My Kpop Safe Place

that was exactly how you ended up on a ladder, your friend holding it to make sure you don’t fall as you focused on hanging up the decorations that came in the mail three days prior.

some jazzy playlist mingyu picked out played in the background quietly, providing a cozy feel as opposed to what would become of this apartment in just a few hours. balloons were laying literally everywhere, providing little to no room for comfortable movement and the dining table had been moved towards the wall, serving as a snacks and drinks bar for the night.

‘can you hand me the double-sided tape?’ your words echoed through the room as you stood on top of the ladder, scissors in hand, completely ignoring your mother’s voice in the back of your head screaming about safety coming first when doing anything. mingyu handed you the tape, one hand still gripping the ladder.

‘you sure we can manage all the decorations in time?’ he asks. you’re not entirely sure whether he’s speaking to himself or to you, so you don’t answer right away. ‘you know what, let me call seokmin for help.’

mingyu doesn’t miss the frown that shows up on your lips upon the mention of his friend’s name.

he’s there, leaning against the wall between the hall and the living room right when you finish hanging up the garlands.

‘don’t tell me gyu made you buy more alcohol.’ you muttered, almost annoyed, motioning to the two plastic bags in his hands. ‘i don’t even know if there’s enough space in the fridge.’

seokmin laughs.

‘well, he did mention wanting to end this year with a bang.’

‘yeah. more like banging his head against the bathroom floor when he gets blackout drunk.’

mingyu enters the room oblivious to the comment you made about him which is almost comical. you can’t help but exchange glances with seokmin and chuckle. but then your eyes land on all the decorations that still haven’t been put in their respective positions and the smile falls from your face just as fast. not to mention preparing the extravagant snacks that mingyu picked out this morning.

the only things holding you together at this point were a cup of coffee and the doughnuts from a cafe across from your apartment that you got for breakfast. well, and maybe the promise of some free alcohol later this evening.

‘need any help with that?’ seokmin’s voice was soft coming from behind you, eyes watching intently as you worked on putting the balloons into small groups to then later hang them up in various places around the house. you shook your head gently.

‘mingyu might need it more than me.’ you answered, eyes fixed back on the job in front of you. ‘the snacks won’t make themselves, you know.’

‘yeah. i know.’ he muttered, taking that as his sign to help his friend and leave you to your own devices. ‘if you change your mind, though, i’m happy to help.’ he added right as he turned around.

your eyes followed his movement as he went towards the kitchen.

normally you would’ve accepted the help - had it been wonwoo or seungcheol coming in with the offer, you would’ve happily said yes. it was different with seokmin. there was still this barricade that you had built between him and you: a means of protection, maybe. protection from old disappointments.

but it was hard keeping him at a distance when he was just so sweet and smiley and annoyingly cheerful about everything. you doubted he even remembered why you put that wall up in the first place.

you finished the remaining decorations surprisingly fast - all it took was a chair, tape, scissors and a dream. mingyu and seokmin were still working on the snacks, most of them already laid out on the table next to the wall, talking and laughing about something you had no knowledge of.

you unconsciously smile to yourself. seokmin’s laugh is just that contagious.

‘i’m heading back.’ you stated, putting your wiener dog slippers on. one of the advantages of living in the same apartment complex and on the same floor as mingyu was that you did not have to come to help him decorate in full glam. ‘see you when the party starts.’

‘yeah, we better.’ mingyu chuckled, loading the dishwasher with the dirty plates. ‘if you don’t come here yourself i’ll drag you out. again.’

‘and what if i lock the doors?’

‘i’ll send seokmin to climb through your balcony.‘

the puzzled look on your face gained a big laugh from mingyu. seokmin just smiled and shrugged, as if he himself didn’t know where mingyu’s idea came from.

you brushed the comment aside, chuckling as you closed the door behind you.

the smell hanging in the air was a familiar mix of alcohol and too many different perfumes blended together.

you truly did not expect so many people to show up. as it turned out, though, mingyu was very ambitious about making this party memorable. and the formula for that, according to him, included a crowd so big you questioned how they even fit inside the apartment.

the fact that you quickly found yourself searching for the calm ambiance of the balcony came as no surprise.

‘want a smoke?’ you heard jihyo’s voice from the other side of the balcony, the girl peacefully sitting on the plastic chair. you smiled and nodded, taking the cigarette from her hand and taking a drag.

you sighed as you exhaled the smoke, the loud music bumping from the inside of the apartment.

‘i’m surprised he managed to fit so many people in his apartment.’ you mumbled, taking one more drag before handing the cigarette back to the girl.

jihyo hummed in response.

‘even more surprised there’s enough alcohol

for all of them to get this drunk.’ she added, motioning to the situation inside.

you followed her lane of sight and couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of soonyoung, one of mingyu’s friends, being dragged to the bathroom by him and seokmin.

seokmin’s eyes caught yours for a split second, the two of you almost immediately looking away. jihyo, ever so observant, caught that interaction with ease.

‘he’s been staring at you for half of the night.’ she mentioned her focus back on the cigarette as she sat back down. someone opened the balcony window to ask the two of you if you wanna partake in the karaoke competition in a second, but the two of you politely declined.

you gave jihyo a puzzled look.

‘not like creepy staring, of course. it just feels like his eyes are naturally drawn to you.’

jihyo’s statement was met with silence on your end.

‘oh, i see.’ she murmured, lighting another cigarette. ‘complicated?’

you hummed in response.

‘care to get it off your chest?’

for a few seconds you didn’t respond, thinking on whether to take her up on the offer or not.

‘it’s nothing too complicated. we went out for a few dates at the beginning of the year - didn’t work out, though. he wasn’t sure whether he was ready for dating, and that’s alright of course. guess i’m just still bitter about it after all this time.’

jihyo nodded, exhaling the smoke.

‘you still like him.’

‘guess i do.’

‘well, for what it’s worth, he does look like he wants to reconnect. try again, i mean. he looked at you all sad puppy eyed when you talked to that one guy at the beginning of the party.’

for whatever reason, jihyo’s words seemed to flip a switch inside your head - a new feeling arising inside your chest. or maybe it wasn’t new. maybe it was the same one you’ve had all these months ago, reignited with a new beacon of hope.

the party was in full effect by now - time nearing midnight, people excitedly sharing their new year’s resolutions over a bottle of wine or trying to figure out where all the snacks disappeared. all you wanted to do was get into the bathroom: the same bathroom that has now been locked for the past twenty five minutes.

seokmin noticed you standing by the bathroom door, back resting against the wall and a dissatisfied look on your face. he chuckled to himself as he approached.

‘i think i saw some couple going inside of there.’ he stated, standing next to you with his hands in his pockets. ‘not to make any assumptions, but i don’t think they’ll be getting out anytime soon.’

you scrunched your face in disgust and seokmin couldn’t help but burst out laughing. you soon followed suit, letting a chuckle out yourself.

‘that’s a shame. guess my hands will still smell like jihyo’s cigarettes then.’ you mumbled to yourself a little while later, the two of you still standing in the same spot.

‘can’t you wash them in the kitchen sink?’

‘mingyu doesn’t have any soap there.’ you retorted with a grimace. ‘not even dish soap. that’s actually quite insane.’

‘i might have some hand sanitiser in my coat.’ seokmin’s words made your eyes almost shoot up with excitement, as if hearing you’d just won the lottery. ‘i can give you some-‘

‘yes please.’

you almost dragged him to the hall, walking fast as you pushed through the endless crowd, trying not to step on anyone’s feet.

the problem only arose when you were already there.

the hall was swarmed with coats - du to the large amount of people at the party, it was to he expected. the problem was that after seokmin arrived to help with the decorations, he stayed at mingyu’s.

which meant his coat was at the very bottom of the mountain of clothes the size of mount everest.

‘oh.’

seokmin’s eyes met yours as if both of you were wondering what to do.

‘shall we dig in?’ he said after a moment of silence. you found the wording funny - it was like he was talking about some delicious food, not a pile of coats.

digging through all of that outerwear was more tiring than either of you thought it’d be. nonetheless, that fact made it even more rewarding when you finally got to apply the vanilla scented hand sanitizer on your hands, back pressed against the wall as you sat down on the floor, sighing with satisfaction.

seokmin extended an arm your way, offering you a polite smile.

‘come on, that floor is as dirty as a public restroom.’ he said and you chuckled, accepting his hand as he helped you stand up. you tried to ignore the sparks that went through your body when your skin touched his - and surely prayed he didn’t see your reaction to the contact. ‘besides, the fireworks are coming soon.’

‘i almost forgot about them.’ you said, and it was the truth - your mind has been so occupied with seokmin and trying to survive in such a big crowd that you’d forgotten it’s not a regular party.

you checked the time. only half an hour before midnight.

‘people will probably shoot for the door any second.’ seokmin said and you hummed in response. ‘or the balcony. we should probably head for one of these too.’

you thought about seokmin’s words for a second, a smile forming on your lips at the idea popping into your head.

‘i think i might have a better solution.’

you reached into the pocked of your jeans, satisfied when you felt the cold of your apartment keys, holding them up in your hand for seokmin to see. he seemed to get the idea, following you in your steps as you exited mingyu’s apartment and headed for yours, just a few doors to the right.

a sigh of relief left your lips the moment you entered the familiar space. it was completely empty - no drunk people laying on the couch, no strangers sitting down on the kitchen floor and having the, supposedly, deepest conversation of their life, no couples eating each other’s faces in the corner. you breathed calmly for the first time this evening.

‘this feels nice.’ you mumbled to yourself, almost as if forgetting for a second that seokmin followed you inside too. you soon turned to him, though, hand motioning to the balcony.

he seemed to get the idea, heading towards it and eventually stepping out, the cold air tickling his nose and ears. you soon appeared on the balcony as well, two blankets in hand, one immediately landing in seokmin’s hands.

the two of you sat in silence for a while. you could still hear the faint sounds of music blasting from mingyu’s apartment, people’s conversations and excited singing that was so off-key it made you want to laugh.

‘so,’ seokmin started. his voice was quiet - careful, even, as if he had thought out the conversation in his head before starting it. ‘any new years resolutions?’

you hummed, shaking your head.

‘haven’t thought of any yet.’ you responded simply and truthfully. ‘to be fair i usually don’t achieve them anyways.’

seokmin chuckled, his smile warm and radiant.

‘what about you?’ you asked, curious. ‘do you have any?’

seokmin exhaled the cold december air, a small cloud of smoke forming for just a second.

‘yeah. guess i do.’ he stated, eyes looking up at the night sky. ‘some of them i could technically start even before the clock strikes midnight.’

you furrowed your brows in confusion. seokmin smiled gently and laughed - not at your expression, but at himself.

‘i promised myself to fix some stupid mistakes i made this year.’ he explained, eyes fixed on anything but you. ‘like being an absolute coward and backing out of something that could’ve been great.’

you smiled, wrapping the blanket tighter around yourself - the warming effect of the alcohol has worn off already and suddenly you were very much aware of the ice cold winter air surrounding you.

the music from mingyu’s apartment became more quiet, a clear indicator of people gathering to watch the fireworks. some of them were already downstairs, standing in coats that you weren’t sure were even theirs as they tried to find the best spot to watch them go off.

your eyes travelled back towards seokmin’s face, only to notice his were already fixed on you.

‘do you think you’d agree?’ he said, voice unsure. ‘if i asked you on a date? to try again?’

‘no backing out this time?’ you asked, a smile forming on your face. seokmin nodded.

‘no backing out this time.’

‘hm, i don’t know.’ you mumbled, seokmin’s eyes looking down almost immediately, as if suddenly disappointed. you tried to keep yourself from giggling as you continued. ‘maybe next year.’

seokmin eyes perked up, noticing the grin on your face and he shook his head with a defeated smile at your joke. he exhaled a breath he didn’t even know he was holding in.

you could hear the people who gathered up downstairs screaming - counting down the last ten seconds before the clock struck midnight. both you and seokmin averted your attention from the conversation to said situation.

hundreds of colourful lights shot up into the sky the moment people finished their countdown, creating a show so enthralling and beautiful you struggled to keep your eyes away from it.

‘it’s… beautiful.’ you stated quietly, as if speaking to yourself. seokmin’s eyes were fixed on you, a soft smile gracing his face.

‘yeah. beautiful.’

you came back inside after a few minutes, the fireworks slowly dying down. seokmin followed right after, happy with the fact he wouldn’t have to sit outside in the cold for any longer.

‘wanna come back there?’ you asked, standing by the apartment door. he shook his head.

‘not really. maybe in a few minutes.’ he stated, sitting down on the couch, head resting against the pillows. ‘oh, and one more thing.’

‘hm?’

seokmin’s face turned towards yours.

‘can i take you out on a date? next week, 5pm - there’s this food market close to my apartment and they have phenomenal snacks there. i’d really like to take you there. if you’d let me, that is.’

your smile grew bigger by the second.

seokmin’s eyes followed your movement as you sat down next to him, leaning in for a quick, sweet kiss on the cheek and his face heated up almost immediately.

"A ball? What do they think this is, Bridgerton?"

You looked up, the word ball catching your attention.

"Did you say a ball?" you asked, the words slipping from your mouth before you had a chance to stop yourself.

Your two noisy coworkers—the ones who always looked at you like you were beneath them, as if you weren't all doing the same job—turned their heads in unison to look at you, looking unimpressed as always to see you standing there.

"A new job Cindy just picked up," the one called Ana drawled, smacking her gum. "Some rich family in the city is having a Christmas ball."

"Word on the street is that they're looking for a wife for their son," the other one—Drea—said, sounding bored. "Anyone who's anyone will be there."

You wrinkled your nose.

Rich people are so weird, you thought.

Then again, if these people were that kind of rich, the pay for working the event might be good, great even, even if it meant you would have to work during your favorite holiday of the year. You could put away more money for a space in the city—someplace that was all yours. Maybe you could even finally move out of the small, cramped apartment in the not-so-nice part of town that you'd been living in since your dad had passed away—make some new memories, start living a new life.

You let your mind drift as you often did when you thought about your dream. Sunny yellow walls, plants hanging from the ceiling, fresh bread in the oven, your two orange cats sitting in the front window...

"Is that him? He's pretty easy on the eyes."

You looked up, seeing the two of them huddled around Ana's phone.

"Wouldn't be so bad being his wife if it meant never having to work another job in the city again," Drea commented wistfully.

"Girl, please," Ana scoffed. "You wouldn't last a minute as a society girl."

"Like you'd do any better!"

You tuned out their bickering again, knowing from experience that once they got started, they could keep going for a while.

You had been working at Cindy's Catering since you were eighteen. It wasn't glamorous work, but money was money. It helped keep the lights on and food on the table, and that was enough for now.

"Are you sure you want to do this, kid?" Cindy had asked you when you had first applied for the job. "It's a lot of hard work, and people aren't always kind."

You massaged a spot on your upper arm reflexively—the place where an angry client had grabbed you when you had accidentally spilled coffee on one of his guests before Cindy had come barging in guns blazing.

It had been your first time on the job.

"Always be kind to others, my little princess," your father had said to you often as a child. "Whenever you have the choice, choose to be kind."

You thought about the upcoming ball as you undid the laces on your work shoes. No one knew that Cindy was your dad's oldest friend, since she treated you like any other team member in front of the others, but you thought your chances of getting to work the event were pretty high regardless of your relationship with her. You were her most senior employee after all.

"You thinking of going for it?"

You jumped, realizing that Ana and Drea were looking at you, identical haughty expressions on their faces.

"I'm sorry?"

"The family having this ball are the Lees," Drea said, rolling her eyes. "As in the King's Valley Lees."

"Oh, well..." Your face started turning pink under the weight of their attention, realizing that they expected you to know who they were talking about. "I'm guessing they're really rich then?"

They looked at each other for a moment, exchanging a look, before turning their heads to look at you again.

"You don't seem like the type of girl who has a man," Ana said haughtily, looking you up and down in the way that mean girls often did. "Bagging the son of the richest family in Castle Park sure would turn your life around."

"I don't care about that," you protested weakly. "Besides, money like that would turn anyone's life around, not just mine.."

"Hmm."

They both raised an eyebrow at you then shrugged, heading for the exit. You exhaled with relief as you reached behind your back to untie the strings of your apron, glad to be rid of them.

"I hope you have your A-list uniform ready," you heard someone say from behind you.

You turned around, seeing Cindy herself leaning against the row of lockers opposite you, arms folded over her chest.

"Hi, Cindy," you greeted her. "Yeah, I washed it after that banquet at Glass Tower." You paused, the pieces clicking together in your head. "Oh my gosh, really? Me?"

Cindy snorted.

"Of course. We're going to need the entire team for this shindig, the Lees invited just about everyone with deep pockets and trust funds in Castle Park." She slapped a folder onto the bench between you. "It's on Christmas Eve, which means that there are a lot more details to take into account, so make sure you read that. I want you running lead."

"You want me to run lead?" you repeated, looking down at the folder in awe.

"Who else? You've been here longer than anybody, except me."

You bent down to grab the folder, tucking it securely into your bag.

"I'll read this tonight." You beamed, giddy. "Cindy, this could be huge! I can feel it."

Her face softened as she tucked a loose strand of hair that had escaped your ponytail behind your ear.

"You've been working hard for so long," she lamented. "It about breaks my heart to know that you're pushing yourself like this, but... I know why you're doing it—and I know your old man wouldn't want to see you give up on your dream, either."

"I miss him, Cindy," you whispered.

"I know, kid." She sighed. "I know." She pushed herself off the lockers, giving you a look. "Go on home, I'll be there in a bit."

"Okay." You heaved your bag over your shoulder and closed your locker, securing the lock. "Thank you," you said softly, pausing beside her.

She patted your shoulder.

"Don't worry. We're going to get you there."

"Do you think we'll get to meet him?"

"Who?" you asked absently, tucking the crisp powder blue shirt into the waist of your tailored black pants.

"The hunky bachelor these people are trying to marry off," Jacqueline clarified, turning her head one way then the other as she studied her reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink. "Wouldn't mind getting to know him on a first-name basis if you know what I mean."

"Not really, no," you murmured, fingers combing through your hair as you pulled it back into a neat ponytail.

Out of everyone who worked at Cindy's Catering, you had known Jacqueline the longest—and it hadn't been intentional on your part, either. She was just always around, like the neighborhood cat who visited everyone's home. Soon enough, she had managed to convince Cindy to hire her brother, Augustus—or Gus, as everyone called him—and then you'd had two new friends, which was two more than you expected to have.

The kids at school hadn't exactly been sympathetic when your dad had passed. Instead, they gave you weird looks and left you to sit alone at lunch. It had made growing up very lonely, but sometimes you wondered if it was better to be alone than to have friends who didn't actually care for you.

You would never tell Jacqueline this, but in spite of all the ways in which she made you uncomfortable with her shameless attitude and bold behavior, you would always stick by her, ever since that day she had found you sitting alone at the diner across the street the winter that she had started working at Cindy's and slid into the booth across from you.

"I just want you to know that someone—" She had coughed conspicuously. "—called the Hartmans the other night to let them know that they had seen a shady man in their daughter's bedroom. They came home and busted Tracy right as she and her loser boyfriend were about to get it on."

"Oh my gosh." You covered your mouth, realizing at once what she had done. "Jacqueline, why would you do that?"

She shrugged.

"She was disrespecting you," she said casually. "I know you're too nice to do anything about it, so I figured I'd teach her a lesson. Now she's grounded and can't go anywhere except school and work."

"Thank you," you said softly, trying not to cry right there in the middle of the diner.

"I got your back, princess."

Returning to the present, you glanced at Jacqueline out of the corner of your eye, feeling fond. She was a little rough around the edges, but she was good.

"Are you ever going to let Gus take you out?" she asked you suddenly.

You looked at her in surprise.

"Gus wants to take me out?

She turned away from the mirror, giving you a look of disbelief.

"You can't tell me you didn't know that he's been asking you to dinner," she said flatly.

"Oh, well, I..." You bent down to reach for your shoes, flustered. "I thought he just wanted to, you know, hang out. As friends."

"Dinner," Jacqueline enunciated. "He's been asking you to dinner." She shook her head. "Gosh, princess. You're hopeless."

"I thought I told you not to call me that."

"Yeah, well... you know I never listen. If you don't want to go out with Gus, you should just tell it to him straight. It'll hurt his feelings more if you let him go on like that." She pulled a tube of lipstick out of a worn cosmetics bag, swiping the color over her lips. "Speaking of people who never listen, I think I have to break up with Bruno. We always fight about the same dumb shit because he never listens to anything I say and then does the same fucking thing that pisses me off after I told him it pisses me off."

"I told you that you should never have gone out with him," you said, looking for your tinted chapstick. "Now it's going to be weird whenever you work together."

"I know, but it's the shoulders," she whined. "He's built like a damn upside down triangle."

You hummed in acknowledgement, going over your eyelashes with mascara.

Normally you wouldn't care so much, but after Ana and Drea's snide comments, you had looked up the Lees and quickly realized that you shouldn't give them or anyone in attendance a reason to complain or criticize you.

Remember what you're doing this for, you told yourself silently. Everything will be okay.

"Alright," Jacqueline announced, pulling on the matching fur-trimmed powder blue Santa hat that you had to wear during the holidays. "Showtime, princess."

You gave your reflection one last look, adjusting your own Santa hat on your head so that it sat just right. It was just one job. You weren't going to let anything ruin Christmas for you, not even having to work some stuffy rich people ball.

"Yeah," you echoed. "Showtime."

"I swear that woman's face does not move," Lucy hissed in your ear.

"Her and pretty much everyone else in this room," you muttered back, balancing a tray full of shrimp and cocktail sauce with your right hand, the other tucked behind your back. "She seems to like Bruno, though."

Lucy scoffed.

"It's not Bruno she likes, it's the champagne."

You both giggled, then schooled your expressions as another bejeweled socialite floated past you.

The event had been going for a couple of hours already, with no signs of slowing down. The guests were definitely consuming more alcohol than food, but you figured that that would soon change. Nobody liked overpriced party food more than drunk rich people.

From your place by the banquet tables, you could see the Lees standing on the podium taking up one side of the room. There was an enormous Christmas tree decorated in shades of blue, champagne, and gold, which seemed to be the color scheme for the event itself. Meticulously wrapped gift boxes were nestled beneath the tree, artfully arranged on pristine white cloth to mimic fallen snow. Delicate crystal snowflakes hung from the ceiling, gleaming in the light from the enormous Swarovski chandelier hanging in the middle of the room like a giant centerpiece.

You'd had to swerve quickly to avoid bumping into what looked like a real ice sculpture of the Lee who had originally founded King's Valley earlier, his entire family's likeness sprinkled throughout the room like stern-faced chaperones. That was something you privately felt you could have done without, but that wasn't up to you.

You had to admit, though—everything did look nice.

Both Mr. Lee and his son were dressed in matching black suits with pale blue dress shirts, gold silk ties, and various glittering accessories pinned to the lapels of their jackets. Holding her head high with her hand in the crook of her husband's arm, Mrs. Lee looked like a walking billboard for Tiffany & Co., head to toe in that signature blue color and sparkling jewelry. They were an impressive-looking bunch, albeit a little stiff.

You knew that they also had a daughter who had recently gotten married, and you had seen her mingling, her husband glued to her side at every turn. She rarely returned to the podium, which told you everything you needed to know about the inner workings of that family.

It had been said that Sienna Lee had married well, but it didn't seem to matter when the weight of the family's legacy rested squarely on her younger brother's shoulders. She may have been the oldest, but she was still a woman; and the papers all claimed she would never see any position in her family's company higher than that of an overpaid secretary.

Meanwhile, as the heir to the King's Valley diamond empire, the boy who had trailed behind her to every event as a child while she schmoozed her father's business partners was expected to take over the family business and carry on in the footsteps of all the Lee men before him.

That's a lot for one person to handle, you thought sadly.

"God, that must be awful," Lucy commented, watching as yet another Castle Park heiress in designer clothing walked up the steps of the podium. "He looks like he'd rather be anywhere else."

You had to admit that even from here, you could tell that Seokmin Lee was very handsome. He was tall with strong memorable features, dark hair falling artfully over his forehead, his well-fitted suit hugging his trim frame.

He might be even more handsome if not for the strained smile on his face that told everyone that he was not enjoying himself one bit. You watched as he turned to say something to his parents then jogged down the steps of the podium and past the young woman who frowned at his back as he made his escape.

"Poor guy," Lucy said, voice sympathetic. "I'd run away, too."

Mr. and Mrs. Lee exchanged disappointed looks before turning to apologize to the scorned heiress.

"Another one bites the dust." Lucy whistled. "Do you think he's ever going to pick someone?"

You stared at the door Seokmin had fled the scene through, remembering that it led to the gardens.

"Who knows," you murmured. "Come on, let's see if we can tempt any of those golf course grandpas with appetizers."

As you had predicted, everyone who had been throwing glasses of champagne back like water were suddenly ravenous within the hour, sending you running back to the kitchen for a fresh tray of shrimp and cocktail sauce.

You tested the weight of the tray, balancing it carefully. When you felt confident that it wouldn't fall, you stepped backwards into the kitchen door, pushing it open.

As you turned to face forward, you felt your foot catch on something—and time seemed to slow to a crawl.

Your eyes widened as the entire tray tipped forward, splattering the one and only Seokmin Lee with cold shrimp and red cocktail sauce... and all you could do was watch as it happened in slow motion.

"Oh my gosh!"

Mortified, you stood there frozen as he tried to wipe the sauce off his likely very expensive gold silk tie, only succeeding in smearing it further, much to his growing distress.

"I am so sorry," you blurted out, finally jumping into action. "I didn't see you and—"

"It's okay, I wasn't paying attention," he said kindly, waving off your apologies. "My parents, however, probably won't be so forgiving." He sighed. "Well, it's not like this night was going great to begin with."

Having heard the commotion, Gus pushed open the kitchen door, eyes bugging out of his head when he saw the shrimp on the floor.

"What the hell happened?" he asked you.

You thought about what Jacqueline had said about leading him on. That was the last thing you wanted to do to someone as nice as Gus... But this was work. Surely he wouldn't think twice about helping you in a situation like this?

Deciding quickly, you motioned for him to come over, gesturing frantically.

"Can you please clean this up? I'm going to have Jacqueline get a new tray ready and then order more shrimp," you told him. "Thanks, Gus! You're the best!"

You barged into the kitchen, looking around for Jacqueline.

"Jacqueline! I need you to take over shrimp! And we need a new tray!" you called out.

"Roger that, princess," she replied, appearing from a back room.

Satisfied that you had addressed that particular problem, you whipped out your phone to place a rush order on a new batch of shrimp. They reassured you that it would arrive quickly—anything for Cindy, they said—and you thanked them profusely. As soon as you hung up, you let out the breath you had been holding, slumping against a nearby counter.

"Um, excuse me?"

Your head snapped up, noticing Seokmin Lee standing by the door and looking very out of place. He was still holding onto his stained tie gingerly.

"I didn't want my parents seeing me like this," he explained. "Or anyone else, really."

You winced.

"Right... Sorry about that. Again," you apologized. "But if you put your tie in to wash with cold water and a mild detergent, the cocktail sauce will come right out."

You paused, seeing the expression on his face that suggested that he had never done a load of laundry in his life.

"Uh, never mind," you said awkwardly, looking at your phone's lock screen for the time so you wouldn't have to keep looking at him. "So... are you just going to hide in here for the rest of the night?"

"I'm considering it," he muttered. "I don't think I can meet another Castle Park clout chaser. I'll lose my mind."

"I'm sorry that you're not having a good time," you offered. "Especially on Christmas Eve."

"I've always loved the holidays," he said wistfully, staring at the sauce-spattered tie in his hand. "It was always the one time of the year when we would actually be a family instead of always talking about the diamond mine or profits or what Mrs. Kim wore to the Giving Tuesday charity ball..." He stuffed the tie into his pocket with a resigned sigh. "Seeun just got married. I don't see why this was necessary."

"Seeun?" you repeated, confused.

"My sister," he said. "Of course you wouldn't know that that's her real name, not when she goes by Sienna now."

You stared at him for a few moments, remembering the way he had run off the podium earlier. There were clearly many things bothering him, not just the fact that his parents were practically holding him hostage to find him a wife on his favorite holiday of the year.

You stepped closer to him.

"Here." You did up two of the buttons on his jacket, effectively hiding the stains from the cocktail sauce that had landed on his dress shirt. "Your parents will probably ask you what happened to your tie, but at least no one will know that you got cocktail sauce on yourself."

"Thanks." He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. "This is not the night I wanted to have." He paused, suddenly looking embarrassed. "Then again, it's probably not the night you wanted to have, either."

You smiled, shaking your head.

"Christmas is my favorite holiday, too."

"I'm sorry you had to be dragged into work for this," he apologized sincerely. "I don't know why it has to be like this. I—" He threw his hands up in the air. "Have you ever had a dream that your life was just... anything but the one you were living?"

You saw the vision of the space in your mind, the one you always pictured in your daydreams—sunny yellow walls, plants hanging from the ceiling, fresh bread in the oven, your two orange cats sitting in the front window…

You could see it as clear as day.

"Yeah," you said slowly. "I have." You felt your phone buzz in your hand, a text message letting you know that the supplier was at the back door with the shrimp. "It's what keeps me going every single day."

You started walking backwards towards the door so that Seokmin would know that you weren't just leaving him there, turning around only when you had reached it and pushed it open.

"Got your shrimp here," the delivery man announced, gesturing over his shoulder.

"Thank you so much, you guys are a lifesaver!" You held the door open for him and his partner as they brought in the shrimp you had ordered. "I'll let Cindy know to expect an extra charge for this."

"Eh, don't sweat it." He winked at you, tipping his hat in farewell. "Merry Christmas, kid!"

You smiled as he got into the truck, waving as he drove away.

"That was kind of him," Seokmin commented, suddenly appearing behind you.

"He and Cindy have been friends forever, they're practically family," you explained, letting the door close behind you as you walked back towards where they had set down the shrimp. "They're always doing each other all sorts of favors."

"That sounds nice, honestly." He looked down at the shrimp, an odd expression on his face. "In my family, we don't do anything for other people if we don't know what's in it for us in return. It's kind of bleak."

"That sounds so miserable."

"You have no idea." He cleared his throat, trying to put on a happy face. "So what do you do besides serve shrimp to a bunch of drunk elitists on Christmas Eve?"

You giggled.

"Not much, honestly," you admitted. "I'm saving up to move out to the city. I..." You hesitated, unsure why you were spilling your guts to Seokmin Lee of all people. "I really want to open a shop that doubles as a bookstore and a café, a place where people can come and just relax and feel safe and happy. So... I try to work as many events as I can, especially ones like this."

"That's the dream, huh?" he asked you.

"Yep, that's the dream." You laughed nervously. "Um... what about you? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," you added quickly. "Oh gosh, never mind. Forget I asked."

"No, no, no! I..." He took a deep breath. "I want to open a dog shelter."

You blinked in surprise.

A dog shelter? That's not what you had in mind when he had started talking about dreams.

"Crazy, right? Dogs, not diamonds." He laughed bitterly to himself. "I've pitched it to my parents more times than I can count, but because it's not profitable..."

"I'm sorry," you said softly, reaching for his hand. "I think that's a good dream. A great dream, even. You shouldn't give up just because your parents don't see the value in it. You'll just have to find a way to make it happen yourself."

He looked down at your joined hands, seemingly shocked into silence by the gesture.

"Hey, princess, I got the shrimp all cleaned up—"

You pulled your hand back, looking up at Gus standing in the doorway.

"Thanks, Gus," you said quickly, hoping that he hadn't noticed anything. "I really appreciate it."

"Yeah, no problem," he said slowly, looking back and forth between you and Seokmin. "Aren't you the guy everyone's looking for right now?"

"Are they?" He grimaced. "I guess my time's up." He turned to face you. "How do I look?"

"Like you've never had an encounter with shrimp cocktail in your life," you told him, smiling sheepishly.

He grinned.

"I guess I'll leave you to it."

He nodded at Gus, pushing open the kitchen door. Before he walked out, he paused, looking at you over his shoulder.

"Thank you," he said. "I hope you can achieve your dream soon."

"I... y-yeah, you too," you stammered, blushing.

As soon as the door had swung closed behind him, Gus side eyed you curiously.

"So what was that all about?"

"N-nothing!" You hurried over to the prep table to put together a new tray of shrimp and cocktail sauce so that you could relieve Jacqueline of shrimp duty when she got back. "We just talked for a little bit, that's all."

