Lili

“third time in a row. our culprit can officially be declared a serial killer.”

you looked up from the body, turning your attention towards chief kang. he was already looking at you. “wouldn’t you agree?”

you glanced back towards the body. same relaxed posture, one hand over his eyes, legs carelessly posed—it almost looked like he was still alive, just peacefully sleeping. but his skin was turning ashy, limbs rigid. and the rose.

god, the rose.

you had no idea what could possibly be it’s significance—if it at all had one. the victims always seemed to ‘hold’ a rose with one hand on their chest. the roses always had no thorns, the petals always fresh when the body was first found. perhaps, it was just the killer’s way of showing that it was indeed his work, but you begged to differ. it had to be more than just a claim, there is always more to the story than such simple explanations.

snapping back to reality, you realized that you hadn’t answered your superior yet. “yes sir, i do.”

the chief let out a hum, looking back at the body. the town was small enough for everyone to know everyone, so it wouldn’t be hard to dig up every piece of information on the victims. at the end of the day, every serial killer had a pattern. this rose lover should also have one.

“detective lee,” the chief suddenly said, turning his attention towards your co-worker and friend. “did you investigate florist kim?”

heeseung was quick to respond. “yes sir, we completed the investigation yesterday itself. please accept my apologies for not informing you earlier.”

the chief waved his hand dismissively. “not a big deal. now tell me what you figured out.”

heeseung pulled out a bunch of pictures from the file in his hands. he pointed to the first picture. “this,” he said. “is a picture of the rose on the victim’s body. they always have the exact same type of rose.” he flipped the pictures to show the roses on the other victims too.

“and this,” he said, flipping the pictures to show fresh roses inside a greenhouse. “is a picture of the roses florist kim sells. he said he only sold red roses, since black ones cannot grow around our area. i asked around to confirm, and he was indeed telling the truth.”

he chief let out a dissatisfied hum. “yet another dead end. the killer could be right among us and we wouldn’t know because we don’t have a single clue.”

you let out a small sigh. there weren’t too many people who could possibly classify as suspects in this town, yet catching the killer or even getting a lead on him seemed practically impossible. “i can deploy some people to ask around, try to find any kind of a common link for me sketch a face. detective sim can use his computer skills to dig up information on all victims and possible suspects. detective lee can stay around the crime sites to find out any fingerprints or tiny pieces of evidence the rest of us might have missed.”

the chief nodded. “sounds good.” he patted your shoulder, as he started making his way back to the car. “this is exactly why you’re one of my favorites. you know when to lead, and exactly how to lead, along with how to correctly deploy resources.” 

you only lowered your head at his words. you were well aware that his favoritism was unprofessional. but you, jake, and heeseung were truly the best detectives in the entire town. everyone in town relied on the three of you whenever any major crime happened, the chief being no exception.

he looked around at all three of you. “if you three can successfully find our killer, i will personally fund a vacation for each of you.”

the three of you glanced at each other. a vacation? now that was thrilling. “of course sir. we will give our best regardless.”

the chief gave one last proud smile, before climbing into his car. being the chief’s only direct subordinates meant most of the work load was on you three. especially since the three of you had extra talents.

you for example, had your love for art, which caused you to become the forensic artist of your town, despite there not being an official post for such a job. jake was exceptionally good with electronic devices, especially computers. heeseung had a keen eye for details, which caused him to easily find things which others may have missed. tiny details, which would turn out to actually be crucial details.

you nodded to jake and heeseung, before going into your own car. your subordinates followed quickly, getting in with you. you sighed, massaging your head. your assistant buckled his seatbelt, getting ready to drive. “where should we go, ma’am?”

you didn’t respond, lifting your head up and looking at the files in front of you. you picked them up, flipping through them. each murder was so cleverly conducted, not a single scratch on any of their bodies. the cause of death was unknown, the autopsy on the first body still being conducted. apparently the result would be known by tomorrow. but until then, there was absolutely no clue.

“take us to the first victim’s neighborhood. maybe we will find some answers there.”

vines surrounded you everywhere, the thorns prickling you continually. black roses adorned the vines beautifully, the scene equivalent to an ancient graveyard, the calmness of the place unsettlingly serene.

you forced your feet to forge ahead, despite the prickles. it was only then that you realized a terrifying fact—there was blood everywhere, drenching everything. the smell suddenly changed, from the sweet subtle smell of roses to the metallic smell of blood and rot.

your feet trudged ahead, almost on autopilot. the smell made you nauseous and lightheaded, but it was as if someone was maneuvering you like a puppet, forcing you to walk ahead despite yourself.

eventually, a gazebo came into view. it was white as snow, the rose vines wrapping around it. the blood dripped down from the vines, the droplets flowing down the pillars of the gazebo. but the most peculiar thing about the whole ordeal was the man standing in the middle of the gazebo.

you walked faster, desperate for answers. once you reached the gazebo, you hesitated. you looked at the unfamiliar man in front of you, really looked at him. his clothes were soaked in blood too. his back was turned to you, leaning on a pillar with his shoulder. he was looking down judging by the way his head was tilted downwards.

swallowing down your nervousness, you took a step forward. immediately, you slipped. before you could fall or even scream, a hand was around your waist, steadying you. a shocked gasp left you, followed by your labored breathing.

the unknown man was looking down at you, his lips curling up into a smirk that screamed menace. he helped you stand properly, before removing his hand from your waist. the loss of contact left a strange feeling in you, as if missing his warmth.

he looked you up and down, the look in his eyes becoming more and more unsettling by the minute. when he locked his gaze with yours again, it felt like you were hypnotized, with how he was pulling you in.

he raised one hand, brushing a stray strand of hair from in front of your eyes, tucking it behind your ear. you suddenly snapped back into reality, taking a step back. “don’t touch me–”

you gasped, waking up with a start. you blinked several times, eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the darkness. what was that?

you remembered your dream vividly, not a single detail amiss. how was that even possible? moreover, who was that man?

you shook your head. it was just a dream, why were you letting it bother you? besides, it was probably the stress of the case that was causing you to lose sleep, resulting in such weird dreams. that was it.

right?

“so," the chief took a sip of his tea. “did any of you find anything?" 

you sighed, looking down at your files. heeseung was massaging his temples. jake was the first to speak up.

“there isn't any common pattern as such, but all three victims had some kind of dirt on them." jake passed a bunch of files to the chief. “the first victim, yoon victoria, daughter of the chaebol yoon haneul, has a reputation for using money to get away with anything and everything." 

the chief raised a brow. “anything and everything, you say?" he flipped through the files jake had placed in front of him. “please, do elaborate." 

“maids and servants in general were always dismissed unfairly from her estate according to many, some even claiming that she had bribed many to keep their mouths shut about what went on inside there.”

by now, heeseung had stopped massaging his temples, and you stopped glaring at your files as if they might magically provide you with a clue. both of you were intently staring at jake as he spoke.

"but some people had still anonymously placed reports of the woman's bad temperament, which had allegedly resulted in the murder of a maid servant in her service. records say that the maid servant had apparently let her kid play with victoria’s, something the chaebol’s daughter was not too happy about. she had apparently flipped out, and when the maid defended herself, victoria had thrown a knife lying near her. safe to say, the knife hit its target, killing the maid instantly.”

he paused to take a breath. “the maid’s child was apparently thrown out and sent somewhere unknown, while her own kid was traumatized while seeing the scene. apparently the kid was watching from the top of the stairs, and fainted upon seeing what her mother did, causing her to and fall from the top of the stairs, dying shortly after.”

a sharp pain pierced through your temples, right as heeseung spoke. “that’s… darker than expected.”

jake let out a hum. “it was really hard to find this out. there were all in old files in the locker room, and very old and unpopular articles on the internet. found out through the—oh, i almost forgot. she used to live in a city where all this happened, but after this incident she had shifted here. apparently she never really got over the loss of her child, causing her to grow mad over the years.”

massaging your temple, you let out a hum in agreement. victoria was well known for being insane, people always mostly avoiding her. once you bumped into her in the market by mistake, and before you could even apologize, she had grabbed your arms tightly. the look in her eyes were wild, as she called a name you didn’t remember now. it took like three people to come and make her finally part from you.

the chief leaned back on his chair. “interesting… what about the other two?”

jake rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “didn’t get to find out anything about them yet, victoria alone took up a lot of time.”

the chief nodded. “no worries, this alone was a lot of help. thank you for your service, detective sim.”

jake bowed in politeness. chief kang now turned to you and heeseung. “what about you two? any updates on your sides?”

you shook your head. “not a single person in the entire neighborhood noticed anything amiss. not even a hooded figure, or someone at a place they are not supposed to be, nothing out of the ordinary.”

heeseung spoke next. “i searched up the entire site, and even more. i even had my team dig up a lot of areas, but nothing. not a single thing amiss, or anything out of place. its as if any kind of admissible evidence was taken by the killer, or we are missing something very obviously hidden.”

the chief nodded. “i believe you’re right. the autopsy on victoria must be over by now, so we will know the cause of death pretty soon.”

right on que, one of your subordinates burst into the room, files in hand. “chief!” he quickly placed the files down in front of him. “these are the autopsy results.”

the chief nodded to him. “thank you, officer park. you may take your leave now. and in future, please make sure to knock first.”

officer park bowed, embarrassed, before quickly leaving. the chief flipped through the pages, his brows furrowing.

unable to contain your curiosity, you asked, “what is it chief?”

the chief looked puzzled, as he continued to read the same page over and over again. “it says the victim died of undiagnosed diabetes? there were no signs of any kind of external or internal injuries otherwise.”

the three of you looked at each other, dumbfounded. that was… unexpected to say the very least. “but—that can’t be right.” heeseung spoke up. “it’s obviously a murder, the position of their bodies, and the black rose in their hands… it just doesn’t make sense.”

the chief hummed, putting the files back on his desk. “nothing really makes sense. no forced entry, no signs of struggle, no signs that indicate actual murder. all except the weird position of their bodies and the rose.”

the chief sighed, before looking back at the three of you. “continue with the case. something is very amiss, and we need to get to the bottom of this. keep going with the investigation. all three of you have done a brilliant job till now, so don’t stop yet.”

you and heeseung looked at each other. both of you had done absolutely nothing, jake was the one that did anything at all. but praise was praise, and who were you both to not accept it?

you got up from your seat. “i’ll continue asking around in the second victim’s neighborhood then. see if i get any clues.”

heeseung got up as well. “i’ll go there as well. maybe there’s some kind of evidence we missed out in there.”

jake gave a two finger salute. “i’ll go dig up stuff about the other two victims.”

the chief nodded in appreciation. “very good. please do carry on.”

that same garden. the same prickly vines. same black roses. all of course, drenched in blood. and in the middle of it all, the gazebo. hauntingly beautiful, drenched in crimson. same man standing in the middle of it, staring at you with a look that caused goosebumps to rise all over you.

he offered you his hand. you looked at him in the eyes. should you really trust him? nevertheless, you placed your own hand in his outstretched one, letting him pull you inside the gazebo.

as you stood face to face with him, your curiosity and anxiety, both grew in equal measure. “who are you?”

raising a brow, he smirked. he raised his hand, caressing your cheek. you flinched, but still let him do it. his touch felt strangely comforting, yet your guard remained up. after all, you still had no idea who the hell this guy was.

the look in his eyes had taken over a more melancholic edge, which left you confused. what even were you supposed to make of it? not only was this strange man covered in blood, he wasn’t speaking. and he kept finding ways to touch you. normally that would have rang alarm bells in your head, but as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat. and you were curious as hell.

“why won’t you speak?” your brows furrowed, as you looked at him. his smirk only widened. he tilted his head, leaning close to your ear. you thought he was going to whisper something, but you were proved wrong quickly, as he bit your ear.

you gasped, trying to move away, but he held onto your waist tightly. soothing the bite with his tongue, he kissed the area. he trailed his kisses down to the bottom of your neck, making your breath hitch. he sucked on that spot, rubbing his tongue over the spot so deliciously, that it had you tilting your head from the pleasure.

a moan accidentally slipped out of you. encouraged, he sucked harder and harder, until he was satisfied. when he pulled his head back, your neck sported a bright red spot, blooming rapidly. satisfied with his work, he finally pulled away.

you snapped back to your senses, stepping away from him. his hands were in his pockets, as he stared at you with his signature smirk. you took another step backward, your hand covering the fast forming hickey on your neck. your head hit the pillar in the process, causing you to gasp.

you gasped, your eyes snapping open. your breathing was labored, as you stared at the ceiling. another dream? of the same man? what was going on? worst of all, you still remembered the dream vividly. the events had your face burning. what the hell was wrong with you?

having a weird feeling, you shot up from the bed, quickly going to your vanity table. you switched on the small light beside it. to your utter horror, there was a hickey forming on your neck. you hadn’t been with anyone recently, hell you hadn’t been with anyone in quite a long time. so how–?

surely, the dream was simply a dream? you couldn’t possibly have gotten the hickey because of… that dream, right? after all, it wasn’t real.

right?

“any news?” the chief asked, as soon as he sat down.

heeseung looked at you. you shrugged, catching his gaze. he too shook his head. once again, the two of you had nothing.

jake spoke up. “well… i did find something unexpected about our second victim.”

chief kang sat up straight. “unexpected, you say?”

jake let out a hum. “yeah. kim seil, the con artist. he used to be victoria’s secret lover back in the day.”

“holy shit…” heeseung’s voice rang out, before he quickly slapped his own palm over his mouth, immediately apologizing for the profanity. but the information was almost incredulous—not that you didn’t trust jake, his ability to dig up information was amazing—so his reaction was completely valid.

jake continued. “before victoria allegedly committed the murder, she used to have an affair with our second victim.”

“huh,” you scoffed. “so the victims do have a pattern.”

he went on. “when victoria gave birth, her husband was suspicious of whether the kid was really his or not. he had been suspicious for the entire duration of her pregnancy, since apparently the timing of her getting pregnant and the two of them sleeping together, did not match up. after the kid was born, he did a paternity test, the result showing that he was in fact, not the father.”

heeseung leaned on his palms. “the tea just keeps getting better and better.”

jake gave him a side eye, before continuing. “upon learning the news, the husband divorced victoria. the actual father, was seil. once victoria got divorced, she actively sought his company, although their affair remained an affair, never growing into something more serious.”

taking a deep breath, he continued. “he visited their kid often, and was quite a present father. when the alleged murder happened, he helped victoria, but ultimately left her, since his kid died under her protection. even so, he shifted to the same town as her, since he felt bad about her mental state.”

you leaned back on your chair. “and then he died. right after her.”

the chief looked at the three of you. “i suppose the three of you have deduced who our main suspect is? if, of course, all the alleged information is in fact true.”

you let out a hum. “the maid’s kid. but–” you looked at jake. “how come all the information is alleged?”

jake shrugged. “it’s all recorded as servant gossip. and all the complaints were by servants too. nothing is proven. so yes, it is all alleged.”

the chief opened a file placed in front of him. “the autopsy report is here. the cause of death is the exact same. undiagnosed diabetes.”

you rubbed your temples, sighing. you suddenly felt very aware of the hickey on your neck, which you spent almost twenty minutes in the morning trying to conceal. not only was there a mystery to solve out there in reality, but also in your dreams. curse your terrible living quarters for your terrible sleep which induced such mind boggling dreams. ones that left marks physically outside of the dream.

once again, you were back in the garden. the gazebo was right in front of you as well. this time, the strange man was looking straight at you.

“i was waiting for you,” he said, pushing himself off the pillar. his voice was beautiful. it had this raspy edge to it that made your knees weak.

you raised a brow. “you finally spoke,”

he only smirked, offering you his hand. “well… you kept me waiting, so i grew impatient. which is why i broke my pattern.”

you tilted your head. warily, you took his hand, letting him pull your inside the gazebo. he was yet again too close to you. but this time, before he could touch you, you stopped him. “don’t.”

his hand froze midway. he raised a brow. “what’s the matter?”

you shook your head. “just… don’t. don’t touch me.”

he clenched his jaw, but stepped back. although reluctantly so. you spoke again. “will you please tell me who you are? it is frustrating to experience these… weird dreams over and over again, whenever i sleep, without knowing anything at all as to what is going on. or even who i keep encountering.”

the man chuckled. “is that so?”

you frowned at his rhetorical question, while he only continued to stare at you with amusement. after a few beats of silence, he spoke, “jungwon.”

you blinked. “jungwon?”

he nodded. “that’s my name.”

furrowing your brows, you tilted your head in confusion. “do you live in our town?”

he shrugged. “something like that.”

your frown became bigger. “what is that supposed to mean?”

he only smirked in response. “find that out yourself, detective.”

his words unintentionally caused your cheeks to flush. ignoring your bodily reactions, you instead focused on his clothes. “why are you always soaked in blood? and in this weird garden?”

his smirk grew wider. “curiosity killed the cat, detective. we should leave some of the mystery for our next meetings.”

you were quick to respond. “but satisfaction brought it back. please, everything is so frustrating and blurry and just out of reach—please answer some of my questions.”

jungwon only shook his head. “i’m afraid this is the best i can do for now. till our next meeting, ___”

you woke up with a gasp, panting as you stared at the ceiling. “jungwon…” you whispered into the night, the name tasting familiar. it rolled off on your tongue perfectly, which made you wonder if you knew him. was he someone from your town? how come you couldn’t remember him?

but right now, you had more important matters to focus on. the rose loving killer’s case, for example.

jake dropped a bunch of files in front of him. “third victim, chae unjeong. a.k.a victoria’s ex husband.”

you looked at heeseung. at this point, neither of you were surprised. the murders were obviously connected, so it made sense that the ex husband was also a victim.

jake continued. “after the divorce, victoria had pleaded her case to unjeong a lot, but with no result. but one of the things victoria told unjeong to guilt trip him into staying was ‘stay for the sake of the child’. even though it ultimately didn’t work, he still probably felt guilty, since the poor child had nothing to do with the whole thing, and was only the product of the affair. so it wouldn’t be fair for it to suffer the consequences. thus, he often sent money in the form of child support for it. obviously, victoria didn’t use the money for those purposes, but that wasn’t in unjeong’s knowledge.”

the chief muttered under his breath, “what a kind hearted man…”

jake nodded, before continuing. “there wasn’t much else in the reports, other than the fact that when the alleged murder happened, he helped victoria as well. but the death of the kid had taken a toll on him too, which is why he shifted to this town.”

the chief hummed, flipping through the file in front of him. “his death was apparently caused by the same thing. undiagnosed diabetes. this killer has to be the most impressive killer across history, except for the fact that he deliberately made it obvious that he murdered his victims. despite the autopsy reports showing otherwise.”

heeseung let out a hum. “i think i will go to each crime site again, and search for evidence in a wider radius. it feels simply impossible that all sorts of evidence is erased from every single crime site.”

you shrugged. “suit yourself. i spent six hours or more each time i went to question entire neighborhoods. i’m more than certain i left out no one, so there is nothing more i can do from my side.”

heeseung got up from his chair. “in that case, i’ll leave alone.” he looked at chief kang. “i hope it’s okay that i’m not taking my team with me either.”

the chief shrugged. “you’re a grown man, with years of experience as a detective. it’s your decision. do what you feel is best.”

heeseung bowed, before stepping out. in the silence that followed, a nagging question that filled your mind ever since the first time you had those weird dreams, surfaced again. usually, you always pushed the question to the back of your mind because of how ridiculous it sounded, but then again, the cause of death for each victim was also pretty ridiculous. so you allowed yourself to ask the question.

was jungwon the killer?

it was already starting to get dark when heeseung arrived at victoria’s house. weeds had already started growing, and a certain smell had started settling down on the entire property. nevertheless, he still trudged ahead.

he had already checked her entire house—twice at that—which wasn’t too hard because of how tiny it was. it wasn’t even a house, more so a cottage. surprising choice, given that she was a chaebol’s daughter. but perhaps losing her own child had driven her to this state.

he went around the property again. the cottage was almost fully empty. there wasn’t much of a point to search it all over again, since even if there really was any kind of evidence left, the killer would definitely have visited again to remove it. they always do.

still, he looked around. there was a pungent smell coming from her bedroom. it had been a week since victoria’s death, so the smell was pretty justified. covering his mouth with a handkerchief, he looked through her dresser, and closet. it was all emptied out, the police having taken everything the day they came to first find her dead in her own bedroom. it was to find any kind of clue as to the cause of her death. unfortunately, as is already known, they were unsuccessful.

but heeseung was obviously not one to give up. not this quickly. he was persistent, and persistence was key when it came to solving such cases. so he overturned the mattress, before ultimately lifting the whole thing up and throwing it on the ground. thankfully he was wearing gloves, because the mattress had holes in it, which were obviously a result of rats chewing through the fabric.

it was a box bed, a fact that he already knew of, given, you know, the fact that he already searched the entire property multiple times. he opened the cover, the inside that was previously filled with sheets and other random objects, was now empty. the police had already confiscated everything.

still, he shone the flashlight inside the box. and thank god he did, because he saw this weird discolored part at the bottom, which was obviously not something he had noticed before. frowning, he pushed down on it, causing it to immediately give away. surprised, he stared at the now square shaped hole in the box.

realizing it was a false bottom, heeseung put his hand inside. his hand immediately came in contact with some sort of paper. groping around, he pulled out a stack of papers. shining the flashlight on them, he realized with a start that they were letters. dozens of them, all stacked at the bottom of the bed.

lifting one off the stack, he quickly realized that the letters were all unsent ones, written by victoria to her child. the first letter he picked up, was just victoria expressing her longing for her child, yearning to see her baby again.

reading through the letters, they all had the same content, victoria’s desperation to see her child again. it was quite sad, really, but she had killed some innocent child’s mother, so he couldn’t bring himself to feel quite sorry for her.

stuffing the letters in his pocket, he explored the rest of the house again. but unlike the bed, nothing else in the house seemed to hide any more secrets. disappointed, he headed out to the backyard. it was already dark now, but he wanted to go home without any regrets.

shining the flashlight on the fence, he explored the entire area. until a part of the fence seemed slightly lose. curious, he held the flashlight with his teeth, before pushing on the fence. he had noticed the hinge long back, but it had seemed locked each time he came to inspect it before. but this time it was different. with a bit more effort, he finally managed to pry it apart.

the fence opened to the woods. looking at the isolated house, there was a big chance that the murderer had come in through the fence. or well, it was just a possibility. he decided to explore a bit, just in case.

he walked quite a distance, before stepping on something uncomfortable. bending down, he shone his flashlight. it was a bunch of dead leaves, but he was certain it felt like something else. digging through the leaves, he came across a used syringe.

he slowly stood up, inspecting the syringe. there seemed to be some kind of residual liquid inside it. but before he could inspect it fully, a sharp pain exploded in the back of his head, making him drop the syringe. clutching his head, he dropped to his knees, groaning from the pain, before eventually blacking out.

when you entered your house, it was completely silent. just like it usually was. except this time, the silence felt… wrong. you were a detective, and years of doing your job had made you more wary of approaching danger. and this time, it was no different.

you looked around cautiously. nothing seemed amiss. still, you walked around with extra caution, hand on your gun, just in case. but even after searching your entire home, there was nothing out of the ordinary. yet, the weird feeling did not go away.

the reason for it soon became apparent, when you reached your bedroom. opening the door, you froze in place. sitting on your bed like he belonged there, was none other than the man from your dreams. jungwon.

your throat dried up. all instincts screamed at you to take your gun out and aim at him, but an unknown fear was gripping you so tightly that moving at all felt impossible.

jungwon on the other hand, was having the time of his life watching you. he tilted his head back with a smirk, enjoying the way an experienced police officer like you was so terrified at the mere sight of him, despite him never having done anything to you.

he patted the space beside him. “won’t you come sit?”

forcing yourself to breathe, you managed to ask, “what the hell are you doing inside my house?”

jungwon chuckled, getting up. “that’s not a very nice way to talk to your guest, is it?”

your hand instinctively reached for your gun, but jungwon was faster. within seconds your hands were pinned to the door, jungwon’s face hovering dangerously close to your own.

“i wouldn’t try that if i were you.” he muttered, eyes unabashedly dropping to your lips. with how fast your heart was beating from the proximity, you almost caved in, before remembering your profession. and the fact that this was an intruder, a complete stranger—what he was trying to do was wrong and unlawful on so many levels.

but jungwon seemed to be able to predict your every move. he suddenly twisted your body, pushing your face towards the door. your back was flush to his chest, as he pinned both your hands over your head with one hand, taking your gun out using the other. lifting the side of your perfectly ironed shirt with the gun, he teased your bare skin with it, running the gun back and forth on your waist.

“don’t even try, sweetheart. if i wanted to kill you, i wouldn’t need a gun. and trust me when i say you’re no match for me.”

you were scared, terrified even. this wasn’t a predicament you ever thought you would find yourself in. i mean, come on, you’re trained for these situations. you know self defence. so why is it so hard to do anything to defend yourself against a guy you know only from your dreams? more so, why was he so goddamn strong?

jungwon put his face into the crook of you neck, taking in a deep inhale. god, you smelled just the way he remembered. he couldn’t help but lick a stripe up your neck, ignoring your gasp of horror. he lightly bit and sucked all over the area, trying to leave marks.

you sighed, the pleasure starting to overwhelm your rational brain. which was pretty dumb on your part, but after being touch starved for so long, you were… really sensitive. so you tilted your head, giving him more access. right on que, he sucked harder, pressing himself further into you. he threw the gun to the side, instead pushing his hand inside your shirt, opting to grope you without any obstacles.

he pushed his hand up, inside your bra, squeezing the soft flesh of your boobs. pulling his hand out, he unhooked your bra, before going right back to groping your tits. this time, without resistance. he pinched your perked up nipples, drawing whines out of you. you bit down on your bottom lip, trying to muffle any further sounds.

jungwon rolled your nipples in between his fingers, before flicking them. the way he was playing with them made them even more sensitive than before, your whines growing louder, gradually more unrestrained. slick started seeping out of your pussy, dampening your panties. you rubbed your legs trying to relieve the tension.

jungwon noticed. of course he did, he noticed everything about you. he knew everything about you. every. single. goddamn. thing. what put you off, what got you going, everything. so, when your whines started turning shaky, he smirked. he stopped groping your chest, opting to fiddle with your pants instead.

he popped the button open, pulling down your zipper along with it. pushing his hand inside your soaked panties, he was immediately met with your slick coated folds. he lightly ran one finger lightly across your folds, collecting your slick. you let out a muffled whimper at the feeling, clenching around nothing.

jungwon casually rubbed light circles around your clit, stimulating you further, trying to make your whines louder. he flicked your clit upwards, pinching it. he opted to rubbing it harshly, your broken gasps and whines for him to stop not deterring him in the slightest. in fact, it only encouraged him to continue abusing your clit further.

besides, he knew you didn’t actually want him to stop. he had spied on enough of your solo sessions to know what you liked, what you did not, and what actually made you cum. so he continued to rub your clit harshly with his thumb, inserting two fingers inside your drooling hole.

your whines grew louder, as you squeezed down on his fingers, hard. jungwon paid no heed, instead focusing on thrusting shallowly on your upper wall, listening to your broken moans in satisfaction. the added stimulation was making your head spin, your knees growing weaker by the minute.

you could feel jungwon’s rock hard boner pressing insistently against your ass, while he continued to abuse your pussy. it was all starting to become too much, too good, your brain growing hazy from the intense pleasure, when suddenly that nagging question came back to your mind–

is jungwon the killer you’re looking for?

the thought successfully brought you back to reality. with all your strength, you threw a kick at jungwon, as best as you could while being pushed face first into a door with your hands held captive, and your pussy being abused incessantly. you aimed the kick towards his balls, but missed—obviously—hitting his shin instead.

jungwon hissed at the pain. instead of flinching and letting you go like you had hoped, he dragged you towards your bed, taking his hand—now coated with your fluids—out of your dripping cunt. he pushed you head first into the pillow, practically sneering, “such an ungrateful brat.”

he opened your nightstand, taking your spare handcuffs out—how the fuck did he know they were there?—and used them to cuff your hands together. you didn’t know why you weren’t able to fight back at all, it was as if some unknown force was dulling your senses. it was frustrating, highly so. what was the point in being one of the best officers on the force if you couldn’t stop some random guy from forcing himself onto you?

jungwon pushed your ass up, forcing you to bend your knees. he was done being nice, since you were so insistent on being uncooperative. he forced your pants down, purposely letting them fall only to your knees instead of pulling them down all the way. restricting your movements even further this way.

he pushed your shirt and bra up to pool near your neck, uncaring if it affected your already dulled senses. it was what he wanted anyways. he slapped your bare ass cheek, squeezing the flesh in his palm. you bit your lip, muffling a sob, your face burning hot from the humiliation and self loathing. how could you possibly be wet in such a scenario? why was your body such a traitor?

his eyes were dark, as he stared at your fluttering hole. your slick kept dripping out, wetting the sheets, because of how worked up you were. dipping his thumb into your soaked folds, he lightly massaged your lips, adding to your humiliation. you whined, squirming. jungwon slapped your ass in warning again, to make you lie still.

getting impatient, he fiddled with his zipper, pulling his pants down just enough to pull his throbbing cock out. feeling his bare tip rub against your sensitive folds had you flinching, a fresh batch of tears gathering in your waterline. you felt useless, so fucking useless. were you really that weak? was it really that hard to fight back?

jungwon didn’t know about the self loathing thoughts he was causing you to have, nor would he have cared if he got to know about them. all he cared about was how good it felt just to rub against you, skin to skin, your slick making it too easy for him.

it wasn’t even your fault that you couldn’t do anything to protest, really. jungwon just knew all your weaknesses already. there wasn’t anything you could do to stop him. except for enjoying what he was giving you, of course.

the way he kept grinding on your bare cunt sent shockwaves of pain and pleasure up your spine, the overstimulation getting to you. your brain was going into overdrive, somehow starting to register only the pleasure. more slick poured out of you, coating his dick in a sheen of your arousal, much to his delight.

but jungwon had waited too long for this. he couldn’t wait any longer. he slowly pushed his bulbous tip inside you, his cock dragging across your walls so very deliciously. you couldn’t help but moan at the intrusion, your body completely at his mercy.

when he finally bottomed out in you, it felt like heaven to him. and unfortunately for you, you felt the same way. being touch starved for so long, it felt a bit too good to be so filled up. jungwon knew just how you felt, and fortunately for you, he intended to make it feel good. so that you never ever thought of any other cock filling you up ever again.

pulling out almost all the way, he pushed right back in, making you splutter, somehow feeling more full than you were before. his grip on your hip was tight, tight enough to bruise. pulling out slightly again, he set an almost brutal pace, one that left you dizzy from how good it felt.

he was hitting all the right spots, something your previous hookups had never managed to do. it felt good, almost too good to be true. you didn’t even realize you were moaning, until jungwon squeezed on your neck, lightly choking you. his other hand was gripping your waist tightly, which was the only thing holding you up. your legs were shaking from his intensity, shaking under his unrelenting thrusts.

suddenly, he stopped. he let go of your neck, pulling you up by your waist, making you sit up on your knees. the new angle allowed him to go even deeper, hitting your g-spot continuously. the feeling had you blabbering nonsense, half sobbing, half moaning. he used his other hand to rub circles on your clit, stimulating you even further.

sparks of pleasure shot up your spine, making you cry out from the intense pleasure. the knot in your stomach was growing tighter and tighter, making you wish you weren’t handcuffed, desperately needing to hold on to something. jungwon continued to rub and pinch your bundle of nerves, making you feel like you were on fire.

the coil in your stomach finally snapped. your pussy clamped around his length like a vice, almost pushing him out. your orgasm hit you hard, washing over you like a tsunami, making your eyes roll from the feeling. jungwon’s own orgasm got triggered, as he snapped his hips up into yours one last time, balls slapping against your clit.

he shot ropes and ropes of warm cum inside you, holding your spasming body against his. your walls kept squeezing around him, milking him for every last drop. once he was done, he slowly pulled out his flaccid cock, watching the mixture of his and your cum drip down onto the bed.

carefully laying you down, he took out the tissues from the drawer in the nightstand,—again, how did he know they were there?—using them to wipe both of you clean. he unlocked the handcuffs, lightly massaging your sore wrists. your eyes were closed, as you were on the verge of unconsciousness. right as you were about to fully pass out, he said one last thing.

“don’t worry princess, i’ll be back soon.”

“i’m glad you guys are here, despite it being so early.” the chief spoke, as he walked ahead of you. you glanced at jake, who looked just as confused as you were.

“has another body been found?” you asked, already knowing the answer. what other possible reason could there be to get called upon so early, if not for the appearance of more dead bodies?

“i’m afraid so. apparently someone was taking a walk in the woods and discovered the body. he immediately called us, and upon a little questioning, it was found that the description of the body matched the rest of the victims.”

you nodded, even though the chief couldn’t see you. jake spoke up. “where is heeseung? isn’t he coming.”

chief shrugged. “i called him, but it went straight to voice mail. shot him a text but i was left on delivered. perhaps he is still asleep.”

you frowned. that was very unlikely of heeseung. he was a very light sleeper, even someone’s slightly loud breathing could wake him up. you knew because early in your careers the two of you had hooked up a couple of times, and you woke him up quite often in the night, every time you shifted to your side. it was part of why you both didn’t make it into an arrangement, along with the fact that he started dating someone.

“we are almost there.” the chief announced, as you neared a house. you raised a brow. that was victoria’s house.

the chief pushed through the gates, going inside the property. he walked around the house, the two of you, and your subordinates closely following. behind the house, a part of the fence was agape, the fence gate being wide open.

all of you went through it one by one, going into the woods. after walking for a good ten minutes, the chief stopped dead in his tracks. confused, you peaked from behind him. the sight that greeted you had your blood freezing.

there, lying on the ground, skin starting to turn ashy, legs straightened, hands carefully posed, while holding a black rose to his chest, lay heeseung.

you stared at him for what felt like several minutes, before realizing your hands were shaking. suddenly becoming hyper aware of your surroundings, you looked at jake. he didn’t seem to be taking the news too well either, his eyes way wider than you have ever seen.

as you looked back at heeseung’s corpse, you felt bile rising to your throat. all the times you guys laughed together, called each other lame, drank together—every single memory that you had of him, rushed through your mind like a movie fast forwarded.

unable to control yourself any longer, you moved to the side, running towards some random tree, before retching. you felt someone hold your hair up, but you couldn’t care less. you puked pure bile, your throat stinging. once you were done, you choked on your sobs.

getting up, you turned around to see jake, his own eyes filled with tears. he offered you a bottle of water, ignoring which, you hugged him tightly, sobbing into his jacket. he hugged you back just as tightly, his own tears wetting your shirt.

the chief cleared his throat. his voice cracked, as he spoke. “please escort him with dignity.”

the people who brought the stretcher carefully lifted heeseung’s body, taking him inside the ambulance. you watched the ambulance leave with teary eyes, before you started crying again.

outside the autopsy room, you and jake paced impatiently, waiting for news. the two of you had insisted on the autopsy to be done sooner than normal, determined more than ever to crack down the case. the killer had crossed a line by killing of a dear friend, he had to pay.

the doors to the room creaked open, both of you snapping your necks towards the source of the noise simultaneously. the guy wordlessly handled a file to you, shaking his head.

your shoulders sagged, but you weren’t ready to give up. opening the file, you scanned the pages, jake peering past your shoulder. the same ‘undiagnosed diabetes’ stared up at the two of you, along with something that stirred hope within the two of you.

mild concussion of the back of the head.

bingo. a small clue. minuscule, really, but a clue nonetheless. but then the hope quickly diminished. “heeseung went to victoria’s house to find any clues he missed out. the killer probably got to him there.” you spoke in a hollow voice.

jake hummed. “but… isn’t it odd?”

you frowned, looking at him. “what is?”

jake shook his head. “i mean, every murder happened while the victim was asleep. heeseung was killed out in the open, near one of the crime sites. doesn’t that seem weird to you?”

you blinked, looking back at the file. “it does… it certainly does.”

jake continued. “what if… what if he isn’t part of any pattern? what if he was killed because he found something? some sort of clue that would link the killer’s identity to the murders?”

the realization dawned on you. “sim jaeyun, you’re a fucking genius.”

he blushed. “i only meant it as a possibility. a mere speculation.” he said humbly.

you shook your head. “nope. you’re right. you’re absolutely correct. there isn’t another possible explanation to this, which makes it the truth, not just a speculation.”

jake scratched the back of his head. “well… what do we do then?”

you raised a brow. “isn’t it obvious? we do what we do best. i sketch and you dig up information.”

“look ma’am, i need you to think harder. this person is a serial killer, it is important we catch him quickly. so please try to remember.”

the woman looked genuinely sorry. “i’m really sorry dear, but i can’t remember anyone or anything out of the ordinary that i can remember from the past few days. i’m sorry i couldn’t be of much help.”

you sighed in disappointment. “that’s alright ma’am, i’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”

you and your team left the house, going to the car. your assistant spoke. “ma’am, we have already covered all the houses. would you like to get going?”

you sighed, wanting to cry. you didn’t want to give up so soon, but there really didn’t seem to be much of a choice. “i suppose so…”

just then, a voice shouted from somewhere in the distance. “miss, wait!”

you looked towards the source. a boy in his teens was running towards you. almost tripping on his feet, he finally stood in front of you, panting heavily. you looked at him with concern. “are you alright?”

he nodded quickly, before taking in a deep breath. “i saw a stranger last night near… that lamppost. i know everyone in town, so i’m quite positive this person is not from here.”

your eyes widened, as you quickly spoke to double check. “you sure?”

he boy nodded. “i’m positive.”

your adrenaline had spiked. “can you describe him?”

the boy squinted his eyes. “uh… i can try?”

“good.” you said, immediately signaling your assistant to grab your sketchbook and pencil. “start describing.”

“well… the light was flickering, so i only saw him for like two seconds, before he was gone, but uh… he had pale skin? and black hair. his face was soft, i guess. not too rugged or anything. his eyes were kind of big, almost almond shaped? and he had a straight nose, full lips, and a pretty sharp jawline. oh, and he was handsome. like, i’m not gay or anything, but damn that man was attractive.”

as he spoke, your hand moved, quickly. as you drew, you added your own details, something which made you quickly realize that you knew this person. with increasing dread, you continued drawing, a full face quickly forming.

once you were done, you showed the drawing to the teen. “is this the guy?”

his eyes widened. “holy shit, yes! damn, you’re good. like—really good.”

you gave him a dry smile, before looking back at your sketch book. the hauntingly real face of jungwon stared right back at you.

chief was quiet, as he stared down at his cup of coffee, absent mindedly stirring it. your throat felt restricted, as you stared at heeseung’s empty seat. disgust rose to your throat in the form of bile, upon realizing that jungwon must have visited you after killing heeseung.

jake cleared his throat. “uhm… I looked through all of heeseung's records. it's completely clean. nothing in there outside of the information we already know. orphaned at a young age, studied hard, got a scholarship—then ditched it to join the police academy.”

chief sighed softly. “thank you jake." 

jake didn't reply, sitting down. noticing how tense you were, he reached out, putting his hand on your knee. rubbing gentle circles on it.

you looked at him, giving him a half smile to thank him. you had to look away quickly, not wanting him to see your tears.

“we must be close to figuring out who the killer is. must have been why he chose to kill off one of our best officers." the chief spoke, his voice quieter than usual.

you sniffled, muffling a small sob. wordlessly, you took out your sketch book, sliding it over to him. he looked up at you, before flipping through it, stopping at jungwon’s face. he frowned, before his eyes widened. "is this–?”

you didn't trust yourself to speak, so you nodded. the chief gave you a look that showed he was genuinely impressed. “good job, officer ___, good job.”

you only bowed your head lightly. you didn't know if the picture of jungwon at all made things better, or if it only complicated things more.

the chief took one last look at the sketch book, before passing it back to you. “i assume you will send me and everyone else on the force a picture of this?" 

you nodded.

the chief let out a hum. “in that case, you both can leave now. today's work is done. go home and take some rest. you both need it. and–” he looked at the two of you. "don't let today's loss deter you both from our goal. this killer is trying to discourage us from finding him. don't let him succeed.”

you felt a fresh batch of tears forming in your eyes at his words. so you kept silent. jake nodded. "i’ll try to find more information about all of our victims." 

the chief nodded. he looked at you. “you needn't do anything else, officer ___. finding the face of our killer is good enough. please go home and rest.

you swallowed the lump in your throat, nodding. standing up, you bowed. "i’ll take my leave now.”

the chief nodded again. "off with you two then.”

jake’s apartment was messy, fitting in with the computer science nerd stereotype. his desk was cluttered, everything astray. yet for him, nothing was out of place. in fact, he knew exactly where everything was, despite the mess.

carefully navigating through his organized mess, jake picked up some files he had brought home. they contained all the information he had gathered about the first three victims, and some more. he began flipping through the pages, wanting to find out anything else that might be relevant. anything important that he might have missed.

thing is, there were at least a dozen files in total. he hadn’t even gone through all of them yet, but still found quite a lot of useful information. although it was clearly not enough, since now they had in their hands the face of the killer, someone none of them recognized. which meant that this person didn’t belong to their town.

which made the questions arise: if according to previous clues, the killer is the child of a dead maid looking to avenge his mother, how come he is a face no one recognizes? how come he is in town, but hasn’t been spotted even once? other than when one eye witness accidentally spotted him?

questions, so many of them. yet their answers remained unknown. flipping through one of the files at the bottom of the stack, a hand recorded conversation caught his attention.

“i’m telling you right now officer, these new people in town are monsters, monsters i say!”

“that’s a serious accusation, sir. are you sure you’re not simply mistaken? news of your alzheimer’s has spread throughout the entire town, you know.”

“officer, you have to believe me! they killed a child! and hid away another! i heard them talking about it the other day! you must arrest them at once—who knows what else they are capable of?”

“mr. choi, i’m sure you’re mistaken. please go home and rest. make sure to take your medicine on time—i’ve heard you’re being quite stubborn while taking it?”

“fine, don’t believe me. but when these monsters do something worse, don’t tell me i didn’t warn you!”

given the date and time in the file, it wasn’t hard to estimate that the so-called ‘monsters’ mentioned in the file were the first three victims. especially since the fate of the two children mentioned there matched perfectly with the information he already found out.

he sighed, putting the files away. opening up his computer, he went back to the old articles about victoria. said articles were written by very small and unknown journalists, which was why they weren’t too popular—and consequently, very hard to find. scrolling through them, he quickly started becoming bored. they were all the same, nothing that he hadn’t already found out.

right as he was about to give up, a link to another article was provided in one of the comments under an article he had already read three times. clicking on the link, he was taken to a different tab, a different article on display.

this one apparently contained highly classified information, based on a conversation a reporter had with a servant of victoria, one who requested anonymity. skimming through it, a particular part caught his attention.

“—according to our source, victoria’s own child hadn’t actually died, and was in fact alive in the hospital. as the saying goes, walls have ears, our source having eavesdropped on victoria’s phone calls, figuring out exactly what happened to the kid. apparently her child fell into a coma, and was likely to forget everything upon waking up, as a trauma response. following which, victoria had secretly sent away her child to some other place to protect it from any future possible threats. meanwhile, the child of the maid she murdered, was sent away to an abusive foster home, presumably to die, since she didn’t want to get her hands dirty a second time. our source also mentioned that victoria had indeed succeeded in doing so, since she had delightedly shared the news of the child’s passing to her lover. our source also mentioned that–”

jake blanked out. the maid’s child was… dead? victoria’s own child was alive? what. the. fuck? that just made the case a shit ton more complicated than it already was.

looking back at his screen, he was about to scroll further, when suddenly a sharp pain struck the back of his head, accompanied with the dull sound of heavy metal colliding with something hard—in this case, his head.

he clutched the back of his head, his vision swimming. with difficulty, he tried turning around, only to be hit again. this time, he successfully passed out.

you had been staring at the ceiling for at least a couple of hours now. upon reaching home, you had immediately collapsed on the couch, staring up at the ceiling numbly. to think that heeseung was just… gone? it was too much to process, even after the autopsy had already been conducted.

your eyes burned, but you didn’t even have the energy to cry. to think that jungwon had probably killed heeseung before coming to your house and defiling you—and for you to have enjoyed it to a certain extent—it made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

speaking of which, your entire body felt itchy, dirty, disgusting—despite you having already showered in the morning. but maybe another shower was just what you needed, to get rid of his disgusting touch from your skin.

getting up, you headed to the bathroom. your clothes were drenched in sweat from the entire day’s activities, stripping them away and welcoming the cold air on your skin felt like heaven already.

turning up the water temperature, you let the tub fill half way, before stepping in. you instantly felt relieved, the tension leaving your muscles. picking up a bath bomb you had gotten earlier during the year on your birthday, you dropped it in the water, causing it to immediately explode, flooding the water. the smell was exceptionally relaxing, making you sigh and close your eyes, relaxing yourself further.

but you couldn’t relax for too long, since the sound of the door to the bathroom opening interrupted your calm. you sat up in horror, drawing your knees up to your chest.

it was jungwon.

he strolled in like he was taking a walk at the park, looking down at you with a smirk. “why do you look so surprised, pretty? i told you i was gonna come back.”

your hands shook from where they were shielding your chest. you stared up at him with terrified eyes. “why are you…?”

he raised a brow. “why am i here? i already told you, i was going to come back.”

you couldn’t breathe. now that you knew that he had killed heeseung, you felt a lot more terrified of him than before. “are you going to kill me as well?”

jungwon looked at you like you had grown a pair of horns atop your head. “kill you? god, no. of course not. why would i kill you?”

that reassured you. a little bit. “then…?”

he smirked, starting to pop open the buttons on his dress shirt one-by-one. “isn’t it obvious, beautiful?”

your eyes widened, as you quickly looked at your pants, which had your gun attached to the belt. if you were quick, you could reach it. but of course, jungwon wouldn’t let you do that.

“that wouldn’t be a very smart thing to do, princess.” he said, making you snap your gaze back to him. his smirk never left, as he turned to look at the gun.

to your astonishment, and utter horror, it began floating, before flying across the bathroom, to the furthest corner. if you tried getting it now, jungwon would easily stop you. but the question remained: how the fuck did he make the gun levitate?

“wha—how?!”

jungwon chuckled. “there’s so many things you don’t know, ___”

he had already taken off all his clothes, going and sitting inside the bathtub with you. he leaned back casually, staring at you with a look that told you precisely all you needed to know—he had the upper hand over you, and there was nothing you could do about it.

he gestured to you with his hand. "come here princess."

you shook your head, not trusting yourself to speak. you drew your knees in closer, locking them in place with your hands around them.

his expression changed. "don't test my patience ___. come here while i'm still being nice."

you gulped, shaking your head again.

his expression hardened further. "i won't repeat myself again. come. here."

swallowing the lump in your throat, you shook your head again.

he sighed, giving you an almost disappointed look. "i didn't want to do this, really. but you leave me no choice."

you frowned, wondering what he was referring to. but he didn't let you wonder too much, as he flicked his wrist. with a gasp, you suddenly landed on his lap, your hands clumsily landing on his shoulders, aware of how your very bare lower halves were rubbing against each other.

you tried getting up, getting away from him, but his grip on your waist was tight. too tight. how the fuck was he so strong?

"don't bother trying princess. save your energy for later."

you let out a shuddering breath, helpless tears slipping down your face. "why are you doing this to me? what have i done to you?"

jungwon didn't answer. leaning forward, he licked a stripe up your cheek, the salty, yet invigorating taste of your defeat invading his taste buds. sometimes he felt sorry for you. truly, he did. you, as naive as you were, you had no idea about the truth. the truth which so very often threatened to rear its ugly head, threatening to ruin everything in a single slip up—the truth that everyone worked so hard to bury beneath the surface, with layers of nothing but blankets woven with lies. so yes, he felt sorry for you at times. but then he reminded himself why he started all of this in the first place.

but deep down, a part of him questioned it all: was it still revenge, or had it bent into something completely different?

you see, he hates you. hates you for something you were never actually a part of. any of… what had happened—but he still blamed you. how come you get to escape the aftermath of everything, but he doesn't? why was he the only one that had to suffer the consequences of something he never did? whereas you, another witness of the same goddamn crime gets to escape it all? why the discrimination?

was it simply because you were not as old as he was? was it because you couldn't comprehend what had actually happened? he tried, really did, to find reasons to excuse you. to let you off the hook. but perhaps there was more to it than he allowed himself to admit. more to the faux 'hate' he claimed to have in his heart for you. afterall, the strongest emotions to exist are often confused for one another.

but this was no time to contemplate such trivial things. right now, watching you fight your own body to try (and fail) to not fall apart in his hands was a lot more important. especially by making you initiate it yourself.

he pulled you closer to him, hugging your body to his, as he sucked at the spot under your jaw. one hand remained on your waist, the other further up your back. the position was intimate—it almost felt like the two of you were simply lovers getting carried away while bathing together—if it wasn't for your weak attempts at trying to push him away.

jungwon wanted to scoff at you. you weren't fooling anybody, if your pathetic attempts at muffling your moans were anything to go by. god, you were so easy. perhaps this was another reason he did what he was doing.

he pushed you further into him, letting go of your neck to kiss you instead. he wasn't being aggressive like you initially thought he would be. no, he was taking his time with you, kissing you slowly, sensually. almost like it was all consensual.

but god, with the way he made you feel, you might as well lean into it.

you didn't know when the water in the tub drained, but suddenly the pressure was off your lower halves. as you broke the kiss to breathe, you noticed the bottom unplugged. which meant the slipperiness where your cunt rubbed against his cock was because you were wet.

you wanted to blame it on jungwon. on your body for betraying you. for making you feel instead of grieving for your friend that was murdered. for making you enjoy being violated by the same guy that killed heeseung. anything to feel less guilty for doing what you were.

you didn't want to grind on him, you just… couldn't help yourself. he was making you feel like your entire body was on fire, electric shocks running up your spine every time he touched you. it was exhilarating. even if the voice in the back of your head screamed at you for betraying every one by letting yourself go.

but that was the thing, wasn't it? why shouldn't you be selfish for once? the entire circumstances were strange—the way you knew him, the things you knew he was capable of doing—all of it was strange. but none of it changed how real he made you feel.

so you allowed yourself to tilt your head back. to moan, to feel—because it might just be the last time you ever did.

jungwon grinded up into you, both feeling and seeing your initial hesitance melt away in real time, giving space for your real feelings to shine through. he had you right where he wanted, and he couldn't be more smug about it all.

holding your hips with both hands, he guided your movements, the sounds of your slick and your moans gradually taking over the entire space. if anything, it made his cock harder, twitching against your slick folds. god he wished he could just shove himself into you right fucking now—but that would ruin the fun, wouldn't it? he needed you to do it yourself. given how desperate you were getting, he was pretty sure you were getting way to close to doing so yourself.

true to his prediction, you let out the most pathetic whine he had ever had the pleasure of hearing from you, as you rocked your hips even more desperately over his. "please…"

jesus fucking christ. you really were desperate. "please what, angel?"

you let out another whine. "please—h-hah—fuck me?"

god, you knew exactly what you were doing to him, weren't you? "should i?"

you whimpered, your cunt practically throbbing from the lack of attention. you needed him to be inside you, or you were sure you would combust right there. so you lifted yourself up slightly, reaching one of your hands down to grab his twitching cock, clumsily lining him up to your folds, before sitting down, shoving him deep inside you. the 'splat' sound of your thighs slapping together echoing through the room.

the two of you let out collective moans, both of you a throbbing mess. you clenched, and unclenched around him, the wonderful feeling of finally being able to feel something so real while ignoring your conscience was… an experience to say the least. pressing your lips to his again, your hands found purchase on his shoulders. lifting yourself up, you dropped down again, his cock dragging across your gummy walls at the best possible angle.

jungwon gripped your waist—not hard enough to bruise, but just enough to guide your movements. he silently encouraged you to go faster, by bouncing you harder on top of him. your arousal dripped, and dripped, past his balls, wetting his thighs. the constant sound of your ass slapping against his balls filled the space, along with your your muffled moans.

you broke the kiss when your lungs started burning. jungwon focused on your neck instead, determined to fill the entire expanse with his marks. he trailed kisses across your jaw, sucking hickeys there too. his hickeys spread down to your collarbones, as his hands came up to grope your tits. sometimes his actions got a little too intense, causing you to clench down hard on him, which in turn caused him to twitch, small spurts of cum spilling into you. he wasn't embarrassed in the slightest, especially since it seemed to turn you on impossibly more.

your bouncing would slow down at times, but never coming to a full stop. sometimes you grinded onto him instead if it really became too much. but fuck, it was all too good to stop.

but all good things eventually come to an end. you were starting to feel overstimulated, your legs becoming sore as well, despite not being nearly close. fortunately for you, jungwon seemed to notice.

using one hand to support your waist, he used to other to rub light circles around your clit. when your moans started turning into whines, he pinched your engorged nub, before flicking on the sensitive bud. your nerve ending were already on fire, but he then started rubbing on it harshly, causing your moans to practically into screams.

you could feel your orgasm approaching steadily, the knot in your stomach growing tighter and tighter. when you felt it right on the tip of your tongue, jungwon started to shallowly thrust up into you. your orgasm crashed down on you like never before, your eyes rolling back till only the whites were visible. the gush of liquid pushed his cock out, but he pushed right back in, his own orgasm approaching quickly.

holding you in place, he pistoned his hips into you at an almost brutal pace, before making you sit flush on top of his cock, as he shot out ropes of warm cum straight into your cunt. your walls fluttered around him, your body slumping on his. you felt tired, so, so tired.

jungwon patted your head. it was ironic, how soft he was being with you, despite telling himself that this was all to punish you. since when had punishments felt almost like an act of love?

