Diame☆

So the rendezvous just continues.

It was a usual day for him, he was at your house, something he'd do when Maki went off on missions, but you were extremely nervous for some reason today. You usually are, but something was off about today.

The way you'd instinctively placed your hand over your tummy when he thrusted hard? It wasn't normal, he'd also noticed that your period was late, which yes, he keeps track of for some reason.

He got off the bed, taking advantage of your absence since you went to the bathroom, he scurried through your home before he reached where the trash bin was placed, and there it was.

A pregnancy test, in the middle of the trash.

A positive pregnancy test.

You were pregnant.

Yuta was just done fucking you a few minutes prior, but still the blood rushed to his cock, he could feel himself getting hard underneath his boxers, he felt genuine butterflies, immediately rushing back to your bedroom and caught you stepping out of the bathroom, only with your oversized tee on. He smiled, pulling you into a hug.

“I can't believe I'm going to be a dad! How long did you know it for??” He asked, expression elated, the complete opposite of yours as you felt dread overwhelm your body.

He wasn't supposed to know.

“I uh— what?” You tried playing dumb.

“I saw the kit in the trash, how long did you know that you were pregnant for?” He questioned again, staring into your eyes.

Fuck.

“Yesterday.” You answered.

“And you didn't tell me? I'm upset.” He pouted, “Though it must be because you were planning to surprise me right? I'm sorry if I ruined it.” He beamed, pushing you onto the bed.

“uh I no— I don't—” You didn't know what to tell him, but could only watch as he took off his boxers once again, his cock springing up, you could almost feel like it was thrumming with excitement.

“I cannot believe I'm actually going to become a dad, this is surreal!” He smiled, lining up his cock with your entrance. You panicked, head spinning as you shook your head, his excitement felt pressuring and you were suffocating.

“I'm— I don't want it!” You blurt out which made Yuta freeze dead in his track.

“What?” His voice was low, his eyes loosing all the light from the prior excitement.

“I don't want it. I'm not keeping the baby, I was going to get rid of it— urgh!” Your words were cut off by Yuta shoving and ramming his cock into you with no warning, fully sheathing himself inside.

“Did I fuck you stupid? Or are you saying things that don't make sense?” He questioned, tilting his head to the side slightly as his hips move slowly. “You don't want the baby?” He asks, and you nod.

“It doesn't matter, you're keeping it.” He says dismissively, your eyes widen in disbelief.

“But i—”

“You are carrying my heir.” He cuts you off, emphasizing the word 'heir' with a thrust. “My heir, the one that could inherit my clan after me. I cannot have you making selfish decisions.” He wraps his hand around your throat.

“Besides, how can you be so cruel and deny our baby?” His other hand splays over your lower abdomen. “The baby that is a proof and symbol of our love?”

Love?

You wanted to scoff.

“Anyway, you're not getting rid of it.” He concludes. “Don't even think of sneaking behind my back, you do not want to face the consequences.” He warns you sweetly before continuing to thrust into your warm cunt.

You lay there, staring at the ceiling as you contemplate everything.

You wish you hadn't returned to the sorcerer world.

Time flew by pretty quickly, and with each and every month, your belly continued to grow. Explaining to the others felt shameful, having to make up excuses about a one night stand and a deadbeat fling since you couldn't actually reveal the truth, especially to Maki.

“Hey, if you don't mind, can I ask you a favour?” Maki all of a sudden on one fine day suddenly decided to ask you something, it came out of nowhere.

“Yes, sure, what is it?” You replied, hand stroking your full belly, it became a habit now.

“It's something extremely personal, and the thing you need to know before that is the fact that... Yuta is impotent.” She begins.

“What?” You were genuinely caught off guard.

“I know it seems like a shocking thing, we tried for a child for a few months prior to your arrival but— it never really ended up anywhere, and when we went for a check up recently, it was confirmed that he had issues, I think it's a combination of infertility and erectile dysfunction.” She revealed, venting all of her frustrations.

You just remained there in shock, there was no way Yuta was having any issues, you know very well.

“Since— oh it might be too much to ask, and it's totally up to you— he was the one that suggested this— but, your child doesn't have a father right? Is it alright if we adopt it? Obviously you'll still be the mother but the kid will carry the 'Okkotsu' name. The decision is yours, no pressure.” She finishes slightly fumbling her words.

“I will think about it.” You mumbled.

You were snapped out of your thoughts when Yuta pinched your nipple, causing you to gasp. Your breasts were even more sensitive now, followed by the annoying soreness as your body adapted to pregnancy.

“What are you zoning out for?” Yuta asked from behind you, hand sturdy on your waist helping you balance yourself on all fours.

You felt his cock deep inside you, twitching in arousal, your walls had become even more sensitive because it burnt so blissfully everytime Yuta would enter inside you.

'Impotent my ass.' You think.

“Ah, is it what Maki said to you?” He guesses correctly, and you slightly turn to look at him. “Yeah, I lied.” That was all he says before pushing inside you again, causing a choked moan to leave your mouth.

His hands massaged your breasts gently, you felt relieved when he did so, letting out a sigh of pleasure as he continued to thrust deep into you. His hand then slipped downwards, stroking the protruding belly gently.

He leaned over, wrapping both his arms around your waist while his drilles his cock into you. “I love you so much.” He whispered against your ear and kissing your shoulder.

You let out a whimper at his affection. You hated the fact that he could be so loving and despicable at the same time.

He rutted into your hole faster, hitting your cervix since he went deeper and deeper, the shaft rubbed against your sweet spot actively, making your buck your hips into him to hit the spot harder.

The consistent effort made you cum immediately, a gasp left your mouth as you felt the pleasure blind you, making you see white, your walls quivered around his cock, milking him since it seems as if he too arrived at the same time.

He pulled out slowly, making sure you felt each and every drag of his cock from within your walls, and watched as it leaked out of you. Reminded him of the time he first saw the same sight months ago back in that building.

You both had come so far.

Metaphorically and literally.

Though he wasn't done yet, he switched positions immediately, grabbing you by your arms, lifting you up and settling his head between your legs.

He didn't waste anytime, mouth latching onto your clit and he sucks and laps your folds, you grip at his hair at the sensation, trying to stay balanced on your thighs so you don't suffocate him since now you had extra weight added on.

But he did not care, pulling you down and flushing his face against your cunt, he gasped in bliss as he suckled, tongue twirling around your nub before he dragged down to your hole— his cum was still leaking out from you,

He slurped it all up, swallowing your mixed juices and groaned in satisfaction at the taste, you felt embarassed, face feeling hotter as every minute passes on and the obscene sounds that surround the room and pass into your ears.

It was nasty, the slurping, the licking, and the whimpers he was letting out made you drip even more, it was practically like a waterfall down there, and Yuta? He was swallowing it all up like a man dying of thirst.

He pressed his tongue flat, catching everything before he swallowed it, his teeth grazed your sensitive bud slightly which made you twitch and pull up and away from his face, but he grabbed onto your thighs, pushing you back on his face.

It made a familiar sense of pleasure bloom in your lower abdomen again, one final lick and you were coming undone.

A choked moan left your mouth before you bit your lip, your toes curled in pleasure as you pressed down onto his face, panting really hard as you rode his face to come down from your high. You move over after a minute or two, finding his face wet and shiny with all your juices. He gives you a small smile before getting up and pressing a kiss to your mouth, pushing the mixed essence into you as well.

After that, he cleaned you up and cuddled you to sleep, stroking patterns onto your belly as he caressed it gently, all the love in his eyes and face buried in your neck, basking in your scent and warmth.

You had agreed to Maki's- or rather Yuta's proposal, not like you had any choice anyway, and Yuta became the dad who stepped up in the eye of others.

Being there for the childs birth, supporting you emotionally and practically just acting like a sweet father publicly, Maki found child-raising tiring whenever she tried helping out, and just left it to you both to deal with the kid.

Yuta went all out, loving and spoiling the baby as you recovered. You couldn't deny the fact that Yuta was a great father.

And now you were watching as Yuta strolled around the garden of his traditional house with the babe in his arms while you sat alongside a few housekeepers and people who worked for him, they were currently tending to you.

“Master is really treating that child as his own, he has such a kind heart.” One of them says and you look down, fidgeting with your fingers, throat closing up since you didn't know how to reply.

Yeah, of course he is, because that is his own child.

He realised it a little too late, because by then, he was already inches deep inside you, trapping you between him and the wall while he rutted into your cunt from behind. Hips moving frantically and slapping against your ass while your hands were held back tightly with just his one hand while the other roamed across your body freely.

“Yuta— what the fuck are you doing?” You questioned, trying to push him away, to break free from his grasp, a useless attempt, especially when he's much stronger than before. You could barely believe he was the same person who lost to you in practice sessions multiple times back in school, he's so different now, his strength was undeniably overpowering.

Yuta had no idea what he was doing either, he felt compelled by this raw, primal urge to keep on going, and for once, he listened to it.

He muffled your protests with a kiss, his free hand moving up to your throat and pulling you back against him as he twisted your head to the side so he could access your lips before slipping in his tongue into your mouth. He moaned into the kiss, feeling his chest burn with excitement and arousal. He should've listened to his gut from the start. He shouldn't have worried about you finding him a creepy, it shouldn't have mattered anyway, but it probably did back then because he was much softer before than he is now.

His younger self wouldn't be able to comprehend or take in the fact that his future self would ever fuck you against your will in the hallway of an abandoned building after defeating a grade two curse.

He bites your lower lip, the kiss was rough yet passionate, as if he's trying to make up for the lost time but also preventing himself from losing complete control. He wanted to consume you, devour you completely, mark you, bite you, fuck you hard, make you cry, grope you, scratch you, breed you, all at once like his primal instinct was screaming, if he could merge you into him— he definitely would.

You let out a soft cry of sorts at the pain when he bit your lip, his eyes widened, concern illuminating in them before he let go of your bottom lip, sucking on it and giving it a few soothing licks.

His chin rested on your shoulder as his hand left your throat and slid down to grope your tits all while he thrusted from behind.

“I'm sorry for that.” He apologized for biting your lip and then pressed a soft kiss to the back of your shoulder. He closed his eyes to immerse himself into the feeling how your body felt in his hold, your squishy breasts acting like a stress ball for him and your warm cunt wrapped around his hard cock sent shivers up his spine. The ridges gripped onto his shaft tightly, as if it's trying to milk him.

He drowned out the 'no's' 'you cant be doing this' 'stop' that slipped from your mouth, treating it like a background noise as he relished in the way you felt instead, besides, you probably didn't mean it anyway, because if you did, your cunt wouldn't be leaking right now and clenching around his cock.

He opened his eyes again, pressing soft kisses from your shoulder to neck. His hand that was groping your breast slipped down to the between of your legs, his ring and index fingers parted your pussy lips while the middle finger flicked against your clit, which caused you to rut your hips back, pushing against Yuta, taking in him entirely the point you felt his tip hit your cervix.

You yelped when you felt him hit it, immediately retreating your hips forward as your thighs ached and threatened to give up.

The stimulation to your bundle of nerves felt like pure ecstasy, you felt shame coursing through your veins along with the pleasure, and then you winced, letting out a hiss followed by an 'ouch' when you felt a sharp object dig into your fold. You looked down to see what it was. Yuta stopped rubbing when he heard your hiss, his gaze following yours.

The ring on his finger was digging into you uncomfortably, the small but protruding jewel likely hurt the sensitive tissue. Yuta withdrew his hand, bringing it up to his face and staring at it for a moment.

You thought he would stop now, maybe come to his senses that he was a married man, it still wasn't too late to uphold the sanctity of marriage right?

No.

Yuta uses his thumb to twist the ring, pushing it off from the base and up to the tip before taking it off his ring finger and tossed it away.

Your mouth slightly opened in shock at the action, you turned to look at him, he just gave you his sickeningly sweet signature smile before he tightened his hold around you and returned his fingers to your clit, rubbing it once again.

You bit your lip, head falling forward again as you shut your eyes, you were so sensitive down there and his fingers were working like magic as he kept a steady pace with his hips. He kissed the shell of your ear, before resting his head on your shoulder again.

He rubbed your clit faster as his desperation increased every second, you felt the heat pooling in your belly at the sensation, letting out soft gasps at his doing. You panted, trying to regulate your breathing as you watched his hand move at an inhumane speed.

The feeling of him hitting your gspot while he stroked your clit pushed you over the edge. You felt the build up in your lower abdomen, it only took one more stroke and one final thrust for the tightness in you to snap, sending electrical waves of pleasure all across your body, your cunt pulsated around his cock, you felt yourself lose balance and almost fall, but Yuta held you tight. Your thighs quivered as your high began to settle.

He felt your walls flutter around him, contracting and clenching around him due to your high, he gasped at the sensation, eyes slightly rolling back into his skull as he shut his eyes before he gripped your hip, sloppily thrusting into you before he came inside.

He muffled his moan by burying his face into your neck, finally setting your hands free from the tight grip he had since the beginning as he now wrapped both his around your waist, pulling you flush against him while his face and his cock remains buried into you, his cock shoots up his white spend into you, filling you up.

“Fuck, I always wanted to do this.” He whispered, panting heavily as he caught his breaths.

“I love you.” He confessed, pressing a kiss your forehead before he pulled himself out, biting his lip when he saw his cum leak out of you. Fuck. He cleaned you up, fixing you and himself up before he grabbed you and left the building.

Maki and Panda have also just returned from dealing with the curse on the other side of the building.

“Phew, that was a tough one, I didn't know it would escape that way.” Maki commented annoyedly, before she looked at you.

“Are you okay?” She asked you, and you stared up at her, guilt filling your chest, causing you to bite your lip nervously.

“She's fine, just taken aback from fighting the curse, her skills have gotten rusty after the break.” Yuta covered up, giving Maki a small smile.

Maki nodded before her eyes caught the empty space on Yuta's finger, where the ring was supposed to be.

“What happened to our wedding ring?” She questioned, raising an eyebrow, which made you tense up. Yuta stared at his hand, before he answered.

“Ah. I must've lost it during the fight.”

At least, that’s what he tells himself for the first few weeks it starts small. A text from you saying you’ll be late because you’re helping jungwon review his english notes. heeseung sends a heart emoji and “No rush, baby ❤️” even as he stares at the ceiling of the practice room, phone still in hand. It’s just studying, he thinks. You’re smart you like helping people. That’s one of the things I love about you. But then it happens again and again.

He asks if you’re free for dinner after a long schedule, and your reply comes almost instantly “Sorry, already promised Jungwon we’d grab ramen. Rain check?” He stares at the message until the screen dims, a faint knot forming in his stomach. Rain check sure. He ends up eating alone in the dorm, scrolling through his feed only to see a new story you posted you and Jungwon making silly faces over steaming bowls, your head tilted toward his shoulder as you both laugh.

The irritation is tiny at first, like a pebble in his shoe. He shakes it off deletes the screenshots he accidentally took. Tells himself he’s being ridiculous. But the pebble turns into a rock.

Every time he wants to spend time with you, you’re already with Jungwon. If he suggests a movie night, you’re already halfway through a drama marathon with him. If he tries to surprise you with coffee between schedules, Jungwon is already there, holding your favorite order and making you smile that bright, easy smile Heeseung thought was reserved mostly for him. Social media is the worst every other day there’s another photo you two at the arcade, you two walking the Han River at night, you two in matching hoodies because “Jungwon lost a bet and had to wear what I picked.”

Heeseung starts noticing things he never paid attention to before. The way Jungwon’s hand brushes your arm when he’s excited about something. The way you save the best bites of your food for him without thinking. The private jokes that make you burst into laughter at the dinner table while Heeseung sits across from you, pretending to scroll on his phone so no one sees the tightness in his jaw.

One evening, after a particularly grueling practice, he walks into the dorm common room hoping to finally steal you away for some quiet time. Instead, he finds you sitting cross legged on the couch beside Jungwon, laughing so hard you’re clutching your stomach, tears in your eyes. Jungwon is leaning into you, nudging your shoulder with his own, recounting some story with that mischievous leader grin of his. Neither of you even notices Heeseung standing in the doorway.

He stands there longer than necessary, watching. The way Jungwon’s eyes soften when he looks at you. The way you lean back into him so naturally, like it’s the most comfortable place in the world. Something ugly twists in Heeseung’s chest sharp and hot. He clears his throat, louder than needed.You both look up. Your face lights up instantly. “Heeseung! Come sit, you have to hear this—”

“I’m good,” he says, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Looks like you’re busy.”Jungwon tilts his head, sensing something but not pushing. “Hyung, join us. It’s funny, I swear.”Heeseung just shakes his head and heads to his room, the sound of your laughter following him down the hall like an accusation.

That night, when you finally slip into bed beside him, he’s unusually quiet. You cuddle up against his chest like always, but instead of relaxing into it, Heeseung wraps one arm tightly around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. His face buries into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he’s afraid you might disappear. His other hand finds yours, fingers lacing together almost desperately.

“You know,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and rough, “I think you’ve spent more time with Jungwon this week than with your actual boyfriend.”You laugh softly, assuming he’s teasing like he sometimes does. “Babe, are you counting?”He doesn’t laugh back. His hold on you tightens, almost possessive. “I’m serious i miss you.” The words hang heavy in the dark. “Every time I turn around, it’s Jungwon this, Jungwon that. I get it he’s important to you. He’s important to me too but lately… it feels like I’m the one on the outside.”

You shift to look at him, surprised by the raw edge in his voice. Heeseung’s eyes are shadowed, but the vulnerability there is unmistakable. He’s not angry exactly just aching. Jealous in a way he clearly hates admitting.“I didn’t realize…” you start, but he shakes his head, pressing a kiss to your collarbone.

“I keep telling myself it’s stupid,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “He’s like my brother. You’re allowed to have friends but then I see the way he makes you laugh like he knows exactly how to light you up and I just…” He exhales shakily, nuzzling closer. “I want to be the one who makes you laugh like that. I want to be the one you’re running to after a long day. Not feeling like I have to schedule time with my own girlfriend around someone else.”

His fingers trace slow, absent patterns on your hip, but there’s tension in every line of his body. “I hate feeling like this. Jealous of Jungwon, of all people. But I can’t help it anymore. You’re mine, you know? Or at least… I thought you were.” The confession lingers between you, heavy with weeks of unspoken insecurity. Heeseung holds you like he’s afraid letting go even a little will make the distance permanent. In the quiet of the room, his heartbeat is fast against your cheek proof that the easygoing, confident Heeseung has been quietly unraveling for longer than he’s let on.

You press closer, and for the first time in weeks, he lets out a small, relieved breath, though the jealousy still simmers just beneath the surface, waiting.

◟✿ jay ˒

Jay’s jealousy doesn’t look like insecurity or quiet pouting. It looks like competition. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it at first. Jay has always been the type to handle things head on cool, collected, a little cocky when he knows what he wants. And what he wants is you. So when Jake starts spending more time around you, Jay’s response is automatic step up match him beat him.

It starts small. Jake brings you your favorite iced coffee on a hot filming day? Jay appears twenty minutes later with the full meal your favorite pasta from that place across town, still warm, plus dessert because “you might get hungry later.” Jake offers to carry your heavy bag after practice? Jay is suddenly right there, taking your bag, your jacket, your water bottle, and the extra hoodie you forgot. He does it so smoothly that you barely notice the shift, just smile up at him with that grateful look that makes his chest tighten.

The other members catch on almost immediately. Sunghoon raises an eyebrow the third time it happens in one week. “Jay’s on a mission,” he mutters to Heeseung during dinner. Jungwon just smirks into his rice. They start placing bets on how long it’ll take before Jay cracks. One lazy afternoon in the dorm, you’re curled up on the couch beside Jake, both of you focused on his laptop. Jake is helping you pick out a birthday gift for your sibling, scrolling through pages of options with that easy, playful commentary that always makes you laugh. “This one? Nah, too boring. What about this ridiculous plushie? Your sibling would lose it.”

You lean in closer to see the screen, giggling. Jake shifts, his shoulder brushing yours as he points at something. “Wait, look at this—”The air changes.Jay, who had been quietly playing a game on his phone across the room, suddenly stands up. Without a word, he crosses the space in long strides, wedges himself directly between you and Jake on the couch, and sits down like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His thigh presses firmly against yours. One arm drapes casually along the back of the couch behind your shoulders.

Jake nearly chokes on his water. “ yo jay what are you doing?”Jay shrugs, eyes locked on the laptop screen like he’s been part of this conversation the whole time. “Watching.”“You weren’t interested five seconds ago,” Jake says, half laughing, half bewildered.“I am now.”You glance between them, amused but starting to sense the tension. Jay’s jaw is tight, even as he forces a charming smile and points at the screen. “That one’s cute but this—” He reaches over and scrolls to a different item, his hand brushing yours deliberately. “This matches their vibe better trust me.”

Jake stares at him for a second, then grins like a cat who just found the cream. “Ohhh. I see what’s happening here.”From then on, the teasing is relentless. Whenever you’re with Jake whether it’s practicing choreo, playing games in the living room, or even just chatting in the kitchen Jay materializes. He inserts himself into every conversation. If Jake makes you laugh, Jay immediately counters with a funnier story. If Jake compliments your new hairstyle, Jay is already pulling you closer and murmuring, “You look good in anything, but this color? Yeah, it’s my favorite on you.”

The members are merciless.“Jay-hyung is in full rivalry mode,” Sunoo teases one evening, watching Jay practically hover while you and Jake debate over snacks.“Careful, Jake he might challenge you to a dance battle next,” Jungwon adds with a straight face.Jay just rolls his eyes and pulls you into his lap on the couch, ignoring the chorus of groans and laughter. “Mind your business.”But inside, it’s eating at him more than he wants to admit.

He hates how natural you and Jake are together. Jake’s bright, easy energy complements yours so well. they share the same chaotic humor, and worst of all Jake never has to try it just flows. Meanwhile Jay feels like he’s constantly performing, constantly proving he’s the better choice.One night, after another long day of Jay “accidentally” showing up during your hangout with Jake, you finally corner him in his room.“Alright, spill it,” you say, closing the door behind you. “What’s going on?”

Jay sighs dramatically and flops back onto his bed, dragging you down with him. He wraps a strong arm around your shoulders, pulling you flush against his chest. His fingers play with the hem of your shirt, a little restless.“Can you blame me?” he mutters, voice low and laced with that signature Jay charm mixed with genuine frustration. “Jake’s funny he’s handsome annoyingly charming good with people and everyone loves him.” ( is he lying though 🤤 ₹You stare at him, trying not to laugh. “Jay you’re literally describing yourself.”

“Exactly.” He turns his head to look at you, dark eyes serious despite the smirk. “That’s why he’s a threat.”You blink. “A threat?”He nods, tightening his hold on you. “Yeah he gets to be around you all the time without even trying. Making you laugh, helping you with stuff, being all Jake. And I’m over here having to one up him just to remind you I exist.” His voice drops, the playful tone fading into something more vulnerable. “I know it’s stupid he’s my brother. But seeing you two together like that it makes me want to win every single time.”

He presses a kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek, his competitive edge softening into quiet possessiveness. “You’re mine, baby. I just hate feeling like I have to compete for your attention.”You cuddle closer, running your fingers through his hair. “You don’t have to compete, Jay ichose you.”He exhales, some of the tension finally leaving his shoulders, though the glint of rivalry still lingers in his eyes. “Good because I’m not planning on losing.”And from the determined way he holds you that night kissing you a little harder, touching you a little longer you know he means it.

◟✿ jake ˒

Jake is embarrassingly obvious when he’s jealous. He doesn’t even try to hide it his face is an open book, big brown eyes and all. The second he notices you spending more time with Sunghoon, his entire mood shifts. Not in an angry or possessive way, but like a giant sad puppy who just got told he’s being replaced by a shinier, cooler version of himself.It starts subtly, but everyone notices within days.

You and Sunghoon have always been close best friends who can spend hours talking about books, fashion, or just roasting each other without it ever feeling forced. Lately, with the group’s busy schedule, those hangouts have increased. Sunghoon’s calm, dry humor pairs perfectly with yours, and Jake watches it all unfold with growing dismay.

During a rare movie night in the dorm, you end up sitting beside Sunghoon on the big couch. The two of you are sharing a big bowl of popcorn, shoulders brushing every time you reach for snacks, laughing at the same ridiculous scenes. Sunghoon leans over to whisper a sarcastic comment in your ear, and you nearly choke on your drink from giggling.

Across the room, Jake sits on the opposite couch, knees drawn up, looking like someone just canceled Christmas, his birthday, and every future cuddle session all at once. His usual bright energy is nowhere to be found. Every few minutes he glances over at you two, then sighs loudly and looks away with dramatic flair, lips pushed into a full pout. He tries to focus on the movie but keeps failing miserably.

“Jake, come sit with us,” you call out at one point, patting the small space beside you. He perks up instantly, practically teleporting over only for Sunghoon to already be in the middle of explaining the plot twist to you. Jake ends up squeezed on your other side, but the damage is done. He keeps stealing glances, his hand subtly finding yours under the blanket, holding on a little tighter than usual.

When you finally shift fully to his side later in the night, curling against him, Jake lights up like the sun breaking through clouds. His arm wraps around you immediately, nose nuzzling into your hair.

“You okay?” you whisper.

“Yep,” he says, voice overly cheerful.

“You don’t seem okay.”

“I’m fine totally fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

He isn’t. The members catch on fast and have zero mercy. Sunoo starts mimicking Jake’s sad puppy eyes whenever you and Sunghoon are together. Jungwon keeps “accidentally” pointing out how good you and Sunghoon look as a duo just to watch Jake’s face fall. Even Heeseung teases him gently “Jake, if you stare any harder you’re going to burn a hole through the couch.” Jake just whines and buries his face in a pillow.

The jealousy builds over the week. You help Sunghoon pick out new clothes for an upcoming schedule? Jake shows up later wearing the exact hoodie you once said you loved on him, casually flexing in front of the mirror while asking your opinion every five minutes. Sunghoon teaches you a simple ice skating trick on a day off? Jake spends the entire next day sending you videos of himself trying ( and failing ) the same move, captioning them “I can do it better if you teach me instead 🥺”.

It all comes to a head one quiet evening.You’re both alone in his room, the lights dimmed. Jake has his head resting on your lap, legs sprawled across the bed, playing with your fingers absentmindedly. His usual playful energy is muted, replaced by soft sighs and lingering touches like he needs constant reassurance.“Sometimes…” he starts quietly, eyes fixed on your intertwined hands, “I get jealous of how easy it is for you and Sunghoon to hang out.”

You blink, gently brushing his hair back. “Jake, he’s my best friend.”“I know.” His voice is small.“You’re my boyfriend.” “I know that too.” He turns his face into your stomach, muffling his next words. “But what if one day you realize he’s cooler? He’s all mysterious and stylish and good at everything without even trying. You two have so much in common. You laugh at the same things, finish each other’s sentences sometimes… What if you wake up one morning and think, ‘Wow, Sunghoon would be a better match’?”

You stare down at him in disbelief before bursting into laughter. The genuine, heartfelt worry in his voice paired with that dramatic puppy-dog expression is too much. Jake lifts his head, looking deeply offended. “Don’t laugh! This is serious my heart is breaking here.”That only makes you laugh harder. You lean down and cup his cheeks, squishing them gently. “Baby, you’re the one who’s ridiculously charming, affectionate, and makes me smile every single day. Sunghoon is my friend. You’re the one I’m in love with.”

He pouts harder, but his ears turn pink and the corners of his mouth twitch upward. “Yeah?”“Yeah.” You kiss the tip of his nose. “No one could ever replace you. Especially not when you make jealous faces like a sad golden retriever.” Jake groans but finally cracks a smile, wrapping both arms around your waist and pulling you down so you’re half lying on top of him. “I can’t help it I just… really like you alot. The idea of anyone else getting your attention that easily makes me feel all weird and empty inside.”

He buries his face in your neck, peppering soft kisses there while his hold stays tight and clingy. “Promise you’ll sit next to me for the next ten movie nights? And maybe let me be the one to teach you dumb tricks instead of Hoon?”You smile into his hair. “Deal.” Jake lets out a content little hum, all the earlier sadness melting away as he snuggles impossibly closer. Even though the jealousy still simmers whenever Sunghoon makes you laugh too hard, he’s reassured for now clinging to you like the lovesick, obvious boyfriend he is. And honestly? You wouldn’t have him any other way.

◟✿ sunghoon ˒

Sunghoon becomes quieter when he’s jealous, which somehow makes it more obvious than if he were loud about it. Most people expect jealousy to look like possessiveness or sharp words, but Sunghoon turns inward instead retreating into that cool, icy shell he wears so well. The silence stretches longer. His usual subtle affection cools off. And because he’s normally so composed, the shift is impossible to miss.It starts after you spend an entire day with Jungwon.

The two of you had gone out for a casual shopping trip that turned into lunch, then a café stop, then wandering around a bookstore for hours. Jungwon’s easy energy and gentle teasing always make time fly. You come back to the dorm laughing about something he said, cheeks flushed from the cold air and the fun.Sunghoon is sitting on the couch when you walk in. He looks up, offers a small smile, and says, “You’re back.” That’s it. No playful comment about how you ditched him all day. No asking for details. Just two quiet words before he goes back to staring at his phone.

You notice immediately.Throughout the evening, his replies get shorter. When you sit next to him and lean against his shoulder, he doesn’t wrap an arm around you like usual. He just lets you stay there, stiff and distant. You ask if something’s wrong and he shakes his head.“Everything’s fine.”But it isn’t. You can feel the tension radiating off him.

Sunghoon hates feeling jealous. He thinks it’s irrational, immature, and beneath him. Jungwon is his member his dongsaeng, the responsible leader he respects deeply. You’re allowed to have friends. He knows this. So he tries to suppress it, pushing the ugly feeling down until it festers quietly inside his chest.Unfortunately, he’s terrible at hiding it from you.

The next day it continues. You mention needing help with some lyrics and Jungwon offers first. You guys spend an hour in the practice room together, heads close over a notebook. Sunghoon walks past the door once, sees you laughing at one of Jungwon’s jokes, and keeps walking without saying anything. Later, when you text him asking if he wants to grab dinner together, his reply is a single “Busy with schedule.” No emoji. No “miss you.” By evening, the members have started noticing.

Jake nudges him during dinner. “you’ve been weirdly quiet. Everything okay?”Sunghoon just shrugs. “Tired.”Heeseung raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push. Jay smirks knowingly, like he’s seen this before. Sunoo whispers something to Jungwon that makes the younger boy glance at Sunghoon with a slightly guilty look.You wait until you’re finally alone.The moment the door to his room clicks shut, Sunghoon reaches for you without a word. He pulls you gently but firmly onto his lap, arms wrapping around your waist like a lifeline. His face presses into the curve of your neck, breathing you in. You can feel how tightly he’s holding on.

“You’re clingy today,” you tease softly, running your fingers through his dark hair.“Maybe,” he murmurs against your skin. His voice is low, almost reluctant.“Why?”He stays silent for a long moment, chin resting on your shoulder. You feel him tense, like he’s fighting with himself. Sunghoon has never been good at voicing feelings like this he’d rather skate around them elegantly.“Because…” he finally says, so quietly you almost miss it, “everyone gets your attention before I do lately.”

The honesty catches you completely off guard. You turn in his lap to look at him, but he refuses to meet your eyes, cheeks faintly pink with embarrassment. His ears are red too the telltale sign that Sunghoon is mortified by his own emotions.You cup his face gently, thumbs brushing his cheeks. “Hoon…” “I know it’s stupid,” he continues, voice barely above a whisper. His hands stay locked around your waist, fingers tracing small, anxious circles. “Jungwon’s your best friend. He’s my member ishouldn’t feel like this. But today watching you two together all day, laughing so easily, making plans for next week it felt like I was waiting in line for you again.”

He finally lifts his gaze, those sharp, beautiful eyes softer than usual, filled with quiet vulnerability. “I hate this feeling. I told myself to stop being ridiculous. But then I see how comfortable you are with him and I just withdraw. Because if I say something, it makes me sound pathetic.”You lean in and press a soft kiss to his forehead. “You’re not pathetic. You’re human. And honestly? This quiet, pouty version of you is adorable.”Sunghoon groans, hiding his face in your shoulder again. “Don’t call it adorable. I’m trying to be cool about this.”

“You’re failing,” you say with a smile, hugging him tighter. “But I love you for it.”He exhales shakily, the tension in his body slowly melting as he pulls you even closer. His hands slide under your shirt to rest against your lower back, skin warm and grounding. “I just miss you,” he admits. “I miss being the one you run to first. The one who gets all your random thoughts and inside jokes. Lately it feels like Jungwon gets the daylight version of you, and I get whatever’s left at night.”You tilt his chin up and kiss him properly slow and reassuring. Sunghoon kisses back like he’s been starving for it, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head.

When you pull away, you rest your forehead against his. “No one could ever replace you, Hoon. Jungwon is my best friend, but you’re my person my favorite person. I’ll make sure you get more of my attention, okay? Starting right now.” A tiny, shy smile finally breaks through his expression. He nods once, still a little embarrassed, and nuzzles back into your neck. For the rest of the night he stays glued to you arms around your waist, legs tangled together, stealing soft kisses every few minutes like he’s making up for all the distance he put between you earlier.

The jealousy doesn’t vanish overnight. Sunghoon still gets quieter whenever he sees you and Jungwon deep in conversation but now he lets you notice. And instead of withdrawing completely, he’ll eventually reach for your hand or pull you into his lap again, murmuring a quiet “I need you for a bit” that makes your heart melt every single time.Because even when he’s jealous, Sunghoon’s love is steady, deep, and impossibly sweet.

◟✿ jungwon ˒

Jungwon likes to think he’s mature, rational and secure in the relationship. As the leader, he’s spent years perfecting the art of staying calm under pressure, keeping his emotions in check for the sake of the group. He would never get jealous over something harmless.At least, that’s what he tells himself.Then Heeseung decides to become your best friend. The worst part is that Jungwon can’t even complain. Heeseung isn’t doing anything wrong. He’s naturally affectionate, ridiculously funny, and incredibly easy to get along with the kind of hyung everyone gravitates toward. Before long, you and Heeseung are constantly together. It starts innocently late night talks after schedules, Heeseung teaching you silly dance moves in the practice room, the two of you bonding over shared playlists and bad dad jokes.

Jungwon laughs it off at first. “It’s good you get along with the members,” he tells you with a dimpled smile, ruffling your hair. Inside, he repeats the mantra He’s my hyung, you’re allowed to have friends this is normal.But the little things start piling up. Inside jokes he doesn’t understand. You’ll say something random like “pineapple on pizza” and Heeseung will burst out laughing, referencing some conversation Jungwon wasn’t part of. Long conversations that stretch for hours sometimes in the dorm living room while Jungwon pretends to focus on his laptop across from you. The way you instinctively glance toward Heeseung whenever something funny happens in a group setting, like your eyes automatically seek him out for that shared spark of amusement.

Jungwon notices everything. He starts keeping a mental scoreboard he hates himself for. Heeseung made you laugh three times today and i only got two. He catches himself staring when Heeseung casually slings an arm around your shoulders during a break, or when the older boy brings you your favorite snack without being asked. Jungwon tells himself it’s fine. He’s secure. He’s the one who gets to kiss you goodnight, the one you curl up with when the day gets too heavy.Until the night it boils over.

The whole group is hanging out in the common room after a long day of filming. You’re sitting on the couch, and Heeseung plops down right beside you. The conversation flows easily, laughter filling the space. At one point, Heeseung leans back and casually drapes his arm over the back of your chair nothing more than friendly comfort, fingers lightly brushing your shoulder as he gestures while telling a story. Jungwon, seated across from you, feels his stomach twist. His jaw tightens the rational part of his brain screams at him to stay quiet, but the words slip out before he can stop them.

“You know you don’t have to sit that close.”The entire room falls silent.Heeseung slowly turns his head toward him, eyebrows raised in surprise. You blink, turning to look at Jungwon with wide eyes. Sunoo’s mouth drops open mid bite of his snack. Jake freezes with his drink halfway to his lips. Jungwon wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole. His ears burn red, and he forces a weak laugh, trying to play it off. “I mean… there’s plenty of space on the couch.”Heeseung’s lips twitch into an amused, knowing smile. “Jealous, Wonie?”

“I’m not—” Jungwon starts, but the denial dies in his throat under everyone’s stares. He stands up abruptly. “Never mind im going to get water.”He escapes to the kitchen, heart pounding. You follow a minute later, concern written all over your face.“Wonnie…” you say softly, reaching for his hand.He sighs, leaning back against the counter and pulling you into a hug. His chin rests on top of your head. “I’m sorry that was stupid. I don’t know why I said that.”

For weeks afterward, the teasing is merciless.Every time Heeseung even stands near you, someone pipes up. “Jungwon, do you need a minute to calm down?” Sunghoon asks with a straight face during dinner one night. Jake starts dramatically draping his arm around random objects while mimicking Heeseung’s voice: “Just being friendly, leader-nim~” Sunoo takes it further by creating a group chat called “Protect Jungwon’s Girl” and spamming it with edited photos of Heeseung with heart emojis.Jungwon endures it with forced smiles and threats to assign extra chores, but inside it stings. He hates how small it makes him feel.

The jealousy builds quietly after that. He becomes extra attentive bringing you coffee exactly how you like it before Heeseung can offer, suggesting couple activities on days off that conveniently exclude the older members, finding excuses to pull you into his lap during movie nights while shooting subtle glances at Heeseung. He still laughs along with the group’s jokes about it, but at night when you’re alone, the mask slips.One evening after another long day, you find him sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor. You climb into his lap without asking, straddling his thighs and cupping his face.

“Talk to me,” you whisper.Jungwon wraps his arms around your waist, burying his face in your chest for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is muffled and embarrassed. “I hate this i keep telling myself I’m being immature. Heeseung hyung is…he’s great. He makes you happy, and I should be glad about that. But seeing you two together, laughing at things I don’t get, sharing those easy moments it feels like I’m losing you. Even though I know I’m not.”He pulls back just enough to look at you, his usually confident eyes soft with vulnerability. “I’m supposed to be the mature one the leader. But sometimes I just want to be selfish and keep all your attention for myself.”

You smile gently and kiss his forehead, then the tip of his nose. “You’re not losing me, baby. Heeseung is a good friend to both of us. But you’re my boyfriend my favorite person. The one I want at the end of every day.” Jungwon exhales shakily, his grip tightening as he leans up to kiss you properly slow, deep, and a little desperate, like he’s pouring all the bottled up feelings into it. When you pull away, he rests his forehead against yours. “I’ll try to be better about it,” he murmurs. “But maybe sit a little farther from him next time? For my heart’s sake.”

You laugh softly and nod, threading your fingers through his hair. “Deal and maybe we can make some new inside jokes that are just ours.” His dimples finally appear again as he smiles, the earlier tension melting. From then on, the jealousy doesn’t disappear completely Jungwon still stiffens a little when Heeseung gets too cuddly but he handles it better. He reaches for your hand in public more often, steals you away for quiet moments, and even joins some of the hangouts so he can be part of the laughter instead of watching from the sidelines.

And when the members tease him, he just rolls his eyes with a shy grin, knowing that at the end of the night, you’re the one curled up in his arms, whispering that he’s the only one you need.

◟✿ sunoo ˒

Sunoo’s jealousy is dramatic in the most entertaining way possible. He doesn’t get angry or cold. He gets theatrical like the lead in a tragic kdrama who’s been tragically abandoned in the rain. Complete with sighs, longing stares, and dialogue that belongs on a stage. The moment he realizes you’ve been spending most of your free time with riki lately, the performance begins.It starts with the texts. You wake up to a string of messages from him

“I hope you and your new best friend are happy together ❤️”

You blink sleepily and type back “What are you talking about?”

He replies instantly with a screenshot a detailed timestamp log ( he definitely went through your KakaoTalk chat history ) showing you spent six hours with riki yesterday arcade, late lunch, and then practicing some choreography.“You counted?” you reply, half amused, halfbaffled. “That’s not important.”It absolutely is important to him. He even color-coded the hours in the screenshot.The members think it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever seen.

Jake saves the screenshots and makes them his wallpaper. Jay starts narrating Sunoo’s sighs in a deep movie trailer voice whenever he walks by. “In a world where one girl forgot her boyfriend existed…” Jungwon tries ( and fails ) to hide his laughter behind his hand every time Sunoo launches into another monologue. Even riki—oblivious at first starts playing along, dramatically bowing to you and calling you “Noona, my favorite shopping partner” just to watch Sunoo clutch his chest like he’s been stabbed.

One afternoon you go shopping with riki for new sneakers and a couple of hoodies. The maknae is great company energetic, funny, and always down for whatever chaotic idea you have. You come back to the dorm laughing, bags in hand, only to find Sunoo sprawled dramatically across the entire couch like a Victorian era nobleman who’s just received tragic news. He’s lying on his back, one arm draped over his forehead, eyes closed in mock despair. The tv is playing some sad ballad on low volume for maximum effect.

“There she is,” he says in a mournful, trembling voice. “The woman who forgot I exist. Off gallivanting with the tall, flexible dancer while I waste away here alone unloved.”You roll your eyes, biting back a laugh, and drop your bags before sitting beside him. “Sunoo, you’re so extra.”Immediately, his entire mood flips like a switch. He sits up, wraps himself around your arm like a koala who’s been separated from its tree for years, and nuzzles into your shoulder. His legs even swing over your lap a little.

“Missed me?” you ask, poking his cheek.“No.” A long pause. “Maybe a little.”Another dramatic pause, during which he squeezes your arm tighter. “Okay, a lot terribly and devastatingly.” You laugh and run your fingers through his soft hair. “You know riki is just a friend, right? He’s like a little brother to me.”Sunoo lets out a theatrical sigh and buries his face deeper into your neck. “I know b he gets to see you in daylight hours. Laughing at his dumb jokes trying on clothes together taking pictures. While I’m stuck in vocal lessons or schedules, wondering if you’ve replaced me with someone who can do flips.”

He pulls back just enough to give you the biggest, sparkliest puppy eyes. “Do you still like me more than him? Be honest i can take it probably maybe I’ll cry, but I can take it.”The members, who have been eavesdropping from the kitchen, lose it. Sunghoon wheezes. “you’re hopeless” “Sunoo’s in his tragic heroine era again,” Heeseung calls out. Sunoo doesn’t even care. He just flips them off lazily and pulls you closer, practically climbing into your lap now. “Ignore them. They don’t understand the pain of being second to a maknae with endless energy.”

For the rest of the evening, he’s glued to you. He insists on sitting in your lap during game night ( much to everyone’s fake groans ), feeds you snacks by hand, and keeps up a running commentary of dramatic sighs every time riki says something funny.Later that night, when you’re alone in his room, the theatrics soften into something more genuine. Sunoo lies with his head on your chest, arms wrapped tightly around your waist as if you might vanish.

“I know I’m being ridiculous,” he admits quietly, voice losing the dramatic flair. “Riki’s cool he’s fun and you two have that chaotic bestie energy. But I miss being your favorite person the one you text first when something happens the one you want to spend all your free time with.” You tilt his chin up and kiss him softly. “You are my favorite person, Sunoo always. Riki is fun for a day out, but you’re the one I want to come home to. The one who makes me laugh the hardest and feel the safest.”His cheeks flush pink, but a bright, genuine smile finally breaks through the dramatics. “Good because I was prepared to write a whole musical about this heartbreak.”

You snort. “Please don’t.” “Too late Act One is already titled ‘The Boyfriend Who Was Replaced by Skate Shoes.’” He giggles at his own joke and cuddles impossibly closer, legs tangled with yours. The jealousy doesn’t disappear overnight he still sends the occasional overly dramatic text when you’re out with riki but it becomes part of your dynamic. A silly, adorable ritual. And every time he gets like that, you know exactly how to fix it sit down beside him, let him koala-cling to you, and remind him ( with words and kisses ) that no one could ever take his place. Because dramatic or not, Sunoo’s love is bright, warm, and impossible not to adore.

◟✿ riki ˒

Riki would rather die than openly admit he’s jealous. He’s the maknae, the cool, confident one who teases everyone else mercilessly. Showing vulnerability? Not his style. So instead of saying anything, he becomes weirdly competitive like he’s in a silent, one sided war that only he knows about. The second he notices how much time you’ve been spending with Sunoo lately, the scoreboard in his head starts ticking. Sunoo is easy to like bright, funny, and always down for aesthetic photos, café hopping, or just vibing with music. You two have that effortless best friend chemistry that makes everything look fun. Riki tells himself it’s whatever. He’s busy with dance practice anyway. But the mental tally keeps growing.

How many photos do you have together?How many texts do you exchange in a day?How many times do you casually mention “Sunoo said this” or “Sunoo did that” in conversation?One lazy afternoon, while you’re cuddled up in his room, riki “borrows” your phone to pick a song. He opens the camera roll by accident and freezes. Hundreds of pictures with Sunoo selfies, mirror shots, candid laughs, aesthetic couple style photos ( platonic, but still ), even silly filters. The betrayal is immediate and dramatic in riki’s mind.“Why are there so many?” he asks, voice flat as he scrolls slowly.

You glance over. “Because he steals my phone and takes selfies constantly.” “So you’re saying this isn’t your fault?” Riki narrows his eyes suspiciously, as if you’ve been caught red handed in a crime. “Exactly it’s Sunoo’s fault,” you laugh, trying to grab the phone back. He holds it higher, still scrolling with a deepening frown. “There’s like three hundred of these we don’t even have one fifty.” The competition begins that same day.

Over the next few weeks, riki launches a full scale, completely one sided campaign. Suddenly he’s asking for pictures together every single chance he gets. “Take one with me right now,” he says during breakfast, pulling you into his side and snapping a mirror selfie before you can protest. He insists on recording random dance videos where he teaches you moves ( even though you’re terrible ), then makes you watch them back together. He starts stealing your phone on purpose just to fill the gallery with hundreds of his own selfies riki making funny faces, riki doing aegyo ( reluctantly ), riki kissing your cheek while you’re not looking, riki with his arms wrapped around you from behind captioned “better than Sunoo hyung.”

He even starts keeping count out loud sometimes, though he pretends it’s casual.“We should go to that new arcade again just us. We need more content.”The members notice immediately and find it hilarious. Sunoo, the target of the rivalry, teases him the most. “Riki-yah, are you trying to break my record? That’s cute.”Jake shows everyone the rapidly growing folder titled “Me & Y/N ❤️” that riki created.Jay just smirks “lil bro is in his competitive era.”Even Jungwon joins in “Should we make a group ranking for best photos with Y/N?”

Riki denies everything with a straight face and a shrug. “I just like taking pictures. What’s the big deal?” When you finally corner him about it one night, he’s sprawled across his bed, pretending to scroll through his own ( now massively expanded ) camera roll. You climb onto the bed and straddle his waist, pinning his phone down. “Okay, spill what are you doing?”“Nothing,” he says, too quickly. He tries to look bored, but his ears are turning bright red.

You raise an eyebrow. “Riki you’ve tripled the number of photos we have together in like two weeks. You made a whole new album. You even took that ridiculous one where you’re lifting me up in the practice room.”He avoids your eyes, cheeks flushing darker. “So? I thought it looked cool.”

“Were you competing with Sunoo?” Silence and then “No.” The denial is instant, but the bright red blush spreading across his face and neck gives him away completely. He groans and covers his face with both hands, mumbling through his fingers, “This is so embarrassing don’t look at me.” You laugh softly and pull his hands away, leaning down to kiss his warm cheek. “You’re so cute when you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he protests weakly, but his arms slide around your waist anyway, holding you in place. “I just don’t like that you have more memories with him it feels unfair. I’m supposed to be the one you make the most memories with im your boyfriend.”His voice gets quieter on the last part, a rare moment of honesty slipping through the competitive armor.You smile and rest your forehead against his. “You are, dummy. Sunoo is my friend, but you’re my favorite always.”

Riki exhales, the tension melting as he flips you over so he’s hovering above you. “Good then we’re taking more pictures right now.” He grabs his phone again, but this time he’s smiling soft and a little shy as he pulls you close for a candid kiss on the cheek. From then on, the “competition” becomes less about beating Sunoo and more of an excuse for riki to shower you with extra attention. He still denies being jealous every time someone teases him, but the way he clings to you a little tighter, steals more kisses, and proudly shows off your ever growing photo album says everything.

And honestly? You don’t mind one bit. Because a competitive niki is adorable, and he always makes sure you know you’re his number one.

The girl group was called Elysium, a name that captured the dream-like, otherworldly energy they exuded on stage. Elysium’s music was a blend of powerful performances and deep, emotive lyrics, making them stand out in a crowded industry. Their fandom, known as Stellar, was dedicated, passionate, and fiercely protective of the group’s integrity. Elysium had quickly risen to fame, drawing attention not only for their talent but for their strong bond as a group.

---

Lee Yeji

00', Aries

Leader, Rapper

Yeji was the fiery leader who held the group together with her unwavering confidence. As the lead rapper, her verses were fast and powerful, leaving an impression every time she stepped up to the mic. Her assertive personality made her a natural leader, always taking charge and ensuring the group stayed on track. Offstage, Yeji balanced her strong exterior with a deep care for her members, always looking out for them like a protective older sister.

—

Hwang YN

01', Gemini

Producer, Lyricist, All-rounder

YN, the second oldest in the group, had a deep, commanding voice that often startled people when they first heard it. As a producer and lyricist, she played a key role in crafting Elysium’s unique sound. While she often appeared emotionless on the outside, YN had a dry wit that made those around her laugh without her intending to. Her calm demeanor and focus on the creative side made her a cornerstone of the group, though her voice alone commanded respect.

---

Jang Wonyoung

04', Sagittarius

Center, Visual, Vocalist

Wonyoung was the visual and center of the group, with an almost ethereal beauty that captured attention immediately. As a vocalist, her voice was sweet and clear, adding a unique texture to Elysium’s sound. Despite her grace and elegance, Wonyoung’s warmth and playful energy offstage made her approachable and beloved by fans and fellow idols alike.

---

Phan Hanni

04', Virgo

Main Vocalist

Hanni’s voice was the heart of Elysium’s music, with a range that effortlessly transitioned between delicate ballads and powerful anthems. Though she was soft-spoken offstage, her voice spoke volumes in every performance, conveying emotions with a depth that moved listeners. Hanni's humble nature and dedication to her craft made her one of the most respected members of the group, always striving to perfect her vocal technique.

---

Kang Haneul

05', Libra

Lead Dancer, Maknae

As the youngest, Haneul was the maknae of Elysium, but her skills as the lead dancer made her shine brightly on stage. Her movements were a blend of strength and grace, making every performance feel like an art form. Despite being the youngest, Haneul’s maturity and dedication to dancing set her apart. She was quiet and reserved offstage but showed an intensity and passion whenever she was on the dance floor.

Elysium’s concept was unlike anything the industry had seen before. They blended nostalgic, early-2000s vibes with a modern twist, creating a sound that felt both fresh and timeless. Their aesthetic was a blend of minimalist cool and raw authenticity—think vintage street style meets ethereal elegance. Each member’s individuality was celebrated, with no exaggerated theatrics or over-the-top concepts. Instead, Elysium’s power lay in their simplicity and authenticity, capturing the hearts of fans by just being themselves.

Their music was a perfect mix of catchy hooks and introspective lyrics, with a laid-back, almost effortless vibe that made each track feel personal. They didn’t rely on flashy choreography or ostentatious visuals; instead, their performances were intimate, like you were watching them in a moment of pure, unfiltered connection.

Elysium’s fashion mirrored this concept—loose, comfortable fits with a nostalgic edge, often accessorized with subtle details that gave them a chic, effortless flair. Their look was cool but approachable, embodying a laid-back confidence that made them stand out without trying too hard. Their style was a reflection of their personalities: fresh, real, and a little bit rebellious.

Their concept was bold in its restraint—no gimmicks, no forced personas—just raw talent and a genuine connection to their music and fans. Elysium wasn’t just a group; they were a movement, breaking barriers with a sound and aesthetic that felt both innovative and incredibly personal.

Elysium debuted in 2020 with their breakout single "Timeless Echoes", a song that perfectly encapsulated their unique blend of nostalgia and modernity. The track featured mellow, laid-back beats with hauntingly beautiful vocals that echoed their raw, authentic energy. The lyrics, penned by YN, were introspective and reflective, exploring themes of self-discovery, love, and the passage of time. "Timeless Echoes" became an instant favorite, resonating deeply with fans who were drawn to its simplicity and emotional depth.

Their debut album, "Elysian Days", was a seamless reflection of their concept—minimalistic, authentic, and grounded in real emotions. Every track on the album had been carefully crafted by YN, who not only wrote the lyrics but also produced the sound with an understated elegance that defined the group's style. The album was a mix of mellow ballads, introspective mid-tempos, and smooth, groovy beats. Each song felt like an intimate conversation, where listeners could connect deeply with the group’s journey, vulnerabilities, and experiences.

Songs like "Daydreams", "Quiet Storm", and "Wanderlust" followed, each contributing to the cohesive, yet diverse, nature of the album.

"Daydreams" captured a sense of youthful wonder and longing,

while "Quiet Storm" was a deeper, more reflective ballad about inner strength and the quiet battles people face.

"Wanderlust" was a smooth, breezy track with a laid-back vibe, encapsulating their desire for freedom and exploration.

"Elysian Days" set the stage for Elysium’s journey, marking them as an artistically bold and boundary-pushing group in the K-pop scene. They had a sound that was distinctly their own, and with YN's vision and leadership, Elysium was poised to redefine what it meant to be an idol group in the modern music landscape.

The 2020 MJK Awards buzzed with energy as the biggest names in the industry filled the grand venue. ATEEZ sat at their assigned table near the front, their growing fame landing them prime seating. Yunho, ever the curious observer, scanned the room, taking in the glamorous chaos around him. His eyes flickered toward a group seated a little further back, where five girls sat quietly, looking slightly out of place amidst the glittering stars. They carried themselves with an understated confidence that intrigued him.

It was Elysium’s first award show, and though they were new to the scene, their name had already started making waves. Yunho had heard whispers about them—their unique concept, their music written entirely by one of the members, and their captivating simplicity. But it wasn’t until they took the stage for their performance that Yunho truly understood the hype.

Their performance was brief—award show rookie slots were always short—but it was enough to command the room’s attention. The stage lights dimmed, and a haunting melody began to play, accompanied by YN’s deep, rich voice that sent a ripple through the audience. The blend of their vocals, fluid choreography, and the raw authenticity they exuded was magnetic.

Yunho found himself leaning forward in his seat, captivated by the girl with the emotionless expression and commanding voice. There was something about her—how effortlessly she moved, how her voice seemed to echo with a depth beyond her years. She didn’t try to steal the spotlight, but it seemed to find her anyway.

When Elysium was announced as the Rookie of the Year, the girls stood in shock before making their way to the stage. YN stood at the back as Yeji, the leader, delivered a heartfelt thank-you speech. Yunho noticed YN bowing slightly to the crowd, her face still unreadable but her eyes glinting with a quiet pride. She looked at her fellow members with a subtle smile, the kind you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention.

As Yeji wrapped up her heartfelt speech, thanking their fans, company, and team, she suddenly turned toward YN with a teasing smile. “Our producer should say something too, right?” she said, nudging her lightly.

The other members chimed in, giggling and encouraging her. “Come on, YN unnie!” Wonyoung whispered, while Haneul gave her a playful push forward. YN hesitated, glancing at the mic with a faint frown, clearly preferring to stay in the background.

But with the crowd now cheering lightly for her, she sighed and stepped closer to the microphone. The room quieted in anticipation.

“Thank you,” YN began, her voice low and deep, resonating across the venue like a bass note. It was so unexpected—such a rich, commanding tone coming from someone with such a small, unassuming frame—that it stunned everyone into silence.

She continued calmly, “I just want to thank our members for trusting my music and making it come to life. And to Stellar, for believing in us and helping us get here. We’ll work harder to show you more of what we can do.” Her delivery was concise, professional, and almost emotionless, but the sheer contrast of her voice and presence left the room mesmerized.

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the audience. Yunho, sitting at the ATEEZ table, felt his eyes widen as he exchanged a look of surprise with Wooyoung. Even some of the seasoned idols were caught off guard, their expressions ranging from awe to disbelief.

By the time Elysium returned to their seats, the buzz around YN had already started. Clips of her speech began circulating online before the event had even ended. Fans titled the videos "Idols Reacting to YN’s Voice", showing the surprised expressions of seniors in the audience, and "Rookie Idol Shocks Everyone with Her Deep Voice."

Within hours, hashtags like #YNsVoice and #ElysiumRookieOfTheYear trended worldwide. Some fans joked, “How is her voice deeper than most rappers?” while others were in awe of how effortlessly she spoke, carrying such a commanding presence without trying.

YN, meanwhile, remained oblivious to the storm she’d caused online, quietly congratulating her members and reminding them to stay focused on their next goals. Little did she know, her unique voice and unintentional charisma had left a lasting impression on everyone who heard it—including a certain tall, wide-eyed boy named Yunho.

Elysium’s viral moment following their award show performance had propelled them into the spotlight, and their schedules quickly became packed. One of their most exciting activities was participating in TikTok dance challenges with other idols, a promotional move that fans loved. For their latest collaboration, they were paired with none other than ATEEZ.

YN, as always, stood quietly to the side. She was assigned to lead the challenge, given her knack for precision and her ability to pick up choreography quickly. When the staff revealed the pairings, Yunho’s heart sank.

“Okay, for this one, we’ll have Jongho, Seonghwa, and YN,” the director announced, clapping his hands.

Jongho, standing beside Yunho, grinned and clapped his hands together. “Let’s do this!” he said enthusiastically.

Seonghwa nodded, his elegance evident even as he stretched, preparing for the shoot.

Meanwhile, Yunho stood frozen, his expression falling into something close to disbelief. Of all the people who could’ve been chosen, why not him? He watched as YN walked over to Jongho and Seonghwa with her usual quiet confidence, her deep voice breaking the silence as she asked, “What’s the move for the transition?”

Yunho’s stomach churned as Jongho started laughing and explaining the steps to her, the two of them already getting along. Seonghwa added a few tips, and she nodded, her focus entirely on the choreography.

The shoot began, and the trio nailed the challenge effortlessly. YN’s fluid movements and sharp execution stood out, earning her subtle admiration from Seonghwa and Jongho. The staff clapped as they wrapped up, and YN offered a brief but polite bow before stepping back to join her group.

It was a quiet evening when YN decided to go live on Elysium’s official account. Sitting comfortably in a simple hoodie with her hair tied back, she greeted her fans with her signature calm demeanor.

“Hi, everyone,” she said in her low, steady voice. “I’ve been seeing your requests for a live, so here I am. Let’s talk.”

The comments flooded in instantly, with fans typing questions faster than she could read them. YN scrolled through with a small smirk, answering a few at random.

Fan: What’s your favorite food these days?

YN: “Ah, lately, I’ve been eating way too much tteokbokki. Spicy food keeps me awake when I’m working late.”

Fan: Who’s the funniest member in Elysium?

YN: (without hesitation) “Wonyoung. She doesn’t even try, but the things she says are hilarious. And Haneul is secretly funny too—she just doesn’t realize it. Hanni is just a yapper.”

Fan: Do you have any hobbies?

YN: “Producing takes up most of my time, but I’ve been getting into reading mystery novels lately. It helps me unwind.”

Fan: What’s your favorite song you’ve written so far?

YN: “That’s like choosing a favorite child,” she said with a faint smirk. “But if I had to pick… maybe ‘Wanderlust.’ It’s a personal one, so it means a lot to me.”

Fan: What do you do when you’re not working?

YN: “I sleep,” she said bluntly, earning a flood of laughing emojis in the chat. “But if I’m not sleeping, I’m probably reading or eating.”

The questions kept rolling in, and YN answered them with her usual calm wit, making fans laugh with her unintentional humor. Then, as if it were an afterthought, she brought up something no one had asked.

As the questions continued, a fan comment caught her attention:

Fan: Who are your favorite groups?

YN tilted her head thoughtfully. “Hmm, favorite groups? That’s hard,” she said, looking genuinely torn. “I really admire Seventeen. Their stage presence, their music, and the way they work together as a team are incredible. My bias is S.Coups. He’s an amazing leader.”

“And... I also really like ATEEZ.” Her voice dropped just slightly, her expression remaining composed, but the slight tilt of her head hinted at something unspoken.

The chat went wild.

Fan: ATEEZ?! OMG, finally someone appreciates them like we do!

Fan: What’s your favorite ATEEZ song?!

Fan: She said it so casually, but we know it’s not casual!!!

YN read through the comments, her lips twitching into the faintest smile. “ATEEZ has an amazing stage presence,” she said, carefully picking her words. “They’re one of those groups that really pour everything into their performances. It’s inspiring.”

Then, as if testing the waters, someone in the chat asked the inevitable:

Fan: Do you have a bias in ATEEZ?

YN’s calm demeanor wavered for the briefest moment. She paused, as though considering her answer, and then let out a soft chuckle. “Ah, I don’t really have one. I’m just... a fan of all of them.”

Her mention of ATEEZ and that small, telling hesitation didn’t go unnoticed. The chat exploded.

Fan: She’s lying, she totally has a bias!

Fan: YN, we can tell! Just say it’s Yunho, we won’t tell!

Fan: Why does this feel like a confession?!

YN shook her head, her usual emotionless expression tinged with faint amusement. “You guys are so quick to jump to conclusions,” she said, her deep voice betraying nothing. “But really, all of ATEEZ is talented. That’s all I’ll say.”

As the live progressed, YN’s usual calm, no-nonsense demeanor took a sharper edge when she noticed the comments spiraling. Fans were already speculating and joking about her mentioning ATEEZ, and while some of it was lighthearted, she knew how quickly things could escalate.

She leaned closer to the camera, her deep voice cutting through the excited chatter in the chat. “Alright,” she said, her tone firm, “before anyone gets carried away, let me be clear. I don’t want to see any unnecessary rumors or assumptions about what I said.”

The chat paused for a moment as fans processed her sudden shift.

“I admire Seventeen and ATEEZ, just like I admire a lot of other groups,” she continued, her gaze steady. “They work hard, and they’re talented. That’s it. Please don’t create unnecessary drama out of this. Focus on supporting the artists you love instead of making things weird.”

Her straightforward approach silenced most of the speculation, with fans quickly apologizing or reassuring her in the chat. Still, clips of her stern warning made their way online, and while many praised her for setting boundaries, others couldn’t help but laugh at how serious she became.

A few days later, the members of ATEEZ were scattered around their dorm, enjoying a rare break. Yunho was scrolling through his phone, absentmindedly liking posts when Wooyoung suddenly gasped from the other side of the room.

“Guys!” Wooyoung yelled, nearly tripping over himself as he ran to the living room, phone in hand. “You have to see this!”

“What now?” San groaned, but he leaned in as Wooyoung shoved his phone in their faces.

On the screen was a trending hashtag: #YNWarnsFans, alongside clips of her live where she mentioned ATEEZ and later shut down the rumors.

“Wait,” Jongho said, narrowing his eyes. “She mentioned us? During her live?”

“She didn’t just mention us,” Wooyoung said, his grin widening. “She told her fans not to start rumors because she respects us so much.”

