervous. You both know why you invited him in. 

You walk to the kitchen, feet padding softly against the hardwood floor. “You want something to drink, Bin?” You ask, hearing his own footsteps following.

He follows you, his heart pounding in his chest. The sight of you—your hair slightly disheveled from the walk, cheeks flushed from the cold—or maybe from the kiss outside—it does something to him. "Water is fine," he says softly, his voice slightly hoarse. He leans against the counter, watching you pour two glasses.

 His mind races with thoughts he usually suppresses around you. You hand him the glass, your fingers brushing briefly.

You both drink the water, eyes locked over the rim of the glass. He sets his down at the same time you do, clearing his throat before stepping forward. 

Your eyes stay firmly on his, heart racing.

He reaches out, his hand sliding around your waist, pulling you gently against him. There's no teasing in his touch now, only sincere intent. His other hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek as he leans in. The kiss starts slow—deep, lingering—like he's committing every sensation to memory. His fingers tighten on your waist as he walks you backward until you hit the counter, caging you in gently.

You breathe out a soft sigh when your lips connect, hands gliding up his clothed chest—firm and solid—to wrap around his neck, pulling his face closer to yours. Your fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck, sending chills down his spine at the sensation.

He responds by pressing even closer, his mouth slanting over yours hungrily. His hands slide down to your hips, gripping hard enough to leave bruises, he hopes. He wants evidence of this on your skin, wants you to wake up tomorrow and remember exactly how he kissed and touched you as if his life depended on it. His tongue slides along your bottom lip, seeking permission and finding it instantly. You part your lips on a gasp, letting him deepen the kiss further.

And then he’s pushing you into the counter harder as he presses the evidence of his desire against your stomach, making you pull away. You try to catch your breath as he trails his lips along the heated skin of your neck. “Bin,” you breathe out, eyes closed and head tilting.

He freezes, listening and waiting. Your neck is bared to him, vulnerable and inviting. He tests it, kissing gently where your pulse point thrums wildly. Once. Twice.

"Yes?" He breathes against your skin, knowing exactly what he's doing. His hands on your hips squeeze possessively, pulling you even closer, your bodies aligned perfectly. "Too much?" He asks softly, nipping your earlobe gently. He knows it's not—your body language is screaming for more.

“Not enough. Need more,” you whisper, clinging to him.“Bedroom,” you manage to say.

He lifts you in his arms and carries you swiftly to the bedroom, his arms wrapped securely around you. The moment you hit the mattress, he follows you down, covering your body with his own. His kisses are frenzied now—mouth moving from your lips to your jaw, down your neck, to your collarbone. His hands are everywhere—roaming over your curves, pulling at your clothes with urgent need. "Too slow?" He pants between kisses, already shrugging off his own jacket and shirt. His abs flex with the movement, drawing your eyes momentarily.

You reach up and drag your fingers along the hard ridges and planes of his chest and abdomen, marveling at the sight of him. “Holy shit, you’re sexy.”

He freezes for a second, surprised and incredibly pleased by your words. Then he's grinning and leaning down against your neck, sucking gently at your pulse point. "You think so?" He murmurs, his hips pressing down against yours deliberately. He's hard and thick behind the fabric of his jeans, and the friction makes you gasp. He rocks against you slowly, torturously. "Or do you need more proof?" His voice is low and seductive, dripping with promise.

“Ugh, you’re annoying,” you say playfully, biting your lip and grinning up at him as he pulls your shirt up and over your head—your pretty lace bra deliberately chosen for this exact moment.

He throws the shirt aside carelessly, his gaze fixed on the delicate fabric covering your chest. His hands hover over the cups, fingers twitching with the urge to touch. "This is cute," he comments, running a finger along the lace edge. "Too cute." His eyes meet yours, dark and intense. "I'm going to ruin it." You nod eagerly, arching your back to give him better access. He unhooks the bra with ease and tosses it aside.

But you don’t give him time to look too long before you’re reaching to pop the button of his jeans open, pulling the zipper down, and palming him through his boxers.

He groans deeply, hips jerking into your touch. "Careful," he warns, but his words are breathless, lacking conviction. His own hands move to your jeans, unbuttoning them with shaking fingers. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband, slowly pulling them down your legs, revealing your matching lace panties. "Goddamn," he mutters, taking in the sight of you half-naked beneath him. He kicks off his own jeans and boxers in one smooth motion. "I'm trying to go slow here."

“I get it, babe. I really do, but you don’t understand how long I’ve needed this,” you say, pulling your panties down and throwing them to the side somewhere.

He watches them go with a hungry expression, his pupils dilated. "How long?" He asks hoarsely, ripping the rest of his clothes off before settling between your legs. His hardness rests against your wet heat, and you both groan at the contact. "Tell me how long you've been wanting this." He moves his hips slowly, sliding against your core. "Because I've been imagining it for a very long time." His confession sends a jolt of pleasure through you.

You pause, looking up at him, eyebrow raised. “Like how long?” You ask.

He pauses, his hips stuttering against yours. "Too long," he admits gruffly, his forehead resting against yours. "Since you smiled at me for the first time.” He kisses you roughly, his tongue sliding against yours. "Too fucking long." His hips move more deliberately now, the head of his cock teasing your entrance. "So if I'm not being gentle right now—"

It’s when he feels how wet you are that he remembers he doesn’t have a condom on, prompting him to pull back.

"Fuck," he curses, his face flushing red. "I'm not— I don't have a condom. Shit." He sits back on his haunches immediately, his breath ragged. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking—" He looks mortified, his hands shaking slightly as he runs them through his hair. "Just give me a second. I'll go get one—" He moves to get up, but you wrap your legs around his waist, stopping him. "What are you doing?" He asks breathlessly.

“Did you use condoms every time with them?” You ask, cheeks tinging red. It was awkward, but you had to know. The fact that he was on his way to get one clued you in, but hearing him say it would ease you.

He freezes completely, then exhales heavily. "Yes," he says immediately. "Always. Every single time.” His eyes soften. "I got tested after the last time. I'm clean." His eyes search yours seriously, seeing your hesitation but also understanding why you're asking.

You use your legs to push his hips forward, trapping his throbbing cock against your wet pussy, looking up at him and nodding.

"Are you...?" He starts, but then you move your hips deliberately, sliding against his length, coating him completely in your wetness, and he loses his train of thought entirely. "Fuck, baby, if we're doing this—" His voice cracks slightly as you lift your hips again, seeking friction.

“Unless you don’t want to…” You trail off, pulling back slightly.

He grabs your hips firmly, pulling you back against him with a sharp intake of breath. "No," he says firmly but gently. "I want this. I want you." His thumb presses against your clit as he positions himself at your entrance again. "Please," he whispers urgently. "Let me feel all of you." His cock head presses against your opening slightly without pushing in fully yet, waiting for permission or encouragement from you.

You reach down and wrap your hand around him, stroking him as you arch up, wanting his lips on yours. He leans down and groans against your mouth as you do, his lips crashing against yours in a desperate kiss. He breaks the kiss to murmur, "Guide me in," against your lips before capturing them again hungrily. His body shakes with restraint as he waits patiently for whatever signal tells him ‘go’.

You moan against his mouth as you tease him by holding him flush against your folds with your palm, rocking your hips up and down the length of him.

"Stop teasing me," he growls into the kiss, his hips jerking involuntarily as he tries to chase the sensation of your pussy sliding along his length. He breaks the kiss again, his forehead resting against yours, breathing heavily. "Fuck, baby—please—just—" He pauses, looking down between them, watching as you continue to torture him. "Put the tip inside. Just a little. Please." His voice cracks on the last word, revealing just how much he wants this—how much he needs you.

You smile, kissing his forehead as he looks down. “Maybe I like teasing you,” you say playfully, wrapping your legs around him tighter.

He groans deeply, his hips moving slightly to rub himself against your slick folds. "Then tease me properly," he retorts softly, his voice strained. "Because if you keep doing that, I'm gonna come just from this—without even being inside you." His tongue slides out to lick your bottom lip. "So if you're gonna torture me, do it right." His hips jerk again, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance more firmly this time. "Put me inside you. Even if it's just the tip."

You kiss his lips, giving in and guiding the tip of his cock to your entrance. You let go and wrap your arms around him, hands resting on his shoulders. “No, baby. I want you inside me fully.”

He breaks the kiss with a shuddering breath, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he slowly pushes forward. The tip of his cock slips inside you easily due to your wetness and his pre-come coating him. He pauses there, giving you time to adjust before pushing deeper with a low groan. His forehead rests against yours again as he whispers hoarsely, "Is this okay?" His hips are trembling slightly with effort not to thrust fully into you, yet wanting desperately to feel all of yourself around him completely. "Please tell me if I'm hurting—"

“Binnie, please,” you whimper, arching, eyes closing. “I can take you.”

The nickname makes him groan deeply, his hips jerking forward instinctively at the sound. "Fuck," he breathes out, sinking deeper into you slowly but steadily now that you've given permission. He's bigger than anyone you've been with before, stretching you perfectly, but not painfully. 

"You feel so good," he pants against your mouth. "So tight and wet around me." He's finally fully seated inside you now, his hips flush against yours. "I'm not gonna last long like this."

“It’s okay,” you whisper, head pressed back into the pillows, breathing hard as you adjust to his size. “Jesus. No wonder,” you say, thinking back to how many girls he had over. A simple thought has now turned into overthinking. Is he comparing right now?

He notices your sudden stillness and the slight change in your expression. His hands cup your face gently, forcing you to look at him. "Hey," he says softly, kissing you deeply to distract you from whatever thoughts are creeping in.

His hips start moving slowly. Gentle thrusts designed to pleasure rather than going through the motions like he might have done with others. His focus is on you—the only person that matters.

“Stop thinking,” he murmurs against your lips. “Just feel me.”

You look into his eyes and see him staring back just as intensely. You crane your neck up and press your forehead to his. “I love you,” you whisper.

The declaration makes his heart swell in his chest. "I love you too," he says firmly, kissing you deeply before kissing along your neck and up to your ear. “You feel so good on my cock, baby,” he whispers. “Your pussy was made for me.”

And just like that, you’re back in the present with him. His filthy words remind you that he is yours. That he wanted you. 

You tilt your head back into the pillows—gripping the muscles of his back because they’re yours to grip. Kissing his lips because you can. Moaning his name as he hits that spot deep inside you because only you can say his name with that much passion now.

He groans into your kiss as you press your lips to his. Your words—your voice—it's the most erotic sound he's ever heard. He wraps his arms around you tightly, pulling you even closer as he thrusts deeper and slower into you. "Say it again," he demands between kisses, his hips moving in a steady rhythm now. "Say my name again." His voice is low and commanding, yet desperate for the sound. "Please." The word is softly whispered against your lips. "Baby—"

“Bin!” You cry out, head tilted back as he starts snapping his hips into yours. Your breasts bounce with his rhythm, distracting him. He leans down and latches onto your hard peaks, grunting into your sensitive skin. You arch at the feeling, hands flying everywhere on him, too lost in pleasure to know what you're doing.

He groans deeply against your breast, hips stuttering in their rhythm briefly before picking up again. He sucks and bites gently at the sensitive flesh, his hands reaching up to palm your other breast roughly. The sight of you—head thrown back in ecstasy, hands clawing at his skin, breasts bouncing with every thrust—it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He releases your breast with a wet pop to look up at you, his mouth open and panting.

He watches you, eyes roaming your pretty face as he fucks into you, hips stuttering when your mouth parts erotically. He groans and buries his face in your neck, so close to coming. 

“I’m coming!” You say frantically, already feeling your pussy tightening, the pressure building between your thighs.

"Fuck," he curses against your neck, his arms wrapping around you tightly. He feels your pussy clamp down on him, the rhythmic contractions pulling him deeper. "Come on, baby," he whispers urgently into your ear, his hips moving faster now, chasing his own release as he feels yours building. His hand slides down between your bodies to rub circles over your clit desperately—wanting both of you there together. "Let me feel it," he begs hoarsely against your skin. "Come for me—"

You cut him off with a cry of his name and a high-pitched moan. Your body curls around him, seizing and writhing as you ride your orgasm, his hips never ceasing until you’re lying beneath him, limp and breathing hard.

He kisses you softly before pressing his mouth against your ear. “Can I keep going, baby?” He asks, patiently waiting for your permission to keep thrusting—needing to finish inside you.

You nod weakly, too sensitive to speak.

His hips start moving again immediately, almost apologetic for needing more. He reaches between your legs, gently pushing your knees up and out to give himself deeper access. The new angle hits you just right, causing you to whimper at the feeling of him sliding in and out of you deeper. "Too much?" He asks quietly, checking in despite his own desperate need to come. His hands gently squeeze your inner knees, keeping them open for him. "Want me to stop?"