"sleep." he said, in this almost echoing voice. immediately, you were knocked out. he held your body close to his, staring down at the top of your head. he should kill you. it would be the right thing to do. you couldn't even defend yourself in this state. so what was stopping him?

was it his conscience? bullshit, he didn't have one. so why was he doing the opposite of what he originally planned?

he decided he didn't want to keep cuddling you like a lover while contemplating all this. so, he did what he thought was the best thing to do as of now. clean you up, put you to bed, and leave. silently. without leaving any traces of him ever being there in the first place. after all, leaving without a trace was something he excelled at.

anxiety gripped your heart like a vice, as you glared at jake's empty seat.

"officer ___, please, take a seat."

you shook your head. "where is jake? is he running late?"

chief kang didn't say anything, opting to stare at his lap.

you grew more and more frantic by the second. "he is running late, right? right?"

chief looked at you with sad eyes. "please, sit down." his voice was gentle, barely above a whisper.

you dropped to your seat with a thud, vision growing blurry. "no…"

chief sighed softly. "his landlord called us upon finding his limp body on his desk. the killer didn't bother with his usual theatrics this time, leaving the rose beside his head instead of laying him down like the other victims. there are visible injuries on his head as well. the autopsy has almost been finished by now."

your hands were shaky. "why wasn't i informed earlier?"

chief kang gave you an apologetic gaze. "you are already under a lot of pressure, i didn't want to add to it."

you looked at him with indignation, despite the tears running down your face. "i'm part of the force too! jake and heeseung were more than just my coworkers, they were my friends! i should have been the first person to be informed of this!"

chief nodded. "i understand dear, but please trust me when i say i did this out of good will. you have already done a lot, and i didn't want to work you up further."

you shook your head. "you don't understand, i–" a sudden thought struck you. you knew the killer. you have met him. despite the circumstances being strange, you should let the chief know, right? because… what if the next target is you? even if he said he wouldn't kill you? after all, why should you trust a killer, who also liked to play with you? both physically and psychologically?

so you did what you thought was best. "i… i know the killer. i have met him."

the chief's eyes widened in disbelief. "what?"

you shrank into your seat. "you don't believe me…"

the chief shook his head. "no no, of course i believe you. i was just surprised."

you took in a deep breath. "well—what i'm about to say now, that is something you may not believe. but i need you to understand that everything i will say is the truth and the truth only. i swear i will not lie or leave out any details whatsoever."

the chief nodded, giving you the green light to continue. swallowing the lump in your throat, you started speaking. you told him everything—every single dream, the full details of what happened, how the hickey manifested onto your neck outside of the dream, how he came to your house twice and forced himself onto you, how he literally levitated a gun and even you—every single detail.

when you finally finished, the chief was… shocked, to say the very least. "so statistically speaking… there is a chance that you're next."

you nodded. chief kang massaged his temples. "there is something we can do…" he looked at you with a very serious look in his eyes. "but you must be very discreet about it, understand?"

it was a lot later than usual when you finally reached your house. the silence in your house was nothing out of the ordinary, yet you felt a chill up your spine.

reaching your bedroom, you hesitated. your gut told you to run, run as far away as possible. but you ignored it, opening the door anyways.

as expected, jungwon was sitting on the bed. he was staring intently at a page in your sketchbook—presumably his own picture. he looked up at you, signature smirk back on his face. "you're late."

you swallowed the lump in your throat. "work." was all you said, your voice hollow.

he tilted his head. "are you unhappy about something?"

you stared at him, unblinking. "you killed two of my dear friends."

his smirk widened, but he didn't answer. looking back down at your sketchbook, he commented. "you're awfully talented. it's like staring at a mirror."

you clenched your fist, but forced yourself to remain calm. "what exactly is it that you want?"

jungwon looked up at you in surprise. "what do i want? why, i thought i had made it quite obvious from the very beginning?"

you frowned. sensing your confusion, jungwon offered. "you. it is you that i want. was it not obvious?"

you scoffed in surprise. "what?"

he let out a hum, getting up. he came and stood in front of you, hands behind his back. "why is it so hard to believe, princess?"

you shook your head, finding him ridiculous. "tormenting me through weird dreams, killing my friends, forcing yourself onto me multiple times—you did it all because you want me? what kind of a fucked up logic is that?"

he smirked again. "believe it or not, that's your choice. you asked me a question, and i merely answered it."

you glared at him. "in that case, i suppose you won't mind answering some more questions?"

he raised a brow. "shoot and find out."

so you began. "the first three victims—did you kill them because of revenge?"

"mhm."

"why? are you the son of the maid who victoria killed?"

jungwon scoffed. "my mother was no maid. she and victoria were childhood friends, and she went to visit her the day she died."

you frowned. so that meant some of the information you had was inaccurate. "how exactly did she die?"

he tilted his head. "i thought you already knew that victoria killed her. stabbed her with a knife."

you slowly nodded. "and you were there to witness it."

he nodded, so you continued. "why exactly did she kill her?"

his smirk returned. "you have noticed me doing things that seem… unusual, yes?"

you raised a brow. "you mean appearing in my dreams and levitating objects? then yes, i have."

his smirk widened. "my mother, in simple terms, was a witch. her abilities were something i inherited. victoria fought with my mother, because she was the only person who knew of her abilities. she threatened to reveal it to the public, if my mother didn't teach her how she did what she did."

"obviously she couldn't do so, since those powers could only be inherited. victoria, being a temperamental bitch, stabbed my mother over it. because victoria was a dear friend of hers, she couldn't defend herself, and the knife had struck a vital area, so she quickly stopped breathing. the servants had an inaccurate version of the whole ordeal since my mother created an illusion for them. she couldn't risk everyone finding out about her powers. but obviously the illusion didn't work on me, since that time my mind was pure. pure souls cannot be fooled by illusions."

you frowned. "what happened to you after all of it?"

he scoffed lightly. "they put me in an abusive foster house and paid them to kill me. but i killed them first, and mimicked their voices over the phone and told them that i was the one that died. fuckin' dumbasses believed it."

you blinked slowly, trying to wrap your head around it all. "how did you kill them? was it also using your… powers?"

he smirked. "only to an extent. i used a syringe to pump a few doses of insulin under their tongues. that's why they seemed to die of undiagnosed diabetes."

"what about the roses? what did they signify?"

he tilted his head, leaning down slightly. staring dead into your eyes, he spoke. "why, they symbolized you of course."

you blinked several times, staring at him in shock. "me?"

he raised a brow. "of course, rosie. they symbolize you."

you shook your head. "rosie?"

he stared at you, the look in his eyes causing your heart to practically thump out of your chest. "that's your name. don't you remember?"

you shook your head, stepping back. "what the fuck are you talking about right now?"

he took a step forward, towards you. "don't you remember? you were there when my mother was killed."

your eyes widened. "what?"

he took another step towards you. "she was killed by your mother, after all."

it was as if the entire world stopped. the air was knocked out of you, a dull ringing began in your ears. long back, when you bumped into victoria in the market, she had grabbed you and called you rosie.

rosie! oh my darling rose, i missed you…

an image flashed in front of your eyes. a colorful bedroom, a beautiful woman—your mom—sitting in front of you, gazing at you with the fondest smile, as she fed you neatly sliced and peeled apples. "say aaaah…"

the scene changed. your mother—victoria—arguing with a man. "look at her, she is just a baby! she doesn't deserve this! won't you come back for her sake?"

the scene changed. a different man, your father—seil—teaching you how to make paper airplanes. "and then you throw it into the wind, like that—good job!"

the scene changed again. your mother arguing with another woman. a boy few years older than you stood beside you, watching the scene beside you from the top of the stairs. suddenly, victoria charged at the unfamiliar woman with a knife, stabbing her.

blood splattered onto the floor. the shocked faces of both your mother and the woman imprinted into your brain, as your vision swam. as you fell, the boy looked at you in panic, trying to catch you, but failed. your head hit the ground, and you rolled down the stairs.

you snapped back to reality. jungwon was looming over you with a smirk. he glanced down at your necklace. "is that enough information for your backup, or do they need more?"

the chief looked at the rest of the officers sitting in the car, listening to everything from the tiny mic they had installed in your necklace. "now!"

the entire force burst out of the cars which were parked right outside your house, bursting into your house. the chief screamed into his loud speaker. "you have been surrounded from all sides! do not try to run, or harm ms. ___, as it will only earn you a graver sentence."

there was silence from the microphone on your necklace. having a bad feeling about it, the chief hastily burst into your room, the rest of the force following him.

it was empty. not a single trace of anyone being there. no open windows either. ordering the force to search the entire house, he went towards the bed. your sketchbook lay there, pages flipping due to the wind from the fan.

picking it up, he flipped through them himself. he expected the last sketch to be of jungwon, but he was wrong. squinting, he stared at the last sketch. it was of you, a terrified expression on your face. a small rose was drawn next to your face. on the bottom, a small message was inscribed.

'the beauty of some roses never fade, even after death.'

You wouldn't have thought that the cardboard box in your arms would be heavier than it has any right to be, given it's mostly filled with towels and a lamp that probably won't survive the move. You shift it against your hip, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder as Jungwon's voice crackles through the speaker.

"—and the landlord said the water pressure is good, but you should still check the boiler room, okay? Just in case. Mom keeps asking if you've eaten."

"I've eaten," you say, dumping the box onto the kitchen counter. The sound echoes in the empty space. "I ate a granola bar on the drive."

"That's not eating. You usually eat much more than that, Y/N."

You almost laugh. The corners of your mouth twitch, yet the energy to actually produce the sound feels too expensive. The new apartment is small, already making you hyperaware of your own breathing. White walls, beige carpet, a window that overlooks a fire escape and the back of a laundromat. It's nothing like your old place. And that's totally the point.

"There's a coffee shop down the street," you say instead, peering through the smudged glass of the window. "I saw it when I pulled in."

"Good, you should go there. Drink something with sugar and call me if you need anything."

"I will."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

The line goes dead, and the silence in the apartment rushes back in to fill the space. You stand there for a minute, only breathing, letting your new life settle into your bones. New city with a new apartment, and no memories of the last three years to trip over on your way to the bathroom.

You grab your keys and head out. The neighborhood is weirdly quiet even in the afternoon, it feels like everyone is holding their breath. Old brick buildings line the street, their facades streaked with years of rain. A bodega on the corner, a laundromat, and there, wedged between a bookstore and a clothing shop, the coffee shop. It's decorated with mismatched chairs and a counter cluttered with jars of homemade pastries. You order a black coffee because you don't trust your brain to make decisions, and you take it to a table by the window. You're halfway through the cup, watching a pigeon peck at a discarded wrapper, when the sky opens up. The rain comes down in sheets, loud and violent, rattling against the glass like it's trying to get in. You watch it for a while, then check your phone. It's already 5 PM.

"Excuse me," you say, approaching the counter. The barista, a tired-looking woman with flour on her apron, looks up. "Do you have an umbrella I could borrow? I just moved in across the street, I'll bring it back."

She blinks at you before she disappears into the back, returning a moment later with a flimsy black umbrella. It looks like the one you buy at a bodega for five dollars and immediately regret. "Keep it," she says. "We have like twelve of these."

The rain hasn't let up by the time you step outside. You pop the umbrella open, holding it tight as the wind tries to wrestle it from your grip. The street is a river now, the buildings blurred through the curtain of water. You walk quickly, splashing through puddles, your sneakers already soaked.

The apartment building is a relief when it comes into view. You duck into the alcove of the entrance, shaking water from your hair, and fumble with the umbrella to close it. The mechanism catches on something, and you jerk it, frustrated, only to have it flip open in a violent snap. A spray of water arcs outward, catching the person passing behind you square in the chest.

You freeze.

He freezes.

For an agonizing long moment, neither of you dare to move. He's standing half in the rain, half out, his white t-shirt now clinging to his torso with a growing dark patch. His hair is damp at the ends, dark brown and curling slightly. His eyes ; wide and startled ; scan your face with intensity, making you want to quickly apologize, but the words get caught somewhere in your throat.

His expression falters for the briefest moment. The certainty in his eyes gives way to hesitation, his gaze tracing your features as though something refuses to add up. His head tilts slightly, thoughtful rather than confused. You brace yourself for annoyance. For the kind of clipped anger that would be entirely justified.

Rather than that, he blinks, and a smile touches the corner of his mouth. It's not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one, uncertain and clumsy. "Hi," he says. His voice is a little rough, maybe from the cold. "Sorry, I was—do I know you?"

You shake your head, clutching the umbrella tightly. "I don't think so. I just moved in. I'm sorry about your shirt."

He glances down at the wet patch before looking back up at you. "Don't worry about it. It's just water." He's still looking at you, though. Too fucking long. His gaze lingers, waiting for...something. Whatever it is never comes. With a shake of his head, he drags a hand through his wet hair before a tiny smile finds its way onto his face, warming the corners of his eyes. "I'm Jake. I live in 9C down the hall."

"Y/N," you say. "5C."

"Welcome to the building."

"Thanks."

The rain continues to fall, filling the space between you with noise. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and you realize you're both just standing there, awkward and dripping, with nothing else to say.

"Well," he says, "I should probably go change. Before I catch a cold."

"Oh, right. Yeah. Sorry again."

"Don't be."

He heads for the elevator, and you watch him go, his wet footprints staining the floor. He pauses with his hand on the button, and for only a second, you think he might turn back or might say something else. But then the door swings open, and he disappears inside.

You stand there for another minute, the broken umbrella dangling from your hand, the rain hammering against the awning above you. The feeling of his gaze on your face lingers, unsettled, like a half-remembered dream.

You close the apartment door behind you and lean against it. The key is still in your hand. The broken umbrella is still in the other. Your socks are soaked through because you forgot to wipe your feet.

None of that registers.

Because Jake ; apartment 9C, white t-shirt, gray hoodie, hole in his jeans ; had a face that shouldn't exist outside of Renaissance paintings and the occasional fever dream. Sharp jaw and messy hair that looked intentional even though it definitely wasn't. And his eyes, soft and curious, doing that slow scan of your features like he was reading something he couldn't put down.

You slide down the door until you're sitting on the floor.

This doesn't happen to you.

No—correction. This has never happened to you. You've read about it, sure. Pages in secondhand paperbacks where the protagonist trips and falls into a stranger's arms and he just happens to have cheekbones that could cut diamonds. You've rolled your eyes at those scenes and called them unrealistic. You told yourself that real life doesn't come with lighting cues and slow motion. However, standing on those steps with rain dripping off his chin and an animal shelter's worth of grime on his wrist, he had no business being that striking. That disarming. That stupidly attractive.

Your brain caught on the way he'd looked at you. Not like he was checking you out but more like he was searching for something. A flicker of recognition that didn't meant nothing if you recoil on it. And after that the shrug, and the introduction so smooth it had to be accidental.

Jake.

You press the heels of your palms against your eyes. Are you freaking kidding me ?

"You're being ridiculous." you tell the empty apartment.

Three hours later, you've unpacked exactly one box ; where it cointained your sheets and a single mug shaped like a cactus that Jungwon bought you as a joke three birthdays ago. The mug is now sitting on the kitchen counter, empty, staring at you judgmentally.

He keeps finding his way back into your thoughts. Not because you're trying to hold on to him, and surely not because you can't move on. It happens almost absentmindedly, the way your brain revisits familiar things when it's left alone. How his voice sounded slightly wrecked, like he'd been yelling or laughing or both. The smudge on his wrist ; potting soil, probably, if the canvas bag full of clinking jars was any indication. Pickles? Jam? The man had twelve jars of something and dirt on his hands and he lived four apartment next to yours.

You catch your reflection in the bathroom mirror and frown at yourself.

"Girl, you don't even know his last name." you say.

You go to bed early because there's nothing else to do. The new apartment sounds are unusual, there's more creaks and fewer sirens. At 2:17 AM, someone in the building starts playing the guitar badly. You fall asleep to a mangled rendition of "Wonderwall".

─────────

The alarm drags you from sleep sharply. You bat at your phone until the noise stops, and lie there, blinking at the still unfamiliar ceiling, reacquainting yourself with the fact that this is your life now. Everything was going to be new now.

By the time you've wrestled yourself into something presentable, you're already running five minutes behind. You skip breakfast, grab your bag, and lock the door behind you.

The elderly home sits at the end of a tree-lined street, a squat brick building, you almost mistook it for a community center. The receptionist gives you a visitor's badge and points you toward the common room, where a handful of residents are scattered across armchairs, some dozing, some staring at a muted television, one engaged in a heated argument with a plant.

You're barely through the door when a woman appears at your elbow, small and bright-eyed, with a name tag that reads Hanni in cheerful block letters. "New hire?" she asks, already steering you toward a supply closet. "Thank god. I've been doing double shifts for three weeks. I'm Hanni. You're Y/N. I read your file. It said you have experience with dementia patients. That's good, because Jacob over there—" she jerks her chin toward a man in a cardigan who's now trying to feed his coffee to the plant, "—thinks he's a squirrel."

You blink. "A squirrel?"

"Don't ask. Just go with it. If he offers you acorns, take them."

The day unfolds. You help Mrs. Han find her glasses (they were on her head), you listen to Mr. Eom's stories about a bakery he ran forty years ago, and you learn the exact difference between the "good" applesauce and the "bad" applesauce. Hanni works beside you with effortless competence, cracking jokes under her breath and seamlessly redirecting residents who wander toward the exit. "You're pretty good at this," she says during a break, as you both stand at the nurses' station, scribbling notes. "Most new people get that deer-in-headlights look for at least a week. You just sort of absorbed it."

You shrug, not sure how to explain that this ; the slow pace, the gentle repetition, the small dignities of helping someone remember their own name ; it feels like the only thing you're certain about these days. "It's not that hard. They just want to be seen."

Hanni studies you for a moment, something curious flickering behind her eyes. Then she nods, and the moment passes.

Your shift ends, your feet ache and your brain feels pleasantly fuzzy, which doesn't leave room for anxiety. You change out of your scrubs, say goodbye to Hanni, and step out into the evening air.

The street is calm, the rain from yesterday reduced to a thin dampness on the pavement. You're walking toward your building, hands shoved in your jacket pockets, when you round the corner and nearly collide with someone coming the other way.

Fuck, it's him.

Jake.

He's wearing a different shirt ; navy this time, sleeves pushed up to his elbows ; and he's carrying a cardboard pack of beer tucked under one arm. His hair is dry, pulled up in a little ponytail at the back, and the sight of him in the golden light of early evening hits you like a delayed punch.

"Oh," you say. Why now?

He stops. For a heartbeat, something unsettles his expression, his eyes lingering on you a fraction too long. Then, it melts away, something softer taking place. "Hey. Y/N, right?"

"Oh, you remembered." The words come out flatter than you wanted them to be, yet your pulse is doing a ridiculous drum solo again.

"I remember a lot of things," he says, there's a strange weight to the phrase, like he's saying something else underneath it. He gestures with the beer. "You're heading back?"

"Yeah. I just finished my first day at the elderly home down the street."

"How was it?"

"Exhausting. Good, though. I think. One of the residents offered me a fake acorn, so I'm taking that as a sign of approval."

He laughs, low and surprised, you can see that he didn't expect to find it funny. "That's a pretty solid endorsement. I'd trust fake acorn guy over most people."

You fall into step together, and you notice how he adjusts his pace to match yours, shortening his stride just slightly. The street stretches ahead, lined with those old brick buildings, the sky above streaked with pale orange and lavender. You nod toward the beer. "Expecting company, or is that just for personal purpose?"

He glances down at the pack, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. "I'm having friends over tonight. A couple of guys from the shelter—I work at the animal shelter a few blocks over. We do this thing every other Thursday. It's mostly just eating takeout and arguing about which dog breed is objectively the best."

"Which one is?"

"Rescue," he says immediately. "All of them."

You snort. "I think so too."

"Right? This is why we're going to get along." He says it casually, the words land in your chest with an unexpected weight.

The building comes into view, its facade warm in the fading light. He holds the door open for you, and you step into the foyer, the familiar smell of old carpet and someone's cooking drifting through the hallway. At your door you fumble for your keys, and he lingers, shifting the beer from one arm to the other.

"Good first day," he says. "At the job, I mean."

"Thanks." You find the right key, fit it into the lock. "Have fun with your friends. Try not to let the argument escalate into a physical altercation."

"No promises. We're very passionate about this." He's already turning, already stepping back toward his door, when something makes you call out : "Jake."

He stops and looks back.

"Thanks for walking me," you say. "Even if you didn't have to."

A small shrug. "It's fine. I wanted to, anyway." And he's already gone, his footsteps echoing in the corridor, and you're left standing in your doorway, keys still in hand, watching the space where he was.

You unlock the door, step inside, and close it behind you. The apartment is mostly empty, since your laziness won over you to unpack the rest of your stuff. You press your back against the door and stare at the ceiling.

This, you think, is exactly the kind of thing I'd roll my eyes at in a book.

Regardless, you can't stop the smile that spreads across your face, slow and helpless and embarrassingly real.

You're sprawled across the couch, legs tangled in a throw blanket, the glow of the television painting your face in shifting blues and reds. Some reality show about people competing to bake things that look like other things. It's mindless and perfect, exactly the sort of programming that requires zero cognitive effort. Your oversized t-shirt hangs off one shoulder with Justin Bieber's face from his Purpose World Tour, faded and cracked from years of washing. Below that, nothing but a pair of plain cotton panties. Your hair is messy, and there's a half-empty mug of tea growing cold on the floor beside you. You're comfortable. Vulnerable, maybe, but in the privacy of your own space, and that's all that matters.

Your gaze wanders into the kitchen and lands on the trash bin that is overflowing with flattened boxes and crumpled packing paper, the remains of a move you’re still halfway through. It doesn’t look like much, but you know it’ll be the first thing to irritate you in the morning if it’s left untouched. You weigh the options. Get dressed and actually put on pants, find a bra, the whole tedious ritual, or just…go. It's a quick trip. The trash chute is at the end of the hallway, maybe twenty steps from your door. The corridor has been empty all evening. And Jake has friends over. He's occupied. He's not going to be lurking around corners, waiting to ambush you with his inconveniently-timed presence.

Nobody will see you, you tell yourself. It's fine. You're fast as fuck.

You pad to the door, press your eye to the peephole. The hallway stretches, empty. Clear. You crack the door open, just wide enough to slip through, and you're out, barefoot, the cold floor sending a shiver up your legs. The trash bag is heavier than you expected ; you hoist it against your hip, jogging in that awkward, flat-footed way of someone who's both in a hurry and deeply aware of their own exposure. The chute is a metal hatch in the wall. You heave it open, shove the bag inside, hear it clatter down into the abyss. Mission accomplished.

You turn, already planning your retreat, and—

He's standing three feet away. Oh fuck off.

Jake.

He's holding a bulging trash bag of his own, the clink of glass bottles audible as he adjusts his grip. His eyes travel from your face down to the faded Bieber shirt, then back up, and there's a beat of silence where neither of you move. Your brain short-circuits and your mouth opens. What comes out is a garbled mix of syllables that might have been intended as "hey" but emerges as something closer to "heh—uh—I—"

He blinks. Slowly, the corner of his mouth twitches. "Didn't mean to startle you," he says, and his voice is level, calm, almost like he's trying to soothe a startled animal.

"You didn't—I mean, I was just—" You gesture clumsily at your attire, then at the trash chute, then back at yourself, as if this chain of context will explain everything. "The trash was full. And I didn't think anyone would be—I mean, you said you had friends—"

"Friends," he confirms. "They left about ten minutes ago. I was just cleaning up."

"Of course you were. That makes sense." You're still standing there, bare-legged, the shirt barely grazing your thighs, and the hallway suddenly feels like a wind tunnel. You cross your arms over your chest, which does absolutely nothing to help the situation. Jake doesn’t leer nor does he joke. He meets your eyes with that same searching look, softened now into quiet amusement. "You know," he says, "you have a habit of running into me in unexpected situations."

"This is your fault," you say, and the words come out sharp without real bite behind them. "You're supposed to be busy. That was the whole point."

"Sorry to inconvenience you by taking out my trash."

"You're not sorry, are you?"

"No," he admits, his half-smile edges into fuller one. "I'm not." He steps past you toward the chute, and you catch a whiff of a clean and comforting scent, the ordinary scent of someone who's recently showered. He drops his bag in, closes the hatch with a metallic thunk and turns back. "See you around, Bieber," he says, the warmth in the nickname makes your stomach flip.

He's walking back toward his apartment door, and you're standing once again, your face heating in an inexorable crawl. You wait until his footsteps fade before you scurry back to your door, slip inside, and press your back against the wood. The television is still playing, some contestant weeping over a collapsed trompe-l'oeil. You stare at the screen, unseeing.

Bieber.

You look down at the faded face on your shirt, at your bare legs, at the utter mess of your appearance, and you press the heels of your palms into your eyes like the day before. You're still standing with your back against the door, willing your face to return to a normal temperature, when the knock comes.

Three sharp raps.

Your entire body goes still. The television babbles on, oblivious, as you press your eye to the peephole. Jake. Of course. He's standing there, hands in his pockets, looking down at the floor, he's waiting for something. He's changed into a gray sweatshirt, hood down, hair slightly mussed. You don't open the door. You can't, not after what he just witnessed. Not with this shirt still on.

"What?" you call through the wood, and your voice comes out higher, strained.

"Y/N," His voice is muffled but clear. "I know you're in there."

"I'm not opening the door."

A pause. "I'm not asking you to."

"Why are you here then?"

He pauses again. You can hear him shift his weight. "I just wanted to say—" He stops, and you imagine him running a hand through his hair, figuring out how to phrase something. "The shirt. I really like it."

You press your forehead against the door. "You're lying."

"I'm not. I had that exact one in middle school and I wore it until the print started peeling off."

"That doesn't make it better."

"Maybe not." His voice carries a smile, you can hear it, the slight lift in the vowels. "I thought you should know, though. That's all."

You stay silent, unsure how to answer. The pause settles in, comfortable rather than tense, and you notice he isn’t hurrying to fill it.

"Anyways," he says finally, "goodnight, Y/N."

You hear footsteps, receding. You wait until the sound fades completely before you let out a breath you were holding deeply. Your reflection stares back at you from the peephole's warped glass, only a blur of color, but you can feel the heat still lingering in your cheeks. You push off from the door, walk back to the couch, and collapse into the cushions. The reality show contestants are still crying about pastries. You look down at Justin Bieber's faded face. At the cracked screen print and the worn collar.

He had this exact one in middle school, what a coincidence.

You pull the hem of the shirt, stretch it, let it snap back. A small, involuntary sound escapes your throat. It might be a laugh or anything else. You grab your phone, open your messages, and type out a single line to Jungwon.

Y/N [11:52 PM]

I think I'm in trouble.

But you delete it, toss the phone aside, and stare at the ceiling until your heartbeat settles to normal again.

It takes a while.

─────────

The morning came faster than you thought. You grab the umbrella on your way out ; the same flimsy black one that started this whole foolish chain of events ; and stop by the coffee shop before your shift. The barista barely glances up as you set it on the counter.

"Thanks," you say. "For letting me borrow it."

She waves a hand, already reaching for a pitcher of milk. "Keep it next time. We've got a whole graveyard of those things in the back."

You almost tell her there won't be a next time, yet the words feel like tempting fate, so you just nod and head out.

The elderly home is already rumbling when you arrive. Hanni greets you with a coffee cup thrust into your hands and a breathless update about Mr. Eom's missing dentures. You take a sip, let the caffeine do its work, and fall into the cadence of the morning.

By early afternoon, the sun is actually warm enough to justify a walk. You round up three residents ; Mrs. Han, who's having a good day and remembers your name, Mr. Chen, who doesn't say much but mumbles tunelessly under his breath and Jacob, who offered you the fake acorn. He's wearing a different cardigan today, mustard yellow, and he keeps patting his pockets like he's checking for something. The path behind the building winds through a small garden, past benches and bird feeders and a sad little fountain that hasn't worked in years. You walk slowly, matching their pace, letting Mrs. Han point out flowers she's identified incorrectly and pretending to take Jacob's commentary seriously.

It's peaceful, nearly meditative. A moment like this makes you wonder if this new life really is as bad as you thought.

Abruptly, a dog comes out of nowhere. A golden retriever ; young, gangly, all oversized paws and manic energy ; bounds across the grass with the focus of a missile. It's not aggressive and not even barking. It's excited, and its excitement is directed straight at Jacob, who is the slowest-moving, most startle-prone member of your little group. The dog lunges up before you can react, front paws slamming into Jacob’s chest. He rocks back, arms windmilling, then drops in a slow heap, feeling like it’s happening in two conflicting speeds at once.

"Jacob!" You're at his side in an instant, dropping to your knees, hands hovering unevenly. "Are you okay? Did you hit your head?"

Jacob blinks up at you, more confused than pained. His glasses are askew. "I dropped my acorn," he says.

"I'll find it. Just—stay still. Tell me if anything hurts."

A voice cuts through the chaos, alert and breathless. "Oh god—I'm so sorry—"

You look up. Jake is sprinting toward you, the dog's leash trailing behind him like a forgotten flag. He's in work clothes ; a navy polo with the shelter's logo, dirt smudged on his forearm ; and his face is veiled with unguarded panic.

The dog, oblivious, is now trying to lick Jacob's ear.

"Leo, down!" Jake grabs the dog's collar, hauls him back with a firm yet gentle tug. "I am so, so sorry. He got loose—I was just bringing him out for a walk and he saw the—are you okay? Is he okay?"

You're already helping Jacob sit up, checking his wrists, his neck, the back of his head. No swelling or bleeding. He's still patting his pockets for the acorn.

"He's fine," you say, your voice flat. "He's just disoriented."

"Thank god." Jake exhales, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. "I really am—I should have had a better grip on the leash. He's young, he's still learning, but that's not an excuse—"

"You're right." You stand, brushing grass from your knees. "It's not."

The silence that follows is stiffling. Mrs. Han is watching with curious eyes, Mr. Chen has stopped mumbling, and Leo is now sitting at Jake's feet, tail excitedly wagging. You turn to Jake fully. "You work at a shelter. You know how unpredictable dogs can be. Especially around elderly people. One wrong jump, one fall, and it's a broken bone or a concussion. That could actually hurt someone."

Jake meets your gaze without a trace of defensiveness or excuses. He simply nods slowly, his jaw tightening in restraint. "You're right," he says. "I wasn't careful enough. I got distracted, and I let him pull ahead, and I should have anticipated that this could happen." He glances at Jacob, who is now patting Leo's head with a delighted smile. "I'm really glad he's okay. And I'm sorry you had to deal with that."

The words settle with an unexpected weight, disarming you. You were ready for deflection, for something casual and rehearsed. Regardless, he stays still, accepting it without trying to cushion the blow.

You let out a breath. The adrenaline is fading, leaving behind a shaky residue. "Be more careful," you say, and your voice is quieter now. "Please."

"I will." He holds your gaze for another beat, and crouches down to Jacob's level. "Hey, sir. That was my dog. He's really sorry. Are you okay?"

Jacob looks at him, then at Leo before his gaze goes back at his empty palm. "I lost my acorn," he says, there's a note of genuine distress in his voice. Jake doesn't miss a beat. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small smooth stone and presses it into Jacob's hand. "Here. I found this, it must've been yours."

Jacob stares at it. His face splits into a wide, gap-toothed smile. "Thank you," he says, and clutches it like treasure.

You watch it unfold, something uneasy tightening in your chest. Jake stands and meets your gaze again. A flash crosses his face ; rueful, or closer to hope. "I'll make sure he's more secured next time," Jake says, nodding toward Leo. "And if there's anything I can do—"

"There isn't," you say, but the sharpness has gone from your voice. "But still...keep a closer eye on him."

"Always." He turns and walks back toward the path, Leo trotting obediently at his heel. You watch him go, the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, how he glances back once before rounding the corner.

Mrs. Han sidles up to you. "He's cute," she states. "The boy. Not the dog."

You open your mouth, not a sound escaping your mouth. You try again.

"Mrs. Han," you say, "you're supposed to be on my side."

"I am on your side," she says, patting your arm. "That's why I'm telling you."

You help Jacob to his feet, find his acorn in the grass, and start the slow walk back to the building. Your thoughts drift elsewhere, replaying Jake crouching down to Jacob’s level, finding the stone without hesitation, saying 'I will' like he truly meant it.

You shake your head, focus on the path ahead.

After you end your shift, you walk back to your apartment. The sky has gone hazy, and you keep your hands in your pockets, replaying the afternoon in fragments. You unlock your door, kick off your shoes, and collapse onto the couch. The television is still on from last night. You turn it off, let the silence settle.

You decide to pull out your phone and call Jungwon. He picks up, but the background noise is a wall of bass and overlapping voices. You can hear a bunch of voice shouting "CHUG CHUG CHUG!!!" and loud cheers. You hear a door slam, the noise muffles.

"Y/N?" His voice is slightly breathless. "Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," you say, and you mean it. "I just wanted to check in. You sound busy, though."

"I'm at a mixer party with my house and sororities. It's loud so I stepped outside." He stops for a second. "Are you sure you're okay? You never call this late."

"Late? It's like seven."

"Yeah. You're usually asleep by now."

You fairly laugh. "I've been more awake lately. I had a long day."

"Tell me about it."

So you do. You tell him about everything. You don't want to mention Jake.

"You sound good," Jungwon says when you finish. " Really good. Not just saying you're good."

"I think I am," you say, the words surprise you with their honesty.

"That's all I needed to hear." There's a muffled shout from behind him, someone calling his name. "I should get back. But call me anytime, okay? Even if it's just to complain about old people and dogs."

"Old people and dogs. The two pillars of my existence now."

"Don't let the dogs jump on you," he mentions, you can hear the smile in his voice.

"I won't. Have fun at your party."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

The line goes dead. You hold the phone for a moment before setting it aside, letting the quiet wrap around you. You stand, stretch, and gather your clothes for a shower, a clean towel, a change of underwear, the softest pair of sweatpants you own. You pad toward the bathroom, already anticipating the hot water, the steam, and the small escape from your own head.

You're two steps from the bathroom door when the lights flicker.

Once. Twice. It dies.

The apartment plunges into absolute darkness. No sound from the refrigerator, no glow from the microwave clock, just black, thick and total. You stand there, motionless, one hand gripping your towel, the other reaching for the wall. You feel along the switch, flick it up and down. There's nothing.

You step to the window to peer out. The streetlights are on. The building across the way is lit, warm rectangles of gold in every window. The coffee shop's neon sign still glows. You check your phone to see your battery at 60%. You switch on the flashlight, sweep it across the room. So it's only your apartment. The refrigerator is dead. The outlets are dead. The overhead light, the bathroom ; all dead. You flip the circuit breaker in the tiny panel by the door. Shit. You try the main switch. Nothing.

You stand there in the beam of your phone, your reflection ghostly in the dark window glass, wearing that stupid Justin Bieber shirt and holding a bundle of clean clothes, and you realize you have no flashlight, no candles, and mostly, no backup plan.

The silence presses in. 9C. A certain neighbor who might have a working outlet and a willingness to share. A part of you notes, almost critically, that this would be the kind of contrived convenience you’d hate in a book.

You sigh, grab your keys, and head for the door.

The hour stretches like taffy. You've tried the circuit breaker three times, called the landlord four times, and texted him twice, giving you no results. The voicemail picks up on the first ring, a generic recording without a name. You sit next to your door and consider your options. There's a motel two blocks away. There's the coffee shop, but they close in fifteen minutes. It got to be a joke.

And there's the door at the end of the hallway.

You pace. You argue with yourself. You list all the reasons this is a terrible idea ; all the incidents that happened and degraded your confidence, the fact that you've known this man for approximately forty-eight hours and he's already seen you at your most unguarded multiple times. But the need for a shower wins. You smell like old people and grass, with the sublte tang of anxiety sweat. You can't go to work like this tomorrow and you can't sleep like this tonight. So you put on a pair of shorts ; the longest ones you own ; and a different shirt, and you walk toward his door with the weight of your own dignity dragging behind you.

His door is at the end of the hall. You knock before you can talk yourself out of it. The door swings open. Jake stands there in a faded gray t-shirt and sweatpants, hair slightly damp, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. He's holding a half-eaten apple. His eyes land on you. Travel down to your shorts, back up to your face.

His mouth curves into a smile so wide, so unapologetically amused, that you feel it like a punch right in your guts.

"Bieber," he says. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Don't call me that." The words come out weak, deflated. "My power's out. The landlord won't answer and I absolutely need a shower."

He takes a bite of his apple. He chews slowly, considers you.

"Just the shower," you add, and you can hear how defensive you sound, how utterly transparent.

"I didn't say anything." He steps back, holds the door open. "Come in."

His apartment is small too, but lived-in. A couch with a blanket draped over the back. A stack of books on the coffee table. A guitar propped in the corner. The kitchen is visible from the living room, dishes drying on a rack, a pot of something that smells like garlic and tomatoes simmering on the stove. "Bathroom's down the hall, second door on the left," he says, pointing with the apple still in hands. "Towels are in the cabinet. Use whatever you need."

"Thanks." You pause at the threshold, suddenly aware of the absurdity of this. "I'll be quick."

"Take your time." That smile again, softer now. "I'll keep the apartment from burning down while you're in there."

You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling. Hot water, steady pressure, a luxurious flow that makes you forget every indignity that led you here. You stand under the spray as long as you can, letting it beat against your shoulders, your neck, the tension you've been carrying since yesterday. When you finally step out, wrapped in a towel, you catch your reflection in the mirror. Wet hair and pink cheeks. A stupid smile that you can't suppress.

Stop it. You wipe the steam from the mirror, and that's when you notice it. On the edge of the sink, next to a half-empty bottle of cologne, is a keychain. A small, plastic orange. Slightly faded, the paint worn at the edges.

Your breath catches. You have that exact same keychain. It's been on your keys for as long as you can remember. Well, as long as your memory goes back, which is not even a year. It's one of the few objects that survived the move, one of the small constants in the fog of your past.

You pick it up and turn it over. It's identical, even the little chip in the paint near the stem matches. You stare at it for a long moment. You dress quickly, step out into the hallway, and find Jake in the kitchen, stirring the pot on the stove. "Everything okay?" he asks without turning.

"Where did you get this?" You hold up the keychain.

He turns and sees it. For an instant, his expression falters into recognition before it smooths itself back into neutrality. "Oh, that." He sets down the spoon, wipes his hands on his sweatpants. "I found it, actually. A few years ago, on the street, I think. I kept it because—" He pauses, and you notice the way his eyes shift, slightly, like he's rearranging words in his head. "It reminded me of something. I don't know. I just liked it."

The explanation comes out too smooth and too rehearsed. You're wondering if he's said it before, practiced it, polished it until it sounded natural. You're not even sure why, something about how he said it, but you don't have the energy to interrogate right now. "Funny," you say, pocketing your own keys, where your matching orange dangles. "I have the same one."

He looks at you. You feel like you're standing on the edge of a cliff, for a jump you're not ready for.

"That is funny," he says, and his voice is softer now, almost distant. "Small world."

You nod, not trusting your voice. The moment stretches, fragile, and you're the one who breaks it. "I should go. Thanks for the shower."

"Anytime." He walks you to the door, and the teasing smile has returned. "If the power's still out tomorrow, you know where to find me."

"Bold of you to assume I'll survive that long."

"I have faith in you."

You roll your eyes, yet you're smiling as you step into the hallway. The door clicks shut behind you. You stand there for a moment, your keychain warm in your palm, and wonder what exactly you've just walked into. It's probably nothing, you tell yourself.

Oh it's definitely something.

─────────

A few days pass, you're unpacking one box at a time, learning where the light switches are without having to think about it, catching the same bus at the same time each morning until the driver starts to nod at you like an old acquaintance.

You see Jake in the hallways more often than coincidence should allow. Tuesday morning, you're leaving for work and he's coming back from a run, sweaty and out of breath, and he raises a hand in greeting without breaking stride. Fuck he's hot.

Wednesday evening, you're carrying a bag of groceries and he's hauling a bag of dog food toward the elevator, and you end up walking side by side without discussing it. Thursday, you don't see him at all, and you catch yourself checking the peephole before bed like a woman waiting for something she won't admit to wanting.

Friday arrives with gray skies and the particular exhaustion of a full week. You've just changed into sweatpants.

Three taps. You know who it is before you look. Jake is standing in the hallway wearing a knitted sweater and he's holding his keys in his hand. He looks different at night ; softer, somehow. The hard angles of his jaw blurred by the low light.

"I'm heading to the convenience store," he announces.

You lean against the doorframe. "It's eight o'clock."

"I'm aware. That's why I said convenience store and not, like, a sit-down restaurant." He jingles his keys. "You want to come?"

You hesitate for a second too long, and he catches it. His expression shifts into something hesitant. "For the accident," he adds. "Last week, with Jacob. I've been meaning to…I don't know. Make up for it, in a small way. This is the small way."

"You're making up for catastrophe with a trip to 7-Eleven?"

"Don't call it that. I'd rather call it a restitution." He pauses. "Also they have those frozen slushies that turn your tongue blue, and I don't want to drink one alone because that feels sad even by my standards."

You look down at your sweatpants. "Give me two minutes," you say.

"You look fine."

"I know I look fine. I want to look like I didn't just spend an hour lying on my floor thinking about nothing."

He blinks. "That's—"

"Two minutes." You close the door and change into jeans. You don't know why. It's just the convenience store after all. Although you put on real pants anyway, and you run your fingers through your hair, and when you open the door again, he's still standing there, checking his phone. "Cute," he says, not looking up.

"Shut up."

The walk is short ; five blocks, past the coffee shop with the broken umbrellas, past a laundromat, and past a house with a porch light that flickers like it's sending morse code. The air is cold enough to see your breath, and Jake walks on the street side of the sidewalk without making a thing out of it.

You two arrive at the convenience store, with the buzzing lights overhead. A bell dings when you walk in. The guy behind the counter is watching a small TV mounted in the corner, some sports game apparently.

You grab a basket and Jake grabs another. "This is a competition now," he says.

"It's always been a competition."

The snack aisle is narrow, forcing you to stand closer than necessary. You reach for a bag of chips. He reaches for the same bag. Your hands collide, and he lets you take it without a fight, which is suspicious. "You're being nice," you say.

"What do you mean? I'm always nice."

"No but, like, you're being strategically nice."

He grins. It's crooked and quick, making your chest tighten. "I just want you to let your guard down so I can steal the last bag of sour stripes."

"I don't even like sour stripes."

"Everyone likes sour stripes. That's like saying you don't like breathing."

You move down the aisle, scanning the shelves. Your fingers hover over a bag of shrimp crackers ; the spicy kind, bright red packaging, which Jungwon used to make fun of you for buying in bulk. You reach for them at the same time he does. "These," he says, pushing the bag toward you. "Get these."

"I was going to."

"They're your favorite, right?"

You stop. Your hand freezes over the bag. "I didn't tell you that."

He's already looking at the next shelf, picking up a pack of chocolate cookies, turning it over to read the nutrition facts. His expression doesn't change. His voice is casual, almost bored. "Everyone likes spicy shrimp crackers," he says. "It's not some niche preference. It's a classic. Like salt and vinegar. Or barbecue."

"That's not—"

"I'm getting these," he interrupts, holding up the cookies. "You want a drink? They have that weird melon soda. Everyone says that it tastes like liquid gummy bear."

You stare at the back of his head in confusion. He's walking toward the drink cooler, shoulders relaxed, like the conversation is already over. You grab the shrimp crackers and follow him.

The park is two blocks from your building, a small wedge of grass with three benches and a set of swings that face a community garden. The swings are old, their chains rusty, seats scratched with names and dates, but they hold your weight when you sit. Jake takes the swing next to yours. The plastic bags dangle from his wrist, crinkling every time he moves. You've split everything down the middle ; your shrimp crackers, his chocolate cookies, two bottles of the melon soda, a shared bag of sour striped that he claimed were for everyone, still you've noticed he keeps eating.

The soda fizzes when you open it. The park is empty except for the two of you and a cat sitting on a bench across the grass, watching like it's waiting for something to happen. You swing a little, just enough to rock. The chains squeak.

"My brother," you say, because the silence feels good but you want to fill it anyway. "He's the reason I moved here. Not because he lives here—he doesn't. He lives like four hours away. He helped me find the apartment and with all the packing."

Jake doesn't say anything. He's unwrapping a chocolate cookie, breaking it in half.

"He's in college now," you continue. "Fraternity guy, and he’s so serious about it, which is funny because he's also the least intimidating person I've ever met. Once he cried because I didn’t want to go with him at the dentist."

"That’s cute."

"He's sensitive." You shrug. "He'd kill me if he knew I was telling you this."

"I won't tell."

The cat on the bench yawns. The swings creak. You take a sip of your melon soda and watch the clouds move past the streetlights.

"Jungwon," Jake says.

You almost choke.

"What?"

"Your brother." He's looking at his hands, turning the cookie over and over. "His name. You said it. Jungwon."

You frown. Your brain backtracks through the last thirty seconds, replaying your own words. You definitely didn't say his name. You've been careful about that by habit. Jungwon is precious to you. His name is something you keep close, like a photo in a wallet. "I didn't say his name," you say slowly.

His chewing stops. His throat moves as he swallows. The openness on his face is convincing enough to pass for genuine, if not for the faint impression that he's worn it many times before.

"You didn't?"

"No."

"Huh." He dusts cookie crumbs off his fingers. "Maybe I heard it wrong, or you mentioned it before and I remembered. I don't know."

"I've never mentioned his name."

The silence stretches. The cat on the bench stands up, circles once, lies back down. He sets the cookie down on the plastic bag between you. He wipes his hands on his jeans. For a moment, he looks like he's going to say something else that might explain the way he looked at you that first night on the steps, like he was trying to place you.

His shoulders drop. "He came by," he declares. "Before you moved in. Your brother, Jungwon." He says the name carefully, testing each syllable. "He was checking out the building and making sure the landlord wasn't sketchy. I ran into him in the hallway."

You stare at him.

"He asked me about the neighborhood," Jake continues. "Whether it was safe. Whether people were friendly, and all that stuff." A small smile, almost self-deprecating. "I think he was doing a background check on all the tenants."

"That sounds like him."

"Yeah." He picks up his soda to take a long drink. "He mentioned you, and that you were moving in. I remembered."

It fits, it’s plausible. Jungwon would absolutely do something like that ; interview strangers in hallways, gather informations, build a mental map of everyone who might cross your path. He's been doing it since you were kids, since before the accident, before you forgot a quarter your life.

Nonetheless, something about how Jake tells it feels off. The words are right and the timing is too. Yet, his hands are still, and his hands are never still on the daily basis. He's always tapping or fidgeting or running his fingers through his hair, and right now, sitting on this swing in the dark, he's perfectly motionless. You want to push further. There's something in the back of your mind, a nagging feeling that you couldn’t put a finger on. You can’t, the evening is too nice, and he's bought you snacks. You let it go.

"Small world," you say, echoing his words from the night when you took a shower at his place.

"Small world," he agrees.

─────────

You walk into the elderly home with your hair still damp and the taste of the spicy shrimp crackers lingering at the back of your throat. Hanni's already at the nurses' station, flipping through a clipboard with focus, she’s been here for hours. "You look less dead than yesterday," she says without looking up. "That's progress."

"I slept." You hang your jacket on the hook and grab your name tag. "Almost eight hours. Uninterrupted."

"Must be the neighborhood atmosphere." She finally glances at you, there's a knowing tilt to her mouth. "Or something else."

You ignore that last part. The morning unfolds like every other morning ; the slow parade of residents who need help finding their glasses or their dentures or their way back to their rooms. Mrs. Han asks you three times if you've met her son, and you say yes each time, and each time she looks satisfied and moves on. You're in the common room, helping Mr. Chen with a puzzle he's been working on for weeks, when your gaze drifts toward the window. The street outside is quiet, the morning light still pale and thin. And there, on the other side, is Jake. Can he not look hot for just one day?

He's walking three dogs at once ; a golden retriever, a wiry terrier, and a bulldog that seems to be leading the pack. The leashes cross and uncross as the dogs weave around each other, and Jake's holding them with the practiced looseness of someone who's done this a hundred times. He's wearing a worn denim jacket and a few strands of hair are falling on his face, and when he glances up and spots you through the glass, his whole face shifts. He lifts his free hand to give you a small wave, fingers wiggling. You wave back, your brain couldn’t catch.

The bulldog tugs him forward and he's gone, swallowed by the next block. You turn back to the room. Hanni's standing beside you, arms crossed, watching the empty street with an ambiguous expression plastered on her face. "That’s him?" she asks.

"Yeah."

She hums in a considering sound. "He's fucking hot."

You snort, but it comes out wrong, sounding a bit too defensive. "Yeah. He knows it too, I think."

"He doesn't seem like the type who knows it." She shrugs, uncrossing her arms. "He's unaware of his own face."

You don't respond. You're already looking back at the window, though he's long gone. "His nose," you say, the words stumbling right out of your head. "That's the thing. I can't—" You stop yourself, shake your head. "It's nothing."

Hanni could only nod, she understands and hands you a stack of folded towels. "Focus on the towels," she says. "The nose can wait."

You take the towels and get back to work. The image of him across the street stays with you for the rest of the shift.

The sidewalk cracks under your feet as you walk, the sky a pale gray that threatens nothing in particular, hopefully not rain. You pull out your phone, scroll to Jungwon's contact, and press call. He picks up after some time, which means he's either not busy or he's avoiding something.

"What’s up?" he says. "You're calling at a normal time. That's kind of suspicious."

"I'm walking home from work and I thought I'd fill the silence."

"Fill away."

As you ramble on everything, you don’t allow yourself to bring up Jake yet.

"Sounds like you're settling in," Jungwon says. "That's really good, Y/N."

"Yeah." You kick a pebble off the curb. "It's weird, though. Sometimes I forget I'm supposed to be starting over. It just feels like—I don't know. Like I've been here longer."

"You have been there longer. In a way." His voice drops, careful. "You lived there before. Remember?"

You stop walking. A car passes, its headlights cutting through the dusk. You do remember—fragments, not really. The knowledge that you'd been in this city before the accident and the three-year gap in your memory. You'd chosen to come back because something about it felt familiar, even if you couldn't know why.

"Yeah," you say. "I keep forgetting that part."

Silence on his end. You start walking again. "There's this guy," you say carelessly, and you already regret it. "In my building. His name is Jake. We keep running into each other."

"What kind of running into?"

"Literally and figuratively. He nearly killed one of the old folk at my work. Long story." You suddenly pause. "He has this orange keychain. The same one I have. You know, the little fruit thing on my keys."

You can hear him breathing, he's seems like measuring his response. "That's weird," he says. "That's a weird coincidence."

"Yeah, I know." You wait for him to say more but he doesn't. "He also said he met you when you came to check out the apartment before I moved in. You talked in the hallway, isn’t it?"

"I did talk to someone. I don't remember his name, though."

"Jake," you repeat. "You don't remember him?"

"Lot of people in that building. I was there for like an hour." He laughs but it sounds flat. "Why are you asking?"

You don't know why you're asking. The question hangs there, unanswered, as you round the corner and your building comes into view. "Pure curiosity," you say. "He's nice. We went to the convenience store last night."

"The convenience store at night. Like a date?"

"Not a date, it was an apology. His dog knocked over an old man at my work."

Jungwon is quiet for a beat before talking again. "Don’t tell me that you like him."

"It's not like that."

"It's exactly like that. I can hear it in your voice."

You stop at the front door of your building, hand on the handle. It’s cool under your palm. "I don't even know him. We've talked, like, four times."

"And you're already calling him by name. That's more than you do with most people."

You leave the question unanswered. The door opens, and the smell of aged carpet and lingering cooking oil greets you before anything else. "I'll talk to you later," you say.

"Okay. But Y/N—"

"What?"

"Be careful, okay? Just—" He stops. "Just be careful with yourself. You're still figuring things out. I love you."

"I know. Love you too." You hang up and stand in the foyer, phone warm in your hand. The hallway stretches ahead, empty and quiet as usual. You climb the stairs slowly instead of taking the elevator, each step slow. What is happening? Something doesn't add up.

─────────

The banging comes from somewhere down the hall. Sharp and insistent, the sound of a fist against wood or maybe a shoulder against a frame. You freeze mid-step, your keys still in the lock, heart lurching into your throat. The apartment building is usually calm at this hour with the muffled sound of someone's guitar upstairs or television, but nothing like this.

You press your eye to the peephole but the angle is wrong, the fish-eye view showing only the empty stretch of hallway directly outside your door. The banging continues, punctuated by a voice. It’s raised, female, too muffled to make out words but carrying an obvious edge of distress.

The smart move would be staying inside, lock the door, call 911 and wait it out. The sound carries a note of despair that makes you pause. Your mind drifts to the building's elderly residents and the possibility that someone is in trouble. Before the thought has time to settle, you're unlocking the door and pulling it open.

You step into the hallway.

Jake is there, about twenty feet down, his back half-turned to you. A woman stands in front of him, her posture stiff, her hands gesturing in jagged movements. She's undeniably pretty ; dark hair pulled back, a denim jacket, boots that look expensive. Her face is flushed, and even from here you can see the tension in her jaw. "It's not fair," she's saying, her voice cracking. "You can't just—I've been trying for months, Jake. Months. And you just—"

"Luna." Jake's voice is low, placating, his hands raised in that universal gesture of de-escalation. "I've told you. It's not like that. I'm not—"

She scoffs, loud and bitter. "Not what? Not interested? You've made that fucking clear."

You're frozen in the doorway, unsure whether to retreat or announce your presence. The woman's head snaps toward you, her eyes widening for a split second before narrowing.

"Oh," she says, the word dripping with annoyance. Her eyes scan you for approximately 5 seconds. "Great. She’s back." She brushes past you without another word, her shoulder colliding with yours hard enough to make you stumble back a step. The elevator doors close behind her, and it's just you and Jake in the hallway now. He's still standing there, hands lowered now, his face a mingle of exhaustion and embarrassment. He runs a palm over his jaw, lets out a long breath.

She's back. What?

"That," he says, "was not how I wanted you to meet my coworker."

You blink at him. "Coworker?"

"Luna." He points loosely toward the elevator. "She works at the shelter with me. We've known each other since we were kids."

You lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms. "She seemed upset."