Yunho froze in his seat, suddenly hyperaware of his teammates' reactions. “Why are we even trending? She probably mentioned other groups too,” he said, attempting to downplay it.

“Oh, she did,” Seonghwa replied, calmly sipping his tea. “But the way she said our name was... interesting.”

“What do you mean interesting?” Yunho asked, his voice rising slightly.

“You know, it had weight,” Wooyoung said, mimicking YN’s deep voice dramatically. “‘I also really like ATEEZ.’”

San burst out laughing. “I think she scared her fans into behaving! Look at this.” He pulled up another clip from the live where YN firmly told her fans to focus on supporting artists instead of causing drama.

“She’s strict,” Jongho said with a chuckle. “I respect that.”

“But why do her fans think there’s more to it?” Mingi asked, looking genuinely confused as he scrolled through posts.

Wooyoung leaned closer to Yunho, smirking. “Because, dear Yunho, they picked up on something. Maybe we should too.”

Yunho shoved Wooyoung away, his face heating up. “You’re all reading too much into this,” he muttered, though his heart was racing.

But even as the teasing continued, the thought of YN deliberately mentioning ATEEZ—and how she handled the situation so seriously—lingered in Yunho’s mind longer than he wanted to admit.

A few years after their debut, Elysium had solidified themselves as one of the most unique and beloved groups in the industry. Their artistry and authenticity had earned them a loyal fanbase, and their ability to stay grounded despite their success only made fans adore them more. So, when YN was invited to participate in a new, groundbreaking show where idols opened up about their lives and struggles, fans were both thrilled and nervous.

The concept of the show was simple: one idol, one camera, and complete vulnerability. It wasn’t scripted or rehearsed, just an intimate conversation that allowed idols to connect with their fans on a deeper level. YN, known for her reserved and straightforward nature, was an interesting choice, and many fans wondered if she would even share much.

The studio was dimly lit, the focus entirely on YN as she sat in a simple chair, dressed casually in a white sweater and jeans. The setup was minimal—just her, the camera, and a producer sitting off-screen to guide the conversation.

After a brief introduction, the producer asked the first question. “Let’s start with something simple. How would you describe your journey as an idol so far?”

YN leaned back slightly, her deep voice calm but reflective. “It’s been... fulfilling, but not easy,” she admitted. “I think people assume that just because we’re successful now, everything was smooth sailing. But that’s far from the truth.”

The producer nodded, encouraging her to continue. “What were some of the challenges you faced?”

YN took a moment to gather her thoughts. “When Elysium debuted, we weren’t like other groups. Our concept was different, our music wasn’t the mainstream sound, and we didn’t fit into the mold of what people expected. At first, it felt like we were always trying to prove ourselves. I remember the pressure was so intense that I barely slept those first few months because I was constantly writing and producing, trying to make sure we stood out.”

She paused, her expression softening slightly. “But the hardest part wasn’t the work—it was the doubt. There were moments when I wondered if I was good enough to be the producer and lyricist for a group like ours. I knew my members trusted me, but I didn’t always trust myself.”

The producer gently asked, “What kept you going during those times?”

“My members,” YN replied immediately, a rare, small smile gracing her lips. “Yeji, Wonyoung, Hanni, and Haneul—they never doubted me, even when I doubted myself. They’d stay with me during late-night studio sessions, bring me snacks, or just sit quietly while I worked. It sounds small, but it reminded me that I wasn’t alone.”

The conversation then shifted to her personal life. “Fans have always admired your confidence and maturity. Have you always been like this?”

YN let out a low chuckle, shaking her head. “Not at all. Growing up, I was pretty shy and quiet. My voice was always deeper than the other kids’, and I got teased for it. It made me insecure for a long time, but eventually, I learned to own it. Now, I think my voice is one of my strengths.”

The producer hesitated before asking the next question. “What’s something most people don’t know about you?”

YN’s expression grew serious, her gaze dropping to the floor for a moment. “I think people assume that because I’m strict with fans and straightforward in interviews, I’m... cold or distant. But the truth is, I care deeply about the people around me. I just don’t always know how to show it. It’s something I’m working on.”

The producer wrapped up the session by asking, “What would you say to your fans who are watching this?”

YN looked directly into the camera, her deep voice steady but warm. “Thank you. For believing in us, for giving us the chance to grow, and for supporting us even when things weren’t perfect. I know I can be tough sometimes, but it’s because I respect you all and want to protect what we’ve built together. So... thank you.”

The producer leaned forward slightly, their voice gentle but curious. “What are your fears, YN?”

YN’s calm demeanor faltered just a bit as she shifted in her seat, her fingers lightly brushing against the edge of her sweater. For a moment, she seemed hesitant, but then she answered, her deep voice steady and straightforward.

“Deep water. The ocean. I hate them,” she said bluntly.

The producer looked surprised. “Really? That’s interesting. Why is that?”

YN exhaled softly, her expression unreadable. “There’s something about it... the unknown. It’s so vast, so unpredictable. You don’t know what’s underneath, and that terrifies me. It feels... suffocating.”

She paused, her gaze lowering slightly as she continued. “I think it’s the idea of being completely out of control. You can’t see, you can’t touch the bottom—it’s just endless. It’s not something I’ve ever been able to get over.”

The producer nodded, sensing the depth of her fear. “Have you ever had to face it?”

YN shook her head firmly. “No, and I don’t plan to. I’ll admire the ocean from a safe distance, thank you very much. But you won’t catch me on a boat or anywhere near deep water. That’s non-negotiable.”

The producer hesitated before asking the next question, clearly aware of its weight. “Can you tell us about your family?”

YN’s usually calm expression shifted slightly, her deep voice quiet as she began, “My family…” She trailed off, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. For a moment, it seemed like she wouldn’t answer, but then she exhaled deeply and decided to speak.

“When I was 11, everything changed,” she started, her voice steady but void of emotion. “My dad lost his job. At first, we thought it was temporary, that things would get better. But they didn’t.”

She paused, her eyes glancing briefly off-camera. “He started drinking. A lot. And gambling. He couldn’t handle the stress, I guess. It became this... downward spiral. Debt piled up, and suddenly, money lenders were showing up at our house, banging on the door.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line before she continued, her voice a fraction quieter. “There were times I had to hide. My mom would pull me into a room and tell me to stay quiet while she dealt with them. She tried to protect me, but I could hear everything—the shouting, the threats.”

The producer stayed silent, letting her speak at her own pace.

“My mom... she’s the strongest person I know,” YN said, her tone softening slightly. “She held everything together when it felt like the world was falling apart. But I’d see her break, late at night, when she thought I was asleep. She’d cry, or just sit there, staring at nothing. It was like she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.”

Her gaze darkened as she continued. “And my dad… he’d talk about ending it all. Killing himself. He’d say it like it was a casual thing, and I didn’t know how to react. I was just a kid, and I felt so helpless. There were days I hated him for what he was putting us through, but at the same time, I was terrified of losing him.”

The producer’s voice was gentle when they asked, “Did you have anyone else to lean on during that time?”

YN shook her head, letting out a bitter laugh. “No. I’m an only child, and my cousins—they weren’t exactly kind. My parents borrowed money from everyone in the family, and that became the reason I was bullied by my cousins. They’d call me names, make fun of how my family couldn’t afford things. It got to the point where I dreaded family gatherings because I knew I’d be humiliated.”

She paused, her voice tightening slightly. “My studies fell apart. I used to be a good student, but I couldn’t focus. Everything felt meaningless when your home life is a disaster. And I didn’t have best friends or anyone to turn to. I was alone. Completely alone.”

The room was silent for a moment, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the air.

“But,” YN said, her voice regaining some strength, “I think that’s what made me who I am today. I had to grow up fast. I learned how to survive, how to be self-sufficient. And when I finally got the chance to chase my dreams, I put everything into it because I knew what it was like to have nothing.”

The producer nodded, visibly moved. “You’ve come so far, YN. Thank you for sharing something so personal.”

The episode aired a week later, and fans were stunned. Many had known bits and pieces of her story, but hearing her lay it all out like this was heartbreaking. Social media exploded with messages of support, with hashtags like #YNStrong and #ProudOfYN trending for days.

Yunho couldn’t stop thinking about YN’s story. He’d always been a fan of her work, admiring her talents as a producer, lyricist, and performer. But after hearing about her past, his admiration transformed into deep respect. She wasn’t just an artist he looked up to; she was someone who had overcome unimaginable challenges to stand where she was now.

“She’s incredible,” Yunho murmured one evening while scrolling through clips of YN’s interview on his phone.

“What’s that?” Hongjoong asked from across the room, looking up from his laptop.

“YN,” Yunho said, setting his phone down. “You watched her interview, right? She’s... amazing. I mean, her talent was already obvious, but after hearing her story, I respect her so much more. She’s been through so much and still came out stronger.”

Hongjoong nodded, leaning back in his chair. “She’s definitely one of the most genuine idols out there. Her story hit hard, and the way she handles herself? It’s admirable.”

Yunho hesitated for a moment before speaking. “Hyung, you’re good at networking and... you know, initiating things. Don’t you think it’d be great if we worked with her? Like, a Collab? She’s a producer, you’re a producer—it just makes sense.”

Hongjoong raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Is this about work, or is this about you being a fanboy?”

Yunho flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s about work,” he insisted, though the slight stammer in his voice gave him away. “Seriously, though. A Collab with her would be amazing. She has such a unique sound, and I think we could create something incredible together.”

Hongjoong chuckled, but there was a thoughtful look in his eyes. “You’re not wrong. Elysium’s sound is distinct, and her skills as a producer are no joke. It’d be interesting to see how our styles would blend.”

“So, will you reach out?” Yunho asked, his eyes lighting up with excitement.

“Sure,” Hongjoong said with a shrug. “I’ll bring it up with the company first, then see if Elysium’s side is interested. But don’t get your hopes up too fast. These things take time.”

Yunho nodded eagerly, already imagining what a collaboration with YN could look like. It wasn’t just about the music—though he truly believed they could create something amazing together. It was also a chance to work with someone he admired deeply, someone who inspired him not just as an artist but as a person.

A few days later, Hongjoong brought it up during a company meeting, pitching the idea with his usual confidence. The team seemed intrigued, and word was sent to Elysium’s management.

Unbeknownst to Yunho, YN herself was surprised when her company informed her of the request. A collaboration with ATEEZ? Specifically involving Hongjoong? She respected ATEEZ as artists, and the idea piqued her interest.

But for YN, who always approached her work with precision and seriousness, this wasn’t just about making a hit song. It was about finding the right synergy, the perfect balance between two distinct artistic visions.

As the initial talks began between the two companies, Yunho could barely contain his excitement. This was the beginning of something big—he could feel it. Whether or not YN would ever know how much her story and strength inspired him, Yunho was determined to give this project everything he had.

After the collaboration, Yunho finally decided it was time to approach YN. He couldn’t ignore the pull he felt toward her anymore. Her story, her strength, her talent—they had all left a deep impression on him. But more than that, he wanted to know the person behind the stoic demeanor, the person who had fought through so much to stand where she was.

He asked Hongjoong for advice. “What do I even say? I don’t want to freak her out or make it awkward.”

“Just be honest,” Hongjoong said simply. “She doesn’t seem like the type who likes sugarcoating. Just tell her how you feel.”

So, a few days later, Yunho worked up the courage. They crossed paths backstage at a music event, and he casually approached her during a quiet moment.

“Hey, YN,” he said, his usual bright smile lighting up his face. “Do you have a minute?”

YN turned to him, her expression unreadable but polite. “Sure, what’s up?”

Yunho hesitated for a split second but pushed forward. “I wanted to say... I really admire you. Not just for your talent, but for how strong you are. I know you’ve been through a lot, and... I’d like to get to know you better, if that’s okay.”

YN blinked, clearly caught off guard. She wasn’t used to people approaching her so directly. After a brief silence, she let out a small sigh. “Sunbaenim, I... I appreciate that, but I’m not in the best place right now. Mentally, emotionally—I’m just... not okay. I’m so busy, and I have a lot on my plate already. I don’t think I can handle a relationship, or even—”

“I’m not asking you to handle anything,” Yunho interrupted softly. His usual playful demeanor was replaced with something serious and genuine. “I’m not here to add to your burdens. I just want to be there for you. To take care of you, in any way I can.”

YN looked at him, her guard slipping slightly as she searched his face. “You say that now, but... I’m not easy to deal with. I have days where I can barely hold myself together. I don’t want to drag anyone down with me.”

Yunho smiled, his voice steady. “I’m not scared of that. Everyone has their struggles, and you’ve been carrying so much on your own for so long. Let someone be there for you for once. I don’t need anything from you—I just want to help lighten the load, even if it’s just a little.”

YN’s lips pressed into a thin line as she considered his words. Part of her wanted to push him away, to stick to the walls she had built around herself. But another part of her—the part that had spent so many years feeling alone—was tempted to let someone in, even just a little.

“...You’re persistent, aren’t you?” she finally said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

Yunho grinned, his warmth returning. “You have no idea.”

YN shook her head, but there was a softness in her eyes now. “Alright, Sunbaenim. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I can handle it,” he said confidently. “You’ll see.”

It was a small step, but for Yunho, it was a start. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but he was determined to show YN that she didn’t have to face everything alone anymore.

Yunho didn’t back down after that conversation. If anything, it seemed to fuel his determination to show YN that he was serious about what he’d said. He didn’t push her boundaries or overwhelm her—instead, he made his presence known in small, thoughtful ways.

It started with endless messages. Texts that weren’t demanding but comforting.

“Hope today’s schedule isn’t too hectic. Don’t forget to eat something good!”

“Just heard a song that reminded me of you. Maybe we can listen together someday?”

“Don’t overwork yourself. You’re doing great.”

YN would read his texts late at night, her lips twitching into an involuntary smile. Sometimes she replied with a quick “Thanks” or a simple thumbs-up, but Yunho never seemed discouraged. He’d keep sending messages, as though he didn’t expect anything in return, just wanting her to know he was thinking of her.

On social media, Yunho started dropping subtle hints. Nothing too obvious, but enough to make fans and even his members suspicious. He’d mention how much he admired producers who put their heart into their work or casually praise Elysium in interviews.

In one live, a fan asked him what song he was listening to lately, and he grinned. “Oh, there’s this really cool track by a certain producer I admire. It’s on repeat, but I won’t say who. Let’s just say they’re super talented.”

ATEEZ fans picked up on it quickly, speculating wildly about who he was talking about. Meanwhile, YN watched the chaos unfold on Twitter, shaking her head at the ridiculousness of it all. She knew exactly who Yunho was referring to, and though she tried to act unaffected, she couldn’t help the warmth that crept into her chest.

Even his fellow members started teasing him.

“Yunho, are you trying to be sneaky with those hints?” Wooyoung asked during one live, grinning mischievously.

“Hints? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yunho replied, his tone light but his smile betraying him.

“You’re so obvious,” Seonghwa added with a knowing smirk.

But Yunho didn’t care. He wasn’t trying to hide how he felt—he just wanted to take his time and let YN see that he wasn’t going anywhere.

The fans weren’t the only ones who noticed, though. YN’s members caught on too.

“Yunho’s really persistent, huh?” Yeji teased one day as they scrolled through comments under one of his interviews.

“I think it’s cute,” Wonyoung chimed in, grinning.

“More like annoying,” YN muttered, though the faint blush on her cheeks said otherwise.

Haneul smirked, nudging her. “You like the attention. Admit it.”

“I don’t,” YN said quickly, but her voice lacked conviction.

Despite her protests, YN couldn’t deny that Yunho’s endless effort was starting to chip away at the walls she’d built. His sincerity, his warmth, and his determination to make her feel cared for—it was something she hadn’t experienced before.

She wasn’t ready to fully let him in yet, but she found herself replying to his messages more often, even if it was just to tell him about her day or share a funny meme. And every time, Yunho’s responses were full of enthusiasm, as though he cherished every word she sent him.

Slowly but surely, Yunho was proving to her that he meant what he said—that he would take care of her, no matter what. And while YN was still hesitant, she couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to keep pushing him away.

One evening, Yunho went live, sitting comfortably in a hoodie, his radiant smile lighting up the screen. The live started like any other—him chatting with ATINY, answering questions, joking around, and sharing a bit about his day. But as the live went on, his tone shifted slightly, becoming more reflective.

“ATINY,” he began, leaning closer to the camera, his expression sincere. “You’ve been with me through so much—my ups, my downs, and everything in between. I’ve always felt your love and support, and it’s what keeps me going every day.”

The chat flooded with hearts and messages of encouragement.

He chuckled softly, scratching the back of his neck as if gathering his thoughts. “But there’s something I’ve been thinking about lately. I’m getting older, and I know that as idols, there’s this expectation... to focus only on our careers. To be... untouchable, in a way.”

The chat slowed down as fans sensed he was about to say something important.

“But I want to be honest with you,” Yunho continued, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “There may come a time when I fall in love with someone. I don’t know when, and I don’t know who, but when that happens, I hope you’ll love me no matter what. I’ve always wanted to give you my best, and I will continue to do that, but I also want to be true to myself.”

The chat exploded with messages of support.

“We’ll love you no matter what!”

“You deserve to be happy, Yunho!”

“ATINY will always stand by you!”

Yunho smiled softly, his eyes glistening slightly. “Thank you. That means more to me than I can say. I’ve been so lucky to have fans like you—people who understand that we’re human too, with dreams and emotions like anyone else.”

He hesitated for a moment, then added with a playful grin, “But don’t worry, ATINY. For now, I’m still all yours. Just... if the day ever comes, I hope you’ll support me the same way you always have.”

The live ended with Yunho thanking everyone and promising to work harder for ATINY.

Within minutes of the live ending, hashtags like #WeLoveYouYunho and #ATINYSupportsYunho trended worldwide on Twitter. Fans posted clips of his heartfelt speech, praising his honesty and maturity.

“Yunho deserves all the happiness in the world.”

“This is why we stan him—he’s so real and genuine.”

“No matter who he loves, ATINY will always be here!”

Even Yunho’s fellow members teased him afterward, showing him the trending hashtags. “Look at this,” Wooyoung said, laughing. “You’re literally trending everywhere.”

Yunho just smiled, feeling a sense of relief and gratitude. He didn’t know what the future held, but knowing ATINY had his back made him feel braver about whatever lay ahead—especially when it came to someone like YN.

A year after Yunho’s heartfelt live, the news that fans had been quietly speculating about finally broke. Dispatch, the notorious news outlet, published an exclusive article revealing that Yunho and YN were allegedly dating. The article included photos of the two of them together on several occasions, some taken during casual outings, others during events where they’d been seen talking closely, laughing, and even holding hands when they thought no one was looking.

The news spread like wildfire across social media, causing an immediate uproar. Fans were quick to react—some in shock, others in support, and a few, unfortunately, in anger. The inevitable backlash began to rise, fueled by certain fans who felt betrayed or disappointed that their favorite idols were in a relationship. They bombarded social media with their opinions, criticizing both Yunho and YN for being “unprofessional” or “disrespectful” to their fandoms. But what they hadn’t anticipated was the unwavering defense that came from both Yunho and YN’s fans.

ATINY, in particular, stood as a united front. The fanbase, known for their loyalty and dedication, came together like never before. Tweets flooded the timelines, filled with messages like:

“Yunho deserves love just like anyone else! #WeLoveYouYunho” “YN is amazing, and they make each other happy. Why can’t we just support them? #WeSupportYNandYunho” “Love isn’t a crime. Let them be happy. #ATINYSUPPORTSYNANDYUNHO”

The hashtag #YNandYunho began trending worldwide, and posts defending the couple filled every social platform. ATINY showed their devotion not only to Yunho but also to YN, who was just as much a target of the hate. Elysium’s fandom, although smaller, also rallied behind their idol, and soon, the combined power of both fanbases made the negative voices seem like a distant echo.

Even YN, who had always been known for her more private nature, made a statement on her social media:

“To all the people spreading hate, I just want to say that I’m happy. Yunho is someone I care about deeply, and we’re both doing our best to navigate this world as we see fit. I hope you can respect our privacy and our decisions. Thank you to everyone who has supported us with kindness. We see you, and we appreciate you.”

Yunho, too, shared his thoughts:

“Thank you to ATINY for always having my back. I know this might be a lot for some people to understand, but YN and I are happy, and we’re just two people who care about each other. We hope you can support us as we continue to work hard for you. Love is love.”

The company quickly addressed the situation as well, confirming the dating rumors. They emphasized that both Yunho and YN were adults who were fully aware of the impact of their relationship and the responsibility that came with their public lives. The statement also reassured fans that their careers and work ethics would remain unaffected, and they would continue to put their best foot forward in everything they did.

Despite the hate, the overwhelming support from fans made it clear that they were not alone. The strength of ATINY and Elysium’s support made Yunho and YN’s bond feel more solid than ever. And while the situation was far from perfect, it showed that love—true love—could thrive even in the world of K-pop, where idols are often seen as untouchable. Together, they navigated the challenges that came their way, knowing that the people who mattered most—each other and their loyal fans—had their backs no matter what.

YN, as always, found herself overthinking everything. The moment the rumors broke, she spiraled into a sea of doubts. The backlash wasn’t easy to ignore—she could see the comments, the subtle whispers, and the hate that was beginning to flood social media. Despite the overwhelming support, the negativity seemed to weigh heavily on her heart.

She constantly found herself checking her phone, replaying every moment, every interaction with Yunho, wondering if it was all worth it. Was she just dragging him into the chaos of her own life? Could she really handle being in the spotlight like this? Was it fair to Yunho?

Her mind raced as the pressure mounted. What if things didn’t work out? What if the hate only grew stronger? And what if it affected his career, his image, his future?

“YN?” Yunho’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. He’d noticed how distant she’d been recently.

She looked up at him, her eyes tired and full of uncertainty. “Yunho… I just… I don’t know how to handle all this. It feels too overwhelming. What if—”

Before she could finish, Yunho pulled her into his arms, his warmth surrounding her like a protective shield. “Hey, listen to me. You don’t have to handle it alone. I’m here. We’re in this together. And if anyone hurts you, I swear I’ll take care of it.”

YN shook her head, pulling back slightly. “I don’t want you to do anything drastic, Yunho. You can’t just fix everything with threats. We can’t handle it that way.”

He sighed, a little frustrated but understanding. “But if it were up to me, I’d sue anyone who dares to disrespect you. They’ll learn that no one gets to hurt the people I care about.”

YN laughed, despite herself, shaking her head. “Yunho, please. You can’t go around suing people because they say something rude. That’s not how it works.”

But Yunho wasn’t ready to back down. He reached for her hand, his gaze firm. “I’ll do a live. I’ll threaten them, make it clear that anyone who hurts you will face consequences. I’ll make them understand, YN.”

YN looked at him, her heart swelling at the sight of how much he cared for her. But as much as she appreciated his protective instinct, she knew it wasn’t the solution. “You don’t have to fight my battles for me,” she said softly, squeezing his hand. “I can’t let you do that. Please don’t. I don’t want anyone to think you’re only with me because you’re trying to fix things.”

He looked at her with unwavering determination, but she could see the understanding in his eyes. “I just want to protect you, YN. I care about you so much.”

“I know,” she whispered, her heart aching. “I care about you, too. But we have to be strong together. Not because of what they say, but because of how we feel.”

Yunho’s expression softened, his arms wrapping around her again. “I love you, YN. No matter what, I’ll love you. And I’ll stand by you through all of it—good or bad.”

YN closed her eyes, leaning into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his love and support. She knew the road ahead wouldn’t be easy. There would be days when the world seemed too harsh, when the hate would feel unbearable. But with Yunho by her side, she knew she wasn’t facing it alone. He was her strength, and she was his.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Thank you for loving me.”

“I’ll always love you,” Yunho said, his voice full of quiet confidence. “No matter what.”

And despite the uncertainty that still lingered, YN felt a flicker of peace. With Yunho, they could handle whatever came their way. Together.

The days that followed were still filled with challenges, but something about their bond made everything seem a little lighter. Yunho and YN grew closer, their moments together filled with laughter and quiet comfort. The hate that once surrounded them felt distant, as the love and support from their fans only seemed to grow stronger.

On the rare days when they had time off, they would meet up in small, cozy cafes or take walks in the park, just enjoying each other's company without the pressure of the world around them. Yunho would always find a way to make her smile, whether it was with his cheesy jokes or by simply holding her hand, offering her the kind of warmth that made her forget about everything else.

One evening, they sat together on a bench in a secluded park, the sunset painting the sky with soft pinks and oranges. Yunho rested his head on her shoulder, his hand gently intertwined with hers.

“You know,” he said softly, his voice filled with contentment, “I’m glad I didn’t back down when I first decided to love you. All of this… it’s worth it. You’re worth it.”

YN smiled, her heart swelling with emotion. “I’m glad you didn’t either. You’ve made everything feel a little less overwhelming, Yunho.”

He looked up at her, his eyes full of affection. “And you’ve made me believe that love is worth fighting for. That it’s worth all the risks. I’ll always be here for you, YN. Always.”

YN leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “I love you, Yunho.”

“I love you, too,” he whispered, his voice full of warmth and sincerity.

They stayed like that for a while, enjoying the peaceful silence, content in each other’s presence. No drama, no expectations—just the two of them, surrounded by the quiet beauty of the world and the unwavering certainty of their love. It was a love that had stood the test of everything that had been thrown their way. And, as they held each other close, they knew they were ready to face whatever came next—together, as they always had been.

And for once, everything felt right.

warnings 𖢥⊹ ࣪ ˖ mentions of violence, blood, wounds // mild cursing // multiple kiss scenes bc jake is just so kissable whoops // slowslowburn // jakehoon bromance keeps me alive // jake pines & yearns & longs & yearns.. // concept of 'casual' dating // superhero & mcu elements & easter eggs :3 // jake is a loser but spider-man is a smooth-talker heh

°˖➴ .ᐟ 𖢥 addie ── FINALLY !!! i have finally, finally finished a full fic for the first time in literal forever and i'm actually so excited for this one bc i freaking love mcu & spiderman & jake so freaking much you guys dont understand...spidey was my first ever childhood crush i think i literally made a post abt it somewhere here on my blog ages ago...so my reaction when i got this anon request for this fic?? i cheered. ꉂ(˵˃ ᗜ ˂˵) ty for being patient with me and for all the words of support & encouragement & love throughout the process <333 if you've been here some time and read my other works you know i literally get myself way too indulged into the whole process,,,but i really did have so much freaking fun writing this so i really hope you guys like all 25k words of spidey!jake :3

sim jaeyun has a lot of secrets.

like the fact that he’s secretly (but not so secretly) a giant nerd and, frankly, a genius with the probable IQ of someone who can calculate pi to the 500th decimal in his head just for fun. or maybe the fact that he’s definitely smart enough to hack into the school’s database and find copies of the finals’ answer keys under ten minutes flat.

but he doesn’t. because again. sim jaeyun is a genius (and because he’s scared of getting caught. but mostly the genius thing).

sim jaeyun pours his milk before cereal. he sleeps on his stomach. he doesn’t separate his white socks from his colored ones. he’s terrified of cats. he loves rom-coms. he’s spider-man. he can’t fall asleep without his favorite build-a-bear. and he doesn’t know how to ride a bike.

but his most important secret? he has the biggest crush on you.

so big that he’d say it’s more top-secret than the fact that he uses 5-in-1 men’s soap and being the city’s web-slinging, crime-fighting, red-and-blue spandex-wearing superhero.

and in all honestly— it’s not like the latter is even that secret anymore.

because another thing about jake? he sucks at keeping secrets.

he figured this out about two weeks into accepting his new life post-radioactive-spider-bite—right around the same time he decided yeah, sure, i can totally handle having powers and a double life. and not freaking out every time he accidentally shot a web out in his sleep.

he figured this out when park sunghoon, his longtime best friend, accidentally found jake’s suit in his room. and by accidentally, we mean jake just…left it lying out. on his bed. in plain sight. because he forgot to put it away the day sunghoon came over to share his history notes.

that was the day sunghoon declared himself jake’s “guy in the chair.”

so yeah. jake sucks at keeping his spidey secret…a secret.

but his crush on you? oh yeah.

that one’s highly classified (except from sunghoon. because again—guy in the chair).

“you should probably stop staring before it gets creepy.”

jake blinks.

he stops staring at you—across the cafeteria, laughing with your friends, completely unaware of how he’s most definitely about five seconds away from writing your name in bubble letters with a pink glitter pen on his notebook cover.

he turns his head toward the voice. sunghoon, of course.

“actually, too late. it’s creepy,” sunghoon adds before casually chewing on the cafeteria pizza that’s always a little too suspiciously rubbery but no one ever questions it for their own sake.

jake sighs, his eyes going back to your figure across the busy room. “you think she’ll talk to me in chemistry today?”

sunghoon doesn’t even blink. “she has to talk to you. you guys are literally lab partners.”

“that’s different,” jake mutters, chin in his hand, eyes never leaving you once. “i mean, i could ask what her favorite color is or something…”

sunghoon stares. jaw slack. full deadpan.

“that’s a joke, right? please tell me that’s a joke. because i don’t know what funnier—the fact that you have the pick up lines of a first grader, or the fact that even i know that you know you don’t have the guts to say anything to her that’s not directly related to ionic bonding.”

jake whips his head to his best friend, the look in his eyes being nothing less than betrayed, “i so totally can!”

“jake,” sunghoon says slowly, voice lowering, “you broke the test tube in your hand last week when she asked what your weekend plans were.” a pause. “then you ran out of the room. without saying anything.”

jake groans. drops his head into his arms on the table. “okay, i specifically remember saying we would never bring that up ever again.”

sunghoon chuckles, hands raised, “just saying.”

a brief silence falls over the table as jake lifts his head up in despair. he goes back to probably-definitely-not-so-subtly watching you from across the cafeteria.

“you should just…y’know—” sunghoon nudges jake’s side. “—get your lil buddy to help you out.”

jake freezes. turns to his best friend in horror, “my…lil what now?”

sunghoon’s palm smacks the side of jake’s head before his voice drops to a whisper, “your alter ego, idiot.”

jake rubs the side of his head, staring at the way sunghoon is casually sitting there like this is a perfectly reasonable suggestion.

“you heard me,” sunghoon continues when jake makes no sign of responding, the look on his face enough to tell sunghoon he thinks he’s probably borderline psychotic. “go up to her as spider-man. be mysterious. say something cool. i bet she’ll be super impressed and instantly fall in love with you.”

“that is literally the worst idea you probably could’ve ever thought of.”

“is it?” sunghoon shrugs, smug as he leans back in his chair. “because seeing as your track record so far is either a) breaking glass around her, or b)…actually, no. yeah, that’s it. that’s all i got. your track record sucks, bro.”

jake groans for the nth time and lets his head thunk onto the table this time with a soft clunk. “i hate it here.”

“you’re not even going to consider it?”

jake lifts his head just enough to glare his eyes at sunghoon, “do you hear yourself? you want me to flirt with her…while wearing spandex. in full mask. while i talk like this—” his voice drops to the deeper, definitely-not-as-disguising-as-he-thinks-it-is tone he uses while saving the city at night. “‘hey. i know i’m wanted by, like, a hundred bad people out there, but also, what’s your favorite color?’”

sunghoon grins. “add a little web trick and shoulder touch and boom—she’s yours.”

jake deadpans at him, his voice returning to normal, “do you even like me? are we even friends?”

sunghoon shrugs. pops a fry in his mouth. thinks for a second. “you’re entertaining.”

jake groans again. slumps dramatically into his seat, staring at the too-bright fluorescent lights in the ceiling above him. “i can’t flirt as spider-man me,” he mutters. “that sounds like a nightmare. i can’t even talk to her as me me.”

“duh. that’s kinda the entire point.”

“and then what, huh?” jake dramatically throws his hands up. “i take her on a date while web-swinging through the city? and if i drop her?”

“i dunno,” sunghoon takes another unbothered bite of his rubber pizza. “use two webs? you’re the one with the sticky powers, i don’t know it works!”

jake lets out an exasperated sound.

sunghoon pats his back, attempting to be the supportive friend he is. “face it. it’s the only way she’s ever gonna know you’re slightly even remotely cool and do anything more than read books on like…i don’t know—how physics makes the earth spin or something.”

jake pouts. “i am cool!” “you own a build-a-bear named woofy.” “he’s a comfort object!” “exactly. that’s why spider-man has to take the wheel from now on.”

jake stares at sunghoon, shakes his head, and starts packing up his completely untouched lunch.

“whatever. i’m going to chemistry,” he mutters, swinging his backpack around his shoulder with a huff, despite the fact that class doesn’t start for another twenty minutes.

and it’s not like he needs to get to class early to ask the teacher questions or get extra help on the homework or anything normal and productive like that—don’t be ridiculous.

because here’s the thing. jake getting to class early means one very important thing: he gets to his seat—the one next to yours—before you do.

which means you have to acknowledge him first. which is crucial.

because if the roles were reversed—jake does not trust himself to be able to acknowledge you first and say hi without choking on his own air or probably knocking over a glass beaker that wasn’t there before but would somehow magically appear because that’s just jake’s luck in the process.

regardless, it works. the system works. he’s perfected it by now. because it’s about half way through the school year and without fail, every time you walk into class and jake’s already sitting there—busy pretending like he’s reading some article on his laptop when in reality his senses are going haywire over being overwhelmed by your entire presence that he already felt from down the hallway—you always greet him first with the same airy, cheery tone in your voice, bright smile, hair flowing, perfume floating in the air—

"hi jake!"

jake's soul ascends.

he looks up (too fast), catches himself (too obvious), and tries to play it cool with a little nod and smile that definitely looks a little more like a grimace (too tragic).

"hey." nailed it.

you smile casually as you plop your backpack down on the lab table you share with him and start pulling out your notebooks for the day. and jake just stares ahead like a soldier at war. his hands are sweating. his feet are bouncing. his entire nervous system is screaming at him to say something, anything.

and as if the universe decided to play a casually cruel trick on him—

"...so what's your favorite color?" "so, any fun weekend plans?"

both your voices overlap. you both freeze. turn to each other at the same time. blink.

"oh—" "—sorry, you go—" "no, you first—" "okay—wait—i, i forgot—"

silence. you hold back a smile. jake wishes to melt into the earth and hopes he never reincarnates.

"i was just gonna ask," you say, a small smile still playing on your lips that it makes jake's brain actively start doing 360s, "if you're doing anything this weekend."

jake short-circuits.

say something. be mysterious. be cool. be normal. channel spider-man. but maybe...not spider-man when you talk to him. spider-man when he talks to everyone else. "i'm...uh." he clears his throat. tries again. "probably just, y'know. working."

you tilt your head, eyes sparkling with curiosity, "working?"

"yeah," jake nods, too quickly for his own liking, then stops himself. "like—side gig."

if a side gig came with at least two new bruised ribs some nights and meant saving a city from criminals, but yeah, okay. sure. side gig.

your brows raise. "that's cool! what do you do?"

jake freezes. panics. what does he do.

he can't say spider-man.

he also can't say he has the molecular build of an eight-limbed arthropod and can stick onto walls with only his bare fingers.

and he definitely can't say i spend 70% of my free time thinking about you and the other 30% swinging off buildings.

"...delivery." he says it like he's mysterious. cool. totally normal.

you blink. as if waiting, as if expecting him to elaborate.

he blinks back at you.

"delivering...what?"

"...pizza."

(and he did once deliver a stolen pizza order back to its rightful owner after webbing the thief to a lamppost. that totally counts.)

"oh," you nod slowly, giving him a genuine smile. "that sounds fun!"

jake gives a thumbs up. mentally smacks himself in the face repeatedly. but then, his brain suddenly catches up to the situation at hand and before he can stop himself, he blurts—

"wait—uh, why do you ask?"

and then you break eye contact, glancing down at your notebook, and jake pretends not to notice your fingers suddenly fidgeting with one of your many too-colorful pens.

"well," you start, and jake is trying his very, very best to ignore the fact that his senses can pick up on your heart beat. "we've got the final coming up next week, and i don't know—you always seem like you know what you're doing in class, so—"

she thinks im smart? oh my god. she notices me? even when i’m not breaking glass? oh my god oh my god oh my—

"—i was hoping maybe we could study together?" you look up at him again, your eyes wide. "or go over the study guide one last time or something. but it's totally fine if you're busy working! and that makes sense, you probably don't even need to study, you're, like, uber smart and stuff, so—"

"no."

your words come to a halt and your mouth is left slack.

jake smacks himself. mentally. again. and again.

"...oh, um—"

jake coughs suddenly, a little too loud, a little too forced. "sorry! i mean—no...no, i'm not busy. yes, i'm down. down. to study. together. yeah."

he takes note in the way your shoulders slightly relax and the way you release a breath of what sounds like relief and amusement at the same time.

then, a soft smile makes its way to your face again, "okay! okay, cool!"

jake doesn't know if he should scream, sob, or launch himself into the sun.

he smiles back. "cool."

there's a pause.

"wait—but what about work?" your head tilts slightly, a soft crease forming between your brows.

shit.

"oh. right," jake mutters, clearing his throat as his hand casually brushes through his hair as if he thought this one through (he, in fact, did not).

quick, lie—wait, no. casual lie. lying is not cool. don't lie to the girl you like. you're simply protecting her. be mysterious. be cool. be normal.

"i'm...sure the pizzas will be okay for a night! yeah. they have flexibility. my job, i mean. not the pizzas. my manager's chill."

your smile brightens at his answer and jake decides launching himself into the sun is dramatic. in fact, he thinks the sun came out today just for him.

"okay, yay!" you're beaming. "sounds like a plan."

jake also thinks his heart just tripped over itself.

"here, let me—" you rip off a corner of your notebook and start scribbling something down with one of your pens before sliding the slip of paper over to his side of the table, "—give you my number and you let me know when and where works best, yeah?"

and jake is simply a guy. a guy entirely entranced.

it's the way you lean a little closer to the desk, tongue peeking out at the corner of your mouth in concentration. the way your hair shifts when you tilt your head, the gentle swish of it brushing over your shoulder. the way your bracelets softly clink together when your hands move. the way you smoothly push the small slip of paper with your number and name signed with a small smiley face towards him like it's no big deal.

jake stares at the paper like all those nights of manifesting finally paid off and this small slip of notebook paper is first proof that a manifestation journal really does work.

your name. your number. a tiny smile doodled next to it.

it's the cutest thing he's ever seen.

he looks at the note. then at you. then back at the note.

how did this happen. what did he say? was it the pizza lie? no, it couldn't have been the pizza lie.

"cool," jake eventually says, but he realizes he's said cool one too many times and it comes out so high-pitched, he's genuinely unsure if he said it out loud or just squeaked like a mouse.

and you just simply smile back at him, soft and sweet and light, and jake decides to revisit the potential idea of self launching into orbit.

and when the teacher enters the classroom, immediately starting the lecture, jake turns back to the front of the class, trying his very best to focus—

"pink."

it comes out as a low and soft whisper. jake's head jerks slightly towards you, and you're leaning in, just slightly enough for your shoulder to brush against his.

"...i—what?"

you smile, your eyes crinkled at their corners as you look at him, "my favorite color. it's pink."

then, you turn back to the whiteboard, already scribbling down your notes like you didn't just change the entire trajectory of jake's future.

jake doesn't move. jake, in fact, doesn't hear a single word of whatever the teacher is saying about the synthesis and characterization of something-something-carbene-molecular-something.

all he knows is:

he's seeing you this weekend.

your favorite color is pink.

and tucked into the back of his phone is now a piece of corner notebook paper with your number on it.

and, of course, it's written in pink.

jake doesn’t know what he’s going to tell sunghoon about first—the fact that the favorite color pick-up line potentially worked, or that he has an actual study date with y–

wait.

“do you think it’s a study date?” jake’s voice is muffled by a peanut butter protein bar, his legs dangling off the edge of some random apartment building he deemed clean from bird poop to sit on.

there’s a long beat of silence from the other end of his phone that’s perched beside him on speaker, before sunghoon finally answers.

“i think it’s your chemistry lab partner…who needs to study for an exam…with her super genius bench partner,” sunghoon pauses. “but yeah. it’s definitely also a study date.

jake fist-pumps the air. “right?! that’s what i’m saying!” he leans back on one of his palms, staring down at the blur of streetlights and car headlights below, watching the tiny dots of normal people go about their normal people lives after their normal people days.

“god, i’m gonna say something dumb. i always say something dumb. i’m gonna probably tell her my favorite element is, like, carbon, or something. that’s not even a fun one,” jake sighs as he watches the sun slowly set along the skyline in front of him.

there’s a long, suffering sigh from the phone. “please, for the love of God and everything He created, do not tell her what your favorite element is.”

jake frowns, even though he knows sunghoon can’t see it. “you don’t think it’s charming?”

“remember what happened in the sixth grade when that girl asked for a pencil and you gave her an entire lecture on valence electrons and then she never spoke to you ever again?”

jake makes a face. “okay, but she didn’t specify what kind of lead she needed—”

“just…be normal,” sunghoon cuts in. “be jake.”

jake goes quiet. because that’s just the problem, isn’t it? because jake isn’t normal.

“normal” and “jake” haven’t belonged in the same sentence since he woke up one random morning with super strength, freakish reflexes, and abs (not that he’s complaining about the abs. but still. he knows his two-day-a-week gym habit and occasional protein bar didn’t cause them).

normal isn’t waking up in the middle of the night because your fingers literally fused to your bed frame. normal isn’t learning how to navigate puberty while also learning how different wrist angles shoot out different types of webs. normal isn’t lying to your mom about why your laundry always smells like burnt rubber and concrete dust and weirdly enough, hot dogs.

and normal definitely isn’t sitting a hundred feet above the city at 10PM on a friday night with your best friend on speaker and your spandex suit hidden under a hoodie, trying to decide if your biggest life crisis is:

a — the rise of petty city crime or b — the way your ridiculously pretty chemistry partner smiled at you and made you question your entire being in 0.2 seconds

but when he thinks about you?

when jake’s with you—he’s just jake. no suit, no webs, no…fear of potential death. 

he feels like a regular teenage boy. the kind who worries about history finals and likes stupid memes and builds lego sets with his best friend on saturdays and has a crush on the cute girl in his chemistry class.

with you, he doesn’t feel like a science experiment. or a secret. or an accident waiting to happen.

he just feels like…jake.

“i just—dude. i didn’t even have to pull the spider-man card!” jake sits up a little, legs now swinging. “like. at all. she said i was smart! jake-smart. i didn’t need to save a cat or catch a bus or—”

“—instead,” sunghoon’s monotone voice cuts in, “you told her you deliver pizzas for fun and somehow it worked.”

“you’re the worst guy in the chair.”

“and yet, here we are. you’re still call—”

“wait” jake freezes. sits upright. his head tilts slightly. “hold on.”

something in the air hits him. his senses prick. muscles tense. tingling. sounds slow, scents sharpen. the world zooms in all at once.

“i gotta go,” jake stands up, his voice muffled by shoving the rest of his protein bar into his mouth, already slipping his mask over his head.

“duty calls,” sunghoon replies casually, like this is the third time this week (it is). “be safe!”

“love you, bye!” jake says before the hanging up and shoving his phone into his backpack and thwipping it to the rooftop wall in one motion. it’ll probably still be there later. hopefully.

on most nights, it is still right where he left it, waiting patiently after the hours of his city-saving. but right now, jake couldn’t care any less about his belongings. he’s already airborne, swinging building to building with smooth, practiced ease. he follows the tug in his chest, the sense of something being slightly off. a scuffle. somewhere just a block or two away.

and on most nights, you’re careful. you’re observant, aware. you know how to check left, right, then left again before crossing the street. you stick to the well-lit sidewalks, don’t take shortcuts, avoid the sketchy alleyways your parents used to warn you about growing up.

and you also know, deep down, that you probably shouldn’t have stayed at this library this late. but here we are.

you’re barely a block from the bus stop you just got off at when it happens. a shadow moves—quick, low, but intentional. he’s stumbling. smirking. slurring.

your stomach drops immediately.

“hey, pretty thing,” he calls out, “where you off to this late?”

“not interested,” you mumble, clutching your bag closer to your body, steps picking up faster.

“oh, come onnn,” he draws. you hear his footsteps behind you. too close now. “just a little chat—”

you turn over your shoulder just in time to see his hand land slightly on your shoulder, just where your bag strap sits.

but before you can even react—

THWIP.

it happens before you can even blink.

the guy disappears. yanked off his feet. with a yelp, he’s slammed against the nearest parked car on the street with a heavy thud, followed by a line of white, sticky substance trapping his sides.

and suddenly, another one hits his hands. then his ankles. then his chest.

until it’s all around him and he’s stuck to the car like a decal himself.

you freeze, not knowing what just happened or what the hell you’re supposed to do now. your heart is racing, your brain playing catch-up, your breathing paused.

and as you’re staring at the man-shaped cocoon, wondering if this is what finally wills you into full-blown psychosis—

a figure drops from above. with absolutely zero subtlety. and lands directly in between you and said webbed-up guy in a crouch.

dressed in red and blue. head to toe. and so much spandex.

spider-man.

“wow,” he says deadpan, turning to point at the man-turned-car-decal. “okay. that was, like, a solid ten out of ten on the creep scale. would’ve been a nine, but then you touched her. so. automatic point deduction.”

the guy groans beneath the webbing. “what the—who the hell are you?”

spider-man throws his arms up in exasperation, gesturing to himself like it’s obvious.  “spider-man, dude. the webs? the spider logo on my chest? keep up.”

he then turns to you, brushing off the imaginary dust from his hands. “you know, if i had a nickel for every time some scuffy guy tried the whole grabby in an alley thing this week, i’d have like…four nickels.”

a beat. you’re still frozen. eyes wide. jaw slack.

“which isn’t a lot. but it’s weird that it happened that many times. should probably do something about that. or i guess that’s my job.”

the man groans from behind him, squirming, “get this shit off me man—”

“shhh,” spider-man shushes him, raising a hand. “don’t speak. we’re in a delicate moment of justice here.”

then, he turns back to you, head tilting. the eyes of his mask dilate as they squint at you.

his voice softens. “hey. everything okay?”

and you’re still frozen.

because there are many things you don’t believe in. you don’t believe in narwhals. you don’t believe that tarot cards can predict your love life. you don’t believe in flushing ice down the toilet to make it snow the next day, and you probably, maybe, sometimes don’t believe in birds being government spies.

but spider-man? you didn’t know if you believed in him or not. sure, you’ve seen the headlines. heard the rumors, watched the blurry phone footage. but never with your own eyes. until now.

“uh…” you nod quickly, eyes still wide, mouth still slightly ajar. “i...yeah. thank you. for that.”

and jake tries his best to keep his cool. exhales behind the mask, trying to not completely lose it.

to not completely combust when the literal crush of his life is standing in front of him, somehow glowing even under a dim, flickering street light. to not think about the very real fact that he just saved you from whatever-he-refuses-to-think-about that he just saved you from.

so he gives a casual shrug.

“that’s what they pay me for.”

you blink. “you get paid?”

jake stills. “uh, well. no. not technically. emotionally, yes. and sometimes sweet old ladies buy me churros.”

you blink again, but this time, your lips twitch slightly. “…okay. right.”

jake clears his throat, straightening up, placing his hands on his hips all awkward again and then putting them down when he realizes he probably looks like a cheap superhero mascot like that.

this part—this part—he’s usually good at. web the creep. leave a note for the cops. call them in. that’s how it usually goes. what doesn’t usually happen is…this. saving the girl he likes. the girl who doesn’t know she’s the girl he likes. the girl who definitely doesn’t know he sits next to her in chemistry and pretends to read when she walks in.

the creep behind him groans again. jake spins around on his heels and double thwips a neat string of webs over the guy’s mouth.

“aaaaand silence,” jake mutters, nodding to himself. “look at that. instant peace. should’ve probably done that twenty seconds ago.”

he turns back around. and you’re smiling now. it’s small and slightly shaky, but it’s there. jake notices. of course jake notices.

“are you sure you’re okay?” his voice dips again, gentler now.

you nod. “yeah, i think so. seriously…thank you so much.”

and jake hesitates—heart thumping, nerves sweating, because you are literally standing in front of him and he has the mask of spider-man on right now but the confidence of jake from chemistry. but still, he manages, "get home safe, yeah? you shouldn’t be walking alone this late. city’s full of creeps and…men in spandex.”

you let out a quiet laugh. “noted.”

“cool,” jake lets out, throwing up an awkward thumbs up and he makes a mental note to stop using the word ‘cool’ and to stop using thumbs ups as a defense mechanism.

he clears his throat and takes a casual step back as you watch him, still unmoving, as if you’re still trying to convince yourself he’s real.

“alright,” jake says, pointing his hand up to the building behind you before saluting you goodbye with the other. “spider-man…away?”

he fires. latches perfectly. but the fact that he actually, out-loud, said ‘spider-man away’ gets to his head and so he doesn’t time the swing quite right and his foot hits the top of a recycling bin on the way up. and he really hopes you didn’t see it happen (you did).

he lands on the rooftop above you, immediately crouching down out of view, chest heaving as his brain catches up to his body, still processing what just happened. heart still hammering, fingers still tingling.

then, after waiting a few seconds, he peers his head carefully over the line of buildings down the street and watches your figure walk away. head down, bag hugged close, pace quicker now.

and of course, because he’s jake—and spider-man (but mostly because he’s jake)—he follows you from above. quiet, careful, out of sight. just to make sure you make it back okay.

and when you finally reach your apartment building and unlock the front door, he still waits.

waits until he sees a light flicker on in your bedroom window. waits until he sees your figure draw your curtains closed. waits until he knows you’re safe. only then does he finally exhale.

he drops onto the roof of a nearby pizza place—the one that claims they sell dollar pizza but it’s really $1.49—pulls off his mask with one hand and runs the other through his completely wrecked hair.

“jesus christ, jake,” he mutters to himself, a hand dragging down his face. “spider-man away? really?”

he shakes his head at himself, partly in shame, partly in disbelief, but mostly in shame, then stretches out his legs, groans at the ache in his biceps, and swings back towards the first rooftop where he left his backpack.

and thank god it’s still there. because once he unwebs his bag and fishes through his textbooks, unknown food wrappers, and decathlon club fliers to take out his phone with just merely 12% battery left, he clicks on your contact. stares at the blank message field. then he types.

JAKE (10:42PM) : hey! it’s jake (from chem lol) hope your night’s going okay :) also still good to meet at the cafe near school tomorrow? maybe around noon?

he stares at it. rereads it six times. changes lol to haha. then back to lol. deletes the smiley face. then the whole message. then retypes it word for word.

eventually, he hits send.

and jake, bless his heart, keeps staring at the screen. forgets it’s nearly 11PM. forgets that his mom, who thinks he’s in bed, is probably gonna check in on him any second now (and yes, jake is nearly a legal adult. but he also grew up with chronic nightmares, so. check ins are necessary at times).

but then his screen lights up. your name. a single message.

Y/N (10:43PM) : yes :)

he feels his entire body exhale. or light up on fire. he’s not sure of the difference, honestly. and jake’s also not sure how long he sits there smiling at his phone like an idiot.

he doesn’t remember swinging back home. he doesn’t remember sneaking back into his room through his fire escape. he doesn’t even remember showering and wincing at the sting of soap against his fresh cuts and scratches.

because all he’s thinking about is your text. which is probably why he also forgets to set an alarm.

so when he wakes up the next day at 11:45AM, twenty minutes away from the café he promised to meet you at in fifteen minutes, and absolutely zero minutes ready to leave his place—he’s in full blown panic.

“oh crap, crap—ow, damn it—crap,” he’s mutters, runs into a chair, accidentally smears toothpaste on his hoodie sleeve, and grabs the first protein bar he sees—cookies & creme this time—before sprinting out the door. but not before kissing his mom on the cheek goodbye.

his hair is still damp. his backpack is half-zipped. he’s 85% sure he applied deodorant twice and toothpaste once. or maybe the other way around.

and by the time he barges into the corner café that sells overpriced matcha lattes with the grainy oat milk but has good lighting and free wifi and outlets to use so it’s deemed a good study spot anyways, he immediately zeroes in on you at the small corner table—pen in hand, sipping from a cup casually and not at all aware that your mere existence and the way the little beam of sunlight shining through the café windows reflecting on you is already sending his sleep deprived state into overdrive.

he makes—or more like stumbles—his way over, just in time for you to glance up and catch his eye.

“hey!” you smile, so warm and relaxed that it almost makes jake forget he sprinted over in mismatched socks. “you made it.”

“yeah—sorry,” jake exhales, pulling out the seat across from you and placing his stuff down. “i stayed up late, forgot to set an alarm, then couldn’t find matching socks, i had this blue one on and then a red—“

jake stops himself. looks at you. gives you a sheepish smile. “sorry. you don’t need to hear about the whole sock saga.”

you giggle as you look up at him, “what a shame, i was kinda invested to see where that was going.”

jake tries not to float.

“and it’s fine, jake. really. if it makes you feel any better, you’re only like twelve minutes late.”

jake lets out a nervous chuckle as he slides into the seat across from you, “thanks. i’m usually only, like, ten minutes late, so this is all new to me. including the study date part.”

jake freezes. your eyebrow quirks. why did he say that. why. did. he. say. that.

a small smile tugs at your lips, “study date?”

jake’s eyes are frozen and blown wide as he stares at you in horror from across the table, stumbling over his own words, “i mean. i—no, not a date! unless…unless you wanted it to be a date, which is fine! not just fine! i mean, it’s fine if you wanted—i just assumed that—well sorry, i shouldn’t have assumed—that would be non-consensual and i’m really big on, like, mutual respect and consent and—”

he stops.

jake needs to stop. he should stop talking about consent before he even got to ask you how your morning’s been like a regular human being does.

your stare lingers for a beat longer before you break into laughter, hand flying to your mouth, the other holding onto the table in front of you to support yourself as you snort. “jake.”

jake sinks slightly in his seat. wishes he was sinking into the earth. “yeah?”

your laughter softens into something gentler, and you look up at him, sure and simple and steady. “it’s okay. let’s call it that. a study date.”

you know how your laptop sometimes freezes because it’s firing a million tasks at once and then the fan starts whirring violently before the entire thing decides to just shut off and it has to take a few minutes to recover before rebooting itself back up to be able to fully function again?

yeah. that’s what’s happening to jake. right now.

“oh. okay. cool. cool, cool, cool,” he tugs at the collar of his hoodie. stop it with the cool, jake, we talked about this. and whatever you do, do not throw up a— he throws a thumbs up at you. puts it away. tries to recover. “i’m very…pro…studying.”

you grin at him. “clearly.” the dating part? not so much.

and after that, thing settles. in that warm, weirdly comforting way things do when you’ve either known someone your entire life or just long enough to know you want to.

textbooks open, laptops propped, flashcards highlighted, questions exchanged, your iced matcha is slowly disappearing while jake’s iced americano just sits there untouched—slowly watering down because jake forgets coffee makes him jittery but he was in a state of panic when he got to the counter so…here we are.

“wait, can i ask you something kinda random?"

you glance up from your notes, giving jake a small nod. “yeah?”

jake’s eyes land on the back of your laptop and he gestures vaguely to it. “why is your laptop covered in like…fourteen different beluga stickers?”

your head tilts as you follow his gaze and—yup. it’s true. it’s covered with not only fourteen little cartoon belugas, but also otters, starfish, and a little whale in the corner that isn’t so little and cost you a whole whopping five dollars at the book fair.

you blink at it. “oh, right.” a small smile then tugs at your lips. “i’m kinda obsessed with ocean life. it’s, like…one of my things.”

and jake is silent. not because he’s judging. no, he recites the periodic table in alphabetical order to help him fall asleep at night, so he can’t judge. but because—god. you say that like it’s the most casual thing in the world and not the most adorable sentence he’s ever heard.

“like, belugas are my favorite sea animals,” you continue, your own voice picking up from your own excitement now. “they’re just so cute and squishy looking. and they always look like they’re smiling? and granted i’ve never met one, but if i did meet one, i just know it’d be kind.”

jake is still not saying anything. he’s watching the way your hands move animatedly, the way your eyes light up, the way your voice lifts when you say the words “if i did meet one” like it’s the most natural thing in the world to meet a literal beluga.

“they do look pretty nice,” jake adds eventually, absolutely trying his best to fight the grin off his face. “for a whale, i mean.”

your eyes widen as you suddenly gasp and lean in over the table towards jake, catching him off guard. “okay, i’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that.”

jake freezes. and he doesn’t know how and he doesn’t know when, but he’s pretty sure he messed up somehow just by trying to impress his crush by complimenting a beluga.

“belugas aren’t whales,” you say, matter of fact, “they’re actually a type of dolphin, despite the name. common mistake.”

“oh,” jake just blinks and nods like this is a totally normal conversation. like he isn’t currently being lectured by the cute girl from his chemistry class about beluga whales. beluga…dolphins? not whales.

his eyes flick briefly to your hands, still hovering mid-air, animated from your explanation. then to your face, your eyes sparkling just a little bit too much for him to blame it on the café lighting. and everything—every little detail jake seems to notice and learn about you—makes jake feel like his heart is about to beat out of his chest.

“sorry,” you pause, noticing his stare. “i just…i really love this kind of stuff. it’s all just so fascinating to me. it’s kinda like whenever you start freaking out over, i don’t know…cis-trans isomerism in alkenes?”

jake chokes on his spit. smooth.

“wait,” he’s coughing, sitting up straighter, “how do you know that i—wait, how do you even know about cis-trans isomerism?”

“what can i say? i’m observant,” you look at him over the rim of your cup as you take a sip, casually shrugging, a small smirk on your lips.

and jake just casually tries not to freak out.

because, sure, jake has had his fair share of realizations through out his lifetime. like the day he woke up and found out he could suddenly stop a bus with his bare hands. or the time he discovered he’s mildly allergic to cauliflower. but this? this might top the list.

because you notice things. about him. him. and it short-circuits his brain. just a little. maybe a lot.

jake tries not to smile too hard. tries not to read too much into it. tries not to wonder if you notice the way he leans closer during chemistry labs or the way his voice raises half a pitch when you talk to him or the way he purposely gets to class early just so he could talk to you before.

they’re the kind of thoughts that keep him up that night. the kind that plague his entire mind until the only thing he’s thinking about when he falls asleep that night and the only thing he’s thinking about when he wakes up the next morning is…you.

and for the next few days, that’s just about the most exciting thing that happens to jake. the next few days for him go pretty normal.

and by normal, jake means boring. and by boring, i mean on monday, spider-man stops a bodega robbery and gets a pat on the back from the police officer and a sprained ankle. on tuesday, he wakes up late and almost misses his history final (which honestly would’ve been preferable). and on wednesday, you text jake for help on a chemistry review question. which is actually very exciting and not at all boring nor normal, despite how hard jake tries his best to act normal.

on thursday, however, jake stays late in the school computer lab to tinker with his web shooter tech. and that’s when sunghoon pulls up in front of him, dropping two small pieces of paper on jake’s mess of wires and tools and notebook doodles.

“bada-bing, bada-boom,” sunghoon announces as he plops into the chair next to jake.

jake looks up. sunghoon’s spinning awkwardly slowly in the swivel chair, arms out like a king clearly waiting for applause.

jake squints at the slips of paper. then back up.

“sunghoon.” “yes?” “why are we binging and booming and why are there clown fish on my web shooters?”

sunghoon beams. the kind of beam that makes jake’s spider tingle feel immediately and instinctively nervous. "because, my friend,” he begins proudly, “i am your guy-in-the-chair and thanks to me, you are now officially going on an aquarium date this weekend.”

jake blinks down at the two tickets. then looks up at sunghoon. blinks again. “wait. i’m going on a what with who now?”

sunghoon’s face falls flat. “with y/n, you idiot. who else would i be sending you to the aquarium with? me?”

jake’s jaw slackens. eyes widen. heartbeat pounding, “what—why, why, why, would you do that?”

sunghoon’s brows furrow as if the answer is the most obvious one in the world (and it is), “because you like her? and now you can take her to see those things she has fourteen of on her laptop that she likes so much. beluga whales or whatever they were.”

jake opens his mouth to argue—then shuts it. looks at sunghoon very, very, seriously. “beluga dolphins. they’re beluga dolphins. common mistake.”

and sunghoon could give two flying farts about beluga whales versus beluga dolphins versus beluga birds for all he knows, but because jake’s his best friend, he tries not to judge.

“…okayyyy, beluga dolphins.” he claps jake on the back and jake flinches. “anyways! you. y/n. aquarium date. this weekend. bada-bing. bada-boom.”

friday is the most un-normal and the most un-boring day of them all.

because on friday, right when jake slams his locker shut at the end of the day—ready to go home and debating if he should build his brand new imperial star destroyer lego set or practice different swinging techniques off the library roof—

“JAKE!”

and jake’s spidey sense could not have predicted what happens next. because before he can even register his own name, jake’s slammed into. stumbling. arms flailing. back hitting the lockers behind him.

and it’s you. you, clinging to him in a hug. smiling. glowing. and jake is dying. screaming. ascending.

“I GOT A 99,” you smile as you look up at him, eyes sparkling and wide.

jake swallows hard. his hards are still awkwardly hanging at his side, unsure whether to hug you back or just spontaneously combust into dust right then and there.

“wait. the chemistry exam?” he manages, voice higher than usual.

you nod so fast it’s a blur. “yes!—i think it’s a little stupid she docked me a single point just because i rounded wrong on that molarity question—which, yeah, i know you warned me about. but it’s fine. i’m literally a chemistry genius.”

jake lets out a breathy laugh, looking down at you—still warm, still wrapped around him, still lighting up like the literal sun in the middle of the school’s halls.

“you are,” he says, and it comes out softer than he expected.

and then you’re looking up at him again—close, glowing, happy—and jake swears the whole world pauses. like the only thing that has ever mattered to him is this exact moment. like someone hit pause on everything except you. the shouts, the lockers slamming, the overhead announcements—he doesn’t hear any of it.

all he knows is you. the way your smile curves just slightly more on one side. the scent of your shampoo. the feel of your arms around him and the way his pulse has never been louder in his entire life.

jake doesn’t think he’s ever felt this way about someone before.

and like you suddenly realize how long you’ve been holding onto him, or maybe just how close the two of you are—you slowly pull back. not all the way, just a half-step, your arms slipping from around his middle. you clear your throat, eyes flickering to a locker, then to a ceiling.

“um—thanks to you, though. seriously,” you say, voice softer now, “for all your help. and studying with me.”

and jake is still staring. still dazed. “oh! no, yeah. yeah yeah. totally. i had fun. it was fun.” he swallows again. please stop saying fun. “so fun.” yeah. he’s absolutely a lost cause.

but you laugh. and god, jake loves your laugh. he wants to bottle it up, carry it around in his pocket, and use it like a power-up when he’s out fighting criminals at night.

and it’s in that moment, somewhere between your grin and the sound of your giggle still ringing in his ears, that it hits him.

this is it. this is the moment.

jake clears his throat. wipes his palms on the sides of his jeans like it’ll help. glances off to the side before looking back at you.

