Let's make it Bounce!

“H–He’s gonna stay at our place?”

The logistics are a bit confusing to an outsider. The parents named their sons Chris-topher and Chris-tian, but no one ever calls them by their full names—they are both known as Chris in their respective circles, which seldom coincide anyway. And during the rare times they have to be in the same room, people discern the twins by shortening Christian into Chan. 

Because the older brother has asserted his dominance by being born one minute earlier, and claimed the exclusive rights to Chris.

“Yeah, but only for a few days until his apartment is repainted. It’ll be like I never left,” Chris launches his dimples at you. “I just didn’t want him to waste money on a hotel room, and he can keep you company until I return from my trip. Would that be okay?”

Goodie, WOULD IT?

It’s one of those “I swear it’s true, but I can’t prove it” things, which drives you fucking crazy. The younger one’s vibes are a bit… off, so to speak. He doesn’t smile; he just smirks. He doesn’t look; he eats you alive with his smoldering eyes, and it’s uncanny how it feels like he’s running his tongue all over your body when he just stares at you from across the room. 

And he stares at you a lot.

“Of course, baby. If that’s gonna put your mind at ease…” you reciprocate his sunset smile as if your chest isn’t actively tightening.

You don’t understand how these two men were wombmates raised by the very same family. It’s not like one was adopted, or the other was sent to a boarding school during his formative years. Same upbringing, same schools, same classrooms even, yet the blonde one is giving full Joe Goldberg whereas Christopher is literally the perfect guy you know. Kindest soul. An absolute gentleman. Rare species of a generous lover who makes you scream into the night.

Which is why you keep asking yourself, “What is life?” every time you cross paths with Chan at the Bang house on major holidays. 

To his credit, he’s not doing anything to warrant a formal complaint. At least not in front of people, so you spend half the time suspecting if things are happening for real or just in your head. It’s the way he looks at you that no one seems to notice. It’s the way he only ever talks to you when coincidentally no one is around you—running into you in the hallways, waiting to use the restroom after you, appearing in the kitchen when you’re picking up another bottle of wine to bring to the table.

And when he does…

“If I catch you looking at my lips one more time, I’m getting under that table and eating the shit out of your pussy. I’m warning you.”

Yet he whispers that lunacy so softly that your entire sense of reality distorts. He says it like he’s reciting a love poem about his soul-crushing longing for you, even punctuating it with a barely-there kiss on your ear. You hang onto that bottle of wine for dear life so as not to crash it into a million pieces and alert the household. They should stay blissfully unaware of the blasphemy taking place in the kitchen where the pleasant meal they are having was made with a lot of love.

And your mind has the hardest fucking time registering just how wrong this is because he looks exactly like the man you want to spend the rest of your life with!

Unfortunately for you, the confusion doesn’t stop at the Thanksgiving ambushes. He knows you like working during late a.m. hours, but he also knows damn well Chris might be sleeping right next to you.

Yet the texts he sends in the dead of the night…

Tian halfway through this gram of coke i remembered just how fucking beautiful you are and that im insanely in love with you

Of course you’ve thought about it. You’ve thought about talking to your boyfriend about his brother’s extremely inappropriate behavior that gives you extremely inappropriate butterflies, but seconds after your checkmarks go blue, the texts always disappear. No ‘Message deleted’ or anything; it’s like he’s never sent them in the first place. You’ve even tried screenshotting a few times as soon as you opened a text, just to prove to yourself that you’re not fucking hallucinating things, but all you’d get would be a black screen. 

HOW DOES HE EVEN DO THAT? 

What are you even going to say to Chris without solid evidence in your hands? Whatever you claim, Chan will just deny it, and you will look like the pick-me girl who thinks everyone in the room has the hots for her. 

Yet here you are, about to live under the same roof with the very man that makes you question everything you’ve ever known to be true.

At your boyfriend’s request!

“Welcome, Chr— I mean, Chan.”

“There’s only one of us here. You can call me Chris,” he faintly smirks as he enters through your front door. “That’s what everybody calls me anyway.”

“I think it would confuse me,” you politely smile at him, “so I’d rather stick to Chan if it’s okay.”

“You wouldn’t be confused if you just sat on my face,” he scoffs under his breath.

“What?”

“What?”

You’ve heard it. You’ve fucking heard it! Five seconds he’s been here, and it has already started. You might just have to walk around with a microphone to catch the shit he blurts out on tape, but you’re not even sure if the mic will actually record it. Fuck, he might just be a vampire of sorts, and maybe that’s why he cannot be captured on media in any shape or form!

You should definitely ask him to stand in front of a mirror just in case.

“What you said just now…” you point your finger at him with furrowed brows.

“I didn’t say anything,” he purses his lips, looking at you with slight concern as if to silently ask if you’re okay, then proceeds to carry his bag to the guest room. “Thank you for having me.”

And thus begins the unbearable heaviness of breathing the same air as Chan because it feels like you’re inhaling mercury.

You simply don’t know how to act around him. He looks so eerily identical to his brother that if he covers his hair under a beanie, you just cannot tell them apart. It really feels like you’re having dinner with Chris, and it makes you feel weirdly guilty. You should be able to discern your own boyfriend without leaning on a hair color. You share a bed with this man. You share a life with this man!

“Is there something on my face?” 

No, but you wish there were, and you wish it were something prominent. A freckle. A tattoo. Something. Maybe then you wouldn’t intensely stare at him while playing a spot-the-difference game all by yourself. 

“Nothing,” you shake your head as you chew on your last bite and reach for his empty plate. “If you’re finished with that…”

“I’ll help clear the table.”

All you do is stand next to each other while doing the dishes, and you just cannot figure out why you get this intense urge to touch yourself. Is it because he wears the same cologne as Chris? Is it because he wears the same chains as Chris? Is it because he dresses like his entire wardrobe is sponsored by Chrome Hearts?

Just… WHAT THE HELL IS IT?!

Thank fuck the phone rings before you could even think about doing something thoroughly and utterly stupid.

“Hey, baby! Just checking in,” Chris chirps on the phone. “How’s everything?”

“GREAT!” you uncontrollably scream into the receiver. “We just had dinner. How was the client meeting?” 

“Also great. Not to jinx it, but we’re sooo sealing the deal,” Chris brags, so much satisfaction dripping from his voice that you can practically see him grinning.

“Oh, we’re celebrating the shit out of it when you get back!” you congratulate him enthusiastically. “When are you coming home?” 

“In two days,” Chris responds, his voice suddenly coated with a different kind of contentment. “Did someone miss me?”

He wears that cheeky overcoat on his voice, but it still flares something in your loins. You head to your bedroom with fast steps and close the door, taking your clothes off lightning fast.

“I miss you a lot,” you put the call on speakerphone for full hand-ependence. “Like… miss you miss you.” 

“I miss you, too, angel,” he sighs longingly, his voice deliciously deeper. “God, I’d kill for a few licks from your pussy right now.”

THIS right there is fucking PROOF!

It doesn’t have anything to do with Chan. It never did in the first place because it’s just an optical illusion. If the man you’re in love with, the man whose children you want to have is projected right before your eyes, of course you’re going to react some type of way!

“And I’d kill to have you between my legs,” you sprawl on the bed more comfortably and start teasing your body. “God, it’s like you’ve been gone forever, baby. I need you bad.”

“Mm, how wet are you right now?”

“I’m soaking,” you breathily answer. “You’d slide right in.” 

“Oh fuck yeah, I would. Dip your fingers in there,” he starts listing his demands three. “Get your nipples wet for me, baby. Play with them.”

You close your eyes and do as he says, your fingers prodding your entrance to collect your slick. You slowly coat your nipples, lightly pinching them, imagining it’s Chris’ gentle bites.

“Are you touching yourself, too?” you ask.

“Uh huh…” 

“How hard are you, baby?” 

“Belly bulge-worthy. If I bent you over right now, no fucking way you’d be able to walk straight tomorrow,” he confesses through his heavy breathing. “But it doesn’t feel half as good as your pussy. God, how I wish you were on my lap right now.”

His voice carries a jillion kilowatts, but it’s so soothing. It really feels like he’s with you, whispering his unhinged desires into your ear in this bed that belongs to the two of you.

“What would you do to me?” 