"She's been upset for a while." He rubs the back of his neck. "She's had a thing for me. For years. And I keep telling her I don't feel that way, but she doesn't—" He exhales again. "She doesn't take it well."

You raise an eyebrow. "So she followed you home and banged on your door?"

"She showed up unannounced. I was trying to calm her down. She's not a bad person, she just—" He hesitates, searching for the right words. "She's stubborn, and she doesn't like hearing no."

You study him. His shoulders are still tense, his hands are shoved deep into his pockets. He looks genuinely rattled, not like someone who's been caught in a lie. "Childhood friends," you repeat. "she's been flirting with you, and you felt bad for her."

"First, I’m not flirting with her and I’m not planning on it. I felt bad because I know she's lonely. She's been through some stuff. But I can't—" He looks at you, his expression transforming invisibly. "I can't give her what she wants. It wouldn't be fair to her. Or to anyone else."

"I’ve never seen you so flustered," you declare softly. He huffs a laugh, short and breathy. "Yeah, well. You bring out the best in me."

You push off from the doorframe. "She seems like she'll be fine."

"She'll be fine. She always is." He pauses. "Thanks for not assuming the worst."

"I assumed the worst," you admit. " A girlfriend and an angry breakup."

"Not a girlfriend," he says. "Not even close."

You nod, and the moment stretches between you, comfortable but charged. "Goodnight then, Jake."

"Sleep tight, Y/N."

You close the door behind you and lean against it, listening to his footsteps retreat down the hall.

Not a girlfriend. Is he lying?

You don't know why that detail settles in your mind the way it does. You’d rather sleep it away.

─────────

You're coming back from a late shift, leaving your feet sore and your brain half-fogged, when you round the corner to your floor and find the hallway occupied. Four of them, clustered around Jake's door like they're waiting for someone to let them in. You recognize Jake immediately ; he's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, laughing at something one of the others said. The other three are strangers, but they have that easy familiarity with each other, displaying years of friendship.

Jake spots you first. His face shifts, the laugh settling into a smile that's more reserved but no less warm. "Y/N," he says. "You're back late."

"There was a lot of work to do." You slow your pace, your keys already in hand. "I wasn't expecting to see a lot of people today."

One of the strangers ; tall with sharp features and a casual slouch ; he steps forward, extending a hand. "Jay. I've heard about you."

"Good things, I hope."

"Debatable." The one next to him grins, softer, with eyes that crinkle at the corners. "I'm Heeseung. This is Sunghoon, and that's Jenna, his girlfriend."

Jenna waves from where she's tucked under Sunghoon's arm. She has a face that immediately puts you at ease, round and open and curious.

"We were about to have a drink," Jake announces. "You want to join?"

You hesitate. The exhaustion is tugging at your limbs, but the alternative is your empty apartment and the leftover convenience store chips you've been picking at for days. "Sure," you say. "Why not."

His apartment is the same as before, but with four extra bodies it feels smaller, more alive. Jay immediately claims the couch, sprawling like he owns it. Heeseung perches on the armrest. Sunghoon and Jenna take the floor, backs against the coffee table, and Jake gestures for you to take the single chair by the window.

"Drinks are in the kitchen," he says. "Help yourself."

You grab something from the fridge ; a cheap beer, nothing fancy ; and settle into the chair. The conversation flows around you, natural and unforced, as they talk about work and mutual friends and an inside joke about the shelter.

After two or three drinks, someone suggests a game. "Chug or dare," Jay announces, the glint in his eye makes you immediately suspicious. "You know the rules. Pick chug, you finish your drink. Pick dare, you do whatever we come up with. But you’re forbidden to back down."

"Really?" you say. "This is how you treat your guests?"

"Guests are the most fun," Heeseung says. "You're fresh meat."

Jake shoots them a warning look, veiled with exasperation. "You don't have to play. They're idiots."

"We’re not," Sunghoon protests. "Jake, it’s been years since we know each other. Don’t be surprised."

You look around the room. The faces watching you are expectant, amused, a little bit reckless. The knot in your chest loosens. "I’m in. I'm taking Jake down with me, though."

The first few rounds are tame. Heeseung chugs three times in a row and declares himself champion. Sunghoon dares Jay to do a handstand, which he fails spectacularly. Jenna picks dare and has to call her mom and tell her she loves her, which she does with zero hesitation and an extreme level of sincerity.

After that, the bottle lands on you. "Y/N," Jay says, rubbing his hands together. "Chug or dare?"

You weigh your options. Your drink is half-full. "Dare."

Jay leans forward, eyes glittering. "I dare you to tell us what you first thought when you saw Jake."

The room goes quiet. Jake's hand stops mid-reach for his bottle.

"That's not a dare," you say. "That's kind of embarrassing."

"It's the correct functionality of a dare." Heeseung is grinning now, too. "Answer the question."

You look at Jake. He's watching you with a curious expression.

"You want the honest answer?" you ask.

"Always."

"His nose." The words come out neutral. "I thought it was ridiculous how perfect it was. It’s like someone sculpted it. It's annoying, honestly."

A beat of silence. Then Jay doubles over, slapping his knee. Heeseung lets out a wheeze of a laugh. Sunghoon is covering his mouth, eyes wide. Jenna just shakes her head, grinning. Jake's face has gone slightly pink. He looks down at his bottle, then back at you, and his face softens. "That's not what I expected," he says.

"I had to be unpredictable."

The game continues. Jenna gets dared to chug and does it with ease. Sunghoon gets asked if he'd rather fight a bodybuilder or five horses, and he spends five minutes arguing the logistics. Heeseung picks chug three times in a row and is visibly struggling to stay upright, his ears turning bright pink.

It's Jake's turn. "Chug," he says immediately.

"Whoa, not too fast." Jay says. "You're not getting out of it that easy. I'm changing the rules. You have to pick dare."

"Since when can you change the rules?"

"Since I'm the one asking." Jay grins. "Dare : show us the most embarrassing thing on your phone."

Jake's eyes narrow. "I'm not doing that."

"Then you have to answer a question instead," Sunghoon offers. "From anyone in the room. You pick who."

Jake considers this. His gaze scans the room, passing over Jay and Heeseung, settling on you for a moment before moving to Jenna. "Jenna. Ask me anything."

Jenna tilts her head, thinking. "Why did you move back to this city?" The question lands differently than the others. The light atmosphere falters slightly. Jake's jaw tightens, and for a second you see an unguarded expression crossing his features.

"Personal reasons," he says. "I needed to be back here."

"That's vague," Heeseung notes.

"It's still an answer." Jake picks up his bottle. "I'm drinking now." He finishes his drink in one long swallow, and everyone lets it go.

The bottle spins again, lands on you. Jay's turn to ask. "Chug or dare?"

You're feeling the warmth of the alcohol now, loose and careless. "Dare."

"I dare you to kiss Jake."

The room goes dead quiet. You hear someone inhale sharply ; maybe Jenna or yourself. Jake's head snaps toward Jay, disbelief and uncertainty show on his features.

"Jay," he mumbles, his voice has an edge to it. "That's not—"

"Too late," Jay cuts him off. "She already picked. Rules are rules."

You look at Jake. He's sitting across from you, one arm draped over the back of the couch, his bottle dangling from his fingers. The light from the kitchen catches the lines of his face, the curve of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. That stupid, perfect nose. Lord, why would you make me cross paths with a guy that I obviously can’t have? He’s going to be fucking weirded out since I haven’t kiss a single soul in my entire life.

"I don't have to, right?" you say. "I can chug instead."

"You're not chugging." Jay's tone is firm. "That's not how the game works."

The silence lingers. Jake holds your gaze, his expression betraying him ; hesitation, or resolve masquerading as it. Whatever it is, it stays unspoken.

"Jake," you say, and your voice comes out steady. "What do you think?"

He studies you in silence for what feels like an eternity. Then he sets his bottle down with delicate care, rises, and slowly closes the distance between you. "Okay," he says lowly. "If you're okay with it."

You're not sure if you're okay with it. I mean, he’s hot for sure. You're lost right now, while his hand finds the back of your chair, he leans down, his breath is warm and smells faintly of beer. His lips brush your cheek. Soft, quick, almost unsure. It's not a kiss, not really ; it's the ghost of one, lingering just long enough to leave a hot mark. He straightens up and steps back. The room erupts into wolf-whistles and laughter.

"Cheater," Jay yells. "That's not a kiss."

"Mind you, those are my favorite kind." Jake says, and he's looking at you, not at Jay. You touch your cheek, where the warmth of his lips still lingers. Your face is burning, you're not sure if it's embarrassment or something else. "You're a coward," you say, your tone weak.

He smiles, slow and crooked. "You’re going to thank me later."

The game dissolves after that, the energy beginning to loosen, more rambling. Jenna falls asleep against Sunghoon's shoulder. Heeseung starts recounting a story about one of his high school exes. Jake moves to the floor, leaning against the couch, and you find yourself beside him, your shoulders almost touching. Your head starts to pound.

The game continues. The bottle spins, lands on Jay, then Heeseung, then Jenna. People chug or dare with increasing abandon, the alcohol loosening tongues and lowering inhibitions. Sunghoon admits he once cried while arguing with Jenna. You're on your fourth bottle, maybe your fifth. The edges of the room have gone soft and blurry, and you're laughing at something Heeseung said that you're not entirely sure was a joke. Your face feels warm, your limbs loose, and when you lean back against the couch, your shoulder brushes Jake's once again.

The bottle spins again to land on you. Jay's turn, because it's always Jay. "Y/N. Chug or dare?"

"Dare." You're feeling bold, the alcohol humming in your veins. Jay's grin is wicked. "I dare you to spend ten minutes locked in Jake's bedroom. Just the two of you, with no phones."

The room erupts. Sunghoon lets out a low whistle and Heeseung chuckles while nearly passing out on the couch.

Jake shifts beside you. "Okay, let’s stop here—"

"You cheated earlier," Jay cuts him off. "You’ll have to make up for that."

You glance at Jake. His expression gives nothing away, even though the tightness in his jaw wasn't there a moment ago. He watches you closely, waiting for your reaction.

"Ten minutes?" you say. "That's it?"

"That's it."

You stand, and the room tilts slightly. You steady yourself against the arm of the couch. "Fine."

Jake stands too, as hesitant as before. He leads you down the short hallway to his bedroom, and you hear the hoots and catcalls from the living room as the door clicks shut behind you.

The room is small and neat. A bed with rumpled sheets, a dresser with a lamp, a window overlooking the street. And on the nightstand, next to a half-empty glass of water, a photo frame turned face-down.

Jake leans against the door, arms crossed. "You don't have to do this. We can just sit here and wait it out."

"Where's the fun in that?" You're already wandering around, peering at books on the shelf, a guitar propped in the corner. Your eyes keep drifting back to the photo frame. You walk toward it, curiosity tugging at you. "What's this?"

Jake's body goes still. Before you can reach for it, he's there, his hand catching your wrist, turning you toward him. "No, please don’t," he says, and his voice is urgent.

"Why? Is it embarrassing?"

"Something like that."

You're close now, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, his pupils are dilated, there’s a slight sheen on his lower lip. The alcohol has made you bold and afraid of nothing.

"I want to see," you say.

He leans in for his lips find yours. The kiss is warm, lingering, carrying a soft urgency that feels almost like a plea. Even though you thought you had no experience in kissing, doing it with him nearly felt natural, as much as muscle memory. The world seems to melt around you. Your thoughts dissolve, and the photo frame slips from your mind as completely as if it had never been there. You stumble backward, your calves hitting the edge of the bed, and you fall onto the mattress, pulling him with you. He catches himself on his hands, hovering over you, but your legs are tangled and the momentum shifts and suddenly you're in his lap, straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips.

His hands find your waist, then slide down, settling on your butt. He squeezes, and you gasp against his mouth. He kisses you again, deeper and slower, his tongue brushing your lower lip. You arch into him, your fingers threading through his hair, and he groans, low and rough.

The kiss breaks for a moment, both of you breathing hard. He's looking up at you, his eyes pleading, his lips parted. "Y/N," he murmurs, your name sounds different in his mouth, sounding like it means something more.

You finally get the hang of it and you kiss him again. His hands tighten on your ass, pulling you closer, and you feel the heat of him through both your clothes. The world outside this room fades into static.

Ten minutes pass. Even longer than that.

You feel him shift beneath you, his hips rolling upward in a slow motion, sending a jolt through your entire body. His hands are still firm on your backside, guiding you, and you follow the movement without thinking, your own hips tilting to meet his.

The kiss breaks just long enough for you to gasp, and he takes the opportunity to press his mouth to your jaw, your neck, and the sensitive spot just below your ear. Your fingers tighten in his hair, and you feel the low vibration of a sound that might be his voice or yours, you can't really tell anymore.

He grinds up into you again, and you feel the full heat of him through the denim, the friction of it making your head spin. Your breath is coming in short, uneven bursts, and his is the same ; harsh and ragged against your skin. His hands slide up from your backside to your waist, then back down, pulling you closer, harder, like he's trying to fuse you to him. You're not sure who moves first, but suddenly you're both lying back on the bed, him beneath you, your legs still straddling his hips, the kiss deepening into something messier. His fingers find the hem of your shirt and slip beneath, grazing the bare skin of your lower back, and you shiver.

Someone bangs at the door. Insistent knocks on the bedroom door. Heeseung's voice, muffled but audible. "Time's up! Ten minutes are over! You're not dead, are you?"

You both stop in your tracks. Your foreheads almost touching, your breath mingling in the small space between. He laughs from half-exasperation and half-relief. He drops his head back against the pillow, and you feel the tension in his shoulders subtly ease.

"Ignore him," he says while he's already loosening his grip on your waist, giving you space to pull back. You sit up, your thighs still bracketing his hips, and run a hand through your tangled hair. Your face is burning. Your lips feel swollen. You're acutely aware of every point of contact between you.

"We should—" you start, yet you don't know how to finish the sentence.

"Yeah." He's watching you from beneath half-lidded eyes, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Heeseung bangs again. "I'm not leaving until you open the door! Jay's timing you!"

Jake groans without real frustration in it. He sits up slowly, his hands finding your waist and steadying you as you climb off his lap. You stand, smoothing down your shirt, and he gets to his feet, adjusting his jeans with casualness.

He opens the door.

Heeseung stands there, arms crossed, a triumphant grin on his face. "Took you long enough. What were you doing in there?"

Jake steps past him into the hallway. "Mind your own business."

You follow, keeping your eyes fixed on the floor, you catch Jenna's teasing glance and Jay's eyebrows have shot up past his hairline. You already have to resist the urge to hide behind Jake's shoulder.

"Drink," Heeseung says, shoving a fresh bottle into your hand. "You've earned it."

You take it carelessly. You stand there, feeling the phantom weight of Jake's hands on your waist, the lingering heat of his mouth on your neck. How the fuck am I going to face him after that?

Or any day after.

─────────

A week passes.

Seven days of routine, of work and sleep and the occasional text from Hanni about something absurd a resident did. You walk the same hallways, take the same elevator, pass the same doors. But you don't see Jake ; not in the corridor, not at the coffee shop and not on the street. It's like he's vanished into the walls of the building, existing only in the memory of that night ; the heat of his hands, the press of his mouth, and how your name rolled over his tongue in such a delicate way.

You tell yourself it doesn't matter, that it was just a game, just alcohol, just ten minutes in a locked room that somehow stretched into something you can't stop replaying. You tell yourself you're not looking for him when you walk past his door nor listening for his footsteps on the stairs.

You can’t even lie to yourself.

Jungwon arrives on Friday afternoon, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a grin that takes up half his face. He hugs you in the doorway, squeezing too tight, and you let him because you've missed him more than you realized.

"Damn. It’s smaller then I remember," he announces, dropping his bag on the floor. "Like, really small. How do you live here?"

"I manage."

"Barely, by the looks of it." He peers at the stack of boxes still in the corner, the ones you haven't touched since you moved in. "You haven't unpacked everything."

"I'm getting to it."

"Yeah, right."

The weekend unfolds. You take him to the park, to the coffee shop, to the elderly home to meet Hanni and Jacob and Mrs. Han. He charms everyone, that's what he does the best, and by the end of the first day he's already promised to visit again.

Sunday afternoon, you're walking back from the park, the sun warm on your shoulders. Jungwon is telling you about a girl in his sociology class, someone he's been dancing around for weeks, he met her that one mixer party, and you're listening with half your attention, the other half occupied by the streets and the weight of your keys in your pocket. You round the corner into your building's corridor.

No way.

Jake.

He's standing by his door, keys in hand, like he's just coming back from somewhere. He looks up as you approach, and for a moment, A subtle change passed over his face. His eyes lit with recognition, followed by a fleeting trace of relief that was quickly replaced by his usual impassive stance.

"Y/N," he says. "Hey."

"Hi."

Jungwon's gaze flickers between you, sharp and assessing. "You're Jake," he says, there's a weight to the words that makes you look at him. Jake's posture shifts, almost imperceptibly. "Yeah. And you're Jungwon."

"You remember me."

"I remember a lot of things." Jake's voice is calm, yet there's a tension in his jaw that wasn't there before. You look between them, suddenly aware that you're missing something. "You two already know each other. From before I moved in, right?"

"Briefly," Jungwon says, and the word is clipped. He turns to you, his expression softening. "Y/N, can you go inside? I want to talk to Jake for a minute."

"What? Why?"

"I—" He hesitates. "I'll explain later. Please."

You look at Jake. He's watching Jungwon with an expression you can't read, and when he meets your gaze, there's something almost apologetic in it.

"Please," Jungwon repeats.

You hesitate, the key in your hand feeling heavier than usual. Jungwon has never asked you for much, and the look on his face is earnest in a way you rarely see. "Fine," you say, and you don't miss the way both of them exhale just slightly. "You better tell me later."

You slip into your room and quietly shut the door behind you. Remaining still, you lean close until your ear rests against the wood, listening for the hushed conversation outside. Only faint murmurs reach you, too muffled to make out.

You stand in the middle of your apartment, staring at the closed door, your hand still resting on the handle. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, broken only by the distant sound of traffic from the street. You count the seconds, then the minutes, your mind spinning through possibilities you can't figure out.

When the door finally opens, Jungwon steps inside and closes it behind him with a soft click. He doesn't meet your eyes immediately, and his shoulders are set in an unusual way ; the tension he carries when something is bothering him but he doesn't want to talk about it.

"Everything okay?" you ask.

He runs a hand through his hair, exhales slowly. "Yeah, it’s fine. It was—" He stops, shakes his head. "He's a little weird. That's all."

"Weird how?"

"I don't know." He shrugs too quickly. "It’s just the way he talks. He sounds like he knows more than he's saying. It's probably nothing."

You study him. His jaw is tight, and there's a crease between his brows that he's trying to smooth away. You've known him your whole life, or at least the parts you remember, and you can tell when he's holding something back. "Jungwon." You keep your voice level. "What did you talk about?"

He moves past you toward the kitchen, opens the fridge, and stares inside with focus. "I just wanted to get a read on him and make sure he's not some weirdo who's going to cause problems for you."

"And?"

"And he's not." He pulls out a bottle of water, twists off the cap to take a long drink. "He seems fine. Genuine, even. I just—" He pauses and sets the bottle down. "I don't know. There's something about him that feels familiar, and I can't figure out what it is."

Your stomach tightens. "Familiar how?"

"I don't know." He says it again, more frustrated this time. "It's probably nothing. I'm probably just being overprotective."

The unease that's lingered since the moment you saw the keychain resurfaces with renewed force. Jake's searching gaze keeps replaying in your mind, refusing to be ignored. Questions crowd your thoughts, but one look at Jungwon's guarded expression tells you this isn't the time to press him. You know he'd only withdraw further.

"Okay," you say. "If you say it's nothing."

"It's nothing." He meets your eyes, something in his gaze that's almost pleading. "Drop it, okay? For now."

You nod, even though every instinct is telling you not to. He relaxes for a bit, and the moment passes. Something is happening. Something you don't understand. And you're starting to think that the answers might not be as simple as you hoped.

─────────

As the door shuts behind Jungwon, the apartment returns to its usual calm. You stand quietly, replaying the fragments of a conversation you were never meant to hear. Whatever Jake said has stayed with him, but his expression is firmly closed off.

You wander into the living room, grab your phone and scroll through notifications. A news alert catches your eye ; an article about the sequel to that movie you've been waiting for, the one you've watched half a dozen times since you moved. Your stomach drops as you read the date. The premiere was last week. You missed it.

You're already moving toward the door before you fully decide to go. Your shorts are fine. The hoodie is fine. It's just a movie, and the theater is only a few blocks away. You don't bother changing or checking your reflection. You grab your keys and step into the hallway.

Jake is at the elevator, walking out as you're heading down. He stops when he sees you, his gaze traveling over your outfit, the urgency in your stride.

"Whoa," he says. "Where's the fire?"

"Movie." You're already past him, one hand on the buttons. "The sequel to that film I've been waiting for. I missed the premiere. I'm trying to catch a showing."

He watches you for a beat, then his hand lands lightly on your arm, stopping you. "Wait. Which movie?"

You tell him the title. His eyebrows lift.

"I like that one too," he says. "I actually have it. The original, I mean. On my laptop. I downloaded the sequel the day it came out."

You blink at him. "You downloaded it?"

"Yeah. I was going to watch it tonight, actually." He drops his hand and shoves it into his pocket. "If you want, you could watch it with me, at my place. Instead of running to the theater in shorts."

The simplicity of his offer makes it harder to dismiss. You think about the movie theater and everything that comes with it, but those thoughts are quickly overshadowed by the past week without him, the lingering uncertainty between you, and the rush of your heartbeat. "That's not weird?" you ask. "Watching a movie with your neighbor you haven't talked to in a week?"

He shrugs, a small smile playing at his mouth. "It's a good movie. And I promise I won't talk during the quiet parts."

You consider it. The hallway is dark, the evening light filtering through the window at the end. He's standing there, patient, and waiting for your answer.

"Okay," you say. "I don’t want to share my snacks, though."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

You follow him to his door, your footsteps echoing in the hallway. His apartment is just as you remember it ; the guitar, the books, the soft warm lights. He gestures toward the couch while he grabs his laptop from the coffee table and plugs it to the TV. You settle into the cushions, pulling your knees up, the hoodie swallowing you. The screen lights up, the opening credits rolling. He sits at the other end of the couch, a respectful distance between you, and hits play.

The movie plays on, but neither of you is really watching anymore. The scenes blur into background noise, punctuated by your shared laughter at a line you both find cliché, a character you both hate, a moment that still makes you cringe after all these years. Between scenes, you talk ; about the original movie, about other films, about nothing at all ; and the space between you shrinks with each exchange.

You barely register the moment his arm comes to rest along the back of the couch. The small brush of his fingertips against your shoulder goes unnoticed too. It's only when his hand settles there, warm and reassuring, his thumb lazily drawing slow circles over your hoodie, that you become aware of just how close he is. The blanket is draped over both of you, a thin barrier against the cool air of the apartment. His other hand slips beneath it, finding your thigh, resting there with a casualness that feels anything but like it. You lean into him, your head drifting toward his shoulder, the conversation fading into comfortable silence.

The movie continues, although you can feel your eyes becoming heavy. The warmth of his hand on your thigh, the rhythm of his breathing, the low murmur of dialogue from the TV ; it all blends into a haze of contentment. Your eyelids droop, flutter, close.

"Y/N." His voice is soft, barely above a whisper. "You're falling asleep."

"Mmm." You don't open your eyes. "I know."

"Do you want to go back?"

The room stays quiet as his words linger. Beyond the door waits a dark hallway, an empty apartment, and a bed that has already gone cold. The image settles over you like a burden, leaving you with little desire to leave.

"I don't want to move," you murmur, the words slurred with sleep.

He's quiet for a moment before he decides to speak. "You could stay here if you want. I have an extra blanket, or—" He pauses. "The bed's big enough."

You lift your head, blinking at him. His face is so close, his eyes soft in the low light of the screen. There's no expectation in his expression, no pressure. It’s an offer.

"Okay," you say.

He stands, extends a hand, and pulls you gently to your feet. You both walk shortly to his bedroom. He pulls back the covers, and you slip in, the mattress dipping under your weight. He climbs in behind you, his arm finding your waist, pulling you close. His chest presses against your back, his legs tangling with yours, and you feel his breath warm against the curve of your neck.

"You smell so good," he murmurs, the words a low vibration against your skin.

You laugh, low and drowsy. "I haven't showered."

"Don't care." His nose brushes your hairline. "You always smell good."

His arm tightens around you, his hand splayed across your stomach. His lips press a soft, absent kiss to your shoulder, then another, barely there. "Your skin is so soft too," he confies, you can hear the smile in his voice. "I wanted to tell you that before. When you got out of the shower at my place, that first time. But I didn't want to be weird."

"You're being weird now," you mumble, but you're smiling too.

"Keep acting like you don’t like it." He nuzzles into your neck. "I'm okay with it."

You feel his hand slide from your stomach to your hip, his thumb tracing slow circles against the bone. His breath evens out, his body relaxing behind you, and you feel yourself sinking into the warmth of him.

"Jake," you say, barely audible.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for letting me stay."

He squeezes you gently, his lips pressing against your hair. "Anytime, Y/N."

Curled against his chest, you slowly surrender to sleep. His arm remains securely around you, its warmth grounding you until the last of your thoughts dissolve.

─────────

The sunlight filters through the curtains, and you blink awake slowly, your mind still thick with sleep. The bed is warm, the sheets tangled around your legs, however, the space beside you is empty. You reach out, your hand finding only cool fabric.

You lie there for a moment, orienting yourself. Jake's room. Jake's bed. The events of the night before trickle back in fragments. You check your phone on the nightstand. Saturday, 9:47 AM. Two days off stretching ahead of you, unplanned and open. You pad out of the bedroom, still in the oversized hoodie you wore last night, your hair a mess and your eyes half-opened. The smell of coffee hits you brutally. Jake is standing at the kitchen counter, a mug in one hand, his phone in the other. He's in a plain white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, his hair still sleep-tousled, and he looks up when he hears your footsteps.

"Morning," he says, his voice so soft and reassuring. "I didn't want to wake you. You looked comfortable."

"You're still here," you say, your voice scratchy. "Don't you have work?"

He shakes his head. "Day off. I figured I'd take it easy."

You close the distance without giving yourself time to hesitate. Slipping your arms around his waist from behind, you rest your cheek between his shoulder blades. Warmth radiates through him, and you feel his entire body go still beneath your embrace. He stays still. His breath barely catches, and you feel the tension ripple through his shoulders. After that, his hand comes down to rest over yours, his thumb brushing across your knuckles.

"Y/N," he says, and his voice is rougher than before. "You're going to make me drop my coffee."

"Put it down, then."

He does as you say. You hear the mug clink against the counter, and then he's turning in your arms, his hands finding your waist, his face close to yours. A flush is creeping up his neck, pink and noticeable, the sight of it makes thousands of sparks flicker in your stomach.

"You're blushing." you observe.

"I’m not," he says, his ears are red now, and he's not meeting your eyes. "I just wasn't expecting a hug. First thing in the morning. From someone who—" He stops, clears his throat. "Never mind."

"From someone who what?"

He finally looks at you, vulnerability filling his gaze completely. "From someone I really didn't want to wake up alone."

Words fail you, so you simply stay where you are. He pulls you into him, holding you with gentleness before resting his forehead against the top of your head. As he breathes in deeply, the strain he'd been carrying begins to slip away.

"Your hair smells like my shampoo," he mumbles into your hair.

"Your shampoo smells good."

"It's just generic stuff from the convenience store."

"Still smells good."

He laughs, soft and warm, and his arms tighten around you. "That sounded stupid, doesn’t it?"

You smile and chuckle against his chest. "A little bit."

You only eat eggs, toasts and drink coffee, but it feels like more than that. You sit across from him at his small kitchen table, the soft light of the sun landing on his face, and the conversation flows easily between bites.

He tells you about the shelter and problems that he had when he took care of a dog for the first time, and you do the same.

"It's a good job," you say, stirring your coffee. "Exhausting, but good. They make me laugh sometimes."

"They sound like characters."

"They are." You pause, watching him over the rim of your mug. "Can I ask you something personal?"

He looks up, a hint of wariness in his eyes, but he nods. "Sure."

"Why did you move back here? You said that night at the game—personal reasons. But you didn't elaborate."

He's quiet for a moment, his fork hovering over his plate. "I had some things to figure out," he says slowly. "Things I couldn't figure out anywhere else."

"Like what?"

He meets your gaze, something you can’t quite read passes across his face. "Like whether some things are worth coming back for."

The answer is vague and careful, yet there's a weight to it that makes you not want to know more about it. So you don't.

"Your turn," you say instead. "You can ask me anything."

He sets down his fork, considering. "What made you choose this city? Out of all the places you could have gone."

You look down at your coffee. The steam rises in slow spirals. "I used to live here. Before the accident." You say it matter-of-factly, you've learned to say it over the past year. "I don't remember it, but something about it felt right. Like I was supposed to come back."

"The accident," he repeats, and his voice is measured now. "You've mentioned it before. The memory loss."

"Yeah." You wrap your hands around the mug, let the warmth seep into your palms. "Three years. Just gone. I woke up in the hospital and suddenly I was 22, and I didn't remember being 21, 20 and even 19. My brother had to tell me who I was friends with, where I'd worked, what I'd done." You pause. "It's strange. Knowing there's a version of yourself out there that you'll never meet."

Jake is watching you intently, his breakfast forgotten. "That must have been hard," he says quietly.

"It was. Still is, sometimes. There are things I know I'm supposed to remember—people, places, moments—and I just can't access them. It’s like a locked door I don't have the key to."

He's silent for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is softer than before. "Do you ever feel like you're close to remembering? Or that something triggers it?"

You consider the question. "Sometimes it’s little things. A smell, a song, or an object." You think of the keychain, the one that matches his. "But it never sticks. It's just—there and it’s gone."

He nods slowly.

"Sorry," you say. "That got heavy."

"Don't apologize." He reaches across the table, his hand covering yours. "Thank you for telling me."

You look at his hand on yours, warm and soft. "Your turn," you say, trying to lighten the mood. "Ask me something else."

He thinks for a moment. "What's your favorite thing about this city? Now that you're back."

You smile, the tension easing. "The coffee shop on the corner. They have terrible pastries but really good lattes."

He laughs, and the sound fills the kitchen. "I'll have to try it sometime."

"Maybe I'll take you." The words come out before you can stop them, and you feel a flush creep up your neck.

He squeezes your hand. "I'd like that."

The morning stretches into a lazy afternoon. You've migrated to the couch, your phone in one hand, scrolling through nothing in particular. Jake is stretched out beside you, his head resting on your thigh like it belongs there, his own phone held above his face. The weight of him is warm and familiar now, and you've stopped overthinking how his hair brushes against your bare knee.

He's quiet, focused on whatever he's reading, his thumb occasionally swiping. You're half-watching a video on your own screen, the sound muted, when you feel his body shift. A pause. His thumb stops moving.

Then his free hand moves, quick and unexpected, his fingers finding the spot just above your knee. He digs in lightly, and you jolt, your phone nearly slipping from your grip.

"Jake!" Your voice comes out loud, a mix of surprise and laughter. "What are you doing?"

He grins, an unapologetic grin, and his fingers keep moving, dancing along the sensitive skin of your thigh. You try to twist away, but his head is still heavy on your lap, pinning you in place, and he's using his other hand to trap your leg.

"Stop—" You're laughing, breathless, trying to grab his wrist. "I'm serious—"

"Are you?" His voice is teasing and low. His fingers find your ribs, and you arch, a helpless sound escaping you.

"You're the fucking worst." You manage to grab his hand, but he's stronger, and he uses the momentum to roll slightly, shifting so he can reach your side. The tickling intensifies, and you're squirming, your free hand batting at his shoulder.

"Say I'm the best," he says, his voice muffled against your stomach.

"Never."

He doubles down, and you dissolve into helpless laughter, your phone clattering onto the floor. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

"Okay—okay—you're the best." The words come out in a wheeze. "You're the best, Jake. I surrender."

He stops, his hand stilling, still he doesn't move away. His face is close now, hovering over you, his eyes bright with amusement and softness beneath.

"That was easy," he says.

"Fuck you."

"You wouldn't," He settles back down, and you slap his arm for the comment. His head finding your lap again, his hand resting loosely on your knee. "Don't worry. I'll go easy on you next time."

You pick up your phone with your heart is still racing, and you can feel the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of your shorts.

A random movie starts on the laptop screen, playing as background noise to fill the silence. You're sitting on the floor between Jake's legs, your back against the couch, your head tilted back slightly as his fingers work through your hair. He's been at it for a while now, separating strands, twisting them together, muttering under his breath when they slip apart.

"Like this?" he asks, his voice close to your ear.

"Tighter," you say. "You're not pulling enough."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't. Just—here." You reach up, your hand finding his, guiding his fingers to the right section. "Hold that one. Now cross it over the middle. Yes, like that."

He follows your instructions with concentration and that makes you smile. His fingers are careful, delicate, and you feel the gentle tug as he works through a tangle.

"You've done this before, no?" you say.

"Never. I'm just naturally talented."

You snort. "We'll see about that."

Another minute passes. He's quiet, too focused, and you can feel the slight movement of his hands as he continues his work. You're both lost in the small intimacy of the moment.

"Okay," he says finally. "I think I got it."

You reach up, your fingers brushing against the braid he's made. It's lopsided, uneven, with strands sticking out at odd angles. You tug at it gently, and a section comes loose.

"It's bad," you say, and you can hear the laughter in your own voice.

He lets out a mock-offended sound. "I spent ten minutes on that."

"Ten minutes and this is what I get?"

"I'm a beginner. Tell me I’m doing good. Please."

You turn your head to look up at him. He's pouting weakly, his bottom lip pushed out, his eyes looking down with exaggerated hurt.

"Okay," you relent. "You did great."

His expression shifts instantly, the pout melting into a pleased smile. "Really?"

"For a first try. It's not completely terrible."

"High praise." His hand finds your shoulder, squeezing gently. "I'll take it."

You settle back against the couch, your head still tilted to look at him. He's looking down at you, his gaze soft, unguarded, letting you see something he usually keeps hidden.

"These past few days," he says, his voice quieter now. "They've been—I don't know. I've been comfortable. More than I have in a while."

"You're not going to get all sentimental on me, are you?"

He laughs, low and warm. "Maybe a little. Is that okay?"

You wait and watch him, the light catches his eyes, the slight curve of his mouth. The air between you feels heavier now. He leans forward, his face hovering above yours, and you feel a pull ; something that tugs at the edges of your memory. The feeling is fleeting, gone before you can grasp it, yet it leaves a warmth in its wake.

"Y/N," he says, your name sounds different on his lips.

Suddenly, his mouth is on yours, gentle and upside down, his lips soft against your own. You lean into him, your hand reaching up to cup his jaw, and the kiss deepens. His fingers thread through your hair, careful not to pull the messy braid loose, and you tilt your head further to meet him. The angle is awkward, the position of him behind you and you below making it clumsy, but you don't want to stop.

When he finally pulls back, his face above yours by an inch, his breath is uneven.

"You’re so pretty that it hurts," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "I could handle a little pain, though."

"You don't look bad yourself." You chuckle softly, close your eyes and let yourself feel it ; the warmth of him, the pace of his heart against your back, the small certainty that this is exactly where you're supposed to be.

Now, the movie has ended, the credits scrolling silently across the screen. Silence remains in the living room. You've shifted positions, no longer on the floor but curled together on the couch, your back against his chest, his arms wrapped around you. His legs bracket yours, and your head rests in the crook of his neck, the warmth of him seeping through your t-shirt.

His lips find your temple first, light and sweet, a barely-there press of skin against skin. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your eye. Each kiss is soft, as he's memorizing the geography of your face. You feel the slight stubble on his jaw brush against you.

"Are you still going to kiss every inch of my face?" you murmur, your eyes closed.

"Every single one." He punctuates the words with another kiss, this one on the bridge of your nose. "I have a list. It's very thorough."

You laugh, tired and content, and his arms tighten around you. His lips trail down to your jaw, then your chin, then the spot just below your ear.

"Getting distracted?" you ask.

"Completely." Another kiss, this one on your neck. "This is your fault for being here."

"I didn't do anything."

"You’re existing right now, so deal with the consequences."

You tilt your head back, giving him more access, and he takes the invitation, his mouth trailing along the curve of your throat. His kisses are still gentle, almost reverent, but they linger a little longer now.

His fingers find your hand, lace through yours, squeeze once. You feel the weight of his lips on your shoulder, your collarbone, the soft skin just above the neckline of your hoodie. Then back up, retracing the path, pausing at your cheek again.

"You're very thorough," you manage, your voice dreamy.

"I told you. I'm a man of my word."

He presses one last kiss to the corner of your mouth, soft and sweet, and then settles his chin on the top of your head, his arms still wrapped around you like he's afraid you'll disappear.

You don’t want to move. The afternoon light has shifted, growing gold, and the room feels suspended in a bubble of warmth and intimacy.

"Jake," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For today. For all of it."

He presses his lips to your hair, a silent reply, and you feel his smile against the strands. The last kiss lingers, right against your hair, and then you tilt your head up, catching his mouth with yours. It's not the upside-down kiss from before, this one is direct and utterly intentional, your lips finding his with unexpected certainty. He responds immediately, his hand cupping your jaw, angling you toward him.

You feel his other hand slide from your shoulder down your side, settling on your hip. You shift, twisting in his arms, and before you know it, you're turning to face him properly. Your knees find the cushion on either side of his thighs, and you settle into his lap, straddling him, your chest pressed against his.

His hands find your waist immediately, gripping you through the fabric of your t-shirt, his fingers splaying across the curve of your hips. He pulls you closer, and you feel the strong warmth of him beneath you, his breath hitches slightly as you settle your weight against him.

"You're going to make it hard to stop." he murmurs against your lips while he's smiling.

"That’s too bad." you whisper back, you could feel the vibration of his laugh.

─────────

It’s been an hour. You’re still straddling Jake, your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips as your mouths move together in a heated, urgent kiss. His lips are warm and demanding, although there’s a delicious clumsiness to the way he kisses you ; teeth grazing a little too eagerly, his tongue sliding against yours with more hunger than precision. He’s so turned on he can barely focus, and it shows in every shaky breath and muffled sound.

His large hands slide down your back and grip your ass firmly now, fingers digging into the soft flesh with possessive strength. He squeezes and fondles you without restraint, kneading your cheeks as he pulls you harder against the growing bulge in his sweatpants. A low throaty moan echoes from his chest into your mouth, raw and needy, sending a rush of heat straight through you.

He breaks the kiss for half a second to gasp for air, forehead lightly pressed to yours, before diving back in even sloppier than before ; lips wet, tongue eager, hands still greedily massaging and spreading your ass as he rocks you against him. His grip is tight enough to leave marks, but the way he groans your name between kisses makes it impossible to care.

You pull back to catch your breath, your hands resting on his chest as you look down at him with flushed cheeks. His eyes are veiled with want, lips slightly swollen from the messy kiss, and his hands are still firmly anchored to your ass, unwilling to let go.

“Sorry,” you whisper, voice a little shaky. “If I’m bad at this…it’s my first time doing any of it, really.”

Jake blinks up at you, his breath still ragged. For a moment his grip on your ass loosens slightly, but then he squeezes again, almost reassuringly. A soft surprised chuckle escapes him before he leans in and presses a gentler kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice husky and sincere. “I’ve never gotten past a kiss either. So…we’re both figuring this out.”

He pulls you closer again, one hand sliding up your back while the other stays possessively on your ass, and kisses you slower now ; still clumsy with need, still moaning softly into your mouth, but now with a shared nervousness that somehow makes everything feel even hotter.

You smile softly against his lips at his confession, a warm flutter of relief mixing with the heat in your belly. Boldness comes through you, you slide one hand down his chest, slowly tracing the ridges of his abs through the thin fabric of his shirt. Your fingertips press lightly, exploring the firm muscle beneath, and Jake’s entire body jolts under you.

He gasps sharply into your mouth, hips twitching upward as a shiver runs through him. He’s incredibly sensitive there ; every slow drag of your fingers makes his muscles tense and twitch. Another involuntary moan slips out of him, breathier than before.

“S-sorry,” he blurts out by reflex, cheeks burning as he pulls back just an inch, eyes half-lidded and embarrassed. His hands tighten on your ass again, almost like he’s grounding himself. “I’m just…really sensitive. Fuck, that feels good.”

He leans in quickly to kiss you again, clumsier now from the rush of sensation, his abs contracting under your exploring touch as he rocks you gently against him, clearly fighting the urge to apologize a second time.

You keep tracing his abs, feeling them flex and twitch under your fingertips, when his breathing grows even heavier. His hands squeeze your ass one last time before sliding up to your hips. He leans in close, lips brushing your ear as he whispers softly, voice rough with arousal.

“Take your panties off for me…please?”

The words send a fresh wave of heat through you. You hesitate, suddenly shy, cheeks burning as you bite your lip and glance away. Jake notices immediately. A small affectionate smirk tugs at his lips despite how flustered he is.

“What’s wrong?” he teases gently, voice playful, his fingers tracing slow circles on your hips. “Don’t get all shy on me now…I’m dying here.”

You swallow hard, heart racing, but the way he’s looking at you ; equal parts desperate and sweet ; makes you brave. Instead of taking them off completely, you reach the hem of your shorts and throw them next to the couch, hook your fingers into the side of your panties, and push the damp fabric aside, exposing yourself to him.

“You can touch me,” you whisper, voice barely audible.

Jake’s eyes widen slightly. He nods slowly, one hand sliding from your hip down between your bodies. His middle finger gently traces along your slick folds, testing, before he slowly pushes it inside you ; careful, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time to make sure it’s okay. His breath catches at how warm and wet you feel around his finger, and he lets out a shaky moan, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Fuck…is this alright?” he murmurs, voice trembling with restraint as he holds still, letting you adjust.

You let out a shaky breath, hips shifting slightly against his hand as his finger moves inside you.

“That feels good,” you whisper, voice breathy and honest. “Really good…”

Jake’s eyes light up with relief and hunger. Encouraged, he slowly pulls his middle finger back, then carefully pushes two fingers in this time ; his middle and ring finger ; stretching you more. He’s clumsy about it, his movements a little uncoordinated from how turned on he is, but the gentle pressure feels incredible as he works them deeper.

He starts to pump them slowly, trying to find a rhythm, when suddenly his breath hitches.

“Wait—” he says quickly, almost like he remembered something.

Before you can respond, he curls his fingers upward, searching. The moment he hits that sensitive spot inside you, a loud, involuntary moan escapes your lips, loud and needy. Your thighs tremble around him as pleasure jolts through your body.

His face flushes deeper, a proud but clumsy grin breaking across his face even as he keeps awkwardly pumping and curling his fingers, trying to do it again. His free hand grips your ass tightly for balance, his own breathing ragged and uneven while he watches you react, completely lost in how you sound and feel.

You’re still trembling from the sudden rush of pleasure when he slows his fingers, keeping them buried inside you. He looks up at you with those wide, needy eyes, his cheeks flushed and his breathing ragged.

“Tell me I’m doing good…” he whispers, voice deep and a little vulnerable as he searches your face. “Please?”

You cup his face gently in both hands, thumbs brushing over his warm cheeks. Leaning down, you kiss him softly, tenderly, your lips lingering against his for a long moment. When you pull back just enough to speak, you gaze softens.

“You’re being so good to me,” you murmur. “It feels really good, Jake…keep going.”

A relieved moan slips from him at your words. His eyes flutter half-closed, and he presses into your touch like he’s starving for the praise. His fingers start moving again ; still a little clumsy and eager ; pumping slowly in and out while curling every few strokes to hit that spot that make you squirm. His free hand squeezes your ass tighter, pulling you closer as he kisses you back, messy and grateful.

You keep kissing him, slow and sweet, when Jake suddenly pulls his fingers out of you with a wet sound that makes you both blush. He shifts underneath you, breathing hard, and hurriedly works open his jeans.

“I need to feel you more,” he mutters, voice thick with desperation.

He lifts his hips and shoves his pants and boxers down just enough to free himself. His cock springs out, hard and throbbing, already leaking at the tip. You barely get a look at it before he pulls you back down onto his lap, lining you up so your bare, soaked pussy presses directly against his length. You start moving again, grinding with your panties still pushed to the side. The hot, velvety shaft of his cock slides perfectly between your slick folds, the head bumping against your clit with every roll of your hips. Jake groans loudly, head falling back against the couch as his hands return to grip your ass, guiding you faster.

“Fuck…you feel so good,” he moans, clumsy and desperate. He’s getting impossibly harder beneath you, his dick twitching and throbbing with every grind. His hips jerk up to meet yours, uncoordinated and eager, making wet sounds every time your slick heat drags along his entire length.

He looks completely wrecked already ; lips parted, eyes hazy with desire, fingers digging into your ass as he rocks you harder against him, chasing more of that delicious friction. You keep grinding against him, the slick sounds growing louder as both of you get messier. Your panties are completely soaked, the fabric clinging wetly to your folds, and his boxers ; now bunched around his thighs ; are dark with your arousal too.

Jake lets out a frustrated groan and lifts you just enough to shove his boxers the rest of the way down his legs, kicking them off. He reaches into his pocket, tears open a condom with shaky hands, and rolls it on quickly, his cock twitching hard as he does. You move to slide your panties down, but he catches your wrists gently, stopping you.

“Wait—” he breathes, voice hoarse. His eyes drop to where your soaked panties are still pushed to the side, the pretty fabric framing your glistening pussy. “Don’t take them off. They’re too pretty on you like this…looks so fucking hot.”

He pulls you back down onto him, guiding the head of his cock to nudge against your entrance through the shifted fabric. His hands return to your ass, squeezing firmly as he looks up at you with doe, desperate eyes, clearly waiting for you to take the next step while his throbbing length presses impatiently against your heat.

You brace your hands on his shoulders and slowly sink down onto him, taking every inch of his cock inside your tight, soaked heat. The stretch is intense, making you gasp and pause halfway before you breathe through it and slide all the way down until your hips meet his. Jake’s head falls back with a deep, broken moan, his fingers digging hard into your ass.

But after a few seconds, the latex feels uncomfortable and distant. You lift yourself off him, quickly peel the condom away, and sink back down onto his bare cock before he can protest. The raw heat of him makes you both moan.

His eyes fly open in panic. “Wait—fuck—baby—” he stammers, hands gripping your waist tightly as his cock throbs hard inside you. His face is flushed with alarm even as pleasure clouds his expression.

You can’t help but laugh softly at his wide-eyed reaction, the sound breathy and fond. “It’s okay,” you whisper, leaning down to kiss him.

You start moving ; not bouncing, but grinding slowly in deep circles with him fully buried inside you. The pressure against that sensitive spot makes you whimper, but it completely wrecks Jake. He moans loudly, the sound raw and uncontrolled, his whole body tensing beneath you.

Suddenly, his hands clamp around your waist and he lifts you straight up, pulling out of you with a wet pop. You blink in confusion, hovering above him as his cock twitches angrily in the open air, slick with your juices.

“I was about to cum,” he pants, voice strained and embarrassed. “You’re too warm and tight…and I’m really sensitive right now. Fuck, I almost didn’t stop in time.”

He looks up at you, chest heaving, cheeks burning red as he tries to catch his breath, still holding you suspended above his lap.

You hover above him for a moment, still catching your breath, then bite your lip shyly and whisper, “It’s okay…if it happens and you cum inside me, I can take the morning after pill.”

Jake looks up at you, eyes glassy from the pleasure, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. He swallows hard, then nods, his hands gently squeezing your waist. “Okay…but I’ll still try to be careful,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to mess this up for you.”

You smile softly at his sweetness and slowly sink back down onto his bare cock, taking him all the way inside again with a soft gasp. Once he’s fully buried, you resume grinding on him in deep circles, your soaked pussy clenching around his thick length.

He groans loudly, his head tipping back for a second before he looks down to where your bodies are joined. His hands slide firmly onto your hips, fingers digging in as he starts guiding you harder against him. He pulls and pushes you in longer, more insistent grinds, forcing your clit to rub against the base of his cock with every roll.

Sloppy sounds fill the room as your soaked folds slide back and forth along his shaft. The harder he makes you grind, the louder the sounds get, your arousal coating him completely. Jake’s moans turn ragged and desirous, his abs flexing under your hands while he stares at the way your pretty panties, still pushed aside, frame your pussy taking every inch of him.

You keep grinding on him, the wet sounds growing filthier with every roll of your hips, when Jake suddenly sits up straighter. One of his hands slides up your back, pulling you closer as his mouth finds your neck.

He starts licking and kissing the sensitive skin there, sucking gently at first, then harder, while his hips snap upward. He shifts from letting you grind to actively pounding into you, thrusting deep and fast from below. Each rough stroke makes you whimper, your fingers clutching his shoulders as pleasure spikes through you.

“I’m sorry—” he whispers hotly against your neck, voice strained and weak between open-mouthed kisses. His thrusts grow erratic, sloppy, and frantic. “Fuck, I’m so sorry…I’m gonna cum inside you.”

His grip on your hips tightens almost painfully as he buries himself as deep as he can, moaning loudly into your neck while his cock throbs hard inside your tight heat. His body trembles beneath you, clearly fighting it for only a second longer before he loses control.

You cry out as the intense rhythm pushes you over the edge right along with him. Your orgasm crashes through you hard, walls clenching and fluttering wildly around his cock as waves of pleasure rip through your body. At the same moment, Jake groans deeply into your neck and starts cumming, pulsing hot and thick inside you with every thrust.

Still trembling and moaning from your climax, you gasp out quickly, “Finger me—please—”

You don’t need to tell him twice. He lifts you off his cock with a wet sound, lays you back on the couch, and slides two fingers deep into your dripping pussy. He keeps them buried inside you, pumping slowly and softly, curling them gently against that sensitive spot while his thumb rests lightly on your clit.

“Fuck—that’s it,” he whispers soothingly against your ear, voice gentle even as he’s still catching his breath. “You’re doing so good. Let it all out for me.”

His fingers move in slow strokes, drawing out every last pulse of your orgasm as he kisses your neck and jaw. “So pretty when you cum…keep squeezing around my fingers, baby. I’ve got you.”

He stays close, murmuring soft praises while his fingers continue their gentle rhythm inside your soaked heat, helping you ride through the aftershocks.

An hour later, you’re sprawled on the couch with your legs spread wide, one draped lazily over the armrest. Jake kneels between your thighs, his hands resting on your inner thighs to keep you open.

He starts with broad strokes of his tongue, licking up and down your slick pussy, tasting the mess you two made earlier. Then he dives in deeper, pressing his whole mouth against you and kissing your folds like he’s making out with them ; soft, wet, hungry kisses that make filthy sounds echo in the living room.

A deep moan escapes you as his tongue swirls around your clit.

Jake pulls back just enough to grin up at you, lips glistening. “Hey, you gotta be quiet,” he teases in a joking tone, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I can’t hear the TV show if you’re moaning like that. Rude.”

You try to focus on the screen, but the pleasure is making you sleepy and relaxed. Your eyelids start to flutter, growing heavier as you sink deeper into the couch.

Without warning, Jake tightens his grip on your thighs and thrusts his tongue straight into your pussy, fucking you with it in deep, firm strokes. Your eyes snap open with a sharp gasp, hips twitching against his face as the sudden intensity jolts you awake.

He pulls back for a second, smirking. “There you go. Can’t have you falling asleep on me already,” he murmurs playfully, before diving right back in, tongue thrusting into you again while his nose nudges your clit.

His hands hold you firmly in place as he eats you out with renewed energy, clearly determined to keep you wide awake and moaning.

You can’t hold back anymore.

The steady thrust of Jake’s tongue inside you, combined with the way his nose keeps rubbing against your swollen clit, pushes you straight over the edge. Your second orgasm hits hard and fast. Your thighs clamp around his head as you cry out, back arching off the couch while waves of pleasure crash through you.

While you’re still cumming, he quickly pulls his tongue out and replaces it with two fingers, sliding them deep into your clenching pussy. He curls them gently against that sensitive spot, pumping them slowly and steadily to draw out your orgasm even longer.

“That’s it…cum on my fingers again, baby,” he murmurs against your thigh, voice low and husky as he watches you fall apart. “Fuck, you’re squeezing so tight.”

He keeps fingering you through every pulse and shudder, soft and deep, never rushing. His thumb moves up to circle your clit lazily, prolonging the pleasure until your moans turn into breathy whimpers and your body finally starts to relax.

Even then, he doesn’t pull his fingers out right away. He leaves them buried inside your warm, fluttering heat, gently stroking your walls while he kisses the inside of your thigh, looking up at you with a satisfied, slightly smug smile.

─────────

Both of you cuddling in his bed, and sleep finally gets to you. You're both tangled in his sheets, limbs intertwined, the warmth of his body a grounding presence against your back. His arm is draped over your waist, his breath slow and even against your neck, and you can feel the occasional press of his lips against your shoulder ; delicate, absent, as he's kissing you even in his sleep.

You should be content and you are content. Nevertheless, there's a dull ache beginning to throb behind your eyes, a persistent pressure that makes you wince when you shift against the pillow.

"Jake," you murmur, your voice rough. "I have a headache."

He stirs behind you, his arm tightening around your waist. "Mmm?"

"A headache. Do you have any painkillers?"

He blinks, his eyes still heavy with sleep. "Bathroom cabinet on the top shelf. There's a bottle."

You start to untangle yourself, but his arm holds you for a moment longer, pulling you back against him. "Don't go," he mumbles, his nose brushing your ear.

"I'll be right back." You press a kiss to his knuckles, and he loosens his grip.

You pad out of the bedroom, the cool air of the apartment raising goosebumps on your bare skin. You grab the shirt he'd left on the floor ; his shirt, the one he'd worn earlier ; and pull it over your head. It falls to your thighs, soft and worn, and you feel a small thrill at the intimacy of it.

