ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

“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.”

He cocked his head. “So you’d moan like that if Seungmin gave you a massage?”

You glared. “Seungmin gives serial killer energy.”

“Then what about Hyunjin?”

“Hyunjin cries at perfume ads. I’d never let him near my neck.”

Chan laughed.

You didn’t.

“I’m not teasing you,” he said after a moment. “I just… I don’t know. Feels like we’re finally being real.”

You chewed your bottom lip. “It’s not like I was hiding anything on purpose.”

“I know.”

“I just thought it’d be… weird.”

Chan leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “It’s not weird.”

“You’re not freaked out?”

“Nope.”

You hesitated. “So what now?”

He smiled, that slow, cocky, dangerous smile. “Now I get to learn things.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You’re making it sound creepy,” you muttered.

He stood up again. Walked toward you, deliberate this time.

And when he stopped in front of you again, it felt different.

He wasn’t teasing now. He was… curious. Focused. Like you were a puzzle he’d just realized had more pieces.

His hand came up again—back to your neck—but this time, he didn’t wrap it.

He traced.

Knuckles down your throat. Fingertips skimming your collarbone.

You held perfectly still.

“So sensitive here,” he murmured. “And you never said a word.”

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It matters now.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

He leaned in. Close. His breath brushed your lips.

“Because now I’m gonna find out what else does it for you.”

Your legs weakened.

Chan reached behind you and gently pushed you back into the nearest couch, standing over you now, looking down like you were a question he wanted to spend the night answering.

He tilted his head. “You like being told what to do?”

You blinked, heart hammering. “Why?”

“Just wondering how deep the brat thing goes.”

“It’s not a brat thing,” you snapped.

That smile again. Sharp. Addictive.

“There she is.”

“Ugh,” you scoffed, sinking back.

“C’mon,” he said softly. “Give me something else. I’ll tell you one of mine.”

You looked at him, wary. “Promise?”

“Swear.”

You exhaled slowly. “I like being touched… slowly. Like… teased. Not rushed.”

Chan’s eyes darkened.

“Oh,” he said. “We’re gonna have fun.”

You blinked. “Your turn.”

He dropped to his knees in front of you. Rested his hands on your knees, just above them.

Then leaned forward and said—

“I like control. But only when someone wants to give it up.”

You froze.

“Like… the second you say stop, I’m out,” he added. “But if you give me the green light…” His thumbs stroked slow, slow circles over your legs. “I’ll ruin you sweet.”

Your breath hitched.

“Too much?” he asked, smiling.

You didn’t answer.

Because truthfully?

You didn’t know if it was.

You weren’t sure what had shifted.

The air, maybe.

Or the weight of his eyes when he looked at you like that—like you were becoming something right in front of him.

But Chan didn’t back down.

He stayed where he was, hands resting on your knees, thumbs rubbing slow, distracted strokes into your skin like his mind was already a step ahead.

“I’ve never really talked to anyone about this stuff,” he said quietly, more to himself than to you. “Not like this.”

You swallowed. “Me neither.”

“I didn’t think I needed to. Thought I had it figured out.”

“And now?”

His eyes met yours again, and there was something deeper in them now. Darker.

“Now I think I’ve been fucking around in the shallow end.”

You stiffened, legs tensing under his grip.

He felt it.

His thumbs stilled.

“That bother you?” he asked softly.

You shook your head before you could stop yourself.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing like he’d found a loose thread in you. “Then why are your thighs clenched?”

“I don’t know,” you breathed.

“Hmm.”

He moved his hands slightly up your legs, just a few inches, nothing dramatic. But his gaze stayed pinned to yours the whole time.

“Do you like when I talk like that?”

You hesitated.

Chan leaned in, whispering, “Tell the truth.”

Your lips parted, no sound coming out.

He grinned, barely. “Thought so.”

You flushed.

He sat back on his heels, exhaling a little laugh like this whole thing was amusing—and fascinating—and fucking exhilarating.

“I think I like this side of you,” he murmured.

“What side?”

He brought his hand up again, knuckles brushing your neck, then trailing down your collarbone. “The one that can’t sit still when I do this.”

You shivered.

He smiled. “You get quiet when you want something.”

“I’m not quiet.”

“Mm. You’re quieter than usual.”

He leaned in again.

Not touching this time—just watching you breathe.

“You always give this much control without realizing it?”

Your mouth went dry.

“I’m not—” you started.

But he shook his head.

“No, don’t answer. I like watching you try.”

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

You were wet.

God, you were already so fucking wet, and he hadn’t even touched you where it mattered. Not once.

He moved one knee forward, bracing his arm on the cushion beside your hips. The shift brought him closer. Too close.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard. Heavy.

Brushing your inner thigh.

Your breath stilled.

Chan didn’t move.

His lips quirked—just barely.

And that’s when you knew.

He felt it too.

Still, he played innocent.

“Something wrong?”

Your eyes flicked to his, wide. “Are you—?”

“I am,” he said calmly. “You surprised?”

You blinked.

“No.”

“Because you’re hot?”

You exhaled slowly. “Because you’re different.”

That made him pause.

“How?”

“You’ve never… acted like this.”

He hummed, low in his chest. “You’ve never let me.”

You stuttered. “I— I didn’t stop you—”

“No,” he agreed, nodding once. “But you didn’t give me an invitation either.”

You looked down, eyes on the space between your bodies, his arousal pressed right up against you like a secret you weren’t supposed to notice.

And still, you didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t say a word.

His voice softened. “So now that we’re here… wanna know another thing I’ve never told anyone?”

You nodded without thinking.

Chan’s fingers skimmed your hip, slow and deliberate. “I like watching people fall apart.”

Your lips parted, breath catching.

“But not in a mean way,” he added. “I like the process. The way your body learns to trust me before your brain catches up. I like how shaky your breath gets when I press on the right spot. How your legs tense when you’re trying not to give in.”

He smirked, voice dipping lower.

“I like hearing that little gasp you just made. And I really like how your thighs are squeezing together again.”

You gasped again, this time audible.

He was rock hard now. You could feel him throb slightly against you. A steady pulse through his sweatpants.

And then—God help you—he moved just a little.

A subtle, deliberate shift of his hips.

Just enough to feel how warm you were.

How ready.

Your jaw clenched.

Chan’s eyes flicked down to your mouth.

And that was his breaking point.

Because suddenly his hand was back—on your neck.

Not squeezing. Not dominating.

Feeling.

Like he was trying to understand how something so small could make him so desperate.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, half-lost in it.

You swallowed. “Then show me.”

His eyes snapped back to yours.

Dark.

Ravenous.

But he didn’t kiss you.

Didn’t push further.

Instead, he leaned in—nose brushing yours—and whispered, “Not yet.”

That’s what he said—low, husky, brushing your lips like a secret.

But then his head dipped lower.

And you felt it—his mouth at your cheek first, warm and lingering, then sliding lower still until his lips brushed your jawline… his teeth barely grazing your skin.

You jolted.

He smiled against you.

“Still holding it together?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement.

And then he bit you.

Soft. Right on your cheekbone. Just enough pressure to make you gasp—nothing overwhelming, but so intimate, so damn suggestive, it felt like your body cracked open around it.

A moan slipped past your lips before you could stop it.

High. Desperate.

Sinful.

“Fuck…” you breathed, under your breath.

But he heard it.

God, he heard everything.

His mouth dragged to your ear—barely brushing it—before his tongue flicked once at the shell of it and he whispered, “Say that again.”

Your head tipped back into the couch, fingers digging into the cushion beside you.

He watched you fall apart, kneeling between your knees like you were some holy thing unraveling at his mercy.

And then, without even thinking, it slipped out.

“…Chan.”

His name, like a prayer.

Choked. Shaken.

Raw.

He stilled.

Completely.

You opened your eyes slowly, vision slightly hazy, only to find him staring back at you—eyes wide, chest rising visibly beneath his hoodie.

“Shit,” he muttered, like it hit him all at once.

Like he just realized the weight of what was actually happening.

You blinked, cheeks burning. “What?”

He shook his head once. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“My name.”

You bit your lip, too overwhelmed to even fake control.

And that was it.

That broke him.

Chan’s hands flew to your hips, dragging you down the couch cushion just enough for him to lean over you completely. His mouth caught yours in a kiss so devastatingly hot you forgot your own name.

Teeth clashing. Breath mixing.

Tongues tangling like they’d been waiting years for this.

Your fingers curled into his hoodie, desperate for something to hold onto as he kissed you like a man starving—like he was angry you’d kept this from him, angry you made him wait.

And the way you moaned into his mouth? The soft gasp you let out when his hand slipped beneath your shirt and splayed wide over your waist?

It shattered him.

Chan groaned against your lips, grinding into you once—slow but solid—and the friction was unbearable.

You whimpered, breath hitching, thighs tensing around his hips.

“Jesus, babe,” he growled into your neck, voice cracking with restraint. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

But you did.

You knew now.

And worse? You loved it.

You tilted your head without thinking, exposing your throat like instinct, and the second his lips found the base of it, the moan you let out was filthy.

Loud. Guttural.

You felt him throb against your core through both your clothes.

And he didn’t even try to hide it.

His hand found your neck again—cradling, not choking. Not yet.

Just holding.

Possessive. Protective. Like it belonged to him.

“You were gonna hide this from me?” he whispered roughly against your skin. “This part of you?”

You whimpered, nails dragging down his back.

Chan laughed. Dark. Breathless.

“Not anymore.”

That was the last thing he said before everything blurred.

Your best friend had kissed you before—on your forehead, your cheek, once at midnight on New Year’s when he was tipsy and too sentimental—but this was different.

This wasn’t affection.

This was possession.

He kissed like he’d earned it—like every time he let you sleep in his bed, every time he pulled you into his chest when you were crying, every time he called you baby under his breath without thinking… was just a slow burn countdown to this moment.

His lips moved against yours like he already knew your rhythm. Like he’d been dreaming of it and now he was tasting it for real.

And when you moaned again? He growled into your mouth.

His hands were wild now, frantic. Pulling at the hem of your shirt, tugging you closer by the hips until you were slotted right against him, heat to heat.

You could feel how hard he was.

And when he shifted his weight and pressed into you deliberately, you gasped—high-pitched and startled.

He tore his lips from yours just long enough to pant, “Fuck. You’re driving me insane.”

“Then do something about it,” you whispered, already breathless.

His eyes flashed.

“Say less.”

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of your sweatpants so fast it made your breath catch—and when his fingers reached your panties, he froze.

Because you were soaked.

Dripping.

His fingers brushed along the fabric—slick and clinging—and then he dragged them lower, curling them against the wet heat right between your legs.

You gasped. Shuddered.

Chan’s head dropped to your shoulder, lips at your ear, groaning deep in his throat. “You’re fucking soaked.”

You whimpered.

His fingers stroked once—just enough to tease—before he yanked your sweatpants down in one go, panties and all.

You squeaked, legs instinctively clamping together, but he was already on his knees again, big hands sliding under your thighs and pulling them apart with a groan.

“Let me see,” he rasped. “Come on, babe, show me how bad you need me.”

You swallowed, chest heaving.

You had never seen him like this—never even imagined him like this.

Hair messy, lips red, hoodie halfway off his shoulder as he pushed himself between your legs like a man starving.

And it wasn’t until he looked up—until those dark, wrecked eyes dragged slowly up your body and met yours—that you realized:

You were gone.

Undone. Open.

And he loved it.

His fingers returned, sliding into your folds with maddening slowness.

You cried out, knees trembling.

He sucked in a breath, watching his hand work between your legs like he couldn’t believe what he was feeling.

“Dripping,” he whispered, almost reverent. “All this for me?”

You bit your lip. “Don’t be cocky.”

He smirked.

And then he curled two fingers inside you in one smooth thrust.

You screamed.

Your hand shot out, grabbing at his wrist, your thighs threatening to close—but he was too strong.

He pressed one hand firmly on your stomach, keeping you grounded while his fingers moved—slow, then fast, then deeper.

“Not cocky,” he panted. “Just maybe obsessed.”

You cried out again, body arching, trying to grind into his palm. Every nerve ending in your body was on fire—and he was eating it up.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned. “Melting for me. You gonna come already?”

You shook your head, biting your fist.

He chuckled darkly. “Don’t hold back now, baby. We’ve got years to make up for.”