"Hmm." You heard the sound of a stool being pushed back, the legs scraping against the floor. "Listen, I know tomorrow's Christmas, but I was wondering if... you'd maybe like to meet at Ellie's in the morning."

Ellie's was the local diner, the very same one Jacqueline had found you at all those years ago—and they were open twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.

"Gus... you're a really great guy," you said carefully, "and I really like having you as a friend... but I don't like you like that. I'm sorry."

He nodded.

"Jackie told me that you might not have been picking up on the fact that I was asking you out," he said, sounding as though he had expected this response. "No worries, though. We're still good."

"Thanks." You smiled at him. "Can you let your sister know that she can be done with the shrimp now?"

"Sure thing."

He hopped off the stool, heading for the door.

"Oh, by the way, princess..." He turned his head to look at you. "I don't know what's going on between you and the Lee boy, but... please be careful."

You simply stared at him as he walked out, unsure of what to make of his warning. There was nothing going on between you and Seokmin, obviously—couldn't be anything going on between you.

"Hey, Gus said you were ready to swap back..." Jacqueline paused, seeing the expression on your face. "Uhhhh... what's going on?"

"Nothing." You shook your head. "There was just an accident, that's all."

"Okay..." She gave you one last look as you backed out of the kitchen, tray full of shrimp. "Just be careful this time."

You don't have to tell me twice, you thought.

"And where is this shrimp from?"

"Um..."

You blanked as the pompous old lady who had probably consumed several pounds of shrimp on her own interrogated you, her cloying perfume threatening to suffocate you where you stood.

"I only ask because shrimp is only good when it comes from this one place down the river..."

You hummed in reply, trying to think of a polite way to disengage when a familiar voice came floating in from behind you.

"My dear Rosemund, you're looking absolutely resplendent this evening," Seokmin greeted the older woman, grinning with an easy charm that you hadn't seen on his face all night. "I hate to interrupt your chat with this lovely lady, but I do believe Sienna was looking for you. She loves your little talks ever so much."

"Oh, is she now? I must go look for her then." She patted him on the arm. "You look so handsome, my boy. We'll find a good wife for you yet."

You tried not to wince as his smile seemed to freeze in place.

"Thank you, Rosemund," he said politely. "Your well wishes are deeply appreciated."

You watched her trot off, then exhaled in relief.

"Thank you so much," you breathed. "She was grilling me about where the shrimp was from... I had no clue what to say to her—"

"She just likes to talk. I don't think she was trying to target you specifically." He turned to look at you directly. "I must admit, I'm very curious about this bookstore slash café you want to open. Care to tell me more about it?"

"Oh, well, I..." You looked around, catching Jacqueline's eye as she raised an eyebrow at you. "That's it, really. I just want to, you know, have a place that's really cozy and comfortable—"

"What colors?" he interrupted.

"Um, yellow." You bit your lip. "I really like yellow. I think it's warm... and hopeful. And a lot of green. I want a lot of plants." You paused, thinking. "Lots of wood, too. And really plush armchairs."

"That sounds lovely," he said, smiling. "Have you started looking at spaces for rent yet?"

"I have some places bookmarked—"

"Seokmin."

You stiffened, seeing Mr. Lee standing behind his son, his eyes fixed on you. You lowered your head in silent deference, hoping that you weren't about to be in trouble for talking to the King's Valley heir.

"Father," Seokmin returned, his tone neutral as he turned around to acknowledge him.

"You keep disappearing," Mr. Lee said pointedly. "You're making it difficult to accomplish your goal tonight."

"You mean your goal."

You felt Mr. Lee's eyes on you once more, boring into the Santa hat on your head.

"Regardless of whose goal it is, it won't be accomplished here," he said flatly. "There are certain... standards that should be adhered to, son."

You could feel your ears turning red.

Of course you weren't good enough for Seokmin Lee. He was the son of the wealthiest family in Castle Park... and you were just a serving girl who had been lucky enough to share their world for one night.

"That remains to be seen, Father," Seokmin said coolly, his hand reaching for your free one behind his back.

You tried not to jump when you felt his fingers lace with yours. You kept your head down, grateful for the silent show of support as he faced off with his father.

You heard Mr. Lee make a clicking sound with his tongue, the only other indication of his disapproval.

"Don't take too long," was all he said before turning and walking away.

"I'm sorry you had to hear that," Seokmin said quietly, turning around to face you, his hand still holding yours. "He's very... concerned with appearances."

"No, I... I get that." You tried to swallow past the lump in your throat. "You are who you are. There are expectations."

"His expectations are garbage." He rolled his eyes. "All these people he wants me to meet... they're so insufferably boring and shallow... I could never be happy living the life he has planned out for me."

"So what are you going to do?" you asked him, keeping an eye out for Mr. Lee.

"Well, for tonight, I'm just going to do what I want to do, which is avoid all those vapid socialites that he keeps trying to set me up with," he replied, plucking a shrimp off of your tray and dipping it in the sauce. "You know, this is much better when it's not all over me."

You giggled.

"How did you get into the catering business anyway?"

"Oh." You looked around to make sure none of your coworkers were nearby, then said, "Cindy is an old friend of my dad's. Um... she took me in when my dad passed, so I started working for her when I turned eighteen."

"I'm sorry to hear about your dad." Seokmin squeezed your hand gently. "That must have been very hard for you."

"It was," you admitted, "but Cindy's been so good to me. I wouldn't have been able to get this far without her. She's always believed in my dream."

"It's a very compelling dream." He smiled. "It makes me want to believe in it, too."

You smiled back shyly.

"Hey, princess, I gotta go get a new meatball tray," Jacqueline said, appearing out of nowhere and making you jump, dropping Seokmin's hand. "Be right back."

"Okay." You gave her a look, one that she returned as she walked away. "Don't take too long."

"Never."

Seokmin grinned, delighted.

"Why does she call you princess?"

"Oh, I don't know," you huffed. "That's just been her nickname for me since we first met. Her brother calls me that, too."

"Ah, yes, your knight in shining armor from the kitchen earlier." He wiggled his eyebrows at you knowingly. "And how long has he been pining away for you?"

You grimaced.

"Was it that obvious?"

"I'm afraid so." He sighed delicately. "I hope you had the good sense to let him down gently."

"Of course. He's my friend, I didn't want to hurt him," you replied.

"Hmm."

You looked past his shoulder, noticing Mr. and Mrs. Lee both looking at the pair of you now, Mr. Lee's expression one of frustration and his wife's one of thinly veiled interest.

"Your parents are looking at us," you said softly.

"Let them." He rolled his eyes. "I'm not done with this shrimp." To emphasize his point, he picked up another shrimp off the tray, dipping it in the cocktail sauce with exaggerated movements. "Do you think Cindy would give me a job if they disowned me?"

You coughed, startled by the question.

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm just saying." He shrugged. "I don't think they're going to like it when I tell them I'm not getting married. At least not to any of the women they've introduced me to tonight."

"Well, have you—"

"Hey, princess, we've gotta start cleaning up for the night."

Gus approached you carefully, eyes locked with Seokmin's as he came up behind you.

"I... okay." You looked at Seokmin one last time. "Um, it was nice meeting you. I hope everything works out for you. Truly, Seokmin."

"I—"

"Seokmin."

Mr. and Mrs. Lee were both standing behind their son now, identical expressions of polite indifference on their faces. He ignored them, looking at you instead, eyes pleading.

You shook your head almost imperceptibly.

Jaw clenched, he nodded.

"You, too."

You rushed off to the kitchen, Gus trailing you closely.

"I thought I told you to be careful," he hissed at you as you pushed open the kitchen door.

"I was!" you protested.

"Sure didn't look like it."

"It doesn't matter anyway, Gus." You wiped your face with your sleeve quickly. "I'm never going to see him again after tonight."

"You wanna talk about what happened?"

You looked up at Jacqueline, who was leaning against the lockers opposite you.

"Talk about what?" you muttered, looking back down at your shoes as you slid them off your feet one by one.

"You and Prince Charming."

You scoffed, standing up to tug your shirt out of your pants.

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Are you sure? Because it looked like you two were getting real close tonight." She turned to open up her locker, offering you a semblance of privacy. "He liked talking to you, I could tell."

"Well, how would you feel if the only reason everyone wanted to talk to you was because you're rich and single and your parents want you to find a wife?" You slipped your shirt over your head, quickly replacing it with a cozy, oversized sweater that you had packed for the walk home. "He's just... unhappy, and he needed someone to talk to."

Jacqueline sighed as she undid the buttons on her shirt.

"It's okay if you like him, you know," she said, her back still turned.

"Please. As if we could ever be together." You shimmied off your pants, pulling on a pair of thick fleece tights before wearing your jeans on top of them. "His parents would never let that happen."

Jacqueline's head popped up through the neck hole of her sweater as she turned to face you.

"I think we've seen that he's willing to not listen to his parents when he wants something," she said slowly.

You frowned.

"Jacqueline, that's not the point—"

Suddenly, you heard the sound of banging against the glass of the front window, as if someone was pounding their fists against it repeatedly.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

Exchanging startled looks with Jacqueline, you both rushed to the front of the store, Cindy close behind you.

Standing outside in the cold, hands and nose pressed against the glass as snow started to fall, was Seokmin Lee, heir to the King's Valley diamond empire—and he looked about five seconds away from freezing.

"What are you doing here?" you demanded, running over to unlock the door and let him in.

"I... had... to see you," he gasped, folded over as he caught his breath, hands on his knees.

You looked over at your shoulder, watching as Jacqueline and Cindy backed away slowly, knowing expressions on their faces. You shook your head, but were grateful that they were leaving you alone.

"How did you get here?" you asked him, looking him over for any signs of harm or distress.

"Took a cab," he replied, finally straightening up.

His cheeks were so pink, although he looked better as he soaked up the warmth from the heater that Cindy had plugged in by the receptionist's desk.

"Did you really have to come all the way out here?" You frowned, noticing that he was only in his suit from the ball—no coat at all. "You could get sick."

"Yeah, I had to come all the way out here," he confirmed, looking straight into your eyes. "I couldn't catch you before you left. My parents basically kept a hand on me for the rest of the night."

"Oh. Well..." You fiddled with the sleeves of your sweater. "What's up?"

"What's up?" he repeated, momentarily stumped. "I... um... well... this is going to sound crazy because we just met and we barely know anything about each other, but..." He gulped. "I think you are... the most amazing person I've ever met, and..."

He put his hands on his hips, looking up at the ceiling for a moment, seeming as though he was gathering all his courage.

"And?" you prompted gently.

He looked back down at you.

"I told my parents that I wanted nothing to do with King's Valley if it meant that I couldn't live my life on my own terms," he said firmly. "I'm not marrying some Castle Park heiress I don't really know or like, and I'm not giving up on my dream."

"That's great, Seokmin!" You beamed at him. "I'm so happy for you."

"That's not all."

"Oh." You tilted your head to one side. "What else is there?"

He stepped forward, taking your hands in his.

"How do you feel about turning your bookstore slash café into a bookstore slash dog café that's partnered with a local shelter to help dogs get adopted?" he breathed, his words rushing together. "And... how do you feel about... running it together?"

"Oh, um..." You bit your lip, trying not to let it show on your face that you were kind of disappointed. "I think that's a great idea, Seokmin, honestly—"

"And," he interrupted, moving even closer to you so that your joined hands were squished in between your bodies, "how do you feel about me?"

You felt your face turn bright red.

"I, um," you squeaked.

"Because I'm rather fond of you, princess," he murmured, bending down so that he was at eye level.

"Don't call me that," you protested feebly.

He laughed, his forehead against yours.

"I'm waiting, princess."

"I guess... I'm fond of you, too," you admitted. "Even though you still smell like shrimp."

He pulled back, his lower lip stuck out in a pout.

"I can fix that."

You laughed.

"Come on." You took him to the back room, picking through the lost and found for a scarf or coat he could wear. "This might fit you. Here, put it on."

"Hey, kid, I'm heading out," Cindy called from the doorway. "You'll be alright?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine," you assured her, smiling. "I'll lock up."

Seokmin presented himself for inspection, the coat hanging loosely over his fancy suit.

"It'll do," you said.

He nodded, then scratched the back of his neck sheepishly.

"So, uh, I don't really have a plan from here on out," he confessed. "I don't know what I'm doing and I definitely don't know what to do now."

You smiled, taking his hand as you led him back to the front of the store, out into the snow, and across the street to Ellie's—where you knew hot cocoa and pumpkin pie awaited you.

"Now," you said, tugging him into the warm diner, "we make our dreams come true."

"I like your bag."

You jolted slightly, the metal railing shaking precariously with your movement. You stepped back, one hand over your chest, alarm bells in your head going off in a way that was all too familiar to you at this point.

You're okay, you told yourself. You're safe.

Inhale. Exhale.

"Sorry." You looked down at the person who had startled you, his face concealed beneath a black face mask, sunglasses, and a hoodie pulled over his head. "I didn't mean to scare you."

You felt your heart slow back down to a more even tempo, the now steady rhythm letting you know that the worst was over.

"It's okay." You paused, stepping closer to the railing and peering down at him. "Um, what did you say again?"

"Oh. That I like your bag." He pointed at the gray cloth pouch resting against your hip. "Looks cool."

You looked down at it as if you had forgotten you had it with you, the character's deadpan expression under two tendrils of brown hair staring up at you, then back at the stranger, frowning slightly. Was he messing with you?

"Thanks?"

He was still wearing his shoes. What kind of person wears sneakers to the beach?

"Can I come up?" he asked suddenly.

You simply stared down at him in response.

Technically you weren't supposed to be up there, if the sign behind you was any indication. But beach maintenance in the yellow pickup truck had already driven past you twice and no one had told you to come down...

You realized that he was still waiting for an answer.

"I'll come down first," you said quickly, bending down to reach for your flip flops. "I don't think—"

"No, stay."

"I really don't—"

You felt the lifeguard tower shake as he climbed up the ladder, ignoring your half-formed protest. As his face appeared at the top, brown eyes more visible now behind the tinted shades, the contours of his face familiar even when covered up, you realized he wasn't a stranger at all—not really, not in the way you had thought.

You exhaled quietly.

"Oh."

He pulled himself up onto the platform, loose faded jeans and oversized hoodie swallowing his lean frame. He bent over, dusting sand off his legs. As he raised his head, eyes on you, you debated taking your chances with trying to climb down the lifeguard tower on the other side—the side without the ladder.

You could tell by the way he was looking at you that he knew that you knew. All the silly daydreams and scenarios you had made up in your head with your friends could never have prepared you for this. So many things you wanted to say to him—that he inspired you, that his music gave you comfort—and yet no words would come.

You dropped your gaze, turning around to face the ocean again as you leaned forward against the railing, the keychains hanging from the D-ring on your bag strap clacking noisily.

Maybe if you acted like he was just a figment of your imagination, he would go away.

"The view from up here is amazing," he commented when you didn't say anything.

Oh, is this what we're doing? you wondered.

"Yeah, it is."

You hoped your voice sounded casual, even though you had never felt anything even remotely close to casual when it came to him.

He looked around, eyes lingering briefly on the sign plastered to the building that let him know that rules were definitely being broken. You heard a noise that sounded like amusement, then the scrape of his shoes on the wood as he walked towards you.

You couldn't look at him, but your curiosity got the best of you regardless.

"You're a long way from home."

He hummed in acknowledgement.

"I'm used to being a long way from home," he replied.

His voice sounded too close, his warmth almost tangible through the sleeve of his hoodie as he leaned forward against the railing next to you, resting his weight on his forearms as he watched the waves.

"I've never been here before, though," he added.

You tried to ignore the thump thump of your pulse in your ears, in your chest—everywhere.

"Most people don't," you said carefully, keeping up the little game you two were playing—the one where you said things without saying them. "Most people don't go any further south than LA."

He laughed, hearing the faint note of accusation in your voice.

"Is that a criticism or a recommendation?"

You hummed thoughtfully, trying not to shiver so noticeably against the chill of the early winter ocean air. He was warm, but you leaned away from him, even as he filled the space around you.

"Both."

He was everywhere, but he was also here.

"I'm surprised that you found this place," you said. "It's not like your usual vacation spots."

Why was he here?

"Was looking for something different, I guess." He turned his head to look at you, his sunglasses sliding down his nose as he stared at you openly. "You're local."

"Yeah." You still refused to look at him. "You missed peak season. By, like, a lot. It's too cold now."

"I know. That was kind of the point." He slung a thumb in the direction of the condos behind you—expensive beachfront properties that had been bought up and rented out. "Got a good deal."

You snorted.

"Right."

"Couldn't stay inside all day, though. What's the point of renting a beachfront condo if I'm not going to go to the beach, right?"

He paused, as if waiting for your affirmation. When you didn't give it to him, he let the silence fill with the kind of tension which you couldn't decide if you liked or not. It made you fidgety, but then again, it could've just been him that was making you feel that way.

Just as you were revisiting the idea of climbing down the other side of the lifeguard tower, he asked, "Come somewhere with me?"

"W-what?" You couldn't help but turn to look at him then. "Are you insane? Go where?"

He shrugged.

"Anywhere." He stepped back from the railing, heading backwards towards the ladder. "I bet you know some places."

He looked up at you, an eyebrow raised expectantly, his hands on the rails of the ladder as he waited for you to say something.

"Yeah," you said finally. "I do."

"So how famous is this ice cream?"

"Super famous." You took a few steps forward, filling in the gaps between you and the people in front of you as the line moved along. "Number one ice cream on the planet."

"Says who?"

"National Geographic."

He laughed, the sound bursting from him unexpectedly. You smiled to yourself, looking down at your feet. The people in front of you turned to glance at him over their shoulders, stares judgemental, but he didn't seem to notice.

"I guess it makes sense that there's a line this long when it's this cold out then," he said cheerfully, suddenly more excited about ice cream than he had been five seconds ago.

"There's never not a line. We take our ice cream very seriously," you agreed.

"What can I get you guys?"

You looked up at the menu out of habit even though you didn't need to. You already knew what you would get—because you always got the same thing.

"Just one scoop of chocolate in a waffle cone, please." A thick metal card was already between his fingers as he nudged you with his elbow. "Go ahead, it's on me."

"Oh, I..."

You could feel your face grow warm as you tried not to focus on the place where he had nudged you, determined to look straight ahead at the employee behind the window and not at the man who was watching you intently.

"The usual?" they guessed.

"Yes, please," you replied, relieved.

"The usual?" he asked you as he handed over his card. "How often do you come here?"

"Not a lot," you insisted, defensive.

"She just gets the same thing every time she comes here," the employee jumped to your rescue, taking the card from him. They eyed it with interest but made no comment on it, giving it a swipe before handing it back. "I'll get those cones for you, just one sec."

"Thank you."

"That was generous of you," you murmured, shoving your hands into the pockets of your coat. "Thank you."

"It's just ice cream. I've bought fans—other people," he corrected himself, glancing around quickly to see if anyone was listening. "—dinner before." He accepted his cone from the employee and then yours, nodding at them as he passed your ice cream to you. "Thank you."

"Good to know that I'm only worth ice cream," you said teasingly, bringing your cone to your mouth for a bite.

"I didn't say that." He looked at you out of the corner of his eye, watching your expression. "Dinner can also be on the table if that's something you're interested in."

You were—but you weren't going to tell him that.

You headed for the traffic light automatically, pressing the button for the crosswalk with your free hand.

"Whoa, what's that?"

"That's the library."

"Coolest library I've ever seen."

You laughed at his wide eyes as he stared up at the white Spanish-style building in front of you.

"I like that you're always amazed by everything," you told him honestly. "I imagine that makes life really exciting for you."

"It does." He looked up at the sky, the clouds painted in reds, oranges, and pinks as the sun started to dip below the horizon. "Everything is really pretty here in a different kind of way."

"I know what you mean." You stopped in front of one of the several sets of steps leading down to the fountain's edge. "I don't think I'll ever get used to it." You sat down, staring at the ripples in the water as you took another bite of your ice cream. "Do your friends know you're here?"

"Yeah." He sat down next to you, turning to face you, mask pulled down to his chin as he bit into his own ice cream. "I asked if I could take some time off... before..." He trailed off, clearing his throat. "Before I have to travel again. For work."

You nodded. The new year would have him busy again, but that was normal, you thought. There were other things coming up in the near future that made you more anxious than his travel plans.

He suddenly reached out for the keychains hanging from your bag strap, each one sliding through his fingers as he inspected them closely. You could feel yourself holding your breath, your face red.

You knew that he knew what they meant. What you didn't know was why he kept doing these things so casually, as if it was so easy to just be close to you like this. Were you the only one who was hyper-aware of every little thing around you?

"These are cute," he murmured.

"My friends made them," you said absently, your eyes fixed on the top of his hood so that you didn't have to look at his face.

When he looked up, you leaned back immediately, realizing that your noses were almost touching. The corner of his mouth twitched knowingly as he slipped the mask off his face completely.

"So what do you do?" he asked, crunching into the cone.

You shrugged.

"I don't do anything," you replied shortly. "I'm just trying to make it from one day to the next, that's all."

"Somehow, I have a feeling that's not entirely true."

"You don't have to believe me," you said, suddenly feeling overly defensive. "You don't even have to be here."

You stood up, backing up the steps towards the sidewalk, ready to leave this day behind you like some sort of weird dream.

"Actually, I think I should go. It was nice meeting you."

You held out your hand, immediately regretting the formal gesture as he looked up at you.

Not the Bambi eyes, you pleaded silently.

From this angle, he looked devastatingly pretty. Brown doe eyes, cheeks flushed pink with the cold... You'd do anything he asked—and that was too much power for one person to have over you.

He shoved the last bit of waffle cone into his mouth then took your hand, hauling himself upright. You felt yourself tip forward, a very ungraceful noise escaping your mouth before you could stop yourself.

Warm hands landed on your shoulders.

"Whoa, sorry. I've got you."

That's the problem, you thought, adjusting your bag over your body so that you had an excuse not to meet his eyes.

"It's okay," you muttered. "I'm just going to—"

"Where are you headed?"

When had he moved closer to you?

"I—home," you blurted out, flustered by the sudden proximity. "I'm going home—"

He smiled, his posture relaxed, easygoing. His hands were still warm on your shoulders. When you eyed them pointedly, he let his arms drop to his sides, fishing his face mask out of his pocket as he took a reluctant step back.

"Let's go then."

"It's not much," you said apologetically, embarrassed as you unlocked the front door. "It's really small and kind of old—"

"It's cozy," he interrupted you, looking around the space with the air of someone who was about to be very nosy. "I like it. It's nicer than my condo."

"You don't need to lie," you huffed.

"I'm not. You know I'm not. Why would I?" He rested a hand on the door frame of the single bedroom, leaning forward as he peered inside. "Is this your room?"

You wiggled past him, slipping off your flip flops and scooping them up as you padded quickly across the carpet, setting them on the shoe rack in the far corner. Getting the hint, he kicked off his scuffed sneakers on the hardwood behind him before stepping into your room completely.

You wished you had vacuumed earlier like you had told yourself you were going to.

"I didn't think anyone would be coming over," you said, eyeing your unmade bed, the matching plush doll to your bag lying on its back in full view.

"That's okay," he said easily, taking in every single detail as he looked around the room with unabashed interest. "Hey, that guy looks familiar," he joked, pointing at the blue and white picket sitting on top of your shelf.

"Oh my gosh, shut up." You covered your face with your hands, mortified. "I did not think this through."

He turned his head slightly to look at you over his shoulder. You peeked at him through the gaps in your fingers.

"Have you ever seen us before?"

"Yeah. A few times."

"What did you think?" He was looking at your shelf again, eyes roaming over the objects you had on display. "Got any more criticisms or recommendations?"

"No," you said honestly. "You guys always make it fun."

"Thanks." He crouched down, trailing his fingers over the spines of your books. "I like the way you've organized them," he said softly. "You read a lot of the kinds of books that smart people read." You could hear the grin in his voice, even though you couldn't see his face. "You really are a fan, huh?" He straightened up and waved the small gray plush at you, smirking.

You lowered your hands from your face, staring at him.

"You know that already," you said quietly. "You know that I—" You stopped yourself from finishing the sentence. "This is unfair," you said instead. "I didn't know when I woke up today that you were going to be looking through all my stuff like this—"

"Hey, no—I—wait." He set the plush down on the shelf, taking a step closer to you. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make it seem like I was making fun of you. I... I think it's cool."

"Cool," you repeated flatly.

"Cute, even."

"Get out."

"I mean it, though," he said, grinning cheekily at you and nudging you with his shoulder playfully as he rounded the bed. "I think it's admirable to love something—or someone—so much and so openly. I'll never get used to how much love we receive just for doing what we love."

He crouched down again to look at the books on the small table in front of your window.

"Are these the ones you're reading now?" He picked the first book up to read the title of the one beneath it. "See? Smart people books."

You rolled your eyes, even though he couldn't see you.

"You have so many interesting things in your room," he murmured.

You took off your bag, keychains clacking, and hung it on one of the hooks on the back of your door, watching him out of the corner of your eye.

This is so... weird, you thought. Is this how that girl felt when she came home and found him in her room because he was going to be her English tutor?

He straightened up, turning to face your bed. He bent down to pick up the plush doll, staring at it unblinking for a few moments, thumb swiping back and forth over its face absentmindedly, before putting it down.

He couldn't stop touching your belongings, always wanting to get a closer look. He was leaving invisible traces everywhere, and only you would know. He ran his fingers over your keyboard, intrigued.

"I've never seen a keyboard like this."

"It's ergonomic," you explained. "It's good for your wrists. I don't want to get carpal tunnel."

"Are you a computer programmer?"

"No."

He hummed in acknowledgement, dropping the subject when he realized you weren't going to give him any more than that. He put his hands on the keys as if he were typing, trying to feel the difference between your keyboard and the one he was used to.

You were still standing by the door, trying desperately not to stay stuck in how vulnerable you felt having him there, taking up space in your home, in your room. He already took up so much space in your life.

He looked up from your keyboard, noticing you standing there. His head tilted to one side, taking you in.

"What?" you asked after several beats, feeling self-conscious when he didn't say anything.

He smiled, the corners of his mouth lifting upwards prettily.

"Nothing."

"So do you live here by yourself?"

You shook your head, stirring the noodles with your chopsticks to mix in the soup base.

After it seemed like he had had his fill of looking through all your things, you kicked him out of the room and closed the door so that you could change into a comfy sweater and lounge pants.

"I guess that means that you're not going out again," he had commented, looking you up and down.

"You would be correct."

"Rain check on that dinner then?"

You had stared at him for a moment longer than necessary before muttering, "Don't say such silly things."

Which left you in charge of dinner, predictably.

It was strange to just know that you would have to be the one to cook. He couldn't be trusted in the kitchen, that was just common knowledge. Not everything was just for show—some things could be true, were true.

If only it were that easy to know which parts of your interactions were real.

You shook your head, returning to the present.

"This is my aunt's apartment, she's just out visiting family for a few days."

He leaned back against the counter, watching you snip slices of ham into thin strips before dropping them into the pot. He seemed to always be watching you, as if he was hoping to catch you doing something—whatever it was. You did your best to ignore him, focusing on the boiling noodles in front of you.

Maybe it was kind of cliché to be feeding him ramen of all things, but it was cold, and these old beach town apartments had no heat.

"We should watch something," he said nonchalantly, his voice drifting in from the living room where he was, undoubtedly, looking through your rolling cart full of DVDs.

"Like what?"

"What's your favorite movie?" he asked, reappearing behind you as he peered over your shoulder at the contents of the pot.

You gently pushed him back with your shoulder as you twisted around to cross the small space and get two bowls out of one of the cabinets.

"We don't have time for my favorite movie," you murmured. "Or movies, I should say."

"You can't just have a whole bunch of movies out on display and expect me to not be interested. You know that," he said, following behind you closely.

You know that.

He kept saying it, like you should know all these things about him—like it was normal. It felt strange in the context of your meeting, like he shouldn't have expected you to already know these things. You wanted to get to know him from scratch, wanted to earn the banter, the back-and-forth. Instead, he was just giving it to you as if it had always been yours—and that left you with no certain amount of discomfort.

"Besides, I have time," he went on.

"Do you?" you challenged, setting the bowls down on the counter with a little more force than you had intended.

"Yeah, I do." He raised an eyebrow at you, as if daring you to tell him that he didn't. "And I'd like to watch your favorite movie."

You didn't say anything. Every time you tried to put a boundary in place to protect yourself, he smashed right through it. He couldn't stay—and you couldn't keep him.

You handed him a bowl of steaming noodles, determined to put your foot down.

"Utensils are in this drawer." You pulled it open, showing him. "There are new chopsticks that have never been used in there."

You turned your back to him, preparing your own bowl, the weight of his stare burning holes into your sweater.

"What's your favorite movie?" he asked again, his voice firmer this time.

You sighed, knowing that he wasn't going to drop it, not until he got what he wanted. You turned around, expression resigned.

"How much time do you have?"

"That's just the first one, right?"

"Yeah..."

You eyed him suspiciously as he stretched his arms over his head, yawning.

"We'll have to watch the second one tomorrow then." He grabbed the DVD case off the coffee table, turning it over to read the back. "Wow, these are long."

"I told you." You froze, suddenly registering his previous words. "Wait, did you say tomorrow?"

"Yeah, there's no way you could show me the first one and then not show me the others." He looked at you like you were the one being ridiculous. "Come on."

"You can't just… come back tomorrow!" you protested. "Don't you have somewhere more exciting to be?"

"Can I stay here then?" he asked hopefully, ignoring your question entirely.

"What? No!"

"Well, if you want me to go back to my condo, you'll have to take me because I don't know how to get back."

He looked so comfortable sitting on your couch where your aunt sat most nights when you watched TV together, one hand absentmindedly picking at the blanket covering his legs, expression too smug for someone who was constantly testing the limits of how far he could push you.

You didn't know why he was here or why he insisted on carving an even bigger place for himself in your life, but what you did know was that he would leave, the way everyone else left sooner or later.

You stood up, glaring down at him. Unfortunately for him, when you were embarrassed, you got angry—and you didn't like feeling like you were being made fun of.

"Is this a joke to you?"

Your voice didn't come out as strong as you would like, breaking slightly on joke.

He looked up at you, expression no longer smug, brown eyes warm in the yellow glow of the living room lights. Not for the first time that day, you tried desperately not to think about how pretty he looked, even though he always looked pretty.

"Does it look like I'm joking to you?"

You stared at him, taking the question seriously.

No one likes to think that their favorite artist is a bad person. It was impossible to know whether the parts of themselves they showed on camera or on stage were real—but with him, you wanted to believe that they were as close to real as he was allowed to show.

And you didn't want to believe that he would intentionally mislead you like this.

"I think you should go," you said finally. "I'm sure there's someone wondering where you are."

He shook his head.

"I didn't bring anyone with me."

I'm alone, you heard, tacked on at the end.

"You can't stay," you insisted in spite of yourself. "Do you even realize how crazy this is? You're... you're you! Pretending that you're not isn't going to change anything."

He blinked up at you for a few moments, his expression guarded. When it became clear that you weren't going to back down, he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out his phone. After tapping around on the screen, he handed it to you wordlessly.

You just looked at him, baffled.

"Why are you giving me your phone?"

"Just... look."

You looked down at the screen in your hand, a picture of a beach posted to an Instagram account that he had pulled up—a familiar-looking picture of a beach. The one you had just been at earlier that day, in fact.

You lowered the phone, your hand shaking.

"This is my Instagram account," you whispered.

"Yeah," he confirmed, still looking at you intently.

"Nope, I'm dreaming. This isn't real." You dropped the phone on the couch. "None of this is real. I'm hallucinating, I'm—" You turned away from him. "I'm-I'm… I'm going to bed."

"So I can stay here?"

You laughed hysterically.

"Yeah, sure. You can stay. It's not like you'll still be here when I wake up."

He pulled the blanket up to his chin and stretched out comfortably on the couch, arms behind his head.

"Sweet. See you in the morning."

You snorted.

"See you in the—yeah, okay. This is all just a really crazy dream. I'll wake up and then everything will be back to normal."

He looked up at you, teeth flashing as he grinned widely.

"I wouldn't count on it."

"Oh my God!"

He jerked upright, your voice startling him awake. He turned to look at you over his shoulder, short hair only slightly mussed, eyes heavy with sleep. When he realized it was you, his face relaxed into a smile, looking annoyingly pleased with himself.

"Still convinced this is all a dream?" he asked you, yawning. "This blanket is really warm, by the way."