The bathroom is as small as you could remember the last time you took a shower, the light harsh when you flick it on. You find the painkillers easily, shake two into your palm, and turn to get water.

You pause.

The drawer next to the sink is slightly open, just a crack, and something inside catches your eye. You don't know why you reach for it. Curiosity, maybe. The same instinct that made you want to see the photo frame by his bed.

You pull it open.

The drawer is filled with photographs ; loose, some curled at the edges, same as snapshots you'd find in a shoebox under a bed. But these aren't random. You recognize the faces.

Your face. And Jake's face.

Both of you, younger. His hair is different, shorter, but the smile is the same. Your hair is shorter too, your eyes brighter, and you're pressed together like you've known each other for years. In another, you're at a café, holding up coffee cups, laughing at something off-camera. In another, you're in a park, your head on his shoulder, his arm around you like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Your hands are shaking. You dig deeper, pulling out more photos. One with your parents. Your mother's arm around you, your father's hand on Jake's shoulder, and the four of you are smiling at the camera like a family.

Another with Jungwon. He's younger, his face rounder, and he's giving a thumbs-up while Jake ruffles his hair.

You drop the photos. They scatter across the floor, and you stumble back, your back hitting the bathroom wall.

This doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense. You don't remember any of this. You've never seen these photos before in your life. But your face is there, your smile, your eyes. And Jake is there too, always beside you, he's always been part of the picture.

The memory loss. The three years.

You feel the world tilt beneath you, the edges of your vision going fuzzy. The photos on the floor stare up at you, silent and damning.

"Y/N?"

Jake's voice. He's at the doorway, his eyes still sleep-soft, and he's holding a glass of water. He takes one step into the bathroom, then stops. His gaze drops to the photos scattered around your feet.

The glass slips from his fingers. It shatters against the tile, water spreading in a river across the floor.

"Y/N," he says again, and his voice is different now, sounding afraid.

You look at him. At the face you've come to know over these past weeks. The face you've kissed, laughed with, let hold you. The face that has been hiding everything from you.

"You knew me?" you say, and your voice comes out flat, hollow. "You knew me before?"

He doesn't answer as the look on his face says it all.

"All this time," you continue, the words spilling out now, unstoppable. "You knew everything. You knew me. You knew me and you didn't say anything."

"I was going to tell you." His voice is low. "I was trying to find the right time. I didn't want to scare you—"

"Scare me?" A broken laugh escapes you. "I've been living in a fog for a year. I've been trying to piece together who I am, and you—you've been standing right there, holding all the pieces, and you didn't tell me."

The rain starts outside, a sudden downpour that hammers against the window. You don't remember putting on his clothes, but you're moving now, past him, through the apartment, toward the door. He calls your name without you turning back.

You barge into the hallway. The stairs are a blur beneath your feet. You burst out into the rain, and it hits you like a wall ; cold, merciless, soaking through the shirt, your hair and your skin.

You don't know where you're going, and you know you can't be near him, nor look at his face and see the truth you were too blind to notice.

The street is empty, the rain turning the pavement into a river. You walk, then run, your bare feet slapping against the wet ground, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Behind you, you hear a door slam. A voice calling your name, distant and helpless.

Your legs don’t seem to want to stop. Your bare feet slap against the wet pavement, each step sending shocks through your legs, but you don't stop. You actually can't stop because if you do, you'll have to think, and thinking means facing what you just saw.

Your fingers fumble with your phone, slick with rain, and you manage to pull up Jungwon's contact. It rings once, twice, three times, and then the automated voice cuts in. Voicemail. Full. You try again and it’s the same result.

"Come on," you mutter, your voice cracking. "Come on, pick up. Pick up—"

The phone slips from your grip, clattering onto the wet ground. You leave it behind and keep walking, your arms wrapped around yourself, the thin fabric of his shirt doing nothing to ward off the cold.

"Y/N."

His voice. Behind you. Closer than you expected.

You keep walking faster, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"Y/N, please—just stop—"

"I don't want to talk to you." Your voice is barely audible over the rain. "Go away."

"I can't do that." His footsteps are closer now. "I can't let you run out like this. It's not safe."

"You don't get to decide what's safe for me." You finally stop, spinning around to face him. He's there, a few meters away, soaked through, his hair plastered to his forehead, his chest heaving. He's stopped too, keeping his distance like you're a wild animal that might bolt.

"You don't get to decide anything," you continue, your voice rising. "You knew me. You knew me and you lied. Every single day, every single conversation—you looked at me and you knew exactly who I was, and you let me stumble around like an idiot trying to figure it out."

"I didn't lie—"

"Hiding the truth is lying." You're shaking now, from cold and anger. "You kept all of it from me. The photos, the memories—" You gesture wildly. "Everything. You let me think we were strangers." Your voice cracks. "You let me fall for you like you were someone new."

"I had to." His voice is raw. "I had to keep it from you. It was the only way—"

"The only way for what?" You're yelling now, the rain muffling the sound but not the anger. "The only way to protect yourself? The only way to make sure you didn't have to deal with the mess of my broken brain?"

He flinches like you've struck him. "No. That's not—"

"Then what? What the fuck is about?"

He's quiet for a long moment. The rain falls between you, heavy and cold, a curtain that separates you from him. When he speaks, his voice is quieter, barely above a whisper.

"Because I was scared."

You laugh, a hollow, broken sound. "Scared of what?"

"Of this." He gestures between the two of you. "Of you remembering and looking at me like you are right now. Like I'm a stranger. Like I'm someone who hurt you."

Your chest tightens. "God—Jake do you even care about me?"

"I fucking do." He takes a step closer, and then stops himself. "I loved you, Y/N. Before the accident. We were—" He runs a hand through his wet hair, his voice cracking. "We were together. For three freaking years. We lived together. We had a life."

You stare at him, the words hitting you like blows. "I don't remember."

"I’m aware of that." He's crying now, his tears mistook for rain drops. You can't tell. "I’m aware that you don't. And that's—that's the worst part. Because I've been standing here, watching you rebuild your life, and every time you looked at me like I was a stranger, it felt like losing you all over again."

"Why did you stay, then?" Your voice is barely a whisper. "Why didn't you just leave?"

"Because I made a promise." He meets your eyes. "A promise to your brother, to Jungwon. After the accident, when you couldn't remember anything—he came to me. He said that if I really loved you, I would stay away. That seeing me, remembering me, would confuse you. That it would hurt you more than it would help."

"So you just—walked away?"

"I tried. I moved to another city. I told myself it was for the best. But I couldn't." He stops, his voice breaking. "I couldn't stay away. When I heard you were coming back here, I told myself I wouldn't interfere and that I'd keep my distance. But then I saw you with that stupid umbrella, and—"

His words trail off, lost in the rain. You stand there, shivering, the weight of everything pressing down on you.

"I was scared," he continues, his voice still barely audible. "I was scared that if I told you, you'd run. That you'd look at me and feel nothing. That the person you were before—the person I loved—was gone forever, and I couldn't bear that. So I kept it to myself. I told myself I was protecting you. But really, I was protecting myself."

The silence stretches between you.

"You should have told me," you finally say, and your voice is weak, drained of emotion. "You should have trusted me to handle it."

"I know." He looks down at the ground. "I know. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Y/N. I never wanted to hurt you. I just—" He stops, his shoulders shaking. "I just wanted to hold onto the part of you that was still mine. Even if you didn't know it."

Your chest is heaving again and you feel the tears mixing with the rain on your cheeks. You're not sure when you started crying or maybe you've been crying this whole time.

"When?" Your voice cracks once again. "When did we—when did we first meet?"

He looks up, and you see the tears streaming down his face, indistinguishable from the rain. "Nineteen," he says, his voice raw and broken. "We were nineteen. You were wearing that oversized Bieber shirt, and you tripped over your own feet walking into that library, and I—" He pauses, a sob tearing from his throat. "I fell in love with you right there."

You feel the sob building in your chest, unstoppable and devastating. "I’m sorry."

"It’s okay." He's crying openly now, his shoulders shaking. "I—I needed you to know that you were loved. That you are loved. By me. Always."

Your legs give out. You don't realize it until you're sinking, your knees hitting the wet pavement, your hands bracing against the cold ground. The sobs are torn from you now, ugly and loud, your entire body shaking with the force of them.

He’s already moving. His feet splash against the wet ground, closing the distance between you in seconds. He drops to his knees in front of you, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you against his chest. His body shields you from the rain, his hands cradling the back of your head, pressing your face into the warmth of his neck.

"I'm sorry," he's saying, over and over, his voice broken and fragile. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Y/N."

You feel his tears against your skin, his body shaking with the same sobs that are tearing through you. He holds you tighter, afraid you'll disappear, and you grip the wet fabric of his shirt, your fingers twisted in the material.

"I don't remember," you choke out. "I don't remember any of it."

"That's okay." His voice is a whisper, trembling. "That's okay. We can—we can start over. We can make new memories. Whatever you need. I'll give you whatever you need."

You pull back just enough to look at him. His face is streaked with rain and tears, his eyes red-rimmed, his expression open and completely unguarded.

You let him hold you, his arms wrapped around you like a shield against the world, and you feel something shift in your chest. The rain continues to fall, but you barely notice it anymore.

All you feel is him.

─────────

The next morning. You're sitting on the edge of the couch, your legs stretched out in front of you, the bruises on your knees a mottled purple from the fall the night before. The rain has stopped, but the world outside is still wet, the streets glistening under the gray sky.

Jake is kneeling in front of you, a small first-aid kit open on the floor beside him. His movements are gentle, careful, as he dabs at the scrapes with an antiseptic wipe. You flinch slightly at the sting, and he murmurs an apology, his fingers light against your skin.

"I could do it on my own." you say, your voice hoarse from crying.

"Let me do it for you. Please." He doesn't look up, his focus on the cut on your knee. "I should have done this last night, but you were—" He stops, swallowing. "You were upset. I didn't want to push."

You watch him as he works, the furrow of concentration between his brows, his lower lip catches between his teeth. His hands are steady despite everything, carefully smoothing the edges of a bandage over your skin.

"There," he says softly. "All done."

You're about to say something when the door slams open.

Jungwon stands in the doorway, his chest heaving and his eyes wild. He's still in his clothes from yesterday, his hair disheveled, his phone clutched in his hand like a lifeline. He must have come straight from wherever he was, must have run the whole way. His gaze sweeps the room and takes in the two of you. Jake kneeling at your feet. The bandage on your knee. Your tear-streaked face. And mostly, the visible tension in the air.

He looks at Jake and at you while shifting his gaze between both of you.

"Fuck." he says, the word heavy, loaded with remorse.

Jake rises slowly to his feet. He stands there, his hands at his sides, his face blank.

"Jungwon," he starts, but Jungwon cuts him off.

"What the fuck, Jake." He steps into the room, the door swinging shut behind him. "I told you—I told you to stay away. I told you it would be better for her. And for everyone. And you—" He stops, his jaw tight. "You couldn't keep your promise for even a year?"

"It wasn't like that." Jake's voice is steady yet a tremor is present beneath it. "I didn't plan this. It just happened."

"It just happened?" Jungwon scoffs. "You see her in the hallway and suddenly all your promises mean nothing?"

"Jungwon—" you start, both of them turn to look at you, and the weight of their gazes makes the words die in your throat. Jungwon's expression softens slightly. "Are you okay?" he asks, the question is directed at you, not Jake.

You don't know how to answer that. Are you okay? You're sitting in the apartment of a man you've known for weeks, who apparently knew you for three years before that, who you still can't remember, who you cried in the rain with, who bandaged your knees this morning because he cares about you. And you can’t understand any of it.

"I don't know," you say honestly.

Jungwon runs a hand through his hair, exhales slowly. "I should have told you," he says with regret in his voice. "I should have told you about him. About everything. I thought I was protecting you, but I—" He pauses and shakes his head. "I made it worse."

"He knew," you say, voice flat. "He knew and he kept it from me. You both did."

Jake flinches and Jungwon looks away.

"I had to," Jake says quietly. "I had to see if you could remember on your own. If there was any part of you that still—" He swallows, the words caught in his throat. "I needed to know if you could love me without the memories."

Jungwon's head snaps toward him. "That's not why you did it."

"Isn't it?" Jake's voice is raw. "I wanted to believe that if I just gave you time, you'd remember, and I know that it sounds stupid. That you'd look at me and see all the years we had. But you didn't. You never did." He looks at you, his eyes glassy. "And I had to accept that the person I loved might never come back. But I still loved you anyway."

The silence in the room is suffocating. You look from Jake to Jungwon, the weight of their secrets pressing down on you, and you feel something crack inside your chest.

Jungwon is the one to break it. "I'm sorry," he says, the words are directed at both of you. "I was scared. I didn't want to lose you again, Y/N. And when I saw the two of you starting to know each other I panicked." He confesses, his composure cracking. "I just wanted to protect you and I failed. I failed both of you."

Jake stays silent, his eyes fixed on the floor.

You take a breath. The air is thick, but you force yourself to speak.

"I don't remember him," you say, looking at Jungwon. "I don't remember any of it. But I—" You stop, your voice catching. "I know I felt something. Even when I didn't know who he was. That has to count for something, doesn't it?"

Jungwon meets your eyes. Then he nods, slowly.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "It does."

─────────

The afternoon has settled in, the earlier tension slowly unwinding like a knot being picked apart. Jungwon left an hour ago, his goodbye awkward but not hostile, a promise to call later that felt more like a question than a statement. You'd watched him go, the door clicking shut behind him, and then you'd turned to find Jake standing in the middle of the living room, his hands shoved in his pockets, his eyes uncertain.

Neither of you had spoken for a while. Then you'd walked to the kitchen, pulled out a cutting board and some vegetables, and started preparing something that might become dinner. He'd followed, hovering at the edge of the counter, until you'd handed him a knife and told him to chop the onions.

Now you're standing at the stove, stirring a pan of vegetables, while Jake sits on a stool behind you. His fingers are in your hair again, separating strands, twisting them together with a concentration that's become familiar over the past few days. The braid is better than yesterday ; still not perfect, but recognizable.

"You're getting better at this," you say, your voice quiet.

"I've had practice." An incredible softness in his voice. "Also, you're very patient. That helps."

You stir the vegetables, watching them sizzle and soften. The silence is comfortable, however, there's something sitting between you, a question you've been turning over in your mind since last night.

"Jake," you start, and you feel him pause, his fingers stilling in your hair. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

You keep your eyes on the pan. "Last night—was that our first time?"

You feel him go still behind you. His hands are frozen in your hair, and for a moment, you think you've overstepped. You feel his breath, a soft exhale, and his hands resume their work.

"Yes," he says, and his voice is careful. "That was our first time."

The words hang in the air. You nod slowly, processing. "So we never had sex…before the accident?"

He shakes his head, even though you can't see him. "We were close, and we lived together. But we never did those kind of things." He pauses, his fingers continuing to work through your hair. "We were waiting. I don't know what we were waiting for. The right moment, maybe." His voice drops. "I never really thought about it. I just knew I wanted it to be right."

You set down the spoon, turning to face him. He's watching you, his hands hovering where your hair falls against your shoulders. His eyes are searching, cautious.

"Jake," you say. "How long did you go without doing it?" You stop, not sure how to phrase it. "Without being with anyone?"

He understands. His jaw tightens, and he looks down at his hands. "It’s been a year. Since the accident." He meets your eyes again. "I couldn't. I tried to…talk to girls, once. It didn't feel right. I mean, I didn't feel right. I couldn't even hold someone's hand without feeling like I was betraying you."

You feel your breath catch. "Even when you didn't know if I'd ever remember?"

"Especially then." His voice honest. "It didn't matter if you remembered me or not. I remembered you. I knew what we had, and…I couldn't replace that. I really didn't want to."

You look at him, this man who's been carrying this weight for three years, who stayed loyal to a ghost he didn't know would ever come back. You look at his hands shaking slightly, his eyes are glassy.

"I didn't know," you say.

"How could you?"

You reach out, your hand finding his. He looks down at your fingers intertwined, and you feel the dull trembling in his grip.

"Thank you," you say, your voice almost a whisper. "For waiting. Even when you didn't have to."

He looks at you with vulnerability in his gaze. "I never really had a choice. It was always you. It's always been you."

You pull him closer, your arms wrapping around him, your face pressing into his shoulder. He holds you back, his arms tight around your waist, and you feel the steady beat of his heart against your chest.

The vegetables are still burning. You're still wrapped in his arms, your face pressed into his shoulder, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of your shirt. His hand is cradling the back of your head, his fingers gently threading through the braid he'd just finished.

He pulls back to look at you. His eyes are red-rimmed, his face still carrying the traces of the tears you'd both shed.

"I love you," he says.

The words are simple, unadorned. Only three words, spoken as they've been sitting on his tongue for years, waiting for the right moment to be released. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your throat is tight, your chest aching with the pressure of everything you don't know how to say.

Noticing your silence, he leans in, his lips pressing against your forehead, lingering long enough for you to feel the slight shaking in his breath.

Then your cheek. The corner of your eye. The bridge of your nose. Each kiss is slow, like he's tracing the contours of your face with his mouth, memorizing every inch. His lips brush your temple, your jaw, the base of your neck.

"You don't have to say it back," he murmurs against your skin. "I just needed you to know."

You feel the tears pricking at your eyes again, yet they're not the same as before. "You've been carrying this for a year," you manage, your voice thick. "And you still—"

"Still love you." He presses another kiss to your cheek, then your other cheek, then the corner of your mouth. "Yes. I do. And I'll keep saying it until you're tired of hearing it."

"I won't get tired."

He pulls back, his eyes searching yours.

"That’s good for me." he says softly, the smile that tugs at his lips is small and tentative. His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that have escaped down your cheeks. He leans in, his forehead resting against yours, and you feel the warmth of him surrounding you.

"Jake," you whisper.

"Yeah?"

"Stay with me. While I try to remember. While I figure this out." You swallow. "Don't leave again."

He doesn't hesitate once. "I won't."

His lips find yours, soft and gentle, and when he pulls back, he presses one last kiss to the tip of your nose.

You were ready to rebuild your life, with everything you’ve shared from now, with him.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry."

The voice made you look up.

A guy with brown hair and big, doe-like eyes stared back at you, his face filled with guilt. He quickly pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and awkwardly held it out, seemingly too hesitant to wipe the stain himself.

You stood there for a moment, too shocked to react.

After a few seconds of zoning out, you finally came back to your senses and accepted the handkerchief, gently dabbing at the side of your blouse. Though it did little to remove the stain, you still appreciated that he had offered to help.

"I'm really sorry. Do you want me to get you a replacement for that?" he asked again, his apologetic expression never leaving his face.

"It's okay. I can just cover it up with my blazer. The stain's only on the side," you replied. Even though changing into a clean blouse would've been the better option, you decided against it. You were already running late.

The guy nodded, though the look on his face made it obvious he wasn't entirely convinced. "By the way, what's your name? I think this is the first time I've seen you here."

You glanced at your watch before looking back at him. You were late anyway, so you might as well get to know one of the people you would be working with.

"It's Song Y/N. I just started working here three days ago as the new Head of Sales." You extended your hand towards him. 

He smiled warmly as he shook it.

"It's nice to meet you, Y/N. Welcome to Kim Enterprises. I'm Kang Taehyun, the Head of Marketing." After letting go of your hand, he added, "You can keep the handkerchief. It's the least I can do after spilling coffee on you."

"Sure, thanks. I should get going, but I hope to see you again next time." You let out a small laugh. "Just... preferably not under these circumstances."

With that, you practically sprinted towards the elevator, leaving Taehyun standing where he was. He simply watched you disappear through the closing elevator doors, a small amused smile lingering on his lips.

──────────────────────────────

The printers continuously hummed throughout the printing room as the intern hurriedly printed the files his boss had instructed him to copy. The documents were needed before the meeting, which was set to begin in exactly ten minutes, leaving him with little time to spare.

Jay stepped into the printing room, his gaze falling on the intern as he frantically gathered the freshly printed papers and arranged them into neat stacks on the table beside him. The intern was so occupied with finishing his task that he didn't even notice Jay entering the room.

Once everything was in order, the intern turned around and was startled to find Jay standing there. He gave him a quick, polite nod before immediately rushing out of the room.

Making his way towards the printer, Jay was about to print his own documents when something beside the machine caught his attention. An ID had been left behind.

He picked it up, instantly recognizing that it belonged to the intern from earlier. Without wasting another second, he headed towards the door, his eyes searching the area for any sign of him. When he couldn't find the intern nearby, he continued to walk to the hallway leading to the elevators, hoping he hadn't already left.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

You entered the printing room, connecting your phone’s bluetooth to the printer before opening the file you needed to print. After sending the document, the printer immediately began its job, and you patiently stood beside it as the pages slowly came out.

A few moments later, Jay returned to the printing room with the forgotten ID still in his hand. He hadn't been able to catch up with the intern, and now someone else had already occupied the printer before he got the chance to use it.

Just as the final page was about to print, the machine suddenly stopped working. A message reading "Error Printing" flashed across the screen, causing you to panic almost instantly.

Without thinking, you quickly pressed what you assumed was the stop button, unaware that it was actually a different button. Instead of fixing the problem, it caused the printer to malfunction even further, continuously feeding out sheet after sheet of paper.

Standing behind you, Jay watched as you repeatedly pressed different buttons in an attempt to stop the machine. His patience quickly wore thin. Since he also needed to print his documents as soon as possible, he finally stepped forward and pressed the correct stop button, the one on the left that you had overlooked in your panic.

The printer immediately came to a stop.

You let out a quiet sigh of relief before turning towards the person who had helped you. Just as you were about to thank him, he spoke before you could even say a word.

"Done?"

"I..." you started, only for him to interrupt you once again.

"I mean, are you done printing? I need to use it."

His brows were knitted together, and the irritation in his voice was impossible to miss.

You wanted to explain that there was still one page left to print, but after seeing the expression on his face and the impatience written all over it, you decided it would be easier to lie.

"Yes, I'm done. You can have your turn."

As you stepped aside, your gaze fell on the ID he was holding, noticing the word Intern printed beneath it. You couldn't help but assume that perhaps he had been acting so harshly because he was only an intern who was being rushed around by his boss.

"Well, thanks for the help, Intern."

Jay's gaze flickered to the ID in his hand before settling back on you. He could have corrected you then and there, but he chose not to.

Then, unaware of your mistake, you turned towards the door and began walking away.

"If you're not familiar with something, take the time to learn." His voice, still carrying the same irritation as before, stopped you in your tracks.

You slowly turned back to face him.

"It makes work easier for everyone," he added.

You bit back the urge to tell him that not everyone knew how every printer worked on their third day. Instead, you simply smiled politely and left the printing room.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Back in your office, you were greeted by your two junior subordinates, Sunoo and Yunjin. Yunjin had been wearing a bright smile, but it quickly faded the moment she noticed the annoyed expression on your face.

"What's wrong?"

You let out a deep sigh as you settled into your office chair. "I just met an intern back in the printing room, and I'm telling you, he was unbelievably rude. I didn't even get to finish printing my document because of him."

Sunoo furrowed his brows. "That's unusual. Interns don't normally act like that, especially when they're talking to one of the department heads."

"Well, apparently this one doesn't care at all."

Shaking your head, you turned your attention towards him. "Anyway, have you already collected all the signatures for the proposal I asked you to handle?"

The moment the task was brought up, Sunoo visibly stiffened. "I... uh... I did."

You tilted your head. "But?"

Even after working together for only three days, you had already become familiar with your team's habits. Sunoo only hesitated like that whenever something had gone wrong.

"I managed to get everyone's signature except for the Head of Accounting's." He scratched the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze.

"And why is that?"

"I tried asking him once, but he declined because he was in a meeting. Then yesterday, I was going to ask him again..." He let out an awkward laugh. "...but I got scared and couldn't do it. You know he's known for rejecting proposals so easily, so I couldn't bring myself to ask again."

You raised an eyebrow. "Scared?"

"Sunoo, this proposal has already been approved by the CEO. We just need each department head's signature to acknowledge the section related to their department. Since everyone else has already signed it, there's no reason for him to reject it."

Pushing yourself up from your seat, you extended your hand towards him. "Give me the papers. I'll ask him myself."

Before Sunoo could protest, you smiled reassuringly. "He can't be that bad, you know. Besides, as your manager, it's my job to help whenever you run into problems like this."

"But, Y/N..." Sunoo looked at you worriedly. "You're still new here. You don't know what he's like."

"It's okay, Sunoo." You gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "I can handle one scary manager."

A small smile found its way onto your lips before you remembered something.

"Oh, and could you print the last page of the document I was working on earlier? I already emailed the file to you."

"Got it."

As you walked towards the door, you heard Yunjin quietly wishing you good luck, followed by Sunoo asking her in a hushed voice how she thought everything would turn out.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

After making your way to the Accounting Department, you stopped in front of the manager's office and gave the door a light knock.

"Come in."

Hearing the voice from inside, you slowly opened the door and stepped in, absentmindedly flipping through the proposal folder as you searched for the page that still needed a signature.

The Head of Accounting stood with his back facing you, his attention fixed on the floor-to-ceiling windows while speaking on the phone.

Deciding not to interrupt him, you quietly waited as you continued organizing the papers in your hands.

A few moments later, the call ended.

Just as he turned around, you finally looked up.

Your eyes widened. 

It was him.

The same intern from the printing room.

Confusion immediately crossed your face. What was he doing inside the Head of Accounting's office? Maybe the department head was his boss. That would explain why he had been in such a hurry to use the printer earlier.

You had barely opened your mouth to speak when another knock echoed through the room. The door opened, and a young man with cat-like eyes walked in, carefully carrying a cup of coffee.

"Here's your coffee, Manager. Make sure to drink it while it's still hot."

Your brain practically short-circuited. Manager? Why was he calling him that? Wasn't he supposed to be an intern?

"Thanks, Jungwon. You can go take your break now." Jungwon gave him a playful salute before leaving the office, closing the door behind him.

Only then did the man shift his attention back towards you.

"So..." One of his eyebrows lifted. "What can I do for you?"

"Um..." You glanced towards the door before looking back at him. "I came here looking for the Head of Accounting and..." Your brows slowly knitted together. "Weren't you the intern from earlier?"

"Yes." He answered without hesitation. "But I hate to disappoint you, I'm not an intern." He straightened slightly. "I'm Park Jongseong. Most people here call me Jay. I'm the Head of Accounting."

Your lips parted slightly, your mind struggling to process what he had just said. Embarrassment slowly crept onto your face as you realized the misunderstanding.

"I'm so sorry. I thought—"

He interrupted you before you could finish. "Again, Y/N." His gaze shifted towards the folder in your hands. "What brings the Head of Sales to my office?"

"Right." You quickly cleared your throat before placing the proposal on his desk. "I just need your signature. You're the only department head who hasn't signed yet."

Jay only spared the document a brief glance before signing it without another word. Once he was done, he slid it back across the desk, his attention returning to you.

You carefully picked up the papers and slipped them back into the folder. "How did you know my name?" you asked before you could stop yourself.

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Well, unlike you, I take the time to learn about the people I work with. It makes everyone else's job easier. It's not that difficult to learn the names of the department heads, is it?"

You could only stand there in silence, unsure of how to respond.

"You know..." His eyes remained on you. "I've been curious about the new Head of Sales ever since everyone started talking about the company's latest hire."

His gaze slowly drifted to the coffee stain peeking out from beneath your blazer. "And now I know."

Although you wanted to defend yourself, you decided against it. You had already embarrassed yourself enough today, and arguing with him certainly wouldn't make things any better.

Instead, you forced a polite smile. "Well, it was nice meeting you. I should go submit these now."

Without waiting for a response, you turned around and quickly left the office, unwilling to hear another remark from him.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

The moment you returned to your office, you found Sunoo and Yunjin already waiting by the door. "So?" Sunoo asked the second you stepped inside. "How did it go?"

You quietly walked over to your chair before letting yourself sink into it. "It was so embarrassing." You rested your elbows on the desk, burying your face in your hands.

Sunoo and Yunjin exchanged confused glances.

You finally looked up, with a defeated smile. "Remember the rude intern I told you about earlier?" The two of them nodded.

"That was him."

"What?"

"I thought he was an intern because he was holding someone else's ID." You covered your face again. "But as it turns out he's actually the Head of Accounting."

"No way." Yunjin's eyes widened in disbelief. "What did he say?"

"He basically told me that learning the names of the people you work with isn't that difficult. And I have a feeling I've already made a terrible first impression."

"Cheer up, Y/N." Yunjin offered you an encouraging smile. "Don't let him get to you. That's just how he is."

She nudged Sunoo with her elbow. "Right Sunoo?"

"Right." Sunoo nodded without hesitation. "Who cares what he thinks? You're still an amazing manager to us."

"Aww..." You smiled before pulling both of them into a hug. "Thanks, you two."

You pulled away, a determined smile replacing your earlier frown. "I may have made a terrible first impression on him, but I'm not going to let it stay that way."

"That's more like it."

Yunjin immediately pulled out her phone. "Come on. Sunoo and I are going to introduce you to the rest of the employees so you don't accidentally mistake another department head for an intern.”

──────────────────────────────

A month had passed, and you were finally starting to settle into life at the company. Little by little, you have gotten to know more of the employees, familiarized yourself with the company's procedures, and grown more confident in your role as the new Head of Sales.

A small smile found its way onto your lips as you settled into your office chair, ready to start another day of work. Your gaze wandered around the room before you found yourself thinking, Maybe this new job won't be so bad after all.

The peaceful atmosphere inside your office was suddenly interrupted when the door flew open, revealing Sunoo with Yunjin close behind him.

"Y/N!" Sunoo called excitedly, his voice echoing throughout the room. "They accepted our proposal!"

A grin immediately spread across your face. "Really?" Sunoo eagerly nodded, unable to hide his excitement.

"Good job, you two. We definitely deserve to celebrate after work today."

The two of them cheered at your suggestion, their excitement matching your own. It had been one of the biggest clients your team had pursued over the past few weeks, and after countless meetings and revisions, they had finally agreed to invest.

The three of you were still celebrating when you noticed Sunoo gradually growing quieter, the excitement on his face slowly fading.

"Sunoo..." He looked up at you. "Are you alright?"

He blinked, looking slightly startled that you had noticed the sudden change in his expression. "I am. It's just..."

He hesitated before continuing. "We still need the Accounting Department's approval before we can finalize the contract."

The smile on your face slowly faded. "Oh..."

Silence settled over the room as the three of you exchanged uneasy glances.

After a moment, you forced a small smile. "Let's just hope for the best, I guess."

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Inside the Head of Accounting's office, Jay sat quietly behind his desk with the proposal folder laid open in front of him. Standing on the opposite side were Jungwon and Jake, both patiently waiting for his decision as he carefully reviewed every page.

The room remained silent except for the occasional sound of paper being turned.

As Jay reached one particular page, his hand came to a stop. His brows slowly furrowed. It wasn't a typo, nor was it a calculation error. It was the discount.

The Sales Department had offered the client an investment package with an unusually generous discount, significantly lowering the company's profit margin.

Jay closed the folder without another word and leaned back against his chair. One hand came up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he let out a quiet sigh. "The margin's too low."

Jake briefly glanced at Jungwon before clearing his throat. "Should we ask the Sales Department about it first?"

"No." Jay answered almost immediately. "Reject it." There wasn't even the slightest hesitation in his voice.

Jake simply nodded before picking up the proposal from the desk. "Okay.”

ᯓ★ ݁˖

As you were busy typing away on your laptop, Sunoo hesitantly stepped into your office with the proposal folder clutched in his hands.

"Y/N..." The nervousness in his voice was enough for you to know what had happened.

You accepted the folder without saying a word and slowly opened it. The moment your eyes landed on the large red stamp that read "Rejected," you sighed before closing it again.

"I'll talk to him."

Although you already knew there was a good chance he wouldn't change his decision, you still wanted to hear his reasoning firsthand. This client meant far too much to simply let them go. It had taken countless meetings and endless negotiations just to convince them to invest, and you weren't willing to give up without trying.

Proposal folder in hand, you made your way towards Jay's office before giving the door a light knock.

"Come in."

You stepped inside and placed the folder on his desk before folding your arms across your chest. 

"May I ask why this proposal was rejected?" Your tone remained calm and professional, showing neither anger nor irritation despite your disagreement with his decision.

Jay didn't bother looking up, his attention still fixed on the document he was reviewing. "Your discount exceeds our acceptable profit margin."

"It's the only reason the client agreed to negotiate."

That was enough to make him finally lift his gaze towards you. "Then they aren't the right client."

A quiet scoff escaped your lips before you could stop yourself, and Jay immediately caught it.

"You know as well as I do that not every client agrees to our first offer," you said, trying to keep your composure. "So why can't you approve this proposal just this once? This client is important to us. They have a well-established reputation in the industry, and securing this partnership could do so much for the company."

Jay slowly rose from his chair before positioning himself in front of his desk. Leaning lightly against it, he crossed his arms as he met your gaze.

"Not every client is worth keeping."

You looked at him in disbelief. "That's easy for you to say."

"Excuse me?" One of his eyebrows arched, a hint of offense flashing across his face.

You exhaled before continuing. "The Sales Department is the one meeting with these clients, building relationships, and earning their trust. Sometimes we have to give a little in the beginning so we can gain even more in the long run."

You held his gaze.

"Still no." He took a step closer, his voice remaining calm but firm. "You don't see what I see.”

The distance between the two of you suddenly felt much smaller.

"Accounting is responsible for making sure the promises Sales makes don't end up costing the company more than they're worth, regardless of how well-known the client is." He tilted his head slightly, silently waiting for your response.

"But..." You glanced down at the folder in your hands, searching for another argument before looking back up at him. "...this isn't just some random discount. It was a strategic decision. If we refuse to be flexible, we're going to lose clients."

This time, however, your voice lacked the confidence it had when you first walked into his office.

Jay noticed. Even so, his expression didn't change. "If we're too flexible, we'll lose money." His answer came without the slightest hesitation.

"And I'd rather lose a client than approve a deal that could hurt the company."

You simply stood there, staring at him as his words lingered in your mind. That was it. He had made his point. As much as you wanted to argue further, you knew there was no use. Jay had already made up his mind, and nothing you said was going to change it.

With a defeated sigh, you walked past him and picked up the proposal folder from his desk.

"I guess we'll just have to agree to disagree."

Not wanting to stay there any longer, you turned around and walked out of his office, the frustration weighing heavier with every step.

──────────────────────────────

Two days had passed since your confrontation with Jay, yet nothing had changed. Despite your efforts, you still hadn't managed to convince him to reconsider the proposal or reverse his decision.

Just then, your phone rang. The moment you looked at the caller ID, your heart sank. It was the client you had been fighting so hard to keep.

Without a second thought, you answered the call. "Hello?"

"Good afternoon, Ms. Song. This is Mrs. Nam speaking." Her voice was calm and polite. "I'm sorry for calling so unexpectedly, but I'd like to withdraw our investment."

Hearing that made your face pale. "Your employee mentioned that the contract would be sent once we agreed to proceed, but until now, we still haven't received a copy."

You instinctively shook your head, forgetting that she couldn't see you. "Mrs. Nam, we've just run into a small issue with the Accounting Department. If you could give us a little more time, maybe we could—"

"I'm sorry, dear." Her gentle voice cut through yours. "We're currently in talks with another company, but we truly appreciate the offer."

Before you could say another word, the line went dead.

You stared silently at the now-dark screen of your phone, your fingers tightening around it. You couldn't help wondering if things would've turned out differently if the proposal had been approved.

The office door suddenly opened. "Y/N, I brought some pastries from that bakery I told you about. I thought you might—"

Yunjin stopped mid-sentence the moment she saw your expression. She quickly set the paper bag down on the nearby couch and immediately walked over to you. "What happened?"

She gently rubbed your shoulders, her touch careful and reassuring.

You felt your throat tighten. "The..." Your voice trembled. "The client... withdrew."

Yunjin frowned sympathetically but never stopped comforting you. "It's okay." Her voice was soft, careful around you.

"I'm sure there'll be other clients like them in the future. You don't have to blame yourself over this."

Then she reached over to the paper bag before pulling out one of the pastries. "Here." A small smile appeared on her face. "Let's eat. Maybe it'll help take your mind off things, even if it's just for a little while."

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Later that afternoon, all of the department heads gathered inside the executive conference room for a scheduled meeting.

The atmosphere was noticeably heavier than usual. Unlike previous meetings, no one exchanged casual conversations while waiting for it to begin. 

Everyone had already heard the news. The client that the Sales Department had spent weeks pursuing had officially withdrawn.

Quietly, you took your usual seat and placed your notebook on the table before your eyes drifted towards the opposite side of the room. Jay was already there. Just like he’s always been.

A folder rested neatly in front of him as he calmly reviewed several documents, his composed expression giving no indication that the room was filled with tension.

A few moments later, the conference room doors opened once more. "Good afternoon, everyone."

The conversations immediately ceased as Mr. Kim Namjoon, the CEO, entered the room alongside his assistant. Taking his seat at the head of the table, he briefly looked around before speaking.

"I'll keep this meeting brief." He folded his hands together. "I've been informed that we lost one of our prospective investors this morning."

His gaze shifted towards you. "Manager Song." You straightened slightly. "Could you walk us through what happened?"

Taking a slow breath, you nodded. "The client initially agreed to proceed with the proposal prepared by the Sales Department. However, after Accounting requested revisions to the financial terms, we had to renegotiate the agreement."

You paused briefly. "Unfortunately, the client withdrew before we could reach a new arrangement."

Silence settled over the room. 

Mr. Kim gave a small nod before turning towards the opposite side of the table. "Manager Park." Jay closed the folder in front of him.

"Accounting's assessment?" He says without any hesitation in his voice. "The proposed terms carried an unacceptable level of financial risk."

His voice remained calm and composed. "The projected profit margin fell below the company's acceptable threshold. Approving the proposal would've exposed the company to unnecessary financial risk."

You felt your grip around your pen tighten. "With all due respect," you spoke, unable to stay silent, "those terms were the very reason the client agreed to continue negotiating with us."

Jay met your gaze across the table. "And maintaining those terms would've meant approving a deal that wasn't financially sustainable." He says as he holds your gaze.

"But if we hadn't shown any flexibility, we never would've gotten them to the negotiating table in the first place." You argued back, your eyes still on him. 

Another brief silence followed.

Then Jay spoke again. "Then they were never a profitable client to begin with."

The room fell completely silent after hearing you two. No one interrupted, and no one took sides. Some department heads quietly exchanged glances, while others simply lowered their eyes to the documents in front of them.

After a long moment, Mr. Kim finally broke the silence. "I understand both perspectives." His eyes moved between the two of you. "Sales exists to bring opportunities into this company."

He then looked towards Jay. "And Accounting exists to ensure those opportunities remain beneficial to the company."

Leaning back slightly in his chair, he continued, "Neither department can function effectively without the other."

The tension in the room eased, if only a little. "I don't intend to place the blame on either side." He closed the discussion folder before him.

"However, I expect both departments to communicate more closely moving forward. I'd rather prevent disagreements before they cost us valuable business opportunities."

Both you and Jay nodded in unison. "Understood."

With that, the meeting continued with the remaining agenda.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Nearly twenty minutes later, the meeting finally came to an end, and one by one, the department heads began leaving the conference room.

You quietly gathered your papers, though the disappointment of losing the client still lingered in the back of your mind.

The moment you stepped into the hallway, a familiar voice called after you. "Y/N."

You turned around to find Taehyun catching up with you. He greeted you with a small, reassuring smile. "Don't think about it too much."

A quiet laugh escaped your lips as you shook your head. "Maybe if it were that easy."

"I know."

He slipped his hands into his pockets before briefly glancing back towards the conference room. "But, if I'm being honest..." He looked back at you. "I can understand where both of you were coming from."

Your brows lifted slightly in surprise. "I think your proposal gave the client a reason to stay." He continued, his smile softening. "And I think Jay was only trying to protect the company's finances. You were both just doing your jobs."

You lowered your gaze to the papers in your hands. "Maybe..."

Taehyun noticed the disappointment that still lingered on your face. "I know how much time you and your team invested in pursuing that client."

His words made you look back up at him. "So, I understand why this one hurts."

For the first time since the meeting, a genuine smile found its way onto your face. "Thanks, Taehyun." You said as he smiled back.

"Come on." He lightly nudged your shoulder. "You've still got a team waiting for you."

As the two of you walked down the hallway together, neither of you noticed the conference room door quietly opening behind you.

Jay stepped out with a folder tucked beneath his arm. His eyes followed the two of you as you disappeared around the corner. After a brief pause, he quietly turned and made his way back to his office.

──────────────────────────────

A week had passed since the meeting with the department heads when you were unexpectedly called to Mr. Kim's office.

You weren't sure what it was about, and the uncertainty lingered in your mind as you stood inside the elevator, absentmindedly watching the numbers change above the doors.

Once you arrived, you made your way towards the CEO's office and gave the door a light knock.

"Come in." You slowly pushed the door open and stepped inside. 

The first thing you noticed was Jay. He was already seated in one of the chairs across from Mr. Kim's desk, his posture as calm as ever.

Your brows knitted together in confusion before your attention shifted towards the CEO. Mr. Kim had his hands clasped together on top of his desk as he looked at you. 

"Come, have a seat." He gestured towards the empty chair opposite Jay.

You quietly took your seat, deliberately avoiding looking in Jay's direction as you waited for Mr. Kim to speak.

He wasted no time getting straight to the point. "I've been thinking about what happened with the previous proposal." His gaze moved between the two of you.

"I don't want the Sales and Accounting Departments working separately anymore."

Your lips parted slightly as you instinctively glanced towards Jay. Despite the announcement, his expression remained unreadable.

Mr. Kim continued. "From now on, every major investment proposal will be reviewed jointly before it's presented to any client."

He paused briefly.

"Sales and Accounting should be working together, not pulling in opposite directions. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." The two of you answered almost simultaneously.

You looked away from Mr. Kim, your eyes vaguely settling on the wall beside his desk as you tried to process everything that had just been said. How did things end up like this?

Before you could gather your thoughts, Mr. Kim spoke again. "Your first joint project starts today."

Your head immediately snapped back towards him. "Sir?" For a moment, you wondered if you had simply misheard him.

"I said your first joint project begins today." He met your gaze. "The Sales and Accounting Departments will be working together starting now."

It took you another second before you finally nodded. "Okay. I understand, sir." Although you had managed to answer calmly, you still found it hard to believe.

Mr. Kim slid a thick folder across the desk until it stopped between you and Jay. "Everything you need to know about the potential investor is inside. If either of you has any questions, don't hesitate to contact me."

His eyes briefly moved between the two of you once more.

"I expect professionalism and good discipline from both of you."

ᯓ★ ݁˖

The moment the two of you stepped out of the CEO's office, Jay opened the folder without wasting a second. His eyes quickly scanned each page as he walked, already reviewing the details of the project.

You slowly walked beside him, maintaining a respectful distance while trying to read over the first few pages yourself.

This client was even bigger than the last one. Not only were they one of the most recognized companies in the country, but they had also built a strong reputation internationally. Unfortunately, they were just as well known for being one of the most difficult clients to negotiate with.

After reading enough to understand the situation, Jay closed the folder, and the two of you continued walking down the hallway in silence.

You shifted awkwardly beside him, wondering if you should say something.

After a few seconds of debating with yourself, you finally broke the silence. "This is going to be... interesting, isn't it?"

Jay didn't even look your way. "I'd rather call it inefficient."

With that, he simply walked past you, leaving you standing there with nothing but a tired look.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

The meeting with the potential investor was scheduled for later that afternoon and would be held at their company, which meant that both you and Jay had to attend in person.

You had originally planned to take one of the company's vehicles with the company driver, but due to an unexpected schedule conflict, the driver was unavailable. With little time left before the meeting, the two of you had no choice but to take a taxi instead.

Neither of you suggested driving your own car. Finding parking in the middle of the business district would only waste valuable time, and punctuality was the last thing either of you was willing to compromise.

The ride to the company was awfully quiet. The two of you sat side by side in the backseat, neither making an effort to start a conversation. Aside from the occasional voice coming from the taxi driver's radio, silence filled the car.

It felt less like two co-workers traveling to an important meeting and more like two strangers who had simply happened to share the same ride.

You kept your eyes fixed on the road ahead, occasionally stealing glances towards Jay. He didn't seem bothered by the cramped space or the uncomfortable silence hanging between the two of you.

In fact, he barely moved at all. His attention remained fixed outside the window, never once glancing in your direction or attempting to discuss the client.

Unable to bear the silence any longer, you finally spoke. "You really don't like me that much, do you?"

Jay slowly turned his head towards you before looking back out the window. "I don't dislike you." A quiet sigh escaped his lips.

"I just don't agree with most of your decisions."

His answer lingered in the air long after he had finished speaking and you regretted asking almost immediately. Maybe it would've been better if he had simply admitted that he disliked you. Knowing that he questioned your judgment somehow stung even more.

The rest of the ride passed in complete silence.

After what felt like nearly an hour, the taxi finally pulled up in front of the client's headquarters.

You couldn't help but stare. The company occupied not just one building, but several, each proudly displaying the company's name across its facade.

The moment you stepped inside, you were greeted by an enormous lobby with towering ceilings and elegant chandeliers hanging above. It looked less like an office building and more like a luxury hotel.

Jay approached the receptionist while you quietly waited beside him. Once you've confirmed your appointment, one of the employees escorted the two of you towards a private meeting room.

Inside, your client was already waiting. The two of you greeted him politely before taking your seats.

The man across the table smiled warmly before extending his hand.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet both of you. I'm Seo Minhyuk, the Chief Operating Officer of Yoon Holdings. Please, call me Mr. Seo."

You returned the handshake with a smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Seo. I'm Song Y/N, Head of Sales at Kim Enterprises." Jay followed shortly after. "Park Jongseong. Head of Accounting."

Mr. Seo nodded politely. "Thank you both for making time to meet with me today."

"The pleasure is ours," you replied.

You exchanged a few more pleasantries, the conversation naturally shifting towards the investment proposal your company had prepared.

Mr. Seo lightly tapped the proposal folder resting on the table. "I've already reviewed the investment package." He says as a small smile found its way onto your face.

"Overall, I'm interested."

"However," he continued, "there are still a few things I'd like clarified before making my decision." He closed the folder before looking towards the two of you.

"Of course," you answered with a nod.

Turning to the page containing the financial projections, Mr. Seo asked, "The projected returns are promising, but what measures has your company put in place to minimize financial risks if market conditions were to change?"

Without missing a beat, Jay answered first. "Our financial projections were prepared using multiple market scenarios rather than relying on a single forecast." His voice remained steady and composed.

"We've also established contingency measures to ensure the company can continue meeting its obligations even if market performance falls below expectations."

Mr. Seo nodded thoughtfully before shifting his attention towards you. "And from the Sales Department's perspective?"

You leaned forward slightly before answering, "While Accounting focuses on protecting the company's financial stability, our department focuses on building long-term partnerships."

"We don't simply encourage clients to invest. We continue maintaining communication long after agreements are finalized to ensure the partnership remains beneficial for both sides."

Mr. Seo nodded once more, clearly pleased with your answer. "I see." He flipped to another page.

"My second concern involves expansion."

His eyes moved between you and Jay. "If our company decides to increase its investment in the future, how prepared is Kim Enterprises to accommodate that growth?"

You unconsciously exchanged a brief glance with Jay. Without either of you realizing it, your responses began flowing together naturally.

"We've already prepared scalable investment plans…" You had barely finished the sentence when Jay continued.

"...all of which have been reviewed to ensure they remain financially sustainable." Jay says smoothly, making you glance at him for a few moment before continuing.

"So if your company chooses to expand…" 

"...the transition can be implemented without disrupting existing operations." Jay finished your sentence as though the two of you had rehearsed it beforehand.

Mr. Seo blinked before letting out an amused chuckle. "I have to admit..." His eyes shifted between the two of you.

"I wasn't expecting your departments to complement each other this well."

Neither of you responded. Instead, your eyes met for only a second before both of you quickly looked away.

Closing the proposal folder with a satisfied nod, Mr. Seo leaned back comfortably in his chair. "To be honest, I've met with several companies over the past few weeks." A faint smile tugged at his lips.

"But it's surprisingly rare to see Sales and Accounting present such consistent answers. At other companies that I've talked to, those departments usually contradict each other." He chuckled.

"Usually, one department promises something the other can't support."

You couldn't help but smile at him. "Our departments don't always agree." You glanced towards Jay before turning your attention back to Mr. Seo. "But we both want what's best for the company."

For the first time that afternoon, Jay gave a small nod, agreeing with you. "That's true."

Mr. Seo smiled before extending his hand across the table. "In that case, I believe we'd like to move forward with Kim Enterprises."

For a split second, you couldn't hide the excitement shining in your eyes. Your smile widened as you reached across the table to shake his hand. "We're looking forward to working with you."

Once the meeting concluded and Mr. Seo left the room, you and Jay were left alone once again. A small silence lingered between the two of you before you let out a quiet breath.

"Well..." A small laugh escaped your lips. "That went much better than I expected."

Jay adjusted the folder tucked beneath his arm before finally meeting your eyes. "The client asked the right questions."

You couldn't help but laugh, turning to look at him. "That's your biggest takeaway?"

Jay shrugs,  "Yeah and we answered them. If it weren't for that answer, then we would be walking away empty handed.”

You smiled at him for the first time today too. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Jay didn't answer. Instead, he simply looked at you. His eyes lingered on your smile for a brief moment, almost as though he wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

Then, just as quickly as before, he looked away. "We should report back to Mr. Kim." He started walking as you followed, the corners of your lips remained curved as you went.

──────────────────────────────

You sat alone in your office later that evening, quietly finalizing the investment contract and revising it based on everything that had been discussed during the meeting earlier that day.

Securing the investment was only the beginning. Now came the mountain of paperwork that followed it.

A soft knock echoed through the room before Sunoo stepped inside, stopping beside your desk.

You looked up from your laptop. "How did it go?" he asked, leaning forward slightly with curiosity written all over his face.

A smile immediately spread across your lips. "It went really well. The client agreed to invest."

You turned your chair towards him before adding with a small laugh, "And the best part is... Jay and I didn't kill each other."

Sunoo laughed along with you. "Well, that's definitely progress." He smiled proudly. "And congratulations on securing the investment."

"Thanks." You smiled back. "It honestly surprised me that we managed to pull it off on our very first joint project, but I'm really glad we did."

The conversation paused as your attention drifted back towards the screen of your laptop. Only then did you notice the time displayed in the corner. 8:00 pm.

Your eyes widened slightly. "Oh..." You let out a small laugh. "It's already this late."

Looking back at Sunoo, you closed one of the documents on your screen. "You and Yunjin should head home. I just have a few more things to finish before I leave."

Sunoo glanced at the stack of documents scattered across your desk. "Are you sure you don't want us to help?"

You shook your head. "No." A gentle smile appeared on your face. "I don't want the two of you working overtime because of me."

Sunoo smiled knowingly. "Okay." He gave your shoulder a light squeeze before making his way towards the door. "Don't stay up too late."

He looked back at you with a grin. "Good night, Manager."

"You too." You smiled before turning your attention back to your laptop.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Meanwhile, inside the Accounting Department, several reports were spread neatly across his desk as Jay reviewed the final financial documents related to the newly secured investment.

A knock sounded against the half-open door before Jake stepped inside, a can of soda from the vending machine in one hand.

"Hey."

He walked further into the office. "How did the meeting go?"

Without looking up from the documents, Jay answered, "It was... very productive."

Jake nearly dropped the soda in his hand. His eyes widened in disbelief. That wasn't something Jay said often. In fact, Jay rarely described meetings with anything more positive than "acceptable."

A grin slowly spread across Jake's face. "I'll take that as a sign that it went well." He said, pulling out the chair across from Jay's desk and sat down.

Jay finally looked up from the paperwork. "It did." He closed the folder in front of him. "The client decided to invest."

Jake let out a quiet cheer. "Nice! I guess teaming up with the Sales Department wasn't so bad after all."

Jay shot him a flat look. "I could've handled it myself."

"Sure you could." Jake smirks as he stands up, taking one last sip from his soda before tossing the empty can into the nearby trash bin.

"Well, I'd better get going." He pointed towards the office door. "Don't forget to lock up before you leave."

Jay gave a small nod as he watched Jake walk out of the room, leaving him alone with the quiet hum of the office once again.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

After spending the next few hours reviewing the investment projections and checking every document for potential financial risks, Jay felt his eyelids growing heavier. He leaned back in his chair and let out a quiet yawn before rubbing the bridge of his nose.

His eyes drifted towards the clock sitting on his desk. 10:00 pm. 

He frowned slightly. By now, he was probably the only employee left on the floor.

He closed the folder he had been reviewing and neatly stacked the remaining documents before gathering his belongings. After switching off the lights in his office, he locked the door behind him and started making his way towards the elevators.

As he walked past the different departments, something caught his attention. The lights inside the Sales Department were still on.

More specifically… your office.

His footsteps slowed until they eventually came to a stop.

Through the glass walls, he could see you asleep at your desk, your head resting on your folded arms while the soft glow of your laptop illuminated your face.

Jay stood there in silence and for a few moments, he simply watched you. He hadn't expected anyone from the Sales Department to still be in the office this late. Especially you.

His eyes drifted across the neatly organized documents scattered around your desk before returning to your sleeping figure. Maybe, you were just as dedicated to your work as he was, and the thought lingered in his mind longer than he expected.

He remained standing there for another second, silently debating whether he should wake you or simply leave. Eventually, his conscience won.

With a sigh, he walked towards your office and lightly knocked against the glass door.

Just as he had expected, there was no response. Carefully, he let himself inside and his gaze immediately fell on you again, still peacefully asleep and completely unaware of his presence.

He stepped closer.

"Y/N." His voice was calm and quiet, careful not to startle you. When you still didn't move, he gently reached out and lightly shook your shoulder.

You stirred almost immediately.