You shake your head, still breathing hard. 

You can feel the mess between you, hear the steady thlump thlump thlump of his wet skin meeting yours.

The sound drives him absolutely wild, making him groan loudly. "God, listen to us," he pants against your neck, thrusting steadily into your soaked pussy. The wet sounds grow louder as he picks up speed slightly, your bodies sliding perfectly against each other. He buries his face in your neck to muffle his moans against your skin—not wanting to disturb the neighbors with how pornographic it sounds.

You hold him tight against you as his pace starts to get choppy and uneven. “Come inside me,” you whisper into his ear, kissing the side of his head repeatedly.

His entire body tenses at your words—your permission making him snap his hips forward sharply twice before holding deep inside you with a choked cry against your neck. He comes hard and long, filling you completely as his arms shake around you tightly.

The feeling of his release triggers another small orgasm in you unexpectedly—your pussy clamping down on him rhythmically as he empties himself into you completely. He kisses everywhere he can reach while riding out your highs together, deeply connected physically and emotionally, now more than ever before.

The aftermath is familiar.

You’re standing at the foot of the bed holding your end of the fitted sheet while Changbin wrestles with one of the corners, already laughing.

“Okay,” he says, pointing accusingly, “that mess was mostly you.”

You gasp. “Excuse me? You’re the one who—”

“I was responding,” he interrupts, smug. “Very generously.”

You smack his arm. “Unbelievable. Zero accountability.”

He laughs harder, completely unbothered, finally snapping the corner into place like it’s a personal victory. “I’m just saying, if we’re assigning blame—”

“We’re not,” you say firmly. “We’re moving on.”

You both end up tangled in the sheets together, collapsing into laughter that fades into something softer. Changbin reaches for you without thinking, pulling you close, forehead resting against yours.

“I love you,” he says quietly, like it still amazes him.

You smile, thumb tracing lazy patterns on his chest. “I love you too.”

The room settles. The city hums faintly outside.

You curl into him, his arm tightening around you instinctively—exactly where you both belong.

The tattoo shop smells like cleaning supplies, a faintly citrus scent, and freshly brewed coffee. There’s low music playing and a faint buzzing sound somewhere. You hover just inside the door for a second, suddenly aware of yourself, of how personal this space feels compared to the apartment hallways and shared walls you know so well.

You’re basically living together now. Your lease is almost up, which, according to Bin, means it’s a sign to move in officially.

He brings it up casually at first, like it’s just another shared fact of life. “By the way,” he says one night, scrolling on his phone, “you’re not renewing.”

You blink. “I—what?”

He looks up, confused by your confusion. “Your lease. You’re moving in with me.”

“That was not a conversation,” you say.

“It was,” he replies calmly. “You just weren’t present.”

You argue. He nods along, completely unbothered. He’s already made a list. Closet space is divided with alarming confidence. Your mug is already in his cabinet. Your side of the bed already decided.

“You share a wall with me,” he says. “This is the natural next step.”

You point out logistics. He counters with affection.

In the end, he grins, kisses your forehead, and seals it.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “You can still pretend you have your own place.”

You let him win.

Probably because you want that too.

Almost six months of feeling like accidentally winning an argument with the universe and having to live with being right every day.

Although he’s still chaotic and dramatic and loud and far too comfortable with you, he’s also the same gentle, kind, overly generous man you met the day you moved in. He still plays soccer with the neighborhood kids. Still carries groceries for the ajummas. Still fixes things without being asked. Still the greenest flag you’ve ever seen.

The difference now is the way he loves you.

The way his hand finds yours without thinking. The way he checks on you like it’s instinct. The way he looks at you like he can’t believe this is his life—and he somehow won it.

Changbin looks up.

His face lights up instantly, grin spreading. “Hey,” he says, voice softer than you expect in a place full of buzzing machines. “You came.”

“I said I would,” you reply, smiling back. “Took me long enough.”

He steps toward you, stopping short like he is remembering he is at work. “Give me two minutes. Jisung, I’m taking a break.”

“Wow,” a voice says from behind a divider. “Special treatment.”

Jisung emerges, tattoo gun in hand, hair pushed back, eyes immediately flicking to you. He freezes for half a beat, then brightens with interest. “Oh. Hi.”

You laugh politely. “Hi.”

Changbin is already watching this with narrowed eyes.

“I’m Jisung,” he says, flashing a charming smile. “You’re new. Changbin’s girlfriend, or are we still in the mysterious category?”

Before you can answer, Changbin speaks. “She’s my girlfriend.”

The certainty in his tone makes your chest warm.

Jisung blinks, then looks between the two of you. “Oh. Okay. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.” He recovers fast, grin returning. “Still though, you’re really pretty. Had to shoot my shot.”

Changbin steps closer to you without hesitation, one hand settling at your waist. “No need.”

“Wow,” Jisung mutters. “Crazy.”

Changbin does not respond. He just leans down and kisses you, slow and deliberate, enough to leave no room for interpretation.

When he pulls back, Jisung has his hands up in surrender. “I see it. I respect it. I will be over here minding my business.”

You laugh, cheeks warm. “Nice to meet you.”

Jisung grins. “Nice to almost meet you.”

He disappears back behind the divider, still muttering about audacity.

Changbin looks down at you, eyes dark. “I’m not sorry about that.”

“I know,” you say. “It was kind of hot.”

He chuckles, ducking his head. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”

He gives you a tour like he is proud of every corner. His station. His sketches. The way his voice changes when he talks about his work. You watch him talk to clients, gentle and attentive, all steady hands and careful smiles.

When you finally sit beside him, his knee brushing yours, he leans in and whispers, “I like you here.”

You smile. “I like you everywhere.”

He kisses your temple, quick and affectionate. Across the room, Jisung glances over, shakes his head, and goes back to tattooing.

Then you clear your throat. “There’s actually another reason I came,” you say.

He turns to you, curious. “Yeah?”

You take a breath. “I want a tattoo.”

He stares at you again, this time stunned. “From me?”

“Yes,” you say, giggling. “From you.”

His expression softens into something almost reverent. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “I trust you.”

Changbin exhales slowly, smiling like he has been given something precious. “I’d be honored,” he says. Then, quieter, just for you, “And just so you know, that was a trick question. I’ll be the only one touching you. Always.”

Your heart flips at the certainty in his voice.

Changbin is still smiling, still processing the idea of you wanting a tattoo from him, when you pull out a folded sheet of paper from your purse and hold it out.

“I already know what I want,” you say.

That gets his full attention.

He takes the paper carefully and opens it. His breath catches almost immediately.

On the page, the words 끝까지 are written cleanly and deliberately. Beneath the phrase is a small dot. From the dot, a single fine line extends outward.

Changbin stares at it in silence.

“끝까지,” he repeats softly.

Kkeutkkaji.

To the end.

You nod. “The dot is where it started. Where we fell in love. The line is everything after. The rest of it. Together.”

For a moment, he cannot speak. His throat works as he swallows, eyes flicking from the paper to you like he needs to confirm you are real.

“And I want it here,” you add quietly, touching your shoulder, just above your collarbone. “Right here.”

His gaze follows your fingers, and something in him softens completely.

“That’s my favorite place,” he says without thinking.

You smile. “I know.”

He steps closer, close enough that you can smell the cologne you bought him. Close enough that the rest of the shop fades away. His thumb brushes the spot gently, reverent, like he is already imagining the lines there.

“I kiss you there when I come home tired,” he murmurs. “When you fall asleep on the couch. When I hold you in my arms.”

You smile up at him.

He pauses, lowering his voice. “When you’re underneath me, and I’m inside you,” he says, your cheeks reddening. “When I can’t think of anything else to say because you render me speechless,” he continues.

Your chest tightens.

Changbin looks back down at the design, then back at you, eyes bright. “I’ll make it perfect,” he says. “I promise.”

You believe him.

Changbin finally breaks the heavy moment with a crooked smile.

“So,” he says, folding the paper carefully and setting it on his station, “you’re really getting a tattoo before me. From me.”

You laugh. “Someone has to break the curse.”

He clicks his tongue, stepping closer until you can feel his warmth. “Unbelievable. I’m a professional tattoo artist. Years of training. And my girlfriend gets inked first.”

You raise a brow. “Jealous?”

“Deeply,” he says, eyes flicking to your shoulder again. His voice drops, playful and warm. “Especially since it’s going right there. You know that’s unfair, right?”

Your stomach flips when his gaze lingers. “Changbin.”

He grins, clearly enjoying himself now. “I’m just saying. Sexy choice. Sexy meaning. Sexy girlfriend.”

You sputter a laugh and immediately shove him back by the chest, not hard, just enough to put space between you. “Stop. You’re at work.”

He stumbles back exaggeratedly, hands up. “What? I’m being supportive.”

“There are people here,” you hiss, glancing around. A couple of his coworkers pretend very badly not to be listening. One customer looks up, amused.

Changbin lowers his voice but not his grin. “I can still think you’re sexy professionally.”

You cover your face, giggling despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me,” he replies easily.

You peek at him between your fingers, smiling. “Unfortunately.”

He softens then, stepping closer again but keeping his hands to himself this time. “I’ll behave,” he promises. “Mostly.”

You shake your head, still laughing, heart full and fluttering.

He presses the paper to his chest for a moment, grounding himself, then leans down and kisses that exact spot on your shoulder, tender and unhurried, like a quiet vow.

“끝까지,” he whispers, and both of you pause, taking in the meaning.

He breaks the moment when he claps his hands, a grin on his handsome face, as he leads you to his station.

“Okay,” Changbin says, pulling on gloves with exaggerated seriousness. “From this point on, I’m Artist Changbin. Very calm. Very focused. Very not distracted by how good you look.”

You eye him skeptically as he cleans your skin. “You literally just called me sexy ten minutes ago.”

“That was before gloves,” he replies. “Different person.”

You laugh as he adjusts the chair. “You’re still flirting.”

“I’m reassuring the client,” he says smoothly. “Client morale is very important.”

Jisung passes by and stage-whispers, “You good over here, boss?”

Changbin doesn’t even look up. “Thriving. Don’t you have a stencil to mess up?”

Jisung gasps dramatically and walks away.

Bin leans in close to your ear as he positions your shoulder. “You nervous?”

“A little,” you admit. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

He grins. “I’ve been waiting months to legally mark you.”

You shove his arm lightly. “Seo Changbin.”

“I’m kidding,” he says quickly, laughing. “Mostly. Hey—look at me.”

You do. His expression softens immediately.

“I’ve got you,” he says, quieter now. “Trust me.”

You nod, taking a deep breath as he positions the stencil, checks the placement one last time, then steps back.

“Okay,” he announces. “This is the dramatic part. Think powerful thoughts. Like…love. Or revenge. Or both.”

“I hate you,” you say, smiling.

“No, you don’t,” he replies, lifting the gun and checking to make sure everything was working properly.

No, you don’t. Not ever.

He presses the gun gently to your skin.

You inhale, eyes lifting to the ceiling, smiling through the nerves, heart full and steady.

The buzzing starts.

BINNIEBB 2025 ™ PLEASE DO NOT STEAL MY WORK ♡

n e x t ›› .ᐟ m a s t e r l i s t .ᐟ m e s s a g e m e .ᐟ

Jisung had been halfway through his convenience store kimbap when he realized he opened your Instagram without thinking. Again

There you were. Laughing in a behind-the-scenes photo from last week’s shoot, sunlight caught in your hair. He zoomed in. In a respectful, studying-lighting way. Obviously.

“Jisung.”

His soul exits his body. He locks his phone so fast it nearly ricochetes off the table and looks up at you, panic riddled all over his face.

You stand in front of him, iced coffee in hand, expression unreadable but dangerously pretty.

“Hm?” he says, like he had not just been memorizing the curve of your smile.

“Chan wants to see us in his office after lunch.”

“Cool. Yeah. Great,” he nods, attempting casual and landing somewhere near malfunctioning. “Did he say what about?”

You shrug. “Probably the Daehan campaign. Or he finally realized you’re the genius behind all his awards.”

Jisung blinks. If he died right now, he’d die honored.

He coughs once into his fist, nodding too fast. “No, no, I just…you know. Words. Anyone can do words.”

Anyone cannot do words, actually. He knows this. The entire fourth floor knows this. Chan knows this. But when you say it, when you look at him like that, like he’s something impressive instead of a guy who alphabetizes his anime figures, his brain folds in on itself.

You’re already turning away before he can recover. You grab your lunch from the breakroom fridge, tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, and walk back toward the creative pit.

Jisung exhales and watches you go.

It’s subtle in his mind. It is not subtle in reality.

His eyes follow the rhythm of your steps, the way you greet the account team with a quick joke, the way you lean over your desk and adjust your monitor. He tells himself he is simply observing. He is absolutely not just staring.