"What the fuck," you whispered. "What the fuck, what the fuck—"

"You're a very deep sleeper, you know," he informed you. "I went into your room to use the bathroom twice and you didn't even realize I had opened the door." He shoved the blanket off of his lap, standing up and facing you, hands jammed in his pockets. "So what's for breakfast?"

"You went in my room while I was asleep?"

"I had to," he said, unbothered. "Now, do you want me to make toast? I saw a toaster in your kitchen last night."

You stared at him in disbelief.

"What?"

"You're right. We need food for this," you muttered.

Fifteen minutes later, you slid a plate of scrambled eggs across the counter towards him. A stack of only slightly burnt toast sat between you, the corner of your mouth twitching as you forced yourself to remember that you were trying to be upset with him.

"Okay, start talking."

"About what?" he asked, his mouth already full of egg.

You glared at him.

"My Instagram account," you reminded him sharply.

"Oh. That." He swallowed, setting his fork down. "You can't be that surprised. We see more than fans think. And you post about me a lot, you know."

You glared at your plate, annoyed.

"Why are you embarrassed? Your account's public," he pointed out, grabbing a piece of toast.

"I didn't think you would ever see it!" you hissed at him, your anger from last night flaring back up as your embarrassment kicked in.

"You literally tag me in your posts," he said flatly.

"You literally have millions of followers! When would you even have had time to look through your tags?" You threw your hands up in exasperation. "Now I have to make my account private."

"No, don't do that," he said quickly. "I know that fans post about us, and I've seen some... interesting things. That's just how it is. I've mostly gotten used to it."

When you continued to glare daggers at him, he put the toast down, looking slightly embarrassed himself.

"Look, at first I wasn't lurking on your account on purpose, I swear. I really was just looking for someplace to go." He started picking at the crust on his toast, nervous. "But you were obviously a fan of mine, so... I kept coming back to see if you had posted anything new."

He was avoiding your eyes now, long fingers tearing into the rest of the bread now that the crust had been utterly decimated.

"I like your account," he said slowly, watching your face. "Your posts are kind of... wholesome."

"Wholesome," you repeated dryly.

"Yeah. It's fun to look through them. You write longer captions than most people I know, it's like a journal entry every time."

"Oh my God, someone please end me now."

He raised an eyebrow at you, toast dangling from his fingers.

"That's really not allowed."

"That's not the point—you know what, never mind. Just..." You took a deep breath, determined to redirect the conversation back to the matter at hand. "So... what? You looked at my location tags and decided that this was a good place for a vacation?"

"Something like that." He leaned forward on his elbows, cupping his chin with one hand. "The way you talked about it, it seemed like someplace I wouldn't get recognized, and..." He inhaled deeply, then released the air in a whoosh. "I thought that what I wanted was to keep working until I felt like I had done enough, to keep going until I was personally satisfied with what I had accomplished. But..."

You looked down at your plate, wanting to give him the space to figure out what he wanted to say, even though you desperately wanted to get to the bottom of this crazy situation.

"I also want to live a life full of meaning," he said finally. "I want to enjoy myself. I love performing... but I've been performing for a long time."

You could understand that. You had seen evidence of his career going all the way back to his childhood. He had really never not been in front of a camera.

"I don't regret becoming this person," he continued. "I've been able to do so many things thanks to the path that I've chosen. It's just... there are other things I want to do, too. So yeah, I went through your account." He tilted his head to one side, trying to read your expression and frowning when he realized he couldn't. "Please say something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, what you're thinking, maybe?" He finally took a bite of the burnt toast that he had practically destroyed to hide his frustration. "I thought you had more questions."

"Yeah, I have questions!" You felt your anger come rushing back. You held up one finger. "First of all, what the fuck?" You held up another finger. "Second of all, what the fuck?"

"Is that all?" he deadpanned.

"Were you just curious?" you demanded, ignoring that last bit. "Just wanted to see what it would be like to turn a fan's entire world upside down and then leave?" You could feel your lower lip quivering. "You have to know that people—" Me, your brain supplied unhelpfully. "—get emotionally attached to you. You mean something to your fans, and you think it's funny to just waltz in here and—"

"It's not like that," he said, his voice sharp. "Do you really think I would be so careless with my fans' feelings?"

My fans' feelings, he had said. Not your feelings.

"Then what is it? Because you're in my home, acting like you can just pretend you're not you... and then you're just going to go back to your life like none of it matters—"

"Of course it matters. Everything matters, I—" He sounded weirdly frustrated and you had no idea why. "I... I thought we were becoming friends. Having dinner, watching the movie... I thought—I made toast."

You stared at him, a weird expression on your face.

"What?" He stared back at you. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"This is insane," you whispered. "This is actually so insane—"

"I thought you would understand," he said, his voice suddenly small. "I thought you would know how it felt—"

"Well, I'm sorry that I'm less than enthusiastic about being used for your escapism!" you snapped.

He straightened up, staring at you in disbelief.

"I didn't mean—that's not what I was trying to do."

"It's still how I feel," you told him. "I don't feel special, I don't feel lucky... I just feel used."

He took a step closer to you, his hand pushing his plate aside.

"I always think that one day it'll get easier to meet my fans and feel like I'm worthy of all the love and support they've shown me, but it never does. You're right, I haven't been fair to you... and I'm sorry."

You looked away again, trying to swallow past the lump in your throat.

"Your music means a lot to me," you said quietly. "And I think you know that... you mean a lot to me, too. I believe that your fans also mean a lot to you, but it's okay that it's not any more than that. I don't really know you, so..."

"Do you think that you're the only one who holds onto things?" he asked you, taking another step closer.

You scoffed, your head still turned away from him.

"I think that you're mistaking gratitude for connection on an individual level."

"Why are you a fan then, if you think that there's nothing there?" he demanded.

"I didn't say that," you retorted. "Besides, why does it even matter? You're you... and I'm nobody."

"I told you, everything matters," he said sharply, only inches away from you now. "And you're not nobody, don't ever say that again."

You opened your mouth to say something snarky in response, but he didn't give you the chance.

"I know you think that I'm messing with you, and I know that I kind of let things get out of hand." He ducked his head, bringing his face closer to yours, even though you still wouldn't look at him. "But this has been... I told you I want to live a life full of meaning. This... this has been full of meaning," he emphasized. "So don't you dare say that you're nobody to me."

You shook your head, your chest tight.

"Maybe not nobody, but still just a girl you met who you'll never talk to again."

He dropped his hands on your shoulders, willing you to look at him, just once.

"Look, I'm not just saying this to make you feel better. I'm being honest when I say that the only way I never talk to you again is if you don't give me a way to get in contact with you," he said, his tone serious. "And if that's how you want to leave things, I understand, but I'd really prefer if you didn't, so... do you have KakaoTalk?"

You made a noise that sounded like half-hearted disbelief.

"What?" You could hear the smile in his voice. "I still owe you dinner, did you forget? I can't have you thinking that you're only worth ice cream."

You peeked up at him through the curtain of your hair, his hands still on your shoulders. Even as he tried to lighten the mood, you could tell that he was afraid—afraid that you would tell him no, that things had to go back to the way they were before that day at the beach.

"I... have KakaoTalk," you said slowly.

"Cool." He finally released you, taking several steps back and swiping another piece of toast from the stack. "The time difference will be weird, but I'll always try to reply when I can. But you have to actually text back, too."

"Really? I had no idea," you deadpanned.

He shot you a look, the kind that said I know you're deflecting but I'll let it go this time.

"I really like it here," he said, biting into his toast thoughtfully. "I'll have to come back, you know, after things have settled down."

You tried not to be scared of the fact that you were making plans. You tried not to worry about whether he would keep his promises. You wanted to be the kind of person that lived in the present—someone who could enjoy this time for what it was, and not spend precious moments stressing about a future that hadn't happened yet.

"Make sure you think about where you want to go for dinner," he said, pulling you out of your thoughts before you could start spiraling. "Pick a really good place."

"Okay," you agreed. "Anything else?"

"Yeah," he said around a mouthful of toast. "I want a tour."

"A tour?" you repeated, confused.

"Well, we can't do it now. I want to watch the rest of those movies before I have to go. I need to know why the second one's your favorite," he said as though it were obvious. "Duh."

"So you still want to stay here then?"

He hesitated.

"If that's okay with you. I know I kind of just barged in here—"

You fought to keep the smile off your face at his sudden bashfulness.

"Oh, so now you're shy about it?" you teased. "You had no problem inserting yourself in my plans yesterday."

"Stop making fun of me," he complained, pouting. "I wanted to spend time with you."

You ducked your head, biting your lip.

He had to know the effect he had on you. There was no way he didn't.

You snuck a peek at him, hoodie wrinkled, toast hanging out of his mouth, his socked feet on the kitchen tile.

Silly, beautiful boy.

"What?" He noticed you looking at him. "What are you looking at?"

You shook your head, smiling.

"You're actually crazy, you know that?" you told him, the jab softened by the fondness in your voice.

"Oh, I'm aware." He grinned. "But I think that's exactly what's needed for this."

"What do you mean?"

He dropped the half-eaten toast onto his plate, holding his hand out across the counter towards you, his fingers wiggling in invitation.

You looked at it, then back up at him, not understanding.

He moved closer, your tiny kitchen even smaller in the wake of how huge this moment felt. Maybe he was right—maybe everything does matter.

"Hi," he said, his voice warm as he reached out and took your hand in his. "I'm Hansol."

Wonwoo's POV I always thought SEVENTH HEAVEN was loud enough without outside interference.

People see the highlight reels and think we’re this cool, clean, icy “top 1 in the league” machine. What they don’t see is Seungkwan screaming at Mingyu because he missed one peel (“YOU LET ME DIE LIKE A FARMING KRUG, YOU MENACE”), Vernon quietly typing notes about ward timers like some vision-obsessed librarian, Mingyu throwing himself at me every time his ganks work, and Seungcheol conducting all of us like we’re his personal orchestra and he’s both the conductor and the guy who built the concert hall.

We were chaos. Controlled, competitive chaos.

And then Y/N entered our orbit and the volume dial didn’t just go up.

It snapped clean off.

The first time I ever heard her say my name, she didn’t know I was listening.

We were in the team lounge at 1 AM, which is pro player for “we’re tired, stubborn, and pretending we don’t have scrims in the morning.”

I was eating instant noodles, trying not to think about the last VOD we watched. Seungkwan was on the couch, yelling at a random montage.

“That is NOT a good trade,” he shouted at the TV. “WHO EDITED THIS? JAIL. LIFE SENTENCE. THROW THE WHOLE BOT LANE AWAY.”

Vernon rolled over with the remote. “Okay, okay, let’s watch something that doesn’t raise your blood pressure.”

He flicked through channels, then opened YouTube on the console.

That thumbnail was already familiar to me.

Bright colors. A stylized League map behind her. Her logo in the corner.

Hextech Hot Takes w/ Y/N “THIS DRAFT HURT MY SOUL (LITERALLY)”

My chest did a weird little stutter.

“AYO, CLICK THAT,” Seungkwan demanded, jabbing a finger at the screen. “MOTHER.”

Vernon clicked.

She appeared on the screen, headset on, hair pulled into a messy bun, eyeliner sharp enough to be classified as a weapon. In the background was her streaming setup: LED lights, a floating “DON’T FF AT 15” sign, shelves crammed with champ figurines and a giant stuffed poro in the corner.

“Okay,” she said, grinning at the camera, eyes bright. “We need to talk about this draft, because I don’t know what the coach was smoking, but it wasn’t vision control.”

Her chat flew past on the side.

Mingyu perked up from the floor, half-buried in a beanbag. “OH, THIS ONE,” he said. “She roasted the hell out of that team for locking four melee tops.”

“She did what?” Seungkwan asked, instantly invested, already sitting up.

“Four melee tops,” Vernon confirmed. “In pro play.”

“Queue the funeral,” someone muttered. Might’ve been me.

Footsteps padded in and Seungcheol joined us, steaming mug in one hand. “Who are we flaming?” he asked.

“Not us,” Vernon said.

“Sadly,” Seungkwan added, clutching a pillow.

I tried not to look too eager. Tried and failed.

She broke down the game, frame by frame. Pulled up drafts, painted over the screen with her words.

“Here’s the thing,” she said, circling champions with her cursor. “Aggressive drafts are hot. We love to see it. But this is not aggression, this is self-harm with extra steps.”

The team cackled.

I watched her more than the game. The way her mouth curled when she found a particularly bad decision. The way her eyes sharpened when she talked about vision. The way she kept dragging the analysis back to players’ mental and burnout like it mattered more than views.

And then the screen switched.

A screenshot of SEVENTH HEAVEN appeared.

She paused the frame, zoomed in.

On me.

My heart did something stupid.

“This is Jeon Wonwoo,” she said, tone shifting into that dangerous blend of fond and forensic. “Mid laner for SEVENTH HEAVEN. Mechanically cracked. Probably knows every jungle path in this region by heart. Emotionally? I’ve seen turrets with clearer expressions. If he ever smiles on stage, I’ll host a charity stream.”

Seungkwan screamed. Actually screamed.

“NO WAY SHE SAID THAT—PLAY IT AGAIN, PLAY IT AGAIN, I’M CLIPPING THIS IN MY SOUL.”

Mingyu practically folded in half. “BRO, SHE READ YOUR SOUL AND YOUR TAX RECORDS.”

Vernon side-eyed me. “…you are kind of stiff sometimes.”

I slurped noodles and pretended my ears weren’t burning. Judging by how hot they felt, I was failing.

Y/N kept talking.

Her voice was warm, but it never softened the truth.

“SEVENTH HEAVEN has insane potential,” she said. “Especially their mid. When he commits, he looks unstoppable. But if he freezes, even for a second, everything collapses around him. He needs to stop second-guessing his reads in mid-game.”

Seungkwan gasped like she’d just leaked state secrets. “NOT HER READING YOUR ANXIETY ON MAIN.”

“Shut up,” I muttered.

“She’s not wrong,” Seungcheol murmured, taking a sip of tea.

I watched myself on screen, frozen mid-replay, and I had that weird, dizzy feeling of being seen and dissected and… understood, all at once.

It felt invasive. It felt accurate. It felt… good.

Which was annoying.

I remembered that game: the slight hesitation at a dragon fight, the way I didn’t take a flank I knew was right because I was too busy calculating what would happen if I was wrong.

Apparently, she caught that in one VOD.

“She’s kind of terrifying,” Mingyu said, sounding impressed.

“She’s hot,” Seungkwan corrected. “Terrifyingly hot. Like, respectfully-your-honor hot.”

“Please stop talking,” I said.

They didn’t.

Later that night, lying awake with my phone dimmed, I searched her channel, found the video, and watched it again.

And again.

I told myself it was for “review.”

I was lying.

Two months later, I knew too much about her.

Not personal things. Not gossip.

The important things.

Her channel schedule. Her analysis style. How she’d call a coach “bold” and somehow make it sound like both an insult and a compliment. How she defended rookies from chat pileups. How she always ended her videos with:

“Remember: draft wins games, wards save lives. Go drink water.”

Every time SEVENTH HEAVEN played a big match, I checked if she covered it.

Not for the clout.

For the review.

For the way she could take my messiest mid-game and say something like, “He panicked. That’s not bad mechanics, that’s fear.” And somehow, instead of feeling exposed, I felt… relieved. Like someone had given the mess in my head a name.

I didn’t know her.

But I felt like she knew me a little.

Which is why, when I saw her in person for the first time at a tiny gaming café, my brain completely lagged.

We’d gone there on an off-day.

The café was cramped, lit by cheap neon airing out its last few lumens. The chairs wobbled. The PCs were weirdly powerful for such a small place. The kind of place you only find if someone tells you about it in a Discord server.

Mingyu insisted they had the “best instant ramyun in the city.”

He might’ve been right.

We were mid-cup—me, Mingyu, Vernon—when the bell over the door rang.

She walked in.

No headset, no overlays, no chat exploding on the side.

Just a hoodie, jeans, laptop bag slung over one shoulder. Hair down this time, curling a bit at the ends. She looked softer and somehow more dangerous without the armor of production.

She stepped up to the counter, ordered an iced americano, thanked the barista with a small smile that hit me harder than it had any right to, and scanned the room.

Her eyes lingered for a second on the row of PCs where we sat. I ducked my head instinctively, like an idiot, even though there was no way she’d pick me out from this distance.

“Is that…?” Mingyu whispered.

“Yes,” I muttered.

“That’s Y/N,” he hissed, eyes wide. “Bro. Say hi.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Because you already watch her videos at 2 AM. Because she already peeled a layer off your brain in a ten-minute analysis. Because if she looks at you in person the way she looks at drafts, she’ll see right through you.

“Because no,” I said.

“That’s not a reason,” he protested.

“It’s my reason.”

Vernon glanced between us and then at her. “She looks smaller in person,” he observed. “Still scary though.”

“Sexy scary,” Seungkwan’s voice popped in from behind us; he’d just returned from the counter with bread. “Like she’s going to ruin your draft and then your life.”

“That’s enough out of you,” I muttered.

She chose a table by the window. Sat down. Opened her laptop. Pulled out a tiny notebook, full of scribbles and little color-coded tabs.

I watched her flip to a page with “META – SUPPORT BUFFS?” written in too-neat handwriting and a tiny doodle of a ward in the corner.

“Bro, you’re staring,” Seungkwan said around a mouthful of bread. “Do you want me to go ask for her autograph? Or her hand in marriage? I can do either.”

“Play your game,” I said.

“I am playing,” he replied. “It’s called ‘are you going to talk to your YouTube crush or not.’”

I queued a game. And another. And another.

Every time I told myself, after this one, I’d get up, walk over, and say something normal, like, “Hi, I like your breakdown on jungle pathing,” and not something insane, like, “You live rent-free in my VOD review mind palace.”

Every time I ended a game, she frowned a little at something on her screen, bit the end of her pen, scribbled another note. Her concentration was so complete it felt like a shield. I didn’t want to break it.

So I stayed put.

She packed up eventually. Slid her laptop back into her bag. Slipped her notebook into the side pocket. Wrapped her fingers around her iced americano, now mostly melted.

The café door chimed behind her.

I stared at the door for a full minute.

“Wow,” Seungkwan said finally. “We just witnessed a love story almost start and then not. Tragic. Ten out of ten, would cry again.”

“Do you ever shut up?” I asked.

“No,” he said cheerfully. “Especially not when my mid laner is in emotional denial.”

Later that night, Mingyu posted some blurry story of our café outing on Instagram. In one frame, way in the back, barely visible, there she was at the window.

Some fan commented:

“wait, is that Y/N in the bg??? HELLO????”

I saw it.

I turned my phone face down.

Fast forward to the pre-finals press conference.

The air in the room is heavy with lights and bad perfume. There’s a stage at the front, branded backdrop behind the table, rows of chairs for reporters and analysts and camera operators. Microphones everywhere. Noise everywhere.

We’re seated in a line.

Seungcheol in the middle: perfect posture, steady gaze, captain aura turned to 11. To his right, Seungkwan and Vernon: bot lane chaos incarnate. To his left, Mingyu and me: jungle and mid, the so-called “brain” of SEVENTH HEAVEN, which is terrifying when you think about how often our brains decide to do stupid things.

The host runs through the usual questions.

“How do you feel about finals?” “What does SEVENTH HEAVEN mean to you?” “Are you preparing anything special against Silver Aegis?”

We answer on autopilot. I’ve done enough of these that my mouth moves while my mind drifts.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I spot her.

Y/N.

Press badge hanging from her neck. Tablet in one hand, stylus in the other. Glasses today. Simple ponytail, a few strands falling loose around her face. No LED lights, no animated overlays, but she still looks like she’s in 1080p when the rest of the room is stuck in 480.

She looks… serious. More serious than she does on stream. The easy banter is gone; in its place is a sharp, focused stillness.

She taps something on her tablet, glances up, assesses us like we’re another draft she’s about to tear apart or defend to the death, depending on how stupid we are.

My heart does that weird, too-fast thing again.

Next to me, Seungkwan follows my line of sight. I can feel his grin without even looking.

“Ohhh,” he hums under his breath. “Mother has arrived.”

“Don’t call her that,” I mutter.

He ignores me. “You’re staring,” he whispers. “Should I wave? I’ll wave.”

“Don’t—”

He waves. Big, stupid, enthusiastic.

To my horror, she sees it. She raises a brow, then gives a small, polite nod. Her gaze flickers past him. Lingers on me for half a second longer than it needs to.

My pulse spikes.

She looks back down at her tablet.

“And we’re blushing,” Seungkwan sings quietly. “Ladies and gentlemen, we got him.”

“Focus,” Seungcheol says mildly, eyes still on the reporters.

I drag my attention back to the front.

Then there’s him.

Her ex.

Manager of Silver Aegis, king of inflated self-image. Hair too slick, smile too wide, voice too loud. He’s laughing with someone near the back, gesturing theatrically with his hands like he’s narrating a movie where he’s the main character and the plot.

He’s positioned himself just close enough to her that he can pretend any interaction is “coincidental.”

My jaw tightens.

The host asks something about “biased coverage in the scene.”

“Some fans feel that certain analysts are harsher on specific orgs,” a reporter says. “Any thoughts on that?”

Someone’s gaze flickers briefly to Y/N.

Of course it does.

Seungcheol keeps his tone neutral. “Analysts are free to do their jobs. We focus on ours.”

Textbook answer. Good captain. Nothing to clip out of context.

We get through the rest.

We stand, bow, exit the stage. The lights feel too bright; the air feels too thick.

That’s when I hear it.

“She’s still obsessed with me,” he says to a nearby journalist, intentionally too loud. “You can hear it in the way she talks about my team. It’s sad, honestly.”

My jaw tightens so hard it hurts.

Across the room, Y/N’s back goes a fraction straighter. Her shoulders rise and fall once, controlled.

She doesn’t turn toward him.

She keeps typing.

“She’s really living in his head rent-free, huh,” Vernon mutters beside me.

“Yeah, but he’s trying to convince everyone it’s the other way around,” Seungkwan says. “Delulu is the solulu, I guess.”

“Please never say that again,” I say.

When the press conference clears out, we’re filing toward the side exit in a loose line when I see him angle his body and step right into her path in the hallway.

She stops short, forced to look up at him.

“Doing another ‘Aegis is trash’ segment?” he asks smoothly. “You know, people are starting to notice how bitter you sound.”

She looks at him like he’s a bug she can’t believe she still has to deal with.

“I literally praised your early game yesterday,” she says calmly. “I flamed your Baron call because it was a grief. That’s not bitterness. That’s accuracy.”

He laughs. Too loud. Fake.

“Oh, come on. You’re so sensi—”

His hand lifts like he might touch her arm.

I move.

So does the rest of SEVENTH HEAVEN.

Seungcheol gets there first—rock-solid, expression cool, not even bothering with words yet. He doesn’t have to. He stands just close enough that the manager would have to physically acknowledge him—physically step around our captain—to keep going. A wall without saying “I’m a wall.”

Mingyu drifts to Y/N’s other side, hands in pockets, smile gone. Vernon hangs back a bit, but his eyes are ice.

Seungkwan stands just behind them, arms crossed, jaw clenched, expression somewhere between “I will tweet about this” and “I will commit arson.”

Y/N doesn’t step back.

She steps closer.

“Touch me,” she says quietly, but every syllable lands like a hammer. “Go ahead. I dare you. Then my next upload won’t be analysis—it’ll be evidence.”

His hand freezes mid-air.

Her expression doesn’t change.

She tilts her head, gives him a smile so bright it’s almost cruel. “Tell your friends I love the drama if you want,” she says. “But stop using my name for views. It’s embarrassing.”

She turns.

Walks away.

Doesn’t look back.

The hallway temperature drops.

Seungkwan exhales like he’s seen God. “Queen,” he whispers. “Absolute queen behavior. That’s my mid laner-in-law right there.”

“Stop,” I say automatically.

“I will not stop,” he says. “If you don’t marry her, I’m unsubscribing from our own team channel.”

“I run the YouTube backend, I can actually see that,” Vernon adds, deadpan.

“I’ll unsubscribe twice,” Seungkwan insists.

“I’m in love,” Mingyu mutters, staring after her.

I look at him sharply.

“WITH HER BRAVERY,” he adds quickly. “Respectfully. Very respectfully.”

We start walking again.

I glance down the hall where she disappeared. My body is still buzzing from the way she said, “It’s embarrassing,” like it was the final nail in a coffin he’d built for himself.

“Everything okay?” Seungcheol asks quietly, catching my look.

“Yes,” I say.

No, I think.

Two days later, she’s buried in work and slander.

Not “busy.” Not “booked and blessed.”

Buried.

Livestream clips. Tweets. Reddit threads twisting her analysis into “emotional bias.” Random dudes with anime icons calling her obsessed. Thinkpieces by people who have clearly never watched an entire Hextech Hot Takes episode, much less the ones where she’s bent over backwards to be fair to teams that don’t deserve it.

Her ex is clearly feeding it. Little “sources say” mentions, vague subtweets, liking posts that paint her as “unhinged” and “still hung up.”

I see it all. I’d like to uninstall the internet.

I find her at a folding table in a quiet backstage corner, tucked behind a stack of promo boxes and a dying plant. There’s a cluster of half-empty coffee cups around her like a ritual circle. Notes spread everywhere. Her laptop is open with emails, her tablet shows a half-finished script, and her phone face-down keeps buzzing every thirty seconds.

“What’s the crisis?” I ask, gripping a spare chair and dragging it over.

She doesn’t look up. “Org wants a ‘balanced’ segment,” she says, air-quoting with one hand without pausing her typing. “Silver Aegis doesn’t want me covering them at all. My subscribers are fighting each other in the comments. And a fourteen-year-old in my DMs told me I’m ‘ruining esports.’ You know. Thursday.”

Her tone is flippant. Her shoulders are tight.

I grip the back of the empty chair opposite hers a little harder. “You know it’s all bullshit, right?”

“I know,” she sighs, eyes still on the screen. “Knowing doesn’t make it less loud.”

Her voice dips on that last word.

Loud.

I don’t think she’s just talking about notifications.

I stare at her for a moment. At the tightness in her jaw. The faint shadows under her eyes. The way her leg’s bouncing under the table, restless, like she’s holding herself together by motion alone.

Whatever filter usually exists in my brain fails.

“I could help,” I say.

She finally looks up, eyes wary and curious. “Help how?” she says. “Are you going to become my emotional support jungler?”

“No.”

“Hack the algorithm?”

“No.”

“1v1 my ex?”

“Yes,” I start, already picturing it, then abort. “No. I mean. Don’t tempt me.”

Her mouth quirks, some of the tension in her face easing for the first time today.

“Careful,” she says. “He’d probably leak your DMs and call it ‘evidence.’”

“I don’t DM clowns,” I mutter. “I’m talking about helping the narrative.”

She raises both brows. “Go on, mid king.”

I take a breath. My heart does an unnecessary little crit in my chest.

“If we were… publicly together,” I say, choosing each word like it’s a skillshot, “people would stop buying the narrative that you’re still thinking about him.”

Silence.

She blinks once. Twice.

Then she laughs.

Actually laughs. A short, sharp burst that startles both of us, her shoulders shaking slightly as she drops her head for a second.

“Wonwoo,” she says, wiping the corner of her eye with her thumb. “You want to pretend-date me to fix PR?”

When she says it out loud, it sounds incredibly stupid.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “When you say it out loud, it sounds stupid.”

“That’s because it is stupid,” she says.

“I know.”

There’s a beat where I can feel the idea hovering between us like a dangerous buff.

Her gaze turns thoughtful. She leans back, studying my face like she’s trying to see if I’ll flinch.

“You’d do that?” she asks. “Knowing how your fans are? Knowing SEVENTH HEAVEN’s brand? Knowing my channel is literally built on me talking shit about drafts for money?”

“Yes,” I say. Too fast. Too sure.

Her eyes search my face. I hold still.

“You’d deal with our comments section?”

“I already do,” I say. “I see everything people tag us in.”

She snorts softly. “Condolences.”

“You’d let me flame you if you grief lane?” she pushes.

“You already do that too,” I say. “You called my Azir pick ‘an act of spiritual warfare’ last split.”

She huffs a laugh. “It was.”

We look at each other.

Both of us know this is insane.

Both of us also know it might work.

“Ground rules,” she says finally, sitting up straighter, business mode snapping into place. “No real feelings. Public-facing only. We control the narrative; they react to us. The second it stops being useful or comfortable, we stop.”

There’s a weird pinch in my chest at “no real feelings.”

I ignore it. Like an idiot.

“Obviously,” I say.

We shake on it.

Her hand is warm. Steady. Like she’s shaking on a contract she intends to honor, not a joke.

I walk away telling myself it’s just a strategy patch. A meta adjustment. A tool.

Deep down, something knows I’m lying.

The fake dating meta drops Week 1.

We take one backstage picture. One.

It’s after a scrim. Everyone’s half-dead, hair damp, jerseys wrinkled. I’m mid-sip from a water bottle, tilting it back. Y/N’s next to me, half-laughing at something Mingyu said off-frame, body angled slightly toward me like we’re in our own little pocket of the hallway.

She snaps it, barely looks at it, and posts it to her story.

Caption:

“Carried by my mid laner. Again.”

Tagged: @7th_wonwoo

My phone buzzes once. Twice. Then becomes a grenade.

I don’t even have to look at the team to know what’s happening.

“YAAAAAAAAH!” Seungkwan screams from across the room, waving his phone over his head like it’s on fire. “YOU’RE DONE. IT’S OVER FOR YOU. RIP MID KING. WE HAD A GOOD RUN.”

Mingyu barrels into me full force, nearly knocking the bottle from my hand. He grabs my shoulders and shakes me like a malfunctioning monitor. “CAN I BE YOUR FLOWER BOY AT THE WEDDING? I HAVE THE TALENT. I HAVE THE RANGE.”

Vernon glances up from his screen, calm as ever. “You’re going to get clipped in every compilation for the next decade,” he says. “Try not to look constipated.”

From the corner, Seungcheol: “TF is this.”

Our manager appears at the door, eyes wide. “Why is our engagement rate spiking—”

I want to sink into the floor.

Instead, I unlock my phone, open her story, double-tap it, and repost with one simple caption:

“Analyst diff.”

If I’m going down, I’m going down clean.

The comments go feral within minutes.

“PARENTS?????” “THIS IS MY NEW FAVORITE SHIP I DON’T CARE IF IT’S REAL OR NOT.” “NO ONE TALK TO ME I’M BUSY SOBBING OVER THIS.” “HE SMILED. Y/N WE EATING GOOD TONIGHT.”

They’re not wrong. I am smiling a little. Which is rude of my face.

In the corner of the room, I hear furious tapping.

“Group chat time,” Seungkwan mutters. “This is emergency content.”

He makes a new GC right in front of me. I can see the name over his shoulder.

[GC: WONWOO & HIS WIFE (NO INPUT FROM HIM)]

Members: – Seungkwan – Mingyu – Vernon – Seungcheol (added against his will)

He starts spamming screenshots of the story and my repost.

Seungkwan: MID KING IS A LOVER BOY CONFIRMED Mingyu: I CALLED IT. ENERGY NEVER LIES Vernon: ship name ideas? Seungkwan: WONY/N. Y/NWOO. I’M WORKSHOPPING IT Seungcheol: Please focus Seungkwan: FOCUS ON THE FACT THAT OUR MID HAS A GIRLFRIEND

I mute the chat. They add me back in. I mute it again.

We do a short interview for a regional channel later.

The host smiles too wide. “So, fans are wondering—” he says, turning the mic toward us, “are you two… actually dating?”

Y/N crosses one leg over the other and smiles sweetly, like she’s about to ruin someone on air.

“Define dating,” she says.

I choke on my own breath.

She continues smoothly. “We spend time together,” she says. “We talk about drafts. He listens when I say his mid-game is scuffed. That’s commitment.”

The host laughs awkwardly. “So… you’re… official?”

She leans just a bit closer to my shoulder. I feel the warmth of her, the faint brush of her sleeve against my arm. “We’re in the same patch,” she says. “That’s all you’re getting from me.”

Back at the base, the segment gets clipped, edited, put to dramatic music and heart emojis. SEVENTH HEAVEN’s social media manager is one meltdown away from a nervous breakdown. Our metrics skyrocket.

I catch her watching the clip later, smirking at the comments.

“You’re trending,” I say.

“We’re trending,” she corrects. “Congratulations, boyfriend.”

My brain error codes for a full three seconds at the word.

Later, she releases a thirty-minute video titled:

“TEACHING MY ‘BOYFRIEND’ HOW TO EXPRESS HUMAN EMOTION (NO, SERIOUSLY)”

The thumbnail is me looking confused while she points at a whiteboard that says:

“FEELINGS ≠ FF @15”

She plays old interviews of me.