“First, we make out. A lot,” he presses play on his imaginary sextape. “I kiss you deep, and you fucking drip all over me.”

“Mm, keep going,” you play with your breasts just like he wants. “Fuck, you should see this right now. My nipples are so hard, they are begging to be sucked on.” 

“Imagine me holding you. I kiss your neck first,” he speaks with a sultry smile tucked into his words. “The wet kind, just the way you like.”

And imagine, you do. You imagine his lips on your skin, covering you with his wetness. You imagine him being buried deep inside you. You imagine him making little love confessions in between his filthy words, making you giggle midfuck.

“Down to your collarbones… Then your tits… Kissing all over them first,” he lets out a big exhale. “Getting you so horny for me, you shudder when I take your nipples between my lips.”

“Fuck, Chris…”

It’s like you manifest him right next to you through sheer willpower. He paints you such vivid mental pictures that you actually shudder. You actually feel licked. It feels wet.

It feels… wet.

When you open your eyes, the blond demon stares at you like your government-assigned incubus, sucking on your nipples. You inadvertently gasp when you realize that wasn’t a figment of your imagination, and he immediately gestures shush, then keeps licking as if everything’s alright with the universe. And now you’re fucking losing it because it’s…

It’s technically Chris!

“This isn’t enough, baby,” he groans on the other end. “God, I need to fuck your face. I need to put your pussy in my mouth.”

Chan lets go of your breasts and slithers down, kissing his way down to your crotch. You hold your breath as you watch him wrap his arms around your thighs, and when he hits that first lick…

…you WHINE.

“Feels good, yeah? Getting your pretty cunt licked,” Chris speaks like he’s clenching his teeth. “Feel me slurping on that clit… Licking into your oozing hole… Let me fuck that tight little hole with my tongue…”

And that’s exactly what happens.

Chris declares his wishes, and they come true one by one. Chan slurps on your clit as quietly as possible, but you can still hear the wet sounds. He dips his tongue into your entrance, licking you like your arousal is his sole supply of water, then flattens his tongue and buries his face deeper into you. You cannot believe what you’re seeing. This just can’t be real. Nope, you fell asleep in front of the TV, and your confusions as of late are manifesting in your dreams as a porn clip under the “Cheating” category.

“Fuck I need you to ride my face,” Chris’ breathing turns labored on the phone. “Ride my face, baby. Use me. Get what you need from your man.”

Chan stops his relentless licking, extremely proud of how he covered half his face in your slick. He removes his shirt and climbs up right next to you, guiding you to get on your knees and straddle his face. It’s as if you have no willpower whatsoever. You blindly follow your lust, living Chris’ fantasies in live action despite the questionable means.

“Wish I could keep kissing you everywhere,” he sighs. “Hold you in my arms while drowning in your slick, but keep kissing you. Kiss your thighs. Kiss your chest. Kiss your neck…”

“Kiss my neck, Chris…” you moan, holding onto the headboard for dear life.

A shockwave passes through your body when the disconnection tone is followed by an actual kiss on your neck. When you turn around, Chris doesn’t give you a chance to question reality and takes your lips within his, kissing you deep, deep, deep…

But something feels… out of the ordinary. 

“You… kiss different,” you hazily speak when he pulls back.

“I do?” he smiles, pulling you off of Chan and closer to himself. “How so?”

“You never bite when you kiss,” you point out.

“Or,” Chan sneaks behind you, “that’s how he always kisses.”

He holds your chin and turns your face to himself, kissing you the deepest you’ve ever been kissed, and you’re entirely aghast. THIS is the pair of lips you are used to, but when you open your eyes, there is a severe mismatch between what you see and what you feel.

“Ch–Chris?” you hesitantly ask.

“You finally noticed,” he smiles.

“Wha—? Ho—? Y–Your hair…”

“Does it look good on me?” 

You turn and look at the dark-haired man. He looks like Chris, but feels entirely different. It’s as if your actual boyfriend is possessed by a certain demon because you can clearly see a drop of something sinister in those eyes.

“But… you were so convincing on the phone!” you protest.

“When are you going to get this?” Chan gently caresses your cheek. “We are one and the same.”

“Don’t think, baby,” Chris wraps his arms around your waist, quietly speaking into your ear. “Just let this happen.”

Chan moves closer and kisses you, but this time he doesn’t bite. He moves softer than the clouds, wetter than the ocean, and deeper than an abyss, exactly the way Chris normally moves. The intensity amplifies when your man starts composing an obscene love poem about his soul-crushing longing for you on your neck with his lips. Your entire sense of reality distorts. 

You can’t tell who is who or what anything is anymore.

“Tell me you love me, too,” Chan pleads, uncharacteristically sad eyes begging you. “For years I’ve been burning for you. Let me hear it just once.”

“Tell him, baby,” Chris encourages you, running his fingers through your hair. “He has suffered long enough.”

Suffered?

This has to be a dream, right? You look into Chan’s eyes, and one second traces of sinister are glowing neon crimson in there, and they are replaced with indescribable longing in the next. Then you look at your man, and his endlessly comforting eyes have the tiniest blotch of danger in them, something you’ve never ever seen before. When the confusion becomes too much, you say fuck it to everything. You don’t think.

You just let it happen.

“I love you, Chan,” you grant him his wish.

For the first time ever, he doesn’t smirk. He smiles at you so brightly that your chest sizzles. He dives in for another kiss as Chris lays you down, spreading your legs wide.

“Ready for your first taste?” he asks Chan, flashing the signature smirk bespoke to the younger one. He spreads your pussy for him, biting his lips hard at the sight. “Look at this. Sooo fucking wet, you could use it as sustenance for a week.”

Chan thickly gulps, his breathing suddenly stuttering. He slowly moves between your legs as if he’s scared, looking up at you with huge eyes like a puppy as if to ask ‘Can I please?’ The drastic change in demeanor gives you whiplash. It’s like they can swap their personalities on cue. And maybe the insanity has rubbed off on you along the way. 

Or maybe it was sexually transmitted all along, who knows?

“Have at it, fucking psycho,” you snicker.

He makes your chest sizzle again with that bright smile and traps your clit between his plush lips, happily munching away. Chris kisses all over your body, astral projecting just listening to your delightful sounds of pleasure. It makes him hungrier. It makes him greedier. He suddenly feels this intense urge to diminish you into a pile of whimpering mess, then snort the shit out of you to experience the highest high of his life.

“Go lower,” Chris urges Chan. “I want a taste, too.”

As Chan moves down to your entrance, Chris takes over clit duties, lovingly kissing and licking you. He puts one of your hands on Chan’s head and holds the other within his, tightly intertwining his fingers with yours like he wants to anchor you to himself. You look down, and it’s like you’re seeing double. The same voice that sounds like an echo. The same face that looks like a carbon copy. The same texture of skin under your fingertips. The heavy breathing. The relentless hunger. The wet sounds growing louder and louder and louder. 

The fire slowly smoldering within you is suddenly fueled by two tongues gliding on your most sensitive spots, turning it into a river of molten lava that demolishes everything standing in its path. 

“Oh, fuck, I’m— God, yes. Yes, just like that. Like that, oh my god I’m cumming!!!”

The finish line is located so high that it feels like a free fall from Everest. Your climax hits like a thousand car crashes, casualties everywhere like a doomsday cosplay, and you watch yourself get out of your own body. If there were a licensed medical practitioner around, they would pronounce you dead for at least about thirty seconds. 

The wetness reluctantly retreats when you start thrashing with overstimulation. You have ruined your sheets, and the two men seem to notice, judging by the extremely proud looks on their faces. Chan gets on his knees and gives his cock a few pumps, then carefully presses against your soaked entrance. 

“Fuck, I don’t think I’m gonna last,” he stupidly grins to himself, his eyes closed. 

You kinda hope that he doesn’t. It would give you some taunt material for everything he’s put you through over the years. As he slowly sinks in with deep breaths, Chris keeps softly kissing your clit, relishing the way you squirm.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, baby,” he kisses your wrist. “It’s going to feel really good in just a second.”

Your swollen walls swallow Chan whole, and his entire resolve goes out the window. He rams himself into you as hard as he can, incredulous how it can feel like you’re sucking his cock when he’s buried deep inside you. He knows he’s going to blow in maybe ten seconds if he keeps moving that fast, but he can’t help it. He can’t fucking help how incredible it feels inside you. He can’t help sinking his fingers deep into your flesh, moaning your name over and over again, surrendering his soul to you one clench at a time. 