Slowly lifting your head from the desk, you blinked several times before your eyes finally focused on the person standing beside you.

"Jay?"

He looked from you to the untouched cup of coffee sitting beside your laptop. "You shouldn't sleep like that." His tone remained as impassive as ever.

"You'll wake up with a sore neck."

You quickly sat up, rubbing your tired eyes. "Oh..." A sheepish smile appeared on your face. "Sorry. I didn't even realize I fell asleep."

Stretching your arms, you reached over to close your laptop before slipping it into your bag.

Jay simply gave a small nod. "Come on." He glanced towards the hallway. "The cleaning staff will be locking this floor soon."

"What?"

You immediately checked the time on your watch and your eyes widened. "It's already ten?" You hurriedly gathered the papers scattered across your desk before carefully placing them inside your bag.

As you continued packing your things, you noticed something. Jay hadn't left, he was still standing quietly by the door, waiting.

You looked up at him. "Um… Aren't you leaving?"

"I am." He answered simply, yet he remained exactly where he was.

The two of you stared at each other for a second before Jay cleared his throat. "I'll walk you to the elevator."

"You don't have to." The words escaped your mouth almost immediately. The thought of being alone with him in another awkward silence made you hesitate.

"I know." He turned around and started walking out of your office.

You blinked before calling after him. "Hey, wait for me."

After locking your office door, you caught up with him, naturally falling into step at his side.

"I changed my mind." You chuckled awkwardly. "It's already dark, so I think I'd appreciate having someone walk with me."

Jay only gave you a small glance before looking ahead once more.

The rest of the walk towards the elevator passed in comfortable silence. When the elevator doors slid open, the two of you stepped inside.

Once again, neither of you spoke. Jay stood beside you with his eyes fixed on the changing floor numbers above the doors.

You quietly glanced in his direction before speaking, "Thanks."

He turned his head slightly to look at you. "Don't fall asleep at your desk again."

A small smile appeared on your face. "I'll try."

Then a soft chime echoed through the elevator as the doors slid open.

You stepped out of the elevator first while Jay remained where he was for another second, watching as you walked across the parking lot before finally following after you at an unhurried pace.

──────────────────────────────

Ever since that successful meeting with Mr. Seo and securing the investment, your relationship with Jay had improved, but only by a little.

Whenever you saw him in the hallways, you greeted him and he greeted you back with a simple nod. You no longer hesitated to walk into the Accounting Department like you were entering enemy territory, and although the two of you still had your disagreements, you found yourself slowly enjoying working with him.

The good thing about working with him, though, was that he always remained professional. No matter what happened between the two of you, he never let it affect his work, and that professionalism had helped the two of you secure two more investors. The most recent one had only been two days ago.

Sunoo even teased you about it while you were busy signing a stack of papers on your desk. "You and Manager Park didn't argue today." He wiggled his eyebrows playfully.

You lowered your pen and looked up at him with a small smile. "Please don't jinx it."

He let out a quiet chuckle. "I won't."

Just then, the phone beside you rang. You reached over to answer it, and almost immediately, Jay's voice came from the other end.

"Come to my office. We need to discuss something."

"Okay, I'll be there."

After hanging up, you placed the receiver back down on the cradle.

Sunoo looked at you the moment you took your hand off the phone, already seeming to know who had called. "Manager Park?"

"Yep." You stood up from your chair and straightened your blazer. "I'll be back."

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Once you stepped inside his office, Jay was sitting behind his desk with his eyes fixed on his laptop, a disappointed expression written across his face. He looked up as you entered and waited for you to sit down on the chair in front of him before speaking.

He sighs, running a hand down his face. "The client just emailed."

He turned his laptop around and slid it across the desk, allowing you to read the message yourself.

After careful consideration, we've decided to proceed with another company whose proposal better aligns with our current financial objectives...

Your eyes slowly trailed down to the final paragraph.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

You quietly pushed the laptop back towards him. "That's it?" You frowned. "They just withdrew? Didn't they call or at least give us a reason why they decided to back out?"

Jay pulled the laptop back and closed it.

"I tried calling them earlier. They said their official reason was that another company offered significantly more competitive financial terms."

"Financial terms?" You shook your head, disbelief flashing across your face. "That's exactly what I was afraid of."

Your eyes met his across the desk.

"I told you before that we needed to be flexible. Clients compare offers, Jay. They don't just compare companies."

"Oh, so it's my fault again." Jay replied, his voice carrying a hint of frustration.

"I never said it was entirely your fault."

"But that's what you're implying."

You exhaled slowly, trying your best to keep your composure before speaking again.

"I'm saying we could've worked together to come up with another solution. Instead, every time I suggested adjusting the terms, it felt like the answer had already been 'no.'"

Jay's jaw tightened slightly, his expression becoming more defensive. "And every time you suggested adjusting the terms, it sounded like you were asking Accounting to ignore the risks."

Silence hung between the two of you, neither willing to look away first.

The frustration in your eyes slowly faded, replaced by quiet exhaustion.

"I'm not asking you to ignore the risks," you said, your voice quieter this time. "I'm asking you to understand what it takes to keep a client."

"And I'm asking you to understand that winning clients means nothing if the company can't sustain what you've promised," Jay answered almost immediately, refusing to back down from his point.

You stared at him for a long moment before speaking again. "Sometimes I feel like I'm fighting Accounting more than I'm fighting our competitors."

Something about your words struck a nerve. Jay exhaled sharply before speaking again, his voice noticeably harsher than before.

"Maybe if you stopped treating every client like they had to be won at any cost..." His eyes stayed locked on yours. "...then you wouldn't take every rejection so personally."

His words made your expression slowly fall. You lowered your gaze, no longer finding the energy to argue back. Whether he meant to or not, his words had struck somewhere deeper than any of your previous arguments.

"I see."

You quietly stood up from your chair and picked up the folder you had brought with you.

"I won't take up any more of your time." You forced a small smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "I'm sorry."

Without waiting for a response, you turned around and walked straight out of his office, the door clicking softly shut behind you.

Jay remained seated behind his desk. He didn't say anything or make any move to stop you. He simply stared at the closed door where you had disappeared, replaying the last few words he had said in his head, though he quickly pushed the thought aside and convinced himself that he had only been stating the truth.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Later that evening, the office had long since quieted down.

The Accounting Department was nearly empty, with only the soft hum of the fluorescent lights and the occasional sound of pages turning breaking the silence.

Jay sat alone in his office with the proposal folder lying open on his desk. Beside it was another document containing the competitor's finalized offer, which he had requested earlier that day.

His eyes carefully scanned every page, taking in the discounts they had offered, the payment schedule they had arranged, and the projected returns. Every figure he reviewed only led him to the same conclusion.

The competing company had offered financial terms that Kim Enterprises simply couldn't match without sacrificing a significant portion of its profit.

Jay slowly leaned back against his chair, letting out a quiet sigh. "I knew it," he muttered to himself, the words directed at no one in particular. "I still would've rejected it."

From Accounting's perspective, it had been the right decision. But despite knowing that, his thoughts slowly drifted back to the argument from earlier. The disappointed look on your face after hearing his words replayed in his mind. He still believed he had been right about the proposal, but he also couldn't deny that he had been harsher than he intended.

Your words echoed in his mind once again.

"I'm asking you to understand what it takes to keep a client.”

His fingers lightly tapped against the armrest of his chair. He had dismissed your words the moment you walked out of his office, convincing himself that there was nothing more to think about. But now, sitting alone in the quiet, they lingered in his mind far longer than he expected.

His gaze slowly returned to the proposal lying on his desk.

To him, it had simply been another financial assessment, another proposal that either met the company's standards or didn't. But to you, it represented countless hours spent earning someone's trust, attending meetings, negotiating the terms, and following up with the client in the hope of securing the investment.

Even though it had been a joint project, he knew that you had done most of the work when it came to negotiating and maintaining the client's confidence. And despite everything you had done, the client still chose to walk away.

Jay lowered his gaze to the floor, quietly lost in thought. Maybe protecting the company's finances wasn't the only thing that mattered. Without the Sales Department bringing clients through the door in the first place, there would be nothing left for Accounting to protect.

He shook his head, feeling a strange mixture of guilt and confusion settle in his chest. He still believed rejecting the proposal had been the right financial decision, and if he were given the same proposal again, he knew he would've made the same choice.

But maybe...

Maybe you had been right about something.

Not about lowering the company's standards, but about understanding the people behind every proposal that landed on his desk.

Then another sentence resurfaced in his mind.

His own words from earlier that day.

"Maybe if you stopped treating every client like they had to be won at any cost, then you wouldn't take every rejection so personally.”

His eyes slowly shifted towards the office door, remembering the way you had quietly walked out after hearing those words.

For the first time that day, he found himself regretting not the decision he had made, but the way he had delivered it.

"I shouldn't have said that," he admitted quietly, the words slipping from his lips before he even realized it.

══════════════════════════════

author's note: this is my first time writing both an enemies to lovers story and a corporate au, so if there are a few things that i wasn't able to execute perfectly, i hope you'll understand 🥹

also, there will definitely be a part 2 for this story! i've already finished writing it, and it'll be posted after this one. i really hope you'll look forward to it too 🤗

☙ taglist:

Around you is a blur of muted colours and somewhat familiar faces, the other students wearing thick coats and wool scarves and yet, amongst them all, you’re always able to pick out your favourite. It’s nothing special– a black bomber– but it has never been the jacket that catches your eye, not necessarily; it’s the person wearing it. 

You’ve known Yang Jungwon since the first semester of your first year at university.

Back then, a boy named Jake was nothing more than your assigned partner for a chemistry lab, but slowly, he became one of your closest friends. And unlike most other first-years, he’d opted out of rooming in the university residence, choosing instead to rent a small three-bedroom apartment just off campus with two guys he’d known since high school. When he invited you over for the first time, you were expecting nothing more than a quiet evening spent studying for a midterm together.

What you had absolutely no idea would happen, however, was that you would end up meeting the person who would completely occupy your every thought for the next three years.

Your phone buzzes in your lap. 

jungwon: where are you??? i saved you a seat

you: look behind you silly

You watch as Jungwon tilts his head back, eyes sweeping across the lecture hall for a few seconds before finally landing on you. The moment he sees you, a smirk pulls at his lips, and he nods toward the empty seat to his side.

It’s almost embarrassing, you think, the way your body moves on its own, already gathering your lecture notebooks and shoving your pens back into your bag. You make your way down the steps two at a time, stumbling over backpacks and outstretched legs, trying to rein in the eager expression tugging at your face, but to no avail.

“Finally,” he whispers, nudging his knee against yours softly. “I thought you abandoned me.”

There’s a teasing glint in your eyes as you glance over at him and feign thoughtfulness. “Well, I was thinking about it.”

He lets out a chuckle, shaking his head as he focuses back to the front of the room, where the professor is getting ready to start the lesson. “Liar,” he mumbles under his breath.

You grin. He’s right, you’d never do that. And even though you should turn to the front too, you let your gaze linger on his features for a moment longer. The curve of his nose, the sparkle in his eyes, the small birthmark at the bottom of his jaw... You’ve memorized these details, traced them so many times in your mind that they feel permanently etched there. 

But if you were smarter, you’d realize that just because you can predict the way his smile will form before it reaches his lips, it doesn’t guarantee that he can do the same for you. 

—

“And then he nudged my knee! when I tell you–”

A squeal cuts you off. “He what?!” Yunjin practically launches herself upright on the couch, eyes widening. “I’ve been saying that he likes you.” 

As your roommate and best friend, she has been by your side throughout what you guys have jokingly started calling the Jungwon Saga since day one. She was there when you got back to your dorm in first year, rambling about the cute boy Jake lives with, and she was there when you embarrassingly spent an entire evening analyzing the meaning behind a good luck text before your first final exam. Yet perhaps most importantly, she’s always there to tell you that you aren’t imagining things.

Not that you need much convincing. You pride yourself on the fact that you’re pretty good at reading body language and gauging the signs someone might give off. After all, you can always tell when one of your friends has a crush. You notice how their eyes track the person a little too long, the way their voice changes when they talk about them, how they somehow always end up bringing them into every conversation despite there being zero correlation.

It’s obvious because it's almost exactly what you do with Jungwon. 

“I’m serious,” she insists, watching the flush on your cheeks grow. “You cannot tell me you don’t see it after all this time.”

You laugh as you tuck your legs beneath you on the couch. “I mean... I’d like to think he likes me too,” you give her a pointed look, “but it’s not like he’s actually done anything about it.”

Though humbling to admit, not once has Jungwon actually made a move on you. And as much as you can sit here and list every little thing he’s done that makes you believe there are underlying feelings, you know there is one thing you don’t have. A confirmation, in words. What was that famous phrase going around on social media? If he wanted to, he would? Something like that. So far, he hasn’t done the ‘would’ part, which is a bummer, but there are still so many other hints that point to some sort of romantic inclination that you choose to ignore what the relationship gurus on TikTok say. 

“Okay, but still,” your friend says, waving her hand dismissively. “The year isn’t over.” 

“Hm?” You raise an eyebrow.

“I’m mean,” leaning forward, her hands coming to rest on your shoulders. “Maybe he’s just waiting for the right moment.” 

“The right moment?”

“Yeah! Think about it: you’re in the final semester of your final year, lots of work and studying to do. He’s probably aware of the fact that you are stressed and wants to make sure he doesn’t add to it.”

“I bet,” she continues, raising a finger, “maybe he’ll ask you out after graduation. You know, when things calm down.”

You tilt your head, considering it.

One thing you’ve noticed about Jungwon is that he is extremely thoughtful, always taking his time to consider how his actions might affect other people. So perhaps Yunjin is right, to some degree. Then, because there’s only so long you can spend dissecting your (lack of) love life before remembering you have actual responsibilities, you glance toward the kitchen. “Anyway,” you say, pushing yourself off the couch, “what do you want for dinner?”

Yunjin blinks. “What do we have?”

“Well…I kinda forgot to go grocery shopping, so our options are pretty slim pickings right now.”

Grabbing her phone, she opens the local food delivery app. “Order in?”

-

So after consuming an amount of pizza that must not be voiced aloud, you eventually decide that moving to your bed is a battle you are no longer willing to fight. By the time you’ve showered, changed into your pyjamas, and completed your nightly routine, the apartment has gone quiet. Settling into your bedsheets, you scroll on your phone, catching up on missed messages you’d forgotten to reply to throughout the day. 

You’re halfway through watching an Instagram reel your friend Sunghoon sent when your phone vibrates in your hand; a new notification blooming at the top of your screen. Your eyes flick up toward the same of the sender, and your heart does a heavy, traitorous thud in your chest. 

jungwon: hey, i think you’d like this song!

Quickly, you click the link to the song, and within seconds, you’re smiling and rolling around your bed in giddy excitement. The minute it ends, you replay the song from the beginning, letting the melody fill the quiet of your room as you stare at the little message bubble above it. 

He heard this and thought of you! Out of everyone he could have sent it to, he chose to send it to you!

As cringe as it may be, you take a screenshot of the text and open your chat with Yunjin. She may be in the room next to yours, and definitely awake, but you’re so comfortable there’s no way you’re getting up. Just as you’re about to press send, your phone buzzes again, and it’s another message from Jungwon, but this time, it’s not a private message. Rather, it’s sent to the group chat you have with him and Jake, and some more university friends. 

jungwon: guys this song is a banger and a half 

Below that is the exact song he sent you.

Okay… so you guess it isn’t the cute shared moment between the two of you that you thought it was, but he sent it to you first, so that should mean something at the very least. You try not to let the disappointment lodge itself in your throat as you switch back to your private chat with him, and like the message. 

—

You might honestly have a heart attack.

Seated across from you, Jungwon has his head buried in a textbook, one hand lazily playing with the edge of the page while the other scribbles notes into the margin. He’s wearing a black beanie pulled low over his forehead, a plain black t-shirt, and grey sweatpants. Altogether, it might just be, and this is objectively speaking, the single most lethal clothing combination a man can put together, and it takes everything in you not to spend the whole studying session checking him out— a Herculean task, really.

To your left, Jake is meticulously making flashcards for the upcoming midterm, mumbling definitions under his breath (you know he’ll ask you to quiz him on them later), and on your right, Jay is asleep, to nobody’s surprise. This is how your afternoons usually go: after dying of boredom in a lecture, the four of you, or whoever else you share a class with, move to the campus library to do extra reading and review any new information.

“Yo,” Jake says suddenly, not bothering to look up from the stack of flashcards in his hands. “Y’all going to that party on Saturday? I think it’s at Yeonjun’s.”

You'd already been invited by the man himself the last time you ran into him, though you hadn't exactly been counting down the days. Loud music, sticky floors, and squeezing through a house shoulder to shoulder with strangers weren’t usually included in your idea of a good time. Still, Yunjin had made it abundantly clear that she intended to go, and after nearly four years of knowing each other, you'd learned a very important lesson: What Yunjin wants, Yunjin gets. 

“Yeah,” you shrug. “I’ll probably be there.” 

At that, Jungwon’s head lifts as he looks at you. “You’re going?”

“Mhm.”

He hums once, absentmindedly, then looks back down at his notes. “I’ll go too.”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you force yourself to look anywhere but him to avoid getting caught cheesing. You totally influenced his decision! It’s times like this when you’re 100% convinced he likes you. Like who would say that if they weren’t interested? You’re not complaining. Plus, if he wasn’t going to go, your already non-existent motivation would have dropped tenfold. Perhaps with a little bit of alcohol in the system...

The right end of the table wobbles as Jay stirs, peeling his cheek off the textbook he'd been using as a pillow. There's a deep, blotchy imprint pressed into his skin where the pages had folded beneath him.

You burst out laughing before you can stop yourself, slapping a hand over your mouth, eyes wide as you try to smother the noise (rookie mistakes). A few heads turn from nearby tables, searching for the source of the disruption.

“Are you going to go?” You whisper once you've composed yourself.

From the corner of your eye, you see Jake’s cheeks puff up with air as he, too, tries his very best to hold in his laughter. 

“I’m too tired to make a decision right now,” Jay grumbles back, dragging his hands through his hair. It makes you roll your eyes. That’s code for ‘No, unless there is weed.’

From under the table, you feel something pushing against the front of your calf, and your gaze flits over to Jungwon, who’s leaning a bit further back in his chair, peering at you with one eyebrow raised. Wordlessly, he looks at Jay and gives you a look, and you know immediately that he’s thinking exactly what you are.

“I’m pretty sure Yeonjun’s plug will be making an appearance.” He coughs behind a fist, and Jay sits up so quickly you’d think he’s been possessed. 

“Heeseung? No way. I thought he transferred.” The fact that that is what gets Jay to be the most alert he’s been since entering the library…

“He did, but he’ll never turn down a party.” 

—

Said party is already well underway when you step through the front door of Yeonjun’s place. 

It has been propped open to let in the cool spring air, though it does very little to combat the heat trapped inside, and it makes you feel bad for the neighbours, who are undoubtedly debating whether or not they should call the cops with a noise complaint. Music spills out from somewhere deeper in the house, loud enough that the bass rattles faintly beneath your feet as you step over the piles of abandoned shoes and get past clusters of people gathered in the entryway. The living room is stuffed full of students from every faculty imaginable, many of whom you vaguely recognize just from walking around campus, or the dining hall from first year.

"I told you we'd be late," Yunjin yells back to you as she catches your wrist, weaving the two of you through the crowd before you lose each other. "If we'd left forty minutes earlier, we wouldn't have to fight for our lives like this just to get inside."

You laugh, nearly bumping into someone. "This is your fault. You wanted to pre-game for an hour before coming.”

“Yeah, yeah, but imagine arriving here sober? I’d probably turn right back around.”

A fake scoff escapes you, and she lets go of your hand, looping her arm through yours as the two of you finally emerge into a slightly less crowded corner of the room. The drinks table has already been picked over by the time you reach it, with only a few bottles of cheap liquor and beer sitting scattered amongst half-empty bags of chips and melting ice. You settle for a random bottle of gin and what’s left of the tonic. 

"There you are!"

You turn to find Kazuha and Chaewon making their way through the crowd, each carrying drinks of their own, and it takes no time to get comfortable with them. Along with Yunjin, they round out your closest friend group. The four of you quickly fall into conversation, joking about the horrific midterms and about the potential ‘prospects’ at the party. Chaewon is eyeing some guy in a wifebeater, and you suppress the urge to gag at his outfit choice.

Every few minutes, someone new comes by to say hi and hug you all before going back to their little party group, and despite originally not wanting to come that much, you can’t deny that you’re having a good time. 

Yet, your eyes seem to have a mind of their own, because they keep drifting toward the direction of the entrance, hoping to catch sight of Jungwon or at least one of the other guys, since you know that once you see one of them, the rest aren’t far behind. Before your focus shifts back to your friends, a wave of loud cheering rolls through the room. Even from another part of the house, you can easily pick out his laugh first. 

Not long after, the boys filter in, Jake animatedly telling some story that has Sunghoon and Riki cackling, while Jay trails behind with his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. Following him is Sunoo, and beside him is, of course, Jungwon.

It takes him less than a second to spot you and your friends, his face brightening immediately as he pushes through some students to greet you. 

"There she is," he says warmly as he reaches you, slinging an arm around your shoulders, and pulling you briefly into his side. “You made it.”

Your heart flutters so violently it almost distracts you from the fact that, a moment later, he lets you go and turns to Kazuha, greeting her with the same easy side hug. Then Chaewon. Then Yunjin, his smile never changing. After him, Jake, Sunghoon and Niki come and give you hugs of their own, while Sunoo waves and Jay, well, Jay has already vanished, presumably in search of Heeseung. 

"Good to see you guys," Jungwon says, looking between all of you. "I'm gonna go steal some drinks before they're all gone." 

“Pretty sure they already are,” Chaewon snorts. He laughs, disappearing back into the crowd, and the second he’s out of sight, three pairs of eyes swivel and land on you. You give them a warning look as their eyebrows wiggle in unison, trying your best to wordlessly point out the very important fact that his friends are still standing with you.

Choosing not to indulge them, you deliberately turn your body to the left, starting up a conversation with Sunoo and Sunghoon. Before long, you're laughing again, the conversation having drifted between upcoming finals, summer plans, and the general excitement of graduating. At this point, ten or so minutes have passed, and you secretly wonder where your favourite boy is. Luckily for you, the next time you glance away, you spot him. 

Jungwon has a cup in one hand and appears to be making his way back when someone reaches out, fingers wrapping gently around his forearm to stop him. A girl you don’t think you’ve ever seen before stands on the tips of her toes, and she leans in to say something you can't quite make out from where you’re standing. He pauses immediately, turning his body downward and moving his face close to hers. Oh?

Knowing it’s probably nothing, your own attention returns to whatever ridiculous story Sunoo has now moved on to. He’ll be back soon. 

But time passes faster than you realize. "We're gonna move to the sunroom," Kazuha announces suddenly, gesturing toward the hallway. "It's impossible to hear anyone in here." 

And as your group makes their way to the new spot, your movements pause for a brief second when you see Jungwon is still talking to the same girl. She’s speaking, both hands moving as she speaks, and he’s listening attentively. They look completely absorbed in each other, standing very close together as they converse. And although you may like him, you would never stoop so low as to interrupt or join them, as much as the urge is there. It isn’t your place to swoop in and attempt to mark your territory, so you continue on.

A few hours later, it's clear everyone has hit their limit. Between the dancing, the socializing, and getting dragged into games you barely understand the rules of, your social battery is well and truly dead. So it's no surprise that the second someone floats the idea of leaving, it's met with unanimous approval. "I am starving," Riki groans dramatically, clutching his stomach.

"I vote convenience store," Jake pipes up. "I'm craving instant ramen."

"Nah," Jay counters. He came and found you guys a while ago, having wandered off to find Heeseung, and if his eyes are anything to go by, he definitely found more than just his friend. "Ice cream."

"It's three in the morning."

"I’m high."

Nobody can really argue with that. Within the next few minutes, everyone has managed to find their shoes and sweaters, put them on, and exit onto the street. Even Jungwon, who had been AWOL practically the entire night, appears. The difference in temperature from when you arrived versus now hits you right away, and you instinctively pull your sleeves over your hands as you step onto the sidewalk.

The walk to the convenience store isn't long, though it takes nearly twice the time as it probably should, due to the collective effect of the night's… substances. Jungwon remains a few paces behind the rest of the group as you make your way over.

His head is tilted toward his phone, thumbs moving quickly across the screen as the glow of a notification lights up his face every few seconds. He doesn't seem to notice that the distance between himself and everyone else has slowly grown when he smiles faintly at whatever he’s reading before typing something else, and you wonder who he's texting. Whoever it is, he manages to catch up again by the time everyone reaches the convenience store.

Twenty minutes later, you’ve migrated to the small park a block away, planting yourselves around a weathered wooden bench. Riki, Sunghoon and Jake sit on the grass despite the cold, while the rest of you perch on the backrest or sit properly. Wrappers begin stacking up in the middle as everyone steals bites from one another's snacks. You barely notice Jungwon has gone quiet until Riki suddenly points at him with a mouthful of chips. “Dude. Who are you texting?”

Looking up, and maybe shy from the sudden attention, the other boy quickly shuts off his phone, turning the screen over against his thigh before slipping it into the pocket of his hoodie. “No one.”

The younger one’s eyes narrow. “I’m calling cap.” 

“Whatever, bro.”

He doesn't touch his phone for the rest of the night, but you can tell he wants to.

—

The weeks continue on much the same, except something feels... different.

Initially, you can't quite put your finger on it. After all, nothing has changed in any obvious way. You still see Jungwon at group hangouts, you still exchange the occasional text, and he still talks and jokes around the way he always does. But at the same time, you’re no idiot. You’ve been in love with the guy for quite a while now, over-analyzing his every move, so it would be stupid for you, of all people, to not notice even the slightest shift in behaviour.

Evidence #1: He’s begun skipping lectures.

Now, Jungwon isn’t exactly the type to colour code his notes or chase extra credit opportunities, but he does take his studies seriously. He stays on top of assignments, shows up to class, and rarely falls behind. He wouldn't miss a lecture unless he was genuinely sick or something important had come up. Which is why seeing the seat beside you remain empty for an entire hour and a half without receiving a single text, makes zero sense. It’s just one time, though, so you don’t need to worry about it too much. 

But when it happens again, just one week later, you begin to question things. You don’t know if it’s your place to text him, or not. Unfortunately, one of the things that comes along with liking someone is the inability to be casual about literally anything. With him, you tend to overthink even sending a quick message, because what if he doesn’t reply? Or what if he does reply, but it’s super dry? Either way, you’d feel bad. Ultimately, you choose not to text him.

If he wanted to keep you in the loop, he’d do it himself. 

"You know where Jungwon's been lately?" you ask Jake one afternoon as the two of you walk out of your advanced analytical chemistry lab together, your backpacks slung over one shoulder.

He shrugs. "Not really. I think he's just been hanging out with some other friends recently."

“Oh.” There's a brief pause before you nudge his arm. "Well, tell him he can't disappear forever. We have one of our last miderms coming up and it's worth like thirty percent of our final grade." 

“Trust me,” your friend says, “he knows. I’ve been on his ass about it for ages.”

Evidence #2: He no longer keeps his word.

And that evening, after putting it off for nearly an hour because you don't want to seem like a desperate loser, you finally cave and open your messages.

you: heyyy wanna study together tomorrow? 

It doesn't take long for his reply to come through.

jungwon: yes i would love to :)) let's do our usual spot at 3pm

You blow out a breath of relief, a soft smile gracing your features. Maybe you were truly going crazy. He has a life, and though you’d love to be privy to more parts of it, you aren’t, but at least you have this. 

The next afternoon, you arrive at your usual table in the library ten minutes early.

In first year, the two of you found it, tucked into the far corner beside the windows, hidden just enough from the rest of the floor that nobody else ever seems to claim it, and ever since then, it’s become the study location. You spread your notes across the surface and take your laptop out of your bag, arranging everything exactly how you like it, and while you wait, you start studying. 

Truthfully, you don't even realize he hasn't shown up until nearly thirty minutes have passed. You've been too busy reconstructing proteins on Py-Mol to bother checking the time, your fingers typing away on the keyboard as you add more beta sheets. It's only when you finally glance at the clock hanging on the wall that your stomach sinks.

Huh. That’s… unlike him. 

You expect him to show up soon, stumbling in, apologizing for his tardiness, anything, really. You don’t expect for an entire hour to pass, then another, and another. With each minute that slips by, the knot in your chest ties itself a little tighter. The rational thing would be to send another message, like hey, are you still coming?  But the longer you wait, the more humiliating the idea becomes. If he forgot, reminding him would only make you feel worse, since you wouldn't want him to rush over, and if he didn't, well, then you'll have your answer anyway. 

Drowning in the embarrassment for having been stood up on a study session of all things, your thumb presses his contact until the mute notifications option appears. You don’t know why you do it. Perhaps the only explanation is to help silence your growing anxiety, your growing dread. 

You flip your phone over, set it down beside your pencil case, and compel yourself to look back down at your notes. 

Evidence #3: When you do interact, he gives you nothing. 

You’re trying your hardest to give Jungwon the benefit of the doubt, since it’s only fair. People get busy, plans can change, you know that. You aren't some unreasonable person who expects Jungwon to drop everything the second you ask to spend time together. It’s not like you need to be his first priority– you don't even need to be close to the top of the list– but a small part of you thinks that if he cared even the slightest amount about your feelings, then he would try. 

The next time you see him is a few days later in the Enzyme Chemistry & Biocatalysis course. Like always, as you’ve been finding lately, you notice him before he does you. Regardless of the fact that he ditched you in the library, you refuse to be petty, save him the seat beside you, and when he sits down next to you, you smile. “Hey.”

“Hi,” he replies, pulling out his notebook. You brace yourself for his apology, ready to wave it off and move past it, but then, to your shock, neither of you speak. In fact, minutes pass without a single word exchanged. You’ve never felt so awkward around him before. 

“So…” you begin in an effort to break the weird atmosphere, shifting in your place, “you never came to the library the other day.”

“Oh, oops”

Breathing out, “Yeah, I waited for a while."

Jungwon exhales, leaning back slightly in his chair. "yeah, sorry. Something came up."

Your nose scrunches at how thin that sounds, at how much more you feel like you deserve. "Okay.” The word comes out slowly, although you do your best to keep your voice light. "I get that. I just wish you had texted me or something."

He looks like you from the corner of his eye, not even bothering to turn his head fully. Then, “alright, my bad.”

You force out a nod, just to end the conversation, before turning back toward the front of the classroom just as the professor begins setting up the lecture slides. The words on the screen blur together as you attempt to focus, but your mind keeps replaying the interaction over and over again. Was it too much to expect a proper apology? You can’t help but think that the Jungwon of five months ago would've handled this differently.

The rest of the lecture passes in silence.

Usually, you and Jungwon walk out together afterward to go to the library or cafe. Today, you pack your bag and leave without sparing him a glance. 

At night, you lie awake staring at the ceiling, hating how much power one person has over your emotions. It makes you want to shake yourself. You’re about to graduate from university, for crying out loud! You’re not some high schooler anymore; shit like this shouldn’t get to you, but it does. 

When you interact with him, your entire day brightens. The bare minimum, like one joke, one smile, or one small gesture, and suddenly you feel euphoric. But when he feels distant or doesn’t seem to pay you any attention, it ruins everything. Today, your entire mood hinged on a conversation that lasted less than ten seconds.

Less than ten seconds!

You turn onto your side, pulling your blanket closer, your phone sitting untouched on your nightstand as your mind wanders off to a place it’s never dared to explore. Have you just been imagining it all, him pulling away and acting differently? It’s as if something between the two of you has shifted. Or it could be that there was nothing there to begin with. 

The thought is painful enough that you instantly try to push it away, but once it appears, you can't seem to get rid of it.

Did Jungwon ever actually like you? Because when you like someone, you want to spend time with them, you look for excuses to talk to them, you notice when they're gone, you make an effort.

You have spent years convincing yourself that there was this thing between the two of you. The shared moments, lingering glances, casual touches, inside jokes. You have replayed conversations so many times that you could probably recite his own words back to him. It couldn't all have been nothing, right? There's no way.

A realization settles somewhere deep in your chest, heavy and uncomfortable. 

Frustratingly, your eyes begin to burn. You squeeze them shut, willing the tears away before they have the chance to fall. 

—

Along with the last weeks of the semester, comes a resolve. A resolve to get over him. To enjoy the little time you have left of university and allow yourself to exist without Yang Jungwon taking up so much space in your life.

At first, it's liberating. You hadn't realized how much energy you'd been pouring into thinking about him until you finally stopped. Now, you can hang out with your friends without being that one person who can't stop bringing up some guy, and your friendships are better for it. The version of you from first, second, or even third year would never have believed you could go nearly a month without talking to Jungwon. And yet here you are, deep in your fourth-year glory, proving it's possible after all.

For a while, you believe that this is it, that getting over him wouldn’t be nearly as hard as you anticipated it would be. Except, faintly, in a hidden corner in the deepest, darkest crevices of your heart, you note that he hasn’t even tried on his end of the friendship. He hasn’t cared to reach out to you, only interacting in the shared group chat. And while you do see him attending group hangouts, he’s really only there physically, and even then, sometimes he’ll leave early or just stay to the side, too busy being preoccupied with his phone. Has he always been like this, and you just chose not to see it? Were you always the one initiating things? You'd like to think not, but honestly, you don't know anymore.

The only two times his name appears on your phone for the rest of the school year are when he needs something.

jungwon: hey do you have the notes from yesterday's lecture? couldn’t make it to class today

And because old habits die hard, you send them over. The second time, however, you find yourself hesitating. 

jungwon: missed another lecture sry. notes??

His audacity should be studied, you surmise. You don’t owe him anything! 

you: no sorry, come to class next time

jungwon: alr i’ll just ask jake then

you: kk

As hapless as it may be, not a single ounce of guilt courses through your veins. You’re past the point of deluding yourself that he likes you based on some arbitrary interactions, and you’re no longer going to try to get him to like you by doing random tasks that, in any other world, he wouldn’t need help with.

During the last group get-together of the semester before finals, your friends notice the change. Yunjin’s eyes flick between you and Jungwon as she takes a sip of her drink, brows furrowed in confusion. “Are you seriously not even going to say hi?”

Shaking your head, you look around the room “Nah, we’ve already waved eachother.”

That earns you a suspicious look. "Okay...?"

You chuckle, bringing your hand up to pat her shoulder. "Yunjin, I'm fine."

She doesn't look completely convinced, and neither do Chaewon and Kazuha once they clock it too. Throughout the night, they keep trying, doing things like trying to casually suggest getting another drink from the kitchen when Jungwon is there, or steering the conversation toward wherever he’s sitting. You’re on the receiving end of increasingly unsubtle looks every time he walks past, your friends essentially begging you to make a move, though to no success.

—

The final nail in the coffin is the night before graduation, on a walk down the same streets you’ve walked thousands of times. 

There is something oddly comforting in it, knowing that soon enough these familiar paths will no longer be part of your daily routine, that the late night visits to the convenience store and the early morning gym sessions before campus grows crowded will fade into memory. Everything feels a little more sentimental now, pulled down by the knowledge that tomorrow marks the end of this particular chapter of your life.

Jake walks beside you as the two of you take your last late night walk as university students, reminiscing about the memories made over the years: some of them silly, some surprisingly tender. He has always been your safe space, a friend who has never once judged you for anything, and maybe that's why the confession slips out so easily.

“Jake?”

“Hm?”

You stare below at the pavement beneath your feet, watching your shoes move with each step. "You know I've had the biggest crush on Jungwon for the longest time, right?" 

After a small pause, "yeah," he says quietly, "I know." 

"Ugh, I honestly thought something was going to happen this year." 

"I don't know why,” you continue, “I think I had some wild delusion that after all these years of knowing each other, something would eventually change." You laugh self-deprecatingly, "Obviously not." 

To you right, Jake doesn’t laugh. Instead, he looks ahead, his expression thoughtful. "For a while I thought he liked you too.”

Your steps falter. “What?”

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking uncomfortable. "Like, there were moments where I was pretty sure. The way he acted around you sometimes..." 

You kick lightly at a loose pebble on the sidewalk; it skitters ahead. "Yeah, well, whatever he felt for me wasn't romantic."

It is at this moment that Jake turns to face you fully, and the expression that paints his features has your lips pursing in immediate suspicion. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Hearing him say your name so gently is enough to send your stomach twisting into nervous knots. With the hesitation lacing his voice and his obvious refusal to meet your eyes, you feel as though you already know what's to come. “I’m sorry I’m the one telling you this.”

“Telling me what?”

Jake looks genuinely upset. “Jungwon has a girlfriend now.”

At first you don’t react, not because you don't understand what he means, but because your brain seems to reject the information before it can fully settle. You had spent this entire semester slowly coming to terms with the fact that Jungwon probably didn't see you the way you saw him, and that was fine. You were able to accept that him not returning your feelings wasn’t going to ruin your life, and that once you let go of any expectations, the ache would eventually fade. But this is different.

Knowing he doesn't like you is one thing. Knowing he likes someone else is another.

The world around you continues moving, completely unaware that something inside you just broke. You hope it’s not your heart. 

“Who?” Your voice cracks.

Hesitating again, Jake watches you carefully, reluctant to cause you any more pain. "I think they met at Yeonjun's party." 

Ah. 

He doesn’t need to explain any further; your mind has already filled in the blanks. She’s the girl who grabbed Jungwon's arm when he came back with drinks, the one he was talking to for the rest of the night while you waited for him to come back to your group. The girl he had been texting when everyone went out for snacks after the party, who somehow became more important than the lectures he stopped showing up to, more important than spending quality time with his friends, and evidently, you.

All of a sudden, everything makes sense. 

You feel the familiar sting growing behind your eyes and let out a small, broken laugh that doesn't sound like you at all. "This is so embarrassing," you whisper, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to bury your face in both hands.

The tears come quickly after that, and you hate how easily they fall, hate that after all this time, after convincing yourself you were finally moving on, you were just lying to yourself. You don't want Jake to see you like this, not over something that feels so foolish and immature, but you're only human, and you wear your emotions like a badge.

"Hey," he says tenderly from beside you. Your friend’s hand settle against your back, rubbing slowly as he tries to offer as much comfort as he can. His voice is soft when he speaks again. "It's not embarrassing, okay? I promise it's not." 

Still, the reassurance only serves to tighten your throat more. Your voice is muffled behind your hands when you choke out, "It just hurts so much.”

And Jungwon having a girlfriend somehow isn’t even the worst part of this revelation. It is the realization that for almost four whole years, you carried around this hope that maybe one day he’d finally make a move, and yeah, he was making moves, just not on you.

You can’t stop your thoughts as they spiral, searching through every possible version of events, every moment where you wonder if you could have done something differently. What if you had told him in first year? What if you had been more obvious? What if you met him at that party, instead of her? What if, what if, what if. 

"I'm so stupid," you rasp, shaking.

Jake immediately shakes his head, squeezing your shoulder. "No, you're not."

Out of all the emotions crowding your chest right now, you’re surprised to find that anger isnt one of them. It couldnt be. Jungwon never promised you anything, or intentionally gave you false hope.

He was kind to you, he cared about you, and he treated you like a friend. The problem was that you took every small act of kindness and every moment of platonic intimacy and built them into something bigger because you wanted them to mean more, despite them not having that deeper message you seeked. And when you broke through that façade and saw his actions for what they really were, you didn’t know what to think. He didn’t start hating you or ignoring you on purpose; he just got a girlfriend. 

You wish you could go back to first year and tell yourself not to bother, because now, with graduation only a day away, all you can think about is how much time you lost on him.

---

A/N: there will be a part two!! i split it bc there will be a time skip, and i didn't feel it meshed well all in one fic. i will keep the taglist the same for pt2 but please comment if you want to be added! comments & reblogs are always appreciated :)

Chicago had always been loud enough to drown out your thoughts.

This place seemed determined to make you listen to every single one of them.

The moving truck rolled slowly down Maple Street, its engine grumbling as though it, too, objected to the destination, and you rested your forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window while watching the neighbourhood reveal itself slowly. Every lawn had been trimmed within an inch of perfection. Every mailbox stood upright instead of leaning drunkenly toward the road. American flags fluttered from polished porches despite there being no holiday worth celebrating, and flowerbeds burst with arrangements of roses whose petals looked too immaculate to have survived wind or rain. Even the children riding bicycles seemed strangely choreographed, calling cheerful greetings to neighbours who knew each of their names, their laughter carrying through the warm spring air before disappearing beneath the distant toll of church bells.

Your father finally slowed the truck in front of a modest two-storey house with pale blue shutters and a wraparound porch. He turned off the engine without saying anything, gripping the steering wheel for several seconds while cigarette smoke drifted lazily from the one balanced between his fingers. The divorce had split everything neatly down the middle—house, furniture, bank accounts, holidays—but no one asked where eighteen-year-old daughters wanted to go. Your mother stayed in Chicago with the apartment she'd fought tooth and nail to keep. Your father accepted a new job three states away because "there was nothing left" back home.

"You can take whichever room you want," he said eventually, still looking through the windshield instead of at you.

It was such an ordinary sentence that it almost made you laugh.

Not Are you okay?

Not I'm sorry your life fell apart because ours did.

Typical.

You climbed out before he could say anything else, letting the truck door slam harder than necessary, and inhaled air that smelled overwhelmingly of freshly cut grass and damp earth instead of gasoline, hot concrete, and rain-soaked asphalt. The breeze carried the scent of lilacs from somewhere nearby, sweet enough to become cloying after only a few breaths, and the oppressive neatness of the neighbourhood wrapped itself around you with the suffocating gentleness of a freshly washed bedsheet.

It didn't feel real.

It felt staged, like someone had built an entire town from the collective memories of people who believed America had once been simpler than it actually was.

Your father lit another cigarette almost immediately after finishing the first.

"Apparently," he muttered, exhaling smoke toward the afternoon sky, "the pastor lives next door."

You followed his gaze without much interest.

The neighbouring house was much older than yours, its white clapboard walls softened by decades of climbing ivy that curled around the porch railings in thick emerald vines. Rose bushes bloomed beneath every window, their crimson blossoms almost unnaturally vibrant against the white paint. While rows of lavender swayed gently beside a stone pathway leading toward the front steps. 

A woman emerged from the garden carrying a wicker basket balanced against her hip, and even from across the lawn there was something effortlessly graceful about the way she moved, brushing loose strands of dark hair behind her ear before looking toward the moving truck with an expression that immediately softened into a welcoming smile.

She waved.

Your father waved back with awkward enthusiasm.

You offered the smallest possible nod.

The woman didn't seem offended by your lack of warmth. If anything, her smile only widened before she disappeared inside the house, leaving the front door open behind her as though expecting someone else to follow.

"You could try being polite," your father remarked.

"I nodded."

"You looked like you were attending a funeral."

"I kind of am."

The words escaped before you could stop them.

Your father didn't answer; he simply looked away, crushing the cigarette beneath his shoe with more force than necessary before opening the truck and beginning to unload boxes in silence.

◌ֹ   💭  ִ  ՞

Your bedroom overlooked the street.

It wasn't particularly large, but the slanted ceiling and wide window gave it the illusion of space, and if you ignored the floral wallpaper left behind by whoever had lived there before, it might even have been pleasant. You left every box untouched, stepping instead toward the window where the neighbourhood stretched beneath the late afternoon sun in quiet perfection. From here, the church dominated everything.

It stood only a short walk away, its white steeple rising confidently above the rooftops until it became the highest point in town, casting a long shadow that crept slowly across the surrounding streets as the sun drifted westward. The stained-glass windows caught the light in fractured colours, spilling ribbons of sapphire, crimson, and gold across the stone walls, and every hour the bell announced itself with unwavering certainty, as though reminding the entire town exactly where its heart resided.

You had never been particularly religious. 

Your mother claimed belief was something people found when they were desperate enough. Your father claimed nothing at all.

Still, there was something undeniably magnetic about the building—not welcoming, exactly, but impossible to ignore. It possessed the quiet confidence of institutions that had existed long before the people inside them and fully expected to remain standing long after everyone currently alive had become names carved into marble.

The longer you stood there, the more impossible it became to convince yourself that the church was simply another building.

Every street curved toward it, every sidewalk appeared to lead back to its weathered stone steps, and even the houses seemed arranged in quiet deference, as though generations of families had built their lives around its presence without ever questioning why. It reminded you less of a place of worship than of a watchtower, standing silently above the town with the patient certainty that everyone, eventually, regardless of where they wandered, would find themselves returning to its doors.

With a quiet sigh, you stepped away from the window and looked around your bedroom for the first time. Brown cardboard boxes towered against one wall with your mother's handwriting still scrawled across the tape in black marker—BOOKS, WINTER CLOTHES, BEDROOM—small pieces of a life that no longer existed packed away as though memories could be folded as neatly as sweaters. For a fleeting moment, you considered unpacking, imagining where your records might sit or which shelf your novels would occupy, but the thought felt strangely disloyal, as though arranging your belongings meant accepting that this house was something more permanent than a temporary stop on the way back home.

Because that was what you kept telling yourself.

You weren't staying.

Your father might believe in fresh starts, but you believed in endings, and sooner or later, this one would end too.

You left the boxes where they were.

Downstairs, the muffled scrape of furniture drifting across hardwood floors reminded you that your father had continued working without you. You could picture him perfectly without even looking—the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled to his elbows, another cigarette dangling absentmindedly between his lips despite promising your mother years ago that he'd quit, moving through the house with the determination of someone who believed staying busy was easier than admitting he didn't know what else to do with himself.

He had always been good at pretending. Pretending as if the shouting matches hadn't rattled the windows, that your mother's packed suitcases hadn't sat untouched by the front door for nearly a week before she finally carried them downstairs herself, that signing a stack of divorce papers in a lawyer's office on an unremarkable Tuesday afternoon was no different from signing for a parcel at the post office.

Some people cried when their marriages ended.

Your father had simply bought another pack of cigarettes.

You wandered downstairs without thinking much about where your feet were taking you, trailing your fingers lightly along the polished banister as unfamiliar floorboards creaked beneath your weight. The house carried that peculiar scent all recently vacated homes seemed to share, a mixture of fresh paint and old timber. 

Your father was standing in the kitchen with his back to you, staring blankly into an open cupboard that contained nothing except two chipped mugs the landlord had apparently forgotten to remove. For several moments, he didn't move at all. He simply stood there with one hand braced against the counter, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling while the afternoon light spilled through the sink window and painted long rectangles across the floor.

For a fleeting second, he looked impossibly older than you remembered.

Not because of the grey beginning to thread through his dark hair or the pull of his permanent frown that exemplified a network of deep wrinkles, but because loneliness had a way of ageing people unevenly. It hollowed them out from the inside until they carried themselves like houses after a fire—still standing, somehow, but unmistakably changed.

He noticed you only when the floorboard beneath your foot groaned.

"There's a diner a few blocks over," he said, reaching automatically for his wallet. "I figured we'd get dinner there. Saves unpacking the kitchen tonight."

You leaned against the doorway.

"Sure."

He hesitated.

"You hungry?"

"I guess." You sighed.

Another silence settled between the two of you, stretching just long enough to become uncomfortable before he cleared his throat and slipped the wallet into his back pocket.

"People say the pie's good."

The comment felt almost painfully rehearsed, like something he'd read in a brochure on how fathers were supposed to speak to daughters after destroying their lives.

"That's reassuring."

"I thought so."

You almost smiled.

Almost.

Instead, you looked past him through the kitchen window.

The church steeple was visible even from here.

It rose above the rooftops in the distance, brilliant white beneath the lowering sun, impossible to escape no matter which direction you faced. The cross at its peak caught the fading light so intensely that for a moment it seemed suspended in the sky itself, detached from the building below, watching over the town with quiet indifference.

"Everything around here revolves around that place, doesn't it?" you asked without turning away from the window.

Your father followed your gaze.

"I suppose it does."

"That's depressing."

"It depends who you ask."

You let out a quiet hum.

"I wasn't asking."

◌ֹ   💭  ִ  ՞

The diner sat on the corner of Main Street, tucked between an old hardware store and a tiny bookshop whose faded sign looked as though it hadn't been replaced in decades. A little brass bell chimed above the door as you stepped inside.

It looked exactly how diners always looked in old American films, with red vinyl booths polished smooth by generations of customers, spinning chrome stools lined neatly along the counter, and waitresses who somehow remembered every regular's order before they'd even sat down. A jukebox stood silently in one corner, its coloured lights flickering despite no one feeding it coins, while framed photographs of local baseball teams and town parades crowded every inch of the walls.

The conversations stopped. Not all at once, but you felt it nonetheless.

Heads lifted almost imperceptibly from steaming coffee mugs and half-finished meals. Eyes lingered a fraction longer than politeness allowed before drifting away again, only to return moments later under the pretence of looking elsewhere. 

You were no longer just another girl.

You were the new girl.

The divorced man's daughter.

The strangers from Chicago.

Your father either didn't notice or chose not to. He slid into a booth near the window, picking up a laminated menu, prompting you to sit down too. Your fingers drifted absently over the frayed edge of the laminated menu, though you weren't really reading it. The words blurred together into an endless procession of burgers, meatloaf, club sandwiches and slices of homemade pie, all priced cheaply enough to suggest the recipes had remained unchanged for decades. It struck you that this diner, like everything else you'd seen since crossing the county line, seemed entirely uninterested in becoming something new.

A waitress appeared beside the table with two glasses of water balanced expertly on a round metal tray tucked against her shoulder. She looked to be in her late fifties, her greying hair pinned into a loose bun beneath a paper hat embroidered with the diner's name, and she smiled with the effortless familiarity of someone who had spent most of her life recognising faces before names.

"You folks must be the Parks," she said brightly, setting the glasses down without needing to ask whether you wanted lemon. "We've all been expecting you."

Your father looked up in surprise. "You have?"

"Oh, honey." She laughed softly, her voice oozing with honey. "Nothing much happens around here. New neighbours are practically headline news."

You lowered your eyes to the condensation gathering on your water glass, tracing a fingertip through the droplets before they slipped onto the tabletop. Somehow, hearing it confirmed felt infinitely worse than merely suspecting it.

The waitress scribbled something onto her notepad before looking between the two of you again.

"Your daddy's taking over at the engineering firm, isn't he?"

"That's right," your father replied politely.

"Well, we're happy to have you both. Lord knows this town could always use a few fresh faces."

Your father offered the strained smile he'd perfected over the last year. "Thank you."

She turned to you then, her expression softening almost instinctively.

"And you'll be starting at Saint Augustine's on Monday?"

You blinked. "I guess."

"You'll like it there."

The certainty with which she said it made something inside you churn.

"What if I don't?"

She paused for the briefest moment before smiling again, as though she believed every difficult thing could be solved with enough kindness.

"Oh," she said gently, "I'm sure you will."

When she finally wandered off toward another table, your father reached automatically for the sugar dispenser despite drinking his coffee black.

"You didn't have to answer like that."

"I answered."

"You know what I mean."

"No," you replied, lifting your glass. "I really don't."

He sighed quietly, rubbing a hand across his jaw before staring out the window instead of arguing further. It had become another habit of his lately, abandoning conversations the moment they threatened to become honest. You sometimes wondered whether it was because he genuinely wanted to avoid conflict or because he no longer trusted himself to say the right thing.

Outside, Main Street basked beneath the last warmth of the evening sun. A teenage boy wheeled his bicycle past the diner's window, one hand balancing a paper bag hooked over the handlebars while an older woman called after him from across the street, reminding him not to forget choir practice tomorrow evening. He lifted a hand in acknowledgement without even turning around, clearly having heard the reminder a hundred times before.

Choir practice.

You almost smiled to yourself; of course, there was choir practice.

Of course, there were church picnics and Sunday bake sales and Christmas pageants where everyone knew every line before the first rehearsal. You could already picture the bulletin boards covered in handwritten notices, casserole dishes appearing mysteriously whenever someone fell ill. 

The waitress returned with a steaming mug of coffee for your father and a basket of warm dinner rolls that she insisted had "just come out of the oven."

"They're on the house," she said with a wink. "Welcome to Maple Creek."

Your father thanked her.

You stared at the basket for a long moment before pulling one apart absentmindedly, watching gasps of steam escape into the air. The bread was still warm enough to burn your fingertips, tasting like someone's grandmother had been making them exactly the same way for fifty years, refusing to write the recipe down because she'd never needed to, measuring ingredients by instinct rather than teaspoons, and somehow producing the same perfect result every single time. You truly hated how good it was.

Your father noticed the expression that crossed your face before you had the chance to hide it, the smallest flicker of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth as he reached for one himself. "See?" he said quietly, tearing his own roll in half. "The pie probably isn't lying either."

You looked up just long enough to roll your eyes.

"Don't get ahead of yourself."

"I'm just saying," he replied with a shrug that felt almost familiar, "the place has potential."

"The bread has potential."

"I'll take that as progress."

"It isn't."

He smiled anyway.

It was brief—gone almost as soon as it appeared—but for the first time since you'd crossed the state line, your father looked a little more like the man you remembered. Before the lawyers, before the cardboard boxes stacked shoulder-high in your old living room, before every conversation between your parents had become another carefully measured negotiation about who got what and when. There had been a time when he laughed easily, when Sunday mornings meant burnt pancakes and classic rock playing too loudly through the house while your mother complained that neither of you knew the meaning of an inside voice. Sometimes it frightened you how difficult it was becoming to remember those versions of them. 

The waitress returned, balancing two heavy plates against her forearm, a skill that could only come from years of doing the same job every single day. She placed your father's meatloaf before him first, thick slices drowned in peppered gravy beside a generous mound of mashed potatoes. She then set your cheeseburger and fries in front of you with a smile.

"Everything looks alright?"

"It looks fine," your father answered politely.

"You just let me know if you need anything. Ketchup's already on the table, and don't be shy about asking for more fries. Earl always makes too many."