“listen, so um—” he’s already fumbling. “i was wondering—like if you’re free this weekend, and only if you really, really want to, seriously no pressure at all because i know you’re probably busy, but—”

he pauses. breathes. tries again. “—but if you’d be down, i, uh—i have two tickets to the aquarium. and since you’re really into the ocean and stuff i thought—”

“oh my god,” you interrupt, eyes lit up. “you got tickets to the aquarium?”

jake nods so fast he swears he looks like a bobblehead.

“yeah! well—no. technically sunghoon got the tickets but—”

“ohhh, like you and sunghoon were going to go together?” you tease, grinning now. “that actually sounds kind of fun—”

“wait. wait—no.” and jake nearly panics, his hands waving. “no, no, no, i mean—i’m trying to—”

jake inhales sharply. gets a grip. “do you want to go with me? this weekend? to the aquarium?”

“oh!” you blink up at him, clearly surprised—but not in a bad way. your voice goes a little softer. “like…just us?”

“yeah,” jake nods, trying to sound chill and not at all like he’s internally combusting. which is definitely, 100%, happening right now. “i mean—if you want. if you don’t, it’s totally cool. i’ll just…give the ticket to my mom or something. she likes fish. i think. probably. i’ve never actually asked—”

“jake.”

jake stops. looks at you again. “yeah?”

you smile. all fond and amused and sweet. “i’d love to go to the aquarium with you.”

and jake completely loses the grip he thought he had a strong hold of.

“wait, really?” “really.” “oh,” jake breathes. “cool. cool, cool, cool.” you tilt your head, “you’re doing the repeating thing again.”

“i know,” jake groans, dragging a hand down his face. “i literally had a whole mental intervention about this, it’s not working—

you laugh. again. and jake ascends. again.

“okay,” you say, stepping back just enough. “aquarium this weekend. it’s a date.”

jake ascends a third time.

“right,” he says, barely recovering. “totally. i’ll—uh, i’ll text you the details?”

you nod, already backing away towards the main doors, “can’t wait!”

and forget the imperial star destroyer set or brand new swinging techniques. jake 100% knows what he’s doing tonight—and it’s sounding a lot like googling beluga dolphin facts. 

later that night, jake’s perched on the edge of a random rooftop—one leg dangling off the ledge, a protein bar in one hand, his phone in the other, glowing with an article titled: top twelve facts about belugas that will shock you.

but then—his spidey senses prick.

because at exactly 10:32PM, like clockwork, your usual bus pulls up to the stop below the building he’s seated at.

okay. so maybe it’s not exactly a coincidence he’s here. and maybe this roof isn’t that random after all.

and maybe, just maybe, he’s made it a habit to make sure you get home safe every night. it started with just one night—making sure you got home safe after last week’s incident. then it turned into two. then three. then…every night. at exactly 10:32PM. now it’s a full-blown instinct he hasn’t admitted to anyone (especially not sunghoon) because, well…he likes making sure you get home safe. sue him.

when he sees your figure step off the bus, jake immediately straightens. the hairs on his arms prick up. his pulse quickens. his palm slightly sticks against the protein bar wrapper. and this is just a regular friday.

except—it really isn’t. because today, you—you, the very smart and very funny and very pretty ocean-loving girl who sits next to him in chemistry—hugged him today and agreed to go on a date with him and oh god.

so actually, nothing about today was regular. not even close. and nothing about what jake is about to do is regular.

instead of just watching from above like he has the past week… he swings.

with a few quick, practiced motions, he webs himself building to building, bouncing off a wall to land neatly right in front of you on the sidewalk.

and you scream. “what the—oh my god—” you jolt back mid-step, instinctively clutching your bag closer to you.

“ah—sorry! sorry!” jake holds his hands up, immediately regretting his dramatic entrance. he straightens up from his crouch, brushing dust off his suit. “that probably looked a lot cooler in my head.”

you narrow your eyes, still trying to catch your breath, looking not totally convinced, “right.”

jake rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

then, like it’s the most normal thing in the world to be nearly ambushed by a red-and-blue-suited vigilante, you simply adjust the bag on your shoulder, sidestep him, and continue walking down the sidewalk.

jake blinks behind the mask, stunned for a second, before quickly scrambling to catch up.

“you know,” he says, effortlessly falling into step beside you, “if i didn’t know any better, i thought we agreed you wouldn’t be walking home alone this late.”

you glance over, the corners of your mouth slightly tugging upwards, “and if i didn’t know any better, i’d say you’re starting to follow me, spidey.”

“woah,” jake fake-gasps. fake-clutches his chest as if offended. “spidey? oh wow. we’re already on nickname basis and i don’t even know yours.”

you snort. “y/n,” you say, finally looking at him fully. “it’s y/n.”

jake’s heart does a triple flip. he thinks he’s heard your name a thousand times already—slipped through conversations with sunghoon, when your teacher calls out your name during attendance, in his dreams—but somehow, this feels new.

he flashes a smile you can’t see behind his mask, “y/n.” he repeats it like it’s the most important thing he’s ever learned. he then points to himself. “spidey.”

you laugh again, this time loud and real and soft and sweet. and suddenly, jake’s night feels warmer.

“yeah, i got that,” you say, shaking your head. “thanks for the clarification, spidey.”

there’s a short silence after that—comfortably quiet, but not empty. both your footsteps crunch against a thin blanket of scattered leaves, the echoes of your steps bouncing off the dimly lit sidewalk. somewhere in the distance a dog barks faintly. a bus drives by.

“shouldn’t you be out—” you finally speak again, glancing up at him, “—stopping carjackings or getting churros from old ladies?”

jake hums, the sound low in his throat. be mysterious. be cool. be normal. "well yes,” he clears his throat and adjusts his web shooter just to do something with his hands, “but it’s also part of my duty as your friendly neighborhood spider-man to make sure the citizens of this city get home safe.”

you raise a brow, smirking, “is it also part of your duty to walk every single citizen home after saving them?”

“…well. not exactly,” he tries not to sound nervous. tries. “just the ones i think are…pretty.”

you freeze mid-step. your breath catches, feet stopping entirely.

jake does the same. his heart might actually fall out of his chest. “that’s—” he coughs, scratching the back of his neck. “that’s just you, by the way. if that wasn’t…super clear.”

your mouth parts. but no words come out. only your eyes react—wide, soft, blinking.

“oh—" you eventually say, softly and unsure, as if you’re trying to figure out if the literal spider-man is trying to flirt with you. “thanks? i think.”

and jake is 98% pretty sure he’s redder than his own suit right now. “yeah, yup. of course,” he says, voice cracking ever so slightly as his mind searches for anything, something else to talk about. “uh…so any fun plans this weekend?”

smooth. so smooth.

you blink, still looking at him a little weird, but your smile comes back almost instantly as you two start walking again, “actually yeah! i’m going to the aquarium tomorrow.”

jake’s heart does another little flip. yes. yes, yes. she still wants to go. she’s still going with me—

“with this guy,” you add casually, kicking a pebble in your way.

jake feels his heart do a little pause. “a guy?” he says, wincing when it comes out just a little too quickly, a little too high-pitched. “oh. a guy guy. wow. a guy.”

you nod along, completely oblivious, mind clearly elsewhere, “yeah, he’s pretty great. got us the tickets and everything.”

jake nods stiffly, staring straight ahead like the lamp post across the street is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen in his entire life, “nice. that’s…really nice. sounds like a pretty solid dude.”

“totally,” you grin up at him, and it’s the kind of grin that makes jake’s lungs forget why they exist in the first place. the crinkle of your eyes, the curve of your mouth, the gentle ease in your voice—it all hits him at once. the most perfect storm.

“a little awkward,” you continue. “says ‘cool’ way too much. but he’s really sweet. and funny. and a genius.”

and jake combusts on the spot. jake thought he knew what happiness was. he thought getting accepted into the school’s robotics team felt good. he thought shaking hands with the mayor after saving him from a limo crash was peak fulfillment. he even thought finishing the millennium falcon lego set with sunghoon in a single night was the height of his serotonin levels. but this? hearing you talk about him—about jake—with that softness in your voice, that tilt in your smile, that warmth in your eyes?

oh yeah. this is what true happiness is.

and by the time jake returns back to earth, the two of you are approaching your apartment now—he recognizes the street by heart at this point.

you come to a stop in front of your building, turning to face him beneath the glow of the overhead lighting, “thanks for walking me, by the way.”

jake shrugs, hands shoved into the sides of his suit awkwardly, “it’s part of the job description. gotta make sure my favorite citizen gets home safe.”

you give him a look. one of those lingering ones that makes jake wonder. the kind that lasts a beat too long.

“…favorite, huh?” you raise a brow, lips quirking into a soft smile. jake’s heart stutters. “top three, at least.” you giggle again, shaking your head slightly, “night, spidey.”

“night, y/n,” he murmurs quietly before you go in, watching as you head inside. the door clicks shut behind you, and jake’s world immediately feels a little dimmer.

jake stands there in the quiet for a second. and then— he fist pumps the air in celebration, kicking his leg up like an animated character, “yes, yes, yes!”

with the goofiest grin under his mask, jake flings a web up toward the apartment building across the street and launches himself in one fluid motion. he lands with practiced ease, sitting in his usual spot just as the light flickers on in your bedroom window.

he’s still grinning. still breathless. still absolutely unable to believe what just happened.

with a newfound confidence, jake pulls out his phone from one of his suit pockets and unlocks it.

JAKE (10:54PM) : hey! just wanted to say im excited for tomorrow :) hope you have a good night y/n

he doesn’t hesitate before hitting send this time.

and when he wakes up the next morning, jake is still smiling.

no nightmares. no forgotten alarms. no dreading history finals. just the lingering memory of yesterday—from the hug to the walk last night, from the way you smiled at him to the way you said ‘night, spidey’, from the way he swears your laugh is not permanently stored in his brain’s top five sounds of all time.

now, he’s staring up at the massive curved glass in front of him, a large ‘beluga whales here!’ sign above him. you’re already right up against the glass, peering inside like you’re looking at the most fascinating thing in the world.

and to you—it is. to jake? his answer would be very different. his answer would look a lot like you.

because you’re right there, next to him. shoulder brushing him. looking effortlessly beautiful in the soft dim blue light of the tank.

and jake is trying very, very hard to look calm, cool, and collected. despite the fact that he’s sweating through his button-up because he’s nervous, giddy, and definitely sprayed way too much cologne (two spritzes max, sunghoon said. jake did six. he panicked).

but you—you look completely at peace. you’re smiling, your eyes lighting up with wonder, one palm pressed gently against the glass as you watch one of the belugas swim past.

“they’re literally smiling,” you whisper, completely in awe. “look at them. they’re so pretty.”

jake glances at you. then the belugas. then back at you.

he’s not entirely sure who you’re talking about anymore.

“yeah,” he says, a little breathlessly. “they’re…really pretty.”

at that, you turn to look at him and jake has to force himself to not look away. he smiles at you when your eyes meet his. and your smile is soft. soft and amused. like you knew what he was saying. like you’re choosing not to call him out on it.

“so,” you eventually say, tilting your head to look up at him. “on a scale of one to ten, how ridiculous does this shirt make me look?”

jake glances down at your outfit—you’re wearing an oversized t-shirt now layered over the outfit you picked out for today. it’s bright blue, has a cartoon fish giving a thumbs up, and across the front in bubbly letters sits, ‘fish makes life betta’.

your eyes landed on it the second you two walked past the gift shop. and you had to have it. immediately, of course.

jake had laughed at first when you turned to him, holding up the shirt against you, eyes wide. “should i buy this?” you asked, not a hint of sarcasm in your tone.

and that’s when jake realized, you meant it.

and that was also the exact moment jake realized he’s absolutely, undeniably, hopelessly gone for you.

“negative twelve,” jake says now, very seriously, despite the smirk on his face. “you look unironically very cool.” you scoff, “you’re such a liar.” jake shrugs, still grinning. “did that get me a couple more points at least?”

one of your eyebrows quirk, like you’re surprised by the sudden confidence. and honestly? so is jake.

there’s a beat—one of those soft, lingering ones carrying a silence that feels full with something unspoken. the kind that hums quietly below the surface. the kind jake could live inside forever.

then, your lips twitch into a smile. “mmm…maybe half a point. you’re up to, like, an 89.5%.”

jake lets out a soft, breathless laugh, eyes still on you, “i’ll take it. that’s like…a B plus.”

“better than what you got on the history final,” you say, already smirking.

jake’s eyes widen as he gasps, “hey—what!? that was so uncalled for.” you laugh again, clearly enjoying this. “you got a 73, jake.”

“a 74!” he corrects you, his voice now a pitch higher. “it was curved! and i woke up late! blame it on sleep deprivation.”

“that…still sounds like barely passing to me.”

jake narrows his eyes at you playfully, “okay, you know what? i’m deducting your points for emotional damage. 99.5%.”

you gasp dramatically. “you can’t deduct points!”

“better than what you got on the chemistry final,” jake says, eyebrows quirked, feeling ridiculously proud of himself for that one.

your eyes widen—equal parts shocked and impressed, “touché, jake. touché.”

and jake just grins, heart pounding so fast he swears it’s about to break out of his ribcage and up and run.

your smile lingers for a little longer before you glance away for a moment, returning your gaze back to the tank in front of you, watching as the belugas swim past lazily, weightless and floating like clouds. and you think there’s something oddly calming about them. it makes the whole world slow down.

jake watches you instead.

the lights from the tank dance against your skin, your features glowing blue and soft and perfect. your hands are simply at your side, head tilted slightly as you follow their movements with your wide eyes. you’re not even saying anything—but you don’t need to.

jake swallows hard. takes half a step closer to you.

“hey,” he says quietly. you look over. “yeah?” “i’m really glad you came today.”

your expression shifts—just a little. surprised, maybe. but then, it softens. into something gentle and honest. “i’m glad you asked,” you say, just as quiet.

and jake is so close. so close, that he can feel the slight brush of your pinky against his own. and suddenly, the air feels heavier. tighter. packed with nerves and possibilities and hope and everything that makes jake’s senses want to scream into a pillow.

and jake, because he’s still jake, blurts out the first thing his brain lands on— “let’s take a picture with a beluga!”

you blink. but then, your laugh bubbles up again as you nod, stepping close behind him as he’s already fumbling to pull out his phone.

the photo is slightly blurry. your shirt is bright and front and center. jake’s smile is too wide, and yours is somewhere between a laugh and a look—

one that’s angled towards him instead of the camera.

the walk back later that night is quiet. not the awkward quiet. not the quiet filled with weird tension. but soft quiet. warm quiet. the kind of quiet that settles over jake like his favorite blanket—thick and safe and familiar, the kind that jake feels whenever he’s tucked into bed after a night out around the city.

and when you two walk side by side, you’re close enough that jake can feel your sleeve brush against his every few steps. and the sidewalk is wide. but neither of you move away. not even once.

street lamps shine above you, the city hums quietly around, and jake—who literally has the ability to swing between skyscrapers and soar through the air—feels like he’s floating for the first time in his life.

because he’s definitely not thinking about how he can catch the small traces of your perfume or how your hand keeps brushing his. and he’s definitely not spiraling over whether or not you’re thinking about how his hands keep brushing yours back.

and right when he’s mentally trying to calculate just how fast his heart is currently beating (and if his calculations were correct, he thinks he’s at 142 beats per minute)—

you stop walking.

jake halts a half step ahead, blinking in surprise as he turns back to face you, “everything okay?”

you bite your bottom lip. squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “yeah. yeah—i just…” a breath. “i have to tell you something.”

and that knocks the air straight out of jake’s lungs. he steps towards you instinctively, his steps quiet against the pavement until he’s standing right in front of you—frozen under the soft glow of the streetlight overhead.

“okay,” he says, trying to sound normal. which is hard. because jake is currently experiencing what can only be described as sensory overload. 

he tries to not notice the way you’re fiddling with the hem of your incredibly bright blue shirt. or the way you’re blinking too many times. or the way he can literally hear your heartbeat from where he’s standing. and he calculates 143 beats per minute. maybe 144.

“i—um…i actually didn’t really need help with chemistry,” you blurt, eyes still focused somewhere near his shoelaces in front of you. “i know exactly what cis-trans isomerism in alkenes is. not only because i thought it was really cute when you explained it in class that one time, but because i genuinely think it’s super cool so i did my research project on it last—”

you pause. “…which is super irrelevant. oh my god—wait, let me backtrack.”

then your words start tumbling. “i just—i thought you were really cute. and smart. and witty. and honestly, probably a little awkward too but, like, in a cute way. and i didn’t know how else to talk to you outside of class. i figured you were too busy or not really into random girls asking to hang out. so i panicked. even though i have a 98 in chem right now.”

you stop. take a breath—finally.

jake, however, does not. jake’s entire being has stopped functioning. his brain is blank—no thoughts, just the steady, continuous static of oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. every nerve in his body is on high alert. his spidey senses are firing—heart pounding, breath caught, fingertips tingling. it’s like his body’s trying to prepare him for a fight, when really? he’s just trying his hardest not to melt into the ground.

and jake can feel everything. the warmth of the streetlight on his back. the shift in the breeze between you and him. the exact distance between your body and his. it’s all too much and not enough and jake is losing his mind.

and when you notice his frozen stare, you wince—your eyes squeezing shut again as you start mumbling, “oh my god. i’m so sorry. okay, let’s just forget i said—”

and jake, because he’s still jake, doesn’t think.

jake kisses you.

it happens before he can overthink it. which is entirely a lie, because jake always overthinks.

but this time, it happens before he could spiral through every worst case scenario. before he could remind himself of all the ways he could possibly screw this up.

all he knows is that you were standing there—rambling, flushed, perfect—and he just had to.

his hand finds your cheek instinctively, warm and unsure and trembling ever so slightly. and when his lips meet yours—it’s gentle. so gentle, like a question asked without words. like an answer given all at once.

and jake is still spiraling. his senses are everywhere—you smell like faint citrus and something a little like vanilla, your grip on his shirt is tight, and your lips are soft, so soft, moving with his like you two have known this rhythm forever.

everything is heightened for him. blurred and focused at the same time. and the kiss isn’t perfect—his nose bumps yours and you step too close and accidentally hit his shoe—but none of that matters.

because this is real. because it’s you.

and when jake finally, slowly, pulls back—just barely—both of you are breathless.

both heartbeats loud enough for jake to hear. quite literally.

“you think i’m smart?” you let out a small scoff as your eyes meet his, his shirt still under your grip, “out of everything that just happened, that’s what you’re focusing on?” “i mean,” jake shrugs, helplessly smiling, “i’m just making sure i heard that part correctly.”

you laugh louder now—relieved and warm and everything jake wants to hold onto forever.

the rest of the night moves slower for jake. literally slower. like neither of you want the moment to end—your steps gradually slowing the closer you get to your apartment building. jake keeps his hands in his pockets, fingers still tingling, goosebumps still on his skin. every now and then, he steals a glance your way, just to make sure this is real. that you’re real.

and when you reach the front of your apartment building, jake’s chest tightens the tiniest bit. you stop at the base of the stairs. so does he.

“well,” your voice is quiet as your eyes flick up to his. “i’ll see you at school on monday?”

jake nods, trying to look cool, calm, and collected even though he’s pretty sure he’s still at 142 beats. “yeah. for sure. monday.”

you smile, soft and a little shy. “night, jake.” “night, y/n,” he echoes, offering a tiny, awkward wave that makes you smile as you slip through the door.

jake lingers for a second longer, watching until the door clicks shut. then he spins on his heel, a giddy smile on his face, stumbles three steps down the sidewalk and—

“holy shi—” he physically clamps a hand over his mouth to keep himself from screaming.

jake fist-pumps the air. once. twice. spins in a circle. nearly trips and eats it on the curb. but he doesn’t care.

he kissed you. he kissed you. and you kissed him back.

and jake is back to nearly launching into orbit.

his fingers are still trembling as he pulls his phone out from his pocket, text message already full of typos from typing too fast when the screen lights up—

incoming call : GUY IN CHAIR 🧠

“DUDE,” jake answers instantly, breathless and borderline yelling. “i was just about to text you—I KISSED HER!”

a beat.

“WHAT?!” sunghoon’s voice explodes over the phone. “you KISSED her? you KISSED HER? oh my god.”

jake is pacing now, still walking down the street but barely aware of it. “i know. it just happened. i don’t even know—like, we were walking, then she stopped and told me she didn’t even need chemistry help and that she just needed an excuse to talk to me and i literally blacked out so i don’t remember the rest—”

“oh my god. oh my god.” “i KNOW.” “like, wait—you kissed her-kissed her?” “i KISSED her-kissed her, dude.” “bro.” “i know.”

they’re both beaming. celebrating. somewhere above him, a very confused old lady stares at jake from her window as he dances in the middle of the sidewalk like he just won the lottery.

“wait. wait, crap—” sunghoon cuts in, tone suddenly serious. “hang on, i called you for a reason.” jake freezes mid-spin, “huh?”

“guy in chair duties,” sunghoon’s voice shifts. “there’s a call coming through the police scanner. armed robbery. bank on 23rd and main. it just came in, like, thirty seconds ago.”

jake stops. groans. “you’re kidding me,” he mutters under his breath.

“sorry, man.”

without missing a beat, jake glances around for any people—then ducks into the nearest alleyway.

“can’t a guy catch a break?” he mumbles, already yanking off his button up, his suit already underneath (because—obviously, you can never be too prepared), then bunches up the shirt and webs it to the brick wall in one fluid motion.

sunghoon’s voice buzzes through his phone, “good luck, spidey.” jake pulls the mask over his face. “i’ll just tell you the rest on monday.”

“copy that.”

“thanks, hoon. spidey’s on it.”

turns out—spidey, in fact, was not on it.

he doesn’t know if he should blame it on the fact that he was mildly (extremely) mentally distracted by the memory of kissing you under the warm streetlight, or the fact that those robbers had insanely good aim, but either way:

jake comes home with a black eye, a rapidly darkening bruise on his cheekbone, a bullet graze burning across his left side, and what he’s 97% sure is a dislocated ankle.

“crap, crap, crap,” he mutters under his breath, wincing as he carefully locks the window behind him. he drops down from the ceiling with a thud, trying not to yelp out in pain when he lands on the ankle that he’s now 99% sure is dislocated. the apartment is quiet. his mom’s probably asleep. hopefully.

jake rips off his mask and immediately grimaces at his reflection in the mirror, “jesus.”

his right eye is already swelling. there’s dried blood going down the side of his face. his suit is slightly torn and singed and still sticky over the wound at his ribs. he presses a palm there, breathing through his teeth.

it’s fine. he’s fine. totally fine.

the shower was probably the most painful part of the night. every drop stings, and there’s something really, really humbling about trying to wash off dirt and dried blood while also replaying the moment you kissed him in perfect clarity over and over again in his head.

and jake’s been at this for a while now. out patrolling, out fighting crime, out throwing dad jokes to creeps at night. but he’s never had a night like this. not with this much chaos, not with this much feeling.

an unexpected bullet. a slam against concrete. some dumb goon with a perfect punch. but right before it? you. you in an obnoxiously bright blue t-shirt saying ‘fish make life betta’. looking at him like that. kissing him like that.

by the time jake stumbles out of the bathroom, patched up with some teenage mutant ninja turtles bandages and wrapped in an oversized hoodie, he’s exhausted.

every limb aches. every muscle screams. every brain cell thinking of you.

and by the time monday rolls around and he wakes up to his alarm at 6:32AM—because he snoozed it for 32 extra minutes—jake frowns at what he sees.

his black eye looks worse, his face is, at least, five different shades of blue, purple, pink, and his ankle is still swollen. every step sends a jolt of pain up his body that even breathing feels like a core workout.

so jake does what any emotionally and physically fatigued teenage superhero would do.

he fakes food poisoning.

when his mom knocks on his door to get him up for school, jake meekly groans out a quick, “mooom. i’ve been projectile vomiting since, like, 3AM. i think it was the fish tacos.”

jake did not eat fish tacos.

but she buys it anyways, says something about him getting rest, and how she’s going to the store for medicine.

and jake sighs. mentally blesses his mom’s heart. attempts to fist pump weakly. fails. winces in pain. then, he turns his phone completely off, buries himself under his blanket, and with nothing but the hazy image of beluga whales, a reminder that he needs to wash his bloodied suit, and you—jake finally falls asleep.

the next thing jake can comprehend is more than twelve hours later. a lot more than twelve hours later. when he blinks awake—it’s pitch black, his body is still aching, his phone is dead, and—

there’s knocking. soft, but persistent.

he stumbles out of bed with a groan and a wince, croaking out a low, “coming..” while he limps over with one arm holding his side before he whips his door open and—

it’s you. jake blinks. you blink. your jaw drops.

“y/n,” jake blurts out, eyes wide. he rubs them once. twice. hopes, prays, this is just one of those weird fever dreams that feel way too real that he gets whenever he sleeps for too long.

but then you rush forward, brows furrowed and eyes flicking from his black eye, to the bruise on his cheek, to the way he’s leaning heavily on one leg with the other slightly elevated—

yeah. this is not a fever dream.

“what are you—what—how—what are you doing here?” jake stammers, instantly turning around, nerves spiking as he quickly scans his room for any incriminating spidey-like props.

suit? mask? web shooters? where did he put that damn mask—

“i texted you, like, fourteen times,” you say following him in, concerned painted all over your face. “you didn’t show up to school. you weren’t answering. i panicked and your mom let me in—jake.”

you stop. jake stops. your voice drops.

“what in the world happened to you?”

jake did not plan for this part. well, he didn’t plan for any of this. “i—uh,” he turns to you, eyes wide. “i…fell.”

your eyes flick down to his knuckles—bruised, battered, and definitely the aftermath of punching something hard. you raise a brow.

jake follows your gaze. panics.

“jake—did you…get in a fight?” “what?!” his voice goes an octave too high. he clears his throat. tries again. “no. no, no. i don’t—fights? me? no. i don’t—i don’t get into fights. that would be very…un-cool.”

you give him a look that says you clearly don’t buy it, but to his relief, you don’t push.

but because jake is still jake, he continues anyways. “i…i was biking—” jake doesn’t know how to ride a bike. “—without a helmet. bad idea, don’t do that. and then i hit this…massive pothole. huge. basically fell off and hit the curb and…and yeah.”

you blink at him. and jake’s panicking, so he’s still going.

“—and then a pigeon flew into me…?” you blink again. “a pigeon.”

jake nods quickly, as if that could convince you anymore (it doesn’t). “a pigeon! you know how they are. dumb pigeons.”

there’s a pause. you stare at him from halfway across the room. jake stands there awkwardly with his hands by his side.

you sigh. cross your arms. “you’re a really bad liar.”

jake looks at the ground. his ears turn red. then he looks back at you with a small, sheepish smile on his face. “yeah,” he admits softly. “kinda am.”

jake moves to sit on the edge of the bed, and you take that as an invitation to sit next to him. there’s a silence between you two again as jake fiddles with the ends of his hoodie, his face warm from either the bruising, the fact that you just called him out, or the fact that somehow, someway, you’re here. in his room. on his bed.

you glance sideways to look at him. then at the floor. then back at him again. you nudge his knee with yours. “…well,” your voice comes out quiet. “are you okay? at least?”

jake looks up. meets your eyes.

and they're wide and worried and so completely focused on him. and for the second time in twenty-four hours, jake thinks his heart might literally give out.

he nods once. swallows. “yeah. yeah, i am. thanks, y/n.”

the moment lingers as the same warm hush settles again between you, like some kind of quiet, mutual agreement—like hey, i’m here, and yeah. i care. and no, i’m not going anywhere. and jake doesn’t know what to spiral about first.

the fact that:

you haven’t left.

you haven’t pried about why he looks like a literal punching bag.

you care.

you shift a little, reaching into the backpack that jake hadn’t even noticed you brought, and pull out a packet of neatly clipped papers.

“i brought the chem notes from today,” you say, holding them out in between you. “there was a pop quiz, and i figured you might want the stuff we reviewed after.”

jake blinks down at the packet, then up at you. then back at the packet. he tries to act normal when he brushes against your fingers when it takes he from your hand. fails spectacularly.

“and,” you continue, eyes flicking to his for a second before focusing somewhere behind him. notably, the crooked bill nye ‘science rules!’ poster taped to the wall. “i just…wanted to see you.”

and jake, quite literally, forgets how to form words for half a second, but you don’t notice. your knee is still against his and he thinks he’s memorized the smell of your shampoo at this point.

“anyways—” you clear your throat and the shyness in your tone makes jake forget how to breathe. “—there’s this documentary they’re playing at the theater tomorrow.” you pause, as if gauging his reaction but jake’s pretty sure he’s blacked out right now. “it’s about—um—deep sea ecosystems? something about bioluminescence and predator-prey adaptations and this super weird jellyfish migration they just discovered.”

jake blinks hard. shakes himself back to reality. realizes this definitely, 100%, isn’t a fever dream. but surely, he’s dreamt of something like this before.

“that…sounds amazingly weird,” is all he can manage to say, nodding slowly.

“i figured,” you give a little half-shrug, “maybe you’d wanna go with me?” then you nudge his shoulder this time. “if you’re not still crippled by then, that is.”

there is a full three seconds of stunned, stunned silence. then, jake scrambles to sit up straighter, eyes wide, “yes. yeah—yes, i’d love to. with you. to see the jellyfish. yeah.”

you smile at him, “cool.” and jake can’t stop smiling back. he’s 98% pretty sure he looks like an idiot, but 100% knows he doesn’t care in the slightest.

you push up from the bed before grabbing your backpack and slinging it over your shoulder. “alright then,” you say, clapping your hands together. “i should go. rest up, okay?”

“i will. i will,” jake nods quickly, still a little dazed. “can’t be too crippled for tomorrow.”

you let out a soft laugh as he follows you to the front door. and when you step outside, you pause in the doorway—hovering like there’s still something on the tip of your tongue.

jake’s hand lingers on the doorknob. you glance up at him. open your mouth, then close it again.

then finally, quietly—you try again. “i, um…” you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “about the other night…”

jake’s heart rate spikes. your eyes flicker up to meet his, and they’re a little unsure. as if searching.

“i wasn’t sure,” you admit. “when you didn’t show up to school and didn’t answer my texts…i didn’t know if maybe—”

you trail off for a second, then finish in one quick breath: “if maybe you regretted it.”

and jake—bruised and aching and completely out of his mind for you—feels the air knocked out of him all over again.

his entire body goes still before he reboots all within 0.5 seconds. “no,” he says. fast. too fast, jake. “god, no.”

your eyes lift again.

“i didn’t regret it. not even a little bit,” his voice stumbles, his nerves are on fire, and his chest tightens with something dangerously close to hope. “i think…i think i relived it a million times in my head, honestly.

jake lets out a small chuckle—partly pathetic, but entirely sincere. “i meant it,” he murmurs. “every second of it.”

you shift your weight from foot to foot, “okay.” a reassured smile rests on your face. “just checking.”

jake exhales, rubs the back of his neck, and looks at you with something boyish and sorry. “i don’t regret it, but i do regret not checking my phone. that was stupid.”

you smirk at him, “a little bit.” jake grins, releasing a short breath of relief as he leans a little against the doorframe, “i’ll do better.”

you hum, giving him a certain, knowing look. “i’ll hold you to it,” your voice drops a little, and before jake can fully process the shift, you lean in—just barely, but yet just enough—and place the lightest kiss to his cheek.

and jake goes completely still. because it’s not dramatic, and it’s definitely not cinematic by any means.

not when you’re both standing in the middle of his apartment hallway, under a flickering light his super refuses to fix no matter how many maintenance requests his mom files. not when there’s a suspicious cloud of weed-scented air coming from the new college neighbors, who obviously do not care about the no smoking indoors sign. and especially not when jake’s ankle is still swollen, his ribs still sore, and he’s wearing star wars pajama pants with a hole in them that he’s praying you didn’t notice.

but it’s warm. and real. and so vulnerable it makes jake’s heart yearn in the most inconvenient way. like breathless honesty wrapped in nothing but silence and the glow of someone who cares.

you pull back slowly, your cheeks a shade pinker than before, your eyes still on his. and jake—well, he’s pretty sure his entire body is red head to toe. his cheek tingles from where your lips just were and his senses are so hyper-focused on you, he doesn’t even notice the pain of his wounds anymore.

“goodnight, jake,” you say finally before turning and going down the hall. and jake stands there, watching you—entirely, irrevocably, shamelessly, gone.

when you’re finally out of sight, jake finally stands up straight, snapping himself out of it and shuts the door behind him, limping his way back to his room when—

his eye catches the clock. 10:43PM. crap. you really need to stop walking home this late.

and suddenly, jake’s adrenaline kicks back in. not from the kiss. okay, maybe a little from the kiss. but mostly because it’s you, and you’re walking home alone, and, yeah, you live a five minute walk away from his but what if something happened, and then— yeah.

with no hesitation, jake locks his room door, goes into his closet, and grabs his suit—still battered and bloodied and roughened up, but it’ll do. two minutes and one-struggle-to-put-on-a-suit-when-half-crippled-later, jake is quietly hobbling out of his window, praying his mom is asleep.

he swings himself easily onto the rooftop of his own building, easily spotting you already a block down. he keeps to the rooftops, stealthily going from building to building until—

his damn ankle. his ankle—which he clearly forgot about for a hot business second—catches on a loose gutter and the next thing jake knows is pain, the taste of concrete in his face, and a loud-and-not-so-subtle crash, bang, clang.

“crap, crap, shit—” jake stands up, dusting his suit off, one leg propped up as he balances on his good one. “ouch, god—” “spidey?” oh god. jake freezes. peeks over the edge.

and there you are—fifty-something feet below, staring up at him, brows furrowed, arms crossed. “oh—” jake gives an awkward wave from where he is. “—y/n! hey! hi. what’s—uh—what’s up?”

jake steps back to duck out of sight, muttering a stream of whispered curses to himself before inhaling sharply and flinging himself down from the rooftop, landing right in front of you with the composure of someone with a screaming ankle and bullet-shaped wound in their abdomen.

you arch a brow. “…is this the part where you admit you are following me, after all?” jake straightens up slowly. and painfully. “i—what? no. i was, uh…” he gestures vaguely down the block. he has no idea what he’s pointing to. “getting pizza. dollar slice. late night craving.”

“uh huh,” you squint, clearly not believing him. “if i promise to stop walking home this late, will you stop stalking me from rooftops?” jake pauses. tilts his head. “define stalking.” you let out a small laugh, half-exasperated, half-fond.

“fine then,” you say, shrugging, “c’mon then. you’re already out. i’m coming with you.” jake blinks. “…coming with me to…where?”  “to get pizza,” you’re walking now, already turning without second thought. “duh.”

ten minutes and two lukewarm pizza slices later, you’re sitting shoulder to shoulder on your fire escape. the air is thick with humidity and smells faintly of marinara, melting cheese, and rusted metal. there’s a low buzz of cars below in the distance, and the stars up above are mostly hidden.

you’re chewing in silence. jake, on the other hand, is holding his slice in his hand in fear—too nervous to even lift his mask up to eat it. thankfully, you don’t notice. or if you do, you don’t mention it. either way, he’s relieved.

you knee bumps his. “so why do you do it?” jake startles slightly, his eyes dragging over to you beneath his mask, “why do i…do what?” you take another bite, still staring out across the street. “spider-man. why do you do what you do?”

he follows your gaze to the building you’re looking at. gives a weak shrug.

“i…didn’t really have a choice, i guess,” he offers quietly. that makes you turn. “you’re being forced to do this?” “no—no, not like that,” he’s quick to shake his head. then he pauses. thinks for a second. “it’s more like…one day, i woke up with these powers. and i realized i could do something with it, you know? like something good. and if i have the chance to…shouldn’t i?”

you’re silent for a second. then you glance over, studying the smooth fabric of his mask like you’re trying to see the face beneath it.

“so you fight crime and get beat up on the daily…willingly?” you shake your head, a small scoff escaping your nose. “you’re better than me, spidey.”

jake lets out a short breath—half of a laugh, half of a sigh. “someone has to. i mean, if i just sit back and watch bad things happen…then it’s like the bad things happen because of me.”

you nod slowly, your lips pressing together in thought. “yeah. that makes sense.”

there’s another pause. quiet, mutual. a pocket of space in the noise of the city where nothing exists but your knees pressed side by side and the pizza box going cold between you. you shift beside him, letting your legs dangle freely off the fire escape. “you’re a good guy,” you say eventually, turning to shoot him a soft smile.

jake swallows hard. his heart’s somewhere in his throat, and he doesn’t quite trust his own voice not to crack, so he simply nods—just once—and turns his gaze back out to the horizon.

“welp,” jake finally says, voice low, a little reserved, “i should probably get back to…you know. my thing.” you tilt your head, eyes narrowing playfully. “like walking your favorite citizens back home?”

“that part—” jake scoffs under his breath, then smirks behind the mask, “—is already done.” then, because spider-man is still jake, he throws up a finger-gun for good measure. he hates himself.

you roll your eyes, but the same smile stays on your face, “you’re unbelievable, spider-man.”

“i try.”

jake slowly rises to stand on the narrow ledge, glancing down at you one more time. the moonlight hits your cheek just right. you’re still holding the crust of your pizza slice, legs swinging, your eyes slightly narrowed like you’re trying to figure something out. and for the third time in twenty-four hours, jake still feels like his heart might give out.

he gives you a little salute, meant to be casual, but he feels anything but. and then, without thinking—he says it.

“see you tomorrow.” a beat of silence. jake’s face blanks. his body completely stills. you blink up at him. “…tomorrow?”

crap. crap, crap, CRAP.

jake’s silence goes for a second too long. then he scrambles for cover. “i mean—uh—hypothetically,” jake stammers, waving a gloved hand vaguely. “like, if you’re…out again. tomorrow. late at night. which you shouldn’t be. because, you know. laws.”

you give him a look. “laws?” “yup,” he taps his chest with two fingers. “spidey laws.” you let out a small giggle and lean back against the railing, arms loosely wrapped over your knees. “right. goodnight, spidey.”

jake clears his throat and bids a small, “night, y/n,” before shooting his web to the corner of the next building and swinging himself out of sight.

and jake doesn’t stop smiling the whole way home. not even when he peels the suit off with a small wince. not even when he collapses into bed, muscles aching and bruises throbbing and heart racing.

but the panic eventually sets in. and it’s early evening the next day by the time it does for jake.

jake stands in front of his closet, yanking hangers out as he quickly skims and tosses another outfit into the rejected pile.

sunghoon lies on the bed behind him, sprawled out horizontally, lazily twisting a rubik’s cube with one hand and scrolling on his phone with the other.

“you know,” sunghoon says without looking up, “it’s literally just a movie. actually, it’s barely even that. it’s a documentary.”

jake whips around, ignoring sunghoon’s comments, holding up a navy button-up in one hand and a graphic tee in the other. “which one says i-tried-but-didn’t-try-too-hard-because-i’m-not-100%-sure-what-we-are-quite-yet-but-just-enough-try?”

“…okay,” sunghoon says, twisting the cube into a perfect, one-colored side. “i’m just…gonna ignore everything you said. but go with the navy.”

“perfect,” jake grins at first, before his eyebrows furrow slightly. “wait, wait, wait. do you think she suspects anything?”

sunghoon lowers the cube. looks at jake. “about you liking her? bro, you kissed her—dude, it’s so obvi—she knows, trust me.”

“no,” jake hisses, yanking off his shirt and then buttoning the navy one on. “about me. like me me. like, spider-man me.”

sunghoon pauses. eyes jake. “what? why? what did you do?”

jake tries to fight back the dumb grin growing on his face as he runs his hand through his hair. “i walked her home.”

“okay…” sunghoon gives him a look that says he’s not impressed. “and i walked my grandma home last week, what’s your point—”

jake rolls his eyes and glances at him through the mirror. “as spider-man.”

“wait—” sunghoon gasps. “so you did end up using your lil guy!”

jake turns to sunghoon, face horrified, “can we please stop calling it my lil guy—”

but before sunghoon can respond, a sudden crackle of static cuts through the air from where jake’s police scanner sits on his cluttered desk.

“—reports of an assault in progress near 37th and bay. suspect is armed. five victims. officers en route. any nearby units respond.”

the air stills. sunghoon immediately sits up. jake’s head jerks towards the tracker. sunghoon’s already reading the look in his best friend’s eyes, “don’t.” jake doesn’t answer.

his eyes are locked on the scanner. his jaw tightens. his mind already racing.

assault in progress. you. suspect is armed. documentary. weird jelly fish. 37th and bay. you. five victims. y/n. y/n. y/n. y/n.

sunghoon watches him carefully, like someone trying to talk a bomb out of detonating. “jake. don’t even think about it.” “i’m not!” jake blurts, too fast, too high, and the crack at the end gives him away.

sunghoon groans. “dude. you have another date. with y/n. you’ve been waiting for this for so long.” “i—i know,” jake’s voice rises in panic. and he’s trying so hard not to panic. “but what if no one gets there in time? w—what if…it’s close. i can handle it. i’ll be quick.”

“jake.” sunghoon gapes at him. “quick? you literally limped up the stairs today. you barely beat that guy from the other day!”

jake doesn’t hear him. in fact— jake’s navy button-up is already off.

“i’ll be fine!” “you still have a bullet scar in your stomach!” “exactly, sunghoon. scar. practically healed. no biggie!” sunghoon throws his hands up. “you can’t be serious—”

“i’ll be done and early to the theater. i swear, hoon.” jake is already tugging the suit halfway over his upper half, wincing at the movement but powering through. “i’ll swing in, swing out. three minutes, tops.”

sunghoon groans louder. and jake is already yanking the window open. “jake.” his friend’s voice softens slightly. “don’t blow this. you like her. she likes you.”

jake pauses, foot on the ledge, mask in hand. he turns back towards sunghoon, lips tight, shoulders tense. “i do like her,” he murmurs.

he pulls the mask down over his head anyways.

“but you know me, sunghoon. you know i can’t be the guy who looks the other way.” and sunghoon does know. of course he knows. this was always a losing battle from the start. because he knows his best friend, he knows jake. knows his heart wasn’t just made of gold, but forged in it. soft and stubborn, foolish yet fearless. the kind of heart that doesn’t back down, even when it knows it should. the kind that tries anyways.

so sunghoon doesn’t push any further. he presses a hand to jake’s shoulder and gives it a firm pat.

“you better not be late.”

jake offers a crooked salute with two fingers—part promise, part apology— and falls backwards out the window.

a flick of his wrist, a few shots of web, a sharp whoosh of air as jake swings into the wind—and the night cleans the rest of his loud thoughts out of his head.

because as much as he wants to see you—as much as he’s worrying about being late—he can’t think about that right now.

and so one fight, a couple hard punches to the gut, a potentially dislocated shoulder, and a webbed-up criminal later—

jake is limping his way back across a rooftop ledge, blood in his mouth and the taste of guilt already rising up like bile behind it.

he lands with a grunt just outside his window on the fire escape, cracking it open and tip-toeing in. he stumbles into his room—still half-messy from earlier—navy button-up on the floor, rubik’s cube on the bed.

jake groans softly, one hand pressed into his side, the other slowly dragging his mask off. his jaw aches. his ribs throb. his other ankle is definitely going to bruise. but his heart? sinks when he finally turns on his phone.

6 missed messages. 3 missed calls. all from you.

Y/N (7:41PM) : hey! just got here early :)) but no rush!!

Y/N (7:57PM) : are u on ur way?

Y/N (8:03PM) : jake? is everything okay?

Y/N (8:16PM) : im going in now…meet me inside when u get here?

Y/N (9:45PM) : jake if u forgot u can just tell me

Y/N (10:12PM) : i hope ur okay

jake stares at the screen. sits on the edge of his bed, defeated. like he might fall apart.

because jake has seen a lot in his short lifetime. he’s seen back alleyways soaked in red. he’s seen broken glass way too many times a teenager ever should. he’s seen someone take a swing at him with a crowbar. he’s seen bruises bloom on his ribs and vanish before anyone could ask questions. he’s seen criminals twice his size fall, and he’s seen friends—good people—get hurt anyways.

but this? this wrecks him. this has jake in shambles.

because he missed it. he missed you. and before he could talk himself out of it—before he even knows what he’s going to say—he’s tapping on your name and pressing the call button.

it rings once. twice. three times.

“jake?” your voice is soft. cautious. like you didn’t know if you should answer, but did anyways.

jake swallows hard, voice caught in his throat.

“i’m sorry.” a pause. it hangs in the air and jake already wants to scream. “i’m so sorry,” he says again, voice low, words falling out fast, as if trying to outrun his own guilt gnawing at him. “i—i didn’t mean to—i was gonna be there, i swear i was gonna be there, but then something happened and—”

“hey,” your voice cuts through. not loud, not pressing, not angry. “it’s okay.” but it’s far from it. not in jake’s head. not when the image of you sitting alone in the dark theater has already carved itself into his brain. not when he can hear the disappointment in your voice.

jake licks his lips. he can hear the shift of your weight rustling against your bed. maybe you’re curled up somewhere in the dark. maybe you’re still in the outfit you wore to the movies. maybe you cried, and maybe you didn’t. and maybe jake will never know.

“no, no it’s not,” jake manages. he winces—at the pain growing at his ribs, at the mess he’s made, at himself. “i—i didn’t even text, i—god, i’m such an idiot—”

“you’re not an idiot, jake,” you say. and your voice is tired, but never cold. “i was just…worried.”

“i’m okay. i promise. and i promise i didn’t forget,” he whispers. “not even a little.” and there’s so much more jake wants to say.

“…did something happen?” you ask gently. jake’s fingers tighten around the phone. “yeah,” jake says, the sound barely coming out. “kind of.”

another beat passes. a small exhale from you. “do you want to talk about it?” and jake’s throat closes up.

because he wants to. god, he wants to. he wants to tell you everything—about the fight, the chase, the guy with the knife, the way his side still burns, the way he pictured you waiting outside the theater for him with every swing and every hit he took and every punch. he wants to tell you he didn’t forget. that you were the only thing on his mind the whole time.

but he can’t. he knows he can’t.

“…i—i can’t.”

you’re quiet again. but this time, jake can feel the shift even over the phone. and it’s not annoyance, it’s not cold. jake doesn’t think a single bone in your body could ever hold an ounce of bitterness. just disappointment. sadness.

“…okay.” your voice barely goes through. jake squeezes his eyes shut. his fist balls up the sheet under him. “i’m sorry,” he whispers again.

you inhale through your nose, “it’s okay. i just—i didn’t know if something happened. i didn’t know if you were hurt...or if i said something wrong.”

jake’s stomach twists—sharp and awfully close to throwing up. and this time, it’s not from the amount of times he took it to the gut today.

“no,” he blurts, too quickly but he doesn’t care. “no, it wasn’t you. you didn’t do anything wrong.”

another long, still silence.

“alright…well,” you murmur eventually, voice light in that way people use when they’re trying not to sound disappointed. “i’ll see you at school then, i guess?” 

“yeah,” jake nods, even though you can’t see him. “yes. yeah, tomorrow.”

you don’t say anything else. and neither does he. you end the call first.

and jake stays frozen, still on the edge of his bed, phone still pressed to his ear even after the line goes dead with a soft click.

he shuts his eyes, letting the dark swallow him whole. and as he groans, rubbing a tired hand over his face—wincing at the physical pain, but mentally cursing at the emotional one—jake can’t stop hearing your voice in his head.

everything is too much.

halls buzzing, lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking. the overhead lights are way too bright, and the air smells like gym socks and cafeteria mystery meat.

and it’s all overwhelming. well, it should be, at least. especially for someone who has heightened senses that feels everything a hundred times more than the regular human being. sharper, louder, closer.

but jake barely notices any of it. he’s already halfway down the corridor, eyes immediately locking in on you the second he walked through those doors. and as far as he’s concerned, nothing else matters. 

you’re at your locker, spinning the combination without looking, when jake finds himself next to you before he knows it.

he clears his throat, “hey.” you glance over. “oh,” you say, blinking. “hi.”

jake steps a little closer, a little hesitant, nerves jumbled in his gut. “look, y/n. i’m really sorry. i still am.”

you shake your head almost immediately, pulling out a book and shutting your locker gently. there’s a polite smile on your face as you look over at him, “jake. it’s okay. really.”

"it’s not—” he says, frowning, his voice coming out rougher than he intends. his ribs still hurt. his ankle’s still swollen. his face still bruised. but none of that stings half as much as the way you’re not meeting his eyes right now. “you had every right to be pissed—”

“i wasn’t pissed, jake,” you cut in gently. “i told you. you just worried me…that’s all.”

that makes jake shut up. his throat closes up. because worried might be worse. worried means you care. and he let you down anyway.

and that’s it for a moment. the silence that follows stretches a little too long—lockers clang in the background, someone yells about running late to class. the world keeps moving—but jake doesn’t.

“i’m glad you’re okay,” you finally say, voice quiet as your gaze skims across his face, lingering just a moment too long on the faint bruise along his jaw.

jake exhales slowly. tries not to flinch under the weight of your concern. because how? how can you still look at him like that—with care, with softness—when he doesn’t know what he even did to deserve it?

and the worst part is, he’s terrified he already lost you before he ever even earned you.

“…so,” he says, the word catching in his throat awkwardly yet hopeful all at once, “how about we try again?” your head tilts, an unreadable curiosity replacing the worry in your eyes.

jake lets out an uneven breath of nervous laughter as he searches your eyes. “tomorrow night? you, me. that corner diner with the insane milkshakes and greasy burgers. then we can regret it together afterwards.”

you only look at him for a beat. then, just slightly, your shoulders relax. and jake watches it happen in real time—the way the tension lifts just slightly, the curve of a small smile tugging at your lips.

like sunlight cutting through a cloud. like a sign from the universe that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t completely ruin everything.

“okay,” you breathe, a small laugh escaping with it. “that…actually does sound kinda fun. maybe not the grease part, but…yeah. at least we can suffer together.”

you then step closer, nudging him lightly with your shoulder, a playful glint in your eye, “you’re paying, by the way.”

jake grips the straps of his backpack with both his hands, smiling at you like a child offered candy. “done and done.”

“alright, well,” you step back with a glance down the hall, “i should probably head to class.”

jake nods back, eyes still watching you, “yeah, yeah, right. me too.” but he doesn’t move. just keeps watching you, unsure if he should try pinching himself.

you look back at him one last time, “jake?”

jake’s half-way on his heels when he stops at the sound of your voice again. “yeah?”

“it really is okay,” you reassure. and it’s real. honest. grounded. and everything jake needs to hear.

he smiles, a little too lopsided and voice a little too fragile when he speaks again, “i’ll see you?”

“counting on it,” you grin before turning back and making your way to class.

the rest of the day blurs for jake. he aces the pop vocabulary quiz in english, he steals some of sunghoon’s fries from his tray, he accidentally dents his locker door when closing it because he forgets he has literal super strength.

but it all passes in a haze. muted and unimportant. because the only thing that cuts through the noise is the thought of you.

every hour stalls. every minute another reminder that the best way to distract himself from the chaos of his head is the same thing that causes it in the first place—

seeing you. obviously.

“you know,” his voice comes from above, playful and easy, “i probably sacrifice at least two churros a night just making sure you get home safe instead of saving the world out there.”

“jesus christ—” you jolt back, nearly tripping over your own feet as jake—spider-man—drops down beside you later that night on your walk back home. you instinctively swat at the air as if that threatens him. at all.

“wrong guy,” he quips, sticking the landing in a crouch and straightening up. “but i do appreciate the enthusiasm.”

your face drops and give him a deadpan stare. “you really gotta stop doing that.”

“me?” jake clutches his chest dramatically through the suit before jutting a thumb behind him towards absolutely nothing. “i could totally leave right now and earn myself some churros.”

you huff out a breath, rolling your eyes even as your lips twitch towards a smile, “then why are you still here, spidey?”

“because,” jake answers simply, falling into step beside you, “it’s part of my friendly-neighborhood-spider-man-civic-duties to make sure my favorite citizen gets home safe.”

you snort, shaking your head lightly as you tilt your head at him, “fine. let’s get going then.”

jake smiles beneath the mask—too wide, too hopeful, too much. and you don’t see it, but he feels it—feels you—in every corner of himself. and jake hates how badly he wishes this could just be him. no mask, no lies, no secret. just jake. just you.

once you two make it a block or two (jake lost count), jake coughs a little too awkwardly, breaking through the quiet, “sooo…what ended up happening with that aquarium guy?”

you falter for half a second. it’s quick, but jake notices. not because his jake-tingle makes him notice everything, but because he’s watching. especially you.

you start walking again just as fast, trying to pretend the question didn’t rattle you at all before you clear your throat, “what guy?”

“y’know,” jake gestures vaguely, hands flailing, “the guy-guy. the one who took you to see the belugas—”

oh no. jake stops. shuts his mouth. he did it again. you stop too. turn to look at him slowly.

“…how do you know about the belugas?” jake looks at you. the lenses of his mask widen. then narrow. blink. squint.

“i—uh—” jake rubs the back of his neck, the suit suddenly feeling a little too tight, a little too warm. “i saw a billboard. yeah. i was swinging around the other day and—and there was this massive ad. big and blue and very…beluga-like.”

there’s a beat. reason #1115 why jake’s going to launch himself into orbit. but you buy it anyways, settling with a small side-eye before walking again, “okay…right.”

“yeah,” jake exhales under his mask, recovering with a casual shrug, “anyways. belugas…the aquarium guy?”

you hum, the sound barely audible as if you’re thinking, “he’s…cool. he’s alright.”

and jake’s heart caves in a little. okay, maybe a lot. he pretends to nod, to be chill, to not feel like maybe he’s witnessing his entire world fall apart in front of him right now and he can’t do anything about it.

“damn,” he manages to squeak out, voice lighter than how he feels. “just alright?”

you glance at him briefly before looking back at the sidewalk, “no, no—he’s…he’s really nice,” you say and jake swears he can feel the syllables in your voice individually bruise his ribs. “he’s just…confusing. i don’t know.”

and jake, because he’s jake, watches you. watches the way your voice dips quieter. watches the way your shoulders curl in just a little, watches the way your mind trails off.

“confusing…” he says slowly, carefully, testing the ice. “like you…don’t like him?” and jake doesn’t know why he asked that. he doesn’t know if he wants to hear the answer.

“yes. no. i—i don’t know. i think i do.” a small pause. you kick a pebble. “but sometimes it’s hard to tell if he…if he actually cares? or if i made the whole thing up in my head.”

jake blinks hard. looks away. swallows. bites the inside of his cheek to keep everything in. because you didn’t make it up. not even a little. and god, if only you knew how desperately he cares—how much of his life he’s unintentionally rewritten around you.

his heart screams to tell you everything. that this is his chance, that he can fix everything right here, right now. but his brain knows better.

“i think…you should give him a chance.”

you look up, surprised. and jake doesn’t know why—but that hurts too.

“seriously,” his eyes flick forward again. “he’d be lucky. you’re smart. and thoughtful. and…even though you have the survival instincts and awareness of a sea turtle, you’re…fun. and honestly kind of unbelievable.”

and for a spilt second, jake forgets. forgets that he’s not just jake. forgets he’s not just a teenage boy talking to his crush. forgets that to you, right now, he’s not the awkward guy that stammers next to you in chemistry and accidentally breaks glass beakers in his hand. forgets that he’s spider-man—the one you seem to trust a little more freely than the boy who let you down.

and that’s what hurts the most. because when you glance up at him now—there’s that feeling again. the pocket of air that only ever exists between you and him. a space that feels warmer than the rest of the world, like the universe took a breath and exhaled only around the two of you.

and it’s always there, somehow—whether he’s wearing the mask or not. whether it’s spider-man and you eating cold pizza on your fire escape. whether it’s you and jake laughing over a lame pun your teacher used in class. and jake knows that air. craves it. has memorized the shape of silence it holds.

but right now, it feels more like spider-man gets to live in it. not jake. and that realization twists something sharp and quiet inside his chest.

because jake’s the one who likes you. jake’s the one who knows you like your matcha lattes even with the grainy oat milk that makes the texture weird. the one who knows you only ever take chemistry quizzes with your favorite pink pen because you think it gives you good luck. the one who gets to share sour patch kids with you under the lab table when you both think no one is looking. but jake’s the one who messed up.

and spider-man’s the one who gets to be here now.

he looks at you—you standing there, eyes soft, smile just a little sad—and he’s willing himself not to say anything stupid. not to ruin the moment. not to cross that line he drew. not to let it get to his head every time he realizes the only way he can be close to you right now…is by being someone else.

and so jake locks in.

the next morning, he wakes up early—which, in jake terms, really means waking up at his regular time and only hitting snooze twice instead of his usual six. he throws on a hoodie that he sniffed to make sure it smells like detergent and not like it’s overdue for a wash, looks in the mirror, and brushes his hair. like actually brushes it, and not just run his hands through it and hopes for the best. he walks the full twenty minutes to the café where he studied with you, orders your usual—the matcha latte with the grainy oat milk—adds a smiley face and heart on the side of the cup next to your name, and books it to school. he arrives early to school, for once, and goes straight to your locker—not before dodging a frisbee mid-air, a frantic girl running with an art project in hand, and a couple making out aggressively by the vending machine.

when you close your locker door shut, you look up surprised—jake in your view, holding the matcha out like an olive branch. if olive branches wore oversized hoodies and had a mild existential crisis fifteen minutes ago.

you blink. then you smile and take the cup. jake gives himself a mental high five. nailed it. and when you softly ask him to walk to you to your first class? jake nearly does a backflip. (he doesn’t. he plays it cool. barely.)

when chemistry rolls around later in the day, jake’s the first one to say hi this time. when the teacher is busy not looking, jake leans in and says a really, really stupid joke about ionic bonds and valence electrons and regrets it immediately but you laugh. you laugh and jake’s day is immediately better than any other day he’s had this week. at some point, you nudge his knee and when jake looks down—your hand is there, holding out a pack of sour patch kids. jake takes it as a good sign. or maybe a sign of impending life-long romance. either way, he takes one and tries not to make it weird. (and he still does. he accidentally eats two at once and chokes a little. but it’s fine.)

when the bell rings and class is over, you’re both packing up when you glance over and smile at him, “I’m excited to see you later tonight.” and jake thinks he misheard. thinks he’s hearing things because just three weeks ago, the most he’s ever said to you was either something about the periodic table or…running out of the classroom after breaking a glass beaker with his bare hands. but then your hand lands on the sleeve of his hoodie and gives him the slightest squeeze, and jake malfunctions.

jake gives you a thumbs up. because he panicked. he panicked and thumbs-upped (he will never learn). but you smile anyways and say your cute little goodbye before leaving class.

and the rest of the school day is irrelevant to jake because the rest of the school day doesn’t involve you. well, except in his head. sure, jake goes to lunch. sunghoon won’t stop talking about the new valorant expansion pack and how his computer lags everytime he tries to peek a corner—but jake’s just thinking about how your hair looked in the sunlight this morning when you asked him to walk you to class. sure, jake gets his pop quiz back in history with a big, fat, b minus written on top in red marker. normally, he’d spiral, because he really should be getting his history grade up. and normally, he’d wince at the mental image of his mom scolding him later over it—but he’s too busy replaying your laugh in his head. sure, jake goes to robotics club after school. he’s supposed to help calibrate the parts for their new battle bot but he accidentally installs a cord backwards, and now the bot is stuck running in circles—because jake sim is currently preoccupied.

preoccupied mentally drafting a speech that goes something like, “hey, i like you. a lot. possibly way more than i should but i don’t really care because you always smell good and your smile makes me want to rip my hair out and the memory of kissing you is in my dreams everynight. can i be your boyfriend? please? maybe? i’ll buy you weird oat milk drinks forever and buy you more beluga stickers even though, respectfully, you probably shouldn’t own any more.”

it’s still a work in progress.

and later that evening, jake is pacing back and forth in his bedroom, mentally preparing himself for tonight. his spider-man suit lies crumpled somewhere in the back of his closet half-covered by a flannel, a calculus textbook, and one sock he still can’t find the missing half to. he makes a mental note to wash the suit. eventually. later. not tonight. tomorrow. whatever. not important.

because tonight, he’s just jake. just jake, a regular teenage boy. just jake, a regular teenage boy with no responsibilities except to make his crush and hopefully soon-to-be-girlfriend happy.

just jake, nervously fixing the collar of his nicest hoodie, debating whether or not to wear the cologne his mom got him two birthdays ago. just jake, combing his fingers through his hair and wondering if you like it better pushed back, down, up, messy, styled, or, hell, shaved off entirely because he will do it if it gets him one (1) smile from you. just jake, practically grinning to himself because he’s going to see you.

jake checks the time again. 7:24PM. he’s early, which is good. which is the plan. because early gives him time to get to the diner first. early gives him time to find the best booth, which is the one near the corner window so you two can watch the sunset together and sit far from the kitchen door to avoid the smell of peanut oil. early gives him time to breathe and mentally run through everything he wants to say.

hi y/n. you look really pretty. i missed you—wait no, you saw her literally three hours ago, don’t say that—i was thinking we could split the strawberry milkshake together—wait is she lactose intolerant?

jake grabs his phone, wallet, the flowers he picked up at the corner deli on the way home. it’s wrapped in too much plastic, a little crooked, one of the carnations is sticking out, but it’s pink and soft and entirely you coded.

and jake makes his way to the diner, sneakers scuffing against the sidewalk, heart doing backflips in his ribcage as he turns the corner and sees the neon lights of the diner come into view just a few more blocks down. one of the lights of the sign is flickering in and out, going back and forth from diner to din_r. it’s perfect. you’re perfect. he just needs to get there.

buzz. buzz. jake looks down at his phone in hand.

incoming call : GUY IN CHAIR 🧠

“yo, i’m gonna call you in, like, a few hours,” jake answers without thinking, barely breaking his pace, “i’m on my way to the—” “jake.” and sunghoon’s voice is tense. urgent. the kind of urgent that tightens something in jake’s chest. jake stops.

“it’s bad. really, really bad,” sunghoon’s voice is strained and jake doesn’t like it. doesn’t like that feeling in his gut. the pull, the weight, the way his skin pricks, the way every muscle in his body tenses.

jake shuts his eyes closed. exhales sharply. runs a hand through his hair. “how bad?”