But what’s interesting is that something about the way he fucks feels… 

…familiar. 

“Look at me.” 

He opens his eyes and looks at you when you grab onto his wrists, slowing way down to calm himself.

“This isn’t the first time we’re fucking, is it?” you ask with a lopsided grin. 

The brothers share a look that leaves no room for doubt that they are clearly busted. You expect a stern denial, but it never comes. 

If anything, you hear a direct confession instead. 

“N–No, but… fuck… but l–look how you’re stretching around my cock… See how it’s a perfect fit?” Chan pants. “We were made for each other.”

“We were made for each other. All of us,” Chris repeats, climbing right next to you, and lovingly looks into your eyes. “We love you, baby. Always have.”

“And always will,” Chan adds. 

Chris pulls you into a kiss as Chan runs faster to the finish line. You suddenly feel this huge wave of emotion wash over you. You don’t know what it is, but it sure as fuck isn’t just lust, and when Chan spills inside you with an “I love you” that rips from the depths of his throat, it cements what you’ve been suspecting all along but could never admit even to yourself.

Tonight, you find out you are indeed in love with two men.

“Tired, baby?” Chris plays with your hair, a fond smile on his face, while Chan catches his breath on your chest. 

“Overwhelmed,” you answer with your eyes closed, indeed tired but infinitely satisfied. “It’s… a lot to take in.” 

“It’s okay,” he kisses your forehead. “We always have tomorrow.”

“I just need a few minutes of shuteye,” you kiss his hand. “Then I’m sucking your soul out of you.” 

You let him bury his face in the crook of your neck and keep caressing Chan’s hair on your chest. A very pleasant fatigue envelops you as you listen to the soft breathing melting into heartbeats slowing down. You think about what Chan said to you earlier. You’ve always thought you know the man closest to you, mind and heart alike, but maybe you haven’t known him at all. Strangely enough, it doesn’t unsettle you. There are two bodies tangled up with you in this bed, but even though the suffixes may be different, they are one and the same.

They are just…

Chris.

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「© 2026, cb97percent · No translations, rewrites, or reposts permitted」

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Bonus:

You grunted in response, collapsing into one of the barstools like you’d been dramatically wronged by the concept of morning itself.

Chan chuckled, already reaching for a mug. “Coffee?”

“You’re my favorite person in the world,” you mumbled, cheek squished against the counter.

“I know,” he said with a grin, setting the coffee down in front of you with that same quiet care he always gave you. “Drink up. You’ve got a shoot today, yeah?”

“Mmm.” You barely nodded. “No energy.”

“You say that every morning. And then you post ten stories looking like a literal angel.”

“Because I am an angel. Just a tired one.”

He shook his head fondly, walking around the counter and tugging lightly at the hood you had up. “You could’ve worn your own clothes to bed, you know.”

“But yours smell better.”

That earned you a half-smirk and a soft pat on the head. “Fair.”

It had been four years since you moved in. What was supposed to be a temporary arrangement; a few weeks to get your life together after cutting ties with your parents, turned into an unshakable routine. A shared home. A rhythm. Chan never pushed, never questioned your decision to stay, not even after he offered to set you up in your own place. A luxury penthouse. Any neighborhood, any view. All you had to do was ask.

But why would you leave? You had everything here. Your safe place. Your comfort. Your best friend who treated you like you hung the moon.

Chan made sure you never lifted a finger unless you wanted to. New car? Done. Spa weekend? Booked. Your favorite snacks flown in from another country? He’d find a way. And when the world got too loud, too cruel, too exhausting—he was there, holding space for you, letting you just be.

You never had to earn his affection. It was freely given, infinite and warm. And never once did you see the sharp edges of his temper directed your way. He could be terrifying when provoked; intense, commanding, even explosive in his rare moments of fury, but with you, it was different. Always gentle. Always soft.

“You want me to drive you today?” he asked casually, taking a sip of his shake.

You blinked at him over your coffee mug. “Don’t you have meetings?”

“Pushed ‘em.”

“You didn’t have to—”

He raised an eyebrow.

You shut up.

Because of course he did. That was just Chan. No matter how much you insisted he didn’t need to baby you, he always would. And deep down, you didn’t really want him to stop.

“Thanks,” you said quietly.

He leaned down and kissed the top of your head. “Anytime baby girl.”

<><><>

The next morning, you danced around the kitchen like you always did on pure instinct, pulling open drawers, prepping ingredients, making enough breakfast for two without even asking. Chan tried to stop you every time. He could afford a chef. He had one on call. But you never listened. This was your thing.

“You know I can make my own eggs,” he said from behind you.

“No, you can’t,” you replied easily, tossing a glance over your shoulder. “You burn eggs. It’s a weird talent.”

“That happened once.”

“Mmhmm.”

He didn’t argue after that, just leaned against the counter and watched you move. You weren’t dressed yet, still in that hoodie he liked seeing on you more than he’d admit, hair messy, face bare. Comfortable. Real. This was what his mornings had become: you humming under your breath, feeding him like it was your mission in life, and making the house feel like a home instead of a museum of expensive things.

Chan didn’t need much. He didn’t ask for much. But you noticed everything. The way his shoulders tightened after late-night calls with his team. How his jaw clenched when he was overwhelmed. How even on his best days, he carried this quiet heaviness like something he couldn’t shake.

So you filled in the spaces.

You did his laundry, folding each item with absurd care. You stocked his favorite snacks, kept his vitamins in a tiny container by the sink, laid out his hoodies when you knew he’d had a long day and just wanted something soft. You never said you were doing it for him, but he wasn’t stupid. He saw it. Felt it. And maybe that was why he never asked you to leave.

Because you were his peace.

You set a plate down in front of him with a satisfied little sigh, then went back for your own. “Eat, you’ve got stuff to do.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted you with his fork.

He had just taken his first bite when your phone lit up on the counter beside him. His eyes flicked toward it casually, and something about the name flashing across the screen made his brow twitch.

He didn’t say anything, but you noticed. Of course you did.

You reached for the phone and stared at the name.

Eli.

You hadn’t spoken to him in over a year. Not since you blocked his number and told him to stay the hell out of your life.

Your stomach turned.

You didn’t answer. Just locked the screen and tossed the phone aside like it didn’t matter.

Chan watched you closely, chewing slower. “You good?”

“Yeah.” You gave him a quick smile. “Just a ghost.”

His jaw tensed.

He didn’t push you. Not yet. But you could feel the shift in the air—like something had cracked just slightly. Like the bubble you and Chan had built so carefully around yourselves had caught a whisper of the outside world trying to crawl back in.

You didn’t mean to flinch when Chan spoke.

“You gonna block him again?”

It wasn’t the question itself—it was the way his voice sounded when he asked it. Flat. Too calm. Like the kind of calm that only came before a storm.

You kept your back to him, rinsing the last plate and placing it carefully in the drying rack. “Yeah. I mean, I already had him blocked. He must’ve used a new number.”

Silence.

Then, “Persistent.”

You dried your hands slowly, pretending the slight tremble wasn’t real. “He’s not important.”

“He used to be.”

That one hit harder than you expected. You turned to face him, brows pulling together slightly. “You mad at me?”

His expression didn’t shift much, but his jaw moved—tight, clenched.

“No,” he said almost instantly, voice lower. “Never at you.”

But there was something in his eyes.

You didn’t see it often, well atleast not directed at you. Not ever, actually. You’d seen Chan angry before. In business meetings, in defense of someone he loved, once even on the phone with a producer who had crossed the line. But never like this. Not standing in front of you. Not burning behind his stare like that.

You didn’t know what to do with it.

So you just nodded, like that made it all okay, and turned back to finish wiping the counter. Your hands moved on autopilot, scrubbing the same spot twice.

And then, quieter—deadly quiet—you heard him speak again behind you.

“Don’t answer him again.”

You didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. Of course you wouldn’t. Of course.

But Chan wasn’t done.

“Ever,” he said, voice dropping further. “Or I swear to God—”

He cut himself off.

You looked at him then, really looked. His fingers were white-knuckled around the counter’s edge. His breathing had slowed into something controlled. Too controlled.