She drifted away before either of you could respond, stopping at another booth to refill an elderly couple's coffee cups without needing to ask. The old man thanked her by name. She asked after his wife. Two booths over, someone else called her over just to tell her that his grandson had finally gotten into college, and she clasped both hands over her heart as though the news belonged to her own family.

You watched the exchange for longer than you meant to.

You had the uneasy feeling that, by tomorrow morning, half the town would know exactly where you'd eaten dinner on your first night. By the end of the week, they'd know which house you lived in, what car your father drove, and probably the fact that you'd barely spoken through the entire meal. In a place this small, stories didn't spread because people were cruel. They spread because there simply wasn't much else to talk about.

◌ֹ   💭  ִ  ՞

You learned later that the woman from earlier was Mrs Sim, the pastor’s wife. She arrived with a still-warm peach cobbler, which your father accepted with a gratitude that seemed genuine, the lines around his eyes softening as she spoke to him about the community, the quiet, the good schools. You lingered in the doorway of your new bedroom, arms crossed, watching the performance of small-town benevolence. Mrs Sim’s eyes eventually found yours. “You must be y/n,” she beamed. “My son, Jake, is about your age. I’ll send him over later to help with the heavier boxes. It’s so nice to have young people in the house next door again.”

Jake.

The name meant nothing to you; it was simply another piece of information about a place you hadn't asked to know.

A pastor's son.

Someone who probably belonged here in the same way everything else seemed to.

You imagined someone polite, someone with perfect manners and neatly folded clothes, someone who had grown up knowing exactly where he fit in the world because everyone around him had spent his entire life reminding him. The kind of person who would wave at strangers while driving, volunteer on weekends, and probably know every verse of every hymn before he was old enough to understand why he was singing them.

Someone who would look at you and immediately know you didn't belong.

"That's nice," you replied.

Your father gave you a look, but you ignored it.

Mrs Sim only smiled. "You'll meet him soon enough."

Mrs Sim's words lingered in the air even after she had finished speaking, though you weren't entirely sure why. There was nothing particularly significant about them. She had simply mentioned her son in passing, the same way someone might mention a neighbour's dog or a nearby restaurant or which grocery store had the freshest produce. It should have been forgettable, another harmless detail about a town you had no intention of becoming attached to. Yet somehow, the certainty in her voice bothered you. You'll meet him soon enough. Not if you want to. Not if you happen to. Just a quiet assumption that, eventually, your lives would cross because that was how things worked here. Everyone knew everyone. Everyone belonged to someone. Everyone had a place already waiting for them.

You wondered if that was what made small towns feel so comforting to the people who loved them. There was no uncertainty. No endless possibility of becoming someone entirely different from who you were yesterday. In places like Chicago, people disappeared and reinvented themselves all the time. They changed schools, changed neighbourhoods, changed friend groups, changed everything about themselves until sometimes even the people who knew them best couldn't recognise who they had become. Here, it seemed impossible to escape the version of yourself that other people had already decided existed. Your family history, your mistakes, your reputation, your name—all of it followed you down every street and through every doorway.

Maybe that was why everyone here smiled so easily.

They had never needed to wonder who they were.

The conversation continued downstairs, though you stopped listening. Your father asked Mrs. Sim about the school district, and she answered with the same gentle enthusiasm she seemed to offer everything else, explaining which teachers were wonderful, which streets were safest, which shops had been around for generations. She spoke about Maple Creek as though it wasn't simply a town but a living thing, something delicate that required care and loyalty. You watched your father absorb every word, nodding along with an expression of relief that you recognised immediately.

He wanted this to work.

That was the part you hated most.

If he had been miserable, if he had admitted he regretted moving, if he had looked around this unfamiliar house and said that maybe he had made a mistake, then perhaps you would have felt less alone in your resentment. But instead, he seemed lighter here. Not happy exactly, but closer to it than he had been in months. The possibility that this place could become something good for him felt unfair somehow, because while he was finding a reason to believe in a future here, you were still grieving the one you had lost.

You quietly stepped back into your room before either of them noticed, closing the door without making a sound.

The peach cobbler sat untouched on the kitchen counter.

You could smell it even from upstairs.

Another thing this town seemed determined to make impossible to dislike.

You hated that. You hated that the houses were beautiful, that the neighbours were kind, that the diner food was good, that your father looked slightly less broken every time someone welcomed him. You had spent the entire drive here building a version of Maple Creek in your mind—a place where you could justify being angry, where every smiling face could be dismissed as fake and every gesture of kindness could be interpreted as pity.

But what were you supposed to do when people were genuinely nice? Anger was easier when you had something to fight against.

You sat down on the edge of your bed, staring at the unopened boxes surrounding you, and pulled your knees toward your chest. The room was quiet except for the faint sounds of movement downstairs, the occasional creak of floorboards beneath your father's footsteps, and the distant hum of traffic passing along the main road.

Somewhere outside, a church bell rang.

You looked toward the window instinctively. You had never understood the comfort people found in places like that.

The idea of faith had always seemed strange to you—not because you thought people were foolish for believing, but because certainty itself felt like something you had never possessed. Some people moved through life convinced there was a plan waiting for them, that every heartbreak had meaning and every loss had a purpose. They believed things happened for a reason.

You had never been able to understand how.

Your parents had loved each other once.

At least, everyone said they had.

There were photographs proving it. Old videos, memories you carried from childhood of them dancing in the kitchen, laughing over burnt dinners, holding hands while walking through crowded streets. There had been a time when their marriage had seemed as permanent as the church standing at the centre of Maple Creek.

And then one day, somehow, it wasn't.

So what exactly was faith supposed to do with things that broke?

What was the point of believing something was sacred if it could still be destroyed?

The question followed you as you unpacked only the things you needed for the night. A toothbrush. Clean clothes. Your phone charger. The essentials required to pretend that tomorrow would be normal, even though nothing about your life felt remotely familiar anymore.

You avoided opening the box marked BEDROOM, avoided touching the photographs, avoided anything that felt too much like admitting you were staying.

Downstairs, your father eventually called goodnight, and you answered automatically.

Then you were alone.

The first night in the new house was quieter than you expected. Not peaceful—peace implied comfort—but quiet in a way that made every small sound noticeable. The pipes shifting behind the walls. The wind moving through the trees outside. The occasional footsteps of your father crossing the hallway below.

And beneath everything else, faint but unmistakable, the church bells. They rang once more before midnight.

You lay in the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling, listening as the sound travelled through the darkness.

You didn't know anything about Maple Creek.

You didn't know its streets, its people, its traditions, or the boy whose name had been casually introduced to you before you had even met him.

For now, though, all you knew was that you were eighteen years old, three states away from everything you had ever known, living beside a church you didn't believe in, in a town that seemed determined to believe in you before you had even decided whether you wanted to believe in anything at all.

◌ֹ   💭  ִ  ՞

The next morning, Maple Creek looked almost deliberately beautiful.

You resented it immediately.

The sky was clear, the kind of bright blue that seemed almost too perfect to be real, and sunlight spilled across the streets as though the entire town had been carefully arranged for someone else's happiness. Birds moved between the trees, children walked toward school in groups, and neighbours greeted each other from opposite sides of the street with the casual familiarity of people who had been doing the same thing for years. There was something almost offensive about the way everything appeared untouched by the chaos that had brought you here. The lawns were freshly cut, the gardens were beginning to bloom with the first signs of spring, and every house seemed to sit peacefully beneath the morning light as though heartbreak, divorce, and starting over were things that happened somewhere far away to other people.

It was impossible to hate something that looked like it belonged in a memory.

You stood in the kitchen drinking coffee your father had made before getting ready for work. m He had already unpacked half the kitchen, organised the cupboards, and somehow found the patience to locate the coffee machine among dozens of unopened boxes that still crowded the dining room and hallway. It was such a typical thing for him to do that, despite everything, it almost made you smile. Your father had always dealt with uncertainty by creating order wherever he could. When things became unpredictable, he cleaned. When conversations became too difficult, he focused on practical tasks. When emotions became too overwhelming, he found something that could be measured, arranged, or fixed. He had spent the last year losing control over nearly every aspect of his life, and now that he had a new house with empty shelves and rooms waiting to be filled, he seemed determined to rebuild everything piece by piece.

You watched him move around the kitchen, placing mugs into cupboards and checking his work schedule on his phone, and you realised that this was probably the first time in months that he had looked like he knew what he was doing. It was strange seeing him like this. You had grown used to the version of him who sat silently at the dinner table, who stared at paperwork longer than necessary, who seemed to carry the weight of conversations he never dared to start. The divorce had changed both of your lives, but you had always been more focused on what you lost than you had forgotten he had lost something too.

That did not mean you were ready to forgive him for bringing you here.

It only meant you understood him slightly more than you wanted to.

"You should probably leave soon if you don't want to be late," he said, breaking the silence that had settled over the kitchen as he reached across the counter for his keys. He glanced briefly toward the clock hanging above the stove before looking back at you, his expression carrying the same quiet concern he had been trying to hide since the move. "First impressions are important."

You took another sip of your coffee, letting the warmth distract you from the uncomfortable feeling building in your chest. You glanced toward the clock above the stove, even though you already knew exactly what time it was.

"You already checked my schedule, didn't you?"

Your father paused for half a second, his fingers still wrapped around his keys, and that tiny hesitation gave him away immediately. He had always been terrible at pretending he wasn't overly involved. He tried to act casual, as though he hadn't spent the previous night reading through your school information or memorising your timetable, but you knew him too well. When he was worried, he disguised it as preparation.

"You need to admit that you would forget something important if I didn't."

You looked at him over the rim of your mug, unimpressed.

"I wouldn't."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the kind that suggested he had been waiting for you to say exactly that.

"You forgot your passport before our flight to Florida."

You looked away.

"That was one time."

Your father leaned back against the kitchen counter, folding his arms across his chest.

"You forgot your wallet at a restaurant last summer."

"I got it back."

"After I drove back twenty minutes to get it."

You opened your mouth to argue, but he continued before you could.

"You left your phone on top of the car."

You immediately looked away.

"That happened once."

Your father's smile widened slightly, and for a moment, the heaviness that had followed both of you since the divorce disappeared. It was such a small thing, barely noticeable, but it reminded you of the person he used to be before everything became complicated. The father who teased you about losing things, who laughed when you became stubborn, who knew exactly when to push and when to leave you alone.

He picked up his briefcase from beside the kitchen table and moved toward the front door, but before he stepped outside, he stopped.

The hesitation was subtle. Most people probably wouldn't have noticed it, but you did. 

"Are you nervous?"

The question was simple, almost too simple, and that was what made it difficult to answer. You looked toward the front window instead of at him, watching a neighbour across the street wave to someone passing by. Everyone here seemed so certain of themselves, so comfortable in a world that already knew their names. Meanwhile, you were standing in a kitchen that still smelled like cardboard boxes and unfamiliar paint, preparing to walk into a school where nobody knew you except as the girl who had just arrived.

You could have lied.

You almost did.

"No."

Your father didn't say anything, he didn't need to.

The look he gave you carried the quiet disbelief of someone who had known you your entire life and could tell when you were pretending.

You sighed, setting your coffee mug down on the counter.

"Maybe a little."

It was the closest thing to admitting the reality that you were willing to offer.

His expression softened immediately, and for a second, you prepared yourself for the kind of speech parents always gave in moments like this. Something about how everything would be okay. Something about making friends and giving people a chance and remembering that everyone felt nervous sometimes. You expected reassurance because reassurance was what adults usually offered when they didn't know how else to help.

Instead, he simply nodded.

"That's normal."

You looked back at him, almost surprised by how little he said.

"That's it?"

He shrugged slightly, his fingers tightening around the handle of his briefcase.

"What do you want me to say?"

You looked down.

"I don't know."

The honesty of the answer seemed to surprise both of you.

Your father let out a quiet breath, his gaze drifting briefly around the house. The unopened boxes stacked near the hallway. The unfamiliar walls. The unfamiliar kitchen. For the first time, he looked less like someone who had brought you here with a plan and more like someone who was simply trying to figure everything out alongside you.

"Neither do I," he admitted.

The words settled between you. And strangely, they helped more than any perfect speech could have.

Because your father had spent so long trying to make everything seem manageable that you had almost forgotten he was also struggling. He didn't have some hidden answer for how to rebuild a family after it had fallen apart. He didn't know the secret to making a new town feel like home or how to erase the memories you had left behind. He was just another person standing in unfamiliar surroundings, hoping that somewhere along the way, he had made the right choice.

"I'll see you after school," he said eventually.

You nodded.

"Okay."

He opened the front door, letting in a rush of cool morning air that carried the scent of grass and flowers from the neighbouring garden. He stepped outside, then paused with one hand still resting against the doorframe.

"Y/n?"

You looked up.

"Try not to get suspended on your first day."

You stared at him.

"Seriously?"

A small smile appeared on his face, the first genuine one you had seen that morning.

"I'm just saying."

"I haven't even been there yet."

"I know my daughter." He smiled as you watched him walk down the front steps and toward his car, his briefcase held loosely in one hand while the morning sun stretched across the driveway

You grabbed your bag from beside your stool and checked your phone one last time before leaving. There were still messages from Chicago, but fewer than yesterday. The group chat that had been impossible to ignore during the drive had become quieter overnight, conversations naturally shifting toward things you weren't there to experience. Someone had posted a picture from a coffee shop you used to visit after school. Someone else had mentioned a teacher you had complained about for years. Tiny pieces of your old life continuing without you.

You stared at the screen for longer than you should have.

Then you locked your phone.

There was no point in torturing yourself with reminders of somewhere you couldn't return to.

At least, not yet.

You stepped outside, locking the front door behind you, and immediately became aware of the house beside yours. The pastor's home stood exactly as it had the previous evening, peaceful and untouched beneath the morning sunlight. The garden that had seemed almost excessive yesterday looked different now—not less perfect, but more alive. The roses beneath the windows moved slightly in the breeze, and the ivy climbing along the porch railing cast delicate shadows across the white wooden walls.

You wondered briefly what kind of person grew up in a house like that.

Not because you were interested, you reminded yourself of that.

It was just simply curiosity.

A house like that came with expectations. You knew enough about people to understand that. The pastor's son probably had a reputation before he was old enough to create one himself. People probably knew him as a child before they knew him as a person. They probably expected kindness from him, patience from him, goodness from him. They probably looked at him and saw his father's occupation before they saw anything else.

You wondered if that ever became exhausting.

The thought disappeared quickly.

You adjusted your bag over your shoulder and started walking toward school.

The route was shorter than you expected, which somehow annoyed you. You had imagined getting lost, having an excuse to turn around, having some dramatic reason to delay arriving at a place where you knew nobody. Instead, Maple Creek made everything inconveniently simple. The streets were easy to follow. The sidewalks were clean. The school appeared at the end of the road exactly where the map on your phone said it would be.

Even the town was refusing to give you a reason to hate it.

The school building was larger than you expected, though it carried the same old-fashioned charm as everything else in Maple Creek. Red brick walls covered in climbing greenery, tall windows reflecting the morning sunlight, neatly maintained gardens surrounding the entrance. It looked less like a school and more like a place people took photographs of during graduation.

You stood at the edge of the school grounds for a moment longer than necessary, letting the flow of students move around you as though you were standing still in the middle of a river. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going, which hallway they needed, which friends they were meeting, which teachers they needed to avoid before the first bell. There was a strange confidence in the way people moved through familiar places, the kind that only came from years of repetition. They weren't thinking about where to turn or whether they belonged there. They simply existed within the routine of it.

You missed that.

Not the school itself. Not the crowded hallways or the endless assignments or the people who had somehow made every small inconvenience feel like a personal crisis. But you missed knowing what to expect. You missed walking into a building where you knew which staircase was always empty between classes, which vending machine stole your money, which teachers would let you hand things in late without a lecture. You missed the comfort of being a person who already had a place, even if that place wasn't perfect.

Here, everything was unfamiliar.

And unfamiliar meant vulnerable.

You hated that feeling.

You followed the signs toward the main office, your shoes making quiet sounds against the polished floor as you entered the building. It was exactly what you expected inside. Framed photographs lined the walls, displaying graduating classes from decades before you were born, sports teams holding trophies with proud expressions, theatre productions captured mid-performance, students who had once walked through these same hallways and eventually left to create lives somewhere beyond the town.

It was strange seeing so much history preserved.

Back home, schools changed constantly. Posters were replaced, rooms were renovated, people came and went so quickly that it was easy to forget anyone had existed there before you. Here, the past seemed carefully protected. Maple Creek held onto things. It held onto houses, traditions, names, and memories with the kind of devotion usually reserved for things people were afraid of losing.

The thought followed you into the office, where a woman sitting behind the front desk looked up immediately. She had the same welcoming expression everyone here seemed to possess, the kind that made you suspicious because you couldn't understand why a stranger would look genuinely pleased to see you.

"You must be Y/n."

You stopped.

It was becoming unsettling how often people knew who you were before you had introduced yourself.

"Yeah."

The woman smiled and reached for a folder beside her computer. "I'm Mrs. Li. We spoke briefly with your father yesterday when your enrolment paperwork came through. Everything has been processed, and your schedule is inside.

She handed the folder across the desk.

You accepted it carefully, glancing down at your name printed neatly across the front.

"Thank you."

"You'll find everyone here is very welcoming," Mrs Li added.

There it was again.

The phrase everyone seemed determined to use.

Welcoming.

You wondered if there was a meeting where the entire town agreed on the same vocabulary.

You forced a small smile.

"I'll keep that in mind."

Mrs Li didn't seem offended by your lack of enthusiasm. If anything, her expression softened slightly, as though she understood more than you had said.

"Your first class is English. It's just down the hall and to the left. If you have any trouble finding anything, ask someone. We have a wonderful group of students here."

You nodded.

"Okay."

The hallway had become busier now, students moving between lockers and classrooms as the first bell approached. Conversations blended together around you, creating a constant stream of voices that you tried not to focus on. You kept your eyes on your schedule, pretending you didn't notice the occasional glance in your direction.

You knew what they were thinking.

Who is she?

Where did she come from?

Why is she here?

You had been the new girl before, but never like this.

In Chicago, being new meant being one person among thousands. There were always other transfers, other unfamiliar faces, other people trying to figure out where they belonged. Here, you felt like the entire town had watched your moving truck arrive. You weren't just a student who had transferred schools.

You reached your classroom and paused outside the door, hearing voices from inside. The urge to turn around was immediate and irrational. Not because you were afraid, but because walking through that door meant admitting this was real, that you were actually here and not on some sort of visit. You weren’t just passing through; this was your life now.

Eventually, you pushed the door open.

The classroom was brighter than you expected, sunlight spilling through the wide windows and casting shapes across the desks. Students looked up briefly as you entered before returning to their conversations, their curiosity subtle enough to be polite but obvious enough that you noticed. You had become aware, almost immediately, of how visible you were here. 

You made your way toward the empty seat near the window and placed your bag down, grateful for the small distance it gave you from everyone else. For the first few minutes, you simply sat there, watching the classroom. The teacher arranged papers on her desk. Students exchanged conversations that seemed to continue from yesterday, last week, and years ago.

The rest of the morning passed in a way that felt strangely unreal, as though you were watching yourself move through someone else's routine rather than actually participating in your own. Every classroom had its own rhythm that you didn't understand yet; every teacher seemed to know exactly how much time to spend explaining something, exactly when to move on, exactly which students would answer questions before they even raised their hands. 

You found yourself observing more than listening, studying the small details that revealed how deeply connected everyone was to this place. The girl in front of you had a sticker on her notebook from a local charity event. The boy beside the window wore a jacket with the school emblem stitched neatly onto the chest. Two students passing your desk exchanged a joke that clearly referenced something that had happened years ago, something you could not possibly understand because you had not been there to witness it.

By the time you checked your schedule again before your next class, you were already expecting another subject you would have to pretend to care about, another room where you would sit quietly and allow people to decide what they thought of you. Instead, your eyes stopped on the words printed beneath the next period.

Chapel.

You stared at it for several seconds, convinced that maybe you had misunderstood.

You looked back at the schedule.

Still there.

A mandatory chapel period.

Not an optional gathering. Not a once-a-week event. Not something students attended only if they wanted to participate. It was built directly into the school day with the same certainty as mathematics, English, or science, another requirement that everyone accepted without question.

You almost found it impressive.

Only a town like Maple Creek could create a school where religion was not simply something people practised, but something embedded so naturally into everyday life that nobody even considered questioning it.

Of course, they had a chapel.

You followed the other students toward the chapel building, trying not to let your expression reveal exactly what you were thinking. Nobody else seemed bothered. That was what caught your attention more than anything. They weren't walking there reluctantly. They weren't whispering complaints about having to attend. They weren't rolling their eyes or joking about finding a way to escape.

They simply went, like it was normal.

The chapel itself was beautiful, which added to your growing irritation. The building was old but carefully maintained, with dark wooden beams stretching across the ceiling and rows of polished benches facing a raised platform at the front. Sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows, breaking into fragments of blue, red, and gold that shifted slowly across the floor as the morning passed.

You took a seat near the back, naturally, the safest place for someone who had no intention of becoming involved.

The teacher at the front began speaking about faith, purpose, and community, and you tried to listen. You genuinely did. You weren't there to mock anyone or disrespect something that clearly mattered to the people around you. But there was a difference between understanding why something was important to others and feeling it yourself.

People always talked about faith like it was something that remained when everything else fell away, but what happened when the things you believed in failed you first? What happened when the people who promised they would always be there were suddenly the reason you had to leave your home? What happened when forever turned out to be something people said only because they wanted to believe it at the time?

Maybe that was why religion had always felt so distant to you. It wasn't because you hated it, and it wasn't because you thought people were foolish for believing in something greater than themselves. You understood the appeal of having something permanent to hold onto when everything around you felt temporary. The problem was that belief required a kind of trust you no longer knew how to give. You had spent too much time watching things people promised would last forever eventually fall apart, watching something that was supposed to be unbreakable become fragile enough to disappear. It was difficult to surrender yourself to the idea of certainty when your own life had become proof that certainty could be taken away without warning.

The clock above the doorway seemed to move more slowly with every passing minute, each second stretching longer than the one before it. You tried to convince yourself that you could sit there until the period ended. It was only one class. Forty minutes of listening, pretending, and doing what everyone else seemed completely comfortable doing.

But the longer you remained in that room, the more aware you became of how different you felt from everyone around you.

The chapel, which seemed to offer comfort to everyone else, began to feel strangely suffocating. You felt as though the room itself was asking something from you—some kind of acceptance, some willingness to belong, some acknowledgement that this was now your world too.

You looked around one more time, almost hoping to find someone else who looked as uncomfortable as you felt.

You didn't.

Every student seemed exactly where they were supposed to be.

Everyone seemed to have a place.

Except you.

The realisation irritated you more than it should have, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you quietly gathered your notebook and slipped your bag over your shoulder. You waited until the teacher turned her attention toward the front of the room before standing, moving carefully between the rows of benches and making your way toward the side exit. Nobody stopped you. Nobody questioned where you were going. For a moment, you wondered if that was because nobody noticed, or because in a place where everyone seemed to know everyone, you were still too new to matter.

Either option was strangely comforting.

The moment the chapel doors closed behind you, you exhaled.

The hallway outside was empty, and the sudden absence of voices felt like stepping out of a crowded room after holding your breath for too long.

You walked without a destination, following instinct rather than any actual plan, letting your feet carry you away from the main buildings where students gathered and teachers watched.

The further you walked, the quieter the school became.

Eventually, the polished pathways and carefully maintained gardens gave way to a less noticeable section of campus behind the sports fields. It was the kind of place people probably passed without ever really seeing, hidden behind a line of tall trees that separated it from the rest of the school grounds. The branches stretched overhead, creating patches of shade across the grass, while the old maintenance building stood quietly against the edge of the property, its brick walls worn by years of changing weather.

It wasn't somewhere students were supposed to be, which immediately made it somewhere you preferred.

There was something comforting about finding a place that hadn't been perfected. Unlike the rest of Maple Creek, which seemed determined to preserve every detail and present itself as something untouched, this corner of the school existed without trying to impress anyone. The grass grew unevenly. The walls carried marks left behind by time. Nobody had placed flowers here or added signs explaining its importance.

It was simply there.

And for the first time that morning, you felt like you could be too.

You leaned back against the wall, pulling the cigarette from your bag with the familiar ease of someone who had done this too many times to feel guilty anymore. You knew exactly what people would say if they saw you. You knew the assumptions that would immediately follow. The new girl from Chicago who couldn't even make it through her first day without breaking a rule. The divorced man's daughter who clearly had an attitude problem. The outsider who had arrived and immediately proved everyone right.

You almost laughed at the thought.

People loved being right about others.

It made them feel like they understood the world.

The lighter flickered in your hand, and for a moment the small flame was the only movement around you. You watched the cigarette catch before lowering your hand, allowing the smoke to disappear into the cool morning air. The irony wasn't lost on you.

You had escaped a chapel full of people searching for meaning only to find yourself hiding behind a building with a cigarette in your hand.

Maybe everyone had their own way of coping, and yours was just less socially acceptable.

For the first time that morning, you felt like you could breathe properly. There was no teacher watching you. No receptionist smiling at you like she already knew your entire story. No students glancing over and wondering where you came from.

Just complete silence.

You closed your eyes briefly, letting yourself enjoy the rare moment where nobody expected anything from you.

Then you heard footsteps.

At first, you assumed they belonged to another student who had discovered the same hiding place. You didn't bother moving. If anything, you were slightly annoyed that even your one quiet corner couldn't remain yours for longer than five minutes.

The footsteps came closer, slow and unhurried.

Not the hurried steps of someone trying to sneak away.

Someone who knew exactly where they were going.

You opened your eyes.

A boy stood a few feet away, one hand resting casually in the pocket of his uniform trousers, his expression difficult to read. He wasn't wearing the usual look people gave you when they caught you doing something wrong. There was no immediate judgement, no smug satisfaction, no excitement at having discovered someone breaking a rule. He didn't have the expression teachers usually wore when they found students somewhere they shouldn't be, that careful mixture of disappointment and authority that suggested they had already decided what kind of person you were before you had the chance to explain yourself.

Instead, he simply looked at you.

He appeared to be around your age, dressed in the same Saint Augustine's uniform as everyone else, though somehow he carried it differently. The other students you had seen that morning wore their uniforms like an extension of the school itself, every shirt neatly tucked, every tie perfectly adjusted, every detail reflecting the careful order that seemed to exist everywhere in Maple Creek. This boy didn't look careless, but there was something less deliberate about him. He looked comfortable, as though the uniform was simply something he wore rather than something he used to prove that he belonged.

His eyes briefly moved toward the cigarette between your fingers before returning to your face, and you waited for the inevitable reaction. You waited for the sigh, the disapproving expression, the comment about rules and responsibility and how this was not the kind of behaviour expected at a school like Saint Augustine's.

Instead, when he finally spoke, his voice was calmer than you expected.

"You know, I'm pretty sure this isn't exactly where you're supposed to be during chapel."

You stared at him for a moment, caught slightly off guard by the fact that his words sounded more like an observation than an accusation. The cigarette remained between your fingers, smoke curling lazily upward before disappearing into the cool air surrounding the trees.

"I'm aware," you replied.

Your tone was sharper than necessary, but you had already spent the entire morning surrounded by people who were trying to make you feel like you were being welcomed while simultaneously reminding you that you didn't belong. Defensiveness had become easier than politeness. It was a habit you had developed without realising, something you reached for before anyone had the opportunity to hurt you.

The boy didn't seem bothered.

If anything, he looked slightly amused.

"Good," he said simply.

You frowned.

That wasn't the response you were expecting.

Most people would have continued. They would have taken your attitude as an invitation to argue, because people often mistook defensiveness for a challenge. They liked proving they were right, especially when they believed they were helping.

You studied him for a moment before asking the question you already knew the answer to.

"Are you going to report me?"

The question came out automatically, almost like a test. You weren't actually interested in whether he would tell someone. You were interested in seeing what kind of person he was. Whether he was the kind who followed rules because they mattered to him or because breaking them gave him a reason to feel superior.

For a moment, he didn't answer.

His gaze moved briefly toward the school building in the distance, where students were still sitting inside the chapel, probably listening attentively to whatever lesson you had decided you couldn't endure.

Then he looked back at you.

"No."

The simplicity of the answer made you hesitate.

"Why?"

He shrugged slightly, his expression remaining thoughtful rather than dismissive.

"Because I don't think getting you in trouble is going to change anything."

You tilted your head slightly. "What does that mean?"

"It means," he said, looking toward the ground for a moment as though choosing his words carefully, "that if someone doesn't want to be somewhere, making them feel worse probably isn't going to make them suddenly want to be there."

You looked away, taking another slow drag before exhaling toward the trees.

"You're surprisingly understanding for someone at a religious school."

There was a slight pause, then he smiled faintly.

"Is that supposed to be an insult?"

You shrugged. "I'm not sure yet."

That earned a quiet laugh from him, and the sound surprised you because it wasn't the kind of laughter you expected from him.

"You thought I was going to give you a lecture."

"I mean, you're standing behind a church school talking to someone who skipped chapel and is smoking," you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you as though the situation itself explained everything.

His eyebrows lifted slightly, not in disbelief, but in genuine thought, as though he was actually considering your words rather than waiting for his turn to respond. It was a strange reaction, and you found yourself watching him more closely because you couldn't figure out what he was trying to do.

"Do people usually do that?" he asked.

The question was so simple that it almost confused you.

You glanced away for a moment, looking toward the empty field beside the building where the morning sunlight stretched across the grass. "Usually."

You didn't need to explain what you meant.

He seemed to understand anyway.

"And does it work?"

The question caught you off guard.

Not because it was difficult, but because you had expected him to ask something else. You expected him to ask why you smoked, why you skipped chapel, why you seemed so determined to reject everything about the place you had just arrived in. You expected him to focus on the action itself, because that was what people usually did.

You looked back at him, studying his expression carefully.

"What?"

"Does it work when people lecture you?"

For a moment, you didn't answer.

The cigarette slowly burned between your fingers, the ash growing longer before falling quietly onto the ground beneath you. You opened your mouth, ready to give him the easy response. The sarcastic one. The answer you usually gave whenever someone asked a question that felt too close to the truth.

Something like depends who's asking.

Or clearly not, considering I'm still here.

But the words didn't come.

"No."

The answer came out quieter than you intended.

The boy didn't look surprised. He didn't look pleased, either, like he had somehow won an argument. He simply nodded slowly, as though your answer confirmed something he had already suspected.

"Then I don't see the point."

There was something unusual about the way he spoke, like he wasn't trying to convince you of anything. He wasn't saying it because he expected you to suddenly agree with him or because he wanted credit for being understanding. He said it like it was an obvious conclusion, like forcing someone to listen to advice they had no intention of accepting was just another way of making yourself feel useful.

You watched him carefully, trying to figure out what kind of person said things like that.

It was difficult because he didn't fit neatly into any of the categories you had already created for everyone in Maple Creek. You had expected people here to be predictable. You had expected the students at Saint Augustine's to be polite in the same rehearsed way the rest of the town was polite, carrying themselves with the quiet confidence of people who had never had to question whether they belonged. You expected judgment hidden beneath kindness, because that was what you had grown used to.

Before you could stop yourself, you spoke.

"You know, I don't think I ever got your name."

For a moment, something almost amused passed across his expression, like he hadn't realised until then that you had been standing there having an entire conversation without knowing who he was.

His eyes softened slightly, and he shifted his weight away from the wall, extending his hand in a gesture that felt strangely normal considering how unusual the circumstances were.

"I'm Jake."

You looked at him for a moment, your fingers still holding the cigarette as you tried to place where you had heard it before. It sounded familiar, but the thought disappeared before you could catch it. There were too many new names, too many new faces, too many pieces of information being thrown at you since arriving in Maple Creek.

You would remember eventually.

"Y/n." You replied.

He repeated your name quietly back to you, almost absentmindedly, like he was making sure he remembered it.

And you hated how much you noticed.

◌ֹ   💭  ִ  ՞

The walk home felt strangely shorter than it had that morning, and you found yourself resenting that more than you probably should have. The Sim house came into view as you turned onto Maple Street, standing beside yours exactly as it had the day before.

You looked at it only briefly before turning toward your own house.

You didn't have the energy to think about anything else.

The day had already been long enough.

You dropped your bag beside the stairs, kicking your shoes off before walking further inside. The living room looked slightly different from when you had left that morning, although you couldn't immediately identify what had changed. Your father had clearly spent the day trying to make the space feel more lived in. A few boxes had disappeared, the curtains had been opened, and the empty shelves that had made the room feel like a stranger's house were slowly beginning to fill with pieces of your old life.

It was strange watching him rebuild everything so quickly.

Your father had always been good at practical things.

He knew how to assemble furniture without reading instructions. He knew how to fix things that broke. But making it a home was something else entirely, it required something you couldn't unpack from a cardboard box. It required time, memories.

You found him in the kitchen, standing at the counter with his sleeves rolled up while sorting through paperwork beside a half-empty mug of coffee. He looked up when he heard you enter.

"You're home."

You leaned against the doorway.

"Unfortunately."

A small smile tugged at his mouth before disappearing almost immediately.

It was one of the things you noticed about your father. He rarely laughed properly anymore. Since the divorce, happiness seemed to appear in brief moments before he remembered there were still things to worry about.

"How was school?"

You knew what he wanted. He wanted some kind of reassurance that this hadn't been a mistake. That moving three states away hadn't made everything worse. That his decision to leave Chicago, to take the job, to start over, had actually been the right one.

You could have given him the answer he wanted.

You could have complained about everything and proven yourself right.

Instead, you placed your bag down beside the counter and shrugged.

"Fine."

The word was deliberately vague, and you knew it the moment it left your mouth.

Your father knew it too.

He looked up from the papers he had been sorting, his expression changing only slightly, but you noticed the shift anyway. He didn't look angry or disappointed. He didn't even look surprised. If anything, he looked like someone who had expected that answer before he had even asked the question.

"Fine?" he repeated, leaning back against the counter.

You opened the refrigerator door, more to give yourself something to do than because you actually wanted anything inside it. The shelves were organised with the same careful precision that seemed to define everything your father had done since arriving. Groceries were arranged neatly, containers were stacked, and everything had already found a place despite the fact that you still hadn't decided where half your belongings belonged.

"Yeah."

You could feel him watching you.

"You know, most people would probably use more than one word to describe their first day at a new school."

You didn’t reply, and he didn't ask again.

Instead, he simply returned to the papers on the counter, allowing the conversation to move on without forcing you to explain something you weren't ready to explain.

After a few moments, he glanced down at the papers before speaking again.

"The Sims stopped by earlier."

You glanced back at him, immediately recognising the name. The woman from next door had already made more of an impression on your first day than most people had managed to in years, mostly because she seemed almost impossibly comfortable in a way you couldn't understand. She had arrived with a warm peach cobbler, spoken to your father as though they were old friends rather than strangers who had only just met.

"The neighbours?" you asked, even though you already knew the answer.

Your father nodded, placing the papers aside and leaning back against the counter. "Yeah. They invited us over on Sunday."

There was something about the way he said it that immediately made you cautious. Not because you disliked the Sims specifically, but because you had started to understand that in Maple Creek, every friendly gesture seemed to come with some deeper connection to the town itself. 

You looked at him carefully.

"For what?"

Your father hesitated only briefly, but it was enough for you to notice. He had always been terrible at hiding things from you, especially when he knew the answer would probably annoy you. There was a certain expression he got when he was trying to approach a subject carefully, like he was mentally preparing himself for the reaction before the conversation had even started.

"Church."

You stared at him, waiting for him to laugh or explain that he was joking, but his expression remained completely serious. Of course, he was serious. This was Maple Creek, after all. You should have expected that the first invitation from the neighbours would involve the very building that seemed to watch over the entire town from its place above the rooftops.

Your father watched your expression carefully, already knowing exactly what you were 

"I don't know why we have to go," you said, trying to keep your voice neutral, although your father clearly heard the resistance underneath it.

He set his mug down slowly, and for the first time since you walked through the door, you saw the patience he had been holding onto begin to weaken. You knew your father well enough to understand that the church was not the real issue. The issue was everything that had come before it — the constant rejection of every attempt he made to make this place feel less unfamiliar, the way you had spent days insisting that Maple Creek was a mistake before you had even given it a chance.

"They're being kind," he said.

"I know."

"Then why does it bother you so much?"

You looked away because you didn't have a simple answer. It wasn't that you thought Mrs Sim was a bad person. She wasn't. It wasn't that you thought your father was wrong for wanting to meet people. He wasn't. The frustrating part was that everything about Maple Creek was making it harder for you to stay angry.

Your father watched you for a moment before letting out a quiet breath, the kind that carried more exhaustion than frustration. "You know, I understand that you're upset."

You stayed silent.

"I understand that you didn't want this. I understand that you miss Chicago and your friends and the life you had before everything changed. I understand that you feel like you were dragged here because of choices you didn't make."

"But you have to understand something too."

You looked back at him.

"I didn't choose this either."

The words made you pause.

Because you had spent so much time thinking about what you had lost that you had forgotten your father had lost something too. He had lost the same home, the same routines, the same version of your family that you missed. The difference was that while you had been angry, he had been trying to make sure there was still something left to save.

"I am trying," he continued, looking around the kitchen that still didn't quite feel like yours. "I'm trying to make this work. I'm trying to make this place feel like somewhere we live instead of somewhere we ended up."

The honesty of it made you uncomfortable because you didn't know what to do with it. Anger was easier. Anger gave you something to hold onto. But your father's frustration wasn't coming from a desire to control you. It was coming from the fact that he was tired of feeling like he was the only person willing to believe things could get better.

"I'm not asking you to love Maple Creek," he said after a moment. "I'm not asking you to suddenly become someone you're not. I'm just asking you to stop deciding that everything here is against you before you even know what it is."

The kitchen fell quiet again, filled only by the distant sound of the town outside and the faint ringing of the church bell in the distance. You hated that the timing almost felt intentional, as though Maple Creek itself was reminding you that it was still there, waiting patiently for you to stop fighting it.

But after a long moment, you finally sighed and looked back at your father.

"One Sunday."

The surprise that crossed his face was immediate, and you regretted agreeing almost as quickly as you saw it.

"Don't make it a big deal," you warned.

A small smile appeared on his face, the first one you had seen since the conversation started.

"I won't."

You narrowed your eyes slightly because you both knew that wasn't entirely true.

"You will."

He laughed quietly, shaking his head as he picked up his mug again.

"Maybe a little."

You grabbed your bag and headed toward the stairs before he could say anything else, still uncertain about whether agreeing had been a mistake. You still weren't looking forward to Sunday. You still didn't understand why this town seemed so determined to pull you into its routines, its traditions, its carefully preserved little world where everyone seemed to know exactly where they belonged.

But as you entered your bedroom later that evening and looked out through the window toward the church steeple standing above the rooftops, you found yourself wondering what exactly waited for you there.

◌ֹ   💭  ִ  ՞

The Sunday you were dreading seemed to come faster than you wished.

The pews creaked under the weight of the congregation as you sat rigid beside your father, the stiff collar of your dress scratching at your neck. The sermon droned on, the pastor's voice booming from the pulpit, but your attention drifted until the side door opened. A boy about your age slipped in late, Bible tucked under one arm, and took the empty seat two rows ahead. The moment his profile turned, your stomach dropped. It was him—the same guy who had caught you behind the school last week, cigarette between your fingers, smoke curling from your lips.

Jake.

For a moment, you wondered if he had noticed you, but he seemed completely absorbed in the service, carefully opening the worn Bible beneath his arm before offering a quiet apology to the elderly woman beside him for arriving late. She smiled as though she had forgiven him before he'd even spoken, patting his arm affectionately before turning her attention back toward the pulpit.

Every movement he made carried the unconscious ease of someone who had spent years within these walls. He knew exactly when to stand, when to sit, when to join the hymns without needing to glance at the page numbers announced from the front. Even the people around him seemed to move naturally around his presence, greeting him with small smiles whenever the congregation shifted or the peace was exchanged, as though he wasn't simply another student from school but somebody they had watched grow up.

You couldn't imagine what that felt like.

The service continued, the pastor's voice echoing beneath the high timber ceiling while coloured light from the stained-glass windows drifted slowly across the polished wooden floor. You tried—genuinely tried—to pay attention, but your concentration wandered almost immediately yet again, your gaze drawn back toward Jake every few minutes despite yourself. It wasn't curiosity anymore, at least not entirely. It was something closer to disbelief. The boy who had found you smoking behind the maintenance building somehow looked exactly the same here, yet completely different at the same time. 

Eventually the pastor closed his Bible, offering a final blessing before the congregation answered in practiced unison. Almost immediately the atmosphere changed. The solemn quiet dissolved into conversation as people rose from their seats, hymn books slid back into their holders, and families gathered in the aisles with the familiar ease of people who had repeated the same ritual every Sunday for decades. Children darted between rows of pews while older couples lingered to catch up.

Your father stood beside you, smoothing invisible creases from his shirt before offering you a hopeful glance.

"Come on," he murmured. "We should say hello."

You resisted the urge to sigh.

Instead, you followed him reluctantly through the growing crowd, offering polite nods whenever another unfamiliar face introduced themselves. Everyone smiled. Everyone seemed genuinely pleased that you were there.

It was exhausting.

Across the room, you caught sight of Mrs Sim weaving effortlessly through the congregation with the same warmth she'd shown the day she'd arrived at your house carrying a peach cobbler. The moment she noticed the two of you, her face lit up, and she crossed the room with surprising speed before your father had any chance of escaping.

"I'm so glad you came," she said brightly, clasping your father's hands between hers before turning that same smile toward you. "And you must be surviving your first week at school."

"Barely," you replied.

Mrs Sim laughed, apparently choosing to interpret your answer as a joke.

"I'm sure it'll get easier."

You weren't convinced.

"Oh," she said suddenly, looking over her shoulder. "Jake!"

You followed her gaze instinctively.

Jake had been speaking with an older man near the front of the church, but at the sound of his mother's voice, he excused himself immediately and made his way over, offering the man a polite smile before crossing the aisle. Up close, he looked exactly as he had behind the school, except for the blazer he'd pulled on over his shirt and the Bible still tucked beneath one arm.

"Jake," Mrs Sim said warmly as he reached the group, resting a gentle hand against his arm. "I'd like you to meet our new neighbours."

He turned obediently toward your father first, offering a polite smile before extending his hand. "Hi, sir. I'm Jake."

"Nice to meet you, Jake," your father replied, returning the handshake. "I'm Daniel, and this is my daughter." Only then did Jake's attention shift towards you.

Recognition crossed his face almost immediately, so brief that anyone else would have mistaken it for an ordinary pause, but you caught it anyway. His eyes widened the slightest fraction before settling, the corners of his mouth threatening a smile he seemed to think better of almost as quickly as it appeared. 

He hadn't expected you to be here.

You hadn't expected him either.

"Hi," he said after the briefest hesitation, extending his hand towards you exactly as though the two of you had never spoken before.

You looked at his outstretched hand for a second before taking it.

"Y/n."

"Jake."

The corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly, "It's... nice to meet you."

You caught the tiny pause before meet, and for a moment you wondered if anyone else had noticed it. Judging by the bright smile spreading across Mrs Sim's face, they hadn't.

Mrs Sim's smile widened with obvious satisfaction as she looked between the two of you, entirely convinced she had just witnessed the beginning of a perfectly ordinary introduction. "Isn't that lovely?" she said, clasping her hands together for a moment before turning her attention back to your father. "I've been telling Jake all week that he should properly come over and welcome you both, but between school and helping his father prepare for Sunday, we simply haven't had a moment."

Jake withdrew his hand slowly, offering his mother a small, almost sheepish smile that suggested this was hardly the first time she'd volunteered his time on his behalf. "Sorry about that," he said, his attention returning to you for only a moment before politely addressing your father again. "I should've introduced myself sooner."

"It's been a busy week for everyone," your father replied easily. "We're still finding boxes we forgot to unpack."

"I can imagine."

The conversation settled into an easy rhythm almost immediately, though you found yourself contributing very little. It wasn't intentional; there simply wasn't much to say. Your father and Mrs Sim seemed strangely well suited to one another's company, discussing the town with the comfortable enthusiasm of two people standing on opposite sides of the same experience—one eager to tell stories, the other grateful to hear them. Your father listened with genuine interest, asking questions whenever she paused, and you realised with some surprise that he was smiling more than you'd seen him smile since leaving Chicago.

"You survived your first week."

Jake's voice came quietly from beside you. You turned your head just enough to find him standing beside you, close enough to speak without raising his voice but careful not to crowd your space. He wasn't looking directly at you. Instead, his attention rested somewhere across the sanctuary where a little girl in polished black shoes chased her younger brother between the pews before their mother caught both of them with an exasperated laugh. The corners of Jake's mouth lifted ever so slightly at the sight, his expression carrying the quiet amusement of someone who had probably watched the same scene play out countless Sundays before.

"Barely," you admitted, your answer escaping with a dry honesty that surprised even you.

A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it, dissolving almost as quickly as it appeared. For a brief second, the carefully composed image everyone seemed to have of Jake dissolved, revealing someone your age rather than the pastor's son everyone else appeared to see.

"I figured," he said, the smile lingering faintly as he glanced down for a moment before looking back toward the sanctuary.

You studied him for a second, curiosity getting the better of you.

"You figured?"

His attention finally shifted towards you, and there it was again—that impossibly gentle expression that somehow never felt rehearsed. "Most people," he said with the faintest trace of amusement colouring his voice, "don't decide to skip chapel on their first day."

You couldn't help the quiet smile that tugged at the corner of your mouth, the memory arriving almost uninvited. You could still picture the look on his face when he'd stepped around the maintenance building and found you leaning against the brick wall with a cigarette balanced lazily between your fingers. You had been so certain you knew exactly how that conversation would unfold. You had expected disappointment, a lecture rehearsed from years of Sunday sermons, or at the very least the smug satisfaction of someone catching another person doing something they shouldn't.

"No," you replied, folding your arms loosely across your chest. "I figured I'd make an impression."

Jake's head dipped as another quiet laugh escaped him, this one accompanied by the smallest shake of his head. "You definitely managed that."

"Oh?" you asked, unable to resist. "I was under the impression you were trying very hard not to think about it."

"I was."

"But?"

"But..." He hesitated, searching for the right words with the same care he seemed to give everything he said. "You're not exactly easy to forget."

The admission seemed to surprise him almost as much as it surprised you. The words hung between you for a moment before a faint flush climbed slowly across his cheeks, and you watched the realisation dawn on him that he'd spoken aloud instead of keeping the thought to himself.

"I didn't mean—"

"I know what you meant."

His shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, grateful that you hadn't chosen to make things more embarrassing than they already were. A sheepish smile tugged briefly at the corners of his mouth before he ducked his head, his fingers absentmindedly tightening around the worn spine of the Bible tucked beneath his arm. It was strangely endearing, watching someone who seemed so composed unravel over a sentence as innocent as that.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, then Mrs Sim's voice drifted across the sanctuary before either of you had the chance to say anything else.

"Jake, sweetheart," she called, waving him over with an affectionate smile. "Would you mind helping your father carry the coffee urn into the hall?"

Jake glanced over his shoulder toward his mother, then back at you, and for a moment he looked almost reluctant to leave. 

"I should probably..." he began, his voice trailing off as he nodded toward where his mother was waiting.

You glanced in the same direction before looking back at him.

"Go," you said, unable to hide the amusement in your voice. "Before she sends someone else over here to get you."

He adjusted the Bible beneath his arm, his fingers brushing over the worn leather cover as though he needed something to do with his hands.

"It was..." He paused, searching for the right words, and the hesitation was so unlike the confident, composed version of him everyone else seemed to know that it almost made you smile. "It was nice to officially meet you."

You looked at him for a moment, letting the irony sit between you.

"We're still pretending that's what happened?"

A small smile appeared on his face, one that he tried and failed to hide.

"...It was nice to officially meet you too."

Something about your answer seemed to genuinely please him. His smile widened, then he disappeared into the crowd, moving easily between familiar faces and Sunday conversations, stopping every few steps to greet someone who knew him by name. You watched him for a moment longer than you intended.

◌ֹ   💭  ִ  ՞

The weeks after that passed slowly enough that you almost didn't notice when Maple Creek began feeling less like a place you had been sent to and more like somewhere you actually existed.

You still missed Chicago in ways you didn't always admit. You missed the noise of the streets outside your old apartment, the constant movement of people who didn't know your name and didn't care enough to ask. In Maple Creek, everyone knew everything, or at least they acted like they did. The neighbours waved whenever you walked past. Teachers remembered your name. People asked how you were adjusting with genuine concern, and you never quite knew what to do with their kindness.

It wasn't that the town had suddenly become home. It hadn't. There were still mornings when you woke up convinced that if you looked out of your bedroom window, the familiar skyline of Chicago would somehow have returned overnight, replacing the church steeple that stood stubbornly above the rooftops. There were afternoons when you found yourself reaching instinctively for your phone to text friends who were no longer part of your daily life, only to remember that conversations became difficult when they were separated by three states and an entirely different routine. Life back home continued without you, just as yours continued without them, and there was something quietly devastating about how quickly people adapted to absence.

School settled into something resembling routine before you realised it had happened. The novelty of being the new girl faded as other distractions claimed everyone's attention, and the curious glances that had followed you through the corridors during your first week gradually disappeared. Teachers stopped introducing you to every class. People no longer whispered your name after you walked past. 

To your surprise, you found yourself sharing more classes with Jake than you had expected.

English, where the seating plan placed him one desk beside you after Mrs Henderson announced she wanted "fresh perspectives" before rearranging the entire room. History, where he somehow managed to answer questions without sounding like he was showing off, speaking only when the teacher called on him and never a moment longer. Even Chemistry, where your assigned lab partners changed every fortnight until, through what you suspected was extraordinarily bad luck, you ended up standing opposite him at the same scratched black laboratory bench.

"You look disappointed," he observed one afternoon while measuring chemicals into a graduated cylinder with infuriating precision.

"I was hoping for someone who'd let me do absolutely nothing."

The corner of his mouth lifted, though he kept his attention on the clear liquid slowly rising against the measurement lines.

Your eyebrows rose.

"You did?"

"No."

You let your head fall back with exaggerated disappointment.

"There goes my entire plan for the afternoon."

Jake finally glanced up, the faint smile still lingering on his face.

"You had a plan?"

"I usually don't," you admitted as you leaned against the bench, absentmindedly spinning an empty beaker between your hands. "That's probably the problem."

"I noticed."

You looked at him suspiciously.

"Was that supposed to be an insult?"

"No."

"It sounded like one."

"It wasn't."

"You didn't even deny noticing."

"I didn't think I had to."

For a second, you simply stared at him before a reluctant laugh escaped you. Jake smiled in return, before returning his attention to the experiment.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to remember why talking to him had once felt awkward.

The strange thing about Jake was that conversations with him never felt like conversations you had to win. He never treated your sarcasm like a challenge or an invitation to argue. Most people responded to your remarks by trying to outmatch them, determined to prove they were cleverer or funnier or somehow immune to the walls you built around yourself. Jake simply accepted them for what they were, answering with the same gentle humour every time until, before you realised it, you found yourself talking without thinking quite so carefully about every word.

You hated how easy that was becoming.

One morning you arrived at English to find the teacher running late, and Jake had absentmindedly saved the empty seat beside him without either of you acknowledging it. You would steal half his fries at lunch because, according to you, "sharing was a Christian virtue," and he'd sigh with theatrical disappointment before sliding the carton a little closer anyway. Another afternoon you discovered your pen had run out halfway through a history test, and before you could even ask, another one appeared silently on your desk. He never made a point of it. By the end of the lesson, he'd simply asked for it back with an absent-minded, "I only own two."

Neither of you ever spoke about it.

There simply came a point where being around one another stopped requiring an invitation.

By the time October settled over Maple Creek, the trees lining Main Street had begun surrendering their leaves one by one, covering the sidewalks in deep shades of amber and burnt gold that crunched beneath your shoes on the walk home. The afternoons grew cooler, sunlight fading earlier than it had only weeks before, and your routine settled into something that almost resembled normality. School. Home. Homework you pretended to hate. Dinner with your father, who looked a little less exhausted every evening.

One Friday evening, you arrived home to find the house smelling faintly of rosemary, garlic and something roasting in the oven. Music drifted quietly from the old radio your father had finally unpacked, filling the kitchen with the familiar sound of Fleetwood Mac while every available surface had somehow become covered with bowls, chopping boards and ingredients.

"What happened?" you asked, eyeing the organised chaos spread across every available surface.

Your father looked over his shoulder, the wooden spoon still resting in his hand, his brow creasing with mild confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"You cooked."

A quiet laugh escaped him as he returned his attention to the saucepan.

"I do know how."

"You ordered takeaway four nights this week."

"I was busy."

"And now?"

He hesitated for only a second before a small, almost satisfied smile settled across his face.

"I invited the Sims over for dinner."

The words landed with enough force that you straightened instinctively.

"You... invited them?"

"I did."

You stared at him for a long moment, trying to decide whether he was joking. Judging by the calm expression on his face as he sprinkled herbs into the saucepan, he wasn't.

"The pastor's family?"

"Our neighbours," he corrected gently.

You let out a slow sigh, dropping into one of the kitchen chairs as you rubbed a hand across your forehead.

"You really expect me to survive an entire evening of polite conversation?"

Your father smiled to himself as he stirred the sauce once more.

"I think you'll manage."

You narrowed your eyes at him.

"I think you're overestimating me."

His smile only grew. "Dinner's at six tomorrow."

You groaned quietly, letting your head fall back against the chair.

"I wasn't asking."

◌ֹ   💭  ִ  ՞

The following evening arrived with surprising speed, carrying with it the kind of nervous anticipation you refused to acknowledge. By half past five, the house had been transformed into something almost unrecognisable. The dining table, which had spent the better part of a month buried beneath unopened mail and half-unpacked boxes, now sat neatly arranged with your father's best plates and polished cutlery that hadn't seen daylight since Chicago. 

