❁Rush Hour❁

The next day, you wake up late, with the strange feeling of having dreamed way too much.

Only, the moment you close your eyes for a second, you see it crystal clear: the street, the cold, San’s hand on your waist, his mouth against yours. It wasn't a dream. It wasn't an "almost" either. He made that plenty clear.

You stay staring at the ceiling for a long time, your phone face down on the nightstand, not daring to touch it. You don't have San’s number. You don't know if he has yours. And somehow, that feels almost unfair after the kind of kiss you shared.

When you finally grab your phone, there's a notification from Yunho.

Did you get home safe last night? You left so fast…

You swallow hard. You reply, trying to sound normal.

Yeah, got home safe. I was just a bit overwhelmed, needed some air.

Wooyoung is dying of embarrassment today 😂 He says if he made you feel uncomfortable, he’s sorry. He definitely crossed a line.

You bite your lip, remembering Wooyoung’s hands on your waist… and someone else’s pulling him away.

Tell him not to stress. You know how he gets when he drinks. It was just a bit too much, that’s all.

Yeah… San too. I heard you two went out one after the other. Is everything okay?

Your stomach tightens a bit. Someone saw you. You’re not surprised, but you’re not thrilled either.

Nothing, we just argued a bit outside. You know, his favorite hobby. But I’m fine.

Alright. If he ever steps out of line again, just tell me. Sometimes he acts like he has the right to comment on everything, and I’m sick of it.

You sigh.

Don't worry. I can stand up for myself.

I know. But I still wanna be on your side 😂

You send him a simple emoji and set the phone down. You don't tell him about the kiss. You wouldn't even know where to start.

You spend the next few days with a strange mix of calm and a knot in your stomach. You don't see San. You don't talk to San. Not a text, not a call, not a single "hey." Just the occasional offhand comment from Yunho, totally casual:

"San’s swamped with work, he gets home completely dead."

"I barely see him these days, he goes straight to his room."

You don't know if it brings you relief or gets on your nerves. On one hand, you're grateful you don't have to face him while your mouth still burns at the memory of him. On the other, it drives you crazy not knowing what he’s thinking. Whether he considers it a mistake. Whether he regrets it. Whether he’s expecting something from you.

Nothing else happens between you two. But the silence, for the first time, feels heavy.

A few days later—you haven't been counting, but you know it’s been long enough that the memory of the kiss hasn't cooled down—Yunho texts you:

Chill night at home today. I survived the week. Wanna come over, watch something, and grab dinner?

You leave work and head straight there. The walk up to his building feels more conscious than ever: every step, every floor, every turn. You ring the doorbell, and Yunho opens it with that familiar, tired smile you know so well.

"Thank God," he says. "I thought the couch was gonna swallow me whole."

He hugs you and pulls you inside. Everything smells familiar: cheap air freshener, something reheated earlier, a video game console that’s been running for way too long.

"Where’s San?" you ask, trying to sound completely casual.

"Not back yet," he replies, heading toward the kitchen. "Said he was coming straight from work, but you know how he is."

You take off your jacket and drop your bag on the usual chair. You sit on the couch while Yunho rummages through takeout boxes.

"I ordered Chinese," he announces. "Because today I don't even have the energy to boil rice."

"Approved," you answer.

You put a show on in the background. You start chatting about simple things. Within minutes, you feel almost like you did before everything happened. Almost.

Until the front door opens.

You hear the key, the soft click, footsteps coming down the hallway.

"Finally," Yunho murmurs, without taking his eyes off the screen. "San, there’s food."

San appears at the living room doorway with his backpack slung over his shoulder, his hair a bit messy, sleeves rolled halfway up his arms. He pauses when he sees you on the couch.

It’s only for a second. A quick blink. But it’s enough to catch that sudden flicker on his face: surprise, tension, something he’s trying hard to hide.

"Hey," you say, trying to sound normal.

"Hey," he replies.

It’s the first word you’ve exchanged since that night.

He drops his backpack on a chair, runs a hand through his hair, and sinks onto the opposite end of the couch—just like always, but sitting a bit stiffer than usual. Yunho hands him a takeout container.

"Shitty day?" Yunho asks.

"Like every other," San answers, snapping his chopsticks apart.

He doesn't look at you much, but when he does, his eyes linger just a fraction longer than reasonable for a casual greeting.

Dinner passes between jokes about the show and complaints about work. You and Yunho laugh out loud at a scene; he places a hand over his chest dramatically, and you almost spit out your drink. In the middle of that fit of laughter, you reach out and rest your hand on his arm, instinctively, the way you’ve always done.

And that's when you feel the gaze.

You don't need to look to know San registered it. You feel that invisible electricity spark across the room. When you glance over at him, just a little, he’s staring at the TV, but his jaw is clenched.

Hours pass, the food is half-eaten, and the show plays on without anyone paying much attention to it. Yunho is ranting about his boss while you play along; San listens in silence, half-slumped at the other end of the couch with a can in his hand.

In the middle of a sentence, Yunho’s phone buzzes on the table. He glances at the screen and frowns.

"It’s from work," he murmurs. "At this hour…"

He swipes to answer.

"Yeah?"

A pause.

"Now?" His expression shifts to instant resignation. "Right, right… Can't it wait until tomorrow?"

Another pause. He sighs.

You and San exchange a brief glance. He raises an eyebrow, as if asking, what’s going on now?

"Fine, fine," Yunho gives in over the phone. "Yeah, I know, overtime, wonderful… Alright, bye."

He hangs up, rubbing his hand over his face.

"They had some ridiculous security mess on the server," he explains, more to you than to San. "And apparently, I’m the only one who knows how to put out the fire."

"Translation: they want you to work for free," you say.

"Hopefully not completely for free," he huffs. "But I have to head into the office for a second to check on things. They say it’s quick, but you know what 'quick' means with those people."

He grabs his jacket reluctantly. Before putting it on, he looks at both of you.

"Don't kill each other, alright?" he adds, pointing a finger at you two. "The TV is new."

"So much trust in us," you murmur.

"In you, yes," he replies. "In him… not so much."

San rolls his eyes.

"Go save the digital world, hero," he says. "We'll hold down the fort here."

"That’s what scares me," Yunho fires back, but he smiles.

He walks over to you, affectionately ruffling your hair.

"If you get bored and want to leave, text me," he whispers lower. "I won't take forever, but I’m not sure how long it'll be either."

"I’m good," you answer. "Go, before the internet collapses."

He says a quick goodbye, opens the door, and steps out. The click of the lock sounds louder than usual. The silence he leaves behind feels different from other times: it’s charged, thick.

The show keeps playing in the background, but nobody is watching the screen anymore.

San places the empty can on the table, not taking his eyes off the TV for a moment longer, as if trying to prolong the illusion that nothing has changed. Then he turns it off with the remote.

Suddenly, you’re left with only the distant hum of the fridge and a car passing by outside.

"So… you’re still alive," he says, with that tone somewhere between ironic and serious that you already recognize.

"Surprise," you reply, turning your body slightly toward him. "I thought you’d decided to go back to ignoring me professionally."

A corner of his mouth barely twitches upward.

"I’ve been… busy," he answers. "And I didn't want to show up at your doorstep with a 'hey, remember when I kissed you in the street?'"

You feel like laughing and shoving him at the same time.

"You’d at least be funny," you murmur.

For the first time since Yunho left, he looks straight at you, with no screens or third parties in between. The faint dark circles under his eyes, his slightly wrinkled shirt, the fatigue in his shoulders… but in his eyes, there’s still that dangerous glint you remember pressed against your mouth.

"I haven't forgotten it," he says suddenly, point-blank.

There’s no need to ask what he’s referring to.

You feel your stomach tighten. You lower your eyes to your hands, fidgeting with the edge of the cushion, then bring them back up.

"Neither have I," you admit.

The sentence hangs floating between you. It’s short, but it’s the first time you acknowledge it out loud.

San leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He doesn't invade your space just yet, but he gets close enough for his voice to carry lower.

"I don't want you to think it was… a random impulse," he adds. "Or that I was drunk. I knew exactly what I was doing."

You don't reply immediately. Not because you don't have an answer, but because your heart is pounding way too hard. He waits a few seconds.

"What?" he asks, tilting his head slightly. "You don't believe me?"

You shake your head, swallowing hard.

"It’s not that," you say, trying to gather your thoughts. "It’s just that… all this time it seemed pretty clear that you couldn't stand me. That it annoyed you whenever I showed up here, that I existed anywhere near Yunho, that I breathed the same air as you."

He lets out a short, humorless laugh.

"I didn't hate you," he corrects, staring at you with more intensity. "I hated the idea of admitting how much I’m attracted to you."

It catches you completely off guard. Your eyes widen a bit.

"What?" is all you manage to say.

"I’m serious," he insists, without looking away. "From the first day I saw you walk through that door, with your sarcasm and your 'nothing impresses me' attitude, I knew you were going to be trouble. And the more you came around, the worse it got. So yeah, I was an asshole. Yeah, I picked on you all the time. Because it was either that, or admitting how hard it was not to stare at you every second."

The words hit one after another, confirming things you had only briefly guessed at.

Your chest fills with a mix of dizziness, disbelief, and something very close to relief.

"You have no idea what you do to me, do you?" he adds, even lower.

As he says it, he straightens up. He moves across the couch, closing the distance. He doesn't do it abruptly: he slides over until he’s barely an inch away from you.

His hand travels slowly up to your waist, resting firmly there, as if he needed a physical point to anchor what he’s saying. The warmth of his fingers radiates through the fabric of your clothes with a clarity that makes you catch your breath.

With his other hand, he brushes your cheek, just barely, with his knuckles. It’s a soft gesture that contrasts with the intensity in his gaze.

You should say something. You should have a witty comeback, a boundary, anything.

The only thing that comes out of your mouth is:

"Yunho…"

It’s as if just mentioning his name sets off all your internal alarms: what you two are, what you haven't told him, what he has no idea is happening right in his own living room.

San doesn't pull his hand back. He doesn't back away either.

"Yunho said he’d take a while," he murmurs, his eyes fixed on yours. "And this…" his fingers tighten slightly around your waist "…has been waiting for way too long."

You don't have time to find another objection.

He leans in and kisses you.

It’s not a timid or exploratory kiss. It’s direct, decisive, as if he didn't want to leave room for anything else. His lips close over yours with a confidence that completely disarms you. You feel heat rush to your face, your stomach twisting.

You answer without thinking. Your body recognizes something it has already tasted and that, no matter how much you tried to bury it, wanted to repeat. You give the kiss back with the same pent-up hunger: your hands, almost by instinct, search for a place to hold on and end up on his shirt, right at his chest, crumpling the fabric.

He takes advantage of the gesture to pull you closer. He tugs at your waist, turning you slightly toward him. The world shrinks down to the couch, your bodies fitting together sideways, knee to knee, chest to chest. There’s no rush to strip clothes or frantic hands, but the intensity is undeniable, crystal clear in the way his mouth moves against yours.

The kiss deepens when you feel the light brush of his tongue asking for more. You don't think twice. You match his rhythm, letting the kiss turn wetter, more honest about what’s been growing between you two for weeks. A muffled groan escapes you against his mouth, more out of surprise than anything else. You feel him smile for a split second mid-kiss, as if that sound fed his ego.

His hand on your waist glides subtly, moving an inch up and down against the fabric, not reaching anywhere compromised, but marking new territory all the same. He holds you close, so close, yet still leaves a clear line that he won't cross any further… for now.

The thought that the key could turn in the door at any moment makes everything feel even more electric. Your heart is pounding so hard you’re convinced he can feel it. Every little noise in the building—a neighbor closing their door, a pipe humming—puts your nerves on edge, and yet you don't stop.

He’s the one who pulls back a fraction first, more out of a need for air than a lack of desire. He rests his forehead against yours, breathing heavily. His fingers remain warm against your waist.

"This…" his voice sounds raspy "…wasn't in my plans for tonight."

You laugh softly despite yourself, catching your breath.

"Not in mine either," you admit.

You open your eyes. He’s already watching you, so close it overwhelms you. There’s desire, yes, but also something calmer underneath, as if he had finally dropped a heavy weight.

"But I’m not gonna pretend I don't want it either," he adds, more seriously. "And I don't intend to go back to treating you like I don't care. Because I do."

The words, spoken like that, without fancy wrapping, hit you harder than any cheesy "I like you" ever could.

"I don't know how we’re gonna do this," you whisper. "With Yunho. With… everything."

"I don't know either," he admits, dropping his gaze back to your mouth for a second. "But I know I don't wanna go back."

Before you can say another word, you both hear the faint sound of a neighbor leaving their apartment down the hall. It’s not Yunho, but it’s enough to remind you where you are.

He eases the pressure of his hand on your waist, though he doesn't pull away completely. You loosen your grip on his shirt.

"We should…" you start.

"Yeah," he nods. "For now."

He pulls back slowly, giving you room. The distance opening between you is minimal, but it feels huge compared to just a second ago. You sit up a bit, trying to compose your breathing and your clothes, as if you had the word "kissed" written across your face.

San runs a hand through his hair, also trying to play off something you both know won't stay hidden for long.

"I’m not telling him today," he says, referring to Yunho, his voice lower. "And neither are you."

"No," you answer immediately. "Not for now."

You look at each other for another moment, that unspoken pact weighing heavy between you: what just happened is yours, only yours, for now.

He lets out a low, disbelieving chuckle.

"I need to go to the bathroom if I wanna cool off a bit," he murmurs.

You know exactly what he means. And precisely because of that, a nervous laugh slips out of you.

"Do whatever you have to do," you reply, trying to regain some control. "Just don't take too long, because if Yunho comes back and finds me alone, he’s gonna think you ran off just to avoid me."

He steps back another inch, his lips still flushed, his eyes bright.

"I’m not running off," he says. "Not now."

He gets up from the couch and walks toward the hallway. Before disappearing, he turns back to you for a second.

"Breathe," he adds with a half-smile. "You’re turning red."

"You’re not exactly looking neutral yourself," you shoot back, checking him out up and down.

His smile widens just a bit, but he doesn't say anything else. He slips into the bathroom.

You’re left alone in the living room, your heart still racing and your mouth warm. You grab your phone almost out of habit and open your chat with Yunho.

Gonna be much longer? 😅

He doesn't take long to reply.

Half an hour max. This was supposed to be 'a sec' and I’ve been here for an eternity 🙃

Ok. Don't stress. We're still in one piece here (for now).

Not sure if that reassures me 😂 I'm bringing frozen pizza on my way back.

"I just talked to Yunho," you tell him. "He said he’ll be back in about half an hour."

He nods, sinking back onto the couch. This time, he sits a bit closer to you than before. Not glued to your side, but not on the far end either. The gap between you two has shrunk to something that suddenly feels very deliberate.

"Perfect," he says. "So we’ve got half an hour to... watch stupid stuff."

He grabs the remote and opens YouTube. You end up watching absurd videos: falls, fail compilations, a random gaming clip. You both laugh, make comments, and every now and then, unintentionally, your knees brush against each other. Neither of you moves away quickly.

During one of those brushes, he leaves his leg resting lightly against yours. It’s a minimal, almost innocent contact, but his warmth travels straight up your thigh.

On the screen, someone falls off a stage. You laugh, and so does he. There are moments when you look at each other at the exact same time, and the laughter gets caught on something else: on the memory of the kiss, on what you both know could happen again if there weren't a clock ticking.

When you finally hear the key in the door, you both straighten up slightly almost by instinct, as if you’d been caught cheating on an exam. You separate just enough so your knees are no longer touching. The living room suddenly feels bigger than it did a minute ago.

The front door opens and Yunho walks in, carrying a bag in each hand and wearing a face of sheer exhaustion.

"I am officially dead," he complains. "But the server is breathing, and so am I. More or less."

"National hero," San says, raising a hand.

You get up to help him with the bags.

"What happened?" you ask.

"A poorly written script almost knocked out half the system," he replies, setting the things down in the kitchen. "And of course, nobody knew where it came from. Until I had to go in and play detective in the middle of the night."

You hand him a cold beer from the fridge.

"Here, for services rendered."

"Thanks." He takes a long sip. "Now I'm completely wide awake. My brain's too wired to go straight to bed."

He turns toward the living room, where San is already leaning back again.

"How about we game for a bit?" he proposes. "Mental hangover plan."

"Count me in," San says.

Yunho looks at you.

"Sleep over tonight," he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. "I mean, you're not working tomorrow anyway, and I’m already in night-owl mode. We can game for a while and call it a night."

You mentally check the time. You know it’s late; you also know that after the day you’ve had and what just went down, the idea of heading back to your apartment alone right now doesn't sound appealing at all.

"Fine," you answer. "But don't cry later when I beat you."

"Not even in your dreams," he teases.

The three of you end up in front of the screen, controllers in hand. Valorant, laughs, affectionate insults. Yunho complains about getting focused, you tease him whenever someone kills you from out of nowhere, and San makes expert-level comments that are equal parts irritating and entertaining.

Time moves forward without anyone noticing. By four in the morning, all three of you have bloodshot eyes, stiff hands, and a mix of adrenaline and exhaustion.

"Alright," Yunho says, setting his controller down. "If I keep playing, I'm waking up at five tomorrow afternoon."

"And what's wrong with that?" San murmurs, yawning.

"I'm too old for this shit," Yunho replies, slumping onto the couch. "Even eyelids I didn't know I had are hurting."

You stand up, stretching.

"I'm turning in too," you announce. "Or I'll be a useless zombie tomorrow."

"You know the drill," Yunho says. "Grab a shirt, the bed's yours."

You nod. You've done this before: you in his bed, him on the couch. It's practically routine.

"Goodnight," you say, waving a hand.

"Goodnight," San replies, already half-lying down with his head resting on the back of the couch. "Don't dream of me."

"Don't worry, I have much more interesting nightmares," you shoot back before heading down the hallway.

You hear Yunho chuckle behind you. You close the bedroom door behind you.

You change in silence, in the dark, with only the faint streetlight filtering through the curtain. You pull one of Yunho's t-shirts from the closet—another one of those oversized, soft tees with a faded graphic—and put it on. It hits mid-thigh. Underneath, just underwear.

You get into bed, sinking into the familiar mattress and sheets that smell like laundry detergent and "Yunho's place." You close your eyes, but sleep doesn't come.

You toss and turn.

Every time you switch positions, you remember the couch. His hand on your waist. His mouth, and the way he said, "I haven't forgotten."

You roll onto your stomach, then back onto your back. Finally, you let out a heavy sigh and sit up.

Your phone clock reads 5:17 AM.

"Great," you murmur.

You get out of bed, your feet hitting the cold floor, and decide to grab some water. You open the bedroom door carefully. The hallway is in shadow, but you spot a sliver of light coming from under the kitchen door.

You frown. Is Yunho awake? San?

You approach silently. Peeking in, you see San with his back to you, leaning against the counter, drinking water from a glass. He’s wearing only dark boxers. The overhead light highlights his shoulders, his back, his neck.

You swallow hard despite yourself.

"Can't sleep either?" you ask softly.

He turns slightly, caught off guard, and then trails his eyes down your body. His gaze lingers for half a second on Yunho's t-shirt falling past your thighs. Instinctively, you cross your arms, even though you know it doesn't do much.

"With that right next door..." he says, not taking his eyes off you, "...it's a little tough."

"With what? The water?" You try to play along, though your voice comes out a bit lower than intended.

"The t-shirt," he replies. "And what's inside it."

San takes a couple of steps toward you, glass still in hand.

"I knew you'd put on one of his again," he adds, his gaze dipping for a moment to the graphic print. "It's pure psychological torture."

"It's comfortable," you defend yourself. "And it's clean."

"Sure," he nods. "And I... couldn't stop thinking about having you two steps away, probably wearing that."

He stays a respectful distance away, but not too far. From here, you get a clear view of his bare chest: defined pecs, taut abs, muscles in his arms relaxed yet obvious. The sight sends your temperature spiking instantly.

"You should go back to bed," you murmur. "You're gonna regret it tomorrow."

"I'm already regretting it," he says. "Regretting not doing anything earlier."

He pauses, staring at you intently.

"I'd rather see you in one of my shirts," he admits. "Or wearing nothing at all."

The phrase lands directly. You feel an electric shiver travel down your spine.

"San..." you start, looking up at him.

"Don't look at me like that," he cuts you off, taking another step closer. "You're not helping."

You're standing close now, right in the middle of the kitchen. The apartment is dead silent, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator. You know Yunho is sleeping on the living room couch just a few meters away, and that awareness makes everything feel all the more forbidden... and intense.

"We can talk about this... some other time," you try to say without your voice trembling.

"I don't want to talk," he says honestly. "I want what I've been wanting for weeks."

He sets the glass down on the counter, eyes locked onto yours, freeing up his hands.

"I didn't drag you out here," he adds with a crooked half-smile, fully aware of how it might sound. "You came out yourself. And I'm not about to waste the opportunity."

He takes one more step, well within arm's reach. He drops his voice lower:

"I'm not gonna do anything you don't want to do."

You have every option open: you can step back, retreat to the bedroom, say no. Or you can admit, in the most honest way you can right now, what it is that you want too.

You don't move.

That's all he needs.

He pulls you in with a hand on your waist and kisses you again. This time there's no couch, no TV playing, no chance of someone walking in unannounced. But there are thin walls and a sleeping friend just a few paces away. All of it bleeds into the kiss.

His lips meet yours with the same urgency as before, but now there's something far more deliberate to it. You match his pace: returning the kiss, reaching up to grip his bare shoulders. The warm skin under your hands surprises you, firm and smooth all at once.

He guides you backward almost without you noticing, until your back lightly touches the kitchen doorframe. You stay right there, pinned between the wood and his body. You aren't trapped; you're wrapped up in him.

He pulls back for a split second to look at you. His eyes drop to the shirt, to the hem brushing your thighs.

"Come on," he murmurs.

You don't know who is leading who, but suddenly you're out in the hallway, moving in the dark toward the bedroom. Your fingers tangle into the fabric of his boxers out of pure need to anchor yourself. He opens Yunho’s bedroom door carefully, making almost no sound.

You step inside. He closes the door behind you, leaving only the dim light filtering through the window.

You sit on the edge of the bed, still a little dazed. He remains standing in front of you, breathing heavily. Up close, in this light, his muscles look softer, yet no less defined. He raises a hand and strokes your cheek, trailing down your neck until he stops at the hem of the t-shirt.

"I can stop whenever you say," he whispers. "But I’m not gonna pretend I don't wanna be on top of you right now."

That honesty, spoken like that—unfiltered—makes you shiver more than any elaborate line ever could.

"Don't stop," you reply, your voice barely a thread.

That's all he needs.

He kisses you again, this time leaning over you, pressing you back slowly onto the mattress. You feel the bed under your back, the weight of his body moving closer. He plants one hand next to your head on the mattress to keep from crushing you, controlling his weight. His other hand slides from your waist down the side of your thigh, feeling bare skin where the shirt no longer covers.

Before you realize it, his knees settle on either side of your hips. He positions himself between your legs, resting just enough of his weight on you so that you feel every inch of his bare torso against your body, separated only by the thin fabric of the tee.

As your hands—almost by reflex—slide over his back and down his sides, you feel the curve of his lats, the firm hardness of his abdomen. You keep moving down until your fingers brush the elastic waistband of his boxers.

And right there, clearly, you feel something else: the unmistakable, firm pressure of his erection against your upper thigh, friction against your pelvis as he adjusts over you.

The contact draws a quiet gasp from you that he drinks right off your lips, deepening the kiss a fraction more. His hips align instinctively with yours. Neither of you needs to look to know exactly what you're feeling.

Your hands grip his back, pulling him in, while Yunho's shirt hitches slightly over your hips with the movement, leaving more skin exposed to his touch.

San stays over you, his weight carefully balanced. The kiss never breaks. It's deep, wet, relentless. His mouth moves against yours as if trying to memorize the taste, and you respond with the same hunger, opening your lips to let him in deeper.

He begins to move.

It isn't a harsh push. It's a slow, deliberate grind. The fabric of his dark boxers slides against your underwear, and you feel the exact shape of his dick, already rock hard, rubbing against the center of your core through both layers of fabric. Every time he presses forward slightly, the contact grows firmer, more precise. The friction sends a shudder straight up your spine.

His free hand glides up your side, inching Yunho's shirt higher. The fabric bunches over your stomach, then over your ribs. When his fingers reach your breast and find nothing but bare skin, he freezes for a second.

He breaks away from your lips just enough to look at you.

"Fuck..." he murmurs, his voice raspy. "You're gonna be the death of me."

His hand cupping your breast squeezes with measured force, his thumb brushing over your hardened nipple. The touch pulls a low, involuntary moan from your throat.

San leans down to your ear.

"Shhh..." he whispers, his lips brushing your skin. "Otherwise, Yunho's gonna hear you."

He dips his head lower. His mouth replaces his hand. First a slow kiss over your breast, then his warm tongue tracing a circle around your nipple before closing over it and sucking. He bites down softly—just enough for you to feel the sting—and then licks the ache away. You press your lips together, trying not to make a sound, but your body betrays you: your back arches slightly, your hips lifting, chasing more friction against his clothed dick.

San releases your nipple with a wet sound and returns to your mouth, kissing you with more urgency now. Both of his hands move down, wrapping around your thighs to part them wider, settling comfortably between your legs. He grinds against you again, this time with more pressure. The wet patch on your underwear is obvious now; you can feel the fabric clinging to your skin, and that same slick warmth is seeping into San's boxers too. Every stroke gets slicker, more intense.

He groans low against your mouth, as if the contact is driving him out of his mind.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his voice barely a breath:

"Look at you... you're already soaked and I'm just rubbing against you."

One of his hands leaves your thigh and slips down between your bodies. His fingers press against your underwear, right where you need it most. The contact makes you gasp. He starts moving them in slow circles, feeling how wet you are even through the fabric. Then, with a swift movement, he hooks the lace to the side.

The cool air hitting your core makes you shivering. His fingers slide directly over you, trailing through your folds, spreading your slickness. He finds your clit and rubs it with his thumb while two fingers slide down, searching for your entrance. He pushes them in slowly, feeling you tighten around him.

"Fuck..." he whispers against your lips. "You feel so good wrapped around my fingers."

He kisses you again, harder, swallowing the whimpers that escape you as he establishes a rhythm inside you. He works in and out steadily, his thumb never stopping its friction over your clit. You cling to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin.

San grows more urgent. He pulls his fingers out abruptly, leaving you empty for a second that feels like an eternity. He hitches down the elastic of his boxers just enough to free his dick. You feel it—hot and heavy—as he aligns it directly against you, skin to skin. He starts grinding again, the tip gliding through your slick folds, spreading your wetness down his length.

You bring your hand down. You place your palm around him, trapping him between your hand and your core. You squeeze, creating more pressure, more friction. San lets out a low, desperate moan. He leans in and bites your neck—not hard, but as if he needed something to hold onto to keep from losing control.

"I need to feel you..." he whispers against your skin, his voice breaking. "For real."

"No," you reply, barely audible. "You have to hold out."

Your hand closes firmly around his shaft. You start stroking him hard, pumping your fist in a fast rhythm. Every now and then, you guide him down, rubbing his broad tip over your entrance, drenching him further with your slickness, but not letting him slip inside. You open your legs wider, holding just the head against you, feeling how he stretches you slightly, and keep your hand moving.

San groans louder into your ear.

"This is torture..." he says, his voice trembling. "I wanna push in... fuck, I wanna be inside you."

"You can handle it," you whisper back, tightening your grip.

The response seems to drive him even higher. You feel him throb against your palm. He reaches back down between your legs and slips two fingers inside you again—deeper this time, faster. Now you're touching each other: your hand wrapped tightly around his dick, his fingers working inside you, his thumb working your clit.

You both gasp and moan like teenagers, low and hushed, trying not to make noise, yet unable to stay completely silent. The wet sounds of his fingers and his dick sliding against skin fill the quiet room. San's movements grow erratic, thrusting into your hand.

You feel yourself teetering on the edge. His breathing turns ragged, his moans more desperate. You're right there too; every stroke of his fingers pushes you closer.

"San..." you manage to breathe, your voice wrecked.

He doesn't answer with words. He just kisses you frantically as his fingers curl inside you, hitting the exact spot that makes your back arch off the bed. The orgasm hits you all at once: you clench tight around his fingers, trembling, trying not to cry out. He keeps moving through it, prolonging it, while your hand doesn't stop stroking him.

A few seconds later, San breaks. He groans against your neck, his body going rigid, and you feel the warmth of his come spilling hot over your vulva, drenching you further, mixing with your slickness. A few spurts hit your stomach. He keeps pumping softly into your hand as he empties himself, as if unwilling to break the connection just yet.

Afterward, you both lie still, chest to chest, breathing heavily. San's body is still heavy over yours, his dick softening, the hot mess resting between you.

The apartment remains dead quiet.

Yunho, just a few meters away, hasn't woken up.

San rests his forehead against yours, his breath coming in short hitches. His fingers linger inside you for a moment longer, still, as if reluctant to break the physical connection. Finally, he pulls them out slowly, carefully, and the cool air of the room hits your overly sensitive skin.

You shift slightly, just enough to look at his face. His hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat, his cheeks flushed, his lips swollen from kissing you. You've never seen him this close for this long—so disarmed, so... human.

He lets out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh and looks down. He's still propped over you, supporting his weight on his forearms to keep from crushing you. When he looks down, he takes in the sticky mess between you: your slickness, his come, Yunho's t-shirt hitched up to your waist...

"Fuck..." he murmurs, somewhere between embarrassed and fascinated. "Good thing the lights are off."

"You don't need light to know the mess we just made," you whisper.

That pulls another quiet laugh from him. He carefully rolls off you to the side, letting you breathe properly. The mattress gives a tiny creak. You feel the cold air rush into the space where his body just was.

For a few seconds, neither of you speaks. Only the sound of your uneven breathing and a distant car on the street fills the room.

"Don't move," he finally says in a low voice.

He sits up slightly, feeling around in the dark until he finds a tissue pack on the nightstand. The crinkle of the plastic sounds deafening in the silence of the room. He cleans what he can with clumsy yet careful gestures, trying not to make noise or turn on any lights.

"This is surreal," you murmur, feeling him gently wipe the skin of your lower stomach and inner thighs. "If Yunho knew..."

"He's never going to know," San replies in an amused whisper. "And if he asks, we tell him it's... I don't know, ice cream."

You can't help a quiet giggle.

"You're an idiot."

"And you look gorgeous laughing like that," he replies, without missing a beat.

You fall quiet for a few seconds after that line. You settle onto your back, pulling the shirt down to cover yourself up again. He lies back down beside you on his side, propping his head on his arm, watching you in the dim light.

"You okay?" he asks, suddenly serious again.

You nod slowly.

"Yeah," you say. "Just... processing."

He lets out a long breath.

"Me too."

He keeps staring at you, as if trying to etch your face into his memory in this exact moment. No lingering anger, no defensive asshole mask. Just you—hair messy, voice raspy, your breathing slowly returning to normal.

"I didn't plan any of this when I got into bed," he admits. "Well..." he tilts his head into a half-smile, "...not exactly like this."

"Neither did I," you confess. "Yunho's shirt was for sleeping, not for... this."

"We're gonna have to talk about Yunho's shirt one day," he says, half-joking. "It's gonna give me a twitch."

You turn slightly toward him.

"Does it really bother you that much?" you ask.

He takes a second before answering.

"It bothers me," he says flatly, "because I should want to take it off you for his sake, not mine."

A heavy silence falls. You understand far more than what he's saying between the lines.

"San..." you start.

He shakes his head.

"No, not right now," he cuts in softly. "If we start talking about Yunho at this hour, neither of us is getting any sleep."

"Like we were gonna get much sleep after this anyway," you murmur.

He smiles, exhausted.

"Point taken."

He reaches out an arm and gently pulls you closer, no hidden motives this time. Just drawing you in close enough for your head to rest against his chest. His skin is still warm, his heartbeat still a little fast, though settling down slowly.

"Just... stay like this for a second," he whispers.

You don't know if this is a good idea. You don't know if you'll regret it tomorrow. But in this moment, in this dark bedroom, with his breathing entangling with yours and the echo of what you just did still lingering in the air, you allow yourself not to think.

You settle against him, closing your eyes. You feel his fingers playing absently with the hem of your shirt on your back, as if he needed to keep checking that you're actually there.

Eventually, exhaustion beats out the adrenaline. You fall asleep like that, pressed up against him, only half-aware that just a few meters away, Yunho still has no idea that something in his apartment has changed forever.

You are woken by the sound of knuckles knocking on the door.

"Hey, shorty," Yunho’s voice comes through, still a bit raspy with sleep. "You awake? Can I come in?"

Your eyes snap open.

It takes you a second to realize where you are: the ceiling of Yunho’s bedroom, the familiar smell of his room, the oversized shirt on your body. And then you feel the weight and heat beside you.

San.

He’s pressed right against you, one arm wrapped tight around your waist, his face buried in your neck. He’s breathing slowly, deeply, completely out cold. Your legs are tangled beneath the blanket.

Your heart instantly leaps into your throat.

"San," you whisper, nudging him hard with your elbow. "San, wake up."

He groans something incoherent, tightening his grip on your waist and pulling you even closer.

"Mmm… five more minutes…" he mumbles, barely coherent.

"San!" you insist, louder this time, through gritted teeth. "Yunho is at the door."

That finally hits him.

His eyes crack open halfway, confused. He blinks, looking at your face inches away, then at your body pressed against his, then at the room—and you can literally see the exact moment his brain clicks and remembers everything.

"Fuck," he whispers.

There’s no time. Yunho knocks on the door again, a little harder.

"I heard something," he says from outside. "Everything good in there? You want me to come in?"

"No!" you answer way too fast, bolting upright.

San loses the support of your body, and in his clumsy scramble to get up too, he ends up tangling in the sheet and tumbling off the side of the bed with a dull thud.

You slap a hand over your mouth.

"What the hell was that?!" Yunho asks, clearly alert now.

You throw yourself out of bed, your heart hammering against your ribs. San, crouching on the floor, stares up at you with wide eyes. You make a frantic gesture pointing toward the door.

"Run!" you whisper.

Still half-asleep, he carefully pushes himself up and duck-walks behind the door, flattening himself against the wall—completely out of sight if you only crack it open.

You run a quick hand through your hair, pull the shirt down to cover yourself better, and open the door just a sliver.

"Yeah?" You poke your head out.

Yunho is standing in the hallway, hair messy, wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants. He looks you up and down, frowning.

"You okay? I heard a crash. Thought you fell out of bed or something," he says.

You force a smile.

"Yeah…" you make up on the fly. "Pretty much that. I tripped while getting up, still half-asleep. I'm a mess, you know me."

He scrutinizes you for a couple of seconds, as if gauging whether to believe you or not. Before he can ask any more questions, you play your best card: his weaknesses.