And even then, even now, your first instinct wasn’t fear. It wasn’t confusion.

It was to calm him down.

Without a word, you stepped closer and reached for him. Your arms circled his waist like it was nothing—like you hadn’t just seen a glimpse of something primal behind his usually warm eyes. You laid your cheek against his chest, right over his heartbeat.

“I won’t,” you whispered. “I promise.”

He didn’t move at first. Didn’t even breathe.

Then you felt it—his shoulders sinking, that tension leaking out like someone had pulled the plug. His arms came around you, pulling you in, hands splaying wide across your back like he was scared you’d disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough.

“I just—” His voice cracked slightly. “I can’t stand the thought of him near you again. Not after everything.”

“I know.” You pressed your lips to his chest, right where his heart thudded. “He won’t get near me. Not while I have you.”

That was the truth. You didn’t even think about it anymore—how natural it felt to belong here, in his arms, in his home. How much of your life revolved around this man, this space, this rhythm. You didn’t care about penthouses or privacy. You didn’t need freedom when you had this.

Because Chan was your home. And more than that—you were his.

“Don’t forget your water bottle,” you called out, tossing it across the living room.

Chan caught it one-handed like the athlete he always pretended he wasn’t, but the smug grin that followed gave him away. “You just wanna keep me hydrated so I live long enough to keep spoiling you.”

You gave him a look. “Duh.”

He laughed, slinging the strap of his gym bag over one shoulder. He’d been dragging his feet all morning—pretending he was gonna leave, then circling back to ask dumb things like “Do we have any more peanut butter?” or “Should I shave today or keep the scruff?”

Now he was hovering by the front door, sneakers half on, clearly stalling again.

“You gonna go, or do I have to call the trainer myself and tell him you’re scared of cardio?”

“Rude,” he muttered, but he didn’t move. Just eyed you for a moment.

You were back in the kitchen, wiping the counter down for the second time that morning. Another instinct. Another way to make sure his space felt good, clean, safe. You didn’t think about it—you just did it. You always had.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked suddenly.

You looked up. He wasn’t asking like earlier. This time, his voice was softer. Less fury, more concern.

You rolled your eyes with a little smile. “Chan. I blocked him. It’s done.”

He nodded. “Still wanna know how he got a new number. Motherfucker’s like a roach.”

You laughed. “Maybe he’s a fan of yours and saw your name in my contacts. Thought you’d forgotten about him.”

Chan’s expression darkened just slightly.

“I didn’t forget. Told him what I’d do if he reached out again.” He didn’t say it like a threat. It was a statement. Calm. Dead serious.

You blinked. “Wait—you talked to him?”

Chan shrugged, casual as hell. “Last time he called you. I answered instead.”

Your eyes widened. “When was this?!”

“Few years ago,” he said, grabbing his keys off the hook. “Told him to disappear. Guess he forgot.”

You stood there, towel in hand, heart thumping for no good reason. Not scared. Not upset. Just… a little stunned.

“Chan.”

“Hm?”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You were already going through enough.” He looked at you like it was the easiest decision in the world. “Didn’t want to stress you out.”

You tossed the towel at him. “You terrifying, overgrown guard dog.”

He dodged it and smirked. “Someone’s gotta scare the vermin away.”

You walked over and poked him in the chest. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“So lucky,” he drawled, catching your finger and tugging you just slightly closer.

There it was again—that quiet intensity. Not romantic. Not lustful. Just… full. You filled his world, and he didn’t know how to hide it anymore.

You leaned in and kissed his cheek, quick and easy like always. “Go train, old man.”

Chan huffed a laugh and finally turned to leave, but before he stepped out, he paused and said over his shoulder:

“If he texts again, you tell me. No matter what.”

“I will,” you promised.

Because you knew he meant it. And maybe that was why the idea of Eli crawling back didn’t scare you anymore.

Not when you had Chan.

<><><>

That evening started like any other movie night. You padded into the private cinema room wearing one of Chan’s oversized hoodies—soft, warm, and swallowed in the scent of him—because you always did. His cologne clung to the cotton, familiar and comforting, and it made you feel closer to him. Closer than you probably should have.

He was already sunk deep into one of the reclining chairs, phone in hand, a bowl of snacks resting lazily on his lap. He looked up and smiled when you walked in, like nothing made him happier than just seeing you. Like you were all he needed to end the day right.

You curled up beside him without a word, folding into the crook of his side like you belonged there. His arm lifted automatically, welcoming you into his warmth. It wasn’t weird. This was just what you two did.

But it felt different tonight.

You weren’t sure if it was the way his hand dropped to your bare thigh beneath the blanket, fingers drawing mindless shapes against your skin—or the way your own hand somehow found his chest, fingers brushing softly, tracing the shape of his collarbone like you had every right.

You didn’t mean to kiss him.

Not on the mouth, of course. That’d be crazy.

But you’d always been touchy with him, hadn’t you? Just little things. Kisses to his shoulder when he carried you to bed, to his jaw when he bought you something ridiculously expensive just because he felt like it. So why should tonight be different?

Your lips pressed gently to the curve of his bicep, then again, just higher. He tensed slightly beneath you, but he didn’t say a word. He didn’t stop you.

Instead, his fingers slipped up under the hem of the hoodie, splaying across the small of your back—warm, possessive.

You didn’t even realize how close you’d gotten until you were practically on his lap. The movie blurred in the background, completely irrelevant.

You pressed another kiss to his shoulder. Then another, slow and deliberate. He turned his head toward you, breathing heavier now, eyes hooded.

“Baby,” he said softly.

You froze. “What?”

His hand tangled in your hair, gently tugging you back just enough to look in your eyes. His thumb brushed your cheek like he couldn’t help himself.

“You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Your heart skipped. But you smiled, trying to play it off. “I was just thanking you. You’re comfy.”

“I’m serious.” His gaze dropped to your lips. “You keep doing stuff like this and one day, I’m not gonna be able to stop myself.”

That hit you like a match to gasoline. You swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of how heavy the air had become between you.

But still… you didn’t pull away.

And he didn’t let you go.

<><><>

You were already in a good mood when he came home, but the shopping bags in his hand? That turned it into ecstasy.

“Wait—are those from Dior?” you gasped, nearly tripping over yourself as he placed them casually on the marble kitchen island like he’d just come back from buying groceries.

Chan didn’t even look fazed. “Got bored waiting for a meeting to end, so I stopped by the boutique. Thought you’d like some of this.”

“Some?” you echoed, your voice high-pitched as you tore into the first bag, a squeal leaving your lips when you found a silky black slip dress folded like a secret inside tissue paper. “Channie, are you kidding?”

“Do I ever kid?” he smirked, walking past you, casually undoing his watch and setting it beside the sink. “Try it on. The others too.”

There were others.

Gucci. Prada. Cartier.

And you? You were living. Floating. Glowing. Letting him spoil you was second nature by now, but nights like this reminded you—he didn’t just give you luxury. He wrapped you in it.

“You’re such a menace,” you muttered, eyes sparkling as you slipped behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist. “You’re gonna ruin me for everyone else.”

He glanced down at you with that lazy smile, the kind that curled slow and deep. “That’s the point, sweetheart.”

You wore the Dior slip dress that same night to the rooftop party Chan reluctantly agreed to attend with you. It fit like it had been painted on, soft and glossy, barely brushing your mid-thigh, your legs on full display in the matching Louboutin's he also got you.

“Baby,” he said when you walked out of your room, one brow raised, voice a little tight. “You’re not serious.”

You twirled for him with a smirk. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He stared. Stared like he was trying to burn it into memory. “Do not disappear from my sight tonight.”

<><><>

You were tipsy. Not sloppy—just glowy, warm in the chest, your limbs loose and fluid with every bass-thumping beat. The rooftop was packed, the skyline glittering behind you like a movie set, and your dress—courtesy of Chan’s impromptu Dior shopping spree—sparkled just as hard.

He’d barely looked at you when he handed it over earlier that night, like it wasn’t several thousand dollars of backless silk. “Wear it if you want,” he’d said casually, as if it were groceries.

You’d worn it.

Now you were dancing. And not just dancing—moving like you had something to prove. Letting your hips roll too slow. Letting a stranger rest his hands too low. Your smile too wide. Your laugh too sweet.

