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The bus station in Fairview Fall is not really a bus station. It is a parking lot beside the post office with a painted sign on a wooden post that reads Fairview Fall — Pop. 2,847 and a single bench that has seen better decades. You step off the bus into heat so thick it feels like walking into something solid, and the first thing you think is that your mother would have had something to say about this. Something funny. She always had something funny. You are still working on finding it funny.

Your bag is on your shoulder and your mother’s cardigan is tied around your waist because you could not bring yourself to pack it and you could not wear it either, not in this heat, but you needed it close. The driver hands down your suitcase from the hold and then the box — your father’s records, wrapped in an old bedsheet and taped within an inch of their lives — and you take it with both hands like it is something that could break, because it is. “Y/N.” You turn around.

Birdie is standing at the edge of the parking lot in a yellow sundress with her dark hair pinned up and her hands clasped in front of her like she is trying to hold herself together by sheer force of will. She is younger than you keep expecting — younger than your mother was, softer somehow, with the same eyes. That is the thing you were not prepared for. The eyes. She opens her arms and you walk into them and she holds on tight and doesn’t say anything for a long moment and that is exactly right, that is the only right thing, and you press your face into her shoulder and breathe. “Okay,” she says finally, quietly, into your hair. “Okay. Let’s get you home.” She takes the suitcase without asking. You keep the records.

Her truck is an old Ford the colour of rust and good intentions. It smells like vanilla and, underneath that, the faint ghost of something that went wrong in a kitchen recently. Birdie swings out of the parking lot with the ease of someone who has been driving these roads for years and cracks both windows so the hot air moves, and for a minute neither of you says anything.

The town scrolls past — the diner, the hardware store, the church, a barbershop with a striped pole still spinning — and you watch it go by with your elbow on the window ledge and the sun on your arm. “It’s smaller than I thought,” you say. “It’s small,” Birdie agrees easily. “You get used to it. Then you start to like it. Then one day you realise you can’t imagine being anywhere else and that’s just that.” She glances over at you. “Happened to me and I came here for a man, which tells you something about how good the town is.” “What happened to the man?”

“He left.” She says it without any weight on it, like a fact about the weather. “Best thing he ever did for me, honestly. I got to keep the town.” You look back out the window. There is a bookshop on the corner of main street with a display in the window — paperbacks arranged around a small ceramic rooster — and a hand-painted sign above the door that reads Read a Cookie in cheerful red letters. “Is that—” “That’s mine,” Birdie says, and the pride in her voice is warm and uncomplicated. “Named it myself. People told me it didn’t make any sense. I told them that was the point.” Something loosens very slightly in your chest. “My mom would have loved that name.” Birdie’s hands shift on the steering wheel. “Yeah,” she says softly. “She would have.”

The town gives way to a residential street, quieter, lined with oak trees that are losing the fight against the August heat. Birdie pulls up outside a small white house with a porch and a hanging basket and a cat sitting in the front window staring out at the street with the energy of someone who has appointed himself neighbourhood watch. “That’s Gerald,” Birdie says. “He doesn’t warm up to people easily.” She pauses. “He’ll be on your lap by Thursday.”

The house is warm and slightly chaotic in the way that feels lived-in rather than messy — books on every surface, a quilt over the sofa, a kitchen that smells like sugar and ambition. Your room has a window overlooking the street and a quilt that matches the one downstairs and a small vase of wildflowers on the dresser that Birdie must have put there this morning, and you have to look at the ceiling for a moment before you can say anything. “It’s lovely,” you manage. “Thank you, Birdie.”

“Don’t,” she says simply. “You’re family. This is just where family goes.” She leaves you to settle in. You sit on the edge of the bed for a while before you do anything else. Then you open the box of records carefully, take each one out, and line them up against the wall until you can find something to put them on properly. You run your thumb along the spines of them — your father’s handwriting on some of the paper sleeves, little notes he’d written to himself, great for Sunday mornings and Y/N will like this one when she’s older — and you breathe through it, in and out, until you can. You take out the journal Birdie sent you in the weeks after. Brown leather, your name on the inside cover in her loopy handwriting. You open to the first page. We’re here, Dad, you write. It seems like a good place.

August bleeds away slowly, the way time does when you are somewhere new and the shape of your days has not yet formed. Birdie puts you to work in the bookshop most mornings — not because she needs the help, though she doesn’t turn it down, but because she is perceptive enough to know that you need somewhere to be. You shelve books and make change and learn the names of regulars who come in and stay too long, browsing without buying, talking to Birdie about their lives while she leans on the counter and listens like she has nowhere else to be.

They look at you with open curiosity every single one of them. Not unkind. Just unsubtle. “This your niece, Birdie?” “That’s her. In from New York.” “Well, welcome to Fairview Fall, honey. You settling in alright?” “Yes, thank you,” you say, every time, and mean it, and still go home some evenings feeling so full of warmth from strangers that you don’t know what to do with it. You write about it.