"Hey..." you add, tilting your head slightly, putting on a pouting face. "I'm starving. Like, really starving. Could you go down and grab coffee and something good for breakfast? I promise I'll pay next time."

He hesitates for half a second.

"Now?" he asks, but you can already tell he’s caving.

You nod with puppy-dog eyes.

"Please. If we don't get decent food after last night, we're going to die."

Yunho sighs, defeated.

"Alright, fine," he gives in. "What do you want? Coffee and...?"

"Whatever looks good," you reply. "Croissants, donuts, anything that smells like sugar."

"Okay," he says, already turning around. "I'll be right back."

Only when you hear the front door click shut again do you allow yourself to let out your breath. You shut the bedroom door all the way and turn around.

San is still glued to the wall right behind it, one hand pressed over his chest.

"He almost caught us," he murmurs, a mix of panic and a smothered laugh in his voice.

You step up to him and swat his shoulder lightly.

"Are you out of your mind?" you whisper. "You fell asleep here. Here. Can you imagine if he walked in and saw you in his bed with me?"

"It was your fault," he protests, still leaning back. "You were way too comfortable."

You feel like laughing and crying at the exact same time.

"Get out of here, idiot," you urge him. "And get to your room before he comes back."

He steps out from behind the door, still in his boxers, his hair totally disheveled. In the dim light, he looks you up and down—Yunho’s shirt slipping halfway down your shoulder, cheeks flushed.

Before heading out, he leans in and plants a soft kiss on your lips. Quick, but undeniable.

"Good morning, by the way," he whispers, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

You shove his chest nervously.

"Go already!" your voice repeats in a furious whisper.

He chuckles softly and slips out into the hallway, jogging quietly to his room. You hear his door shut carefully.

You’re left alone for a second in the middle of the room, your pulse still racing in your throat. You cover your face with both hands.

"This is completely unsustainable," you murmur.

You dress quickly, wash your face in the bathroom, and pull your hair up. By the time you step out into the hallway, Yunho is already back.

You walk into the kitchen and see him there, opening a paper bag filled with cardboard coffee cups and several bakery bags.

"Good morning!" he greets, much more lively now. "I brought half the bakery. Didn't know what you wanted."

"Perfect," you reply, forcing yourself to sound normal. "You smell like a lifesaver."

He hands you a coffee. You start setting out mugs and plates, faking a calm you don't feel at all.

A little while later, San’s bedroom door opens. He walks out stretching and yawning exaggeratedly, as if he had just woken up.

"Fuck, it's so late..." he grunts, scratching the back of his neck. "I don't think I've slept that deeply in weeks."

You almost choke on your own coffee.

Yunho laughs.

"Makes sense, we went to sleep at an ungodly hour," he says. "Come on, there's breakfast."

San walks into the kitchen. He looks completely relaxed; if you didn't know what happened thirty minutes ago, you would totally believe him. Still, when his eyes meet yours for a split second, there's something there: a shared spark that forces you to look down at your plate.

The three of you sit down. The table fills up with pastries, crumbs, and the smell of coffee.

"Did you sleep well?" Yunho asks, turning to you, so completely innocent that you feel like laughing out loud.

San, who was just bringing a bite of food to his mouth, chokes. He coughs, clearing his throat. You, by instinct, give him a couple of gentle pats on the back.

"You okay?" Yunho asks.

"Yeah, yeah," San clears his throat. "All good."

"I..." you start, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. "Yeah, I slept well. Pretty... well."

You take a bite of a croissant just to have something to do with your mouth. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch San's look; he's biting his lips to keep from smiling.

The rest of breakfast passes with light chatter. Every now and then, San's knees brush against yours under the table. You don't know if he's doing it on purpose, but it sure feels like it to you.

After a while, you check your phone.

"I'm gonna head out now," you announce. "I need a shower and I have to run a few errands before everything closes."

"I'll walk you to the subway," Yunho says, standing up.

"No need," you reply. "It's close. Besides, you both look like you want to head right back to the couch."

"We always want to head back to the couch," San admits.

You say your goodbyes at the door. Yunho gives you a tight hug.

"Thanks for staying over," he says. "I really needed a weekend like this."

"Me too," you answer, carrying a heavy weight he doesn't even suspect.

When you turn around, San is leaning against the living room doorframe, arms crossed. Yunho steps back inside for a moment to grab something. Taking advantage of those few seconds, San takes a step closer.

"I'll text you later," he murmurs in a low voice.

"You don't have my number," you reply automatically.

He gives a short smile.

"I've had it since Wooyoung's party," he confesses. "When he made the group chat. I just... hadn't used it yet."

You don't have time to answer. Yunho comes back, and you say a general goodbye with a quick wave. You walk down the stairs with your heart racing all over again, but for very different reasons than a few hours ago.

Back at your apartment, right after your shower, your phone vibrates.

Unknown number.

Can't say I didn't warn you 😏

You roll your eyes even though you're completely alone. You type back.

Who is this, and why do you have my number?

After a few seconds:

I'm the guy you almost killed tonight. Twice. Major trauma and all.

You can't help the smile spreading across your face.

I have no idea what you're talking about…

Tonight was a pretty broad spectrum. I'm talking about what happened in your best friend's bed.

You sit there staring at the screen for a moment. A hit of shame and excitement rushes over you just reading it spelled out like that.

I can't believe we actually did that in my best friend's bed.

Me neither. But if I'm being honest, I don't regret a single second of it.

Doesn't make it any less insane. We are NEVER telling him.

Obvious. Some things stay between you, me, and Yunho's t-shirt.

You burst out laughing.

Poor shirt. It has no idea what it witnessed.

It'll get a real wake-up call the day you put on one of mine instead.

You huff, feeling a flutter deep in your stomach.

Relax. There's already enough chaos as it is.

Chaos, yeah. But the kind I can't wait to see again.

You bite your lip.

Guess that saying is true after all. There's a fine line between hate and love.

Love already? Don't start pushing my buttons like that.

You know what I mean. And you know I love pushing yours.

Yeah, I do. And I also know I'm already dying to see you again

You sit with your phone held in your hand for a long moment, reading that last line over and over. You don't talk about what you are. You don't throw labels on it. You just let it roll: stolen kisses, coded texts, and a tension that keeps spiraling higher.

It’s Saturday night when Hongjoong texts the group chat:

Hongjoong: Dinner at my place tonight. I'm stepping up my game and not cooking for animals for once, so you better show up. Wooyoung: Wait, actual real food? I'm in. Yunho: See you guys there. You: You promised cooked food, no backing out now. San: Proper food? Count me in!

You end up going, of course.

Hongjoong’s table looks like something out of a cheap catalog: pasta dishes, a bowl of salad (that almost no one is touching), garlic bread, and cheap wine in glass bottles. Hongjoong parades around proudly.

"Are you seeing this?" he asks you, pointing at the salad. "It's green. Healthy. I'm outdoing myself."

"I didn't know you knew how to cut anything that wasn't pizza," you respond, taking your seat.

You end up sitting between Yunho and Seonghwa. Across from you are Hongjoong and Wooyoung. San takes a seat at the far end of the table, diagonal from you. From there, he has a clear view of everything.

Dinner starts off light. Wooyoung exaggerates every story he tells, Seonghwa keeps trying to correct the details, and Hongjoong gets dramatic whenever he sees nobody touching the salad.

"I don't know why I even bother," he says, lifting the green bowl. "You all deserve to die of high cholesterol."

"I'll die happy," Wooyoung retorts, dipping a piece of bread straight into the sauce.

You and Yunho exchange a knowing glance. He pulls out his phone.

"I have to show you this," he says, leaning in close to show you a meme.

He turns so much that his shoulder bumps against yours. You end up leaning over his arm, your head practically brushing his. The meme is stupid, but you laugh anyway and shove him playfully.

"You're an idiot," you say through your laughter.

"Yeah, but it made you laugh," he replies, giving you a gentle nudge with his elbow.

You don't realize how close the two of you have gotten until you feel a sudden prickle of heat across your face. You look up.

San is watching you both from across the table. It isn't an overtly jealous look; it's something far more contained: a tightened jaw, eyes fixed right on the tiny space between your head and Yunho's shoulder. When he notices you looking back, he brings his wine glass to his lips, pretending he was looking somewhere else all along.

You feel a strange sting in your chest—half guilt, half challenge.

Dinner moves along. You talk about work, old high school memories, and that one time Seonghwa got drunk on New Year's Eve and nearly set a paper lantern on fire. You're having a genuine good time, laughing along with everyone. For moments at a time, you even forget that you're constantly calibrating your every move so nothing looks off.

Until Hongjoong gets up for more wine, Seonghwa goes to help him, and Wooyoung decides to change the music playlist.

You're left at the table, clearing plates out of habit. Yunho has stepped away to the bathroom. Out of the corner of your eye, you see San stand up too, holding a couple of empty dishes and heading toward the kitchen.

When he walks back, he passes right behind your chair. You feel it—unmistakably—his fingers lightly brushing the top of your bare back, right where your shirt dips. It's a soft touch, quick enough to pass as an accident. But immediately after, you hear his voice right near your ear.

"Next time, don't press yourself so close to Yunho," he whispers, half-joking, but without slowing his stride.

You don't turn around. You keep stacking plates, but your pulse spikes instantly.

"Next time, don't stare so much," you reply just as low.

You feel, more than see, a faint laugh escape him. He slides back into his seat like nothing happened. When Yunho returns, he slumps into his chair, completely oblivious to the high-voltage line stretched tight right underneath the table.

The following Friday, the plan is much lower-key: couch, movie, and cheap takeout at Yunho’s place. You arrive with a bag of chips; he’s already got the blanket laid out.

"San said he’s running late," he mentions, hitting play. "Said he might not even make it."

"Better, so he won't complain about your movie choices," you tease, getting comfortable.

You're half-reclined on the couch, Yunho sitting beside you with a blanket spread over you both. At one point, you adjust yourself and your head ends up resting on his shoulder, just like you've done a thousand times before.

"You're my official pillow," you say.

"It’s an honor," he replies, resting his cheek against your hair.

A couple of hours later, the front door opens.

San walks in, tosses his keys onto the entryway table, and glances into the living room. He catches you like that: you resting on Yunho, sharing a blanket, the blue glow of the TV washing over your faces.

"I see I wasn't missed at all," he remarks, leaning against the doorframe.

You sit up a little, shifting your weight.

"We’ve been here for ages, it was a matter of logistical support," you answer.

"There's enough blanket for three," Yunho says, patting the sofa. "Come on."

San hesitates for a second, then walks over and sits down on your other side. Yunho shifts to make room, leaving you right in the middle. The blanket now covers all three of you.

From the outside, you just look like close friends piled together.

Underneath the blanket, you feel it: first, the subtle brush of San’s knee against yours. Then, his hand searching along the edge of the blanket, finding your fingers along the way. He brushes them, testing the waters. You could pull away; you don't.

A few seconds pass. His fingers entwine with yours, hidden deep beneath the fabric. It’s a tiny gesture, totally invisible to Yunho, who is commenting on a scene in the movie with utter obliviousness.

Your fingers squeeze slightly. His respond in kind.

Neither of you speaks. Neither of you looks at the other. From the outside, no one would ever guess a thing. But from that moment on, the movie ceases to exist for you. All you can feel is his warm hand wrapped around yours.

Another night, another hang at Hongjoong's place. This time the plan is way simpler: low music, beers, card games. You're sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch, playing an endless round of a game Wooyoung has explained poorly five times. Eventually, you get up to hit the bathroom.

On your way back down the hallway, a hand gently catches your wrist and tugs you into a secluded nook by a bedroom door.

"You always run off right at the best part of the game," San's voice says, right near your ear.

"Some of us actually have bladders," you reply, catching your balance. "We aren't all machines."

You're close. Way too close for what's supposed to be normal between "your best friend's friends." The hallway is narrow; his body takes up nearly all the space in front of yours.

"Stop looking at him like that when he wins," he murmurs.

"At who?" you ask, even though you already know the answer.

"Yunho," he answers flatly. "Your eyes light up, and then you try to make me believe it's just because you're besties."

Your blood boils and your face burns, both at the exact same time.

"And what's your deal, staring at me the whole time just to keep stats?" you snap back. "I didn't know you were so observant."

He gives a faint smile.

"When I care about something, I am," he says.

He doesn't give you time to answer.

He leans in and steals a kiss. Quick, intense, barely a few seconds long, but just enough to press your back softly against the wall as your hand instinctively finds his chest.

"San..." you whisper, your heart racing out of control.

"Had to," he says, sounding almost amused. "You've been driving me crazy all night without even realizing it."

He takes a step back just as Wooyoung's voice calls out from the living room:

"Hey, get back out here! I'm running out of easy targets!"

San raises his voice without turning around.

"She's coming, hold your horses!" he calls back.

He turns to you, wearing that sly little smile he only reserves for you lately.

"Wipe your lips," he murmurs. "It shows."

He passes his thumb, impossibly soft, over the corner of your mouth, then turns and heads back toward the living room like he’d just stepped out to grab something. You're left pinned against the wall for a few seconds, trying to get your heart rate back down from 180 before following him out.

That night, from your bed, your phone vibrates.

Goodnight, easy target.

You smile, even as you shake your head.

Me, an easy target? I almost had a heart attack when you cornered me in the hallway.

I almost had a heart attack when I saw you laughing with half your face buried in Yunho's shoulder. I had to restore balance.

Are we going insane?

Probably. But I like our chaos.

You stare at that word—"our"—for a long moment.

Stop saying things that sound sweet. It doesn't suit you.

Don't make me get cheesy and I won't be. Goodnight.

Goodnight, asshole.

Goodnight, trouble.

You fall asleep with the uncomfortably pleasant realization that you're far deeper into this than you ever wanted to admit.

Another afternoon, you’re over at Yunho's place. The three of you have just ordered takeout and are clearing off the table together.

San is putting leftovers in the fridge; you're at the sink rinsing dishes; Yunho is drying them with a towel.

At one point, you bend down to put something away in the cabinet under the sink right as San passes behind you. His hand rests on your waist for a second, as if to keep from bumping into you, and then he glides his thumb lightly over your t-shirt before pulling away.

It's almost nothing. But you feel the friction on your skin like it's straight fire.

"Thanks," you murmur, not looking at him.

"You're welcome," he replies, his voice lower than usual.

Yunho, who’s right next to you, makes a casual remark:

"You two are getting along better lately, huh?" he says. "It used to feel like you were gonna murder each other every time you ended up in the same room."

You feel your face go hot instantly.

"We're... getting used to each other," you improvise. "I can't insult him every single time he walks into a room. It gets exhausting."

San lets out a quiet chuckle.

"And I can't constantly be deciding which one of you two I want to throw out the window first," he adds. "I've grown kind of fond of the apartment."

Yunho laughs.

"Well, I'm glad," he says. "It was about time you guys stopped acting like kids."

He turns around to set a glass down on the counter. In that split second, San leans toward you—just a fraction—and whispers:

"If he only knew how little we're acting like kids..."

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

It's Saturday night and Yunho’s apartment is busier than usual.

Wooyoung is the first to arrive, carrying two bags of snacks like he’s prepping a fallout shelter. Hongjoong brings some craft beers he insists "are unlike anything you've ever tasted" (for better or worse). Seonghwa, ever the voice of reason, shows up with a tray of fruit "so you don't all die of malnutrition."

You arrive a little later, wearing a loose t-shirt and jeans—nothing too fancy. San is already there when you walk in: perched on the arm of the couch, phone in hand, a half-empty can resting by his feet.

"Hey! The little guest star has arrived!" Wooyoung shouts the second he sees you. "Now it's a real party."

"Tell that to your ego," you shoot back, tossing your bag onto your usual chair.

Yunho comes over to greet you with a tight hug.

"Took you long enough," he complains, though he's smiling. "Thought you bailed on us."

"The subway was running slow," you lie (well, half-lie). "And your stairs still suck."

San looks up from his phone. Your eyes catch his for a split second. There's no explicit greeting, but there's a glint in his gaze that wasn't there when you first met. A subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—a contained smile.

"You missed Hongjoong's TED Talk on craft beer," San says, holding up his can. "A true theatrical masterpiece."

"Don't remind me," Hongjoong grunts. "This generation lacks refinement."

The night starts out innocent enough: laughs, stories, card games. Everyone is scattered between the couch and the floor. You end up sitting on one corner of the couch, one leg tucked under you, leaning against the cushion. San is on the floor, almost at your feet. Yunho is at the far end, Wooyoung and Hongjoong across from you, and Seonghwa has claimed the only decent armchair.

During one of the rounds, Yunho gets up to grab more drinks. You take the opportunity to stand up too.

"Heading to the bathroom," you announce.

Nobody pays much attention. You head down the hallway, taking a deep breath to settle yourself. You decide to use the bathroom inside Yunho's room for a bit of peace and quiet. The living room is fun, sure, but having San so close—and yet officially so "far"—keeps your nerves frayed.

On your way back out, just as you step out of the bathroom into Yunho's bedroom, a hand reaches out, catches your wrist, and pulls you inside, shutting the bedroom door with a soft click.

"Jesus," you whisper, startled. "You're gonna give me a heart attack."

San looks at you, half-serious, half-amused. He's leaning back against the closed door like he's been waiting there for a while.

"You were in there forever," he says with a shrug. "Thought you fell in."

"With the amount of junk in here, I wouldn't be surprised," you reply, crossing your arms.

He takes two steps toward you, closing the gap.

"I've been watching you laugh with everyone except me all night," he says, his voice dropping an octave. "It's not fair."

"I looked at you too," you answer. "Trouble is, every time I do, you stare at me like you're dismantling my soul. It makes things complicated."

A faint smile touches his lips.

"You don't make it easy for me."

He stops right in front of you, close enough that you can smell beer mixed with his cologne. His eyes dip to your lips for a second, then rise back to meet yours.

"What are you doing?" you ask, even though you know the answer.

"Stealing a few minutes," he whispers.

His hand snakes around your waist, firm, pulling you flush against him. His mouth finds yours before you even have time to process it. It's more than a quick peck—it's deep, laced with that familiar edge of urgency. Your hands find his neck, sliding up into his hair, tugging slightly to pull him closer.

The world shrinks down to his body pressed against yours, his tongue brushing yours, his fingers gripping your hip through the fabric of your shirt. You don't push it further—no hands slipping under shirts—but the intensity is enough to draw a quiet moan right into his mouth.

Right at that exact second, a thud echoes from the hallway. A burst of laughter.

The door handle jiggles a little, as if someone is trying to open it.

"Is this taken or what?" Wooyoung's voice rings out from behind the door, clearly amused. "Hey, did you fall asleep in there?"

You break away from San instantly, your heart jumping straight into your throat. He pulls back too, planting a hand on the wall to catch his breath.

"Say something," you whisper, fighting back pure panic.

San takes a deep breath.

"It's occupied," he says, raising his voice slightly, trying to sound completely unbothered. "Give it a second, man."

Wooyoung lets out a loud laugh from the other side.

"San?" he asks, his tone incredulous. "What are you doing in Yunho's room with the door shut?"

You look at San, alarmed. He shoots you a quick glance—the ultimate mix of "shit" and sheer bravado.

"Fixing the heater," San calls back. "What else?"

"Sure," Wooyoung laughs even harder. "Fixing stuff, right. You guys are gonna end up like one of those plumbing late-night shows..."

Another comment drifts in from the living room—Hongjoong complaining about the noise. After a few agonizing seconds, Wooyoung's footsteps fade away down the hall.

You stay pinned against the wall, breathing heavily. San does too. You look at each other.

"That was way too close," you whisper.

"Way too close," he admits.

He runs a quick hand through your hair, trying to smooth down what he just messy-up while kissing you.

"You go out first," he murmurs. "Count to ten. I'll circle back through the kitchen."

"You're a real stealth expert, aren't you?" you try to joke, even though you're still shaking a little.

"Your fault," he says. "You gave me the training."

He presses one last short, fast kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then he steps aside, cracking the door open just enough for you to slip out.

You step out into the hallway with your heart hammering against your ribs. You walk back into the living room trying to look as nonchalant as possible. Wooyoung is hunched over adjusting the playlist on the TV; he turns around when he hears you.

"Finally," he says. "Did you move in?"

"My eyeliner was putting up a fight," you lie without batting an eye. "What, did you miss me?"

He looks you up and down, narrowing his eyes slightly. There's something in his expression... suspicion, curiosity, amusement. But he doesn't say anything yet. He just throws his hands up.

"Without you, there's no show," he replies. "Come on, it's your turn to lose."

You sit back down by the couch just as, out of the corner of your eye, you spot San strolling casually out of the kitchen. He opens a cabinet as if he's been looking for something in there the whole time, then walks back over with a fresh bag of chips in hand.

The rest of the night rolls on with more drinks, louder laughs, and a casual chaos that usually feels like home. But under your skin, the adrenaline from the bedroom stays sharp. Every time Wooyoung’s gaze flickers over to you, then to San, and back again, a cold shiver runs down your spine.

Once Hongjoong and Seonghwa head out early—grumbling about tomorrow’s morning shift—the energy shifts. It’s down to just you, Yunho, San, and Wooyoung. Having put away his fair share of drinks by now, Wooyoung leans back on the couch, suddenly looking way too observant for a guy who just lost three rounds of cards in a row.

"I have a theory," he announces, waving a half-empty bottle in the air. "And none of you are gonna talk me out of it."

"Here we go," Yunho sighs, slumping back into a pile of cushions. "Another groundbreaking 'Wooyoung theory.'"

"My theories are always top-tier!" Wooyoung protests. "Look, there is undeniable sexual tension in this apartment."

You raise an eyebrow, forcing a light laugh.

"Just one?" you ask.

"Multiple," he corrects, pointing a finger at the room before narrowing his eyes. "But one in particular is practically glowing in the dark."

His eyes move from Yunho to San, then drift over to you. They linger on you and San a fraction of a second too long. A slow, mischievous smirk spreads across his face.

"You two," he says, pointing the bottle right at the pair of you.

You almost choke on your breath.

"Excuse me?" you ask, working overtime to sound amused instead of guilty.

"You and San," he repeats, leaning forward. "You used to hate each other's guts. Now suddenly you don't kill each other on sight. There are weird looks. And tonight I literally ran into a locked door with San's voice coming out from inside."

Yunho bursts out laughing, shaking his head at his friend's antics.

"He's just jealous because you mess with her more than you mess with him now," Yunho tells San. "You used to reserve all your primary bullying for Wooyoung."

"Could be," San says smoothly. He rests an elbow on his knee, his posture the absolute picture of unbothered calm. "I like to diversify my portfolio."

Wooyoung snorts.

"You're not fooling me," he insists, turning his glare to you. "I saw something in that hallway earlier. And your mouth looks like..."

"—Like I was laughing way too hard," you cut in, locking eyes with him before he can finish that thought. "Because I was literally dying of laughter. At you. Outside the door. Remembering how you sang 'fixing the heater' in that ridiculous voice, remember?"

You pull an exaggerated face and mimic his voice, pitch-perfect and completely unhinged.

San breaks into a loud, genuine laugh, and Yunho joins in right after.

"I'm installing security cameras," Wooyoung grumbles, though he's smiling now. "I'm keeping my eyes on both of you."

"Try it and I'll hack every single one," San replies smoothly.

"And I'll resell them on eBay," Yunho adds, raising a hand. "Let's turn a profit here."

The room devolves into mindless banter again, the dangerous edge dulling back into harmless teasing. But as you catch Wooyoung taking one last long sip of his drink, his eyes lingering on the two of you, you know the truth: he saw something. He doesn't have the whole picture yet, but he has enough pieces to start building the puzzle.

He doesn't push it in front of Yunho, and neither do you. For now, the narrow escape remains tucked away—a heavy, flickering suspicion hovering right under the surface.

The night wraps up much later than planned.

Wooyoung and you head out of the building together, while San rushes downstairs ahead of you, phone in hand.

"Going down first, gotta grab something," he says, holding up his phone. "See you guys downstairs."

He vanishes quickly—almost too quickly. You're left alone with Wooyoung on the landing, then you both walk down the rest of the stairs in a comfortable silence.

Outside, the night air is cool. The orange glow of the streetlights bathes the building's entrance in a soft hue. You're just about to toss out a simple "guess I'll head this way" when Wooyoung leans against the brick wall, crosses his arms, and looks you dead in the eye.

"Okay, real talk," he says.

You stop in your tracks.

"What?" you ask, though you have a pretty good idea where this is going.

He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes slightly—the perfect blend of class clown and a guy who notices absolutely everything.

"I'm not stupid," he starts, skipping the preamble. "And I swear I don't get how Yunho hasn't caught on yet."

Your shoulders tense up instantly.

"Caught on to what?" you try to play the innocence card out of pure instinct.

Wooyoung lets out a short laugh.

"Please," he says, waving a hand dismissively. "The two of you."

He doesn't need to name names. You know exactly who he means.

"I've seen closed doors and hushed voices where they shouldn't be," he continues. "I've seen how you two look at each other when you think nobody's watching. And earlier in that hallway..." He locks eyes with you. "I wasn't born yesterday."

You wet your lips, which have suddenly gone bone-dry.

"Nothing happened," you lie—or half-lie. "We were just talking."

"Right," he says, sarcastic but without any real malice. "Talking with your faces two inches apart, I'm guessing."

You flash him a sharp look, but you can't find a single comeback that doesn't sound completely guilty.

He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and softens his tone a bit.

"Look, I'm not putting you on trial here, okay?" he adds. "I just... want to know if you're good."

That sentence actually catches you completely off guard.

"What?" You blink.

"You," he repeats, more serious now. "Are you good with all this? I don't know what's going on between you and San, but I know you well enough to tell when something is messing with your head."

You lean against the wall beside him, staring down at the pavement for a second.

"It's... complicated," you admit. "But I'm not suffering, if that's what you're asking."

Wooyoung takes a couple of silent moments to process that.

"Okay," he nods finally. "That's what I wanted to hear. Because if that guy hurts you, I'll take him down."

He raises his hand before you can even protest.

"And yeah, I know he'd probably beat the hell out of me," he adds. "I don't care. At least I'd give him a good scare."

You can't help but smile, despite the lingering tension.

"Didn't know you were the type to actually worry," you murmur.

"I just hide it really well," he replies, sounding proud. "Look, I'll be real with you: I don't know what San's playing at, I don't know how much Yunho suspects, and I don't know how you two are gonna handle this mess. But there are two things I do know."

He holds up two fingers.

"One: you've turned San's brain completely inside out. It shows in everything he does, no matter how hard he tries to play it cool. Two: Yunho loves you in a... clean way. He trusts you. And he trusts San."

He glances at you sideways, his expression solemn.

"So, as long as you're okay and you two aren't being total jerks to him, I'll..." He throws his hands up. "...keep my mouth shut."

You hold his gaze for a beat.

"You're really not gonna say anything to him?" you ask flatly.

Wooyoung shakes his head.

"I'm not that big of an asshole," he says. "For now."

That "for now" carries weight, but his tone doesn't sound like a threat—it sounds like a protective warning.

"I'm only asking one thing," he adds. "If this whole thing blows up, don't let Yunho be the last to know. He doesn't deserve that."

A heavy knot tightens in your stomach, because that's the exact part you fear the most.

"I know," you answer, completely sincere. "Believe me, I know."

He lets out a breath, slipping back into his usual playful demeanor.

"And by the way," he says, a sly little smirk returning, "if you ever want to use me to make San jealous, I'm totally available for hire."

You laugh, shaking your head.

"I don't need anyone playing fake boyfriend," you reply. "I've got enough on my plate."

"Fair point," he admits. "Alright, get going. He's probably gonna text you at ten in the morning like that's a normal time to be awake."

"Who?" you ask, feigning ignorance one last time.

"Your favorite problem," he answers. "Who else?"

He steps away from the wall, leans in, and pulls you into a brief, surprisingly warm hug.

"Take care," he whispers in your ear. "And take care of yourself in all this. Not just him, not just Yunho. You."

"I'll try," you reply.

He pulls back, giving you one last knowing wink.

"And next time I catch you guys, try to fake it better," he jokes, already turning to walk away.

He heads down the street. You stand there for a few seconds watching him walk off, feeling a strange mix of relief and fresh pressure. Relief because someone finally knows and, instead of setting off the bomb, he's covering for you. Pressure because that phrase—"as long as you aren't being total jerks to him"—echoes way too loudly in your head.

When you say goodbye to Wooyoung at the corner, he heads off toward the bus stop while you pause for a second under the shelter, charting a mental map toward the subway station.

Before you can even take a step, you spot San walking out of the convenience store on the corner empty-handed.

No bag, no receipt, nothing.

He stops right beside you as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"How was the interrogation?" he asks, skipping the preamble.

You raise an eyebrow.

"Were you spying?" you counter. "I thought you were going in to buy something."

"I decided," he says, completely deadpan, "that I didn't actually need anything."

You look him up and down, crossing your arms over your chest.

"So, what'd you come down for then?" you ask, even though you can already guess.

He shrugs, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

"An excuse," he admits, with a honesty you rarely see from him. "I wanted an acceptable reason to walk down with you without anyone giving us grief."

The line catches you off guard. You smile, despite yourself.

"Well, since you went through all the trouble of setting up an alibi, you better make the most of your time," you answer. "The subway is pretty close."

The two of you start walking in silence. The night air smells of damp asphalt and stale tobacco smoke; a distant car rumbles by. For a few meters, neither of you says a word. You can feel his shoulder a comfortable distance away—not close enough to brush against yours, but not completely out of reach either.

"Hey," he breaks the silence suddenly. "Are you ever gonna invite me over to your place?"

You turn toward him slightly, taken aback.

"What?" You blink.

San keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead, not quite daring to hold your gaze. He kicks a tiny pebble along the sidewalk, looking intensely focused on it.

"It's not that..." he starts, awkward. "Look. I'm just saying... I want to spend time with you that isn't always here. Or with Yunho around. Or with the whole squad breathing down our necks."

He clears his throat, dropping his voice lower.

"At my place, we basically can't do anything alone because he's always there. And when we all hang out as a group... well, you see how it goes. Guaranteed free drama."

He lets out a breath, scratching the back of his neck.

"So..." he wraps up, stripped of any bravado. "I'd like to have some quiet time just with you. Seriously. The low-key kind. Without doors about to burst open and without people spinning theories."

You find yourself staring at him as you walk. The streetlights cast soft angles across his profile: his jawline, usually set tight, has softened, and his eyes flicker down toward the pavement every few seconds. He looks almost... timid. Sweet, even.

You bite your lip, holding back a smile that sneaks up on you anyway.

"You're always invited," you answer at last. "You can come over to my place whenever you want. You don't need an excuse."

He snaps his eyes up to yours, as if checking to make sure you're actually serious. When he sees you aren't joking, his face lights up in a way you've never seen before. It's a mix of pure relief and quiet excitement that completely shatters his usual tough-guy front.

"Seriously?" he asks.

"Seriously," you nod.

He doesn't hesitate for a single second.

"Next weekend?" he pitches, fast, like he's terrified you'll take it back if he waits too long.

His rush makes you laugh, but the hopeful look on his face completely disarms you. You can already picture him lounging on your couch, trash-talking your movie choices and making himself right at home in your kitchen.

"Next weekend," you confirm. "But if you're coming, you're bringing something. I don't do freeloaders."

His smile widens into a genuine grin.

"Deal," he says. "I'll bring... something decent. I don't know what yet, but I'll figure it out."

He goes quiet for a second, then adds, his eyes drifting back toward the ground.

"I'm really looking forward to it, you know?"

That soft admission hits you right in the chest.

"Me too," you admit, your voice dropping a little lower.

You reach the entrance to the subway station. The stairs lead down toward the concrete floor, slick with humidity. You stop right at the top step.

"This is where I leave you," you say, turning around to face him. "If you come down any further, you're gonna have to buy me a ticket."

"I'm super tempted," he jokes. "But I'll save it for when I go to your place. Don't wanna waste my 'time with you' credits on concrete and fluorescent lights."

You laugh, shaking your head.

"Goodnight, San."

He lingers, looking at you a second longer than necessary. Then he nods, his expression turning softly serious.

"Goodnight, trouble."

You turn on your heel and start heading down the stairs. You can feel his eyes on the back of your neck until the curve of the tunnel cuts off his view. Down on the platform, with the roar of the oncoming train echoing through the station, you catch yourself mentally doing a walkthrough of your apartment.

And, against all odds, wondering if San is going to like your couch as much as he claims.

@little-mix-fan-forever @jayhoonsgf @jenoxpress

Yunho’s building is old, but it has its own charm: an entryway with wobbly mailboxes, slightly worn-out stairs, and the smell of food wafting in from everywhere. You head up the last flight of stairs with your laptop bag slung over your shoulder and a bag of snacks in hand.

It’s been a shit day at work. The only thing keeping you going is the promise of pizza, video games, and venting to Yunho until you feel better.

"Third floor, door at the end," he’d texted you earlier. "Don’t knock too loud, my neighbor’s a grump."

You take a deep breath and knock twice. Nothing. You knock a third time, harder.

The door flies open.

The guy standing in front of you isn't Yunho.

He’s wearing a fitted grey t-shirt, black sweatpants, and his hair is a bit messy, like he’s been lounging on the couch. He’s a little shorter than Yunho, but he has broad shoulders and an obviously toned physique. His dark eyes fix straight on you, scanning you up and down without a hint of shame.

"Who are you?" he asks, leaning against the doorframe, his tone somewhere between bored and snappy.

You raise an eyebrow.

"The tax inspector. Anything to declare?" You pull a face. "I’m here to see Yunho."

A slow smirk spreads across his lips.

"Feisty, huh?" He steps aside slightly. "Come in. The kid’s inside, crying because he lost another match."

"I wasn’t crying, asshole!" Yunho’s voice echoes from down the hall.

You smirk and step inside. The apartment is typical shared student housing: a slightly faded couch, a coffee table covered in empty cans, controllers, and cables everywhere. It smells like fast food and cheap air freshener.

"Yunho!" you call out, holding up the bag of snacks. "I brought reinforcements!"

Yunho comes out of the hallway with a huge smile, covers the distance in two strides, and pulls you into a tight hug.

"Thank god," he whispers into your hair. "If you hadn’t come today, I would’ve lost it completely."

"Overdramatic much?" you reply with a laugh, giving him a quick squeeze before pulling back. "It was just a shit day, not the end of the world."

You feel a pair of eyes locked on you. When you turn around, the guy from the door is still there, arms crossed, watching the two of you with a mix of curiosity and… something else?

"Oh, right," Yunho says, snapping his fingers. "I haven’t introduced you properly."

He turns to you. "This is the one I’m always telling you about—my best friend." Then to him: "And this is San, my roommate and personal tragedy."

"The 'best friend' part is pretty obvious," San murmurs, tilting his head slightly. "You two almost made out right there in the hallway."