You felt Chan’s eyes on you before you even turned.

He was stalking through the crowd like something out of a damn K-drama, black button-down unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves shoved up, eyes locked on you. You barely had a second to giggle before his hand was wrapping tight around your wrist.

“Outside. Now.”

You squeaked. “Channie, I’m just—”

“I said now.”

Oh. He was pissed.

You let him pull you off the floor, across the rooftop to a shadowed corner near the stairs where the music was distant and no one could hear him grinding his teeth.

“Are you insane?” he snapped, dropping your wrist only to press both hands to his hips like he had to physically restrain himself from pacing. “You don’t let strangers touch you like that. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I looked hot,” you said, crossing your arms—half-defensive, half-drunk. “And it was just a dance.”

He turned to you slowly, brows raised. “Just a dance? Do you see yourself right now?”

You did. You looked like luxury and trouble. And maybe you leaned into that just a little more.

“So what if I had a little fun?” you said sweetly, stepping into his space. “You dragged me out just to scold me like some angry boyfriend?”

“I’m not your boyfriend,” he ground out, jaw ticking.

“No. But you act like it.”

That shut him up.

He stared at you, unreadable. Furious, maybe. Or barely hanging on.

So naturally, you kept going.

You twirled around, your dress fluttering around your thighs, swaying again just a little too close, dragging your hands slowly up his chest—pure mischief. “You shouldn’t buy me pretty things if you don’t want people to stare, Channie.”

His hand caught your wrist again—tighter this time.

“You’re really pushing it tonight.”

“I know.” You smiled up at him. “You’ll still let me go home with you though, right?”

His nostrils flared. “You live with me.”

“Exactly.” You beamed. “Now can we go back to the party? Or are you gonna keep playing possessive best friend in the dark?”

You barely had time to blink before he spun you, gently but firmly pinning you to the railing behind you, just inches from his chest. He leaned in close, voice low and dangerous in your ear.

“You don’t want to see what real possessive looks like, baby.”

Your stomach dropped—heat rushing everywhere.

But he stepped back a second later like nothing happened, casually running a hand through his hair.

“Go ahead,” he said, shrugging like his entire body hadn’t just radiated barely-contained rage. “Go dance. But if another guy touches you—don’t expect me to be this nice.”

And then he walked off, leaving you pressed to the railing with your heart pounding, legs weak, and absolutely no idea what game you were playing anymore.

You caught up to him at the bar again—he’d tried to disappear into the crowd, tried to drown his irritation in another glass of whiskey, but you were too far gone and way too stubborn to let him off the hook that easy.

“Chan,” you whined, grabbing his arm and tugging like a bratty little siren, “you ruined my dance.”

“I saved your ass,” he muttered, not even looking at you.

“You owe me.”

He glanced over finally, eyes sharp but dark under the club lights. “Don’t push it.”

You smiled sweetly. Fake as hell. “Just one dance.”

“No.”

You dragged him anyway.

He let you.

Let you guide him right into the dim VIP corner—where the bass was deeper, the lights darker, and the crowd less concerned with what anyone else was doing.

The second the music shifted—low and filthy—you turned, pressed your back to his chest, and rolled your hips into him like you’d done it a thousand times.

Chan froze.

Dead silent.

You were smiling to yourself, just drunk enough to be shameless, just bratty enough to know you were pushing every single one of his buttons.

You grabbed his hands and placed them on your waist, forcing him to hold you as your ass moved in slow, hypnotic circles, rubbing right against him in time with the beat.

“Don’t you dare let go,” you teased over your shoulder.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath.

You dipped lower, grinding harder, and heard the way his breath hitched behind you.

He wasn’t dancing. Not really.

He was just… enduring.

And you were loving every second of it.

Your fingers slid up his forearm, dragging along the veins you knew always popped when he was tense. You leaned back into him, head brushing his shoulder as your hips kept moving, smooth and slow and deliberate.

“Thought you didn’t want weirdos touching me, Channie,” you said, faux-innocent, breathless from the rhythm. “So dance with me.”

“You call this dancing?” he growled into your ear.

You arched your back, hands in your hair now, dress hiking up just enough to flash more thigh than he’d probably ever seen on you.

“Mmm, yeah,” you moaned softly, throwing it back again—slow, deep, filthy.

He cursed under his breath.

His fingers flexed around your waist, digging in just a little tighter. You were dizzy with music, heat, and alcohol—but fully aware of the way he was breathing now. Shaky. Unsteady.

You had him.

He wasn’t just watching you anymore—he was feeling you.

Everything about the moment was screaming wrong—you were best friends, and this wasn’t how best friends danced—but still, he didn’t stop you.

Didn’t step away.

Didn’t tell you to quit.

He just held on tighter… and let you work.

When the bass dropped again. Darker now. Slower and even dirtier. You didn’t hesitate.

One arm reached back, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck while your other hand guided his—down your stomach, over your hips, until both his palms were molded around you like you were made for him.

You leaned back into him, ass pressing right up where he’d been trying not to feel you—where the thin fabric of your dress was the only thing separating you from him—and you moved.

Dragged. Rolled. Grinded.

Like you didn’t care how many red lines you were crossing.

“Y/N—” he warned, voice raw, lips grazing the shell of your ear, “Behave.”

You didn’t.

You let his hands roam further, teasing his fingers up toward your waist—up your ribs—then dragging one dangerously close to the underside of your breast.

He flinched like you’d shocked him, like your skin was on fire.

And maybe it was.

You turned your head, brushing your lips across his jaw, not quite kissing, just lingering.

“You’re not stopping me,” you whispered.

He growled.

Actually growled.

His grip on your waist tightened, fingers sinking into your sides like he was trying to anchor himself to reality—like your body grinding against him, soft and sinful, wasn’t about to unravel every last thread of his control.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” he grit out.

“So stop me,” you whispered, shifting your hips again—slow and deliberate—dragging yourself up his thigh like a stripclub fantasy gone rogue.

One of your hands slid down to his again, guiding it back to your waist, but lower this time—so low his fingers brushed the curve of your ass and you swore you felt his whole body tense behind you.

You smirked.

Chan didn’t find it funny. He was seething.

His jaw clenched so hard you could feel it brush against your temple, and his voice when it came was low, strained, and barely human:

“Y/N, if you don’t stop…”

But he didn’t finish the sentence. Because he didn’t know what would happen if you didn’t. And neither did you.

You just kept moving.

The second your ass arched back again—grinding slow, sultry, shameless—Chan’s grip locked on your waist like a vice.

“Enough.”

You didn’t get the chance to blink before he spun you around, one hand wrapping around your wrist, the other coming to the small of your back, steering you through the crowd like he didn’t give a damn who saw.

You giggled.

He didn’t.

Not even close.

“Chan, where’re we goin’?” you asked, voice slurring just enough to make it sound like a song.

He didn’t answer. Not really.

“Home.”

One word. Clipped and dangerous. And fuck, he was walking like a man on the edge—shoulders squared, jaw clenched, muscles rippling with every step while you were practically tripping over your heels trying to keep up, your drunk giggles only making him grip you tighter.

Like your laughter was gasoline on a flame.

“You’re mad,” you teased, leaning your weight into him like deadweight.

“I’m furious.”

That made you giggle harder.

He didn’t stop until he’d yanked the passenger side door open and dropped you in the seat like you weighed nothing. Slammed the door. Rounded the car with the same heat in his steps. He slid into the driver’s side, slammed that door, and his knuckles went white around the steering wheel.

You turned to him with a cheeky smile, tugging on his sleeve.

“You’re not really mad.”

He didn’t even look at you.

“Put your seatbelt on.”

“Why? You afraid I’ll fall into your lap again?”

He finally looked at you—and that look?

Could’ve melted diamonds.

“You think this is funny?”

The laugh you gave him was light, teasing. “A little.”

Chan shifted, arm coming up to rest behind your seat, so he was fully turned toward you. His voice dropped—low, firm, the kind of tone he only used when you were being a real pain in the ass.

“You don’t get it, do you? You almost made me cross a line in there.”

You blinked, still a little tipsy, still smiling. “What line?”

His eyes burned into yours.

“The one where I stop being your best friend and start being the guy who ruins you.”