“like…warehouse near the port is up in flames and there’s a hostage situation and no one’s close enough to get there in time.”

and just like that, jake feels it. the way the air changes, that familiar shift in gravity. that tug in his chest like a string being pulled into two opposite directions.

jake doesn’t say anything. he looks back down the street, stares at the diner. he’s so close. so close to getting there. so close to getting to you. “i can’t, sunghoon. not tonight,” he swallows hard, his voice cracking on the words. “i—i don’t even have my suit.”

there’s a beat. “jake,” sunghoon says, softer yet not any less urgent. “they’ve got kids.”

jake’s eyes flutter closed again. presses the heel of his hand to his forehead like he can press the guilt away. he doesn’t move. and for a second—just one—he thinks maybe, maybe, he could keep walking. just this once. just tonight.

but he knows better.

the responsibility. the pull. the price of the mask. it’s never not there.

his grip tightens around the bouquet. the plastic crinkles. he sighs, slips out a curse word or two under his breath, and—

“jesus christ,” jake mumbles, already turning on his heel. “tell the fire department i’m on my way. and tell them to hurry.”

and jake’s already running—sprinting back in the opposite direction back to his apartment. sunghoon hangs up and jake?

jake doesn’t stop. he doesn’t even look back.

jake doesn’t know what time it is. doesn’t care. smoke still clings to his skin, the faint sting of ash burned into the fabric of his suit. his lungs ache, and his hands are scraped raw from tearing open too many metal doors and carrying too many people to safety.

but he’s alive. they’re alive. 

and yet. all jake can think about—is you.

you, maybe waiting in that booth. you, maybe sipping a milkshake through a striped straw, twirling it slowly and glancing at the door every couple minutes. you, maybe checking your phone. frowning. getting up. leaving.

god.

he doesn’t even stop to change. just swings home, crawls through his fire escape, throws a hoodie over his soot-covered suit, runs a wet hand through his hair, and jumps back out the fire escape again. he swings and swings until he lands in an alleyway near the diner, tripping over a trash can and throwing a curse word at it as he stumbles into the street and—

runs into you.

your arms are crossed tight against your chest, your head’s down. you’re walking the other way, unaware of the chaos behind you.

jake’s voice cracks before it can even form your name. “—y/n. y/n, i—”

you stop mid-step, your head turning at the sound. and when you turn and see him, you pause—the expression on your face unreadable.

“jake?” your brows furrow. “what the hell—where did you even come from? and why do you smell like—” you stop yourself. exhale shortly. shake your head. “you know what? never mind. i—i’m going home.”

you turn again. and jake panics. he starts after you, picking up his pace to match yours “wait—look, y/n, i’m so, so, so sorry. i swear i can explain—”

that’s when you stop in your tracks. you turn, finally facing him. and the emotions written on your face are everywhere—confused, hurt, tired, and somewhere beneath all of that—still soft.

“okay,” you say, looking him in the eye. “then explain.”

jake opens his mouth. closes it. he swallows. his lips open again.

"i—" his throat burns. and it’s not from inhaling a building’s worth of smoke from earlier. "i can’t. it's...complicated."

silence.

you stare at him. eyes wide. quiet. sad. disappointed. the kind that hurts jake more than if you were angry.

when you speak up again, your voice is quiet, barely above a whisper, “look, jake. i don’t know what’s going on with you. and i’m not mad. but…you’re just really confusing. and clearly, you’ve got something going on.”

you take a breath and fold your arms tighter around yourself, “—and while this was fun and all…i just—i don’t know if this is going to work out anyways.”

jake blinks. his stomach drops. he takes a step closer. “wait—no, y/n, i—”

and you keep going. “plus,” you let out a small laugh but it’s the worst kind of laugh—the kind that’s awkward and forced, like it’s there only to preemptively make up for the words coming after. “i’m just gonna be honest with you.”

jake doesn’t breathe. you look him in the eyes.

“i think i like someone else anyways.”

and that does it. jake’s world tilts sideways. the words hit him like a punch—no, worse, because he’s felt bad punches before. this feels like that moment in freefall right before the web catches you, except this time there’s no web. just the fall.

“you…like someone else?” is all jake manages to let out before the words get caught in his throat. he thinks he might throw up.

you nod. slowly. hesitantly. and jake feels like he’s unraveling.

he doesn’t know what to say. he wants to scream, he wants to cry, he wants to tear his stupid hoodie off and tell you everything. that he missed the date because he was saving lives. that he wanted to tell you he’s falling for you. that he bought the damn bouquet and practiced a stupid speech and picked the booth with the best view and no peanut oil smell. that he only missed it because he was trying to be good. good enough. worthy.

but all that comes out is air. because he can’t tell you. because he shouldn’t tell you. because spider-man doesn’t get to be selfish. because jake doesn’t get to be just jake.

your fingers fidget as you glance back down at the ground. you rock slightly on your heels before your voice breaks the silence again, “but hey. no hard feelings, yeah? friends?”

and that might be the final blow. and jake doesn’t even know how to respond. his brain stutters. because what is he supposed to say—”friends? no? actually, i wanted to ask you to be mine tonight, and now i can’t even tell you why i missed it?”

so instead, jake does what jake always does. he pretends. he nods, forces a smile—too quick, too wide, the kind that pulls at his cheeks but doesn’t reach his eyes.

“yeah,” he says. his voice cracks, but he clears his throat like that’ll fix anything. “yeah. of course. friends.”

you nod back and offer a tight smile, “i’ll see you at school, then. goodnight.”

then you turn. and you walk away. jake doesn’t move. the weight of your footsteps fade, but the words still echo in his ears.

friends. someone else. no hard feelings.

his chest feels hollow. like someone scraped everything out and forgot to fill it back in. like he just lost something he never even got the chance to have in the first place.

and spider-man’s the one who saved the day. and it should feel like a win, but it doesn’t. because although spider-man saved the day, jake’s the one who let you down. 

jake was too late. too late, too secretive. too much of everything and still not enough of what you needed.

“maybe it’s not as bad as we think.” sunghoon’s voice is cautious, but not exactly convincing from his slouched position in jake’s desk chair, spinning slowly like he’s debating whether now’s a good time to leave (it’s not. he’s been trying for the past hour. jake made him stay.)

jake lets out a guttural groan in response, already face down on his bed, limbs sprawled out in distress. a pillow is smushed over his head, in attempt to block out the agonizing, soul-crushing reality that is his life.

“it’s over, sunghoon,” jake muffles into his mattress. “over with a capital O. capital V. all the damn letters—over before it even started.”

jake flips over, sending the pillow to the other side of the room, “she likes someone else,” he says hollowly, staring blankly at the ceiling. “i was so preoccupied with everything else that i didn’t even notice she—who else could she even—”

jake cuts himself off mid-rant. because it doesn’t matter. doesn’t matter who you like. doesn’t matter how it happened.

it just matters that it’s not him. that you like someone. and it’s not jake.

jake presses a hand to his head, “god. i’m such an idiot.”

sunghoon lets out a low whistle and starts fiddling with one of jake’s pens, “okay. you’re not an idiot. you did what you had to do, and you did the right thing.”

jake lets out a small sigh, quiet and defeated, finally looking at his friend, “but when do i get to stop sacrificing to do the right thing?”

silence stretches out between them. the ceiling fan above them whirs. the clang of metal pots and pans echo from down the hall—which means jake’s mom is attempting to make meatloaf again. which means the fire alarm will probably go off in ten minutes, maybe eight. the room smells faintly of jake’s two-birthdays-ago cologne, and the burnt tinge of unwashed spandex crumpled somewhere in the room.

sunghoon taps the pen against the desk, eventually breaking the silence, “so talk to her. as spidey.”

jake sits up in his bed and gives sunghoon a look.

“talk to her as spider-man, tell her to give ‘jake’ another chance,” sunghoon repeats, throwing air quotes around his friend’s name.

jake gestures to the ceiling. the wall. the existential void of absolute nothingness around him. “sunghoon. that’s…messed up. morally. ethically. logistically. probably emotionally.”

“i mean,” sunghoon shrugs casually as if this is the answer to all of jake’s problems, “spidey’s already friends with her, anyways. and you told me yourself—it feels like she’s closer to him than she is to you.”

jake throws both hands in the air. “WE’RE THE SAME PERSON.”

he then lets out an inhuman noise and flops backwards onto his bed again, “whatever, man. this is probably for the best anyway,” he mutters. “spider-man should’ve never gotten involved in the first place. it’s safer this way. especially for her.”

a beat passes. jake stares up at the glow-in-the-dark stars still stuck to his ceiling from the sixth grade. he blinks once.

“plus, let’s be honest. i’d probably screw it up more somehow. say something dumb and let it slip that it’s been me all along.” jake pauses. “—or honestly, she probably already knows i’m spider-man. which is even worse, because now she probably hates both versions of me.”

sunghoon’s quiet for a moment. just keeps spinning slowly in jake’s chair, the wheels creaking faintly. “…so what? you’re just gonna stop walking her back home now?” he finally says, lifting a brow. “isn’t that for her safety too?”

and yeah. yeah, he has a point. so jake doesn’t stop.

he just stops being seen. and that’s what jake does for the next few days.

so jake falls into this routine without really meaning to. he goes home from school, puts on his suit (it’s clean now, don’t worry), and spends the next few hours either returning stolen bikes or webbing carjackers to brick walls or showing tourists the right direction.

and somehow, someway, jake still finds himself in the same spot at the end of the day—sitting crouched on the ledge of the rooftop across from your bus stop, a hoodie pulled over his mask, hands stuffed in his sleeves.

at 10:32PM, your bus rolls up right on the dot.

at 10:33PM, you step off. same oversized totebag on your shoulder. same way you pull your phone out and unlock it in the same three motions. same streetlight that flickers just before you pass it.

and jake watches you go home. makes sure you’re okay. makes sure you’re safe. all without making himself seen.

and only when your apartment window lights up does he finally feel okay, finally swings away, the wind cold and sharp in his lungs—but not as cold as the air around him whenever you’re not there.

he does this again the next night. and the next. and the next.

and at school, jake falls into rhythm here, too—if you can call it that.

you still sit next to him in chemistry. still copy formulas off the board. still hand in the same worksheets, laugh politely when the teacher makes a pun about avogadro’s number.

but you don’t share your sour patch kids anymore. and jake doesn’t make any stupid chemistry jokes to make you laugh either, because…he can’t think of any. because all the funny ones were ones he saved for you, and they don’t feel worth saying out loud anymore.

you talk to him, sure. when you need the answer to question six, or to ask if he got the quiz grade back. but there’s space between you now. quiet, aching space. and jake doesn’t know how to fill it.

but by the end of the week— all routines fly out the window.

because it’s friday night. and jake swings to the usual rooftop across from your bus stop, a half-eaten churro in one hand—courtesy of the sweet old lady who bought it for him after he showed her where her train station is. because it’s 10:30PM when jake lands on the roof, tossing his backpack to the side when he looks up and—

he freezes.

because sitting there, cross-legged on the ledge—on his ledge—backlit by the moonlight and the yellow glow of the streetlamps below—is you.

jake chokes. he stumbles back, the eyes of his mask blown wide immediately, “what the—y/n?! what are you—how did you—wh—”

and you’re sitting there, blinking and staring at him, unfazed. like you’ve been waiting. you don’t move. you just raise a brow.

“okay, so first you start walking me home every night, then you stop showing up, but still choose to stalk me from a distance? i don’t get you, spider-man.”

and jake is so confused right now. “i—what’s going on?” jake sputters, arms half-raised in shock and disbelief. “how are you even here right now, how did you even get up here?”

“you’re not exactly subtle, y’know,” you deadpan, ignoring his question as you tilt your head up at him. “every night you walk me home? i know this is where you drop your bag off and wait for me to get off that bus. i know you sit on that rooftop across from my place to make sure i’m okay every night. your silhouette is literally not that subtle.” then you gesture vaguely around the rooftop. “also, the webs everywhere? kinda a dead giveaway, don’t you think?”

jake’s mouth opens. nothing comes out. and if it weren’t for the mask, he’d be catching flies.

you stand now, arms crossed tight as you take a step closer to him. you take a deep breath before you ramble, “i don’t know. i’m just—i’m so confused, spider-man. i told the guy i like that i liked someone else. and i don’t even know if that was true or if i just panicked. but the truth is, i don’t even know if the guy i actually like likes me back, or even knows how to talk to me, or if i’m just completely losing it—”

“—wait.” jake tilts his head, still frozen in his spot. “wait, which guy? like the guy-guy? aquarium guy?”

you groan and start pacing, squeezing your eyes shut like you’re trying to make sense of the situation as well.

“yes. yes, of course the guy-guy, aquarium guy—who else would i be talking about? there’s no other guy—”

“you just said you told the guy-guy you liked someone else.”

“i did! i think! i—look, i don’t know! maybe i said it just to protect myself from the fact that the guy-guy doesn’t like me back. but now i might actually like this other guy—”

“okay, okay—hold on, back up,” jake steps back to process. holds up both his hands. “so there’s guy-guy you maybe like…and now a new guy…?”

jake’s mind is reeling. his insides might come out. who is the new guy? is jake even guy-guy? no. yes. maybe? jake has to be guy-guy. or else he’s gonna scold sunghoon for being very unoriginal for the aquarium date idea.

you stop pacing. you turn to him with wide eyes, like you’re mentally begging yourself to shut up, don’t do it, but your mouth moves anyways.

“…you,” your voice is quiet. barely audible. but yet, so loud and clear and more than anything else jake has ever sensed before. “i like you.”

and for a second there, jake thinks maybe he misheard, because it sounded a lot like you just said you liked him. spider-man. and there’s absolutely no way. there’s no way you said that. there’s no way you meant that.

there’s no way this is happening.

there’s no way the girl he’s been hopelessly staring at from across the cafeteria for god knows how long now, the girl he’s been walking home at night to make sure she’s safe even she didn’t know, the girl that witnessed him choke on two sour patch kids at once in the middle of chemistry—is standing here. on this rooftop. telling him that this entire time he’s been tangled up in a love triangle…with himself?

and jake? jake is actively malfunctioning. he says nothing. he does nothing. he thinks nothing.

and you seem to take jake’s stunned silence as pure horror— because you panic.

“oh my god. oh my god—i’m insane,” you whisper, moreso to yourself than him. “i knew it. i knew that guy-guy shattered my brain and messed me up so bad i’m actually losing it.”

you start pacing again. and jake’s legs don’t work, so he just watches.

“like—i don’t even know what you look like under that mask. what if you’re, like…thirty? what if you don’t even have a nose?” your voice rises in disbelief at your own choices. “what if i’m just projecting everything onto this idea of you, because you’re sweet and funny and walk me home and call me your favorite citizen and—god, i’m actually going delusional—”

jake takes a few more steps back, shaking his head once, then twice, like he’s trying to physically undo the entire past five minutes of his life. or reset his entire nervous system.

his hands fly to his hair as he turns away from you, staring up at the sky, muttering incoherent words to himself before he lets out a groan, “i—what the hell—i can’t believe i’m doing this, i’m gonna hurl. oh god—”

then, he turns around. takes one unsteady step towards you. his heart is racing. but without another word—

he yanks the mask off. and his hair is a mess (from the mask). his cheeks flushed like he’s been sweating (he has). his eyes wide like he’s terrified (he is).

“y/n.” your jaw drops. you blink once. twice. you stare at his face. at his hair. at jake.

“…JAKE?!”

your voice echos—loud. probably throughout the entire city, if jake’s being honest. your arms flail so wildly it looks like your brain is about to evacuate your body. you blink hard, like if you do it enough times, this fever dream might just break.

“are you kidding me right now?!”

jake flinches. his eye twitches.

you immediately start pacing again—back and forth, borderline hyperventilating, “YOU? you’re spider-man?! YOU??” you shout again, turning to point at him like he committed fraud. “how—hell—you literally broke a glass beaker last month—this can’t be real—”

jake raises his hands defensively, “okay, to be fair, you caught me off guard by asking me—”

“OH MY GOD,” you groan, throwing a hand into your hair, fisting a small bunch. “i told you i liked you while you were you pretending not to be you. that’s…that’s messed up, jake!”

“okay—yes, i see how that was a little—”

“you…you called me pretty but ignored my texts but still walked me home that night and…i’m so confused right now.”

jake scratches the back of his neck with one hand, the other dropping uselessly to his side, mask still in hand, “well…yeah. but also, like, i thought you picked up on it.”

“WHY WOULD I THINK YOU’RE SPIDER-MAN?” you practically screech, your steps halting as you spin to face him, full disbelief painted all over your face.

jake blinks. “i don’t know! i figured the voice, the walk…literally anything—”

“i don’t listen to people’s walks, jake!” you pace faster now. like if you don’t move, you might actually implode.

jake makes a desperate, helpless noise before he tries again, “look, y/n—can..can you just stop for a second and—”

“no, jake! i’m spiraling!” your voice hits a new level of pitch that makes jake wince. again. “i told two different guys i liked them this week and it turns out they’re the same guy and somehow that makes it worse?! do you know how emotionally unstable this makes me? i ranted to you about YOU—and you let me! oh, you’re so done for jake si—”

and that’s when he does it.

jake shoots a web. it catches your waist. and your rant cuts off mid-sentence as you’re suddenly pulled into him.

with a small yelp, you crash into his chest, hands reflexively splayed across his alarmingly solid chest. your nose is inches from his collarbone, and jake’s hands settle on your waist, immediately grounding you in place.

and you don’t have time to orient yourself—and jake doesn’t give himself time to pause or doubt it before he does it.

jake kisses you.

no hesitation, no overthinking, just all of jake—crashing his lips onto yours, immediately silencing you.

and you don’t stop him. you can’t stop him.

because your lips are already moving against his, messy and fast and a little too much. your fingers fist into the fabric of his suit like you’re trying to anchor yourself and you swear—you swear—you can feel his heartbeat under your fingertips. and all of the sudden, you’re hyperaware of everything. how his mouth is warm and desperate and tastes a little like cinnamon churros and familiarity. how the air between you is sharp, your noses brushing, breath mingling in short gasps—all too much and not enough all at once.

and when you pull away briefly to take a breath—realization hits you. your palm smacks against his chest once. then again. then rapid fire.

“wait, wait. wait. did you just web me?” the words tumble out of you in a half-laugh, half-accusation. and to be frank, you don’t know if you should be angry or attracted right now.

and jake’s still breathless, forehead practically resting against yours, as you feel his chest rise and fall with each shaky exhale. his voice is low, steady. a little hoarse.

“y/n—” jake whispers, so close you can feel the shape of the words against your mouth, “—shut up.”

and then he kisses you again. slower, this time. deeper. like an apology, like a confession, like something that feels way too big to name.

jake’s hand curls tighter around your waist, the other sliding up gently, carefully, until his fingers find the back of your neck, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll disappear in his hold.

and all you can do is lean in. closer and closer, like if you press hard enough, you’ll disappear into him. disappear into that small pocket of space that only exists between you and him and never come back out.

it’s uncoordinated, a little too frantic. but it’s everything. the shock, the nerves, the confusion all blur into static. and this time, when jake pulls back, just barely, you cant help the tiny, unintentional whine that escapes your lips as you chase his without thinking.

jake exhales a breathless, shaky chuckle against you before he kisses you again. a quicker one this time. and then another. then one to the corner of your mouth. and then your jaw. and then he’s pulling back again, this time slower, eyes fluttering open just as yours do too, his hands still around you, the web still holding you against him.

“hi,” jake whispers. it’s soft and raw and boyish. and so, so real. “it’s me.”

his thumb brushes along your jaw as he swallows hard. your heart stumbles, your eyes searching his face—his stupidly soft brown eyes, the little scar on his chin, the mole near his cheek you’ve always noticed. it’s all him.

the boy who walked you home. the boy who doesn’t know how to talk to you in class. the boy you fell for. all this time.

you’re still pressed to his chest, body still tangled up in his arms, lips still tingling, mind still fuzzy. your voice comes out in a whisper, “i can’t believe it’s been you this entire time.”

he nods, a shy, crooked smile on his face, “it’s always been me.” and then his expression falters, just slightly. “i didn’t mean to lie to you. or miss our dates. i just…i didn’t know how to be this,” he gestures to his suit, “and how to be just jake, either.”

and you just blink, unmoving in his arms, still a little breathless. because there’s something in his voice. something fragile.

“so…so that day you missed school? and you were all beat up?”

jake presses his lips together, guilt painted all over his face, “yeah, i actually did get into a fight. i lied about that part.”

your eyes narrow, “with who, jake?”

jake shrugs like it’s no big deal. “some guy with six arms. real tentacle problem. you should’ve seen the damage i did on him though.”

your mouth gapes.

“i’m kidding—” jake laughs, eyes sparkling now as his nose slightly bumps against yours. “it was a bank robber. kind of. honestly, it’s all a blur now. all i remember was thinking about kissing you that same night after the aquarium.”

you let out a scoff, part processing, part amused. “and the diner night? when you suddenly showed up out of no where?”

jake nods, pulling you in just a little tighter. “suit was under my hoodie the entire time. not fun, by the way. spandex gets sweaty…fast.”

“gross,” you mutter, scrunching your nose as you instinctively tug your hands away from his chest—only to stop halfway, leaving them right where they are anyways. then, after a beat, you slap his chest again. “i can’t believe you told me to give yourself another chance. i don’t know if i should be mad at you or kiss you again.”

jake makes a face and gives a tiny shrug, “well, if you’re asking for my opinion…” he tilts his head. “i definitely have an answer. but i might be biased.”

you roll your eyes, letting out a small laugh as your hands find the back of his neck now. “this is insane, jake. you’re genuinely insane,” you whisper quietly, eyes flickering from the spider emblem on his chest then back to his face.

jake grins down at you, eyes bright, one hand brushing a stray strand of hair away from your cheek.

“yeah? well you like both jake and spider-man,” he tilts his head. “so i think that makes you just as insane.”

you gasp dramatically, smacking his arm like you’re offended. jake laughs, that easy, familiar sound filling the room between you—and the air goes warm again.

there it is. that space. the one he’s always had with you—except now, it’s his. fully his. not just spider-man’s, not a half-version hidden behind a mask.

just jake, who also happens to wear spandex and save the city. just jake, who sucks at high school history and has feelings for the pretty girl in his chemistry class. and just jake—who finally doesn’t have to choose between you and the suit.

you breathe in, watching him carefully. “so…” you begin. “now what?”

jake pauses. and then he smirks. that boyish, reckless, completely jake smirk.

”how about i take you on a proper date?”

your brows lift, your head tilts. “yeah.” you beam up at him. “i’d like that. tomorrow?”

jake shakes his head slowly, leaning in briefly with a mischievous smile on his face.

“now.” you blink. “…now?”

“JAKE—” your scream cuts through the sky as you’re being flung between skyscrapers, clinging yourself around jake’s neck, legs around his torso like your life depends on it.

which, to be fair, is quite literally the case right now.

“—WE’RE NEVER DOING THIS AGAIN—”

jake just laughs, a breathless, exhilarating sound—his mask back on, one arm tight around you as the other shoots another web out, latching onto the building you two swing past.

“are you sure?” he yells over the fast wind. “because you look like you’re having so much fun—“

“JAKE—“

another swing. another scream. another terrified, stupid, perfect laugh.

the city blurs below. the stars blur above. and somewhere in between it all, you feel his heartbeat against yours.

jake’s grip tightens—instinctively, protectively—as you fly past neon signs and glowing windows and the tiny people beneath and the hum of a city that never sleeps.

and in that moment, your panic settles into something else. something warmer.

so don’t try to stop him.

you just hold on tighter.

𖢥⁺₊°˖ tenk u again for all the love & support, always <3 (& special ty for my love ronnie @heejamas for the beluga dolphins fun fact & being my support throughout this entire proces <333 hehehe)

m.list here!

you whimper, the sound escaping before you can stop it, as his fingers—two thick digits already buried deep—start pumping in and out with deliberate force. the slick sounds fill the room, your arousal making obscene noises with each thrust.

"fucking hell, angel, listen to that,— you hear that?" he growls, his free hand yanking your panties further aside. "pretty little cunt's so wet for me, dripping all over my hand— shit— you're so fucking helpless while i you finger you senseless,"

"ple-please, hoon,' you moan, your voice breaking as his thumb presses hard on your clit, circling it roughly. you're not even sure what you're pleading him for, or why, but it's the only coherent word your brain could think of.

you hands claw at his arm, but it only makes him chuckle darkly, his cock twitching against your back through his pants. in the mirror, you watch your body betray you, tits bouncing with each jolt, pussy clenching visibly around his invading fingers. "please more, hoon! ... oh god, more—" you beg, hips bucking futilely against his hold.

he adds a third finger without warning, ofcourse he does, stretching you wide, the burn mixing with pleasure as he scissors them inside. "fucking pathetic,' he taunts, his lips brushing your neck before he bites down lightly.

"look at yourself, yn," your face is all flushed, mouth hanging open. "tell me how bad you want it. say you need my fingers ruining this pretty hole." his pace quickens, curling them to hit that spot over and over, his arm in the headlock pulling you back harder so you arch into him.

"ah—hoon! yes, please, please,' you cry out, moaning loudly as waves of heat build in your core. your reflection shows tears pricking your eyes, lips swollen from biting them, body trembling between his powerful thighs. "don't stop... fuck, it feels so good... harder!' the words tumble out in desperate pleas, your walls fluttering around his hand.

"that's it, baby, moan for me louder,' he demands, thrusting deeper, his voice laced with hunger ."your pussy's milking my fingers— fuck baby, you look so fucking hot, — gonna make you squirt, yeah,? — show you what a messy little whore you are?," he grinds his palm against your clit, fingers hooking relentlessly, his thighs squeezing to keep you from writhing away.

the pressure coils unbearably, your moans turning into sobs of need. "sunghoon, i'm—please, let me cum! i can't... oh fuck, yes!' you beg, voice hoarse, nails digging into his skin. in the mirror, it's all there: your pussy spasming, juices gushing over his wrist as the orgasm crashes through you. he doesn't stop, pumping through the clenches, drawing out every shudder while his dirty words keep spilling. "my good girl, look how you soak everything—fucking perfect.'

finally, he eases his fingers out, but his hold stays firm, forcing you to watch your wrecked, panting form in the glass, still trapped and owned.

──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ────────

Exhibit B (extracted from age 10): He liked his toy figurines organized in a certain kind of way –– aligned on his shelf, standing upright, facing forward. Nothing else, no exceptions. 

One day, he found his limited edition Superman action figure fallen face flat on the shelf. 

His parents earthquake-proofed all of their furniture. 

…he later found out that his sister was secretly playing with his toys while he was at school.

Sunghoon didn’t come out of his room for three days after that.

Exhibit C (extracted from age 15): There were even instances in high school where he would get his grades appealed if he believed they were “marked incorrectly,” which, by the way, always got re-corrected in the end. Even if he really was wrong in the first place.

It was either his way or the highway.

In other words, Park Sunghoon was a complete perfectionist, and this fastidious behaviour followed him well into his adulthood. 

Somehow along the way, he managed to score himself a scholarship and landed himself a place in a prestigious university.

But even when he got there he was sensitive about the minor details. He was extremely particular about his class timetable, stuck to a tight-grit schedule, and even had certain criteria of who could be his friend and who couldn’t. 

And when it finally came down to choosing his university friends, he managed to pick people who were all in the same major, shared the same humour, had the same hobbies, and followed similar daily schedules as him –– but before you think of anything, no, they definitely weren’t as hypercritical as he was. 

Don’t get him wrong though, despite his meticulous and seemingly strict nature, he still found time to fool around and have fun whilst in school. 

If anything, Sunghoon considered himself as… quite the witty guy. 

He kept a mental list of things he likes. He likes watching funny cat memes on his feed, playing games on his computer during his free time, going clubbing with his friends every weekend, and he also really likes how the shawarma shop beside his place always had a buy-one-get-one deal on Thursdays.

He also had a list of things he hates. He hates when he has to share his food, or anything, really; he hates when people chew with their mouths open, he hates when freshmen walk too slowly on campus, he hates when his roommates “forget” to clean their dirty dishes –– honestly, the list could go on and on.

But, for the past couple of months, what he hated most was his best friend, Sim Jake.

Sunghoon didn’t always hate him though. If he hated him from the beginning, one, he wouldn’t have befriended him in the first place, and two, he wouldn’t have asked him to be one of his roommates –– which, this entire living situation soon became an issue with him. An extreme issue, he would call it, even.

So, what was the catalyst to the start of Sunghoon’s immense hatred towards Jake, you may ask? 

Well, it was you. 

At this point, Sunghoon’s heard it all. With people constantly calling him “nit-picky” and “extremely demanding,” always complaining that he has these crazy high standards for everything and that there’s nothing — better yet, no one — he ever liked from the get-go.

How exhausting does that sound?

Though he can admit, they’re all right about him being nit-picky, extremely demanding, and right about him having those “crazy high” standards. But, they were a bit wrong about that last part.

Park Sunghoon wasn’t sure about a lot of things, but he knew he was sure he liked you.

He guessed he always, at least, subconsciously knew he liked you from the second the two of you met during freshmen orientation –– he hadn’t realized it back then, but you kind of just checked off all the boxes in his mind.

With his personality though, he had never admitted it out-loud –– even if it was pain-stakingly obvious to all of his close friends.

It honestly really was just a little crush to him at first. He started looking for your face around campus, teasing you whenever you were around, occasionally texting each other. You know, doing the usual shit slightly delusional people always do to cope with their minor infatuations who don’t like them back.

Surprisingly over time, the two of you eventually became a lot closer and hung out with each other more.

…and also became a little more flirtatious with each other (at least that’s what Sunghoon thinks, but he’s not too sure). 

It got to the point where Sunghoon’s friends could tell whether he was in a good mood or not depending on whether he got a text from you that day.

You and Sunghoon were good, he thought things were going well –– he’s got game… right? 

Until one day, Sunghoon’s fairytale-princess-dream of living a life with the two of you together all came crashing down. 

To be honest, you’d never met Sunghoon’s so-called “best friends” the past two years you had been friends. You started to wonder whether they were real or if Sunghoon was just faking it and actually has no friends.

Eventually, you came to meet them –– Heeseung, Jay, Sunoo, Jungwon, Riki, and Jake.

Sunghoon really hated that. He never even wanted to introduce you to his friends, you guys just bumped into each other by accident.

In his mind, he kind of just wanted to keep you as his little secret. After all, he met you first, befriended you first, and liked you first. And again, Sunghoon really hated sharing.

And, it sounds a teensy bit toxic but he’d always been competitive to the bone, maybe a little too much. So when he saw you started getting a lot closer to Jake than you were with him, it honestly felt like a two-faced betrayal. But he couldn’t say anything –– his ego and stubbornness wouldn’t let him.

Sunghoon kind of just watched and let it happen, so he honestly shouldn’t even be that mad. At first, he tried to bury the thought of you and Jake being “best friends” in the back of his head. But it didn’t help when you started coming over to his shared apartment to hang out with stupid, freaking Jake.

He always wondered why you chose Jake and not him.

All of Sunghoon’s friends had just adjusted from the fact that they thought he liked you... to Jake being the one pursuing you instead. 

You and Sunghoon never “fell out,” however, the friendship felt a bit more distant. But what was Sunghoon supposed to do about it? Beg you to become best friends with him instead? Whenever he thought this way, he’d always feel like he reverted back into a kid.

When you’d come over, you would say “hi,” and engage in like, three-minute small talk with Sunghoon, and then go into Jake’s stinkin’ room and giggle with him and probably have so much fun with whatever the fuck Jake is doing. 

Sunghoon wouldn’t really know though, he couldn’t bring himself to ask what the two of you did when you left their apartment.

The most information he could get was when his other roommates would tease Jake about you. There was one particular time, however, where Sunghoon was royally pissed off over the two of you. According to him, this conversation was just so juvenile and hard-to-listen to this day. 

Sunghoon was in the kitchen fixing their coffee machine while silently eavesdropping on his roommates by the couch. Jay lightly nudged Jake’s shoulder, “So, you and y/n, what’s up with that?”

The second Sunghoon heard Jay drop the first vowel of your name, his ears immediately perked up.

Jake chuckles, staying focused on the game in front of him, “Nah man, chill. It’s nothing like that.”

Liar.

Heeseung tsks, tossing his controller down after losing a match against Jake, “If it was just ‘nothing’ then you wouldn’t be texting her all day and hanging out with her more than your own roommmates.”

Right? Heeseung’s so right. If it really was just “nothing” then he wouldn’t have caught Jake kicking his feet up and down while on the phone with you.

“Guys, leave it, we’re just best friends.” Jake laughs.

Yeah right, that’s such bullshit cause Sunghoon had found out you two started dating, like, exactly a month later.

That was essentially the beginning of his own hell, agony, and his pure hatred towards Jake.

Sunghoon would see you waltz into his –– their, sorry –– apartment almost every day with a huge smile plastered on your face like shit was all sweet and rainbows and butterflies when he was suffering every waking minute.

Daily he’d see your annoyingly gorgeous face, hear your stupidly adorable laughter through the walls, and watch you and Jake be all lovey-dovey right in front of him. Sunghoon didn’t even know he could like a person to this extent, you just made him like this.

It actually made him sick in the stomach. That should’ve been him.

One morning, he genuinely contemplated jumping off of their balcony when you stepped outside of Jake’s room wearing his clothes. He wanted to shout, he wanted to remind you that you were his friend first, he wanted to ask you, “what do you see in him that you don’t see in me?”

But all he managed to spit out was, “Morning, you want coffee?” while gripping onto his penguin-shaped coffee mug so tight that it was on the brink of shattering into pieces.

Now, Sunghoon knew it was wrong, and that you’re now quite literally his best friend's girlfriend but what ever happened to “dibs?” He knew you way before than dumbass Jake did.

One night, Sunghoon couldn’t fall asleep. He had been tossing and turning for the past two hours trying not to lose his mind over the fact that you were sleeping over at their place, again.

He thought some tea might help soothe his worries and ease his anxiety a little bit, eventually bringing him to sleep, so he got up and made his way over to the kettle in the kitchen. He got his favourite mug out and had the peppermint tea bag sitting nicely inside when he heard a small pip-squeak coming from the rooms.

At first he couldn’t actually tell if that sound was coming from the rooms or if it was just the steam from the kettle, but then a pip-squeak turned into a muffled gasp –– a seemingly sexual sounding one, he believed.

Sunghoon couldn’t bear to stick around longer to figure out whether you and Jake were having sex. That was enough for him to abandon his cup of tea and trudge his way over to Sunoo, Jungwon, and Riki’s place in his house slippers and pajamas. 

He even bought ear-plugs at the convenience store on the way there.

Sunghoon honestly doesn’t really remember much after he bolted out of his apartment that night. But according to them, he got to their place and sat in the corner of their living room with his knees to his chest –– refusing to tell any of them what the matter was –– eventually falling asleep on the floor. 

Riki also did keep mentioning how Sunghoon started rocking back-and-forth while whispering to himself quietly, but everyone knows Riki has a thing for theatrics.

While yes, Sunghoon had thoughts about you that were most definitely against the bro-code, he never actually acted on them.

Like, yeah Sunghoon hated his best friend for stealing the love of his life, but that’s still literally his best friend –– whom he hates. It’s complicated, he can’t really explain it.

Over the course of a couple months, Sunghoon thinks he’s seen and heard it all, especially the arguments you and Jake would have. On those nights, he prayed he’d wake up to news that you guys finally broke up –– which never happened by the way.

Those arguments were usually petty and small, but a particular argument was unlike the rest. 

One day, you ran out of Jake’s room in tears. Sunghoon was on the couch watching the evening news with the volume turned up so high at the time, he couldn’t even hear you guys arguing anymore.

But this was just usual protocol whenever you and Jake would argue, it felt almost invasive so all of the guys agreed to blast the TV and drown out the yelling sound.

At first, Sunghoon didn’t notice you crying hysterically –– not until he looked up and saw your face.

Sunghoon’s body reacted by itself. Without even meaning to, he found himself chasing after you to make sure you were okay. You two were still friends regardless of the fact that you were in a relationship with Jake, so he thought this was totally justifiable.

When Sunghoon finally caught up to you, he grabbed your arm, “Hey,” he spoke softly, “I can’t let you leave until I know you’re okay. What’s wrong?”

You finally turn to look at him, and he sees you: mascara running down your rosy cheeks, eyes all puffy, your nose running a little. It wasn’t long till you shrugged Sunghoon’s hand off your arm.

“Stop acting stupid,” you spat, “you guys are best friends, I know you that you know already. Really, what are you even here for? To seem like some good-guy-hero? Like, what, you’re gonna go on a whole tangent about how Jake is a great guy, that this is just some miscommunication, how he’ll apologize or that, maybe even I should be the one to apologize––”

Maybe Sunghoon shouldn’t have said what he said next, because it just made things worse.

“Is that really what you think of me, y/n? Like I’m just Jake’s loyal fucking lapdog running after you so I can take his side? He’s my friend, yeah, but why would you ever think that lowly of me?”

At this point, you started to feel really bad for snapping on him when in reality, he was just trying to help.

Sunghoon speaks in a tiny voice, “I don’t even know what’s going on in your relationship. I don’t even ask about it because it hurts.”

Your face of dishevelment slowly turns into confusion as you keep listening to Sunghoon, “What are you talking about?”

Sunghoon knows he probably shouldn’t be talking about this right now, that he should just end the conversation there and maybe try to gaslight you into thinking that he actually said something else –– but it all slipped out.

He lets out a frustrated sigh accompanied with a quick eye-roll, almost like he can’t believe the words that he’s about to say, “I met you first. We were friends first. I liked you first. But I just let you slip away and now you’re his –– and I can’t do anything about it. I’ve been forced to just watch you with him. You don’t even know how bitter I get seeing you guys together. He knew I liked you first, and he took you away from me. You were supposed to be with me instead.” 

You have a boyfriend, this is your boyfriend’s best friend. This whole situation is fucked up. All you do is shake your head in disbelief, “What are you trying to say, what’s the whole point of this Sunghoon?”

A pause of silence passed by, and in those seconds of quietness, Sunghoon really tried hard to think, what is the whole point of him telling you this now? What did he think would even happen?

“I–I don’t know,” he stutters, “just– nothing. Just forget everything I said please, just forget about it. Let me get you an Uber home.”

The truth was, you understood what he meant completely and you couldn’t just simply forget about it.

But you had to pretend.

Just in time, you saw Jake jogging towards you two in your peripheral vision. It wasn’t long until Sunghoon noticed.

The second Jake came to you, Sunghoon took a step back and left.

You honestly forgot about your argument with Jake until he apologized and insisted he drove you home. The drive back to your place was silent. Your head was leaned against the car window with your hands between your thighs the entire ride.

Jake turned onto your street, eventually pulling up to the entrance of your apartment. The two of you sit there for a while, the only sound coming from his fingers lightly drumming on the console. Your gaze stays fixed on a tree outside, too embarrassed to break the ice first.

He moves his hand onto the steering wheel, “y/n, I’m really sorry.”

You turn your head slightly to look at him before pushing the car door open, “It’s fine, just don’t let it happen again.”

Jake watches you slam the car door shut, making your way inside and up the elevator before he drives away.

That night, you had a lot to ponder about –– not just because of the argument you and your boyfriend had, but also because of what his best friend had just confessed to you...

Fuck, why are you even thinking about Sunghoon again? Jake’s right here. Jake is your boyfriend… yeah.

⋆˚࿔

Mondays were always the worst for Sunghoon. At 8 a.m., he has Theory of Computation, then once that ends at 10, he has an hour to himself before he’s got three back-to-back classes till 4 p.m. On top of that, he also told Sunoo and Riki that he’d meet them at the library at 6:30 p.m. to get a headstart on their group project. 

Great, he thought, so now he’s able to schedule an hour-long nervous breakdown before he has to compose himself like a normal citizen and attend to his responsibilities again. 

Once he got home after his final lecture of the day, he sat on his desk chair (not his bed, he had his outside clothes on) and pulled out his phone from his backpocket.

“Google am I a bad person?”

Sunghoon’s staring at the searchbar waiting for the results to load on his phone, the floorboards creaking loudly because of how much he kept bouncing his legs out of anxiety. 

All he’s done the past 24 hours was replay the conversation he last had with you, and the more he kept thinking about it, the more he started to feel like he really fucked up this time. 

His first worry was you possibly telling Jake that he had just confessed his undying love for you –– but when he heard Jake say good morning the next day while making an omelette, he crossed that fear off the list.

'Cause like, what guy who's mad would make omelettes in the morning?

His second worry was that he might actually be a horrible person. Sunghoon always understood he was insufferable since birth, but never once has he thought he was a bad guy… until now.

Like, it’s a really fucked up situation right? He put you in a difficult position, and if Jake finds out then that’s goodbye to his best friend too –– oh god, what about his roommates? Will he have to find a new place to live next year?

A plethora of different worries began to plague his mind until he realized the search results had finally loaded on his phone. He saw countless people asking the same question on different forums, where he eventually found himself on r/AmItheAsshole, reading excerpts from literally Lucifer(s) themselves in attempts to make him feel better about his own situation.

At that moment Sunghoon came to the realization that, yeah there are definitely a lot of worse people in the world with way more questionable morals than him –– and that if he was considered a bad person, then the people of this Subreddit must think he’s made out of unicorns and sunshine.

Before he left his apartment again, he took a deep breath, tried to push his feelings down and go about his day.

When he finally arrived at the library, he found Jungwon and Riki at their usual spot. Jungwon spots him walking towards them first, prompting him to move his backpack on the seat beside him to the ground, “Hey, we saved you a spot.”

Sunghoon falls into the chair, “Thanks man.”

In front of Jungwon, Riki lays his head flat on the table, “Guys, can we rethink this. We have a month till this project is due. Isn’t doing this real early almost unnecessary?”

Jungwon continues typing on his keyboard, not once looking up, “It’s just in case, and there’s nothing wrong with starting early.”

Riki rolls his eyes and releases a big sigh before raising his head to look back up at his JavaScript for the nth time today.

Once Sunghoon had opened up his computer, Jungwon left no time to waste, “I forgot to ask, have you ever used a graphical interface for designing SQL queries before?"

“Yeah, have you?”

Riki looks up at the two of them like they’re speaking a completely different language, when in reality he’s supposed to be in the same major as them –– therefore he probably should know what Sunghoon and Jungwon are talking about.

“No,” Jungwon shakes his head, “But, that’ll aid us while building this thing.”

“I’ve had enough of this,” Riki groans and shuts his laptop, “Sorry Won, but I’ve been busting my ass learning this code for the past three hours we’ve been here –– I haven’t even eaten anything yet!”

He pulls out his phone, face immediately lighting up green, “Fuck it, I’m ordering UberEats, y’all want something?”

Sunghoon declines, “Nah, I’m good I ate before I left.”

Inside his backpack, Jungwon pulls out a tupperware filled with fruit and a bag of half-eaten beef jerky, “It’s fine, I packed myself some food.”

“Dude, what the hell,” Riki exits from the app, “Why didn’t you tell me you had food, my stomach has been grumbling for a whole hour.”

“Yeah, I know, I heard.”

Riki snatches the bag of opened beef jerky as a form of opposition against Jungwon, stuffing a handful into his mouth.

“Wait,” pausing mid-chew to swallow his food, “Anton just texted me, apparently his frat’s hosting a houseparty, mixer-thingy –– whatever the fuck –– on Friday.”

Sunghoon holds back a laugh, “Hell nah, remember what happened when their frat threw a party last semester?”

Unlike Sunghoon, Jungwon has no shame and bursts out in laughter causing the rest of the people on the floor to hush him, “Yo, we gotta go, Jake was legendary that time.”

Riki’s face falters as if he were recalling a traumatic memory, “Man, I don’t think Jake’s gonna act out, he’s been a different guy ever since he got a girl. Kinda miss the old him.”

After hearing your name being brought up in the conversation, Sunghoon looks up from his computer, fully immersing himself in the topic –– yet, he can’t bring himself to speak.

“Don’t make assumptions that he’s boring yet, I don’t think this guy has gone out since then, the guy’s a beast when he’s fucked up. Ya never know. Maybe he’ll surprise us.” Jungwon chuckles.

“Do you still have that video of him from last year?”

“Bro, of course I do. Chill, let me find it on my camera roll.”

At this moment, all of Sunghoon’s thoughts began racing. 

He can’t help it but those feelings of resentment towards Jake are all coming back again. Maybe he really is a bad person after all, because the only thing he could say was, “I think we should go.”

This is the reason why Sunghoon thinks that he might actually be a horrible person –– because why would he want to see his best friend potentially fuck up?

From then on, Sunghoon decided that this was the last time he would be selfish ...he thinks.

⋆˚࿔

It was around 10 p.m. when Sunghoon had gotten home from the library. All of the lights in the apartment were turned off, which was kind of odd to him but he didn’t really pay much attention to it. He figures his roommates just went somewhere –– he honestly doesn’t care where. 

In fact, he liked it when he was the only one home. It gave him some peace and solace. He never liked to admit it, but sometimes being with other people is exhausting. 

Not that he doesn’t like being around his roommates, he does. It’s just a little daunting for him to be around people for extended periods of time. He really hates the way he thinks. He finds it a little embarrassing that he thinks it’s anxiety-inducing and overwhelming to be around other people sometimes.

He thinks his logic is flawed, and almost wishes he wasn’t like this. Look at Park Sunghoon, uptight, picky, critical, no-good-for-anyone –– yet he can’t stick around long if he’s surrounded by people or else he’ll freak out? 

Whatever, he doesn’t have time to host his own pity party when he’s got bigger fish to fry. 

In hopes of seeking relaxation after the day he’s had, he grabs a towel and heads toward the bathroom. Waiting for him was a nice, steamy-hot shower, preferably one that’s a little too hot that it makes his body physically produce steam.

What he expected to see when he walked into the bathroom was a fucking toilet, shower, and sink. But when he opened the bathroom door, he was greeted with a fucking toilet, shower, sink, and you who just happens to be brushing your teeth oh-so conveniently at the same time Sunghoon wants to shower.

Truthfully, you almost scared the shit out of Sunghoon when he saw your face, cause first of all, no one’s even supposed to be home right now (allegedly).

Your eyes widen when you come face-to-face with Sunghoon. This was the first time the two of you had seen each other since last night. He didn’t rehearse this meeting happening and now he’s internally freaking out.

Instead of the awkward encounter Sunghoon had anticipated, you spit out your toothpaste, finish brushing your teeth, and flash him a smile, “Hey, sorry I was just quickly brushing my teeth, you can use the bathroom now.”

A smile that almost convinced Sunghoon that maybe last night was all just a dream and didn’t actually happen in real life.

Straight-faced, he nods, clearing the doorway for you to step out. He watches you walk past his bedroom door and go into Jake’s room before he steps inside the bathroom. 

Under the showerhead, Sunghoon lets the water run down his head, staring down at the drain. He had numerous thoughts running through his mind, but what stuck out most was why you just acted like nothing had happened between them?

When he looks up to grab his shampoo, he sees all of your shower products in the corner with Jake’s toiletries –– which made him come to the realization that actually, maybe nothing had happened between you two at all.

At the end of the day, you’re still Jake’s girl. Nothing changed that. Not even his stupid confession of love for you.

When he stepped out of the shower, he concluded that what really happened was: he shared his feelings for you on a whim, you basically rejected him, and now you’re probably just being nice to him, acting like everything is fine because he’s still Jake’s best friend after all.

Fuck, now he’s embarrassed. He should just forget about this whole ordeal –– right?

⋆˚࿔

For the rest of the week, Sunghoon was lucky enough to not bump into you anywhere –– not even inside their apartment. There were days where he knew you were over, but you never came out of Jake’s room whenever he was around.

All Sunghoon had been looking forward to all week was Anton’s frat party. It was basically an excuse for him to abuse alcohol and make bad decisions.

Once he came home from his last lab at 7:30 p.m. on Friday, he found his quiet sanctuary (his shared apartment) filled with all of his friends, quickly grabbing a beer from one of the cartons before ducking into his room to change.

Sunghoon tried to act nonchalantly, pretending like he didn’t actually care about what he was gonna wear to the frat party. It’s not even like he has clothes that would upstage anyone’s outfit, he was really overthinking it for no reason.

Knock knock.

“Yo, just come in, why’d you have to fucking knock?” he yells.

A small voice spoke through the crack of his door, “Oh, sorry, um, it’s just me, y/n, the guys need help picking up the keg stand.”

Sunghoon almost got whiplash from how fast he turned his head around to look at you; you hadn’t stepped a foot into his room, the door was slightly creaked open, and your head was down –– which he soon realized it’s because he doesn’t have a shirt on.

He swiftly grabbed the first shirt that was within vicinity and threw it on, “Oh sorry, I thought you were one of the guys, you caught me off guard.”

You flail your hands, finally looking up now that he’s fully clothed, “No! It’s okay! They told me to go and get you –– wait.”

Sunghoon furrows his eyebrows, wait for what?

All he could hear was your laughter, one that he recognized all too well, “Maybe you should change your shirt, Hoon.”

He immediately dropped his head down to look at what he was wearing.

…of course the shirt he had to grab happened to be the stupid t-shirt Heeseung gave him for Christmas that says “Mike Who Cheese Hairy” in bold.

Great, could Sunghoon’s life get any worse?

That night, he had a little too much to drink, actually maybe way more than he anticipated. But Sunghoon wasn’t the messy type of drunk –– at least that’s what he thinks.

He was never the type of guy who let himself get too intoxicated. He usually knew what his limits were. Oftentimes, he thought that overly drunk people in public settings were making a fool of themselves and that maybe those people just had a humiliation kink.

But as of right now, Sunghoon’s kinda having trouble holding his balance at Alpha Epsilon Phi’s mixer.

In his defence, he only got this fucked up because him and Jake were going back-to-back on that keg stand trying to outdo the other –– which only got the both of them hammered.

What made things even worse for Sunghoon, however, was the fact that 15 feet away from him were you and Jake.

Sunghoon was consumed in jealousy. How could he not? He can’t bring himself to look away from the painful scene in front of him, Jake wobbling against the island table with his hands wrapped around your waist while you fix his scruffy hair.

All he could think was: I’m drunk as fuck too. Where’s my help?

He scoffed and decided he’s had enough and went up the stairs. Using all of his strength, he managed to lock himself in a bathroom and finally took a deep breath out.

Sunghoon kept blinking his eyes while staring at his reflection in the mirror –– trying to desperately convince himself he’s not seeing double right now. 

Thinking that he might be able to sober up, he turned on the faucet, cupping his hand and drank from the sink (he also splashed a bunch of water on his face, slapped himself 10x, and tried to pull trig, which he failed to do). 

After 15 minutes had passed by and a hundred knocks later, Sunghoon decided to finally come out of his lavatory dungeon –– and of course the first person who he sees is Jake.

At this point, he’s just silently preparing himself to see you and him be all flirty and couple-y again.

Except, when Sunghoon gets closer, he realizes that Jake isn’t with you –– but another girl?

He immediately paused in his tracks, watching what was happening in front of him. Sunghoon was confused, where were you? Why weren’t you with Jake? And most importantly, what is Jake doing with another girl?

Should he say something? He should go up to him and stop him, right? But is that the best thing to do? What even is Jake doing?

The longer Sunghoon looks, the more uncertain he becomes. Jake seems a little too close to the girl, even if they aren’t kissing or doing anything… but why doesn’t this seem right to him?

Would this be considered cheating? Nothing sexual seems to be happening, just a bunch of teasing arm grabbing and touching.

But that wasn’t you, and you’re his girlfriend. If it wasn’t cheating, it still had to be fucking weird. Sunghoon was infuriated. Jake got the girl but can’t even treat her right? 

He knew then that he had to leave before he made a scene.

When he came back downstairs, he couldn’t help but feel suffocated. There were too many people, the air was stuffy, it reeked of alcohol, and the soles of his shoes were too sticky to stay inside any longer. So he decided to step outside instead. 

Sunghoon sat on a curb a couple of feet away from the fraternity, but still far enough that he wouldn’t be disturbed by booming bass or intoxicated party-goers. He figured he’d stay outside till his friends decide they’ve had enough with partying –– he wasn’t really feeling the vibe of the function anyways.

At one point, Sunghoon decided to just lay down on the pavement because he was drunk and he can. Out of boredom he began counting how many streetlights ran up and down the street, eventually dozing off in the process.

Coming out of a hazy state, all Sunghoon could hear was his name being repeated multiple times. When he opened his eyes, he came face-to-face with you.

You give a big sigh of relief, “Oh thank god, I thought you died for a second dude. Don’t scare me like that!” 

“What? …y/n?” Sunghoon rubs his eyes, “Sorry, I accidentally um, fell asleep I think.”

You laugh while Sunghoon fixes his posture and sits up right again, “Can I sit beside you?”

To be honest, Sunghoon still kinda feels foggy in his half-woken drunk state, so he can’t really think properly, “Yeah, yeah, go ahead.” He pats on the ground beside him. You take a seat, bringing your chin to your knees, playing with the gravel beneath you.

“Are you not having fun?” You ask.

Sunghoon looks straight ahead and shakes his head, “Not really feeling it today.”

You nod in agreement, continuing to collect pebbles with your right hand.

After a beat, Sunghoon turns to look at you, “Hey, I, um, need to tell you something important.”

“Hmm? What is it?”

He lets a deep exhale out before bringing himself to speak again, “I saw Jake inside with another girl. They weren’t like, doing anything but it’s just weird –– I don’t know if this is cheating but I thought I should tell–”

Your eyes stay fixed on the ground, “I know.”

Sunghoon furrows his eyebrows at you, “What do you mean?”

“That’s why we were arguing last week. This has always been an issue with him, even if it isn’t physically cheating.”

Sunghoon didn’t know this. All he could hear during your arguments with Jake was the volume of the TV on max. Carefully, he asked, “Is this… not the first time?”

“No.”

You almost feel ashamed that you’re confessing this all to Sunghoon. You’re scared of what he’d think of you. You already know what he’s like, what he’s probably thinking of you at this moment. You’re aware of how pathetic you sound right now.

Before he could even think about what he was saying, he blurted it all out, “I don’t get it, then why don’t you just break up with him? Isn’t what he’s doing bothering you?”

That night, you and Sunghoon found out something about each other: the two of you probably shouldn’t be together while drunk.

“...I don’t know. Wouldn’t breaking up with him mean that I won’t be able to see you anymore?”

“What? Why are you saying that?”

“If me and Jake end on bad terms, does that mean that you won’t be there for me anymore?”

⋆˚࿔

After Jake had dropped you off at your apartment that night last week, you realized you were more angry than sad. All of those tears had dried up, and now you were yelling on the phone.

“Why would he do this now when he had all that time last year and make a proper move! It’s not my fault he didn’t man up sooner!” You ranted on the phone.

You didn’t know what else to do except call Giselle and ask for some advice. 

“I don’t get Sunghoon, he never did anything about us for so long and now he wants to tell me that he wanted me first?”

“Well, what are you going to do about it? You’re with his best friend now,” Giselle asks on the other side of the speaker.

You wipe your mascara-streaked eyes with a cotton pad, “I would have loved it if he told me all of that a year ago, that’s what I wanted. He missed his chance and now I’m just stuck in a sticky situation.”

“But, you love Jake right?”

“Yeah...” you murmured, “Right.”

Before you were with Jake, Sunghoon was the one you wanted most. 

To you, Park Sunghoon was like this shiny, perfect Ken doll that you wanted so badly but couldn’t get no matter what.

Contrary to popular belief, you had made your advances towards him –– just in different ways. So you actually never knew if he caught on or not. Over time it seemed like Sunghoon really had no interest in you at all, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t heartbroken over it at all.

You decided to move on after being sure that nothing would happen with you and Sunghoon. In all honesty, you were never that interested in Jake at the beginning.

It was always him starting conversations, making plans. And after a while, you started getting used to Jake’s company.

But for some reason, the closer you got with Jake, the further Sunghoon seemed to get. At the time, you knew not to think any more about you and Sunghoon –– it wasn’t happening and that’s final.

You came to learn that Jake was a pretty outgoing and talkative guy, the complete opposite of Sunghoon. 

When Jake finally asked you to be his girlfriend, you won’t lie. You were taken aback. It’s true, you do like Jake… but what about Sunghoon? Were you really over this crush? Are you going to have to be around him all the time because he’s Jake’s best friend? You didn’t know if you could do that.

You snap back into reality when you remind yourself that Sunghoon just doesn’t like you like that.

And it wasn’t like you didn’t like Jake at all. So, you gave him a chance.

Sim Jake was extroverted, polite, and friendly –– maybe a little too friendly. Being in social settings with him almost felt exhausting sometimes. He was the kind of guy that was able to go up to anyone and be able to talk to them.

The first time he ever got too friendly with a girl, you tried to ignore it. You made excuses for him like, that’s just the way he is, maybe I’m being an overbearing girlfriend.

But then it happened a second time, then a third time, then it just kept going.

This was the main reason for most of your arguments.

The start of your arguments often looked like this: the two of you would go somewhere, Jake would get a little too close, a little too talkative to a girl, and you had to wait till you guys were alone to bring up your concerns.

“Jake, I just really don’t like how overly friendly you are with other girls. It makes me feel weird as your girlfriend.”

Jake doesn’t seem to be taking the conversation seriously, “C’mon, y/n you’re the only girl I have eyes for.”

You shrug, sitting on the edge of his bed, “Can’t you just, I don’t know, not… do that? I really don’t like it.”

He tenses his forehead, fixing his position on the bed, “...do you not trust me?”

Your eyes widen in shock, “No! That’s not what I’m saying at all!”

And that’s essentially how you and Jake got into that huge argument last week.

What a mess.

⋆˚࿔

When Sunghoon woke up the day after the frat party, he was met with constant panging in his head. He only remembers little bits and pieces of the night and genuinely cannot, for the life of him, remember how he even got home that night. 

It was only till after breakfast that he found out Sunoo had called him a Uber home after he spotted him crying alone on the curbside.

Why was he even crying? He can’t remember, no matter how hard he tries to pull it out of his memory, nothing comes out.

Sunghoon’s roommates were usually out and about on Saturdays, so he decided to dedicate his Saturdays to self-care –– which in Sunghoon’s case, means watching cute videos of animals and yelling at his teammates over the mic that they suck ass all day.

He couldn’t even do that because of all that banging inside his head. Even after taking some Tylenol, it just wouldn’t stop pounding. So Sunghoon decided he should try to sleep it out on the couch.

After a couple of minutes of tossing and turning, Sunghoon finally found some tranquility –– but this was ruined the second he heard their apartment door slam shut.

Sunghoon almost fell off of the couch due to the sound, “What the fuck are you slamming doors for in the afternoon?”

When he looks up to see which one of his roommates almost broke their door down, he sees Jake –– his expression annoyed and Sunghoon’s presence totally ignored. Jake slams his own door shut without saying a word.

Sunghoon always knew not to bother Jake when he was upset and to just wait for him to feel better, so instead he sent a couple texts to Heeseung and Jay asking what’s up with Jake.

SUNGHOON What’s up with Jake He just came in slamming doors looking pissy and my head fucking hurtssss

JJONGSAENG think he and y/n broke up

HEESEUNG U being deadass?

JJONGSAENG yeah but jake didn’t tell me tho heard thru the grapevine  u know how fast rumours spread on campus but pretty sure they did i’ll ask him later

Upon reading these texts Sunghoon sat up immediately. All those times he prayed for you and Jake to break up finally came into fruition. But was it right for him to be celebrating like this? Jake’s still his best friend after all.

His thumb hovers over your contact on his phone –– but what was he even going to do? Say, hey heard you and Jake broke up, I’m sorry. If you ever need a shoulder to cry on, I'll be waiting?

He felt incompetent and stupid thinking about this, so he just turned off his phone and kept trying to sleep.

Later that night, Sunghoon found out that you broke up with him and not the other way around. Sunghoon tried really hard not to smile when Jake was explaining what had happened between the two of them to their roommates. 

They found out that you had broken up with him after he said, quote, “...she saw me with another girl at the frat and got so fucking upset about something and the fact that I was ‘acting out’ at the party, then she left without a word. It wasn’t until this morning she texted asking me to come over to talk. I didn’t know she was gonna break up with me?!”

At the frat? Was it the one Sunghoon had seen him with when he left the bathroom?

Truthfully, Sunghoon had been waiting for a text from you even though he knew it wouldn’t happen. After a week went by without hearing from you, he gave up on waiting.

Jake was up and running again in no time. He was the kind of person that could easily bounce back from adversities. He did admit, however, that he tried reaching out to you multiple times but never got a reply.

Sunghoon kept getting deja vu, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what’s so familiar –– until it clicked. Remnants of the night slowly started popping up again.

“What do you mean ‘I won’t be there for you anymore?’” Sunghoon asked you on the curb.

You turn your head on your knees to face him now, “I mean, would I lose you for good if Jake’s not in the picture anymore?”

Sunghoon didn’t know if he was absolutely plastered or if these words were actually coming out of your mouth right now.

“No,” Sunghoon shook his head, “No you won’t.”

The corners of your mouth turn upward, “Okay.” You stand up and brush off all the gravel from your clothes, “Are you going to be alright?”

His eyes stay fixed on you, nodding.

“Well,” you sigh, dusting your hands off, “I have to go back to the party. Text me, okay?”

Sunghoon was even more confused now –– on top of already being drunk and overly emotional –– so he burst out in tears. He tried his hardest to keep the tears from spilling out but the floodgates just wouldn’t close.

It wasn’t even just the whole him, you, and Jake situation that caused this –– it was also all the emotions that he had been building up for years.

Being Park Sunghoon –– stuck-up, critical, nitpicky, and insufferable since birth –– was hard. 

⋆˚࿔

Sunghoon found himself stuck in a dilemma. On one hand, he has Jake, his best friend, and on the other hand he has you –– but he wants both.

It seems like an easy decision, right? Jake’s his best friend, so ultimately he’s gotta kick the girl to the curb –– except Sunghoon doesn’t want just anyone, he wants you. 

He knew trying finding someone like you would be impossible.

It was truly a newfound feeling when he had experienced butterflies for the first time. He’s honestly never felt this deeply about a girl before. 

So what else can he do but text you when you ask him to? …two weeks later after mustering up the courage to open up your messages on his phone.

SUNGHOON Hey How have you been?

YOU hey!!!! u finally texted me i’ve been good thanks for asking

Sunghoon taps his foot on the ground, biting his nails, thinking about what else he could say to you to keep the conversation going.

SUNGHOON That’s good I know a lot has happened the past two weeks

You assume he’s referring to you and Jake breaking up. The two of you haven’t seen each other since Alpha Epsilon Pi’s mixer.

Admittedly, the last conversation you had with Sunghoon really cleared a lot of the looming thoughts you had stuck in your brain.

It’s been two weeks since you broke up with Jake.

It’s also been two weeks since Sunghoon told you that you wouldn’t lose him for good.

YOU yea  we should catch up let’s have a drink together like old times :))

⋆˚࿔

Like old times.

Sunghoon sat in a booth at his local university pub, just like he would last year. Waiting for you all the time.

In truth, Sunghoon couldn’t shake off the nerves of seeing you again after a while –– so to curb his anxiety he ordered two beers. One for you and one for himself. Well, at least that’s what he intended at first, but after he finished his bottle he still felt nervous so he drank “yours.”

You aren’t even late to meet him, he’s just way too early.

Ah fuck, he thought. If you still weren’t here and he’d already drank his own beer and “your” beer, and the two of you were meeting for drinks –– wouldn’t that suggest they were going to get multiple drinks?

Sunghoon covered his mouth, murmuring to himself silently, “Oh my god, how drunk am I gonna get. I can't embarrass myself.” (Spoiler alert, he wasn't actually that drunk throughout the night, definitely just the placebo effect).

You actually arrive 10 minutes before your meeting time thinking you’d be early, but you were surprised when you saw Sunghoon sipping beer by himself, “Hey! You’re really early.”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon grins, “I guess you are too. How have you been?”

You seat yourself on the other side of the booth, “Well,” you sigh, “you already know what’s been going on with me and Jake.”