You shoot him a sharp glare.

"Are you always this charming with guests, or are you working overtime today?"

San smiles, tilting his head.

"Only with the ones who walk in like they own the place."

"Relax, your territory is safe," you reply, dropping your laptop onto a chair. "I’m not interested in collecting alpha males."

Yunho laughs, though he glances between the two of you, already sensing the sparks.

"Alright, calm down, gunslingers," he cuts in. "Let’s order the pizza and get gaming, yeah? Save the arguing for later."

You sit on the couch with Yunho beside you. San flops down on the other end, but stretches out just enough for his knees to almost brush against your legs. You pull back a little, automatically. He notices, of course.

"Am I giving you an allergic reaction or something?" he asks, grabbing a can from the table.

"I’m just claiming my personal space," you retort. "Maybe you’ve heard of it."

Yunho gets up, phone in hand.

"I’m gonna call the pizzeria. Don’t kill each other in the meantime, please."

As soon as the kitchen door closes, the living room grows quieter. You can feel San’s eyes on your profile.

"You don’t look like Yunho’s typical friend," he remarks.

"And what’s 'Yunho’s typical friend' like?" you ask without looking at him, turning on the console.

"More… sweet." He gestures with his hand. "You come with knives."

"Don’t worry," you say, resting your elbows on your knees. "I only draw them for people who earn it."

There’s a second of silence. You notice him looking at you—first at your hand on the controller, then moving up your arm, your neck, your face. He does it slowly, blatantly.

"And what about me?" he asks, leaning in a little closer. "Have I earned it yet?"

This time, you actually look straight at him. He’s closer than you thought; you can see the sharp line of his jaw, the teasing glint in his eyes, the slight challenge in his smirk.

"I haven’t decided yet," you murmur.

A twitch touches the corner of his mouth, as if he were about to say something else, to bridge the distance between you. Just then, Yunho’s voice from the kitchen bursts the bubble:

"Pepperoni or BBQ?!" he shouts.

"Both!" you and San yell at the same time.

You lock eyes for a second, surprised, and then he lets out a soft chuckle.

"Well, look at that. Something we agree on."

"Don’t get used to it," you reply, but your heart is beating faster than usual.

And, even though you don’t want to admit it, in that exact moment you know San isn’t just going to be "Yunho’s annoying friend." He’s going to be trouble.

The night started, like almost everything lately, in the living room of Yunho’s apartment.

The pizza was now just an open box on the table, filled with crumpled napkins. Empty cans lined up like a little metallic graveyard between the console controllers. They had spent a couple of hours laughing, bantering over the game, and trading the occasional sharp remark between you and San, but nothing too serious. Even so, every time your knee accidentally brushed against his, you felt a tiny spark shoot up your leg.

"Alright, I give up," Yunho whined, dropping the controller onto the couch. "If I keep losing like this, I won’t even want to get out of bed tomorrow."

"Like you normally get up early anyway," San murmured, taking a sip from his drink. "But yeah, I’ve humiliated you enough for today."

"How modest," you said, stretching your legs. "It must be exhausting, being so perfect."

You thought he’d take it as an obvious joke, but he looked at you with a raised eyebrow, as if there were something hidden behind your words.

"You just admitted I’m perfect," he replied, leaning toward you. "Did someone get that on tape?"

"I said you must think you’re perfect," you retorted. "Learn to listen."

Yunho laughed, oblivious to the undertow between the two of you.

"Hey, what do you guys think about going out for a bit?" he proposed. "Hongjoong texted me, they’re at the usual bar. He says we should go—that it’s been years since he last saw you," he added, looking at you, "and for San to stop acting like a couch potato."

"I’m not acting like a couch potato," San protested. "The world is just moving too fast."

"Translation: he doesn’t feel like changing," you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else.

"I heard that," he said, without looking up from his phone. "And there’s no need to change. I look perfect."

You looked at his fitted grey t-shirt, the black sweatpants, his slightly messy hair. Against your better judgment, you thought he wasn’t wrong. You immediately looked away.

"Sure, perfect," you muttered. "Red-carpet ready."

"Come on, move it," Yunho interrupted, standing up. "Ten minutes and we leave. If you take any longer, I’m going on my own."

"As if we’d leave you flirting without supervision," you teased.

Yunho feigned offense, but laughed again and disappeared down the hall.

You got up to freshen up in the bathroom. It wasn’t like you were going to do anything special, but it had been a long day and your face showed it. As you retouched your eyeliner, you heard footsteps in the hallway. The mirror’s reflection showed San leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.

"You really insist on staring at me without permission, don’t you?" you commented, without putting down the pencil.

"You really insist on coming into my home and stealing Yunho’s time," he answered, his voice calm. "I’m just adapting."

You finished, capped the pencil, and turned around to face him.

"If it bothers you so much, you can leave when I come over," you said. "Problem solved."

He shrugged.

"And leave you two alone, hugging like a soap commercial? No thanks."

There was something in his tone that wasn't just mockery. Annoyance? Jealousy? You crossed your arms, mimicking him.

"He’s my best friend," you clarified. "I don’t need your approval to hug him."

For a second, his eyes turned a bit more serious.

"Right, of course," he said simply.

Before you could say anything else, Yunho yelled from the living room:

"Let’s go! Hongjoong says the first round is on him if we get there before he leaves the bar!"

San stepped away from the frame, giving you room to pass.

"Free drinks always bring us together," he murmured. "It’s touching."

As you passed by his side, you felt the heat of his body right next to yours. Your arm barely brushed his, but the contact ran through you like an electric shock. You didn’t look back. He didn’t say anything either.

The bar is full, but not to an overwhelming point. Warm light, background music that doesn’t force you to shout, laughs mixed with the clinking of glasses. You immediately spot Hongjoong at a table in the back, gesturing while Wooyoung and Seonghwa laugh.

"Look who made it!" Wooyoung exclaims as soon as he sees you. "The legend of late-night gaming sessions!"

He stands up to greet you with an enthusiastic hug. Wooyoung has always been like this: too much, but in the best way possible.

"Yunho, next time you show up without her, you’re not getting in," he adds, slapping your friend’s back.

"You bring her next time," Yunho replies. "That way she won’t have an excuse to ignore me."

You sit between Yunho and Wooyoung. San settles right across from you, next to Seonghwa. Hongjoong raises his hand to call the waiter.

"I promised the first round if you made it here quickly, and you delivered," he says. "Beer, cocktails, something strong…?"

"Beer is fine," you reply.

"Same," Yunho says.

"Something that hits hard for me," Wooyoung adds, raising an eyebrow.

San simply orders a drink by name without looking at you, toyed with a coaster.

The conversation picks up fast. Hongjoong tells a story from work, Wooyoung dramatizes every detail, and Seonghwa tries to bring order, only to end up laughing too. You warm up bit by bit; the beer helps loosen the day’s tense shoulders.

San participates effortlessly, throwing sharp comments that make almost everyone laugh. It irritates you… and at the same time, you’re drawn to the confidence in his movements, the way he leans forward when he speaks, his hands gesturing. You catch yourself staring at him more than you should, and every time his eyes meet yours, you feel that same uncomfortable flutter.

At one point, Wooyoung slams his palm on the table.

"Alright, I’m bored of talking about work. Game time," he declares. "We need a game."

"Wooyoung, no," Seonghwa protests, though his smile gives him away. "Last time you ended up dancing on top of a table."

"And it was an iconic moment in our lives," he retorts. "I propose… Truth or Dare. Drinking rules. If you don’t answer or do the dare, you drink."

"We’re adults," Hongjoong complains. "Can’t we just talk?"

"Precisely because we’re adults, we need games to justify our bad decisions," Wooyoung says, completely serious.

You laugh, already feeling this has disaster potential.

"I’m in," Yunho says, raising his hand.

"Me too," you add. If there’s one thing you know about yourself, it’s that you’re not going to let them label you a coward in front of this group.

Everyone ends up agreeing, even Seonghwa and Hongjoong, who give in to Wooyoung’s persistence. San leans over the table, resting his elbows, intrigued.

"This is going to be entertaining," he says, looking straight at you.

You take a sip of your beer without breaking eye contact.

"Don’t get excited," you reply. "I’m not planning on telling you anything you want to hear."

"Who said I wanted to hear anything from you?" he shoots back.

Wooyoung applauds, loving the tension.

"Perfect, we already have drama. I’ll start."

He spins an empty bottle in the center of the table. The bottle whirls several times and stops, pointing at… Yunho.

"Truth or dare?" Wooyoung asks with a mischievous grin.

"Truth," Yunho replies, resigned.

"Have you ever had a dream… not exactly innocent… about someone at this table?" Wooyoung asks.

Laughter erupts around the table. Yunho buries his face in his hand.

"You’re sick, Wooyoung."

"Answer or drink!" Wooyoung sings out.

Yunho hesitates, then glances sideways at the table. For a second, his eyes brush past you—too fast, but you notice. Your stomach flips slightly, a feeling you try to ignore.

"…Yeah," he admits at last. "About someone here."

"Who?" Wooyoung pounces.

"That wasn’t part of the question," Yunho defends himself, and everyone groans in protest. "Nope! Rule: only one question."

Wooyoung surrenders amidst the laughter and spins the bottle again. This time, the neck points straight at you.

"Ooh, your turn," he sings.

"Truth," you reply without thinking twice. You don’t want them making you do anything ridiculous. Not yet.

Wooyoung thinks it over for a few seconds, looking at you with a smile you don’t like one bit.

"Alright. Do you find someone at this table attractive?"

You don’t need to look to know everyone has turned their heads toward you. You feel heat rising to your cheeks, but you refuse to back down.

"Yes," you answer firmly.

Wooyoung’s eyes go wide.

"Who?"

"That’s another question," you cut in, raising your beer in a victory gesture. "And you made the rules."

Laughter breaks out around you. You feel, crystal clear, San’s gaze locked onto you. When you force yourself to look at him, he’s wearing a half-smirk, but his eyes are serious.

"How mysterious," he murmurs.

"How curious," you answer without looking away. "Truth or dare, San?"

Wooyoung passes him the turn, loving every second of this.

San takes barely a second to consider.

"Dare."

Wooyoung starts rubbing his hands together, but you step in first.

"Leave this one to me," you say. "I owe him."

He looks at you, amused.

"Go ahead."

You lean slightly toward the table.

"For the next round…" you point at his glass, "every time you look someone in the eye, you take a sip."

"That’s not a dare, that’s a drinking game inside a drinking game," Seonghwa protests.

"Exactly," you answer. "And I want to see how many times he can manage not to look."

San lets out a soft laugh.

"Are my eyes really that intimidating that you want to limit their power?"

"You just love drama so much that I want to see how you handle losing control," you counter.

He nods, accepting.

"Done."

For a while, the game carries on. Awkward questions, silly dares: Wooyoung has to go to the bar and ask for "sparkling water in a cocktail glass, please, I’m feeling fancy today"; Seonghwa confesses he sings ballads in the shower; Hongjoong is forced to tell the story of his most disastrous date. The laughter flows, and so does the alcohol.

And your dare for San starts taking effect.

Every time someone looks at him or asks him something, you catch him sneaking glances at you. He notices, purses his lips, and drinks. At first, he does it with a defiant attitude, as if it were just a harmless game. But as minutes pass, his gaze grows heavier, and his glass empties faster.

At one point, Wooyoung chimed in:

"Alright, San’s turn again. But this time I’m asking," he spins the bottle, which stops pointing at you again. "Perfect. San, truth or dare for her."

San leans back in his chair, playing with his empty glass. His cheeks are slightly flushed, his eyes bright. You can’t tell if it’s from the alcohol or the game.

"Truth," you answer preemptively. You don’t trust his dares.

San smiles slowly.

"Coward."

"Excuse me?"

"You could’ve chosen dare."

"It’s my turn, not yours," you retort. "Just ask."

He stays quiet for a few seconds, staring intently at you. That counts as another look; someone points at his glass, and he brings it to his lips without breaking eye contact with you. He takes a long sip, then sets the empty glass back on the table.

"Alright," he finally says. "My question: Have you thought about kissing someone at this table?"

The air feels thick in your throat. You feel Yunho shift beside you, uncomfortable, as if he doesn’t know where to look. Wooyoung holds back a gasp. Hongjoong watches with quiet curiosity. Seonghwa rubs the back of his neck, nervous.

Your first impulse is to say no. To laugh it off. To lighten the mood.

But the images hit you: the bathroom doorframe, San’s closeness earlier, his eyes tracing down your neck, the heat in your stomach. And, in another corner of your mind, the way Yunho sometimes looks at you when he thinks you aren’t paying attention.

You could lie. Or you could play along.

"Yes," you answer.

Your own voice sounds deeper than you expected.

Wooyoung almost chokes on his drink. Yunho clears his throat, fidgeting. Hongjoong arches an eyebrow, amused. Seonghwa stares at his glass as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

San doesn’t blink.

"Who?" he asks, his tone softer than anything you’ve heard from him all night.

You feel a knot in your chest. You fall back on the only defense you know well: irony.

"Game rules," you repeat. "Only one question."

Someone protests, someone else laughs, someone shouts, "Cheat!" The conversation dissolves into shouts and jokes, but all you feel is San’s gaze burning into your skin. You aren’t sure if he’s annoyed, intrigued, or both.

To escape for a moment, you get up.

"I’m going to the bathroom," you announce.

"I’ll come with you," Wooyoung says, standing up too. "I need to send a couple of risky voice notes."

You make your way through the crowd to the hallway leading to the restrooms. Wooyoung goes into the guys' room after giving you an exaggerated wink, leaving you leaning against the wall for a moment, alone.

You close your eyes for a second, trying to clear your head. Between the alcohol, the questions, and the way San looked at you with that damn dare, everything feels a bit blurry yet overwhelmingly sharp at the same time.

"So, yes, huh?" a voice says to your right.

You open your eyes. San is standing there, a couple of steps away, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a fresh drink. You didn’t hear him approach.

"Yes what?" you ask, even though you know exactly what he’s referring to.

He shrugs and takes a sip.

"That you’ve thought about kissing someone at the table."

"It was a game," you reply, crossing your arms. "It doesn’t mean anything."

He moves half a step closer—just enough to invade your personal space without touching you.

"That doesn’t answer the question," he murmurs. "You could’ve lied."

"And who says I didn’t?"

He smiles, but there’s something darker in his eyes.

"You don’t seem like the type to back down from a challenge," he says. "Especially not when you look at me like that."

"Like what?" you challenge.

He tilts his head, taking another small step closer. Now you really smell the alcohol mixed with his cologne—warm, familiar after the afternoon at the apartment.

"Like you want to punch me and kiss me at the same time," he whispers.

You freeze for a second. There’s noise all around: doors opening and closing, distant laughter, a song changing in the bar. But in this small hallway, there only seems to be room for his breath and yours.

"I’ve got news for you," you finally say. "You’re not that special. There are plenty of people I’d like to punch."

"And kiss?" he presses, a sharp glint of a challenge in his eyes.

Your body acts before your mind can: you step toward him, closing the distance instantly. His back brushes against the wall behind him, and your hand rests at his shoulder level, trapping him without making contact.

"You’re very full of yourself, Choi San," you murmur, so close you feel his breath against your lips. "Maybe that’s your flaw."

For a moment, he says nothing. He looks into your eyes, then drops his gaze a fraction of an inch to your mouth, then back up. His jaw tightens.

"And what’s yours?" he asks softly. "Because if you really didn’t want to, you wouldn’t be standing this close."

You feel a sharp thud in your chest. You’re painfully aware of how little you’d have to move for your lips to meet. A single centimeter. Less.

The bathroom door swings open to your right. Wooyoung steps out, talking loudly on his phone.

"I swear I wasn’t that drunk last time, it was the bartender…!" He stops dead when he sees you two. "Oh."

An awkward second of silence.

Wooyoung smiles slowly, like someone who just struck gold.

"Don’t mind me!" he says, raising his hands. "Carrying on with my call. Babe," he speaks back into the phone, "I’ll call you later, I just stumbled upon something very interesting."

He slips past you two with a massive grin and disappears back toward the table.

You pull back from San, as if contact with reality hit you all at once.

"I need to get back," you murmur.

You take a step back. He doesn’t try to stop you, but his gaze stays pinned on you.

"You still haven’t answered," he says before you walk away completely. "But you will."

You don’t give him the satisfaction of looking back. You head back to the table with your heart pounding, trying to compose your face. Yunho offers you a tired smile.

"All good?" he asks, leaning in so you can hear over the noise.

You smile back, a bit tighter than you’d like.

"Yeah, all good. Just… felt a bit warm."

Instinctively, he wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you a little closer.

"If you want, we can leave soon," he offers. "We don’t have to stay late."

Before you can answer, out of the corner of your eye, you see San return to the table. His eyes pause for a second on Yunho’s arm around your shoulders. His expression hardens almost imperceptibly.

And in that moment, you realize the real game has just begun.

Wooyoung comes back to the table with a smile too big to be innocent. You sit back down, acting as if nothing happened in the hallway. Yunho keeps his arm resting on the back of your chair, close to your shoulders but not touching you now. San flops into his seat, a bit more serious.

"Everything good back there?" Hongjoong asks, looking from one to the other with curiosity.

"Everything’s great," you reply, way too fast.

"Yeah, I just got lost," San adds with a shrug. "You know, hallways, doors… complicated stuff."

Wooyoung suppresses a laugh and pours himself another drink to cover it up.

The game goes on for a bit longer, but the sharp edge of the questions softens. They start talking about other things: concerts, shows, inside jokes that you catch on to bit by bit. Every now and then, Yunho leans in to whisper something in your ear, and his closeness feels familiar, safe. Even so, every time that happens, you can’t help feeling an uncomfortable flutter as you catch San’s gaze from across the table.

At one point, Hongjoong checks the time and clicks his tongue.

"I’m up early tomorrow," he announces. "I’m gonna head out."

Seonghwa nods.

"Me too. I don’t want a repeat of last month’s hangover."

Wooyoung pouts, but ends up standing up with them, not before pointing an accusing finger at you and San.

"Behave yourselves," he says, smiling. "Or don’t. But tell me about it later."

"Goodnight," Seonghwa greets with a slight nod.

You’re left with Yunho and San, the noise of the bar now feeling a bit further from your corner. The table feels bigger, the air thicker.

"Are you guys in a rush to leave?" Yunho asks, looking at you.

You think about your empty apartment, the exhausting week, and how weird the mix of alcohol and tension is making you feel.

"We can have one more and then head out," you reply. "I don’t want to be dying tomorrow, but I don’t want to go back to absolute silence just yet either."

"Another round and we leave then," Yunho decides.

San says nothing; he just nods, distracted, toyed with the coaster again. For a few minutes, the conversation settles down. They talk about a new game that just came out, a ramen spot they want to try. You chime in here and there, but you catch yourself paying more attention to the small gestures: how San licks his lower lip after drinking, how he looks at Yunho when he laughs, how he avoids looking at you for too long at a time, as if it were a conscious decision.

When you finally step out of the bar, the night air hits you with a welcome chill. The street is wet from recent rain, lights reflecting on the pavement.

"Walking will help us sober up a bit," Yunho says. "It’s ten minutes to the apartment. Good?"

"Sounds great," you murmur.

The three of you walk down the sidewalk: Yunho beside you, San slightly behind with his hands in his pockets. The conversation drifts into nonsense: a misspelled sign, a couple arguing on the corner, someone slipping in the distance and almost falling. You laugh more than you should, partly from the alcohol, partly from the need to fill the silence threatening to settle in.

At a traffic light, you stop next to Yunho. You suddenly feel a hand rest very briefly on your waist, as if to keep you from bumping into someone walking past in a rush. You turn by reflex. It’s San.

He pulls it away almost instantly, as if he’d been burned.

"Easy," he says, his tone neutral. "Some guy was walking without looking."

You look back; indeed, a man is walking away, completely oblivious. You turn your eyes back to San.

"Thanks," you reply, a bit thrown off by the gesture.

He shrugs.

"Don’t want you getting run over before we can keep arguing."

"How thoughtful," you retort, but the words come out softer than you intended.

The light turns green, and you keep walking. You try not to think about the feeling of his hand on your waist—how firm and natural the gesture was, as if he’d done it a thousand times.

Back at the apartment, the atmosphere changes. The noise of the bar is left behind; now there’s only the hum of the fridge, a distant car, the low voices of neighbors through the walls.

"Do you want water?" Yunho asks, flopping onto the couch.

"Yes, please," you reply. "Or I’m gonna wake up with a mouth like sandpaper."

"I’ll get it for you," he says, standing up and heading into the kitchen.

You sit on the couch where you had been before. San stays standing for a second, hesitating, then leans on the back of the couch, close to you.

"So, did you have a good time?" he asks. "You didn’t run away, so I guess you didn’t hate them."

"You guys are… loud," you reply, but with a half-smile. "In a good way."

"Wooyoung is loud. The rest is just contagious."

"And you?" You turn slightly to look at him. "Are you always this…?"

"Handsome? Brilliant? Charming?" he lists off, in that playful tone you already recognize.

"Annoying," you finish.

He smiles, but his eyes study you attentively.

"Only with certain people."

"Should I feel flattered?"

"Depends," he says. "If you ignored me, I might get bored."

"Just what you needed—me entertaining you," you murmur.

At that moment, Yunho comes back with two glasses of water.

"Here," he gives you one and sits on the other side of the couch. "If you want, you can stay for a bit longer or even sleep over. The subway is terrible at this hour anyway."

"No need, I can still make it home before I turn into a pumpkin," you reply, taking a sip of water. "But I’ll stay for a little while, sure."

The conversation drifts to some viral video Yunho puts on the TV, and the three of you end up laughing at a cat that can’t jump properly. The mood relaxes. Your eyes start to feel a bit heavy.

"I think I’m gonna fall asleep right here," you admit, briefly resting your head on the backrest.

Yunho looks at you.

"Seriously, if you want, you can have my bed and I’ll sleep on the couch," he offers. "It’s no trouble at all."

"No, really," you reply quickly. "I have things to do tomorrow, I’d rather wake up at my place."

"I’ll walk you to the subway," Yunho says, starting to get up.

"You don’t have to," you stop him, resting a hand on his arm. "I’m two stops away, I’m fine."

You feel another gaze on you. When you look up, San is watching you both, his jaw slightly clenched.

"I’m taking out the trash," he says suddenly. "I’ll walk you out. It’s the same way."

Yunho hesitates for a second, then nods.

"Alright, but text me when you get there, okay?" he insists.

"Will do," you reply with a smile. "Mom."

He laughs, affectionately ruffling your hair, and leans in to hug you for a moment.

You notice, once again, the way San observes that gesture. It’s subtle, but by now you know the nuance: that slight hardening in his eyes, that extra stillness in his shoulders.

You put on your jacket and grab your things. San disappears into the kitchen for a second and returns holding a trash bag as an alibi.

"Let’s go," he says simply.

The entryway smells like dust and dampness. You walk down the stairs in silence—you ahead, him a couple of steps above. As you step out onto the street, the cold air clears your head a bit.

You stop on the sidewalk.

"I’m good from here," you say. "If you keep going, you’ll have to watch me all the way to the subway station, and I don’t think you’d be too thrilled about that."

"You never know," he replies, tossing the bag into the corner dumpster. "I might enjoy watching you trip."

"How romantic."

He leans against the entryway railing for a moment, looking at you. The orange streetlights outline his jaw. For the first time tonight, you’re truly alone—no music, no friends, no interruptions.

"It was good," he says finally.

"What was?" you ask.

"Watching you make Wooyoung suffer during the games," he answers with a half-smile. "And… meeting you."

You didn’t expect that second part. You raise an eyebrow.

"Is that a compliment?"

"Don’t get used to it," he says, though his tone has lost some of its edge. "I’m just saying… I expected Yunho’s best friend to be more boring."

"And I expected his roommate to be less… provocative."

"There you go," he shrugs. "We both got disappointed."

There’s a short silence that isn’t uncomfortable, just charged. A bus passes in the distance, the wind picking up your hair a little.

"About earlier in the hallway," he starts, getting straight to the point. "You don’t have to explain anything to me."

"I wasn’t planning on it," you reply, crossing your arms defensively.

He smiles, barely.

"But I do want to say one thing."

He steps away from the railing and takes a step toward you. Not as close as in the bar, but close enough for his presence to fill your field of vision again. This time there’s no heavy alcohol, no game involved. Just his dark eyes on yours.

"I don’t know who you thought about kissing," he says softly. "But if at any point you decide to do it with me…" he pauses briefly, letting the words carry weight, "it’s not gonna be a game."

You stand there staring at him, your heart pounding. It’s not a sweet declaration, nor a romantic one. It’s a warning. A challenge.

"And who said I was gonna decide on you?" you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.

"Nobody," he admits. "But you haven’t said no either."

The skin on your neck burns. You could cut this off right here. Laugh. Call him delusional. Leave.

You look at him for one more second. Then you release the breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

"Goodnight, San," you say, turning toward the street.

"Goodnight," he replies without moving.

You walk toward the station, feeling his gaze pinned to your back until you turn the corner. Only then do you pull out your phone to text Yunho: Made it to the subway safe, don’t worry.

On the subway back, staring at your reflection in the window, you try to convince yourself it was just a normal night. That San is just Yunho’s snarky roommate. That everything will stay as jokes and banter.

But when you close your eyes, all you see is the way he told you: “It’s not gonna be a game.”

And a small, painfully honest part of you wants to find out what happens if you stop playing.

On a Thursday afternoon, as you close your laptop after a long day, a voice note from Yunho pops up:

Don’t make plans this weekend. San’s away for work starting Friday, so the place is all ours. Weekend of gaming and relaxing. Movies, video games, and zero judgment. You’re sleeping over, obviously.

You smile to yourself in your living room.

Are you selling me a spa getaway when your apartment actually smells like pizza and cheap air freshener?

It’s my spa. Bring comfy pajamas. Or don’t, since you always sleep in my giant t-shirts anyway 😂

You bite your lip, suddenly remembering the t-shirt you wore the last time you slept over there. The sleeves slipping off your shoulders, the scent of him, the joke about "I’m keeping this." You shake your head.

Alright, pizza spa accepted. I’ll come over Friday after work.

😎 I’ll pick you up at the subway if you want. Oh, and don’t worry, San won’t show up until late Sunday, according to him. We’ve got plenty of time to talk trash about him.

You stare at the last message a little longer than necessary. You don’t reply to that part. Instead, you send a simple:

Perfect.

When you put your phone away, you catch yourself thinking about the sentence San told you that night, leaning against the railing: “If at any point you decide to do it with me, it’s not gonna be a game.” The memory irritates you and, at the same time, leaves a small knot in your stomach.

Friday finally arrives.

Yunho is waiting for you at the subway exit, holding a bag of snacks and his hair tousled by the wind.

"I thought I was the one bringing the supplies," you say instead of a normal greeting.

"I didn’t trust your judgment," he replies, giving you a quick hug. "But since I’m generous, I’ll share."

You head up to the apartment together. When you open the door, you immediately notice the atmosphere is… quieter. No second pair of sneakers in the entryway, no extra jacket on the coat rack.

"Is San already gone?" you ask, more to fill the silence than out of actual interest.

"Yeah, he left this morning straight from work," Yunho answers, kicking the door shut. "And I didn’t tell him you were staying over, so he won’t complain about a thing."

You laugh.

"I’ve never seen him complain about me being here—just… exist with a grumpy face."

"That’s his default mode," Yunho says, shrugging. "Don’t take it personally."

The night is easy. Pizza, video games, TV shows. Yunho is being especially silly, maybe because he feels like he has the place to himself without worrying about schedules or noise. You relax more than you thought possible after the long week.

Around three in the morning, both of you are sprawled on the couch, the TV playing something neither of you is really watching.

"I’m dead," Yunho murmurs, his head tilted back.

"Me too," you reply. "My brain cells have left the chat."

Yunho gets up and goes into his room. He opens the closet, rummages through it, and pulls out a large t-shirt with an old gaming graphic.

"Here," he tosses it to you. "Limited edition: 'annoying best friend sleeping over'."

"Hilarious," you mutter, catching it. "One of these days, I’m gonna steal this from you."

"You can have it," he replies, shrugging. "That way I have an excuse to buy new clothes."

In the end, you agree on the most logical setup: you sleep in his bed, and he takes the couch in the living room. There’s no reason to use San’s bed, and in fact, you’ve never done that when he’s away.

"The couch is comfortable, no complaints here," Yunho assures you, seeing your face. "Besides, that way if I get late-night cravings, I’m close to the fridge."

"Now that part I believe," you reply, laughing.

You change in the bathroom. You put on Yunho’s t-shirt; it hits you mid-thigh, soft, a little worn out. It smells like laundry detergent and something warm that you recognize as him. You pick up your clothes and look at yourself in the mirror for a second: bare legs, hair down, slightly tired eyes.

"It’s just sleeping," you tell yourself softly. "Period."

You get into Yunho’s bed. On the other side of the wall, you hear him turn off the TV, adjust the cushions on the couch. A couple of text messages he sends to someone, the sound of his phone as he sets it down. Then, silence.

It takes you a while to fall asleep. Not because the bed isn’t comfortable, but because your brain insists on bringing back memories of glances in a bar, a narrow hallway, a hand on your waist.

Eventually, exhaustion wins.

You wake up to soft light filtering through the curtain. You sit up slowly, still with the feeling of being somewhere that isn’t your bedroom. You get your bearings: the poster on the wall, the messy bookshelf, the console controller on the nightstand.

You check your phone. It’s almost ten in the morning. Saturday.

You listen: nothing. No TV, no footsteps. The apartment is in total silence—that kind of quiet that only apartments have in the morning when everyone is still asleep.

You get out of bed, the oversized t-shirt falling mid-thigh. You carefully open the door to Yunho’s room and peek out into the hallway. The living room door is ajar. From there, you see a bare foot dangling off the couch: Yunho, clearly, is still dead to the world.

You head barefoot to the kitchen, moving on autopilot. You open the cupboard, grab a glass, turn on the faucet. The cold water wakes you up a little.

You don’t hear the key turning in the lock.

What you do hear, a few seconds later, is the front door opening and closing with a soft thud, followed by a tired sigh and the brief shuffle of a backpack being dropped in the entryway.

"Great, more stairs," a familiar voice mutters.

The water is still running when someone’s presence in the kitchen doorway gives you goosebumps. You shut off the faucet and turn around.

San is right there.

A dark zip-up hoodie unzipped over a light t-shirt, his hair somewhat tousled like someone who’s just traveled or had a short night. He looks at you, taking a quick sweep from your face down to the t-shirt—clearly Yunho’s—and from there to your bare legs.

His expression changes in a second. Something tightens in his features, in the line of his jaw.

"I thought you weren't back until tomorrow," you manage to say, holding the glass with both hands so you don’t drop it.

"Change of plans," he replies, his voice a bit raspy. "Work got canceled because of the weather, so we came back early."

He speaks, but his eyes don’t leave you. The t-shirt that’s too big on you. Your legs. The setting: his kitchen, on a Saturday morning. Your hair slightly messy from sleep.

You start to feel an uncomfortable heat rising in your face. You cross your arms out of sheer reflex, wanting to cover yourself up more even though the t-shirt already hides the essentials.

"Yunho’s still asleep," you add, just to say something. "On the couch."

"Right," he says.

A heavy silence falls. You clearly sense that he’s connecting the dots… or rather, imagining them.

"I didn’t know you were sleeping over now too," he remarks, with a half-smirk that has nothing friendly about it.

The sentence and his tone sting.

"I didn’t know you cared," you retort, raising an eyebrow.

He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms, watching you unhurriedly.

"I don't," he says. "It’s just surprising to see how well you two make use of the free apartment."

The way he says it—that "make use of"—triggers a wave of heat in you that is no longer embarrassment, but anger.

"Excuse me?" you ask, fixing your gaze on him.

He shrugs minimally.

"Nothing. Just wasn't expecting this… relationship update."

Your blood boils.

"You’re really quick to jump to conclusions," you reply, setting the glass down on the counter harder than necessary. "A guy walks into his own kitchen for two seconds and already knows who’s sleeping with whom."

San tightens his jaw slightly.

"You don’t have to be a genius," he snaps. "I see you in his t-shirt, barefoot, on a Saturday morning, coming out of his bedroom…"

"So?" you cut him off. "Do you have an Excel spreadsheet of what I can or cannot do here?"

"I don’t care what you do," he says, but his tone completely betrays his words. "Just… didn’t expect to see this so soon, I guess."

That "so soon" throws you off for a second. You stare at him hard.

"What is this, exactly?" you ask, colder.

His eyes drop back, insistently, to the t-shirt. Then to you.

"Nothing," he replies. "Forget it. I don’t want details."

The last words come out sharper than they should if he genuinely "didn't want to know." And something inside you hooks right onto that.

"Perfect," you answer, your pulse racing. "Because I wasn't going to give you any."

You’re standing face-to-face, just a few paces apart, with the tension freshly ignited. Him, newly arrived and tired; you, disheveled, in someone else's shirt, getting pissed off because someone decided to interpret your life in two glances.

It’s right at that moment when, from the living room, Yunho’s sleepy voice echoes:

"Is someone talking already, or am I dreaming…?"

He sits up clumsily and peers into the hallway, his hair even more messed up than San’s.

"Oh, man, you're back," he says upon seeing San. "Thought you weren't getting in until tomorrow."

Then he spots you in the kitchen and smiles, still oblivious to the electricity in the air.

"Morning," he greets you. "Did I leave you without coffee? Sorry, I crashed hard."

"Don't worry," you reply, forcing a smile. "I was just looking for a glass of water."

Yunho yawns and scratches the back of his neck.

"I’m gonna run down for coffee since we're out," he says. "Anyone want any?"

"Yes," you reply.

"Me too," San adds, never breaking eye contact with you.

Yunho nods, entirely clueless.

"Alright, I'll run down and be back in ten."

He grabs his wallet, slips on some sneakers, and disappears through the front door, leaving the two of you alone in the kitchen once again.

The click of the lock sounds way louder than it should.

San breaks the silence first.

"Yunho is very generous with his t-shirts," he comments, with that ambiguous tone where you can't quite tell if it's mockery, reproach, or a simple observation.

"And you’re very quick to judge what you don’t know," you retort.

"Don’t need to know much," he insists, dropping his voice a bit. "Just have to look."

"Exactly," you lock your eyes onto his. "Look, then: Yunho sleeps on the couch, I sleep in his bed because he gave it to me and you weren't here. End of story. Happy now?"

By the way his fingers tense up as he crosses his arms, you suspect that explanation doesn’t leave him as indifferent as he pretends.

"I said I don’t care," he repeats.

"Then act like it's true," you spit out.