He sighs, long and theatrical, before dragging himself up and heading toward his own desk.

Chan’s office is probably the cleanest and most efficient-looking place in the building. The glass walls give it that transparent, we-see-everything creative director aesthetic, but the blinds are half drawn now, sunlight slicing across the meticulously organized desk in deliberate angles.

Chan sits behind it, relaxed posture, sleeves rolled up, expression unreadable in that way that makes junior staff sweat.

He smiles easily most days. He laughs loudly. He buys team dinners when campaigns go well. But when it comes to work, he becomes surgical.

Perfection is not a preference. It is the baseline.

“Sit,” he says casually, though the word carries weight.

You and Jisung settle into the chairs across from him. Your knee almost brushes his. Almost. He becomes acutely aware of the exact centimeter of space between you.

Chan slides two copies of a project brief across the desk.

“New client. They’re a relatively new company. They’re small, but they’ve got funding and ambition. They want a splash.”

Jisung reaches for the folder at the same time you do. Your fingers graze for half a second. He freezes, but you don’t. You flip yours open smoothly, already scanning.

Botanical Bliss.

He reads the product description once. Then again. Then once more to confirm he is not hallucinating.

Premium dark chocolate infused with natural herbal extracts known for stimulating desire and enhancing intimacy. Marketed as a luxury aphrodisiac experience.

Next to him, you slowly raise one eyebrow, then side-eye him.

Chan leans back in his chair. “They want bold. Sensual but not tacky. Suggestive without being explicit. They’re targeting young professionals. Late twenties to thirties. Social media heavy. Think launch campaign, video concept, tagline, packaging visuals.”

Jisung forces himself to focus on the brief.

You are reading silently, but he can practically hear your thoughts working. The way you start tapping your finger lightly when ideas begin forming. The way your lips purse when you’re analyzing.

He should be thinking about ideas too.

He is thinking about the word intimacy and how you are sitting six inches away.

Chan watches the two of you carefully. “I assigned this to you both because you work well together.”

Jisung tries not to visibly combust.

“We do?” you ask, glancing up.

“You challenge each other,” Chan replies. “You balance one another. I want this conceptualized by Thursday.”

Thursday.

Three days. Three days of brainstorming aphrodisiac chocolate. With you.

Jisung nods slowly, determined to act like a normal, professional copywriter who does not need to be hosed down.

“Yes, sir,” he says evenly.

You close the folder, expression thoughtful, eyes flicking to him again.

“So,” you murmur, tilting your head slightly, “guess we’re selling desire now.”

He meets your gaze, trying very hard to keep his voice steady.

“Guess we are.”

Chan claps his hands once, bright grin snapping back into place like the intensity had never existed.

“Great. I trust you two. Have fun with it,” he says, already standing.

The whiplash is real. One second he is dissecting brand tone, the next he is all dimples and easy charm again. He opens the office door for you both, ushering you out with a casual, “Don’t disappoint me.” Which, somehow, sounds more threatening when said cheerfully.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind you, you let out a quiet breath.

“Okay,” you say, adjusting the folder against your hip. “I’m going to grab my laptop. Meet me in the workshop in ten?”

Jisung nods immediately. “Yep. Ten. I love ten. Ten’s great.”

You give him a look that suggests you will unpack that sentence later, then turn and head down the hall.

He stands there for three full seconds after you disappear around the corner.

He presses the heel of his palm to his forehead.

On one hand, this is the universe finally throwing him a bone. Three uninterrupted days of collaboration. Of sitting close. Of bouncing ideas back and forth. Of maybe, possibly, if the stars align and he doesn’t implode, flirting in a way that feels organic and not like he memorized it from a rom-com.

On the other hand, this is three uninterrupted days of proximity to the girl who turns his mind into alphabet soup.

The probability of him saying something humiliating?

Ninety-nine percent. Generous rounding.

Still, ten minutes later, he walks into the workshop with his laptop tucked under his arm and determination stitched across his face.

The workshop is less mystical than its name implies. It is a glass-walled brainstorming room with a massive whiteboard, pinboards cluttered with past campaign mockups, a long table scattered with markers, sticky notes, and the ghosts of deadlines past.

You are already there, writing on the whiteboard in bold strokes.

BOTANICAL BLISS

TARGET DEMO: 25-35

TONE: LUXURY / INTIMATE / SENSUAL

Your handwriting is neat but confident, each letter deliberate. You reach up slightly to underline a phrase, skirt shifting with the movement.

Jisung freezes.

Had you been working out? There is…definition. Or maybe it’s the skirt.

It fits nice. The fabric hugging your hips in a way that feels personally offensive to his ability to function.

His brain, traitor that it is, supplies commentary: firm.

Stop it. You’re being a pervert, he tells himself.

He attempts to redirect his gaze to the whiteboard. It betrays him and drifts south again.

He swears it is only for half a second. Maybe one and a half.

You turn suddenly, and he performs the most dramatic recovery maneuver of his career.

His eyes snap upward with the speed of a man avoiding sniper fire. He pretends to be deeply invested in the ceiling light fixture. Then the marker tray. Then his own laptop, which he opens with unnecessary urgency.

“Great spacing,” he blurts, pointing vaguely at the board. “The hierarchy of information. Very strong.”

Your eyes narrow slightly.

“The hierarchy,” you repeat.

“Yeah. Visually. It’s…hierarchical.”

You stare at him for a beat longer, clearly trying to decide if he’s being serious. Then you shrug.

“Thanks.”

You cap the marker and lean back against the table, crossing your arms. He very intentionally keeps his gaze above collarbone level now, like a man who has learned from near-death experience.

“So,” you say, tilting your head. “How do we sell chocolate that makes people want to rip each other’s clothes off without sounding like we’re selling chocolate that makes people want to rip each other’s clothes off?”

His lungs stop.

Three days.

He is not surviving this.

An hour in, and Jisung is borderline impressed with himself.

He has only stuttered five times. Five.

That is practically a personal record when alone in a room with you.

He has also tripped once, but that was because the leg of the table has been slightly crooked since the summer internship incident of last year and not because you laughed at something he said and he forgot how to coordinate his limbs.

You pretended not to notice anyway. Which is worse, honestly.

Because you are kind. Effortlessly so. You let him regain balance without comment, simply handing him a marker like nothing had happened. No teasing. No smirk. Just steady, warm normalcy.

The workshop now looks like a war zone of ideas. The whiteboard is filled halfway, sections boxed off into categories. Brand Identity. Emotional Hook. Visual Direction. Market Positioning.

You sit cross-legged in your chair, laptop balanced on your thighs, scrolling through mood board references. Rich browns and deep burgundy packaging fill your screen. Gold foil accents. Close-up photography of chocolate breaking apart in slow motion.

Jisung forces himself to focus on words. The brief had said they did not have a finalized product name yet, and that had bothered him.

Botanical Bliss sounded like a spa retreat for stressed-out office workers, not something you slide across a table to your partner with intent.

He had stared at the board for a long minute earlier, fingers tapping against the marker.

Botanical. Nature. Extracts. Chemistry. Desire.

Elixir.

He stands now, adding it to the top of the whiteboard in bold letters.

ELIXIR.

You look up. “Elixir?” you repeat, tasting the syllables.

“It’s versatile,” he says, pacing a little now that he is in his element. “It implies transformation. Something concentrated. Potent. It also gives them room to expand. Different infusions, different flavors. Elixir: Ember. Elixir: Velvet. Elixir: Midnight.”

Your eyes light up. “Oh,” you murmur, sitting forward. “That’s good. That’s really good.”

Heat creeps up his neck. He clears his throat, pretending he’s totally okay

“It doesn’t box them into just one SKU. It’s a foundation name. A line.”

You nod slowly, already imagining packaging variations. “Deep matte boxes. Minimalist logo. Maybe embossed lettering.”

He watches you sketch a quick thumbnail layout on your tablet. The way your mind translates his abstract word into shape and texture fascinates him every time.

He moves back to the board, adding underneath:

INDULGENCE, INFUSED INTENTIONALLY

INDULGE YOUR INSTINCTS

AWAKEN YOUR INSTINCTS

He steps aside so you can see them fully.

You stand, walking closer to the board. Close enough that he can smell your perfume. Something clean with a floral undertone.

You tilt your head, reading each line carefully.

“Indulgence, Infused Intentionally,” you say first. “That one feels luxury. Intentional. Like it’s crafted.”

He nods. “It emphasizes the herbal aspect without sounding gimmicky.”

“And Indulge Your Instincts,” you continue, tapping the board lightly. “That’s more direct.”

“More playful,” he agrees. “It invites them to lean in.”

You glance at the last one.

“Awaken Your Instincts.”

Silence stretches for a second.

“That one,” you say slowly, “is dangerous.”

He swallows audibly “Good dangerous?”

You turn to him. “Very.” You walk back to the table, thoughtful now. “We could build visuals around that. Dark background. One source of warm light. Close-up product shots. Minimal copy. Let the tagline do the heavy lifting.”

He watches you as you speak, animated and focused, completely unaware that you are the reason he just wrote three lines that sound like they belong on the cover of a romance novel.

This is why he loves working with you. Not just because you are beautiful. Not just because you make his brain turn to mush. But because when the two of you are building something together, it feels seamless. Like gears locking into place. His words. Your visuals. A concept becoming concrete in real time.

You glance at him. “What?”

He realizes he’s been staring at you.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, then softens. “I just think we’re onto something.”

You smile. “Yeah,” you agree. “We are.”

You still remember the first time you saw Han Jisung.

It had been your second day at Nuri Media. You were still memorizing faces and names, and which department each face and name worked. You’d walked in that morning with your tablet tucked under your arm and a quiet, electric determination humming in your chest. Fresh-faced. Ambitious. Ready to prove that hiring you had been the smartest decision they’d made all quarter.

Chan had called everyone into the workshop for a brief team introduction.

You remember smoothing your blouse before stepping inside. The room had been loud, creatives mid-conversation, chairs scraping against the floor, the whiteboard streaked with marker residue. Then Chan had clapped once, that familiar bright authority snapping everyone’s attention toward him.

“Everyone! This–,” he’d said, smiling at you, “–is our new graphic designer.”

You had bowed slightly, introduced yourself, voice steady despite the way your heart was trying to punch through your ribs.

That was when you noticed him.

He was leaning back in his chair near the end of the table, laptop open, fingers frozen mid-typing. Round eyes. Soft, almost doe-like, but sharp with excitement. Plush lips parted just slightly like he’d forgotten to close them. Dark hair falling into his face in a way that looked accidental but suspiciously flattering.

And then your gaze had dropped to his laptop.

There, in the corner, was a sticker.

A Howl Jenkins Pendragon sticker.

You had blinked.

Cute marketing copywriter with a Studio Ghibli obsession? Dangerous combination.

He caught you looking. Not at him, but at  the sticker. And instead of pretending he didn’t notice, he’d awkwardly tilted his laptop a few degrees toward you like he was offering proof of his character.

After the meeting, when people dispersed back to their desks, he approached you.

Well, approached was generous. He sort of shuffled in your direction.

“Hi,” he’d said, pushing his hair back, then immediately tucking his hands into his pockets. “I’m Jisung. I do words. For things.”

You’d laughed before you could stop yourself.

“Words for things?”

“Yeah,” he’d nodded earnestly. “Big fan of them.”

It was awkward. It was slightly stilted. He tripped over one sentence and corrected himself twice. But he’d asked about your design style. About what kind of projects you liked. He’d listened. Really listened. Eyes focused, nodding thoughtfully. You walked back to your desk that day thinking: he’s cute.

A year later, it is not just cute.

Somewhere along the way, your harmless little crush has grown roots.

Because how could it not?

He is kind in ways that feel deliberate.

He brings back specialty KitKats and matcha cookies from Japan when he visits friends and leaves them on the communal table with a sticky note that says “for the team :)” but always places the strawberry ones specifically on your desk because he remembers you mentioned once that they’re your favorite.

He signs up to bring food to every company party. Volunteers, even. Shows up with homemade tteokbokki one month, carefully labeled for spice levels because he knows half the account team can’t handle heat like him.

And then there was the banana bread.

The bakery three blocks down makes the best in Incheon. He brings loaves some mornings, sets them in the kitchen, casually mentioning they’re from that place you all love.

You reach for a slice, then pause automatically.

“Wait,” you’d said. “Does this have walnuts?”

He’d shaken his head immediately. “No, I asked them to make one without.”

You had told him about the allergy your first month there. Just walnuts. Not pecans. Not almonds. Just walnuts.

He’d remembered.

You’d thanked him, trying to keep your voice even, trying not to read too much into it.

Because he’s like this with everyone, you tell yourself.

He’s generous. Thoughtful. That’s just who he is.