You moaned louder—desperate.

And then he stopped.

Just like that.

Fingers sliding out, breath ragged.

You blinked at him in shock, your whole body pulsing.

“What—?”

He wiped his fingers on the hem of his hoodie like it was nothing, then leaned forward and whispered against your mouth, “I’m not letting you come with my hand. Not the first time.”

You whimpered, a broken, trembling sound.

He kissed you again, rougher this time.

And then his hands were on his hoodie, yanking it off in one smooth motion, chest glistening with sweat, body hard and flexed as he stood to kick off his sweatpants.

You stared.

You’d seen him shirtless. You’d seen him in boxers during sleepovers. But this?

This was feral.

Ripped, flushed, bulging under tension—and fully hard now, cock bobbing as he leaned back over you, eyes wild with want.

“You ready?” he asked, voice wrecked.

You couldn’t even speak.

Just nodded.

Because the fire had already started, and now?

You wanted to burn.

You were breathless beneath him—bare, dizzy, skin hot and tingling in all the right places. And when he hovered over you now, sweat-slick and wild-eyed, your best friend didn’t look like your best friend anymore.

He looked like a man unraveling. One second away from ruin. Yours.

His hand slid behind your knee, lifting your leg over his hip. “You good?”

You nodded again, swallowing hard.

He smirked, gaze dropping to your lips.

“You sure?” he asked, dragging the blunt head of his cock through your slick folds—slow, teasing, maddening. “You look like you’re in trouble already.”

And something in you—something playful and wicked—snapped.

“Guess we’ll see if you can handle it.”

Chan paused.

Your voice—usually warm, teasing, light—was lower now. Challenging.

Bratty.

His brows lifted. “Oh?”

You shrugged, purposefully lazy beneath him, your leg tightening around his waist. “I mean… you talk a big game, but—” you made a little face, “—you’ve never even kissing me before today.”

Chan blinked slowly.

Then laughed once—dangerous and deep in his chest—before grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head in one swift movement.

“You’re cute when you’re mouthy.”

You gasped, startled, but didn’t stop.

“I’m just saying,” you said sweetly, shifting under him, deliberately dragging your slick heat along his length. “You’ve waited ten years for this. Hope you’re not rusty.”

He stared down at you like you were made of sin and gasoline.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, lowering his face to yours, lips brushing your cheek. “You want me to wreck you, don’t you?”

You smirked. “I’d like to see you try.”

And that was it.

That was all it took.

He snapped.

His hand came down, wrapping tight around your throat and the next thing you felt was the blunt push of his cock stretching you open in one slow, greedy slide.

You cried out, head falling back, legs trembling from the stretch.

“Fuck—”

“That shut you up quick,” he growled, watching your face as he bottomed out.

You whimpered, fully filled now, completely caged beneath him, and for a moment all you could do was breathe.

You weren’t used to this—this intensity. This power shift.

You weren’t used to being his.

Chan didn’t move right away. He stayed there—deep inside you, hand on your throat, his other still pinning your wrists—just watching.

Then his voice dropped to a whisper. “Say my name.”

You bit your lip, eyes fluttering. “…Chan.”

He pulled out halfway.

“Say it right.”

“Chan—ah, fuck—Chan,” you gasped, back arching.

He snapped his hips forward—hard—and your moan broke into a scream.

“You’re soaked,” he panted. “You’ve been hiding this from me?”

“I didn’t know—” you whimpered, completely undone, “—you’d be like this.”

He smiled against your throat, kissed it once, then bit down lightly on your jaw. “This is what you do to me.”

And when you clenched around him at those words?

He lost it.

His grip tightened—your wrists, your throat, your hips—and he started moving, every thrust thick and deep, sharp enough to send your thoughts scattering into stars.

“Still wanna be a brat?” he growled, pulling out only to slam back in harder.

You whimpered, breath catching. “Yes.”

He chuckled darkly. “Wrong answer.”

He dragged your hands down, pinning them to your chest now as he fucked into you, his entire body a weapon. Every thrust hit somewhere new—some place that made you cry out, curse, beg without knowing you were doing it.

“Look at you,” he said, voice wrecked. “You gonna be good now?”

Your pride screamed no.

But your body—your soaked, trembling, wrecked body—sobbed yes.

You swallowed hard, hips twitching, and whispered up at him with all the strength you had left:

“Make me.”

Chan’s eyes blazed.

“Oh, baby,” he growled, snapping his hips forward again. “I’m gonna make you beg.”

And from the way your legs shook?

You knew he already was.

You didn’t remember when your moans got louder than the thoughts in your head.

Didn’t remember when you stopped trying to talk back and started crying his name like a plea.

But your body remembered. Every inch of it was tuned to his touch now—sweaty, sticky, soaked, and strung out beneath the weight of your best friend losing his damn mind inside you.

He hadn’t stopped moving.

And he hadn’t stopped talking.

“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he groaned against your skin, hips snapping forward. “Been dreaming about this—about you—for years. You were right in front of me—walking around like that, giving me attitude, pushing my buttons.”

You gasped, fingers dragging down his back. “I wasn’t trying—”

“Bullshit,” he growled, pulling out just enough to thrust back in hard, rocking your entire body against the couch. “You knew what you were doing. You knew I’d snap.”

You choked on a scream, grabbing at his shoulder for balance.

And then, with a glint in his eye, he lifted one of your legs onto the couch arm and pressed forward—deep and low.

You damn near sobbed.

“Fuck, this angle—” he hissed through clenched teeth, “—you’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”

You shivered, mouth open, unable to answer—until a familiar bratty smirk broke onto your lips.

“Still think you’re in control?” you managed, breathless.

Chan stopped moving.

Dead still.

And grinned.

“Oh, baby girl.”

And just like that, he yanked out of you, flipped your body, and shoved your front down into the couch cushions.

His hand was already on your back, pressing you down as he lined up again—and when he slid back in with one long, filthy thrust, your scream was muffled in the fabric.

“Who’s in control now?” he grunted, pounding into you from behind, one hand on your hip, the other wrapped around your neck again—pulling you back, making your spine curve deliciously.

You tried to fight it—tried to sass, to squirm—but every stroke hit your g-spot like he’d mapped your body in his dreams.

And when he growled “look at that arch,” you whimpered.

“I can feel you clenching, baby. You gonna come already?”

You hissed, bratty again through your cries. “You wish—”

So he pulled out, flipped you again.

“Keep testing me,” he breathed, dragging you into his lap, guiding you down onto him so slowly it made your eyes roll back.

He didn’t move.

Just held your hips steady, eyes locked on your face.

“You think you’re the one riding me?” he whispered, almost tender—until his fingers dug into your skin and he thrust up hard.

You screamed, forehead dropping onto his shoulder.

“Oh no, baby. You just get to watch this time.”

He started bouncing you on his cock, fucking up into you, his grip rough, his rhythm feral.

“You gonna be good yet?” he panted, breath hot on your cheek. “Or should I fuck the brat out of you?”

You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe.

But you nodded.

You were gone.

Gone for him.

He kissed your shoulder, then bit it.

And then?

He moved you again.

He was everywhere—his weight, his mouth, his cock so deep you felt like you’d split in half.

Your cries were high and broken now, your hands slipping against his sweat-slick back as he pounded you into the cushions with intent.

And then his hand went right back to your neck—holding, lifting, claiming you while he fucked the soul out of your body.

“You’re mine,” he panted, hips relentless. “Say it.”

You moaned, arching up into him. “Yours—yours, fuck—Chan—”

He dropped his forehead to yours, eyes wrecked, heart thundering.

“Come for me.”

And this time?

You did.

With a scream that could’ve broken glass.

Your body snapped, back bowing, thighs clenching around him, tears streaking your cheeks as the pleasure tore through you.

Chan didn’t stop.

He groaned, deep and desperate, as your walls clenched and fluttered around him—and then he stilled, cock buried to the hilt, trembling against you.

“Fucking—shit—”

You felt him pulse deep inside you, hot and thick.

And when he finally collapsed on top of you—panting, wrecked, his face buried in your neck—you couldn’t stop the soft, breathless laugh that left you.

“…That’s one way to discuss kinks.”

Chan huffed against your cheek.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, kissing your jaw sweetly. “You’ve got no idea how bad it’s about to get.”

—-

Your body was buzzing—tender, used, and so completely ruined that you barely noticed when Chan lifted you off the couch like you weighed nothing.

You whimpered at the movement, tucking your face into his neck as he carried you down the hall, both of you still catching your breath.

Neither of you spoke. There was only the soft pat of his feet against the tile, your fluttering heartbeat in your ears, and the low, satisfied hum he made when you clung tighter to his shoulders.

The bathroom light flickered on. Warm. Clean. Familiar.

He didn’t hesitate. Just toed off the last piece of fabric on his body and stepped under the stream with you still in his arms.

The hot water hit your back and you gasped at the contrast—already sensitive, skin electric under every drop.

Chan’s big hands slid over you, soothing, slow. He lathered up a washcloth and began running it gently over your shoulders, your thighs, between your legs with such focus you had to fight the urge to melt all over again.

“You okay?” he asked, quiet against your ear, lips brushing your temple.

You nodded. “…Think you broke me.”

He chuckled, chest rumbling against yours. “Not even close.”

But still, his touch was careful now. Reverent. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And maybe that’s why you did it.

Why you let your hands roam a little more than they needed to.

Why you leaned in and started trailing soft kisses down his collarbone.

Why your lips didn’t stop there.

Because you couldn’t believe he was real either.

Not like this. Not yours.

He stilled when your mouth reached his chest.

You kissed it slowly, tenderly, running your fingers down his abs, over the ridges of muscle that flexed beneath your touch.

“…Babe,” he whispered, voice low, warning, already unraveling. “Don’t start.”

You looked up at him through wet lashes, lips parted, innocent and knowing all at once.

“Why not?” you murmured, kissing just below his ribs. “You let me fall apart for you. Let me return the favor.”

His breath hitched. He was already hardening again—and he knew it.

You kissed lower.

And lower.

And then you were kneeling—naked, dripping, your knees cushioned by the shower mat, hands already stroking his length back to full, pulsing attention.

He groaned.

“Fuck. Fuck, you look so good down there—”

You wrapped your fingers around his cock, squeezing gently, lips brushing against the flushed head of his cock. He jerked in your hand, and you hummed.

“I never told you my last kink,” you said sweetly, licking a slow stripe along the underside.

His hand hit the wall above your head, unsteady. “Yeah? What is it, baby?”

You smiled up at him—dark, sinful, soft.

“I don’t have a gag reflex.”

Chan let out a noise—guttural, choked, wrecked.

“Jesus Christ.”

And then you took him in.

All of him.

Slow. Deep. Deliberate.

His mouth fell open, eyes rolling back as you swallowed around him, your throat relaxing on instinct.

“Oh my fucking God—” he rasped, hips jerking forward before he caught himself, panting hard, water cascading down his back.

You pulled off with a wet pop, licking the tip before dragging your tongue along the base and sucking him back in just as deep.

He moaned—loud, shameless, one hand grabbing the back of your head while the other gripped the shower wall like a lifeline.

“Fuck, fuck, baby— you’re gonna kill me—”

You moaned around him in response, eyes half-lidded, hands stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach.

Every sound he made went straight to your core—deep and breathy and so needy, it felt like a reward just to listen.

“You’re unreal,” he groaned. “Fucking unreal—how is this even real—”

You let your eyes flutter closed, increasing the rhythm, hollowing your cheeks, spit and water dripping from your chin as you let him fall apart above you.

And when his stomach clenched—when his thighs started to tremble—you just held him tighter, took him deeper, and moaned his name from the back of your throat.

“Fuck— I’m gonna come—baby, I’m gonna—shit—don’t stop—”

You didn’t.

Not until his hips jerked one final time and you tasted all of him—thick and hot and desperate on your tongue.

He roared your name, damn near sliding down the wall as his whole body seized, then shook.

When he finally opened his eyes again, you were smiling, swallowing, licking your lips like you’d just won.

Chan stared.

Then laughed—ragged, disbelieving, utterly in awe.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he panted, hauling you up into his arms again. “Mark my words.”

You kissed his jaw, cheeky. “Then what a way to go.”

He groaned, forehead against yours.

“We’re not sleeping tonight.”

And you knew he meant it.