You glare at each other for a few seconds, neither wanting to be the first to look away. What started as a t-shirt misunderstanding has turned into something more: bruised pride, jealousy neither is willing to admit yet, and an energy that feels way too similar to the one you felt in the bar hallway.

In the end, you’re the one who breaks visual contact. You pick up the glass, take a step toward the kitchen exit.

"I’m going to get dressed," you say, dryly. "Wouldn't want to offend the roommate's moral code."

As you pass right beside him, he doesn’t budge. You’re forced to brush your shoulder against his; the contact shoots through you like a static shock. You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

Only when you reach the hallway do you hear him let out a long sigh back in the kitchen.

You put your clothes back on with jerky movements, still feeling the heat of the argument in the kitchen. You stuff Yunho’s t-shirt into your backpack almost blindly—more to avoid seeing it hanging off your body than anything else. You look at yourself in the mirror for a second: hair pulled back quickly, eyes looking a bit fired up. Perfect. Let it be obvious that you’re in no mood for this.

You hear the front door open again, the murmur of voices: Yunho coming in, then his footsteps in the hallway. Only when you clearly hear his voice in the kitchen do you decide to step out.

You appear in the doorway fully dressed, backpack slung over your shoulder. Yunho is setting three takeout coffees on the counter. San, leaning against the frame again, has his arms crossed and his eyes fixed on anywhere else. Until you come out. Then he can’t help but follow you with his eyes.

"Hey," Yunho says when he sees you. "You’re ready already? I thought we were gonna be lazy all Saturday."

You take a breath.

"I’m heading home," you announce, cut straight to the chase.

Yunho blinks, genuinely surprised.

"So soon?" he asks. "We haven’t even had breakfast."

"It’s just that…" you bite the inside of your cheek for a moment. "The weekend got a little ruined. I’d rather go back to my place. If you want, you can come over later."

You say it looking at Yunho, but making zero effort to keep your voice down. You know perfectly well that every single word reaches San loud and clear. And, partly, you want it that way. Because you’re still angry. Because his quick judgment touched a nerve you didn’t realize was so close to the surface.

You notice San tense up, as if he couldn’t let the comment slide.

"Oh, wow," he says with a crooked smirk. "Sorry for ruining your little couple plans. If you want, I can leave again and give you guys the apartment back."

Yunho turns to him, knitting his brows.

"Dude, what the hell are you talking about?" his tone is completely devoid of humor.

San raises his hands in a gesture of fake innocence, but doesn’t break eye contact with you.

"Nothing, nothing. Don’t want to interfere with your… setup."

You feel a knot form in your throat—half rage, half secondhand embarrassment. You’re not planning to stick around for the rest of this little drama.

You grab one of the coffee cups off the counter.

"Thanks for the coffee," you tell Yunho, stepping closer to him.

You lean in and give him a quick kiss on the cheek, just as you’ve done countless times before. This time, however, you’re hyper-aware of the weight of another gaze locked onto the scene.

"I’ll text you when I get home, okay?" you add, looking him in the eye.

Yunho nods, still frowning slightly, but gives you a small smile.

"Call me if you’re too lazy to cook and I’ll bring you something," he jokes, trying to lighten the mood.

Behind you, you hear San’s low voice, dripping with irony.

"See?" he murmurs. "Right, 'just friends.'"

You decide not to even turn around.

"See you," you say, more to the air than to either of them, and head out into the hallway with your coffee in hand and your backpack slung over your shoulder, never looking back.

Only when the door clicks shut behind you do you allow your face to drop a little. You take the stairs faster than usual, adrenaline still rushing through your veins, thinking of everything you didn’t say to him.

In the kitchen, the click of the lock sounds louder than usual. The silence left behind is heavy.

Yunho stays staring at the door you just walked through for a second. Then he turns slowly toward San.

"Mind telling me what the hell that was?" he asks, no trace of humor.

San avoids his gaze for a couple of seconds, as if trying to decide whether to laugh it off or not. In the end, he shrugs.

"Nothing. Just said what it looked like," he replies. "I walk in, see her in your shirt, hair messy, in our kitchen on a Saturday morning, then that kiss on the way out… Doesn’t take a genius, does it?"

Yunho knits his brows further and sets his coffee down on the counter with a hard thud.

"Listen to yourself," he says. "Are you actually being serious right now?"

San holds his gaze, a bit on the defensive.

"Come on, Yunho. You’re not gonna tell me there isn’t… something," he gestures vaguely. "That nothing’s ever happened."

"No," Yunho answers sharply. "Nothing has happened. And even if it had, let me remind you that you’d have zero right to butt in."

San tightens his jaw.

"I’m not buttering in," he lies. "It just… caught me off guard. I’ve always heard you call her your 'best friend,' and now I find her coming out of your room in your shirt."

Yunho lets out an annoyed huff.

"She was coming out of my room because I was sleeping on the damn couch," he clarifies. "And as for the shirt, the very few times she stays over, I lend her one. Just like I’ve lent you a thousand things without anyone making up stories."

San purses his lips, but doesn't reply.

"And the kiss on the cheek, what about that?" he presses, his voice a bit lower, as if searching for something to hold onto. "Is that part of the 'best friend' package too?"

Yunho laughs, completely devoid of humor.

"We’ve been greeting each other like that for years, man. How do you want her to say goodbye, with a fist bump?" He shakes his head. "Seriously, are you out of your mind or just an idiot?"

San opens his mouth to fire back, but Yunho cuts him off with a raised hand.

"And another thing," he adds, staring him down. "Stop talking like you know anything about the two of us. All you’re doing is making yourself look like a jealous guy for no reason."

The word "jealous" falls between them with more weight than Yunho perhaps intended. San blinks.

"I’m not jealous," he responds quickly. "I’m just saying what anyone would think."

"No," Yunho denies slowly. "What you think. Which is different."

A silence settles in. San drops his eyes for a second, jaw clenching, then looks back up, stubborn.

"Call it whatever you want," he says. "It just felt… weird to me."

Yunho exhales through his nose, exhausted.

"You know what is weird?" he asks, now leaning back against the counter himself. "That you’ve been here for months hearing me say she’s my best friend, that you care zero about anyone, and suddenly just seeing her in my shirt, you make up an entire movie in your head."

San opens his mouth, but Yunho keeps going without letting him:

"In case it’s still not clear to you: we are not sleeping together. We never have been. And if seeing her here bothers you so much, maybe the problem isn’t me, and it isn’t her."

He looks at him for a second longer, letting the phrase sink in, and delivers the final blow:

"Sounds more like the one obsessed with her is you."

San stays dead quiet.

For a few seconds, the kitchen holds only the sound of their breathing and the low hum of the fridge. San tightens his fingers around his glass until his knuckles turn white. He says nothing, but his silence says almost everything.

Yunho grabs his coffee and straightens up.

"I’m gonna take a shower," he announces, tired. "Try not to blow it any further today, please."

He steps out of the kitchen, leaving San leaning alone against the frame, with the echo of his own words bouncing around in his head: sounds more like the one obsessed with her is you.

San looks toward the front door you left through, as if he could see through the walls and down the stairs. He runs a hand through his hair in frustration.

"I'm not obsessed," he mutters to himself.

The problem is, for the first time, he isn't so sure.

When you get to your apartment, your jaw is still clenched tight.

You slam the door shut harder than necessary and let your backpack drop onto the first open spot in the hallway. You don't even bother putting it where it belongs. You kick off your shoes, standing barefoot in the entryway for a moment, taking a deep breath.

"What a complete idiot…" you mutter, without specifying which one you mean, though it’s crystal clear to you.

You head straight to the kitchen, leaving the almost untouched coffee on the counter, and turn on the faucet. Cold water over your hands seems to bring your temperature down a bit, but not enough. You catch your reflection in the microwave door: face still tense, eyebrows furrowed.

You spend the morning on autopilot. A long shower, comfortable clothes, a quick bite to eat that you don’t even taste. You put on a show in the background, but you’re not paying attention; your mind keeps looping back to the kitchen from this morning.

To the t-shirt. To his face when he saw you. To the way he said "little couple." And, above all, to how much it affected you, when San isn't supposed to be anyone important in your life.

By mid-afternoon, you’re lying on the couch, phone in hand, when Yunho’s notification pops up:

Hey, I'm really sorry about the little show this morning 😔. San was being an absolute dickhead.

You crack a small, tired smile.

Not your fault. But yeah, he was being a massive dickhead.

It takes him a while to reply, as if he were typing and deleting.

I talked to him after you left. Seriously, I'm sorry. Sometimes he just loses his mind. He had no right to say anything.

I know. But if he's gonna lose his mind at me, he should at least get to know me better first 🙄

100%. Look, seriously: to me, you're MY best friend. Period. There's nothing weird for him to 'figure out.'

You stare at that capitalized "MY" for a second.

I know. And you're mine too, even if you are a video game nerd.

😌 Want to hang out tomorrow? I can come to your place if you want. Movies, junk food, and talking trash about San.

You look around your quiet living room, your bad mood slowly dissolving.

Sure. Come over tomorrow. Today I just want to be alone for a bit.

Done. And hey… don't let what that idiot said get to your head too much, okay? He doesn't even know you.

You sigh, resting the phone on your chest.

"Nor do I want him to," you murmur. But you know that, at this point, it’s already too late for that.

The rest of the day slips away in small tasks: tidying up a bit, answering emails, eating whatever for dinner. By the time you get into bed, the anger has transformed into a weird kind of exhaustion—a mix of bruised pride and an annoying thought creeping in over and over: "If he cares so little, why did he get so angry?"

You fall asleep with that question spinning in your mind.

Two weeks are enough for the anger to lose its edge… but not enough for you to forget the scene.

In those fourteen days, your life organizes itself without the need to drop by Yunho’s apartment. You see each other outside: coffee after work, dinner once in a while, spending time in your living room watching shows while he complains about his boss. Sometimes you mention San, almost always referring to him as "your snarky roommate." Sometimes Yunho brings him up in passing, but he never goes into details about the argument they had that Saturday.

You don’t cross paths with San in person again. And, more than once, you find yourself wondering what he’s up to—if he’s home when Yunho texts you, if he’s said anything about you again. You annoy yourself just for thinking about it.

On a Thursday night, still at the office, you look at the computer clock: 9:37 PM. Almost time to head out at ten. You’re closing the last file when your phone vibrates.

You’re off tomorrow, right?

You smile. He knows your schedule better than HR.

Yeah. Why? Don't tell me you're gonna make me get up early.

I'm not that cruel. I was thinking, if you feel like it, you could swing by here for a bit. We get dinner, have a drink, and you unwind

You hesitate for a moment. He doesn’t explicitly say it, but you know it means going back to his apartment. To his apartment. Where he lives too.

Is your beloved roommate gonna be there?

He doesn’t take long to reply.

I don't think it'll take long for him to stop being 'beloved' 😂 Yes, he'll be here. But around 10:00 PM, with any luck, he'll have already eaten something and be comatose in his room.

Well… I can swing by for a bit. If he starts being an idiot, I'm taking dinner home.

Deal. I'll be your human shield. Come over after you get off work, I'll be waiting.

You send him a "👍" and return to the screen, though you’re already paying more attention to the slight knot in your stomach than to the open file.

You leave at 10:00 PM, exhausted, but with that mix of curiosity and alertness you didn't have two weeks ago. The walk to Yunho’s building feels shorter than usual.

You climb the stairs, taking a deep breath. You ring the doorbell.

The door opens.

It isn't Yunho.

San looks at you from the doorway, one hand still on the knob. He’s wearing a dark short-sleeved t-shirt and light sweatpants, his hair slightly tousled. His eyes sweep over you in a split second: your work jacket, the bag over your shoulder, your tense expression.

"Hey," he says, flatly.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The echo of the last time you saw each other hangs between you: someone else’s shirt, the kitchen, accusations.

You force yourself to speak first.

"Hey," you reply. "Is Yunho here?"

"He went downstairs for food," he answers. "Told me to let you in when you got here."

An awkward little silence settles in. You could stay in the hallway waiting for Yunho. You could say "I'll come back later." But that would be running away. And if there’s one thing you’re sure of, it’s that you’re not giving him that satisfaction.

"Coming in," you say, chin tilting up slightly.

San steps aside to let you through, closing the door behind you. The apartment smells like the couch and something recently cooked, mixed with the usual air freshener. Everything feels deeply familiar, except for the electricity in the air.

You drop your bag on the usual chair, more out of habit than anything else. He walks back into the living room, where the TV is playing at low volume. You linger in the hallway for a second, debating whether to follow or stay put.

In the end, you move forward.

You step into the living room. San is standing there, remote in hand, as if deciding whether to turn off the TV or not. He doesn't look particularly comfortable either.

"Yunho told me you were coming over for dinner," he comments, not quite looking at you. "He went to grab Chinese."

"Uh-huh," you reply.

Silence. The TV keeps playing footage of some variety show. The hum of the fridge can be heard from the kitchen. Outside, a car drives by.

You didn't come here to stand around like two uncomfortable pieces of furniture.

"About last time," you start, crossing your arms. "Did you get everything cleared up that you needed to know? So you don't keep making up stories."

San raises his eyes to yours. He didn't expect you to bring it up so fast. His eyes lock with yours for a second, dead serious.

"Yunho made things pretty clear to me already," he replies.

"Good," you say. "So we don't have to listen to your theories ever again."

There's something in your tone that stings him—maybe because it reminds him of how stupid he looked in front of Yunho. His lips curve downward slightly.

"Don't worry," he says. "I’ve learned that anything I do or say gets brushed off as 'classic San dickhead behavior,' so I’m saving my breath."

"If it wasn't dickhead behavior, people wouldn't call it that," you fire back.

He lets out a short, humorless laugh.

"Right. You're never wrong."

"I didn't start talking about your personal life the first chance I got," you retort. "Nor did I make up an entire story about you and Yunho in two seconds flat."

San turns off the TV and drops the remote with a hard thud. It echoes through the room.

"Sorry for not applauding the fact that you sleep in his bed wearing his shirt," he says, facing you directly now. "Some of us were just surprised."

"I don't need your permission to sleep wherever I damn well please," you throw back. "Least of all from you, when you’ve known me for all of two nights."

He takes a step toward you, as if the distance suddenly bothered him.

"I’m not telling you to ask for permission," he says, lowering his voice. "I’m telling you that, for someone who keeps repeating 'just friends,' you two have a very… affectionate way of showing it."

"And why do you care so much?" you ask, feeling your pulse accelerate. "Did it bother you that I stayed? Because I used a glass you consider yours? Or because…?" The word sits on the tip of your tongue, but you decide to spit it out. "Or because you don't like anyone being close to Yunho if it isn't you?"

You see him tense up. You hit him right where it hurts.

"Excuse me?" he repeats, a bit louder.

"It's funny," you continue, carried away by a mix of old and new rage. "Suddenly you care so much about who he sleeps with, who he lends shirts to, who he kisses on the cheek…"

"Don't put words in my mouth," he cuts in, taking another step toward you.

"Don't need to, you spoke all by yourself," you answer, holding your ground.

You’re standing just two paces apart now. Close enough to notice the strain in his shoulders, the muscle ticking in his jaw. Your hands curl into fists by your sides.

"I said what anyone would have thought," he insists.

"No, you said whatever suited you to disguise something else," you attack. "You know what? I think Yunho was right."

He knits his brows.

"Right about what?"

"That the one obsessed with me is you."

The silence that follows is thick, razor-sharp.

His eyes widen slightly, as if he didn't expect to hear it so bluntly from your mouth. It takes him a second to react. Then he takes one more step, closing the distance even further, until you can practically feel each other's breath.

"Don't flatter yourself," he says through gritted teeth. "The only thing that pisses me off is seeing someone I actually like"—and you know he means Yunho—"complicate his life over someone who shows up, moves in, and acts like she’s known him forever."

The sentence stings.

"I was in his life way before you even knew I existed," you reply, your voice low but steady. "And if my presence bothers you so much, tell him, not me. I don't have to justify a single thing to you."

"I do whenever I want," he spits.

"Then do it now," you challenge. "What is it about me that bothers you so much? That I'm his friend? That I sleep in his bed? Or that I'm not what you thought I would be?"

Something in him clicks.

His eyes drop to your mouth for a second, as if he couldn't help it. They snap back up to yours. His breathing has sped up a little, just like yours. To anyone watching from the outside, it would look like you're about to kill each other. From the inside, you know it's not just that.

"What bothers me," he says slowly, "is that you walk in here, turn my apartment upside down, make me look like an idiot to my best friend, and on top of that, act like none of it touches you."

"Does it drive you crazy that you can't control everything, San?" you whisper.

He lets out a low, incredulous laugh.

"Control everything?" he denies, taking a final step toward you.

Suddenly, your back touches the hallway wall leading into the living room. You hadn't realized you’d been backing up while arguing. He plants himself right in front of you, one hand resting on the wall at shoulder height, blocking your exit without even touching you.

Your heart hammers against your chest.

"If I wanted to control everything," he continues, his voice lower, more dangerous, "I wouldn't have let you say half the things you’ve thrown at me today."

You are painfully aware of how close he is. Of the heat radiating from his body. Of his scent. Of his eyes, dark, locked onto yours.

"Then why don't you shut me up?" you push.

Your challenge cuts right through him. You see it in the way his pupils dilate slightly, in how his fingers arch against the wall. He lowers his gaze to your mouth again, as if calculating a tiny, ridiculous distance.

"Because you're not the only one with pride," he answers, gruffly.

"Right, sure," you murmur. "So much pride, yet you were keeping tabs on who sleeps with whom."

A muscle twitches in his jaw. That, combined with this proximity, is just too much left unsaid.

"Do you want me to stop noticing?" he asks suddenly, almost like a dare.

"I want you to stop acting like you have any right to comment on my life," you reply.

"Fine," he says.

And for a second, you think he’s going to back off.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he keeps you cornered, his arm against the wall, his body just inches from yours. His breath collides with yours. If you wanted to, you could push him in the chest and get out of there. But you don't. Not yet.

You feel his eyes slide, once again, from yours down to your mouth, then back up. He swallows hard.

"This," he says, in a barely audible voice, "is what I was trying to avoid."

"What?" you whisper, your throat dry.

"Not giving a damn whether I'm right or wrong."

You don't have time to process the sentence.

In a move faster than you expected, his free hand rests on your waist—firm, drawing you just a fraction closer to him. It's a minimal gesture, but enough to reduce your space to almost nothing. You can practically feel his chest against yours.

Your breath catches. You wait—a part of you expects it—for him to dive in. To close that final centimeter and kiss you the way you’ve been secretly imagining he might for weeks… even if you’d never admit it.

His lips lightly brush against yours. Just a touch, a tiny collision, loaded with everything you’ve said and everything you haven't. It’s a kiss that doesn't even fully form: more like a crash of intentions.

Your body responds before your mind can: a shiver runs all the way down your spine, your stomach knots, your hands search for something to hold onto. One ends up clutching the hem of his shirt, tightening the fabric between your fingers.

And right in that microsecond, the distinct sound of keys turning in the lock echoes through the apartment.

You both freeze.

The front door swings open, and Yunho’s voice shatters the spell.

"I think I brought way too many egg rolls, but hey, that means leftovers for tomorrow…"

He looks at you. Takes in the scene: you backed against the hallway wall, San impossibly close, his hand still resting on your waist, your hand gripping his shirt. His eyes dart from one to the other, fast.

"Am I interrupting something?" he asks, a mix of confusion and thinly veiled alarm in his voice.

San rips his hand off your waist as if it burned him. He takes a step back, letting air fill the space between you.

"Nothing," he says quickly. "We were just… talking."

"Right," Yunho replies, eyeing you both with quiet suspicion.

You carefully let go of his shirt, trying not to look directly at either of them.

"I’m going to the bathroom," you murmur, slipping through the gap San leaves open.

You brush past him. He doesn't move, but you feel his eyes locked onto yours for a split second as you cross paths. There are so many things left to say. None of them come out just yet.

You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, your heart pounding so hard you’re afraid it can be heard outside. You look at yourself in the mirror: flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes shining with something that is definitely not just anger.

You touch your lips with your fingertips. That almost-kiss is still lingering there, hovering.

In the living room, you hear Yunho saying something about the food, and San responding in the most neutral tone he’s used all night.

What neither of you can deny is that, from now on, you can no longer pretend there's only hate between you.

There’s something else. Something that just grazed your lips—and that, no matter how much you deny it, you want to feel again.

You come out of the bathroom with the hair at your temples slightly damp, your face feeling cooler, but your heart still racing. You force yourself to take a deep breath before heading back into the living room.

Yunho is in front of the coffee table, opening takeout containers. San has seated himself at one end of the couch, leaning slightly back with his arms crossed, as if trying to take up as little space as possible… or as if he were holding himself back.

"Hey," Yunho says upon seeing you. "Just in time—if you came out any later, I was gonna eat your egg rolls."

You sit on the other side of the couch, leaving a clear gap between you and San. You anchor yourself to that sense of normalcy Yunho is trying to enforce.

"Don't even think about it," you reply, forcing a small smile. "I've been dreaming about this food since I clocked out."

For a while, you talk about easy things: Yunho's annoying boss, an absurd email you got today, a story from San's work that Yunho practically drags out of him.

"Tell the one about the client who wanted to pay in coupons," Yunho insists, already laughing in advance.

San huffs, looks at his glass, looks at the table. He barely looks at you.

"He was an idiot," he summarizes. "End of story."

"What a charming storyteller," you murmur, almost out of reflex.

He raises his eyes to you for a second, as if he were about to spit back something laced with venom, but he bites his tongue and drops his gaze back to his food. That gesture—not responding—throws you off more than any jab ever could.

Yunho, who is no fool, notices the strange balance. His eyes wander from you to San more than usual.

"Is everything good between you two?" he asks finally, half-joking, half-serious. "Because there's a heavy silence in here worthy of a afternoon soap opera."

"Everything's fine," you answer, way too fast.

"Perfect," San says at the exact same time.

Your voices overlap. You both blink. Yunho stares at the two of you for a second longer, but decides not to push it.

"Alright…" he raises his hands. "As long as you don't murder each other in my living room, I'm good."

You finish eating with a weird knot in your stomach: hunger satisfied, but nerves on edge. You don't exchange more than two direct words with San for the rest of the night. Neither does he with you.

Later, you get up and gather your things.

"I'm heading out," you announce. "Finally sleeping without an alarm tomorrow."

"I'll walk you to the subway," Yunho says, standing up right away.

"No need, it's close," you reply. "Just walk me down to the front door."

In the hallway, as you put on your jacket, you are acutely aware that San is still on the couch, staring at the TV without really watching it. You feel his presence behind you, but you don't turn around.

"Let me know when you get home," Yunho asks, opening the door for you.

"Will do," you nod.

You don't look back. You walk down the stairs with the faint feeling that someone was left with something half-said.

That night, from your bed, you send a short text to Yunho: Made it home. Thanks for dinner. He replies with a silly sticker.

You try to sleep, but the memory of that almost-kiss is still way too sharp for you to drift off anytime soon.

A few days later, on just another Friday, you’re at Yunho’s place, watching a show in the living room with him and San. There’s beer, some snacks, dim lighting. Everything seems fairly normal.

San is at the far end of the couch, lying half on his side with a cushion tucked under his arm. He hasn't said much all night. Every now and then he throws in a comment about the show, but that's about it.

Halfway through the episode, the cans are empty.

"I’m gonna run downstairs for more," Yunho says, standing up.

"Bring something sweet too," you ask. "I’m craving chocolate, and I’m not even on my period."

"Noted," he replies, grabbing his wallet. "You want anything, San?"

"Whatever you bring," he murmurs without taking his eyes off the screen.

When Yunho leaves and the door shuts, the silence he leaves behind is almost physical. The TV is still on, but the sound feels distant.

You keep staring straight ahead for a few seconds. Then, unable to hold it in any longer, you speak.

"Are we gonna act like nothing happened in the hallway?" your mouth blurts before your brain can stop it.

San takes a moment to respond. You look down and realize he has the remote in his hand, pressing and releasing the edge, nervous.

"You’ve been doing that for weeks," he says at last. "Acting like nothing happened."

"Because you don't want to talk," you reply, turning slightly toward him. "You hide in your room, or you don't stay out here, or you stare at your phone like your life depends on it."

"I thought that suited you," he retorts. "You were pretty convinced you didn't want anything to do with me."

"It's one thing not wanting to hear you say stupid shit," you counter, "and another thing… this."

You make a vague gesture between the two of you.

He finally looks at you head-on. You’re back in that kind of silence you already know too well: the one that precedes either a fight or something worse.

"If Yunho hadn't walked in…" he starts, leaving the sentence hanging.

"What?" you ask, feeling your heart speed up a little.

He wets his lower lip with his tongue, never breaking eye contact.

"I don't know about you," he says slowly. "But I wouldn't have settled for an 'almost' kiss."

The air gets stuck in your throat for a second.

"And why didn't you?" you ask, fighting to keep your voice steady.

"Because he walked in," he answers, as if it were obvious. "And because, even if it doesn't seem like it, I try not to ruin things for the people I care about."

People I care about. There's Yunho, pushing his way into the middle, as always.

"Right," you murmur. "Because kissing me would ruin Yunho's life, wouldn't it?"

You don't expect him to answer. And he doesn't. He simply holds your gaze, his eyes dark, serious, with a spark that isn't just anger.

You lean forward a little, driven by something you're not sure is pride or curiosity.

"What about me?" you ask in a low voice. "You don't think it would mess up my life?"

Silence.

His eyes drop to your mouth for an instant, then snap back up.

"I'm already making things complicated for you just by being here," he says at last.

Before you can reply, the lock turns. Yunho walks in with a bag in each hand, slightly out of breath.

"I ran up those stairs like it was a marathon," he complains. "But I brought beer and chocolate, so you guys owe me your lives."

The bubble bursts once again. You lean back on the couch, putting on a neutral face. San turns his gaze back to the TV, his jaw tightening once more.

Yunho doesn't notice anything off, or pretends not to. He pops open beers, passes out chocolate, talks about random things. The conversation flows again, but you know something huge was just laid out on the table:

"I wouldn't have settled for an 'almost.'"

And that thought stays spinning in your head long after you get back home.

A few days later, the text message that’s going to set everything on fire arrives.

Wooyoung: GUYS. BIRTHDAY. PARTY. HONGJOONG’S PLACE. Whoever doesn't come hates me. Hongjoong: It's true. And everyone bring something or I'll kill him. Yunho: Count me in. You: I'll be there. But only if Wooyoung promises not to climb on any tables this time. Wooyoung: I promise nothing 😇 San: If there's free alcohol, I'm going. If I see Wooyoung climb on anything, I'm pushing him off.

On the night of the birthday party, Hongjoong’s apartment is packed: music playing, dim lighting, people talking in small clusters. Yunho is waiting for you at the door; he hugs you and hands you a drink.

Wooyoung, already a couple of drinks in, is being particularly overly affectionate.

"My favorite person has arrived," he says upon seeing you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "Now it’s officially my birthday."

"Looks like your ego is celebrating a birthday too," you reply, laughing.

The party rolls on. Drinks, laughter, card games, louder music. You’re talking to Seonghwa in the kitchen about a show when you feel a hand on your waist.

"This song is way too good to just be standing around," Wooyoung’s unmistakable voice says from behind you. "Come dance."

He doesn't leave you much room to argue. Between the music, the alcohol, and how touchy-feely he gets, you let yourself be pulled into the living room. He exaggerates his steps, laughs, gets closer than necessary—but with him, it’s always been like that: harmless touching, playful half-flirting.

Until it isn't so harmless.

On one of the turns, he catches you by the waist from behind, pressing you a bit against him. His lips brush close to your ear.

"If you weren't Yunho’s spoiled favorite, I’d be buying you more than just a drink," he whispers, clearly buzzed but with playful intent.

You’re just about to crack a joke to brush it off when you sense another presence, much harder, right beside you.

A firm hand grips Wooyoung’s forearm, pulling him away from you with a controlled jerk.

"Chill out, Romeo," San says, completely deadpan. "You’re clinging harder than the shirt she’s wearing."

Wooyoung turns around, half confused, half annoyed.

"Take it easy, Dad," he replies, letting out a nervous laugh. "We’re just messing around."

"Then mess around with a little more space," San retorts, never breaking eye contact.

You feel his hand settle—almost too naturally now—on your waist, as if to make sure you stay a step behind him, out of Wooyoung’s reach. Under other circumstances, the gesture might have felt comforting. Right now, with so many people watching, it only makes your blood boil.

"San, man, let go of me," Wooyoung says, uncomfortable. "I'm not doing anything."

"That's what it looks like," San replies. "But maybe some of us don't find it funny."

That last sentence hangs heavily in the room. Hongjoong looks over from the table; Seonghwa knits his brows. Yunho, who is walking over with a couple of cups in hand, spots the commotion and picks up his pace.

"What’s going on here?" he asks, setting the cups down anywhere he can find a spot.

"Nothing," you say, stepping forward, feeling the weight of everyone's eyes. "Nothing. Just some people who don't know where to draw the line."

You look at Wooyoung and San, taking them both in. But your gaze locks onto San, heavy and loaded.

"I was fine," you add, crystal clear. "I don't need anyone putting on a little show for me."

San tightens his jaw, his hand staying on your waist for a few seconds longer, almost as if he hadn't realized it was still there. When he does, he rips it away abruptly.

"You're welcome," he says, dryly.

Rage hits you all at once. The stares around the room, being the center of a scene you never asked for, the embarrassment, the pride.

"I’m going outside to get some fresh air," you say. "Or to throw up from all these honor-defending heroes."

You head straight for the door. You hear Yunho calling your name, but you don't stop. Stepping out onto the landing and then out into the street is the only thing you want right now.

The cold night air hits your face like a bucket of ice water. You walk fast down the sidewalk with no clear direction, just wanting to put distance between yourself and that room full of eyes.

"Hey!" you hear behind you a few seconds later.

You don't stop. You quicken your pace.

"Hey, stop," the voice comes closer. San.

You don't turn around. You keep walking, your pulse still racing, your face burning from a mix of alcohol and humiliation.

You feel a hand catch yours from behind, pulling firmly to force you around.

"I said stop," he says, his breathing slightly rushed.

You yank your hand out of his grip.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" you spit out. "Decided to start making scenes now?"

He looks at you, his eyes burning with rage and something else.

"The scene was being made by Wooyoung on top of you," he replies. "Or did you not notice?"

"I know perfectly well where my boundaries are," you retort. "And who I share them with. I don't need you coming in, acting like my jealous boyfriend, marking your territory in the middle of a party."

"I'm not your boyfriend," he says, almost hurt by the word. "But I don't have to stand around watching some guy, even if he's our friend, cling to you like you're a toy either."

"It was a joke, San. He was drunk. You know him."

"That's precisely why," he answers. "When people drink, they speak the truth under the guise of a joke."

You laugh humorlessly, shaking your head.

"And what's your excuse, then? What truth were you being when you almost ate my face off in the hallway? Or when you backed me into a corner at your place like...?"

You stop, biting your tongue. You've said more than you intended to.

His eyes darken. He takes a step toward you, closing the distance.

"Do you really want to talk about that here, in the middle of the street?" he asks, his voice dropping an octave.

"I want you to stop ruining my social life," you reply. "And to stop acting like you have any say over who I dance or don't dance with."

"I don't have any say," he admits through gritted teeth. "That's the problem."

Your heart skips a beat.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" you whisper.

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, and takes another step, leaving only inches between you. The noise of the city seems to suddenly drop in volume.

"It means," he says, staring fixedly at you, "that I've spent weeks trying to convince myself that I don't care about you. That you're just Yunho's friend. That I can keep watching you walk into our apartment, laugh with him, wear his shirts... as if I felt nothing."

You take a deep breath, trying to keep your footing.

"And you can't," you say, more as a statement than a question.

His jaw tightens.

"And I can't," he finally admits. "Not when I have you right in front of me. Not when another guy clings to you, even as a joke. Not when you look at me like that."

"Like what?" you challenge, though you know perfectly well what he's talking about.

He looks into your eyes, then down at your mouth, then back up.

"Like you wish it were me standing this close," he answers, his voice barely a breath.

The world shrinks down to the space between his chest and yours.

"You're an idiot," you murmur, feeling the tremor in your own words. "You can't say these things and then act all snarky like nothing happened."

His breath brushes against yours.

"You can't kiss me halfway either and then act like it didn't happen," he shoots back.

"I didn't kiss you," you correct him. "You grazed me."

"And yet you remember it," he says, with more certainty. "Just like I do."

Silence. Your fingers curl by your sides, as if searching for something to hold onto. He sees it, feels it.

"I don't know what we're doing," you admit, unfiltered. "I don't know what the fuck this is, but..."

He cuts you off—for the first time, not with a word, but with a gesture.

His hand finds yours again, less roughly this time, but with the same firmness. The other rests on your waist, pulling you toward him with a conviction he lacked in the hallway.

"I do know what I want to do," he says, his voice low, almost husky. "And I've spent way too long trying not to do it."

You don't answer him.

Not because you have nothing to say, but because any word has dried up in your throat. All you do is look at him. And in that silence, in that lock of eyes, you give yourself away.

Because you don't pull back.

Because you don't push him away.

Because your fingers loosen in his grip instead of breaking free.

That's all he needs.

His gaze drops to your mouth one last time, as if asking for permission without saying it, and this time he doesn't hesitate. He closes the remaining inch, and his lips collide with yours.

It's not a clumsy brush like in the hallway. It's a kiss. A real one.

It catches you half prepared and half completely vulnerable. At first you freeze for a second—from the shock, from the weight of everything behind it. But as soon as you feel his mouth molding against yours, as his hand on your waist pulls you a fraction closer, your body decides for you.

You kiss him back.

Your lips move against his almost with rage. It’s not a sweet kiss; it couldn't be. It’s intense, loaded with every argument, every jab, every held gaze. You grab his shirt at chest level, crumpling the fabric between your fingers, pulling him to close the distance even more, as if trying to prove he’s real, that he’s actually there.

He lets go of your hand to bring it to your cheek, his warm fingers brushing against your skin. He tilts your head slightly, finding a better angle, deepening the kiss without rushing but without hesitation. He’s not devouring your mouth with brutality, but there’s a restrained urgency in every movement, as if he’d been holding back for way too long and was finally allowing himself to drop his guard.

You feel the slight touch of his tongue asking for entrance, and your response comes naturally, without a second thought. The kiss grows deeper, wetter, and a shiver runs all the way from the nape of your neck down to your stomach. There are no hands wandering over your body, nothing more explicit, but the sheer intensity is enough to leave you breathless.

You realize you've taken a step backward; your back touches a cold wall—the facade of the adjacent building—without you even realizing when you got there. He takes advantage of the support: his body is right in front of yours, not crushing you, but surrounding you. You aren't trapped, but you aren't free either. And, against everything you would have said a few weeks ago, you don't want to be.