Sunghoon flinched at the mention of Jake’s name. Oh god, now he really was going to have a nervous breakdown. In the midst of this all, Sunghoon actually forgot about Jake in the equation.

Is it appropriate to be meeting his now ex-girlfriend for drinks? Like, just two of them? But wait, Sunghoon was friends with y/n way before him so would this be justified? Whatever, he needs a drink.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry about that.”

You figured you probably shouldn't have brought that up and sheepishly smiled, “Why would you be sorry? Let’s order some drinks!”

After three more beers, a long island iced tea, and a mojito later, it was safe to say you and Sunghoon had all the alcohol courage you could get.

The two of you were laughing about, god knows what, for the past two hours –– but the topic of conversation never mattered between you and him. You could talk to him about anything. 

You stretch your arms up, “Do you think we should leave?” you and Sunghoon turn to look around the pub and realize they’re getting ready for closing.

Sunghoon ended up paying for all the drinks which made you feel giddy and thankful because your drinks were $15 each and you weren’t planning on going broke that night.

Outside of the pub, you and Sunghoon kept the laughter going. God, it’s been so long since you’ve hung out with him like this. You never realized how much you missed him.

“So…” Sunghoon drags out, “is this goodbye?”

You fish for your phone in your purse to check the time, “Wanna keep talking and have drinks at my place?”

He smiles at you, gesturing to the sidewalk ahead, “Lead the way Missy.”

When you finally arrive at your apartment, you push the door open and welcome him in, “My humble abode.”

Sunghoon had never been to your apartment before. Back then he thought it would be creepy and invasive if he asked to hang out at yours instead. He always knew you were a nostalgic and sentimental person, but your apartment unit really personified it. You kept all of the cheerleading medals you had stacked up in high school years ago, your fridge filled with photos of you and your loved ones, you even had a pile of every birthday card you’ve received in the corner of your desk.

Without meaning to, Sunghoon found himself meddling around your apartment inspecting everything you possessed. He wanted to know what you were like before he met you –– he wanted to know everything he could about you.

A finger taps on Sunghoon’s shoulder making him jolt, “You snooping around?” you tease.

He stammers, “No– sorry, I– I was just curious.”

You chuckle and walk towards the kitchen to grab some more drinks, “I’m just kidding, Hoon.”

Exactly like a loyal golden retriever would, he followed behind you quietly. You pass him a bottle of beer and take a sip of your seltzer. You prop yourself up the counter, legs lightly swinging from the ground, “So…”

In front of you, he puts a hand in his pocket and takes a swig of beer with the other, “...so” he repeats.

At this point, the alcohol wore off from the walk back to yours. Both of you were the right amount of buzzed –– giggly drunk.

“But seriously, how have you been? Like truthfully.” you ask.

Sunghoon tries to think hard about it –– but he’s always stuck to the same routine he’s had for the past three years. He scratches the back of his neck, “I dunno, life’s been the same as always. Wake up, eat, sleep, repeat all over again.”

You tilt your head, “Same old Sunghoon, doesn’t it get tiring sometimes?”

“What does? The routine?”

“No,” you fiddle with your fingers, “bottling everything up.”

Sunghoon’s surprised by your answer. He wonders what makes you think that, “What do you mean?”

You chug the remaining of your seltzer, “It’s just– it seems like you had a lot on your plate recently.”

At first, he wonders what you’re referring to. If he thinks hard about it, all he does is study, go to the gym, and play games. But when he finally realized what you were talking about he started getting flustered.

“...are you asking me this because of the conversation we had three weeks ago?”

He still remembers that night vividly. It had rained during the day, releasing the smell of petrichor and wet grass. The pavement hadn’t dried up yet where they stood –— he remembered because he kept his head down after Jake came to console you. He also remembers how he felt when he heard Jake come back from dropping you off. Straight guilt.

He laid in bed that night wondering what kind of “best friend” he was to say all of those things to you as if you weren’t dating Jake then. 

But now he’s standing in front of you, at your apartment, in your cramped kitchen, a little too close to each other.

“...yeah, sorry,” you apologize, “it seemed like you had a lot on your mind then.”

Sunghoon steps a bit closer, slightly wedged in between your legs, “I did have a lot on my mind then.” he confessed.

Not once breaking eye contact with you, he takes a final swig of his beer before he lightly places the empty bottle on the counter.

“Would you tell me if I asked?” you let him slide in between your thighs.

He boxes you in when he places both hands on the counter beside you, “I’d do anything you ask, y/n. You know that.”

You could hear the water drip from the kitchen faucet with how quiet it was.

“What about now? Do you still have a lot on your mind?”

Sunghoon pretends to ponder about it for a second before answering.

“Yeah.”

“...what are you thinking about right now?”

He only looks at you, fixing your hair before tucking a strand behind your ear.

“Whether this is a good idea or not.”

Sunghoon slowly leans in, almost as if he’s asking for permission before making a move –– and when you wrap your arms around his neck, he takes it as a green light and presses his lips against yours.

He thinks he’s dreamt about this moment his entire university career; what it would be like kissing you. Well now he knows. He knows that your lips taste like the cherry chapstick you always wear, that you kiss him softly, and that you get all handsy while making out. 

You drag your hand gently down Sunghoon’s chest and you assume he liked that considering you can feel him smiling on your lips. 

So you begin to outline his entire body. You trace your fingers along his jaw, the curvature of his abs, his biceps. You gently tug on his hair which elicits a small groan from him. You’re everywhere, you were ravenous.

All that time back then, when you’d pine over ice prince Park Sunghoon and throw hints at him here and there –– he never got the message though. 

But now you’re here, kissing Sunghoon, and you just can’t get enough –– and it seems like he can’t either.

Sunghoon caresses the outline of your waist, fingers slightly skimming up your skin, when he pulls away to pepper light kisses on your neck, “you know,” he mumbled, "I've been waiting for this moment ever since we first met.”

A small moan escapes your lips when he starts licking behind your ear, “Hoon,” you breathe out, “...do you want to go to my bedroom?”

He swears he can see stars now from how lightheaded he feels right now. He can’t even process that what’s happening is actually happening. 

Is this real life? 

Instead of exchanging words, he lets his body talk, picking you up from the counter walking towards your room, where he lays you down with the utmost care –– like you were his most prized possession. 

Cautiously, he asks, “Do you really wanna…”

“Yes. I do.” You shut him up with a kiss, fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt. You knew he understood the memo when he pulled away to throw his shirt to the ground.

He falls back into you, moving his knee between your thighs when he cups your face to kiss you again. This time, it’s messy, it’s desperate. Sunghoon wants to explore every inch of you, learn how your mind works, what you’ve experienced in life, what you haven’t, what you want to. He slides his tongue like he’s going to devour you.

Slowly, he peeled off all your clothes one-by-one until you’re left in your undergarments. You wish you had known what your plans were gonna be tonight otherwise you would’ve surely put on some better lingerie.

Sunghoon doesn’t give a fuck though, you were laying in front of him undressed and beautiful, how could he focus on something so miniscule when he has you all to himself? …but he also didn’t care because it’s going to come off anyways.

He unclasps your bra, exposing your bare chest. His kisses trailed from your throat all the way to your inner thighs. Now he was perched in between your legs next to your clothed pussy. He smirked when he saw how soaked your panties were, “You get this wet for me?”

You cover your eyes using your forearms out of embarrassment, “Just stop teasing, Hoon.”

“Hoon.”

God he loved hearing you call him by that nickname, he could feel his dick getting impossibly hard in his boxers. He’s going to absolutely destroy you.

Sunghoon delicately took off your panties before spreading your legs wider. He could see the slick from your pussy drooling onto the sheets already, and he swore he almost moaned.

You bite your bottom lip when he starts to place light kisses onto your pussy. He dragged his tongue from your fluttering hole to your clit. Park Sunghoon was a starved, starved man. He attaches himself onto your clit. He works his tongue until he gets you moaning, and when he’s decided he wants to hear you moan louder for him, he plunges two fingers in without warning.

Now he was knuckle deep inside of you, and those moans just kept escaping from your mouth, gradually getting louder and louder –– you pray you don’t get a noise complaint by the end of tonight. He pumps his fingers with vigor, eventually finding your most sensitive spot. 

He’s still lapping at your pussy while he massages your spongy G-spot. Sunghoon assumes he’s doing a great job since your legs are shaking …and also because you keep cheering him on like he’s a D1 athlete, “Ffffuck… Hoon– Please just– don’t stop. K–keep going!”

When you start to thrash around he tightens his grip on your plush thigh, continuing to work his tongue and fingers inside of you. He could tell you were about to cum from the fact that your pussy kept pulsing while his fingers were in deep.

“W– Wait,” You grab onto the sheets, “Hoon wait, I think– I feel like I’m gonna pee.”

“So what? Just relax and let it out.”

You do what he says, your juices coating his tongue. You watched him suck up every drop. The squelching sound was filthy, his fingers still scissoring you open. He brings himself up to lick at your neck while his fingers stay buried inside of your pussy, “You like that?”

What a freak. 

You never expected Park Sunghoon of all people acting this way in bed.

Your mouth drops open, nodding in agreement, “Uh huh…” Your breathing pattern still off from your last orgasm, “I fucking love it.”

He sucks at your neck, “Atta girl,” his fingers finally pull out of your cunt, dragging his hand up to one to fondle with one of your titties, “You gonna let me fuck you then?”

“Please.”

His lips curled into a devilish smirk, pulling out his cock out from his sweatpants. Teasingly, he raises his eyebrows at you, hand holding his cock –– silently curious about whether you could take the dick or not.

Saliva started pooling on the corners of your mouth and he hasn’t even fucked you yet. Sunghoon takes one good look at your swollen clit and puffy lips before he aligns himself at your entrance.

You’re horny and throbbing, you can barely hold your patience while Sunghoon seems to look extremely entertained taunting you by slightly pushing the head in before pulling out. He grabs ahold of your hips, bringing you closer to him. 

You laid there biting your nails wondering if he’s ever going to actually fuck you when he slides his cock inside your pussy inch-by-inch without warning. He starts thrusting in and out, grabbing your face to sloppily kiss you. All that drool you’ve accumulated from your past orgasm had been licked clean from your mouth to your chin. 

Sunghoon was insatiable. He started kneading your titties, his dick still fucking you nice and open. You probably still don’t know that he hadn’t even put the entire thing in yet. He starts rolling your nipples in between his knuckles before pinching them –– bottoming out completely at the same time.

You just had to lay there and take it. Everything hurt but felt so good at the same time. You hear the schlick-schlick-schlicking sound coming from his dick relentlessly pounding into your drenched pussy.

“Mmphf! Wait, Hoon it f– feels ssoo… good.” You manage to whimper out.

“You just–” thrust, “take it–” thrust, “so fucking well.” thrust.

He was inside so raw, so deep. You thought he was inside of you to the hilt, but when he pressed your thighs against your chest, he found a new angle and somehow managed to fuck you even deeper. You could feel his fat tip battering up against your cervix with every pump –– genuinely becoming scared at one point that his cock would slide into your womb. Your moans echoed throughout your apartment unit. It honestly sounds like pornstars having sex in here.

When Sunghoon felt your walls clamp down on his dick, he knew that you were about to cum soon. He began to really pound into you now, using his thumb to rub on your clit. It felt like he really did stretch you out. You look down at where the two of you connect and you cum at the sight of his cock plunging into you, forming a ring of milky white cum during the process. 

Sunghoon groans at how tight your pussy walls squeeze him in as he fucks you through your second orgasm. You were already so overstimulated; his pelvis rubbing against your sensitive clit, his cock deep inside you, your nipples being rolled and pinched. You couldn’t take it anymore.

Your whole body is quivering at this point and Sunghoon is still spearing you in half. You push at his chest, “W– Wait, hold on.”

He pulls out and looks at you with a cocky smirk on his face, “What’s wrong, baby? Can’t take the dick?”

You pant out, “I just…” You bring your hands to your legs, attempting to stop them from shaking, but it’s no use, “...I just need a second.”

“You tapping out?” he tuts.

Despite having to take a quick breather, you quickly shake your head no.

You crawl towards him now, wrapping your warm hands on the base of his cock. He groans at your touch and revels in it. You lick the tip like it’s candy.

You wait till he lets out a couple more groans before you finally wrap your lips around him and slowly slide his cock down deeper into your throat, stroking the rest with a hand.

A sense of satisfaction washed over you when you looked up to see Sunghoon with his hair tussled, head thrown back, mouth agape. It only pushed you to do more. You relax your throat to prepare for the intrusion, gliding his cock down lower and lower. Sunghoon gently grabs a fistful of your hair enough to keep his balance. All you could hear were his groans of pleasure. 

You try to keep all of him in your mouth for as long as you humanely could before pulling away from his shaft, sucking a big breath of fresh air in.

You could see his eyes darken, “Turn around for me.”

Confused but still compliant, you follow his orders and turn your back against him. He places his hand on your lower back, moving it up your spine to delicately push you back onto the bed. He grabs ahold of your hips, perching them up.

Now you were face down, ass up on your bed. 

Sunghoon smoothed the arch of your back with his calloused palm, finding its place at the nape of your neck. He growls lowly in your ear, “You gonna be good for me?”

“Uh huh,” you manage to get out.

He removes his hand at your neck, giving your ass a squeeze before entering inside you again. He hammers into you with the same drive and vigor, steadying your legs when he feels them start to tremor again.

You melt under his touch, the curve of his dick hitting that sensitive spot once again. The sound of your moans pushed him to go even further. He lands his two hands on the moons of your ass, spreading them wide open to see his wet dick pound into your dripping pussy, sliding deeper till he feels the resistance.

“Aargh,” he groans, swiping his thumb over the rim of your other hole.

“Fuuuck…” you whine out loud.

Sunghoon watches himself disappear in between your glistening pussy lips. The sheets beneath you two were pooled with your slick, you couldn’t control your moans anymore –– you knew you were about to give out and cum again any minute now.

Your pussy just squeezes him in right, he could keep fucking you all night. You push against him, fucking yourself on his cock when he starts laughing, “How bad do you want it, baby?”

You roll your hips on him, “I want it… bad.” you mewl.

He presses himself balls deep inside of you just to watch you struggle and grind on him to desperately reach your nth orgasm tonight. He caresses your asscheek when he’s decided he’s had enough fun watching you use him like a fuck toy.

Sunghoon starts thrusting into you again, slow and deep this time, jolting your body forward on the bed with each pump of his dick. When you feel him twitch inside of you, you knew his release was close –– his groans getting louder.

He starts pounding into you again relentlessly, feeling your gummy walls hugging him tight. You could feel him chasing his orgasm. His hand snakes its way to your lower stomach, brushing against the bulge of his bulbous cockhead before he presses down on it. The added pressure made your eyes roll back, gripping onto anything you could.

“Hoon… I’m gonna– I’m gonna cum.” you cry out.

“Then do it.”

You let yourself go, cumming so hard on his cock, you swore you were about to blackout from the feeling of immense pleasure.

He fastens the speed of his thrusts; you feel them become messy and sloppier. You hear his breathing getting ragged when he pulls out, stroking himself as thick ropes of sticky, white, cum spill onto your ass. You lay still on the mattress, still panting when Sunghoon finishes milking out every drop of cum.

Sunghoon uses the back of his hand to wipe off the sweat dripping down his forehead, “Wait,” he breathes out, promptly leaving the room to come back with a towel. He cleans you up when you start chuckling out loud.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, moving your hair out of your face.

“No, it’s just I haven’t had good sex in a while.” you giggle.

Confused, he asks, “Wait but, haven’t you…”

“Me and Jake never had sex.” you confessed.

Sunghoon’s eyes widened, “But– I heard you… in his room–”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you look at him, face puzzled, “Maybe we were watching a movie?”

He decides to drop the topic and just be glad instead. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you closer to him, “I wish I’d done something sooner.”

Snug against his arms, you chirp, “Well, why didn’t you? I was throwing hints all the time!”

Now Sunghoon didn’t know this, “...what do you mean ‘throwing hints?’”

You playfully slap against his chest, “Freshman and sophomore year I was waiting for you to make a move but you never did! So I just assumed you didn’t like me like that and tried to move on…”

One thing about Sunghoon was: he wasn’t really good with social cues. He was always in his own little bubble doing his own thing. But now that he thinks about it, you were pretty obvious –– it just didn’t click to him back then.

The two of you ended up dozing off after talking for hours, and before you knew it, the sun was up again.

Both of you were awoken by a couple of hard knocks at your door.

Sunghoon yawns, “Who’s at your door this early?”

Half-awake, you slip into some clothes you find scattered on the floor, “I’m not sure, maybe a package I ordered?” You rub your eyes, “These FedEx guys always deliver packages so early.”

You quickly leave the room to see who’s at your apartment door. While waiting, Sunghoon props himself up against your headboard, reaching for his phone. He placed a hand behind his head while he started scrolling through his missed notifications. For some reason, Sunghoon felt like he was forgetting something –– he wasn’t sure what.

Something was off, but he couldn’t quite pin what it was. Was he just being paranoid? He bagged the girl of his dreams, he just had amazing sex, and now he’s waiting for you in your bed shirtless, boxers on.

He tries to run through his mental to-do list in his head: he already submitted his assignments, it’s the weekend so he doesn’t have any classes, his rent isn’t due till next month, he did his laundry yesterday –– so why did he feel like he was forgetting something?

Sunghoon hears your voice echo throughout the apartment, “Jake! What are you doing here?”

Oh shit.

kay's note: r/amitheasshole which one of them do you think is the biggest asshole: sunghoon, jake, reader, or all of them, cause i was lowkey thinking about it myself but i'm not too sure either

No, hell, in your experience, smelled like salt in the air and expensive sunscreen. Like sun-warmed pavement and blooming jasmine climbing over white-painted fences. Like the ocean sitting just close enough to hear from your bedroom window, taunting you with the promise of peace you were never actually going to get.

Hell smelled like summer in Jeju Island. And unfortunately, you had just arrived.

You stood in the driveway of your family’s beach house with your sunglasses sliding down your nose and your patience already clinically deceased, staring at the towering white house like it had personally offended you. Which, honestly, it had. The place looked like every rich family’s Pinterest board had thrown up on it, ivy curling around stone walls, floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the blinding afternoon sun, hydrangeas blooming obnoxiously blue along the front walk.

Beautiful. Expensive. Full of memories you preferred not to examine too closely. Your mother stepped out of the car behind you with the kind of energy only women with fresh manicures and vacation plans possessed.

“Don’t just stand there,” she said, already fishing her oversized sunhat from her tote bag. “Help your father with the luggage.” 

You adjusted your sunglasses and gave the house one last deeply unimpressed look. “I’m considering simply walking into the ocean instead.”

From somewhere near the trunk, your father sighed. “And every year, you make the same joke.”

“Because every year, the ocean remains an option.”

Your mother clicked her tongue, the universal sound of maternal disappointment, and handed you two bags anyway. “Be dramatic later. We’re already late for dinner at the club tonight.”

Of course you were. Summer in Jeju Island wasn’t really summer. It was a social performance with a beachfront view. Three months of yacht parties, country club dinners, charity galas disguised as drinking events, and the same old-money families pretending they didn’t all know each other’s scandals already. Everyone here had grown up together, gone to the same private schools, kissed the same people, ruined each other’s lives in aesthetically pleasing ways. It was beautiful. It was exhausting.

It was home, in the most unfortunate sense of the word.

You hauled your bag up the front steps, pushing the door open with your shoulder. The familiar coolness of the house greeted you immediately, air conditioning and polished wood and lemon-scented cleaning products. Somewhere upstairs, your childhood room waited exactly as you’d left it last August, probably still holding the ghosts of every bad decision you’d made between seventeen and twenty-two. A charming thought. 

You dropped your bags by the staircase and wandered toward the kitchen, where your mother was already directing the opening of windows and the placement of flowers like she was staging a home magazine shoot.

She looked over her shoulder at you. “And before I forget,” she said, in the dangerously casual tone mothers used right before ruining your day, “be nice to the Lees this summer.”

You stopped mid-reach for the lemonade pitcher. Slowly, you turned. “Excuse me?”

“The Lees,” she repeated, as if she hadn’t just spoken your personal curse into existence. “We’re having them over next weekend, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t start any unnecessary arguments.”

You stared at her. There was a long, silent moment in which your soul quietly left your body and floated somewhere over the Atlantic. Then, “I’d like it officially noted,” you said, setting the pitcher down with great dignity, “that I never start the arguments.”

Your mother gave you a look. You gave her one back. She won. “You absolutely do.”

“I finish them beautifully,” you corrected. “That’s different.”

She sighed, turning back to her flowers. “Just behave. Especially with Heeseung.” And there it was. The name. The final nail in the coffin. Lee Heeseung. Your lifelong enemy. Your annual migraine. The human embodiment of every smug text message left on read.

Next door. Living, unfortunately.

You leaned against the kitchen counter and closed your eyes for one brief moment, like maybe if you didn’t move, the universe would take pity on you and reverse time. It did not. Because of course he was here. He was always here.

Every summer since childhood had come with three guarantees: humidity, your mother’s obsession with hosting dinners, and Lee Heeseung existing entirely too close to your personal space. Your families had been friends forever, which meant your lives had been annoyingly, inescapably intertwined since before either of you had enough common sense to avoid each other.

There were photos somewhere, horrifying evidence, of the two of you as children on the same beach, him with scraped knees and you with a missing front tooth, already looking like you were one wrong comment away from attempted murder.

Some things, apparently, were timeless. As teenagers, it had only gotten worse. He’d grown into his face in the kind of unfair way that should’ve required government intervention, too handsome, too charming, too aware of both. The kind of boy adults loved and girls wrote bad poetry about. Golden boy energy in expensive linen. Meanwhile, you had perfected the art of making eye contact while verbally destroying someone. Naturally, you got along terribly.

Every summer had become its own tradition of verbal warfare, stolen drinks at parties, arguments on docks at midnight, insults dressed up as flirting and flirting disguised as threats. There had been one almost-kiss when you were nineteen, drunk and angry and standing far too close on his parents’ balcony.

Neither of you had ever mentioned it again. Civilization had survived. Barely. Your mother was still talking. “His mother mentioned he got back last week.”

Wonderful. Fantastic. Thrilling.“Did she also mention if he’s developed the ability to shut up?” you asked.

“She mentioned he’s doing very well.” Of course he was. Lee Heeseung was always doing very well. He probably woke up looking expensive and emotionally unavailable. You poured yourself a glass of lemonade with the gravity of someone preparing for battle.

“Great. I can’t wait to not care.”

Your mother pointed a flower stem at you. “I mean it. No fighting.”

You took a sip. “With all due respect, mother, if Lee Heeseung and I stop fighting, one of us has probably died.”

From the front yard came the low sound of a car door shutting. Then another. Your father’s voice drifted in from outside, greeting someone. Your mother brightened instantly. “Oh! Perfect timing.”

No. Absolutely not. You set the glass down very, very slowly. “No,” you said. She smiled the smile of a woman who had already decided your fate.

“Yes. Go say hello.” You looked toward the window like it might offer an emergency exit. Sunlight poured across the garden. Beyond the hydrangeas and white fencing sat the neighboring house, just as grand, just as obnoxiously perfect. And somewhere in that orbit of privilege and poor decision-making was Heeseung. Back for another summer. Meaning your peace, your dignity, and probably your better judgment had all officially expired.

You inhaled once. Exhaled. Straightened your sunglasses like armor. “Well,” you muttered, heading for the door, “welcome back to hell.”

The universe, unfortunately, had a sense of humor. Because the second you stepped out onto the front porch, armed with sunglasses, a bad attitude, and the vague hope that maybe your father had been greeting the mailman instead of your greatest seasonal inconvenience, you saw him.

Leaning against the hood of his car like he’d been placed there by an overly confident romance novelist. Of course. Of course Lee Heeseung would make an entrance by simply existing in expensive sunlight.

His car was obnoxious. Sleek, black, expensive enough to probably have its own trust fund. It sat in the driveway of the house next door like a personal insult, gleaming under the late afternoon sun while he leaned against it with all the irritating ease of a man who had never once struggled to be liked. White linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Dark sunglasses pushed back into his hair. Skin already carrying the kind of summer tan people paid money to fake.

And that smirk. That stupid, smug, entirely too familiar smirk. Your father was by the front gate, already deep in conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Lee, who were as lovely as ever, warm, elegant, and somehow still producing that man without demanding an apology from the universe.

Mrs. Lee spotted you first. “Oh, there she is!” There was genuine affection in her voice, which made this all worse. You pasted on your best socially acceptable smile and walked down the steps with the slow, resigned grace of someone approaching their own execution.

Mrs. Lee kissed your cheek, your mother appeared from somewhere behind you like she’d been waiting for this exact moment, and within seconds both sets of parents were exchanging the usual summer pleasantries.

How was the drive?How long are you staying?You’ve gotten so grown up.We must have dinner together soon.

The rich-people mating dance. You answered where necessary, smiled where required, and tried very hard not to look to your left. Naturally, you failed. Because Heeseung was looking directly at you. Still leaning there. Still smirking. Like he’d been waiting for this. You crossed your arms instinctively. He pushed himself off the car. Slowly. Like a villain with excellent posture. Then, with the audacity of a man untouched by divine punishment, he looked you over once, head to toe, unhurried, deeply annoying, and said, “Missed me?”

You stared at him. There were many possible responses. Most of them involved violence. Your mother, standing three feet away, would probably object to murder in broad daylight, so you settled for a look sharp enough to qualify as attempted manslaughter. “I was actually having a wonderful day,” you said, “but thanks for asking.”

His mouth twitched. Your father laughed because traitors lived everywhere. Heeseung slid his hands into his pockets, infuriatingly calm. “Good. I’d hate to ruin your summer that quickly.”

“Please,” you said sweetly. “You ruin my summer just by continuing to exist.”

Mrs. Lee sighed in the fond, exhausted way of a woman who had witnessed this dance for over a decade. “See? Exactly the same.”

“Worse, actually,” you said.

“At least she admits she thinks about me,” Heeseung replied.

You inhaled. Exhaled. Decided prison orange would not flatter you. Your mother gave you a warning glance over the rim of her sunglasses, the universal signal for ‘do not embarrass me in front of the neighbors’. You smiled tightly. Heeseung smiled back like he was enjoying this far too much. He was. He always did. That was the problem.

From the outside, the two of you probably looked like some kind of old-Hollywood screwball romance, beautiful people exchanging insults in linen by the sea. From the inside, it felt more like mutual destruction with excellent lighting. Mr. Lee was discussing the yacht club renovation with your father now, and the adults had drifted slightly toward the garden, leaving just enough space for danger.

You turned toward him, lowering your voice. “If you’re planning to spend this summer being extra unbearable, I’d appreciate a warning so I can emotionally prepare.”

He leaned slightly closer, sunglasses hiding his eyes but not the amusement written all over his face. “Emotionally prepare?” he repeated. “You? I thought your whole thing was pretending not to have emotions.”

You scoffed. “My whole thing is surviving despite your presence.”

“Cute.”

“Don’t call me cute.”

“I didn’t. I said your delusion was cute.” There it was. The familiar rhythm. Effortless. Annoying. Dangerous in the way old habits always were.

You hated how easy it was to fall back into it, like no time had passed at all. Like last summer hadn’t ended with the two of you arguing on the marina docks at two in the morning, both too stubborn to say whatever actually needed saying. Like the almost-kiss years ago had never happened. Like your pulse didn’t do something deeply embarrassing every time he stepped too close.

You adjusted your sunglasses and took one deliberate step back. “Try not to get hit by a yacht this summer, Heeseung. It would create paperwork.”

He grinned. “There she is. I was worried college made you soft.” You smiled back, bright and false and weaponized. “And I was hoping maturity had found you. Shame we’re both disappointed.”

Mrs. Lee called his name from the garden before he could answer, and for one brief, shining moment, you experienced peace. He glanced toward his parents, then back at you. That smirk again. Like he knew something you didn’t. Which was unacceptable. “See you around, neighbor.”

You folded your arms tighter. “Threatening me already?”

“Just making promises.” God, you hated him. Truly. Deeply. Artistically. He turned then, walking back toward his parents with the lazy confidence of someone who had never once doubted the world would make room for him. Mrs. Lee adjusted his collar as he passed, and he let her, smiling in that easy, golden-boy way that made adults adore him and should have been scientifically illegal.

Spawn of the devil. Your father was still laughing at something Mr. Lee had said. Betrayal, everywhere. A few more polite goodbyes later, the Lees disappeared back into their perfectly landscaped kingdom next door, and you stood in the driveway watching Heeseung disappear behind the white fence like a storm cloud in designer sunglasses.

Your mother touched your arm. “You could at least pretend to be nicer.”

“I was radiant with charm.”

“You looked like you were planning arson.”

“That was charm.” She sighed, already turning back toward the house. Inside, the air was cool again, but your mood had fully committed to violence. You followed her to the kitchen, where she resumed unpacking with suspicious calm, the calm of someone about to ruin your evening.

You should have known. “By the way,” she said casually, arranging lemons in a bowl like a woman with no regard for her daughter’s suffering, “we’re having dinner with the Lees on Saturday.”

You stopped. “No.”

She didn’t even look up. “Yes.”

“Cancel.”

“No.”

“Fake your death.”

She placed the final lemon down and finally turned to face you. “Be serious.”

“I am serious. I’m willing to help stage it.” Your mother smiled in the dangerous way mothers did when they’d already won. “Saturday. Seven o’clock. Try not to start a war before dessert.”

You stared at her. At the lemons. At the kitchen. At the universe. Somewhere next door, Lee Heeseung was probably alive and smug. And now there would be dinner. Shared wine. Forced politeness. His knee probably brushing yours under the table just to ruin your life.

Your villain origin story, apparently, came with a seafood course. You picked up your abandoned lemonade and took a long sip like it contained stronger coping mechanisms. Summer had officially begun.

Tuesday arrived the way summer days in Jeju Island always did, slowly, lazily, like the sun itself had nowhere better to be.

By ten in the morning, the entire town had already settled into its usual rhythm. Tennis whites at the country club. Mothers with iced coffees and expensive sunglasses pretending not to gossip. Men in linen shirts discussing boats like they were discussing national policy. Teenagers and college kids spilling toward the beach in swimsuits and bad intentions. Everything here moved with the polished ease of old money and old habits. You hated how easy it was to slip back into it. There was something dangerous about returning to a place that remembered every version of you.

The boardwalk still creaked in the same places. The little café near the marina still sold iced vanilla lattes overpriced enough to count as emotional damage. The beach still stretched golden and endless, all warm sand and glittering water and sun-drunk afternoons that made bad decisions feel like destiny instead of stupidity.

Summer here had a way of convincing people they were invincible. It was probably responsible for at least seventy percent of your mistakes. By afternoon, you’d decided your mother’s constant rearranging of flowers and reminders about Saturday dinner were enough to qualify as psychological warfare, so you escaped. You packed a beach tote with the seriousness of a military operation, sunscreen, sunglasses, a bottle of water, your newest hardcover, lip gloss, and the kind of bikini your mother would call unnecessary and your best friend would call revenge.

Then you walked the familiar path down to the shore. The beach behind the summer houses was quieter than the public side near the clubs and restaurants. Less crowded. More private. A stretch of pale sand bordered by dunes and sea grass, where the houses sat like silent judges overlooking the ocean. This part belonged to families like yours and the Lees, generational wealth and carefully curated summer traditions.

It also meant escape was limited. Still, the ocean was worth it. The salt-heavy breeze hit first, warm and familiar against your skin. Then the sound, the endless hush and crash of waves folding into shore, gulls overhead, distant laughter carried by the wind. You slipped your sandals off and let the sand burn briefly against your feet before finding your usual spot. Far enough from the water to keep your book safe. Close enough to hear the tide.

Perfect.

You spread your towel out, dropped your bag beside it, and stretched out on your back like a woman personally committed to becoming one with summer. Sunlight soaked into your skin almost instantly, warm and golden and heavy in that way only coastal afternoons could be. Your bikini was barely enough fabric to qualify as clothing, but that was the point. Tiny black straps against sun-kissed skin, sunglasses shielding your eyes, a paperback novel open against your stomach.

Peace. Actual peace. No dinner invitations. No passive-aggressive mothers. No Lee Heeseung. Just heat and salt and the kind of silence that felt earned. You read for a while, though read was a generous term for occasionally turning a page while mostly listening to the ocean and contemplating whether adulthood could be legally postponed forever. The book was good. The sun was better.

A few familiar faces passed along the shore, neighbors, old classmates, people you’d known your whole life in the vague, privileged way beach towns operated. There were waves, smiles, the occasional “welcome back,” but no one lingered. Exactly how you liked it. At some point, you must have drifted halfway to sleep, caught in that hazy summer state where time stopped mattering. The sun had shifted warmer against your shoulders. The edges of your book blurred. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed.

Then a shadow fell across you. Immediately, your soul knew. Without even opening your eyes, you sighed. Deeply. Spiritually. Like a woman who had seen the face of God and found it disappointing. “No.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, “That’s not very neighborly.” Of course. You opened one eye. And there he was. Lee Heeseung, standing over your towel like some sort of beautifully dressed natural disaster. Shirtless, because apparently humility was not part of his summer wardrobe. Swim trunks slung low on his hips, sunglasses on, skin bronzed by the sun like he’d been handcrafted by someone with a personal vendetta against your patience.

Water still clung to his shoulders, droplets sliding slowly down his chest like the universe itself was trying to make your life harder. Annoying. Extremely annoying. You closed your eye again. “If I ignore you long enough,” you said, “will you evaporate?”

“I think that only works on your personality.” You considered throwing your book at him. It was hardcover. Tempting. Instead, you shifted onto one elbow and looked up at him over your sunglasses. “Don’t you have a yacht to crash or someone else to emotionally inconvenience?”

He grinned, infuriatingly pleased with himself, and sat down uninvited at the edge of your towel like personal boundaries were a concept he’d heard of once and rejected on principle. “I was swimming.”

“I can see that. Congratulations on your ability to enter water.”

“Thank you. I worked very hard.”

You stared at him. He stared back. There was something uniquely exhausting about Heeseung’s presence, like he moved through the world assuming everything, and everyone, would make room for him. And worse, they usually did. He looked out toward the ocean, arms resting loosely over his knees. For a second, with the sunlight catching against his skin and the sea stretching endlessly behind him, he looked less like your lifelong enemy and more like one of those postcard summers people spent the rest of their lives trying to recreate.

Which was dangerous. You hated when he looked cinematic. It made being annoyed significantly less efficient. “You’re ruining my peaceful beach solitude,” you informed him.

“I noticed. You seemed too happy.”

“I wasn’t happy. I was tolerating existence.”

“Even worse.”

You let your book fall shut against your lap. “This is exactly why people warn me about you.” He tilted his head.

“No, they warn people about you. I’m universally beloved.”

You scoffed. “By mothers and women with no standards.”

“And yet here you are, talking to me in a bikini.”

You sat up fully. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was here first.”

“Mm. Territorial.”

“Get off my towel.”

He laughed then, low and easy, carried by the wind and the waves, and it did something profoundly irritating to your bloodstream. That laugh had been the soundtrack to half your summers. Bonfires at sixteen. Pool parties at eighteen. Drunken arguments on docks at twenty. Memory was a cruel thing. You stood abruptly.

Enough. Absolutely enough. If you stayed any longer, you’d either drown him or make eye contact for too long, and both options felt equally dangerous. With the sharp efficiency of someone preserving her dignity by force, you started packing your things. Your book went into your tote. Sunscreen. Water bottle. Sunglasses pushed into your hair.

Heeseung leaned back on his hands, watching the whole performance with zero remorse. “Leaving already?”

“Yes.”

“Because of me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

A pause. Then, truthfully: “Yes.” His smile widened. You hated how much he enjoyed winning tiny wars. You shoved your sandals on and slung your bag over your shoulder, glaring down at him with all the righteous fury of a woman denied a peaceful tanning session. “You are genuinely the most irritating person I have ever met.”

He looked up at you, sunlight in his hair, smirk already waiting. “And yet you keep coming back every summer.” You opened your mouth. Closed it. Because unfortunately, he had a point, and you refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing that aloud. Instead, you gave him one last glare sharp enough to qualify as a formal threat and turned toward home.

The walk back felt warmer somehow, the sun heavier against your skin, sand clinging to your ankles. Behind you, his laughter followed, soft at first, then clearer as the wind carried it over the shoreline. Infuriating. Familiar. Summer itself, if summer had a god complex and perfect teeth. You didn’t look back. But you could still hear him. And somehow, that felt worse.

Saturday arrived wrapped in sunlight and bad intentions. By six in the evening, the entire house smelled like citrus candles, your mother’s perfume, and the kind of expensive stress that came with hosting, or in this case, being hosted by, the Lees. The sun was beginning its slow descent over the water, pouring honey-colored light through the bedroom windows and turning everything soft and golden in a way that made even impending social torture look romantic.

Outside, Jeju Island was in full performance mode. The streets near the coast glowed with polished summer wealth, convertibles pulling into curved driveways, tennis bracelets catching the light, champagne already being chilled somewhere on a yacht that absolutely did not need to exist. The ocean breeze drifted in through the cracked windows carrying salt, jasmine, and the faint sounds of someone laughing too loudly three houses down.

Everything looked beautiful. Which was unfortunate, because beauty made suffering feel theatrical. You stood in the middle of your bedroom surrounded by what looked like the aftermath of a small fashion war. Dresses across the bed. Shoes abandoned like casualties. A hairbrush on the floor. Three rejected outfit options hanging from your closet door like public executions.

And in your hands, your salvation. An oversized gray hoodie. Soft. Reliable. Emotionally supportive. The kind of hoodie that said I do not wish to be perceived. Perfect. You pulled it over your head with the solemnity of a woman entering battle. It swallowed you immediately, sleeves too long, hem brushing your thighs, the entire look somewhere between off-duty model and suspicious raccoon. You stared at yourself in the mirror.

Excellent. If all went according to plan, the Lees would assume you were a drifter who had wandered in from the beach and politely ask you to leave before appetizers. Peace at last. Your mother entered without knocking, because privacy was apparently a concept reserved for only the elites. She stopped in the doorway.

Looked at you. Looked at the hoodie. Looked back at you. Silence. Long enough to be considered legally threatening. “No,” she said.

You folded your arms. “Counterpoint: yes.”

“No.”

“This is fashion.”

“This is a cry for help.”

You turned back to the mirror, adjusting the hood with dramatic precision. “I’m cultivating mystery. They’ll be intrigued.”

“They’ll think I forgot to raise you.”

“Honestly, that might buy me sympathy.”

Your mother crossed the room with the terrifying calm of a woman who had already made her decision three minutes ago. From behind her back, like a magician revealing the final trick, she produced a dress. Yellow. Of course it was yellow, why? Because, summer, darling. Not soft yellow. Not subtle yellow. The kind of rich, golden, sunlight yellow that looked like it belonged in a movie where everyone had unresolved feelings and excellent cheekbones.

A sleek sundress. Fitted enough to be dangerous, effortless enough to pretend it wasn’t. You narrowed your eyes. “No.”

“Yes.”

“It looks like optimism.”

“It looks like summer.”

“It looks like a setup.”

She held it up against you with complete disregard for your emotional well-being. “It looks like you clean up beautifully.” There it was. The betrayal. Because that was exactly the problem. You knew the dress looked good. That made it worse. Wearing the dress meant effort. Effort meant possibility. Possibility meant Lee Heeseung seeing you in a dress that suggested maybe, potentially, under the right atmospheric conditions, you had once been nice to someone.

Unacceptable. You stepped back. “I would rather be hit by a jet ski.”

“Wonderful. You can wear this to the hospital afterward.”

“Mother.”

She sighed, setting the dress on the bed like a final verdict. “You are not wearing that hoodie to dinner with the Lees. Mrs. Lee adores you, your father is already pretending this evening will be civilized, and I refuse to let my daughter look like she escaped from a beach bonfire.” You looked at the hoodie. The hoodie looked back. A fallen soldier. Somewhere in the distance, a gull cried out over the ocean like it, too, understood your suffering.

You flopped backward onto the bed with all the grace of a dying Victorian heroine. “This is oppression.”

“This is dinner.”

“There’s seafood involved. That makes it worse.”

Your mother sat beside you, smoothing a wrinkle from the yellow dress. For a moment, the teasing slipped into something softer. “You’ve been doing this with him for years,” she said.

You stared at the ceiling. “Doing what?” She gave you a look, not sharp, not smug, just the tired wisdom of a woman who had watched two stubborn people circle each other for too long.

“This one. The fighting. The pretending.” You groaned dramatically and threw an arm over your face. “If this conversation ends with you calling him charming, I’m moving to another country.”

She laughed then, quiet and warm. “I’m just saying… maybe try not to make tonight a battlefield.” Too late. The battlefield had excellent landscaping and probably a wine pairing. Still, after she left, the room felt quieter. The golden light had shifted lower now, stretching long shadows across the floorboards. From your window, you could see the neighboring house through the trees, white walls glowing in the sunset, lights beginning to flicker on, elegant and smug and entirely too close.

Somewhere over there was Heeseung. Probably looking expensive. Probably being annoying. Probably existing with that stupid face. You hated that your first instinct was to wonder what he’d be wearing. Probably linen. Men like him were always in linen, like they were personally sponsored by summer. With a sigh heavy enough to qualify as literature, you sat up and stared at the yellow dress again. It stared back, victorious.

Fine. Fine. You changed. And, because the universe enjoyed humiliation as a hobby, your mother was right. The dress fit like it had been designed specifically to ruin your peace. Thin straps, bare shoulders, the kind of silhouette that looked effortless and absolutely was not. Against sun-kissed skin, the yellow made you look like you belonged in this town, like expensive mistakes and beautiful bad decisions.

You hated it immediately. Mostly because you looked good. You stood in front of the mirror, turning once, suspicious. Like maybe if you stared hard enough, you’d find a flaw large enough to justify changing back into the hoodie. There wasn’t one. Traitorous fabric. You added gold hoops, minimal makeup, lip gloss sharp enough to count as a weapon, and tried very hard not to think about why any of this mattered.

It didn’t. Obviously. You were dressing for yourself. And if Lee Heeseung happened to see you and suffer emotionally, that was simply community service. Downstairs, your father was already waiting by the door with car keys and the resigned expression of a man who knew he was escorting two women into battle and had chosen survival over commentary. He looked up when you descended the stairs. Paused. Smiled. “Well,” he said, “you look expensive.”

You picked up your clutch. “I plan to act accordingly.” Your mother beamed like she’d personally invented beauty. You refused to acknowledge this. Outside, the evening had turned warm and velvet-soft, the sky streaked pink and gold over the ocean. The walk next door was barely two minutes, just enough time for dread to fully settle in.

The Lee house stood glowing at the end of the path, every window lit, laughter already drifting from inside. Dinner. Wine. Politeness. Heeseung. You inhaled slowly as your father reached for the front gate. Summer, apparently, had decided subtle suffering wasn’t enough. It wanted dinner and a show. The Lee house always looked like it belonged in a magazine spread titled People With Better Lives Than You.

White stone, warm lights spilling from enormous windows, ivy climbing tastefully up the walls like even the plants here had trust funds. The front garden smelled like jasmine and sea air and whatever expensive candle Mrs. Lee probably had burning somewhere inside. Everything about it radiated polished wealth and the kind of family dinners where people said things like summering abroad.

You hated how nice it was. You hated even more that you’d spent half your childhood here. Birthday dinners. Pool parties. Christmases once, before everyone got too busy and too grown up for normal traditions. There were memories tucked into every corner of this place, most of them involving some version of you losing an argument to Lee Heeseung and plotting revenge by dessert.

Tonight, unfortunately, promised tradition. Mrs. Lee opened the door before you could even knock, all elegance and warmth in a silk dress the color of champagne. “There you are!” She kissed your cheek before you had time to prepare emotionally. “Look at you,” she said, holding you at arm’s length. “Absolutely gorgeous.” From behind you, your mother made the smug little sound of victory.

You chose to ignore it. “You say that now,” you said, stepping inside, “but let’s revisit after I inevitably insult someone over seafood.”

Mrs. Lee laughed like she always did, like your bad attitude was somehow charming instead of hereditary. “Nonsense. We’re all family here.” That was the problem. The foyer opened into soft golden light and polished wood floors, the low hum of conversation drifting in from the dining room. Somewhere, glasses clinked. Somewhere else, your father and Mr. Lee were already discussing something expensive and unnecessary, probably boats.

You slipped off your sandals and stepped inside, the familiar warmth of the house wrapping around you. And then, of course, there he was. Lee Heeseung, leaning against the archway to the living room like he’d been strategically placed there for maximum irritation.

Black button-down this time, sleeves rolled, top buttons undone just enough to be a public health concern. Dark slacks. Watch glinting at his wrist. Hair slightly messy in that suspiciously intentional way attractive men got away with. He looked like summer trouble dressed in designer clothing. Annoying. Extremely annoying.

His gaze found you immediately. Paused. And for one dangerous second, he said nothing. Just looked. Slowly. Unhurriedly. Like the room had gone quiet around it. It started at your feet, moved upward, and landed finally on your face with something unreadable flickering behind his expression. Not smug. Worse. Appreciative. You wanted to throw yourself directly into the ocean. Instead, you smiled sweetly, the kind of smile that had ruined lesser men.

“Try not to look too shocked. I know basic hygiene is a surprise.”

His mouth twitched. “There she is,” he said, voice low and easy. “I was worried the dress had made you nice.”

Your mother, traitor that she was, immediately linked arms with Mrs. Lee. “Oh, perfect,” she said. “You two can catch up while we finish setting the table.”

No. Absolutely not. You opened your mouth. “No—” Too late. The parents had already vanished with the terrifying efficiency of adults who believed proximity solved everything. Your father gave you a look on the way out, the kind that said ‘behave’, and disappeared toward the kitchen like a man abandoning a sinking ship.

And suddenly, it was just the two of you. Silence. Not awkward. Worse. Familiar. The kind of silence built over years of unfinished conversations and too much history. You crossed your arms. He mirrored nothing, which somehow made it more annoying. In your deeply correct and entirely unbiased opinion, “catching up” with Lee Heeseung translated loosely to trying to have a normal conversation without committing a felony.

A challenge, certainly. You managed three words. “Well. You’re alive.” He nodded thoughtfully.

“Still devastatingly handsome too, thanks for noticing.”

You sighed. “This is why people drink before family dinners.”

“And yet you came sober. Brave.”

You were preparing a truly excellent insult, something elegant, devastating, probably Pulitzer-worthy, when Mrs. Lee’s voice floated in from the dining room. “Dinner!” Saved by seafood. You gave him one final look. “Don’t make me regret this.”

He stepped aside, one hand gesturing toward the dining room like some smug Regency villain. “No promises.”

The dining room looked exactly like every old-money summer dinner should. Long table, linen napkins, candles despite it still being warm outside. Too many wine glasses for any morally responsible evening. French doors stood open to the back patio where the ocean breeze drifted in soft and salted, carrying the sound of waves somewhere beyond the dunes. Sunset had bled fully into evening now, the sky darkening violet over the water.

Everything felt cinematic. Which was rude, considering your mood. Seats were assigned by parental conspiracy, obviously. You discovered yours and stopped. Heeseung. Right next to you. Naturally. Mrs. Lee smiled far too innocently. “I thought it would be nice.” It would not. It absolutely would not. But protesting would only make it worse, so you sat with the grace of a woman choosing violence internally. Heeseung took the seat beside you, looking entirely too pleased with the universe.

Across the table, your mother was already discussing someone’s daughter getting engaged. Your father had wine. Mr. Lee had opinions about coastal property values. Everyone settled into conversation with the practiced ease of people who had done this for decades. And somehow, despite all of it, your entire awareness kept narrowing to the person sitting six inches to your right.

His knee brushed yours under the table. Lightly. Accidental. Probably. You froze for exactly half a second. Then refused to acknowledge it because dignity still mattered. You reached for your water. His hand reached for the bread basket. Fingers brushed. Again. This time, definitely not accidental. You turned your head. He was already looking at you. Calm. Composed. Infuriating.

Like he hadn’t just weaponized table manners. You smiled without showing teeth. “If you’re trying to start something over dinner rolls, I’d like you to know that’s a deeply embarrassing way to die.”

His expression remained perfectly neutral as he handed you the basket. “I’m just being polite.”

“Suspicious already.” 

Across from you, Mrs. Lee sighed fondly. “You two are exactly the same.”

You and Heeseung answered at the same time. “Absolutely not.” Everyone laughed. You considered faking your death. Dinner continued in that dangerous, glittering way summer dinners did, wine poured generously, stories repeated beautifully, everyone glowing a little softer in candlelight. Your parents kept bringing up old memories.

That camping trip when you were thirteen. The sailing lessons disaster. The time Heeseung pushed you into the pool and you threw his phone into the ocean. Mrs. Lee was still mad about that one. You maintained it had been justified. Everyone treated the two of you like old friends. Like there had always been affection under the arguments.

Like this was charming instead of mutually assured destruction. It was infuriating. Because they weren’t wrong. That was the worse part. Every now and then, while someone else talked, you’d catch him looking at you. Not casually. Not the usual teasing glance. Longer. Quieter. Like he was trying to remember something. Or decide something. Too much. Entirely too much.

You focused on your wine. On your fork. Your plate. Literally anything else. But awareness sat there anyway, warm and sharp and impossible to ignore. The yellow dress suddenly felt like a mistake. The ocean breeze moved through the open doors. Candles flickered. Someone laughed at the far end of the table. And beside you, Lee Heeseung leaned back in his chair, looking unfairly good in soft light and expensive black clothing, like every bad decision summer had ever offered.

You hated him. Probably. Mostly. Which was becoming, very inconveniently, less convincing by the second. 

By the time dinner ended, the sky had softened into that strange in-between hour where everything looked prettier than it had any right to. The table was abandoned in stages, wine glasses left half-full, dessert plates forgotten, your father and Mr. Lee still arguing about boats like it was a blood sport. Mrs. Lee and your mother disappeared into the kitchen with the kind of determined energy that suggested they were about to wash dishes neither of them had touched all evening.

Which left the younger generation exactly where summer always did. Outside. Near water. With alcohol. And poor judgment. Someone, probably Jay, because it always felt like a Jay decision, had suggested a beach fire, and within twenty minutes everyone had drifted down toward the private stretch of shoreline behind the houses like it was instinct.

It kind of was. This was what summers here were made of. Bonfires and old friends. Salt in your hair. Music from someone’s phone speaker. Drinks passed around without anyone asking whose they were. The beach at night felt different than it did during the day. Softer somehow. Less polished. The tide rolled in slow and silver under the moonlight, waves folding quietly against the shore while the bonfire crackled warm against the cooling night air. Sand clung to bare ankles, the fire throwing gold over familiar faces.

It made everyone look younger. Closer to the versions of yourselves that had first started all this. Sunoo arrived first, carrying drinks and looking like downtown Cove had personally appointed him its stylish representative. Sharp grin, prettier than most women, and already prepared to be everyone’s problem. “Look who survived dinner,” he said dramatically when he spotted you. “I was taking bets.”

“You should’ve bet against me,” you said, taking the drink he offered. “I nearly drowned in polite conversation.”

“Tragic. And in that dress too. What a loss.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Jay called from where he and Sunghoon were attempting to set up folding chairs in the sand with all the competence of men raised by money.

Jay looked exactly the same as always: clean-cut, expensive taste, and permanently carrying himself like he was five minutes away from judging someone’s life choices. Which, to be fair, he usually was. Sunghoon stood beside him, all cool quiet and expensive silence, somehow managing to look elegant while losing a fight against a beach chair.

Some people were simply born unfair. From farther down the shore came the sound of laughter, bright and familiar, and then Eunchae appeared with Yunjin and Yoonchae trailing behind her, all of them carrying the kind of chaotic energy that guaranteed tonight would end with at least one regrettable decision. Eunchae saw you first and immediately pointed.

“There she is! The woman of the hour.” You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds like a threat.”

“It is,” Yunjin said cheerfully, pulling you into a quick hug. “We’ve heard about dinner. We’re here for details.”

“There are no details.”

“There are always details,” Yoonchae said.

And then, because the universe had apparently decided your suffering needed an audience, Lee Heeseung arrived. Late, naturally. Walking down the path from the houses with his sleeves rolled and his hands in his pockets like he was entering a film scene instead of a beach fire. The ocean breeze moved through his hair, and for one deeply annoying second, every girl within a ten-foot radius visibly remembered he was attractive.

Including you. Unfortunately. Sunoo, traitor that he was, smirked immediately. “And there’s the other half of our favorite summer divorce.”

“Please,” you said. “I’d need to marry him first, and I do have standards.” Heeseung dropped into the sand beside the fire like he belonged there, which, annoyingly, he did, and looked at you over the rim of the beer Jay handed him. “She says that now. Give it ten years.”

“In ten years, I’ll still be filing restraining orders.”

“Romantic,” Yunjin sighed. Everyone laughed. That was the problem with old friends, they remembered too much. This group had grown up together in fragments. Family dinners, yacht parties, beach bonfires at sixteen, too many summers collapsing into one long memory of sunburns and terrible choices. They’d all witnessed the evolution of whatever it was between you and Heeseung. Which meant they were insufferable about it. Sunoo stretched out dramatically in the sand.

“I still think you two should just get married and save us all time.”

Sunghoon, staring into the fire like a philosopher trapped in a luxury campaign, added, “At this point, it would actually be less dramatic.”

Jay nodded once. “Financially, it makes sense.”

You looked around the circle. “I need better friends.”

“No,” Eunchae said, grinning, “you need to admit you’ve been flirting through mutual destruction for like eight years.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “That is an incredibly rude accusation.”

Heeseung took a sip of his drink, far too calm. “She’s right.” 

You turned toward him so fast it nearly counted as whiplash. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged. “You’re meaner when you like someone.”

Sunoo made the loudest, most disrespectful sound of delight known to man. “Oh my god, we’re finally saying it.”

“We are saying nothing,” you snapped.

Yunjin leaned forward, eyes glittering. “Should we bring up the balcony incident?”

Absolutely not. You pointed at her. “If you value our friendship, you’ll choose silence.” Too late.

Eunchae gasped dramatically. “Oh my god, the almost-kiss.” And there it was. Like a match dropped into gasoline. The balcony incident. Nineteen years old. One of Jay’s stupid summer parties. Too much champagne. Too much moonlight. Too much unresolved tension and a stupidly beautiful balcony overlooking the ocean. You and Heeseung had been alone for exactly seven minutes before an argument turned into standing too close, then silence, then that terrible suspended second where both people know exactly what’s about to happen.

You’d almost kissed. Almost. Then someone had opened the balcony door, reality had returned, and both of you had spent the next three years pretending it never happened. Civilization had survived. Barely. Around the fire, everyone looked delighted. You wanted the ocean to take you.

“It was not an almost-kiss,” you said with dignity.

“It absolutely was,” Sunoo replied.

“There was tension,” Yoonchae added.

“There was eye contact,” Eunchae said.

“There was champagne,” Yunjin said solemnly.

Jay, like a judge delivering sentence, finished: “That counts.”

You looked to Heeseung for support. A mistake. Because he’d gone strangely quiet. Not smug. Not teasing. Quiet. His gaze stayed on the fire, beer loose in his hand, jaw set just enough for you to notice because unfortunately, after years of knowing someone, you learned the small things. Interesting. Very interesting. You tilted your head slightly. He wasn’t embarrassed.

If anything, he looked… annoyed. Or thoughtful. Like the memory had landed somewhere deeper than expected. That was new. Usually, Heeseung met chaos with amusement. He was good at pretending nothing mattered. But now, under the firelight, with everyone laughing around him and the ocean dark behind you, he looked still. You watched him for a second too long. Then he glanced up. Caught you.

And just like that, the moment snapped. His expression shifted back into something easier. Familiar. Dangerous. He smirked. You rolled your eyes so hard it should’ve caused medical concern and took another drink. The conversation moved on, someone brought up an old yacht party disaster involving Sunghoon and a very expensive pair of loafers, Sunoo started a dramatic retelling of his brief and toxic relationship with a bartender from last summer, Eunchae laughed so hard she nearly fell backward into the sand.

The night folded around you, warm and nostalgic and too easy. This was the trap of summer. It made everything feel survivable. Even him. By the time the fire burned lower and people started drifting home, the moon sat high over the water and the beach had gone quiet again. You walked back alone, sandals in one hand, the other curled around your phone.

The sand was cool now under your feet. Waves whispered against the shore. Somewhere behind you, someone was still laughing. Your dress smelled like smoke. Your hair smelled like salt. And despite yourself, your mind kept circling back to one thing. That silence. The balcony. The firelight. The way Heeseung had gone quiet.

Interesting. You were still thinking about it when your phone buzzed in your hand. A text. You stopped walking. Looked down. Of course.

Heeseung

A single message.

Heeseung: still thinking about that balcony, or are you finally admitting i almost won?

You stared at the screen. There it was. The beginning of every bad idea. You should ignore it. You absolutely should. Instead, standing barefoot under the moonlight with the ocean at your back and your better judgment somewhere drowning offshore, you smiled. And typed back.

You: won what? you almost passed out from cheap champagne. history remembers the truth.

Three dots appeared almost instantly. Danger, apparently, texted first. 

The following week was suspicious. Not in any dramatic, life-altering way. No scandals. No yacht crashes. No accidental engagements announced over brunch. Just… suspicious. Because you were happy. Unreasonably, offensively happy. The kind of happy that made people around you uncomfortable, like spotting a shark in shallow water and realizing it was smiling.

It started subtly. You slept better. You stopped glaring at sunlight like it had personally betrayed you. You let your mother drag you to the farmer’s market on Wednesday morning and only complained twice, which she later described to your father in the same tone people used for religious miracles. By Thursday, you had laughed, genuinely laughed, at something Mrs. Lee said over iced coffee, and your mother had nearly dropped a peach. “Are you ill?” she asked immediately.

You looked up from your sunglasses. “Deeply, but unrelated.”

She narrowed her eyes. “No, seriously. You’ve been… cheerful.” The accusation hung between you. Cheerful. As if she’d caught you committing tax fraud. You leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping your coffee with all the dignity of a woman being unfairly persecuted.

“I’m always cheerful.”

She gave you a look so flat it could’ve ironed shirts. “Last week you called a seagull a personal enemy.”

“It knew what it did.”

Your father, reading the paper at the table, lowered it just enough to contribute, “You also threatened the blender.”

“It started first.” He nodded thoughtfully and returned to the business section. Traitor. The truth was harder to explain. There was no grand reason for it. No cinematic revelation. No dramatic confession under moonlight. Just summer. The beach. The sun. Late-night fires. Salt in your hair. And texts. That was the real problem. Because after the bonfire, Heeseung had texted again. And then again. Nothing serious. Nothing dangerous enough to name. Just stupid things.

A picture of the terrible coffee from the marina café with the caption: thought of you and your bad taste

A midnight text that only said: are you still pretending you didn’t almost kiss me first

A blurry photo of Sunoo asleep on a yacht chair: proof he can be quiet

And every single time, against your better judgment and your carefully cultivated reputation for emotional self-preservation, you replied. Sometimes immediately. Sometimes after twenty strategic minutes. Because dignity mattered. Still, the effect had been catastrophic. You were smiling at your phone now. In public. Like a woman with no survival instincts.

On Friday afternoon, your mother found you standing in the garden staring at the hydrangeas like you were in a coming-of-age film. You were holding one bloom gently between your fingers, sunlight warm on your shoulders, genuinely appreciating how ridiculous and beautiful summer looked here.

She stopped on the patio, and squinted, then called into the house, “Honey, come outside. I think our daughter has been replaced.”

You rolled your eyes. “Please. If I were replaced, the imposter would be nicer.”

“Exactly my concern.” Unfortunately, your brief and scandalous flirtation with floral appreciation ended there. The hydrangea wilted two days later. Probably out of sheer terror. Even worse, people noticed. Everyone noticed. Sunoo, after seeing you smile at your phone during lunch, gasped like a Victorian widow and clutched his chest. “Oh my god. She’s in love.”

You nearly threw your drink at him. “I’m blocking you.”

“Denial. Classic.”

“It’s called boundaries.”

“It’s called a crush.” Across the table, Heeseung said absolutely nothing. Which, somehow, was worse, because lately, he’d been watching you. Not constantly, not obviously, just enough, across dinner tables, from the beach, leaning against his car while pretending not to. Curious. Like he’d noticed the shift and hadn’t decided what to do with it yet, like he was waiting.

On Sunday, you passed him outside while coming back from the beach, still warm from the sun, tote bag over your shoulder, skin glowing with the kind of happiness you were trying very hard not to examine too closely. And for reasons still unknown to science, you smiled at him. Not your usual sharp smile, not sarcastic, not weaponized. Bright, easy, and real.

It happened before you could stop it. For one glorious second, Lee Heeseung looked genuinely startled. Actually startled. He stopped mid-step, eyebrows lifting like his brain had temporarily lost signal. He didn’t smile back, just looked at you with that unreadable expression and one slightly raised brow, like he was trying to solve a puzzle and deeply suspicious of the answer.

You kept walking, because stopping would imply weakness. But halfway up your front steps, you could still feel it, that look, and somewhere behind you, you just knew he was still standing there, watching. Interesting. Very, very dangerous.

By Friday night, the entire town had collectively decided to be beautiful. You could feel it in the air. Summer in Jeju Island had a rhythm to it, and bonfire nights sat somewhere near the top of the food chain, just beneath yacht parties and just above making terrible decisions in someone else’s kitchen at two in the morning. The beach changed on nights like this.

During the day, it belonged to families and sunscreen and children building sandcastles with inherited wealth. But at night, especially on Fridays, it belonged to people your age. To music drifting over the dunes. To bottles hidden badly in tote bags. To girls in tiny dresses and boys pretending they weren’t trying too hard. Bonfire nights were for performance. And if there was one thing you respected, it was committing to a bit. You stood in your bedroom with your closet doors thrown open and the kind of focus usually reserved for military strategy.

Your bed was covered in options. Black satin. White linen. Something red Yoonchae once described as “emotionally irresponsible.” You were considering that one. Because tonight wasn’t just any bonfire. Tonight, everyone would be there. Which meant he would be there. And while you were a mature, evolved woman who absolutely did not make outfit decisions based on Lee Heeseung’s potential suffering, you were also not a liar. You pulled the red dress off its hanger. Short, silk, and worst of all, backless. The kind of dress that looked like bad decisions and expensive apologies. Perfect. 

You slipped it on slowly, watching yourself in the mirror as the fabric settled against your skin like it had been waiting for this exact moment. It clung where it should, skimmed where it mattered, and left just enough to imagination to make imagination work overtime. Dangerous. Excellent. You added gold jewelry because subtlety was for people with less interesting lives. Glossed lips. Soft waves in your hair. Perfume that smelled like jasmine and poor choices.

Then heels. Not practical for the beach. That was beside the point. When you walked downstairs, your father was on the couch pretending to read and your mother was rearranging flowers for sport. Both looked up. Your father blinked once. Then lowered his book. “Should I be concerned?”

“Always,” you said.

Your mother smiled like she was watching an expensive revenge plot unfold in real time. “Where exactly are you going dressed like that?”