—

The water was still warm when Chan reached for a towel and wrapped it around your body, gathering you into him like you were something precious. Like you might disappear if he blinked.

You were trembling a little—not from cold, but from the comedown. The wild pace of everything. The stretch, the heat, the orgasm that had left your legs like jelly. The way he’d held your gaze while wrecking you on the couch like you weren’t his best friend—like you were already his everything.

Now? Now he was silent. Gentle.

A hand on the back of your head, stroking slowly.

“You okay?” he asked, voice raw and deep, brushing his lips to your temple.

You nodded into his chest. “Mhm. Just… processing.”

He smiled faintly, lifting you into his arms again—still naked, still wet—and carried you to his room without another word. The towel stayed wrapped around you, his hands never letting go, like it physically pained him to stop touching you.

He laid you on his bed with careful hands, kissed your forehead, then disappeared for a moment—returning with your hoodie, a fresh pair of his boxers, a warm water bottle, and a glass of juice.

You stared at him, body curling toward his naturally as you laid there—wrapped in soft cotton, legs still aching in the best way. “So… this really happened.”

Chan tilted his head, gaze steady. “Are you regretting it?”

“No,” you whispered, too fast. Then, “Are you?”

His brow furrowed like you’d offended him. “Baby. I’d do it all over again right now if you weren’t already shaky.”

You flushed, heat blooming up your neck. He noticed it. Of course he did. His thumb brushed the side of your throat, reverent.

“Still can’t believe that’s your kink,” he murmured, soft and possessive and wrecked. “You have any idea what that did to me?”

You licked your lips, looking away. “…There’s more.”

Chan’s eyes darkened. “Oh, you’re gonna tell me.”

You tried to hide your smile. “We never talked about sex in ten years and now you wanna hear all my kinks?”

“Now I need to,” he replied, curling his hand behind your neck and pulling you closer again. “You let me touch you like that. Let me own you. You think I can go back to pretending you’re just my best friend after that?”

His mouth was so close. His fingers were back to stroking your skin, down your back, over the dip of your waist.

Your voice came out quieter now. “I’ve never given up control that easily.”

“I know.” He cupped your jaw, kissed the corner of your mouth. “And I’ll never take that for granted.”

You met his eyes. “But I’d do it again.”

His breath stuttered. And then he kissed you—soft this time, lingering.

“You have no idea how hard I’m holding back right now.”

“I can tell,” you whispered, glancing down at the way his towel was starting to shift.

He growled against your skin, pressing his forehead to yours. “This changes everything.”

You nodded slowly. “But it doesn’t ruin anything.”

“No,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “It just means we’ve got… ten years to make up for. And I plan to.”

You smiled. “So… you’re mine now?”

Chan pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you.

“No, baby,” he said with a dangerous smirk. “You’re mine. And I don’t share.”

Your stomach fluttered. You pushed at his chest, bratty. “Mm. You weren’t this cocky when we were just friends.”

He climbed over you again, straddling you on the bed with that wolfish glint in his eye.

“You never let me touch you like this before. Now I know what you sound like when you moan my name?”

He leaned down, voice dark, hungry.

“You have no idea how cocky I’m about to get.”

And just like that, you knew.

You’d opened Pandora’s box.

And Chan had no plans to close it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: AAAAAHHHHHHH!!! God this was sooo juicy to write!!!! I am so sorry for my absence guys, theres been so much on my plate… I’ve actually started an original book that i plan to publish some time in the future. 🤭 But I’m here now and ill post more frequently. As for all the requests? I SEE EVERYTHING, I WILL WORK ON THEM!! Just hold on for me babes!

Anyway, if you enjoyed this one, leave me a comment, like and reblog guys!! My taglist is open so let me know if you want to be added or removed!

There were days when his laugh seemed deeper, when the stretch of his black t-shirt across his chest made your stomach twist, when the fabric clung to his biceps so tight it was impossible not to look, When you caught yourself staring at his hands wrapped around a controller and thinking of things best friends should never think about.

You had trained yourself to handle it. Stay quiet. Avoid too much eye contact. Blame hormones and wait it out. Friendship was more important. Always.

Except tonight. 

Tonight he was sprawled across your couch, damp hair curling against his forehead after a shower, shirt long forgotten somewhere. His skin was warm, golden under the TV light, and the smell of his shampoo lingered in the air. You curled your legs under yourself, forcing your eyes back to the screen, trying not to breathe too deeply.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, eyes still on the screen. “Why do you sometimes look at me like that?”

Your pulse stuttered. “Like what?”

“Like…” he tilted his head, pretending to think, though you caught the edge of a smile. “Like you want something.”

Your laugh was sharp, fake. “I don’t.”

“You don’t?” His eyes flicked to yours then, curious. Too curious.

“No,” you said quickly, but it came out breathy, your voice catching on the end.

The corner of his mouth lifted, slow, knowing. He shifted closer, resting his arm along the back of the couch, body heat brushing against you. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah, Jisung, I’m sure.”

“Okay then.”

He came even closer, dropping his head onto your lap, a habit of his, one you were more than used to. But this time, as soon as his weight settled against you, your whole body lit up. Your breath hitched, heavy and uneven, and you forced yourself to play it cool, to keep your hands still, to pretend this was as casual as it always had been.

Except it wasn’t. Not when his hair brushed against your skin. Not when the heat of his body radiated through you, or when the faint smell of his shampoo curled up into your lungs and stayed there. You could see every line of his face, every shift of muscle, every little thing you weren’t supposed to notice. And your mind was long, long gone.

He didn’t say a word for the rest of the night, which was weird, Jisung was a yappy guy. Always running his mouth, filling silences with dumb jokes, humming under his breath, narrating his own thoughts like you hadn’t known him for years. But now? Nothing. Just him sitting there, quiet, and you facing the screen, pretending to care about that goddamn movie while your pulse pounded everywhere but your chest.

You tried to stay still, tried to focus, tried to shove your mind anywhere but the direction it was going. But the warmth of his body next to yours was distracting, the silence deafening, and soon your eyelids got heavy.

You must’ve dozed off.

Because suddenly you were dreaming, really dreaming, of him. Touches that had never happened, his voice in your ear saying things he had never said, heat curling low in your stomach until it felt so real you startled awake with your heart racing.

The movie was still on. The room was dim, the glow from the TV flickering across the walls. A blanket you didn’t remember pulling up was covering you, soft and warm. And right beside you, there he was, head tilted slightly down as he scrolled on his phone like nothing in the world had shifted.

“Bet that nap felt… good,” he said casually, without even looking at you.

“Uhum,” your throat felt dry. “I was sleepy.”

“Sleepy, huh?” His tone had that dangerous lilt, like he knew something you didn’t.

“Yeah… sleepy.”

Finally, he looked up from his phone, dark eyes locking onto yours, too steady. “Why exactly were you calling my name for?”

“What?”

“Yeah yeah, I heard that”

“It was just… a dream”

“Yeah.. but that kind of dream for sure”

“Jesus Christ. You won’t let go, will you?” you muttered, sitting up a little. “I’m just a bit… you know, horny. It’s just that time of the month. You ended up being my mind’s victim, that’s all. End of story.”

Jisung’s brows shot up, and then he laughed, low, amused, almost smug. “Ohhh, end of story? Sure. So what, you want me to call up that guy you went out with last week for you?”

Your stomach twisted, heat creeping up your neck. “Shut up.”

“What?” He grinned, leaning back against the couch. “He’s probably free. Though, to be fair, he didn’t even know how to kiss, right? You said that. Honestly, tragic.”

You glared, but he only chuckled, basking in your reaction, because that’s what best friends did, poked at bruises until the other one snapped.

Except this time… this time you could feel his heat radiating toward you. And when you risked a glance at him, the way he was looking at you made your chest tighten. Not playful, not entirely. Deeper. Like maybe he had already been thinking about the same things you had dreamed of.

Your pulse jumped, your mouth dry.

“So…” his voice was softer now, slower, eyes never leaving yours. “How was that dream?”

It wasn’t weird that he asked, not for you two. You had always been too comfortable, telling each other things you probably shouldn’t. But this time, the words weighed heavier. This time, the air was different.

“Come onnn!” he whined, that voice only Jisung could pull off, halfway between a joke and a plea. “I want to know.”

You shifted under the blanket, gripping the edge a little tighter. “Nothing much. I honestly can’t even remember it.” A lie, and a bad one, you could still feel it. “But it was more about… chasing a release somehow than what was in fact being done.”

His eyebrows lifted, interest flickering in his eyes, but he stayed quiet, letting your own words hang heavy between you.

That blanket was saving you. Because the way your thighs were pressing together, clenching harder with every second, you’d be ruined without it. The ache was pulsing now, deep and insistent, impossible to ignore. And talking about it with him, with Jisung, of all people, was making it so much worse.

His gaze flicked down to where the blanket bunched around your lap, then back up to your face, slowly. And when the corner of his mouth tugged into that knowing smirk, your stomach flipped.

He was breathing heavy now. You tried to look away, but you couldn’t.

“I can leave…” he murmured, voice low, careful. “So, you know, you can chase your release.”

Your lips parted, your eyes still locked on him. “…Okay…”

But he didn’t move.

“Or—” he cleared his throat, the sound tight, almost nervous. “Or I can stay and, hm… we can chase it together.”

You closed your eyes, releasing a breath. “Ji, we can’t.”

“I know,” he said quickly, leaning in, words tumbling out. “I know. But just… just for fun. We won’t have sex. We can just do it together, you know?”

Before you could protest again, he shifted, dragging himself under the blanket with you. The space between you disappeared.

His thighs brushed against yours beneath the blanket, warm and solid. And then you caught the subtle movement of his arm, his hand slipping lower, slowly.

“Is this okay?” he asked softly, watching your face.

You nodded, throat too tight for words.

For a moment, the only sound was your breathing. You hesitated, your fingers twitching against the blanket, your whole body wound tight, nerves sparking under your skin. But the weight of his stare, the sound of his breath, the fact that he would do the same thing inches away from you… it pulled you under.

Your hand slid down, tentative at first, brushing over the thin fabric between your legs. A shiver shot through you at the contact. You pressed a little harder, exhaling shakily, until finally, slowly, you slipped under the waistband.

The first touch made your whole body jolt. You were wet already, embarrassingly so, your fingers sliding easily against yourself.

And then, a sound.

Soft, strangled, not yours.

Jisung.

He heard it. That slick, obscene sound in the quiet of the room. His lips parted as he dragged in a sharp breath, and before he could stop himself, a shy, broken moan escaped him.

Your eyes flew to his face, heat flooding every inch of you. His cheeks were flushed, his lashes low, but he didn’t look away.

And under the blanket, you both kept moving, his hand stroking himself, yours circling, pressing, dipping lower. The air thickened, your heavy breaths filling the silence and wet rhythm of your fingers and the faint slick sound of his hand working himself. The intimacy of it was unbearable: best friends, side by side, baring every secret breath and sound to each other.

You bit your lip, hips twitching upward into your hand, fingers dragging over your clit in lazy circles before sliding down again, gathering more of your arousal. The blanket was a shield, but the way his thigh pressed into yours made every movement vibrate between you, every shift impossible to hide.

“Fuck…” he whispered suddenly, voice cracked open, his forehead tipping forward until it brushed your shoulder. His breaths came hot against your skin. “You sound… so wet.”

The way he groaned right after, like the words had undone him too, pushed you further. You pressed harder, moving faster, chasing the edge you had been aching for.

His pace matched yours, each soft grunt and shaky exhale pulling you closer. You could feel him unraveling next to you, his hand moving quicker, thighs tensing against yours. And you couldn’t stop looking at him, his flushed face, the way his mouth kept falling open, the desperate little sounds slipping out despite his effort to hold them back.

Your hips lifted off the couch slightly, back arching, fingers circling furiously now. The pressure was unbearable, every nerve lit up.

“Oh, s-shit,” he whispered, broken, eyes squeezing shut. “Say my name”

“Ji—” it tore out of you, breathless, almost a cry. “Jisung”

And that was it. Your body clenched, trembling as release crashed through you, heat flooding your core, thighs quivering under the blanket. The wet sounds grew louder as you worked yourself through it, chasing every drop of pleasure until you couldn’t anymore.