“There,” she says, pausing one, zooming in on my deadpan expression. “That’s a man who just answered a perfectly normal question like someone asked him to confess tax fraud.”

Her chat spams laughing emotes, crying emotes, hearts.

She adds, “In his defense, he’s very good at League and very bad at eye contact. We’re working on it.”

I watch the video.

I should be embarrassed.

Instead, my stupid heart feels… lighter.

Like the weight of being “MVP,” “stone-faced mid king,” “emotionless robot” has been turned into a bit we’re both in on, instead of a cage I’m stuck in.

Week 2, she starts coming to scrims.

“For content,” she tells Seungcheol.

“For intel,” she tells me with a smirk.

“For drama,” Seungkwan whispers loudly.

She sits behind us with her tablet and a notebook, jotting down timestamps and notes. Sometimes she mutters to herself. Sometimes she mutters about us to herself.

“The way you said ‘mutters’ is hurtful,” she comments once without looking up.

I’m not sure if she read my face or my soul.

The first time she speaks up during review, we’re watching one of our messier games. One of those scrims where we win, but ugly.

“Pause,” she says from behind me.

Our analyst hits spacebar immediately. He’s as curious as we are now; no one ignores a Y/N “pause.”

She walks up, stands beside me, close enough that I can feel the brush of her hoodie against my arm, and points at the minimap. Her perfume is faint—vanilla, something warm.

“You had priority mid and bot,” she says, “but you drifted toward river, hesitated, then backed off. Why?”

I follow her finger on the screen.

“If I hard-commit, their jungler can flash in from fog,” I say. “I didn’t have vision on top river, and TP advantage was theirs. We could’ve gotten collapsed on and lost the whole fight.”

“So you backed for vision?”

“I backed because the risk wasn’t worth the reward yet,” I say. “Renekton had item spike. If we throw there, we lose tempo and they get dragon for free.”

She studies the screen. Then me.

“The casters said you played scared there,” she says. “They were wrong. You played patient. You’re not a coin-flip mid.”

I blink.

Behind us, Seungkwan makes a soft offended sound. “AND WHAT ABOUT ME—”

“You’re a casino, you don’t get to talk,” she says, without looking at him.

He gasps theatrically. “I’M SENDING THAT TO MY THERAPIST.”

Everyone laughs.

The review moves on. I try to pay attention, but part of my mind replays one line on a loop:

“You’re not a coin-flip mid.”

It shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.

It does anyway.

Later, in the hallway, I hear her ex talking to another manager.

“I mean, of course she’d hype him,” he scoffs. “She’s clinging to the ‘genius mid’ narrative to stay relevant. She always attaches herself to someone.”

I feel my hands curl into fists.

I don’t confront him.

Yet.

But the jealousy is a hot, unpleasant knot in my chest. Not because I think she likes him.

Because he still dares to talk about her like that. And because I hate that part of her career is constantly cleaning up after his ego.

The almost-kiss happens at the end of Week 2.

Everyone else has gone home. The building is quiet in that echoing, late-night way where you can hear your own thoughts too clearly.

We stay back to review one more VOD because I asked, and she said yes too quickly.

She’s beside me, both of us standing in front of the projected screen, the room lit only by the bluish light from the replay. It’s one of our better games this time, but she pauses at a mid-game fight anyway.

“Here,” she says. “This moment. You know you’re stronger. You know you win if you go in. You hesitate anyway.”

I squint at my tiny champion on the screen. Hesitating. Stutter-stepping around the edge of a fight I could have blown open.

“I was tracking flank TP,” I say. “If I go too early and they collapse, we lose.”

“You were also tracking Seungkwan’s position,” she says. “You hesitated because you were waiting to see if he survived. You always hesitate when you’re protecting someone.”

I go silent.

She glances up at me, eyes reflecting map colors. Closer than I realized. Little pixels of blue and purple flicker over her skin.

“It’s not a bad thing,” she says, softer now. “It just means you care.”

My throat feels tight.

The projector hums.

My pulse feels louder than the fan.

Then the timer on the projector hits whatever mark it was set to and shuts off with an audible click.

The room is plunged into dim dark.

We’re still standing close.

I can just barely see her silhouette, the faint outline of her face, the glimmer of her glasses catching the exit sign’s glow. Her perfume is subtle but suddenly it’s the only thing I can smell.

“Guess that’s our cue,” she says quietly.

She doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

My brain runs calculations I don’t have names for.

Risk vs reward. Game vs everything else.

Do I step back? Turn on the projector? Say goodnight?

Or do I lean in?

“Do you want the lights back on?” I ask, voice lower than I expect.

“Do you?” she echoes.

I don’t.

I turn slightly, facing her fully. She tilts her head up in the dark, like she’s meeting me halfway already.

The air between us feels thin.

I lean in.

She leans in too.

Her breath brushes my lips.

Her hand moves, reaching, fingers just barely brushing my wrist in a touch so light it makes my skin spark—

The door slams open.

“Yo, I brought ra—”

Vernon stops dead.

He stands there in the doorway with two convenience-store ramen cups and the haunted look of a man who opened the wrong door in a horror game.

We freeze.

He freezes.

The silence is so heavy I can hear the boiling broth in those cups.

Vernon makes the slowest, most respectful retreat I’ve ever seen, backing out and closing the door as gently as he can like if he moves too fast, reality will notice.

Silence crashes back down.

My face is on fire.

Hers is a shadow, but I can hear the way her breath catches, then steadies.

“We should… review pathing tomorrow,” she says, voice very carefully neutral, like the last thirty seconds didn’t just detonate both our nervous systems.

“Yeah.”

We leave together.

We don’t talk about it.

But when I get home and check the team GC, there’s one new message from Vernon:

Vernon: I almost died tonight

No context.

I throw my phone on the bed and stare at the ceiling.

I think about it constantly.

Week 3 is when everything fractures.

Her ex escalates. Of course he does.

He files a formal complaint to the league, saying she’s “too emotionally involved” to cover our matches and his fairly. Claims she’s “compromised.” Uses big words and bigger lies. Drops words like “conflict of interest” and “unprofessional attachment,” conveniently leaving out the part where he’s the one who can’t move on.

I hear about it from our manager first. From the legal team second. From chat third.

From her last.

By the time I find her, she’s half-sitting on a crate backstage, one leg bouncing, scrolling through emails with a blank face that I now recognize as “one millimeter away from snapping and still holding it together.”

“Is it true?” I ask.

“That my ex is weaponizing professionalism to try to silence me?” she says dryly, eyes still on the screen. “Yeah.”

“You’re not—” I search for the word, “—furious?”

She exhales slowly.

“I’m tired,” she says. “Fury is expensive.”

Something in my chest twists.

I stand there in front of her, helpless, hands hanging uselessly by my sides.

“We can say something,” I blurt. “SEVENTH HEAVEN. We can back you publicly. Or I can. I can talk in interviews. I can—”

“Wonwoo,” she cuts in gently. “Finals are in three days.”

“And you’re being attacked now,” I snap.

She finally looks up.

Her gaze is sharp at first—defensive, tired. Then it softens. Just barely.

“I appreciate it,” she says. “I do. But if you throw your focus away on my battles, then he wins twice. He gets to mess with me and ruin your season. I’m not giving him that.”

She stands, stretching her legs, rolling her shoulders like she’s easing armor into place.

“For once in my life, I want my presence near a team to be the reason they succeed,” she says quietly. “Not the excuse for why they fell apart.”

That hits me harder than anything she’s said on stream.

Because I get it. Too well.

How many times have analysts blamed “outside noise” when a team chokes? How many times have they implied it was a girlfriend, a fight, a distraction? How many times would people love to blame her for any mistake we make because it’s easier than admitting we messed up alone?

“I’m not—” I start.

“Please,” she says.

Just that.

Please.

I shut my mouth.

She walks off. Back straight. Shoulders squared.

I feel like I failed some hidden objective.

In the GC, a few hours later:

Seungkwan: I WILL BITE THAT MAN Mingyu: which man Seungkwan: PICK ONE Vernon: don’t get banned Seungcheol: Practice in 10. Be on time. Seungkwan: YES DAD

My gameplay dips.

Not spectacularly. Not enough for the average viewer to notice.

But Seungcheol notices.

He always does.

He pulls me into the review room after one particularly messy scrim.

No one else. Just us, the glowing screen, and too many paused replays.

He queues up a series of clips, mid-game moments where I should’ve taken an angle and didn’t. Fights where I played too safe. Calls I didn’t make.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“Caution,” I say.

“Fear,” he corrects.

I fold my arms. “It’s finals. I’m allowed to be careful.”

“This isn’t careful,” he says. “This is you trying to play two games at once. One on stage, one in your head.”

He looks at me steadily. “Is this still fake?”

The question hangs there.

The correct answer is “yes.”

I don’t give it.

I say nothing.

He sighs, but it’s not annoyed. It’s more like he’s adjusting a strap that’s digging in.

“You care about her,” he says. “Fine. Good. That’s not a weakness. But you don’t trust her right now.”

“That’s not true,” I say sharply.

“If you did, you wouldn’t be playing like she’ll break the second you stop looking,” he says. “She’s not glass. She’s probably stronger than half the orgs in this region.”

He’s right.

Of course he’s right.

“She doesn’t need you to fall apart to prove you care,” he says more softly. “She needs you to win. If you love how she’s always honest, then be honest with yourself too.”

The word love hangs in the air like a bugged tooltip I’m not ready to click on.

I look away.

He claps me on the shoulder. “Fix it,” he says simply.

I try.

It goes… medium.

The fake break-up happens the day before finals.

Our PR teams coordinate. Statements approved, wording checked, timings synced.

We both post the same thing—clean, polite, distant.

“With finals and projects coming up, we decided it’s best to focus on our careers right now. We still respect and support each other. Please don’t send hate.”

Fans wail.

“MY PARENTS BROKE UP 😭” “I KNEW IT WAS PR BUT IT STILL HURTS” “HOLD ON I NEED TO LOG OFF AND TOUCH GRASS”

In the GC, it’s worse.

Seungkwan: I’M AT THE DIVORCE OF THE CENTURY Mingyu: I feel like I should get visiting rights Vernon: joint custody of the streams Seungcheol: All of you. Enough.

In person, it’s not clean at all.

We meet in a quiet corridor, just out of view of the main staircase, away from cameras and mics and anyone who might turn this into content.

She’s in a simple black hoodie, hair in a low ponytail. No glasses. No makeup beyond a hint of eyeliner. She looks tired. And beautiful. And tired again.

“This is probably for the best,” she says, arms folded loosely in front of her. Her voice is steady. Her eyes are not.

“Yeah,” I say. “For focus.”

Her mouth twists faintly. “Right. Focus.”

There’s an ache under my ribs I don’t have a name for.

I want to say, I don’t actually want to break up with you, even pretend-wise.

I don’t say it.

“Good luck,” she offers instead, forcing a small smile. “I’ll still roast your draft if it’s bad.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” I say.

She smiles at that. Small. Real. A flicker of what we had when this was just a joke and not a line we’re both suddenly scared to cross.

Then she nods once and walks past me.

She smells faintly of coffee and vanilla.

I stand there in the empty corridor, phone buzzing in my pocket with notifications about a breakup that isn’t even real, and try to breathe around the stupid, heavy feeling in my chest.

For something fake, it feels a lot like getting dumped.

Finals.

The arena is a riot of noise and light.

SEVENTH HEAVEN vs Silver Aegis.

Storylines stacked on storylines: revenge matches, redemption arcs, narratives about discipline vs ego, about “boys vs men,” about “this might be their last run with this roster.”

I sit at my PC. Adjust my mouse. Flex my fingers. The keyboard is familiar and foreign at once.

I should only be thinking about one thing: the game.

But she’s in my head.

Not him. Her.

The way her voice sounded last night in that video.

“The Truth About This ‘Narrative’ | My Story.”

She didn’t use his name in the title. She didn’t need to.

I watched it alone at my desk, lights off, hood up like I could hide from how hard it hit.

She laid it all out. Calm. Precise. No theatrics.

Screenshots. Emails. A timeline of behavior that went from “barely acceptable” to “you need a lawyer” so gradually that you could almost miss how bad it got unless you saw it stitched together like that.

She added context. Admitted where she stayed longer than she should have. Never painted herself as perfect. Never weaponized tears.

She didn’t rant. Didn’t drag. Didn’t perform.

“This isn’t about a breakup,” she’d said, looking straight into the camera. “I’ve made mistakes. I’ve stayed where I shouldn’t. But this is about professionalism. About boundaries. About weaponizing narratives to silence criticism. If you want to say you don’t like my analysis, say that. Don’t rewrite history to make me your villain.”

At the end, she’d looked almost tired. But steady.

“I’m not thinking about you,” she’d said. “You’re the one telling that story. I’m done being part of it.”

She’d posted it. Turned off monetization. Pinned it. Then gone to sleep.

By morning, it was #1 on trending.

The league announced an investigation. Silver Aegis rushed out a statement about “taking allegations seriously.” His socials went suspiciously quiet.

She still went to work. Still showed up as an analyst for the finals.

Of course she did.

So now I’m here, on stage, hands hovering over my keyboard, with her words lodged somewhere under my ribs like a new, sharp truth.

We draft.

We load in.

For the first fifteen minutes, the game feels like synchronicity.

Mingyu’s pathing is clean, sneaking vision deep where they don’t expect it. Vernon’s roams are surgical. Seungcheol absorbs pressure top like he was born under a turret. Seungkwan positions aggressively but controlled, that thin line between “carry” and “throw” walked with terrifying elegance.

I track everything.

Timers. Lane states. Summoners. Flashes. Ult CDs. Enemy mental.

And then, during a short lull in action, the broadcast cuts to the analyst and press section.

I see her.

Headset on. Professional outfit. Tablet in hand. Eyes glued to the screens in front of her. She looks composed, clean-lined, like the Y/N that first burned herself into my brain through a monitor.

Then I see him.

He shouldn’t even be near her. The league told him to keep his distance until the investigation wraps. But there he is, hovering just behind the analyst row, leaning on fake casualness like it’s a crutch.

He moves behind her chair. Too close.

He leans down, says something near her ear. I can’t hear it, but I can see his mouth curl on one side.

Her shoulders stiffen. She leans slightly away.

Just a little.

Like she’s refusing to give him more of a reaction than that.

My hand forgets to move.

My champion takes an unnecessary hit.

“Wonwoo,” Seungcheol’s voice snaps in my ears. “Focus.”

I blink, jarred, and re-center myself. We recover the play. Barely.

The crowd doesn’t know what happened. The casters chalk it up to “a rare misstep from the mid laner.”

I know exactly why it happened.

I want to get up and drag him away from her by the collar.

Instead, I kite a wave and call for a reset.

Time-out is called a few minutes later for a tech issue. A reset request from their side.

We head backstage.

The second our headsets are off, I feel a hand clamp onto my arm and drag me to the side.

“What was that?” Seungcheol says, eyes sharp. Not angry. Focused.

I rub the back of my neck. “He was in her space.”

“And?” he says.

“And I—” I stop. Try again. “I hate it.”

“Yeah,” he says. “So does she.”

He looks me dead in the eye.

“She can handle him,” he says. “She has been handling him this whole time. You not trusting that? That’s the real insult.”

I go quiet.

He lets that land, then pushes once more.

“You don’t get to turn her into something fragile just because you care,” he adds. “She’s not your early-game lane to babysit. She’s her own late-game monster.”

A sharp, unwilling laugh punches out of me. “That’s one way to put it.”

“It’s the true way,” he says. “You want to help her? Win. Make sure the story tonight is ‘SEVENTH HEAVEN stomped’ and not ‘Y/N ruined them.’ She already set fire to his narrative with that video. Don’t burn your own for free.”

He’s right.

Of course he’s right. Again.

I inhale slowly. Exhale.

“Okay,” I say.

In the corner, Mingyu is pacing.

“He’s so dead, bro,” he mutters. “Did you watch the video? That was a clean 3–0 callout. He’s gonna come back with a Notes app apology.”

Seungkwan is leaning against a water cooler, phone in hand, reading comments. “Chat calling him ‘gaslight gank main’ is sending me,” he says. “Also, someone edited your face over her shoulder in the thumbnail. Not sure how to feel about that.”

Vernon looks up from his own phone. “Video hit ten million views,” he says. “Mostly support. Some trolls. But the narrative flipped.”

“Good,” I say.

“Also,” he adds, “your name is in the top ten related searches now.”

I grimace.

“Celebrity boyfriend era,” Seungkwan sings. “You better not fumble.”

“Can we focus?” I say.

Seungcheol claps his hands once. “All right,” he cuts through. “Reset. We fix the early mistakes, punish their overconfidence, and we finish this. Got it?”

“Got it,” we chorus.

We go back on stage.

This time, when the broadcast cuts to her, I don’t flinch.

I see her, headset on, posture straight, eyes sharp. A quick graphic flashes on screen:

“Special Analyst: Y/N – Hextech Hot Takes”

It’s surreal seeing her brand under the league logo.

She looks calm. Untouchable.

In my chest, the jealousy cools down, turned into something else: pride.

Game three starts.

This time, my hands don’t shake.

I stop thinking about what’s happening off-stage.

I think about the game.

Our comp.

My reads.

My team.

We play clean.

We play mean.

We play like SEVENTH HEAVEN.

Mingyu secures every crucial objective like a man possessed. He steals one Baron with a Q-Smite combo so disgusting even the opposing crowd groans.

Vernon hits impossible engages that crack their comp open. Twice he finds their ADC through fog, and I follow up without thinking.

Seungkwan turns into a pentakill waiting to happen. He doesn’t get it, but every fight feels like it’s three autos and one crit away.

Seungcheol leads calls like a general. Calm, firm, exact. “We don’t need to chase. Take tower. Reset. Breathe.”

I see the windows, and I don’t hesitate.

I go.

I trust myself.

I trust them.

I trust her too, weirdly, even though she’s not in the game. I trust that while I’m doing my job here, she’s doing hers out there, and I don’t have to fix her world for her. We’re playing different maps, but we’re on the same side.

We win.

The nexus explodes in a bloom of color.

Our logo flashes across the screen.

The crowd detonates into shouting, confetti, songs, chants.

We’re champions.

People are hugging me.

Someone’s yelling in my ear.

Mingyu’s got me in a headlock, yelling something incoherent about “WORLD BUFFS” and “FIRST ROUND MY TREAT.”

Seungkwan is sobbing into a SEVENTH HEAVEN flag, tears mixing with glitter. “WE DID IT, YOU EMOTIONALLY REPRESSED KING!” he bawls. “YOU DESERVE LOVE AND A GOOD SLEEP SCHEDULE!”

Vernon is laughing, breathless, eyes crinkled. “We actually did it,” he keeps repeating like he doesn’t believe it.

Seungcheol has that rare, almost private smile on his face, the one he only lets slip when something truly lands. “Good work,” he says, pulling us into a group hug whether we want it or not.

Through all of it, a thought cuts through the noise like a clean objective ping.

Find her.

I scan every visible corner of the stadium. The analyst desk. The press section. The green room door.

I don’t see her.

“Go,” Mingyu says suddenly, releasing me and giving me a shove towards the tunnel.

I stumble. “What?”

“Go find her,” he says. “We’ll stall.”

“I have media—”

“We’ll tell them you’re overheating,” Vernon says.

“You are overheating,” Seungkwan adds, fanning me with a towel. “Your ears are the color of infernal drake. Also, if you don’t go, I will.”

“I’ll bench you,” Seungcheol says mildly.

It’s unclear who he’s talking to.

Probably all of us.

I don’t wait to find out.

I run.

The city outside is cooler, quieter, but my head is loud.

I don’t check my phone. I don’t check socials.

My feet know where to go.

The café.

Of course it’s the café.

The little one with the wobbly chairs and too-strong ramyun. Where I first saw her in person and did nothing.

I spot her through the window first.

Same corner table by the glass. Laptop open. Hoodie on. Hair down, half-tucked behind one ear. A half-finished drink next to her, condensation dripping slowly down the plastic.

Her expression is relaxed for the first time in weeks. There’s still a faint tightness around her eyes, but she looks more like herself.

I push the door open.

The bell chimes.

She looks up.

For a moment, we just stare at each other.

“You’re supposed to be on a stage somewhere covered in confetti,” she says.

“I did that already,” I say, stepping closer. “Confetti’s overrated.”

She huffs a little laugh. “How does it feel? Champion?”

“Strange,” I say honestly. “Good. Loud. Also…”

I trail off.

She waits.

“Incomplete,” I finish.

Her brows lift. “Incomplete?”

I sit down across from her. The chair wobbles a little. I steady it with my foot.

“There’s something I didn’t say,” I tell her. “And if I don’t say it now, I’m going to be thinking about it during every interview, every stream, every solo queue game until I lose my mind.”

She closes her laptop halfway, her full attention switching to me.

“All right,” she says softly. “Say it.”

I take a breath.

“The fake dating,” I start, “stopped being fake for me a long time ago.”

Her fingers still on the edge of the laptop.

“At first, it was strategy,” I say. “Smart. Clean. Efficient. It helped kill the narrative and boosted both our platforms. It was about controlling the story.”

I swallow, throat dry.

“Then you started coming to scrims,” I continue. “Sitting behind me in review. Roasting my interviews with love, not content. Watching my VODs and seeing things in my play that even I hadn’t fully articulated.”

Her eyes stay locked on mine.

“Last night, I watched you post a video that could’ve blown up your career,” I say. “You told the truth anyway. You chose clarity over comfort. That’s… who you are. You don’t weaponize the narrative. You straighten it.”

The words come easier now.

“I like you,” I say. “Not the idea of you. You. The way your brain works. The way you refuse to punch down. The way you tell the truth even when it hurts. The way you looked at me on that VOD and said, ‘You’re not a coin flip.’ I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that since.”

A breath, shaky.

“I thought I could keep it fake,” I admit. “I was wrong.”

Silence.

For a second, I think I’ve misplayed my entire life.

Then she exhales, very softly.

“Good,” she says.

I blink. “…good?”

“You’re finally caught up,” she says.

My confusion must be obvious, because she smiles—small and a bit disbelieving, like she’s surprised she’s saying this out loud.

“I wasn’t thinking about him,” she says. “Not once. Not really.”

My chest tightens.

“Everyone kept asking if I was bitter, obsessed, out for revenge,” she goes on. “But I was thinking about you. About SEVENTH HEAVEN. About how this mess would bleed into your games, your focus, your mental. About how it would feel for you to have my entire drama pinned to your name, when all you ever did was exist near me.”

I stare at her.

“You cared more about my mental than his storyline,” I say quietly.

“Obviously,” she scoffs. “He doesn’t have any mental to protect.”

It makes me laugh, sharp and helpless, some tight knot finally loosening.

She leans forward, elbows on the table.

“I like you too, you idiot,” she says. “Have you not noticed me risking my subscriber base to publicly thirst over your gameplay?”

I blink. “You—what?”

“I literally called your flanks ‘art’ in my last analysis,” she says. “Do you know how feral my chat gets when I praise you? I had to delete four edits. Four.”

Something in my chest expands, painful and light all at once.

I stand.

She does too.

We meet halfway around the table, space between us suddenly small, charged in a new way that’s not pretend, not scripted, not for anyone else.

Up close, I can see the faint smudges under her eyes, the way her lips tilt when she’s trying not to grin too wide.

My hand hovers for a second.

“Can I?” I ask.

“You better,” she says.

That’s all the permission I need.

I cup her jaw gently.

She slides her hands up my hoodie, fingers curling at the back of my neck.

We kiss.

It’s not cinematic. Our noses bump. Someone in the back snorts. My heart is beating so loud I’m pretty sure she can feel it through my chest.

But it’s real.

Warm and steady and grounding in a way no win, no trophy, no title has ever been.

When we pull back, we’re both slightly breathless.

“Tell Seungkwan he’s not allowed to monetize this,” she murmurs.

“He already has,” I say. “In his mind. There are probably emotes.”

She laughs, the sound soft and bright and alive.

“Let him,” she says. “As long as we get to write the patch notes.”

“Deal,” I say.

She brushes a thumb over the corner of my mouth, gaze dropping to my lips again.

“Come here, champion,” she says.

I do.

And for once, I’m not thinking about the game.

Just… us.

Finally.

A few weeks later, she sets a camera down on the table between us and says, “Okay. No backing out. We’re doing this.”

We’re at a tiny ramen shop this time, not the café. Late night, post-scrim, both of us in hoodies and caps. Real date, actual food, no PR manager pacing outside.

The camera’s red light turns on.

“Hey guys,” she says, voice slipping into that familiar intro cadence, but softer somehow. “Welcome back to Hextech Hot Takes, but today’s episode is… different.”

She glances at me, grin tugging at her mouth.

“Today,” she announces, “I’m finally filming my FIRST REAL DATE VLOG.”

She flips the viewfinder so we’re both in frame. I raise a hand in a small, awkward wave.

“Hi,” I say. Smooth as always.

“This is Jeon Wonwoo,” she tells the camera. “Mid laner for SEVENTH HEAVEN. Previously known as my ‘fake boyfriend’ slash shield against nonsense narratives.”

“And currently?” I ask.

She bumps her shoulder into mine. “Currently known as my real boyfriend,” she says. “Who is going to let me interview him on this date and not run away.”

“I agreed to this under duress,” I inform the lens.

“You agreed to this because you love me,” she corrects.

My ears heat up. “Don’t say that on camera.”

“Too late,” she chirps. “Clip it, chat.”

There is no chat, but I know there will be later.

We film.

She asks me stupid questions like, “When did you realize you liked me?” (I lie and say “somewhere around Week 2,” not “the first time you roasted my Azir on YouTube.”)

I ask her questions like, “When did you realize you liked me?” (She says, “When you didn’t argue with me calling your draft grief, you just said ‘I’ll do better.’ That was hot.” I have no response to that.)

We eat. We tease. She makes me rate the ramen like it’s a champion skin. I call it “Legendary-tier.” She dabs broth off my chin with a napkin while the camera’s still rolling.

Later, she edits the footage with her usual chaotic precision. Cuts away right as I’m about to say something too soft. Adds dumb captions over my face like:

“MID KING, SOFT BOY EDITION”

The video goes up on her channel a few days after that.

“FIRST REAL DATE VLOG (ft. SEVENTH HEAVEN’S MID LANER)”

The views climb fast.

I scroll through the comments, half-dreading, half-curious.

Fan edits. Capslocked screaming. People saying things like “THERAPY IS CURED.”

And pinned at the very top, with a little blue check next to the username:

SEVENTH HEAVEN – SEUNGKWAN: “he better treat u right queen 😤 if he doesn’t i’ll steal him and treat BOTH of us right”

Vernon replied under it:

“this is a threat and a promise”

Mingyu added:

“i was the flower boy in this relationship from the start”

And from the official team account, clearly hijacked by our captain for thirty seconds:

SEVENTH HEAVEN – OFFICIAL: “As long as both of you are happy and we still win, this is captain-approved.” – S.Coups

She screenshots the comments and sends them to me with:

“your team is insane.”

I reply:

“yeah. but they were right about one thing.”

“what?”

“i really do have to treat you right.”

“good answer, mid king.”

The next time she hits record, there’s no fake label to hide behind. No “pretend.” No “for the narrative.”

Just us.

In the same patch.

 “What do you mean you married someone else?!”

Seungcheol’s outraged voice is only met by a small shrug from where you’re bundled in his blanket, perched in his gaming chair, using his PC to play his copy of Stardew Valley.

In your defense… okay, you don’t have much of one. You didn’t realize that a simple farming game would have a hot emo man waiting in his basement for you to fix his broken computer and heart.

“Sorry, baby,” you say, half-hiding a grin. “But I’m a married woman now. Anyway, the more relevant question is—what should Sebastian and I name our kid?”

The sound Seungcheol makes behind you is somewhere between a scoff and an actual growl. “Your kid? You’ve been playing this save for, what, three in-game months? You barely even upgraded your watering can!”

You swivel slowly in his chair, cocooned like a very smug burrito. “Three in-game months is 3/4ths of a year! Besides, we bonded over shared trauma,” you counter, gesturing at the pixelated couple standing in front of their cozy farmhouse. “He liked me when I was just the weird girl who kept fainting in the mines. That’s real love.”

Seungcheol’s jaw drops. “You fainted because you kept trying to fight slimes with a hoe!”

“And yet,” you say, clicking to pet your virtual dog, “he never judged me. He just stood there in the rain, smoking under that pixel tree, saying mysterious things like ‘What am I going to do today? Probably nothing.’”

Seungcheol groans like you’ve personally offended his soul. “That’s not mysterious, that’s depression!”

You gasp dramatically. “He’s deep, Seungcheol. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I would understand,” he fires back, stepping closer to peer over your shoulder, “if you didn’t just—oh my god, did you name the farm after him?”

You grin at the screen. “Sebby Acres has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

He just stares. “You didn’t even name your real plants, but this guy gets an estate.”

“Love changes people.”

“Yeah, apparently it changes your standards too,” he mutters, crossing his arms as he glares at Sebastian’s pixel sprite. “He’s just… standing there. Doing nothing.”

“He’s thinking,” you defend.

“About what, the void?”

“Maybe,” you whisper dramatically, “maybe me.”

That earns you a loud, disbelieving laugh. “You’re actually insane. You know that, right?”

You click through a few menus, ignoring him. “He made me coffee this morning.”

“Oh, so now we’re romanticizing caffeine dependency?”

“Better than romanticizing being a jealous gamer boyfriend,” you shoot back, smug.

That stops him for half a second—just enough for you to glance up and catch the exact moment he schools his expression, trying not to smile.

“I’m not jealous,” he says finally, voice lower now, softer. “I just think it’s tragic that my girlfriend is out here emotionally cheating with a pixel.”

You grin. “Emotionally cheating? Bold of you to assume it’s not physical.”

His jaw drops. “You did not just say that.”

“Oh, I did.” You spin back toward the screen. “Sebastian’s got those 16-bit biceps for a reason.”

He groans again, but this time it sounds closer to laughter than despair. You can feel him behind you now—his presence warm and looming as he leans down over the back of the chair. His chin brushes your shoulder as he squints at the screen.

“Okay,” he murmurs, voice close enough that it sends a little shiver through you, “so what happens if I—” he reaches over you, taking the mouse, “—go into your house and delete your save file?”

You gasp, clutching your blanket like a shield. “That’s a war crime!”

“Oh, it’s justice,” he says, smirking now, the corner of his mouth curling as he hovers over the [Delete] option just to watch you panic.

You twist in the chair to glare up at him. “You wouldn’t.”

“I might,” he says, teasing, but there’s that glint in his eyes—half mischief, half affection. “Maybe then you’ll stop flirting with trench-coat Minecraft boy and pay attention to your real-life boyfriend.”

You hold his gaze for a beat, heart skipping in that annoying, traitorous way it does when he’s too close. Then you say, voice quiet but pointed, “You wanna start a new save together?”

He pauses, just for a second, before burying his face in the crook of your neck and taking a deep breath. You can feel the hesitation before his hair brushes your skin as he nods.

“Even though it's a ‘boring farm game with limited rpg capabilities and—”

“Yes, yes, okay! I was wrong. M’sorry.” He pouts into your shoulder, “Promise to never judge your taste in games again. Just… marry me in our save?”

You bite back a smile, trying not to sound too triumphant. “I’ll consider it.” You turn your head to press a kiss to the top of his. “Dork.”

Seungcheol hums against your skin, the sound low and satisfied—like a man who’s just won a battle he didn’t actually fight. “ ‘Consider it,’ ” he echoes, voice muffled against your neck. “That’s not a yes.”

“That’s a maybe,” you correct, scrolling back to your cozy pixel house. “You’ll have to prove yourself worthy first.”

He leans back just enough for you to see the mock offense on his face. “Worthy? You’re acting like I have to duel Sebastian for your hand.”

You don’t look away from the screen as you murmur, “You could try, but he’s got a motorcycle.”

Seungcheol scoffs. “Oh, please. I’ve got a car.”

“Yeah, but can your car brood under the moonlight?”

“I can brood under the moonlight!” he protests, and you lose it—bursting into laughter that makes the chair spin slightly. He catches it before it can whirl too far, one hand steady on the armrest, the other landing lightly on your knee, caging you in and surrounding you with his warmth.

“See?” he says softly, the teasing edge fading to something gentler. “I can brood, I can farm, I can mine—hell, I’ll even water crops every morning if that’s what it takes.”

You blink at him. “You hate resource management.”

“I hate losing you to a pixel more.”