But when you work late, and the office thins out until it’s just the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant cleaning crew, he always lingers.

The first time he does it you’re packing up your laptop when he casually walks over to you.

“So,” he’ll say casually, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “I’m heading out too.”

He walks beside you to the parking lot, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the night air. You talk about nothing and everything. Campaign ideas. New anime episodes. The fact that the vending machine on the second floor eats coins.

When you reach your car, there’s always that tiny pause.

“Text me when you get home,” he’ll say sometimes, then backtrack. “I mean, if you want. Just so I know you didn’t get kidnapped.” That or, “If you got abducted by aliens, you would still let me know you were good right?”

You laugh, roll your eyes, and promise you will.

He shuffles toward his own car after, giving a small wave without fully turning around.

“See you tomorrow,” he calls over his shoulder.

And every time, you sit in your driver’s seat for a few seconds longer than necessary, watching him unlock his car, wondering if he does this for everyone.

You want to be closer to him.

Not even in a dramatic, sweeping, romantic way.

Just closer.

To sit next to him at lunch without overthinking it. To text him memes outside of work without staring at your phone for five minutes before hitting send. To tell him that yes, you noticed the way he remembered the walnuts. That it meant something.

But you’re shy about it.

Because what if he’s just like this with everyone?

What if you’re not special at all?

So instead, you keep it tucked inside. You tease him lightly. You compliment his copy. You stand a little too close sometimes and pretend it’s accidental.

And when he smiles at you, soft and bright and entirely unaware of what it does to you, you think: Maybe?

And you don’t do anything about it anyway.

The next afternoon, the workshop feels smaller.

Not physically. The walls are the same glass panels, the same scuffed table, the same whiteboard still branded with ELIXIR in thick black marker. But the air feels denser. Like the room knows the deadline is creeping closer. A day and a half to be exact.

Jisung sits across from you, laptop open, fingers flying over the keyboard as he formats slides for Thursday’s pitch. Title slide. Brand philosophy. Target demographic. Emotional positioning. He adjusts spacing twice. Changes the font from one serif to another. Then switches it again. Precision matters. Chan notices everything.

He types: ELIXIR. Awaken Your Instincts.

Then pauses, studying the words.

They look powerful. Intentional.

Unlike him.

He scrolls to the next slide, summarizing yesterday’s brainstorm, bullet points clean and articulate. He should be focused. He sorta is, until the faint click of a lip gloss tube distracts him.

He doesn’t mean to look up, but he does.

You’re seated at the end of the table in a swivel chair, one leg crossed under the other. You twist the cap of your gloss with absentminded ease, eyes still scanning your screen as you swipe the applicator across your lips.

Slow and careful.

His brain empties.

The gloss catches the light, making your lips look softer. Fuller. Shiny in a way that feels entirely inappropriate for a Tuesday afternoon in a corporate brainstorming room.

You press your lips together once then smack them lightly. It is a tiny sound, but it detonates in his chest.

He stares. Not because he wants to be obvious. Not because he is trying to be a creep. But because there is something deeply unfair about the way you exist. The way you can be mid-campaign, half-distracted, entirely focused on work, and still look like you stepped out of a dream of his.

He groans internally. Get it together.

You are applying lip gloss. Not performing a seduction ritual.

He should be typing but his fingers have yet to move in thirty-seven seconds.

You lower the tube, cap it, toss it back into your bag, and return your full attention to your screen.

He is still looking.

As if summoned by instinct, you pause. Your eyes lift slowly and meet his directly. Caught.

His heart slams into his ribcage. He jerks slightly, hands flying back to his keyboard, and the first sentence that exits his mouth has not been pre-approved by his brain.

“Did you know octopuses have three hearts?”

You blink. “What?”

He doubles down because retreat is not an option now.

“Three. Two pump blood to the gills and one to the rest of the body. Also their blood is blue.”

You stare at him.

He keeps going. Why is he still going?

“Which is relevant because, uh, branding-wise, multiple cores of function is interesting? For Elixir. Multi-layered effect. Like triple impact.”

The stretch is visible from space.

You narrow your eyes slightly, studying him. “Jisung.”

“Yes.”

“Were you just staring at me?”

His soul briefly exits his body again.

“No.” Too fast.

He winces.

“I mean. Not in a weird way,” he adds, which somehow makes it worse. “I was just thinking. About gloss.”

Your eyebrow lifts. “Gloss.”

“Marketing gloss,” he corrects quickly, gesturing vaguely at the screen. “Like the glossy finish on premium packaging. High-shine coatings. Luxury perception.”

You lean back in your chair, clearly unconvinced but entertained. “Mhm.”

He forces himself to type again, words blurring for a second before snapping back into focus.

Across from him, you smile faintly and return to your work. But a few seconds later, you speak without looking up.

“For the record,” you say casually, “this is strawberry.”

His fingers freeze again.

“What is?”

“My lip gloss.”

He swallows. “Oh.”

You glance up at him once more, mischief flickering in your eyes. “In case you were doing research.”

He chokes on absolutely nothing.

You grin, satisfied, and turn back to your tablet.

Jisung stares at his screen, pulse racing.

His brain has officially clocked out. It packed its things and skedaddled.

Strawberry. You said it so casually.

 He should respond normally. Lightly. Cool.

Instead, what comes out of his mouth is:

“Strawberry’s my favorite fruit.”

Silence. Even he hears the lie. It hangs in the air between you, flimsy and poorly constructed.

You slowly lift your eyes from your tablet and your expression shifts. Suspicious.

“Strawberry?” you repeat.

He nods once, trying to sell it. “Yeah. Classic. Reliable. Versatile.”

Why is he pitching fruit like it’s a brand campaign?

Your eyes narrow slightly.

“I thought it was mangosteen.”

The word hits him square in the chest. He blinks.

“You remember that?” 

The question slips out before he can stop it. Because he remembers the conversation. It had been months ago. Team dinner after landing the Daehan contract. Someone had asked about favorite fruits for a stupid icebreaker game. He’d said mangosteen because he genuinely loves it and because no one ever expects that answer.

You’d laughed and said, “That’s so on-brand for you.”

He’d thought about that sentence for three days. And you remember.

You shrug, like it’s nothing. “You talked about it for like five minutes. Something about the texture being elite.”

He did. He absolutely did.

He feels heat creeping up his neck again, but this time it’s different. Softer. Less panicky.

“You kept listening?" he asks quietly.

You blink at him like that’s obvious. “Of course I listened. You were talking.”

He stares at you. Because yes, that is how conversations work. But you don’t understand what that means to him. You don’t understand that most people zone out when he goes on mini tangents about niche preferences. That they smile politely and wait for him to finish.

You remember the fruit.

His brain slowly reboots, but it’s running on a different operating system now.

“Okay,” he says, clearing his throat. “Mangosteen is still number one. I just appreciate strawberries.”

You tilt your head.

“Appreciate.”

“It’s accessible,” he adds weakly.

You lean back in your chair, studying him with that look that makes him feel both exposed and safe at the same time.

“Jisung,” you say carefully, “you don’t have to change your favorite fruit.”

“I’m not changing it.”

“You literally just did.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“I panicked,” he admits finally.

Your lips twitch. “Why?”

Because you were looking at me like that. Because your lip gloss is strawberry and suddenly fruit preferences felt like compatibility metrics. Because I want us to have things in common even if they’re small and stupid.

He cannot say any of that.

Instead, he gestures vaguely at his laptop. “Deadline stress.”

You hum like you don’t fully buy it. Then, softer, “You know it’s okay if we don’t like all the same things, right?”

The sentence lands gently.

He nods. “I know.”

You watch him for a second longer. Then you smile. 

“For what it’s worth,” you add, “I think mangosteen is still a very you answer.”

His heart stutters. “Very me?” he repeats.

“Unexpected. A little dramatic. Kind of rare.”

He laughs under his breath. “That’s how you see me?”

You shrug again, but there’s warmth there. “Yeah.”

The room goes quiet, but not uncomfortable.

He looks at you differently now. Not because you remembered the fruit. But because you paid attention.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Mangosteen stays.”

“Good,” you reply. “Because strawberry doesn’t suit you.”

He grins despite himself. “And what about you?”

You glance at him, eyes playful. “Something a little sweet but bold. Maybe cherries.”

His brain threatens to leave again. But this time, he doesn’t mind.

Okay, what is actually happening?

You keep your eyes on your screen, stylus moving across your tablet with steady, professional precision, but your brain is nowhere near the packaging mockup you’re pretending to refine.

There is no way you just caught Han Jisung staring at your lips, right?

You replay it. You had applied gloss. Absentminded. Normal. Human. Other people moisturize their lips too.

And then you felt it. That subtle prickle at the back of your neck. The unmistakable weight of someone’s attention resting somewhere very specific.

You looked up.

He was looking at you. Not at the board. Not at the screen. Not even at your eyes.

Your lips.

And when you caught him, he didn’t even try to pretend he hadn’t. He just malfunctioned. Started talking about octopuses like he was presenting at a marine biology conference.

You press your lips together again unconsciously, remembering the way his gaze snapped upward like he’d been electrocuted.

There’s no way. There’s no way that was what you think it was.

Jisung is sweet. Jisung is kind. Jisung zones out sometimes when he’s thinking. Maybe he was analyzing color. Shine. Texture. Marketing gloss. He is a copywriter. He could have been conceptualizing sensory appeal.

You chew on the inside of your cheek.

But then there was the strawberry thing.

You had thrown that in casually. Teasing. Testing.

He panicked. Panicked panicked.

He changed his favorite fruit on the spot. And when you corrected him, when you said mangosteen, the look on his face—

It wasn’t embarrassment. It was surprise. Soft. Almost vulnerable.

“You remember that?”

The way he said it. Gently. Like he genuinely hadn’t expected you to.

Your chest tightens a little at the memory.

You do remember things about him.

You remember that he drinks his iced americanos on an empty stomach and then regrets it fifteen minutes later when his tummy starts hurting. You remember that he hums anime openings under his breath when he’s deep in thought. You remember that he gets anxious in crowds, that he prefers rainy days because they feel cinematic, that he once stayed up until 4 a.m. finishing edits for an intern’s presentation so she wouldn’t get torn apart in front of a client.

You notice things. You just assumed he didn’t notice you noticing.

You risk a glance up at him now. He’s typing again, brows slightly furrowed, lower lip caught between his teeth in concentration. He looks normal. Focused. Not like someone who was staring at your mouth ten minutes ago.

Maybe you imagined it.

But then he glances up too, just briefly. And when your eyes meet, something passes between you.

Your stomach flips. Okay. Okay.

You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms like that will steady you.

There is absolutely no way you are flirting with Han Jisung in the middle of a project about aphrodisiac chocolate. And there is definitely no way he is flirting back. Right?

Except.

You did tease him. 

You called him dramatic. You told him you were sweet but bold. Intense. Who says that? That is not neutral coworker dialogue.

You stare at your screen, heat creeping up your neck now that you’re the one replaying everything.

Was that flirting? Was he flirting? Or are you both just chronically awkward creatives stuck in a room talking about “awakening instincts” and projecting it onto each other?

You think about the way he always walks you to your car. The way he remembered the walnuts. The way he lights up when you praise his ideas. The way his ears turn red when you stand too close.

You’ve always told yourself he’s like that with everyone. But is he?

You try to picture him staring at someone else’s lips, and your jaw tightens unexpectedly.

No. You would have noticed. You always notice when he pays attention to other people.

You swallow.

There’s a strange thrill blooming under your ribs now. Dangerous and terrifying, but hopeful.

Because if he was staring at your lips—

If that wasn’t accidental—

Then maybe you’re not alone in this. Maybe the soft glances aren’t one-sided. Maybe the late-night walks aren’t just convenient. Maybe the banana bread wasn’t just team spirit.

You glance at him again. He’s pretending to focus, but his fingers have slowed. His shoulders are slightly tense like he’s thinking too.

Your pulse picks up.

There’s no way.

And yet—

You tilt your head slightly, watching him for one more second.

If this is flirting, it’s subtle. Balanced on the edge of plausible deniability. But it feels real.

The air in the workshop is still thick with whatever that was between you when the door suddenly swings open.

Chan walks in—dimples out, eyes crinkled, and energy at max capacity. He claps his hands once, the sound echoing against the glass walls.

“So,” he says brightly, scanning the room, “are you guys getting freaky in here?”

Your soul leaves your body.

Across from you, Jisung visibly chokes on nothing.

“What?” you both blurt at the exact same time and the synchronization only makes it worse.

Chan pauses mid-step, eyebrows lifting slightly as he looks between the two of you.

You’re sitting too stiff.

Jisung’s ears are bright red.

The whiteboard behind you literally says Awaken Your Instincts in bold letters.

The silence stretches. You can feel heat crawling up your neck.

“No!” you say quickly.