That wiped the smile right off your lips.

You sat back in the seat, heart kicking, suddenly feeling the weight of the moment settle over your skin like static.

Chan turned away, facing forward again.

“You’re gonna sleep it off. We’ll talk tomorrow. And you’re gonna listen, for once. Because you don’t get to keep pushing me like this and acting like it’s cute.”

Silence.

“Maybe I spoilt you too much,” he muttered, shifting into gear. “Cos clearly, you don’t like to fuckin’ listen.”

And just like that, he drove off—leaving the music, the crowd, and the heat of temptation burning behind you.

<><><>

Your head was pounding.

Throbbing, actually.

Like someone had taken a bass speaker and shoved it directly into your brain. You groaned as you rolled onto your back, blinking up at the ceiling in confusion.

…This wasn’t your bed.

Wait. Yes, it was.

But why were you in his shirt? And why did you have glitter on your thighs?

Oh no.

You sat up slowly, spotting the water and ibuprofen on your nightstand—placed there no doubt by one incredibly annoyed but still annoyingly sweet man. The man whose footsteps you now heard approaching from the hallway.

You flinched at the sound. He was stomping.

“Someone’s heavy-footed this morning,” you muttered.

Chan stepped into the doorway with a blank stare and a mug in his hand. The look on his face? That one he reserved for when you did something so wildly irritating he couldn’t even find the words yet.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

You offered him a sheepish smile. “…Did I do something?”

He just stared.

“Chan?”

He placed the mug on your nightstand with a bit too much force.

“You don’t remember?”

You blinked up at him with your most innocent expression. “I mean… I remember the party? The rooftop? I think I danced a little?”

“A little,” he repeated, deadpan. “You grinded on me. In the corner. Like it was a fucking stripclub. Like we weren’t best friends. Like I wasn’t five seconds from hauling you over my shoulder and taking you home.”

Your cheeks flushed hot. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

You cleared your throat, unable to stop the sheepish grin creeping in. “Did I look good though?”

Chan’s face did something strange. Like he short-circuited. “Are you—? What?”

“I mean,” you teased, poking at him now because why not, “was I sexy? Did I make your heart race? Or was it just embarrassing and sad?”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Just answer the question.”

Chan ran a hand over his face like he was praying for patience. “That’s not the point.”

“But did you like it?”

Silence. His stare burned holes into you.

You leaned back against the headboard with a slow smirk, hugging your knees to your chest. “You’re mad and flustered. That’s a good sign.”

Chan tilted his head, voice low.

“Do you really wanna know how it felt?”

You nodded way too fast. “I do.”

He leaned down, eyes locked on yours, one hand braced beside your head on the headboard.

“It felt like temptation.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t blink. “It felt like you knew exactly what you were doing, and you wanted to see just how far you could push me. And it felt like if I hadn’t dragged you out of there, I’d be doing things to you we couldn’t take back.”

You stared up at him, mouth parting in surprise.

Then you whispered, “…Shit.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Shit.”

You blinked once. Twice.

“…Still kinda flattered though.”

Chan groaned and pulled away, heading for the door again.

“You’re not allowed to drink for at least a month. Minimum.”

“Chan, don’t be like that—”

“A month.” he repeated, disappearing down the hall.

You flopped back into your pillows, heart still racing. A grin slowly crept over your lips.

Damn. Maybe you did get carried away.

<><><>

You were in the zone. Like, completely tuned out, bopping your head to the music in your ears as you folded Chan’s fresh laundry on his bed. Your hips swayed with every beat; every little spin you gave the shirt in your hands before laying it down neatly beside the others.

Your little frilly shorts fluttered with every movement, riding higher each time you reached or twisted or bent. But you didn’t notice. You were too busy humming along to your playlist and tossing socks into a neat pile.

The door had been left cracked open.

And Chan had come home earlier than you realized.

He paused when he saw you from the hallway—his girl, his best friend, in his bedroom, dressed in that matching little cotton set that barely counted as clothing. The fabric on your shorts stretched and hugged the soft curve of your ass as you bent over to tuck the edges of his sheets into place, clearly trying to finish making the bed for him.

His lips parted slightly. A breath caught in his throat.

He was supposed to head to his studio.

But then you wiggled your hips to the beat—innocent, playful—and Chan’s thoughts scattered like smoke.

Something possessed him.

Next thing you knew, you felt a presence behind you.

A firm, warm grip closed around your ass, fingers spreading possessively over the curve.

You jumped, yanking a single AirPod out with a startled gasp, only to spin around and find Chan.

Standing behind you. Wide-eyed. Frozen.

“Oh—fuck,” he blurted, jerking his hand back like it burned him. “Shit, I didn’t mean to—fuck, I didn’t even think—”

You blinked up at him, heart thudding. But honestly? Not because you were mad.

Your lips curved, and you shrugged softly. “It’s okay. I didn’t mind.”

Chan’s whole brain short-circuited.

You didn’t… mind?

You weren’t mad?

That was all it took. His hand—that same hand—dropped right back down to where it had just been, like it had a mind of its own. It found your ass again, slow and deliberate this time, fingers pressing in like he needed to confirm how soft it felt.

You didn’t move. You just looked up at him, blinking innocently.

“Just finishing up,” you said, as if nothing at all was out of the ordinary. Like his hand wasn’t full of your ass.

Chan stared at you like he’d never seen you before. His throat worked around a swallow.

Then—fuck it—he leaned in and wrapped his arms around you in a hug. Except… his hands didn’t settle at your waist like they always did.

No. One hand stayed exactly where it had been—on your jiggly ass—while the other pressed into the small of your back, pulling you close.

“You’re gonna kill me one day,” he muttered into your hair.

You tilted your head. “What’d I do?”

“You exist in those shorts,” he gritted out. “That’s what you did.”

You smiled against his chest, your cheek warming against the familiar scent of his cologne.

“Guess I should wear them more often then.”

Chan exhaled shakily. You could feel the way his fingers twitched against your ass.

Yeah… this tension? This was no longer accidental.

“I mean…” you hummed into his chest, arms looping lazily around his torso, “you did kinda sneak up on me. Could’ve warned me first.”

“You were too cute to interrupt,” he mumbled. His voice was gravel-soft, barely there. “You were doin’ that little dance again.”

You pulled back just enough to raise your brows. “You were watching me?”

He looked guilty. Just for a second. Then shrugged, mouth twitching like he couldn’t decide if he should play it cool or apologize.

“You were in my room, playing house in my shorts, dancing to music like nobody was watching. What was I supposed to do?”

Your smirk deepened. “Not grab my ass?”

“I panicked.”

You burst into a soft laugh, resting your head back against his chest again. The moment felt too warm, too familiar, too… dangerously close to something else.

“I didn’t know you liked them this much,” you teased, wiggling your hips just a little. Just enough to make his hands twitch.

Chan exhaled sharply through his nose.

“I’ve been trying to be good,” he muttered, one hand dragging lightly up your spine.

You tilted your head back to look at him, eyes wide, soft with curiosity. “Good?”

“Respectful,” he clarified. “You’re my best friend.”

You blinked. “And best friends don’t touch ass?”

“They shouldn’t,” he bit out, and that was the first real crack in his voice. “But you’ve been pushing it lately, baby. You’ve been testing me.”

Your chest fluttered at the way he said baby. So casually, like it slipped out before he could stop it.

“Have I?”

Chan’s hand slid lower. Not enough to be scandalous, just enough to let you feel that he wasn’t kidding anymore. His palm was warm and heavy, anchoring you to him like he was suddenly realizing he didn’t want to let go.

“You’re not as innocent as you act,” he muttered.

You gave him your best doe-eyed look. “I never said I was.”

That was when he lost it a little.

One of his hands slid up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, and he leaned in like he was thinking about kissing you—but didn’t. His lips barely ghosted yours.

Not a kiss. Not quite.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he whispered. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

You did. You absolutely did. But you didn’t say a word.

You just smiled.

“Laundry’s done,” you whispered, pulling back with one last squeeze around his waist. “You’re welcome.”

And then you walked out of his room like you didn’t just flip his entire world upside down in cotton shorts and a matching button-up.

<><><>

That night, you were wide awake.

The house was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning, the distant rustle of trees outside, and your pulse drumming hard against the pillow.