That earns him a snort, but the warmth that blooms in your chest gives you away. You tilt your head, studying him from under your blanket hood. “You’d actually play with me?”

“I’d actually play with you,” he repeats, earnest this time. “Even if I die every five minutes in the mines.”

You grin, leaning closer until your noses almost bump. “Then we can faint together.”

He laughs—a bright, unguarded sound—and before you can say another word, he kisses you. Just a small one, soft and warm, like punctuation on a joke that suddenly got too sincere.

When you pull back, you whisper, “You’re trying to distract me.”

Seungcheol’s smile is slow and lopsided, still close enough that you can feel his breath when he answers, “Is it working?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Maybe.”

He chuckles, thumb brushing idly against your knee through the blanket. “Guess I’ll have to try again—hey! You’re not supposed to go back to your game!” He whines as you spin the chair back to face the screen.

“Why not?” you tease. “Keeps you guessing. Builds character.”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of character,” he says, voice dropping just a little as he leans in again, lips brushing the skin under your ear. “I’m literally offering to play farm husband, and you’re still playing hard to get.”

“Correction,” you say, spinning back toward the monitor with a grin, “I’m playing hard to marry.” You click a few times, pretending to focus very seriously on harvesting your pixelated strawberries. “There’s a difference.”

He exhales through a laugh, resting his chin on your shoulder. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet, you’re still here,” you sing-song, clicking to water your crops. “Let me just finish this day and I’ll start us a new save file, m’kay, you big baby?”

He groans softly, the sound vibrating against your back. “You just called me a big baby while wrapped in my blanket, stealing my chair, and emotionally cheating on me with a two-dimensional man.”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love me.”

He huffs out a laugh, “Clearly not enough, if you’re settling for emo-boy.” He replies as he hooks his chin over your shoulder again, watching you play with that soft, restless energy he always gets when he’s trying not to admit he’s enjoying himself. His thumb starts tracing idle circles against your leg, absent-minded but distracting. 

Finally, after you finish the day and save, you click back to the main menu and open a new save folder. “Go get the switch.” He’s up before you can even finish, Nintendo Switch in hand as you create the farm and add him. You only pause to yelp when he lifts you out of the chair to settle instead with you in his lap, his arms around you, and his chin tucked over your shoulder so he can see what he’s doing.

“Clingy.” You mutter, pecking his cheek as you set up the new game. “Name suggestions?”

He hums, pretending to think very seriously as his hands settle around your waist. “Hmm… Revenge Acres.”

You blink. “Revenge?”

“For the fallen Sebastian,” he says solemnly, eyes locked on the screen. “May his emo soul rest in pixels.”

You snort, nearly dropping the controller. “You’re insufferable.”

“Or—hear me out—‘Farmy McFarmface.’”

“Absolutely not.”

He grins, delighted at your horror. “Okay, fine, fine. What about… Coups Crops?”

You stare at him flatly. “That’s the worst pun I’ve ever heard.”

“Thank you,” he says proudly. “I try.”

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile. “We’re naming it something cute. Something wholesome. Like—” You pause dramatically. “Snugglefield.”

Seungcheol physically recoils. “Snugglefield?! You’re going to make me farm turnips on Snugglefield?!”

“You’d rather live on Coups Crops?” you shoot back, turning in his lap to raise a brow.

“Yes! It’s branding!” He gestures broadly. “Imagine: local farmer S.Coups, humble provider of the valley’s finest parsnips.”

You can’t help laughing at that. “Fine, farmer Coups, but if you ever actually refer to yourself like that again, I’m divorcing you.”

He grins wide, unbothered. “You can’t divorce me if you never say yes.”

“Oh, so now it’s blackmail?”

“Strategic patience,” he says, fingers squeezing gently at your sides until you squirm.

“Mm, that’s cheating,” you warn, even as you’re giggling. “You can’t just tickle me into saying yes.”

“I can try,” he murmurs, voice dropping just enough that your breath catches. “But I’d rather earn it.” He presses his lips to your neck, softly kissing the sensitive skin.

“Focus.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You type Coup’s Crops and Co. Farm into the [Farm Name] field before selecting a type (four corners because you’re co-opping and it's clearly the only correct answer) and loading up the new farm.

“Why am I in a different house than you?” You can feel Cheol’s pout against your neck, and you laugh.

“Because you’re my farmhand. How inappropriate would a farmhand in the main house be?”

Seungcheol lets out an incredulous scoff, the kind that vibrates against your back because he’s still got his chin hooked over your shoulder. “Farmhand? Excuse me—” he reaches forward to poke your screen accusingly, “—I am co-owner material, at the very least. You think I’m waking up at 6 a.m. to water your crops for free?”

You stifle a laugh. “Technically, you’d be waking up at 6 a.m. because I’d make you.”

“Oh, so now I’m your underpaid labourer and your husband-in-waiting?” he deadpans.

You hum thoughtfully. “Sounds accurate.”

He narrows his eyes. “This is a scam.”

“Welcome to marriage.”

That makes him groan—loud and dramatic, like you’ve just told him he’s being exiled to the mines forever. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you know that?”

You grin, smug. “I am aware.”

The first few minutes of the game are chaos. You both spawn into the pixel farm surrounded by weeds, rocks, and trees—your avatar immediately starts chopping trees with your axe while Seungcheol’s stands there doing absolutely nothing.

“Cheol,” you say, suspicious, “why are you just standing there?”

“I’m observing the land,” he says sagely. “Assessing productivity potential.”

“Translation: you forgot what button makes you move.”

“...That too,” he mutters.

You giggle and hand him a quick tutorial rundown, watching his character start to move in clumsy little jerks across the field. He immediately starts cutting down grass with his scythe.

“Don’t cut that down! We need it for the animals once we build a silo!" you cry.

“It’s in the way!”

“You’re starving our future chickens and ruining my vision!”

He pauses, his avatar mid-swing, then looks over at you in real life with that slow, knowing smirk. “You mean our vision, boss.”

You turn to glare at him, but he looks way too pleased with himself, leaning back in his seat and drumming his fingers against your waist like he’s keeping score.

“Fine,” you say, feigning exasperation. “You can have a say in our vision. What’s your idea, Mr. Efficiency?”

He leans in, lowering his voice like he’s about to drop the world’s greatest strategy. “Simple. We build one big field. No decorations, no fences, just pure money-making crops.”

You stare at him, horrified. “So… you want to make a corporate farm?”

He grins, unashamed. “Coup’s Crops, LLC.”

“That’s horrifying.”

“That’s capitalism.”

“That’s worse than Joja.” You swat at his arm, laughing so hard your character stops moving entirely. “We’re not doing this. We’re gonna have flowers and beehives and cute scarecrows, and maybe—” you click a few times, placing a chest by your cabin, “—a little pond area where we can sit together.”

“...You’re making a kissing spot, aren’t you?”

You pause. “I’m making an ambiance.”

He lets out a low laugh and presses a kiss to the side of your jaw, catching you off guard. “Sure, baby. Ambiance.”

You nudge him with your elbow, trying not to smile too widely. “You’re supposed to be chopping wood, not flirting with your boss.”

“I multitask,” he says smoothly, returning his focus to the game—though his hands never quite leave you, thumbs tracing slow circles on your waist.

A few quiet minutes pass like that—soft music from the game, faint tapping of keys, the occasional ping of harvested wood—until he breaks the silence again.

“So,” he says casually, “when do I get to move into your house?”

You grin, pretending to think. “Hmm… maybe after your first successful harvest.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he complains immediately. “Sebastian didn’t have to harvest anything to get into your house.”

“Sebastian had emotional depth,” you tease, deadpan.

He gasps. “I have pecs!”

You nearly choke on your laughter. “Not the same thing, Cheol.”

He turns you slightly in his lap, enough to catch your eye with a mock glare that’s betrayed by his smile. “Oh, it’s exactly the same thing. Wait till you see me water these crops. You’ll be proposing to me by the end of the season.”

You arch an eyebrow, amused. “Confident, aren’t you?”

He grins, leaning in until his nose brushes your temple. “Farmer Coups doesn’t need confidence. He’s got irrigation.”

You groan, half laughing, half sighing. “If you make one more irrigation joke, I’m marrying Shane next.”

He stiffens. “The chicken guy?!”

You smirk. “He gives me beer.”

Seungcheol squints, pretending to process that like you’ve actually betrayed him. Then, slowly, he shakes his head. “No. Nope. That’s it.”

You blink. “What are you—hey!”

Because he’s already reaching past you, grabbing your mouse, muttering, “War crime time.”

“CHEOL—don’t you dare delete this save!”

“I’m saving it!” he insists, laughing now, “And we’re going to bed. It’s almost midnight.”

“Still early by your usual hours!” You argue as you make an attempt to grab the mouse back, but he’s stronger, and it devolves into chaos—tickling, laughing, your blanket half falling off, his voice all smug and breathless as he says, “Say you’ll marry me and I’ll stop.”

You freeze for a heartbeat, cheeks warm, eyes meeting his—he’s still grinning, but there’s a softness underneath, something a little too real.

The laughter fades just enough for the sound of your breathing to fill the space between you—shallow, uneven, caught somewhere between teasing and something that feels a lot like the truth.

“Say you’ll marry me,” he repeats, quieter this time. The playful lilt is still there, but it’s gentler now, the edge rounded by sincerity.

You blink up at him, still half-tangled in the blanket, your hair a mess, and your cursor hovering over the in-game farmhouse. “In the game,” you clarify, but your voice wavers just slightly, and he catches it—of course he does.

His grin softens, that dimple showing for just a second before he dips his head closer. “Sure,” he murmurs, “in the game.” His eyes flick toward your screen. “But, you know… maybe also not just in the game.”

You laugh, breathless and a little flustered. “You can’t just say things like that,” you whisper, trying to sound lighter than you feel.

For once, Seungcheol doesn’t immediately joke back. Instead, his grin falters—just slightly—and when he looks at you, there’s something different in his eyes. Still warm, still mischievous, but threaded through with something steadier that makes your heart stutter

He shifts, the chair creaking under both your weight, and his hand comes up to cup your jaw, gentle and grounding, “You think I’m joking?” he asks, quiet enough that the words barely clear the space between you.

All you can do is blink, breath caught in your throat as he goes on.

“I…” He exhales, a soft sound that's half nervous, half fond. “This isn’t how I planned this. I—I bought a ring like, months ago. Fuck, give me a minute.” 

He picks you up and sets you down gently on the chair, leaving you wide-eyed as he rushes to rifle through his nightstand before returning with a small velvet box.

“Okay. Fuck, I had this whole plan. Flowers, dinner at the restaurant we had our first date, Jihoon was even gonna play live music like we were in a drama—”

You snort at that, despite the tears welling in your eyes as he takes one of your hands in his, getting on his knee in front of the gaming chair.

“Well, cats out of the bag now, so I guess I’ll just go with it. It’s very us.” He presses a kiss to the back of your hand, but it seems more to ground him than you. “The past three years with you have been… everything. Being able to spend time with you, have your face be the first thing I see when I wake up, and the last thing I see when I go to sleep… it made me realize that I want that forever. With you. I want every sleepy morning, or loud ones where you forget your keys and yell at me for not reminding you, even though I did.” You let out a shaky laugh, and he smiles, squeezing your hand gently. “I want to argue about our in-game farms and real-life living rooms. I want to grow old hearing you tell me how insufferable I am and how I can’t design for shit.” You swallow hard, letting the tears fall from your eyes because there was no way you’d let them blur the vision that is Seungcheol in this moment. Your fingers shake where they hold his.

“I don’t care if we’re rich, or if we’re still living off of takeout and late-night gaming sessions,” he continues softly. “I always wanted to build something—a life, a home. But I realized that I can’t have any of that if you aren’t there. Before you, those were just words, but now… now they’re a person. They’re you.”

There’s a beat where neither of you says anything, and the only sound is the hum of the PC, the faint game music looping quietly in the background.

Then, he releases your hand to open the velvet box, revealing a ring that makes you choke out a sob. You’d only talked with him a few times about styles, gems, and rings in general, and this man listened. His hands are steady as he looks up at you, eyes filled with security and hope and fear and love as he murmurs, “Marry me.”

It’s not a question. It’s a confession, an offering.

Your hand comes up almost on instinct, fingers threading into his hair as your forehead presses back against his. “You’re supposed to have music,” you say softly. “And flowers.”

He laughs, the sound low and rough. “You’re supposed to say yes anyway.”

You breathe out a shaky laugh, tears now flowing steadily down your cheeks. “You’re unbelievable.”

He brushes his thumb over your cheek again. “And you love me.”

“I do,” you whisper, and the words feel too big, too right.

His breath catches. “Then marry me.”

You look at him—really look—and realize there’s no version of your life where you wouldn’t.

You nod, smiling through the tears. “Okay,” you say softly. “Yes.”

For a second, he just stares, eyes wide, like his brain short-circuits. Then he laughs—quiet, disbelieving—and presses a kiss to your forehead, your cheek, and your mouth, all in a flurry of warmth and relief.

He slips the ring onto your finger with a boyish smile. “This part I did plan,” he says quietly. “Just didn’t plan for you to be already married to some pixel guy first.”

You laugh through your tears, covering your face. “You’re impossible.”

He grins, eyes shining. “You love me.”

You drop your hands, smiling back. “I do.”

This is a bad idea, you think to yourself, shivering as an icy breeze winds itself around your exposed thighs. Still, your stride doesn't falter as you punch in the front door code and make your way to the elevator of the lavish apartment building you once lived in with your ex. You press the button and tug nervously at the hem of your dress as you watch the numbers on the display count down, signalling the elevator’s arrival to the lobby. 

It’s only been six weeks since you and Minho broke up, although somehow it feels like an eternity compared to the two years you spent together. Rearranging your life without him has been not only difficult, but…annoyingly inconvenient.

We could have kept on with our nice little life but nooooo, you snark to yourself. SOMEONE couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.

All the little comforts of daily life had been taken from you, and held just out of reach. Things like drinking coffee from your favourite mug in the morning or snuggling into Egyptian cotton bedsheets at the end of a long day–bedsheets which you’d saved up for two months to buy. You’d left in a flurry of emotion after you found out he’d cheated, grabbing things in a blind rage and stuffing them into your suitcase haphazardly. To top it all off, he’d changed the code to the apartment door and blocked your number, so you couldn’t come back for the rest of your things. 

Tonight, in the midst of getting ready for what was supposed to be your grand return to the singles scene, you realized he still had your favourite going out dress. So you’d thrown on the next best thing but it felt wrong and the whole evening felt wrong and now… you’re angry–furiously, fumingly angry–and here to give him a piece of your mind.

“MINHO!” you yell, running to the door of your former apartment and banging on the door, “Minho, come the fuck out here and talk to me, you fucking COWARD!”

Your fist meets the heavy door again, bang-bang-bang, and then you listen for a moment. No sound emerges from the apartment. You take a deep breath and pound on the door again, yelling, “MINHO, you fucking CHEATING, LYING, STEALING SCUM, if you don’t come out here RIGHT NOW so help me God, I’ll–...I’ll–”

“Hey!” A voice barks from behind you. “What the fuck are you yelling about this late at night?”

You spin on your heel, pressing your back to the apartment door. Your palms press flat into the wood by your thighs and your shoulders hike up defensively. Spotting the owner of the voice, you let out a shaky breath. Just Jihoon. Not Minho.

The next door neighbour, Jihoon, has always been kind to you. More of an acquaintance than a friend, he mostly kept to himself, but he’d always given a friendly nod and held the door open when you crossed paths. But he doesn't look happy to see you right now. He looks furious, actually.

His long, dark hair is disheveled and sticking out every which way. A pair of athletic shorts hangs low on his hips, and he's not wearing a shirt, putting the hard, muscular planes of his chest on display. He'd clearly been sleeping and been woken up by your yelling. 

You wince. Yeah, I’d be mad at me, too.

Jihoon shifts, rubbing groggily at his eyes and giving you an expectant look as he waits for your reply. You try to form words, but nothing comes out. Instead, you find yourself fixating on the bulge of his biceps as he crosses his arms over his well-defined pectorals. 

You frown. He's huge. Your mind flashes to seeing him in the building’s first-floor gym on several occasions, easily lifting more than twice your body weight. Your mouth goes a little dry. I should not have pissed him off.

“Well?” He prompts impatiently. “Were you planning to yell out here all night?”

“Uhhh…” You look towards the ceiling, unable to meet his eye, mouth twisting to the side in embarrassment. “Well…”

He lets out a slow, controlled breath, running a hand through his hair, smoothing back the tangled mess atop his head, which promptly springs back up. Finally taking in your flushed face, too-short dress, and red-rimmed eyes, he seems to register the situation more clearly. His demeanour softens. He steps towards you gingerly. “Are you ok, y/n? And why are you banging on the door of your own apartment? Did you forget your key code? Should I call Minho?”

“Uhhhh,” a nervous chuckle bubbles up your throat before you can stop it. “I don't live here anymore, actually,” you whisper, tugging awkwardly at the hem of your dress. “Not since a few weeks ago…”

His brow furrows. “Ah. So you finally broke up with this asshole.” It's more of a statement, but you nod in confirmation anyways. He nods back, as if in approval, although he's frowning. “Always thought you were too good for that sleazy motherfucker. Please tell me you're not here for some kind of…booty call reconciliation attempt.” He waves a hand in the air as if to swat the idea away.

You shudder. “No. God no. I just…uh…” You shuffle your feet uncomfortably, staring at the floor. “He cheated on me,” you whisper, face growing hot with embarrassment at the admission. 

There. Now Jihoon knew the truth. Minho had cheated. You hadn't been enough for him. He found what he needed elsewhere. The knowledge sits in the pit of your stomach like a rock. 

“Then he blocked me and changed the door code, but he still has some of my things…” You pause to take a staccato breath. “And I'm still upset about it, obviously, so…I showed up to get them and yell at him some more. Which, admittedly, was a bad idea…but anyways,” you gesture at the hallway, “here I am, yelling like an asshole and waking everyone up, apparently.”

Jihoon lets out another long breath, muttering to himself under his breath before addressing you again. “I hadn't seen you at the gym in a while so…kinda figured something happened. There were other women around up here, too, so…” He cuts off abruptly when he sees the tears well up in your eyes. 

He clears his throat and looks away, shoving his hands in the pockets of his shorts and shrinking back towards his own door. “Nevermind. He's a fucking idiot anyways…”

You nod, biting into your lower lip in an attempt to stop it from quivering, and the next thing you know, you’re slumped on the floor, sobbing. Jihoon looks alarmed by this development as he moves to kneel in front of you. His voice is soft and soothing as he tentatively reaches out to pat your arm. “Hey…it’s ok. You’re gonna be ok. I’m sorry I mentioned it.”

You shake your head, trying to clear away unpleasant thoughts of women parading through your once-shared apartment with Minho. Women who were likely sleeping in the bedsheets you’d picked out. Drinking coffee from the mugs you’d painted with your friends in a pottery class. Other women. Jihoon had unintentionally confirmed your worst fear. After two years with Minho, not only had he cheated, but he'd taken your breakup without remorse, immediately moving on to fuck a long line of other women. Meanwhile, you were struggling to put the pieces of your life back together. Bastard.

“Fuck…I’m not even sad anymore, you know?” you gasp between sobs, “I’m just angry…so fucking angry all the time. I gave him two years of my life and he threw it away. Fucking bastard.”

“Yeah…actually, I do know.” Jihoon sits beside you, back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him. He’d come outside without even putting on his slippers, you realize, watching him absentmindedly flex and point his toes like a little kid stretching in gym class. 

He takes a deep breath, running a hand through the nest atop his head once more. “My girlfriend cheated on me, too. We broke up six months ago and we didn’t even live together, but I still get pissed off about it sometimes. I understand.”

He massages the back of his own neck, staring up at the ceiling. Studying his face, you see the ghost of your own pain. A little more healed, perhaps, but still hurt–still angry.

“You do,” you whisper, nodding. “You definitely get it.”

He laughs once–a short, sharp sound that echoes down the hallway. “Yeah. I do.” 

The two of you sit there in silence for a minute or two, lost in your respective thoughts.

“Jihoon?” Your whisper feels much too loud in the empty hallway. The only other sound is the faint electric buzz of the overhead lighting, and the steady, calming sound of Jihoon's breathing.

“Hmm?” 

“Why do you think people cheat?”

He runs a hand over his face, sighing deeply. “Honestly? I've thought about it a lot in the past six months and I think it comes down to selfishness. Whatever other reasons they might think there are, the bottom line is that they have a complete lack of respect for their partner. They can't even communicate, so they lie. It's a cowardly thing.”

You nod wordlessly, humming in agreement. He's right.

Another long pause follows as you roll his words around in your head. “I’m sorry for, uh, all the yelling. And for waking you so rudely…I should get home.”

Jihoon nods, standing and stretching out a hand to pull you to your feet. His palm is warm against yours and your gaze trails from his long, slender fingers to the prominent blue-green veins that run across his muscled forearm. A flicker of heat pulses in the pit of your stomach. You should probably pull your hand back, but it feels so good resting in his, and you realize he's not pulling back either. 

When you look up at Jihoon, you find his gaze squarely fixed on your intertwined hands, with the same faraway look in his eyes. Something unspoken crackles in the air between you–an irrefutable, magnetic pull. Your eyes lock, and suddenly his lips are on yours. There’s equal hunger in it, and equal desire–a heated pull that neither of you can deny, no matter how suddenly it arose. Later, you would try to remember who had moved first, who had kissed whom, but you could never puzzle it out.

Jihoon’s lips are warm and firm, as is the press of his body against yours as he takes a step forward, guiding you towards the wall. He keeps your fingers twined with his, pressing them to the door by your head, while his other hand caresses the nape of your neck. He uses his thumb to gently tilt your chin, gaining better access as he runs his tongue against the seam of your lips. You part them for him, inviting more of his warmth as you pull him closer, hand threaded through his hair.

The heat of his body is all-encompassing, wrapping around you and melting away any apprehension. He reaches down, effortlessly lifting you off your feet, pinning you to the wall with his hips. You lock your ankles behind his back and rock against him, whimpering his name. He groans quietly, pulling back to rest his forehead against yours. “Would it be completely inappropriate if I asked you to come in?”

“No,” you blurt, barely thinking before you reply. “I’d like that.”

“Hang on tight.” He offers you a wry smile, pulling your body against his chest as he turns to open the door to his apartment with a flourish.

You barely register the apartment beyond the fact that it's a mirror image of your old one across the hall. Jihoon sweeps you through his home effortlessly and sets you down at the edge of his bed, pressing a tingling kiss to your hands.

“I know inviting you in here was kind of sudden, but we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You could stay in the guest room and I’ll make you breakfast in the morning. We could talk about how much our exes suck, if you want.” He shrugs.

The nonchalant tone of it all makes you laugh. “Jihoon,” you chide, “Would I have let you carry me in here if I wasn’t interested?”

He shrugs again. “It’s just…no pressure. I wanted you to know that.”

“Thank you,” you offer him a little smile. “I’m sure of what I want, though.”

You reach your arms out to him in invitation, and he accepts, taking your hands once more and brushing his thumbs back and forth over the inside of your wrists. The sensation makes your stomach clench in anticipation, and perhaps a little bit of apprehension. It’s been years since you’ve been with anyone besides Minho, and towards the end, as he’d pulled away, you hadn’t even been intimate with him.

“I’ve always been loyal, unlike some people, but I have eyes…” You pause, licking your lips, gripping his hands a little tighter and staring at the ground. Were you seriously about to admit this to him?

“Whenever I saw you at the gym, I…I always wondered what it’d be like, you know? To be with you. Someone as strong as you.”

You flick your eyes up for a moment to see a wicked smile spreading across his face. You blush, mortified at the words coming out of your mouth, but needing to get them out.

“Before we, uh, do this…” You clench your eyes shut, unable to look even at the ground this time. “You should know that I can’t always…get there…with a partner. And it really has nothing to do with you–it’s just, uhh, how I’ve always been, and…anyways, just please don’t get upset if it doesn’t happen.”

You trail off, opening one eye slowly to see Jihoon with an incredulous expression on his face, one eyebrow arched. “Fancy way of saying that fuckhead,” he jerks a thumb towards the hallway, “didn’t know how to get you off.”

“No, it wasn’t that–” you start, but Jihoon cuts you off with a wave of his hand, bending down and placing his hands on the bed to either side of you. l

His eyes, now level with yours, sparkle with something akin to mischief as he says, “Tell you what, sweetheart…I’m going to spend the rest of the night figuring you out, and then we’ll see about that. And like I said…no pressure. If it happens, it happens, and if not, we'll have had fun trying.” He shrugs again. “All you have to do is be honest with me about whether you like something or not. Deal?”

You purse your lips, squirming uncomfortably under his gaze. “Deal.”

He smiles, brushing his lips to the inside of your wrists, one after the other. The gesture makes goosebumps bloom up along your arms. As if this simple kiss activated some kind of chain reaction, your body lights up at his touch–your heart pounds a little quicker and your breath comes a little faster.

“And not to be all business but I'm clean. Got tested after…all that.” He makes a circling gesture with one hand, shaking his head.

“Me, too,” you add quickly. “And I have an IUD so…anyways, it's up to you.”

He bites his lip, hands flexing against yours, and exhales a puff of air through his nose. “I wouldn't be opposed. But if we get there, it'll be up to you. Yes?”

“Yeah, ok…”

He nods with finality, as if this settles the matter before seating himself against the headboard, legs laid out in front of him. “Now,” he starts, hands outstretched towards you, “Come sit with me?”

You take his hand, moving to straddle him, but he pulls you into his chest with a smirk, taking hold of your waist with both hands. With one smooth motion, he maneuvers you effortlessly, flipping you and slotting you between his legs, your back flush to his chest. The motion knocks the breath from your lungs and sparks a throbbing sensation between your legs.

Jihoon sweeps your hair from your neck and kisses up the column of your throat. “So? Did you like that? Be honest.”

You nod, a little breathless, and he exhales a little laugh in response. “Good girl.”

The ragged breath you let out and the way your thighs press together must give you away, because this time, he doesn’t ask if you like the pet name. He merely continues kissing along your neck, occasionally nipping at your collarbone, and roaming his hands along your body until you’re wiggling impatiently and grinding back into him. He laughs, the sensation vibrating into your skin through his lips. He tightens an arm around your waist, holding you still, despite your whiny half-protests. “Impatient already?”

“Jihoon,” you whisper, pleading. “Touch me.”

“I am touching you,” he soothes, rubbing your inner thigh in small circles, kneading with just enough pressure to make you want more. You can't see his infuriatingly sexy smirk, but you feel it against your neck. “What’s the rush? If you're sure I can't make you come, we should enjoy the journey…Good things take time, right?”

He inches his fingertips upwards along your thigh, taking a meandering path to where you need him. The rough texture of the pads of his fingers, thick and calloused, is hypnotic as it moves against the smooth expanse of your inner thigh. You allow your eyes to flutter shut and lean back into him, breathing quickly. 

“That's it. Relax for me.” His voice is low and soft. “Does that feel good, sweetheart?” 

You whimper in reply, nodding weakly.

He hums approvingly, breath hot in your ear as he murmurs, “That's right. You brought this needy little pussy to my doorstep and now you're gonna let me take care of you. And I mean properly.”

The words send a shiver down your spine. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. “I…like it when you say things like that.”

He hums in approval, finally reaching the seam of your panties and tracing it with a single fingertip, brushing across the top of your thigh. He mirrors the motion with his nose against your shoulder, tickling ever so slightly. “Yeah? Would you like to hear what I have planned for you, sweetheart?”

You shiver at his words. “Tell me…”

“Mmm, so many ideas, so little time…First, I think you’ll come just like this. I want you dripping all over my fingers.” 

His fingers stroke over your core, then, barely there–brushing up and down, up and down over the now damp fabric of your panties. You whimper, squirming and trying to chase his hand, but his hold is firm against your waist. 

“And then, I think I’d like to bury my face right here. Put my mouth on you and tease you until your legs are shaking.” He cups his entire hand over your sex and squeezes. It's gentle but sudden. You arch your back with a gasp, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip in a futile effort to suppress another whimper. “And then, if you still want me to, I’ll fill you up with my fat cock. Make you feel so good. Fuck you until you're a mess.” 

Struck by the thought of being stuffed full of him, you can't help the undignified groan that escapes your lips.

“Does that sound good?” He coos as you nod frantically, head pressed back against his shoulder. 

“Can I take these off?” He thumbs at the waistband of your panties.

You nod emphatically. “Please.”

As soon as your confirmation comes, he’s dragging your panties down your legs. You lift your hips to help, taking the opportunity to pull your dress off, too. The low neckline of the dress didn’t allow for a bra, and you don’t miss Jihoon’s little stream of expletives as he takes in your naked body with hungry eyes. He pulls you back towards him, this time pinning you beneath the solid muscle of his body as he claims your mouth again with a bruising kiss, deep and desperate.

“Fuck, look at you. Fucking perfect,” he rasps, running his hands up and down your sides, stroking your skin as if he can't bear the miniscule space separating your bodies any longer. The evidence of his desire presses into your hip, rivalling the hardness of his chest, but it doesn’t seem to concern him. His attention remains fixed on you as he diligently resumes his ministrations between your legs. Without the fabric in the way, your wetness coats his fingers, allowing them to glide easily as he runs his fingers up and down against your outer folds. He parts his fingers, spreading you open, and begins to circle ever closer to your clit with a single finger, pulling gently at the surrounding skin, sending little jolts of electricity up your spine. 

“You’re such a tease,” you chastise him, spreading your legs wider, as if that will coerce him into giving you the friction you so desperately need.

“Mmm, but I kinda think you like it?” he teases, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. But God, he looks so hot when he does that. You pull him down into another series of kisses, tongues tangling hotly as his finger finally–finally meets the top edge of your clit, stroking with the barest hint of pressure. If you were thinking straight, you might be embarrassed at the needy sound that escapes, but at this moment, it feels like an out-of-body experience. Tangling a hand in his hair, you pull his mouth down to your neck. He takes the cue, kissing and biting and sucking at the tender junction where your clavicle meets the base of your neck as he finally pushes one of those perfect fingers deep into your pussy.

With a desperate moan, you arch against him, as he adds a second finger almost immediately. His fingers slide easily against your wetness as he pumps into you with solid, steady motions of his wrist, pressing the heel of his hand against your clit.

“So soft and wet and perfect, fuck. Look at you,” he breathes into your ear. 

Glancing down, you watch his fingers disappear into you, slick and shiny, mesmerized by the motion and the stark contrast of the veins on his forearms against the pallor of his skin. He seems equally enraptured by the motion, eyes fixed on the spot where your bodies meet. 

“Please, Jihoon, fuck–please, please. I need–” you gasp, hands scrambling for purchase in his hair, against his bulging biceps. Your skin feels incredibly warm as heat pools and coils low in your belly. “Make me–I need to–please.” 

“You don't have to beg, sweetheart,” he croons. “I'll spoil this pussy however you want me to. You just have to keep telling me what you like. What you need.” He continues pistoning his fingers into you, slow and steady.

“Feels so good,” you breathe, hips chasing his hand. “A little faster.”

“So good for me,” he praises, picking up his pace. “So honest. You like my fingers in this tight little pussy? Needy little thing, sucking me in so tight. Wanna feel you suffocating my cock later, fuck. Can you come for me like this?”

“Yes,” you nod furiously, panting hard. “I can. Just like that. Don't stop. Please don't stop.”

“Not gonna stop, sweetheart,” he murmurs soothingly against your skin. “Gonna give you everything you need and see how beautiful you look when you come. And you will come for me. Now let me feel this pretty pussy squeezing my fingers.”

He’s got you wound up so tightly, it’s a miracle you don’t combust on the spot as your orgasm washes over you. You gasp, body alight with pleasure as it hits, thighs quivering with the strength of it. You moan, tugging him down and crashing your lips together in a mess of teeth and tongues, panting incoherently into his mouth. Through it all, Jihoon continues that steady, unfaltering rhythm, working his fingers into you until he feels the last tides of your orgasm ebb away. 

As your breathing slows, you melt back into his pillows, eyes half-closed in pleasure. “Fuck, that was…” 

“Perfect,” he beams, bringing his fingers to his mouth and sucking them clean as you watch, enraptured. “You’re fucking perfect.”

You take his face in both hands for a long, slow kiss. He doesn't rush you, just kisses you like he's happy to be here with you, like he's got all the time in the world for this–like you didn't just wake him up in the middle of the night with your obnoxious screaming and then end up naked in his bed.