“I mean—no,” Jisung echoes, voice cracking on the first syllable.

Chan’s smile falters just a bit, confusion flickering across his face.

“I meant,” he clarifies slowly, gesturing vaguely at the board, “because you’re selling aphrodisiac chocolate.”

Oh. OH.

The humiliation hits in waves.

You laugh, but it comes out too high. “Right. Obviously that’s what you meant.”

Jisung nods aggressively. “Yeah. Freaky. Marketing-wise.”

Chan squints at the both of you. “Okay,” he says carefully. “You two are being weird.”

You straighten immediately, smoothing invisible wrinkles from your skirt. “We’re not being weird.”

“You are,” Chan insists lightly, then shakes his head. “Whatever. I regret the joke. Moving on.”

He drops into one of the chairs, leaning back with casual authority. “Show me what you’ve got so far.” Professional mode back on.

You grab your laptop before Jisung can, projecting the presentation onto the screen mounted on the wall. Your fingers are steady now. You are good at this. Confident here.

“Okay,” you begin, clicking to the title slide. “We’re proposing the name Elixir.”

Chan’s expression shifts from focused to intrigued in an instant. “Elixir,” he repeats.

Jisung stands beside you, suddenly in his element. His voice levels out, confident and smooth.

“It positions the product as concentrated. Transformative. It also allows for expansion. A full line. Elixir: Ember. Elixir: Velvet. Elixir: Midnight.”

Chan nods slowly. “Good. Scalable.”

You click to the next slide. Mood boards fill the screen. Deep chocolate tones. Burgundy packaging. Gold foil detailing. Close-up shots of dark chocolate breaking under warm light.

“We’re leaning into luxury,” you explain. “Minimal copy. Strong visual language. Matte boxes with embossed lettering. High contrast photography. Suggestive but not explicit.”

Chan leans forward slightly. “Taglines?”

Jisung steps in smoothly, like this is a choreography you’ve rehearsed for months. “Indulgence, Infused Intentionally,” he says first. “Emphasizes craftsmanship. The herbal aspect.”

You click.

“Indulge Your Instincts.”

Click.

“Awaken Your Instincts.”

The last one lingers on the screen.

Chan’s eyebrows lift. “That one,” he says, pointing. “That’s bold.”

You nod. “It’s the strongest emotionally. Direct, but still refined.”

Jisung adds, “It allows for layered messaging. Sensory cues. Subtle tension.”

Subtle tension.

Your eyes flick to him involuntarily.

He doesn’t look at you.

Chan glances between you again, something unreadable passing through his expression, but he doesn’t comment.

Instead, he nods once. “This is solid,” he says. “You’re on the right track. I want mock packaging by tomorrow afternoon. And refine the tagline options. Pick a frontrunner.”

You both nod.

Chan stands, clapping his hands again, though softer this time. “See? Freaky, but productive.”

“Chan,” you groan.

He grins unapologetically. “I’m leaving now before I make it worse.”

He heads for the door, pausing just long enough to add, “Good work. Keep it sharp.”

The door closes and silence floods back in.

You and Jisung are still standing too close to each other near the screen.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Then you both step back at the same time.

Again. In sync.

You clear your throat. “Okay,” you say, voice steadier now. “Mock packaging.”

“Yeah,” he replies, adjusting his sleeves unnecessarily. “Less freaky.”

You snort.

He glances at you, lips twitching.

You glance at the clock in the corner of your screen.

If Chan wants physical mock packaging by tomorrow afternoon, you need Hyunjin. Immediately.

You grab your phone off the table and hit his contact without hesitation, putting it on speaker as you lean back in your chair.

It rings twice.

“Make it quick,” Hyunjin answers, voice smooth and dramatic as ever. “I’m elbow-deep in a disaster.”

“Hi, sunshine,” you reply sweetly. “I need a favor.”

Across the table, Jisung’s fingers pause over his keyboard. He pretends to keep typing, but he is absolutely listening.

There’s shuffling on the other end. “Define favor.”

“I need a mockup printed. Premium finish. Matte box. Embossed lettering if possible. All by tomorrow afternoon.”

Silence. Then a laugh. “By tomorrow afternoon? Are you insane?”

“Yes,” you say immediately. “But I’m your best friend.”

“That title expired when you forgot my birthday last year.”

“I did not forget your birthday.”

“You texted me at 11:58 p.m.”

“It still counts.”

Jisung’s jaw tightens slightly.

Your best friend is Hyunjin?

He knows Hyunjin. Everyone at Nuri Media knows Hyunjin. Print production specialist. Tall. Sculpted like he was carved by someone with unrealistic standards. Moves like he’s walking down a runway even when he’s carrying paper samples.

Objectively attractive. Annoyingly attractive.

On the phone, Hyunjin sighs theatrically. “What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll take you to dinner,” you say without hesitation.

Jisung’s stomach drops.

Dinner?

“With wine,” you add.

“With dessert,” Hyunjin counters.

“Fine.”

“And you’re driving.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then no embossing.”

You groan. “You’re evil.”

“I’m busy.”

“Hyunjinnn,” you plead, dragging out his name in a way that makes Jisung’s molars grind. “Please. It’s for a pitch. Chan will murder us.”

There’s a pause. Then, softer, “What’s the project?”

“Aphrodisiac chocolate.”

Hyunjin bursts out laughing. “Oh, I’m absolutely printing that.”

You grin. “So you’ll do it?”

“Yeah, yeah. Send me the dielines and specs in an hour. I’ll stay late.”

You soften instantly. “You’re the best.”

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“Dinner. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” you confirm.

“Bye, loser.”

“Bye, diva.”

You hang up, smiling faintly as you place your phone back on the table.

The room is quiet.

You look up.

Jisung is staring at his screen very intensely. Too intensely. “Is Hyunjin your boyfriend?”

The question slips out of him almost too casually. Almost.

You blink.

“What?”

He shrugs, eyes still on his laptop. “You said dinner.”

You stare at him for a second before realization dawns.

“Hyunjin?” you repeat, incredulous. “No.”

He nods once, but his shoulders are still stiff.

“He’s—I mean. He sounds close.”

“He is close,” you say slowly. “He’s my best friend.”

He pauses but continues to stare at the screen.

You continue, “He’s also very much taken.”

That makes his eyes flick up. “Taken?”

“Yeah,” you say, leaning back casually. “He’s been dating his boyfriend for two years.”

“Boyfriend,” Jisung echoes.

“Felix,” you clarify. “You’ve met him. Sunshine personality? Bakes brownies for the office sometimes?”

Recognition dawns across Jisung’s face. “Oh.”

The tension drains from his posture so fast it’s almost comical.

“Oh,” he repeats, this time quieter.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Why?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No reason.”

“You thought—” you start, then stop, a slow smile spreading across your face. “You thought Hyunjin and I were dating.”

He straightens defensively. “I didn’t think. I just asked.”

“You looked like you thought.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

His ears are pink again.

You lean forward slightly, resting your chin on your hand. “Were you jealous?”

He freezes. “Of Hyunjin?”

“Yes. Of Hyunjin.”

“Why would I be jealous of Hyunjin?”

You gesture vaguely in the air. “Tall. Hot. Print production genius.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “He’s dramatic.”

“So are you.”

“That’s different.”

You grin.

There it is. That flicker.

He looks at you now, properly, like he’s debating something internally. “I just wanted to know,” he says finally, softer.

You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary.

“Well,” you reply, voice light but steady, “now you know.”

Silence settles between you again.

You glance back at your screen.

“Anyway,” you say casually, “dinner’s just repayment. He’s saved my ass more times than I can count.”

Jisung nods slowly. “Good,” he mutters.

You look up again. “Good?”

“Good he’s taken,” he corrects quickly. “Less workplace drama.”

You study him for a moment. Then you smile to yourself and turn back to your mockup layout.

Across the table, Jisung finally resumes typing, but this time, there’s a small, unmistakable lift at the corner of his mouth.

By the last day before the presentation, Jisung has accepted one undeniable truth: this project is trying to kill him.

He walks into the workshop five minutes early, armed with coffee and the final draft of the slides, ready to fine-tune transitions and rehearse the pitch. He feels prepared.

Then you walk in and he forgets everything he felt prepared about.

It’s not that you’ve never dressed well before. You always look good. Effortlessly put together. Intentional.

But today? Today feels deliberate.

Your blouse dips when you lean forward, highlighting your cleavage. The fabric frames you rather than hides you, and your pencil skirt hugs your hips in a way that makes his palms sweaty.

You look like the visual embodiment of the word Elixir.

You drop your bag onto the chair and smile at him. “Morning.”

He swallows. “Morning.”

His voice is stable. Suspiciously stable.

You walk past him to set your coffee down, and when you lean over the table to plug in your laptop, he has to physically force his gaze upward. Whiteboard. Ceiling. Fire sprinkler system. Anything but—

You straighten and glance at him. “What?” you ask lightly.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You looked like you were buffering.”

He blinks. “I was not buffering.”

“You were.”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I was thinking.”

“About?”

Packaging specs, he should say. Font hierarchy. Client retention.

Instead: “Embossing depth.”

You smile slowly. “Right.”

You sit down across from him, crossing your legs. The movement is subtle but intentional. He notices because he notices everything about you.

At this point, he knows.

The first day, he thought maybe it was accidental. A shared joke. A coincidence.

The second day, he convinced himself he was projecting.

Today?

You are on one.

The way you hold eye contact half a second longer than necessary. The way your voice softens slightly when you say his name. The way you lean closer when reviewing slides instead of staying on your side of the table.

You’re flirting with him.

At first, when you brush your shoulder lightly against his while looking at the mock packaging render, he stiffens.

You notice, but don’t apologize. You just tilt your head and say, “Relax. I don’t bite.”

His brain flashes an unhelpful image. He clears his throat. “Good to know.”

You grin.

He feels it click then.

If you’re playing, maybe he can play back.

Later, when you’re rehearsing the pitch and you stumble slightly over a phrase, he leans back in his chair and says, ““Careful. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I’m distracting you.” 

You blink. Then laugh. “That was smooth.”

“I write for a living,” he replies, shrugging.

It feels foreign on his tongue but not entirely unwelcome..

Then he says, evenly, “You know, if you keep dressing like that, Chan’s going to think we’re method acting.”

Your head whips around. “Excuse me?”

“You look very…on-brand,” he clarifies smoothly. “Luxury. Intentional. Suggestive but not explicit.”

Your mouth opens slightly. Then closes. “You’re bold today.”

He shrugs again, though his pulse is hammering. “Deadline confidence.”

You walk back toward him slowly. “Oh,” you murmur. “So this is what happens when you stop panicking?”

“I still panic,” he admits. “I’m just better at hiding it.”

You stop directly in front of him. “And what exactly are you hiding right now?”

The question hangs between you.

He looks up at you. A slow grin begins to form on his lips.

Your breath catches. Then you step back, satisfied, and return to your seat.

“Okay,” you say lightly. “Let’s finish this before we actually get freaky in here.”

He laughs under his breath.

This time, he doesn’t flinch. Because he knows now.

You’re not just imagining it. And neither is he.

Hyunjin opens the door before you can knock a second time.

He looks you up and down once. Twice. Then leans against the doorframe.

“Oh,” he says flatly. “You’re dressed like that.”

You roll your eyes and shove past him into his apartment. “Hello to you too.”

He shuts the door behind you. “Is this dinner for me, or are you planning to seduce the valet?”

“It’s repayment for saving my professional life,” you shoot back. “Focus.”

He crosses his arms, gaze still scanning you with theatrical scrutiny. “Your blouse is fighting for its life.”

“It is not.”

“It is.”

He gestures vaguely at your chest. “If you inhale too deeply, someone’s losing an eye.”

You swat at him. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” he insists, following you as you step into the living room. “Is this for Jisung?”

Your silence answers for you.

Hyunjin gasps dramatically, hand flying to his chest. “You minx.”

“I am not a minx.”

“You are weaponizing cleavage during a pitch week.”

You grab the mockup box off his table. “He barely survived lip gloss yesterday.”

Hyunjin freezes. “Explain.”

You glance at him. “He stared at my lips.”

Hyunjin’s jaw drops. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He tilts his head down and stares at you, mouth agape. “Our little copy boy?”

“Do not call him that.”

He blows a raspberry at you. “Boo.”

“Then he panicked and started talking about octopuses.”

Hyunjin howls.

You shove the mockup into the trunk of your car a few minutes later while he continues cackling. By the time you’re seated at the restaurant, he’s still smirking.

And this is not just any restaurant.

This is one of those places where the lighting is moody, the chairs are velvet, and the menu does not include numbers.

You open it and look at him pointedly.

“You are paying for the mockup,” he says sweetly.

“You’re evil.”

“You promised me dinner. You did not specify a budget.”