Your father had changed shirts twice.

You knew because you'd watched him do it.

The first one had apparently been "too wrinkled." The second, according to him, made him look like he was trying too hard. Eventually he'd settled on a navy button-down you'd seen him wear exactly twice before, smoothing imaginary creases from the sleeves every few minutes as he checked the oven for what had to be the sixth time.

"You know they're only coming for dinner," you observed from where you leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching him fuss over the table with growing amusement.

Without looking up, he adjusted one of the forks by what couldn't have been more than half a centimetre.

"I know."

The doorbell rang precisely at six.

Your father disappeared into the hallway before you had a chance to move, and moments later the sound of warm greetings drifted through the house, accompanied by the unmistakable laughter of Mrs Sim. You remained exactly where you were for another moment, taking a steadying breath before reluctantly following.

The Sims stood just inside the front entrance, autumn coats folded neatly over their arms after escaping the cool evening air. Mrs Sim was the first to notice you, her face brightening instantly as she crossed the hallway with the same effortless warmth she seemed to carry everywhere, wrapping you in a brief hug before you had any real opportunity to avoid it.

"Oh, sweetheart," she said, stepping back to admire you with an approving smile. "It's lovely to see you again."

You returned an awkward smile, still adjusting to people who expressed affection so freely.

"You too."

Pastor Sim stood nearby, extending a firm hand toward your father while thanking him again for the invitation. He carried himself with the same quiet authority you'd heard in his sermons, though stripped of the pulpit and formal robes, he seemed considerably less intimidating than he had on Sunday morning. He laughed easily, spoke gently, and thanked your father three separate times before stepping inside.

Jake lingered near the back of the group, waiting until everyone else had entered before quietly closing the front door behind them. Unlike church, where he'd worn pressed clothes and carried a Bible tucked neatly beneath one arm, tonight he looked comfortably ordinary. Holding a charcoal knit jumper over his arm, he wore a pale collared shirt whose sleeves had been rolled casually to his forearms, and his hair, usually kept neatly in place throughout the school day, had begun to curl slightly around his forehead in the cool evening air.

His eyes found yours almost immediately.

A small smile appeared before either of you spoke.

"Hi."

"Hi."

The greeting was simple, almost laughably so after weeks of sharing classrooms and conversations, but somehow it felt different here. There were no teachers nearby pretending not to overhear you, no church congregation moving around you, no hurried walk between classes limiting the conversation to a few passing words. This was your house. He was standing in your hallway.

"So..." you said, leaning casually against the hallway wall as the adults disappeared into the dining room. Your eyes moved over him with deliberate curiosity, taking in the fact that the boy who spent his days looking perfectly composed at school was now standing in your house looking slightly out of place. "This is how you spend your Saturday nights?"

Jake glanced towards the dining room before looking back at you, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. He seemed caught between defending himself and admitting you had a point.

"Apparently."

Before you could say something back, Mrs Sim called for both of you from the dining room, and Jake gestured for you to go ahead.

You looked at him suspiciously as you walked past.

"Just manners?"

He smiled.

"Just manners."

Dinner was easier than you expected.

You had prepared yourself for an evening of uncomfortable silence and forced conversation, the kind where every question felt like an interrogation and every answer had to be carefully chosen. Instead, the night moved naturally. Your father and Pastor Sim carried most of the conversation, discussing the town, work, and everything you had missed during your first few weeks in Maple Creek. Mrs Sim filled in the quieter moments with stories about the neighbourhood, laughing whenever your father admitted something embarrassing about adjusting to a smaller town.

You mostly listened. Jake sat across from you, occasionally catching your eye when the adults became too invested in their conversation. Each time, there was a quiet understanding between you both—a shared amusement at the fact that neither of you had expected the evening to be as normal as it was.

By the time the dinner had ended, the plates were cleared away, the last traces of conversation drifting from the kitchen as your father and the Sims continued talking.

You had just started relaxing into the evening when your father returned from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel as he glanced between you and Jake.

"You know what?" he said, wiping his hands on a towel. "You should show Jake your vinyl collection."

You looked up immediately.

"My what?"

Your father ignored the disbelief in your voice, leaning casually against the doorway.

"You spent all that time organising them last week."

You narrowed your eyes at him, already knowing exactly what he was doing.

Jake glanced towards you, a small smile forming. 

"I'd like to see them." He responded.

"Fine.", you sighed, standing from your chair. 

Your father smiled in victory.

"But if you judge my music taste," you added, pointing at Jake, "I'm making you leave."

A quiet laugh escaped him as he followed you towards the stairs.

You led the worn wooden stairs creak under Jake's weight as you guided him up to your room. You could feel the heat of his gaze on the back of your neck, a palpable thing that had nothing to do with the heat of the evening. "My dad has a few old gospel records," he said, his voice softer than it had been downstairs. "But they're predictable. The same messages."

You pushed your bedroom door open, "Predictable is boring," you stated, your tone leaving no room for argument as you gestured for him to enter. He stepped over the threshold like he was crossing into another world, his eyes wide as they took in the turntable on your desk.

You watched his throat work as he swallowed.

You pulled a record from its sleeve, toying with the black disk in your hands. "This one," you said, not asking, as you placed it on the platter and lowered the needle. A slow, grinding bassline filled the room, something primal that seemed to push against the walls. Jake flinched, just slightly. "Listen," you instructed, standing close enough that your arm brushed his. You didn't move away. "Hear the difference?."

He stared at the spinning record, but his attention was fractured, pulled to where your skin met the crisp cotton of his polo shirt. "It's intense," he managed, his voice tight. You turned to face him fully, closing the small distance. You saw the conflict in his eyes, the lifetime of doctrine warring with a raw, waking curiosity.

"You don't have to analyse it, Jake," you murmured, your hand coming up to not quite touch his cheek. You let it hover. "You just have to experience it." His breath caught. His eyes fluttered shut for a second, and when they opened, the look in them was one of surrender. You finally let your fingertips graze his jawline. He leaned into it, ever so slightly.

Your other hand found his, prying his fingers open from the fist he hadn't realized he'd made. You guided his palm, placing it flat against the album cover on your desk. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?" you asked, the music swelling around you both. He didn't speak. He only nodded, a slow, deliberate dip of his chin, his eyes locked on yours.

The song ended with a final, resonant thrum, and the sudden silence felt louder than the music. Jake’s hand remained on the album cover, his knuckles pale. You watched him, the rise and fall of his chest beneath his starched shirt a little too quick. You didn’t move your fingers from his jaw. The air in the room grew thick, charged with the things he’d been taught to confess and repent.

You finally broke the contact, turning back to the turntable. You lifted the tonearm, the click of the switch cutting off the faint surface noise. “There’s more,” you said, your voice a low murmur, not looking at him as you flipped through the crate, the cardboard sleeves stacked against each other. You could feel him watching you, his eyes following your every move.

You selected another record, this one with a stark, abstract cover in deep reds and blacks. “This one builds slower,” you explained, your back still to him as you slid the vinyl out. “It takes its time. It makes you wait for it.” You placed it on the platter, setting the needle down with care, and a single, clean piano note echoed through the speakers, followed by another, spaced apart by a breath of silence. Jake let out a slow exhale behind you. You heard the soft rustle of his clothes as he shifted his weight.

You turned then, leaning back against the edge of your desk, crossing your ankles. You studied him openly—the way his hair fell a little too perfectly over his forehead, the rigid set of his shoulders that was beginning to soften. His eyes were fixed on the record as it spun, but you knew he wasn’t really seeing it. He was listening, truly listening, to the music.

“Do you understand now?” you asked, your voice barely above the level of the unfolding melody. His gaze flickered to yours, and in the low light from your desk lamp, you saw the first crack in his composure, a fine, hairline fracture. He gave another small, silent nod. You held his look for a long moment, then let your eyes drift back to the spinning black disk, letting the music fill the space where words would have been a trespass.

His fingers slowly curled, lifting from the album cover. He brought his hand back to his side, but it didn’t hang with its usual relaxed posture. It was a fist again, though looser this time, as if holding onto the ghost of the sensation. The piano melody wove around a slow, deliberate drumbeat. He took a half-step forward, then stopped, as if an invisible line on your floor marked a boundary he wasn’t sure he was allowed to cross.

You didn’t invite him closer. You simply watched, your expression neutral, giving him nothing but the space to choose. His eyes traveled from the turntable to your face, then down to your lips, before snapping back up, a faint flush coloring his neck. The music built, layer upon layer, a sonic cathedral of something entirely secular. It was beautiful in a way that felt dangerous to him, you could tell.

“Where did you find this?” he finally asked, his voice rough. It was the first question he’d dared to ask since entering your room. It wasn’t about the music, not really.

“A little shop downtown,” you answered, your tone casual. “The owner knows what I like.” You uncrossed your ankles and stood up straight, taking a single, slow step toward him. He didn’t retreat. The distance between you was now just a matter of a few inches. You could see the rapid pulse at the base of his throat.

“It doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard,” he admitted, the confession seeming to cost him something. His gaze dropped to your collar, to the hollow of your throat, before he forced it back to your eyes. He was trying so hard to be polite, to maintain eye contact, even as every instinct was pulling him elsewhere.

You reached out again, this time not towards his face, but towards the stiff collar of his polo shirt. You didn’t grab it. You merely hooked a single finger under the fabric, just beside his neck, and gave the slightest tug. His breath hitched audibly, a sharp sound swallowed by the swelling music. His entire body went still, a deer caught in headlights.

A slow, wry smile touched his lips, a flicker of his usual self breaking through the tension. “Checking the thread count?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper that carried a surprising hint of humor. It was a defense mechanism, a quick-witted retreat into something safe and mundane, but it faltered as your finger remained, the back of your knuckle resting against the pounding pulse in his throat.

You released the collar, your finger brushing the warm skin of his collarbone as you withdrew. “Just seeing if it’s as ruined as your demeanor,” you replied, matching his tone but letting your gaze drop meaningfully to his lips. The color in his cheeks deepened, but he held your look. The music built around you, a complex tapestry of sound that felt like it was weaving the two of you together in the dim light.

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “My mom insists on a specific laundry routine. Says a crisp appearance reflects a… an ordered mind.” The words were a confession and an offering, a glimpse into the world of rules that shaped him. He was letting you in, piece by piece, even as his body trembled on the precipice.

Your hands came up to frame his face, your thumbs stroking over his cheekbones. He leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. You kissed him, your mouth demanding against his, and after a moment of stillness, Jake responded with a desperate, hungry fervor that shattered his careful composure. His hands came up, hovering awkwardly at your sides before finally settling on your waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt. A low groan vibrated from his chest into yours. You walked him backward until his legs hit the edge of your bed, and he sat down with a soft thump, breaking the kiss only because he had to.

You stood between his knees, looking down at him. His lips were swollen, his breath coming in short pants. You reached for the hem of his polo shirt again. This time, you didn’t tease. You pulled it up and over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. His chest was pale and smooth, his skin heating under your gaze. Your fingers went to the button of his chinos. He watched, mesmerized, as you undid it, then the zipper. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his pants and his briefs. “Lift,” you commanded softly.

He obeyed instantly, raising his hips so you could strip the last barriers from him. He was fully, beautifully exposed, sitting on the edge of your bed. You let your eyes travel over him, a slow, appreciative look that made him shiver. Then you sank to your knees on the floor before him. His eyes widened, a soft “oh” escaping him. You didn’t make him wait. You took him into your mouth, your tongue sweeping a broad, wet stroke along his length. His whole body jerked, a choked cry tearing from his throat. His hands flew to your hair, not pushing or pulling, just tangling in the strands as if he needed to hold onto something solid.

You set a slow, deep rhythm, your mouth a warm, slick haven. His hips began to move in tiny, helpless thrusts, a rhythm as old as time but entirely new to him in this context. His breaths were ragged prayers, gasps of “please” and “God” that had nothing to do with the divinity he’d been raised to worship and everything to do to the sinful paradise you were building with your lips and tongue. You could feel the tension coiling tightly in him, his thighs trembling against your shoulders. Just as he was teetering on the edge, you pulled back, leaving him gasping and bereft. You looked up at him, your chin glistening. “My turn,” you whispered, and you rose to guide him back onto the bed.

He hesitated for only a second, his face flushed with shame and arousal. “I… I shouldn’t,” he whispered, voice trembling. “This is wrong… I was taught to resist this kind of temptation.” Yet his body betrayed him. His cock twitched visibly, already leaking at the tip, and he didn’t resist when you pushed him onto his back. He lay there obediently, arms at his sides, fingers clutching the sheets like he was praying for strength. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, wide and pleading. “Tell me what to do,” he said softly. “I’ll do it. I’ll be good for you.”

You guided him onto his back, and he went without resistance, settling against the sheets with his arms loose at his sides. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. His cock lay hard against his stomach, flushed dark and twitching with every pulse of his heartbeat. You climbed over him, straddling his hips, and his eyes followed your every movement like he was watching something forbidden yet irresistible.

"I shouldn't," he whispered again, the words catching in his throat. "It's a sin. I've prayed against this... against wanting it." His voice cracked on the last word, but his hips lifted slightly, seeking contact even as he spoke against it. His hands stayed where they were, fingers digging into the bedding, waiting for your command.

You leaned down until your lips brushed his ear. "Then pray while I use you," you told him. A soft, broken sound escaped him, half a whimper and half a moan. You reached between your bodies, wrapped your fingers around his cock, and lined him up. His whole frame tensed as the head pressed against your entrance.

"Please," he breathed. "Tell me I'm allowed. Tell me to take it."

"Push up," you ordered.

He obeyed at once. His hips rose in one smooth thrust, sliding into you with a single, desperate motion. The moment he was buried to the hilt, a strangled prayer tore from his lips—half-formed words of repentance mixed with raw need. You stayed still above him, letting him feel every inch of your heat gripping him, while his thighs trembled beneath you.

"Move," you said.

He started with shallow, careful thrusts, trying to keep some measure of control, but it quickly unraveled. His hips snapped upward harder, chasing the slick friction, each stroke punctuated by soft, guilty gasps of "God" and "forgive me." His hands finally left the sheets to grip your hips, not to guide you but to hold on as if you were the only thing anchoring him. Every time he bottomed out, his eyes squeezed shut like he was both praying for strength and begging for more.

You leaned forward, pressing your chest to his, and whispered against his mouth, "You're being so good for me. So obedient."

A shudder ran through him. "I want to be good," he panted. "I want to please you. Even if it's wrong. Even if I have to confess later." His thrusts grew faster, more urgent, the wet sound of your bodies meeting filling the room. Pre-cum leaked steadily from him inside you, mixing with your own slickness. His abs flexed with every movement, the muscles in his arms standing out as he held you.

You sat up again, rolling your hips in a slow circle that made him cry out. "Don't come yet," you warned.

He nodded frantically, biting his lower lip hard enough to leave marks. "I won't. I won't until you say. I'll hold it. I'll be good." His cock throbbed inside you, right on the edge, but he forced his hips to slow, following your command even as his entire body shook with the effort. Sweat beaded on his forehead and chest. His eyes stayed locked on yours, wide, glassy, and completely surrendered.

You stayed seated on him, savoring the way his cock pulsed inside you with every desperate heartbeat. His grip on your hips tightened, but he kept his thrusts shallow and controlled exactly as you ordered. Sweat glistened across his pale chest, and his lips moved in silent prayer even while his body betrayed every word of it.

"Good boy," you murmured, rolling your hips in a slow grind that dragged a broken moan from his throat. "Keep praying. Let me hear it."

His voice cracked as he obeyed. "Forgive me... Lord, forgive me for this... for wanting it so much..." Each word dissolved into a gasp when you clenched around him. His thighs quivered beneath you, and his cock twitched hard, threatening to spill, but he fought it back with visible effort.

You leaned down and kissed him hard, swallowing the next plea. When you pulled back, a thin strand of saliva connected your mouths. "Now fuck me properly," you told him. "Hard. Don't stop until I tell you."

The permission hit him like a command from above. His hips snapped up in one powerful thrust that drove the air from his lungs. He buried himself to the hilt again and again, the wet slap of skin filling the room. His fingers dug into your flesh hard enough to leave marks as he used every ounce of strength to obey. Each stroke punched a ragged sound from him—half curse, half prayer.

"Yes... yes, use me," he panted. "I'm yours... I'm so sorry, God, but I'm yours right now." His eyes stayed locked on yours, glassy with guilt and lust. Pre-cum leaked steadily from him, mixing with your slickness and making every thrust louder, filthier.

You reached between your bodies and rubbed your clit in tight circles while he pounded into you. The sight of him—flushed, sweating, desperate—pushed you closer. "Don't come," you warned again. "Not until I do."

He nodded frantically, jaw clenched, veins standing out in his neck. His rhythm never faltered even as his whole body shook with the effort of holding back. "I won't... I promise... I'll be good... I'll wait..." His cock swelled inside you, so close to the edge it hurt to watch, but he kept driving upward exactly as you wanted.

You rode him faster, chasing your own release while he suffered beautifully beneath you. His prayers had dissolved into wordless, broken sounds. Every thrust hit deep, the head of his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you until your thighs started to tremble.

"Now," you gasped. "Come with me."

The permission shattered what little control he had left. His hips jerked upward in one final, brutal thrust as he came hard, flooding you with hot pulses. A loud, guilty cry tore from his throat—your name mixed with another broken apology to God. His cock throbbed violently inside you, emptying everything he had while his body arched off the bed. You clenched around him and came right after, your walls pulsing and milking every drop from him.

He kept thrusting weakly through both orgasms, unable to stop even after he was spent. When the last aftershocks faded, he collapsed back against the sheets, chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut in shame and relief. His softening cock still twitched inside you, sensitive and overstimulated.

You stayed on top of him, letting him feel the mess he'd made. After a long moment he opened his eyes, looking up at you with raw, wrecked devotion.

"Thank you," he whispered. "For... for letting me. Even though I shouldn't have." 

◌ֹ   💭  ִ  ՞

You hadn't expected Jake to become so desperate for you. Then again, you couldn't argue against it since the boy had never touched anything until that night in your bedroom. That night had been your experiment, a little game to see if the golden boy preacher’s son would crack, and he had shattered. Now, three weeks later, the crack had become a canyon, and he was falling through it daily, reaching for you.

He appeared at your usual smoke spot, his crisp button-down looking absurd against the scarred wall. His hands were shoved deep in his khaki pockets, his shoulders tense. "The archives in the library basement," he said, his voice low and urgent, skipping any greeting. "The theology section. No one goes there on Wednesday afternoons." His eyes, usually so clear and certain, were clouded with a need that looked like physical pain. You took a long drag of your cigarette, blowing the smoke out slowly, watching him flinch. Not from the smoke, but from the delay.

It became a pattern. A folded note tucked into your sociology textbook with a time and a location scrawled in his neat handwriting: *Boiler room, 3 PM.* A text message that just read *Empty classroom, second floor, east wing. Now.* He never asked if you wanted to. He simply presented the opportunity, a sinner offering his own temptation, his voice always carrying that same ragged edge. You’d find him there, pacing or standing perfectly still, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might break. The moment he saw you, the calm would evaporate, replaced by a frantic energy as he fumbled with his belt, or yours, his prayers forgotten, replaced by whispered pleas against your skin.

You met him in the designated broom closet. It was cramped, smelling of lemon cleaner and dust. He had you pressed against the shelves before the door clicked shut, his mouth hot and demanding on yours, his hands pulling at your clothes with a clumsy haste. "I can't stop thinking about it," he gasped against your neck, his hips already moving against you. "About you. That's all I think about." His confession was torn from him, as he learned your body with a fervor he'd once reserved for scripture, each touch a new verse in a gospel of his own damnation.

Afterward, he would help you dress with trembling hands, his fingers brushing your skin as if memorizing it. He’d smooth his own hair, try to rearrange his face into something resembling the composed Jake everyone else saw. But the look in his eyes gave him away—a hollowed-out, hungry thing. "Tomorrow," he'd say, not as a question, but as a statement of fact, a necessary appointment for his survival. "The photo development lab. During the yearbook committee meeting."

You saw him at a campus ministry barbecue two days later. He was flipping burgers, laughing politely, the perfect picture of clean-cut devotion. His eyes scanned the crowd, found you leaning against a tree at the edge of the lawn. He held your gaze for a fraction of a second too long, and the plastic spatula in his hand snapped clean in two. He looked down at the broken pieces, then back at you, a slow flush creeping up his neck. He turned back to the grill, abandoning the ruined burger, and walked away from the crowd without a word to anyone.

The broken spatula was the first public crack. He didn't come to the smoke spot for two days, and you assumed maybe the guilt had finally won, that the prayer circles and his father’s disappointed eyes had rebuilt the wall. You were almost disappointed. Then, on the third day, as you were leaving a late class, a hand closed around your wrist from the shadow of a doorway. It was Jake, but he looked ravaged. Dark circles smudged under his eyes, his hair was uncharacteristically messy, and his collar was undone.

"Walk with me," he said, his voice hoarse. It wasn't a request. He didn't let go of your wrist as he steered you away from the main paths, toward the old greenhouse at the edge of the botanical gardens. It was locked for the night, but he produced a key from his pocket. Inside, the air was thick and humid, and he finally released you, turning to face you under the ghostly light filtering through the glass ceiling. "I tried," he breathed out, the words sounding ripped from his chest. "I prayed. I read. I went to confession." A harsh, humorless laugh escaped him. "It just made it worse. All I could think about was the smell of your skin in that closet."

He reached for you then, but his touch was different. It wasn't the frantic groping of before. His hands framed your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks with a terrifying tenderness. "You ruined me," he whispered, his forehead leaning against yours. "Do you understand that? Completely. And I don't want to be fixed." His mouth found yours, and this kiss was a slow, deep claim, devoid of its earlier panic. It was a surrender. He guided you down onto a bed of soft peat moss behind a tray of orchids, his movements deliberate.

He took his time. He peeled your clothes away with a reverence that was more unsettling than his prior desperation. He mapped every inch of you with his lips and tongue, whispering things that sounded like prayers but weren't. "This is my communion," he murmured against your stomach, his breath hot. "This is my only truth." When he finally entered you, it was with a slow, devastating roll of his hips that made you cry out, the sound swallowed by the dense air. He moved with a focused intensity, his eyes locked on yours, watching every flicker of pleasure on your face as if studying for a final exam.

After lying tangled together on the borrowed jacket he’d spread beneath you, he didn't scramble to leave. He traced idle patterns on your arm, his head on your chest. "My father is giving the sermon at the downtown mission on Friday night," he said, his voice quiet in the humid dark. "The office in the back will be empty. The door locks." He stated matter-of-factly. The dependency had crystallized into something calm and absolute.

◌ֹ   💭  ִ  ՞

Your father stood at the stove, absently stirring a saucepan while an old Fleetwood Mac song played softly from the radio, the familiar melody blending with the quiet clink of cutlery as you wandered in to grab your jacket from the back of a chair.

"You've been going out a lot lately."

His voice was casual, almost conversational, though you could feel him watching for your reaction.

You shrugged one shoulder as you zipped up your jacket.

"So?"

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he looked back at the saucepan, stirring it slowly.

"I don't know..." he said after a moment, choosing his words carefully. "You just seem happier."

Your hand paused around your keys, turning to look at him properly, a faint crease appearing between your brows, "Really?"

He nodded once, meeting your eyes for only a second before his attention drifted back to dinner, "I think so."

You let out a quiet breath, leaning your hip against the counter as though considering the possibility for the first time.

"...I didn't notice."

"I don't think you were supposed to."

The silence that followed settled easily between you, neither awkward nor heavy. The saucepan continued to bubble softly on the stove while somewhere outside, a car rolled slowly down Maple Street.

You pushed yourself away from the counter, slinging your jacket over your shoulders.

"You're not going to ask where I'm going?"

Your father smiled to himself, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.

"I thought about it." He admitted.

"And?"

He looked back at you then, amusement warming his expression.

"I figured you'd tell me it was none of my business."

A slow grin spread across your face, "See you later."

"Don't stay out too late," he called after you, though there wasn't much authority behind it anymore.

You glanced back over your shoulder, a teasing smile still lingering on your face.

"No promises."

The downtown mission was cold and smelled of old wood and candle wax. He was waiting for you in the dark, a silhouette against the faint light from the stained-glass window depicting the crucifixion. He didn't speak, he simply took your hand and led you to the low, padded kneeler at the front of the small room. He guided you to kneel, then knelt beside you, not before the altar, but facing you. His hands trembled as he reached for the hem of your skirt, pushing the fabric up your thighs.

His repentance began with his mouth between your legs, there on the kneeler, his whispered prayers lost against your skin. Each flick of his tongue was a plea for forgiveness, each deep, worshiping stroke a confession of his weakness. He drank from you like communion, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady as he sought his own form of absolution in your taste. When your back arched and a stifled moan escaped your lips, he only pressed closer, his own need evident in the desperate sounds vibrating against you.

After, as you trembled, he rose to his feet. He unzipped his dress pants with a soft hiss that was obscenely loud in the quiet. He took your hand and wrapped your fingers around him, his own hand covering yours, showing you the rhythm. "Do it," he breathed, his eyes clenched shut, his head tilted back toward the vaulted ceiling. "Let me feel you… take your penance from me." Your hand moved on him, slow at first, then faster at his urging, his hips jerking into your fist. His other hand came up to cover your mouth, muffling the sound of his own ragged, broken gasps as he spilled over your fingers, his release hot and sudden in the dim, holy space.

He sank back onto his heels, breathing heavily, his forehead resting against your shoulder. The silence returned, thick and heavy. He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket, the kind he always carried, and carefully wiped your hand clean. Then he wiped himself, folded the soiled cloth, and tucked it back into his pocket without a word. He stood, straightened his clothes, and ran a hand through his hair. He looked at you, still kneeling on the padded bench, your skirt rumpled, and in his eyes was a profound, unsettling peace. The crisis had passed. The sin was complete. He offered you a hand up, his touch now steady.

Sunday night found you in the back pew of the very same church, the evening service sparsely attended. Jake was at the pulpit, his voice clear and strong, speaking about grace and the burden of temptation. He looked every inch the devoted son, his suit crisp, his expression serene. His eyes scanned the congregation and landed on you. There was no flicker of recognition, no secret smile. His gaze passed over you as if you were a stranger. The sermon ended. The final hymn was sung. People filed out, offering him quiet greetings which he returned with gentle nods.

You waited until the last person had left, until the sexton had dimmed the lights and exited, leaving only the eternal flame flickering near the altar. The heavy door clicked shut. Jake remained at the front, his back to you, staring up at the cross. You stood and walked down the center aisle, the sound of your footsteps swallowed by the cavernous space. He didn't turn. You stopped a few feet behind him. For a long moment, there was only the faint hum of the building's electricity.

"Tell me you're sorry," you said, your voice soft but echoing slightly in the empty church.

He finally turned. In the dim light, his face was unreadable. He took a step toward you, then another, closing the distance. He didn't touch you. He simply looked down at you, his expression a mask of perfect, placid devotion. "I am washed clean," he stated, his voice low and even. Then his hand came up, not to your face, but to the top button of his own shirt. He undid it. Then the next. He took your hand and placed it flat against his bare chest, over the frantic, hammering beat of his heart. His skin was fever-hot. His eyes never left yours. The lie was a physical thing between you, trembling under your palm.

"I haven't been able to sleep," he rasped, his voice sounding ruined. "Every time I closed my eyes, I felt you. Every time I spoke of purity, I could taste you on my tongue."

He didn't kiss you softly. He claimed your mouth with a bruising intensity, his tongue demanding entrance as if he were trying to consume you. There was a desperate edge to him now; the seal had been broken, and the floodgates were wide open. He wasn't just a man resisting temptation anymore—he was a man who had tasted the forbidden fruit and found he couldn't survive without it.

His hands were frantic, sliding up your thighs with a familiarity that made your heart race. He knew exactly where you were most sensitive, exactly how to touch you to make you arch your back and moan his name into the silence of the church.

"You've ruined me," he groaned against your skin, his lips trailing fire down your neck to the swell of your breast. "I go to the altar and all I can think about is the way you scream when I'm deep inside you. I'm a liar. A hypocrite. And I don't care."

He reached down, his fingers trembling slightly as he freed himself from his trousers. He was already rock-hard, pulsing with a need that eclipsed any sense of divine duty. He gripped your hips, pulling you to the very edge of the table so he could align himself with you.

He looked you in the eyes, his expression a mix of agony and ecstasy. "Tell me you want this," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous vibrate. "Tell me you want me to forget everything but the way you feel."

As you whispered your consent, he drove into you in one fluid, powerful motion, filling you completely. He let out a guttural sound—half-sob, half-growl—as he buried himself in you, his forehead crashing against yours. The rhythm was savage, a relentless pounding that shook the heavy table, the sound of your colliding bodies echoing through the hallowed halls.

For Jake, this wasn't just sex; it was a desecration, and every thrust felt like a deeper plunge into a beautiful, shimmering hell. He clung to you as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth, his movements becoming faster, more desperate, as he chased the blinding peak that would leave him shattered and ruined once again.

The sound of the mahogany table groaning under the weight of their colliding bodies filled the room, a rhythmic, visceral thud that drowned out the distant chiming of the church bells. Jake was no longer the composed man of God; he was a storm of sweat and desperation, his breath coming in jagged, ragged gasps that sounded like prayers to a different kind of deity.

He gripped your hips so hard his fingers left crescent marks on your skin, anchoring you as he drove into you with a relentless, punishing force. Every thrust was deeper than the last, hitting a spot that made your vision blur and your toes curl. You could feel the sheer size of him filling you, stretching you, the friction building a heat that threatened to consume you both.

"I can't... I can't stop," he groaned, his voice a guttural wreck. He shifted his angle, lifting one of your legs and hooking it over his shoulder to plunge even deeper. The sensation was overwhelming, a piercing, electric pleasure that radiated through your entire body.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down, your nails digging into his shoulders through the thin fabric of his shirt. You whispered his name—not as a plea, but as a command—and the sound of it seemed to break the last shred of his restraint.

Jake’s movements became frantic, a blur of motion and heat. He was chasing a release that felt like it would tear him apart. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, his voice a low, shaking moan of "Oh God, oh God..."—though now, it wasn't a prayer. It was a surrender.

The tension reached a breaking point. You felt the first wave of your orgasm crash over you, tightening your walls around him in a series of rhythmic, pulsing contractions. The feeling of you gripping him was the final trigger. Jake let out a loud, unrestrained cry—a sound of pure, unadulterated release—as he thrust one last time, buried as deep as he could possibly go.

He shuddered violently, his entire body locking up as he spilled himself inside you in hot, heavy bursts. He collapsed against you, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. For several long minutes, the only sound in the vestry was the sound of two people trying to remember how to breathe.

As he slowly pulled away, the cold air hit your skin, but the heat between you remained. Jake didn't move immediately. He stayed there, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes clouded with a mixture of absolute bliss and a crushing, lingering guilt.

He looked down at the wreckage of their clothes, then back at you, a dark, hungry smile playing on his lips. He leaned in, kissing you softly.

"I'm condemned," he whispered, "And I think I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure we both burn for this."

꒰ ♡ ꒱

jungwon wasn't broke.

definitely not. just well-off enough to not need government funds to pay for university, which he understood was already a large privilege. his parents both worked, but not enough to the point he developed personality issues from neglect. so yes, jungwon was a pretty standard guy you'd meet from a predominantly-white area. middle-middle class in a nice, quiet sunny neighborhood, fancy dinners maybe twice a month, enough funds to pay off 4 monthly subscriptions...

he shook his head. "why do i suddenly care so much about my social class?" he mumbled to himself, now standing in front of a large gate.

eyeing the elaborate exterior, he glances briefly at the buzzer and considers making the awkward call to speak with somebody from inside the house to be let in, whether it be a cleaner, accountant, or even the owner of the house himself; the father of his ridiculously rich girlfriend.

jungwon groans. he hates this part. miri's parents weren't mean or unkind, or snobby or stuck-up at all—just intimidating. miri's father could probably pay off the chief of police to lock jungwon up forever on fabricated counts of sexual harassment for even looking at his daughter.

"he would never do that. obviously." he says to himself, slapping himself a little for thinking so negatively.

"jungwon?" he suddenly hears come over the intercom and he flinches. "um, yes? hi?" he says, looking into what he hopes is the receiver.

"what are you doing? you look stupid just standing around."

the boy rolls his eyes. "may i be allowed inside, your majesty?" he grumbles.

"ew. i don't like your majesty. sounds dumb." the voice over the intercom says.

"you are so entitled. may i be allowed inside, princess?"

the voice over the intercom lets out a satisfied hmph. "sure." it states, and the large gates fluidly open, with no creakiness or scraping.

the sight beyond them was a large estate, with a grand door and balcony above it. a maybach paired with a luxury cadillac parked parallel along the looped driveway, along with another sleek car he couldn't identify. the grass surrounding it was freshly mowed, and in the air hung a sense of money.

jungwon began the trek up to the property, trying his hardest not to show how absolutely floored he is each time he sees it in case miri was somehow watching him through a hidden security camera with a smug grin.

you could not let her know you were impressed. that rich daddy's girl ego would inflate to the point she stops viewing you as an actual human being.

miri wasn't like, actually evil. she totally felt bad for regular people and war or whatever. and a couple times, she's offered to pay for somebody else's items. she definitely realizes she's better more privileged than most, and was capable of expressing kindness and genuine empathy. it wasn't like she was blinded by riches. figuratively.

jungwon finally reaches the huge entrance and raises his hand to press the fancy buzzer; but is interrupted when the door is heard unlocking and flung open a second later. standing there with rollers still in her hair, is mireille, looking as unimpressed as always. she glances at jungwon.

"yes?" she says.

"hello to you too, your highness." jungwon says sarcastically, finding the nerve within him to push past her shoulder and let himself in.

"hey!" she exclaims from behind him, and he looks back at her. "did i say you could come in? what if the plan was that i come out?"

"you still have rollers in your hair." jungwon casually points out. "i doubt you'd leave the house with those."

the girl grunts. "yeah, okay." she says, stomping past him and reaching a staircase. "follow," she calls out to him. jungwon obliges, knowing the way to her room by now.

miri ascends up the sleek stairs, looking behind with a stern face to check if jungwon was right behind. "don't slip." she says. "someone just came and electropolished it, as dad quotes. whatever that means."

"means they used an electric current and a chemical bath to dissolve impurities instead of scrubbing with soap and water." the boy replies, having heard of the procedure once.

"huh. that sounds more complicated than it should be," miri quips.

"that's the most down to earth thing you've said in a while. good job. that is more complicated than it should be."

“thanks. i’m glad you can relate to me now.” she throws, to which jungwon holds back from his sudden urge to bite down on her exposed shoulder from behind.

instead he scoffs, crossing the last step and being led down a large hallway with precious paintings and pictures adorned on the wall.

it was always interesting heading down this hall. various family pictures were hung, including photographs of miri's father meeting CEO's, shaking hands after a business deal, portraits of her mother in jewelry and a photoshoot from when she modeled a set for prada.

miri's portraits were cute, too.

“don’t.” her voice warns when they pass a framed photograph of her at 7 years old, smiling with wide crooked teeth. the boy snorts, always having loved that one. “c’mon, you just look like a cute little kid before the world’s evils got to you.”

“you’re the evilest thing that’s happened to me.” she retorted, to the boy’s amusement,

the door to miri’s bedroom is giant. jungwon’s no stranger to her extravagant loft; and he takes in the familiar scene once he’s let in.

white walls with pink accents, a victoria’s secret throw blanket hung over a chair, a burberry scarf hanging off a doorknob although it was a particularly hot spring, an opened louboutin box in the corner, a stack of cartier bracelets on her dresser, chanel make-up… god, it was just…

“so stereotypical.”

“uh-huh.” miri deadpans, crossing her arms.

“you’re just so stereotypical.” he acknowledges.

“yeah, sure i am.” the girl says, kicking off her slippers and lazily walking to her bed. she slowly unraveled the curlers from her hair, letting it bounce free. she looks up at him, unamused.

"i'm serious." he says.

“how stereotypical is it that someone has custom silk pillowcases from thailand with their initial on them?” she says, holding up a lush pillow with an “m” sewn into the corner. “i’m sure you could probably find like, a lighter at the gas station with a “j” on it if you feel left out, won.”

miri plucks the last roller out of her hair.

“that’s exactly what i meant, princess.” jungwon draws out.

he walks over to her, stopping in front of her where she sat at the edge of the frame. his eyebrow cocks up.

miri bats her long lashes at him. “i don’t know what you mean. i guess you’re happy with superstore pillowcases. sounds a lot more stereotypical to me.” she taunts.

“did tiktok tell you about the dior lip oil?” he asks, nudging his head in the direction of where she shamefully had about 7 shades of the same product on her dresser. “did you see a video about that miu miu skirt you’ll wear once and never again? and that awfully expensive, glorified health-promoting “water” bottle when we know you like chugging straight vodka?”

“you’re so well-off but you have no clue what you’re doing. one watch of mean girls and you believe regina george is exactly who you were born to be. you think you have this niche vibe, this.. outstanding aura to you, but really, you are just another spoiled brat who thinks custom silk pillows with your stupid initial on them are the norm.” he smirks.

“…”

slap!

yeah, he sort of expected that one. he holds his cheek, a playful glint in his eye. “ow.”

miri stands up, glaring at him face-to-face. “you think i’m a brat?” she asks, looking as pissed-off a rich girl could get.

“i know you’re one, pretty.”

“ugh! where do you get the nerve?!” she says, grabbing his collar. “in my opinion, i think i’m chic. i think i’m cute, and i love my items, and cherry vodka tastes fucking amazing.” she snaps, letting go of him.

"and, you're only calling me regina because i also wear a necklace with my initial on it.” she accuses, referencing an expensive diamond pendant usually found hung around her neck. “so what? like it’s an insult?”

jungwon calmly puts his hand on the top of her head, shoving downwards so she plops back down onto her bed. she’s about to look up and haphazardly curse at him before she finds herself being pushed down again; this time, her back against the bed.

hovering over her she sees jungwon, as he carefully fixes her neckline.

“quiet, princess. here. i’m just being honest.” he says, dipping down and kissing her forehead.

“ugh!” miri grunts, shoving him off her and sitting back up. “you’re ruining my curls, and that was just downright mean for no reason.”

“and if you check, there’s water in there.” she scorns, still offended about the water bottle comment.

jungwon raises his hands. “hey, i’m not judging. it’s kind of hot how much of an animal you get when it comes to drinking.” he smirks. “stereotypical uni girl.”

“i am NOT stereotypical! there’s things about me that are special!” the girl snaps.

“enlighten me.”

“i was adopted, first of all. so that’s something, right?”

“hmm.." the boy pretends to think. "you were adopted at 3 weeks. no real struggle. try again.” jungwon votes out, much to miri’s annoyance.

“hey! being adopted IS different! that’s like, being saved.”

“very much so. i’m glad you’re here.”

the thoughtful statement doesn’t dim miri’s attitude. “you’re just mad. you’re just mad so that's why you’re calling me boring.”

jungwon frowns at that. “i never called you boring. you’re lots of fun.”

“hmph.” she turns her head, blonde curls bouncing alongside her face. she decides to quit sitting around and get into bed, to exercise her irritability.

miri’s been faced the other way for a good 7 seconds before she’s adjusted back onto her back with one push of jungwon’s hand. again, he finds himself hovering over her.

“what do YOU want.” she scorns, clearly bitter at the allegations.

jungwon lightly holds her chin in place so she looks up at him and without any warning, gives her a slight smack on the cheek.

miri gasps, completely appalled at his nerve. “oh, you—”

“shush.” he asserts, hand back on her jaw.

“answer me, mireille. do you think you’re special?” he asks.

“like, yeah?” she replies, in a matter-of-fact tone; still pissed at the contact.

jungwon’s hand slowly shifts to rest wrapped lightly around her throat.

“really?”

“yeah.” she deadpans.

“are you better than everyone else? do you believe that?” he asks, applying just enough gentle pressure to make her uncomfortable.

she's not full-on struggling; just enough so her answer comes out a little strained. "of course. i have e-everything."

"are you better than me?" he asks.

"yes." miri drops. "you're a—" she starts, before she feels his fingertips dig into the side of her neck and the wind leave her lungs.

the boy tightens his grip, watching as miri starts to struggle.

her eyes begin to prick with tears, and she literally cannot bring herself to process jungwon’s nerve right now.

"whatever you were going to call me, it definitely wasn't humble." jungwon jokes. "tell me. if you're better than me, would you ever beg me for anything? like fully, beg?" he asks curiously, before partially relieving the tension.

"absolutely not." she immediately growls, feeling her anger begin to build up with how recklessly he was treating her.

"what the hell was that for?! i'm precious. what makes you think you can sit there and handle me like i'm an animal, you piece of shit! i should've never let you come over!" she spits, her voice ringing out in prissy annoyance.

"well, you are precious. i think everybody is." jungwon responds, his knee coming up to nuzzle in between her legs, to her surprise.

she tries to deny ignore the shock from the sudden movement, but fails to go against her body.

"y-yeah, so do you think people deserve to get treated like this?" she asks, blowing a strand of hair out of her face.

"i wouldn't treat just anyone like this. you're a different type of precious." he says, his words ending breathlessly as he comes down to the side of her neck. a slow smile forms on his face before he latches onto the tender skin and sucks deeply into a spot; intending to leave a quick bruise.

miri tries not to let out a noise at the contact. she upkeeps her defiant attitude at jungwon's previous abuse.

"oh, fuck off. you act like i'm the evilest person you know!"

jungwon chuckles at that, the vibration tickling at her neck. kissing its lateral, he responds; "you are. i feel like the minions would follow you."

the boy raises his head back up, smiling down at her. "minions! ransack the entirety of this gucci store and kill whoever tries to stop you!" he jokes.

miri scoffs at that, offended. "you are totally wrong. gucci is so tacky. i would never shop there." she scorns. "you don't even know me!"

"aww. what else is tacky in your book?" the boy coos, tilting his head in curiousity.

the girl's eyes light up a little at that. "oh, you want to know?"

"mmm-hm." jungwon draws out.

"let me think for a second." she says, a tad excited about this rare occasion where jungwon actually cares about her brand input.

"well, for starters, i think LV sucks. i wouldn't ever wear anything with the monogram on it. it’s just absolutely the worst thing ever. everybody overuses the print and it looks so.. awful."

"huh. is that so?" the boy asks, his hand slowly coming down to rest on her hip, which she fails to notice.

"yes. i also think, other than the glasses, versace can be-" miri’s about to start, before she feels a fingertip ghost over her waistband, as one skillfully slips an inch under her panties to caress the stretch of skin over her hipbone.

"c-can be, tacky as well." she continues on, denying to acknowledge the intimate touch.

"really? is it the loud designs?" he asks as if he were genuinely interested.

"oh, yes. definitely those. i don't like how bright the o-orange.. can be.." miri curses herself once she feels jungwon's two fingers, with no hesitation, slip completely under her waistband and test out an experimental swipe across her sex.

"huh." the boy says, giving her a coy look. "tell me more. i'm soo~ interested."

it was obvious he didn't give a fuck, but miri didn't really have it in her to accuse him of being apathetic, due to this newfound fluster. so she continued.

"balenciaga is also really terrible. i don’t like the .. dumb rebrand.”

"oh, i can agree with you on that one." jungwon states, slowly bringing himself to fully dip his hand down into her panties, collecting slick and spreading it across her cunt. "i think it's gotten really corny as of recently."

jungwon begins to rub slow circles with two of his fingers, eyes never leaving her defiant face. he hits a sweet spot located just below the bud of her clit and focuses on absentmindedly playing with it while intently waiting for her to continue.

the motion feels heavenly, much to the girl’s dismay.

"u-uh.. only good thing you've agreed on.." miri mumbles, shutting her eyes to avoid jungwon's intense gaze. she feels her face heating up and she gets even more annoyed, mad that her biology doesn't go against the feeling. she feels herself beginning to sop with wetness, and nearly dies of embarrassment. how dare her body let jungwon know she enjoys this?

"you're not an easy one to agree with.” he drops. “do you like this?" a finger nudges at her entrance, tracing through the surrounding folds.

"no." the girl says primly, tone raising at the end.

“really?”

“nope. i don’t.” miri lies arrogantly.

"oh. i'm sorry then, honey." he says, slowly pulling his fingers out of her panties with a sly look.

“…”

"stop." miri immediately commands, too fast as she cringes to herself. "keep them there. n-now."

"i thought you didn't like this."

"it was manageable. keep going, you're pissing me off. and i'm not done talking." she says through gritted teeth, trying to uphold her weakening authority.

“interesting. ask me kinder." he responds to her with a lilt in his voice, as to which all of miri's previous submissiveness fades and replaces with stark irritance.

ugh.

she hates being told that. she'd rather just not than "ask for it nicer."

annoyed at the deal-breaking words, the girl scoffs.

"fuck you, no. get off of me." she spits, through narrowed eyes.

it always amused jungwon how stubborn she was. she couldn't let herself be even a little less stuck-up for things to works out in her favour.

"okay, if you say so." he complies, pulling out his fingers and sticking them into his mouth, sucking them dry while maintaining eye contact.

miri tries to ignore the feeling in her stomach at the scene, but fails miserably. still, she's got to be annoyingly rebellious.

with heavy breaths she looks up at him, getting more and more mad. she said she wasn't ever going to beg for anything, especially not something as damning as this, but it was a little hard to be normal when the stickiness in her panties were making her incredibly uncomfortable. jungwon looked down at her, taking in her knitted eyebrows and slight pout for a couple of seconds, before grabbing her by her cheeks with one hand.

mirir's eyes widen at the bruising grip. she's about to start, before jungwon begins poking fun at her that mutes her words effectively.

with her face still grabbed and her lips between his fingers, jungwon mocks, "my name is miri," squeezing after each word to mimick her talking, "and i'm a spoiled, inconvenient prissy brat who wants to be handled like the slut i am but i just won't admit it." he says, letting go of her face with a slight push to the side.

“what the..”

miri's pissed.

"you motherfucker!" she exclaims, trying to sit up to do who-knows-what before a hand is back on her throat, pinning her down. his other hand presses down on the top of her crotch, on the jelly of skin.

“eep!” escapes the girl, as jungwon pushes down on the soft pouch. unlucky for her, that was a sensitive spot.

"hey! d-don't do that! it makes me feel like i need to pee," she whines, trying to wrestle him off.

a smile spreads across his face. "cute." he says, his fingers eagerly making their way back to her wet clit. this time, rubbing it into herself as he aims to spread her slick as much as he can.

miri shuts her eyes tight, face scrunched into something she hopes is annoyance. it feels delicious, she has to admit. “you can’t—”

"i know you like this. if you won't say it, your body betrays you, pretty girl." he smirks, digits slowly prodding at her entrance. he slowly strokes her folds, letting his fingers play with the wetness as traces back and forth up her slit, trying it out with 2 to 3 fingers at a time and nudging experimentally at the opening with his fingertip.

the girl feels herself begin to grow needy at jungwon beating around the bush, letting just a couple centimeters of him press shallowly into the void of her hole. miri curses at herself for the need to speak up.

"just do it," she mumbles, to which he quirks his head up. "what was that?"

"i said, just fucking do it." she mutters a little louder.

"just do what?" he asks, feigning ignorance in the obvious way possible. he's trying to get on her nerves; which wasn't hard to do.

the girl grows frustrated, flushed face and twisted expression proving her feelings.

"finger me!" miri yells, louder and harsher than she expected. looking at him with wide eyes after her whiny outbreak, jungwon can only bite his lip with an amused look. "sure." he obliges, and sticks two of his thick fingers as far as he can inside of her, without much warning.

"a-ah!" miri moans; head tilting back as the sudden fullness inside of her stretches out her inviting walls, and this feeling began to blossom in her lower stomach. it felt like pure bliss; and she swallows once, coming down from the short high.

jungwon watches this with hooded eyes, and agrees he couldn't name a hotter scene. despite being stuck-up, she was hot. and his.

her walls squelched around his fingers, and when she finally opens her eyes and makes such a sultry, expecting face, he swallows hard and finally picks up the pace; pumping in and out of her at a relaxed speed.

miri breathes in through her nose, trying not to let her eyebrows squeeze together too much at the feeling and risk giving jungwon the most porn-inspired look she could; to which she failed. he was pretty good.

"in all honesty, pretty, i think LV heels would look nice on you. the monogram might not be as tacky on heels.” he speaks, with a lazy smile. miri is in no mood to continue the shallow conversation, her focus having been shifted to a completely different problem at hand.

“…”

“speed up.” she commands, probing him to ditch the slow pace.

jungwon raises an eyebrow. “but this is nice.”

“this is boring.” she groans, now looking at him with urgency.

“patience.”

the girl groans, mad at all the teasing she’s endured so far.

“you know i don’t like this! stop being so gentle and laaame!” miri whines, with entitlement.

jungwon lets out a breath, looking smug.

“you know, for someone with this pink, pretty image they’ve created for themselves, you drink a lottt of rough liquor, and want to get fucked exactly like it, too.” he says. “it’s interesting.”

for the nth time, miri heats up at the accusations. “o-of course not! all i said was to pick it up a little, loser. and stop shaming me for drinking! it’s only at parties!” she defends.

“i’m not shaming you. none of your shallow friends drink quite like how you do. it’s not in spoiled-blonde-highlights-girl code.” he recalls, grinning at the time miri was so shitfaced she’d jumped into a pool with all her clothes on—embarrassing enough for her.

“i’d rather be drunk than be with such a boring person.” she snaps, and of course, with no warning, jungwon smacks her across the face; immediately covering her mouth so she doesn’t start with the whining.

he gives her a mild, miffed look.

“we get it. you’re a slut. if you’re so insistent, take it.” he growls, his fingers slamming into her once, then twice, then at a pace so rough, it causes her to bow off her bed, the tiniest amount.

“mmfgh!” miri loudly moans through his hand. the needy feeling is replaced by this deep, constant hit of pleasure as his speed increases; while his knuckles could now slightly bruise her pelvis. he takes his hand off her mouth and lowers his head down to press a hard kiss to her lips, biting her lower lip as the force of his mouth pushes the back of her head deeper into her initialed pillows.

jungwon maintains his harsh pace, fucking his fingers into her small frame. he’s pulled her panties down to her thighs, allowing for the recoil of his hand to span further for the impact on her entrance to be delivered with more force. miri feels her body slump and her tensed muscles fade away; at jungwon’s mercy for her hole to be as stretched out as much as he wanted.

the girl begins to see stars, her vision going slack at how brutal jungwon’s speed is.

“ah! aah h-haah, j-jungwon, wait.” she warns, now beginning to feel pain each time he roughly slams into her.

the speed he was going at, which she deliciously enjoyed, was becoming a bit too much for poor miri.

“s-slow..” she starts, to which jungwon hears her formulate, then stops completely.

the girl gets a little worried that he was withdrawing completely; but instead, he gives her a coy smile and immediately lowers himself down to inbetween her legs, spreading them apart and diving down into her wet cunt.

0 warning.

miri gasps as jungwon’s tongue lays flat on her clit and he begins to suck at her sweetly, letting his saliva mix with her slick. his fingers resume at pumping in and out of her, as he skillfully eats her out.

miri’s hands fly to tug on his hair, moaning loudly. she closes her eyes tightly, mumbling a quick “fuck,” under her breath. she knew she was a lightweight; with all the talk she talks, she was going to finish fast, with this combo.

getting eaten out was always a weakness. you couldn’t get a girl to come faster.

jungwon licks fast stripes across her cunt, all at such a fast pace it felt like he was devouring her whole. his head bobbed up and down as he ate, and at each time his nose bumped her clit, it elicit a sharp spark of pleasure to course throughout her nervous system.

miri had no idea where jungwon learned to do this; and she doesn’t want to know, in case she starts seething of jealousy. all she knows was that he was skillfully licking through her folds and the warm, wet texture of his tongue gliding across her pussy felt better than anything she could think of in the moment.

he alternates between sucking + licking, all while his fingers work themselves through her sex.

he finally comes up for a little air, also to take a glance at miri’s blown-out state.

“you’re very sweet. i’ll give you that.” the boy says, shooting her a wink and diving right back down to eat.

it isn’t until a couple seconds later, of consistent sucking, when she feels jungwon spit on her already-soaking cunt the familiar tension begins to build up in her stomach; and fast. her knees try to close, thighs pressing into jungwon’s head.

“jungwon, w-wait, i’m going to..” she whines, to which the boy doesn’t slow or pick up his speed, just continues to suck eagerly and nudge his face further into between her legs, willing to suffocate himself for miri.

the girl involuntary grinds into his face, matching the pace of his tongue and fingers.

it was only so long she could last, with the sexiest boy she knew buried knuckle-deep in her, lapping up her wetness.

she feels the last bit of strain build up, and her breathing begin to stutter before finally, with a loud yelp, she crashes.

the sensation is nearly too much, and as miri eagerly tries to come down from her paralyzing high, through loud moans, she soon discovers jungwon has no means of stopping.

the realization has her haphazardly clawing at his hair, his teeth grazing her oversensitive bud.

“a-agh! ngh, jungwon, s-stop,” she whines, weakly trying to push his head off as each lick of his tongue to her overstimulated clit sends her reeling.

jungwon buries himself into her, letting out low vibrations she feels way too vividly.

“j-jungwon, too m-much… jungwon..! mmfg!” the sensitive girl lewds, and the boy continues to work; ignoring her pleas.

miri starts to see white, the overstimulation overwhelming her senses to the point it’s nearly untakeable. jungwon fucks her through it all, and sucks down hard on the nub below her cunt.

this elicits a loud gasp, and vicious pleasure to such a sensitive area; so much so it felt like punishment.

miri abandons all morals, all anything, and whines loudly, words becoming a jumbled mess.

“p-please jungwon, nggf, please, p-please jungwon!”