His touch is greedy, demanding, as he smooths his hands over your body, pulling you closer. Your hands, however, are even greedier. Perhaps your eyes had wandered to your former neighbor’s physique more than you wanted to admit, even to yourself. Jihoon is all soft, smooth skin over rock-hard muscle and you can't get enough of the feel of him under your hands, swooning over his thick shoulders and biceps, rock-hard chest, and powerful thighs. 

When you finally break the kiss, panting hard, he gives you a lopsided smirk that makes your heart flutter a little.

His brow furrows as he looks down and sees your breasts pressed to his chest, as if he'd only just realized they were there. His hands gravitate towards them, nearly moving with a mind of their own, to caress and pinch at your stiffened nipples. Bending down, he sucks one into his mouth, laving his tongue over it before nibbling softly.

“Would it be presumptuous of me to assume you enjoyed that as much as I did?” he asks between mouthfuls of breast. 

“Not presumptuous at all.” You sigh, arching into the warmth of his mouth.

He trails kisses up along your clavicle to your ear before pulling back to meet your gaze. “You're sure? If you want to stop, we stop. But if you want to keep going…” He gives you a wry smile. “Let’s just say there’s plenty more where that came from, and I'm more than happy to demonstrate.”

You squirm, very cognizant of the huge erection pressed into your inner thigh. As much as you’d like to rip his shorts off and sink down onto it, curiosity gets the better of you. “Like what?

His smile widens. “Like now that I’ve gotten a taste of you, I can’t stop thinking about how I need you to sit on my fucking face.”

“Oh?” You blink, not quite comprehending.

He tips his head back and taps his lower lip with two fingers. “Sit you right here and eat that pretty pussy until you soak my face.”

You cheeks heat at the suggestion. Filthy. Enticing. You bite your lip, thinking. ‘What if I just ask you to fuck me?”

He shrugs, smiling. “Then I'll fuck you however you like, for as long as you want me to.”

“Oh.” Your mouth drops open, still in awe that he's letting you take the lead. “And if I want to taste you first?”

“Fuck,” he breathes, palming his erection through his shorts. “Then I'm all yours to taste, sweetheart. Whatever you want. You're the boss.”

“I’m the boss…” you repeat in a whisper, rolling the words around in your mouth. What do I want? You ponder. Sex with Minho had always been routine–a rotation of the same three positions, always at his whim–so it takes you a moment to think of what it is you'd actually like to do to the utterly beautiful man in front of you.

You clear your throat, eyes roving hungrily over his body. “Um, first, I think…I think I want you to be naked, too.”

“As you wish,” comes his reply. He stands and slowly pulls his shorts off. His erection, long neglected, springs free, slapping up against his toned stomach. A curved, silver barbell glints at the underside, piercing through the frenum. 

You bolt upright, eyes wide. “Holy fuck…you’re…”

“Pierced?” he finishes. “Yeah.”

“Actually, I was gonna say thick. But that, too.” You give an awkward laugh despite yourself, eyes still fixed on his erection. He maintains his distance still, and you can tell he's trying to be respectful, but you want him–want him as close as two people can physically get.

Licking your lips, you reach out a hand, beckoning him back to the bed. He takes your hand and you lay facing each other, each propped up on one elbow. “You weren't kidding when you said fat cock.”

He laughs, and it's such a deep, husky sound compared to before. 

The length is, perhaps, average. But the girth? With slow, calculated motions, you reach out and wrap a hand around him, unable to resist. The tips of your fingers just barely meet around the circumference. Here, too, he's hard as steel wrapped in the softest velvety skin, with the tip flushed a deep, dusky pink. You give an experimental stroke, rubbing your thumb over the head to spread the glistening drop of pre-cum there. 

Jihoon hisses out a long breath as you stroke him, watching with half-lidded eyes. The halo of dark, messy hair has only gotten worse from the way you’d tugged on it, and his pupils are blown wide with desire, cheeks tinged pink. He looks edible.

Don't mind if I do…

“So thick…” you repeat, in awe.

“Wouldn't lie to you, sweetheart,” he musters, voice strained under your touch. The muscles of his thighs flexing deliciously with the effort of not moving. “Would never lie to you.” 

You give him a small smile, catching the implication. Stroking him languidly, you watch the precum pool at the tip before you flick your thumb over it again, eliciting a soft moan. It's a heady feeling, having him react to your touch like this. 

“Can I…?” you query, lips parting as your gaze flicks from his face to his erection and back.

“Fuck, as if I could deny you anything.” He falls back against the bed in surrender when you push against his shoulders lightly. Making your way down his body is its own pleasure. The softness of his skin beneath your lips is contrasted by the firmness of the muscle beneath. And there is quite a bit of muscle, you note again, finally letting your mouth and hands claim what they desire, sucking and nipping until Jihoon makes the most erotic little sounds of desire. His open need only spurs you on, makes you feel powerful. 

When you reach his throbbing cock, you stroke it once more, enjoying the way Jihoon’s body tenses in the anticipation of your touch, and the way his breath hitches ever so slightly.

You lick a stripe up the underside, pausing to trace the piercing with your tongue, exploring its contours. Then you pull back and blow cool air along the same path, delighting in the way Jihoon shudders and groans. His hands find their way into your hair–not pushing nor pulling, simply resting, needing to touch you. 

Lips stretched wide around his thickness, you take the head into your mouth and suck gently. You continue to stroke him as you begin to bob your head up and down, massaging your tongue across the piercing with each pass. You take him deeper, sucking greedily as the metal hits the back of your throat. Jihoon lets out a stream of expletives that would make a sailor blush, abs taught with pleasure. 

“Shit, you're too good at that,” he swears, gently tipping your face up. You blink at him, lips still wrapped around his cock, and release it with a soft pop. Jihoon groans at the sight, swearing again under his breath.

“Did I do something wrong?” You tilt your head in query, concerned. 

“Wrong? No,” he frowns, a confused look crossing his face. He cradles your face between his hands, thumbs brushing back and forth over your cheeks.

“Fuck no. You're so fucking good at that. Too good. And it's been a while since I, well…” He trails off, offering you a sheepish smile as your head tilts in further confusion.

His thumb tugs at your lower lip, his pupils dark and hungry. “What I'm trying to say is that your mouth is the sweetest, most torturous pleasure. If you keep doing that, I'll come too fast to fuck you properly.”

Your mouth drops open in a soft oh. 

“And I really would love to fuck you properly, if that's what you still want.” 

You give a shy smile, nodding, beginning to move back up his body. The journey in reverse is equally enjoyable to the way down. You trail your tongue down the center of his abs, kissing each one before moving to nip at his pecs. “Your body is insane, Jihoon, has anyone ever told you that?”

“Nobody who mattered until just now,” he jokes. He presses his lips to yours as you settle over his hips, straddling him. You let out matching sighs as his hardness presses against the heat of your core and you begin to gently rock against him as you kiss. 

“Fuck me now, Jihoon,” you whisper against his lips.

He wastes no time, flipping and pressing you into the mattress once more. 

“Condom?” he queries, reaching for the nightstand.

You shake your head. “No. Wanna feel you.”

“Fuck. Okay.” He reaches back towards the nightstand anyways and draws a bottle of lube from the top drawer. “Still gonna need this, though. Want you to feel good.” He plants a kiss on your jawline before pulling back momentarily, kneeling to spread his cock with the thick, glistening gel. If you hadn’t already been laying flat on your back, the sight of him kneeling between your legs, fisting his cock with those beautiful hands would have done it. It's all too much–the veins in his forearm as he works his hand over matching veins in his cock, the muscle of his thighs, the way his hair falls over his eyes–it's overwhelming in the best way.

He braces himself on one elbow and notches the head of his cock at your entrance. The warm metal of the piercing causes you to shiver as he drags the tip up and around your clit, rubbing it against you until you whine and tilt your hips up in entreaty. “Please…”

He kisses you, soft and slow, as he pushes inwards, giving you a mere inch. He's so thick that even that small amount has you whimpering against his lips, eyes fluttering shut in pleasure. He pulls out, dragging the piercing over your clit once again, tracing a circle before pushing back in a little more. The metal is pleasantly warm against your skin, slippery from the combination of the lube and your unbearable wetness.

Your hips chase his, but he splays a hand against your stomach and holds you there–gives you just the tip, just the promise of the delicious stretch. And then he pulls out. and teases your clit again. And again, sinking into you ever so slightly more each time. You're panting against his lips, whimpering and squirming against his hold, but he's strong and that somehow makes it even hotter.

“Jihoon, please…”

He's enjoying teasing you, you realize, when he exhales an amused breath against your neck. 

“Doesn’t this feel good, sweetheart?”

You bite your lower lip, nodding. “But I need more.”

“Just making sure you're good and ready for me, beautiful, and then I'll give it to you. You still want me?”

“Not to be dramatic, but if you don't fuck me right the fuck now, I may die of need.”

He chuckles and kisses a path up your neck, still teasing the head of his cock at your entrance.

“Then watch,” he prompts, pulling back a bit, then sinking deeper than before. Your eyes snap to the place where your bodies meet and you let out an unintelligible sound at the sight. It's so lewd, seeing how wide you’re stretching to take his girth. Your face heats, whether in desire or something akin to embarrassment at the sight, you're not sure.

“See how you suck me in? Can you feel that?” He pulls out an inch and you feel your body fight it, an undulating wave of muscle trying to pull him deeper. 

You swallow thickly, nodding, eyes glued to the spot. He gives you more, nearly all of him, and the pleasurable stretch intensifies. 

“Fuck, you feel like a dream. So soft here. So warm.” 

“More.” Your voice is hoarse with desire, barely above a whisper. 

He pushes in the rest of the way and you let out a shuddering breath in unison. 

“Jihoon,” you whine, tossing your head against the pillow, overwhelmed. “Feel so full.” 

“I know, baby. You're doing so well. Taking this cock like you were fucking made for it.” He peppers your face with kisses, giving you a moment to adjust before continuing, “Can I move?”

“I genuinely might die if you don't.”

He breathes another rough laugh before pulling back and thrusting into you once, hard and deep.

“Fuck,” you cry out, clutching at his shoulders, feeling the muscles flex beneath your hands as he holds himself up. “Jihoon. You feel so good.”

“That's it, sweetheart, fucking take it all.” His voice is deeper than before, darker, filled with desire. “Let me fill you up. Look so pretty stretched around my cock. See?” 

You look down again and whimper, lower lip trapped between your teeth, completely struck by the way your body accommodates his girth. When he begins to move in slow, soul-devouring thrusts, you're unable to contain the needy sounds he pulls from your body. He tests a couple of angles until you cry out in pleasure–and from then on his motions are calculated, precise in their endeavour to drag you over the edge. 

One of his hands grips tightly at your hip, kneading and grasping hungrily, pulling you closer. “Look at you. So fucking perfect. You're the tightest fucking thing, pulling me in like a dream. This sweet little pussy doesn't wanna let go of me for even a second.”

And you feel it, too. Every. Devastating. Inch. All of him, wrapped in your heat as it ripples, sucking him deeper. You lose yourself in him, in his motions, in the pleasure of his body. Sounds spill uninhibited from your lips, whimpers and moans, and more, deeper, harder, please, Jihoon. He complies every time, giving you just what you need, both spoken and unspoken, reading the signs you didn't even know your body was sending him. 

“Fuck, sweetheart, you're close, aren't you? You're getting even tighter. Tell me what you need. Let me help you.”

“More, need more.” It's a whimpered, incoherent plea, but he understands. 

“I’m gonna turn you around so you can grab the headboard, ok? Then hang on tight so I can get nice and deep and make you feel good, hmm?” 

You give a weak nod before he scoops your limp form into his arms and turns you over effortlessly. Your stomach swoops at the sensation, gentle as it is. Moments later, he presses his lips to your ear from behind, nibbling at your earlobe. “Liked that, too, didn't you?”

In response, you arch your body back into his, silently asking for more. He brackets his body around yours and runs his hands delicately up and down your sides, grabbing your hips and readying himself at your entrance once more.

“Oh my god,” you shiver, arching further as he presses into you, slotting your bodies together again. There is the return of the sensation of being impossibly full, now with the warmth of his body pressed into your back, his lips warm against your ear, and it's all so much. 

Jihoon lets out a hissed breath. “Fuck, you're even tighter from this angle. Hot and wet and perfect. Fuck. Made to take my cock, weren't you, sweetheart?”

You're too far gone to reply as he thrusts shallowly into you, adjusting his angle until you're whining his name again. “That's it, that's my good girl. Hang on tight and let me make you feel good, hmm?”

You'd asked for more, and he was obliging, hips snapping hard and fast. His piercing drags across your walls and into your most sensitive spot, making stars bloom in your vision. The warmth in your belly pools, hot and insistent, coiling tighter with each stroke of his hips. 

“I'm–oh, fuck–I’m so close, Jihoon, please,” you pant.

He nips at your neck, breathing hard. “I know, you're suffocating my cock. Feels so damn good to be wrapped up in you like this. Don't think too hard, hmm? Relax and let me take care of you.”

He brings his hand to your core, swiping at the wetness there and using it to glide around your swollen, aching clit. Your body convulses at the motion, legs going shaky. A few more quick swipes of his thumb and you feel yourself tumbling, falling headfirst into the kind of pleasure you’d only ever dreamt about. 

“Fuck…oh God…fuck, Jihoon. I'm–” Squeezing your eyes shut, you slump forward, waves of liquid fire radiating up your spine and into each limb, consuming your entire conscience. There's nothing else–just you, Jihoon, and the warm pleasure of your bodies twined together like this.

“There you go, sweetheart, that’s it...” He groans, burying himself to the hilt as you squeeze and ripple impossibly tighter around him. Your orgasm rolls on, wave after wave of pleasure consuming you. Jihoon bites softly at the curve of your neck, stifling his own cries of pleasure. His length thickens and pulses as he spills inside you with a muffled groan. 

Pulling your body against his, he eases you both down onto your sides, staying buried inside you. When you finally float back down to your body, you register the soft caress of his hands over your body, and the tender press of his lips against your head. He's still breathing hard, the soft huff of his breath ruffling your hair on every exhale. 

“Hi,” you venture.

He laughs, “Good evening. Morning? It's late.”

You wince. “Sorry about that. Again.”

He shrugs and presses his lips to your neck. “I'm not. Told you Minho was a loser. Give me 20 minutes and I'll give you two more.”

You sputter, uncomprehending, “T-two more? I can't. Not possible.”

He nips at your ear and groans quietly when you flutter around him again. “That's not what your perfect body’s telling me, sweetheart. You can. And if we had more time together, I'd learn you inside and out…show you just how many ways I could make you come. You'd be at risk of dehydration with the way I'd keep you soaking wet.” 

“D-dehydration? That's ridiculous.” Your mouth hangs open. “You're exaggerating.”

“Not even a little. How about you come back next weekend? Give me a whole night and some time to prep. We'll get you a sports drink and find out just how many you can give me.”

You peer over your shoulder at him, incredulous. “More than four? That's not possible.”

Amusement dances in his eyes. “You didn't even think one was possible, so I'm at least 200% up on impossible. Couldn't hurt to try, if you're up for it.”

You're doubtful but…he hasn't been wrong or misleading so far. The very thought of being here again, letting him take care of you and teach you things you didn't even know about your own body has you squirming. The motion emphasizes the way your bodies are still linked together, and you feel him beginning to harden again. Fuck. He really wasn't kidding. The idea is alluring. You really should say no, but being tangled up with him like this feels too damn good.

Oh, fucking fuck it all.

You let go of your inhibitions and grind back on him in reply. Jihoon breathes in sharply, his length thickening inside your body. “Is that a yes, sweetheart?”

“Yes.” 

That wickedly sexy smile spreads across his face. “Then let's get to work.”

A few hours later, a tiny, rough tongue scrapes across the tip of your nose, startling you awake. You nearly squeal in surprise before realizing it's….a cat? As you move to sit up, you find another cat curled up near the foot of the bed, tucked against your legs. 

“Hi, kitty,” you whisper to the little tabby who groomed your nose. The cat yawns and stretches in reply. “Let's go find your dad, ok?” The cat jumps from the bed and looks over its shoulder, as if to encourage you to follow. 

You find Jihoon in the kitchen, still in those same athletic shorts, making breakfast over the stove. He gives you a lopsided smile and your stomach swoops. Fuck. After another round last night, he had, true to his word, pulled two more orgasms from your body. Your face heats thinking about it. Afterwards, he'd been so gentle, carrying you into the shower to clean up and caressing the soap over your body with those strong hands. You shift on your feet and tug at the hem of the oversized shirt he'd lent you. 

“Good morning, Jihoon,” you mumble, suddenly embarrassed as memories of the ways you'd panted and begged for him last night flood your brain.

“Good morning.” He's still smiling. “Breakfast? You must be hungry after all that.” He winks and you blush.

“Sure. Thank you.” 

He nods and motions to the other side of the kitchen island, opposite to where he's cooking. As you attempt to settle at the high stool, you're suddenly very cognizant of the fact that you're not wearing panties. You tug awkwardly at the hem of the t-shirt, arranging it to gain some semblance of modesty. You give yourself a mental shake, muttering under your breath. Calm the fuck down. As if he hasn't already seen everything up close and personal. 

When you look up, Jihoon is beside you, holding a blanket. You let out a little squeak and nearly startle out of your seat. He laughs, smoothly placing the blanket over your lap with a flourish. 

“Don't get cold,” he says simply, before moving back to his cooking. 

As you settle into Jihoon’s apartment, you’re struck by the decor. Last night, when he'd whisked you through in his (very large) arms, you'd been too busy clinging to him to get a proper look. Although it’s a mirror image of your former home across the hall, the vibe is completely different. It's minimally but comfortably furnished, and bathed in inviting, golden-warm light from various lamps. For some reason, you'd always assumed this put-together man would have a clinically cold, grey apartment–a mancave full of sharp edges and industrial, functional pieces. Instead, what greets you is an oversized cream-coloured couch, laden with cushions and fluffy blankets. Open shelving hangs above, with little plants and trinkets adorning the shelf, including photos of Jihoon with people you assume are his loved ones.

Through an open door, you spy a gaming computer sitting on a desk full of trinkets, and a red electric guitar, sitting shiny and polished on its stand. Across the living room, tucked into a corner, is an enormous cat tree. The pair of tabby cats have relocated and lay curled around each other on one of its many perches. They blink at you curiously, ears flicking back and forth. 

Jihoon returns with a glass of water and a plate of food, both of which he places in front of you. 

“Eat,” he instructs. You comply absentmindedly, nodding. But fuck was he good at everything? Why was his cooking so damn good, too?

He moves to the cat tree, pressing kisses against the foreheads of the two cats and scratching affectionately at their little chins. “I know, I know, you hate strangers,” he whispers to them, clearly not intending you to overhear. “But she’s nice, I promise. You’ll like her.” The cats seemingly accept his judgement and close their eyes, paying you no further attention. 

You stifle a giggle. You’d never dared to imagine your ostensibly cold, stoic neighbour as a doting father of two. “Didn’t know you were a cat dad,” you muse. “It suits you.”

“We’re all homebodies, so it works out.” He smiles, flicking a stray lock of dark hair from his eyes. God, you so wanted to sink your hands into it again. “They usually sleep in the bed so they were probably put out by our–uh–activities.”

“My sincerest apologies to your children,” you say solemnly. 

“They'll get over it,” he replies, watching you adjust the blanket around your legs with open hunger in his eyes. “I meant what I said last night, you know.”

Your mind immediately goes to the myriad filthy things he’d said in bed and your face heats, stomach fluttering. Clearing your throat, you venture, “Which, umm, things, exactly?”

That insufferable smirk returns to his face. “Well, all of them. But specifically?”

He walks over and slowly swivels the barstool, bracketing your body with his. A shiver runs up your spine. Looking into your eyes, he places his hands on your knees. His expression is soft and unguarded, sincere. “Last night, I wanted to show you what it's like when someone prioritizes your pleasure. You deserve that every time. If you want to go home and never talk about this again, I'll understand. But I'd also be lying if I said I won't dream of the way we fit together. It was…” he trails off. 

“Pretty much perfect?” You finish for him, nodding. “Yeah.”

He nods, too, and takes your hands in his, presses his lips to your knuckles, and pauses. It's a good thing you're already seated, you think to yourself, because the gentle intimacy of the gesture has turned your knees to jelly. 

“And…I think I'd very much like to take you on a date…one that ends with my head between your thighs, if you find that agreeable.” His smile is disarming, blinding, overwhelming. 

You swallow hard, looking down at your lap. “Like a real date?”

He cups your face gently, thumb brushing over your cheek. “A real date.”

“What if…what if I'm not ready?” Your voice is a whisper.

You want to be ready. Want to forget everything Minho has put you through. But you can't shake off the last two years as if it were meaningless. Healing takes time. Were you really ready after only six weeks? At the same time, you remember the parade of women Jihoon had mentioned. Two years of memories hadn't stopped Minho from moving on. Why should it stop you? Especially when you hadn’t been the one to do anything wrong. 

Your body is so tense, Jihoon can probably feel it. He doesn't even flinch at the theoretical rejection, just runs a hand soothingly down your back and nods in understanding. “Then it's not a real date until you want it to be. You're the boss, remember? We can be casual, if that's what you need for now.”

Your stomach twists at that, too. Casual. You hate the sound of it. “What does casual entail? Would we see other people?”

He shakes his head. “I'm a one woman kind of man. Maybe casual is the wrong word. I just meant…no labels until you want them. You come over…I'll make you dinner, we'll watch a movie...cuddle…and then I eat you for dessert.” He grins that devastating grin and your stomach flutters. “Or we can go out for dinner. Or to the gym. Or wherever. Dessert can stay the same, though." 

You laugh despite yourself. “Ah, I see. That kind of casual.”

“Whatever kind you want.” He repeats. “You make the rules.”

You mull over it for a moment. Despite your apprehension, you know with bone-deep certainty that Jihoon isn't like Minho. He's shown himself to be honest. Reliable. And then there was the mind-blowing sex to consider. Much to gain, and very little to lose.

“Jihoon?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

you lazily roll out of bed into your slippers and make your way to the door, making sure to open it slowly so you didn’t injure him.

once you got a glimpse of the state of him, you almost wanted to cry. you haven’t seen him in a day or so, indicative of him being awake that entire time. you hate that his job keeps him up so late that he can’t even keep himself upright long enough to get inside somewhere. anywhere.

through the very small sliver in the door that you’d opened, you crouch down and shake his shoulder gently. “jihoon,” you quietly nudge. it’s still 3 in the morning regardless of everything else, so you try your best not to cause a public disturbance. it was already enough that your neighbor had seen him and felt compelled to contact you about it. you open the door a little more and try to maneuver your way out of your apartment to better help him.

he stirs a bit once your hand moves to the side of his head to keep him steady. “jihoon? come on, baby, get up for me, please.” as much as you hate to wake him up, it’s really painful, both physically and emotionally, to see him sleeping on the hard concrete outside just because he didn’t want to wake you.

eventually, he opens his eyes long enough to see you and recognise his surroundings to which he drops his head in shame. the words aren’t quite registering yet, but you’re patient enough to wait until they come. “i’m sorry, baby,” he laments, but you only ignore him and help him to his feet. your arm finds a place around the middle of his back and you push your way into your apartment. he breaks away from you to kick his slides into the coat closet. you watch as he drags his entire body to your room and you follow behind and quickly help him take off his clothes before he collapses in your bed.

as soon as you slide out of your slippers, you gently find a place next to him and once he feels your presence, he immediately wraps his arm over your waist and pulls you closer. his lips leave light kisses around your jaw, and if he hadn’t been on the brink of a deep slumber, you would’ve asked for more.

“I love you,” he says. you hum in response, not only because you already know of his love for you, but because by the next time you look over at him, he’s already asleep.

——

the second time you acknowledge the uniqueness of your relationship with jihoon was, again, at 3 in the morning. he runs on a different schedule than most, so 3AM to him is more like 3PM and vice versa. this time, though, it’s you who’s going to see him.

the problem you were having was with the security of the building he works in. it was based on facial recognition, and you’re not in the system. at least, you don’t think you are. you could see the lights of his studio from the street, so you knew he was still up there working. you’d also talked to him a few hours ago and he’d said he was finishing up a song with someone.

you were in your pajamas at this time of night, complete with your sleep mask resting atop your head, so it was a bit embarrassing waiting outside like this. “oh, come on. you can’t walk any faster?” you whine to your boyfriend through the phone. he told you he was walking as fast as he could, but you didn’t really believe him.

“hey, look up.” he says. you step back from the glass door and do as he says. you immediately see him from the fourth floor waving at you. is he laughing? “what are you laughing at?” you ask interrogatively, not finding it amusing. “you just look so cute in your little pajama number.” he lies. well, you know he’s telling the truth, but you hate how pleased he sounds while he’s getting a good laugh out of your attire. anytime you come to your boyfriend’s studio to sleep, he always tells you that you don’t have to bring anything and he’ll give you one of his shirts to sleep in, but you find it more convenient to be prepared and he’s already being kind enough to let you sleep there in the first place. even if it’s more beneficial for him than you.

eventually, he meets you at the front door and opens the door for you, greeting you with a kiss. his classic black shirt, black shorts, and slides combo still hasn’t failed him even today.

you and jihoon don’t usually talk about much when it’s so late like this unless either of you really needs conversation, but you know the gratitude of sharing space is mutual.

in the elevator on the way up to his studio, jihoon stands behind you and loosely wraps his arms around your neck, propping his chin up on the top of your head. “I missed you today,” he says in the quiet. you echo his sentiment in the form of a hum. he knows you’re tired, but he always makes it known how much he loves you.

you close your eyes until the elevator dings, and you two are shuffling out on the floor. while on the long walk down the hallway, jihoon stays a few paces behind you, watching you closely as if you’d disappear with the blink of an eye. the two of you finally reach the door to his studio and he rushes in front of you to open it, letting you enter first. “thank you,” you say quietly.

before returning to his music, he grabs a large thick blanket from an adjacent room and gives it to you. “thank you,” you echo yourself. you two really don’t talk much at night.

once you get comfortable on the couch, you just start scrolling through your social media feed to pass the time until you get tired enough to sleep. jihoon always goes to sleep after you. even if he’s more tired, he makes sure that you’re situated first before he even worries about himself. it’s one of the things you love and hate the most about him. it’s sweet that he’s so caring, but you really wish he could be this way about himself.

after a while, he starts actively working on his music again and you can hear it playing quietly on the lowest volume. usually he’ll play it in his headphones so he doesn’t disturb you, but he knows you like to hear what he’s working on. he also swears it puts you right to sleep (citation needed).

“what’s this one? I don’t think I’ve heard it before.” you comment quietly, looking up from your phone. he turns to you with his eyebrows raised. “oh this? it’s.. nothing. I haven’t gotten anywhere with it. don’t think i’m going to either.”

you frown a bit, before throwing the blanket off of you and springing up from the sofa. “play it again.” you get closer until you’re practically breathing down his neck. he hits play again and you listen closely. there’s no real lyrics, but you can hear jihoon’s distant hums and other gibberish layered over the backtrack.

“sounds kinda romantic.” you comment, resolving back to the sofa. you thrust the blanket into the air like a parachute and yank it around yourself as it comes down.

“how do you figure? there’s no lyrics.” he turns back to his computer, resuming his clicking.

“vibes.”

he lets the word sit in the air for a bit before responding, “hm. well good guess because I made it after that one time on the beach.”

“so it’s about me?”

he reiterates, “if there were lyrics it would be, but there aren’t any so not yet.”

“but it will be.”

“you just want me to say it’s about you.”

“can you?”

“it’s about you, baby.” he sighs, and if you could see his face, you know he’d be rolling his eyes as well.

“thank you.”

“everything’s always about you.” he beckons you over and you clutch the blanket tightly and attempt not to drag it on the floor on your way to his desk. he pulls you into his lap and you settle in with your blanket draped over the two of you as if this is a regular occurrence. “wanna hear something else?” you nod and he maneuvers his head around you so he can see his computer screen. you watch the cursor as he clicks around in his files, clearly looking for something specific.

“here it is.” you read the title, if you leave me. “i’ve heard this one already.” you point out. he shakes his head. “this one’s just my voice. did you know it was about you?”

“but seungkwan said it was about carats.” he gives you a sideways glance that says ‘you actually believed that?’

you backpedal a bit. “okay, okay, maybe i’m a little naïve, but still. we weren’t even really serious in our relationship when that song came out.”

“I was.”

your eyes go soft. at the beginning of your relationship, the two of you struggled to make sense of each other. it was clear you both liked each other very much and saw a future together, but it was almost like neither of you had any idea what the other was thinking at certain times. for instance, when jihoon asked you to be exclusive, you initially thought he was breaking things off. he invited you for coffee late in the afternoon and mentioned he’s been meaning to just spit out what he wanted to say. you braced for impact and actually held your breath as he delivered the news. “I think I really, really like you. would you wanna see where things go?” but it freaked you out because he never really communicated that to you before.

your response was, “oh thank god, I thought you were ending things.”

“what?”

“well, I didn’t know how you felt about me.”

“really? that’s my fault then. i’ll do better.” and he did. whenever he would ask you out somewhere—dinner or whatever—he would be very specific and mention he wanted to go on a date with you. if he randomly asked you out on short notice, he clarified it was just because he missed you and wanted to see you sooner. it did take a while for him to get into the habit of being very clear and straightforward with you—which you’re assuming is when he made this song—but for someone whose mind can get carried away with hypotheticals, you really appreciated his thoughtfulness.

now, there’s never a time when you feel uncertain about your relationship. he tells you every day he loves you and each time, you melt a little more. it doesn’t matter how long it’s been, you think you’ll always keep falling in love with him everyday.

“are you gonna keep working like this?” you whisper, your head falling to his collarbone. the song from before is still playing in the background, and you notice some lyrics that aren’t in the version you’ve heard many times on spotify. “yeah, unless you’re going to bed, then i’ll put my headphones on.”

“what if I asked you to come to bed with me?”

“okay.” he immediately starts closing out of his thousand-plus windows he keeps open on his work computer. another thing you love about jihoon is no work is more important than you. when you’re with him, all you have to do is say the word and he’ll drop whatever he’s doing to give you his full attention. though usually, you prefer him to do his work as you know it’s something he’s passionate about. even if you just sit in the background taking up space, you still feel cared for.

once all of his windows and tabs are closed and his computer is shut off, he hooks one arm under your knees with the other supporting your back, and carries you to the oversized sectional. after setting you down, he stretches a bit, having not done so in a while.

after peeling off his shirt and shimmying out of his slides, he yanks the blanket from under your body where he set you down and drapes it over the two of you. “you gonna kill the lights?” you ask, looking up at the pink, purple, and blue mood lighting that he seems to always have going.

“I was getting to that, silly.” he says curtly, unearthing his phone from what appeared to be thin air. he pulls up the app for his studio lighting and dims it to a deep but soft purple. “is this good?” you make a neutral-ish face that jihoon doesn’t like. “little darker, hm?” he questions, to which you nod. “thank you.” you respond as he fulfills your request.

he smiles, reaching an arm to the furthest side of your waist and squeezing the flesh there. “like I said before, everything’s always about you.” you curl into him on the couch and he immediately wraps his other arm around you, placing a kiss on your temple.

“love you, goodnight.” you mumble.

warnings: explicit language, blindfolds, nudity, massage, fingering, oral (f receiving), nipple play, penetrative sex, overstim, d/s undertones, pet names, spanking, messy sex

The last few weeks were absolute trash. 

Dog shit, even. 

A client from hell - a boss who can’t communicate … and barely sleeping. 

You’ve been living on energy drinks, iced coffee, and whatever snacks your rat brain grabs when it’s 2am and you’re standing in an aisle of a bodega like it’s the last outpost of civilization, aka hot Cheetos. 

And now it’s over. You’re free to live life and maybe clean your apartment. 

But first, you need a little treat. Which is why you book a massage with your favorite therapist, Seungcheol. 

He’s big, sexy, and most importantly, his hands are absolute magic. 

There’s never been a knot that he can’t work out. You always leave feeling slightly like a limp, well-handled noodle. 

You’d messaged him the night before, fully knowing it was unlikely to get a booking with him through the main desk. The nasally receptionist would definitely shut you down. 

But he’d given you his number ages ago, saying “just in case” as he slipped the card into your hand, his gaze trained on you as his fingers brushed yours. 

You’d melted slightly in the moment. But that was then, and now you were desperate. 

[y/n]

hiii any chance u could see me tomorrow

You knew it wasn’t guaranteed - he was usually booked. And you didn’t love trying to land something outside his normal hours, but after three weeks of basically being melded to a standard issue desk chair™️, you were dying. 