You sigh and close the menu. “Fine. If I cry later, it’s your fault.”

A waiter appears and suddenly wine is being poured and the bread arrives in a gold bowl just to aggravate you.

You both take a sip.

Hyunjin relaxes back in his chair, long legs crossing elegantly. “Okay. Felix is good. Hasn’t gotten lost in like a month. Work is boring. My mother is still asking when I’m moving back home. Your turn.”

You tell him about Chan’s chaotic entrance. About the pitch progress. About Jisung’s sudden confidence today.

“And then,” you say, lowering your voice slightly even though no one is listening, “he told me I was on-brand.”

Hyunjin blinks. “On-brand?”

“Yes.”

“For aphrodisiac chocolate?”

“Yes.”

He sets his wine down slowly. “Oh, he wants you.”

You choke on your sip. “Stop it.”

“He does,” Hyunjin insists. “Men do not compare your outfit to luxury seduction products platonically.”

You glare at him. “We were joking.”

“Were you?”

“Yes.”

He leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Tell me exactly what you wore today.”

You look down. So does he.

He throws his head back laughing.

“Sweetheart,” he says, wiping at imaginary tears. “Your boobs are staging a coup, and your ass has been looking insane lately.”

You gasp. “Hyunjin!”

“I’m objective,” he says calmly. “I’m gay, not blind.”

You bury your face in your hands.

He continues mercilessly. “If Jisung didn’t notice, I will personally escort him to an optometrist.”

“And he tried to act cool. Failed. Then recovered. Then flirted back.”

Hyunjin’s knife clatters dramatically against his plate while he butters his bread. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“He’s evolving.”

You laugh despite yourself.

“He asked if you and I were dating,” he adds suddenly, connecting dots.

You blink. “How did you know that?”

“Because men are predictable. And because I’m stunning.”

You roll your eyes. “He sounded a little jealous,” you say softly.

Hyunjin’s grin softens into something smug and affectionate. “There it is.”

You look down at your wine. “We’ve just been dancing around it for a year.”

“And now?”

“Now it feels obvious.”

Hyunjin reaches across the table and flicks your wrist gently. “Listen to me very carefully,” he says, lowering his voice dramatically. “If that man is not actively trying to court you by next week, he is a fool. A complete, certified fool.”

You snort. “He’s shy.”

“So are you.”

You pause.

He tilts his head, studying you. “You like him,” he says gently.

“I know.”

“You’ve liked him.”

“I know.”

“And he looks at you like you hung the moon and stars.”

Your chest tightens unexpectedly.

Hyunjin softens further. “Go easy on him,” he adds. “He’s probably glitching out.”

You think about the octopus comment and laugh. “He absolutely is.”

Hyunjin raises his wine glass. “To aphrodisiacs.”

You clink yours against his.

“And to you,” he adds with a smirk, “for using cleavage to get what you want.”

You groan.

He leans back again, satisfied. “Honestly,” he says, eyeing you once more, “if he doesn’t hit that soon, I’m revoking his genius title.”

You kick him lightly under the table. “Shut up.”

He just smiles. “Oh, babe,” he says sweetly. “This is going to be fun.”

Jisung wakes up earlier than necessary, staring at his ceiling for a few minutes.

Today is presentation day. Today is standing beside you in front of a board of directors and pretending he has not been losing sleep over both a chocolate campaign and the way your laugh does something to his heart.

After work yesterday, he stopped by his usual salon and asked for a trim. Not a drastic change. Just refinement. His two block haircut, usually a little chaotic around the edges when he runs his hands through it too often, is now sharper. Clean around the sides. The top styled.

This morning, he stands in front of his closet and bypasses the oversized hoodie. Ignores the worn-in sneakers. Instead, he pulls out a pair of black slacks he genuinely forgot he owned, the fabric structured and fitted in a way that makes him stand straighter the moment he buttons them. A crisp white shirt follows, tucked in properly. Over it, a charcoal cardigan that softens the look just enough to keep him from appearing like he’s trying too hard.

He debates contacts then chooses the clear frame glasses. They make him feel smarter and less boyish.

When he finally looks at himself in the mirror, he pauses.

Okay, not bad. Not bad. Not trying too hard.

He slings his messenger bag across his body, the leather strap cutting diagonally over his chest, and heads out the door with his pulse already a notch higher than usual.

By the time he reaches the meeting room, Chan is already inside, pacing lightly with a coffee in hand, phone to his ear.

Jisung pushes the door open and sees you.

You’re arranging mockup boxes at the center of the long table, adjusting their angle so the embossed ELIXIR catches the light perfectly. Your hair falls over one shoulder as you lean forward slightly, concentration written across your face.

Then you look up and freeze.

He sees it happen in real time: your eyes widen, just a fraction. Your gaze sweeps over him from head to toe, slower than necessary. The cardigan. The slacks. The glasses.

For a split second, your lips part.

If he were not already standing, he might have fallen over.

You recover quickly, but not before he catches the faint flush creeping up your neck.

“Morning,” he says, voice steady in a way that surprises even him.

You blink once, then smile. “Morning.” Your tone is soft, appreciative.

He steps fully into the room, setting his bag down near the head of the table. He can feel your eyes still on him, assessing, recalibrating.

Chan glances between you both and immediately grins.

“Oh, wow,” he says loudly. “Did the aphrodisiac work on you two overnight?”

Both of you snap your attention to him.

“What?” you say.

“I’m just saying,” Chan continues, gesturing dramatically, “suddenly we’ve got tailoring, dapper clothing, and tension thick enough to bottle and sell.”

Jisung’s ears redden as you glare at Chan. “We’re dressed appropriately .”

“Of course,” Chan replies innocently. “Very stimulated professionals.”

“Chan,” you warn.

He laughs, clearly delighted with himself. “Relax. I’m kidding. Mostly.”

Jisung clears his throat and moves toward the stack of printed packets, grateful for something to do with his hands. You join him, fingers brushing briefly as you both reach for the same stack.

Neither of you pull away immediately..

You hand him a few copies. “Can you set these at each seat?”

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice comes out lower than usual.

You begin placing water bottles evenly along the table. He adjusts the mockup boxes so the logo faces forward at a flattering angle. There’s an unspoken choreography to it now. You move around each other seamlessly, occasionally catching each other’s eye and exchanging small, private smiles.

He notices you looking at his glasses again.

“New?” you ask quietly as you pass him another packet.

“Old,” he replies. “Just rediscovered.”

“They suit you.”

The compliment lands differently today.

He meets your gaze. “Thanks.”

Before either of you can say anything else, voices echo down the hallway.

The Botanical Bliss board of directors.

Jisung straightens instinctively, shoulders back, jaw set.

You move beside him, close enough that your arm nearly brushes his.

The door opens. Three members enter first, followed by two more, all dressed in sleek business attire that screams investment and expectation. Polished shoes. Sharp watches shining under the light. Evaluating eyes wandering the room, taking everything in.

Chan steps forward immediately and greets them with easy confidence. Jisung and you follow suit.

Handshakes are exchanged. And you introduce yourselves smoothly, your voice clear and composed.

“Thank you for coming,” you say, gesturing toward the table. “We’re excited to show you what we’ve developed for Botanical Bliss.”

They take their seats.

Jisung moves to the front of the room, clicking the remote as the title slide illuminates the screen behind him.

ELIXIR. Awaken Your Instinct. 

He glances at you once. You nod subtly.

He begins. “Botanical Bliss is entering a market that thrives on sensation, luxury, and subtlety,” he says, voice steady and resonant. “We wanted a name that encapsulates transformation without losing refinement.”

You step in seamlessly when he gestures to the mockup box, lifting it carefully so the glossy lettering catches the overhead light.

“Elixir,” you continue, “positions the product as concentrated, elevated, and expandable. It creates room for a full line of experiences.”

As you speak, he watches the board members’ faces—interest and curiosity evident in each one.

You place the box back down gently and meet his eyes again for a fraction of a second.

You move through the slides together like you’ve rehearsed it a hundred times, even though most of it has lived only in brainstorms and stolen glances across a workshop table.

When he delivers “Awaken Your Instincts,” his voice is measured but deliberate.

He feels it: the confidence. The connection.

You follow with the visual strategy, stepping slightly closer to him without thinking, your shoulder nearly brushing his sleeve.

The moment the final slide fades to black, there is a beat of silence that stretches just long enough for Jisung to briefly imagine rejection.

Then the chairman of the Botanical Bliss board leans back in his chair, folds his hands together, and smiles.

“This,” he says slowly, glancing at the others, “is exactly the direction we were hoping for.”

You maintain composure, but Jisung sees the slight lift of your shoulders. The tiny exhale you try to disguise as a nod.

Questions follow, but they’re good questions. Engaged questions. Expansion strategy. Rollout timing. Influencer alignment. You and Jisung volley answers back and forth like you’ve been doing this together for years. No stepping on each other’s lines. No awkward pauses. Just rhythm.

By the time the chairman stands and extends his hand again, it’s done.

“We look forward to moving ahead with Elixir,” he says.

Jisung bows politely, heart pounding, adrenaline fizzing in his veins. “Thank you so much. We’re excited to bring it to life.”

You echo his gratitude, poised and radiant, and for a fleeting second he forgets the board entirely because you look incandescent when you’re proud of yourself.

As they gather their materials, one of the directors gestures to an assistant waiting by the door. A sleek black box is handed to each of you.

“Our first production samples,” she explains. “We’d love for you to try them.”

Try them?

Jisung feels heat creep up his neck.

You accept yours first, hands steady. “Thank you,” you say graciously, even though your cheeks are faintly pink.

He follows suit because refusing would be unprofessional and because apparently today is a test of his cardiovascular system.

“Appreciate it,” he manages.

The box is heavier than expected. Fitting.

The board exits with handshakes and polite bows, leaving the room echoing with the afterglow of success.

The door closes.

Then Chan appears at his shoulder like a mischievous spirit summoned by tension.

He grins so wide his eyes nearly disappear. “Well,” he says brightly, clapping his hands once, “I guess the aphrodisiac works.”

“Chan,” you groan immediately.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, gesturing between the two of you, “that was electric. If the chocolate doesn’t awaken instincts, that presentation will.”

Jisung coughs into his fist.

“You two killed it,” Chan adds, softening slightly. “Seriously. That was one of the smoothest joint pitches I’ve seen from this team.”

The compliment lands warm and solid.

“Thanks,” Jisung says, and this time there’s no stutter.

Chan gives you both one last knowing look, eyes crinkling again. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That eliminates nothing,” you deadpan.

He laughs and finally leaves, shutting the door behind him.

And then it’s just you and Jisung.

The meeting room feels different without witnesses. Charged in a new way. The sample box sits on the table between you like a prop in a very obvious metaphor.

You turn to him slowly.

He steps closer. “You were amazing,” he says first, because that feels safe. Honest. “The way you handled the rollout questions? Insane.”

You shake your head. “You carried the naming and positioning. They were hooked from slide one.”

He smiles faintly. “We work well,” he says.

You hold his gaze. “Yeah. We do.”

There’s a pause. He can feel the moment stretching, balancing on the edge of something. His pulse ticks louder in his ears.

He inhales slowly. “Dinner,” he says.

You blink. “Oh! Okay. To celebrate?”

He shakes his head once. “No.”

The word settles between you.

Your eyebrows lift slightly. “Then why?”

He swallows, but he doesn’t look away this time. “Because I don’t want our best conversations to only happen in a workshop with a whiteboard behind us.”

Your breath catches almost imperceptibly.

“I want to take you to dinner,” he continues, voice steady despite the riot in his chest. “Not because we landed a client. Not because Chan made inappropriate jokes.”

A small smile tugs at your mouth.

“Just…because it’s you.”

You look at him for a long second. Then you smile.

And Jisung thinks, distantly, that if this is what aphrodisiac chocolate feels like, he might need to send the board a thank you note.

At exactly 5:31 p.m., you are already pacing.

Which is ridiculous, because Jisung said he would pick you up at 7:00, and that leaves you with an hour and twenty-nine minutes to spiral, overanalyze, and dismantle your entire wardrobe in the name of romance.

Your bedroom currently looks like a fabric tornado passed through it.

Two skirts are on the floor. A blouse is hanging halfway off the back of your desk chair, and a dress you rejected ten minutes ago is draped across your bed dramatically, as though it were channeling Hyunjin himself.

You stare at your closet.

What do you wear on a date with a man you’ve liked for a year but who has technically only asked you out for the first time today?

Your brain, extremely unhelpfully, begins supplying categories: Cute. Sexy. And somewhere in between.

You chew on the inside of your cheek.

Cute is safe. Cute is you. Lace collars, puff sleeves, soft skirts, ribbons, all the hyper-feminine pieces you’ve always loved wearing. But then you think about the cleavage incident and the way Jisung’s brain nearly exited the building.