Between one kiss and the next, his breath mingles with yours. You feel him exhale deeply through his nose, as if he’s also struggling to stay in control. His fingers dig a little deeper into your waist as you press your mouth against his with a fraction more force, as if returning all the frustration you’ve accumulated.

Time grows strange. It could be seconds or minutes, but eventually, the lack of air takes its toll. You pull back just a fraction, your lips still brushing against his, breathing heavily. He doesn't pull away completely. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed for a brief instant.

"Fuck…" he whispers, his voice almost gone.

You don't know if he says it because of the kiss, because of everything before it, or because of the consequences this will bring. Probably all of it.

You’re breathless too. You notice your own hands still clutching his shirt. You loosen them slowly, aware of the crumpled fabric beneath your fingers. You swallow hard.

"That… definitely wasn't an 'almost,'" you manage to say, your voice raspier than usual.

He lets out a brief laugh, without pulling away just yet.

"No," he admits. "I’ve had enough of 'almost.'"

He opens his eyes and looks at you up close. There's something new in his expression: he's still San, that defiant spark is still there, but now there's an honesty that used to only peek through on rare occasions.

"We shouldn't…" you start, more out of inertia than conviction.

"Probably not," he answers, without taking his eyes off your mouth. "But I shouldn't have been lying to you or to myself all this time either."

You feel a strange mix of emotions: adrenaline, alarm, something resembling relief, and a desire you didn't think would feel so vivid once it was finally unleashed.

"What now?" you ask, almost in a whisper.

He pulls back just a little more, just enough to let some air back in between you two, but he stays close.

"Now…" he says, glancing for a second toward the door of Hongjoong’s building, as if suddenly remembering where you are, "we pretend we came out to get some air and that we haven't been out here that long."

"And the…?" You make a vague gesture between the two of you.

"And this," he finishes the sentence for you, "isn't for you to decide on your own."

There’s a bit of cockiness in that sentence that would have driven you insane in any other situation, but right now, with his lips still reddened from the kiss and your heart racing at a hundred miles an hour, it’s hard to find a proper comeback.

"You're so full of yourself," you murmur, trying to regain a bit of control.

His mouth tilts into a subtle smirk.

"I’m not the only one who ran out of breath," he replies, lowering his gaze to your lips for one more second. "Well… not the only one."

Despite everything, the comment pulls a short laugh out of you. The knot in your stomach loosens just a bit.

"I’m not gonna keep talking about this out here," you say at last, recovering some firmness. "With half the party four yards away."

"Works for me," he nods. "But I'm not gonna act like it didn't happen either."

He holds your gaze for another moment, as if wanting to make sure that point is carved in stone. Then he takes a step back, giving you space for the first time since he caught up to you.

"Heading back?" he asks, calmer now.

You look toward the building entrance. You think of Wooyoung, of Yunho, of everyone inside. Of the scene from earlier. Of what anyone could read on your faces if you walk back in together looking the way you do.

"I’m gonna walk around the block," you decide. "I need to… clear my head."

He nods, without pushing you.

"I'll wait for you inside," he says simply. "Oh, and just so you know… this isn't getting swept under the rug anymore."

There’s no threat in his tone. It’s a certainty.

You nod just once. You start walking toward the corner. After a few steps, you turn around.

San is still in the same spot, watching you, hands in his pockets, his posture serious but not closed off. When he sees you look at him, he doesn't make any dramatic gesture—he just gives a minimal tilt of his head, like a "see you in a bit."

That small sense of normalcy, after a kiss that threw you so far off balance, feels almost more dangerous than everything else.

You turn the corner. The cold air hits your face again. You touch your lips without realizing it, as if checking to make sure they’re still there. And for the first time since you met him, you admit, if only to yourself:

It's not just hate.

And it never will be again.

@little-mix-fan-forever @jayhoonsgf @jenoxpress

You had been pacing around the house for two hours. Jessie had left at noon after giving you a final, meaningful hug and a silent reminder with her eyes: talk to him. Since then, the silence in your apartment had been crashing down on you.

Whether you wanted to admit it or not, nerves were eating you alive. You took a long shower, trying to let the hot water wash away the tension in your shoulders, and took your time getting ready. Yeosang had explicitly texted you that he didn't want you wearing a skirt, so you chose a pair of fitted dark jeans and a black knit top—simple, but hugging your body in all the right places. You let your hair down, dabbed a subtle touch of perfume on your wrists and neck, and looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror.

You looked amazing, and you hated yourself a little for wanting him to notice it so badly. Your head was a mess: on one hand, your stomach was tight with the desperate urge to feel his hands again; on the other, the fear of being nothing more than a physical distraction was burning in your chest. You had to take a stand; you needed to know what you were to him.

At ten o'clock sharp, your phone vibrated in your hand.

I'm downstairs. Let me in.

You pressed the intercom button with fingers that trembled slightly. You listened to the elevator ride up, the echo of his footsteps down the hallway, and before he could even ring the bell, you pulled the door open.

You leaned against the frame, trying to maintain a facade of calm you didn't actually feel.

Yeosang was standing there. He wore an oversized hoodie, a black cap pulled low almost covering his eyes, and a mask on. He looked like the same anonymous guy he always was, but the second he raised his head and his dark eyes locked onto yours, the air turned heavy.

He didn't move. He just stood there on the landing, taking his sweet time scanning you completely from head to toe, without a shred of shame. His gaze lingered on your jeans, traced up the line of your top, and finally rested on your lips. He drank you in with a slowness so deliberate you felt like he was stripping you right then and there.

You swallowed hard, holding his gaze as best as you could.

"Are you planning on coming in," you said, a touch of irony in your voice to hide its tremble, "or are you going to stand there all night?"

The moment the words left your mouth, Yeosang took a step forward, stepped into the apartment, and shut the door behind him with a sharp thud.

He pulled off his cap and mask in one fluid motion, tossing them onto the entryway table without caring where they landed, and came straight for you.

There was no foreplay, no clever remarks. He cornered you against the hallway wall, trapping you between his body and the cold surface. His hands—large and warm—slid directly up to your neck and jawline, forcing your head back as he slammed his lips against yours.

It was a hungry, fierce kiss, loaded with all the frustration and pent-up longing of a week spent apart. His tongue claimed yours with a brutal urgency, yet at the same time, it wasn't like the other times. There was none of that cold distance of someone who just wanted to dominate; he pressed you against his chest so tightly, weaving his fingers through your hair, that you felt as if he wanted to erase every single mile that had separated you. He held you as though he was terrified you might disappear if he loosened his grip even a millimeter.

He pulled back just a few millimeters from your mouth, panting, his breath burning against your skin. He didn't let go of your face. He stared straight into your eyes with an intensity so overwhelming it took your breath away.

"I told you the mirror in that hotel room was shit," he whispered, his voice broken, deeper and raspier than usual. "But the worst part was that you weren't in it. Fuck... you have no idea how long this felt."

The confession struck you straight in the chest. That "you weren't in it" swept away half of your fears in an instant, leaving you completely defenseless against the sheer brutality of the way Yeosang was claiming you. You didn't have time to process it before his lips trapped yours once more, devouring you with a need that made you arch your back against the wall. His hands slid down from your face to your waist, gripping your hips tightly through your jeans, pulling you so flush against him that you could feel his erection—hard and urgent—pressing into your stomach.

"Yeosang..." you gasped against his lips as his mouth descended to your neck.

He bit the sensitive skin right above your collarbone—a firm bite that pulled a muffled groan from your throat, followed immediately by the damp stroke of his tongue.

"I promised you'd see for yourself in person," he whispered against your ear, his warm breath sending your pulse racing. "You have no idea how much I missed you."

The contrast of hearing that vulnerability mixed with the raw force of his hold set you ablaze inside. His fingers urgently fumbled for the button of your jeans, unfastening them with a quick, clumsy movement that betrayed just how close he was to losing his control, too. He shoved your pants and underwear down together, forcing you to take small, awkward steps until you managed to kick them off completely, leaving you in just your black top, your skin exposed to the cool hallway air.

Yeosang lifted you up in one swift motion, gripping your thighs. By pure instinct, you wrapped your legs around his waist, clinging to his shoulders as he carried you into the dark bedroom. He dropped you onto the bed, but before you could even settle in, his heavy body was already hovering over you. With one hand, he shed his own pants while using the other to pin you to the mattress.

"Take it off," he ordered against your ear, referring to your top.

You obeyed, your hands trembling. At the same time, he pushed himself up slightly and, with a fluid movement, pulled off his own shirt, revealing the broad, defined silhouette of his shoulders in the dark.

When you were left completely bare before him again, Yeosang lowered his gaze to trace your body. His fingers slid along your ribs, instinctively searching for the strap or the clasp of a bra, but found only the uninterrupted softness of your skin.

He tensed above you. His eyes widened slightly, locked onto your chest. He hadn't expected you to be this ready for him. A ragged breath escaped his lips, and that small moment of surprise seemed to strip away his usual composure, replacing it with an urgency far more primal.

He pinned your wrists beside your head, lacing his fingers through yours, and set the tip of his length against your entrance, which was already dripping with anticipation.

He entered you slowly—one long, deep, deliberate thrust that filled you completely and forced your back to arch, drawing a sharp groan from your throat that lost itself against the ceiling. But instead of pounding into you with the wild intensity of the studio or the couch, Yeosang paused. He stayed completely still inside you, buried to the hilt, allowing both of your bodies to absorb the perfect fit of the connection.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours, forcing you to look straight into his eyes in the dark. His breathing was heavy, ragged.

"You have no idea how badly I wanted to feel you wrapped around me," he growled low, his voice broken—genuinely frayed from holding back. "The whole fucking week thinking about this. About how tight you feel."

You swallowed hard, your eyes glinting with tears from the sheer intensity of having him there, so deep, so overwhelmingly still. Your hands, trapped beneath his, tightened their grip.

"Move..." you pleaded in a thread of a voice, tilting your hips up just a fraction of an inch.

"No," he replied, and for the first time, that refusal didn't sound like a dominant punishment, but a plea. "Slow. I want to savor you. I want to remember every single second."

He leaned down and kissed you. It was a slow, slick, deeply passionate kiss. While his tongue tangled with yours with an agonizing leisure that sent shivers straight down your spine, Yeosang began to move. The rhythm was torturous: deep, endless thrusts that brushed against your every internal wall. He pulled out almost completely, only to sink back in without any rush, making you drag your whimpers out against his mouth.

Sex with him had always been a whirlwind of adrenaline and control, but this was different. This was a physical surrender so dense it tore at your chest. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your breast, the beads of sweat from his forehead dripping onto your neck, and the way his hips sought complete, unbroken contact with yours with every subtle stroke.

"Look at me," he begged, breaking the kiss without breaking his steady, deep rhythm. "Look at me, please."

You opened your eyes, blinking to focus on him in the dim light. His features were tight with pleasure, his jaw set so hard it looked painful. There was no distance in his face; he was completely exposed before you.

"You're mine," he whispered, and this time the words didn't sound like a directive for the mirror, but like a truth he needed to claim so he wouldn't lose his mind. "You're mine, right?"

"Yes..." you gasped, wrapping your legs tightly around his back to drive him deeper, losing your head from the relentless friction against your clitoris. "Yours, Yeosang."

Hearing that seemed to break the very last dam holding back his patience. The agonizingly slow pace transformed into something far more fierce, more brutal, yet without losing an ounce of that passionate connection. He began to drive into you hard, making the bed creak and your nails dig into his bare shoulders. He was fucking you with a feral possessiveness, locking eyes with you every single second, devouring your whimpers and your desperate pleas for air.

The pleasure coiled in your lower belly like an electric storm. You were so full of him, so utterly shattered by the way he looked at you as he unravelled you, that the orgasm hit you all at once. You came hard, pulsing violently around his length with spasms that ripped a guttural groan straight from his chest.

Yeosang clenched his teeth, accelerating his pace brutally through your final contractions, giving everything in four or five wild thrusts that lifted you off the mattress. With a raspy roar that he smothered against your shoulder, he came deep inside you, driving in to the hilt, filling you with a thick warmth as his entire body shuddered from the strain.

He collapsed heavily on top of you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, breathing as if he had just run a marathon. His arms wrapped tightly around you, holding you flush against him, making no move to shift or pull away just yet.

You stayed like that for a while, until the heat became too heavy. You patted Yeosang lightly on the arm to get him to move.

"Yeosang, seriously... you're heavy and I'm roasting," you protested, your voice raspy.

"No," he complained, burying himself a little deeper into the crook of your neck. "I'm not moving. I'm right where I want to be."

Those words melted your heart in a ridiculous way, erasing any remaining urge to complain. You stayed still, smiling in the dark, until he finally gave in. He slowly pulled away, flopping down onto the mattress beside you, but before separating completely, he leaned over to press a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.

You sat up slowly, your body feeling heavy and sticky, and got up to head to the bathroom. Just as you were about to close the door to get some privacy, you heard firm footsteps behind you. You turned around. It was Yeosang, completely bare, walking right up to you.

"What are you doing?" you asked, blinking.

"I thought it'd be a good idea to take a shower together," he answered, taking you in from head to toe without a shred of modesty. "I'm drenched in sweat from the flight and... well, from this."

Under his direct gaze, instinct won out and you crossed your arms over your chest, trying to cover yourself up. A genuine laugh escaped Yeosang—a clean, warm laugh that, with the deep timbre of his voice, made you smile despite yourself.

"What are you even doing?" he teased, taking a step toward you. "I've already seen every single part of you. Five minutes ago you were screaming my name, and now you're feeling shy?"

You laughed, dropping your arms, defeated by his logic. He stepped past you, walked into the shower, and turned on the tap. He waited for the water to run warm and then extended his hand to you. You stepped in with him, and both of you let out an identical sigh as the warm droplets soaked your hair and skin.

Yeosang grabbed the body wash and began smoothing his hands over your skin, washing you with a slowness that immediately made the air thick with tension again.

"Yeosang..." you warned, shooting him a look from the corner of your eye.

"Okay, okay," he said, raising his hands with an innocent smile. "I'll let you rest. But only for a little while."

In the end, he wrapped his arms around you from behind as the water fell over you both. You pressed your back against his chest, feeling his arms wrap firmly around your waist—no ulterior motives this time, just seeking closeness. It was a moment of intimacy so pure it almost hurt. The Yeosang who controlled you in front of the mirror and the one holding you under the water seemed to fit together seamlessly in the same person, and that scared you just as much as it fascinated you.

When you got out of the shower and dried off with towels, you looked at him as he ran a hand through his wet hair.

"You must be hungry, right? Is it okay if I order us something to eat?"

"You read my mind," he admitted. "I'm starving. I barely touched my tray on the plane."

While you waited for the delivery, you went to the closet to find something comfortable. You slipped into a cozy t-shirt and handed him your largest top. The second Yeosang tried putting it on, a laugh escaped him. The shoulder seams sat way too high, and the fabric barely reached his waist.

"It's short on me," he said, checking himself out in the mirror.

"Like you even care," you reminded him, amused. "I seem to recall you wearing crop tops on stage more than once."

"I don't choose the outfits," he countered, raising an eyebrow, though he made no move to take it off.

In the end, you both stayed in your t-shirts and underwear, completely at ease in the living room. However, the second the delivery guy rang the doorbell, Yeosang sprang into action purely on instinct: he threw his sweatpants back on at lightning speed and went to get the food himself to make sure no one caught sight of you.

You sat on the living room floor in front of the coffee table, food spread out between you. You didn't turn on the TV or play any background music; the quiet of the night was enough.

At first, the conversation was light. He shared stories from the shoot—how San had tripped over a cable right in the middle of a serious scene, or how much Hongjoong had complained about the freezing cold on the outdoor set. You laughed at his dry comments, but your mind kept running in circles around the same thing.

During a lull in the conversation, Yeosang nudged your shoulder gently, catching your attention.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on in that head of yours yet?" he asked, setting his chopsticks down on his plate.

"Nothing, I'm fine," you lied, looking down at your food.

"Yeah, right. I felt it even while we were having sex. You're different. More... guarded."

You froze. He leaned in slightly toward you, his eyes softening.

"You can trust me. You know you can tell me."

"It's stupid, really. It's just my own head getting to me," you muttered.

"If something 'stupid' is making you this quiet, then it's not that stupid," he insisted, with that grounded maturity so characteristic of him. "I'm listening."

You took a deep breath, setting your chopsticks down as well. You laced your hands over your knees, searching for the exact words so as not to sound desperate.

"I don't want you to take this as me trying to put pressure on you, I really don't," you began, without looking at him. "We both agreed to no labels and just seeing what happened, but... the truth is I'm developing feelings for you, Yeosang. And I'm scared that this is just a game or sex to you, because for me, it isn't anymore."

You held your breath, bracing yourself for an awkward look or a cold silence. However, when you finally found the courage to look at him, Yeosang merely let out a deep exhale, resting his elbows on his knees.

"I've been thinking about it, too," he said, staring straight ahead.

You looked at him, astonished.

"You have?"

"Yeah," he admitted, turning to lock those dark eyes of his onto yours. "During the days I was away... I missed you too much. So much that it even caught me off guard. I wanted to talk to you at all hours, send you texts over every little thing, but... I didn't want to be a nuisance, either. After all, we don't have a label on this. I didn't know if I had the right to do that or if I'd end up smothering you."

A light laugh escaped your lips—pure disbelief.

"Yeosang... every time we have sex, you remind me in every possible way that I'm yours, and then you're too shy to text me extra?"

The corner of his mouth twitched, looking a bit embarrassed.

"It's different," he confessed, running a hand over his neck. "It's been a long time since I felt like this about someone, and I didn't really know how to handle it. I started realizing how fucked I was when I listened to the guys talk about you at rehearsal. It drove me crazy whenever someone got too close to you, or even when Mingi touched your shoulder... I was terrified you'd meet someone else while I was away and decide this wasn't enough for you anymore. I don't want you to be a secret, and I don't want you to just be a four-walls thing, either."

Yeosang reached across the table and took you by the wrist, pulling you gently until he coaxed you to move and sit between his legs, your back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around you, resting his chin on your shoulder.

"So it's not stupid," he whispered near your ear. "If you want us to be serious, I'm already there. Honestly, I think I've been there since the first time I put my hands on you."

The rest of the night unfolded with a calm neither of you had anticipated. The food grew cold halfway through dinner because you both realized it was so much easier to talk when there were no secrets between you. You ended up curled together on the couch, legs intertwined, whispering confidences back and forth. For the first time, Yeosang set his guarded side completely aside, opening up about his doubts, the pressure of the music industry, and how you had been his anchor over the past few months. That night, Yeosang stayed to sleep with you for the very first time. There was no more sex—just a firm, warm embrace in the darkness of the bed, your breathing in sync, and the quiet certainty that things had changed forever.

@little-mix-fan-forever @jayhoonsgf @jenoxpress

Mid-morning, your phone vibrated again. Jessie.

I’ve felt a disturbance in the Force. Tell me EVERYTHING. NOW.

You sighed, setting your mug down on the counter. You could type out a massive block of text… or you could just call her.

You called her.

"I knew you were gonna ring," was her greeting.

"Good morning to you, too," you replied, rolling your eyes.

"How's your couch?" she asked point-blank. "Did it survive?"

You covered your face with your hand.

"I think it needs intensive therapy," you admitted. "But it's still breathing."

Jessie burst out laughing.

"I want details," she said. "The kind I can't tell Hongjoong because he'd blush to a crisp."

You leaned against the table, staring at a blank spot on the wall.

"It was..." You searched for the right words. "More. Than I ever imagined. More than at the studio. More... him."

"More dominant?" she pressed, dropping all beat-around-the-bush.

"Yes," you whispered.

A brief silence followed.

"And did you like that?" she asked, her voice softening a bit, shifting from playful teasing to genuine seriousness.

You took a second to think it over. Or two. Not because you didn't know the answer, but because putting it into words felt intimidating.

"A lot," you admitted. "A little too much, maybe."

"Too much how?" she nudged, pulling on the thread.

"Too much like..." You closed your eyes for a moment. "Like him telling me 'you're all mine,' and instead of calling him out, I just... want to obey even more."

Jessie didn't laugh. She didn't make a cheap joke. She took a couple of seconds to process it.

"Did you feel bad at any point?" she asked. "Did you feel forced, pressured, like you couldn't say no?"

You shook your head, knowing she couldn't see you, but answered anyway.

"No." You licked your lips. "Every time he did something a bit... rougher, he looked at me. He gave me room to breathe. If I had wanted to stop, I would’ve said so. And I know he would’ve stopped."

"Then," she concluded, "it’s not 'too much' in a bad way. It’s just new to you. And very intense."

You let out a sigh.

"I’m scared of getting hooked on it," you confessed. "On that feeling. On the fact that when he says 'you're all mine,' a part of me actually feels like it's true."

Jessie went quiet for a moment, thoughtful.

"You're not going to become anyone's property just because you enjoy that dynamic behind closed doors," she said calmly. "How you two handle things outside of that is a different story. But from what you’re telling me, outside he’s still the quiet, measured Yeosang, not the guy who grabbed your hair in your living room."

You bit your lip, the memory of that exact moment flooding back.

"It turns me on and scares me in equal measure," you admitted.

"That's completely normal," she replied. "The important thing is that you realize that 'belonging' in that room is your choice, too. It’s not a divine order. It’s a power dynamic that's working for you right now because you trust him. And if one day it stops working, you talk about it and you call it off."

"You make it sound so easy," you complained, half-smiling.

"Because I'm looking at it from the outside," she shot back. "Your hormones are currently in the stratosphere. But you're being self-aware, and that's a huge deal."

A brief silence hung in the air.

"So, what are you guys now?" she finally asked. "I know you hate labels, but... how would you describe it if you had to explain it to a stranger?"

You stared down at your mug.

"We're not a couple," you said first. "There’s no 'boyfriend/girlfriend' thing."

"But we're not just a casual hookup, either," you heard yourself say. "We text every day. We care about each other. He takes such good care of me... even when he acts like he's going to wreck me."

Jessie let out an understanding hum.

"You're... something exclusive that you haven't wanted to label yet," she summarized. "And that's totally valid. There's no rush to put a title on it as long as you both know where you stand and what's okay and what's not."

"That's what scares me, too," you admitted. "That one day he’ll just decide he’s done, that he's tired of this, and I'll be left... stuck here."

"That could happen even with a full-on boyfriend label," she reminded you. "The difference is that here, you're choosing every single step, too. He didn't drag you into this. You went freely. You said yes. You enjoyed it. And you're processing it. You're not a puppet."

You didn't reply right away.

"Besides," she added, her tone lightening up a bit, "from the way you talk about him, the whole 'he gets tired and leaves' thing doesn't really sound like Yeosang. He seems more like the type to get obsessed and stay put."

"Don't use the word 'obsessed,' it makes my head spin," you protested.

She laughed.

"Okay, okay. Let's say... 'hyper-focused on a target.' And right now, you happen to be that target."

It made you chuckle, though it sent a tiny thrill of anxiety through you at the same time.

"I'm only gonna ask you for one thing," Jessie added. "If during any moment—even during sex, even when you're playing the whole 'you're all mine' game—you feel like a line has been crossed, like it's not just a game to you anymore... you call me. And we talk. And if needed, you tell him. Don't normalize anything that makes you feel like shit, okay?"

"Okay," you whispered, a warm, sweet lump forming in your throat. "Thank you."

"That's what I'm here for," she replied. "Well, that, and to tell you that we need to buy you a new couch."

"He said he'd pay for it," you mentioned.

"Oof." She chuckled. "Now that is peak 'reckless husband' behavior. I like him."

You said goodbye a short while later, promising to meet up in person soon. You hung up with a slightly clearer head.

It turned you on. It commanded respect. But you were actively choosing it. Over and over again.

And that changed everything.

The days that followed cemented the pattern.

You weren't with Yeosang 24/7. He had rehearsals, recording sessions, idol life. You had your job, your routines, your wine nights with Jessie, your voice notes with San.

But in the middle of all that noise, there was a constant thread connecting you two.

Text messages from him at any hour:

(photo of your favorite ice cream flavor) I walked past this place and thought of you.

Are you bringing me one?

It'd melt before I got there. Better if I take you there instead.

And, above all, messages showing he was checking in on you:

Have you eaten?

Yes.

Something that isn't coffee?

I'm on it.

It wasn't overly sweet or cheesy. He wasn't the type to send paragraphs of "good morning, gorgeous." But he was there. Paying attention. Aware of you.

In person, the contrast became even more obvious.

At the studio, in front of everyone else, he was still himself: focused, observant, with sharp, to-the-point comments.

But you were starting to notice the subtle shifts:

If you walked into the room, without anyone else noticing, he’d subtly adjust his clothes or run a hand through his hair, as if wanting to look at least somewhat presentable for you.

If you were sitting in a corner on your phone, he’d usually wander over during breaks and sit next to you without saying anything at first, just silently sharing the space.

If someone—Mingi, Yunho, one of the dancers—got a little too comfortable touching you, his reaction was no longer neutral:

He’d either walk over and position himself on your other side,

make a quiet but cutting remark,

or simply lock eyes with you afterward, silently asking, "You good with that?"

One afternoon, during a long break, San insisted on showing you a new part of the choreography.

"I’m teaching it to you first," he announced. "If you like it, I'll teach it to everyone else. If not, I'll burn it."

"No pressure at all," you said, laughing.

He placed you in the middle of the room, guided your hands, and walked you through the steps. On one of the turns, he spun you a bit too fast, and you almost lost your footing.

A firm, warm arm caught you before you could fall.

Yeosang.

He didn't pull you up right away. He simply held you by the waist, steadying you, his chest brushing against your back for a second or two longer than necessary.

"Don't make her dizzy," he told San, his tone completely neutral. "I'm the one who has to take her home like this later, and she's gonna blame me."

San threw his hands up in defense.

"My bad, my bad," he chuckled. "I got carried away."

That "I'm taking her home" hit you like a direct strike to the chest. It wasn't literal—not here, not in front of everyone. But both you and he knew that, more often than not, it was becoming the truth.

When he finally let go, his fingers lingered on your waist for just a fraction of a second. Jessie, sitting by the speaker, caught it. She shot you a knowing smile.

You were building something strange.

But, for better or worse, you were starting to like it way too much.

It was one of those nights where practice stretched out far longer than anyone wanted.

They had been running the same section over and over again. Hongjoong had already left for a meeting. San was passed out in a corner, completely dead on his feet with a water bottle in hand. Jessie hadn't been able to make it; she was stuck working late. You were sitting against the wall with your jacket folded beside you, watching the choreo repeat for the hundredth time.

The music stopped. Silence. Heavy breathing.

"Again," the choreographer said, though his voice sounded completely drained.

"Last time," Yeosang added, his voice raspier than usual.

They ran it. One last time. And this time, it was perfect.

A collective murmur of relief filled the room. High fives were exchanged, bodies hit the floor, shirts were pulled up to wipe off sweat. The choreographer packed his things, gave a couple of quick notes, and said his goodbyes.

Short after, one by one, everyone started filtering out.

"We're going to grab a bite," Yunho announced. "You coming?" he asked, pointing at you.

"I'm a bit tired," you replied. "Not tonight. You guys go ahead."

San walked over and pressed a sweaty kiss to the top of your head.

"I'll bring you some food tomorrow," he promised. "You owe me a full technical analysis of my favorite part."

"You owe me an odor filter," you countered.

He laughed and headed out with the rest.

Within minutes, the large studio went almost completely empty.

Only you were left, sitting against the wall; Yeosang, stretching his legs by the barre; and a few abandoned water bottles on the floor.

The lights were still on, but one row of fluorescents flickered slightly before shutting off completely, casting the room in a softer, golden glow against the mirror.

You stood up slowly, stretching your back.

"I'm gonna head out," you said, more to break the quiet than anything else.

Yeosang pushed himself off the barre, rolling his shoulders. He was wearing a black tank top, clinging to his skin with sweat, and dark sweatpants. His damp hair fell messily across his forehead.

"Wait a second," he said—not quite sounding like a command, but definitely not just a simple suggestion, either.

You paused halfway between the wall and the door, looking back at him.

"Is something wrong?"

He took a few steps closer, stopping right in front of you, just a couple of feet away.

"You’re gonna go home with your head full of bullshit," he remarked, as if stating a plain fact. "I could see it on your face all through practice."

You scrunched up your nose.

"What face?"

"The face you make when you're overthinking too many things," he replied. "Sitting completely still, staring at a blank spot, but not actually seeing a thing."

You didn't know what to say. Because he was right.

"I'm just tired," you defended yourself.

He took another step closer. Now you were both standing right in the middle of the room, with the giant mirror stretching behind him.

"So am I," he admitted. "But if I leave now, I'm just gonna keep replaying the choreo in my head until three in the morning."

"And you," he added, dropping his voice a octave lower, "are gonna do the exact same thing... but with other things."

You bit your lip, casting your eyes down for a second.

"What... other things?" you asked, even though both of you knew damn well what he was talking about.

He didn't answer.

Instead, he reached out and gently took hold of your wrist.

"Come here."

He guided you toward the center of the studio, right in front of the mirror.

He positioned you both facing the glass: you one step ahead, him slightly behind and to the side. Everything was visible: your reflection, his, your height difference, the space between your bodies.

"Look at yourself," he said.

"What?" You frowned.

"Look at yourself," he repeated, but this time his hand slid up to your hip, giving it a light squeeze—instantly bringing back the memory of how that same hand had held you in very different contexts.

You swallowed hard and raised your eyes to the glass.

You saw yourself: hair a bit messy, dark leggings, an oversized T-shirt, cheeks still flushed from the heat of the practice room.

Beside you stood Yeosang: tank top clinging to his chest, defined shoulders, his jaw flexing and relaxing in that habit of his when he was thinking too much. He was looking at the mirror, yes... but not at his own movements. He was looking at you.

"What... am I supposed to be looking at?" you asked, feeling exposed.

He leaned in slightly closer, his eyes still fixed on the glass.

"What I see," he said.

His hand on your hip slid a fraction of an inch forward, his thumb tracing the line of your lower abdomen beneath your shirt. The pressure was minimal, but the message was crystal clear.

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly.

The mirror ceased to be a neutral object and became a stage once more.

"Here's the thing," he continued calmly. "You see yourself as someone who's just... there. Off to the side. Watching."

"Me..." His thumb pressed in just a bit firmer. "I see you right at the center."

Your ears burned.

"I'm not always off to the side," you muttered.

"With us, you are," he said, without an ounce of harshness. "Out of respect, out of fear, out of habit. Call it whatever you want."

His fingers crept a little higher up your side, slipping under the hem of your T-shirt, brushing against bare skin.

"But in here..." His eyes locked onto yours through the mirror. "When we're alone, I want you to see what I see."

Your breathing hitched.

"And what do you see?" you asked, your voice dropping lower than you intended.

One corner of his lips twitched.

"I see..." His gaze traveled down your full reflection. "...someone who drives me insane when people get too close to her."

"Someone who bites her lip when she knows I'm watching."

"Someone who lets herself be handled..." His hand slid back down to your hip, squeezing tight, "...and then tries to pretend she doesn't."

That tone, that word—handled—lit a fire inside you.

A sudden flutter hit you low in your belly just from the way he said it.

"Yeosang..." you started.

"Look at yourself," he repeated, softer this time. "Don't look at me. Look at yourself."

You obeyed.

You focused on your reflection. On how his hand—large, firm—stood out against your hip. On how your chest was rising and falling a little faster. On how, without even realizing it, you had parted your legs just a fraction.

He noticed it, too.

"Like that," he whispered, leaning in, his lips drawing closer to your ear. "Start by seeing this."

His free hand, the one not resting on your hip, traced up your arm to your shoulder, then brushed across your neck, along your jawline. He wasn't touching you roughly, but every single movement was dripping with intent.

He forced you to keep your eyes open as he pulled your shirt up, resting it right beneath your breasts. Your nipples were already hard, visible beneath the fabric.

"Look at how your lips are trembling..." he whispered, his thumb lightly grazing your lower lip. "Look at where my hands are."

His palms moved up to cover your breasts, squeezing them possessively while forcing you to watch yourself in the mirror. Then, one hand slid down your belly, reaching between your legs over your clothes.

"And look at how you open your legs for me without me even asking."

Your thighs parted slightly, almost on instinct. Yeosang let out a low, dark, satisfied chuckle.

He pressed himself flush against your back. His hard, warm length was distinctly prominent against your ass. One of his hands moved up to your throat, holding you firmly without squeezing, keeping you upright and forcing you to look straight ahead. His other hand went down without mercy: first over your leggings, rubbing with his open palm, then slipping beneath the fabric.

He pulled down your leggings and panties just enough, leaving them bunched up around your mid-thighs. Your shirt remained hitched up, exposing your breasts. He only pulled down his pants and boxers enough to free his dick, maintaining that rush of "we're stealing this moment."

"Hands on the mirror," he commanded.

"Look me in the eyes," he growled against your ear.

The moment you looked up and caught his gaze in the reflection, he penetrated you in one deep thrust. The moan you let out echoed through the room. He held your hip tightly with one hand while the other remained on your throat, forcing you to keep your head high.

"I want you to watch yourself," he whispered, never stopping his thrusts. "This is how I have you. Nobody else sees you like this. Only me."

Every thrust was hard, controlled, and deep. The sound of skin against skin filled the room. In the mirror, you could see everything: your pleasure-dazed face, your breasts moving with every hit, Yeosang’s hand gripping your throat, his strong body behind you.

"When you look at yourself in the mirror alone..." he continued, speeding up the pace, "I want you to remember how I’m fucking you right now. I want you to see my hand on your body even when I’m not here."

He fucked you with possession, almost with contained rage. His eyes never left your face in the reflection.

"You're mine in here," he growled, biting your shoulder. "In the place where everyone always looks at me. Now I’m the one looking at you. Completely mine."

The pleasure became overwhelming. Seeing yourself being fucked like that, with that expression of total surrender, was pushing you over the edge faster than ever. Yeosang noticed.

"Look at yourself. Look at you coming for me."

You came hard, trembling, groaning his name as your walls tightened around him uncontrollably. Your knees buckled, but he held you firm, keeping you upright and fucking you through the orgasm.

Only when he felt he was close too did he accelerate brutally, pinning your pelvis against his to sink in as deep as possible. With a husky growl, he came inside you, filling you while keeping you pressed against the mirror.

For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was your heavy breathing. Yeosang was still inside you, leaning against your back, both of you staring at the reflection of your joined bodies.

"Now you really are at the center," he murmured against your neck, kissing it with a tenderness that contrasted with the previous brutality. "Where you were always meant to be."

His words lingered between your skin and the glass: "Now you really are at the center. Where you were always meant to be."

You felt the vibration of his voice against your neck, still damp from the kiss he had left there. His chest pressed against your back rose and fell heavily, but slowly began to match your rhythm.