You picked up your clutch. “To remind people to mind their business.”

Your father muttered something about raising a supervillain. Your mother kissed your cheek on the way out and whispered, “Be safe.” Which, translated from mother-language, meant: Don’t get arrested. Don’t set anything on fire. Try not to ruin anyone’s son permanently. No promises.

The walk to the beach felt cinematic. Warm night air against bare skin. The sound of waves pulling at the shore. Music already carrying from farther down the sand, bass soft and distant beneath the ocean. The moon hung low and bright over the water, silver against black waves. Firelight flickered somewhere ahead. And by the time you stepped over the dunes and onto the shore, every head turned. Good. Let them. There was power in being seen and knowing exactly what they were seeing. Sunoo, standing near the cooler with a drink in one hand and judgment in the other, spotted you first.

He froze dramatically. Then placed a hand over his heart. “Oh,” he said. “She came to kill.” “Someone has to keep standards alive.”

He looked you up and down with the solemn respect of a man appreciating art. “That dress should come with legal paperwork.”

“Excellent. I’m hoping for emotional damages.” Eunchae appeared next, immediately grabbing your arm. “No, seriously, turn around. I need to hate you properly.” You did, because generosity mattered. She groaned. “I’m ending our friendship.”

“Understandable.” Yunjin, from beside the fire, raised her drink toward you. “Whatever crime you commit tonight, I support you.”

“Thank you. That means a lot.” The bonfire itself was already in full swing. Someone had dragged out chairs no one was using. Music played low from a speaker half-buried in someone’s beach bag. Jay and Sunghoon were debating something useless near the waterline with the seriousness of men discussing world peace instead of tequila brands. People moved in loose circles, laughing, drinking, pretending not to stare at each other. Summer. Beautiful and a little stupid.

And then, like a sixth sense specifically designed to inconvenience you, you felt it. That look, across the fire, Heeseung. He stood with Jay near the cooler, beer in hand, black shirt rolled at the sleeves, looking like he’d walked straight out of an ad for poor decisions. The firelight caught against the sharp line of his jaw, the glint of his watch, the expression on his face, which, for one deeply satisfying second, was surprise. Real surprise.

His eyes landed on you and stayed there. Paused. Moved once, slow and deliberate, like he was trying very hard not to react and failing in private. He noticed, immediately, of course he did. You smiled, not at him, but in his direction, which was somehow worse, and turned your attention elsewhere. Because if you were going to weaponize beauty tonight, subtlety would only dilute the effect.

His name was Minjae, which you remembered mostly because he’d tried to kiss Yunjin two summers ago and gotten publicly roasted for it. Harmless. Pretty enough. From one of the families near the marina. More importantly, available. He approached with exactly the kind of confidence men borrowed from expensive watches. “Well,” he said, smiling as he stepped closer, “you’re either trying to ruin someone’s life tonight or start a small war.”

You took the drink he offered. “Can’t it be both?” He laughed, leaning in just enough to suggest intention. And from the corner of your eye, there, heeseung watching, not openly, but enough. His posture had changed, slightly stiffer, beer untouched, expression neutral in the way men got when they were trying very hard not to look like they wanted to commit a felony. Interesting. Very interesting.

You smiled brighter. Poor Minjae. A perfectly nice civilian about to become collateral damage. “You clean up well,” he said. “I usually do.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Have you?” The conversation was easy, almost too easy. Light touches. Leaning closer. The practiced dance of summer flirting where no one meant too much and everyone pretended otherwise, and the entire time, you could feel it.

That awareness from across the fire. Sharp, and steady. Heeseung. You laughed a little louder than necessary. Touched Minjae’s arm. Tilted your head just enough. Purely for scientific purposes. Across the beach, Sunoo noticed first, because gossip was basically his cardio.

He looked from you to Heeseung and nearly ascended. “Oh,” he whispered to no one and everyone. “Oh, this is delicious.”

Jay followed his line of sight and physically winced. “Someone should probably stop this.”

Sunghoon, wise as ever, took a sip of his drink and said, “No.” Correct. Absolutely no one should stop this. Because now Heeseung was walking over. Slowly. Calmly. Which was infinitely more dangerous than if he’d looked angry. He moved like someone with a purpose. Like the ocean itself had personally requested violence. Minjae was still talking. Something about boats. You had no idea. Because Heeseung stopped beside you, close enough for the smell of expensive cologne and sea air to ruin your peace.

And said, casually, too casually, “Didn’t know you liked boring men.” Silence. Beautiful. Terrible. Immediate. Minjae blinked. You took a slow sip of your drink. Turned your head. Looked directly at him. And smiled.

Oh. This was going to be fun. Minjae, to his credit, had enough self-preservation instincts to realize when he’d accidentally wandered into someone else’s war. He looked between you and Heeseung, your too-sweet smile, Heeseung’s dangerously calm expression, and gave the kind of laugh people used when backing away from wild animals.

“Well,” he said, lifting his drink slightly, “I’m suddenly remembering I promised Sunoo I’d help him with… something.” Sunoo, across the fire, yelled, “I did not—” Too late. Minjae was already retreating into the night, leaving you alone with the problem. Which was standing far too close and looking far too pleased with himself. You turned slowly, crossing your arms.

“Did you just scare off my entertainment?”

Heeseung took a sip of his beer like he hadn’t committed a social crime. “If your entertainment starts explaining boat engines, I’m doing you a favor.”

“I was having a lovely time.”

“No, you were being annoying on purpose.” You placed a hand dramatically over your heart. “And here I thought I was subtle.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and the amusement thinned just enough to let something sharper through. “That’s the problem.” The fire crackled behind you. Somewhere farther down the beach, someone shouted over the music. Laughter carried on the wind.

But here, in the small space between you and him, everything had gone quieter. You tilted your head. “What exactly is the problem, Lee?” His jaw shifted. That tiny thing he did when he was trying not to say too much. Dangerous.

“You always do this.” You blinked once, deliberately. “Do what?” He stepped closer. Not enough for touching. Enough for trouble. “Act like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.” There it was. Not a joke. Not banter. Something real enough to make your pulse trip over itself. You should’ve backed up. You didn’t. Instead, you smiled, that slow, sharp smile you used when you were either about to win or about to ruin your own life.

“And what exactly am I doing?” He let out one quiet laugh, humorless. “Seriously?”

“Very.” His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. Mistake. Terrible, catastrophic mistake. Because suddenly the entire night rearranged itself around that single glance. The firelight. The ocean. The red dress. His voice lower now, rougher around the edges.

“You flirt with people you don’t care about,” he said. “You get that look on your face when you’re trying to prove something. And then you wait to see who notices.” Your heartbeat was officially embarrassing. You folded your arms tighter, mostly so he wouldn’t notice.

“And you noticed.” He didn’t answer immediately. Which was answer enough. The moonlight silvered the edges of everything, the shoreline, the glass in his hand, the expression he was trying and failing to keep neutral. You swallowed. Slowly. “Sounds like a you problem.” His mouth twitched.

“Probably.” There it was again, that unbearable thing between you, stretched tight as wire. Years of almosts. Arguments that had never really been about arguments. Every summer version of yourselves layered on top of each other until neither of you knew where the joke ended and the truth began. You could still remember the balcony. Nineteen. Champagne. His hand on the railing beside yours. That second where everything had almost changed.

You wondered if he was thinking about it too. You suspected he was. Because now he was closer. And now you could smell the ocean on his skin, something expensive underneath it, and the very specific danger of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. You should absolutely leave. Instead, because self-destruction was apparently hereditary, you said softly, “You’re jealous.”

His expression sharpened. “Don’t flatter yourself.” “Too late.” “You think this is funny.”

“No,” you said. “I think you’re jealous, and I think you hate that I noticed.” He stepped in once more. Enough that your breath caught. Enough that the entire world narrowed. “Careful.”

“Or what?” Your voice came out quieter than intended. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His gaze dropped again, slower this time, and when he spoke, it was barely above the sound of the waves. “Or you’ll say something you can’t take back.” Silence. The dangerous kind. You could hear your own breathing. The ocean behind him. Someone laughing far away, in another universe where people made good choices. Here, there was only this. His hand brushing your bare arm as he shifted. Your pulse in your throat. The ridiculous certainty that if either of you moved half an inch, the entire summer would split open.

You thought, this is it. Finally. At last. And then, “OH MY GOD, THERE YOU TWO ARE.” Eunchae. Of course. She appeared like divine punishment in platform sandals, carrying two drinks and absolutely no sense of timing. You jumped back so fast it should’ve counted as cardio. Heeseung looked like he might walk directly into the ocean. Eunchae stopped. Looked between you. The space. The tension. The crime scene. And grinned like the devil herself.

“Wow,” she said. “I almost feel bad interrupting whatever deeply repressed thing was happening here.” “Don’t,” you said immediately.

“Never,” Heeseung muttered at the exact same time. She handed you a drink with the smugness of a woman collecting evidence. “Cute. Anyway, Sunoo is taking bets on whether you two make out before August.”

You took the drink because murder was illegal. “Tell Sunoo I hope he loses money.”

“Oh, he definitely won’t.” She skipped away before either of you could respond, leaving behind chaos and the lingering smell of coconut perfume. Silence again. But ruined now. Worse, somehow. Because now both of you knew. Not the joke. Not the performance. The actual thing underneath it. And once you knew that, pretending got harder. You stared out at the water. He stared at the fire. Neither of you said anything. Eventually, as the night thinned and people started leaving in groups of laughter and half-finished conversations, it became painfully obvious that your usual ride home had abandoned you in favor of some post-party food run.

Which left, “Get in.” You stood beside Heeseung’s car, clutching your shoes in one hand and your pride in the other. “No.” He unlocked the passenger door without looking at you. “Yes.” “I’d rather walk.”

“It’s two miles.”

“I’m resilient.”

“You’re dramatic.”

You narrowed your eyes. He opened the door wider. “Get in.” And because the universe hated you, you did. The drive home was quiet. Not awkward. Worse. The kind of silence that knew too much. The windows were down, warm night air rushing through the car, carrying salt and smoke and the last traces of summer bonfire on your skin. Your heels sat abandoned on the floor. Your red dress still smelled like fire.

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console, expression unreadable in the passing streetlights. You looked out the window because looking at him felt like volunteering for emotional damage. Neither of you mentioned the almost-kiss. Neither of you mentioned anything. When he pulled into your driveway, the house was dark, your parents already asleep.

For one second, neither of you moved. Then you reached for the door. At the same time, his hand shifted. Your fingers brushed. Just barely. Warm. Accidental. Or maybe not. You froze. So did he. And for one stupid, suspended second, it felt like the whole world was holding its breath again. Then you pulled your hand back. Too fast. “Goodnight,” you said. Too quiet. He nodded once.

“Night.” You got out. Walked to the front door. Did not look back. But you could feel him there, still sitting in the driveway, engine running, watching until you got inside. And later, long after the house had gone still and the ocean whispered somewhere beyond your window, you lay awake staring at the ceiling. Wide awake. Heart traitorous. Mind worse. Because now you knew. And so did he. Nobody slept.

The next few days were a masterclass in mutual psychological damage. Not dramatic damage. Worse. Polite damage. The kind where nothing happened and somehow everything did. You didn’t fight. That was the first sign something had gone horribly wrong. No sarcastic remarks over morning coffee. No pointed comments when passing each other near the beach path. No weaponized flirting in front of your parents. No smug little “morning, neighbor” from across the driveway.

Nothing. Just awkward, terrible silence. You’d see him and immediately become fascinated by literally anything else. The mailbox. A cloud. The concept of sand. Anything but eye contact. Because eye contact implied remembering. And remembering implied the bonfire. The almost-kiss. The car ride. His hand brushing yours like the universe personally wanted you to suffer. No, thank you. You were suddenly the busiest woman alive. If he was at the beach, you were tragically needed elsewhere.

If he was by the marina, you had urgent business in the opposite direction. If he was leaning against his stupid car looking like a rich-boy problem in linen, you turned around. Dignity first. Unfortunately, subtlety had never survived around your families. By Wednesday morning, Mrs. Lee noticed. Of course she did. That woman could detect emotional tension like a bloodhound. You were outside watering your mother’s increasingly judgmental hydrangeas, a task you’d been assigned after the tragic and suspicious death of the previous one, when it happened.

The sun was already warm, the kind of bright coastal morning that made everything look too innocent. Birds chirping. Ocean breeze drifting through the hedges. A peaceful suburban scene. Lies. Across the white fence separating your houses, Mrs. Lee stood on her patio with a basket of laundry and the sharp, narrowed gaze of a woman putting pieces together. You should’ve run. Instead, you smiled weakly.

Mistake. Because at that exact moment, Heeseung stepped outside. Coffee in one hand. Sunglasses. Half-awake and offensively attractive. He looked toward you automatically. You looked anywhere else so fast it nearly caused whiplash. Silence. A beat. Then, Mrs. Lee gasped.

Not a small gasp. A full-body gasp. The kind that meant family history was about to be rewritten. She turned toward her son so fast the laundry basket nearly died for it. “Lee Heeseung!” He stopped mid-sip. Already tired. “Mom, what.”

Her hand flew dramatically toward your side of the fence like she was presenting evidence in court. “What did you do to Y/N?” From your yard, you froze. The watering can continued pouring directly onto your foot. Fantastic. Heeseung blinked. “Mom, what do you mean?” “She isn’t looking you in the eyes!”

Across two properties and approximately three decades of neighborhood gossip, your soul left your body. “Mrs. Lee—” you tried weakly. She was unstoppable. “Do not Mrs. Lee me. I raised you both. I know things.”

Heeseung rubbed a hand down his face. “Mom—” Her eyes widened. Her voice rose. “Did you finally have sex?” Silence. Birds stopped singing. The ocean itself paused. From somewhere inside your house, your father definitely dropped something. And then, Mrs. Lee, with the volume of a woman chosen by God for this exact purpose: “DON’T TELL ME SHE CAN’T LOOK AT YOU BECAUSE SHE KNOWS WHAT YOUR DICK LOOKS LIKE—”

“MOM!”

“Mrs. Lee!” You. Heeseung. Probably the entire coastline. At that point, survival instincts kicked in. You dropped the watering can. Actually dropped it. Water everywhere. Dignity nowhere. And then you ran. Not walked. Not gracefully retreated. Ran. Straight through the back door, up the kitchen steps, past your mother, who was holding coffee and looked far too entertained, and directly into the sanctuary of your bedroom like a Victorian woman fleeing scandal.

Your heart was trying to leave your chest. Your cheeks were on fire. You pressed both hands to your face and groaned into the universe. This was it. This was how you died. Not dramatically. Not beautifully. Killed by secondhand embarrassment and one very loud mother. Worse, far, far worse, you were blushing. Blushing. For a man currently being publicly lectured about sex on a Wednesday morning.

Humiliating. Absolutely unforgivable. Your mother knocked once on your door and entered anyway, because privacy remained a myth. She took one look at you face-down on the bed and smiled like a woman watching reality television. “Well,” she said, setting her coffee down, “that clears some things up.”

“Please leave me here to decompose.”

“I’d love to, but dinner is in two hours.”

Cruelty. Pure cruelty. Later that afternoon, once the heat of your humiliation had cooled from catastrophic to survivable, you made the dangerous mistake of leaving the house. Just a quick walk, you told yourself. Fresh air. Emotional recovery. Absolutely no Heeseung. The universe laughed. Because halfway down the lane near the beach path, there he was. Of course. Standing beneath the shade of the jacaranda trees like some handsome curse. You stopped. He stopped.

For one horrible second, neither of you moved. Then you made the deeply strategic decision to simply walk faster. Ignore. Evade. Survive. Unfortunately, Lee Heeseung had longer legs and audacity. “Y/N.” His voice behind you made your spine straighten. You kept walking. Badly. “Y/N.” Closer now. You stopped because running twice in one day felt like poor character development. Slowly, with all the grace of someone approaching public execution, you turned.

He stood there looking… weirdly nervous. Interesting. Suspicious. Your cheeks immediately remembered this morning and attempted betrayal. No. Absolutely not. You stared at a point somewhere near his left shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you blurted. Fast. Too fast. Like the words had tripped over each other trying to escape.

“For the thing. Earlier. Your mom. I mean—not your mom, obviously she’s lovely, but the yelling and the—” you gestured vaguely at existence “—everything. Sorry.” Excellent. Elegant. A true masterclass in social recovery. You were already preparing to evaporate when he stepped forward and stopped you. Not dramatically. Just enough. A hand lightly catching your wrist. Warm. Immediate regret. “Y/N.” You looked up instinctively. And there it was. Eye contact. Actual, dangerous eye contact. For one second, all the confidence he usually wore like expensive cologne just… vanished. Gone. He blinked once. Twice. And then— “I—uh.”

You stared. Heeseung Lee. Golden boy. Professional menace. Smooth-talking devil of Jeju Island. Stuttering. You would treasure this forever. He cleared his throat. “Sunoo wanted me to give you this.” He shoved a folded paper into your hand like it had personally offended him. “An invite. For Friday. He’s doing some thing—well, not some thing, it’s a party, obviously, and he said if I forgot, he’d kill me, so—” He kept talking. Rambling, actually.

Words continuing in increasingly unnecessary detail while you stood there holding the paper, blinking. Because now he was nervous. Actually nervous. And somehow that was worse. Far worse. You grabbed the invitation. Nodded once. And, choosing self-preservation above all else, turned and walked away at a speed just barely pretending not to be fleeing. Fast. Very fast.

Behind you, his voice stopped. Silence. Then, a soft scoff. Followed by a quiet chuckle, carried lightly by the ocean breeze. You didn’t turn around. Absolutely not. But you could feel it anyway. Him standing there. Watching you speed-walk your dignity down the lane. And annoyingly, your heart was still beating too fast. Friday night arrived heavy with heat.

The kind of heat that sat low against your skin and made the entire town feel slower, softer, dangerous in ways daylight never was. By nine, the sky over Jeju Island had gone ink-dark, the moon hanging pale over the water, and the beach had transformed again into its usual summer ritual, music spilling over the dunes, bonfires burning low and golden, laughter rising and dissolving into the sound of the tide. Sunoo’s parties were never really parties. They were events. Carefully chaotic, full of beautiful people pretending they were not looking at one another too closely. Someone always brought expensive liquor. Someone always made a bad decision. Someone always kissed the wrong person under the excuse of summer.

Tonight, the air felt like it had already decided who that would be. You had tried not to think about it while getting ready. Failed, of course. Because the truth was, the last few days had left something unsettled between you and Heeseung. No more easy arguments. No more familiar rhythm to hide behind. Just glances held too long and silences that felt louder than fights ever had. And the memory of his hand on your wrist.

The way he had looked at you. The way he had lost words. It had followed you all week. So when you dressed tonight, it wasn’t for attention. It was armor. A black dress this time, simpler than the red one, but worse somehow. Thin straps, soft fabric, bare skin at your back, the kind of dress that didn’t ask to be noticed because it already knew it would be. Your hair loose, your mouth glossed, gold at your throat catching the light. You looked like someone about to make a mistake.

And maybe that was the point. By the time you arrived, the party had already spilled toward the shoreline. Music low, drinks in warm hands, familiar faces blurred by firelight and moonlight and too much history. You let yourself be folded into it. Yoonchae pressed a drink into your hand. Yunjin laughed at something dramatic Sunoo was saying near the fire. Jay stood half in the water, arguing with Sunghoon over something neither of them would remember tomorrow. Everything looked normal.

It almost felt normal. Until you saw him. Heeseung stood near the edge of the beach, farther from the fire than everyone else, a drink untouched in his hand, dark shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms. He wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t talking much. Just watching. And when his eyes found yours, the rest of the beach seemed to pull backward.

There it was again. That terrible, quiet thing. You looked away first. Coward. The night stretched. Another drink. Then another. Enough to soften the edges but not enough to blur them. Enough to make your body warm and your thoughts reckless. Enough to make him impossible to ignore. You felt him before he reached you. That shift in the air. That awareness. You turned, and there he was. Close. Too close.

“Having fun?” he asked, voice low enough that no one else could hear. You tilted your glass against your lips. “Immensely. I’ve only considered fleeing twice.” His mouth almost smiled. “Only twice?” “I’m pacing myself.” Silence settled between you, but not the easy kind. The kind that waited. The kind that knew.

The ocean stretched black behind him, waves breaking silver under moonlight. Firelight moved over his face in pieces, catching the sharpness of him, the tension in his jaw. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said. Not accusing. Worse. Certain. You looked at him then.

“Have I?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you’re just easier to avoid lately.”

His expression shifted. Something quieter. Sharper. “That morning embarrassed you.” Mrs. Lee’s voice echoed in your memory and heat climbed your neck instantly. You looked away toward the water. “Your mother nearly announced your sex life to the entire coastline.”

“She likes you.”

“I nearly died.”

A brief silence. Then, softer, “You ran.” You let out a dry laugh. “Wouldn’t you?”

“No.”

“No,” you agreed. “You’d stand there and make it worse.”

“That does sound like me.” For a second, it almost eased. Almost. Then he said, quieter this time, “That’s not why you’ve been avoiding me.” The wind moved between you, carrying salt and the faint smoke of the fire. No. It wasn’t. Because the truth sat uglier than that. You had been avoiding him because once something shifted, you couldn’t shift it back. Because pretending was harder now. Because every look felt like standing too close to the edge of something.

Because if you let yourself think too hard about him, you would ruin everything. And maybe you already had. You set your drink down in the sand. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Do this.” His gaze didn’t move from yours. “Do what?” You laughed once, breathless and frustrated. “This. This thing where you look at me like I’m supposed to know what you’re thinking.”

He stepped closer. Moonlight and firelight and trouble. “Maybe you do.” Your pulse stumbled. “You’re impossible.” His voice dropped. “So are you.”

And there it was. Years of it. Every argument. Every summer. Every almost. The balcony. The beach. The car ride. Every second spent pretending there wasn’t something here because admitting it would mean letting it matter. You could hear your own breathing. His too. Close enough now that it blurred. You should walk away.

You should say something cruel, something sharp enough to put distance back between you. Instead, you stayed. Because the truth was simpler than pride. You wanted him. Maybe you always had. And he looked at you like he knew it. Like he had been waiting for you to stop lying. His hand brushed your bare arm, slow enough to feel like a question. You should have answered no. Instead, your voice came out quieter than you intended. “Tell me to stop.” He didn’t. For one suspended second, neither of you moved.

Then he kissed you. It felt like anger, like relief, like something starved, messy and immediate and years too late. Your hands found him without permission, his shirt, the line of his jaw, the back of his neck. His mouth was warm and rough against yours, like he’d thought about this too many times and was done pretending otherwise. There was nothing careful about it. No softness. No hesitation.

Just all the tension finally breaking open. He kissed you like he was trying to win something, and you kissed him like losing had never sounded better. The sound that left him was low, wrecked, against your mouth. His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left to pretend inside. When he finally pulled back, it was barely, forehead against yours, breath uneven, your lips still brushing when he spoke.

“Fuck.” The word sounded like confession. Then his mouth found yours again, harder this time, and the world narrowed to heat and salt and the way his hands made thinking impossible. He kissed down the corner of your mouth, breath warm against your skin, voice rough and half-lost. “Mm. Fuck, inside. Now.” You should have laughed. Should have reminded him he was arrogant, impossible, and absolutely not carrying you anywhere. Instead, when he lifted you, your legs finding his instinctively, your mouth was still on his.

Still kissing him as he walked. Across the sand. Up the path. Toward his house lit quiet against the night. The world beyond it disappeared. There was only this. His hands. Your heartbeat. The sound of the ocean somewhere behind you like witness. The back door. The hallway. Darkness and breath and mouths and hands and years of wanting collapsing all at once.

He barely got his bedroom door shut before you were against it, the sound of it closing sharp in the dark. Heeseung didn’t waste a second. His mouth was back on yours before the echo faded, hotter, deeper, more desperate than on the beach. One large hand cupped the back of your head, the other already sliding down the curve of your waist, gripping the soft fabric of your black dress like he’d waited years to tear it off.

You gasped into the kiss as your back hit the door again, the wood cool against your bare shoulders. His body pressed flush against yours, hard and burning, the evidence of how much he wanted you unmistakable against your stomach. “Fuck, this dress,” he muttered against your lips, voice gravel-rough. His fingers found the thin straps first, tugging them down your shoulders with impatient hands. The fabric whispered as it slid down your body, pooling at your waist before he pushed it lower, letting it fall completely to the floor in a dark heap around your ankles.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, bare except for the delicate black bra and panties, skin flushed, chest rising fast. His eyes darkened, jaw tight. “Beautiful,” he breathed, almost angry about it. “So fucking beautiful it pisses me off.”

Then his head dipped. His lips found the swell of your breast above the bra, hot and open-mouthed, tongue dragging over the lace. You arched into him with a shaky moan as he mouthed at your nipple through the thin fabric, sucking lightly, then harder, the wet heat of his mouth making your knees weak. His teeth grazed just enough to make you whimper.

Your hands trembled as you reached for his belt, fumbling with the buckle in the dark. The metallic clink sounded loud in the quiet room. You shoved his shirt up and off his shoulders, desperate to feel skin, and he helped you, ripping it the rest of the way off and tossing it somewhere behind him.

The moment his belt came undone, your hand slipped inside, palming him over his boxers. He groaned low against your chest, hips twitching forward into your touch. But Heeseung wasn’t letting you set the pace. His hand slid down your stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and pushing them aside without ceremony. Two long fingers dragged through your folds, finding you already slick and aching for him.

“Shit,” he hissed against your nipple, voice vibrating through your skin. “You’re soaked.” You couldn’t even answer properly, only a broken sound escaped as his fingers circled your clit once, twice, before sliding lower and pushing inside you without warning. The stretch was sudden, perfect, and your head fell back against the door with a soft thud.

Heeseung’s mouth switched to your other breast, sucking harder now, tongue flicking over the hardened peak while his fingers curled inside you, slow and deep, stroking that spot that made your thighs shake. His thumb pressed firm circles against your clit in time with every thrust of his fingers.

Your hand tightened around his cock, stroking him through the fabric as best you could while your other hand clutched at his shoulder, nails digging in. “Heeseung—” His name came out wrecked, half-moan, half-plea. He lifted his head from your chest, lips shiny, eyes nearly black with want. His fingers didn’t stop moving inside you, steady and relentless.

“Say it again,” he demanded, voice low and rough. “My name. Like that.” You did, moaning it louder this time as he added a third finger, stretching you open, preparing you for what was coming next. His mouth crashed back onto yours, swallowing every sound you made while his fingers fucked you against the door, wet sounds mixing with your ragged breathing.

Your dress was long forgotten on the floor. His pants hung low on his hips. The only thing that mattered now was the burning friction between you, the years of tension finally snapping apart in the dark of his bedroom. And neither of you was nearly done yet. Heeseung’s fingers were still buried deep inside you when he suddenly pulled them out, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. You barely had time to protest before his hands gripped the back of your thighs.

In one smooth motion, he lifted you, wrapping your legs high around his waist. Your arms instinctively looped around his neck as he carried you away from the door. The movement pressed his body flush against yours, and the second your weight settled, his pants, already tugged low on his hips, slid further down.

His cock, hot and heavy, shoved straight against your soaked folds. Your panties had been dragged aside earlier and stayed that way. There was nothing between you now except bare, slick skin. The thick length of him slid right between your folds, the head nudging insistently against your entrance with every step he took. You gasped sharply at the sudden, intimate contact.

Heeseung groaned deep in his chest, the sound raw and broken. “Fuck—feel that?” he rasped, hips twitching involuntarily as he walked you across the room. Every movement made his cock drag slowly through your wetness, the head rubbing right over your swollen clit.

The friction was maddening. Skin to skin. Hot. Wet. Overwhelming. You moaned into his neck, legs tightening around him as another wave of arousal slicked between you. Heeseung’s grip on your thighs turned bruising, his breathing ragged against your ear. By the time he reached the bed, both of you were trembling. He laid you down carefully, never fully breaking contact. The moment your back hit the mattress, he followed, settling between your spread thighs. His pants were shoved just low enough. His shirt was long gone. And his cock, thick, flushed, and glistening with your arousal, rested heavy against your pussy.

Heeseung braced himself on one forearm, the other hand guiding his length. He rubbed the head slowly up and down your folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing your clit with every pass. His eyes found yours in the dim light filtering through the window. Dark, hungry, and strangely vulnerable. You could feel him throbbing against you. Could see the tension in his jaw as he held himself back, waiting. You nodded, barely a breath. “Yes.”

That was all he needed. Heeseung didn’t hesitate. With one smooth, powerful thrust, he pushed inside you, burying himself to the hilt in one go. The stretch was intense, perfect, overwhelming. A broken moan tore from your throat as your walls clenched tight around his cock. Heeseung let out a low, guttural sound, forehead dropping to yours as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours.

“Shit— so tight,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You feel… fuck.”

For a few heartbeats, he stayed still, letting you adjust, letting himself feel every pulse and flutter around him. Then he started moving. Slow at first, long, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. Each thrust pushed a soft cry from your lips. Heeseung’s rhythm quickly grew harder, more desperate, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the dark room. His mouth found yours again in a messy kiss as he fucked you deeper, hips snapping forward with increasing force. One hand slid under your ass, tilting your hips up so he could hit even deeper, grinding against your clit with every thrust.

You were lost in it, lost in him. The way he filled you. The way he moaned your name against your mouth like a prayer and a curse at the same time. The way years of tension finally shattered between you with every brutal, perfect stroke. Heeseung’s pace turned punishing, relentless, like he was trying to make up for every summer you’d spent pretending this didn’t exist.

And you took every single thrust, legs wrapped tight around his waist, nails raking down his back as the pleasure built sharp and fast inside you. Heeseung’s thrusts grew erratic, deeper, harder, his hips slamming against yours with a desperation that bordered on violent. You were so close it hurt, every stroke pushing you right to the edge.

“Fuck— I’m gonna cum,” he groaned against your mouth, voice strained and raw. “Come with me. Now.” You could only nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders as the pressure inside you finally snapped. Your orgasm crashed over you hard, walls clenching violently around his cock as you came with a broken cry of his name. The intensity made your vision blur, thighs shaking around his waist.

Heeseung followed right after, burying himself to the hilt with one final, deep thrust. A low, guttural moan tore from his throat as he came inside you, hips stuttering, pulsing hot and deep while he rode it out, filling you with every twitch of his cock. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your ragged breathing. He collapsed on top of you, chest heaving, sweat-slick skin pressed against yours. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, breath hot and uneven against your throat. You could feel his heart hammering wildly against your chest.

Silence. No soft kisses. No gentle words. No confessions whispered in the dark. Just heavy breathing and the slow realization of what you’d just done. After what felt like forever, Heeseung finally pulled out of you with a quiet hiss. He rolled off to the side, staring up at the ceiling, one arm thrown over his forehead. You both lay there, naked and still catching your breath. Then, quietly, “This was a mistake.”

Your voice came out steadier than you expected. “Yeah,” he answered, just as flat. Liars. Neither of you believed it. Not even for a second. But neither of you said anything more.

Morning came like regret. Too bright. Too warm. Too aware. Sunlight spilled through the curtains in long golden strips, cruel in the way only summer mornings could be, soft and beautiful and entirely uninterested in your emotional devastation. Somewhere outside, the ocean moved lazily against the shore. A gull screamed like it had a personal vendetta. Your head hurt. Not from alcohol. Worse. Memory.

Every second of last night returned in fragments the moment you opened your eyes, his mouth on yours, your back against his door, the way he had said your name like it meant trouble, the heat of it, the impossibility of pretending it hadn’t happened. You stared at the ceiling for a full minute. Then another. Then sat up with the slow dread of a woman remembering she had, in fact, made every bad decision available to her.

Excellent. Fantastic. Character development. Heeseung’s room looked unfairly like him, clean without trying, expensive without showing off, sunlight falling over dark wood and linen sheets and the kind of quiet luxury that made you want to rob him on principle. He was standing by the window, already dressed. Of course he was. Dark T-shirt. Messy hair. Coffee in hand. Looking like the human embodiment of consequences. He turned when he heard you move. And for a second, neither of you said anything.

No teasing. No smugness. Just that strange stillness people had after crossing a line they couldn’t uncross. You pulled the sheet tighter around yourself for dignity. It did nothing. He leaned against the window frame, studying you with an unreadable expression. “Well,” he said finally, voice rough from sleep and something else, “this feels healthy.”

You let out one dry laugh. “Absolutely thriving.” His mouth twitched. Dangerous. Because if he smiled right now, if either of you made this softer than it was, the whole thing would collapse into something harder to survive. You got out of bed, collecting your clothes from the floor like evidence. “This was a mistake.” The words landed between you. Again. Too quick. Too sharp. You regretted them immediately. Something in his expression shifted, not hurt, exactly, but enough to make your chest tighten.

He set his coffee down. “Was it?” You pulled your dress on with more focus than necessary. “That depends. Are we pretending this was a one-time lapse in judgment, or are we being honest?” He watched you for a long moment. Then, quietly, “Pretending clearly hasn’t worked for us so far.”

No. It hadn’t. Not for years. You sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted by the weight of it. The almosts. The history. The fact that wanting him had somehow become the least surprising part of all this. Outside, the day kept moving. Waves. Sunlight. People living normal lives. Inside, it felt like standing at the edge of something. You looked at him.

“So what now?” He crossed his arms, considering. And because the universe had a sense of humor, the answer came with the terrifying logic of two people who were entirely too good at making bad ideas sound reasonable. “We don’t do relationships.”

You snorted. “Understatement of the century.” “You said it yourself. No settling down this summer. No complications.” “No emotional disasters.”

“Preferably.” Silence. Then, you said it first. “Friends with benefits.” The words hung there. Ridiculous. Obvious. Inevitable. Heeseung looked at you like he hated how much sense it made. “Very mature.”

“Extremely.”

“Probably a terrible idea.”

“The worst one we’ve had so far.”

Another silence. Then both of you, at the same time, “Okay.” You stared at each other. And somehow, that was the funniest part. Because of course this was how it happened. Not with romance. Not with confessions. With negotiations. You stood, stepping closer now, the air between you still carrying the remains of last night. “Fine,” you said. “But if we’re doing this, there are rules.”

His brow lifted. “Of course there are.”

“Obviously. I’m not running an emotional free-for-all.” He leaned back against the desk, arms crossed, watching you like he already knew this would be entertaining. “Go on, then.”

You started counting on your fingers. “No dates.” “Agreed.”

“No jealousy.” A pause. Small. Noticeable. Then: “Agreed.”

You narrowed your eyes but kept going. “No emotional attachment.” “That sounds healthy.” “It sounds necessary.” He nodded once. “Fine.”

“No sleepovers.” His expression shifted slightly. You ignored it. “No public affection. I’m not becoming beach gossip.”

“Sunoo will be devastated.” “He survives on disappointment.”

A ghost of a smile. You continued. “No calling unless it’s late.”

“That sounds suspiciously specific.”

“It sounds like boundaries.”

“And?”

You took a breath. The final one. The one that mattered. “This ends with summer.” That one stayed in the room longer. Because suddenly it wasn’t just about tonight or last night or whatever this was becoming. It was a deadline. An expiration date. A promise to keep it temporary. Necessary. Smart. A lie, probably. But necessary. Heeseung looked at you for a long moment before nodding once. “Ends with summer.”

You hated how that felt. Still, you extended your hand like a business deal, because if you were going to ruin your life, professionalism mattered. “Deal?” He looked down at your hand. Then back at you. Slowly, he took it. Warm. Steady. His fingers closed around yours and something about it felt far less casual than either of you intended. “Deal.”

Too intimate. Too dangerous. You pulled your hand back first. Because someone had to be responsible here, and apparently it was going to be you. You grabbed your bag from the chair and moved toward the door before common sense could return and save either of you. At the threshold, you paused. Didn’t turn around. “Just so we’re clear,” you said, hand on the door, “if this ruins my life, I’m blaming you.”

Behind you, his voice came low and familiar again. “If this ruins your life, it’ll be because you let it.” You smiled despite yourself. Didn’t let him see it. Then opened the door. And walked out into the sunlight like a woman with a plan. Very mature. Very stupid. Exactly the kind of thing summer was made for. It started quietly, almost politely. As if whatever existed between you and Heeseung had agreed to disguise itself as something manageable.

A bad decision with boundaries. A summer arrangement. A temporary indulgence. Nothing more. That was the lie you told yourself the first time he texted you after midnight and you slipped out of your house barefoot, cardigan thrown over bare shoulders, the path between your homes lit only by moonlight and terrible judgment.

That was the lie you told yourself when he opened the back door before you even knocked, like he had been waiting there, like he knew the exact second your resolve would break. That was the lie you told yourself when his hands found your waist before either of you said hello. This is fine. It was not fine. At first, it felt almost easy.

There was a thrill to it, sharp and bright and addictive in the way summer secrets always were. The private satisfaction of sitting through family dinners knowing exactly how his mouth had looked against your skin the night before. The way his knee brushed yours under the table and neither of you reacted, though both of you remembered. It lived in stolen things. In late-night visits when the whole neighborhood had gone quiet, and the only sound was the ocean somewhere beyond the trees and your own heartbeat betraying you on the walk next door.

In the pool house one humid Thursday afternoon, when everyone else had gone sailing and the house sat warm and empty under the sun. Chlorine in the air, sunlight breaking over the water in fractured gold, your bikini still damp against your skin while Heeseung stood too close and said your name like it meant trouble. His hand sliding underneath the strap to touch you then quietly adjusting it back into place as if he hadn’t branded your entire neck in marks.

In parties where you crossed crowded rooms without touching, where his hand at the small of your back lasted only a second but ruined the rest of your night. Where you’d disappear separately and meet somewhere quieter, on balconies, behind the marina, near the dunes where the music couldn’t quite reach and the summer air felt heavier.

Every moment carried that same dangerous illusion: that because no one knew, it somehow meant nothing. You learned each other in fragments. The sound of his laugh when it was real, not performed for a room full of people. The way he got quieter when he was tired. How he always reached for your wrist first, like stopping you there somehow felt more honest than pretending he wasn’t pulling you closer.

How you started recognizing the sound of his car before it even turned into the driveway. You hated that one. Because it meant anticipation. And anticipation implied care. Care was not part of the agreement. So you became very good at pretending. You rolled your eyes when Sunoo accused you of being suspiciously unavailable lately. You blamed “family obligations” when Eunchae asked why you kept vanishing halfway through parties.

You told your mother you were staying in because the heat was unbearable, and then spent the entire afternoon in Heeseung’s room with the windows open, listening to the sea and trying not to think too hard about the intimacy of daylight. That was the dangerous part. Not the sneaking around. Not the kissing. Not even the wanting. Daylight. Because night made everything easier to dismiss. Midnight had always been built for mistakes. But sunlight was honest. It stripped things down. Left no shadows to hide inside.

And lately, you were both finding reasons to stay. A cancelled beach day because it was “too hot.” Skipping a yacht party because neither of you were “in the mood.” Sunday brunch abandoned halfway through because one look across the table had made patience impossible. Your parents thought you were finally becoming mature. Choosing rest. Prioritizing peace. If only they knew. On Tuesday, your mother found you in the kitchen at noon, wearing one of Heeseung’s old shirts thrown hastily over your swimsuit because you had forgotten your own cover-up and panic had terrible fashion sense.

She looked at you. Looked at the shirt. Looked back at you. And simply said, “Interesting.” You nearly died on the spot. “Laundry accident,” you replied immediately.

She sipped her iced tea. “Of course.” You fled before she could smile. It was becoming ridiculous. The kind of ridiculous that should have frightened you more than it did. Because somewhere between the late-night texts and the locked doors and the way he said your name when no one else was around, the rules had started feeling less like boundaries and more like decorations.

No sleepovers, and yet you had woken up in his bed twice this week. No emotional attachment, and yet you knew when he was in a bad mood before he said a word. No jealousy, and yet when a girl from the marina laughed too long at something he said, your entire evening soured without permission. This is fine. It was not fine. And the worst part was how natural it all felt. Like maybe this had been waiting for years. Like every summer before this had only been rehearsal.

One evening, stretched beside him on the pool house couch while golden light slipped slowly across the floorboards, you listened to the distant sounds of your families having dinner on separate patios, laughter drifting across the hedges, glasses clinking, the whole world carrying on politely while the two of you existed here in the quiet center of your own disaster. His hand rested lazily over your waist. Your head against his shoulder. Too comfortable.

Far too comfortable. You should have left an hour ago. Instead, you stayed. Because leaving meant acknowledging it. Because staying meant pretending this was still simple. You traced absent patterns against his arm and stared at the ceiling fan turning slowly overhead. Summer had always felt like this, beautiful enough to make bad ideas look romantic. Temporary enough to make them feel safe. You told yourself that was all this was.

A season. A secret. Something that would end when the weather changed. But even then, with the evening light soft around you and his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek, some quieter part of you already knew the truth. This was never going to end cleanly. But the thought vanished as quickly as it came when you felt his hand sliding between your legs.  Later, neither of you said much.

The room was quiet in that intimate, ruined way it only became after too much honesty, sheets tangled at your legs, the windows cracked open to let in the salt-heavy night air, the ceiling fan turning lazily overhead like time had slowed just for this. Outside, summer kept moving. Waves somewhere beyond the trees. A car passing faintly down the road. Someone laughing in the distance, far enough away to belong to another world entirely.

Here, everything felt still. You lay on your back staring at the ceiling, your body heavy with exhaustion, skin still warm, his sheets twisted around your legs like evidence. Your hair was a mess. Your thoughts were worse. This had become dangerous. Not because of the sex. That part had been inevitable the second either of you admitted wanting it. No, the dangerous part was afterward. This. The silence that didn’t feel awkward. The way neither of you rushed to leave. The softness that slipped in when no one was paying attention.

You hated softness. Softness made people stupid. Beside you, Heeseung was quieter than usual, one arm thrown behind his head, the other resting across his stomach, his breathing finally even after the storm of the last hour. In the low light, he looked younger somehow. Less polished. Less like the version of him the rest of the world got.

Just him. That was somehow worse. You turned your head slightly, watching him. His eyes were closed. For once, he wasn’t performing anything. No teasing, no arrogance, no carefully placed smirk like armor. Just tired. Real. You wondered if he knew how dangerous that was too. As if sensing it, he spoke without opening his eyes. “If you’re staring because you’ve finally admitted I’m right about everything, I’d like it formally documented.”

Your mouth twitched despite yourself. “I was actually wondering how someone can be this annoying while unconscious.” He opened one eye. “Talent.”

“Curse.”

“Chemistry.” You rolled your eyes and turned back to the ceiling, but the smile betrayed you anyway. Silence returned. Softer this time. The kind that settled around people who had stopped trying so hard to fill it. You should leave. That thought came and went three separate times. You should absolutely get up, find your dress, reclaim your dignity, and walk back to your own house like a woman with standards and emotional boundaries.

Instead, you stayed exactly where you were. Because moving felt like too much effort. Because his room was warm and the ocean breeze through the window made everything drowsy. Because your body had given up on principles sometime around midnight. Because leaving would make this feel real. And staying let you pretend it was still just summer.

Your eyes grew heavier. The last thing you really registered was the lamp on his bedside table casting soft amber light across the room, and the faint smell of salt and clean linen and him. Then sleep came quietly. No dramatic realization. No final declaration. Just exhaustion winning where common sense had failed. Sometime later, minutes, maybe an hour, you felt movement.

Half-asleep, caught somewhere between dreaming and waking, you registered the mattress shifting, the lamp clicking off, the room falling deeper into darkness. Then warmth. A blanket pulled over you. Careful. Quiet. His hand brushing lightly against your shoulder for just a second longer than necessary.

You should have opened your eyes. Should have made a joke. Broken the moment before it could become one. You didn’t. You stayed still, breathing slow, pretending sleep because somehow that felt safer than acknowledging tenderness. In the dark, his voice came low and almost amused. “Rule number four,” he murmured.

No sleepovers. You felt him settle beside you. The mattress dipped. The silence deepened. And then, after a beat, “Terrible at following instructions.” You smiled into the pillow where he couldn’t see it. Outside, the ocean moved patiently against the shore, summer stretching endlessly into the night. And there, in Lee Heeseung’s bed, beneath his sheets and your own very bad decisions, you fell asleep. Oops. 

Something shifted after the sleepover. Not dramatically. No confessions, no declarations, no grand cinematic moment where either of you admitted the obvious and ruined everything properly. Worse. It changed quietly. In the spaces between things. And somehow, that made it far more dangerous. Because sex was easy to dismiss. Sex could be blamed on summer, on heat, on proximity, on years of unresolved tension finally finding somewhere to go. Sex was physical. Temporary. Conveniently stupid.

But softness, softness was treason. It started with coffee. You were standing in his kitchen one morning, barefoot, wearing one of his hoodies because your own clothes were somewhere upstairs and dignity had long since packed its bags. The house was still half-asleep, sunlight slipping pale and warm through the windows, the kind of slow summer morning that made everything feel deceptively gentle.

You were reaching for the coffee tin when he slid a mug across the counter toward you without looking. Iced. Too much milk. One sugar. Exactly right. You stared at it. Then at him. He was leaning against the opposite counter, scrolling through something on his phone with the dangerous calm of a man who had no idea he’d just committed emotional violence. “You remembered.”

He looked up. At the mug. At you. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You complain about bad coffee like it’s a moral issue.” You narrowed your eyes. “It is a moral issue.” He smiled into his own cup. That was the problem. Not remembering. How natural it felt. As if of course he knew. As if of course you noticed. As if this was normal. It wasn’t. Nothing about this was normal. And yet the days kept folding around it anyway.

He started bringing you food without asking. Not in some dramatic, romantic gesture way. Nothing obvious enough to name. Just showing up at the beach with the exact sandwich you liked because he “happened to be near the deli.” Leaving fries on the passenger seat when he picked you up because you’d skipped lunch and he could always tell when you did. A bottle of water handed to you silently after too much sun and too much pretending at some yacht party, his hand brushing yours for only a second before he walked away.

Little things. The kind people noticed. The kind people definitely noticed. By the second week of July, your friends had reached collective suspicion. It happened on a Wednesday afternoon at the beach club, where everyone had collapsed under umbrellas with overpriced drinks and varying levels of sunburn. Sunoo was the first to say it, because of course he was. He lowered his sunglasses dramatically and pointed between you and Heeseung like a detective solving a murder. “You two are weird.”

You didn’t even look up from your book. “That is the least shocking thing anyone has ever said.”

“No,” Yunjin cut in, leaning forward, “like weird weird. You’re not fighting.”

That got your attention. You looked up. Across from you, Heeseung was stretched lazily in a chair, sunglasses on, looking entirely too comfortable for someone under investigation.

Yoonchae nodded. “It’s unsettling. I miss the hostility. It was romantic.” Jay, who treated gossip like a legal proceeding, added, “The last thing you said to him that even resembled an insult was, and I quote—” He lifted a hand, reciting with criminal accuracy: ‘Don’t stay in the ocean too long, your wig might fall off.’ Silence. You blinked.

Sunghoon, traitor, added quietly, “That wasn’t even an insult. That was concern wrapped in a taunt.” You hated all of them.

“It was a warning,” you said.

“Because you care,” Sunoo sang.

“Because baldness is a public issue.” Across the table, Heeseung laughed. Actually laughed. Low and easy and far too pleased with himself. And you, idiot that you were, smiled back before you could stop it. The entire group gasped like Victorian women witnessing an exposed ankle. Eunchae clutched her chest. “Oh my god. They’re smiling at each other. We’ve lost them.”

You buried your face in your drink. This was unbearable. But the truth sat heavier than embarrassment. Because they were right. You weren’t fighting anymore. Not really. The sharpness had softened at the edges, and in its place had come something quieter. More dangerous.

You knew when he was lying. It was always in his shoulders first, too relaxed, too deliberate. Like if he made himself look calm enough, no one would notice. And he knew when you were upset before you said a word. Sometimes before you did. Like the night you came back from dinner with your parents, frustrated and restless and not wanting to explain why, only to find him sitting on the hood of his car outside your house.

He took one look at you and said, simply, “What happened?” No performance. No jokes. Just knowing. You sat beside him without answering, and he handed you fries in silence. That was worse than comfort. That was intimacy. And intimacy was not part of the agreement. Neither was the fact that you kept ending up in his clothes.

His hoodie mostly. Dark gray, too big, sleeves falling over your hands, smelling faintly like him and expensive detergent and whatever impossible thing made you feel too warm when you wore it home at sunrise. The first time, you’d told yourself it was practical. The second time, convenient. By the fifth, even you had stopped pretending. One evening, walking back from his house with that hoodie wrapped around you and the sun barely rising over the water, you caught your reflection in a neighbor’s window and had the deeply humiliating realization that you looked happy.

Not smug. Not victorious. Happy. You nearly turned around and walked directly into the sea. And then there was jealousy. The rule neither of you talked about because talking about it would make it real. No jealousy. Very simple. A lie, obviously. It surfaced one night at another party on Jay’s yacht. Some guy, tall, forgettable, rich in the boring way, spent too long talking to you by the bar. Leaning in too close. Laughing too easily.

You were polite. Mostly. But from across the room, you felt it before you saw it. Heeseung, watching. Still. Cold. Not dramatic, that would’ve been easier, just quiet. His expression shuttered in that way he did when he was trying very hard not to let something show, and suddenly the rest of the night tasted wrong. Later, when you found him outside near the dock, the air heavy with salt and dark water below, you said it before you could stop yourself.

“You’re being weird.” He leaned against the railing, gaze on the ocean. “I’m always weird.”

“Not like this.”

A long pause, the air thick with unspoken tension. Then, “Nothing’s wrong.” You laughed softly. There it was, the lie. You stepped closer, “You know I can tell when you’re lying, right?”

Finally, he looked at you. Moonlight catching the edges of him. That familiar unreadable expression. “No,” he said. “You just like thinking you can.” You folded your arms. “And you like pretending I’m wrong.”

His jaw shifted. A tell. You noticed. Of course you noticed. For a second, it almost cracked. Whatever this was. Whatever sat under all the rules and pretending and carefully chosen silence. But then he straightened. Looked away. And the wall went back up. “It means nothing,” he said. The words landed heavier than they should have. Because both of you knew he wasn’t talking about the guy. He was talking about all of it. This. You. Him.

The arrangement. The softness. The way neither of you were following your own rules anymore. Nothing. You stared at him for a long moment, the ocean loud in the silence between you. Then you nodded once. “Right.” A lie, both his and yours, both of you standing there in the warm dark of summer, pretending not to bleed where it hurt.

It means nothing, and somehow, that hurt worse than if he’d said everything, the silence between you lingered for a second too long. Warm night air moved around you, carrying the salt of the ocean and the distant hum of music from the party still going on behind the marina. The dock swayed faintly beneath your feet, water dark and endless below, moonlight breaking silver across the surface.

You stood there with his words still sitting heavy in your chest. It means nothing. Such a simple sentence. Such a stupid, transparent lie, but you hated that it hurt. More than that, you hated that he knew it hurt. That somewhere beneath all the arrogance and all the careful pretending, he knew exactly where to place the knife. And still, somehow, neither of you left. Because leaving would mean ending the conversation. Because staying meant there was still something unfinished here.

You folded your arms tighter, more for protection than attitude. “Right,” you said again, quieter this time. Heeseung looked at you like he wanted to say something else, something better, or worse. You could see it in the hesitation. In the way his mouth opened slightly, then closed again. In the tension sitting sharp in his shoulders, like even he was tired of performing indifference.

But he didn’t, of course he didn’t. Instead, after a long moment, he stepped closer. Not enough to be dramatic. Just enough to be familiar. And maybe that was the problem. The familiarity of it. The way your body recognized him before your mind had time to argue. His hand brushed your arm lightly. A thoughtless gesture. Comforting. Soft. Dangerous. You should have stepped back. Instead, you stayed still.

And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like his body had made the decision before his brain could stop it, he leaned down and pressed a quick, absent kiss to your forehead. Gentle. Careless. Tender. The kind of kiss that belonged to something entirely different than whatever this was supposed to be. And the second it happened, you both froze. Completely, the world stopped, the ocean, the music, your heartbeat, everything. Because that, that was not in the rules. Not even close. No public affection. No emotional attachment. No softness.

And forehead kisses? Forehead kisses were practically emotional terrorism. You stared at him. He stared at you. His hand was still lightly on your arm. Your lips parted, but no sound came out because honestly, what exactly was the appropriate response to being emotionally assassinated on a dock? Apparently, the answer was, a dramatic choking noise.

You both turned. Too late. Because standing ten feet away, carrying drinks and what looked like the absolute time of their lives, were your friends. All of them. Sunoo. Sunghoon. Jay. Eunchae. Yunjin. Yoonchae. Witnesses. To your death. For one beat, nobody moved. Then Yunjin made a sound like a Victorian woman seeing a man’s ankle and clutched her chest.

“No,” she whispered. Then louder, “No. No, I refuse.”

And with all the theatrical commitment of a woman born for performance, she dramatically dropped backward onto Eunchae. “I’ve fainted,” she announced to the night. “I’m dead. Tell my family I died right.” Eunchae, instead of helping, was already doubled over laughing. Actually laughing. Tears in her eyes. Full-body betrayal. Jay turned away entirely, hand over his mouth like he was trying and failing to remain dignified. Sunghoon stood there in complete silence, which for him was basically screaming.

Sunoo looked like he had ascended to another spiritual plane. And Yoonchae, traitor, elegant, terrifying, just slowly raised one eyebrow and said, “Well.” You wanted the dock to collapse. Immediately. Preferably with you on it. Beside you, Heeseung cleared his throat with the deeply haunted expression of a man realizing public humiliation was hereditary.

“It was nothing.” Silence. Then six people spoke at once. “Nothing?” Sunoo repeated, scandalized. “You kissed her forehead!” Eunchae shouted.

“That’s husband behavior,” Yunjin yelled from her fake death position. Jay pointed accusingly. “That is not casual. Casual men do not forehead kiss.”

Sunghoon, finally contributing, said simply, “That was intimate.” Which, somehow, was worse. You covered your face with both hands. This was how legends ended. Not with dignity. Not with grace. But with your friends conducting a public trial over a forehead kiss. Heeseung rubbed the back of his neck, visibly regretting every life choice that had led him here. “It was automatic.”

“A Freudian slip,” Sunoo said immediately.

“A cry for help,” Yunjin added.

“A confession,” Eunchae gasped.

“A legal declaration,” Jay said.

“A marriage proposal,” Yoonchae finished.

You made a strangled noise. “Please stop talking.”

“No,” everyone replied. Across the chaos, you finally looked at Heeseung. Really looked. And annoyingly, he looked just as wrecked as you felt. His composure cracked at the edges. His usual confidence gone. His ears, very slightly, red. Interesting. Very interesting. For one brief second, despite the humiliation, despite the six idiots currently planning your wedding in real time, you almost smiled. Because he was embarrassed. Actually embarrassed. And somehow, that made the whole thing worse. Or better. Definitely worse.

He looked back at you. Something unspoken passing there. Something quiet and dangerous. Then, because the universe refused to let either of you have peace, Sunoo threw an arm dramatically into the air and declared to the ocean, “THEY’RE IN LOVE AND THEY’RE MAKING IT EVERYONE’S PROBLEM.” You and Heeseung, at the exact same time: “Shut up, Sunoo.” Which only made everyone laugh harder. 

—

The yacht looked like something built for people who had never been told no. White and gleaming and impossibly large, anchored just far enough from shore to feel exclusive, close enough for everyone to pretend it was casual. Music spilled across the water in low, expensive waves. Champagne sweated in silver buckets. Someone was laughing too loudly near the upper deck, and somewhere below, the ocean moved dark and patient against the hull, like it had seen this all before. Summer in Jeju Island had always been performative, but yacht parties were theater. Everyone arrived looking like they had something to prove. Girls in silk and gold, boys in linen and old money and inherited arrogance. Sunglasses even after sunset. Bare shoulders catching the last of the light. Beautiful people pretending they weren’t waiting for someone specific to notice them.

You hated how much you fit into it. Tonight, the dress was white. Soft and dangerous. The kind of dress that looked innocent until someone stood too close. Thin straps, bare back, fabric skimming your skin like seawater. Your hair loose from the salt air, gold at your throat, your mouth glossed and unhelpful. You looked like a mistake dressed as a good idea. Maybe that was the point. By the time you stepped onto the deck, the sun was already beginning to sink, everything dipped in amber, the ocean turning molten and gold around you. The air smelled like sunscreen, champagne, and money.

Sunoo spotted you first, of course. He stood near the bar, already three drinks deep into being everyone’s problem, and his eyes widened slowly as you approached. “Oh,” he said softly, like someone witnessing divine intervention. “Someone is about to ruin a life.” You took the champagne he handed you. “Only one? I’m aiming higher.”

He smiled, but it faded quickly when his gaze shifted past your shoulder. There. At the far end of the deck. Heeseung. Talking to Jay, drink in hand, sleeves rolled, dark shirt open at the throat in that infuriating way he never seemed aware of. The wind moved through his hair. The sunset caught against the sharp line of his profile. And then he looked up. Found you. Paused. There was always that moment. That small, suspended second where everything else fell away and it was just this, the recognition, the tension, the memory of every version of yourselves that had led here. His gaze moved slowly.

Not rushed. Not subtle. Like being touched without contact. And even from across the deck, you felt it. Something in your chest pulling too tight. It would have been easier if he looked away first. He didn’t. Neither did you. Until Yunjin bumped your shoulder lightly and saved you from your own poor decisions. “Don’t do that,” she murmured. You blinked. “Do what?” She took a sip of her drink, watching the sunset like she wasn’t dismantling your life. “Look at him like that. It makes the rest of us feel like unwilling participants.”

You laughed, but it sounded thinner than you meant it to. Because tonight, something already felt wrong. Not wrong. Fragile. Like standing barefoot on glass and pretending it was only sand. Maybe it was the accumulated weight of it. The weeks of pretending. The rules bent past recognition. The softness neither of you spoke about. The forehead kiss that still sat in your chest like a bruise. Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe you were tired. Tired of pretending this was casual. Tired of pretending you didn’t care. Tired of him saying it meant nothing when it had started to feel like everything.

So tonight, you decided to be reckless. Not because you wanted someone else. Because you wanted him to react. Which, in hindsight, was the kind of decision people wrote warnings about. Minjae found you first. Again. Pretty enough. Easy enough. Familiar enough to be useful. He leaned against the rail beside you while the yacht drifted slow under the dying sun, talking about some party in Seoul, some mutual friend, something forgettable. His hand brushed your arm when he laughed.

You let it. You smiled. You leaned closer. You let the dress do half the work and the silence do the rest. And all the while, you could feel it. Heeseung. Across the deck. Watching. It wasn’t dramatic. He wasn’t storming across the yacht like some jealous cliché. Worse. He was quiet. Still. The kind of stillness that meant all the dangerous things were happening underneath. You knew him well enough now to recognize it.

The way his shoulders went too rigid. The way his mouth flattened when he was holding something back. The way he stopped pretending to enjoy the party. You kept flirting. Because cruelty, apparently, was a love language. By the time the sky had gone violet and the city lights glittered faintly across the water, the tension had become its own living thing. Heavy.

Everyone noticed. Sunoo kept looking between you and Heeseung like he was watching a live sports event. Eunchae physically winced every time Minjae touched your arm. Jay had the expression of a man reviewing poor investment choices. And Heeseung, he stopped speaking entirely. You should have stopped. You didn’t. Because part of you wanted him angry. Wanted proof. Wanted something undeniable.

You found it when you excused yourself to the lower deck for air. The music faded there, softer beneath the sound of the water. The yacht rocked gently beneath your feet. Moonlight stretched silver over the sea, and the world felt quieter, suspended between one decision and the next. You barely had time to breathe before he was there.

“Seriously?” His voice behind you was low. Controlled. Too controlled. You turned slowly. He stood in the narrow corridor of moonlight and shadow, jaw tight, eyes dark enough to make the night feel thinner around you. There it was. Finally. You leaned back against the railing, crossing your arms like your pulse wasn’t trying to leave your body. “Are we opening with accusations? Very romantic.” His laugh was short. Humorless. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re late. I thought jealousy would get you here faster.” That landed. You saw it. The flicker in his expression. The anger sharpened by something much worse. He stepped closer. “You think this is funny?”

“No,” you said quietly. “I think you don’t get to care.” The ocean moved below you. Dark and endless. He stopped. For one second, the entire world seemed to hold its breath. “And why not?” The question came softer than you expected. Not angry, not sharp, honest, and that was worse, because there was an answer. A real one. Because caring meant naming this. Because naming this meant breaking it. Because if he said it first, if either of you said it first, there would be no way back to pretending.

You looked at him and saw all of it at once, the boy you had spent every summer fighting, the man standing in front of you now, the terrible inevitability of wanting someone you were never supposed to want this much. Your throat felt tight. “Because,” you said, and even your own voice sounded unfamiliar, “you were the one who said it meant nothing.” Something in him shifted. Like regret. Like anger turned inward. He moved closer again, and this time you didn’t step back. There was nowhere to go.

Moonlight on the water. Champagne still bitter on your tongue. His hand braced against the railing beside you, trapping you there without touching. His voice dropped, rough around the edges. “And you believed me?” Your heart stuttered. Because no. No, you hadn’t. That had been the problem. You had heard the lie and let him keep it because the truth was too dangerous.

You looked up at him, and the space between you felt like standing in the ocean during a storm, like drowning and floating and drowning and floating, never knowing which one would win. “Tell me I’m wrong,” you whispered.

He stared at you like he was trying to decide whether honesty would ruin him. Maybe it would. Maybe it already had. His hand lifted, slow enough to stop, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a tenderness that felt far too intimate for a yacht full of people and all the lies between you. His mouth was only inches from yours. And when he spoke, it was barely sound at all. “I think,” he said, “I stopped being careful with you a long time ago.”

Not quite a confession. Worse. Because it was true. And truth, between the two of you, had always been the most dangerous thing of all. He stood there for one suspended second after saying it, like even he was startled by the sound of his own honesty. The yacht rocked gently beneath you, the ocean below black and endless, moonlight breaking itself into silver shards across the water. Somewhere above, the music still played, muffled now, distant, belonging to another life entirely. Laughter drifted from the upper deck like something from far away, from people who had not just stepped to the edge of something irreversible.

You could still feel the words between you. I stopped being careful with you a long time ago. It settled into your chest like saltwater, slow, stinging, impossible to separate from your own blood. For weeks, maybe years, the two of you had been circling this. Pretending desire was just annoyance sharpened into habit. Pretending every almost was accidental. Pretending the way he looked at you meant less than it did. And now here it was. Not clean. Not graceful. Just true. You should have said something. Something intelligent. Something devastating. Something that would let you keep whatever remained of your pride. Instead, your body betrayed you first.

Your hand found the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like instinct, like gravity. You didn’t even realize you’d done it until he looked down at your hand and something dark and quiet moved across his face. His restraint snapped so softly you almost missed it. Then he took your wrist.  And before you could think, before either of you could retreat back into irony and self-preservation, he pulled you with him. Up the narrow staircase. Past the low spill of music and careless laughter. Through the blur of warm bodies and champagne and summer pretending to be harmless.