It’d been hours since you left Chan’s room. Hours since you’d walked out of there trying to act like your skin wasn’t still tingling where his hands had been. Like your heart hadn’t stuttered when his lips brushed yours without ever truly kissing you.

You should’ve let it go.

But the problem was, you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Your fingers hovered over your phone. Then… tapped.

You: You up?

The read receipt appeared too fast.

Chan: Always. What’s wrong?

You stared at the screen for a second too long.Then:

You: Nothing. Just thinking about earlier.

Chan: Which part?

You smiled. Bit your bottom lip. That was bait, and he knew it.

You fed him a little more.

You: You touching me like that in your room.

Another instant reply.

Chan: I shouldn’t have. I got carried away.

You: I didn’t mind.

A pause. Longer this time. You imagined him lying in bed with that furrow between his brows, one hand behind his head, trying to figure out if you were just being bratty again—or if you meant it.

Chan: I could tell.

You laughed quietly to yourself, propping your phone against your knee, thumbs ready to wreck your whole friendship.

You: You’re really gonna act like you didn’t like it?

Chan: Is that what you want me to say? That I liked having my hand on my best friend’s ass?

You: I mean… you did keep it there for a long time.

Chan: You looked really good like that.

You sat up a little straighter, nerves flickering through your chest like sparks.

You: Like how?

Chan: Bent over my bed in those shorts. You know what you were doing.

You: I was folding your laundry.

Chan: While dancing. In those tiny ass shorts.

You: You liked that?

The dots blinked.

Stopped.

Started again.

Chan: Too much.

You took a shaky breath.

This felt reckless. You were under the same roof. Just down the hall. Separated by a hallway and years of pretending your friendship was innocent.

Your fingers moved again.

You: If I came to your room right now…

No reply.

Not yet. You could almost hear his breathing. Almost feel how still he was on the other side of the house.

Then finally:

Chan: Don’t. If you come in here like that, I won’t let you leave untouched.

You stared at the message. Bit your lip and tucked yourself a little deeper into your sheets, thighs brushing, breath catching.

Your fingers trembled when you typed again.

You: Untouched where?

You saw the typing bubble appear immediately.

Chan: Everywhere.

You: Be specific.

Chan: You want me to tell you how I’d touch you, best friend?

That sent a chill up your spine. Something about the way he called you that. Not sweet. Not teasing. Dangerous.

You: Yeah. I do.

Chan: I’d start with those legs you’re always stretching across my lap. I’d make you open them wider for me.

You: Keep going.

Chan: I’d touch you over those tiny little shorts you love wearing around me like you don’t know they drive me fucking crazy.

Your mouth went dry. Your hand slipped beneath the covers, not to touch—just to feel. To let your own heat rise in the quiet dark.

You: I knew they drove you crazy.

Chan: Of course you did. You’re a brat. You do it on purpose.

You: You like when I act like a brat.

Chan: I like shutting you up when you get too mouthy.

Your stomach flipped. God, this felt wrong. You were just supposed to be folding laundry and going to bed like normal.

Instead—

You: If I was in your bed right now, what would you do to me?

Another pause.

You waited. You could feel the shift. Could practically hear the internal war going on behind his silence. How much he was willing to say. How far he was willing to go.

Then:

Chan: I’d drag you under me. Pin your wrists. Tell you to stop squirming but know damn well you wouldn’t. I’d make you beg me to touch you properly.

You squeezed your eyes shut. Face flushed. Legs pressed tight under the blanket.

You weren’t sure who you were anymore. You weren’t just his best friend. Not right now. You were something else entirely.

You: Would you let me touch you too?

Chan: Not unless you asked real nice.

You: Please, Channie.

That one made him pause. You could feel it. Like the air had been sucked from the room.

Then:

Chan: You’re really playing with fire tonight, baby.

You: You’re the one who said you wanted to touch me.

Chan: And now I wanna do a lot more than that.

You: Yeah? Like what?

Chan: Like make you mine.

Your breath hitched. You blinked at that message for a long, long time. Because it didn’t feel like flirtation anymore. It didn’t feel like a joke.

You: But I’m already yours… aren’t I?

This time, there was no pause.

Chan: Fuck yes, you are.

Your heart was thudding. Your body humming. But your fingers moved with more confidence now. There was something intoxicating about knowing exactly how to push him.

Something dangerous.

You: I remembered the party.

The typing bubble popped up immediately.

Chan: What about it?

You: How you grabbed me like you wanted to throw me over your shoulder.

Chan: You were asking for it.

You: And then you let me grind on you like that? In public?

Chan: Correction. You made me stand there and take it.

You: Mm. I remember how hard you got through those dress pants.

You bit your lip. Your thighs squeezed again.

Then added: You were so thick and heavy against me, Channie. I still feel it.

A full minute passed. He didn’t respond. You almost thought you’d pushed him too far.

Then—

Chan: Keep talking like that and I’ll be in your room in under sixty seconds.

Your breath caught. You smiled to yourself, devilish.

You weren’t done yet.

You: You didn’t even stop me when I dragged your hands over my body. You wanted to feel me, didn’t you? Even when you told me to behave, you kept touching.

Chan: God, you’re lucky I didn’t bend you over the nearest couch right there.

Your mouth dropped open slightly. But you were thriving in this game now. Riding that high. And you hadn’t even touched yourself yet—just lying there soaked and giggly like you’d been corrupted through a screen.

You: You could’ve. I wouldn’t have stopped you.

Chan: Say that again.

You hesitated. Then: I wanted you to touch me at the party. I wanted you to pull me into that corner and make a mess out of me. Is that so bad?

Chan: Baby, if you knew what you were saying right now…

You: I do.

Chan: And I want you to say what you wanted. Out loud. To me.

Your fingers stalled. You swallowed.

Then typed: I wanted to feel your hard dick against me again. I wanted you to grip my hips and hold me still and tell me I was yours. I wanted your voice in my ear, telling me not to run.

Chan didn’t respond for two whole minutes.

You were about to text again when—

Chan: I’m coming up. Don’t move.

Your heart leapt into your throat. You barely had time to throw your phone down before you heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs.

Then—your bedroom door creaked open.

And there he was.

Hoodie sleeves shoved up, jaw tight, chest rising like he’d sprinted the last few steps. His eyes landed on you—bare-legged under your little blanket, looking like you’d been caught with your hand in the cookie jar.

But oh, this wasn’t about cookies.

He shut the door with his foot. Click.

“You’re seriously playing with fire, you know that?”

You blinked up at him, lips parted. “What, just texting my best friend?”

Chan’s laugh was dry—no humor. Only disbelief.

Then his hands were on his hips, like he needed to physically restrain himself from pouncing. His eyes travelled down your body, slow and possessive, before he stepped closer to the bed.

“You said some wild shit just now, baby.”

“I meant every word.”

He tilted his head, smirking. But his voice dropped a little darker. “You wanted to feel me? Hm?”

You nodded, biting your bottom lip.

“Say it again,” he said, close enough now to tug the blanket down from your waist.

“I wanted to feel you,” you whispered.

He leaned in. “Where, sweetheart?”

Your breath hitched. “Against me.”

“Where else?”

You swallowed. “Inside me.”

That was it. That was fucking it.

In a blink, he was crawling over the bed, pinning you back with one hand on your waist and the other sliding under your thigh to pull you open for him.

“Guess what, baby?” he muttered, lips brushing your jaw as you shivered beneath him.

“You’re about to.”

Your breath caught in your throat as Chan’s weight settled over you, his body a solid, grounding force that made the room feel smaller, hotter, like the air itself was pressing against your skin. His lips hovered just above yours, close enough to feel the heat of his breath but not quite touching. It was torture. It was deliberate.

“Chan,” you whispered, voice trembling with something you couldn’t name. Anticipation. Need. Fear of what this moment meant for the two of you.

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unreadable, but there was a storm behind them. You could see it—the way his restraint was fraying, the way his fingers tightened just slightly on your thigh, like he was fighting himself as much as he was holding onto you.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice low, gravelly, like he was giving you one last chance to back out. One last chance to keep things the way they’d always been.

But you didn’t want that. Not anymore. Not after the texts, the dancing, the way his hands felt like they belonged on your body.