“s-stop, i-i’m sorry, h-haah, please, w-wonnie, p-please!” miri nearly sobs, pushing his head.

jungwon nearly stops in his tracks at the name, but continues the wet assault with his tongue.

“oh m-my, agh!” the girl cries, trying not to let herself go numb. with a small voice and low effort, she asks one more time.

“p-please?”

to which jungwon finally listens to, said with such a tender voice. he comes back up with such a smug grin, you wanted to punch him.

the soft look in his eyes indicated he was proud, though.

“good girl. that’s a good girl, mireille.” he says gently, looking at her with interest. slick covered his mouth, and he sported an amused grin. if miri wasn’t so out of breath, she would’ve choked him, but instead, she gives him the most defiant look she could muster.

the boy smiles at her, pressing a kiss to her lips. “took it like a princess.”

“sh..shut, the fuck up.” the girl breathes out, chest heaving.

jungwon pulls her decorated panties back up with care, and ignores the harsh comment.

although he chose not to rub it in her face, to save her ego just a little bit, miri could beg. she could beg pretty damn well, to jungwon’s newfound knowledge, and it was so, so darned cute.

he pushes her hair back with one dominant hand, licking his teeth as he stares into her eyes with a sweet look.

the sound of his laughter was always just a little too quiet to hear from across the floor, but you always knew exactly when it happened. you could tell by the way the girls in marketing would suddenly lean over their desk dividers, or how the receptionist would find a reason to walk all the way to the printer on your side of the building just to catch his eye as he passed.

yang jungwon had a way of distributing himself so thinly that everyone felt like they had a piece of him, yet nobody actually held anything at all.

it was a strange kind of currency he traded in. he didn’t have the loud, exhausting arrogance of the men you usually avoided. he didn’t smirk, he didn’t linger a second too long in a way that would make anyone uncomfortable. he was just... soft, incredibly attentive. he remembered how people took their tea, he noticed when someone looked a little tired, and he always had the right words to smooth over a mistake before the department head could even find out about it.

you had spent eight months watching the cycle repeat itself. a new girl would start in accounting or design, she would get overwhelmed by the workload, and jungwon would appear out of nowhere with a reassuring smile and a cup of coffee. and a few weeks later, she would be looking at him with that same dazed, mesmerized expression you saw on everyone else. he got his shifts covered, his spreadsheets double-checked, and an absolute shield of loyalty from the entire floor, all because he looked at people like they were the only thing that mattered in a room full of fluorescent lights.

you hated how clearly you saw the pattern. it made you feel detached, like a ghost lingering on the edges of a game everyone else was happily playing. loneliness did that to you — it made you hyper fixate on the details of other people’s lives because your own felt so hollow. and maybe, just maybe, it was also about the fact that you were the only person on this floor who he hadn't tried to use that gentle charm on yet. it felt spiteful, almost, like he knew you were watching and had decided you weren't worth the effort of the routine.

you bit the inside of your cheek, forcing your eyes back to your spreadsheet. do not look. do not care.

"you're going to get a headache if you keep staring at that screen without blinking, y/n." your pulse gave a stupid flutter before you could stop it. he was right there, his shadow leaning gently over the divider of your cubicle. he looked so terribly neat, the sleeves of his grey button down rolled up just to his forearms, his dark hair falling perfectly across his forehead. he didn’t look like someone who had just spent the last twenty minutes quietly convincing the senior supervisor to give him an extra week on his report. he just looked like a concerned coworker.

"i'm almost done." you whispered, your fingers staying frozen over the keyboard. you didn't want to look up. looking up meant acknowledging the way he was tilting his head, the way he was offering you that quiet, private space he seemed to create wherever he stood.

"you said that an hour ago when i walked past." he murmured, his voice slipping into that gentle register that always felt like a secret meant only for you. he set a small paper bag from the bakery downstairs on the edge of your desk, careful not to disturb your papers. "you skipped the team lunch. i brought you one of those lemon tarts you mentioned liking last month." 

your heart ached a little, a sharp spike of anxiety hitting your chest. you hadn't even realized he had been listening when you said that to a completely different coworker in the breakroom weeks ago. that was his trick. he collected information like weights, saving them until he could wrap them up in sweet gestures, leaving you with no way to push him away without looking like the bad guy.

"jungwon, you shouldn't have." you said, trying to force your voice to sound flat, or at least indifferent. you finally met his eyes, searching for a slip, a hint of the calculation you knew was behind them. but there was nothing. just those wide eyes looking at you with a steady warmth that made you feel completely exposed.

"i wanted to." he said simply, a tiny crinkle forming at the corners of his eyes. "you look tired, y/n. let me do something nice for you for once. okay?" the way he said for once, as if he had been waiting for the opportunity to care about you, made a bitter knot form in your throat. he was opening the door to the routine, and the worst part was how badly a small, pathetic part of you wanted to step inside.

you looked down at the brown paper bag, the grease from the pastry already leaving a translucent circle on the paper. it felt heavy, like an anchor pulling you straight into the deep end of his world. if you reached for your purse right now, if you pulled out a crisp bill and insisted on paying him back, you would look incredibly cold. you would be the girl who couldn't just accept a simple favor from a coworker who was only trying to be thoughtful.

but you needed a barrier. you needed to prove to yourself that you weren't like that girl from accounting, or the receptionists, or any of the other people who let his probably fake kindness soften their edges until there was nothing left to protect themselves with.

"how much was it?" you asked, your fingers gripping the edge of your desk a little tighter as you kept your voice low, trying to maintain the flat, corporate boundary between you. "i can venmo you. i also think i have some cash in my bag."

jungwon didn't move. he didn't blink, either. he just kept staring down at you, his thumb slowly brushing against the seam of his trouser pocket. for a second, just a tiny fraction of a second, the soft crinkle around his eyes vanished, replaced by an expression that was entirely unreadable. it was the closest you had ever seen his mask come to slipping, and it made your stomach do a small anxious flip.

but then, as quickly as it had gone, the sweetness returned. it bloomed across his face like it belonged there, gentle and effortless. "don't do that, y/n.” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, sounding almost disappointed. not angry, just gently hurt, like a friend whose genuine intentions had been misunderstood. he reached out, his fingers hovering just an inch above the paper bag, not quite touching it, but close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his laundry detergent mixed with the sweet scent of the lemon. "it's just a tart. you don't owe me anything for it."

you hated how good he was at this. he made your self-preservation look like paranoia. "i just don't like feeling like i owe people things." you whispered, finally looking away from his eyes because the intensity of his gaze was starting to make your chest feel tight. you focused on his collar instead, tracing the neat line of his grey button down. "especially at work."

"you don't owe me." he repeated softly. he leaned a little closer over the divider, his shadow completely enveloping your desk space now, cutting off the rest of the bustling floor. "i promise. consider it an apology for the project timeline being so messy this week. i know it's been stressful for you."

he hadn't even been the one who messed up the timeline, it had been the senior supervisor's fault. yet there he was, taking the blame, wrapping it up in a pastry, and handing it to you like a peace offering. it was perfect. it was completely unassailable.

before you could think of another way to push him back, another way to say no without sounding entirely irrational, he was already straightening up. he patted the top of the cubicle divider twice, the thud of his palms against the fabric signaling the end of your private pocket of time.

"eat it before the sugar melts." he said, giving you one last lingering smile that felt entirely too warm for a tuesday afternoon in a fluorescent lit office. "i'll see you in the meeting tomorrow, y/n."

you didn't answer. you just watched his back as he turned around and walked away, his stride easy and completely relaxed. and then, you watched the trap reset. 

barely three steps away from your desk, he ran into the assistant manager. within two seconds, jungwon’s posture shifted, his head tilting in that familiar, attentive way as he listened to the older man complain about a client. he smiled, offered a reassuring nod, and effortlessly slid back into being the floor's favorite person. it was like his conversation with you hadn't even happened. it was just another stop on his daily rounds.

you sank back into your chair, feeling smaller than you had five minutes ago. the paper bag sat on the edge of your desk, a tiny, sweet monument to your own weakness. you hadn't won. you hadn't even fought back.

when you finally decided to pack your bag, the fourteenth floor was entirely dead. the quiet was suffocating, broken only by the distant hum of the building's ventilation system. you had stayed late on purpose, hiding behind the excuse of heavy workload just to avoid having to walk out the double doors at the same time as everyone else. you needed the air to clear.

you walked down the narrow hallway toward the back supply room to drop off a final stack of hard copy client files before heading to the elevators. the lights in the back corridor were completely out, the darkness only cut by the faint city lights bleeding through the floor to ceiling glass windows at the end of the hall.

as you neared the wooden door of the archive room, you realized it wasn’t fully latched. a thin sliver of light was slicing across the dark carpet. and then, you heard a sound that made your entire body freeze in place.

it wasn't a murmur about spreadsheets or a polite laugh. it was a breathy gasp, followed by the unmistakable friction of fabric rubbing against a hard desk surface.

"jungwon, please-"

it was sarah from design. her voice was completely unrecognizable, stripped of her usual corporate composure, thick with a desperate kind of heat.

"shhh." a voice quieted her. low, raspy and completely dripping with that gentle cadence. "someone might still be on the floor. stay quiet for me, yeah?"

your heart gave a sickening lurch against your ribs, your fingers locking onto the edge of the file folders so hard the cardboard bent. you shouldn't have looked. every piece of self-preservation you had left was screaming at you to turn around, to run to the elevators and pretend you hadn't heard a thing. but you were paralyzed. your eyes moved to the small gap in the doorframe, your breath catching in your throat. through the crack, the scene was explicit.

sarah was pushed back onto the edge of the wooden archive table, her knee length pencil skirt hitched all the way up past her thighs, her fingers tangled frantically in the dark hair of the boy pressing between her legs. jungwon’s shirt was completely unbuttoned, hanging loosely off his shoulders, exposing the sharp lines of his chest and back as he moved against her. he wasn't being rough. even like this, hidden in a dark room against company policy, his movements carried that same terrifyingly smooth rhythm. his head was buried in the crook of her neck, his lips leaving wet tracks along her collarbone, his hands gripping her hips to anchor her as he drove into her with a quiet deliberation. every roll of his hips elicited a muffled, shaking groan from the girl beneath him, her eyes completely blown out, utterly ruined by him.

"you're so good." jungwon whispered against her skin, his voice hitching slightly as his pace quickened, his thumbs digging into her skin. it was said with that same comforting warmth he used when he was handing someone a pastry or fixing a computer screen. "so sweet for me, sarah."

seeing him use that exact same tone — the soft sweetness he used to navigate the bullpen — while his body was violently taking someone against an office desk made a cold wave of humiliation wash over you.

he really was doing it. all of it. he wasn't just collecting favors, he was consuming them. and less than four hours ago, he had leaned over your cubicle divider, looked into your eyes with that exact same soft warmth, and told you he wanted to do something nice for you for once. 

you backed away from the door. you had thought you were being smart by observing him, thought you were immune because you saw the matrix of his charm. but the truth was, you were just another potential name on the rotation of favors he hadn't gotten around to breaking yet.

inside the room, the sudden rustle of your folders against your coat cut through the quiet. the rhythmic sound of his movements stopped instantly. through the gap, you saw jungwon’s head lift, his dark eyes instantly cutting through the dim light straight toward the door frame, his chest heaving as he stared directly at the shadow you were casting on the floor.

you didn't wait for him to pull away. you turned and ran toward the elevators, your chest heavy with an indescribable, uncomfortable feeling as the doors finally closed.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

the next morning, the fourteenth floor swallowed you whole, completely unchanged. the office was just its usual, sterile self. you sat at your desk, eyes fixed on your monitors, trying to drown out the intrusive images from the night before. because the worst part — the thing you refused to admit to yourself as you stared at your spreadsheets — was how it had actually looked. the sharp lines of his bare back, the tight grip of his hands on sarah's hips, the low tone of his voice... it had been explicit. it had been dangerous. and god help you, it had been the most terrifyingly attractive thing you had ever seen.

you bit the inside of your cheek until it tasted like iron. do not think about it. do not fall for it. you weren't going to be another project he managed. you weren't going to let a few seconds of office floor smut shake the armor you had spent months building. besides, you were certain he would never try to win your favor like that anyway — he clearly wasn't interested. you had never had those kinds of interactions with him, which only made the fact that you were fixating so hard on the memory feel even creepier. you were acting like a voyeur, replaying a performance that wasn't meant for you, all because the raw control he had displayed had been so hot, if you were honest. you needed to go back to your normal self and not think about him ever again.

the conference room smelled of stale catering coffee and the chemical tang of dry erase markers. everyone was crammed inside, reducing themselves to a neat row of titles and deliverables. sarah sat three chairs down from you, her posture slightly rigid, her eyes tracking jungwon’s every move with a quiet devotion. but she wasn't special. you watched how he shifted his attention effortlessly — offering a quick, easy laugh to one of the guys from logistics, leaning in to whisper a reassuring note to the senior supervisor, making sure that everyone felt chosen. he didn't look like a man who had spent the previous evening ruining a coworker against an archive table. he looked immaculate. when the supervisor praised the recent turnaround on the quarterly reports, jungwon offered a modest smile, deferring the credit entirely to the rest of the team. he was a calculated machine, running on the fuel of everyone's compliance, using his charm interchangeably to keep the floor running exactly how he wanted it to.

you kept your gaze firmly fixed on your ipad, drawing a series of neat boxes in the margins. you were an observer. you just had to get through the remaining forty minutes of this meeting, go back to your cubicle, and bury yourself in data.

"y/n?" the supervisor’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts. 

you blinked, pulling your shoulders back into a sharp corporate posture. "yes?"

"jungwon mentioned that the client files from the fourteenth floor archives were still showing a few discrepancies. did you manage to drop off the hard copies last night?"

your breath caught in your throat. your fingers tightened around your pen so hard the plastic clicked. reluctantly, your eyes shifted across the table. 

jungwon was looking right at you. he didn't have his usual soft, accommodating expression. he was leaning back in his chair, his dark eyes locked onto yours with unblinking intensity. there was no warmth in them now. no sweet, harmless coworker charm.

it was a dare.

"i dropped them off." you said, your voice a fraction thinner than you wanted it to be. you forced yourself to maintain eye contact, refusing to let him see the frantic flutter of your pulse. "right before i left."

"perfect." jungwon said softly. he didn't break his gaze. his fingers stopped typing entirely, resting flat against the aluminum casing of his laptop. "i went back in there this morning to organize them. i noticed a few of the folders were a bit bent at the edges. like someone had been in a rush."

a suffocating wave of heat rushed up your neck. he knew. he knew exactly who had been standing outside that door.

"the archive room is quite dark at night." you countered, your voice dropping into a flat register that stood out sharply against the casual tone of the room. "it's easy to lose your footing when you're looking for something in the dark."

for a fraction of a second, the corner of jungwon’s mouth twitched upward. it wasn't his public smile. it was sharp, dark, and entirely private, like a glimpse of the calculating mind behind the mask. he liked this. he seemed to have realized that while the rest of the floor was blind to his games, you were watching every single move. and instead of pulling back, instead of playing it safe, he looked fully reenergized by it.

"you're right, y/n." he murmured, his voice dropping into that raspy cadence that made your skin prickle. "it is very dark back there. you really have to be careful what you stumble into." he laughed softly, slipping effortlessly back into his usual public persona. a few of your coworkers laughed along too, entirely unaware of the double meaning bleeding through his words. you felt like you were going insane, like one of those tragic characters in horror movies who are the only ones capable of seeing the ghosts.

the meeting adjourned, and the room dissolved into the usual chaos of scraping chairs and murmured small talk. you gathered your notebook and pen, eager to escape the stifling air, but a tall shadow stepped directly into your path before you could reach the door.

jungwon stood close, effectively blocking your exit. the faint, expensive scent of his cologne hit you instantly, dragging your mind back to the image of his bare back and the frantic grip of his hands in the dark. your chest heaved, a sharp spike of anger and unwanted arousal hitting you all at once. 

"you didn't eat the tart, right?" he said. his voice was quiet, entirely obscured by the noise of the departing coworkers around you.

"i wasn't hungry." you replied, keeping your eyes trained on the top button of his shirt, refusing to look into his eyes. you weren't going to give him the satisfaction of a real reaction. he was just being fake nice, putting on the same calculated performance he used on everyone else to get his way. you were just a glitch in his perfect record of floor compliance, a loose thread he wanted to tuck back into his neat little tapestry because it bothered his meticulous nature that your edges wouldn't soften for him.

he leaned down slightly, his breath brushing against the shell of your ear as he spoke. "a shame. i spent a lot of time thinking about what you liked before i bought it."

you bit the inside of your cheek, gripping your notebook like a shield. you didn't call him out, you didn't mention what you saw. you just forced a professional, detached distance between your bodies, holding onto the corporate wall with everything you had left. 

"i have work to do, jungwon. i’ll excuse myself now, see you." you stepped sideways, brushing past his shoulder without looking back. but as you walked down the carpeted hallway, you could feel his eyes burning into your back, a silent promise that he was only just getting started.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

by thursday afternoon, the tension had settled into the very carpet of your floor, heavy enough to make your lungs ache. you tried to perfect your routine. eyes on the monitor, fingers on the keys, headphones firmly over your ears even when there was nothing playing. you were determined to be the ghost he couldn't touch.

but jungwon was a master of using the space around you against you. he spent twenty minutes at the shared printer island just three feet away from your cubicle opening. he wasn't alone. he was with elle from legal, helping her sort through a massive stack of compliance contracts. you could hear the smooth rumble of his voice filtering through your headset. you didn't look. you swore to yourself you wouldn't look. but then you heard that quiet, private laugh — the one that always made people lean over their desks. against your own will, your eyes flicked up.

jungwon was leaning over the printer, his grey button-down stretched tight across his shoulders. his hand was resting on the small of elle’s back, his thumb making slow, casual circles against the fabric of her blazer. it was a gesture so effortlessly intimate, so completely unnecessary for printing contracts, that a bitter spike of heat flared in your chest. elle was looking up at him with that exact ruined expression you had seen on sarah, on the receptionists, on everyone.

and then, without missing a beat in his conversation with her, jungwon’s dark eyes shifted. he looked directly over elle’s shoulder, straight into your cubicle, locking his gaze onto yours. his thumb didn't stop moving against her back. his face didn't change its pleasant expression. but his eyes were heavy with a silent, mocking challenge.

look how easy it is, you imagined him saying. look at what everyone else gives me without a fight.

he was doing it on purpose. he knew you were hyper-fixated on his patterns, he knew you had seen what happened in the archive room, and instead of hiding it, he was putting his transactional nature on full display right in front of your face. he wanted you to feel the weight of your own isolation. he wanted the jealousy and the confusion to twist inside you until you finally snapped and gave him the compliance he wanted. you ripped your eyes away, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. you hated him. you hated how he could make you feel so entirely exposed without even speaking to you. and worst of all, you hated the traitorous part of your brain that had watched his hand on elle’s back and wondered, just for a terrifying second, what it would feel like if those fingers were digging into your own skin instead.

you swallowed hard, the taste of iron lingering on your tongue. he doesn't want you, you reminded yourself, a cruel, internal mantra. he's just fake nice. he just wants to win the game.

the shadow fell over your desk before you could even register the sound of his footsteps. "the legal files are sorted." jungwon murmured. he wasn't leaning over the divider this time, he was standing right at the entrance of your cubicle, effectively blocking the view of the rest of the floor. he set a single blue folder on the corner of your desk, his fingers lingering on the plastic tab. "i put the updated compliance guidelines on top. i thought you might need them for your afternoon report."

you didn't look at his face. you focused strictly on his hands, on the neat skin of his wrists. "thanks."

"you seem quiet today, y/n." he said softly, his voice dropping into that low register meant only for the two of you. he leaned in just a fraction, his shadow completely swallowing your desk space. "even more than usual. did you get another headache?"

the artificial sweetness in his tone felt like a physical weight pressing against your chest. he was mocking your boundaries, testing the exact strength of the walls you were sweating to keep up.

"i'm fine, jungwon." you whispered, your voice tight, keeping the corporate distance as rigid as humanly possible. "just busy."

"mmh." a small, completely unreadable sound left his throat. he reached out, his index finger lightly tracing a slow line along the edge of your desk calendar, stopping just a millimeter away from where your hand was resting. the proximity made the skin on your arms prickle. "well... don't work too hard. it would be a shame if you got tired out before the week is even over."

he gave the desk a final quiet tap of his knuckles and walked away, leaving you drowning in the suffocating air of his departure.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

on friday evening, the office had emptied out with an incredible speed, everyone fleeing for the weekend the second the clock hit five. you had stayed behind on purpose again. it was safer this way. the quiet felt like a shield, a brief window where you didn't have to watch him hand out his attention like loose change to every person who crossed his path.

the only light left on was the overhead glow of your own cubicle row. you were just finishing up the last data entry for the week, the rhythmic click of your keyboard the only sound in the entire space. you let out a long breath, your shoulders finally dropping from the defensive posture you had kept up for days.

then, the printer island three feet away whirred to life. the sudden, mechanical groan made your heart drop straight into your stomach. a single sheet of paper began to slide into the tray, the sound incredibly loud in the dead quiet of the office.

"i thought i saw a light still on down here." his voice came from the darkness just outside your cubicle opening. it was completely devoid of the light cadence he used during the day. jungwon stepped into the glow of your monitor. he had already taken off his tie, the top two buttons of his grey shirt undone to reveal the sharp lines of his collarbone. his jacket was slung carelessly over one shoulder, held by a single finger. he looked messy in a way that felt intentional.

you froze, your fingers hovering over the keys. do not look at his neck. do not think about the archive room. "i'm just finishing up." you said, your voice tight, forcing that rigid wall between you even though the floor was completely dead. "i'm leaving in five minutes."

"there's no rush." he murmured, stepping fully into your cubicle space. but he didn't stop at the edge this time. he walked right up to the side of your chair, dropping his jacket onto the empty desk divider next to you. "the building doesn't lock down until midnight, anyway."

you kept your eyes fixed on the screen, your heart hammering a stupid rhythm against your ribs. "i want to get home, though."

jungwon didn't answer. instead, he reached past your shoulder, his bare forearm brushing lightly against your sleeve as he picked up the single sheet of paper that had printed out. the brief friction of his skin against yours felt like an electric shock.

he leaned back against the edge of your desk, trapping you in your seat, his dark eyes looking down at the paper in his hands. "you made a mistake on the logistics section." he said softly.

"what?" your head snapped up before you could stop yourself, defense mechanism kicking in. "no, i didn't. i checked the numbers twice."

"look right here." he leaned down, his face suddenly too close to yours. you could see the tiny flecks of dark brown in his eyes and the immaculate line of his jaw. he pointed his long finger at a row of data on your monitor, his hand hovering right next to your mouse. "you put the shipping code under the wrong department head."

you looked at the screen, your mind blank, completely unable to process the numbers because his chest was practically brushing against your shoulder. "it's... it's a minor formatting issue. i can fix it on monday."

"why wait until monday?" jungwon whispered. his voice dropped into that private register that made your skin prickle. he didn't look at the screen anymore. he was looking directly at your mouth, his gaze heavy. "i'm right here. let me help you with it."

he placed his hand directly over yours on the mouse. his palm was warm, his large fingers covering your smaller ones. your pulse gave a sickening lurch. he wasn't being gentle. he wasn't doing that soft, attentive routine he did all the time. his grip was firm, holding your hand in place on the plastic casing, forcing you to feel the solid weight of him.

"jungwon." you breathed, a panicky sound escaping your throat. you tried to pull your hand back, but his fingers tightened just enough to keep you pinned.

"shhh." he murmured, using the exact same low tone he had used on sarah in the dark. "you're always trying to push me away, y/n. why is that? i'm just trying to be a good coworker."

the blatant lie made a suffocating knot form in your throat. he was mocking you. he knew you knew exactly what he was, and he was using his body to deliberately test how much you could take before your walls completely crumbled.

"let go of my hand." you whispered, your voice shaking, although you tried with everything you had to keep it cold.

jungwon didn't move. he leaned in even closer, his breath warm against your cheek, his eyes darkening into something ravenous as he watched the frantic pulse fluttering in your neck. "and if i don't?" he asked softly, a dangerous smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "what are you going to do, y/n? call the supervisor? tell them i'm being too nice to you?"

you couldn't breathe. the sheer weight of him was too much, trapping you between the hard edge of your desk and the solid heat of his chest. your fingers were frozen beneath his palm, your skin tingling everywhere it connected with his.

"i'll tell them exactly what you are." you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them. your voice was way too thinned out by the frantic beating of your heart, but you kept your eyes fixed on his chin, refusing to look up into the trap of his gaze. "i'll tell them you're a fraud, jungwon."

for a long second, the quiet of the fourteenth floor felt absolute. the earlier hum of the ventilation system seemed to fade into nothing. then, jungwon let out a low laugh. it wasn't his public laugh — the pleasant one that made people lean over their desk dividers. this one was raspy, almost dangerous. his hand didn't leave yours. instead, his fingers shifted, sliding down the sides of your hand to lock his fingers securely through yours, pinning your palm flat against the desk surface now.

"a fraud." he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating straight through the small space between your faces. he leaned down further, his lips so close to the shell of your ear that you could feel the slight brush of his dark hair against your temple. "and who do you think is going to believe you, y/n? the supervisors? the girls in marketing? they love me. i make their lives so easy."

he was right. it was the most humiliating part of the whole thing. if you went to anyone, you would look like the unhinged one. you would be the bitter, detached girl who couldn't handle a popular coworker offering to help her with a formatting error.

"they think you're nice." you breathed, your teeth biting down on the inside of your cheek until it throbbed. "but you're just... you just use everyone."

you expected him to pull back, expected him to get angry or play dumb. but as you finally forced your eyes up to meet his, your breath caught. jungwon was staring down at you with a look that made your entire stomach dissolve into chaos. his face wasn't sweet at all anymore. his jaw was set, his dark eyes wide and completely unblinking, tracking the frantic movement of your lips. his chest was heaving slightly, the top buttons of his shirt pulling apart just enough for your eyes to instinctively look down for a second.

he didn't look insulted. he looked violently fascinated. "you really do see right through it, don't you?" he whispered, his thumb slowly tracing a firm line across the back of your knuckles. his grip on your hand tightened, a sudden show of strength that made your pulse give a silly flutter. "everyone on this floor is so boring, to be honest. they just take whatever i give them. but you... you sit here and watch me, and you hate me so much." he leaned in until his nose almost brushed against yours, his gaze dropping to your mouth again with a hunger that felt entirely too explicit for a fluorescent lit cubicle. "you think i'm just being fake nice to be convenient. but the truth is, y/n... i've been waiting for you to look at me like this for months."

he shifted his weight, his thigh pressing firmly against the side of your knee, anchoring you into the chair. the mask was entirely gone, shattered on the desk between you, and you were left staring at the raw, calculating control underneath. and to be honest with yourself, it was the most terrifyingly attractive thing you had ever felt.

"now…" jungwon whispered, his thumb digging slightly into your wrist, right over the frantic jumping of your pulse. "are you going to fix this spreadsheet for me, or are we going to do something else?"

you refused to let him win. you refused to soften a single fraction. "i'm fixing the spreadsheet." you whispered, your voice tight and entirely thinned out, but you forced your eyes back to the monitor, desperately trying to focus on the green lines of the cells. you tried to pull your fingers out from beneath his palm, but jungwon’s grip remained firm, his fingers locked securely through yours, pinning your hand against the mouse. a breathy hum left his throat, the vibration of it traveling straight from his chest into your shoulder where his body was pressed against yours.

"then do it." he murmured, his voice dropping into that private register that made the skin on your arms prickle with a dangerous heat. "go ahead, y/n. fix it."

your left hand trembled as you reached for the keyboard, your mind racing to remember the correct shipping codes through the suffocating fog of his proximity. he was making it entirely impossible on purpose. he leaned down further, his head tilting until his lips were just a fraction of an inch away from the sensitive skin below your ear, his warm breath fanning across your neck with every shallow exhale.

"you're entering the wrong code." he whispered against your skin, his thumb shifting to press a slow, deliberate circle right over the pulse in your wrist. "look at the screen. you're messing up the formatting again because you're too busy trying to pretend i'm not here."

"i'm not pretending anything." you breathed, your teeth biting down on the inside of your cheek until you felt a sharp sting. you deleted the typo, your fingers hitting the keys with a defensive force. you weren't going to look at his collarbone. you weren't going to turn your head and let his mouth catch yours. you kept your gaze locked onto the data, your entire body stiff as iron against the solid warmth of his chest.

you clicked the save icon, the sharp sound of the mouse loud in the dead quiet of the fourteenth floor. "it's done. the data is clean. now let go of my hand, jungwon."

jungwon didn't move. he stayed exactly where he was for a long, agonizing second, his dark eyes wide and unblinking as he tracked the tight line of your jaw. you hadn't leaned into him. you hadn't given him that ruined look he was so used to consuming from the rest of the floor.

and as you finally forced your head around to glare at him, refusing to back down, you saw the exact moment his expression shifted. the mocking smile completely vanished from his lips. his jaw tightened, his dark eyes clouding over with a ravenous frustration that made your stomach dissolve into absolute chaos. he looked entirely consumed by the fact that you were still fighting him, his chest heaving slightly as his grip on your laced fingers tightened until it hurt. you were willing to choke on your own pride before you ever gave him the compliance he wanted.

"you really aren't going to give in, are you?" he whispered, his raspy voice shaking just enough to let the dark intensity underneath slip through. he leaned in until his nose brushed against yours, his gaze dropping to your parted lips with an explicit hunger that made your knees go entirely weak in the chair. "you're going to sit here and look at me like you want to kill me, even when you're completely burning up underneath my hands."

"i told you, jungwon." you whispered back, your fingers tightening around his despite yourself, your armor cracking at the seams even as you held the wall up between you.

jungwon let out another ragged breath, his thumb digging hard into your wrist as a possessive heat bloomed across his beautiful face. "we have time anyway, y/n."

he slowly released his grip, his fingers sliding away from yours with agonizing slowness, leaving your skin tingling and entirely too cold in the sudden absence of his warmth. he picked up his jacket from the divider, throwing it back over his shoulder with that effortless fluidness. he didn't say another word. he just gave you one last, unblinking look — a silent promise wrapped in a calculated package — before turning on his heel and vanishing into the darkness of the elevator lobby. you sat there for a long time, the silence of the empty office pressing heavy against your ears.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

the weekend had been a blur of suffocating self-loathing. you had spent forty eight hours pacing your apartment, scrubbing at the wrist where his thumb had dug into your pulse, trying to wash away the phantom weight of his hand. you felt physically sickened by your own body’s betrayal. that silly flutter your heart had given when he leaned in — it felt like a stain. you had always prided yourself on being the independent one, the girl who didn't get sucked into office politics or fleeting infatuations. you were supposed to be safe because you were invisible. but jungwon had stripped that safety away in a matter of minutes, leaving you exposed and terrified of your own hidden vulnerabilities.

you knew exactly what he was doing. you kept repeating it like a prayer to keep yourself sane: he doesn't want you. he doesn't want you. he was just a predator who hated that one specific prey wouldn't run into his trap. he was a perfectionist, and your coldness was an ugly smudge on his immaculate record of floor wide adoration.

by monday morning, the internal friction had left you entirely exhausted, the dark circles under your eyes barely hidden by makeup. the bright lights of the office hit your eyes like a physical blow. it was already buzzing with the usual post weekend energy, typing and mindless small talk filling the air. you kept your head down, your shoulders hunched as you walked to your cubicle, feeling incredibly small.

and then, you saw him. he was standing by the central filing cabinets, completely surrounded. he was wearing a crisp dark navy shirt today, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal his pale forearms. he was currently leaning over to look at a folder held by jake from accounting, his hand resting on his shoulder, squeezing it in a gesture that looked supportive and friendly. but you watched the way jungwon’s eyes moved — sharp, analytical, tracking the supervisor who was walking past them. the second the supervisor glanced over, jungwon shifted his posture, offering a bright smile that made him look like the hardest working, most compliant employee on the entire payroll.

twenty minutes later, jungwon was at the reception desk. you watched, your heart hammering a painful rhythm against your ribs, as he leaned over the counter to speak to the new temp. his hand rested casually on the edge of her desk, his thumb making an absentminded circle against the wood — the exact same gesture he had used on your knuckles friday night. the temp was completely flushed, her eyes wide as she nodded along to whatever he was whispering. you watched how he helped her carry a heavy box of promotional materials, his body intentionally brushing against hers as they walked through the narrow aisle. it made your stomach turn over in a violent wave of disgust and profound anxiety. he was doing it right in front of you. he didn't even care about hiding his promiscuity or his transactional nature anymore. in fact, it felt like he was putting on a performance specifically for you. he was showing you how easily he could buy anyone on this floor, men and women alike, with a single smile or a well timed touch, using them up until they were empty and then moving on to the next.

you clutched your coffee mug so hard your knuckles turned white, a mixture of anger and panic rising in your throat. you felt like you were suffocating under the weight of your own awareness. you were the only one who saw the rot beneath the golden boy facade, and the sheer isolation of that knowledge was driving you insane. you were terrified that if you kept watching the casual ease with which he dismantled people’s boundaries, the gravity of his control would eventually pull you under too.

"y/n." his voice came from directly behind your chair, low and entirely smooth. your entire body went rigid as iron and your breath trapped itself in your lungs. the sudden rush of adrenaline made your ears ring. jungwon stepped around the edge of your cubicle, holding a stack of laminated division charts. he didn't touch you, he didn't even lean over your desk. he stood just far away enough to keep up appearances for the rest of the floor, but his presence felt massive, completely blocking out the light.

he looked down at you, his dark eyes wide and entirely hollow of the warmth he had just been flashing at the marketing team. his face was a mask of perfect, professional indifference, but the sharp line of his jaw was tight. "the department head requested the updated logistics flow by noon." he said softly, his public voice neat and polite. but then, he paused, his gaze slowly dropping to your hands, watching the tiny, uncontrollable tremor in your fingers as you tried to set your coffee mug down. the corner of his mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly, with a quiet satisfaction.

he leaned in just an inch, his voice dropping into that private register that belonged only to the dark corners of the office. "did you have trouble sleeping over the weekend, y/n?"

the question was a psychological knife, twisting right into the center of your internal turmoil. he knew. he knew he had occupied your thoughts for forty eight hours. he was taunting you with the fact that even when he wasn't there, he was still successfully invading your space, still slowly breaking down your mental walls from the inside out.

you swallowed the bitter taste of panic, forcing your eyes up to meet his chin, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking into his eyes. you drew a sharp breath, pulling your corporate wall up with every ounce of strength you had left. "i'm fine, jungwon." you whispered, your voice thinned out but completely cold, completely detached. "the logistics flow will be in the system by eleven thirty. you can check it then."

jungwon stayed perfectly still for a second, his dark eyes burning into the side of your face, analyzing the rigid posture, the tight set of your mouth, the desperate pride you were clinging to. he didn't push, he didn't need to. he just tapped the laminated charts against the edge of your divider with a quiet, hollow click. "perfect." he murmured, his raspy tone thinning back into his polite, public persona. "i'll be looking forward to seeing your work."

as he turned and walked away, immediately falling into an easy conversation with a passing manager, you let out a trembling breath, your hands shaking so badly you had to press them flat against the desk to make them stop. you were safe for now, but the suffocating realization settled deep into your chest — the game was only getting heavier, and the cost of keeping your walls up was starting to tear you apart.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

by the time the mandatory department dinner rolled around on thursday night, the tension inside your chest had turned into a living, breathing thing.

the restaurant was loud, suffocatingly warm, and thick with the heavy scent of grilled pork and cheap soju. green bottles were already multiplying across the long wooden tables like a plague. everyone was shedding their corporate skin with a sloppy speed, the supervisors shouting over the sizzle of the meat, your colleagues giggling too loudly as they mixed beer and liquor.

you sat near the end of the table, actively trying to dissolve into the background. you were drinking faster than usual. it was a stupid, dangerous mistake, but the alcohol was the only thing capable of dulling the exhausting edge of your hyper-vigilance. you just wanted to numb the looping thoughts of him, but alcohol also made your walls sluggish. and across the grill, through the rising smoke and the chaotic haze of the room, yang jungwon was putting on a masterclass.

he looked disgusting in his perfection. he had stayed sober enough to maintain his position as the table's golden savior — expertly flipping the meat for the senior manager, laughing at the supervisor’s terrible jokes, pouring drinks with a practiced tilt of his wrist. he was the perfect employee, the perfect junior colleague, distributing his easy warmth so seamlessly that the entire top end of the table was practically vibrating under his influence.

but every time he leaned back to let a manager speak, his dark eyes would cut straight through the smoke, locking onto your face. his gaze was heavy, tracking the rhythmic movement of your glass as you emptied it again and again. there was no warmth in his face when he looked at you. just that quiet, analytical hunger.

"y/n, you're being way too quiet tonight." jay from project management slid into the empty space on your left. “seriously, you're always so locked away in your cubicle." he laughed, leaning in to bump his shoulder against yours. it was a clumsy, drunken gesture, but it felt normal. "you need to hang out with us more. let me pour you another one."

"maybe i should." you giggled, the sound light and loose even to your own ears. the alcohol made you sloppy, made you want to lean into the easy comfort of someone who didn't have a hidden agenda. you picked up your small glass and held it out with both hands, giving him a bright, genuine smile. "you're right. i work too hard."

jay beamed, his eyes crinkling as he filled your glass. he let his hand linger against yours for a second too long as he set the bottle down, his arm casually settling over the back of your wooden bench, his fingers lightly brushing the fabric of your blouse. you didn't pull away. instead, you tilted your head up, laughing at a stupid joke he made about the logistics manager, completely letting your guard drop. it felt intoxicating to be normal. to prove to yourself — and to the person sitting across the grill — that you weren't trapped in his little bubble.

but across the table, the atmosphere had silently shifted. jungwon was suddenly drinking too tonight. he wasn't perfectly sober anymore. his tie was long gone, the top three buttons of his navy shirt undone, and there was a faint flush spreading across his neck and the sharp lines of his collarbone. 

it happened so fast you almost missed it. jungwon had been in the middle of nodding politely to a story the senior supervisor was telling. when you looked at him again, his entire posture was dead rigid. his jaw set so hard the muscle in his cheek twitched violently. for a terrifying second, the golden boy mask shattered completely, leaving a look of such icy malice on his face that your breath trapped itself in your throat.

he didn't make a scene. he was too smart for that. instead, he stood up smoothly, a polite, apologetic smile instantly snapping back onto his features as he addressed the supervisor. "i'll go grab a few more bottles of the premium plum wine from the front." jungwon murmured, his public voice light and accommodating. "the department head mentioned he wanted to try it."

you watched him walk away, your heart violently hammering against your ribs. you thought you were safe. you thought the distance would give you room to breathe.

but less than three minutes later, the chaotic seating arrangement of the table shifted as a group of managers left to use the restroom. when a space cleared out directly opposite you and jay, a shadow fell over the wood.

jungwon sat down. he placed three new bottles on the table with a quiet, hollow click. he didn't look at you. he focused entirely on jay, his face twisted into an expression of intense camaraderie that felt entirely too sharp to be real.

"jay." jungwon said, his voice smooth but dropping into a lower cadence that somehow cut through the noise of the restaurant. "you're taking care of our quietest team member? that's really responsible of you."

"jungwon! man, you're the best." jay cheered, completely oblivious to the danger sitting three feet away from him. he pulled his arm off your chair to reach for his glass. "i'm just telling y/n she needs to loosen up!"

"is that so?" jungwon murmured. he picked up a fresh bottle of soju, his long, pale fingers wrapping around the green glass with an unyielding grip. he leaned forward, his dark eyes locked onto jay’s face. "well, if you're going to keep her company, you have to keep up with her. let me pour you a proper drink."

what followed was a brutal, quiet execution. jungwon didn't let jay breathe. using his fake nice, attentive persona like a weapon, he continuously filled jay’s glass the exact second it touched the table, egging him on with soft compliments and subtle challenges that jay’s drunken pride couldn't refuse. jungwon was pouring double shots, mixing combinations, acting like the ultimate hype man while remaining entirely sober himself.

it was horrifyingly calculated. jungwon was weaponizing the floor compliance against jay, using his popularity to entirely dismantle the guy right in front of your face. and he was doing it with a terrifying, quiet ferocity.

within twenty minutes, jay’s head dropped heavily onto his folded arms on the table, his eyes rolling shut as he muttered an incoherent string of nonsense before completely passing out cold.

the noise of the restaurant seemed to swell around your ears, the shouting and laughter of the remaining coworkers forming a thick barrier of isolation around your corner of the table. jay was asleep on your left. the manager on your right was entirely engrossed in a loud argument about quarterly logistics.

you were left completely alone with him.

jungwon slowly set his empty glass down. the bright, helpful coworker expression vanished from his face like smoke, leaving his features cold, sharp, and ravenous. he leaned forward across the low wooden table, his chest almost touching the edge, his dark eyes wide as they pinned you to your seat.

"he touches everyone, you know?" jungwon whispered, his voice dropping into that raspy, private register that made your skin prickle. "jay. he does it in the hallways too. he's very careless with his hands."

you clutched your small soju glass, your fingers shaking so badly the clear liquid sloshed over the rim. the alcohol in your system was making your head spin, making your internal turmoil twist into something heavy and desperate. "he was just... he was just being friendly. unlike you."

jungwon let out a low laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "friendly."

before you could register his movement, his leg shifted beneath the low table. his thigh pressed firmly, violently against your knee, locking your legs together under the shadow of the thick tablecloth. the sudden heat of his body against yours sent a violent jolt of adrenaline straight down your spine. you tried to pull back, but he angled his leg, anchoring you into the wooden bench so tightly you couldn't move an inch without drawing the attention of the entire table.

"you let him touch your shoulder." jungwon murmured, his gaze dropping to your mouth, his jaw setting as his voice became thick with a suffocating jealousy. he reached his hand under the table, his long fingers wrapping firmly around your wrist, his thumb digging hard into the soft skin right over your jumping pulse. "you sat here and let a sloppy, useless drunk put his hands on you. but when i touch you, y/n... you look like you're about to lose your mind."

"let go." you breathed, a panicky whisper that was completely swallowed by the roar of the restaurant. your teeth bit into your lip, your eyes darting to the supervisor just three seats away, terrified of a scene, terrified of what would happen if anyone looked down. "jungwon, stop. someone will see."

"let them look." he whispered back, his grip on your wrist tightening until it was almost a bruise, his thumb rubbing a slow circle against your skin. his face was inches from yours now, his breath warm, smelling faintly of the plum wine. "they won't see anything. they only see what i want them to see. you know that better than anyone, y/n."

he leaned in just a fraction further, his eyes tracking the chaotic, terrified rise and fall of your chest. he was entirely consumed by his own control, entirely irritated that someone else had crossed the boundary he had marked for himself.

"i told you on friday night, y/n." he murmured, his raspy voice vibrating straight through your bones as his leg pressed harder against your knee. "we have time."

the words hung in the space between your faces, heavy with the sweet, stinging scent of plum wine and the absolute certainty of his control. your mind was screaming at you to pull away, to make a scene, to slap his hand away from your wrist. but the alcohol had turned your blood to lead, making your body feel too heavy, too responsive to the solid pressure of his thigh against your knee. you were trapped between the suffocating heat of his gaze and the hidden reality of his hands beneath the table.

"hey, jungwon! y/n! what are you two whispering about over there?" the sudden voice of the senior manager cut through the noise of the restaurant like a blunt axe. the spell didn't just break, it evaporated. before your heart could even finish its next frantic thud, the shift in jungwon was instantaneous. his fingers slid off your wrist with a terrifyingly casual slowness, his leg smoothly retracting from yours under the cover of the tablecloth. by the time you managed to look up, blinking past the dizzying fog of the soju, jungwon was already leaning back in his seat. his face had instantly transformed back into the picture of polite, boyish innocence — the dark hunger wiped clean from his eyes as if it had never been there at all.

"just making sure y/n is doing okay, sir." jungwon said, his public voice smooth, light, and perfectly pitched to carry over the chatter. he offered the manager a dimpled smile. "i think the logistics data has her a bit worn out this week. i was just offering to take over her morning reports tomorrow so she can catch her breath."

"ah, look at our jungwon! always taking care of the team." the manager cheered, raising his glass in a sloppy toast. "a true asset to the department!"

you sat there, your hand still trembling against the cold wood where his fingers had just been pinned. the unadulterated fraudulence of it made you feel physically sick. he had just systematically dismantled jay, pinned you to your seat with a terrifying display of drunken jealousy, and threatened you into absolute silence. and within three seconds, he had the entire top end of the table practically singing his praises. 

to your delight, the dinner dissolved into the chaotic logistics of departure shortly after. managers were pouring into taxis, people were laughing loudly on the sidewalk, and jay was being thrown into the back of a coworker's car, still completely dead to the world.

you stood on the pavement, the cool night air hitting your flushed skin, making the alcohol hit your head in a dizzying wave. you felt completely hollowed out, your internal walls not just cracked, but entirely reduced to ash.

you're going to sit here and look at me like you want to kill me, even when you're completely burning up underneath my hands.

his words from the cubicle, mixed with the phantom weight of his hand on your knee tonight, looped through your mind like a toxic rhythm. the worst part — the absolute most humiliating, terrifying part of the entire night — was the realization that you had burned. when his hand had tightened on your wrist, when his thigh had locked yours into the bench, a hidden part of your chest had given a shameful lurch. you hated his fake nice routines, you hated how he ruined people for his own convenience, but the raw, unfiltered gravity of his attention when the mask came off was becoming completely addictive.

you were terrified of him. but you were starting to be much more terrified of yourself.

"your taxi is here, y/n." his voice came from the shadow right beside you. jungwon had his hands slid casually into his slacks pockets, his jacket slung over his shoulder. he stepped forward, opening the door of the yellow cab for you with the textbook gallantry of a good coworker. but as you moved past him, your shoulder brushing against his chest, he didn't back up. he stayed entirely too close, his eyes locking onto yours in the dim light of the street.

"get some rest tonight." he murmured, his raspy voice dropping low enough that the driver couldn't hear. his thumb slowly traced a firm line across the leather of the car door, right next to your hip. "i'll see you in the office early tomorrow. don't be late."

you slid into the backseat without a word, your fingers curling tightly into your palms as the door clicked shut between you. as the taxi pulled away into the traffic, you looked back through the rear window. jungwon was still standing on the curb, completely alone in the yellow glow of the streetlamp, watching your car disappear with a look of absolute, calculating patience.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

the hangover wasn’t just a physical ache, it was a psychological weight that made the 6:45 am sunlight feel like an interrogation. you had deliberately arrived a full hour before the rest of the department, desperate to find a moment of absolute isolation to gather the shattered pieces of your composure. the office floor was an eerie ghost town of dark computer screens and silent corridors. the only sound was the mechanical hum of the industrial printer in the copy room at the far end of the hall. you stood in front of it, watching the updated logistics charts slide smoothly into the tray, one by one.

eleven thirty? no. you were going to leave it on his desk before the clock even struck eight. you needed to reclaim some semblance of control.

the heavy glass door of the copy room clicked, making your heart skip a painful beat. you didn’t turn around immediately, your eyes freezing on the shifting reflection in the dark glass window of the courtyard outside.

jungwon stepped into the room. he didn't rush toward you. he closed the door with a slow, deliberate click, his dark eyes instantly locking onto the back of your neck. he had already shed his suit jacket, his white dress shirt crisp and immaculate, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms with casual neatness. he looked entirely rested, completely untouched by the poison of the night before.

"you're early." he murmured. his voice was already in that register. there was no marketing team here. no senior managers. just the heavy thrum of the printer and the suffocating gravity of his presence.

"i told you it would be ready." you said, your voice tighter than you intended. you reached out to grab the stack of papers from the tray, keeping your back turned to him, desperately using the documents as a shield.

you heard the slow, measured sound of his dress shoes against the linoleum. he stopped just a step behind you. he didn't touch you yet. instead, he leaned forward slightly, his shadow completely engulfing yours as he looked over your shoulder at the printer tray. the heat radiating from his chest was immense, close enough that you could feel the faint movement of his shirt fabric against your back every time he took a breath.

"the logistics flow." jungwon mused softly, his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin behind your ear, making the tiny hairs on your arms stand up. "always so efficient, y/n. always running away into your work the moment things get too heavy."

you swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the edge of the paper tray until your knuckles turned white. "i'm just doing my job. you can take the files and go."

"is that what you want?" he asked. the question was low, quiet, and laced with a terrifying patience. he reached out, his long fingers slowly sliding into the tray right next to yours. he didn't grab the papers. instead, the side of his index finger brushed against yours, a light, almost imperceptible contact that sent an electric jolt straight down your spine.

you flinched, trying to pull your hand back, but jungwon was faster. his hand turned, his fingers trapping your wrist against the plastic edge of the tray. he didn't squeeze. he just held you there with the weight of his palm, his thumb resting directly over your pulse point, feeling the erratic thudding of your heart.

"you're still shaking." he whispered, his tone dropping into something dark and dangerously satisfied. "just like last night. did you think the morning air would make you forget how it felt?"

you refused to turn around, keeping your face fixed on the blinking light of the copy machine, but your breathing was already turning shallow. "jungwon, stop. someone will come in. the cleaning staff-"

"the cleaning staff finished thirty minutes ago." he interrupted smoothly, his voice a calm barrier that shut out the rest of the world. he took a half step closer, his chest fully pressing into your back now, the solid weight of his body anchoring you against the counter. "we have time. i told you that, didn't i?"

he slowly let go of your wrist, but before you could draw a breath of relief, his hand moved up to your shoulder. his long fingers settled over the fabric of your blouse, his thumb tracing the exact spot where jay's hand had lingered the night before. the pressure was firm, heavy, and intensely possessive, as if he were systematically erasing anyone else's touch from your skin.

"tell me, y/n." jungwon murmured, his jaw brushing against the side of your hair as he leaned in, his voice a raspy vibration that rattled through your bones. "when you were sitting across from me last night, letting him lean into your space... were you thinking about how much harder i would touch you when we were alone?"

the question hung in the warm, enclosed air of the copy room, heavy and explicit. your heart hitched, a fractured sound escaping your throat before you could stop it. you squeezed your eyes shut, hating how instantly your body reacted to the proximity, hating the dizzying rush of heat that flooded your veins despite the icy hangover. "i wasn't thinking about you." you lied, the whisper thin and trembling against the steady hum of the printer.

jungwon let out a low hum against your neck. it wasn't a laugh, it was a sound of pure, clinical amusement. he didn't call you a liar, he didn't need to. instead, his hand slid slowly down from your shoulder, his palm tracing the rigid line of your spine through the fabric of your blazer. the movement was agonizingly gradual, every millimeter of his touch deliberate, testing your resistance, feeling the way your muscles locked tight under his hands.

when his palm reached the small of your back, he paused. he leaned his weight into you just a fraction more, the solid plane of his chest flattening completely against your shoulder blades. the sheer heat of him seemed to melt straight through your corporate layers. "you're so tense." he whispered, his lips brushing the sensitive skin right below your earlobe. you shivered violently, your hands blindly gripping the edge of the printer counter behind you. "relax for me, y/n. we aren't at the table anymore. there's no senior manager to save you this time."

his other hand came up, his long fingers sliding under your chin. he didn't force you to turn around yet. he just tilted your head back slightly, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat. his thumb stroked the soft skin right over your jumping pulse, his touch agonizingly light, a stark contrast to the crushing weight of his body pressing you into the counter. "look at the glass." he murmured softly, a quiet command.

your eyes automatically opened, flickering to the dark reflection in the courtyard window directly ahead. through the dim glass, you could see the two of you — completely tangled together in the shadow of the industrial machine. your head was tilted back against his shoulder, your face flushed and eyes wide with a desperate panic. jungwon was looking at your reflection, his dark eyes hollowed of all his polite warmth, filled instead with that sharp satisfaction. he looked entirely in control. he looked like he owned the very air you were breathing.

"see that?" jungwon whispered, his thumb moving up to trace the trembling outline of your lower lip. "this is exactly how you looked in my head all weekend. desperate. trapped. completely at my mercy." he slowly turned your face toward him, forcing you to break eye contact with the reflection and look directly at his actual features. up close, the golden boy mask was entirely gone. his jaw was set, a heavy intensity clouding his eyes as his gaze dropped to your mouth. he didn't kiss you. he just hovered there, his breath hot and shallow against your lips, letting the tension build until it felt like a physical wire snapping between you.

"jungwon." you breathed, your voice a desperate plea, though even you didn't know if you were begging him to stop or begging him to finally end the torture.

"i'm listening." he murmured, his raspy voice dropping into an even lower register as his hand slid from your chin down to the collar of your blouse, his fingers lightly brushing the exposed skin of your collarbone. "tell me what you want, y/n. tell me to stop. let me hear you say it."

“c-can’t.” you said between pants, feeling too overwhelmed by his presence to remember how to breathe properly. 

“you can’t or you won’t? come on, we both know you can. this is a safe space, y/n.” jungwon spoke in a mocking tone, his fingers trailing lower until they hooked into the top edge of your camisole, pulling the silk taut against your skin. “it’s just you and me. no one is going to walk through that door and catch you admitting it.”

the condescending arrogance in his voice hit you like a bucket of ice water. he wasn't just trying to touch you, he was trying to break you. he wanted the satisfaction of hearing you completely dismantle your own walls for his ego.

you swallowed down the panic, forcing your hands flat against his chest. you didn't lean into him. instead, you locked your elbows, pushing back against the solid weight of his frame with every ounce of strength you had left. "i can't because it's pathetic." you said, your voice cracking slightly but carrying a sudden coldness. you forced your eyes up to meet his, refusing to let him see you blink. "you're pathetic, jungwon."

the mocking smile vanished from his face instantly. his dark eyes went wide, then narrowed into two dangerous, icy slits. the absolute stillness that came over him was terrifying. "what did you say?" he murmured, his voice dropping so low it was almost entirely swallowed by the hum of the printer.