You write about your mother and how she would have made friends with every single one of them inside of five minutes, your mother who could talk to anyone, who remembered every name, who made a room feel like a party just by walking into it. You write about your father and the record shop you found on main street, the one he would have disappeared into on day one and emerged from an hour later sheepish and happy with something tucked under his arm. You write in present tense. It is the only way you know how to keep them with you.

The grief comes without warning and without schedule. A song on the radio in the bookshop one afternoon that your mother used to hum in the kitchen and you have to go into the back and sit down until it passes. A customer who wears the same cologne your father wore and you spend the rest of the morning slightly underwater. Birdie always knows. She brings you things — a cookie, a glass of water, a hand on your shoulder — and she does not ask you to explain and she does not try to fix it and that, more than anything, is why you are starting to love her. She is an awful cook. She is a spectacular baker. These are two entirely different skills that exist peacefully in the same person and Fairview Fall has long since made its peace with this fact. The dinners are ambitious and variable. The baked goods are extraordinary, and she knows it, and she is not modest about it.

September comes and brings with it the particular dread of a first day at a new school. The night before, you cannot sleep. You lie in the dark and listen to Fairview Fall settle into quiet around you and you think about your old school, your old locker, your old seat by the window in English class, your old life. You think about how none of it exists anymore in the same way. You think about walking into a building where everyone already knows everyone and you are the city girl, the new girl, the one staying with Miss Birdie, and how that will precede you through every door.

In the morning Birdie is up before you. You come downstairs in your mother’s cardigan and your jeans and your stomach in knots and she turns from the kitchen and says “sit down, baby” and puts a plate of blueberry muffins in front of you that are so good it is almost offensive. She sits across from you with her coffee and she talks — about the town, about the teachers, about nothing important — and she lets you eat and lets the morning be ordinary, and by the time you have to leave your stomach has unknotted itself by about half.

She drops you at the school gates in the truck and squeezes your hand before you get out. “You’re going to be just fine,” she says. “I know,” you say, which is not the same as believing it.

Fairview Fall High School is a low brick building with a football field that is clearly the town’s real pride and joy — the grass better maintained than anything else on the property, a hand-painted banner above the gymnasium doors reading GO HAWKS in red and gold so fresh it must be new this week. The gate is open and everyone is moving through it with the ease of people who have done this a hundred times, which they have. They know where they are going. They know who they are going with. They move in clusters that have been the same clusters since middle school and they talk and laugh and do not notice you standing just outside the gate with your bag on your shoulder and your mother’s cardigan tied around your waist trying to figure out if you could leave without anyone noticing.

You are still trying to figure it out when a car pulls up to the kerb beside you — a blue thing, old and a little battered but clearly loved, clearly tended to — and the door opens and someone gets out, and he is tall, dark-haired, broad across the shoulders in the way of someone who has been physical his whole life without thinking about it, wearing a Fairview Fall Hawks t-shirt with the sleeves cut and an easy, unhurried look on his face that you will come to understand is just him, that is just what he looks like, like the world is something he finds genuinely good.

He leans against the side of his car and looks at you. Not in a way that makes you feel looked at. Just in a way that sees you. “You look like you’re trying to figure out if you can leave without anyone noticing,” he says. “That obvious?” “Little bit.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “You’re staying with Miss Birdie, right?” Of course he knows. Of course. “That’s me.” He nods, easy, like this confirms something he already suspected, and then he just pushes off the car and extends his hand like it is the most natural thing in the world. “Lee Heeseung,” he says. “Come on, I’ll walk you in.” You look at his hand. You look at the gate. You look back at him. “Okay,” you say, and shake it.

He walks with the kind of ease that parts a crowd without trying. People call his name and he calls theirs back — first names, last names, nicknames, little details lobbed like catching up even though school has not started yet, how’s your daddy’s back, tell your sister congratulations on the baby — and he does it all without breaking stride, without making you feel like an afterthought beside him. He introduces you to people in the hallway with a hand half-raised in your direction, this is Y/N, she’s staying with Miss Birdie, and they say hi Y/N and welcome to Fairview Fall and love your cardigan and you say thank you, thank you, thank you. He takes you to the principal’s office himself. Sits in the chair beside you like he belongs there, which apparently he does because the secretary says “morning, Heeseung” without looking up, and the principal shakes his hand before he shakes yours. You come out with a timetable and a map of the building and Heeseung looks at both and says “okay, your first class is this way” and just starts walking.

At the door of your first class he leans in the doorframe — just leans there like he was born to lean, like all doorframes exist in anticipation of him — and looks at you with that easy grin. “I’ll find you before lunch,” he says. “You can sit with me and my friends.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you say. “I know I don’t.” He says it simply, without any performance behind it. “I’ll find you before lunch.” You look at him for a moment. “Okay.” “Okay.” He pushes off the doorframe. Starts to go. Then he glances back over his shoulder at you, grin already in place. “See you later, city girl.” The door closes behind him. You turn around and find a seat and spend the first ten minutes of class thinking about absolutely nothing related to the lesson.