He’d answered quickly. 

[seunghceol]

hi there […]

i can make some time

You’d smiled. He was always sweet. You avoided thinking too hard about it. 

[y/n]

ur too nice […]

anything for after 8?

[seungcheol]

for you […]

yes

[y/n]

oh u are amazing truly […]

thank you thank you thank youuuu

[seungcheol]

cute

Your eyes had gotten large when you read his last message. Because had he really said ‘cute’? 

You’d stared at it for a few moments before locking your screen and pointedly putting your phone to the side. 

You couldn’t keep looking at his message. 

Because your very sexy, very sweet massage therapist calling you ‘cute’ was simply not something you were capable of parsing in your brain-dead state. 

And now you were lying on a massage table, waiting for that soft knock that meant a solid 90 minutes of Seungcheol literally touching you almost everywhere. 

It always made your heart beat a bit faster, the anticipation of touch. Even if it was professional. Your body still registered it as big, soft hands applying the most perfect pressure. 

Not to mention you were just in panties…tucked under two sheets, but still. 

There was literally not that much between you and Seungcheol. 

And you’d reread his messages from the night before - that slight flirtatious tone that you had the habit of pushing away. 

You liked it. 

But it wasn’t really for you, right? He was in a client-facing business, you’d reassured yourself. 

You took a deep breath, trying to be calm. You focused on the soft sheets, how the table was perfectly warm beneath you, and the gentle scent of lavender floating in the air.

And then came the tiny knock. “Ready?” he called out, voice low. 

No, not really, your brain interjected like a sitcom mom with horribly accurate timing. 

“Yeah,” you tried to sound human and less like a puddle of teenage juices. 

You hid your face in the headrest, eyes closed tight, glad for the excuse to be face down. 

You heard him enter the room, his footsteps soft for someone, so broad and tall. 

He did the things he always did, pulling the sheets just the right way over your shoulders, and then his hands tracing over your shoulders and down your back, the pressure increasing as he went down your body. 

You couldn’t help the sigh that escaped your lips. 

It was entirely too soothing and disarming for you to be anything other than a cliche for him. 

“Bad week?” he asked, moving to the side. The scent of lavender was more intense. 

“Horrible,” you murmured with a smile. You were on safe ground when it came to shitting on your career. 

You knew the next part, the way he would rub lavender oil between his hands, warming it, and then kneeling down to offer it to you. 

And he did now. 

“Deep breaths, y/n,” he said gently, voice close and deep. 

You followed along, taking deep breaths. Your shoulders relaxing on every exhale. 

He stood, his hands mapping over your back again, touch softer this time. 

You closed your eyes, settling. 

His hands returned, folding the sheets back to reveal your shoulders and upper back. 

Finally, you felt his hands on your shoulders, applying steady, even pressure. 

He knew all the places that gave you grief. Your shoulders and back were where he normally spent his time. 

Sometimes you chatted. 

Sometimes you passed out. 

He hit a spot in your neck that made you whine. 

“Too much?” He asked. 

“No, it’s been killing me,” you mumbled. 

He didn’t press harder - he just stayed there, focusing on that one spot until the muscle started to release and give way. 

You gasped softly, grateful that he had fit you in, softly happy that the pinching in your neck had just disappeared thanks to him. 

You relaxed by degrees. 

And degrees. 

“Y/n, it’s time to turn over,” he announced quietly. 

You blinked slowly, lips forming a pout because this part, even if you’d slept through it, always meant you were circling the later part of the massage. 

He helped you by straightening the sheets to cover you and keeping them in place while you scrambled around like a grub worm. 

And then he brought the warm eye mask to rest over your eyes. 

Your brain was quiet. 

You listened to him move and felt his hands on your forearm, his thumb finding all the places that were tighter than piano wires. 

He worked over each one, gentle, persistent, tracing the length from wrist to the bed in your arm. 

You were used to the timings of things - you blinked under the eye mask, knowing he was off. 

“How long did I book?” You ask, uncertain, not unhappy. 

“Hmm?” He asked.

“When I booked - what time did I pick?” You had a feeling time wasn’t the point, but you needed to ask. 

“You said ‘after 8’,” he answered, something like amusement at the edge of his voice. 

Your lips shifted into a small smile. “So how long is the session?” 

He was quiet for a moment, his fingers focusing on the end cap of your shoulder, down your bicep. 

“As long as you need me,” he mumbled. 

You stayed still, wondering if you had heard him correctly. 

Even if you had heard him correctly, you had no idea what to say. 

He moved to your other side, taking your hand, his fingers pressing gently to the webs between your fingers before pressing your palm. 

Your lips barely parted, but the little breathy sound was still loud. Deafening in so much quiet. 

You heard the small puff of breath that came from him. Your brows knitted. 

“What?” you asked softly. Because what was that little sound from him about, you wondered. 

“Nothing,” he answered, fingers working into the inside of your wrist. 

You blinked under the eye covering. 

“Oh, please, I heard you.” You were chasing him like a hound on a hunt now. 

He was quiet, his warm fingers working farther up your forearm. 

“You always sigh when I do the thing with your palm,” he answered, finally. “It’s cute,” he added, voice like honey delivering that comment like it wasn’t an absolute grenade - just a little additional commentary. 

“Cute,” you echoed without a thought. You immediately slammed your eyes closed like that would protect you from the Pandora’s box you’d just casually tipped open. 

“Mhmm,” he murmured. His hands kept moving, tracing along your arm and then applying the firm pressure you were used to. 

You didn’t squirm or start breathing fast. Instead, you felt the sudden tingling sensitivity of your nipples down to your thighs like you’d just been blasted with arctic air. 

“Cute,” you mumbled again, still processing. 

His hand left your shoulder and returned to land on your hip, grounding you. You pressed your hands flat against the table, feeling the glide of his hand down your thigh. 

You swallowed tightly at the sudden thoughts populating your brain, namely that his hand was heading away from the place you wanted to be touched most.  

The room is quiet. His hand is still on your thigh, just above your knee. 

“How do you feel?” he asked, voice low. 

You press your lips together for a moment. “Good,” you whispered. 

“Just good?” he asks. 

Your teeth catch on your lower lip. “How good should I feel?”

He’s quiet again. His hand still in place.

“How good do you want to feel?” he asks, volleying the issue back to you, his voice low and sugared like his thoughts were circling yours. 

Your mouth was immediately dry. Your skin tingled. And you were unquestionably wet. 

“As good as you can make it,” you whispered. 

You felt his hand leave you. 

He walked around the table, his hand returning and gliding along your leg and arm as he went. 

You had no idea what he would do. 

Until you felt his lips on yours, his hand landing on your cheek, guiding you. 

You breathed into him before pressing into him, needy. 

And you were finally reaching for him, fingers winding in his hair, pulling gently as he bit your lip. Moaning softly as he licked into you. 

You were surprised when he leaned up - when he pulled the eye mask away. 

“Come home with me?” he asked, his pupils blown more than you expected. He was close, his breath warm on your skin, his fingers smoothing your hair. He was so close - you could’ve counted every single eyelash. 

Instead, you glanced around, remembering where you were, a small room, a table for one person. “Right,” you mumbled, lips pulling into a small smirk - you nodded, understanding what he meant. 

He leaned in again, kissing you carefully this time - his tongue slipping into you for the briefest moment like he needed to taste you again. 

He pulled away, swallowing. “Get dressed, meet me outside.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

It really was that simple. He left you to dress. 

You were still on the table for a moment, frozen, knowing you had agreed to go home with him. And now you started to wonder if you could even handle all of that. 

It was a fleeting thought, though, quickly tossed aside as you started jamming your legs into jeans and double-checking your shirt wasn’t inside out.  

You left, passing empty rooms and seeing the unmanned reception desk. You paused, but hearing the absolute silence of the spa, you turned for the door, knowing you could figure it out later. 

Wind whipped your face. You drew your coat closer, glancing around for Seungcheol. You noticed him at the end of the sidewalk. 

You’d never really seen him outside the massage room. Not in real life anyway. You’d definitely trawled his insta while eating chip dust from the bottom of a bag late at night when your pussy was functioning more than your brain. 

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath. He deserved it. 

Tall, handsome, built, and stacked like he was designed for the wettest wet dream. 

He was in a puffer coat and still looked hot. 

And the wind blowing his hair was simply unfair. It reminded you a little too much of all the gods being in everyone’s business in the Iliad. 

You felt like someone was in your business. Intuiting you too well as you walked closer. 

He was unbothered, grabbing your hand and pulling you along through the historic district. 

You had to pause at a few crosswalks. He just pulled you closer, fitting your hand and his in his coat pocket, his fingers warm and reassuring. 

It only made your stomach flutter nervously. Because what had you done - who had you said ‘yes’ to?

Someone who wasn’t trying to rush you into a quick fuck. That was obvious. But someone who held your hand because it was cold - that wasn’t on your dance card. 

And the little way his thumb circled against your skin was not something that even entered your brain until it was happening. 

But it was happening - warm and sweet. 

It left you feeling naked and grateful for the wind reddening your cheeks so your embarrassment was less obvious. 

He lived in one of the cute bungalows you sometimes passed if you missed your normal bus - 1930s, Spanish tiles, big windows on all sides. Actually, it was one of the styles you really liked because the tiles were a deep blue, almost navy, but not. Yellow bricks, white trim. 

You followed him up the stoop and through the wooden door. 

It wasn’t dark inside - a few lamps dotted strategic corners so that everything felt warm and inviting. 

You had no idea what you really imagined his home would be like - he sort of just existed in this white void in your brain most of the time. 

He moved to take off his jacket, revealing a sweater and the thin line of a gold chain that had settled just under the neckline. You swallowed thickly, following along.

He paused, glancing at you for a moment before stepping closer. His fingers came to your neck and then your jaw. He leaned in, kissing you delicately. 

You almost hated the way it made you relax into him - your hands landing on his shoulders, wanting him close. You stepped into him, deepening the kiss this time. You felt his hands shift, tracing down your sides, and hips, landing on your ass, picking you up. 

You felt your back connect with the wall. It didn’t matter because neither of you broke the kiss. You looped your legs around his waist, squeezing your thighs against his waist. 

Even when you felt his hand shift between your legs - his fingers teasing you through your jeans - the kiss didn’t break. 

Not until he broke it. “Is it as good as you thought?”

You smirked. “So far,” you whispered, your lips a breath from his - there was no reason to be coy. “You?” you asked. 

He nodded. “Still need to know if you get as wet as I think you do,” he answered, bold as fucking brass. 

Your eyes widened. “Is it something you speculate about?”

He grinned. “I just go by the little sounds you make and the tip.”

You gave a quick tug to his hair for the sheer audacity of the statement. “God, do you sniff the sheets too?” you asked with a laugh. 

He leaned in, licking your throat. “Sometimes,” he whispered against your skin. 

Your eyelids fluttered closed, your head tilting to give him more room. Your hands shifted down his neck and over his shoulders, fingers flexing into muscle while he stayed exactly where he wanted, sucking and nipping at the tender skin of your throat. You moaned softly when you felt teeth really press in. 

You felt the heel of his palm pressing against your pussy through your jeans. You started to roll your hips - you wanted to be a mess for him when he finally undressed you. 

He didn’t stop you. He held tighter, instead, giving you all the friction you needed. 

“Come for me,” he said, lips teasing just beneath your ear. 

You nodded, working your hips, biting your lip, trying to hit your clit just the right way. 

You circled your hips harder. Your fingers digging harder into his shoulders. Both of you knew how close you actually were. 

And neither of you was surprised at the sudden spasm of your hips or the way you collapsed against him, breathing hard, moaning softly. You nuzzled into him, wanting to be painfully close. 

He stayed there, holding you for a moment before peeling you away from the wall and carrying you down the hall. 

You weren’t surprised when he dropped you onto his bed, your body sinking into the thick duvet. 

He straddled you, pressing you back onto the bed, his hands tracing along your arms and sides, down to your hips, while he kissed you. 

You finally felt his hips connect with yours. You slid your hand down, playing with his waistband before reaching down for his cock. You palmed him through his jeans, smiling when he moaned into you. 

“Want that,” you whispered against his lips. 

He grinned. “I know, little girl,” he whispered back, voice filled with heat. 

He pushed away, pulling his sweater off quickly, reaching down to yours - his fingers catching in the hem as he lifted it. 

You watched him, the way his eyes followed along your body line, the way he smiled at the fact you weren’t wearing a bra. And once he dropped your shirt off the edge of the bed, he leaned down, his mouth immediately going to your breast, sucking your nipple hard. You gasped, your hands winding in his hair, pulling softly as you gasped for him. 

When he pulled away, you watched him lick his lips like he’d just had a meal. His pupils were wide, his lips red, wet. 

And he moved lower, kissing between your breasts, and down your stomach. 

He unbuttoned your jeans, kissing your low stomach, pushing the denim aside to reveal your hips. 

He kissed and rearranged you until you were down to just your panties for the second time that night. 

He leaned back on his knees for a moment, looking at you. “I always wonder if you pick your panties for me,” he mumbled, his finger tracing under the waistband of your underwear. 

You flushed. “Yeah,” you answered, swallowing hard. 

You could see the way he smirked at the affirmation. “Yeah,” he repeated back, sliding the waistband down, cool air rushing to all the wet places. 

You let your legs fall open, giving him the view you guessed he wanted most. He shifted so he was leaning over you - you watched the way his lips parted and the fat droplet of spit left his mouth and hit your already wet cunt. 

He watched, and he pushed his fingers in, working his spit into your slick as he found the spongy spot just inside your pussy’s opening. Every movement was focused. 

Your thighs tensed hard. Your muscles already felt spent from your first orgasm. You wanted to close them, but didn’t, you just need to last. 

And you barely did for any amount of time. He seemed to know the exact cheat code to wreck your pussy, and he carried it out with glee, smiling when he pulled the second orgasm from you. 

He didn’t stop there, though. He kept working you towards a third. He added his tongue too, the slick muscle lathing around your clit, teasing the sensitive flesh, sucking it, licking it, and then you were coming for the third time. 

You knew your pussy was open and ready, but he wasn’t finished. His fingers kept working you, pushing deep and scissoring apart, and then just the slightest twist of his wrist that practically had you screaming for him. 

You came the way he wanted, messy and gushing, your pussy spasming like it wanted to eject itself from your body. You gasped and moaned, holding hard to the edge of his mattress. 

Feeling the soft way he kissed your opening and your clit, watching the sly way he glanced up at you as he delivered each. 

You could barely breathe, and he was looking at you like he knew he was your favorite everything already. Without even trying that hard. 

You licked your lips. 

He wasn’t wrong. 

He kissed your clit again, his lips gentle against the overstimulated nerves. He stayed there, his hands squeezing your thighs like he was willing your body to calm down after so many sensations. 

He leaned up slowly. You stayed where you were, hands still playing with the edge of the mattress. You watched him stand and finish undressing, his jeans dropping away, and then his underwear. 

You smiled at him, the way his chest flowed down to the muscle around his hips and lower to his cock, hard and leaking, and his thighs, athletic. Definitely the kind of thighs that could last through a marathon of fucking. 

“Still like it?” He asked like he didn’t know the precise ways you liked ‘it.’

“Mhmm,” you mumbled, as he moved back onto the bed. 

He leaned in, kissing you again and again. You arched into him when you felt the heaviness of his cock against the wet heat of your pussy. The way the head of his cock caught against your clit while his fat dick settled between your pussy lips. 

He thrusted a few times before leaning back on his knees again. You watched him stroke his dick a few times, using your slick. 

You smiled. “Sexy,” you whispered. 

He arched a brow. “Like watching?”

You felt yourself nod. “If it’s you and your perfect fucking cock,” you answered. 

He smirked. “Want pics later?” he asked smoothly. 

You grinned stupidly. “Do that for all the girls?” you asked teasingly.

He watched you for a moment. “No,” he answered flatly. 

You smiled, arching, wanting him. “Good,” you mumbled. You didn’t want there to be anyone else who even knew he could look like this - sweaty, sexy, wet hair clinging against his brow, all while he jerked himself with your pussy juices slicking his cock. 

He leaned down, his lips returning to yours, as he lined himself up with your pussy. “There’s no one else,” he whispered, just as he slid into you, all the way in one motion. You yelped, arching off the bed, thighs slamming against his sides, your pussy already clenching around him. 

He grinned, trying a few strokes before sitting up. He grabbed your calves and pulled your legs up and over his shoulders. 

He gave a tentative thrust. 

You gasped. 

“Just right?” he asked. 

You nodded, babbling softly. “So good, Cheol.”

He slid a pillow under your ass, keeping your hips just right while he held your thighs and started to find his rhythm. 

You were a mess in seconds. Your pussy was loud, squelching with every thrust. He reached down, playing with your clit as he fucked you. 

You could only guess he liked the way he’d been able to wreck you so far. 

You were a mewling mess - there was zero coherence in your babbling, needy display. Every moan of his name was mixed with “need”, “want”, “don’t stop” like you were counting out some debauched rosary instead of being railed through the mattress. 

You came twice before he even looked affected. 

He flipped you on your stomach and pushed in from behind. Landing a soft smack to your ass. “Such a good little girl - taking me like this,” he muttered as he thrusted in. 

It was a completely new feeling, the way his cock slammed into your cervix from this angle. You jolted forward, and he simply pulled you back and held your hips tighter. 

He buried himself completely inside you on every thrust. 

And then he dared to take breaks, leaning over you for a few seconds. 

You reached back, hand landing in his hair, pulling. “Fuck me,” you demanded. 

He moaned, kissing the back of your neck. “Should I?” He asked softly, breath hard on the back of your neck. 

“Mhmm, rail me,” you mumbled. 

You felt his grin. And then you felt him shift on the bed, and then he was truly fucking into you. Railing you, like you’d asked. 

Your pussy spasmed immediately, walls clenching. You knew you were a wrecked mess. You could feel cum dripping down your inner thighs. 

He fucked you harder. And harder. 

You came one last time, your pussy drooling around his cock as he filled you. 

He finally leaned over you, and you simply flattened every muscle, relaxed into nothingness, every thought drifting away from you like smoke. And Seungcheol’s body covered yours to make sure you didn’t float away too. 

You loved the way he didn’t move. Didn’t pull out. Not even when he started to soften. 

He stayed where he was, and so did you. 

It was the perfect spot, though. The middle of his bed. Warm and wet and together. 

a/n: hope it was a fun read ^^

⋆˙⟡♡ 𝒌𝒂𝒕

p.s. if you want to submit a request to my holiday prompt game, you can go here <3

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The second the camera landed on your table, the screaming was deafening. The venue, which had been relatively calm just moments ago, erupted.

Jihoon fought every urge to groan as he kept his expression neutral, while you—completely unbothered—smiled and gave a polite wave. You were enjoying this way too much.

"Look at you," you teased, voice barely audible over the noise. "Are you blushing?"

Jihoon scoffed. "It's hot in here."

"Uh-huh, sure," you mused, nudging his knee under the table.

And then, as if things weren’t bad enough, the host on stage decided to make things worse.

"So, I think we have to talk about one of the most beloved pairings in the industry right now," the MC said, grinning. "Our audience is going crazy for these two—Woozi and Y/N, everyone!"

The camera panned right back to you both, a split screen of your reactions broadcasting to millions.

Jihoon shut his eyes. "Kill me."

Meanwhile, you? You blew a kiss to the camera.

The screams reached another level.

The members of Seventeen lost it. Seungcheol clapped like a seal. DK was howling. Jeonghan actually got out of his seat to dramatically bow in your direction, like you had just won an Oscar.

"You're enjoying this," Jihoon muttered, side-eyeing you.

"Oh, absolutely," you replied, resting your chin on your hand as if you lived for this moment.

His phone vibrated. Another message from Jeonghan.

[Jeonghan]: Just kiss on camera. I dare you.

Jihoon choked on air. You glanced at his phone and laughed. "What's he saying?"

"Nothing," he snapped, locking it immediately.

And then, it got even worse.

A special segment played—a montage of all the best collaborations of the year. And right there, in full HD, was a clip of you and Jihoon from a previous music show, standing way too close, exchanging small smiles.

It ended with a close-up of Jihoon watching you perform, eyes soft in a way that was damning.

The camera cut back to you both just in time to catch Jihoon covering his face with both hands.

Absolute pandemonium.

Even you were giggling now. "Wow, you really don’t help your case."

"I hate this," Jihoon grumbled into his hands.

You leaned in slightly. "Hate it enough to run away?"

Jihoon peeked at you through his fingers.

You smiled. The same smile that made his heart stutter every single time. The same smile that made him—despite all his complaining—stay exactly where he was.

Every time the camera even slightly panned in your direction, the audience roared in approval. At one point, the big screen accidentally caught Jihoon sneaking glances at you when you weren’t looking, and the fans lost it.

He knew the fancams would be everywhere by the time he got back to the dorms.

And then—disaster struck.

During a short intermission, you shifted slightly in your seat, adjusting your dress, when you realized—it was shorter than you thought.

The realization hit at the worst possible moment because, just as you moved, the camera cut back to your table.

You froze.

Jihoon noticed immediately. His sharp eyes flickered to you, then to the screen, and without thinking, he reached for something—his blazer.

With swift, natural movements, he leaned in and draped it over your lap, completely casual, like he had done it a million times before.

The camera caught everything.

A split screen showed Jihoon placing his blazer over you while you whispered a flustered, “Jihoon, what are you doing?”

"Just wear it," he muttered, pretending to focus on the stage.

Fans erupted.

Jeonghan burst into laughter, clapping his hands as if Woozi had just confessed on national television. Seungkwan gasped so dramatically that DK had to hold him back, and Mingyu was already on his phone, probably tweeting about it.

The big screen replayed the moment in slow motion, zooming in on Jihoon's effortlessly protective gesture.

Jihoon stiffened when he saw it. "You have got to be kidding me."

His phone blew up.

[Jeonghan]: ROMANTIC LEAD ENERGY!!!

[Mingyu]: Jihoon, OUR SWEETHEART???

[Hoshi]: THIS IS CRAZYYYYY

[Seungkwan]: GOODBYE, WORLD. THIS IS THE CUTEST THING I’VE EVER SEEN.

The captions wrote themselves.

"Lee Jihoon, the definition of boyfriend material."

"Woozi naturally protecting Y/N?? We are living in a fanfiction."

"When will my boyfriend be like this?"

Meanwhile, you were trying so hard to hold back your laughter. "Did you have to be so smooth about it?"

Jihoon cleared his throat. "It wasn’t smooth."

"You literally just gave me your blazer without blinking."

"Because you needed it," he huffed, crossing his arms.

You peeked up at him, a teasing glint in your eyes. "…Thanks, Jihoon."

He looked away immediately, ears turning red. "Shut up."

Jihoon should have known the night wasn’t over yet.

After all the teasing, the chaotic fan reactions, and the never-ending camera zoom-ins, the moment had finally arrived—Seventeen’s category was being announced.

The entire group sat up straighter, hands clasped together, nervous energy crackling in the air. You could feel it from your seat beside Jihoon, his usually steady hands slightly curled into fists on his lap.

“And the winner is…”

The pause was agonizing.

"SEVENTEEN!"

The entire venue exploded.

Seventeen shot up from their seats, hugging each other tightly, overwhelmed with joy. Fans screamed, members cheered, and Jihoon—despite his usual composure—looked stunned.

You watched as Seungcheol pulled Jihoon into a tight hug, and that’s when you saw it—his eyes, glossy with tears.

The camera captured the moment perfectly. Jihoon, the man who poured his heart and soul into every note, every lyric, standing there, wiping at his eyes as the weight of everything hit him all at once.

And suddenly, your own eyes burned.

You covered your mouth with your hands, trying to hold back the emotions bubbling up inside you. You had seen Jihoon work himself to the bone, staying in the studio until dawn, striving for perfection in everything he did.

He deserved this. They all did.

Jihoon stood on stage, microphone in hand, staring out at the sea of fans and glowing lightsticks. The award sat heavy in his grasp, but not as heavy as the emotions swelling in his chest.

The cheers had barely died down when Seungcheol, ever the leader, began their speech—thanking the fans, the staff, the families, and everyone who had supported them.

But when the mic was passed to Jihoon, the crowd fell into an expectant hush.

Jihoon took a deep breath. “Um…” He let out a small chuckle, voice already wavering. “I told myself I wasn’t going to cry.”

The audience cheered, as if encouraging him to let it out.

Jihoon swallowed hard, gripping the microphone tighter. “This… this award means a lot. More than I can put into words. We’ve worked so hard, and to be standing here, receiving this, it still feels unreal.” He exhaled shakily, blinking rapidly, but the tears still escaped, rolling down his cheeks.

Seventeen members immediately reached for him—Jeonghan placing a hand on his back, Seungkwan nodding at him reassuringly. The crowd cooed, some fans already tearing up themselves.

The camera panned across the group, capturing their emotions, before shifting—straight to you.

Sitting at your table, eyes glassy with unshed tears, you watched Jihoon with nothing but pure admiration and pride. You hadn’t even realized you were crying until the camera lingered on you, your lips pressed together to keep from outright sobbing.

And just like that, the entire venue reacted.

Fans screamed.

The members on stage noticed, and before Jihoon could even process what was happening, Jeonghan grabbed his shoulders and spun him around to face the screen.

There, clear as day, was you, wiping at your cheeks, eyes fixed on him like he was the most important person in the world.

Jihoon's face turned red instantly. He quickly turned back, covering his face with his sleeve, but it was too late.

Mingyu burst out laughing, Joshua clapped his hands like an excited kid, and even Seungcheol cracked up, patting Jihoon's back.

“Looks like we’re not the only ones crying,” Seungkwan teased into the mic, making the crowd go wild.

Jihoon groaned into his hands, but despite his embarrassment, he peeked up at the camera again—at you.

And in that moment, as he saw you smiling softly through your tears, he couldn’t even be mad.

Because no matter how much he pretended to ignore it, no matter how much he groaned when the cameras caught you both—deep down, he knew.

“Here.” Jihoon’s voice cuts through your drifting thoughts. You look up and see him standing at your bedroom door with a steaming mug of tea in his hands. His eyes melt when he sees the state you are in, and you find your heart beating fast. He steps in and sets the mug on the nightstand before sitting down beside you. “You need to drink this. It’ll help with your throat.” He nudges the mug toward you for you to take it.

You don’t have the strength to argue, so you nod and take a sip. The warmth soothes your throat, and just for some time, you forget about the cameras, the questions about what you two really are, and the arrangement that started all of this. Being here with him in this small room feels like a break from everything outside.

Jihoon watches you closely as you drink. His attention doesn’t drift from you for even a second. He adjusts the pillow behind your back and tucks the blanket around your shoulders, and checks if you’re comfortable or not. He always does these little things. You try to tell yourself it’s just part of the act, part of the deal, but you know better. Jihoon doesn’t pretend with things like this. He’s naturally careful with the people he cares about.

“Thank you,” you whisper. Your chest feels tight and you don’t question it with your sickness, and you don’t know if it’s from the tea or from something more sitting behind your ribs.

He shrugs. “You’re sick. It’s the least I can do.” But the least he can do feels like much more.

The silence between you isn’t awkward anymore. You’ve grown used to the gradual changes in his expression, his way of showing his worry without saying it. Little by little, he has let himself get close to you even if neither of you planned for that to happen.

You set the empty mug down just as Jihoon reaches out and brushes your forehead with the back of his hand. You don’t pull away. His touch feels so careful and a little shaky. You can’t remember the last time anyone touched you without wanting something in return. Jihoon stays for a moment, then leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead. The gesture’s almost absentminded, yet it steals the breath from your lungs.

Your eyes flutter open slowly, and you find him watching you with an expression you can’t yet read. Before you can speak, he stands. “Get some rest. I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.”

You watch his back as he walks toward the door. You don’t want him to leave when his presence feels like the only thing holding everything in you together and making you feel better. “Stay,” you whisper.

Jihoon stops. For a second he doesn’t move and you worry he might pretend he didn’t hear you. But he turns, and his eyes soften with that low-key tiny smile on his lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Instead of you staying all day in the bedroom, you end up in the living room together with the TV playing in the background. Neither of you is really watching it. Jihoon keeps glancing at you and checks if you’re cold, if you’re breathing fine, if your fever looks worse than before, if you need some more tissues.

When the night grows late, he gets up and stretches. “Need anything else?”

You shake your head but then your stomach growls loudly. You feel your face heat up with embarrassment. “Maybe something light. I don’t think I can eat anything heavy.”

Jihoon nods and heads to the kitchen without a single complaint. He moves quickly as if he already had something in mind. When he returns with a small bowl of warm soup, you can feel your throat tightening again, but this time it’s from your overwhelming feelings for this man. He sets it in front of you and sits beside you. “Eat.”

You take a spoonful. The heat spreads through your mouth and chest, and the comfort is immediate. Jihoon’s eyes never leave you as he watches to make sure you finish it, not in a controlling way but in a more concerned way. You want to ask him why he’s being like this. Why is he doing more than what the arrangement requires. Why is he choosing to stay here when he doesn’t have to. But you keep eating instead.

When you finish, he stands to take the bowl away. Before he leaves, he leans down and presses another kiss to your forehead. This time his lips stay connected to your forehead a little longer than the last time. His thumb brushes your temple, and when he pulls back, he looks at you, “you know,” he says, “even if this wasn’t fake, I wouldn’t mind.”

It feels like you might as well suffocate right now… but in a good way. For so long, you have been convincing yourself this is just for convenience, and a performance for everyone else. But hearing him say that makes everything inside you roam around and change painfully. You don’t want this to end, and you most definitely don’t want to go back to being strangers who only speak for the sake of appearances as co-actors. Jihoon clears his throat and looks away. He seems unsure, which is rare. He doesn’t usually stumble like this. He seems like he wants to say more, but you can tell he’s holding himself back.

“Jihoon…” Your voice is trailing. “Stay. Just for a little longer.”

He hesitates at first, probably thinking about the work he has tomorrow or the fact that he has already stayed too late. But then he lets out a sigh and nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

He starts toward the other couch, but something inside you pushes you to reach out. You pat the space beside you. “Here. It’s more comfortable.”

Jihoon pauses on his way to sit down on the other couch. He looks at you like he’s trying to decide if this is a mistake. He’s careful, never crosses a line unless he knows it won’t hurt either of you.

After a moment, he sits. It’s not too close, but also close enough that you can feel him around you. The TV keeps playing behind you, but neither of you really pay attention to it. Your eyelids grow heavy from the rest settling inside you, and you’re happy to tell yourself that it’s not from the fever. Jihoon must sense it because he finally speaks.

“You scared me.”

“What?”

“When you got sick,” he eyes lowering to his hands. “You weren’t answering your phone. And when I got here, you could barely stand.” He goes quiet for some time. “I knew you weren’t in danger, but… I didn’t like not being here.”

Your throat tightens again. He isn’t someone who throws words around. If he’s saying this, it’s because he means it. “Why?”

He huffs a laugh, but there’s nothing funny in it. He looks more frustrated with himself than anything else. “I don’t know. I just didn’t like the idea of you being alone.”

That hits something in you that you haven’t let yourself acknowledge. Your fingers brush his hand slowly, and you feel him tense around your hand, then relax and turn his palm up to hold yours. His thumb rubs lightly against your skin. “I didn’t want to be alone,” you admit to him. “I thought I’d be fine with all of this. I thought it wouldn’t change anything.”

“You were wrong,” he says.

“Yeah.”

He stares at your joined hands for a long time. “If we stopped pretending… would that be so bad?”

Your heart literally thunders in your chest now. The answer’s very obvious to you. It has always been obvious. “It was never fake for me.”

Jihoon exhales and pulls you in a little closer to him. His voice drops to a breathy whisper. “If we’re not faking it… does that mean I get to keep you?”

Your breath catches, and you feel everything inside you fall into place. You squeeze his hand. “Only if you want to.”

His expression changes to relief and what you can describe it as, realization. He cups your cheek and leans in to press another kiss to your forehead. This one didn’t feel like it was for comfort. “I do,” he confesses. “I always have.”

For the first time tonight, the weird tightness in your chest eases. It doesn’t feel like comfort but like a beginning. And you don’t want it to end.

His silence was comfort, you’d learned that over the years you’d been friends. You were introduced to Vernon through a colleague and you kept in touch with him, just because you hit it off unnaturally well. It had been nothing worth noting at the time until you felt something shift between you and you found yourself in completely different territory. 