You barely registered the startled glance Sunoo gave you as Heeseung walked past him without a word, your hand still in his like a confession neither of you were ready to speak aloud. The hallway inside the yacht was cooler, quieter. White walls. Dim lights. The hum of the engine beneath your feet. Somewhere, a door shut. Somewhere else, the sea kept breathing against the hull.

He kept walking. You followed because there was no version of this where you didn’t. Because at some point, resisting him had become another kind of surrender. At the end of the corridor, he stopped. A private deck. Smaller. Hidden from the party. Open to the night. Only the ocean. Only the moon. Only the two of you and everything you were pretending not to destroy.

The door shut behind you with a soft click. Silence. He turned. For a moment, neither of you moved. The wind came off the water cool against your overheated skin, lifting your hair, carrying salt into the space between you. You could hear your own breathing. His too. He looked at you like a man standing too close to fire and knowing he was about to step in anyway.

And suddenly, it felt like standing at the edge of land. Like the last piece of solid ground beneath your feet. Like one more step would mean surrendering to something larger than either of you, something tidal and reckless and impossible to survive unchanged. You crossed that distance first. Or maybe he did. Later, you wouldn’t know. Only that one second there was space, and the next there was none. His mouth found yours like gravity.

Not gentle. Not hesitant. Like being pulled under. The kiss hit you like cold water and summer lightning, sharp, immediate, consuming. Every part of you lit at once, every defense dissolving so quickly it felt humiliating. His hands were at your waist, your neck, your jaw, like he couldn’t decide where to hold you, only that he needed to. You kissed him back like drowning. Like if you let go, you’d wash out to sea. His mouth tasted like champagne and salt and every bad decision you’d ever wanted to make. It was anger and relief and hunger all tangled together, all the years between you collapsing into something hot and breathless and overdue.

The world tilted. Or maybe it was just the boat. Or maybe it was him. You had the absurd thought that this was what slipping away from land felt like, that moment your feet stopped touching the ocean floor and suddenly there was nothing holding you up but instinct and want. Floating. Falling. The same thing, sometimes. His hands slid to your back, pulling you closer, and the sound that left him against your mouth was low, wrecked, like even he was surprised by the force of this.

You understood. Because kissing Heeseung felt like melting. Like sun-warmed skin slipping beneath water. Like losing the shape of yourself. Like becoming something softer, stranger, more dangerous. He kissed you like he was angry at how much he wanted to. You kissed him like you were tired of pretending you didn’t. And somewhere in the middle of it, all your carefully built walls, your rules, your boundaries, your clever little exits, went under like they had never been there at all.

His forehead rested against yours for one brief second, both of you breathing like you’d been running, like maybe you had. His thumb brushed your cheek. A tenderness so small it almost hurt more than the kiss. When he spoke, his voice was rough enough to sound like truth. “You make this impossible.” You smiled, breathless, your lips still close enough to steal.

“So do you.” Then his mouth was on yours again, and whatever was left of reason disappeared with the tide.

—

The rain started sometime after midnight. By morning, Jeju Island had turned silver. The sky hung low and heavy over the coastline, clouds blurring the horizon until the ocean and the storm became one endless sheet of grey-blue. Rain slid steadily down the windows in soft crooked lines, tapping against rooftops and palm leaves and the quiet little streets of the neighborhood with the kind of patience only summer storms possessed.

Everything felt slower in the rain. Softer. The beach emptied. Yacht plans were cancelled. The marina sat abandoned except for boats rocking gently against their docks like sleeping animals. For the first time all summer, the town stopped performing. And somehow, that felt dangerous too. You woke late to the sound of thunder somewhere far away, curled beneath your sheets with damp air drifting through the cracked window. Your phone rested beside your pillow, screen lighting softly against the grey room.

A text.

power’s out at our house.

Then, a second later:

mom says yours still has electricity

And finally:

tragic. devastating. i’ll survive somehow.

You stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary. Then sighed. Because despite everything, despite all your promises to yourself about boundaries and self-preservation and not becoming the kind of girl who let boys ruin her summer, you were already smiling. An hour later, Heeseung arrived at your front door soaked from the rain.

Not drenched dramatically. Just enough that dark strands of hair clung messily to his forehead, rainwater catching along the line of his jaw and disappearing beneath the collar of his sweatshirt. The storm had turned the whole world softer around the edges, and standing there beneath the muted grey sky, he looked less like the polished golden boy everyone knew and more like something real. Your mother let him in with entirely too much enthusiasm. “Oh good,” she said brightly, already walking back toward the kitchen. “Now you can both stop pretending you don’t miss each other.”

“Mom,” you warned. Heeseung coughed into his sleeve to hide a smile. Rain followed him inside in traces, the smell of wet pavement and ocean wind clinging faintly to him as he stepped into the warmth of the house. For a moment, neither of you moved. No parties. No music. No late-night tension sharp enough to cut through.

Just quiet. The kind that made you suddenly aware of ordinary things. The soft ticking of rain against the windows. The oversized sweatshirt hanging off his shoulders. The fact that he looked at home here. That realization unsettled you more than it should have. The day unfolded slowly after that. Not exciting. Not dramatic. And maybe that was why it mattered.

You spent most of the afternoon in the living room while the storm darkened outside, half-watching terrible movies neither of you cared about. Your legs stretched across the couch beneath a blanket, his shoulder brushing yours every so often in that absent, thoughtless way intimacy sometimes arrived. At some point, your mother disappeared upstairs with a suspicious smile and the kind of timing that deserved investigation.

The rain deepened. Hours passed unnoticed. You learned strange things about each other in the quiet. Not the big things. Not the carefully curated versions people offered at parties. Small things. Real things. Heeseung hated peaches because he got sick eating too many as a kid one summer. You used to fake injuries during tennis lessons because you hated losing more than you liked sports.

He still remembered the time you punched a boy at thirteen for making Eunchae cry near the marina. “You broke his nose,” he recalled from the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand.

“He deserved worse.” “You were terrifying.” “I still am.” A smile touched his mouth then. Soft. Unthinking. Rainlight filled the room pale and blue around him, and suddenly the years between childhood and now felt strangely thin. Like maybe you had always been circling each other. Like maybe every version of yourselves had led here eventually. Later, thunder rolled low across the coastline while you sat cross-legged on the floor beside the couch, flipping through an old photo album your mother had abandoned on the shelf years ago. 

Bad idea. There were photographs everywhere. Sunburnt summers. Beach days. Bonfires. All of you impossibly young. You paused on one picture, eight years old, missing front teeth, shoving Heeseung into the sand while he laughed hard enough to blur in the frame. Your chest tightened unexpectedly. “We look awful.”

“We look happy,” he corrected quietly. The room fell still after that. Outside, rainwater slid endlessly down the glass. Inside, something shifted. Not loudly, just enough to feel it. He sat down beside you on the floor, close enough that warmth gathered between you naturally. The photo album rested forgotten between your knees. And for the first time since this began, it didn’t feel like war. No tension sharpened into cruelty. No sarcasm waiting like a weapon.

Just this strange, aching softness neither of you knew how to hold. You turned another page slowly. Another photograph. Older this time. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. A summer party. You standing near the water laughing at something outside the frame while Heeseung looked at you instead. Not the camera. You. Your breath caught slightly. “You kept this?” He glanced down at the picture. Then away. Your pulse stumbled. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

His jaw shifted faintly. For a second, you thought he might dodge the question. Turn it into a joke. Deflect the way he always did whenever things came too close to honesty. Instead, his voice came quieter than you expected. “I think,” he said slowly, “I’ve spent a long time trying not to.”

The rain outside seemed to hush around the words. You looked at him carefully. Something vulnerable flickered there beneath all the practiced ease. Something raw enough to make your own chest ache in response. And suddenly you understood something terrifying, this was no longer just desire. Desire was simpler.

This, whatever this was becoming, had roots. Deep ones. You looked back down at the photograph because meeting his eyes felt too dangerous. “I used to hate summers here,” you admitted softly. The confession surprised even you. He looked at you then. “Why?” You traced your thumb along the edge of the page.

“Because everything always ended.” The words settled heavily between you, summer romances, bonfires, fireworks, warm nights, every beautiful thing in Jeju Island came with an expiration date stitched into it from the beginning, and suddenly, without meaning to, you had said something true. Something too true. You felt him shift closer beside you. Not touching. Almost worse.

For one suspended moment, it felt like standing at the edge of another confession, like both of you could ruin yourselves completely if you kept talking, so neither of you did. Cowards.

By evening, the storm had softened into a quiet drizzle. The whole house glowed warm against the rain-dark world outside, lamps casting amber light across the living room while distant thunder faded somewhere beyond the ocean. You’d lost track of time entirely. Dinner had happened somewhere in between conversation and silence and accidental touches that lasted too long. And now he stood near the front door pulling his sweatshirt back on while you lingered barefoot by the hallway, neither of you acknowledging how reluctant this felt. The rain tapped softly against the windows.

He looked tired. You probably did too. For one dangerous second, you almost asked him to stay. You could feel the question there, hovering at the back of your throat. Stay, not because of sex, not because of loneliness. Just, stay, and somehow that made it infinitely more frightening, across from you, he hesitated too, his hand resting on the doorknob, eyes on yours. Like he almost wanted to ask, but neither of you moved.

Because asking would mean admitting this had already crossed into something neither of you knew how to survive. So instead, he opened the door. Cool rain air slipped inside. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said quietly. Not later. Tomorrow. Something about that felt dangerously permanent. You nodded once.

“Yeah.” He left. And somehow the house felt emptier after. You stood there for a long moment listening to the rain before your mother appeared behind you carrying two mugs of tea. She looked toward the door knowingly, then back at you. “You know,” she said lightly, “summer’s ending soon.”

The words hit like cold water. Suddenly, the room felt too small. Too warm. Your heartbeat stumbled somewhere beneath your ribs. Because for the first time all summer, the ending no longer felt theoretical. It felt real. And terrifyingly close.

Summer began leaving in pieces. Not all at once. That would have been kinder. Instead, Jeju Island unraveled slowly, quietly, like a tide pulling back from shore before anyone realized the water was disappearing. The marina grew emptier first. Boats vanished from their slips one by one, carried back toward cities and obligations and real lives waiting elsewhere. Beach houses that had glowed warm every night for months slowly darkened at the windows. Suitcases appeared in entryways. Goodbyes drifted through the neighborhood in soft, temporary promises.

See you next summer.

As if next summer was guaranteed. As if people stayed the same long enough for promises like that to survive. The air changed too, still warm, but thinner somehow, the evenings arriving earlier, sunsets softer, touched already by the melancholy of something ending, even the ocean looked different, darker blue, quieter, less forgiving. You hated noticing it, because noticing meant acknowledging the clock, and the clock meant him, everything suddenly seemed measured in remaining time, three more Friday nights, two more yacht parties, a handful of mornings left before the entire town dissolved back into memory. 

Your arrangement had always come with an expiration date stitched into it. Ends with summer. At the beginning, the rule had felt safe, now it felt like standing beneath a blade waiting to fall. You started sleeping badly after that, not because of him, because of the way he had started looking at you. More carefully, more openly, like somewhere along the way, he had grown tired of pretending.

It happened in small moments at first, his hand lingering too long at your waist before letting go, the way his gaze searched for you automatically in crowded rooms now, no hesitation, no embarrassment about it, how he no longer acted surprised by tenderness, as though caring had become instinctive, dangerous, dangerous things. And worst of all, he had stopped treating this like it was temporary.

You noticed it one evening at the beach. The sky had gone pale gold with approaching sunset, the shoreline nearly empty except for scattered locals and gulls drifting low over the water. You sat wrapped in one of his hoodies, knees pulled loosely to your chest while the tide crept closer across the sand. Heeseung sat beside you quietly, one arm draped over his bent knee, watching the horizon.

Comfortable silence stretched between you. The kind that should have felt peaceful. Instead, it terrified you, because this wasn’t supposed to become comfortable. Comfort implied permanence. Permanence implied loss. “You’re thinking too loudly,” he murmured eventually.

You glanced at him. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you get this look on your face when you’re spiraling.” You looked away too quickly. The ocean breathed in and out before you answered. “I’m not spiraling.”

“You started reorganizing the snacks in my kitchen alphabetically yesterday.”

“That was stress cleaning.”

“That was psychotic.” A faint smile touched your mouth despite yourself. His gaze softened when he saw it. There it was again, that look, something gentler, something infinitely more frightening. Your chest tightened.

You stood abruptly before the feeling could settle properly. “I should go.” The shift was immediate. You saw him notice it in real time, the distance, the retreat, his expression changed carefully, like someone stepping onto unstable ground. “You just got here.”

“I know.” Rain clouds gathered faintly over the horizon, turning the water darker beneath the evening light. You avoided his eyes while brushing sand from your legs, because lately every time you looked at him too long, something inside you started giving way, and you couldn’t afford that, not now, not with endings everywhere. The drive home was quiet. not tense, worse, careful, as though both of you could feel something fraying between your hands and neither knew how to stop pulling. After that, it became impossible not to notice. How often he reached for you now. How naturally your lives had begun folding together. How every goodbye felt heavier than the last.

And the more real he became, the more frightened you grew. So you started pulling away, subtly at first, taking longer to answer texts, leaving earlier, skipping late-night visits with excuses thin enough that even you didn’t believe them, too tired, family dinner, headache, lies, all of them, because the truth sounded too ugly to admit aloud: You were beginning to love him, and loving someone with an end date felt like volunteering for heartbreak in advance. He noticed immediately, of course he did, he had always known you too well.

One night at Sunoo’s house, while music drifted softly through crowded rooms and everyone else played cards half-drunk around the kitchen island, you felt his eyes on you from across the room almost constantly, not possessive, not angry, trying to understand, which somehow hurt worse. You laughed too brightly at things that weren’t funny. Let conversations distract you. Pretended not to see the way his jaw tightened every time you slipped further away from him. By midnight, the tension between you had become unbearable.

You found him eventually outside on the balcony overlooking the ocean, moonlight silvering the sharp edges of his profile. The wind moved softly through the dark. Neither of you spoke immediately. There was too much sitting between you now. Finally, he turned. “You’ve been avoiding me.” Not accusatory. Just tired. You crossed your arms tightly against yourself. “I’ve been busy.”

A pause. Then quietly, “That’s not true.” Something sharp moved through your chest. Because no matter how carefully you built distance, Heeseung always walked straight through it. You looked out toward the water instead, far easier than looking at him. The ocean below looked endless tonight, cold, restless. “I just think maybe we forgot what this was supposed to be.” The silence after that felt dangerous. When he spoke again, his voice had gone lower. “And what exactly was it supposed to be?” You swallowed, temporary, easy, nothing, but none of those words fit anymore. Not after rainy afternoons and forehead kisses and sleeping beside each other until sunrise, not after the way he looked at you now. 

You could feel him watching you carefully, waiting, and suddenly the pressure of it became unbearable, the ending hanging over everything, the fear curling tighter around your ribs every day this became more real, because if you admitted what this was becoming, then losing it would destroy you. So instead, you stepped backward emotionally the way frightened people always do. “You said it yourself,” you murmured. “This ends with summer.”

His expression shifted, hurt, this time, barely hidden, “And that’s all you want?” You opened your mouth, nothing came out, because the answer existed, because it terrified you. The wind moved cold against your skin, below you, waves crashed endlessly against the shore, over and over, like something trying desperately to return to land. He stared at you for a long moment. Then finally asked, softly enough to hurt, “What are we doing?”

The question hung there between you, not angry, not dramatic, honest, and honesty had become the most dangerous thing between the two of you. You looked at him, really looked, at the exhaustion in his eyes, the hope he was trying not to show, the terrifying possibility of being loved back. Your throat tightened painfully. But fear arrived faster, fear always did.

So instead of answering, you stayed silent, and in that silence, something began to break.

—

The storm rolled in after midnight, it didn't rain at first, just pressure, heavy clouds swallowing the sky whole, the air turning electric and difficult to breathe. Wind moved through Jeju Island in restless waves, rattling windows and palm trees and the fragile remains of your composure. You hadn’t slept. Couldn’t.

His question kept replaying in your head like something unfinished. What are we doing? You had no answer that didn’t terrify you. So instead, you spent hours pacing your room while lightning flickered faintly beyond the ocean horizon, illuminating the walls in brief silver flashes. Coward.

The word followed you everywhere now, by one in the morning, your thoughts had become unbearable, by one-thirty, you were walking toward his house through the storm, barefoot, sweatshirt pulled tight around yourself, heart beating too hard.

The neighborhood lay silent beneath the dark sky, every house asleep except his. Light still glowed beneath his bedroom door upstairs. Something inside your chest twisted painfully at that. Like some foolish part of you had hoped he’d be sleeping peacefully. Unaffected. But of course he wasn’t.

You knocked once before opening the door. He looked up immediately from the couch. And the moment your eyes met, you understood this was going to hurt. The room was dim except for one lamp near the window. Thunder murmured low outside, rain finally beginning against the glass in soft scattered drops. Heeseung stood slowly. Neither of you spoke at first.

The distance between you felt enormous. You hated it. You hated that you were the one who created it. “You came,” he said eventually. His voice sounded exhausted. You wrapped your arms around yourself tighter. “I couldn’t sleep.” Something unreadable moved across his face. For one dangerous second, it almost softened. Then he remembered. “What do you want me to say?”

There it was. No avoiding it now. Your pulse stumbled painfully. “I don’t know.” “That’s the problem.” The words landed harder than they should have. Thunder rolled somewhere closer now. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through the calm he’d been holding together for days. “I feel like I’m standing outside a locked door with you lately.”

You looked away immediately. Because if you looked at him too long, you would fold. “You’re making this more serious than it is.” Even saying it felt wrong. You could hear the lie rotting underneath the sentence. So could he, his laugh this time sounded hollow.

“Seriously?” You swallowed hard. “This was supposed to be simple.” “Simple?” His voice sharpened suddenly. “You think any of this has felt simple?” Rain hit harder against the windows. The room felt smaller now. Too warm. Too full of things neither of you knew how to survive. You took a step backward instinctively, he noticed, of course he noticed, and something inside him finally snapped.

“I’m tired,” he said quietly, “of pretending I don’t care.” Silence, the words settled into the room like lightning striking water, there it was, the thing both of you had spent all summer running from, not hidden anymore, not softened into implication, real. You stared at him, your heart hurt so badly it almost felt physical, because part of you had wanted this, wanted him to say it, and another part, the larger, more frightened part, wanted to run until your lungs gave out.

Loving someone meant they could leave. Summer always left. You knew that better than anyone. So fear reached for cruelty the way drowning people reached for air. You laughed softly. Wrong move. His expression changed immediately. You felt your own panic rising now, wild and sharp and impossible to control. “This was never supposed to mean anything.”

The second the words left your mouth, you wanted them back. Too late. Silence. Not dramatic. Worse. Stillness. You watched the hurt move across his face slowly, like something extinguishing. His eyes lost warmth first, then softness, then hope, and suddenly the room felt freezing. He nodded once, a small movement.

“Right,” he said quietly. “Got it.” You opened your mouth instantly. Nothing came out. Because the truth was trapped somewhere beneath all your fear, clawing at your ribs too late. He grabbed his keys from the counter. Didn’t look at you again. Thunder cracked outside just as he reached the door. “Heeseung—”

He stopped. For one second, hope flared painfully inside you again. Then he spoke without turning around. “I think,” he said softly, “I deserved better than that.” And left. The door shut behind him with terrifying finality. You stood there frozen while rain hammered against the windows and the storm swallowed the coastline whole. For the first time all summer, he didn’t come back, and afterward came silence. 

No texts. No late-night knocks at your window. No headlights outside your house. Nothing. Just absence. Cold and endless as the sea. After Heeseung left, summer collapsed in on itself. Not dramatically. No thunder. No shattered glasses. No cinematic unraveling loud enough for the world to notice. Just absence. Quiet and creeping and everywhere.

It settled over Jeju Island like fog rolling in from the ocean, slipping beneath doors and into lungs and through the spaces between ordinary things until everything familiar felt wrong. The beach became unbearable first. You still went sometimes out of habit, carrying books you never opened, towels that stayed folded beside you untouched. The shoreline stretched wide and glittering beneath the August sun, beautiful in the same indifferent way it had always been, but now it felt hollow somehow.

Like a photograph of somewhere you used to belong. Everywhere you looked, there were ghosts of him. Near the dunes where he had first kissed you like he was starving. At the marina docks where moonlight had turned his honesty into something dangerous. On the stretch of sand where he’d once laughed at you for trying to fight the tide after too much tequila and too little dignity. You kept expecting to see him.

Leaning against the lifeguard tower. Walking toward you through the surf. Looking at you the way he always did lately, like he had already memorized every version of your face. But the spaces stayed empty, and somehow emptiness had weight.

The parties weren’t any better. Without him, they felt exposed somehow. Too loud. Too artificial. Music thumping against hollow spaces where your heartbeat used to live. Champagne too sweet. Laughter arriving half a second too late to feel real. You drifted through them like someone haunting her own life.

People noticed, of course they did. Sunoo stopped cornering you with gossip and instead watched you carefully whenever you thought nobody was looking. Eunchae started hugging you too tightly before leaving parties. Even Yunjin, who usually treated emotional devastation like a spectator sport, went strangely quiet around you. One evening near the bonfire, while everyone else sat tangled in conversation and salt air and late-summer exhaustion, Sunghoon settled beside you silently with two drinks. You accepted one without looking at him.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The fire cracked softly before him. The ocean breathed dark beyond the shoreline. Then finally, “You look miserable.” No judgment. Just fact. You let out a quiet laugh that sounded closer to breaking. “I’m fine.”

“Right.” The word carried enough disbelief to hurt. You stared down at the bottle in your hands. “You know,” he said after a moment, “you’re the first thing he’s ever taken seriously.” Your chest tightened immediately. You looked at him then. Sunghoon kept his gaze fixed on the fire. “He acts like nothing matters most of the time,” he continued quietly. “But you did.”

Past tense. The word sliced through you before you could stop it. You swallowed hard. The fire blurred faintly. “He won’t even come out with us anymore,” Sunghoon admitted. “Jay says he’s been packing.” Packing. Something cold moved through your ribs.

You looked away quickly toward the ocean because suddenly breathing felt difficult. Summer had always ended. You knew that. You had built your entire heart around that truth years ago. Nothing beautiful stayed. Not beach towns. Not warm nights. Not people. Especially not people.

But somehow, somewhere between the rainstorm and the yacht and the way he remembered your coffee order, you had forgotten. Or maybe you had simply hoped he would become the exception. That realization arrived slowly over the following days. Not all at once. In fragments. You missed him in stupid ways first. Reaching automatically for your phone after something funny happened.

Turning toward the empty seat beside you at dinner before remembering. Still wearing one of his hoodies to sleep because taking it off felt too much like admitting he was gone. You found traces of him everywhere. In your routines. In your silences. In yourself.

And the worst part was understanding that this grief did not feel temporary. It rooted itself deeper every day. One afternoon, rain threatened faintly over the coastline while you wandered through town half-distracted, passing storefronts already packing away summer displays. Towels disappearing from racks, souvenir stands closing early, seasonal flowers wilting slowly in the heat. August ending in real time. You paused outside the small café near the marina where you and Heeseung had once hidden from the heat for nearly two hours, sharing iced coffees and childhood stories neither of you had meant to tell.

You remembered the way he’d looked at you across the table that day, soft, unarmed. Like loving you had happened quietly when he wasn’t paying attention. The realization hit then, simple, terrible. Oh. This is love. Not infatuation, not summer lust, not convenience sharpened into attachment. Love.

Real enough to hollow you out. Real enough to ruin everything else afterward. You leaned against the storefront window, eyes burning suddenly. Horrible, absolutely horrible, because now you understood why everything felt wrong without him. He had become stitched into the shape of your summer so completely that removing him tore pieces out alongside it.

And worse, you had done this. Fear had done this. You replayed the fight endlessly afterward, every cruel sentence tasting more poisonous each time you remembered it. This was never supposed to mean anything. You had watched those words break him in real time, and still you’d said them. Coward.

By the final week of August, panic settled fully into your bloodstream. You started looking for him without meaning to. Driving past the Lee house too slowly. Watching the beach at sunset. Checking your phone at two in the morning like your body still expected him to return eventually. He never did. The silence between you became its own kind of violence. Finally, the worst part.

It happened accidentally. Your mother stood in the kitchen arranging flowers while late afternoon sunlight spilled gold across the countertops. Outside, cicadas buzzed lazily in the heat, summer sounding exhausted now. You barely listened until she said, “I saw Mrs. Lee earlier.” Something inside you immediately sharpened.

“Oh?” “She said Heeseung’s leaving tomorrow morning.” The world stopped. Your hand froze halfway around your coffee mug. “What?” Your mother glanced up, surprised by the sudden rawness in your voice. “He’s heading back early. Something about work starting sooner in Seoul this year.” Tomorrow. The word crashed through you like cold seawater. Tomorrow meant this was real. Tomorrow meant endings.

Tomorrow meant there was suddenly almost no time left to fix the thing you had destroyed with your own hands. Your pulse turned violent beneath your skin. Outside the window, the ocean stretched blue and endless beyond the cliffs, glittering beneath the fading August light. Beautiful. Temporary. Already slipping away.

—

The next morning arrived too bright. Cruel sunlight flooded Jeju Island in sheets of gold, the ocean glittering innocently beneath the sky like yesterday had not split your heart open. Everything looked painfully beautiful in the way endings often did.

You barely slept. Every hour had passed tangled in panic and memory and the unbearable realization that if you let him leave now, this would become one of those tragedies people carried forever.  The kind stitched permanently beneath your ribs. By nine in the morning, your hands were shaking. By nine-fifteen, you were in your car.

You drove too fast down the coastline road, sunlight flashing violently through the trees, your heartbeat louder than the music still playing faintly through the speakers. Wind rushed through the open windows carrying salt and heat and the last dying breath of summer. Your mind replayed him endlessly. The rainstorm. The yacht. The forehead kiss. The way he had looked at you like you were something worth staying soft for.

The moment his face went cold after your cruelty. You gripped the steering wheel harder. Not this. Please not this. The marina came into view suddenly beyond the cliffs, boats swaying gently beneath the sunlight. People moved lazily along the docks carrying luggage and coffees and ordinary lives. Heeseung. Standing near the end of the dock beside one of the ferries heading toward the mainland.

White T-shirt. Dark sunglasses. One duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Leaving. The sight hit you so hard you nearly forgot to breathe. For one terrible second, fear almost won again. Turn around. Protect yourself. Pretend this never mattered. Then he glanced up. Saw you. And everything stopped. You barely remembered getting out of the car. Only the sound of your footsteps against the dock, the ocean below, your pulse roaring loud enough to drown the gulls overhead.

He straightened slowly as you approached, no smile, no anger either, just exhaustion, like he had finally become tired of hoping, that hurt most. You stopped a few feet away from him, sunlight breaking across the water between you both. Neither of you spoke at first.

Words suddenly felt impossibly small compared to everything sitting between your ribs. Finally, he exhaled quietly, “You came.” The simplicity of it nearly broke you, no accusation, no bitterness, just surprise, your throat tightened painfully. “I had to.” The wind moved softly around you, carrying warmth off the ocean.

He looked at you carefully then, like he was trying not to expect too much, and suddenly you realized something devastating, if you stayed silent now, you would lose him forever, no more pride, no more running, just truth, your eyes burned. “I was scared,” you admitted first. The words came rough, fragile around the edges. Heeseung stayed perfectly still. So you kept going before courage disappeared again.

“I think…” You swallowed hard. “I think I knew what this was becoming before you did. And it terrified me because everything here ends eventually and I didn’t know how to love someone without already grieving them.” His expression shifted slightly. You stepped closer. “I said those things because I thought if I ruined this first, it would hurt less when summer ended.”

Your voice cracked embarrassingly on the last word. The ocean blurred faintly behind him. “But it already hurts,” you whispered. “It hurts all the time.” Silence. Not empty. Listening. You looked at him fully then, no defenses left anywhere inside you. “I was stupid.” A breath. “And cruel.” Another. “And completely in love with you.”

Just love. Messy and terrifying and real enough to destroy you if he rejected it. Your chest ached violently waiting for him to say something. Anything. Heeseung stared at you for a long moment that felt endless beneath the August sun. Then finally, he laughed softly, not mockingly, disbelieving, like he had spent the entire summer waiting for a miracle and couldn’t quite believe it had arrived, you frowned immediately through the tears threatening your eyes. “That’s your reaction?”

He stepped closer. Close enough now that you could see the exhaustion beneath his eyes, the relief slowly undoing it. “I’ve been waiting all summer for you to admit that,” he said quietly. Idiot. You made a broken sound halfway between a laugh and a sob before grabbing the front of his shirt and kissing him, hard, desperate enough to make up for every moment you wasted being afraid. His hands found your waist instantly, pulling you against him with something almost painful in its urgency, and suddenly the entire world dissolved into sunlight and saltwater and relief.

The kiss felt different now, not drowning, not war, like finally reaching shore after spending months lost at sea, his forehead rested against yours when you finally pulled apart, both of you breathing unevenly beneath the burning light. “You are unbelievably difficult,” he murmured.

You laughed wetly. “You stayed anyway.” “Yeah,” he admitted softly. “I did.” Around you, the marina continued moving, boats departing, gulls crying overhead, summer ending one irreversible second at a time. But for the first time since this began, nothing about this felt temporary anymore.

—

The late afternoon light filtered through the curtains of Heeseung’s bedroom, casting a golden haze over tangled sheets and bare skin. Months had passed since that messy night, since the angry kisses and the “this was a mistake” lies. What started as stolen moments and stubborn denial had slowly, stubbornly, become something real.

Now, you were exactly where you belonged, underneath him, legs locked around his waist as he moved inside you with deep, unhurried strokes. Every thrust pulled a fresh sound from your throat. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, back arching as pleasure coiled tight in your core. “Heeseung— mmph!” Your cry was muffled as he leaned down and kissed you, slow and filthy, his tongue sliding against yours while his hips kept that devastating rhythm. Heeseung chuckled warmly against your mouth, the vibration sending sparks through your body. He kissed you once more, softer this time, then pressed his lips gently to your forehead, lingering there as he stayed buried deep inside you.

Still teasing. Still chaos. Still both completely insufferable. But now it was real. He pulled back just enough to look at you, sweat-damp hair falling over his eyes, that signature smirk playing on his lips even while he was still pulsing inside you. “Thought I told you not to fall in love with me,” he murmured, voice low and rough with affection.

You smiled up at him, glowing and utterly wrecked, your hand coming up to brush his hair back.

“Thought I told you not to call.” Heeseung let out a genuine laugh, the kind that made your chest feel too full. He rolled his hips once more, slow and deep, drawing a soft gasp from you before stilling again. “Yeah, well… I never was good at listening,” he said, brushing his nose against yours. “That night after the party, when I texted you to come over… I told myself it was just one more mistake. One more time and we’d get it out of our systems.”

You raised an eyebrow, tracing your fingers down his spine. “And how’s that working out for you?” “Terribly,” he admitted, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Because every time you walked away, I kept thinking about you. Every summer. Every fight. Every time you looked at me like you wanted to kill me and kiss me at the same time.”

He shifted slightly, still deep inside you, and rested his forehead against yours. “I kept telling myself not to fall. And then you showed up at my door the next morning anyway. Stubborn as hell. Beautiful as ever.” You laughed softly, tightening your legs around him. “You’re the one who kept calling. Kept texting. Kept pulling me back in.”

Heeseung’s eyes softened, that rare vulnerable look breaking through the cocky exterior. “Because I couldn’t stop. Even when I tried.” His thumb stroked your cheek. “Guess I’m the idiot who fell first.” The room felt smaller, warmer, wrapped in golden light and years of history finally settling into place. All the almosts, the what-ifs, the angry almost-kisses on balconies and beaches, they had led here. To this. You pulled him down into another kiss, slow and sweet this time, savoring the way he melted against you.

When you broke apart, Heeseung froze for half a second, then broke into the brightest, most boyish grin you’d ever seen on him.“That’s what this whole thing has been, hasn’t it? One long, messy ‘maybe’ that turned into forever.” You nodded, eyes shining. “No more mistakes. No more running. Just us.”

“Just us,” he echoed. He kissed you again, deeper, hungrier, and started moving inside you once more, slow and intentional, like he was sealing the words into your skin. The laughter faded into soft moans and whispered names, the two of you losing yourselves in each other one more time.

Later, as the sun dipped lower and you lay tangled together under the sheets, Heeseung’s fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare back, he pressed one last kiss to your shoulder.

“So… Call Me Maybe?” he asked, smirking.

You grinned. “Only if you promise to always pick up.”

“Deal.”

Well, “pretending” is putting it generously considering you’ve still got faint bruises from where his hands were pressed into your thigh four days ago when he had you bent over a classroom desk with your panties shoved aside and his ringed fingers fucking you open so slowly and so deeply until your brain shorted out completely and all you could see behind your closed eyes was light and stars and his name written everywhere. Then, of course, there was the day after that, where your face was pressed into silk in a vacant room in his father’s hotel as he fucked you so hard your legs shook all the way back home. Oh, and let’s not forget when he—

Okay. Uh. So, obviously, there is something severely wrong with you.

Maybe the better question is whether anyone here can tell that whatever exists between you only really exists in the negative space between arguments and the furious, hungry way you tear into each other like starving animals with no sense of control and even less shame. (Like, genuinely less than zero.)

Probably not. No one ever looks at Seoul’s precious business prodigy and imagines he’s capable of losing control, let alone decorum. Meanwhile, you’re the only one who knows he’s actually the most insufferable asshole to ever exist.

Whatever. No one here even has basic instincts, let alone intuition. From the outside, you look serene and every bit the beloved perfect porcelain doll perched exactly where she belongs on her little shelf beside her ‘fiancé,’ and that’s all anyone notices, which is what matters, right? So really, who cares if from the inside you’re vibrating with this horribly specific urge to either smash Sunghoon’s stupidly pretty face into the nearest marble or drag him by the tie into an empty room and let him fuck you senseless? (Preferably both.) (In that order.)

Time out. 

You care. Obviously, you care. Hello? Pull yourself together and get the hell out of your own head. This freakishly insane sex thing cannot keep happening.

Also, you are literally at a formal event with cameras and vultures in designer circling everywhere, drooling for a singular misstep. For God’s sake, your sweet, sweet parents are here, hovering somewhere near the front, trying (and failing) not to look obvious as they peek over their champagne flutes and watch you with that unmistakable cocktail of pride, hope, and a reasonable dash of parental concern. Every time you catch their eye, they break into these ridiculous, adoring smiles and wave at you like you’re still six years old and twirling onstage in a tutu instead of swanning through a ballroom with the devil himself hanging off your arm. And by an incredible mercy from the universe, they’re also just as completely and spectacularly oblivious to the fact that their darling, beloved daughter is currently one blasphemously filthy Sunghoon-shaped thought away from turning the whole family legacy into a cautionary tale whispered at every future gathering in this vicinity.

Not to fucking mention, the two of you fucking around cannot keep happening, not just because it’s monumentally stupid or a total violation of basic common sense, but because of the kind of consequences you don’t even want to think about. You’d like to say regret is one of those consequences, but that would be a lie so bold that you fear the heavens might actually smite you where you stand. Normal people (sane people) would probably lie awake at night, mortified and consumed by guilt or, at the very least, a sense of shame, but you? Oh, you lie awake restlessly (and terribly, terribly horny) replaying every minute, genuinely wondering whether anyone else in the long and sordid history of the human race has ever been fucked the way Park Sunghoon fucks you. 

So, what damning consequences are there then, if not sorrows and prayers? Well, none other than your best friend finding out. Not Sunoo (God bless his messy little heart). No, the true terror is having to look Jang “I’ll kill us both” Wonyoung in the eye and admit you fucked Sunghoon again after swearing (for the third… maybe fourth? time) that you wouldn’t. Oh, the thought alone makes you grimace. So seriously, get it together and stop thinking about fucking Sunghoon. Literally and figuratively. 

You catch a glimpse of yourself in one of the mirrors as you pass, and it honestly defies belief even to you that beneath all this Prada and these pearls, your brain is hosting the kind of thoughts that would make the devil blush. Your skin is bare from your neck to just below your collarbones, except for a double strand of pearls tight around your throat, which right now feels more like a leash than an accessory (Especially when it’s practically one more deep breath away from strangling you, and not even in the fun, kinky way). You’re still wearing that disgusting diamond ring, too, which is a reminder so gaudy it feels like it hums with radioactive energy every time you move your hand, so you do your best to pretend it’s just another ring. And of course, not a single soul in the room is trying to hide the fact that they’re watching your every move as if you’re just another centerpiece for them to look at. At least the lilies in the flower arrangements have the luxury of being replaced before they wilt.

You smile and keep walking anyway. They want the show? They’re getting the fucking show.

“Stop yanking my arm,” Sunghoon suddenly mutters from the side of his mouth and gets you out of your thoughts. “Can you pay attention for five seconds? You’re practically dragging me across the room. Fucking relax.”

“I’m not yanking your arm,” you hiss back, smiling wider for the cameras that are flashing so aggressively you’re about two seconds away from developing epilepsy. “I’m walking at a normal pace. Like a normal, non-corpse person. And I am completely, one-hundred-percent fucking relaxed—”

“For the love of God, stop talking” he cuts you off under his breath, sounding highly irritated while also keeping that artificial, picture-perfect smile glued to his face. “You’re literally clenching.”

“Oh, am I?” you mock, still keeping your face perfectly poised for the people passing by as the photographers move on to their next target. “Funny, you didn’t seem to complain about that last time. Should I do that thing you liked to make it better? What was it you said? ‘Just like thaaat, just stay right there and let me—’

Sunghoon immediately turns his head and gives you a look that says he’s half a second away from dragging you back to the car. Which, frankly, would solve nothing except maybe you’d finally get the chance to scream at him again. Or Worse. 

“That’s not funny.”

You let a quiet little laugh slip when you see the way he clenches his jaw out of anger. “It’s hilarious, actually.”

No one can tell that the two of you are dysfunctional. Right?

Eventually, after collapsing back into your chair and listening to a very tipsy Heeseung’s soliloquy about god-knows-what (something about how he’d trade this entire table for a bowl of Ramen right now) for about thirty minutes, you make the fatal mistake of tuning into the conversation across from you, and you have to blink three times just to make sure you’re not hallucinating and that it actually is Park Sunghoon who your very own dad is coddling right now. 

Oh. Okay.

This is a fresh new circle of hell you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy, which is ironic, considering the enemy in question is Park Sunghoon himself. And he is actually, somehow (terrifyingly), bonding with your sweet, sweet dad. Over what? You’d really rather not know. But it started with your dad making some offhand, dad-tier reference to Fight Club, and that was all it took. Next thing you know, Heeseung gleefully launches Sunghoon into the conversation by saying, “Oh, oh! Hoon here made me watch that movie last week!” and Sunghoon, the absolute bastard, does the unthinkable. Instead of being normal and silent and brooding in his usual haunted-castle-inhabitant way, he slips seamlessly into the conversation like this is his true calling and starts quoting the movie to your dad with a shit-eating grin, dropping lines like—“The things you own end up owning you,”—as if he’s a misunderstood film major on the low and not, in fact, the reason you’re contemplating unspeakable sins in a public venue.

You shoot your dad a look of pure horror as he throws his head back and pats Sunghoon on the shoulder with the kind of giddy, fatherly approval that makes you want to crawl under the table and die. Et tu, Father Dearest?

So, you do the only reasonable thing in this scenario: you drag Sunghoon up by the arm and decide to begin the slow, torturous death march of personally greeting every partner, every board member, and just every single socialite whose name slips through your brain like water the second they’re said. Sunghoon does most of the talking, and of course, he’s charming enough to get away with it, but if you listen closely, you’ll notice that his voice is empty and detached and the literal conversational equivalent of reading off cue cards in his head. Though you could never deny that he knows how to work a room with ease, and it honestly just pisses you off even more. But whatever. You smile and tilt your chin the way you’ve seen in all the glossy press photos and let yourself be admired like a well-funded project that’s shiny enough to distract everyone from the fact that you’d rather be anywhere else… But if you have to spend one more minute watching him shake hands and trade pleasantries with men who would sell their own daughters for a sliver of what he has, you swear you’ll—

“Y/N, darling!” A woman coos, and you recognize her vaguely as the wife of one of those partners but can’t for the life of you be bothered to remember her name (you really need to work on that) as she leans in, lips painted the same shade of insincerity as her smile. “You look absolutely radiant. Your mother must be so proud. I just saw her, actually.” Her eyes flick over you once before she sighs delicately. “But oh—we were all so terribly concerned when you weren’t able to join us for the launch dinner in Tokyo last week. The press simply had a field day with it, didn’t they?”

What a treat. 

You’d almost give her points for how sweet she makes it sound if you weren’t already an expert at translating vultures. And you’ve doomscrolled online speculations enough to know exactly how much everyone here enjoyed your so-called absence that night, so she really didn’t need to spell it out. But again, points for trying. Sunghoon tightens his grip on your arm when you lightly huff a laugh, and you can tell it’s his “please don’t start” warning squeeze. 

So naturally, you start. 

“Oh. Thank you for your concern. You know, I figured Tokyo would survive a night without me. Last I heard, the city’s still standing, so it seems I was right. I’m glad it gave everyone something to talk about, though.” You pause just long enough for her to register the dig before you sweetly add with a smile, “But really, thank you for your kindness. It means the world.”

The woman blinks about three times like she’s processing your tone, but she recovers quickly and laughs like you’ve just told the funniest joke in the world. “Oh, bless your heart. What a charming girl.” She turns back to her husband, loops her arm through his with a satisfied smile, and then gestures back in your direction with a manicured hand as she walks away. “Isn’t she just lovely? No wonder they’re a couple, those two.”

(What a charming girl. Vulture translation? What a bitch.)

You sip what’s left of your champagne and nod. “Thank youuuu.”

That earns you a quick side eye and one of those Sunghoon specials: the silent, soul murdering scoff, and it truly takes everything in you not to grin. Instead, you look up at him with your lashes fluttering, all doe-eyed and sweet like you’ve never said anything wrong in your life. There’s the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth, gone as quickly as it appears with a flicker of something very close to amusement in his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything. You just keep smiling and let him steer you away as you tuck yourself tighter against his side with your head held high.

Sunghoon doesn’t say anything until you’re a safe distance away and no one’s close enough to pretend they aren’t listening. “That’s the third time you’ve scared someone off tonight,” He mutters, and there’s… a flash of worry hidden under the irritation in his eyes as he jabs his chin towards the champagne glass in your hand. “Slow down with that, will you?”

He looks at you for a second longer, and it’s like a ghost from a past life has wandered into the room. Not the spooky, sheet-over-the-head kind, but the kind that smells faintly of old cologne and broken promises, but the sight is still ghostly enough to make your skin prickle. 

“Why?” you scoff, raising your glass just to spite him. “Worried I’m going to embarrass your precious little image?”

“Because I know you,” he says simply. 

It’s only three stupid words, but your stupid heart still nosedives straight through your chest and drags half of your vital organs down with it.

It’s funny how the human heart can memorize the shape of someone and never ever unlearn it, even if you’ve moved on and tried to erase their ghost.

The two of you stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, and you see Sunghoon’s jaw tick in the slightest. And, of course, he doesn’t let the faint tenderness in his voice just then linger, so he adds, “…And don’t think I’ll waste a second of my week listening to you bitching and whining when you inevitably fuck up and end up plastered all over every gossip site in Seoul. So behave, and put it away.”

The moment immediately snaps, and something inside you does with it, too.

“What, are you my daddy now?” You step closer and drop your voice into a lustrous purr, and before he can even blink you lean up and drag the flat of your tongue in a slow stripe up the shell of his ear. Sunghoon tenses.

To anyone passing by, it probably looks like a perfectly innocent moment where a doting fiancée shares a quiet word. Nothing scandalous at all.

“Go ahead,” you whisper, and bite down on his earlobe gently just to tease. “Take the glass away and keep telling me what to do, Sunghoon. I know you want to. I’d even listen to you if you say it nicely.” 

You can see the war happening behind his eyes as he fights not to react and give you the satisfaction. Which, frankly, is the best part.

“Shit,” he mutters, “your fucking attitude’s out of control. We’re in public.”

You pull away snugly and pat him right on the cheek like he’s a sulky kid, trying not to laugh in his face. “I don’t care. If you tell me what to do again, I’ll set your hair on fire.”

“Just shut up—”

You arch your brows when you notice, with vicious curiosity, how the tips of his ears have suddenly gone bright red.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, pointing at his ears. “Are you blushing? Seriously? All I had to do was call you d—”

He shoots you a death glare. “Shut the fuck up.”

You file that in your brain for a different time and gesture lazily between the two of you. “You shut the fuck up. We’re literally handing your precious father the perfect façade on a silver platter, so what more do you want from me? Should I just stand there, look pretty, and keep my mouth shut like a good little accessory?”

His eyes linger on your face, searching, and you can tell he’s trying not to look too pleased about any of this. “Funny, you almost sound like you’re enjoying yourself as opposed to how you were acting in Japan.”

You scoff, loud enough that a couple of suits glance over. “Don’t bring up Japan.”

You reach out and grab a champagne flute from a passing tray while setting your empty one down, then drain half of it in a single go before flashing your brightest, fakest smile at a group of some middle aged women looking your way. “And for the record, you’re welcome. You look so much better with me on your arm, Sunghoon. Try to keep up.”

He leans in and whispers in your ear. “Ah. Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re irreplaceable. Because you’re not.” He lets his eyes flick down to your lips, then up again. “So, let’s not get cocky, princess. It’s not a good look on you.”

Something stings in your chest, but you ignore it and focus on how absolutely rageful you feel.

When you’re sure no one’s watching, you step closer and lean in, acting like you’re fixing his tie, but as you do, you move your heel sideways until it lands right on top of his polished leather shoe. You put your whole weight behind it to dig in harder until he grunts a curse right in your ear and his hand shoots up to wrap around your waist to steady himself.

“I don’t know, Sunghoon. I’d say this is a pretty fucking good look on me,” you hum, twisting your sharp pointy heel into his foot mercilessly. “Or does it only suit you when you’re the one stepping on everyone else?”

Sunghoon grits his teeth — clearly refusing to give you the satisfaction of a full wince as his hand tightens on your waist. “I think you’re doing all the stepping right now—Fuck—Are you trying to break my foot?”

“If the shoe fits,” you purr mockingly, letting him go with a kick.

Sunghoon’s brows pinch together, and his eyes are practically shooting daggers through you, but you know better than anyone that he’s all bark and no bite when you’re in public like this. So you shrug and turn away first just as an old man wobbles up to greet him, and all of a sudden Sunghoon is the poster boy of composure and charm, acting like he owns the goddamn building (Which, by extension, he literally does.) You mirror him in your own way and glue yourself to his side while also nodding along to whatever bullshit they’re talking about. 

But unfortunately, the problem here isn’t the urge to scream at him or throw a champagne flute at his head (tempting as that is.) No, it’s how your self control seems to shrivel by the second the longer you stand here pretending to be a functioning, sane, and dignified member of high society, when in reality, you believe you’re objectively the horniest person in this entire godforsaken ballroom and maybe even in the greater Seoul area. Quite possibly on earth, even. Is there… like a hotline for this? Ew. Scratch that. Is there a vaccine instead? Because you’re starting to think you might be a medical anomaly at this point, and you’d honestly wire your life savings to whoever can prove that somewhere, someone out there is hornier than you. And if such a person exists, how do they even get anything done, considering every single waking moment that Sunghoon isn’t inside you lately feels like slow-burning agony and bottomless despair? 

Wait a damn minute. 

You know what? This is just the ridiculous amount of champagne you’ve had planting these thoughts in your head. You need to drink a glass of water immediately and maybe even splash it in your own face for good measure. 

Okay. Okay, deep breath. Whatever you do, just don’t look at his hands. Easy. There we go. Hands? What hands? You’ve never even seen a hand in your life. Don’t even think about his hands. (You are absolutely thinking about his hands.) Just think about literally anything else. Think about corporate tax fraud, think about puppies… or your mother’s face if she could hear your internal monologue right now—literally anything but his hand and the fact that every vein on it is standing out like a road map you want to trace with your tongue—oh, perfect. Now he’s moving his hand. Aaaaaaaand now he’s wrapping it right around your arm.

Excellent. Fantastic.

Has he somehow developed psychic powers specifically to torment you?

Hello? Park Sunghoon, if you can hear this, I fucking hate you. Get your evil psychic sex hands out of my personal space and focus on talking to that fossil fuel. I’m done. Fuck you.

As if on cue, he shifts, and his stupidly thick, long fingers tighten around your arm just a little, and you can practically catalogue every single vein that runs up his knuckles. And don’t even get started on those gold Tiffany rings he always wears that are flashing under the chandelier lights every time he idly moves or spins them around like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing. Fucking great. Your mind is now running a highlight reel of everywhere they’ve been and every time he’s made you come apart with just two fingers. You can’t even blink without picturing them coated in your wetness with his rings glinting as he circles your clit and works you apart. 

“You can stop looking at me like that now.”

Sunghoon says with his gaze fixated on you, and it breaks you right out of the spell. His hand tightens minutely on your arm, and his fingers make a slow circle around your bare skin, enough to set every nerve on fire. You tense instantly, because that tiny movement is enough to let you know he definitely saw the way you were looking at him. (Allegedly.)

“Unless,” he hums mockingly with one brow arched, “Is there something you want, darling?”

You don’t even realize you’re biting your lip until he looks down at your mouth. Okay… So it’s over. How do you even come back from this? Fuck. You’ve at least got to try. Get out of your head and stop staring at him.

“Don’t start this again. I don’t want anything from you.” You blink the Sunghoon-induced stupidity from your brain, and give him your best impression of someone who hadn't just been mentally deep-throating his fingers with God and all of his angels listening. “And I wasn’t looking at you. I was trying not to kill myself while you were talking to that borderline misogynistic ogre by indulging in the act of dissociation, and you just so happened to be in my line of sight.”

Before Sunghoon can say something cutting back (and you know he’s about to, because lo and behold, Smug Sunghoon™️ has made an appearance), Ningning materializes at your side, and her timing is so perfect you almost want to kiss her on the mouth. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, voice calm and sweet in that way she does when she’s trying to sound professional as she looks at Sunghoon. “You’re needed by the west bar—Chairman Lee says it’s urgent. Something about the press embargo regarding your father, I believe. Also, the Chairman of Mirae Holdings wants to greet the two of you personally. And, um, his wife would like a photo, so… good luck.”

She turns to you, and there’s a brief, panicked flicker in her eyes that only you catch. You widen your own just a fraction to give her the universal—please save me—signal and, God bless her heart, she gets it instantly.

“Oh! Right, and—Y/N, you’re also needed by… Ms. Oh? Yes, Ms. Oh! She’s been looking everywhere for you about—um—the… guest list for the afterparty your parents are hosting? Also very urgent. She says it can’t wait, actually, so… let’s move along, shall we?”

With that, she politely but firmly starts to steer you away with her “I’m-trying-to-be-professional-but-your-dysfunction-is-making-it-impossible” smile on her face.

And of course, Sunghoon immediately narrows his eyes and scoffs like he finds the whole situation absurd. “Really? Table placements? That’s what we’re going with?”

“Yes, really,” you shoot back defensively. “Clearly, I have a very important, very urgent job to do, so you should go handle your… embargo crisis, or whatever.”

He cocks a brow, looking wholly unconvinced, but he watches as Ningning pulls you away anyway. “Right. Try not to miss me too much.”

Oh, shut up.

Thank God for Ningning. 

If only she could also solve the problem of your brain and your legs threatening to betray you before the night is over.

Sunghoon is bored out of his fucking mind.

He’s been smiling for so long his jaw hurts, and if one more middle-aged man with a bad haircut asks him how his father is doing in New York, he might actually snap. Chairman-this, Director-that, and whoever fucking else. All of them are eager to praise Park Group’s “global vision,” as if glazing his father hard enough will magically elevate their stock.

As if Sunghoon gives a shit.

“Yes, he’s well.”

“Yes, he sends his regards.”

What he doesn’t mention is that he wouldn’t actually know if his father sends his regards or not because he hasn’t even spoken to the man himself in weeks. Any “conversation” they’ve had has been filtered through a tired assistant or squeezed into a curt business call that never lasted longer than necessary and never strayed beyond numbers and names. His father doesn’t waste words on pleasantries, let alone sentiments like “regards.” Whatever version of Park Sunghoon these men think they’re flattering right now is just another empty suit fulfilling his role, all while his father is God-knows-where out of the country, spinning deals and shaking hands with men who’d eat their own children if the price was right. But Sunghoon lets them talk and charms them anyway. He’s been trained for this since before he could tie his shoes. It’s easy. It’s always been easy.

All throughout this endless amount of small talk that makes him want to smash his fist through the wall just to feel something again, some stubborn, traitorous part of him is always keeping track of you underneath it all, the same way the tide can’t help but be pulled by the moon. 

Let’s get one thing straight: he’s not looking for you.

He’s being responsible and checking on you to make sure you haven’t disappeared out of a window just to spite him or made a mess he’ll have to clean up later, since you seem to be in a particular mood tonight.

Even as his eyes mindlessly scan the room to get a sense of where you are, your presence still presses in next to him even though you’re nowhere near him. Like a phantom limb, he keeps forgetting he’s lost until it starts aching again. He feels you in the space at his side where you were standing minutes ago. He can feel the ghost of your touch, the shape of your fingernails digging crescents into his arms while everyone else was oblivious, and the sound of your voice when you were half-mad and furious and begging for something you’d never admit out loud. The most infuriating part is that lately, he can’t just turn it off and ignore it anymore, despite how good he’s always been at doing that. (Numbness is practically a family heirloom.)

Whatever.

His gaze drifts over your shared table, and his eyes catch for just a second on Hana doubled over, laughing with Mr. Lee and your parents. There are two empty chairs near them, and they sit there like a gap in the teeth of something living and hungry, and tonight they technically don’t belong to his parents, but the emptiness seems to gape right back at him accusingly, as if it knows it’s the missing piece everyone’s learned to ignore. Sunghoon glances away, annoyed with himself, because he hates the way that after all these years, it still feels like standing outside on a patio somewhere, watching someone else’s family pass plates and laughter around a candlelit table. A father sneaks a slice of cake for his wife while voices call out for the birthday girl, and a boy just hovers at the edge, trying not to want what would never be his.

Where the hell are you, though? Why can’t he— 

There you are.

He spots you by one of the tables, haloed in the warm spill of the chandelier light with your head tilted in concentration and your pearls catching on your collarbones. You look happier than you did next to him just a few moments ago, and that alone is enough to set his teeth on edge. What’s worse is that you actually look… comfortable. Not the kind you pretend to look. The real kind.

And standing next to you is… 

Of course. 

Jeon Jungkook. Park Group’s favorite rival heir and his father’s pet nuisance. Jeon Jungkook, who has a reputation for never once learning how to keep his hands to himself, whose idea of a good time is ruining someone else’s, and who’d probably auction off his own father’s soul (and his own, for that matter) to knock Sunghoon off his pedestal. He can see the way he’s standing just a little too close and grinning that lazy, dangerous grin, with one tattooed hand hovering near your waist as he leans in to say something he most likely has no business saying to you. 

The rest of the ballroom disappears as he watches the way his eyes drag over you without shame. It’s just the sight in front of him and the ugly, primal urge to put his fist through something—preferably Jungkook’s cocky face. He really fucking hates that every part of him wants to storm over and remind him (and himself) that you’re not fucking available for other people to look at, or touch, or even think about with that damned ring on your finger.

Fuck off, he tells his own mind. We’re not doing this. 

So he ignores the two of you. In theory. 

But then he sees Jungkook reach out and tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and his fingers brush your cheek like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and something in Sunghoon’s carefully constructed composure fractures so fast he almost feels dizzy. Surely he can’t just get away with that. Surely this asshole knows—everyone in this room knows—that you’re supposed to be his fiancée. Surely you—

Sunghoon doesn’t even realize he’s moving until he’s pulled straight towards you by whatever sick gravitational force that keeps fucking with him. Jungkook grins wider when he sees him approaching, then tilts his head as if he’s surprised to see him. 

“There you are, Sunghoon-ah!” he drawls, “Y/N here was just telling me the most interesting story about your little trip to Tokyo.”

The mention of Tokyo nearly knocks the breath right out of him for the hundredth time tonight, but he keeps his expression ironed flat. He flicks a glance at you, and you’re sparkling in the light and looking so goddamn alive—not the way you did on that first day in Japan with your eyes always somewhere far away in an empty way—and you lean into him when he slides an arm firmly around your waist like it’s his birthright. Your mouth curves up at the corner in a way that tells him you know exactly what you’re doing, then you tip your head back, and your perfume wraps around him so suddenly it nearly makes him falter. 

“What’s wrong?” You purr, and every syllable is dipped in the kind of mockery only he would ever catch. “Miss me too much?”

For a heartbeat, Sunghoon goes completely still, and the noise of the ballroom drops away and is replaced by the wild thrum of his pulse and the scent of you. Then he remembers where he is, and he clears his throat.

Sunghoon greets Jungkook and politely inclines his head—all courteous respect for the older man, but there’s not a single atom of warmth beneath it. “I did not expect to see you here tonight.”

“Hello to you too,” He raises his glass at Sunghoon in a way that only pisses him off more. “I go where the fun is, you know that.” 

Sunghoon returns his smile with one of his own, perfectly polite, perfectly blank, every inch the heir his father raised him to be. “Well, I hope you’re enjoying yourself. I’m sure you’ve made the rounds by now. Or have you only just arrived to try your luck?”

Jungkook laughs, and his eyes flicker down to where Sunghoon’s hand is gripping your waist. “Luck has nothing to do with it. Besides, it’s not every day I get to catch up with old friends back home since I’m practically overseas all the time.” 

“Ah, right. I almost forgot how much older you are,” Sunghoon hums, punctuating and slightly raising his tone when he says the word older. “Back in the day, you’d be out on the balcony with her brother, keeping score while she and I turned the whole garden into a racetrack. She had pigtails, I had grass stains, and you… Well, you already had a drink in your hand, didn’t you? Weren’t you in your… mid-twenties?”

You clear your throat and give Sunghoon a look that says you’re about ten seconds away from staging an intervention for this pissing contest, but Sunghoon doesn’t even so much as blink.

“I was nineteen, actually,” Jungkook corrects firmly. “Young and stupid, I know. But still, barely older than you are now. You make it sound like I was supervising you from a rocking chair.”

“Same thing,” Sunghoon says smoothly, and his grip at your waist tightens just a fraction. “You’re practically like family, aren’t you, hyung?”

“I haven’t even seen him since like… 2023?” you cut in, glancing between at Sunghoon like he’s mildly embarrassing you. Then your fingers slip behind him as you pinch his side hard, though he doesn’t react. “We’re just catching up. Try not to scare him off, sweetheart.” 

“Hey, I’m only following orders. Her brother told me to keep an eye on her—make sure she doesn’t get too bored hanging around all these old men.” Jungkook glances at you with a wink that makes Sunghoon want to put his fist through the nearest antique vase. “Someone’s gotta keep her entertained.”

Sunghoon’s smile never falters, though his grip around you tightens. “Oh, you don’t have to worry. She’s in good hands with me. Never a dull moment.”

You snort so loud it actually startles Sunghoon, and he turns his head to look at you, and you just meet his eyes and smack his arm in an almost playful way. “Shut up,” you mouth at him, but your lips are twitching, and he can’t help it—he almost smiles. Almost. 

Then you turn your attention back to Jungkook. “Oh, come on. Hold on. Don’t tell me you’re about to start playing big brother on me now. Weren’t you the one sneaking me soju under the table at my graduation party?”

Jungkook presses his pointer finger up to his lips and laughs. “Allegedly. And only because you begged so sweetly, love.”

Sunghoon tongues his cheek. The fuck?

Then the memory of that exact party flickers across his mind. It was the summer he perfected the art of self-control, and there were fairy lights tangled in the trees, the distant hum of cicadas in the open night air, and you were spinning in your heels with Wonyoung and Sunoo egging you on as you drunkenly stumbled over to him with your cheeks flushed red, even after he’d spent all summer ignoring you. He remembers looking at you and swallowing down everything he didn’t know how to say and turning away coldly. 

Fucking hell. I’m not eighteen anymore. I’ve moved on.

Meanwhile, you—well, you can’t even pinpoint the exact moment the night turned into whatever this is, but honestly, you’re buzzing. You’re pretty sure it’s mostly from the champagne (which you’ve been sipping way too fast), but also maybe from the absolute thrill of watching this unfold in real time. 

“You were always my favorite troublemaker. Sunghoon-ah, tell me, are you keeping her in line, or do I need to step in?” 

“Trust me, she doesn’t need anyone to keep her in line.” His voice goes a touch lower, just for you. “She does whatever the hell she wants, don’t you, sweetheart?”

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t having the time of your life right now.

Jungkook, for all his charm, is just being himself—more or less harmless. If anything, he’s always looked at you like you’re the world’s most annoying little sister he loves to tease, and unfortunately, if you really think about it, he only touched your cheek the way someone who’s been around long enough to see you in every awkward preteen phase would (Which is all kinds of mortifying.) The only thing less likely than him actually flirting with you is him surviving your brother’s wrath if he tried. 

But you know exactly how this looks right now.

Two can play this game, Park Sunghoon. Let him stew and simmer and dig his stupid hand into your waist just a little harder, like he’s got something to prove. It’s not that he cares about you—God forbid—but you know when it comes to you, Sunghoon only cares when the narrative slips out of his pretty fingers because he’s a fucking control freak who can’t stand the thought of anyone else having his toys, especially when the world is watching and his precious image is on the line. His ‘fiancée’ shouldn’t be giggling with someone you’ve suspected he’s always low-key, always hated for reasons you can’t name, but maybe it’s because he could maybe, possibly, publicly rival him in name and in attention. 

So that’s exactly why you’re doing it.

You laugh a little louder, toss your hair over your shoulder, and give Jungkook your best, most sparkling eyes. “Maybe I should let you step in, actually. At least you’re fun at parties,” you raise your glass towards Jungkook, “which is more than I can say for some people.”

Jungkook laughs again, and you swear you almost see fumes come out of Sunghoon’s ears. “See? Some things really don’t change. She’s keeping you on your toes, I bet.”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon murmurs, letting his gaze linger on you, “She’s an expert at that.”

“Hardly have to try,” your heart trips over itself, but you just smirk back and whisper. “It’s not my fault you’re so easy to wind up.”

He leans in even closer to whisper in your ear. “Careful, princess. One of these days you’ll push too far.”

“Maybe I want to see what happens.”

Jungkook watches this exchange with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Ah, you two are adorable... Watching you is like watching a car crash in slow motion, like it’s almost impossible to look away from. Really makes me miss being that young and stupid.”

“I’m sorry, did you just—”

“Stupid—?”

“Just an observation. You’ll figure it out.” Jungkook shrugs and looks between you with a knowing look. “Try not to kill each other. Or do. Either way, make it entertaining. But anyway, I’ll leave you to it. Don’t want to stand in the way of true love—or… whatever you kids are calling it these days.” 