Next to you, his hand stilled with a sharp, muffled groan, his body jerking as he spilled into his fist. He buried his face against your shoulder, teeth clenched as he came undone, his shaky breaths loud in your ear.

For a long moment, the only thing in the room was the sound of you both breathing, ragged, uneven, trying to come down.

Finally, Jisung pulled in a long, shaky inhale, still hiding his face against you. Then, with the tiniest laugh, he muttered, “Well… that was… different.”

Your cheeks burned, but your lips curled despite yourself. “You don’t say.”

—

You never talked about it. Not that night. Not the morning after. You just let yourselves drift into sleep on the couch, tangled under that same blanket, like nothing had even happened.

But something had. And whatever it was, it lingered.

After that, things felt… different.

Closer.

You caught yourself noticing it in small ways first, his hand on the back of your chair during late-night gaming, fingers brushing your shoulder like it belonged there. The way he leaned into you when he laughed, chest pressed against your back as though your bodies had decided space was optional.

It wasn’t just you, either. Jisung had gotten bolder, without even realizing it. His hugs lasted longer, holding on until you had to push at his chest and tease him for being clingy. His cheek kisses stopped being quick taps; now they lingered, his lips warm against your skin, leaving you flustered every time.

And maybe the strangest part was how normal it all felt. Like you had both silently agreed to erase that night and pretend nothing had changed, except everything had.

Because it never happened again. Not once.

But the weight of it was everywhere, tucked into every glance that lasted a little too long, every brush of skin that felt too deliberate, every easy excuse you both found to be pressed up against each other…

And today? 

It was one of those nights when he was coming to your apartment, one of those sticky summer nights where the air felt too heavy to breathe. You were in a tank top, no bra underneath, and shorts that clung tight to your thighs. It was hot. That was the only kind of clothes possible to wear.

Jisung arrived already tugging his shirt over his head, tossing it aside the second he stepped in. But then he looked at you. Really looked. His eyes dragged up, down, lingering in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Excuse me, Ji? Have you lost something?” you asked, trying to mask the heat in your voice.

“Well, I think I did,” he shot back smoothly, lips twitching.

“No, you didn’t. Now stop looking at my butt and give me the beer you bought me.”

He grinned, handing it over, and you clinked cans like always. It was fun, loud laughter, music playing low in the background, the two of you sprawled on the floor and couch in turns, talking about everything and nothing. It was the kind of night you've had a hundred times before.

Maybe it was the heat of summer, maybe it was that night you had never spoken about, maybe it was both. But your skin felt too sensitive, burning with every brush against his. And his heat, God, you could feel it. Every time he leaned close to whisper some dumb joke in your ear, every time his arm pressed against yours as he reached for the chips, every time his thigh bumped yours when he laughed too hard, your body caught fire.

And you didn’t move away.

Neither did he.

You were closer and closer, shoulders touching, legs pressed together like the couch wasn’t wide enough, like the floor wasn’t big enough. It didn’t feel like best friends hanging out anymore. It felt like something was about to happen.

And you weren’t sure you wanted to stop it.

“Ji.”

“Hum?” he hummed, voice casual, but his eyes were already on you.

“Do you remember… that night?”

You didn’t even have to clarify. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Yeah?”

“Do you ever… think about it?”

His lips pressed together, then parted just enough for a whisper. “Well, yeah…”

“Me too.”

Silence stretched, charged and heavy, until he finally breathed, “…We can’t.”

“I know.”

“But…”

You both said it at the same time and immediately broke into nervous laughter, the sound shaking some of that unbearable tension.

“You go first,” you told him.

He licked his lips, hesitant but honest. “We can do it again if you want. Just… no sex.”

Your chest tightened. “I think I want that.”

This time, there was no blanket to hide under. You were both on the floor, the low lamp casting shadows that made everything feel sharper, rawer.

He shifted where he sat, legs spread wide on the carpet, watching you with that mix of mischief and restraint that only made your pulse race faster.

“So what,” you asked, tilting your head, trying to sound playful even though your voice was shaking, “we just… sit here and stare at each other?”

He smirked, leaning back on his hands. “Depends. You planning on doing something worth staring at?”

Your stomach flipped. “Don’t act like you’re not already.”

He choked out a laugh, running a hand over his mouth, but his eyes, dark, locked on you, betrayed him. “I can’t stop imagining…” He trailed off, shook his head, then let out a nervous, broken laugh. “Never mind.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was charged, electric, daring. His gaze flicked down, your tank top, your thighs, the waistband of your shorts, and you swore you felt it like a touch.

You swallowed hard.

Then his hand moved, slowly, and he patted himself over his shorts, a faint hiss slipping past his lips at the contact. He wasn’t even trying to hide it, his eyes stayed on yours the whole time.

The outline of him was obvious, straining against the thin fabric, and the way his fingers curled around himself had your breath catching in your throat. Heat surged through you, pooling low in your stomach, until you couldn’t stand anymore.

Your own hand drifted down, mirroring his, pressing against the damp heat between your thighs. His lips parted when he saw, chest heaving.

“Oh, shit…” he whispered, stroking himself now, slow and shaky.

You nodded, your fingers slipping under the waistband of your shorts, your touch clumsy at first but growing bolder when his jaw clenched, when his breath hitched harder.

You swore the room grew smaller, hotter, every second. The quiet was deafening, filled only with the slick sounds of him stroking himself and your uneven breaths. The carpet prickled under your bare thighs, grounding you in a way you didn’t want, because everything else in your body was floating, pulling toward him.

His eyes stayed locked on yours, wide and almost disbelieving, like he couldn’t believe you were both really doing this again. Every time your lashes fluttered shut, his voice was there, rough, low, “Don’t stop… don’t look away.”

Your fingers slipped deeper, the little gasp that tore from your throat wasn’t meant to be heard, but he did. His rhythm stuttered, a strangled groan breaking from him, his head tipping back for just a second before snapping forward again, watching you like a man starved.

He could see the little hitch in your breath as your fingers moved lower. And you could see his hand, working himself under his shorts, the outline of his cock straining against the thin fabric.

It should’ve been enough. The deal was clear: no sex. To pretend it was just this. But it wasn’t. enough. Not tonight.

“Ji…” Your voice cracked on his name. “I– I need more.”

Before you could think twice, before either of you could talk yourselves out of it, you reached forward. In one swift motion, you pulled his hand away from his shorts and dragged yourself into his lap.

He froze, breath caught, hands hovering like he didn’t know where to put them. And then, like he couldn’t help himself, his arms locked tight around your waist.

Your chest pressed into his as you buried your face in the crook of his neck, arms looped around his shoulders like you were clinging for dear life. His scent was everywhere, soap and heat and him, and the way his breath hitched only made the fire in your stomach worse.

But you were already moving. Your hips rolled forward, slow and desperate, dragging yourself against the hard line of him under his shorts. The friction was dizzying, sharp, too little and too much all at once.

He gasped, almost a choke, his fingers digging into your waist before he caught himself. His grip loosened instantly, like he was afraid of breaking the one fragile rule between you.

“Is this—” you whispered, shaky, pressing your mouth against his shoulder. “Is this okay? Just… this.”

His jaw clenched so hard you could feel it against your temple. “Fuck…” His voice was ragged, almost broken, and yet his hands hovered uselessly in the air, fists tightening, opening, tightening again as you ground down harder. “Yeah”

You could feel him pulsing against you through the thin layers of fabric, every shift of your hips drawing out a low, shaky sound from his chest. You were panting now, thighs trembling, and he was matching your rhythm without even meaning to, the two of you caught in a loop that neither wanted to stop.

Your whole body was burning. Your breath came shallow, shaky, as you rocked harder into him, the thin cotton of your shorts dragging against his, dragging against him. The sound of it, low fabric friction, the little whimpers you couldn’t hold back, the strangled groans he tried to bite down, filled the room more than the summer heat.

“Holy shit,” Jisung rasped, head falling back against the couch. His lips were parted, sweat glistening at his hairline. “You’re—” he swallowed, voice breaking, “—you’re killing me.”

You whimpered in reply, hips rolling with more urgency, and his hands flexed uselessly at your sides. He wasn’t sure if he could touch you, and his restraint only made him twitch harder beneath you, straining against his shorts.

Then, his voice dropped lower. “Can I—” he sucked in a breath, shaky, “can I take them off? Just your shorts. Please.”

“The underwear stays,” he rushed to add, voice wrecked but sure. “I swear. Just… I need to feel you closer. Just this much.”

You closed your eyes, biting your lip, the ache between your thighs making the decision for you. With trembling hands, you pushed the waistband down, lifting your hips just enough to slide them off. His eyes never left you, his chest heaving, jaw clenched like he was in pain.

“Mine too,” he muttered suddenly, voice low and ragged, already tugging his shorts down his thighs. His boxers clung to him, soaked through at the tip, a dark wet patch spreading where his precum had leaked. He was rock hard, straining against the thin fabric, every outline visible, and you couldn’t stop staring.

And then you sat back down on him, only the thin, damp fabric of your underwear keeping you apart. The difference made you gasp, loud and broken, your nails digging into his shoulders. He let out a guttural moan, so desperate it shook through both of you.

“Oh, fuck, baby…” he groaned, hips jerking up involuntarily to meet yours. “That’s it. Just like that. F-fuck— keep going.”

Baby. He had called you that before, always in a mocking tone, the way best friends threw names around to tease. But this time? This time it felt different, low and raw and wrecked, and your whole body lit up even more, heat flashing through you at the sound of it.

You rolled again, slower this time, savoring the sharp, wet drag, the way the head of him pressed right against your swollen clit through your panties. The slick sound between you was undeniable now.

“Shit—” his voice cracked as his head fell forward, lips brushing against your ear without meaning to. “You’re soaking me through. You—” he gasped when you ground down harder, “you like this that much?”

You whimpered, clenching around nothing, grinding like your body was chasing something more. “Yes… Ji, I—fuck, I need—”

His answer was another choked moan, hips meeting yours in a rougher rhythm now, his self-control fraying with every drag of your bodies.

Your hips rolled harder, chasing friction, and the pace between you turned messy, uncontrolled. His hands slipped beneath your tank top, fingers splaying against the hot skin of your back, holding you tighter like he couldn’t stand even an inch of distance.

You didn’t care. You wanted him closer, way closer.

Lifting your head from where it had been tucked into the curve of his neck, you leaned up until your lips brushed against his ear. The words didn’t come, just a moan, shameless and breathy, spilling straight into him.

The sound wrecked him.

“Shit,” he whined, high and desperate, clutching at you with trembling hands, dragging your body harder against his. His hips stuttered up, meeting you rougher, guiding your waist in erratic pushes. “Don’t— don’t do that to me—”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your forehead pressing to the side of his head, both of you gasping through the hot, wet drag of fabric on fabric.

“Fuck, Jisung—” you moaned again, louder. His voice cracked on another whimper, breath catching as he forced your hips down against the rigid, soaked outline of him.

“You’re—ah, fuck—you’re driving me crazy,” he choked, his tone shaky and pitched high, every ounce of restraint gone. “Do it again. Please—moan for me again.”

Every nerve in your body was lit, every drag of his cock under his underwear sending shocks through you. The wet heat between your thighs made your panties cling, sticky, unbearable, and still you ground harder, chasing that edge.

“Ji—fuck—” you whimpered, breath breaking against his ear.

That was all it took. His hands clutched you tighter, forcing your hips down in a frantic rhythm, his thighs trembling under you. “Yeah? You’re close, aren’t you?” His voice cracked with it, whiny and rushed. “I can feel you—god, I can feel how bad you need it—”

You were already gone.

Your body tensed, a desperate cry slipping from your throat as your orgasm tore through you, thighs clenching tight around his hips, grinding helplessly against him while you came. You buried your face in his neck, muffling the broken sounds spilling from your mouth, your whole body shuddering in his arms.

Jisung was wrecked by it, by the feel of you convulsing against him, by the hot wetness soaking through your panties and spreading over his cock. His hips snapped up wildly, chasing, needing. “Fuck, fuck—don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

He was loud now, gasping and whining, rocking against you harder until he broke apart too. His cock throbbed in his underwear, spilling hot and sticky between you both, soaking the already-dark patch at the front of his briefs. He clung to you through it, voice pitched high as he moaned your name into your shoulder.

The room fell quiet except for the sound of your heavy breaths, your bodies still rocking lazily, more aftershocks than rhythm now.