Not that Vernon thought the same, but then he showed up with a cup of coffee in his hand every morning and handed it to you. Hazelnut cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso, just how you liked it. He could name your favourite food, which was sushi. When you worked from home, he insisted on bringing food over whenever he happened to pass by your house.  

You had trouble believing he had to cross your street on his way home, but you didn’t allow yourself to think more of it: Vernon valued your friendship and liked taking care of you. That was his way of expressing himself. 

That morning, you dreaded seeing him because your heart wouldn’t stop fluttering at the thought of him. You were able to take the subway together, even though you worked at different places. It was on the same route so there was little chance for you to avoid him. You just decided to get it all over with and walked out the door, Vernon already on your mind before he’d even been in your vicinity. 

He was calm where you weren’t. You were spontaneous where he carefully planned every step of the way. You complemented each other while sharing your similarities at the same time. You both enjoyed music and being a couch potato. Some of your days were just you two hanging out on someone’s couch and watching TV or listening to music. Vernon was even as comfortable as showing up in a tracksuit. 

You were too aware of your own feelings to do that. 

Vernon was already waiting for you with a cup in each hand when you turned around the corner. He was sipping from one while the other rested in his hand. ‘The same you always have’, were the words leaving his mouth. Your heart fluttered when it definitely shouldn’t. 

Again.

You grabbed it from him and rubbed your eyes. “Thank you.”

He nudged you in return. “Aren’t you a sunshine?” 

You brushed his teasing off – it was way too early to deal with it – and started walking towards the subway. With Vernon, it was never in the grand gestures or the loud declarations. His acts were subtle and personal, as if he knew you better than you knew yourself.

Sometimes you thought it to be true. 

The escalator was too crowded to make it on time so you walked down the steps in silence, your arms brushing against each other when you made way for passerbys. You took the same line, but you had to get off a stop earlier than him. He took the spot next to you, one of the first ones to enter the subway at its starting point. 

The windows were closed, but the rattling still deafened your ears whenever you went through tunnels. Two more to go before you had to get off. 

“Are you free somewhere this week?” Vernon asked you, the subway coming to a halt at the second-to last stop. “My friend with the coffee place, he told me about this great sushi restaurant near his house and I was wondering if you’d like to check it out with me.”

Your heart raced in your chest when you looked at him, his eyes probing you in curiosity. “I love sushi,” you managed to squeeze out. 

“Exactly.” Vernon’s lips twisted into a small, but confident grin. His eyes darted to the announcement on the board, displaying your stop. “Text me your available evenings, alright? I’ll see if our schedules match up.”

You bobbed your head and shot him a quick smile before getting off your seat. “I’m off early today, so I won’t be going back with you.”

“That’s fine. We’ll see each other tomorrow morning.” 

“See you tomorrow.” 

With the stream of people, you left the subway and shoved the headphones over your ears. You couldn’t help but look inside, even though Vernon’s back was turned towards you. 

Did he just ask you out on a date? 

You couldn’t afford to get distracted with an important deadline approaching for your company, but the question couldn’t leave you alone. What if he really was asking you out on a date? You’d been on countless restaurant adventures with him. It wasn’t something new to either of you. 

Maybe you were just overthinking. He never implied anything romantic, so you shouldn’t read more into it. You wouldn’t have the balls to ask him before he started thinking that you thought there was something more. The best thing you could do was to let it go and send Vernon your availability. 

His name popped up in your notifications when you put your phone back down, as if he’d been waiting for you. 

‘Great, tomorrow night it is (:’ 

Your heart thumped in your ears as you replied. Your fingers trembled as they slid over the keys. Play it cool, you told yourself. Don’t make him suspect anything. 

‘So that means it’s my turn to pay’ 

‘Nope this is my treat. You make sure you’re ready at seven and I’ll take care of the rest.’

You swallowed the lump in your throat and replied to him before putting your phone away. That wasn’t very Vernon-like. 

The following morning went the same and Vernon didn’t let anything on about his plans for that night. He stood on the same corner with the same coffee, you rode the same subway and got off at the same stop, but still something felt different. Whenever you weren’t talking to him, you felt his eyes burning your side. Every time you were talking to him, he made excuses to touch your hand or nudge your shoulder. 

Very un-Vernon-like. 

You weren’t telling your roommate that you were going on a date before she would yell ‘I told you so’ right into your face and everyone else’s. What you were going to tell her when she asked why you were stressing out over what to wear, you hadn’t thought of yet. Not that you owed her anything. She hadn’t told you she was going out with a guy, either. You found out when you passed him while he was walking out of your shared apartment and you got in. 

She’d just gotten home so that didn’t leave her much room to interrogate you. 

Thank God.

“I’m ordering takeaway!” Yuri shouted from the living room. “Sure you don’t want a bite?!”

“Going out with colleagues!” You told her and hoisted yourself into a black pantalon, sliding into a pair of high platform sneakers. 

“Oh, fun! Where to?!” 

You tied your shoes before walking to the living room. “A new sushi place.”

“Man, that sounds delicious.”

You chuckled and fixed your makeup. “If it’s any good, I’ll take you there.”

“You’re the best.” She stood on the couch and pressed a kiss to your cheek before jumping off and going to the kitchen. 

When the zoomer went, you ran over to the phone before Yuri even had a chance to process it. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” Vernon’s warm, pleasant voice sounded in your ears. 

Your lips pushed up into a smile. “I’ll be down in a second.”

“See you there.” 

You were almost sad to hang up. Composing yourself, you turned to Yuri when you put your coat on. “My colleague’s here so I better get going.”

Yuri put her thumb up as she took a sip of her tea. “Have fun!” 

“Thank you!” 

You hurried to the elevator that certainly took its time to bring you to the ground floor. You tapped your foot on the floor and checked your watch. Not that the time would go any quicker. 

When the doors opened, your heart raced even faster than it was already doing. You swayed your hips with as much confidence as you could gather and opened the door.

Vernon was waiting for you, a blouse hugging his lean figure. He covered it in a leather jacket and his hair was styled and put in place instead of sticking out underneath a beanie. 

A completely different person stood in front of you. 

“Shall we?” He asked and held his arm out. “It’s not far from here.” 

You stared at him before your hands grabbed his bicep, the touch lighting your skin on fire. You felt your knees buckle when he pulled you in and you stayed like that for the rest of the walk. 

What was he doing to you? 

Vernon offered to order a bottle of rosé wine and yet again, he knew exactly how to appeal to you. 

“Are you trying to win me over?” You teased and leaned on your hands. “Getting my favourite coffee, taking me out for sushi, ordering my favourite wine, what did you do to me that you need to make up for?”

He chuckled, the sound wrapping around you like a warm blanket. “Don’t think you’re undeserving of some special treatment.”

“Are you doing this to all your friends?”

“You’re my special friend.”

Whether you started the teasing or not, Vernon was always the one to finish. He managed to bring you at a loss for words over and over again. Every time you thought you heard everything, Vernon found another way to fluster you. 

The heat spread to your cheeks and you grabbed the tablet. “Alright, food.”

“It’s your night. Choose whatever you want.” 

You looked up at him and he smiled at you, the heat now spreading through your chest as well. “Well, I don’t want you to eat something you don’t like.” 

“Don’t worry about me, sunshine. I eat whatever I have in front of me.” 

Sunshine. He always said it with a joking undertone, but this was different. He said it with his chest, adoringly. You didn’t know when it happened, but you noticed everything about him that never came up before. His eyes twinkled, as bright as the raging sun and the colour of dancing flames. Hands that were like a silk touch when they grabbed you. 

Your head was spinning from all the thoughts and it would drive you to the farthest borders of insanity if you didn’t get yourself under control soon. 

The entire night you balanced between actively engaging in conversations with him and suppressing whatever raged inside you. It was like a flame had ignited and the sparks were dancing all around you. 

Your stomach dropped when you saw your apartment building and you almost slowed down if Vernon didn’t keep the pace up, pulling you along as you held on to his arm. You lingered in front of the entrance as you buried your head and hands into your coat. 

“I had fun tonight,” Vernon said with that smile of his. It made it even more difficult to resist him and you had to. You were reading signs that weren’t there. 

“It was so much fun,” you said, your tone slipping into a higher pitch. You returned his smile sweetly, hiding your red cheeks in your collar. “Thank you.”

“I know what my new favourite food is.” 

You had quite enough of that. 

Taking a step forward, you were almost sure that the alcohol in your system was clouding your judgment. With your hands still deep into your pockets, you looked at him. 

Vernon moved in sync with you, as if he’d been building up to this moment since the start of the evening. He lingered in front of you, his hot breath bouncing off your lips. 

You closed the gap between you and your lips melted together in a kiss. His hands cupped your cheeks and left a trail of heat against your skin. Your hands grabbed his jacket before they slipped underneath it and closed around his waist. It made your stomach twist in excitement, pumping the adrenaline through your veins. 

Vernon pulled back and brushed your cheek with his thumb, smiling at you. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he whispered, almost too afraid to ruin the moment. 

“See you tomorrow,” you whispered back and let go of him. You looked over your shoulder when you went inside to see Vernon still standing there. You smiled and he returned it, watching you turn the corner. 

Your mornings were suddenly a lot better, knowing that you would see Vernon again. Your stomach tingled when you saw him on the corner with his usual cups of coffee. You took it from him and kissed his cheek, walking alongside him to the subway. You leaned against him when you were the first ones to take your seats, resting your head against his shoulder as he caressed your hand he held. It almost pained you to let go of him when you were at your stop and you took an extra look over your shoulder as you left. 

Suddenly, you didn’t mind being cramped up on your way back as long as that meant leaning against Vernon. 

Weeks you spent like that, as if that night in the restaurant was the final push you both needed.  Today you worked from home and you wished you were at the subway instead. You realised that he would stand on your doorstep with dinner and your heart played a symphony. You looked forward to it for the entire day, unable to concentrate on your work and you jumped up when you heard the phone ring. 

You buzzed him in and nearly ran into the hallway when he stepped out of the elevator. He held the bag up to you, telling you he made ravioli and he had an extra serving. You told him he didn’t have to and he insisted. 

“I like seeing you smile.”

And then it started to dawn on you, right when Vernon stood in front of you and said those words. 

It was wrong. 

You couldn’t let yourself be dragged away by your feelings, blinding you to reality. Vernon didn’t like you that way and again, you were reading signs that weren’t there. 

You took the bag from him with a small smile and nodded. “Thank you.”

Vernon brushed your cheek gently and leaned in for a kiss, but you stepped back. 

“I’m still finishing some work, so I have to get back to it,” you lied right through your teeth, like throwing a dagger right into his chest and then plunging it into your own. 

He tried to mask his disappointment with an understanding smile, you could see it happening. “Yeah, of course. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

You watched him get back in the elevator and only allowed yourself to breathe once the doors closed. How on Earth were you able to enjoy his homemade ravioli now? You were exactly where you wanted to be with Vernon and you chickened out? Really? 

He didn’t seem to mind because you were right back to normal whenever you decided you could handle being around him. He resorted to his usual quietness and you were back to being grumpy in the morning. Subway rides were silent and unbearable. You decided to reverse your actions by pulling back to him, but had to watch Vernon fading away day by day. 

Your roommate knew what happened between you and him. She’d picked up on the signs even though you’d hidden the date from her for a couple of days. Eventually you admitted everything and she even helped you gather the courage to ask for a second date. 

You told yourself that you were comfortable where you were and look where that got you. 

Yuri had a solution to that. 

Her small frame was coated in a dark green dress that reached just above her knees, her recently bleached hair into a half updo. She was already waiting for you when you walked out of your bedroom. Her eyes lit up when she saw you in a black three piece suit that you saved for the best of occasions, whistling lowly. “Wowie, you are going all in tonight.”

“I deserve it, don’t you think?” You offered a smile and grabbed your purse. “Come on, we’re late.”

And you were still on time compared to your company. When you were seated, Yuri texted her boyfriend as you ordered a bottle of rosé wine. “Who is this guy again?”

“A friend from Seungkwan’s,” she answered with her eyes on her phone. Her fingers darted over the screen like the speed of lightning. “I don’t know much about him. Seungkwan said he wanted to keep it a surprise.”

You hummed and leaned on your hand. You weren’t sure whether your heart wanted to explode out of your chest out of excitement or pure fear. Maybe both. And maybe a tiny shred of guilt considering you were sitting in the same restaurant with Vernon a couple of weeks ago. Now you were going on a blind date with someone else, unable to forget the amazing night that you spent with him there. 

“Finally!” Yuri cried out and slid out of her seat. 

Eyes darting up, you saw two figures coming your way. One was unmistakingly Seungkwan, the way he strutted over to your roommate and kissed her lips as his hand slid around her waist. Disgustingly in love with her long before they were together, if you were to believe their mutual friends. 

His friend stayed in the background, standing taller than him with his hands in his pockets. Dark brown strands of hair fell in front of his face, just the way you told him you liked it. 

Your breath caught in your throat when you locked eyes. The guy that kissed you goodnight after your night out, but had kept his distance and teasing on the downlow when you did, too. Just when you were ready to pull away completely and give someone else a chance, fate tossed him right in front of you, unable to take his eyes off you. The confusion and tension that hummed between you two was undeniable for anyone. 

In complete silence, you both sat down as Yuri and Seungkwan exchanged a look. You peeled your eyes off Vernon and twisted your rings around. 

“Wait a minute,” Seungkwan’s voice pulled you into the conversation. “You’re hazelnut cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso?” 

You froze. When your eyes dared to look at him, his own were twinkling in excitement. “Oh, how nice to finally meet you! Vernon hasn’t stopped talking about you since you went out. A shame that you hadn’t been able to plan anything else yet.” 

From the corner of your eye, you saw Yuri raising an eyebrow. 

You ignored her and turned to Vernon, his gaze piercing through you. “Huh, I see.”

“Yeah, a real shame,” Vernon responded to his friend and looked at your roommate. “And you’re iced latte with two pumps of caramel.” 

“I’m better known as Yuri,” she told him tautly and grabbed the tablet from the table. “Let’s order, shall we? I’m starving.”

You mentally thanked her for defusing the situation before either of you gave Vernon a piece of your mind. You felt his eyes burning into you as you told Yuri your recommendations and did your best to ignore it. It was the last thing on your mind right now, to be admired by those eyes just like he did every time you were talking that night. 

“Yeah, spring rolls sound good,” you heard him say. “The tempura is good here, too.”

You bobbed your head in silent agreement. 

“I’d kill for a good tempura,” Yuri declared and added it to the list. “Let’s order some different types of rolls and we’re settled for the first round.”

You gladly let Yuri take the lead. It was like she instinctively knew what was right every time, no matter what situation she was in. You admired and envied it at the same time. It was no wonder that Seungkwan was drawn to a spirit like hers, as someone who needed a strong personality to match his is what you came to understand. 

Their match made sense. 

You glanced at Vernon taking a sip of his beer. He was the rationality to your impulse and just like Yuri, seemed to go off on pure instinct when it came to you. Because you pulled back, he did too and a wall of unresolved feelings was created between you. As if he knew that pushing you would lead to the opposite of what he wanted, even though you still weren’t ready to admit what exactly that was.

The rest of the night went as if nothing had ever happened. Maybe it was the wine that helped you ease into being around Vernon while you were on the edge of giving in or things were actually going back to how they were between you; light and easy. 

You dreaded the latter, but you feared you had no other choice but to accept your new fate: your insecurity ruined what you could’ve had. 

Yuri and Seungkwan were already miles in front when Vernon fell into step with you. Your lips were in a thin line and you felt your arm tense up when it brushed against his. 

“So this will be us, huh? Awkward and weird.”

You cocked your eyebrow at him, but all he did was shrug. He didn’t even try to defend himself. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to make of this. You’ve been very distant since we ate sushi together.” 

“You weren’t exactly available, either,” he said to you with enough urgency in his voice to make you listen. “I know that you didn’t work from home some days. You just avoided me so we wouldn’t have to ride the subway together.”

You looked away from him. 

“All I’m saying is, I started distancing myself because you did. I really want to take you out again, which is why I told Seungkwan that our schedules didn’t align.”

Vernon stopped so you did as well. He lifted your chin so you couldn’t do anything else but stare right into the sun. “I don’t know what you’ve told yourself that convinced you I wouldn’t see you like that, but I’ve liked you a lot longer than you might’ve allowed yourself to believe.”

Yet again, he connected with you to an extent that you hadn’t felt with anyone before. He spoke to you in ways that laid you bare, exposing the things that you’d only admitted to yourself or not even at all. 

“Every time I gave you compliments, I hoped you’d notice that they were catered to you. Whenever we were crammed up in the subway after work and you grabbed me so you wouldn’t fall over, I hoped we’d stay like that so I could enjoy your embrace a little longer. I brought your coffee every morning because I know how much you like it and I felt on top of the world to be the reason for your smile.”

You couldn’t take your eyes off him while his words echoed through you. Before your head could take back the reins, your lips were pressed to his. Vernon was close enough to hear your heart thump a rhythm specially designed for him. He was the only one that could make it sing like it did. 

The second kiss was even more electrifying than the first. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, his forehead pressed against yours. “I got scared because I didn’t want to ruin what we had. I did exactly that.”

“You didn’t ruin anything.” Vernon cupped your cheeks and brushed them with his thumbs. “Being away from you made me realise how much I actually care about you. I…” He paused and you heard his breath hitch in his throat. “I realised that I’ve fallen in love with you and that I wanted nothing else than to be with you.”

He shot you a sheepish smile. “You would like to be with me, right?”

You gasped dramatically. “Vernon Chwe, are you insecure?” You smiled when your flair for the theatrics made him laugh and closed the distance between you again, your lips melted into another kiss. “Of course I would like to be with you.” 

His lips twisted into the widest smile you’d ever seen from him. You were forever his sunshine. 

You first met Seungcheol at your ex-boyfriend’s high school reunion. You didn’t want to go, feeling too much like an outsider considering you hadn’t gone to the same school and you barely knew some of them, but Kangmin had insisted. He’d told you that some of them were still his friends, and that everyone could take a plus one, so you got over the awkwardness and went. 

The night began okay, you were introduced to plenty of people who seemed nice enough, and you could see that Kangmin was having a blast reminiscing good old times. You felt a bit left out, missing private jokes about certain teachers and classmates, but still, it was nice. The beer was good, and you enjoyed some good food as well. 

And then he walked in. You think you were the only one who noticed him first, everyone else too immersed in the memories. The second he walked through the door you felt his presence, a strong pull to turn around and look. 

He seemed as if he’d come out of a drama; tall, handsome, well dressed, expensive watch. He moved as if he owned the room, and you couldn’t do anything but watch. But you came out of your daze once you reached his eyes and noticed that he was looking at you, a smirk already forming on his full lips. 

You quickly turned your head back to the table, pretending to be fully absorbed in the conversation the people around you were having. 

The next person to see him was a girl opposite you, who screamed when she saw him. “Seungcheol oppa, you made it!”. Suddenly everyone was standing up, hugging him and patting him on the back, asking him how he was and about his job. Kangmin had mentioned him a couple of times, a friend who apparently was very successful as a music producer, who had founded his own Idol company. He should be an idol himself, you thought. 

When he reached your part of the table you greeted him politely, trying to seem moderately curious, and not like you wanted to know every detail possible about him. Yet he kept looking at your eyes, even when he was saying hello to the rest of the table and was answering multiple questions. 

Once the fuss was over more than two people made space for him to sit down, but he explained that he was feeling a bit dizzy and he’d rather sit close to the window. You were right beside it, so you awkwardly moved closer to Kangmin so he could sit between you and another girl. 

The whole table continued the conversation as if nothing had happened, pouring more beer and telling the same funny stories over and over again. Yet for you every noise disappeared the moment his leg made contact with yours, his warmth sweeping over to you in an instant. That close you could smell his perfume too, a strong and masculine musky scent that made you cross your legs tighter and sit straight. 

You were looking at the time on your phone trying to decide whether it was too early to go home, when he suddenly spoke to you. You whipped your head to look at him. “Sorry?” You mumbled, cheeks turning pink. 

“What do you do?” he asked you again. Eyes laser focused on you. 

You looked at him confusedly, until it dawned on you. “Oh, sorry. I’m a school counselor. I work at Yongsan High School.” You suddenly felt really shy, talking about your normal boring job in front of someone who worked with idols for a living. But he seemed pleased.

“That’s cool, it must be exhausting working with teenagers everyday though. Do you like it?” 

You couldn’t believe he was trying to have a conversation with you, and neither did the table apparently, seeing that everyone had their eyes on you. Even Kangmin. Noticing his presence again, you tried to quickly change the subject, not wanting more attention drawn to the two of you. “Yeah, I love it. I like helping students feel better. But from what I've heard so far tonight I don’t think I would’ve liked being you guys’ counselor.” 

Your comment made some of them laugh, and the focus was again on a story from back in the day. You sighed in relief as the attention shifted from you, and you took the opportunity to drink some cold beer to cool down. But when you grabbed your glass you noticed it was empty. You were about to ask Kangmin to get you more when Seungcheol covered your hand that was in the glass with his, using the other one to pour you beer. The feeling of his warm hand over yours made goosebumps erupt on your skin. 

“You were drinking this one, right? It’s the only one on the table.” His voice was so deep it made your knees weak, so the only thing you could do was nod. 

The rest of the dinner passed with a blur, Seungcheol’s presence making it difficult for you to concentrate on anything else. He was attentive the whole time, pouring beer when you had none left, getting the meat closer to you if he noticed you wanted more, closing the window when he felt you shivering. It was almost too much, yet you thrived on it. Having someone paying so much attention was a breath of fresh air, especially when you compared it to your then boyfriend’s apparent indifference. 

After that night it was impossible to pretend you were happy with your relationship. You were glad Kangmin hadn’t said anything about Seungcheol’s attention to you during the reunion, but in a way you’d hope he had. At least it would’ve shown he cared. 

You lasted one more month before you got tired and left him one Friday evening when he’d told you he’d rather play videogames than go out with you. You didn’t think of yourself as high maintenance, but there was a bare minimum you needed that he was not giving to you, and you didn’t want to settle. 

You didn’t meet Seungcheol until three weeks post-breakup, so almost two months after the reunion. You crossed paths with him at a coffee shop while you were waiting for the rain to die down. You’d forgotten your umbrella and you didn’t have enough money for a cab, so you were slowly drinking a cappuccino as you watched the drops of water slide down the window. 

You were so lost in your head you didn’t hear anyone approaching until he spoke. “You like the rain?” he’d asked. You turned your head around fast, shocked obvious in your expression. He laughed, and then sat in front of you without asking. 

And that was it, really. After that rainy afternoon you two were inseparable. He asked you out that same day after driving you home, and you would’ve been a fool to say no. He took you to dinner at a beautiful restaurant, followed by a walk by the Han river and drinks at his place. He treated you like a princess, opening doors for you, guiding you with his hand on your lower back, giving you his jacket when the wind picked up. By the end of the night you were desperate for more, yet he didn’t make a move on you. He took you back home and kissed your cheek before leaving. 

Your second and third dates were pretty much the same; you had plenty of fun and he was as attentive as always, yet he didn’t go farther than a kiss on the cheek and some hand holding. 

So by the fourth time he asked you out you were feverish with need, so desperate you almost couldn’t concentrate. That’s why when he’d asked you back to his house for drinks, you didn’t hesitate to say yes. And then you didn't even wait for the door to close before grabbing his neck and kissing him. If he was shocked, he didn’t show it. He started kissing you back right away, hands gripping your ass. He kissed you hard, his tongue invading your mouth and his teeth biting your lower lip. You made out for so long you felt your lips go numb, and then he used the hands on your ass to pick you up as if you weighed nothing, taking you straight to his bedroom. 

He took his time undressing you, kissing each patch of skin he revealed. First your shoulders and your chest, then your belly, your hips. your legs. All the way down to your ankles. You felt hot all over, especially when you noticed you were naked and he was fully dressed. The contrast almost made you moan. You stretched your hands towards him, and he understood immediately, going up again until he was fully on top of you, weight carefully balanced so he didn’t crush you. 

You helped him take off his clothes then, the sight of his naked chest and belly almost too much for you. He was huge everywhere, his shoulders nearly double the size of yours, his legs thick and meaty, and his heavy cock fully hard. You were sure you were drooling. 

That night he took his time with you, as it was typical of him. He gave you your first orgasm with his fingers, making sure you were ready for him. But even all the preparation wasn’t enough, and the first stretch of his dick made tears fall from your eyes. He kissed them as they fell, muttering “Good girl, you’re doing so good. You can take me, I know you can.” 

After that you came twice while he was fucking you on every possible position, first on your back, then on all fours and then you on top. He talked you through the whole time, praising you nonstop. You feel so good. You’re the best I’ve ever had. That’s it baby, keep going. You were so out of it all you could do was moan and cry. 

Near the end of it when you were so tired you didn’t think you could take more, he finally groaned “I’m close,” and three thrusts later he was finishing inside of you, his warm seed filling you up to the brim. You fell on top of his chest, still connected, and he hugged you, sliding his hand up and down your back. You were both panting at first, but soon your breathings slowed down, and the constant beating of his heart lulled you to sleep. 

You woke up the next morning wrapped in his arms, your back to his chest. You noticed you were cleaned and had one of his t-shirts on, and the knowledge that he had taken care of you so tenderly made you smile. The whole thing had been more than perfect, and nothing could get you off your high. 

Nearly two years later, that memory still made your insides warm. Seungcheol had asked you to be his girlfriend that very same morning after he’d opened his eyes, and you had been steady since then. He proposed six months after that, and even though it might’ve been too soon for anyone else, for you two it was right. Your wedding had been beautiful, straight out of your dreams, and you had been the happiest bride on the planet. 

Of course every relationship has its issues, and you butted heads with him every now and then, but deep down you both knew no argument was big enough to break you up. You were each other’s forever. 

And now that you thought about it, you should’ve sent a gift to Kangmin. If he hadn’t insisted on you going out that night, you wouldn’t have met the love of your life.

•••

| masterlist |

You can’t count the number of times you’ve caught him looking, only for him to flush and look away when you do. Your friends keep telling you that he likes you, that the two of you act like way more than friends, and you’ve kind of given up on denying it at this point. He’s your friend, and sure — you’ve thought about what his lips might taste like. Or what those beautiful hands might feel like against your skin. That’s beyond the point.

Since you’d gotten him back to his apartment, you’d managed to get some water in him. He seems to be pretty sobered up already, but you can tell there’s enough liquid courage left in him for him not to care that he’s being obvious. You try your best to ignore his intense gaze as you turn the handle, kicking a pair of shoes out of the way that block the path to his bed. You reach for and tug on his wrist, pulling him into the room behind you, and the two of you finally make it to sit on the end of his bed. He doesn’t make a move to lay down, his head lolling onto your shoulder with a contented sigh. You try desperately to ignore the chill that shoots down your spine when you feel his breath against your neck, when you feel the weight of his side pressed into yours. 

“You’ve gotta get changed, Seok.”

Seokmin shakes his head. “Too much effort.”

“Well I’m not dressing you for bed.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and then you can hear his sharp inhale against your neck as he says, “Will you undress me, then?” 

What the fuck?

You absolutely cannot do this. 

“Sorry,” he adds a moment later, his voice much quieter, and you can almost hear him second guessing himself.

You choose to ignore him for both of your benefits as you gently push his head up and off your shoulder. He whines but stands up, making his way over to his dresser. You avert your eyes quickly as you fall back onto his bed, but you’re not fast enough to miss him pulling his shirt off over his head. You squeeze your eyes shut, the image of his tan back and shoulders seared into the back of your eyelids.

You’ve been trying desperately not to dwell on any of Seokmin’s flirty little gestures or comments for a long time now. You’ve been friends for a while and it happens often when he’s drunk, which was difficult to handle at first — but manageable. The problem is that recently, he’s been teasing you while entirely sober, too. You wonder when he’d gained his confidence; you think it might have something to do with the way Soonyoung and Mingyu have been hyping him up at the gym. 

It’s subtle, and still very Seokmin, the way he goes about it. A little squeeze of your hand before he gets up to leave; a wink as he pays for your coffee; a compliment that catches you by surprise. You have no idea how to react to any of it because he’s just like that so effortlessly — so full of teasing remarks and kindness. It’s been shaking you to your core, and you wonder if he knows. On occasions that are few and far between, you manage to catch him off guard in return with a flirty remark. You cherish those moments. 

You wince as you replay the evening. Tonight, he’d been an absolute menace. And by that you mean he’d hardly left your side, brushing soft touches across your back and shoulders, grasping for your fingers when the group of you went anywhere. You know he didn’t even drink that much, so you can’t help but wonder why he’s being extra flirty tonight. 

Your breath and thoughts are promptly stolen from you with a whoosh as Seokmin sprawls on top of you without warning. You let out a groan at the sudden weight. 

“Ow,” you whine, and he just hums in response. 

“You’re really comfy,” he mumbles against your shoulder. He sounds shy again, a completely different person from the one you’d seen just moments before. You can feel your heartbeat pick up at the realization, at the thought of you being the one to make him feel shy. You momentarily forget about the pain you’re in when he adds, mumbling, “The comfiest.”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He nods, lips brushing against your skin as he hums. Neither of you speak for a few moments, and you find yourself holding your breath in the silence. You can feel him against every part of you, and you’re terrified that he’ll hear how fast your heart is beating with him this close.

“I think I’m more comfortable with you than anyone else.” He says the words so softly that it makes your head spin.

Oh. 

Your hand lifts on instinct to the hair at the back of his neck. You feel him still for a moment before he relaxes, and you let your fingers start to play with the strands. He sinks further into you with a sigh. You desperately don’t want to move, don’t want to break whatever is happening here — but it’s really starting to get a little hard to breathe. 

“Seokmin,” you try again softly, and this time he lifts his head to look at you. The breath is effectively knocked out of you when his eyes meet yours, soft and hesitant, and you swallow. “I don’t want to disturb you, and I know you want to show off that you’ve been working out… but you’re really heavy.” 

His eyes go so wide that you’d laugh if you weren’t in the position you’re in. “Shit! Sorry, oh my god.” He moves to push himself off of you in a panic, but you keep him from going too far with your arms around his neck. 

“I didn’t say I wanted you to let go,” comes out before you can stop it, and you watch Seokmin’s face switch from horrified to surprised to pleased, all in the span of ten seconds. Confident Seokmin is back, and you’re screwed. 

Because it only takes a second for his hands to slide around your back, another half a second to flip you over. Then you’re suddenly on top of him, pressed down against his chest as he beams up at you. “Does this work for you?” He smiles. “Works great for me.”

He’s flirting with you. 

On purpose. 

Sweet, shy Seokmin is flirting with you, looking you dead in the eyes as he does. 

“I wanted to play with your hair,” you finally manage in an attempt to tease back, and you know you’ve succeeded when Seokmin smiles so wide you wonder if it hurts. He lets his head fall back against the pillow, his hands squeezing against your lower back as he makes a show of getting comfortable.

“You may continue,” he finally says dramatically.

You roll your eyes, but the fond smile on your lips gives you away. It fades slightly as you stare down at him, and he gazes back, watching and waiting for you to make the next move. He’s so handsome, you think, all big brown eyes and soft touches, the only indication that he might be nervous seen in the way he swallows thickly in the silence. Your eyes travel across his face as your hand lifts to brush his hair back behind his ear, and you break eye contact as your finger trails down to gently play with the hair that curls just behind his ear. 

“Are you sober right now?”

Your question comes out timid. You can feel him look at you, as serious as ever, hands squeezing where they’re linked together against your back as he replies, “I only had two beers.” He waits for you to meet his eyes again before he adds, “I’m nervous, but I didn’t want to rely on liquid courage tonight. Not with you.” 

You can feel your heart skip a beat inside your chest. “What do you need the courage for?” 

He opens and closes his mouth for a moment, debating. Then he squeezes his eyes shut. “To tell you that I like you a lot and want to date you, mostly.”

You had kind of expected him to say something along those lines, based on your current predicament. 

Does that mean you were prepared for it? Absolutely not.

“Mostly?” Is all you can manage. 

“Also to tell you that you’re super hot and funny.” His eyes are still closed, eyebrows furrowed, and your hand moves to rest against his jaw.

“Seokmin.” He opens one eye, then two. You are so fond. “You’re super hot and funny, too. Also, yes.”

”Yes?” He repeats, and you nod.

”I want to date you, Seok. Yes.”

He blinks up at you, jaw slack, before he murmurs, “Holy shit.”

You can’t come up with an answer to that. So you do the next best thing: you lean down to capture his lips with yours. And you’re quick to learn that Seokmin is anything but shy when it comes to kissing you.