Yeosang didn't move right away.

He stayed inside you for a few seconds longer, holding you with that firm grip of his, as if he needed both your body and his to fully process what had just happened. His hand on your throat loosened into a caress, his fingers sliding slowly down your collarbone until resting his palm on your shoulder.

"Breathe," he murmured, very low.

You obeyed. You inhaled the thick air, heavy with the scent of sweat, perfume, and him. You let it out slowly, feeling how your legs were still trembling.

"If I let go of the glass, I’ll fall," you said, half-seriously, your forehead pressed against the mirror.

He let out a short, almost silent chuckle.

"I’ve got you," he replied.

Even so, he began to pull out of you carefully. The sudden feeling of emptiness yanked a soft sigh from your lips. You felt a faint, warm sensation between your legs—the mixture of both of you—and you swallowed hard, overwhelmingly aware of everything.

Yeosang held you by the waist with both hands as you took a step forward, moving slightly away from the mirror. He turned you around gently so your back was against the glass, facing him now without the mirror between you.

His face was flushed, his hair clinging to his forehead, his shirt pulled up slightly to reveal the firm line of his abs. His eyes… they were the same as during it all: dark, focused, as if he were still processing your every single reaction.

He glanced down for a moment.

Your leggings and underwear were still pulled down around your thighs; your shirt was halfway up, one breast barely covered. The contrast between how undone you were and how you usually were in that room—always neutral, always a "visitor"—drew a deep sigh from him.

He bent down slowly, pulling your clothes up and putting them back in place. There was no clumsiness or lust; it was almost automatic. He pulled the fabric up carefully to avoid snagging it, made sure the waistband wasn't twisted, and smoothed the hem of the leggings over your hips.

Then he grabbed the hem of your shirt and pulled it down as well, covering your chest once more. His knuckles brushed against your skin here and there, but the gesture was deliberately soft—as if, after pushing you so hard against your limits, he needed to personally bring you back to normal, step by step.

Once you were properly dressed again, he pulled up his own pants and boxers in a quick, almost mechanical motion. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to tame it, though it still looked tousled.

"I don’t know what’s going to hurt worse tomorrow," you said, trying to break the silence, "your muscles from dancing, or my legs from this."

"Your legs," he replied without hesitation.

You shot him a look.

"Big ego, huh?"

"I know what I did," he answered simply.

You leaned back again, this time with your back against the mirror, letting your head fall back for a moment. You felt the cold glass against the nape of your neck while the rest of your body was still thumping with heat.

Yeosang took a step closer, but without the previous urgency. He stood in front of you, close enough that his hands could rest against the glass wall on either side of your head, without actually touching you.

"Are you okay?" he asked once more.

"You ask that a lot," you pointed out.

"Today I need to know," he admitted, not dodging the question. "It was... more."

You thought for a second about all the words you weren't used to saying out loud. I loved it, it drove me crazy, I don't know how I'm going to look in the mirror now without thinking of this.

You summarized.

"I'm okay," you said. "And... yeah. It was more."

His eyes softened a bit.

"If at any point it becomes too much," he added, dropping his voice, "you tell me. I don't want something that turns you on like this right now to make you feel like trash two days from now."

"Jessie already gave me that talk," you confessed, half-smiling.

He let out a soft huff, almost smiling too.

"Jessie's got a good head on her shoulders," he admitted.

A small silence fell over you both. The sexual tension was beginning to settle, and in its place remained something else: something denser, more intimate.

He slowly turned you around to face the mirror again, tilting his head toward the glass, looking at you through the reflection this time instead of directly.

"Look at yourself again," he said, softer. "Just... for a moment."

You sighed, but you obeyed.

In the glass, you no longer saw the raw image from a few minutes ago. You saw a girl with messy hair, cheeks still flushed, lips swollen... and an expression in her eyes you had never seen on yourself before: a mix of vulnerability and strength, of surrender and something that looked a lot like pride.

"You're never going to say you don't belong here again," he murmured, without taking his eyes off the reflection.

"I didn't say that today," you corrected him.

"Not today," he conceded. "But you'll say it to yourself some other day. And when that thought comes up, I want you to remember this."

He finally stepped away from the mirror, taking half a step back to give you space.

"Let's sit down," he suggested. "If you stay standing, you're going to collapse."

He was right. You could feel your knees trembling.

You both sat on the floor, backs against the mirror, side by side. He handed you a bottle of water someone had left behind; you opened it and drank.

The room, which you had seen so many times filled with people, noise, shouting choreographers, and blasting music, was now wrapped in a strangely intimate silence.

"You're going to hate mirrors tomorrow," you joked after a sip.

"Tomorrow," he replied. "And the day after, and next month. And every time you walk in here."

He said it without malice, but it sent a small shiver down your spine.

"You're going to be with me in all of them."

You swallowed hard, and it wasn't because of the water.

"That scares you," he observed, not as a question.

"A little," you admitted. "Because I don't know if you want to be there forever."

You turned toward him, expecting some kind of evasive joke.

Instead, you met his steady gaze.

"If I didn't," he answered, "I wouldn't put you at the center."

It didn't sound like a "promise of eternal love." It sounded like a fact. And coming from him—someone who measures his words so carefully—it carried even more weight.

He stayed with you a little longer, right there on the floor, barely touching you except for small, accidental brushes. Then he stood up, offered you his hand to help you to your feet, and checked with much less subtlety than he thought whether your legs were holding up.

"I'll walk you downstairs," he said.

"I can manage," you replied.

"I don't doubt it," he countered. "But I want to go down with you."

You didn't push it.

You walked down the hallway together. In the elevator, you didn't touch. That was your new discipline: you both knew all too well what happened when you did. In the lobby, a quick nod to the guard. At the door, the cool night air.

"Text me when you get back," he asked.

"You always say the same thing," you pointed out.

"And you always do it," he replied.

You stood in silence for a second. Then, driven by an impulse you didn't overthink, you stood on tiptoe and gave him a brief kiss on the corner of his lips.

"Goodnight," you whispered.

He didn't grab you by the neck, he didn't prolong the kiss, he didn't drag you back inside.

He just nodded, lowered his gaze slightly to your lips, and said:

"Goodnight."

You turned around and walked away, knowing that tonight, when brushing your teeth in front of your bathroom mirror, you wouldn't be able to stop seeing—if only out of the corner of your eye—the image of yourself pressed against another mirror, with him behind you, reminding you who had put you there.

In the days that followed, every mirror was a small trigger.

At home, while getting ready in the morning, you would sometimes catch yourself with your hand on your throat—right where he had held it—realizing you were repeating his words over and over in your head.

In the company bathroom, while washing your hands, you avoided looking at yourself directly for more than three seconds... because as soon as you did, your mind reconstructed the angles, the way your eyes had clouded over with pleasure.

In the dance room, back in front of the giant mirror, waiting for the others to arrive, you would sometimes try standing in the center all by yourself. Same spot. Same glass. Without him.

The difference was stark.

You felt exposed. Ridiculous. Out of place.

And yet, a quiet voice kept repeating:

"Now you really are at the center. Where you were always meant to be."

And for the first time, you began to consider that maybe coming out of the corner wasn't as terrifying as you had always thought.

Especially because now, you weren't doing it alone.

There were hands—his hands—that had already held you there.

And you knew they would do it again.

You didn't see yourself as "invisible" as before. There was something different in the way you held your gaze. As if a part of you had already accepted that, at least for someone, you really were at the center.

"That's new," a voice said behind you.

You jumped slightly. You turned around.

Yeosang was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with one shoulder, watching you.

"What is?" you asked, trying to sound normal.

He came in, leaving the door half-open.

"The way you look at yourself," he explained, walking closer. "Before, you only looked in the mirror to make sure you weren't drawing attention. Now... you're recognizing yourself."

You rolled your eyes.

"You've been watching for a long time," you accused him.

"Just long enough," he replied, getting close enough to give you a quick kiss on the corner of your lips.

It was a small gesture, almost chaste compared to other times, but in that room, facing that mirror, it felt heavy with meaning.

"Your trick is working," you admitted softly. "Every time I see a mirror, I remember... that."

He smiled faintly.

"Good."

He gave your waist a gentle tug to pull you a little closer.

"Next time I'll use the ballet barre," he added, as casually as if he were discussing choreography cues.

"You're impossible," you murmured, though your body was already reacting to the promise.

The next time you hung out with Jessie, it didn’t take long for the topic to come up.

You were at your place, both of you wearing face masks, wine glasses in hand, lounging on the couch as usual.

"So, what about the mirror thing?" she asked point-blank. "Are you going to tell me, or do I have to wait for karma to show me a flashback?"

You told her.

Not every single graphic detail (there was no need), but the essentials: how he had positioned you, what he had said, how he had forced you to look at yourself, and how he had completely finished you off with that line about "now you really are at the center."

Jessie listened with her mouth slightly open, a mix of fascination and nervous laughter.

"That man is out of his mind in the absolute best way," she concluded in the end. "He basically rewrote your whole relationship with the mirror in a single night."

"Now I look at myself and..." you searched for the right words. "I don't know. I see myself differently. I'm not going to say 'prettier,' but... less invisible."

Jessie softened a bit.

"That's heavy," she said. "Because it's not just sex. It's your self-esteem, your self-image. And he's messing with it in a strange way, but one that's actually adding to your life."

"It's scary that he has so much power over that," you admitted.

"Yeah," she conceded. "But you have power over him too, even if you don't see it. He's not doing all this just for sport. He's investing a lot of energy in you."

She took another sip of her wine.

"As long as you keep feeling chosen and not used," she added, "we're good. The day that changes, we talk about it, and you cut it off."

You nodded, saving that line as a sort of mental lifeline.

Secrecy in your world wasn't an option; it was the rule. While social media moved along at its usual pace and fans speculated about the dates for the upcoming comeback, behind closed doors the machinery had already been set in motion. The boys had to leave the country for a week to shoot the lead music videos and part of the content for the new album. A leak at that point would have ruined months of strategy, so the travel details were handled with absolute secrecy that only Jessie and you shared for obvious reasons.

As always when Hongjoong left for extended work trips, Jessie had a tough time. The void left by the intensity of her routine with him was an uphill battle, so, following an unwritten tradition, Hongjoong "entrusted" her to you before getting into the company car—with a quick hug and a look that silently said take care of her.

That very afternoon, Jessie moved into your apartment with a small suitcase, an arsenal of Korean face masks, and a couple of bottles of wine.

Your living room became a temporary sanctuary. During the first few days, conversations on the couch stretched on until the early morning hours. You talked about everything: how hard it was sometimes to balance work and personal life, the pressure of the industry, and the invisible toll of loving someone who belongs to the public eye.

Seeing Jessie in her day-to-day life gave you a very raw, yet strangely beautiful perspective on what a real relationship meant in that environment. Out of the corner of your eye, you observed the calls at ungodly hours due to the time difference, Hongjoong’s endless voice notes whispering from some hotel room telling her every tiny detail of the shoot, and the way her face lit up with a simple text message. Their love went beyond the distance, the labels, and the chaos of ATEEZ. It was solid. It was a shared future.

And inevitably, that made you think about Yeosang.

You caught yourself staring at your phone in the middle of the night, with Jessie sleeping on the other side of the bed, wondering what exactly the two of you were building. What you had didn't carry the weight or structure of Hongjoong and Jessie’s relationship. Yours was electric, possessive—a silent pact behind closed doors that kept your heart racing. Was it serious? Or was it just a passing phase fueled by the adrenaline of mirrors and crossed lines? The fear that he would grow tired and leave you hung up on that feeling of "belonging to him" crept back in whenever the apartment fell silent.

Until, on the fourth night of the trip, a message on your screen broke the spiral of your thoughts.

It was almost three in the morning. Jessie was breathing rhythmically beside you. The phone light illuminated the dim room.

Yeosang.

Yeosang's text was only two lines long, but it was enough to make you sit up slowly in bed, careful not to rustle the sheets so you wouldn't wake Jessie.

I don't like the mirror in this hotel. You can't see it well from the bed.

You stared at the screen, feeling an immediate drop in your stomach. Four days without a single word from him beyond quick work-related check-ins, and he came right back to the exact same point, with the same direct, calm tone that completely disarmed you.

Are you still awake?

You typed, with your phone brightness set to the absolute minimum.

We were just finishing reviewing today's footage in Hongjoong's room. I just got back to mine.

A few seconds later, the screen lit up with a photo. The lighting was dim—the typical soft, warm glow of a luxury hotel room. Yeosang had taken off his jacket and shirt from the shoot; he was wearing only gray sweatpants, sitting on the edge of a spacious bed. His hair was slightly tousled and his eyes looked tired, but the gaze he fixed on his phone camera was exactly the same one he pinned on you back at the studio. In the background, against the side wall, you could make out the reflection of a large mirror in a dark wood frame.

Is Jessie with you?

Yes. She's sleeping next to me.

Good. That way you're not alone.

There was a pause for a couple of minutes—the kind where you watched the "typing..." indicator appear and disappear, driving you crazy.

But I don't like knowing you're sleeping with anyone who isn't me. Even if it's her.

You swallowed hard, rereading the message. The possessive tone didn't fade with the distance; if anything, it seemed to sharpen with the isolation of the trip.

She's my friend, Yeosang. And Hongjoong asked me to look after her.

You replied, trying to keep it light.

I know. That's why I'm not saying anything.

His response came almost instantly.

But here in my room, all I can think about is that this bed is too big. And that the mirror is in the wrong place—because if I had you on your knees against the mattress right now, I wouldn't be able to see how you look at me in the reflection.

A sharp, warm shiver ran down your spine. You glanced out of the corner of your eye at Jessie, who shifted slightly in her sleep, forcing you to hold your breath. Being in your dark, quiet bedroom while he said those things to you from the other side of the world created an atmosphere even more clandestine than the dance studio itself.

You're too far away to be talking like that.

You sent, your fingers trembling slightly over the keyboard.

Three more days.

He replied.

Make sure you leave the living room cleared for when I get back. I don't want to waste time moving cushions.

The next morning, the smell of freshly brewed coffee helped clear the lingering haze of the late night. Jessie was already sitting at the kitchen table, her hair pulled up into a high bun, scrolling through her phone with a faint smile.

"Good morning," she said without looking up. "Hongjoong just sent me a five-minute voice note. He's basically complaining that the cinematographer is a perfectionist, but he says the footage is turning out incredible. How's your morning going?"

You poured yourself a cup of coffee and sat down across from her, resting your shoulders.

"Good, just waking up," you replied, taking a sip. "What else did he say? Are they really tired?"

"Exhausted, but you know how he is—when it comes to a comeback, he pulls energy out of nowhere. He says the new choreography is the hardest they've ever done, but visually it's going to be a masterpiece." Jessie set her phone on the table, picked up her toast, and looked at you out of the corner of her eye with a mischievous little smile. "By the way... what about you? Has Yeosang said anything?"

You froze for a second, holding your cup halfway to your mouth. You couldn't lie to Jessie—not after all the nights you had spent sharing secrets in that very apartment.

"He texted me last night," you admitted, lowering your voice. "Well, early this morning."

Jessie’s eyes lit up instantly. She set her toast back on the plate and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.

"Oh, really? What did he say? Tell me!"

"He sent me a photo from his hotel room..." you began, feeling your tone shift. "And, well, he mentioned the mirror again. That he didn't like the one in his room because it wasn't positioned right relative to the bed. You can imagine where he was going with that."

Jessie let out a muffled giggle, visibly excited by the gossip.

"My god, that low-key guy is dangerous... He doesn't even rest from thousands of miles away."

However, her smile gradually faded as she noticed your reaction. You weren't laughing. You didn't have that spark of amusement or bashfulness from other times. Instead, you were staring blankly at your plate, tracing the edge of your toast with your fingers.

"Hey..." Jessie said, softening her tone. "What's wrong? You don't look like someone who just got a spicy text from a gorgeous idol. Did something bad happen?"

You took a deep breath, letting your toast drop back onto the plate.

"No, nothing bad happened," you confessed, looking up at her. "It's just that... I love what we do. I really do. The sexual part with him is... incredible. But last night, after I put my phone away, I was left thinking. At this point, Jessie... I don't want this to be just sex."

Jessie listened in silence, nodding slowly. The teasing tone vanished completely from the kitchen, replaced by that warmth of a best friend you always knew you could rely on.

"I'm scared that for him, it's just a game," you continued, a lump forming in your throat. "An escape route from his routine. He treats me great, he takes care of me, he's attentive in his own way... but everything he says that's even a little intense is always tied to possessiveness, to the physical stuff, to having control. And I... I think I'm starting to want something more. I don't want to just be his four-walls secret."

Jessie reached across the table and gently squeezed your fingers.

"It is completely normal for you to feel that way," she said comforting. "You're investing real feelings; you're not a robot. My advice is to talk to him when he gets back. You don't have to demand an engagement ring on day one, but you do need to make it clear where you stand. Yeosang is a mature guy; if he knows how you feel, he'll play fair. But you have to tell him—because men, no matter how smart they are, sometimes don't see what's right in front of them unless you spell it out for them."

You nodded, keeping her advice close to your heart, right as your phone vibrated on the table again. This time it wasn't a private chat. It was the group chat you had with Jessie and San.

San: GIRLS!! 😭 I miss you guys so much. This is exhausting and I have no one to annoy during the breaks. I bought you the most incredible gifts here. You're going to love them—admit it, I'm the best friend in the world.

You looked at Jessie, and both of you instantly switched gears, smiling at the screen.

Jessie: Alright, San, define "incredible." Because if it's another ugly keychain like last time, you're getting left at the airport. You: Agreed. Just so you know, we're only accepting you back into the country for the gifts. If they're not worth it, swap your ticket with Yunho's for me. San: Hey! 😤 You guys are so mean! Zero consideration for my poor little heart. Here I am giving my all for the group and you only love me for material gains. I value myself more than that. 💔 Jessie: Less drama and more practicing. Bring back local snacks and then we'll talk.

You set the phone aside, letting out a soft laugh. That little distraction was a breath of fresh air to help you face the rest of the day, but the countdown was still ticking away.

The days passed, and the trip came to an end. The night before the boys' return, as Jessie was packing her suitcase to go back to her place the following day, your phone vibrated on your nightstand.

A private chat. Yeosang.

Just 1 more day. We land tomorrow afternoon. Do you have plans, or can we see each other?

You stared at the message, feeling your heart leap. Your head was lost in a spiral between your conversation with Jessie and the overwhelming urge you had to see him. You decided to gather your courage, and instead of sending a submissive or casual reply, you decided to drop a bit of bait to test the waters.

We can see each other. Do you actually miss me or something?

You held your breath, staring fixedly at the screen as you waited for his answer. It took a couple of minutes—just long enough to make you suffer.

I don't play at missing someone over text. I'd rather you see for yourself in person. Tomorrow at ten, your place. And this time, I don't want you wearing a skirt. You make it too easy for me, and I want to take my time with you.

He replied.

You bit your lip, pressing the phone against your chest. He was still direct, still taking charge, and using that tension that drove you crazy... but he hadn't answered the question. He was still dodging the emotional side with a physical promise.

Tomorrow was going to be the day. And you knew that, besides dealing with his hands, you were going to have to deal with the truth.

@little-mix-fan-forever @jayhoonsgf @jenoxpress

In the bathroom, the adrenaline was still running wild.

You looked at yourself in the mirror: swollen lips, flushed cheeks, and a reddish tint on your neck that you didn’t remember having before stepping into the backroom. You could still feel the tingling in your thighs, on the skin where his hands had gripped you, on your mouth where his kiss was still burning.

You turned on the tap and splashed some water on your wrists and the back of your neck, trying to bring your body down a gear.

You pulled out your phone, your fingers still trembling slightly.

Come to the bathroom NOW. Urgent.

Not even two minutes went by.

The door opened and Jessie poked her head in. Spotting you, she walked all the way in and shut the door behind her.

She scanned you from head to toe. First your slightly disheveled clothes, then your hair, then your face, then your neck.

She slapped a hand over her mouth, holding back a laugh.

“Holy shit…” she whispered, already giggling, unable to contain herself. “Looks like things got intense, huh?”

“Don't start,” you muttered, though a smile was slipping past your lips too.

You grabbed a paper towel, dried your hands, and tried to fix your top and pull your skirt down a bit. Jessie leaned against the sink, arms crossed, absolutely loving the show.

“Tell me everything,” she demanded. “And this time, don't skimp on the details.”

You weren’t exactly shy around her. You never had been. And with the adrenaline rush still pumping through your veins, the words spilled out almost on their own.

“It was…” You paused to catch your breath. “He told me to come to the backroom. We talked for a bit, then he got all 'I don't like to share,' and the next thing I knew... he threw himself at me.”

Jessie let out an incredulous laugh.

“God, straight to the point.”

“He kissed me like he wanted to rip my soul out,” you continued. “He sat me on a table, gripped my thighs, he was…” You bit your lip, the memory washing over you. “If his phone hadn't rung, something more would have definitely happened right then and there. Guaranteed.”

Jessie’s eyes went wide—zero judgment, one hundred percent thrilled.

“Damn…” She ran a hand through her blue hair. “I knew he had that side to him, but seeing it play out like this... Holy cow.”

You leaned against the sink, looking at her.

“He left me so unsatisfied…” you admitted, frustrated. “I just wanted to keep going. I couldn't even think.”

She nodded with the kind of understanding only experience can bring.

“That's completely normal.” She stepped closer. “When you get cut off halfway, your body is wired, your mind is racing. It's like... slamming on the brakes at full speed.”

“I don't know what to do now,” you confessed. “Or what this even means. All I know is, if he told me 'let's go to your place' right now... I don't think I'd be able to say no.”

Jessie rested her hip against the edge of the sink.

“You could always invite him over yourself,” she suggested bluntly. “Tonight. 'Want to come back to my apartment?' Easy as that.”

You shook your head almost instantly.

“I don't want to seem needy. Or easy. Or…” You searched for the right word. “Desperate.”

She shrugged.

“I get that.” She pondered it for a second. “And honestly, maybe it's a good idea not to skip steps all at once. You guys are getting to know each other in this new dynamic, and sometimes a little restraint actually builds up the tension.”

She looked at you, her expression turning serious.

“But don't beat yourself up either,” she added. “If the moment comes—whether it's tonight or a month from now—where you feel like it and you want to... you're not 'needy.' You're an adult making a choice.”

You nodded slowly.

“Right now…” you whispered, “I can't even think straight. I just have these flashes in my head. His hands. The table. Him…”

Jessie smiled, half teasing, half tender.

“Then, for today, just breathe.” She tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Fix yourself up a bit, head back out there, act semi-normal. And let him make the next move. It shouldn't all be on you.”

You took a deep breath.

“Okay.”

“And, by the way,” she added, lowering her voice mischievously, “don't forget to make him squirm a little. He saw you dressed like this today, he knows what he's missing. Let him work for it.”

You laughed, feeling your body finally start to wind down.

You finished adjusting your clothes and patted your face to tone down the worst of the blush. Jessie did the same in the mirror, and the two of you walked out of the bathroom together, looking as if you'd only gone in to gossip over something on your phone.

On the inside, you were on fire.

But on the outside, you were putting yourself back together.

When you got back to the table, the bar looked exactly the same.

The music was still playing. Mingi and Wooyoung were bickering over some stupid thing. Yunho was laughing at something on his phone. Hongjoong was talking quietly to someone from the staff.

And Yeosang...

He returned to the table a couple of minutes after you, accompanied by the person you assumed had been calling him earlier.

He walked over from the back of the bar with his usual calm. His hair was a bit messier than before, his shirt slightly wrinkled at the chest. If you hadn't known any better, you would have just blamed it on the heat and the crowd.

As he brushed past you to sit down, his hand grazed your waist.

It wasn't a clumsy bump. It was a precise, fleeting gesture, as if he were checking to make sure you were still there. His fingers barely pressed against the fabric of your top, a touch that lasted less than a second.

Only you and Jessie—who had her radar on high alert—noticed.

She shot you a quick look, raising an eyebrow.

Your stomach did a flip.

He sat back down in his spot, picked up his drink, said something to San, listened, and replied. To anyone looking, he seemed completely normal.

You forced yourself to take a sip of your drink, to laugh at one of Mingi's comments, to join the conversation. Your body was still reacting to everything: the phantom touch of his hands, the memory of the kiss, the weight of his gaze that, every now and then, locked onto you from across the table.

At one point, when someone cracked an especially ridiculous joke and you threw your head back laughing, you felt something. You looked over.

Yeosang was watching you.

He wasn't smiling.

He had that intense, focused look of his, as if he were studying something only he could see. His eyes swept over your expression, your neck, the curve of your smile. When he realized you were looking back, the corner of his mouth twitched into something resembling a half-smile... and then he looked back down at his drink.

He had put his public mask back on.

But you had already seen what was underneath. And that made every little moment of restraint on his part feel even more charged.

Over the next few days, the tension didn't fade. It just shifted.

He stuck to his usual pattern: brief glances, measured comments, "accidental" brushes. But for the first time, you started playing back.

When he walked a little too close in the practice room, you didn't step away as much. If he rested his hand on the back of your chair to talk to you from behind, you turned around slowly, forcing him to close the distance.

If he muttered a low comment like:

"You're not helping at all today."

you'd fire back with something like:

"You're not the only one who can tease."

And in his eyes, that familiar spark would light right up.

The game wasn't just his anymore. You were both in on it.

A few days later, San decided it was time to step in again.

You got a text from him one evening, just as it was starting to get dark.

Are you free tonight?

Depends. Why?

Can you come to the practice room around 9:00 PM?

At 9:00? Aren't you supposed to be at home, dead on the couch?

I got into it with the guys. I'm going to be practicing late. Hongjoong chewed me out, I need to focus.

I want to talk to you there afterward. Please.

Your stomach tightened.

Did you fight with them?

Nothing too serious, I'm just in my head. Come over, okay?

Okay. I'll be there at 9.

You didn't overthink it.

San being in his head was a constant in your life. If he said he wanted to see you after practice, you went.

What you didn’t know was that, while you were getting changed to head over to the company, he was pulling the exact same move on someone else.

Yeosang, however, didn’t reply to his text quite as fast. So San opted for the most effective route: calling him.

“What’s up?” Yeosang answered, his voice sounding tired.

San cleared his throat, putting on his best guilt-trip voice.

“Hyung…” he started. “Are you busy tonight?”

“Depends,” Yeosang replied. “What do you want?”

“I can’t get these new steps down,” San blurted out, dripping with drama. “Hongjoong told me I need to focus, that I’m off my game, and… I don’t want to give him another reason to chew me out.”

There was a silence on the other end.

“And what does that have to do with me?” Yeosang asked, though his tone sounded more curious than annoyed.

“I need you to help me,” San said quickly. “In the main practice room. Around 9:00 PM. Just for a bit, I swear.”

Yeosang sighed.

“San…”

“Please,” San pushed, keeping the pressure on. “Just for a little while. I’ll buy you whatever you want for dinner afterward. It’s just so I make sure I don’t mess up during the next rehearsal.”

Another silence.

“Fine,” Yeosang finally gave in. “I’ll stop by at 9:00.”

“You’re the best,” San replied, victorious.

He hung up with a grin so wide that Yunho, who was walking past behind him, shot him a suspicious look.

“What are you up to?” he asked.

“Nothing…” San sang.

Night arrived.

You showed up at the company building in a comfortable, oversized t-shirt and simple pants, ready to listen to San vent and, if necessary, watch a choreography at ten at night.

You took the elevator up, the hallway feeling familiar as you walked through. You reached the main practice room and pushed the door open.

Inside, there was only one figure.

Yeosang was standing in the middle of the hardwood floor in his practice clothes: a dark sleeveless shirt, a discarded hoodie tossed in a corner of the room, loose sweatpants, his hair slightly damp from practicing. He was holding his phone to his ear.

"Where are you?" he was saying. "You said 9:00—"

He turned toward the door as he heard it open.

His eyes met yours. The question cut off halfway.

He hung up slowly, without breaking eye contact.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, with his usual mix of calm and alertness.

You closed the door behind you.

"San texted me," you explained. "He said you guys had a fight, that you were going to be practicing late, and that he wanted me to come talk to him."

Yeosang's expression shifted ever so slightly. You could have sworn you saw the exact moment the pieces clicked in his head.

"I see..." he murmured, looking down briefly. "He told me Hongjoong chewed him out and that he needed help with some steps."

The two of you stared at each other in silence for a second.

The conclusion was obvious.

"It’s a setup," you said.

"Obviously," he confirmed.

The atmosphere in the room shifted. The echo, the mirrored walls, the loneliness of such a massive space… everything felt thicker.

Yeosang walked toward you, slowly.

"Are you worried that he made all this up?" he asked, without a hint of rush.

"I was worried before I got here," you admitted. "Now I'm less worried."

He stopped just a couple of steps away from you. The mirror reflected the scene: you standing near the door, him right in front of you, the empty room behind.

"He shouldn't be playing matchmaker," he remarked with a half-smile. "But it worked."

"That's what I'll tell him if I survive this," you shot back, feeling your pulse quicken.

You were about to say something else when voices echoed from the hallway. Footsteps. Distant laughter. The sound of someone testing music in another room.

The handle of the outer door clicked in the main hallway. Someone was coming.

Yeosang didn't hesitate.

He reached out, quickly scooped up his things from the floor, and grabbed your forearm—not roughly, but firmly—pulling you toward the other side door of the room, the one that led to an inner hallway connecting to the service elevators.

You opened the door halfway. He nudged you with his body just enough for you to slip through first, closing it just as someone pushed open the door to the main practice room.

You suddenly found yourself in another hallway, narrower, quieter. The elevator was at the end. White neon light, polished floors, muffled echoes.

"Where are we going?" you asked, your heart still racing.

He didn't answer immediately.

You reached the elevator. He pressed the button. The doors opened with a soft ding. You both stepped inside.

The cramped space made his presence hit you full force.

Before you could repeat the question, he turned. One hand went straight to your waist, pulling you toward the elevator wall. Your back collided softly with the cold metal. His body filled the little space left in front of you.

His eyes locked onto yours.

"Somewhere more private," he finally answered, close, his voice deep.

He didn't wait for you to answer.

He leaned in and kissed you.

This time, there were no preliminaries or words beforehand. It was the direct continuation of the backroom, compressed into a few seconds in an elevator.

Your hands found his sleeveless shirt. You could feel the warmth of his skin on his shoulders, the firmness of his arms beneath your fingers. The kiss was intense, deep, with a tinge of impatience that left you breathless.

The tension that someone might call the elevator at any moment made it all feel even more electric. Every second together inside felt like stolen time.

The elevator stopped. The doors opened on another floor: an empty hallway, dim lights, the private studio zone.

Yeosang pulled his lips away from yours just barely, breathing heavily, not letting go of your waist.

He guided you out of the elevator, holding onto you as if he didn't trust your legs to hold you up. He stopped in front of a specific door, took an electronic key from his pocket, and swiped it against the reader. A beep, a click. He opened it.

"It’s my studio," he explained, as if it were an irrelevant fact. "No one comes in here without notice."

As soon as you crossed the threshold, he closed the door behind you.

The room was smaller than the practice hall, but enough: a low sofa against the wall, a desk with a computer, speakers, a small table, shelves with his things, a large mirror on one side.

He didn't give you much time to examine it all.

His hand returned to your waist, pulling you toward him, slamming the distance shut. Your body collided with his chest, the beat of his heart against your cheek.

"I haven't stopped thinking about you since that night," he said, point-blank, lowering his head to speak close to your ear. "And about what could have happened if I hadn't been interrupted."

You swallowed hard.

Your hands rested on his chest, feeling the rapid rhythm of his heart beneath the fabric.

"What...?" you heard yourself ask, with a shaky audacity. "What could have happened?"

He let out a small, low laugh. Not mocking. Disbelieving.

"Don't play innocent," he murmured. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

He raised a hand to your jaw, tilting your face upward.

"If you keep provoking me..." he added, very close, his eyes dark, "you’re going to get burned."

You could have backed away. You could have made a joke. But there was something inside you, ignited since the backroom, since even before, that pushed you forward.

"Then burn me," you whispered.

His expression hardened just a fraction, as if those words had crossed an internal line he’d spent way too long drawing.

The next thing you knew, his mouth was on yours again, the kiss exploding with all the heat he’d been holding back.

His hands traveled down to your hips, pulling you flush against him, making sure you felt the contact. He spun you around effortlessly, pinning you against the studio wall. The cold metal of the large mirror pressed against your back, his body serving as a heavy weight in front of yours.

It was obvious in his every move that he’d spent days—weeks—imagining this. He was urgent yet completely in control. He knew exactly where to touch, how hard to squeeze, how much pressure to put on your waist, your back, the base of your neck.

His lips trailed down your jaw, then your neck, right to the spot he knew made your knees shake. You could feel his hot breath against your skin, his fingers tracing lines along your side, playing with the hem of your shirt, slipping up just slightly.

Every single touch deliberately teased the limit.

Just enough to set you on fire.

Not enough to cross the point of no return.

And trapped in his hands, you were starting to lose track of where your boundaries ended and his began.

You could feel his hard cock pressing clearly against your pelvis every time he shifted, every time he pinned you a little tighter against the wall, every time your hips reacted on instinct, seeking friction.

His hand slid down your side, over your thigh, brushing past the fabric of your pants, squeezing slightly before heading back up.

When he pulled away from your lips for a second to look at you, your breath was completely ragged, your pupils dilated, your mouth parted.

“You’re really playing with fire…” he whispered, his forehead resting against yours.

And knowing you were just a breath away from crossing that line, you felt a rush of both desire and vertigo.

Yeosang didn’t give you time to answer. His hand traveled down your side with deliberate slowness, tracing the curve of your waist until it slipped beneath the waistband of your pants. His long fingers slid over the thin fabric of your panties, and, without rushing, slipped inside. The first touch of his fingertips against your soaking wet heat wrung a strangled gasp from you.

“Fuck…” he murmured against your mouth, his voice deeper than usual. “You’re dripping. Is all of this for me?”

His fingers moved slowly, spreading your wetness, stroking your swollen clit with a light pressure that made you shiver. You could only open your mouth to whimpering gasps, almost voiceless, the sound dying against his neck as you tried to keep your balance.

“Look at you… so wet my fingers are sliding,” he continued, teasing you with that low, controlled voice that contrasted so sharply with the urgency of his hard-on pressing against your thigh. “You’ve been like this since the backroom, haven’t you? Teasing me nonstop.”

He slid a finger inside slowly, feeling your walls tighten around him instantly. He let out a low grunt of approval.

“So tight… Relax for me. I’m going to be good to you today… at least at first.”

The promise turned you on even more. Your body clenched around his finger, and he added a second one, stretching you gently, curling them right where you needed it most. Your hips moved on their own, chasing more friction, as you whimpered against his shoulder.