Just sweat, tangled limbs, and the sharp, sweet sting of knowing you had just crossed a line you couldn’t uncross.

“Oh, fuck, Jisung. Just for fun, huh?” You were still catching your breath when Jisung finally slumped back against the couch, chest heaving, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. You stayed straddling his lap, too dazed to move, but the ridiculous grin tugging at his lips made you groan.

“Don’t,” you warned, pointing a shaky finger at him.

He tilted his head, wide-eyed, all fake innocence. “Don’t what? Congratulate you? Because—wow—you sound like a goddamn dream when you cum.”

“Han Jisung!” you smacked his shoulder, heat rising to your cheeks.

“What? You want me to lie? Pretend you didn’t almost break my neck grinding down on me like that?”

You covered your face with both hands, whining into your palms. “This is literally the worst idea ever.”

“And yet…” His hands slid up your sides, playful, not really touching but close enough to remind you of what just happened. “…best orgasm I’ve had in months.”

You peeked through your fingers. “That’s depressing.”

“That’s honesty,” he shot back, grinning wider. Then he leaned in, voice dropping into a teasing whisper. “Also… you owe me new shorts. Pretty sure you ruined these.”

You shoved at his chest, but he just laughed harder, holding you in place so you couldn’t escape.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, trying not to smile.

“Impossible and hot,” he corrected, smug. “Don’t forget that part.”

And despite yourself, you laughed too, tangled up in him, sticky and messy and more comfortable than you should be.

Eventually, you peeled yourself off his lap, legs shaky as you stood. “Okay, I’m disgusting,” you said, tugging at your tank top. “I’m gonna shower before I actually stick to these.”

Jisung leaned back, arms draped over the couch, eyes still glued to you in that lazy post-release haze. You rolled your eyes at him and, just to mess around, tossed over your shoulder, “You could always hop in with me.”

That snapped him upright, his laugh coming out sharp and disbelieving. “Ha—don’t joke like that.”

“You’d faint before the water even got warm.”

“Yeah, sure,” he called back, muttering under his breath as he grabbed a cushion to shove over his lap.

—

Steam clung to your skin as you stepped out of the bathroom, hair damp, droplets trailing down your legs. You hadn’t bothered with much, just one of your shirts, the hem barely covering your hips, as you padded barefoot toward your bedroom to grab clean panties.

Jisung was spread across the couch, one arm over the backrest, phone in his hand. His eyes flicked up casually, and then widened, head snapping forward like he had been slapped.

“Fucking hell,” he blurted, sitting up straighter. “What are you doing? You can’t do that!”

You blinked at him, pausing mid-step. “Do what?”

“Do what?” His voice cracked. “You’re naked!”

You glanced down at yourself, then back at him with a scoff. “Well, sorry! I’m on my way to get a new panties. You’re the one that shouldn’t be looking that much.”

But he was. His gaze kept darting down, catching the glimpse of your ass every time the shirt shifted, the bare curve of you almost giving him more than he could handle. He groaned, dragging a hand down his face, as if that would erase the image already seared into his brain.

And that’s when you noticed. He was still in just his boxers, and… hard.

Your lips curled, mischief sparking. “Ji…” cocking your head as your eyes dropped to his lap. “Seriously? Again?”

His ears turned red instantly. “Shut up,” he muttered, grabbing a cushion like it could save him, but you were already laughing.

“Oh my god, you’re so obvious.”

“You literally walked out here with your ass hanging out!” he shot back, voice high with desperation. “What the hell did you expect?”

“Relax,” you teased, flashing him a grin as you started toward your room. 

“Stop—don’t—” he tried, but you were already slipping into your bedroom, the door swinging halfway shut behind you.

And something inside him snapped.

“Fuck this,” he muttered under his breath, throwing the cushion aside as he pushed off the couch. His legs moved before he could think better of it, padding fast down the hall. The door creaked open under his hand, and there you were, standing by your dresser, shirt riding high as you dug for clean panties.

“What the hell?” you spun, startled, clutching the shirt’s hem down instinctively.

He shut the door behind him, chest heaving. His eyes were dark, hungry, no trace of the lazy teasing from before. “You can’t just—walk around like that—and then leave me—” His voice cracked again, desperate now.

You swallowed, heat prickling under your skin at the sight of him like this. Boxers low on his hips, still straining, his hands flexing like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Jisung…” your voice came out softer, nervous.

“I’m serious,” he rasped, stepping closer. “I can’t—shit, I can’t take it.”

You leaned back against your dresser, pulse hammering, suddenly aware of just how cornered you were by his body heat and his voice. “Ji…”

He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated, restless, his chest rising and falling too fast. “Look at me,” he said, voice breaking. “I’m pathetic. I didn’t even get to change—” he motioned down at his boxers, at the obvious mess spread across the front. His face twisted, half shame, half hunger. “I’m standing here still fucking wrecked from earlier, and—and I’m still so hard it hurts.”

The confession hit you like a spark to gasoline. Your eyes flicked down before you could stop yourself, taking in the dark patch of dried cum against the fabric, the swollen length beneath it, twitching with every shallow breath he took.

“You don’t get it,” he rushed on, words tumbling out in a desperate stammer. “You come out there in just a shirt, and I—fuck, I can’t stop looking, I can’t stop thinking about it, and it’s killing me. I need—” he choked, whined, the sound raw in his throat, “I need something. Please. Just… anything.”

His voice cracked again on that last word, so small, so undone. He wasn’t the playful best friend anymore, he was begging, almost breaking, standing there in his cum-soaked boxers, staring at you.

You should’ve felt guilty, maybe. He looked wrecked, like he was seconds away from falling to his knees for you. But instead, something hot curled in your stomach, sharper than lust. You loved this, loved seeing Jisung, your Jisung, usually all jokes and easy charm, standing there trembling, begging, wrecked just because of you.

“Anything?” you tilted your head, letting your lips curve slow, wicked.

His breath hitched. “Y-yeah. Please. Just… don’t leave me like this.”

You took a step closer,m, watching the way his eyes blew wide, tracking every move like a starved thing. Then, softly, you tsked. “Poor Ji. All messy, and still begging for more.” Your gaze flicked down, lingered on the obvious bulge, the sticky patch darkening the front of his boxers. “You’d do anything if I asked, wouldn’t you?”

He whimpered, the sound punched out of him, and nodded too fast. “Yes. Fuck, yes—I would, I swear, just… please.”

“Careful, Ji,” you murmured, voice low, teasing. “Keep begging like that and I might start to think you actually belong to me.”

He swallowed hard, eyes locked on yours, and whispered hoarsely, “Maybe I already do.”

“No, you don’t. You’re my bestie, remember?” you said it soft, eyes cutting into him with a sharpness that had nothing to do with innocence.

“Right. Yeah, I know. Fuck, I know,” Jisung muttered, running a hand through his hair, looking absolutely destroyed. His voice cracked on the last word.

“But?” you pressed, not letting him off the hook.

He froze, caught in the way you were staring, like you already knew exactly what he was about to say, and you were daring him to say it anyway. His eyes pitiful, wide, the most vulnerable you had ever seen him.

And then, as if to pour gasoline on the fire, you didn’t even bother hiding what you were about to do. You reached for the new panties. 

He didn’t blink. Couldn’t. His jaw slackened as the fabric slid up your thighs, catching high on your hips. Every second of it, he was looking, openly, hungrily, the thick line of him pushing against his boxers, obscene and desperate.

“Fucking hell,” he hissed, voice tight. “Are you doing this on purpose? All this bestie talk and then—doing this slowly, right in front of me?” His fists clenched, knuckles white where they gripped at his thighs. “You know what you’re doing to me.”

You tugged the panties up the rest of the way, smoothing the waistband against your hip like you weren’t putting on a show, but you knew damn well you were. His eyes tracked every movement, breath coming harder with each second you ignored how ruined he looked.

“God, you’re killing me,” he muttered, voice wrecked, like he hated himself for saying it but couldn’t stop.

You tilted your head, pretending innocence. “Killing you? I’m just getting dressed, Ji.”

“Don’t—” his voice broke, and he bit his lip, shaking his head. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?” you asked, dragging it out, stepping just close enough for him to feel the weight of your presence without touching. His chest heaved, eyes darting down your body and back up to your face, as if he couldn’t decide where to look. You smiled then, sweet and devastating, “What’s wrong, Jisungie?”

He actually whimpered. Shoulders slumping, thighs pressing together, his hands fisting uselessly on his lap. “F-fuck—don’t call me that right now. Please.”

But the way he leaned toward you, the way his whole body responded to the name, you knew he loved it. He was completely undone, standing there in nothing but his boxers, cock straining and leaking again, looking at you like you held every shred of control over him.

“Aw,” you teased, “You’re adorable.”

His head fell back against the doorframe with a groan, raw and desperate. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he asked, voice strained, pupils blown wide.

“Of course I am,” you shot back, lips curling, the confidence rolling off you in waves.

He was still looking at you, devouring you, like he was almost ready to drop to his knees if that’s what it took. And you? You leaned in, catching him off guard.

“Come here,” you whispered, tugging him forward by the shoulders until he stumbled into you.

It was just a hug, should’ve been, at least. You had hugged a thousand times before. But this wasn’t the same. Not when your arms slid over his shoulders, your chest pressed against his, and his arms wrapped around your waist with a grip so desperate it nearly stole your breath.

“You're making this way too hard” you murmured, but the sound melted into your throat when he squeezed tighter, harder.

You felt him, hot and heavy against your lower stomach, straining through his boxers, pressed flush into your skin. His breath hitched at the contact, and your nails dug into his shoulder blades without thinking.

“Fuck,” he groaned into your neck, muffled, ruined. “You have no idea.”

But the way your lips ghosted over his ear, the way your body curved into his on instinct? You knew exactly what you were doing.

Your lips brushed his neck first, just the faintest press of warmth against his skin, enough to make him shiver. He gasped, clutching your waist tighter as if the sound alone might tether him.

“Don’t—” his voice cracked, pitiful. “Don’t do that unless you mean it.”

But you only smiled against his skin, trailing higher, letting your breath fan over his jaw. Then you pulled back, slowly, your hand sliding up to grab his face, tilting it toward you.

And there he was. So close. So goddamn close. His breath mixed with yours, shaky and uneven, his lips parting like he was seconds away from forgetting every rule you had ever made together.

You hovered there, teasing, brushing your lips just close enough to make him choke on a sound. His eyes fluttered shut for a heartbeat, then snapped open again, desperate.

“Please,” he whispered, so broken it almost undid you on the spot.

Your grin widened, wicked. “Well… kissing definitely isn’t having sex.”

That was all it took.

He closed the distance, and the second your lips touched, he melted. A wreck. He kissed you like he had been starved for years, messy and frantic, lips crashing against yours in a rhythm that was nothing but need. His hands slid up your back, fingers digging in like he couldn’t get you close enough.

He whimpered when you opened your mouth for him, the sound vibrating straight into your chest. His tongue pushed against yours clumsily, greedy, like he didn’t even care how sloppy it was, he just needed more.

“Fuck—” he broke the kiss just long enough to gasp against your mouth, his lips wet, swollen. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

You caught his bottom lip between your teeth, tugging just enough to make him moan, high, needy, almost too loud. You swallowed the sound in another kiss, deeper this time, slower, rolling your tongue against his until his thighs shifted under you, restless, seeking friction.

Your own stomach twisted, the heat pooling between your legs sharp and insistent. Each time his breathy whine slipped past your lips, you clenched around nothing, your body aching in sync with his.

His hands slid up to cradle your face, thumbs trembling against your cheeks as if he couldn’t believe this was happening. “Don’t stop,” he begged into your mouth, the words slurred with desperation. “Please, don’t stop.”

And you didn’t.

You devoured him.

You couldn’t stop kissing him, couldn’t stop swallowing every broken moan he poured into your mouth. His lips were swollen, wet, slick with spit, but he didn’t care, and neither did you. Every kiss was messy, frantic, tongues sliding, teeth clashing, breathless whines filling the space between you.

You collapsed onto the bed together, tangled and gasping, his hands everywhere and nowhere at once.

But then he pulled back, panting, pupils blown. “Please,” he rasped, tugging you toward the edge of the mattress. “Sit—sit right here. Please, I need—fuck, I need it.”