He lifts his glass in a lazy salute, and his gaze lingers on the two of you just a second longer than necessary before he turns to disappear into the crowd, leaving you and Sunghoon standing there alone. You immediately pull away from his grip, not quite yanking but not exactly gentle either, and you shoot him a glare. 

“Do you have an ounce of respect in you? Or do you constantly itch with the need to prove that you think you’re better than everyone?”

“I don’t think I’m better than everyone,” he smirks. “I know I am.”

“You arrogant bas—” 

“And I was just making conversation,” he completely cuts you off, speaking calmly as ever, as if he didn’t just spend five minutes trying to burn holes through Jungkook’s head with his eyes. “Or would you rather I stand here and let him eyefuck my fiancée right in front of me?”

“Oh my fucking god. Eyefuck?” The way he says it just kills you, and the laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, and it only pisses Sunghoon off more. “He literally treats me like I’m still a kid, you moron—please. Oh myyy god. Oh, I wish. My stomach hurts.”

“Like a kid? Did you fucking see the way he was looking at you—?” He nearly chokes, and the words spill out so fast it’s like he can’t stop himself. Then he falters and his brows furrow, and you see him actually pause like he’s trying to make sense of the universe. “What the hell do you mean, ‘you wish?”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re jealous, Sunghoon.”

He smoothens his expression, and his mouth curves into a mockery of a smile. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. When are you finally going to get it through that stubborn little head of yours that nothing you do actually matters to me? The only thing that matters to me is my image—which, unfortunately, includes you now.” 

Despite everything you’ve been telling yourself, you almost say it. It’s right there, and it’s burning the back of your throat like battery acid: 

Why the hell did you shove your tongue down that scandalous little skank of a socialite’s mouth just last week in Tokyo if this is how you’re acting?

But you ultimately swallow it down because you don’t want his answers. Not anymore.

“You were foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog, but ooooookay. By all means, bullshit me.”

Sunghoon clenches his jaw. “No, really. If you actually want to throw yourself at him somewhere more private, go right ahead. See if I care.”

“Oh, I will.” You go for the jugular because you’re tired and bored and angry. “Maybe I’ll let him buy me a drink. Hell, maybe I’ll even let him—”

“Go,” he cuts you off, and his nostrils flare. “Be my guest. I mean it, go.”

You just stare at him for a moment, and you can’t tell if he means it or not. “Heartless bastard. You really are a fucking asshole, you know that?”

“Is that supposed to hurt my feelings? What, did you expect me to beg you not to go to him?”

“No, Sunghoon. I don’t think you have any feelings left to hurt.”

You’re both painfully aware of the watchful eyes circling the ballroom—the way every gesture gets noticed, catalogued, and whispered about by people who’d sell their souls just to get a small understanding of what you’re saying. You keep your posture perfect with your teeth bared in something that only barely passes as a smile.

Then you scoff and turn on your heel.

Before you can take more than three steps, his hand is desperately around your wrist—not nearly as composed as he wants to look. It’s subtle enough that it might pass for a romantic gesture from the outside, but his grip is anything but soft. You freeze, and the whole world seems to slow down for just a second.

“Don’t go,” he murmurs.

And for a second—just one—your stupid, traitorous heart actually stutters at it like it forgot itself and heard something it’s been trained not to listen for.

“…It’s going to look like you’re storming off after an argument.”

There it is.

You laugh under your breath and slowly glance down at where his fingers are wrapped around your arm, then back up at him. “Let me go. I’ll do whatever I want.”

He doesn’t let go. “I know. But you’re not going anywhere tonight. Not with him. He’s—”

“What? Is he selfish? A liar? Cruel? Oh, maybe he fucks around? Or maybe he’s just another narcissist with a pretty face and a daddy complex? Is it all of the above?” Your mouth curves up, and you lean in to whisper in his ear. “Does that ring a bell?”

His fingers dig in harder. “Keep pushing, and I’ll remind you what happened the last time you mouthed off.”

You hum just to piss him off. “Oh? What’ll you do—drag me to the bathroom and fuck me stupid with all your precious investors ten feet away? That’s all you’re good for, isn’t it? You’re literally incapable of doing anything else.”

He doesn’t answer. But you catch the way his jaw clenches and his eyes darken, and that tells you everything you need to know. God, he’s so easy. 

And you’re even worse, because you almost hope he tries it. 

“Let go, Sunghoon,” you say quietly. “You don’t get to grab me, and you don’t get to scare off the people I choose to talk to just because you don’t like how it makes you feel.”

His mouth curves into that same empty smile from earlier, though the way his fists curl at his sides says otherwise. “I don’t feel anything.”

“So let go.”

He does.

And you walk away without looking back.

You unclip the double strand of pearls from your throat with shaking fingers because it suddenly feels like it’s cutting off the last bit of air in your lungs. With a sigh you can’t quite control, you set the pearls down on the marble counter, and for a second you just stand there with your palms pressed flat against the surface, letting the coolness seep into your skin and settle the electric rage buzzing in your chest. You close your eyes and count to three in a pathetic little ritual because if you don’t, you’re genuinely going to scream. 

Back in the day, you’d be out on the balcony with her brother, keeping score while she and I turned the whole garden into a racetrack. She had pigtails, I had grass stains...

Oh, he can fuck all the way off.

Actually, no. He and the boy in that memory can fuck off, loop the block, trip down the stairs, and take that cocky little nostalgia reel with them while they’re at it. You don’t know what possesses Park Sunghoon to just reach into the past and pluck out something golden and innocent as if it belongs to him, as if those memories are communal property—like he didn’t spend the last three years pretending none of it mattered, but there is something deeply, profoundly unwell about the way his mind works, and you once again have zero interest in diagnosing it.

Those memories should be yours. Yours only.

But maybe the tragedy of it all is realizing that they never belonged to just one of you. They’re his, too, and you can’t unshare them no matter how badly you want to. No, actually. The real tragedy isn’t that those memories belonged to both of you once—it’s that he only reaches for them when he wants to win. When it benefits him. When he wants to remind you that he still has access to something soft and sacred and yours. 

You don’t want him touching them with his dirty hands.

The boy from the garden is gone. You buried him yourself. And if Park Sunghoon thinks he gets to stand there in his perfect suit and cruel composure and decide when that version of himself is convenient to remember—

The bathroom door swings open.

You don’t have to look. You know it’s him by the way the room seems to contract, by the way your skin goes tight like it’s anticipating the impact of whatever is about to happen next.

Sunghoon doesn’t say your name. He never does when he’s like this. His expression is unreadable; it’s the same one he wears in boardrooms and press photos—except his jaw is clenched way too hard, and his gaze drops to your mouth for half a second too long, and his eyes—God, his eyes are burning holes through you.

“Really?” You huff irritably and turn to face him. “You can’t give me five fucking minutes alone?”

“Are you finally done making a scene?” 

You laugh and look around humorlessly. “You followed me into the women’s bathroom. Want to rethink who’s making a scene? Wait, actually—don’t you dare stand there and try to lecture me. Not when you getting blackout drunk at a formal fucking event is the reason I’m even standing here, wearing this—” you flash your ring finger at him, “—stupid fucking ring in the first place.”

“Keep your voice down,” he bites out, voice low enough to make your skin prickle. “Fuck. Do you want everyone to hear how desperate you are for attention?”

“If I wanted attention, I’d go up to Jungkook and ask him to fuck me on the table.” Sunghoon’s jaw clenches at that, and you want to grin, but you’re too pissed off and have a lot to say. “You know, maybe if you spent half as much energy minding your own business as you do pretending not to care about mine—”

Sunghoon locks the door. 

“The fuck? Why the hell did you lock—”

“Shut up,” He clicks his tongue and takes a step further. “I’m here to make sure you don’t ruin everything I’ve worked for. But you’d love it if I cared, wouldn’t you? Is that why you keep pushing me? Or is it just easier for you to piss me off than to admit you want something from me that you keep denying?”

“If anyone is going to ruin anything you’ve worked for, it’s you, you sloppy drunk bastard.” You bite back, but you can’t ignore the heat simmering between you. “What I want is for you to leave me the fuck alone. Or is that too complicated for Seoul’s precious little prince to understand?” you say slowly, enunciating like you’re talking to a particularly dense child. “Me. Want. You. Gone. Away. Not. Here.”

Sunghoon seems entirely unfazed. “You don’t want me to leave,” he says, as he steps even closer. “You never do.”

Fucking hell. He needs to stop eyeing you like he’s about to devour you and get the fuck out of here before you do something really, really stupid again.

“So help me, Park Sunghoon, if you take one more step closer, you’ll see exactly how far I can push you—right down those fucking stairs outside, and I’ll make sure you hit every single one on the way down—”

He’s in your space in half a heartbeat, and his voice feels like a blade at your throat. “Stop fucking talking. You talk so fucking much, you know that?”

“I do, actually! And I’ll keep fucking talking if I want to. You’ve been telling me what to do all night, as if I’d actually ever listen to you.” You shove your finger into his chest, hard enough to make his suit jacket wrinkle. “Why the fuck did you follow me in here like a dog? Huh? Should I throw you a bone to make you leave, puppy? Why are you here?”

“Because—” His voice cracks with anger, and his lips twist like the words taste sour in his mouth. “Because you make me so fucking mad I can’t even think straight. You drive me insane. Is that what you want to hear?”

Oh no. You know exactly where this is about to go. 

And you should stop it right here, right now, like a rational person because you spent the whole night swearing up and down that you were above this and that you could see Park Sunghoon one (1) time and walk away with your pride and panties intact. Oh, who the hell are we fooling?

You are about two seconds away from setting feminism back an entire decade. Oh noooooo.

“No. No. No. I don’t want to hear anything coming out of your mouth right now,” you spit back and shove him square in the chest. “Leave me alone.”

Sunghoon catches you hand when you shove him again, twisting your arm behind you and spinning you so your front slams against the marble edge of the sink.

“Let go!” You snarl, but your breath stutters when he presses right up against you and cages you in with his hips, his chest, and the iron grip of his hand. “Let go you fucking bastard.”

“Do you think I don’t know what you’ve been thinking of this whole night?” He mutters into your ear filthily. “Since you want to run your fucking mouth so bad, then say it to your own fucking face. Look at yourself.”

He growls and roughly brings his hand up to your jaw, and it’s big enough to cover nearly half your face as he forces your chin up until you’re staring at yourself in the mirror. You glare at his reflection, but the sight of the two of you like this—your body trapped between him and the sink, his broad frame blotting out everything behind you, the raw anger written all over your faces—sends a bolt of something hot and vicious right down your spine. 

You need to stop this. You really, truly do.

This is all so, so immensely wrong.

So why do you want it more than anything you’ve ever wanted in your life? 

“Hmm?” He slides his hand down your throat and curls his long fingers just tight enough to steal the breath from your lungs, and squeezes once. “Cat got your tongue, princess? Go on. Tell me to leave. I want to hear you say it while you look like this.”

It feels as though he is everywhere all at once. He is filling every inch of your space like he owns it, and worst of all, he’s curling into every corner of your mind until it feels like there’s nowhere you could turn where he isn’t already waiting for you.

You swallow against his palm. “Asshole.”

“Go on. Lie to me.”

Fuck this.

Maybe it’s the champagne ever so faintly humming through your system and making you braver than you should be, or maybe it’s something meaner. Either way, you twist hard out of his grip and slam your palms against his chest and shove him back with everything you have. He staggers a step, and you don’t give him time to recover before you’re on him, fisting the front of his suit jacket and pushing him against the wall with a grip so fierce your knuckles go white. 

“You know what, Sunghoon?” You tighten your grip on his jacket. “You’re the one who followed me in here with your tail wagging like you just can’t help yourself. So you tell me, what is it is that you want so badly? 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He tries to shove you off lightly, but you dig in harder and pin him right there. “Move.”

“No,” you spit. “Not this time. If there is something you want, you’re going to have to fucking ask for it.”

“I said move, or—”

You click your tongue. “If you wanted to move me, you would’ve done it by now. So shut up, and use your words.” You drag your mouth along his jaw to taunt him, and you feel the way his chest stutters under your palm as you throw his favorite phrase back in his face. “You can have anything you want—if you just ask for it. Or is the big, bad Park Sunghoon too fucking proud to beg for what he wants?”

Sunghoon yanks your head back just enough that your eyes meet his. 

“What makes you think you can talk to me like this?” He grits out but there’s a tremor in his voice. something that’s not anger, not entirely. “You’re such a fucking bitch. Running your filthy mouth like you weren’t out there—”

You grin and cut him off. “And you’re not getting anything from me until you ask for it, pretty prince. Up to you.”

He stares you down, and for one deliciously glorious second, you think he might actually say it.

But instead, he drags you a kiss that’s all teeth and fury, and your hands are everywhere at once—threading into his hair and tugging hard, dragging him closer like you want to fuse your mouths together until neither of you can breathe. He groans against your lips, and the sound of it goes straight to your core as you pull his jacket off him.

Sunghoon’s hands are even worse. One is fisted in your hair, and the other’s grip is possessive and greedy as he slides it down the length of your spine to grab your ass, hauling you up. He lifts you effortlessly and sets you back down so your ass lands hard against the edge of the sink. His tongue pushes into your mouth and tangles with yours, and you moan and arch your back further into him—clawing at his shirt until you’re tearing the first button open, then digging your nails across his skin hard enough to mark him.

He answers with a breathless groan and shoves your dress higher, and his fingers ghost over the band of your panties. He trails harsh kisses down the line of your throat, then dragging his tongue in one hot, wet line all the way from the swell of your breast up to your ear.

“Fuck, you’re so goddamn noisy for someone who’s always telling me this can’t happen again. Is this what you wanted, you slut?”

He sinks his teeth into your earlobe and then lets it go with a slow lick, and you shudder and roll your hips up against him without shame. The feeling of him between your legs is maddening as you feel all that hardness straining right into your core, and it only makes you want more, more, more, and MORE.

You don’t bother responding to his taunts, so you just drag him down into another kiss, and he immediately melts right into you as if he flew right into the sun. Your tongue presses flat against his — intertwining and swirling — and you whine into his mouth and cling to him. He grabs your hips and grinds you down onto him harder. 

“Tell me you want me to fuck you right here like the whore you are.”

You do want to keep mouthing off. But then he’s pushing your panties aside, and you’re so wet for him it’s kind of pornographic. He can feel it too because he immediately grins like he’s won. Smug bastard.

“Fucking knew it,” he growls, sliding a finger through your slick folds. “You run your mouth like a fucking bitch and tell me to leave you alone, but you’re dripping for my cock every time I so much as look at you.”

You grab his wrist before he can feel you any further.

“Not so fast. You’re not getting it so easily.”

His eyes snap up to yours. “Don’t start playing games—”

“Oh, I’m not playing.” You laugh, pushing him back just enough to make space. “You don’t get to touch me like that unless you earn it.” 

Sunghoon cocks a brow, and you scoff right in his face.

“What? What is there to be confused about? Did you think I’d just let you fuck me immediately because you’re huffing and puffing?”

The bathroom suddenly feels too small despite how ridiculously huge it is. All you can hear is his frantic breathing now, and he looks like he might explode before he gives you even an inch of what you’re asking of him.

“Get on your knees.”

His laugh is strained and incredulous. “You really think I’m going to—?”

“I’m not here to think.” You immediately interrupt him. “On your knees. Chop-chop.”

“You’ve lost your fucking mind.”

“And you’re still on your feet,” You shrug and smile meanly. “Are you hard of hearing or just stupid? Eh. Whatever it is, I really don’t have time for men who can’t follow simple instructions. Might just leave and get someone else, honestly.”

“Someone else?” he repeats quietly, and you can see him getting angrier by the second. “Do you think anyone else could make you feel the way I do, huh?”

No. “Yes.”

He steps closer, so close you can feel his breath on your cheek. “You want to test that theory, princess?” 

You let out a breathy laugh. “Who says I haven’t already?” Your throat feels tight because, for a moment, you think of Jake, and how your efforts went to shit with that. Though you keep your expression taunting as you go on. “Matter of fact, I could call him right now. You know who I mean, right? You’re just convenient right now because of proximity or whatever, and that’s all. But if I wanted to, I could—”

He smiles as his gaze flickers across your face. “I know you haven’t. You’re a shit liar. You swallow every time you lie, and you never look at me when you do it.” His thumb lifts, and he hovers it right under your chin. “Just like now. But hey—he already had his fill with you, didn’t he? And yet, I’m the one you always come crawling back to. Guess proximity must work both ways, huh? Or is it just that no one else can fuck the attitude out of you the way I do?” 

You have to physically restrain yourself from headbutting him. Why does he always have to say shit like that?

“Okay,” You roll your eyes like you’re bored out of your skull. “Since you’re so good at reading me, tell me this. can you also tell when I’m horny? Because I’m genuinely getting turned off. Like, do you think it’s hot that you’re not willing to do something as simple as ask for what you want? Because let me just tell you, this is not working for me right now.” Your hand slides between you, and you reach down to palm his hard cock right through his pants, squeezing just enough to make him twitch. “Which is such a shame, by the way, because you’re so fucking hot when you’re angry. I’d let you do anything you wanted if you could just ask for it like a big boy.”

Sunghoon grabs your wrist and yanks it away, not quite gently. “Don’t test me.”

“Hm. Last chance. If you’re not going to do it, there are about a hundred men out there who’d get on their knees just for the chance to look at me—and I don’t particularly have time to babysit your ego.”

A long, loaded silence stretches between you with your eyes locked in that ridiculous battle of wills until Sunghoon finally lets out a slow exhale and tongues the inside of his cheek like he can’t believe he’s even entertaining you.

Then, ever so slowly—like he’s physically fighting himself every inch—he drops to his knees in front of you.

There he is, down on the marble floor, all glossy dark hair and those stupidly perfect cheekbones, glowering up at you with his eyebrows furrowed so hard you think he might actually combust from how livid he is. You can feel the raw energy of his desire rolling off him like you’re standing in the eye of some ruined storm that only wants to tear you apart, burning in the way his gaze rakes over your body and snaps straight back to your eyes. 

God, he looks good like this. 

You toy with the knot of his tie and let the silk slide between your fingers as you drag it up until you’re tipping his chin up just the way you want it, putting on the most self pleased smile you’ve ever had in your life. 

“There you go. Took you fucking long enough, pretty boy,” you say, letting it drip with just the right amount of mockery.

“Fuck off,” he grinds out, and he looks like he’s seconds away from killing you, and it honestly just turns you on even more. 

See, the thing is, it’s no secret that you’ve been dying to slap him all night—God knows he deserves it—and considering the way he’s looking at you now, especially down on his knees? Yeah, he’s practically begging for it. 

So you do. 

Not too hard, but just enough to make it sting and make your point. Sunghoon doesn’t even flinch or anything; his eyes just fly wide in shock, like he cannot for the life of him believe you actually had the audacity to just do that. Before he can properly react, you grab his jaw with both hands and dig your nails into his cheek deep enough to make him groan.

“Fuck. You’ve really fucking lost it,” Sunghoon snarls, pale cheeks blooming red faintly under your grip. “You actually want to see what happens if you keep pushing me?”

“I’m not the one still on my knees,” you purr, tracing your thumb along the sharp line of his jaw before dragging it over his bottom lip. “I wasn’t kidding before. I really, really am starting to hate how you always act so tough and take whatever you want without ever asking for it first, like a real man. So I want you to beg for it. For me.”

Sunghoon’s brows pull together tighter, and if looks could kill, you’d be dead twice over. “Keep fucking dreaming.”

“So you’re telling me your pride is bigger than your dick? That’s honestly impressive. But like, hello? You’re literally on your knees? And a few words is what you want to choke on? God, you’re pathetic.”

You let go of his face and turn on your heel, reaching for bait you’ve used before on him.

“Whatever, I’m bored. Guess I’ll just go lock myself in that stall and take care of it myself, then. Maybe I’ll even moan your name if I’m feeling generous. Or better yet—I’ll go get my phone so I can send you a video or two so you see what you’re missing out on.”

You start to walk away, but you get two steps in before he grabs your wrist.

“Stop being a bitch.”

“One word, six letters. Say it, and I'm yours tonight.”

“Shut up. Just—Stop,” He grits out, and he pauses for a moment. “Stop playing games and let me touch you. Let me make you come. I need—” He swallows, eyes dark and pleading. “I need to feel you.”

You brush your fingers over his lips again, and you watch his mouth twitch and fight the urge to open for you, and it just eggs you on. “Tsk. You forgot the magic word.”

His lips curl into a snarl, but his eyes are anything but that. “Please,” His voice is trembling with something you’ve never heard before. “Please let me have you.”

Fuck.

Your clit throbs just from the sound of him, let alone the sight of Sunghoon on his knees, angry, desperate, and all for you.

“Good boy,” you purr. “Now shut up and put your mouth to work.”

He turns you and plants you back against the sink with a hard shove and then just as abruptly, he drops back to his knees. His hands slide up your thighs and drag you closer until your ass is half off the sink and your knees brace around his shoulders. His grip is brutal now—fingers digging in so deep and harshly you’re sure they’ll leave bruises—as if he’s punishing you for every second you made him beg and for every ounce of control you stole from him.

“You want to fucking play with me? Fine. Let’s see if that filthy little attitude holds up when I fuck it right out of you,” he growls, and then he spreads your legs wider, hooking your panties aside with two fingers and staring at your slick cunt with absolutely unashamed hunger. “Not. A. Sound. I’ll fucking stop and leave you here to rot if you do. Got it?”

You arch into his touch. “You talk too much.”

He digs his nails in even harder, so rough it’s almost cruel. “I said, do you fucking understand me?”

“Yes—fuck, yes, whatever—just—”

“Tsk,” He slaps you hard across the thigh, making you jolt and gasp, the sting blooming delicious and hot beneath his hand. “Talk. Fucking. Nicely.”

You glare at him, but he just raises his brows and delivers a quick, stinging slap right across your pussy. “Are you hard of hearing? Hmm? Go on. Nicely.”

Your mouth drops open, but you’re too far gone to do anything but give in. (He was literally just on his fucking knees for you anyway, so who cares?)

“Please, just—please, eat me out. Be good—be cruel—be whatever you want… just, please.”

“That’s better,” he smirks.

Sunghoon presses his warm tongue flat against your bare cunt, and like always, your thoughts immediately float up, up, and away.

The first lick is absolutely gutting. He slides his tongue up up your slit slowly, and he doesn’t break eye contact for a second. You stifle a gasp and dig your nails into his scalp, but you can’t hold back the way your hips twitch up and chase every filthy flick of his warm tongue. He growls and bites your inner thigh hard enough to make you whimper, then he licks a stripe back up and shoves two fingers inside you without warning. 

“Go on. Keep running that bratty mouth for me,” he curls his fingers inside you until your back arches. “Let’s see how fucking clever you sound with my tongue and my fingers inside this pretty pussy. And stay fucking still.”

You try—try—to stay still, but the moment his tongue finds your clit, you’re arching off the counter with one hand braced against the mirror and the other still fisted in his hair, and he immediately holds you down even harder and sets a punishing pace.

Sunghoon eats pussy like he’s trying to carve his name into your bones with nothing but his tongue.

He groans into your cunt like he’s the one getting off and his lips are so soft and plush you almost laugh, because absolutely no one with a mouth that perfect and gentle should ever be allowed to be this nasty and cruel. You watch him between your legs, and it honestly looks like he needs this as much as you do—Maybe he’s addicted. You’d tease him for it, but your brain can barely form a thought that isn’t just his name or a litany of please, and fuck and don’t stop, don’t ever stop slipping out of your mouth while his thick fingers spread you open, stretch you out, and fill you until you feel him everywhere, curling right where you need it most like he wants to coax your soul out through your cunt.

“What was that? Aw. Poor baby. Not so tough now, huh?” his voice is muffled by your cunt, and you feel him smiling into your pussy. “Look at you, already falling apart, and I haven’t even fucked you yet. You know what they’d see if anyoje walked in right now? Everyone’s perfect little princess spread out and taking it like a cheap slut.”

“Fuck y-you,” you gasp and try to twist away, but he pins you in place and slaps your thigh once more, and you wince at the sting of it. The slick sound of your wetness, his mouth, and the guttural sounds he makes when you grind down on his face make it genuinely impossible to think, to breathe, or to let alone care about whoever the fuck could walk by and hear you. “Sunghoon—My God—”

He did say not to moan, and you’ve been so, so good about it and biting it back until your jaw aches ... but there’s only so much a body can take. So the sound slips out of you, and Sunghoon’s mouth immediately tears away from you, and before you can even register the loss, his hand comes down hard against your thigh again in a sharp slap.

“What did I fucking say?” he snaps, eyes dark as he glares up at you from between your legs. “One more sound and I swear I’ll stop right when you’re about to break. You’ll stand here shaking and dripping with nothing but your own fault to blame. Got it?”

“M’sorry,” you pout. “You gonna punish me for it?”

You can tell he can see right through you. And then, to your utter disbelief, Sunghoon actually softly laughs like he can’t help himself.

“You like this too much, you little fucking masochist.” He sinks his teeth into your thigh again long enough to leave a mark, lips slick with you as he drags them up to your cunt again. “I’m not going to punish you. Nah. Why would I give you what you want? Dirty little whore like you just gets off on being slapped around, don’t you? Am I right? Hmm? You’re not getting shit. That’s your punishment.” 

Then he slides two thick fingers back inside you and pumps them deep and curls them perfectly in the way only his fingers ever know how to hit that sweet spot, and latches his mouth back onto your clit—sucking with a ruthless hunger that has your head falling back and your mouth open in a silent scream with your eyes shut tight.

“Fuck. Yes, yes, yes—oh my God, I’m so close, don’t you fucking stop—” you gasp with your hands tangled in his hair as you squeeze his face harder in your thighs.

“Yeah?” he coos. “You close? Gonna come for me, slut?”

You’re barely coherent now, grinding your hips helplessly into his face. And then, of course, his ass fucking he stops. The absence is agony. He pulls his mouth and fingers away and leaves you empty and shaking, and you snap your eyes open to look at him just as the heat in your belly suddenly starts abandoning you as you pant heavily.

“Beg for it.”

“Are you fucking deranged—”

He looks up at you and licks his lips slowly. “What’s wrong, princess? Did you really think I’d let you come that easily?”

“I’m not fucking begging you for anything,” you snap, but your hips buck into his hand like you’re starved for it. “Don’t underestimate my willingness to kill you in this bathroom, Park Sun—”

“Then I guess you’re not coming tonight.”

He lets one finger rest right over your slick, swollen clit—just pressed there as you twitch helplessly beneath him. It’s torturous, and it is cruel — and he fucking loves it. You can tell by the infamous smug look plastered on his perfect fucking flushed face, and you want to slap him so hard that his face gets dented into the drywall.

“Okay. See if I care.” you pant, and you brace yourself for a strike of lightning to hit you and smite you where you stand because you are so, so full of fucking shit. “I don’t need you to come.”

“Come on, baby, don’t say that,” he drawls and clicks his tongue. “You want me to make you come so bad, but you can’t even swallow your pride and ask for it? God, you’re pathetic.”

“Fuck you—” 

He grins, letting the pad of his finger dip in just enough to feel how soaked you still are. “Pretty thing. Look at you, spreading wide for me with your parents five rooms away. What would they think of their precious little girl? Do you think they know she’s a fucking whore?”

“Says the bigger whore. You’re so fucking disgusting.”

“You like it. Bet you’d come just from me talking to you like this, wouldn’t you? I want to hear you say you need me. I want you to say you’re my filthy little slut. Go on. Or I’ll make you wait all fucking night.”

Fucking bastard. You should’ve known he’d pull this shit on you.

“Look at yourself in the mirror,” he whispers and uses his free hand to force your chin up to make you stare at the flushed reflection of yourself. “This is what you look like when you’re desperate to come on my fingers.”

“Fuck,” you choke out, and you feel your pride dissolving into nothing in real time. “I’ll do anything. Just—let me come.”

“Anything? Now, that is what I like to hear.”  His finger circles your entrance, still not giving in entirely, but it’s enough to make you whine. “Tell me whose filthy little slut you are. I want you to say it nice and flowery, just like you look, pretty baby.”

“I’m—” The words are shameful, and you feel tears prick your eyes from the sheer overwhelming need to come and from how fucked out you already feel. “I’m your slut. Nobody else gets me like this, just you. I need you so fucking bad, Sunghoon… Please.”

“Good girl,” he rasps. “If anyone saw you right now, they’d know exactly who you belong to. Such a shame no one ever will.”

His finger finally pushes back inside, and he dips back down and presses his mouth to your clit and immediately starts sucking harshly until the room spins again. He fucks you with his thick fingers harder and harder, rings dragging in and out of you with every pump, and your entire body bows and twitches as pleasure builds up again.

“That’s it. Make a mess for me.”

Your orgasm hits so hard you almost black out (You honestly might have.( But you keep your lips sealed and don’t let a single moan escape as your eyes roll back and your whole body shakes apart.

“You look so good, baby. Dripping all over my hand and biting your tongue like a good girl. Fuuckk.”

“Sunghoon,” you pant repeatedly as he continues to finger your overstimulated cunt. “Sunghoon—Sunghoon—h—”

Then he rises—mouth and chin shining with your slick—and leans in to capture your lips before you can even catch your breath. He kisses you slowly, and you moan quietly into his mouth, and he swallows it right up with his lips pressed tight to yours as his thumb strokes your clit in slow, lazy circles. He kisses your nose, then your eyelids, gently and so reverently — and it always manages to hurt you even more than the roughness does whenever he gets like this.

“I’m not leaving you alone until you give me everything and beg me to stop.”

The joke’s on him because if he still thinks you’ll ever beg him to stop, he’s clearly never met a girl who could match him round for round. You might just be the one who ends up leaving him tired and begging for mercy.

But all your thoughts fade into static when Sunghoon shoves two of his fingers deep inside and twists it upwards until he finds that spongy devastatingly sweet spot, and he stays there — swirling his fingers, pressing into it, rubbing you from the inside out.

“Oh my god. That feels so—Why—why the fuck do you even know how to do that?” you gasp into his mouth, not even meaning to say it out loud. 

“You like that?” he tilts his head down to softly trail kisses down your neck. “It’s all you. You’re just so fucking sensitive and easy. I barely have to do anything, and you’re already falling apart for me.”

The sound of your wetness fills the bathroom as he pumps his fingers in and out. “Harder. Don’t you dare stop, Park Sunghoon, or I swear I’ll kill you—”

“Why do you keep saying don’t stop? Why would I ever stop? Just look at you—fucking shaking and twitching on my hand and still begging for more. That’s what I fucking love about you—you can never get enough, can you?”

No. Absolutely fucking not. You instantly feel the weight of a thousand suns drop right in the center of your stomach—not from pleasure at all, but from the sheer audacity of that word coming out of his mouth. 

He grunts in surprise as you drag him and crash your lips into his violently. You suck on his lower lip until he groans, as his fingers keep pumping in and out of you, and his thumb drops back to your clit and starts working slow circles that make you twitch again and again. You scratch harder and drag your nails down his neck like you want to carve your entire being into him.

“Faster, Sunghoon—fuck, you’re so good, fuck, don’t stop, you’re perfect—fuck you, fuck. I’m gonna—”

The only thing tethering you to the earth as he continues to work your overstimulated cunt through your orgasm is the vice grip you have on him and the filthy sound of his praise and groans in your ear.

“God, what the fuck are you doing to me—” you whine shakily. “Fuck.”

Sunghoon pulls his fingers out from you, and even through all your panting and shaking you simply grab his wrist, bring his hand straight to your mouth, and suck his fingers in deep without breaking eye contact. — moaning around them like it’s his cock.

He bites his lip and stares at you like he wants to eat you alive. “So fucking filthy.”

In a blink, you yanking him by his tie to devour his mouth again in an open mouthed filthy kiss. Your tongue traces the taste of yourself off his lips, and he kisses you back like he wants to fuck the air out of your lungs.

When you get his belt open and fist his cock out, you pause for a bit. Fuck… you don’t think you’ve ever seen him this hard, which is crazy because you’re pretty sure this thought occurs every single time you see him bare for you. 

Sunghoon’s pretty pink lips part and his head tips back, a guttural sound clawing its way out of his chest as you draw your fist up slowly from the thick, heavy base of his cock all the way to his flushed, leaking tip that’s dripping with need and slicking your thumb as you circle it in a lazy spiral. 

“Fuck—you’re really this needy?” you murmur as you watch another bead of precum well up and smear across your thumbs. “All pent up for me, poor thing.”

“F-fuck. You little—Fuck—”

You lean in to lick a filthy, wet stripe right up his Adam’s apple and feel him swallow around it. “Hmmm? Does that feel good?”

You don’t even get to enjoy it a second longer because his hand snaps around your wrist, and he looks down at you with dark, blown-out eyes and a crooked, dangerous smirk.

Oh, fuck off. He’s doing it again.

“I want to fuck you.”

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Well, he’s certainly never said that before. Dear God. He really should not have this fucking grip over you. Then you try anyway as you duck your head down instinctively, but he catches your face in his hand and presses his thumb into your cheeks until you’re forced to look up at him. 

“Uh-uh, not when you look like this,” he rasps. “I don’t want your mouth or your hands… Not a single fucking inch unless it’s your tight little pussy wrapped around my cock right now.”

CLICK.

Someone tries the handle, and a muffled voice calls out from the other side of the door, “Hello?!”

Reality hits you immediately. “Wait—Fuck, Sunghoon, what time is it—? Oh my god—How long have we—”

But he shuts you up by kissing you even harder and not letting you get a single inch away.

The way his hand slides between your thighs again is so tremendously possessive and unhesitant—like he’d ruin you right here no matter who’s listening, who’s knocking, or whether you’re both about to be on the six o’clock news.

“To hell with it,” he mutters as he drags his lips over your throat. “There are other bathrooms.”

You try (you actually try) to claw your way back to logic and be the voice of reason for once, if only so you can look back and say you made an effort. “You’re supposed to—Sunghoon. Wait, you asshole—supposed to maintain appearances—”

“Stop fuckin’ whining. There is not a single goddamn soul outside that door that I give a shit about right now. Nothing’s dragging me out of here until I’ve had you. I don’t care—” kiss “—if the whole fucking board tries to open that door. All I care about is you—” kiss, “—and the way you’re about to take every inch I give you.” 

You stare at him, and you think you’ve genuinely never ever been more turned on in your entire life as you pull him in to kiss him again. “You’re actually obsessed with me.”

“You’re the one spread out on this sink for me, so what does that make you?” He slides his tongue against yours so hot and filthy and the sound that spills out of you is straight up just pornographic and embarrassingly loud.  “Fuck… We’re only kissing, and you already sound like I’m balls deep in you.” He drags one hand up to squeeze your breast hard, then you whine even louder when he bites your lower lip and tugs on it while holding eye contact.  “You always make that sound for me. You like it when I kiss you? You fucking love it, don’t you?”

“Shut the fuck up. I hate you so fucking much,” you try, but your mouth is too full of him for it to matter. “I thought you didn’t want me making any sounds, huh? What happened to being quiet?”

“Maybe I’ll let them hear just enough so they know you only ever sound like this for me.”

Jesus. You shove him off before his head gets any bigger.

Just enough to break the kiss and buy yourself a single, agonizing lick of space. You reach down and drag the top of your strapless dress lower (painfully slowly) until the corset dips and your breasts spill free. — You do it just to watch the way his face changes.

And oh, does it change beautifully.

There’s no other word to describe the way his mouth falls open like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again every single time. Every single cell in his body is locked onto the swell of your breasts, and his face is carved into pure, aching hunger—the kind that looks like he’d crawl through hell on his hands and knees just to get his mouth on you. He bites down on his bottom lip so hard you half expect to see blood, and for a second, you think he might actually just come in his pants just from you baring yourself for him.

“Oh, fuck me,” He groans, and then he’s on you in half a second, rolling his thumbs over your nipples as he leans down and takes one into his mouth.“Fuck, these tits. You know how many times I’ve thought about fucking you just like this?”

For a moment, you let yourself just bask in how completely ruined he looks. You press your chest up into his mouth and gasp when his tongue flicks over your nipple and his fingers squeeze around the weight of them.

Park Sunghoon who is known to be so composed and perfect, is now devouring your breasts like a starved man.

“Yeah?” you taunt, twisting your own nipple between two fingers. “What exactly did you think about, Sunghoon? Or are you too busy drooling to answer?”

“You really wanna know, princess?” When you nod, he brings his mouth right up to your ear as his hands knead your breasts. “I’ve thought about pinning you down and fucking you with your tits squeezed tight around my cock.” Then he sinks his sharp teeth into the curve of your breast in a burning bite that makes you moan with your back arching off the counter and your chest pushing shamelessly into his mouth. “Every time I see you in one of these dresses, I think about covering them in my cum until you’re a mess. Then I’d make you lick it off your own skin while you look up at me like the needy little slut you are.”

Honestly, this might be the hottest thing you’ve ever heard in your entire life, and you’re two seconds away from letting him do whatever he wants right here—

For fuck’s sake.

What are you even doing, letting him play with you like this?

Some small rational corner of your brain is shrieking at you to hurry up before someone kicks the door down and you end up on the front page of the news, but the rest of you? The rest of you is hopelessly, stupidly drunk on him and the way his mouth is wide open around your nipple, sucking like he wants to leave you marked forever.

“Maybe if you’re lucky I’ll let you someday. Just—just fuck me and get it over with. God, you’re so slow,” you gasp, letting your head fall back against the mirror as he squeezes your tits together and licks a stripe up from your breast to your jaw. “Fuck—Are you planning on taking all night or—?”

“You really still don’t get it, do you?” he growls, squeezing your breasts rough enough to make you whine. “I don’t give a single fuck about time. You’ll take whatever I give you as slow as I want.” His tongue laps another wet stripe over your breast, then he bites down again hard enough to make your hips buck. “And next time you whine about how slow I am, I’ll keep you locked in this fucking bathroom all night and fuck you on every surface. We’ll see if you’re still a brat when you’re stumbling out to breakfast with my cum leaking down your thighs and everyone wondering why you can barely walk.”

Oh, you’re so fucking doomed.

But if there’s one thing you know how to do, it’s swallow your massive pride when it gets you what you want (especially when you want it this badly.) So yeah, screw this. You're not above a little begging — and besides, it’s not like you don’t absolutely eat up the way his eyes go pitch black and starving whenever you whine his name in that desperate, wrecked tone you know drives him mad. 

“I just wanna feel you deep inside me. Come on. I’ll be so good.”

“Say it again,” he growls against your lips. “Say my name. Say it so I know you mean it.”

You roll your eyes. “I want you to fuck me, Park Sunghoon. Want you so bad I could scream. Is that pretty enough for you? Or do you want it in writing, since you’re stupid?”

“You’re gonna eat those words, brat.” Suddenly he’s gripping your waist and hoisting you up like you weigh nothing, and then he spins you around so you’re facing the mirror.

The image staring back at you is obscene:

You, flushed and wild eyed with your lipstick smudged, tits fully all out and heaving, with Sunghoon pressed up behind you with his shirt wrinkled and his tie loosened, so much taller, so much broader, his face smeared with your lipstick and his hands already roaming over every inch of exposed skin. He bunches up your dress around your waist and shoves your panties halfway down your thighs, all while spreading your legs wide with a hand rough enough to bruise. 

“Eyes on the mirror,” He lines up behind you and lets the heaviness of his fat tip press right up against your entrance. “You wanna act like a slut, you’re gonna watch yourself be one. Don’t even think about looking away.”

And then he pushes in.

He starts so slowly and it still nearly kills you, stretching you out inch by inch as your grip tightens on the sink and you bite your lip to keep from moaning too loud (though you fail terribly.)

“Arch for me.” It hurts—not in a way you want to stop but in a way that makes your brain immediately fade into static and your body greedily arch back for more even as your muscles struggle to take all of him. 

“F-fuck—oh my god—Fucking hell, Sunghoon—‘s too much—”

“I said eyes up.” His other hand comes down to cup your jaw and force your gaze up until you’re staring straight into your own eyes in the glass as your body trembles with how full you feel. You watch the way his Adam’s apple strains in the mirror as he groans and tips his head back out of pleasure and flutters his eyes shut for a second before they snap back open, locked on you in the mirror.

“God, you’re so fucking wet—the tightest fucking pussy ever,” he pants and pushes in even deeper, and you really can’t help the way you squeeze your eyes shut at the overwhelming sensation of being stretched open like this again. You’re clenching around him so hard you nearly push him out.

“Open your fucking eyes,” he bites out meanly, but there’s something almost tender in the way he stills with his cock nearly buried to the hilt, waiting for you and searching your face in the mirror. “Look at me. Do you want me to stop? Talk to me.”

“No, don’t stop, just—fuck—” you gasp and push back against him. “I need all of you. Don’t you fucking dare stop—I need you to fuck me stupid—”

“Listen to you. Such a needy fucking whore. Bet you can feel me all the way in your stomach, huh?” he rasps and snaps his hips even harder just to hear you cry out again. “Pretty fucking pussy stretched around me—fuck, you’re so fucking tiny and barely taking me, but you’re squeezing me like you’re trying to keep me inside forever.” His hand is still on your jaw, forcing you to keep your gaze locked on the mirror, making you watch the way your mouth falls open, the way your eyes roll back, and the way your breasts bounce as he starts to push deeper. “Yeah, keep your eyes open. I want you to see exactly how stupid you look. Look at your face, look at your mouth—fuck, look at those pretty tits bouncing for me. That’s it—good little slut.” 

You moan his name even louder this time, and it’s so pornographic you almost don’t recognize the sound as your own. “Fuck, you’re so loud tonight.” Sunghoon pants behind you, and the sound of your bodies meeting echoes obscenely in the bathroom, filthier than anything you’ve ever imagined. “You really do want everyone to hear, huh? Want them all to know who’s got you bent over and drooling?”

Sunghoon shoves two thick fingers right into your mouth. “Open wider,” he commands, and you do, sucking him in so obediently and whining around them as you taste yourself on his skin, and the metal of his rings as he pushes them even deeper. He tips your head back until your hair falls over his shoulder and your neck is against him, and then his mouth is on your throat, trailing kisses as if he’s tracing the path of the ones he left there before. His thick cock pounds into you and you feel every ridge and thrust and drag against your wet swollen walls.

Your body tightens without warning, and you feel that sharp edge climbing up where pleasure tips into something feral and uncontrollable. “Sunghoon. Fuck ‘M gonna come, holy shit—don’t stop. Go faster—harder.” You can barely even hold yourself up as his thrusts start turning even more brutal and relentless. You look at Sunghoon, and you see the way his nose is scrunched with his brows pulling together hard in concentration, his mouth falling open on a rough, broken groan as he fucks into you faster.

Then his hand slides up your throat, and he curls his fingers tight enough to steal the air right out of your lungs and pin you exactly where he wants you, forcing your chin up when your eyes try to flutter shut. “You—shiiit—really don’t fuckin’ listen, do you? Don’t look away.” You hold his gaze in the mirror, and he squeezes your throat slightly. “You like this?” His grip tightens and stars spark at the edges of your vision as he presses his thumb in ever so harder. “You like it when I choke you out like this?”

You nod frantically as your lips part around another obscene moan, and that’s what does it for him. His grip tightens for one deliciously brutal second more, and then he releases you right on the edge. You gasp and shudder and cling to him with your chest heaving, and he holds you up while softly sliding his palm down your neck and caressing your throat with his thumb.  “Fuuuck—shit, you feel insane—Shit, you’re so fucking tight. So warm. You’re clenching so hard I can barely move.” Each syllable is punched into you with a bruising snap of his hips. Then he pulls almost all the way out again, cock dragging along your walls, leaving you empty and aching, before driving all his thick throbbing inches back inside in one brutal thrust. “I’m fuck—I’m getting close—shit—Keep your eyes on me. Good girl. Juuuuust like that. Don’t hold back your pretty noises.”

Sunghoon’s name rips out of your throat like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known how to say as your orgasm crashes over you so hard you almost black out. The only thing anchoring you to reality is the grip of his hands—one bruising your hips, the other tight around your throat—while you convulse and twitch, forced to keep your eyes on the mess you are in the mirror. It’s obscene, it’s raw, and it’s everything you said you’d never let happen again. But there has never been a single thing in your life that’s ever felt as right—or as wrong—as being fucked senseless in the women’s bathroom at this stupid fucking annual party or whatever as your body clamps down around him, fluttering and squeezing so tight it makes him lose his rhythm and curse under his breath.

“So fucking perfect. You know who you belong to now, don’t you? This tight little pussy is mine, you hear me? Tell me who owns you.”

Even now, all breathless and twitching, you bare your teeth in the mirror and glare at his reflection. “Fuck you. M’not telling you shit.”

Sunghoon’s mouth twists. “You wanna play that game right now?” 

His hand snaps away from your throat, and before you can even catch your breath, he pulls out of you with a rough curse, leaving you gaping and empty. You try to move, but he grabs your wrists and pins them behind you, and he rips his tie loose from his collar with one hand. You barely even have a second to struggle before he’s wrapping it around your wrists and tying it so tight your pulse jumps against the silk. You whine and attempt to mouth off, but he manhandles you and holds you steady with one big hand pressing into the small of your back to keep you balanced. He drags you back onto his cock with no patience, just brute force, fucking you even deeper with your wrists tied behind your back. You’re so dizzy and wrecked and fucked out that the part of you that should be arguing (just for the hell of it) barely even gets alerted. If anything, your brain offers up a traitorous thought that this is… hot. Does he really think this is some sort of punishment?

“Look at you, not even fighting it. Can’t even pretend you don’t like being tied up and used like a little toy. Fuck, you’re so loud—Yeah. Moan for me. Shit—Sluts like you need to be kept on a leash.”

He thrusts again deeper like he’s trying to push himself into places that don’t exist, and you feel it pressing in everywhere. In your spine, in your ribs, and in your soul. And then he just buries himself inside you to the hilt and goes perfectly still. He grabs your face in his hand and tilts your head right into himself, and his thumb presses into your cheek as he leans in.

“Now be a good girl and tell me where you want me. You want to walk out of here stuffed full of my cum and leaking down your thighs, or should I paint your pretty tits and make you lick it off in the mirror like the messy little whore you are?”

You bite your lip (still everly so defiant) and still very much cock-drunk — but the thought of him filling you up again has your knees buckling and your cunt clenching down around him. “I’m on the pill.”

Sunghoon groans, and his hand comes down hard against your ass. “Knew you’d want it. I knew you couldn’t go a single night without me filling you up—” He yanks you back with the tie even harder until your chest bows out. “You wanna walk back out there with everyone watching you while you’re dripping down your thighs and all you can think about is me inside you—”

“Ah—you talk so much,” you pant, tossing your head back against his shoulder. “I want it. I want all of it. Just fill me up.”

He twists you suddenly and wraps one arm around your waist to lift you clean off your feet and slam you back against the wall. The tile is cold, but your gasp is swallowed instantly as he crashes his mouth back into yours. It feels like forever since he last kissed you, and it’s so frantic that it feels like neither of you can afford to waste a second not kissing. He hikes your thighs up, grips under your ass, and starts fucking into you while standing, and every single thrust knocks a broken moan out of both of you. His hips snap faster, and his nose scrunches as he loses himself completely, groaning your name like it’s torn out of him. “Fuck—Sunghoon—” you moan in response, locking your legs tight around his waist like you want to fuse your bodies together until you’re one.

He moans into your mouth and bites down on your bottom lip, spit trailing between your lips. “Gonna breed you right here, baby. You ready for me? You’re gonna take every drop—bet you’d let me fuck you in every room of this fucking building. Fill you in each time till you’re just full of me and nothing else.”

“Want it,” you gasp. “Need you to come inside me. Make me yours.”

“You’re already mine. Mine to fuck, mine to fill, mine to break. Mine. Mine. Mine.”

If you had half a mind to care about anything else, like the rattling doorknob or the muffled voices outside or maybe even the shit that’s coming out of his mouth right now, you’d tell him to eat shit and die — or you’d just definitely say something smart — but all you care about is that ecstatic rush of pleasure building up once again as you feel the thick head of his cock press into you even harder from this angle. He’s grunting, moaning, and then finally burying his face in your neck as he finally loses it and spills his load deep deep deep inside you. He holds you pressed to the wall until the shaking subsides as his lips drag lazy, ruined kisses over your jaw.

He slides his hand up to untie the tie from your wrists, fingers working clumsily as he continues to slightly tremble and pant from how hard he just came. The second you’re free, Sunghoon holds you and steadies you by kissing you like he could swallow you whole. He’s flushed and pink, and sweat is dripping down his temple with his hair sticking to his forehead.

You lean in and lick a hot stripe up his cheek, dragging your tongue over the sweat at his hairline. “God, you’re so fucking hot like this, I could eat you,” you murmur deliriously against his skin and press a kiss to his nose, “Can feel you dripping out of me. Want to take care of it and make sure it stays in?”

Sunghoon grunts a curse and pushes your back up against the cold wall again, and then he drops to his knees right there on the bathroom floor without another word like he’s worshipping at the altar of your ruin. Then his hands are spreading you open to stare at the mess dripping out of you, his cum spillng slowly down your legs. “So good—so fucking perfect—I can’t believe how fucking pretty you look right now.”

He slides two thick fingers into you and gathers up every drop of his cum spilling out of you, and he pushes it back in deep. “Don’t waste a fucking drop,” he murmurs, and then he brings his face right to your cunt,t, sucking at the slick mess. “I’m going to have you like this every night until you can’t even walk, until all you know is my dick, my cum, my name, just me.”

Arching your back to offer more into his mouth, your eyes roll back as his tongue and fingers work in tandem — licking and sucking — nose pressing hard into your clit until you’re mewling for him. 

Then uou have this stupid little thought right at the edge of your brain — which is unhelpful and very much not the time for it — about how the last man you were with couldn’t even stand the sight of his own cum after. And now here you are grinding into Park fucking Sunghoon’s mouth as he eats his own cum right out of your pussy and moans into it like he’s being blessed by the heavens.

“Sunghoon—oh, fuck—Fuck—Oh my God. What the hell is wrong with you, you fucking freak?” 

It honestly isn’t the filth that has you falling apart, but it’s the way he looks up at you through his lashes while he does it. His eyes are filled with a kind of tenderness that shouldn’t exist in a moment like this, but that thought floats away as quickly as it appears when he gathers the slick on his fingers and pushes them back into your sensitive, fluttering entrance again — one finger, then two, and then he sinks a third in.

“Nothing’s wrong with me. I Just know what I want—Look at that. Stretched you out so good you’re taking three fingers with such ease now. I could play with this pretty pussy all fucking night.”

You reach down and tug on his hair hard to drag him up to look at you. “Y-Yeah? Tell me I’m replaceable now, Sunghoon. Look me in the eyes and s-say it again.”

He blinks up at you, and his brows knit together for a moment. Then he gives you a disgustingly dangerous half-smile and your heart stutters, because you’ve only ever seen him look like this when he’s drunk out of his mind.

“Can’t. I can’t,” he slurs. “No one—fuck—nobody tastes like you. I hate it. I fuckin’... hate you.”

You stare down at him, and for a second, your brain just blanks at how he’s babbling like it’s your fault his self control dissolved somewhere between your thighs. And you—God, you’re not even mad, are you? No, you’re practically glowing and melting right onto his stupid, perfect face.

Part of you definitely wants to gloat and say some nasty, mean shit, but your brain is too fried, and your pride is too busy soaking up the way he’s falling apart at your feet.

All you can do is clutch his hair and roll your hips into his face. You moan so loud you’re sure the whole building can hear it, but you truly don’t care when his mouth on your pussy feels better than sin and better than forgiveness and better than anything you’ve ever known. 

You come again with his name caught and breaking in the back of your throat, knees giving out so hard you have to grab onto him just to stay standing as pleasure rolls through you in hot, blinding waves as he stays exactly where he is — holding you together while you shake and gasp and come apart.

“Spread your legs wider. I want to see how much more you can take.”

And god help you; you already know the answer.

Somehow against all odds and most laws, you manage to pull yourselves off each other and look vaguely human again to re-enter civilization after having just broken every single promise you’ve ever made to yourself and to poor, long-suffering Wonyoung. Oh God. Let’s not think of Wonyoung right now.

You look in the mirror one last time before you turn to leave, and you somehow (kind of) look like a functioning, perfectly respectable human being and not like a girl who just got fucked to hell and back by the devil in Prada.

Also, by some absolute miracle—or maybe just Sunghoon’s freakish self-control—there’s not a single incriminating mark on your neck. Nada.

Which is crazy considering he’s always tearing into you like a feral dog. Sunghoon’s neck, on the other hand, is sporting a suspicious flush, and there are definitely like three hickeys half hidden by his collar if you look too closely (Oops.) But despite that, he somehow looks even more put together than when he went in, which is absolutely fucking infuriating and downright offensive, honestly. But whatever. The horror and shame of anticipating the looks you’re about to get when you re-enter that ballroom is so much louder than any petty anger at the fact that Park Sunghoon is apparently immune to looking like a mess. Besides, it’s also hard to keep track of anything when you’ve just spent the last five minutes bickering like lunatics while both of you were still half-breathless and trying not to strangle each other over who should walk out first and what to say and what not to say.

So the two of you do the walk of shame with the kind of composure only the truly deranged can manage: steps perfectly in sync, faces perfectly blank, and not looking at each other once. You think you’ll actually make it. Just slip right back into the crowd, pretend you were powdering your nose for an ungodly amount of time, and no one will ever know—

“ARE YOU—NO. Are you KIDDING ME?!” 

Oh, dear sweet baby Jesus. Here we go. 

Heeseung practically yells (startling the living shit out of the two of you), stumbling back into the opposite wall with his eyes blown wide with pure horror. You barely have time to blink before his finger is flying back and forth between you, Sunghoon, and the now infamous bathroom door. 

“Hee—?” you start, but you know it’s too late. You can practically see the gears in his head breaking down one by one in his head.

“Don’t Hee me,” Heeseung’s eyes flick to the poorly hidden lipstick stains on Sunghoon’s collar (your handiwork) and your slightly failed attempt at powdering up your smudged mascara (Sunghoon’s handiwork). “I was literally texting Jay and he was like, ‘Heeseung, there’s only one Sunghoon out there, man, accept it,’ and I said, ‘Noooooo, our Sunghoon? Bro he’s not capable. He drinks tea with his pinky out.’ But then—I don’t know, man, I started thinking about it… And I was like damn, it checks out. But thinking it and hearing it and now seeing it are three very, VERY different things.” 

“You told Jay?!” you wince.

Heeseung looks at you like he’s offended you’d even ask that, and then he ignores you and gestures wildly at Sunghoon again (who is seemingly too stunned to speak right now.) 

“Guys. Mannnnnn. In the women’s bathroom? At your family’s event? THAT LOUD?! Ohhhhh.” Heeseung groans sincerely. “Lord, I’m ready to come up.”

Honestly? Same. Except you’re pretty sure whatever direction you’re headed, it’s definitely not up.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, covering your face with both hands as the absolute terror of how loud you actually were comes crashing down on you. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Meanwhile, next to you, Sunghoon looks as if he’s been hit by a truck, but in classic Park Sunghoon fashion, he is valiantly remaining composed. “Hyung, you’re being a bit too dramatic,” Sunghoon says calmly. “You’re just… drunk. Let’s go sit down, yeah?”

His calmness is pissing you off.

“Do you think I have enough alcohol in my system for this?” Heeseung’s eyes bulge even wider, and you wonder how that’s even possible. “Y/N, how am I supposed to look your mom in the eye again? She literally chased me down asking if I’d seen you and I started avoiding going back in after, like, forty minutes because I was sweating so much I thought I’d leave a trail behind me. I mean, do you two just—feel nothing? No shame? Is nothing sacred? Is sex just—not SACRED anymore? Is that it?!” He fans himself dramatically. “I’m sweating again. I need to change my name and go to Bali and become a man who sells bracelets on a beach. Or maybe I’ll become a nun. Yeah. Nun sounds good. Do they take boys? Wait, do not answer that—I cannot handle a hypothetical rejection right now, I am far too emotionally fragile, and frankly, I don’t want to know. In fact, I don’t want to know anything anymore.”

“We should’ve left separately,” you hiss to Sunghoon and smack him hard in the arm as Heeseung continues to have his meltdown. “I told you. didn’t I fucking tell you? Look at what you’ve done. You broke Heeseung. Like, actually broke him. Are you proud of yourself?”

“How the hell is this my fault?” His voice is still maddeningly calm, which only makes you want to set him on fire.

“Because! Because you… and your freakish stamina and your crazy control issues and—” you gesture furiously at him up and down, “—your stupid, evil cum kink—”

Heeseung stops mumbling and makes a choked sound like a dying bird, and Sunghoon’s nostrils flare as he looks at you. “You wanna try saying that a little louder, sweetheart? I don’t think the pastry chef in the next building heard you.” Sunghoon huffs, “And I fucking said let’s wait five minutes. What did you say?” He lifts a finger in the air and drops his voice into a perfect mockery of yours: “‘Noooo, nobody’s out there—it’s already late enough, you fine, handsome man, oh, you absolute sex god, Sunghoon, please—’”

You smack him even harder this time. “I did NOT say that last fucking part—!” 

“WELL, CLEARLY SOMEONE WAS OUT THERE! Hello! I’m still here!” Heeseung points between you two, making a sound that can only be described as the death rattle of a man who saw Satan and lived to tell the tale. “Just stop. No more talking from you two. Stop saying things. No more. There are children here, you filthy sex goblins—”

“There are literally no children at this thing—”

“I’M the child now!” Heeseung plants a palm to his chest and flashes you his big, desperate, drunken Bambi eyes. “I have regressed. I need my mommy.”

“Oh my God. Can we not do this in the hallway?” You ultimately give up and groan, stepping closer to pat Heeseung on the arm in some sort of comforting way. “Come on, Hee. Deep breaths. Let’s get you some water, okay? And then, I’ll have to kill you so you can’t tell anyone about this. No hard feelings.”

“Oh, good,” he nods dramatically and gives you a thumbs up. “Make it quick. I’d rather die than live in a world where I got front row auditory tickets to the Park Sunghoon Breeding Kink Extended Director’s Cut.”

Sunghoon exhales through his nose. “Heeseung, seriously, stop fucking talking—”

“Don’t talk to me right now, Sir Breedalot.” Heeseung yelps and scoots closer to you and physically hides behind your shoulder, clutching the back of your arm like a human shield as he presses his forehead into your neck.

Sunghoon’s eyes widen comically in absolute disbelief at the nickname, and his brows raise up so much they’re practically kissing his hairline, and you nearly choke trying to keep a straight face—and the laugh escapes anyway—which you try to disguise as a cough again, which only makes it worse.

Sunghoon slowly turns to you with murder in his eyes. “Don’t,” he says flatly. “Fucking laugh.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Shut the fuck up.”

Heeseung, unfortunately, has momentum now. And once Heeseung gets momentum, God himself couldn’t stop him. “You’re supposed to be my best friend. My brother,” He pulls you closer and squeezes your arm, “Not the guy who desecrates public property with my pseudo-little-sister. Not the guy who talks during it. You talk so much. So. Much. Oh my god.”

Sunghoon’s jaw clenches. “Were you fucking list—You know, you didn’t have to stand there, you freak.”

“Don’t give me that look! You know that the bathroom is right next to the fucking lounge I escape to! And for the record, I left,” Heeseung says, backing away when you also turn to glare at him. “Oh, I left. I’m not a monster. But… then I came back because… because? Bro, do you even know how long you were in there for? I thought it was a medical emergency, Sunghoon. Do you understand? I was worried. I am a good man.”

“I was fine,” Sunghoon huffs.

“YES. I KNOW THAT NOW.” Heeseung shrieks. “Wait—Is this, like, a thing now? Are you two… Is this happening? Like, for real? Because I’ve had my suspicions ever since I caught you in my own fucking living room—thanks for that again, by the way, really lovely. Nice little public sex kink you have going on right now, very cool, very not fun for me. But is this… are you two, like…? Is this a regular thing? Are you—” he lowers his voice, “—fuckbuddies?”

“Yes,” Sunghoon says immediately.

“NO,” you snap at the exact same time.

There’s a beat where all three of you just stare at each other. Then you whip around and slap Sunghoon upside the head so hard his hair flops. “Are you out of your rotten, diseased, childish mind?”

Sunghoon just shrugs like he’s above it all, but his lips are twitching at the corners. You think you might strangle him. “What? It’s the truth. And it’s Heeseung.”

“You know what? Heeseung is gonna go—Heeseung is going anywhere else. I’m gonna go sit down. Or maybe just try to lobotomize myself with a butter knife,” Heeseung groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “I genuinely can’t—like, I literally can’t even process what this means for your relationship, you know? No—please, God. Especially having to sit and witness the two of you acting like you’re not hopelessly in love with each other since the dawn of civilization, like some modern-day retelling of Romeo and Juliet except you’re both freaks and meaner and, frankly, more dramatic—”

Your mouth actually falls open. Like. Fully. You stare at him in pure horror and finally find your voice. “Shut up. Oh my God, shut up right now.”

Sunghoon clears his throat loudly beside you and looks very interested in the far wall. “You’re out of your mind,” he mutters, sounding offended. “With her? Please. Don’t make me sick.”

You immediately shove Sunghoon, and he barely even stumbles back. “Oh, fuck you—”

Heeseung pauses and looks between the two of you, then scoffs and throws his hands up. “Oh, I’m the crazy one? Woowwwwww. Okay. Yeah. Let’s all gang up on Heeseung. He’s sooooo handsome and hilarious and whimsical and underappreciated.” He points at you, then at Sunghoon. “You know what? Figure yourselves out. Or don’t. I don’t care. I care a normal amount. Which is not at all because I’m normal.” He turns and starts walking away, then spins back around. “Also, you’re both NASTY. Deeply. Just so we’re clear. AND THAT’S COMING FROM ME!”

And then, still muttering to himself as a deranged man lost at sea, Heeseung disappears around the corner and leaves you and Sunghoon standing there in what is quite possibly the most cursed silence of your entire lives. 

“…Don’t fucking start,” Sunghoon says.

“Oh, I’m absolutely fucking starting,” you say, and then kick him in the shin. “We need to set some ground rules for… whatever this sex thing is.” 

Sunghoon raises a brow. “So you finally admit you want it to keep happening?”

“Don’t give me that smug look of yours,” You scowl. “It’s just sex.”

“Did I say it was anything else?” he fires back with a shrug, then he huffs out a low, humorless laugh and shakes his head. “And I don’t know what this obsession is you have with… rules, but I’m not doing that shit. Not on your terms.”

“Too fucking bad,” you fire back instantly. “I don’t care.” You jab a finger into his chest. “Go get me a pen and paper, unless you want me to carve them into your forehead.”

He stares at you like he’s deciding whether to throttle you or not, then after a moment of silence, he ultimately sighs and rubs his face. “You are so fucking annoying,” he mutters.

You smile sweetly and entirely unrepentant. “And you’re still going to listen to me. Chop chop, pretty boy.”