You smile to yourself. He definitely noticed. Which is flattering, but then you remember all the other moments. The quieter ones. The year of glances and nervous laughter and him remembering tiny things about you. He asked you out because he likes you.

Your pacing slows.

He likes you. Enough to look you in the eye and say he wanted dinner because it was you.

You feel warmth bloom under your ribs.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Be normal. Be yourself.” You pause before adding quietly, “But like slightly hotter.”

You turn back to your closet with renewed purpose and start digging deeper. Past the soft cardigans. Past the frilly blouses. Until your fingers catch on something silky.

You pull it out. The secret weapon: the black dress—Hyunjin’s gift.

It’s been hanging there for months, worn exactly once for a birthday dinner where he’d spent the entire evening loudly informing strangers that “my friend looks illegal tonight.”

The dress is simple in theory, but lethal in practice. Black, spaghetti straps, bodycon but structured enough to feel elegant. The bodice cinches slightly at the waist, shaping your figure with almost suspicious precision.

You hold it up in front of the mirror before slipping into it and immediately understanding why Hyunjin had insisted on it.

The dress fits you like a glove, hugging your waist, smoothing over your hips, and the neckline dipping just enough to be flirtatious without being scandalous.

You turn slightly in the mirror and blink at your reflection. Wow—your ass looks great.

“Well,” you say slowly, “that’s dangerous.”

You grab your phone immediately.

you: trying on the dress you spent money on me for

Hyunjin replies in approximately six seconds.

jinnie ×̷̷͜×̷ : send photo??

You take one quickly in the mirror and send it.

The typing bubble appears instantly.

Then disappears.

Then appears again.

Then finally—

jinnie ×̷̷͜×̷ : oh my god, i might have a boner

You grin.

He sends another text immediately.

jinnie ×̷̷͜×̷ : if jisung fumbles this date I’m fighting him in the parking lot next monday

you: be serious

jinnie ×̷̷͜×̷ : dead serious, bitch. your waist looks illegal. your boobs look delicious. and your ass is looking bountiful. yeah, that dress is a public safety hazard

You laugh out loud.

you: relax

jinnie ×̷̷͜×̷ : no YOU relax. you are going to make that poor man’s brain an aneurysm

you: he’s picking me up so i can drink if i want to

Three dots appear.

jinnie ×̷̷͜×̷ : oh he’s in love with you

You roll your eyes but your smile lingers.

you: i’m getting ready

jinnie ×̷̷͜×̷ : kill him gently, sweetie

You set your phone down before he can escalate further and move to your vanity.

Makeup comes next.

You keep it soft but polished. A warm base, a little blush, subtle shimmer on the eyelids, mascara that lifts your lashes just enough to frame your eyes. Lip gloss—yes, strawberry, because you have a sense of humor.

Jewelry follows—small gold hoops and a delicate necklace that rests just above the neckline of the dress.

Your hair takes the least amount of time. You curl it lightly, letting the waves fall naturally over your shoulders until it looks effortless. By the time you step back and look at yourself in the mirror again, your nerves have returned.

You check the time.

6:58.

Knocking at the front door in the tune of a song echoes through your living room, your heart nearly launching out of your ribcage before you’re grabbing your small purse, taking one last steadying breath, and walking to the door.

When you open it Jisung is standing there and he looks unreal.

Black slacks again, but paired this time with a dark fitted sweater layered over a crisp shirt. The sleeves are pushed up slightly, exposing the smooth, vascular expanse of his forearms.

And the glasses. He kept the glasses.

For a second, both of you just stare.

Then his brain catches up with his mouth.

“Oh,” he breathes.

You blink. “Oh?”

His eyes travel from your face down—very respectfully, very carefully—and then back up again, like he’s making a conscious effort not to implode.

“You,” he says slowly, “are doing something to my nervous system right now.”

You laugh softly, leaning against the doorframe.

“That bad?”

“That good,” he corrects immediately.

His hand rubs the back of his neck, a familiar nervous gesture, but his gaze doesn’t leave you.

“I knew you’d look nice,” he admits. “You always do.”

Your heart flutters.

“But this?” he adds quietly, gesturing vaguely at the dress, “this feels like psychological warfare.”

You grin. “I wanted to impress you.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “You did,” he says. “Very effectively.”

You glance down at his outfit. “And you cleaned up pretty well yourself, Mr. Cardigan.”

He laughs under his breath. “You noticed.”

“You look good,” you say honestly.

His ears turn faintly pink. “Well,” he replies, straightening slightly, “I figured if you’re taking me seriously enough to say yes, the least I can do is look like someone worthy of the invitation.”

You study him for a moment. The nervous smile. The way he’s clearly trying to be confident but still looks like the same sweet, thoughtful guy you’ve liked for a year. Your chest warms and you smile softly at him.

He smiles back and holds his arm out for you. “Ready?” he asks.

You nod, hooking your arm with his, stepping out and closing the door behind you.

“Ready.”

As you walk toward his car together, he glances at you again and mutters under his breath, mostly to himself—

“I don't know if I'll survive tonight.”

n e x t p a r t ››

You didn’t even look up from your laptop. “You steal one more yogurt and I’m reporting you to the building board.”

He opened the fridge. “You don’t even like Greek yogurt.”

“You don’t know my life.”

“I know you used it once for a TikTok mask and gagged.”

You grinned. “Okay, fine. But still. Ask before you mooch.”

He shut the fridge and padded over, yogurt in one hand, water bottle in the other. “Never have. Never will.”

Chan dropped onto the couch beside you, close enough for his thigh to press solidly against yours. He stretched his arm behind you like he was at a movie theatre trying to flirt with a stranger. His fingers brushed your shoulder, then stayed there. Rested. Comfortable.

Normal.

You didn’t move. Just kept typing, one leg curled beneath you, the other pressed tight against his. You’d long since stopped noticing how often his body found yours. Chan was touchy—had been since high school. Always stretching across your lap, squeezing your arms, playing with your fingers absentmindedly during long talks. You didn’t even flinch when his palm dropped to your knee now, warm and casual.

This was just how it had always been.

People didn’t get it. Not back in school, not in college, not now when you lived a few floors apart and spent most nights either at his place or yours. The teasing from friends had been endless, and the side-eyes never stopped. But neither of you had ever crossed that line. Not even once.

Not even close.

You were hot. He was hot. That was an objective fact. But hot didn’t mean available. It didn’t mean interested. Not between you two.

Chan opened the yogurt with one hand and shoved the lid at you. “Lick this. Be useful.”

You turned your face slowly. “You want me to lick your foil lid?”

“I’m not dirtying a spoon just to eat this.”

“You’re so unserious.”

“I’m efficient.”

You took the lid, licked it once with a dramatic roll of your eyes, and handed it back. “Happy?”

He grinned. “Always.”

He popped the rest of the yogurt into his mouth and grabbed the TV remote, settling in like he didn’t plan on leaving for hours. You weren’t surprised. Most nights looked like this—Chan in your space, touching you somewhere, somehow, while the two of you talked about everything and nothing. He never asked. You never flinched. You barely noticed anymore.

And even when his hand slid just a little higher on your thigh—thumb brushing back and forth across the thin fabric of your shorts—you didn’t think twice. It didn’t register. Just Chan being Chan. Just another Tuesday.

⸻

Chan’s living room was loud. Like it always was when everyone crowded into his space.

Music buzzed from the Bluetooth speaker someone had connected half an hour ago. Your group of friends were splayed across every surface—couch cushions, beanbags, someone cross-legged on the floor—arguing over which movie to watch while the food delivery slowly made its way through Friday night traffic.

You were curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, half-listening, half-scrolling on your phone. Comfortable. Cozy. Familiar.

You’d lost count of how many nights like this there’d been. Movie nights, lazy dinners, game nights that never ended with the actual game. And Chan—always at the center of it. Hosting, leaning against walls with his arms crossed, eyes creased from laughter.

Right now, he was behind you, one knee on the couch as he leaned over to grab the remote off the coffee table. The angle brought his chest close to your back, the edge of his hoodie brushing your cheek before he spoke over your head.

“Why are we even voting?” he asked. “We all know it’s gonna end up being some sad indie movie with subtitles.”

“Because you like chaos,” someone shot back. “We’re trying to have feelings tonight.”

Chan huffed a laugh, dropped the remote onto the cushion beside you, and stayed where he was—half-standing behind the couch, his weight shifting from one arm to the next.

Then you felt it.

One hand landed lightly on your shoulder. And before you could glance back or even think twice, it slid upward.

His palm curved gently around the side of your neck.

Not tight. Not firm. Just resting.

His thumb brushed the underside of your jaw once, then paused, like he was measuring something.

“Huh,” he murmured, half to himself. “Your neck’s tiny.”

He squeezed—not hard, just curious. Testing the width of it in his hand. Like he was checking the fit of something he already owned. His fingers spread easily around your throat, thick and relaxed, his thumb nearly meeting his fingertips on the other side.

You didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

You kept your phone up, face calm, body casual. But inside?

You were choking.

Silently. Violently.

He had no idea.

He wasn’t even thinking about it. It was just Chan being Chan—touchy, absentminded, always touching you. Always. You’d never given it a second thought.

But this?

This was the one place you’d never imagined his hand.

The one part of your body that could short-circuit you with just a look, if the wrong person stared too long. And here he was—fingers wrapped casually around it, thumb brushing over your pulse, eyes probably still on the TV while your soul momentarily left your body.

You blinked. Swallowed. Scrolled aimlessly to mask the tension pooling hot in your stomach.

“Chan,” someone called out. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he said distractedly, thumb still grazing your neck. “Just thinking how weird it is that this—” he gave the softest squeeze, “—could pop like a grape.”

You let out a short, strangled sound that you masked as a cough.

Chan chuckled and finally moved away, dropping onto the armrest beside you with a bounce. His arm still brushed your shoulder, but the pressure on your throat was gone. Like it never happened.

Like it meant nothing.

And to him, it probably didn’t.

But to you?

You weren’t even sure if your breath had come back yet.

⸻

The door shut with a final click.

Silence fell over Chan’s apartment, the kind that only came after hours of noise—empty cups scattered across his counter, the echo of laughter still clinging to the walls. You sank deeper into the couch with a sigh, one hand absently rubbing your shoulder where it ached from sitting in the same position too long.

Chan reappeared from the kitchen, hair pushed back by a band now, hoodie sleeves rolled to the elbows. He tossed a bottle of water onto the coffee table and plopped down beside you, then paused.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” you said, too quick. “Just… tired.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re stiff.”

You shrugged, not looking at him. “Yeah, well. You try staying upright for four hours while Minho screams at the TV like it insulted his mother.”

Chan smiled lazily. “You’re carrying tension. Scoot up.”

“What?”

He patted the space between his legs. “C’mon. Let me fix it.”

You hesitated, but only for a beat.

This wasn’t new. He’d given you shoulder rubs before—during finals in college, during hell weeks at your old job, after long car rides or moving days. It was Chan. Your Chan. The one person you trusted not to make anything feel weird.

So you shifted forward, sitting cross-legged between his thighs, and let him rest his hands on your shoulders.

At first, it was nothing.

Just firm pressure. The pads of his thumbs pushing slow, rhythmic circles into your traps, rolling out the knots like he had all the time in the world. You melted, just a little, head tipping forward under the strength of it.

“Jesus,” you muttered, “where did you even learn how to do that?”

“Years of stress,” he said. “You get good at fixing what you live with.”

You huffed something like a laugh, eyelids falling shut.

Then his thumbs pushed deeper, finding the ridge near the base of your neck, and you let out a low groan of relief.

It felt too good. Way too good.

But it was still safe.

Until his hands shifted.

Slid higher.

Thumbs brushing the edges of your neck now. Rubbing the muscles that fed into it. Soft. Slow. Intent.

Your body tensed before your brain caught up—and then it slipped.

A sound left you.

High-pitched. Sharp.

Needy.

You bit it back immediately, lips slamming shut, but the damage was done. It hung there in the air for a second too long—too feminine, too out of place for the room’s quiet.

Chan stilled.

You didn’t breathe.

Then—

“You good?” he asked lightly, voice above your head.

You could hear the confusion. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard it right. Or if you meant it the way it sounded.

“I—yeah.” Your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat. “Just sore.”

He hummed. Didn’t say anything else.

His hands moved again, this time slower, gentler—sweeping wide across your shoulders before sliding up again, thumbs circling your neck with almost tender pressure. Like he was feeling out the muscle tension—but also maybe trying to see if you’d make that sound again.

You were still. Too still.

“Didn’t think you were holding this much here,” he murmured. His thumbs pressed gently into the dip just behind your jaw. “You always carry it this high?”

You nodded too fast. “Y-Yeah. Must’ve slept weird.”