“Just like that… good girl,” he whispered, biting your earlobe. “Feel how I open you up.”

When he pulled his fingers out of your pants, they glitined with your juices. He looked you in the eyes as he brought them to his mouth and licked them slowly, tasting you.

“You taste fucking delicious,” he said with a dark smirk. “Sweet and hot. I could eat you all night.”

He pulled you forward with a firm tug, away from the wall, and led you over to the desk. Before lifting you up, he leaned down slightly and dragged your pants and panties down to your ankles in one swift motion. The cool air hit your flushed, burning skin.

“Sit down and open your legs for me,” he ordered hoarsely.

You were dying of embarrassment, your cheeks burning, but the arousal was stronger than any coherent thought. You spread your legs for him, exposing yourself completely on the desk. Yeosang let out a guttural sound of approval and stepped between your thighs.

He leaned over you to kiss you hungrily while his fingers sank back inside you. In this position, he had a much better angle and control. His fingers slid in and out easily, curling, rubbing the exact spot that made you see stars. Every time your moans got louder, he swallowed the sound with his mouth, kissing you deep, almost bruisingly hard.

You felt yourself tightening more and more around his fingers, your orgasm fast approaching.

“Come on… come on my fingers,” he growled against your lips. “I want to feel it.”

And you did. Your body tensed violently, squeezing his fingers hard as you came with a muffled groan against his mouth, soaking his fingers and spilling onto the desk.

Yeosang gave you no rest. The moment you started coming down, he knelt between your legs and pressed his mouth directly against your sensitive clit. You were completely overstimulated, but he gripped your thighs firmly.

“You taste heavenly,” he murmured against your skin before licking you with torturous slowness, sucking and sliding his tongue inside you. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling without control, trying not to scream.

He ate you out until your legs wouldn't stop shaking. Then he stood up, stripped his pants and boxers off in one motion, and freed his erection. It was larger than you expected: thick, long, the head glistening with precum. Your stomach did a flip of anticipation and nerves.

He rubbed the head of his cock against your entrance, gathering your juices, lubricating himself with your wetness, brushing against your clit with every stroke.

“Yeosang…” you gasped, your voice broken.

He paused right at your entrance, the tip pressing in.

“I don’t have condoms,” he said, his jaw tight, clearly fighting himself.

You didn’t want to stop either. You looked into his eyes and simply whispered:

“Do it.”

He didn’t think twice. He buried himself inside you in one deep, hard thrust, bottoming out. Both of you groaned at the same time. He filled you completely, stretching you in a way that teetered on the edge of pleasure and pain. He stayed still for a few seconds, breathing heavily against your neck, letting you adjust to him.

“So tight… fuck,” he groaned. “I promise I’ll pull out.”

He started to move slowly, pulling almost all the way out before plunging deep back inside. Every thrust wrung a moan from you.

“You feel incredible… so hot and wet around me.”

At one point he stopped, pulling his shirt over his head in a quick movement. For the first time, you saw his entire chest: sculpted, broad shoulders, defined abs, his skin slightly slick with sweat. Your walls clenched hard around his shaft at the sight.

Yeosang smirked cockily.

“Do you like what you see?” he asked, leaning back over you.

He shoved your shirt and bra up in one go, leaving them bunched up above your breasts. His large hands squeezed them, his thumbs rubbing your hard nipples. He leaned his head down and began to lick, suck, and gently bite them as he picked up the pace.

Suddenly, he lost control. His thrusts became feral, deep and relentless. He was fucking you hard, the sound of skin against skin filling the studio. His hands were everywhere: gripping your hips, pinning your neck, tugging at your hair. His lips bit at your collarbone, your chest, your throat.

He grabbed both of your legs, lifting them up and pinning them wide and back, folding you. In this position, he went so much deeper. You felt every inch of him hitting the exact spot that made you lose your mind.

“Yes… take all of me,” he growled, fucking you with savage force. “You’re so perfect.”

His movements grew more erratic, harder. He kissed you desperately while hammering into you, his fingers slipping back down to rub your clit. The pleasure was overwhelming.

“Yeosang… please…” you moaned, feeling yourself getting close again.

“I want you to come with me inside you,” he demanded, accelerating even more.

Your second orgasm hit you hard, clamping down on him. He only held on for a few more thrusts before pulling out of you with a guttural groan, spilling hot over your stomach as he held you tight.

He collapsed against you, both of you breathing heavily, his forehead resting against yours.

“This is only the beginning,” he whispered against your lips with a dangerous smile.

You kept breathing for a moment before you could even process his words. Your legs were still trembling, your thighs draped around his hips, the cold edge of the desk contrasting sharply with the scorching heat of your body.

You could feel his chest rising and falling rapidly against yours. The sweat on his skin, his racing heartbeat in your ear. You closed your eyes for a second, letting the echo of everything that had just happened settle in your nerves.

He stayed like that for a moment longer, as if he needed to make sure you were actually beneath him and not part of some dream.

Then, slowly, he began to sit up.

He didn't pull away abruptly. He lifted himself up a bit, resting one hand on the desk next to your hip and the other on your waist to keep you steady. From that position, he looked down at you.

Your shirt was pushed up almost to your shoulders, exposing your chest, your stomach still marked by him. Your pants and underwear were bunched up somewhere around your mid-thighs. The sight was… a lot. For both of you.

His eyes drifted down for a second, taking in the beautiful mess you’d made of each other. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat once.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice still hoarse.

You nodded, letting out a small, breathless laugh.

“I can't feel anything from the waist down,” you answered with an honesty that coaxed a half-smile out of him. “But yeah. I'm okay.”

Something in his expression relaxed.

“If I gripped you too hard…” he began.

“If you had held back, I would have called you names,” you cut him off without thinking.

That actually wrung a low, brief laugh from him, which melted into a sigh.

He backed away a bit more, just enough to move. With a somewhat clumsy practicality, he tugged his pants down another inch to adjust himself properly, then pulled his boxers and pants back up, settling them over his hips. He ducked his head for a second, focusing on getting himself back together without making it too obvious.

Then he reached for his shirt, which had ended up on the desk chair. He wiped his face and neck with it to dry off some sweat, but instead of putting it on right away, he set it aside.

He turned back to you with a new determination. He grabbed his shirt with one hand and the water bottle with the other.

“Don’t move,” he requested with a softness that contrasted with his earlier intensity.

He poured a little water onto the fabric and walked back over to you.

He cleaned you up gently.

He started with your stomach, dragging the damp cloth in soft strokes, wiping away the white, sticky trace from your skin. Then he moved up to your chest, even more delicate now, not lingering but not being rough either. Every movement was measured, almost methodical, as if he were focused on not hurting you after having pushed so hard.

You watched him from the desk, your chest still bare, your shirt bunched up under your chin. In any other context, you would have felt uncomfortably vulnerable. But there was something in his expression—his still-tense jaw, the slight furrow of concentration in his brow, the unhurried way he passed the cloth—that chased away any shame.

He wasn’t examining you like a trophy. He was taking care of you.

When he was done, he set the dirty shirt aside and, without looking too closely at your chest, placed his hands on the hem of your shirt.

“Arms up,” he instructed practically.

You lifted your arms slightly, and he pulled your shirt and bra back down, covering you again.

Then he leaned down, picking up your underwear and pants from the floor. He pulled them up carefully to your knees, then to your thighs.

“Can you manage?” he asked, giving your ankle a gentle tap.

“I think so,” you said.

You sat up with the help of his hand on your back and waist. Between the two of you, you managed to get your clothes sorted, zipping and buttoning everything back into place. The desk creaked slightly as you slid off the edge.

Once on your feet, you felt a slight wave of dizziness, more from the adrenaline crash than anything else. He noticed and held you for a second, his fingers firm on your hip.

“Easy,” he murmured.

Once you were steady, he bent down to grab his hoodie and pulled it over his head, letting it fall over his shoulders. His messy hair clung slightly to his forehead. Even so, he looked alarmingly good, caught in that middle ground between undone and put back together.

He looked you up and down again, this time more of a check-up than an appraisal.

“Are you really okay?” he asked again.

“Yes,” you repeated, more firmly this time.

You reached out, feeling for the edge of the desk, and then took a couple of steps toward the studio’s large mirror. Your reflection showed someone completely different: slightly tangled hair, makeup a bit smudged at the corners of your eyes, swollen lips, flushed cheeks. And on your neck, a few reddish marks that you weren’t sure would turn into bruises or not.

“Oh my god…” you muttered, half embarrassed, half proud.

Yeosang stepped up behind you, a pace away. His reflection appeared behind yours. In the mirror, his eyes met yours.

“You look good,” he said quietly.

“I’m a total wreck,” you countered.

“Exactly,” he replied, and this time, one corner of his mouth ticked upward.

You turned halfway toward him, leaning against the edge of the desk.

“Do you regret it?” you asked bluntly.

He didn't hesitate to answer.

“No.”

The word fell between you, clear and solid.

“Do you?” he added, throwing the question back at you.

“No.” You exhaled, realizing how true it was. “Not at all.”

He nodded, as if that was exactly what he needed to hear.

Just then, his phone vibrated on the desk. He picked it up and glanced at the screen.

“It’s the group chat,” he said. “San texted saying 'he's actually super busy with Yunho' and can’t make it.”

You rolled your eyes.

“I'm going to kill him,” you muttered.

“You should thank him,” Yeosang replied.

There was a brief silence. He stepped a little closer, closing the distance to half a step. He didn’t pin you against the wall or the furniture this time; he simply stood in front of you, close enough that his fingers could reach your waist again.

“Listen,” he said, dropping his voice a bit. “I don’t want you to think this was just a 'whatever' thing. I’ve wanted… this,” he gestured between the two of you, “for a while. And now that it’s happened, I have no intention of pretending it didn't.”

You held his gaze.

“I don't want to act like nothing happened either,” you confessed.

His hand squeezed your waist slightly, a tiny gesture of relief.

“I don't know how we're going to handle this in front of the others yet,” he admitted. “Or with work, or with everything else we carry. But I do know I don't want this to be the last time I have you like this.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“That can be arranged,” you tried to lighten the mood.

“It can,” he repeated, looking at you with something between a promise and a pleasant threat.

He leaned in slightly, resting his forehead against yours again. He closed his eyes for a second.

“I’m going to take you downstairs,” he added. “I don't want us being seen leaving here together. Not yet.”

“'Not yet'?” you teased.

“Give me time,” he said simply, without drama.

He opened the door for you, checked the hallway, and let you go first. The elevator ride was silent but not awkward. This time, neither of you dared to touch each other. You both knew that one wrong touch would send you right back to the desk or wherever else.

In the lobby, before heading out into the street, you turned back to him.

“Yeosang.”

“Yeah?”

“I don't want…” You searched for the words. “I don't want this to become something that only exists here, hidden away. Or for it to hurt your career. Or for it to eat me alive.”

His eyes softened.

“You're not a whim,” he answered calmly. “You're a choice. And I'm making it intentionally. If at any point you don't want to keep going, just tell me. I don’t plan on forcing you to carry anything you can't handle.”

You nodded.

“Same here.”

There was a brief, almost shy gesture: you leaned in, he did too, and your lips met in a short, controlled kiss—more of a goodbye than a continuation.

“I’ll text you when I get home,” you said.

“Do that,” he replied.

You stepped out into the cool night air.

The cold night air felt good.

You decided to skip the bus and walk instead. You needed to feel the pavement beneath your feet, the smell of the damp city, the distant hum of cars and motorcycles just to convince yourself that what had just happened was real—and not some weird dream in a practice room.

You shoved your hands into your jacket pockets, and once your breathing finally started to even out, you unlocked your phone.

The "Holy Trinity" group chat was blowing up.

San: Okay, I'm sorry, I won't be able to make it after all 😔 San: Yunho dragged me into watching some video and now I'm out of time. Jessie: Uh-huh. Great excuse, San. Jessie: And what about her? San: With Yeosang, I guess 😇 Jessie: What do you mean "I guess," you evil mastermind. San: If she's not replying, it's because she's busy. San: The plan worked, Jessie. Jessie: I'm so proud of us. Jessie: We're either geniuses or completely reckless, I'm not sure which.

You kept scrolling.

San: If she doesn't reply within an hour, I'm going to start praying. Jessie: If she doesn't reply within an hour, I'm going to start applauding.

You laughed out loud in the middle of the sidewalk, shaking your head.

You finally typed:

I hate you guys.

Not even ten seconds went by.

San: AAAAAAAA San: WHAT HAPPENED Jessie: SPILL THE DEETS San: ELL ME YOU DIDN'T GET MAD AT HIM OR I'M GOING TO HAVE TO BEAT HIM UP Jessie: ANSWER ME OR I'M GOING TO PANIC AND BREAK INTO YOUR APARTMENT

The texts started rolling in one after another, as if they’d literally been staring at their screens.

You stopped at a quieter corner, leaning your back against a wall. Instead of typing back, you just tapped Jessie's name.

She picked up on the very first ring.

"Talk to me." No hello, no nothing. Just pure urgency.

A nervous laugh escaped your lips.

"Relax," you said. "I’m still alive."

"But how?" she asked. "Alive as in 'nothing happened' or alive as in 'I can't feel my legs'?"

The silence you left was louder than any words.

Jessie shrieked.

Literally.

An ear-splitting shriek that forced you to pull the phone away from your ear. In the background, you heard Hongjoong's voice, half complaining, half laughing.

"Jessie..." you heard him say. "It's late. The entire building already knows something went down."

"I don't care," she shot back, returning to the phone. "SPILL."

You took a deep breath and started talking as you walked.

You told her that San hadn't shown up, that it was only Yeosang, that you both realized it was a setup, how you had to flee the room because of the voices, the elevator, his studio... And from there on out, you didn't hold back.

Between friends, the details flowed without a filter.

"He had me against the wall," you said, lowering your voice whenever you passed someone. "Then he took me to the desk, and..." You bit your lip, the memory washing over you. "It was... a lot. Like, a lot."

Jessie let out gasps every two sentences.

"I knew it. I KNEW IT," she kept repeating. "That man was never going to play nice forever. Holy cow."

At one point, you heard Hongjoong in the background:

"I'm putting my headphones on. I do not need these details in my life."

And the two of you burst out laughing.

"And now... what are you guys?" Jessie asked suddenly, her voice a bit calmer.

You paused for a second at a red light, staring at the signal.

"Nothing," you admitted. "We didn't put a label on anything. There's just... something. A lot of it. But neither of us is in a rush. And we don’t want anyone to find out about this."

"No one else," she pointed out. "Because San and I already know too much. And Hongjoong does too, unfortunately for me."

"Hongjoong..." you said, a mix of embarrassment and amusement in your voice.

"He's my future husband," she repeated, just like she had that afternoon. "I can't keep secrets like this from him. But he's a vault. He won't breathe a word."

You kept walking.

"I’m scared this will consume me," you confessed after a moment. "That I'll get so hooked that if things go sideways later, it'll completely shatter me."

"That's totally normal," Jessie replied without hesitation. "But it would also be a shame if, out of fear, you robbed yourself of something that’s making you feel this alive right now. I’m not telling you to 'jump without looking.' I’m telling you to 'look, and if you like what you see, enjoy it while you still have ground beneath your feet.'"

You smiled, even though no one could see you.

"I hate you guys," you repeated softly.

"You love us," she corrected. "And if that man ever hurts you, we’ll start a support group to burn his photos. But for now... let him eat you up. In tiny, delicious bites."

Both of you stayed silent for a few seconds, just listening to the ambient noise from the other side of the city.

"I'll call you tomorrow," she finally said. "Once my jealousy wears off."

"Friendly jealousy," you pointed out.

"The friendliest." She yawned. "Go take a shower and get some sleep—or whatever you're actually capable of doing after that. Love you."

"Love you too."

You hung up.

You were already close to your building's entrance when you unlocked your phone again.

You had new notifications.

A private chat. Name: Yeosang.

Did you get home safe?

(20 min ago)

It's been 30 minutes and you hasn't answered. Are you still nearby or did you walk? Answer me when you can.

The last message was from just a couple of minutes ago.

You bit back a smile.

Just got in now. I walked back to clear my head a bit.

The reply came faster than you expected.

Okay. Let me know next time if you're going to take that long. I thought something had happened to you.

You felt a warmth rising in your chest.

I’m sorry. I didn’t think you'd worry. I’m fine. Tired, but fine.

There was a brief pause.

Take a shower, eat something if you can, and get some sleep. Everything is going to hurt a bit tomorrow. Drink some water.

You laughed, resting your forehead against your building's door as you fumbled for your keys.

Are you speaking from experience?

I'm speaking because I can barely feel my arms. And because I don't want you hating me tomorrow just because you're sore.

I'm not going to hate you. Goodnight.

He took a little longer this time.

Goodnight.

You put your phone away.

You walked up to your apartment with the strange sensation that your body weighed twice as much while your head was floating.

It wasn't the start of some textbook romance. There were no sudden "we're dating" promises. No labels.

But there were texts.

There was care.

There was an "it's only the beginning" that, far from scaring you, left you restless... and waiting for more.

And that, for now, was enough.

From that point on, things didn’t suddenly become sweet and orderly.

There was no "now that we've had sex, we're a couple and everything just clicks."

There was too much between you two to go that fast: your fear of his world, his need to control everything, the group, San, the industry, and how little actual privacy you had.

But one thing definitely changed:

You started texting more.

Not in some 24/7 teenage way. But with a new kind of consistency.

Short messages during the day.

Late-night voice notes from him, brief, his voice deep and tired, rambling about stupid things he’d seen during practice.

The occasional link to a video of a game, a dance, or some weird animal.

Photos from you of simple things: your morning coffee, the book you were reading, a weirdly shaped cloud.

It wasn't cheesy.

It was... steady. Warm.

In the practice room, things shifted too.

San, now sporting the smug satisfaction of someone whose plan had worked out way too well, kept his comments to a teasing minimum... and would conveniently disappear with Yunho whenever he noticed you and Yeosang lingering near each other.

"Back in ten," he’d say, raising his hands. "Don't kill each other."

He was terrible at playing it cool.

And both of you knew it.

There were days when, between rehearsals, you and Yeosang would just talk while sitting on the floor, backs against the mirror. About normal things. About nothing in particular. Your knees almost touching, his fingers idling with his water bottle cap.

And then there were other days when the tension built up so much that doing nothing was simply not an option.

During an especially long break, when the rest of them had gone to grab coffee from the vending machine in the hallway, you found yourself alone with him in one of the small rooms.

You walked over to the window to look out at the city. He was behind you, leaning against the stretching barre.

“The view is better from over here,” he remarked.

“From the barre?” you asked, turning around.

“From right here.” His gaze made it perfectly clear he wasn't talking about the window.

You leaned back against the windowsill, crossing your arms.

“You’re confident today,” you said.

“You’re wearing those leggings today,” he replied, without missing a beat. “It doesn't help.”

You felt an immediate blush creep up.

“You can’t keep using that excuse,” you tried to laugh it off.

He took a couple of steps closer.

“No,” he admitted. “Sometimes I won’t even bother looking for an excuse.”

And just like that, with no warning, he had you pinned against the mirror again, his body flush against yours, his mouth on yours—a quick, intense kiss stolen between a "ten-minute break" and the next countdown on the timer.

Those kinds of things started happening.

In empty rooms.

In quiet hallways.

In bathrooms under flimsy excuses.

It wasn't always full-on sex. Often, it was just too-long kisses, hands getting too bold, breaths cutting too short.

Small doses.

Just enough to remind you—and him—that the studio hadn't been a one-time thing, but a crossed line that was never going back.

And each time, bit by bit, a side of him that almost no one knew started to show:

The possessive side.

The side that wanted you close, but hidden from everyone else's sight.

The side that saw red when someone touched you without thinking.

The first time you noticed it clearly was during another group dinner.

Mingi, cheerful as always, sat next to you, draping his arm over your shoulders at the first joke and leaning in to show you memes on his phone.

You laughed, but your boundaries were clearer now. When his hand drifted a little too low down your back, you gently took it and placed it back on his knee with a smile.

“I love you, but not that much,” you joked.

He laughed, getting the hint, without taking offense.

What caught you off guard was feeling a hand rest on the back of your chair behind you, fingers subtly brushing your now-bare shoulder.

Yeosang leaned in, seemingly to grab something from the table.

“Pass the salt,” he asked aloud.

You handed it to him.

His hand deliberately brushed yours as he took it. And, meant only for you, so low no one else could hear, he added:

“You're very social today.”

It wasn't an open scolding. But his tone, the quick glance at Mingi, the thumb that lightly dragged across your upper back before pulling away... everything screamed territory.

You turned slightly toward him.

“You should be happy,” you whispered. “That means your plan to get me out of my shell worked.”

His eyes flashed for a second.

“I am,” he replied. “But I don't like other people getting the best angles.”

And those kinds of comments, delivered with the same calm others used to talk about the weather, were what kept you on high alert.

Because yes, it was clear now: behind closed doors, Yeosang was not the quiet, reserved guy everyone else saw.

And bit by bit, you were starting not just to accept it... but to crave that side of him.

Eventually, as always, the dinner wound down.

One by one, they started getting up. Jessie and Hongjoong left together, shooting you a knowing look that said we'll talk later. San left with Yunho, still laughing about something. The rest scattered into taxis, cars, or on foot.

You said goodbye to everyone with hugs, pecks on the cheek, and promises of "see you soon."

Yeosang said goodbye just like everyone else: a light hug, a "get home safe," a small smile. Nothing that would catch anyone's attention.

But as you walked down the street alone, with the night chill biting through your tights and jacket, your phone vibrated in your pocket.

Are you taking a taxi or walking?

You smiled, slowing your pace.

I’m walking for a bit. It clears my head.

It didn't take him long to reply.

… Do you mind if I stop by your place?

You stopped dead in your tracks in the middle of the sidewalk.

You stared at the message more than once. No frills, no excuses. It didn’t say "to talk" or "to watch a movie." Just that.

¿Now?

Yeah. If you're tired, we can skip it.

You bit your lip, feeling your heart race all over again.

You looked around. The street, the lights, the distant hum of the city. You thought of the restaurant, his glances, his hand on your waist, his voice whispering things that still set you on fire just remembering them.

Come over.

Ok. I’ll be a bit, I have to dodge the staff. Don’t open the door for anyone not wearing a mask and a cap.

You went upstairs, turned on a few warm lights, and quickly tidied up the living room: pillows, blankets, a couple of stray glasses. You ran your fingers through your hair in front of the hallway mirror. Your makeup was still mostly intact; looking at yourself in that top and skirt in your own space still gave you a slight rush of vertigo.

The doorbell rang about twenty minutes later.

You looked through the peephole.

A cap, a mask, a hoodie. Him.

You opened the door.

“Hey,” he said, pulling his mask down slightly on the landing so you could see his smile.

“Hey,” you replied.

He stepped inside, automatically taking off his shoes as if he’d been doing it his whole life, and left his cap and mask by the entryway. The shift from seeing him "anonymous" outside to just "him" inside gave you a strange flutter.

“I hope it’s not too late,” he remarked, looking at your kitchen clock.

“I haven't checked the time,” you admitted. “But you're here.”

He leaned against the counter for a second, taking in the space, breathing in the atmosphere. Your place smelled like candles, laundry detergent, and something sweet.

“It suits you,” he said.

“My apartment?” you asked, amused.

“All of it.” His gaze swept over the books, the photos, the throw blanket on the couch. “It’s very you.”

You leaned against the living room doorframe.

“Do you want something to drink? I have water, wine, beer… tea, if you want to pretend to be healthy.”

“Water is fine,” he replied. “If you give me alcohol, I won’t get up tomorrow.”

You poured him a glass, poured one for yourself. The two of you ended up on the couch, with a show playing in the background more for white noise than actual interest.

An episode ended, and neither of you got up to play the next one.

He set his glass down on the coffee table.

He turned slightly, facing you.

“I’ve thought about what this would be like a lot of times,” he said, as if commenting on something practical. “Seeing you somewhere that isn't our world. Seeing you… here.”

His "here" took in your living room, your blanket on the couch, the photos on the shelf, the half-burned candle.

“And?” you asked with a half-smile. “Are you disappointed?”

He shook his head slowly.

“It complicates things for me,” he admitted. “Because now I like this side of you too. And I want to be here more than I should.”

You didn’t know what to say. So you said nothing.

You simply slid a little closer, closing the distance on the couch.

It wasn’t the typical casual approach of friends. It was deliberate. Your knees almost brushing his leg, your hand resting on the cushion between you... inches from his.

He looked down at the tiny gap.

“You’re playing again,” he murmured.

“You started it,” you shot back.

He leaned in.

He kissed you slowly at first, testing the rhythm of the night. His fingers found your waist, pulling you effortlessly, guiding you until you were straddling his lap, kneeling on the couch.

Your body fit over his as if it had been waiting for this exact position.

Your hands rested on his shoulders, then slid up to the back of his neck. The kiss heated up at a pace you already knew: controlled at first, losing layers of calm as it went on.

His hands slid up your back, pausing for a second at the base of your neck, then traveling down to your hips. He gripped you there, firmly holding you in place, guiding the movement, pushing you forward against him in a way that was anything but innocent.

You let out a muffled gasp against his mouth.

He drank it in as if it were the only sound he wanted to hear.

He shifted you a little more, guiding you over his lap. The friction between your center and the hardness you could already feel growing beneath his pants made you lose your footing. Your fingers tightened on his shirt.

His hands gripped your hips tighter, grinding you in a slow, rocking motion that left no doubt about his intentions.

He pulled his mouth barely an inch from yours, just enough to speak, but not enough for you to stop feeling his breath.

“Do you know what I was thinking about the entire dinner?” he whispered, his voice low and gravelly.

“Mmh…” You weren't sure you could form coherent words.

His grip tightened, forcing you to feel the full, hard pressure of him beneath you.

“About how much I’d like Mingi to know…” He lowered his voice even more, his tone deep and dangerous. “…who you belong to.”

Your body reacted before you could think. A strangled moan escaped against his mouth, your hips moving with more force, chasing the friction. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, then slid up to his neck, squeezing lightly.

Yeosang let out a low, dark laugh, completely satisfied.

“You like that…” he murmured against your lips, tightening his grip on your waist, setting a more demanding pace. “You like when I say it like that, don't you? Reminding you that you're mine.”

His hands traveled up your back, caught the hem of your top, and pulled upward. You raised your arms without a second thought. He stripped it off you in one fluid motion and, almost at the same time, unclipped your bra and tossed it aside. Your breasts were fully exposed to him. Yeosang stared hungrily before ducking his head to suck hard on one of your nipples, his hands forcing you to keep grinding against his cock.

He was entirely in charge now. He gripped your hips firmly, literally using your body to rub against his, controlling the rhythm until you completely lost control.

“Move your hips like that…” he ordered in a husky whisper against your ear. “Just for me.”

His fingers dug into your skin.

“Mingi has no idea how I have you right now… whimpering on the couch, soaking my pants like a good girl.”

The friction was unbearable. You could feel his thick, hard cock pressing perfectly against your underwear, rubbing right where you needed it most. Every movement made the fabric wetter.

Yeosang slid his hands up your thighs, pushing your skirt up without asking until it was bunched up around your waist. His eyes darkened at the sight of the stockings and the delicate underwear you had chosen.

“You knew exactly what you were doing when you put these on,” he growled, tracing his fingers along the band of your stockings. “Teasing me all night.”

He lifted you slightly with one hand while using the other to slide your panties to the side. His fingers touched you directly, slipping between your soaking folds. When he suddenly buried two fingers inside you, you groaned loudly—the first truly loud moan in the quiet of your apartment.

“Shh…” He smirked against your neck, but he didn't stop fucking you with his fingers. “I don't want the neighbors knowing what a little whore you are for me.”

He kept fucking you with his fingers mercilessly, forcing you to move against his hand. A moment later, he pulled them out, lifted you up slightly, and used his other hand to free his thick, fully erect cock.

“Get down on it,” he ordered.

You obeyed. With your panties still pushed aside, you sank onto him in one go, feeling him stretch you wide open. Yeosang let out a low grunt and began to fuck you from below without mercy, gripping your hips tightly and thrusting upward.

Every hit was deep and rough. He was using you, lifting you up and sliding you down his cock as if you were his to fuck. Your moans filled the living room.

He kept you on top for a while longer, controlling every movement, until he suddenly gripped you tightly, lifted you, and spun you around. Now your back was to him, sitting between his legs. He pulled you flush against his chest, one hand traveling down between your thighs again while the other wrapped firmly around your throat.

“Still,” he whispered against your neck, biting your earlobe. “Let me do it my way this time.”

He penetrated you from behind again, deep and hard. He fucked you as you bounced on his cock, one hand on your hip setting the pace and the other sliding down to your clit, rubbing it relentlessly. You were completely at his mercy, lost in the pleasure.

Suddenly, he lifted you again as if you weighed nothing and laid you down on the couch. He hovered over you, one knee between your thighs, pinning you under his weight. He gripped your jaw firmly, forcing you to look at him.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

His eyes were dark, almost black with desire.

“Who do you belong to right now?”

“…Yours,” you gasped.

“Louder.”

“Yours, Yeosang.”

He penetrated you in one brutal thrust, stealing your breath away. He began to fuck you with wild, dominant, and possessive force. Every thrust made you lose your mind a little more. He pinned your wrists above your head with one hand while the other played with your clit.

He was fucking you so well you felt like you were dissolving. In the middle of the pleasure, Yeosang slid his thumb into your mouth. You sucked on it without thinking, whimpering around his finger. That seemed to break something inside him.

“Fuck…” he groaned.

His pace became fierce, animalistic. He fucked you so hard the couch was moving. The pleasure was overwhelming. You came violently around his cock, shaking and screaming his name.

Yeosang didn’t stop. He kept fucking you through your orgasm, stretching it out, until he felt himself hitting the limit too. He sat up abruptly, grabbed you by the hair, and pulled you up until your face was level with his cock.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered hoarsely.

You barely parted your lips before he shoved his cock all the way to the back of your throat, face-fucking you like a toy. He held your head steady with one hand as he thrust, groaning softly. After a few deep penetrations, he pulled his cock out of your mouth and gripped your chin firmly.

“Stick your tongue out,” he demanded, stroking himself fast and hard in front of your face.

You obeyed, sticking your tongue out with your mouth open, watching him. Yeosang let out a guttural grunt and came hard: thick, hot ropes of semen splattered over your tongue, your lips, and your breasts.

He kept you there for a few seconds, breathing heavily, admiring how you had taken all of it.

You remained on your knees in front of him, resting one hand on the couch so you wouldn’t lose your balance. You could feel your breath burning in your chest, your tongue still occupied with the salty, thick taste of him, the warm dribble sliding down your lip, your chin, and the sensitive skin of your breasts.

Yeosang held your face in his hand for a second longer, his thumb pressing your lower lip into your mouth, forcing you to lick it all clean.

“Good girl…” he murmured, his voice husky and still strained. “All mine.”

His eyes swept over your face, your open mouth, the traces of him on your skin, with a dangerous mix of pride and possessiveness. There was no shame in his gaze. Only pure satisfaction.

He let you go slowly, as if it were hard for him to stop touching you, and leaned back against the couch, resting his head on the backrest, his eyes closed for a couple of seconds. His shoulders rose and fell quickly, his bare chest glistening slightly with sweat.

Your legs were shaking.

You sat up slowly, wiping the traces of him from your mouth with the back of your hand. You placed one hand on his thigh to steady yourself, and then another on the backrest of the couch. You felt his fingers, almost by reflex, curl around your wrist for a moment at the contact, still humming with post-coital electricity.

You sat next to him, your breasts still bare, your skin flushed and warm. The contrast of your heavy breathing with the silence of the living room—broken only by the TV playing in the background, completely ignored—felt almost absurd.

He opened his eyes.

He looked at you.

His expression softened ever so slightly: the intensity was still there, but something gentler had been woven in.

“Come here,” he said, quieter, calmer.

He pulled you in with an arm around your shoulders, pressing you to his side. You felt the warmth of his bare skin against yours, your cheek resting against his collarbone.

He stayed like that for a moment, still breathing heavily, his hand on your arm, his fingers tracing tiny, unconscious circles.

“Are you okay?” he finally asked, not letting go.

You nodded, feeling a small, disbelieving laugh bubble up from your chest.

“I’m okay,” you answered.

He let out a sigh that you couldn’t quite identify as relief or satisfaction.

“If you were a little too obedient, you can tell me,” he added, trying to lighten the mood with some humor.

“If you had crossed the line, you would have known,” you shot back, looking at him out of the corner of your eye.

That coaxed a real smile out of him—fleeting, but clear.

You realized you were smiling too, almost in spite of yourself.

“What?” he asked, noticing.

You opened your eyes and turned your head to look at him.

“Nothing,” you answered softly. “Just… processing.”

A corner of his mouth curved up.

“Processing that we almost destroyed your couch?” he teased quietly.

You looked down: pillows scattered everywhere, wet spots on the fabric, the blanket bunched up in a knot, your underwear peeking out from one side of the backrest.

“I’ll have to buy new slipcovers,” you muttered, half-serious.

“I’ll buy them for you,” he replied without thinking much. “Next time, we’ll use a different spot.”

The phrase “next time” sent a little flutter through your chest.

“Next time?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow.

His fingers paused on your hip for a second. He held your gaze, calm.

“Don’t you want to?” he asked directly.

“I didn’t say that,” you defended quickly.

“Then don’t say it like it’s unlikely,” he replied simply.

You turned a bit more toward him, resting your side against his chest. From there, you could hear his heartbeat better—still fast, but slowing down.

“The thing about Mingi…” you started, not looking at him entirely. “You mean it.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” he confirmed flatly. “It annoys me to see him pulling you around like you’re… free game. Even though I know you set your boundaries. And I like that you do.”

His words mingled with the warmth of his hand on your skin.

“I’m not going to cause a scene,” he added. “Or say anything to make things awkward. But if he knew what I do to you when he’s not looking…” He paused, almost savoring the thought. “…he’d stop acting so foolish.”

You let out a soft laugh, unable to help yourself.

“You sound very sure of yourself,” you commented.

“It’s not just about me,” he said seriously. “It’s about you, too.”

“Me?”

“How you respond to me.” His tone dropped a notch. “How you look at me when I have you like this. How you say no when you mean yes, just to play hard to get.”

You covered your face with your hand, embarrassed.

“How humiliating,” you muttered, though you sounded more amused than anything.

He leaned in close, brushing his lips against your ear.

“It’s not humiliating,” he whispered. “It’s delicious.”

A shiver ran down your spine again, even through your exhaustion.

He stayed there, pressed close, for a few seconds more. Then he leaned back, taking a deep breath, as if trying to pull a blanket of calm over everything that was still simmering underneath.

“How do you feel?” he asked, shifting to a more neutral tone.

“Tired,” you admitted. “But… good.”