You blinked, dazed, but obeyed, sliding to sit on the edge of the bed. Your elbows propped behind you, chest heaving, hair a wild mess. The way he was looking at you made your stomach twist.

He stood between your knees, hands trembling as he hooked his fingers under the waistband of his boxers. You caught a glimpse, red, flushed, leaking, and then he freed himself, fisting the base with a shaky groan.

“Ji—” you started, shocked, but he cut you off, eyes locking with yours as he pumped once, twice, moaning.

“Don’t worry,” he said, voice broken, desperate. “We won’t. I just—fuck, I need this. I need you watching me.”

Your thighs clenched, heat sparking low in your belly as his fist worked over his cock, slick sounds filling the quiet between his needy whines. His eyes never left yours, pleading, glassy, undone.

You swallowed hard, hand trembling as you slid it down between your legs, slipping under your panties. The second your fingers found your clit, you gasped, eyes flying back to his.

He saw. His breath caught, hips jerking into his fist, a guttural sound tearing out of him. “Oh, f-fuck—yes. Please—please, touch yourself for me.”

Your fingers circled faster, slick already coating your hand, the ache unbearable. Every moan that fell from your lips was mirrored by his, every shift of your body matched by the sloppy, desperate pace of his fist. Eyes locked. Bodies shaking. Both of you ruined, chasing release together without ever breaking the rules.

You were drenched, your fingers slick and messy as you rubbed yourself raw. Jisung’s eyes were wild, glazed with need, his fist a blur over his cock as he matched your pace. The room was filled with wet sounds, whines, gasps, both of you right there but still aching for more. It wasn’t enough.

With a sharp groan, he suddenly stilled. His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist, pulling your fingers away from where you were dripping and swollen.

“Wha—” you tried, breathless, but before you could ask, fuck, he angled forward and pushed the head of his cock against your soaked panties.

You both gasped at the contact.

“Holy shit—” he choked, hips twitching as the thick length slid against your covered slit, the fabric doing nothing to hide how wet you were. Precum mixed with your arousal instantly, making it obscene, messy, almost bare.

Jisung froze, chest heaving, his forehead nearly knocking into yours. He held himself there, trembling, waiting. Just to see. Just to make sure. If you would stop him. If you would say no.

But you didn’t.

You tilted your hips instead, dragging yourself against him, and the sound he made, broken, whiny, shot straight through you.

“Oh, fuck—” he gasped, voice wrecked, thrusting forward again. “Baby… it’s so wet—feels like you’re—fuck—”

The thin barrier of your panties was nothing now, every grind making you both moan louder, desperate and messy, so close to crossing the line completely it barely mattered anymore.

He was so hot, so hard, sliding against you in messy, desperate strokes. Every time the head caught on your clit through the soaked fabric, you gasped, hips jerking up into him.

Jisung was a mess above you, sweat curling his hair, lips swollen and shiny, breath tearing out of his chest in ragged moans. He pressed harder, rutting against you like he couldn’t stop himself, the slick sound between you filling the room.

“F-fuck—, you’re soaking me through again—” he gasped, voice high and shaky, his cock grinding so deep into your folds the fabric clung tight to both of you. “It’s like you’re—like I’m already—” His words dissolved into a whine as his hips snapped forward again, harder, chasing it.

You clutched the sheets behind you, arms shaking as you pushed your hips up to meet his. The pressure was unbearable, the drag so wet it felt bare, like every inch of him was sliding right against your swollen clit, against your dripping entrance, against everything you needed filled.

Your moans tangled with his, sloppy and loud, your body arching as he drove himself over you. The outline of his cock was so clear through the drenched fabric you could feel the veins, the thick weight, every ridge dragging against your folds.

And then, you couldn’t take it anymore.

With a shaky hand, you tugged your panties aside. Just a little. Just enough.

Jisung’s breath hitched so sharply it broke into a cry, raw and guttural. “Oh, f-fucking Christ—” His cock slid against you fully now, bare to bare, the wet heat of you coating him instantly.

He nearly collapsed, forehead falling against your shoulder, his entire body trembling as he rutted forward, slower this time, savoring it, moaning into your skin. “I won’t—I won’t go inside, I promise,” he whined, his voice so ruined it made you clench. “I just—please, let me—just like this—fuck—”

You couldn’t even answer. Your mouth opened, but all that came out was a broken moan, your hips lifting, dragging yourself against the length of him in desperate circles, slick and messy, every grind pulling him deeper against your folds.

It felt dangerous. It felt inevitable. It felt like crossing the line, even without him inside you.

Jisung’s thrusts slowed, the frantic pace breaking into something almost reverent. His hand wrapped loosely around the base of his cock, guiding himself as he dragged his tip up your folds, sticky and wet, circling your clit, slipping lower just to hover at your entrance.

Every time the swollen head kissed your hole, your body clenched in reflex, and he whimpered, nose burying into your shoulder. But then, he’d pull away, dragging back up, smearing you open and wet, grinding himself against your clit until your thighs trembled.

“Jisung—” You could barely breathe. The teasing was driving you insane, the thick head catching everywhere but where you needed it most.

He moaned, shaking his head, his voice a broken rasp. “I’m s-sorry, I can’t—I just want to feel all of you, every inch—fuck, you’re—”

But you wanted it too. Needed it.

Your hand slid down, trembling, and he froze when your fingers brushed his cock. Carefully, deliberately, you pressed his tip against you, holding him there as your hips rolled up to meet him.

The gasp that tore out of him was wrecked. “Oh—oh my god—baby—” His entire body jerked forward, his cock twitching hard against your hold. You dragged him higher, rubbing him through your slick folds, pressing down so he dragged against you as if he were fucking you, thick, heavy, perfect.

His head tipped back, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut as he moaned your name. “Yes—like that—just like that—holy fuck, you’re—” His words dissolved into a whine as his hips rocked helplessly into the pressure of your hand guiding him, each stroke hitting your clit and folds so perfectly it felt like he was inside without crossing the line.

You couldn’t stop, not with how good it felt, the friction sharper, deeper, every grind soaking him more, every roll of his hips making you both choke on the sound of it. Your panties clung uselessly at the side, your thighs spread wide, and he was rutting against you like you were the only thing he had ever wanted.

His voice broke, desperate and raw. “Please don’t stop—don’t ever stop—fuck, I’m so close, baby, I can’t—”

The rhythm turned ragged, messy, both of you grinding harder, faster, no restraint left. Your fingers held his tip flush against your folds, every roll of his hips making him drag thick and heavy across your clit, catching perfectly, sparks firing in your stomach.

“Baby—oh my god, shit—” His voice broke on a sob of a moan, forehead pressed to yours, sweat slicking his temples. He was rutting against your hand, against you, helpless, chasing it with every ounce of his body.

“Ji—fuck, Ji, don’t stop—” You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, your whole body tightening as his cock slid and caught exactly where you needed it. The obscene sound of it, wet and relentless, only pushed you higher.

And then you shattered. Your body arched up against him, a strangled cry ripping from your throat as you came, soaking him, thighs trembling around his hips.

The second he felt you clench and shake, Jisung broke. His hips jerked hard, his cock grinding desperately against you one, two more times before he let out a strangled cry, spilling hot and messy all over your folds, your stomach, your panties tugged to the side.

“Fuckfuckfuck—” His words dissolved into gasps as he collapsed forward, cock still twitching against your drenched skin, rutting through the aftershocks because he couldn’t stop, not yet.

You held his face against your neck, both of you panting, bodies sticky and trembling, ruined together.

When he finally stilled, chest heaving, he whispered against your skin, voice raw and wrecked, “That… that was… too good. I can’t—” He laughed weakly, still clinging to you. “We’re so fucked. I’m so fucked.”

You let out a breathless laugh, brushing damp hair off his forehead. “I think it would be easier if we just have sex already. This is insane.”

His head snapped up, eyes blown wide, mouth dropping open. “Wait—really? You say that now? After—fuck, after that?” His voice cracked in disbelief, half-whiny, half-hungry, still. “Shit, don’t play with me like that, I can’t get hard again already.”

You just giggled, tilting your head, smug.

He groaned, collapsing against your chest again, hiding his face. “God, I’m being pathetic again, aren’t I?” His voice was muffled, small, wrecked.

You traced a lazy line down his back, grinning at the way he shivered under your touch. “Mm… yeah. A little.”

“Shit, I'm fucked.”

—

+++ authors note: idk why it's called dry humping i'm personally really fucking wet about it...

✧ thank you for reading my stuff!! you can check out my intro + masterlist post to find all my works in one place. ✧ want to be tagged when i post? drop your comment in my taglist post

stoner Ji is so dear to me you can't even imagine 🍃🍃 i just know he gets high to write these masterpiece lyrics

so now here he is, sitting in the dining hall with his friends, staring at your contact like it’ll offer him advice. the photo you set stares back at him, wide smile and bright eyes drawing him in. is he supposed to text you? wait for you to text him? if he does text, what does he say? 

but he can’t dwell on it any longer because the conversation suddenly shifts to him, pulling him out of his own thoughts. he should’ve known that disappearing upstairs with one of the prettiest, most popular girls on campus would lead to an interrogation the next day. 

truthfully, after all of the night’s events, his mind is in shambles. all he can think about is how good you felt grinding against him, how sinful you sounded moaning his name, and how delicious you tasted on his tongue. hopefully jeongin and hyunjin wouldn’t be able to tell he’s currently losing it over you.

“so, how was the rest of your night?” hyunjin probes, chewing innocently despite his intent. of course he wants to know all the deep, dirty details.

jisung doesn’t bite. not yet, at least. the two boys will surely pry it out of him regardless. “uh, it was good,” he answers simply. flashes of you — far from innocent — flicker through his eyes like a film reel and he has to blink them away. 

“just good?” hyunjin quirks an eyebrow. “you went upstairs and then nobody saw you again after. for a second, i thought y/n was a succubus and dragged you to hell.” his friends both break into laughter at that, but jisung just shakes his head. 

“not a succubus,” he mutters, “she’s really sweet, actually.”

“yeah?” jeongin asks with a smirk that only grows slyer when jisung nods. maybe they both know he means it in more ways than one. 

unfortunately, neither of his friends would take “good” for an answer. they know that he’s much less unabashed than them, but that matters little. you’re one of the girls even they haven’t had a chance with, and they were dying to know what it is that makes every guy you’ve slept with come running back for more. 

“you know we’re gonna need more details,” jeongin continues. “how was it? did you make her cum? you wore a condom, right?”

jisung’s face heats up and he coughs awkwardly, trying to not choke on the bite he’s just taken.

clearly, they think you two actually fucked. it’s a fair assumption, considering how you vanished together from everyone’s sight for the remainder of the night. and he definitely wouldn’t have been opposed to it, but that’s simply not how things went. 

“i – no, we didn’t – ”

he’s struggling to get the words out and they’re staring at him expectantly. thankfully, his saving grace comes at the perfect moment, and he can tell it’s you before he even looks beside him. it might be creepy that he can already recognize your perfume, but it’s not his fault you smell so intoxicating. 

“hi, boys,” you smile sweetly, first at hyunjin and jeongin across from you, then at jisung next to you. your eyes linger on him, soft yet swirling with something unspoken, and he curses himself for what it does to him. all he can think about is how those same eyes pooled with raw desire not even twenty-four hours ago.

you have to stop staring at him. if not, he might be stuck in the dining hall until his dick decides to stop going haywire over one look. it’s a little emptier because it’s the weekend, but still — letting anyone see him with a very prominent glimpse of his arousal would send him straight to his coffin. 

“y/n!” hyunjin beams, “what a surprise. we were just talking about you.”

thank god for hyunjin. his comment tears your eyes away from jisung, and now he feels like he can breathe again. “oh really? should i be worried?” you giggle, resting your chin on your palm.

“nah. we were just inquiring about the night you shared with our dear jisung here,” he reveals indifferently, no shame whatsoever. if he wasn’t already very aware of your own forwardness, jisung might’ve been worried that his friends would scare you off.

but then he remembers you’re much more like them than you’re like him. so to you, sex isn’t some taboo subject to be spoken about in hushed whispers; it’s just another part of life. sex with you, though, couldn’t possibly be “just another part of life.” it would probably be the cause of his ascension to heaven. 