You nodded, slow and deliberate, your eyes never leaving his. “I’m sure.”

That was all he needed.

His lips crashed into yours, and it was like the world tilted. It wasn’t soft or tentative—not like the almost-kiss in his room earlier. This was hungry, desperate, like he’d been starving for you and only just realized it. His hand slid from your thigh to your hip, fingers digging in as he pulled you closer, your body arching into his like it had a mind of its own.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, hands finding his shoulders, his neck, tangling in his hair. You tugged lightly, and he groaned into your mouth—a sound that sent heat pooling low in your stomach. His tongue brushed against yours, and you felt it everywhere, like a current running through your veins.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, his chest heaving. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled, breathless, and tugged him closer. “Good.”

He growled low in his throat, and then his hands were everywhere—sliding under your shirt, skimming the bare skin of your stomach, your ribs, stopping just short of where you wanted him most. He was teasing you, and you hated it as much as you loved it.

“Chan,” you whined, squirming beneath him, trying to guide his hand higher.

He smirked knowingly. “What, baby? Use your words.”

Your cheeks flushed, but you didn’t look away. “Touch me.”

“Where?” His voice was a low rumble, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hipbone, maddeningly close but not quite enough.

“Everywhere,” you breathed, echoing his text from earlier.

That did it.

His hand slid up, cupping your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak in a way that made you gasp. His other hand yanked your thigh higher, hooking it over his hip as he pressed himself closer, letting you feel every inch of him—hard, heavy, and so real it made your head spin.

“You wanted this,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw, your neck, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin just below your ear. “You wanted me to lose it, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” you gasped, arching into his touch as his hand slipped under your shirt, warm and possessive against your bare skin.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression a mix of awe and something darker—something that made your heart race even faster. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

Your breath hitched. “Then why didn’t you—”

“Because you’re you,” he interrupted, voice rough. “You’re my best friend. My safe place. I didn’t want to fuck this up.”

You reached up, cupping his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “You’re not fucking anything up, Channie.”

His eyes softened, but only for a moment. Then he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like he was trying to pour every unspoken word into it. His hands roamed—over your sides, your thighs, tugging your shorts down just enough to feel the bare skin of your hips.

You tugged at his shirt, impatient, and he chuckled against your lips before pulling back to yank it over his head. The sight of him—bare-chested, muscles flexing, eyes dark with want—made your mouth go dry. You’d seen him shirtless a thousand times, but this was different. This was yours.

“Like what you see?” he teased, catching the way you were staring.

You didn’t even bother hiding it. “Always have.”

He froze for a second, like your words hit him harder than he expected. Then he was on you again, kissing you like he was trying to make up for lost time, his hands slipping under your shirt to tug it off completely. The cool air hit your skin, but his touch was fire, burning away any chill.

His lips trailed down your neck, over your collarbone, pausing to murmur, “You’re so fucking beautiful,” before continuing lower, kissing the curve of your chest.

You gasped when his mouth found your skin, warm and deliberate, his hands holding you in place as he took his time exploring you. Every touch, every kiss, felt like a confession—like he was saying all the things he’d held back for years.

“Chan,” you whispered, fingers threading through his hair as he kissed lower, his breath hot against your stomach.

He looked up at you, eyes dark but soft. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

“Don’t you dare,” you said, voice shaking but certain.

He grinned—slow, wicked—and then his hands were on your shorts, tugging them down along with your underwear in one smooth motion. You were bare beneath him now, vulnerable in a way you’d never been before, but there was no fear. Only trust. Only him.

His hands slid up your thighs, parting them gently, and he leaned down to kiss you again, softer this time, like he was savoring it. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured against your lips.

“Then die happy,” you shot back, and he laughed—a real, warm laugh that made your heart ache.

But then his touch turned serious again, his fingers brushing against you in a way that made your breath catch, your body arching toward him instinctively. He watched you, eyes locked on yours, gauging every reaction, every little sound you made.

“Channie,” you gasped, when his fingers pressed just right, slow and deliberate, like he was learning you.

“Shh,” he murmured, lips brushing your forehead. “I’ve got you.”

And he did. He always had.

His touch was patient, reverent, but there was an edge to it—like he was holding himself back, trying not to lose control completely. You could feel it in the way his fingers trembled slightly, the way his breath hitched when you moaned softly under him.

“More,” you whispered, tugging him closer, needing him closer.

He didn’t need to be told twice.

His fingers worked you with a rhythm that made your head spin, your hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, anything to ground yourself. But it was too much and not enough all at once, and you could feel the heat building, coiling tight in your core.

“Channie, please,” you gasped, not even sure what you were begging for anymore.

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

“You,” you managed, voice breaking. “I want you.”

That was all it took.

He pulled back just enough to kick off his sweatpants, and then he was back, settling between your thighs, his body warm and solid against yours. He kissed you again, deep and slow, and you felt him—hard, heavy, pressing against you in a way that made your entire body hum with anticipation.

“You’re sure?” he asked again, one last time, his voice strained, like it was taking everything in him to hold back.

You nodded, pulling him closer, your lips brushing his. “I’ve always been sure.”

He exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath for years, and then he was there—sliding into you, slow and careful, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But there was none. Only heat, only fullness, only him.

You gasped softly, your hands finding his back, nails digging in just enough to make him hiss. He moved slowly at first, giving you time to adjust, but it wasn’t long before you were urging him faster, harder, your hips meeting his with every thrust.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath ragged. “You feel so good.”

“So do you,” you whispered, and you meant it—every word, every touch, every moment.

The world outside didn’t exist anymore. It was just you and him, the heat of his skin, the way his hands gripped your hips, the way he whispered your name like it was a prayer. You were his, and he was yours, and for the first time, that truth didn’t scare you.

It felt right.

The tension built, higher and higher, until you were trembling beneath him, your breaths coming in short, desperate gasps. He could feel it too—you could tell by the way his movements grew less controlled, more desperate, his lips finding yours again as he pushed you both closer to the edge.

“Chan,” you gasped, your voice breaking as the wave crashed over you, your body shuddering beneath him.

He groaned, low and deep, following you over the edge moments later, his body tensing, his arms tightening around you like he never wanted to let go.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just breathed. Just held each other, the world quiet except for the sound of your racing hearts.

Then he kissed your forehead, soft and lingering, and rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were tucked against his chest.

“You okay?” he asked, voice soft now, almost shy.

You nodded, your cheek pressed against his skin. “More than okay.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Good. Because I’m not sure I can go back to pretending after that.”

You looked up at him, your heart swelling. “Then don’t.”

His eyes softened, and he leaned down to kiss you again—slow, sweet, like a promise. “I won’t.”

<><><>

The next morning was different.

Not awkward or weird. Just… new.

You woke up tangled in his sheets, his arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck. For a moment, you just lay there, letting the reality of it sink in. You weren’t just best friends anymore. You were something more, something unspoken but undeniable.

He stirred behind you, his lips brushing your shoulder. “Morning, baby girl.”

You smiled, rolling over to face him. His hair was a mess, his eyes still heavy with sleep, but he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

“Morning Channie,” you whispered back, reaching up to trace his jaw.

He caught your hand, kissing your palm. “You’re not gonna start teasing me already, are you?”

You grinned. “Maybe.”

He groaned, pulling you closer, his lips finding yours in a lazy, sleepy kiss that made your toes curl. “You’re trouble.”

“You love it,” you shot back, snuggling into his chest.

He didn’t argue. Just held you tighter, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go.

You didn’t talk about what this meant—not yet. There’d be time for that later. Time to figure out how to navigate this new thing between you, how to balance being best friends with being… more.

But for now, you were content to just be. To lie there in his arms, his heartbeat steady under your cheek, knowing that whatever came next, you’d face it together.

Because you were completely his. And that was enough.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Authors note: Hiiiiiii! How’s it going guys? I have been soooo busy lately like i need my life backkkkk 😩😩😩 i’m so sorry that i have bot responded to my dms, but its all for a good cause. So tell me how did you like this fic? Its a little on the long side with an almost 10k wordcount but i was hoping that could make up for lost time… this one has been sitting in my drafts for months so i released it because i know i owe yall some content. Sooooo enjoy this while i get the next entry for NAUGHTY DORM CHRONICLES READYYYY ❤️🤭🤩