“Does anything hurt?” he pressed.

You thought of your neck, your thighs, your lower back.

“In a few places, yeah,” you confessed. “But it’s a good kind of sore.”

He nodded, satisfied.

“You’re going to remember me when you sit down tomorrow,” he said dryly.

“I’m going to remember you tomorrow no matter what I do,” you shot back.

That finally won a genuine, open smile from him—one of the ones he didn’t just show to anyone.

“Good.”

His gaze drifted down to your body for a second.

Your breasts were still bare, the traces of him drying on your skin. Your thighs, still slightly parted from earlier, were trembling beneath the hem of your hitched-up skirt. Your lips were swollen and red.

Something in his eyes hardened again, a spark of lust threatening to light the match all over again… but this time, he held back.

He leaned forward, grabbed the tissue pack from the coffee table, and opened it.

“Stay still,” he requested softly.

He pulled out a couple, wrapped them around his fingers, and began to clean you up gently. First your chin, then your lips—with soft, almost reverent touches—then your neck, moving down to your chest.

It wasn’t an awkward or embarrassed gesture. Nor was it sexual, even though his fingers were tracing bare skin that had been wringing moans out of you just moments ago.

It was… attentive. Practical. Almost tender, in its own way.

When he was done, he tossed the used tissues onto the table, reached for your top where it lay discarded, slid it over your head, and pulled it down calmly, covering you again.

“Get dressed a bit before I get the urge to start all over again,” he murmured.

“Sounds like a threat,” you said with a half-smile.

“It’s a warning,” he corrected, looking you in the eyes.

Once both of you were back in a relatively presentable state—though your slightly wrinkled top and his messy hair would be dead giveaways to any sharp observer—you settled in again.

This time, you were half-lying down, your head resting on his chest, while his arm wrapped around the back of your neck and his other hand rested on your arm.

You didn’t talk much more that night.

Just a stray comment about the show still humming in the background. A couple of silly remarks about San and his evil mastermind schemes. Not much else.

The silence didn’t feel heavy anymore. It felt… full. Full of things you hadn’t put a name to yet, but were very much there.

At some point, you started to drift off.

You noticed it when your breathing slowed, when your muscles finally stopped being tense, when the TV screen became nothing but white noise.

“If you keep doing that, I’m staying,” he whispered, noticing your weight sinking a bit heavier against his chest.

“What a weird threat,” you mumbled, a sleepy half-smile on your face.

“I don't know if it's a threat,” he mused. “I’m starting to like this.”

You didn’t answer.

Sleep finally won.

The last thing you felt was his hand sliding into your hair, a slow, automatic, stroking motion—like someone calming a restless cat.

You had no idea when he decided to leave.

When you opened your eyes, the TV was off, and the room was cast in dim shadows. You were tucked in with the blanket pulled up to your shoulders. There was a folded note on the table.

You sat up slowly, your body still heavy.

You opened it.

I slipped out before dawn. I didn't want anyone in the building to see me leaving. Let the couch breathe. Text me when you wake up. And drink water. – Y.

You smiled, all alone in your living room.

Your body was full of visible and invisible marks: a faint bruise on your thigh, a red mark on your neck, soreness in places you didn't even know could ache... and that phrase, playing on a loop:

Who you belong to.

You didn’t know yet if you were ready to tell anyone “I’m his” out loud. But you did know one thing: each time he touched you like that again, it would feel more natural to think that, at least within those four walls, between his hands and your sighs, yes... there was a part of you that belonged only to him.

And the most dangerous part of it all was that, instead of scaring you, you were starting to like that idea.

@little-mix-fan-forever @jayhoonsgf @jenoxpress

You didn’t know if he had always been this way and you just hadn’t noticed, or if he was suddenly doing it on purpose.

The thing was, ever since that night in the hallway, Yeosang’s practice clothes became… hard to ignore.

Sometimes he’d show up in a tight, short-sleeved t-shirt, black or grey, that clung just enough to his torso to define his chest and shoulders. He looked broad, solid, his strong arms tensing every time he grabbed a water bottle or leaned on his knees to catch his breath.

Other times, he decided sleeves were optional.

He’d show up in loose, oversized tank tops—the kind that hang low on the sides, exposing the full contour of his arms and generous glimpses of his torso when he moved. The upward pull of an arm, the fabric parting, a flash of skin, a line of muscle running down his side.

It wasn't overdone. He didn't strike poses in front of the mirror, and he didn't seem to be looking for attention.

But you, sitting in a corner of the room, were seeing way too much.

There were moments when your mouth would literally water, and you hated yourself a little for it. Especially now that San knew everything… and had become your worst enemy.

One afternoon, you were leaning against the wall, water bottle in hand, trying to focus on the overall choreography and not on the fact that Yeosang was wearing one of those shirts that left his entire arm bare.

San dropped down next to you during the break, breathing heavily, his shirt soaked through.

He followed your gaze. The trajectory wasn't hard to read: from the center of the room, straight to Yeosang, who was talking to the choreographer, arms crossed, triceps on display.

And San, of course, let out a chuckle.

"You're drooling all over the floor," he said, throwing his wet towel right in your face.

"Hey!" you protested, brushing it off. "You're gross."

"You are the least subtle person in the world," he continued, delighted with his discovery. "From here, it's so obvious your eyes are wandering. You can practically hear the 'yum'."

You shot him a warning glare.

"If you keep talking like that, I'm going to say out loud that you look at yourself the exact same way in the mirror," you threatened.

"Everyone already knows that," he shot back, unfazed. "Focus, he's going to catch you."

You glanced at Yeosang out of habit.

As if he had some kind of radar, he turned slightly at that exact moment. His eyes swept the room, pausing on you for a split second. Not long enough to raise suspicion, but enough to make you instantly bolt upright and pretend to be deeply interested in your phone.

San chuckled again, quietly.

"Oh, I am going to have so much fun with this," he murmured.

Jessie and San took their roles as co-conspirators very seriously.

Whenever they gathered at your place on a quiet night—pizza, drinks, a show playing in the background—you always ended up talking about "the subject."

"Now I get why you wanted to make another group chat just with Yeosang," San complained one night, pointing at Jessie with a slice of pizza. "And here I was thinking it was because you wanted to switch up the conversations. How innocent of me."

She burst out laughing.

"We needed a space to talk without you screaming every five seconds," she said. "And now it turns out it’s also your best friend and your mystery teammate's private fan club."

"Fan club," you huffed. "Don't exaggerate."

"I'm not exaggerating at all," Jessie cut in, putting a bite of pizza in her mouth. "And the sooner you accept it, the sooner you'll start enjoying it."

San nodded with ridiculous solemnity.

"Besides," Jessie added, pointing at you with her pizza slice, "you have the right to like someone without making an emotional Excel spreadsheet about it."

"I need an emotional Excel spreadsheet for everything," you replied, leaning your head back against the sofa. "Otherwise, I get lost."

San swallowed and wiped his hands on a napkin.

"Then do it," he said. "Column one: 'things I feel when he kisses me.' Column two: 'things I feel when he ignores me in front of everyone else.' Column three: 'things I want to do to him but can't say out loud.' And from there, you make your decision."

You threw the nearest cushion right at his face.

"Shut up!"

San dodged it with a laugh.

"Jokes aside," he insisted, a bit more serious. "Honestly, you guys have it easy: you like each other, you both know it, he's not an idiot, and neither are you. You just need to stop taking half a step forward and three steps back."

You sighed, staring at the ceiling.

"It's not that easy. He's… him. And this world of his is complicated. I don't want to overstep."

Jessie shook her head side to side.

"You're already 'stepped' in," she pointed out gently. "Maybe not in the work aspect, but in the part that actually matters: them, their lives, their stuff. And he already brought you into his, whether you like it or not. If he were just looking for a casual fling, he wouldn't have gone to such lengths to hide it from everyone."

That sentence lingered somewhere in your chest.

San, who was listening with his elbows on his knees, added:

"And you're not alone." He looked at you intently. "If this works out, great. If it's just okay, we'll be here. And if it goes south and we have to do a symbolic burning of his photos… we'll do that too."

Jessie raised her hand.

"I'll bring the gasoline."

You laughed, despite the lump in your throat.

"You guys are idiots," you said. "But thank you."

Jessie nudged closer, bumping her shoulder against yours.

"Look, all I'm asking of you is one thing," she said. "Don't hide yourself when he isn't hiding either. If he had the guts to cross that line, you can start playing the game a little too."

"Exactly," San backed her up, pointing at you. "Don't let him have all the control."

You sat in silence, thinking about it for a moment.

The image of him in the hallway, so close, so determined, blended with the memory of his tank tops, his toned arms, his sidelong glances.

"And what am I supposed to do?" you asked, genuinely curious. "Wear a neon sign?"

Jessie smiled.

"No," she shook her head. "Just make it clear that you also know which buttons to push. Without saying a single word."

San raised his hand as if he were in a classroom.

"I propose that for the next group hangout, you dress up a little more than usual," he said. "Not for him. For you. But… if he gets a heart attack in the process, bonus."

Jessie slapped his hand in a high five.

"Approved."

You groaned, half-serious, half-joking.

"I'm not going to dress up as someone I'm not."

"It's not about playing dress-up," Jessie countered. "It's about trying out a version of yourself he hasn't seen yet. And, while you're at it, letting yourself see it too."

San leaned back on the couch, looking satisfied.

"It's settled then." He stretched. "Next hangout: you are going to be breaking necks. End of announcement."

You rolled your eyes.

But a tiny part of you was already picturing the scene.

Not for him.

Not just for him.

But to see yourself, for once, not just as the comfortable friend in jeans and a hoodie. But as someone who could also take up space with her body, and not just with her words.

A few days went by.

Between work, rehearsals, your life, and theirs, things eventually fell into place until, finally, a message popped up in the chat you shared with the "little team":

San: This Saturday, free night. Dinner + bar. Everyone? Jessie: I'm in. Tú: Me too. Yeosang: Depends on what time I finish. But I'll try. San: Translation: he's coming. Don't be mysterious, Kang. Yeosang: I'm not being mysterious. I'm being realistic. Jessie: Translation of the translation: he's coming and you all know it.

Your heart gave a tiny thump against your chest when you read "he's coming."

San, sitting across from you at the kitchen table, looked up from his phone with a smile that said "game on."

"It's time," he announced.

"For what?" you asked, even though you already knew.

"To put the plan into action," he replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

On Saturday afternoon, San showed up at your door earlier than expected, with a bag of snacks in one hand and his phone in the other.

"I'm early because I don't trust you," he said without intro as he walked in. "If I leave you to your own devices, you'll just wear the same shirt you always do."

"It's comfortable," you defended yourself, closing the door.

"And boring." He tossed the bag onto the counter and leaned against the kitchen island, giving you an evaluating look. "Not today."

You let out a breath.

"I'm not going to be uncomfortable just so you can play matchmaker," you warned.

"You're not going to be uncomfortable," he promised. "You're going to look hot. Period. And if someone happens to drool over it, that's their problem."

He paused for a second, as if a lightbulb had just gone off in his head.

"I need backup," he decided. "I know choreography, not skirts."

Before you could stop him, he was already dialing his phone.

"Who are you calling?" you asked, getting a bad feeling.

"The only person who knows how to talk you into anything," he replied, putting the phone to his ear. "Jessie."

It didn't even take three rings.

"Yeah?" you heard her on the other end, with background noise. "What did you break?"

"Nothing," San said quickly. "This is a serious mission. It's go-time. I need an ally in the wardrobe department."

You rolled your eyes.

"It's not that serious, Jessie, you can hang up," you said out loud, knowing she'd hear you.

"If it's a 'serious mission' and it has to do with you and him... I'm definitely not hanging up," she replied, sounding amused. "Where are you?"

"At her place," San answered. "Bring clothes. Yours. The kind that looks so good it's intimidating."

"Give me half an hour," Jessie agreed. "Don't start without me."

She hung up.

San smirked like he had just won something.

"You're doomed," he summarized.

"You two are the worst thing that's ever happened to me," you grumbled. But you didn't really mean it.

San walked over, placed his hands on your shoulders, and looked at you seriously.

"You're my best friend," he said. "And you deserve to have someone look at you the way Hongjoong looks at Jessie... or even better. If Yeosang is that someone, great; if not, we'll see. But what I'm not going to let you do is hide in the corner of every photo because you're afraid to shine a little. Okay?"

He completely disarmed you.

"Okay," you gave in, your voice softer.

Jessie arrived about half an hour later, just as promised, loaded down with a bag of clothes and another of makeup.

"I have arrived prepared for both an emotional and an aesthetic emergency," she announced the moment she walked in.

"It's really not that big of a deal," you complained.

"Yes, it is," San and Jessie said in unison.

You locked yourselves in your room.

"I brought options," she announced, dumping the bag onto the bed. "And San promised not to peek for the next ten minutes or I'll gouge his eyes out."

From the living room, San's voice drifted in:

"I just want to help you change the world, not see your underwear, I swear."

"Go make popcorn!" you yelled back.

Jessie started pulling out pieces of clothing: tops, skirts, a couple of dresses, tights, and a makeup bag.

You picked up a black miniskirt, the fabric slipping through your fingers.

"I love your clothes," you said honestly. "But they look amazing on you. On me..."

You played with the hem of the skirt, hesitating.

Jessie leaned against the door, crossing her arms.

"You have no idea how good you look," she countered. "And that, my friend, is something we can fix. Just try it. If you don't like it, we'll change. We're not going to force you into something you're uncomfortable in."

You nodded, swallowing a bit of insecurity.

In the end, between the three of you—even though San was shouting his opinions from the hallway without seeing anything—you put together an outfit that pushed you completely out of your comfort zone.

A black lace crop top with a plunging neckline. You stared at yourself in the mirror, unable to stop pulling the hem down over and over, as if that would magically make it long enough to cover your stomach.

With the matching miniskirt, the problem doubled. Every two seconds, you were pulling it down to cover more of your thighs.

The reality, however, was simple: you looked spectacular.

Jessie looked at you with pride, leaning against the dresser.

"You look incredible," she said, with zero exaggeration. "Seriously."

Even San, who had managed to sneak over to the doorframe without looking directly at you, keeping his eyes glued to the floor, let out a:

"Because you're my best friend... but if I didn't know you at all... wow."

You slapped his arm.

"Don't look at me like that!" you protested, turning red to your ears.

"I'm not looking!" he defended himself, covering his eyes with one hand. "Exactly my point! If I look at you head-on, I'll lose my peace of mind."

Jessie laughed, but seeing you pull at the hem of the top again, she walked over and gently touched your hand.

"If you're really uncomfortable showing your stomach, you can throw a blazer over it," she suggested. "Or put some tights on under the skirt. You don't have to die of embarrassment."

"Maybe tights..." you murmured.

She rummaged through the bag and pulled out some white knee-high socks.

"These could look cute," she said. "A bit of a sexy schoolgirl vibe."

You looked at her, horrified.

"I look like a schoolgirl," you repeated. "This is too much."

From the kitchen, San, who was stirring something just to have an excuse not to look, shouted:

"Maybe Yeosang is into that."

"SAN!" you both yelled at the same time.

He burst out laughing.

"I don't want to know what underwear you're wearing, but I want him to regret every single time he teased you," he added, going back to his bowl.

In the end, you settled on a pair of sheer black thigh-high stockings. They accentuated your legs but made you feel a little less naked.

Jessie looked at you for a second longer, evaluating.

"And now for the most important part," she said, dropping her voice playfully. "Underwear."

You stared at her in theatrical horror.

"Nobody is going to see it anyway," you argued. "I can wear whatever."

She shook her head, smiling.

"It's not for anyone else. It's for you." She raised an eyebrow. "Just in case. It makes you feel much more... aware of yourself. And that changes the way you walk, the way you talk. Even if he doesn't know, you do."

She had you there.

The two of you ended up sitting on the bed, going through your drawer. When things started getting too intimate—colors, lace, opinions—San appeared in the hallway, covered his eyes with both hands, and declared:

"Okay, I'm going back to the kitchen. I want to keep seeing you as my best friend, and this is crossing my boundaries. Call me when everything touching your skin is more than a centimeter thick."

He walked away, muttering something about "things I never thought I'd experience."

You and Jessie burst out laughing, taking some of the edge off your nerves.

In the end, she won: you chose something sexier than usual, which made you feel slightly exposed… but also powerful. You had no intention of showing it to anyone, but just knowing you were wearing it left a strange tingle under your skin.

You did your makeup together in the bathroom: eyes a bit more defined, lips touched up, glowing skin. Jessie was skilled; she knew exactly where to stop so you still looked like yourself, just… a version that drew more attention.

When you were almost ready, Jessie's phone started vibrating on the counter.

She picked it up, saw the name on the screen, and smiled before sliding her finger to answer.

"Hey, future husband," she greeted him naturally.

From her tone, you didn't even need to hear Hongjoong to know she was talking to him.

Jessie stepped away a few paces, but you could still catch parts of it:

"Yeah, she's almost ready…"

"She looks gorgeous, I swear."

"San is here too, he's actually being useful, as hard as that is to believe."

"Yeah, of course I'll send you a picture. But only to you."

She hung up after a couple of minutes with a tender smile.

You stared at her, your hands still resting on the edge of the sink.

"Did you tell him everything?" you asked, not as a reproach, just curious.

Jessie shrugged, looking at you through the mirror.

"He's my future husband," she said quietly. "I can't keep important secrets from him."

There was something in the way she said it, so confident, so easy, that softened you inside.

You smiled.

You knew Hongjoong well enough to know he was discreet, reliable, and trustworthy. If he was in the loop, you had one more responsible adult in the circle of people who knew something was brewing between you and Yeosang.

And, for the first time, this safety net of people who knew, supported you, and laughed along with you in the process made you feel less exposed.

You were still nervous.

But you weren't alone anymore.

Jessie walked over, tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and took a step back to take you in.

"Ready to make his jaw drop," she said proudly.

You felt your pulse in your throat.

"Ready… to head out," you corrected shyly.

San, from the hallway, asked:

"Can I look now, or am I still in offended older brother mode?"

"You can look," Jessie called back.

He poked his head in carefully, and when he saw you fully, he let out a low whistle.

"Okay," he said. "I'm stepping back. I don't exist tonight. Tonight, I'm just going to watch Kang Yeosang crumble."

"You're an idiot," you murmured, though you felt a new wave of confidence rising from your legs right up to your chest.

You looked at yourself one last time in the mirror.

You weren't a different person.

You were you. Just with the volume turned up.

And even though you were still pulling at the hem of your top and skirt a little, you couldn't deny there was something in your eyes—something you hadn't seen before—that you actually liked.

The bar had that perfect balance between classy and cozy.

A semi-private area reserved for the group, warm lighting, wooden tables, and background music just loud enough to set the mood but quiet enough to talk without shouting. In the back, there was a door leading to some sort of storage room and staff-only area; you had noticed it when walking in, almost without thinking.

You were the last of the group to walk in.

Jessie was ahead, arm in arm with Hongjoong, wearing a simple shirt and jeans, glowing just from the way he looked at her. San, a few steps further in, was already gesturing wildly to Wooyoung. Mingi was half-leaning against the bar, laughing at something with Yunho.

And you…

The second you crossed the threshold, you felt everyone's eyes on you.

Not in an exaggerated, movie-like way where everything suddenly stops. But you did notice brief silences—a split second where several conversations cut off or quieted down.

The black crop top hugged your torso, the lace defining your neckline, the skin of your stomach peeking out between the fabric and the miniskirt. The sheer black thigh-high stockings ran up your legs until they disappeared under the skirt. Your makeup, soft but more defined than usual, framed your eyes.

You felt exposed.

And powerful.

San, who had arrived earlier with the rest, turned around right as you walked in. His reaction was instant: his eyes widened, a massive grin spread across his face, and he turned to Jessie with a "see?" expression.

Jessie looked you up and down, proud, and flashed a thumbs-up, trying not to laugh at how red your face had gotten.

Someone let out a low whistle.

Mingi.

"Wow..." he blurted out, unfiltered, standing up from his chair. "Look who decided to show everyone up tonight."

You walked over to the table, feeling the wooden floor under your heels, trying to keep your steps steady.

"Shut up," you murmured, embarrassed but amused.

"No, seriously." Mingi checked you out, making no effort to hide it. "You look stunning."

He stepped aside to let you pass, then positioned himself close right next to you, resting his arm on the back of your chair once you sat down. Not in an invasive way, but definitely very close.

You could feel the warmth of his body beside you.

Jessie, sitting across from you, gave you a subtle wink.

San, sitting at the other end of the table, was biting his lower lip to keep from making a glaringly obvious comment. Still, he couldn't entirely help himself.

Amid the laughter and chatter, your eyes finally locked with the ones you dreaded and anticipated the most.

Yeosang.

He was leaning against the bar, holding a drink, talking to one of the dancers. He wore a black shirt, the top few buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His hair was messily styled back, as if he’d run his fingers through it one too many times.

He turned when he noticed the movement at your table. His eyes swept over the group with his usual calm... until they landed on you.

It was like someone had flipped a switch.

His gaze, always so controlled, stumbled for a second. First it paused on your face, then traveled down to your neckline, the cut of the top, the bare skin showing above your skirt, the line of your stockings and legs… and slowly worked its way back up.

He didn't bother to hide it.

That fraction of a second was bold and direct.

His jaw tightened just a fraction. The hand holding his glass gripped it a little tighter.

When his eyes met yours again, there was something new in them. Dark. Contained. Dangerously close to spilling over.

Your heart raced.

He blinked once, as if composing himself. He raised his glass to you in a subtle gesture of greeting and turned back to the dancer, replying to something you didn't even register.

If you hadn't been watching him, you would have thought nothing had happened.

But you had seen the whole trajectory.

And you had felt it on your skin.

The night went on.

You ate, drank, and laughed. Mingi stuck to you more than usual, clearly thrilled to have you next to him.

"Seriously, I didn't know you had legs like that," he commented at one point, completely sincere, resting his elbow on the back of your chair, very close to your shoulder. "I feel cheated."

"Shut up, Mingi," you laughed, giving him a gentle nudge with your elbow. "You're going to make me regret dressing like this."

"Don't you dare," San interjected from across the table, pointing at you with a toothpick. "No regrets allowed tonight."

You set your boundaries naturally: whenever Mingi got a little too close, you'd place a hand on his chest and push him back an inch; if he made a comment that crossed the line, you'd shoot back with a joke that made the "just friends" status crystal clear.

He didn't mind. He loved you for who you were and took everything in stride.

What you might not have noticed, if you hadn't already been hyper-aware of everything, was the night's other constant.

Yeosang.

He didn't crowd you. He didn't monopolize your time. He didn't do anything that would raise eyebrows.

He was at the same table, a little further down, quietly participating in conversations, smiling when appropriate, and doing a lot of listening. But every time you leaned in toward Mingi to say something, every time Mingi leaned toward you, every time his hand touched your shoulder as you laughed... you felt his eyes.

Not constantly. Not in some dramatic movie kind of way.

Sidelong glances.

Quick sweeps from head to toe whenever you shifted in your seat.

The tiny twitch in his jaw when Mingi, in one of his enthusiastic outbursts, draped an arm over the back of your chair and rested his hand on your bare shoulder.

Yeosang raised his glass to his lips right then, hiding half his face. But you, who were learning how to read him a little better now, saw how tightly his fingers gripped the glass.

Jessie saw it too. She looked at you from across the table with a face that said "he is absolutely burning up."

The chatter grew livelier with the alcohol.

San was telling some story from a video shoot, Wooyoung was exaggerating every detail, and Yunho was laughing so loudly it was drawing attention from the entire bar. You tried to follow along with the jokes, but your mind was halfway somewhere else, conscious of Yeosang’s every move in your periphery.

Until, suddenly, he was entirely too close.

You didn't notice when he got up or how he approached. You only felt a shift in the air beside you, a familiar scent—his cologne—blending with the faint smell of alcohol.

His voice reached your ear, deep, direct, and so quiet only you could hear it.

"You and me," he whispered. "Five minutes. In the back storage room."

A shiver ran down your spine.

There was no explanation, no smile, no joke.

Just that.

His words, warm against your skin, and then the empty space. He stepped away as if he had only gone to set a glass on the table, heading back to his spot, resuming a conversation with someone else as if nothing had happened.

Your heart was beating so hard you almost felt like the others could hear it.

You took a deep breath, trying not to look in his direction.

Instead, you reached out and pulled the sleeve of Jessie’s arm, who was peacefully leaning against Hongjoong, laughing at something Wooyoung had just said.

"Hey," she protested, turning around. "You're tearing me away from the love of my life, what's up?"

You stood up from your chair, pulling her with you.

"Just a second," you muttered. "I need... I need you to tell me if I'm losing my mind."

Hongjoong looked at the two of you with a slight, understanding smile.

"Don't be long," he said, gently tapping Jessie's hand.

You managed to drag her to a slightly more secluded corner near the wall, where the noise was somewhat muffled.

Jessie looked at you, reading your face.

"Okay, spill," she urged. "You have the look of someone who is either about to commit a crime or do something way better."

You leaned closer, lowering your voice.

"He told me..." you swallowed hard. "He said: 'you and me, five minutes, in the back storage room.'"

Jessie's eyes widened.

"Oh my god," she whispered, a mix of excitement and gravity in her voice. "Well, the mask is completely off then."

"I'm nervous," you confessed, your voice barely a whisper. "Really nervous."

"But are you sure?" she asked, locking her eyes onto yours, serious now.

You took a real second to answer. You gave space to the fear, the desire, the respect you had for him, the curiosity, and the chemistry you had already tasted.

You nodded.

"Yes."

Jessie smiled, half-conspirator, half-protective.

"Then this is your moment," she said. "Don't go in feeling like something is just happening to you; go get what you want, too. But if at any second you feel uncomfortable, you turn right back around and leave. Okay?"

"Okay."

"And if it gets out of hand..." she raised her eyebrows. "Send me a text that just says 'SOS' and I'll make up whatever excuse I need to burst in like the place is on fire."

You laughed, a nervous sound.

"You're crazy."

"So are you," she replied, kissing your cheek. "Go on. Make him wait a little bit, at least. Let him see you're not dying to run over there."

And that’s exactly what you did.

You didn’t go after five minutes.

The hallway to the storage room was in semi-darkness—once again, that muffled echo of the music from the main room, another world just a few steps away from the noise.

The door at the end was cracked open. A cooler, whiter light escaped through the gap.

You pushed it open carefully.

Inside, the storage room was exactly as you’d pictured it: shelves filled with bottles, stacked boxes, a couple of buckets, and a sturdy wooden table holding smaller boxes and a few folders.

And him.

Yeosang was leaning against a small stack of boxes, one foot on the cardboard, the other on the floor, his arms crossed over his chest. The white light highlighted the shadows of his face, the line of his jaw, and the hollow of his collarbone under his black shirt.

When he saw you walk in, he slowly uncrossed his arms.

His eyes swept over you completely, once again, without shame: from your heels to your stockings, traveling up your legs, pausing on your skirt, on the skin of your stomach, on your neckline, on your neck… until they finally met your eyes.

He didn't say anything at first.

He just looked at you, as if he wanted to commit every single detail to memory.

You stayed close to the door, your hand still resting on the doorknob, your heart hammering against your chest.

He pushed himself off the boxes and walked toward you.

For a second, you thought he was going to stop at a safe distance. He didn't.

He passed beside you, so close his chest brushed against your shoulder. It wasn't a shove; it was a deliberate touch. His hand reached behind you… to close the door with a soft click.

The noise of the bar was shut out, muffled on the other side.

You still hadn't moved from your spot.

Yeosang turned back to face you, now only inches away, his body acting as a barrier between you and the exit, just like that night in the hallway… but with one massive difference: this time, you had actually come.

"I thought you were going to stand me up," he said, with that tense calm of his.

"I came," you retorted, shrugging, trying to sound more composed than you actually felt. "Just… not on minute one."

One corner of his mouth twitched upward, not quite forming a full smile.

"You like playing hard to get," he commented.

"Then don't make it so easy for me," you replied, braver than you expected.

His eyes flashed for a second.

His hand traveled up, slow, until it rested on your waist. The touch was still gentle, yet firm.

"You look..." he began, letting his gaze drop for a moment to your outfit, the cut of your top, your skirt, your stockings. "Stunning."

Your cheeks burned.

"Jessie and San went overboard," you murmured.

He shook his head, a brief gesture.

"No." His fingers tightened slightly on your waist. "They aren't exaggerating."

His gaze returned to your eyes. This time, there was a new edge to it: something darker, sharper.

"I'm not going to lie to you," he added, with a quiet sincerity that almost stung. "It bothered me that everyone else got to enjoy… this view."

The word "this" was accompanied by a slight shift of his hand, as if mapping out your entire body.

A shiver ran down your spine.

"It bothered you…?" you repeated, testing the waters.

His jaw tightened even more.

"I don't like to share," he admitted, not beating around the bush. "And especially not something that..." He looked you up and down, his gaze almost possessive. "...I'd rather keep all to myself."

There was something intensely territorial about that sentence. It didn't sound like a demand or some childish claim. It sounded… incredibly honest. Too honest.

Your pulse ran wild.

"I'm not 'yours,'" you dared to say, because you needed to put that out loud.

His fingers on your waist slid up a fraction, wrapping further around your torso, drawing you a step closer to him.

"Not yet," he corrected, with a calmness that completely contradicted what his eyes were saying.

Your lungs forgot how to function for a second.

There was a heavy silence, filled with unspoken things.

You could pull away.

You could say you didn't want to play at this level.

But the truth was, you were there precisely because you wanted to see how far this side of him—the one nobody else saw—actually went.

His hands moved.

The one on your waist let go for a brief second, only to slide slowly down your hip and rest on your thigh, right over the soft fabric of your stocking. His thumb traced a slow circle there, barely pressing.

Your breath hitched.

"I was thinking about..." he began, his voice dropping to a deep, almost husky register, "...continuing what we started the other night."

His fingers slid up just a bit, following the line of your thigh, playing with the hem of your skirt. He didn’t lift it yet. He just brushed against it, testing your reaction.

Your body reacted before you could speak: you stepped a little closer, closing the remaining distance between you.

That was all he needed.

His other hand traveled up to your jaw, holding it gently but firmly, forcing you to tilt your face up slightly toward him. When his lips found yours, all hesitation vanished.

The kiss was a direct hit.

No testing the waters, no polite hesitation. He kissed you hungrily, as if he’d been holding it in all night—all week.

Your lips responded almost instantly, parting beneath his, catching him right back. You felt his fingers on your thigh suddenly tighten, marking your skin even through the fabric.

The control he displayed in public was entirely gone.

His mouth moved against yours with a perfect mix of precision and urgency. When you ran out of air, he pulled back just barely, only to claim your lips from a different, deeper angle.

His teeth caught your lower lip for a second, tugging, biting down with just enough pressure to draw a small, muffled whimper from you.

That sound seemed to spark something deeper in him.

His hands, which had been relatively restrained until now, slid up your thighs, pulling your skirt up a bit—just enough for you to feel the cool draft of air on your bare skin and the heat of his fingers on your upper thighs, squeezing, claiming space.

Without realizing it, your hands gripped the fabric of his shirt, pulling him toward you, needing him closer. His body responded, pressing flush against yours.

That was when you felt it: the undeniable hardness in the contact between your centers, the pressure against your stomach and hips. A physical reminder, impossible to ignore, of just how much this was affecting him.

Your mind clouded over.

Yeosang broke the kiss for a second, only to slide down to your neck. His mouth found the sensitive skin right below your ear. He kissed you there, slowly, then further down, hungrier, using his teeth, his tongue, leaving a trail of heat that made it impossible to think about anything but him.

Your knees buckled slightly.

He noticed.

His hands, still on your thighs, slid down for a split second, and then, in one fluid movement, he lifted you.

You let out a soft gasp, clinging to his shoulders.

He held you with impressive control, as if you weighed nothing at all, and carried you those few steps to the wooden table nearby, clearing it with a swift nudge of his hip.

He sat you down on the edge, his hands now firmly on your hips, pulling your body tight against his.

From this position, the friction between his hardness and your center became even more prominent. A direct brush every time he pressed a little closer.

His lips found yours again, devouring you, shutting down any coherent thoughts.

His hands traced your sides, sliding up and down, outlining your waist, your back, your hips. He wasn't crossing any definitive lines yet, but he was getting dangerously close, testing you, playing with your limits, forcing you to be hyper-aware of every single inch of your skin.

Your breathing was completely out of control. His was too.

For a moment, it felt inevitable that something more was about to happen. The atmosphere, the position, the insistent pressure of his body, his hands sliding up your thighs once more, your own hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

And right when that feeling of "there's no turning back" reared its head…

Someone shouted his name from the hallway.

"Yeosang!"

Both of you froze instantly.

He clenched his jaw, as if trying to simply ignore it.

"Yeosang!" another voice called, persistent and closer this time. "Where are you, man?"

You felt a sharp mix of frustration and relief.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

Yeosang rested his forehead against yours, his breathing completely ragged. His hands remained on your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin through the stockings.

He muttered a word under his breath, low, almost a growl.

"Fuck..."

You stayed still, feeling him try to piece together some semblance of control before even pulling away.

The phone kept vibrating.

He let out another tense sigh, and very slowly, he loosened his grip on your legs. His hands slid down, smoothing the fabric of the skirt he had pulled up moments before, straightening it with almost agonizing care.

Then he helped you down from the table, holding you by the waist a second longer than necessary to make sure your legs would hold you up. You leaned into him without thinking.

He stepped back a bit, but not entirely.

His eyes ran over your face, your swollen lips, the flushed skin on your neck, your messy hair. His breathing was still uneven.

With visible effort, he let out his breath slowly.

He forced himself to readjust his shirt, straightening the fabric over his pants. You watched him tuck a hand into his pocket, as if needing to hide something. He adjusted his stance, finding a position to make his erection less obvious.

All while keeping his eyes locked on you.

You tried to do the same: pulling your skirt down a little, fixing your top, running a hand through your hair, noticing how your fingers were still trembling.

Just when it seemed like he was going to walk away completely, he suddenly grabbed your wrist and yanked you back toward him.

His mouth crashed onto yours in a short but brutal kiss, filled with the frustration of being interrupted. It was almost a shock to the senses: lips, teeth, heat, a single second of concentrated loss of control.

He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips still brushing against yours.

"This..." he murmured, his voice low and raspy, "...doesn't end here."

He held your gaze for one more moment, making sure you understood that those weren't empty words.

Then he let go of your wrist, turned toward the door, ran a quick hand through his hair to fix it, and stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

You were left alone in the storage room, your lips burning, your legs shaking, your heart hammering against your ribs.

And, above all, with a new certainty burned into your mind:

Kang Yeosang wasn't shy at all.

He was dangerous.

And with you, he had decided to stop being polite.

@little-mix-fan-forever