“oh,” you say simply, leaning in over the table and tilting your head. “and? did you find out everything you want to know?”

“not exactly. he’s pretty tight-lipped,” jeongin cuts in, sighing dramatically. 

you turn to jisung briefly, noting the way he’s hanging his head a little lower, trying to avoid eye contact. he’s clearly flustered, and it’s cute. he spares you a quick glance when you reach for his hand under the table and squeeze just once. “well, what questions do you have? you know i’m an open book,” you shrug.

hyunjin and jeongin exchange looks, a little uncertain now that you’re actually offering up the answers. but they obviously won’t get them from jisung, so this is their only opportunity. they’d be fools to not take it.

“what did you guys end up doing after you left?” 

“hm,” you tap your finger on your chin, feigning ponderance. “well, let’s see. we went upstairs and chatted for a bit. then i brought him back to my place and we had unbelievable, earth-shattering sex. literally life-changing.” 

you emphasize the words with an especially sultry drawl of your voice, and it’s enough to make even jisung melt despite knowing their inaccuracy. nobody speaks at first, and you’re in disbelief that they believed your exaggerated lie so easily.

boys. so painfully, adorably stupid.

“holy shit,” jeongin mumbles. hyunjin can’t even formulate a thought. when you snort at their reactions, they’re utterly confused.

“i’m kidding, you idiots,” you roll your eyes. “we just watched a movie and then he went back to his dorm. right, ji?”

you squeeze his hand under the table again and the jolt goes straight to his pants. jesus. he can’t look at you or touch you in any capacity without going crazy.

“right…” he nods.

conveniently, you left out the part where you made him cum in his boxers and he ate you out like you were his last meal. you wouldn’t have shied away from delving deeper typically, but you were mindful of jisung’s boundaries. if he didn’t want to share, you wouldn’t, either.

the other two deflate instantly, clicking their tongues in disappointment. and while they don’t push further, they both know there must’ve been far more beyond chatting and a movie.

“anyways, i only stopped by because i wanted to ask if you’d come over again tonight,” you direct your attention to jisung, watching his face subtly light up at your request. “it’s only fair you watch the batman for me since i sat through 3 hours of interstellar for you.”

there’s too many thoughts running through his head right now. one, why did you choose to ask him this in person rather than over text? two, you actually wanted him to come over again? and three, how dare you say “sat through” like those three hours weren’t pure cinema? 

none of those questions make it past his lips, though. “i’ve already seen the batman – ” he begins before jeongin kicks him under the table. a silent bro, shut the fuck up. “i mean, no, yeah, that sounds cool. that sounds great.”

you don’t seem to notice any of their interaction, grinning happily at his acceptance. it’s strange how badly you want to spend time with him again — not just sexually, either. there’s something so natural about being with him. it feels authentic in a world full of facades because he’s nothing like anyone else you surround yourself with.

and perhaps that is everything you need.

“perfect. you know my address now, so just be there at seven?” 

he doesn’t even have a chance to confirm the time with you before you’re off, throwing quick goodbyes over your shoulder. his eyes follow you all the way out of the building, smiling dopily without realizing it.

when he snaps out of it, his friends are blinking at him in both amazement and amusement. 

“‘right, ji?’” jeongin mocks, “dude. nickname basis already? what the hell are you packing?”

“and she wants to see you again tonight? just how ‘life-changing’ was the sex?” hyunjin adds, narrowing his eyes.  

even he doesn’t have the answers they’re looking for. he isn’t sure why you’ve taken a liking to him. all he knows is that he’s so damn grateful.

promptly at seven, jisung arrives at your apartment, clad in a hoodie, sweatpants, and his glasses. always his glasses. and he sure doesn’t complain when you grab his wrist and drag him all the way to your room. in fact, it offers him a chance to stare at your ass from behind you, barely covered by the miniscule fabric of your shorts. 

“i have the place to myself for the night, thank god,” you announce once you’re in your room, spinning around on your heels. he hopes he was able to avert his eyes quick enough for you to not notice where they were lingering. 

“oh,” he says quietly. so it’s just the two of you. why is he suddenly so nervous again? “where’d your roommate go?”

you lean down and adjust one of the pillows you’ve arranged on your bed. this time, you’ve prepared the whole scene; your bed is set up for maximum coziness and there’s an assortment of snacks and drinks on your dresser. this is what you’ve decided to spend your saturday night doing, and something about it has his mind spinning with all the future possibilities. 

could this maybe become something more? could you possibly want more with him? would he even be able to handle that? his reaction to the thought alone leaves him doubtful. 

“out. she begged me to come with her, but i’m drained,” you groan. 

“you had a long night,” he comments. it’s not intended to be provocative or teasing, but it lands that way. 

a devilish grin spreads across your face. “so did you,” you remind, falling to your mattress. when you scoot to make room for him and pat the empty space beside you, he’s left standing there like an idiot. “are you gonna sit? you’re not scared of me now, are you? i don’t bite.” 

there’s a faint purplish red mark on his neck that says otherwise. he’s pretty sure his lips are still a little swollen from you biting them, too. and don’t forget about his earlobe either. 

“if you don’t bite, i’m really worried about where this came from,” he pulls his hoodie down to expose your handiwork fully. you sit up on your knees and reach up to trace your fingers over it, pretending to not notice how he shudders beneath your touch. 

the sight of it sends your mind into a frenzy, memories of its origin flashing through it. you’re reminded of how he essentially encouraged you to mark him. “wow. someone is really talented at their craft.”

“‘craft?’” he snorts. “your craft is leaving hickeys on men?”

you grab the collar of his hoodie to yank him closer, dropping your voice to a breathy whisper. “not just any men. nerdy submissive men who want me to mark them up,” you purr. he’s stunned  into silence, putty in your hands just from words. it’s enthralling, the power you hold over him.

“now, let’s indulge ourselves in the best superhero, shall we?” you ask, snapping back into the usual upbeat version of yourself. the version that makes him wonder if he imagined the last thirty seconds. 

this time, when you release your grip on his hoodie and settle back against the pillows, he slides right next to you — still wondering how you manage to go from dangerously alluring to innocently charming in the blink of an eye.

“unless we’re watching spiderman, please don’t say that again.”

jisung is done for. 

it’s only his second night of actually interacting with you beyond quick greetings when your friend groups intermix. his second night of seeing the real you, the one that sighs dreamily over battinson and makes jokes about paul dano’s riddler being a redditor (he laughs and prays that you never end up seeing his reddit karma). 

and yet his heart is doing this weird thing it hasn’t done in years, since his last relationship all the way back in high school. it beats faster when you smile and lean into him during your favorite scenes, and he realizes then just how much he loves your smile. he loves it even more when it’s directed at him. 

maybe he shouldn’t turn this into anything, but he can’t stop envisioning waking up next to you or bringing you on cute café dates. before, he would steal glances at you just because you were pretty. now, he can’t stop looking at you because everything about you is addictive and he needs constant confirmation that all of this is real. 

unfortunately, the hours pass by quicker than jisung hoped — filled with laughter, unwarranted criticism on his end (he’s really just trying to get back at you for your disrespect to interstellar), and him trying not to pass away when you reach over him for your drink and your chest brushes against his arm.

once the credits start rolling, he wonders if he’s supposed to initiate the goodbyes. but you don’t make any attempt to move from the bed, instead sitting up and turning to face him. 

“you can’t tell me that’s not a five star movie,” you declare. “plus, robert pattinson is so yummy.”

he scrunches his face up and shakes his head adamantly. “his bruce wayne is just an angsty emo boy,” he scoffs.

“it’s been one movie,” you retort. “besides, what if i like angsty emo boys?” your tone is light and playful, but it still evokes a strange sense of unease that he knows is unreasonable. 

“doesn’t really seem like your type,” he mutters, hoping it sounds indifferent.

clearly, it doesn’t. the calculated flutter of your eyelashes and slight tilt of your head tells him you’ve seen right through him. you’re driving him crazy on purpose, trying to pry a confession out of him. “what’s my type, then, ji?” you question, voice softened in that maddening way that could make him give you anything. 

“you know…” he motions his hands like it’s obvious, “the normal ones. popular, good-looking. like hyunjin or jeongin.”

not like me, he thinks. if you lined up every guy you’ve ever been with, he’s pretty sure he’d be the only outlier. should that make him feel honored or worried? that’s one of the many things he hasn’t quite yet worked out. 

“funny,” you begin, though your expression is devoid of humor, “i’m pretty sure you’re the one i chose to make out with.”

“which i still don’t understand.”

for as smart as he is, jisung is really clueless sometimes. it’s teetering on the thin line between adorable and making you want to rip your hair out. 

“what’s there to not understand?” you ask. “you remember the dare, right? ‘make out with the hottest guy here?’ that was you.” 

he’s quiet, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. you want — need — him to know that although it was a stupid dare, it wasn’t a lie or a mistake. every guy there was attractive, sure, but there was something about jisung that pulled you in. and now, you were completely enraptured. 

“and i’m glad it was you. i’ve been thinking about last night all day,” you add truthfully. the way you say it so casually already has him starting to spiral.

“you have?” he asks incredulously, eyebrows quirking under the rim of his glasses.

“mhm,” you nod, a smile playing on your lips. “you haven’t?”

your pout leaves him scatter-brained, struggling to respond despite the answer being very obvious. yes, last night is all he’s thought about. in the shower, during his marvel rivals session, while chatting with his friends, on the way to your apartment. it’s been on a constant loop that he’s really surprised hasn’t gotten him into trouble yet (aside from being the reason his team lost his last rivals game). “no! or – fuck – yes. yes i have,” he huffs out. 

a beat passes, one that feels too long and too quiet. you’re studying him, scanning every inch of his face wordlessly. should he be the one to speak again? should he have lied? do you think it’s weird that he has thought about you nonstop? his overthinking and second-guessing is really going to drive you both crazy. 

and then you cut through the brief silence with a question he didn’t expect you to ask with such confidence.

“did you jerk off thinking about it?”

he almost chokes at both your forwardness and accuracy. god, how do you have him all figured out? this morning, right after he woke up and the memories of the previous night came rushing back, he just couldn’t help himself. 

“no...” he lies halfheartedly, and you don’t believe it for a second. he’s never been a good liar, and it’s ten times more difficult to lie to you. especially when you’re looking at him like this, an angel wrapped in sin.

your finger finds its way under his chin, lifting it so that he can’t look anywhere besides directly at you. “don’t lie to me,” you demand, eyes big and round as they undo him. 

“...yeah i did,” he mumbles shamefully.

he tries to turn his head away, but then your fingers are on his jaw, holding him in place. so instead, he squeezes his eyes shut to avoid your stare. he can’t possibly face you now that he’s admitted to something so private and embarrassing. 

but you don’t find it embarrassing at all. it’s only further proof that jisung is an intriguing mystery — nerdy, shy, quiet, yet downright filthy beneath it all. and you want to learn every bit of him, from the loser on the surface to the freak hidden within. 

“show me.”

his eyes snap open at that. he half-expects you to burst into laughter and tell him you’re only joking. a larger part of him knows that you’re not; he’s discovered your boldness has no bounds. 

“wha – what?” he stammers.

“show me,” you order again, “show me how you got off to the thought of me.”

not joking, no laughter. you’re genuinely asking him to do this, and rather than immediately denying, he’s actually considering it. more than considering it. he’s already internally agreed. 

he’s never masturbated in front of anyone before, of course. it’s always been a sacred act shared between him and his hand, but the idea of you watching now is too tempting. 

“you want me to jerk off in front of you?” he gulps, just to make sure he hasn’t misunderstood. 

you lean forward, trailing your finger from his jaw along his neck, your touch featherlight against his skin. then comes the rest of your fingers splayed on the flesh, an unfamiliar yet enticing sensation. there’s no pressure at first, just your hand wrapped around his throat delicately. you’re trying to gauge his reaction — waiting for him to give you the signal that this is okay. 

and to him, it’s more than okay. there’s a slight nod of his head that gives you the go ahead, and your grip tightens, pressing into the sides of his neck firmer. 

“mhm,” you hum, emphasizing your words with a slight squeeze, “will you do that for me, ji?”

how you’ve managed to sound so sweet while asking him to do something obscene is beyond him. “fuck,” he curses under his breath. he’d do anything for you at this point. “yeah i can. i will.”

he misses your grasp as soon as it leaves his throat; he’ll probably end up jerking off to the memory of it tomorrow too. but for now, he’s just left thinking about it while you settle back onto your knees. 