His touch softened, almost affectionate now, tracing down your neck with his thumbs before slipping away entirely. The absence of it made your breath hiccup.

You couldn’t look back at him.

Not yet.

Because now you weren’t sure if he didn’t notice…

Or if he definitely did.

You hadn’t mentioned it.

Neither had he.

Not when you stood to leave a few minutes later, not when he walked you to the door like he always did, not even when his hand lingered low on your back as you slipped on your slides.

If anything, he looked more normal than usual. Relaxed. Even smiled when you told him you’d come by tomorrow to help clean.

“Don’t forget I’m your friend, not your maid,” you said.

He gave your arm a little squeeze. “You’re both.”

And that was that.

Or so you thought.

—

The next day, his apartment looked exactly the same. A few stray cups gathered in the sink, a throw blanket half-draped off the couch, crumbs on the coffee table. You tossed your bag down and got to work wiping things down while he gathered trash from the bedroom.

“You could at least pretend to clean while I’m here,” you called out.

“I am cleaning,” he shouted back. “I just clean in peace. Unlike someone.”

You rolled your eyes, grinning.

It was easy again. Like nothing happened.

Until it wasn’t.

He emerged from the hallway, rubbing the back of his neck, then padded barefoot across the room to take the rag from your hand.

“Okay,” he said. “Can we talk about something?”

You glanced at him. “What?”

He didn’t speak right away.

Instead, he took the rag, folded it neatly, and set it on the table—slow and deliberate, like he was giving you time to brace.

Then he looked at you. Really looked.

“That sound you made,” he said, voice quiet. “Yesterday. When I was rubbing your neck.”

Your stomach dropped. Not in panic. Just in… sheer mortified awareness.

You played dumb. “What sound?”

Chan tilted his head, amused.

“Don’t do that.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” you insisted, backing a step toward the kitchen, like that would save you.

He followed. One step. Two.

“You made a sound,” he said, not letting it go. “High. Like… I don’t know. Not pain. Definitely not pain.”

Your cheeks flamed. “Okay, and?”

“It just surprised me.” His voice stayed calm. Curious. “You don’t usually sound like that.”

You swallowed hard, crossing your arms in a weak attempt at a barrier. “It was nothing. You just hit a spot. I didn’t even realize I—”

“Sure,” he cut in gently. “But… I’m sure I’ve hit that spot before.”

You froze.

He smiled again, but it was slower now. Measured. A little too knowing.

Your voice came out small. “So?”

“So…” he scratched at his jaw, like he was still figuring out what he wanted to say. “I don’t know. It just sounded like… something else.”

Silence.

Heavy. Awkward. Charged.

You looked down. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Chan stepped a little closer.

You could smell him again—clean and warm, the same scent you’d been surrounded by for years. But now? It clung to your skin differently. Sunk into your pulse.

He was watching you carefully. Not pressuring. Not pushing.

Just… observing.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I believe you.”

Relief hit you, fast and fleeting.

“But if you had meant something by it,” he added, voice lower now, “you’d tell me, right?”

Your breath hitched.

He wasn’t teasing anymore.

He wasn’t joking.

You met his gaze—eyes warm, calm, steady. There wasn’t a trace of judgment in them. No expectation either. Just the softest, slightest pull of curiosity.

And something else you couldn’t name yet.

You looked away.

“Clean your damn table, Christopher.”

He smirked. “So that’s a no?”

“That’s a goodnight.”

You grabbed your bag and made a beeline for the door, pulse thudding in your throat, your skin hot all over. You could still feel the ghost of his hand there, even now. Still circling. Still squeezing.

And the worst part? You knew you’d dream about it.

The second you turned toward the door, you knew he wasn’t going to let it slide.

You felt it.

That shift in the air. The narrowing of his patience. Chan wasn’t dumb, and he wasn’t oblivious. You’d slipped out of a hundred close calls with him over the years, danced around every whisper of tension—but now?

He had a thread.

And he was pulling it.

“Wait,” he said, quiet.

You kept walking.

“Don’t be weird about it,” you muttered. “I said it was nothing.”

The words barely left your mouth before you felt his hand curling around the waistband of your sweatpants and pulling you back into him with a snap.

Your breath hitched.

Back to his chest. Spine to his hoodie. You froze, lips parting in disbelief.

“Chan—”

He grabbed your face before you could finish. One hand cupping your jaw, the other squishing your cheeks together so your lips puckered slightly, tilting your head back against him.

Your breath caught.

“Tell me,” he said, voice low—so low it brushed against your ear like a hum. “That moan. Was it your neck?”

You squirmed, heat rushing to your face, but his grip was firm. Not rough. Just insistent. Gentle like the beginning of something you weren’t ready to name yet.

“I said it was nothing,” you mumbled through his hold.

“I heard you the first time.” His hand loosened just enough for your jaw to move, but his palm didn’t leave your skin. “But that’s not what I asked.”

You turned your head slightly, but he followed the motion, chest warm against your back, his breath fanning across your temple.

“I’m not judging you,” he said softer now, almost amused. “I’m just asking… do you have a thing for this?”

His hand dropped—slow, steady—fingertips trailing from your jaw down the curve of your throat.

You stopped breathing.

His palm hovered just under your chin, thumb resting at the side of your neck, fingers spread. Barely touching. Barely grazing.

Then— He wrapped.

Not tight. Not firm. Just enough to feel his fingers circle you.

Just enough to remind you how small you were in his hand.

Everything in you went still.

Your lips parted again—useless, breathless, caught. You didn’t moan this time, but the silence said enough.

Chan’s voice dipped, teasing now. “So you do.”

You turned your face away, jaw tensed. “It’s not like that.”

His hand didn’t move.

“Then what’s it like?”

You stayed quiet, hands fisting at your sides.

“I didn’t even squeeze,” he murmured, voice velvet-slick. “And you froze like I switched you off with a button.”

“Shut up.”

He grinned. “Ohhh. So it’s like that.”

You tried to step forward, but his grip on your waistband tightened just slightly—reminding you he still had you. That he could pull again. That he would.

He leaned in, lips almost brushing your ear now.

“I’m not mad,” he said, gentle. “I’m not freaked out. I just…” his thumb grazed under your chin again, slow, sweet, deadly. “I think it’s kinda cute.”

“Chan,” you warned, but it came out too soft. Too breathy.

He let go of your jaw, finally. Stepped back a little.

His hand dropped from your neck like nothing happened.

But nothing about your body felt normal anymore.

“I’m gonna order takeout,” he said casually, walking to the kitchen. “You want the usual?”

You blinked.

Stared at him, stunned. “Are you serious?”

He glanced back with a smirk.

“Dead serious. But—if you wanna talk more about your kinks after dinner, I’m free.”

⸻

Dinner was a blur.

You barely tasted anything.

Chan ordered your usual like it was a normal night, like he hadn’t manhandled your face and wrapped his hand around your neck barely twenty minutes ago. He sat across from you at his counter, hoodie sleeves shoved to the elbows, digging into pizza while casually talking about Genshin.

You blinked at your own bowl, lips still tingling, mind running marathons.

He’d touched you a thousand times before—your waist, your thigh, your cheek, your lower back—but not like that.

Not with intent.

Not while calling you out about your kinks like he was just checking the weather.

You poked at your own noodles.

“So we’re not gonna talk about it?” you asked.

Chan looked up, chewing, one brow lifted.

“Talk about what?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”

A beat of silence.

Then the softest smirk curled on his lips. “Thought you didn’t wanna talk about it.”

You stared at him.

Something low and hot coiled in your stomach. That smug little tone he always used on you when he knew he’d won—when he baited you into spilling, or laughing, or saying something you didn’t mean to say.

And suddenly?

You’d had enough. You dropped your fork. Sat back in your chair.

“Fine,” you said, eyes locked on his. “You wanna talk kinks? Let’s talk.”

The smile slipped from his face, slow and sharp—like something in him clicked.

“…Now?”

You crossed your arms, chin high. “You started it.”

Chan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter. “Alright,” he said slowly. “Let’s go.”

His voice was low again. Not teasing this time. Steady. Intrigued. Like you’d just pulled a loaded weapon on the table and told him to pick a side.

You swallowed. “We’ve never talked about this before.”

“I know.”

“We said we wouldn’t.”

“I remember.”

“So why now?”

Chan shrugged. “Because you moaned like someone touched your soul when I only grazed your neck and then tried to lie about it. And now I’m curious.”

You flushed.

“Curious about what?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You.”

A silence stretched between you—hot, tight, heavy.

You laughed once, hollow. “God. This is so fucking weird.”

Chan tilted his head. “Is it?”

“Yes!” you threw your hands up. “You’re my best friend.”

“I’m still your best friend.”

“And we don’t talk about sex.”

“We do now.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes were too dark. Too steady. There was no out here.

You inhaled slowly. “Fine. What do you wanna know?”

Chan sat back again, folding his arms. “What else does it for you?”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “Dead serious.”

You hesitated.

Then—like the words tasted like sin—you said quietly, “Hands.”

A pause.

Chan’s lips twitched. “Yeah. I figured.”

“Big ones,” you added without thinking. “Veiny. Rough. Confident.”

His eyes gleamed. “That why you always let me manhandle you like a ragdoll?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m just observing,” he said. “What else?”

You gave him a flat look. “What, you taking notes now?”

He leaned in again, elbows on the table, voice dark velvet. “I will if you keep talking like that.”

Your thighs pressed together under the table.

You looked away. “You go. Say something.”

He was quiet for a second.

Then—casually—“I like brats.”

You choked.

“Excuse me?”

Chan grinned. “Smart mouths. Girls who push back. Who pretend they don’t wanna listen but fold the second I—”

“Okay!” you raised a hand. “That’s enough, Freud.”

He laughed, head tipping back.

But the tension didn’t ease.

If anything—it twisted tighter.

You bit your lip. “So like… choking. Is that weird?”

He blinked. “Is what weird? Wanting it done to you? Or doing it to someone?”

You paused. “…Both?”

Chan tilted his head, thoughtful. “Not weird. But it’s intense.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Another silence.

He watched you. “You like intense?”

You looked up.

His eyes were too sharp again. Too serious.

You whispered, “Yeah.”

He stood.

You froze as he walked around the counter, bare feet soundless against the tile. He stopped in front of you, hand sliding onto your jaw—soft, slow—and tilted your face up again.

Your breath caught.

“You could’ve told me,” he said, voice low. “Any of this.”

“I thought you didn’t wanna hear it.”

His grip firmed just slightly—thumb brushing your cheek, the edge of your lip.

“I didn’t,” he said. “Until you moaned like that.”

His hand dipped.

Neck again.

Only this time, his fingers wrapped tight—not choking, but claiming. Measuring. Knowing.

And this time?

You didn’t pretend.

You looked him dead in the eye as your lips parted on a breathy, involuntary gasp.

“Yeah,” Chan whispered, smiling now. “That one.”

You should’ve walked away.

Should’ve laughed it off, said something dumb and deflective, gone home and buried yourself in blankets until the heat left your skin.

But you didn’t.

You sat there—his hand on your neck, your thighs clenched under the counter, breath caught somewhere in your throat—and you let him.

Chan was quiet. His eyes searched yours, slow and steady, like he was reading pages of you you didn’t even know were open.

His fingers flexed slightly around your neck. A light squeeze.

Not rough.

Just enough to say, I’m still here. You feel me, right?

And God… you did.

“You’re really into this,” he murmured.

You looked away, cheeks warm. “It’s not like I think about it all the time.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

He hummed.

Then leaned closer.

“But you’ve imagined it.”

You stiffened.

He chuckled lowly, and you felt it through his palm, the softest vibration echoing down your spine. “That’s not a no.”

You turned your head, just slightly, and muttered, “You’re annoying.”

He pulled back.

Only to hook his fingers under your jaw again, tilting your chin up like you weighed nothing in his grip. “There she is,” he said, smiling like you’d done something delicious.

“What?”

“That mouth,” he said, tapping your lip once with his thumb. “That bratty tone.”

“I wasn’t being bratty.”

“Mhm,” he smirked, stepping back. “Sure you weren’t.”

He let go.

The loss of contact was immediate—jarring.

Your neck felt cold without his hand on it.

Chan crossed to the couch and collapsed into it, legs spread, arms stretched along the backrest. Like nothing had just happened. Like your whole reality hadn’t just tipped sideways.

You turned slowly. “What the hell was that?”

“What?”

You gestured vaguely at the space between you. “That.”

Chan shrugged. “Just testing a theory.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What theory?”

“That I’ve been missing out.”

You blinked. “Missing out on what?”

He grinned, head resting lazily against the cushion. “This side of you.”

Your heart thumped.

“There’s no side,” you lied quickly. “That was— That’s just how I talk to you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m serious.”