“you’re so good for me,” you praise, pressing one chaste kiss to his jaw. “here, i’ll even help you out.” you maneuver over him and swing over the edge of the bed. once you’re on your feet, you hook your fingers into your shorts and shimmy them down hastily (not that they were covering much, anyways). now, you’re left in just your underwear and the tight tank top that’s been driving him crazy all night.

pathetically, he immediately feels his dick twitch in his boxers, springing to life just at the sight of you in less clothing. it probably doesn’t help that your nipples are poking against the fabric and holy shit.

there’s a very visible damp patch on your panties. were you this wet during the whole movie?

“you’re soaked,” he comments, and he sounds mesmerized. 

“surprised again?” you chuckle. “i told you, i’ve been thinking about it all day.”

now that he knows you’ve been having the same desperate thoughts as him — coupled with the fact that you look so incredibly sexy standing before him nearly naked — he feels a bit emboldened. the question comes out before he can stop himself. 

“can i…touch you?”

even you’re taken aback by his abruptness, almost giving in at first. “so sweet of you to ask, sungie. but no,” you deny harshly, then softer, “not yet. need you in less clothes and stroking your cock for me first, yeah?”

he doesn’t have a chance to argue (not that he would) before you’re crawling on top of him seductively, situating yourself in a very familiar position. you’re back in his lap, pulling him back to the memory of last night. 

“here we are again. but you like it, don’t you?” you tease.

that’s the understatement of the year. he fucking loves it, and if he were to be smited down right here, right now, he’d die a happy man. “y-yeah. i do,” he nods. 

“i can tell,” you say, grinding down against the bulge in his sweatpants. it pulls a moan from the back of his throat, and you lean down until your lips brush against his ear. “pathetic.”

but in an instant you draw back, fingers toying with the hem of his hoodie. he knows what you want without asking, so to satisfy you he sits up, back lifting off the headboard, and pulls it up and over quickly. 

as a reward, you slide down to his knees and reach your hand into his sweats and boxers, wrapping around his hardened length. he’s already leaking, and you spread it along his slit with your thumb, grinning when he whimpers at your deliberately slow actions. 

jisung’s only granted a few quick pumps before you remove your hand entirely, now pulling at the waistband of his pants. ever so helpful, he raises his hips just enough for you to be able to pull them down to his mid-thighs, along with his boxers. his cock springs free, pink tip glistening with precum.

when you touch him again, it’s only to drag your finger along his shaft tantalizingly. the sharpness of your long nails causes his breath to hitch, especially as you trace along one of the prominent veins. it’s a delicious light pain, the slight dig into his flesh making him forget all about your original request.

“i’d love to keep going, but that’s not what i asked for, is it?” you coo, yanking your hand away just as he begins to think maybe you’ll give him more. he shakes his head weakly, eager to be touched but just as eager to listen. and maybe also a little fearful that you’ll stop entirely if he doesn’t. 

he watches, bewitched, as you tilt your head down and spit, saliva dribbling down and landing on his cock messily. “go on, baby. i think i helped you enough.”

“enough” isn’t quite right — he wants more, but he still slips his hand down and takes himself into his fist, using your spit as lubrication for his strokes. they’re slow and restrained, not yet fully confident with your eyes on him.

even though he’s still adjusting to being watched, he secretly loves it. he loves seeing you bite your bottom lip between your teeth, loves how you don’t look away once, and really loves when you roll your hips against his leg involuntarily, desperate for some form of relief.

“talk to me,” you instruct breathily, “tell me what you’re thinking about.”

he quickens his pace, pumping himself with more purpose. his mind is filled with all the images from last night along with his own added fantasies. if he’s lucky, he’ll get to fulfill them with you one day. and if he’s not, at least he’ll have his perverted brain to keep him going. 

“thinking about you,” he pants. “how good you tasted. how pretty you looked cumming on my tongue.” a ragged moan escapes him when he squeezes his base harder with his strokes, remembering your fucked out expression as he lapped at you through your orgasm. 

“yeah? i looked pretty?” you purr. 

you rut your hips again, leaving a second wet spot, this time on his sweatpants. he catches a glimpse of it and it ruins him, hand moving frantically because he’s so desperate and he doesn’t think he’ll last long. “so pretty. the prettiest,” he rasps.

“you’re so sweet, ji. and i like being nice to sweet guys.” 

he isn’t sure what exactly “nice” entails, but he has several ideas that he would very much enjoy. like feeling your mouth with your perfect pink lips wrapped around him, or being buried deep in your pussy as you ride him. 

instead, you reach down and cup his balls, fondling them while he strokes himself, hardly maintaining a rhythm. “keep going. i know there’s more in that filthy head of yours,” you order, almost riding his thigh at this point. 

oh, there’s so much more. you don’t even know the half of it. for a guy that doesn’t have much sex, his fantasies are endless. 

“i thought about how you’d look giving me head...your mouth, your tongue, your lips. i want all of it.” with your hand working in tandem with his strokes, he’s lost all composure, words tumbling out of him without a second thought. 

“greedy, aren’t you?” you taunt. “c’mere. i’ll give you all of it.” he sits up immediately, having sunken against the pillows and headboard in his reckless desire. you lean forward to meet him halfway, lips crashing together sloppily. it’s not exactly what he had in mind by his admission, but he was more than happy to kiss you again. 

unlike last night, something in him compels him to take more control, sliding his tongue across your bottom lip and pushing inside hungrily. there’s the familiar taste of your lipgloss again, the one he’s engrained into memory after just one night.

his hand slows, more focused on kissing you and tasting every inch of your mouth, but his languid strokes are still enough to bring him closer to the edge. but then you pull back, leaving him confused and a little pouty. 

“tell me,” you begin, breathless, “when you came, what exactly did you picture?”

it takes him only a second to recount the visual that swirled in his mind as he spurted onto his chest at nine in the morning. his eyes were barely open before he was yanking his boxers down.

“you riding me. bouncing on my cock, telling me how good it feels. yeah…that got me off quick,” he clears his throat, feeling a little sheepish. as if he isn’t currently jerking himself off in front of you and hasn’t already divulged some of his other dirty thoughts.

“hm,” you hum, “next time, ‘kay?” 

he can’t tell if he’s disappointed or excited. disappointed that he has to wait, excited at the prospect of a “next time.” either way, he chokes out an agreement that falters to a groan; he’s back to fucking his fist desperately, chasing after that familiar high. 

“now stop,” your voice snaps him out of it entirely. 

as if you’ve physically wounded him, his face settles into something pitiful and pleading. you wish you could commit it to memory. “w-what?” he sputters, slowing but not stopping.

“you didn’t hear me? i said stop.”

“but i’m — shit. i’m so close,” he whines. 

you position yourself on all fours between his legs, bringing your face impossibly close to his. “you’ve been doing so good listening. would you want to disappoint me now?” you warn. 

never in a million years. 

“no,” he sighs, dropping his hand to the bed dejectedly, wondering if your plan this whole time was to edge him to oblivion. 

that’s for another day. currently, you’re not feeling cruel enough for that, and he has listened quite well. so you fall back against the mattress beside him and slide off your panties easily, tossing them somewhere in your room. silently, he prays somehow you’ll forget about them and he can sneak out with them. god, pervert.

and then you reach over and wrap your hand around his cock, picking up right where he left off. your leg crosses over his, thighs spread wide. “touch me,” you purr. “please, ji. we’ll make each other feel so good.” 

looking over, he finds you rubbing your clit lazily with your free hand. it flips a switch in him, slinking his hand down to replace your own. he drags his digits between your folds, groaning when he feels just how wet you are. 

he teases a finger at your entrance, circling around it before applying the lightest amount of pressure. you squeeze his length in retaliation, and that cancels his antics swiftly. 

“no teasing, remember?” you remind. 

“i remember,” he mumbles, plunging his finger into your cunt before you can utter another word. the abrupt fullness causes your movements to stutter, losing the rhythm you’ve built with your strokes. 

“fuck,” you moan. you try to work your hand against him again, but it’s futile when he adds a second finger, curling them both against your sweet spot. 

the skill he has with his hands makes sense when you really think about it. you might’ve shrugged him off as being clueless and inexperienced at first, but years of gaming have made him quite masterful. 

if he knew all the all-nighters spent ranking up would lead to him making a pretty girl clench around his fingers, he’d have grinded even harder. because here you are, trying your hardest to pleasure him while he’s making it rather difficult (in the best way). 

honestly, he doesn’t mind that you’re struggling. any touch from you — especially this kind of touch — is enough for him. he’s already been close once, and he can feel it clawing its way back, a knot in his stomach as the tension grows.

“god,” you pant, “this is so fucking hot.” 

side by side in your bed, trying to bring each other to release — it’s such an intimately raunchy scene. one you knew none of the guys you usually fuck would even try to entertain.

“do you wanna know what i’ve been thinking about today?” you ask, focusing on his tip now. you’ve finally resumed a steady pace, rubbing your thumb along his slit, pumping the first couple of inches.  

his own pace quickens at that, trying to lure your desires right out of you. “please,” he begs.

“i’ve been thinking,” you begin, “about letting you fuck me. giving you the control.”

the thought has crossed his mind, sure, but hearing you say it brings a whole other wave of excitement. though he’s loved being at your mercy, there’s a part of him that wants to fuck you stupid, too. to shove your pretty face into the mattress and prove to you that losers can be just as nasty.

“yeah?” he groans, unable to get much more out. 

he’s basically holding himself back from fucking your hand, still driving his fingers into you as he nears his breaking point. the heel of his hand brushes against your clit each time, and you know you’re almost there as well. 

“yeah. would you even be able to handle that? i mean, you probably watch porn for the plot, huh?” you taunt. pretending that he hasn’t already proven himself with his tongue and, soon, his fingers. 

“no!” he denies quickly. “i’d be good. i’d make you cum.”

“then cum right now and maybe i’ll consider it.”

jisung is a good listener. it’s part of why he’s such an excellent student, and that seems to apply in the bedroom too. he spills over your hand with whiney moans, brain almost too clouded to remember you’re still needy beside him.

almost. 

it’s like the second wind you get when you’re nearing exhaustion. he slips his fingers out, gliding them through your folds before landing on your clit carefully. the tight, fast circles he makes against the sensitive bud are your undoing, thighs clenching and shaking.

“ji,” you cry, “fuck, jisung.” 

“see? i’ll always be good for you,” he breathes out, still lazily rubbing your pussy as you come down. 

while you both lay there in the messes you’ve created, you realize that han jisung is slowly ruining you for other men. you should’ve listened when your friends said the quiet ones are the freakiest.

“you’re a liar, by the way,” he says suddenly. you turn to him in confusion, waiting for an explanation. “you said you like being nice. telling me to stop like that was very not nice.”

ah, right. part of you wants to warn him that that was only a glimpse of the torture you can enact, but you figure it’d be more fun to leave him oblivious.

“well, i still let you cum, didn’t i?” you giggle, a melodic sound that makes his heart jump again. now that he’s dealt with whatever horny demon takes over when you’re around, he’s left with only the more pure, innocent thoughts. 

“yeah…yeah, i guess so.” 

“exactly. so don’t make me regret it,” you rise to your knees and flick his forehead lightly, laughing when he rubs the skin afterwards. “otherwise i’ll remember this for next time. and i have a very good memory, han jisung.” 

you slide over him and off the bed, grabbing the towel from your earlier shower off the floor. he catches it when you toss it at him, cleaning up as best as he can. unfortunately, your sheets are definitely still going to need a good wash.

“oh, do you?” he raises his eyebrows. “what were the names of cooper’s kids?”

goddamn him and his stupid interstellar fascination. 

“not fair. i just wasn’t paying attention!” you whine, rolling your eyes when he smirks at your defeat.

he sighs dramatically, feigning disappointment as if he wasn’t already well-aware you wouldn’t be able to answer. “maybe we need to watch it again…” he trails. it almost sounds like a threat.

“no.”

and as he erupts into laughter at your immediate denial, you can’t help but smile and join him, giggling together like two idiots slowly falling for each other.

you’d never let him know that you would happily sit through any movie over and over again if it meant more time with him.

because losers are definitely your new type.