He finds you before lunch. He materialises at your locker with the punctuality of someone who means what he says and says what he means, and he falls into step beside you down the hallway and pushes open the cafeteria door and steers you toward a corner table where two people are already sitting. The boy is leaning back in his chair with his arms folded and the look of someone who has a lot of feelings about Wednesdays and none of them are positive. He is handsome in a sharp, clean way, dark-haired, and he looks up at you and nods once like you have passed some preliminary inspection.

The girl beside him is already looking at you like she has made a decision. She is in a bright green dress with her hair down and she has the kind of face that is interesting before it is pretty, quick and watchful and warm all at once, and she says “oh good, another girl” before you have even sat down. “I have been the only one for six years and I want you to know it has been a lot.” “Hi,” you say. “Hi,” she says, and scoots over to make room. “I’m Immy. That’s Hoon, he’s not as unfriendly as he looks.” “I’m plenty friendly,” Sunghoon says, and steals something off her tray without looking at it. “Hoon.” Her voice goes flat. “Sweetheart.” His doesn’t change at all. “I told you not to call me that.” He looks at her then, and there is something in his face that is so straightforward and so completely unbothered that you almost laugh. “I know you did,” he says pleasantly. Immy stares at him. She is fighting a smile and losing. She turns back to you like none of that happened. “So. New York City.” She says it like she is tasting it. “What’s it like?”

“Loud,” you say. “A lot of people. Everything’s very fast.” “Do you miss it?” It is a direct question. You appreciate that she asks it like she actually wants to know rather than like she is being polite. You think about it honestly. “I miss the familiarity of it,” you say. “I miss knowing where I am.” Immy nods. “You’ll know where you are here pretty quick,” she says. “It’s not a big place to learn.” She slides a chocolate milkshake across the table to you. “You look like you need this.” You did not order it. You do not know when she did. “Thank you.” “Don’t mention it, honey.”

Across the table Heeseung is watching you with that quiet, attentive look he has — the one that notices things, that collects details and keeps them somewhere. He catches you looking and grins, easy, and goes back to his food. Sunghoon steals from Immy’s tray again. She elbows him without looking up from asking you about the bookshop. He absorbs the elbow with equanimity. He does not stop eating her fries. You think: Mom, you would love these people. Present tense. Always.

The school day ends and you come out through the front doors into the late afternoon gold of a September in Texas and you are thinking about the walk home — Birdie drew you a map this morning on a paper bag, fifteen minutes, turn left at the church — when a car horn sounds once, short and friendly, and you look over and there is the blue car at the kerb and Heeseung leaning out the window. “Get in,” he says. “I’ll give you a lift.” “I was going to walk.” “It’s a hundred degrees.” It is not quite a hundred degrees. It is close enough that you do not argue. You go around and get in the passenger side and the inside of the car smells like worn leather and something warm, like a radio that’s been on all day, and there is a small St. Christopher medal hanging from the mirror that swings when you close the door. He pulls out into the street unhurried, one hand on the wheel, and you tell him the address and he nods like he already knew. “How was the rest of it?” he asks. “Okay,” you say. “Miss Beaumont gave me a book.”

“She does that.” He says it warmly. “She gave me East of Eden sophomore year and told me to come back when I’d read it. I came back two weeks later and we talked about it for an hour after school. She’s good people.” You look at him sideways. He is watching the road. “You don’t seem like someone who stays after school to talk about books,” you say. He glances over, amused. “What do I seem like?” You think about the football banner. The teammates who called his name in the hallway. The easy authority of someone the whole building seems to orbit without him asking for it. “I don’t know yet,” you say honestly.

He nods like that is a fair answer. “Good,” he says. “Keep looking.” He pulls up outside Birdie’s house before you have figured out what to say to that. You are still working on it when the front door opens and Birdie comes out onto the porch, dish towel over her shoulder, and her face does something warm and immediate at the sight of the car. “Heeseung Lee,” she calls. He cuts the engine and gets out — of course he gets out, of course he does not just wave from the window — and he pulls himself up to his full height and says “afternoon, ma’am” with such genuine politeness that you watch it happen like it is something to study. Birdie gives him a look. “Ma’am,” she repeats. “Yes, ma’am.” “Heeseung.” She puts a hand on her hip. “I have known you since you were a tot. Small enough to fit in that window box.” She points at it. “Now you call me Birdie.”

He has the grace to look slightly abashed, which on him is mostly just the grin getting a little sheepish. “Yes, ma— yes. Sorry. Birdie.” “Better.” She looks between the two of you with an expression that is doing several things at once and landing primarily on satisfied. “You staying for supper?” “No thank you, I’ve got to get home. But I appreciate it.” “Another time then.” She says it like it is already decided. “You drive safe.” “Always do.” He looks at you. “See you tomorrow, city girl.” “See you tomorrow,” you say. He gets back in the car. You stand on the kerb and watch him pull away — the blue car disappearing around the corner at the end of the street, the St. Christopher swinging — and then Birdie is beside you with the dish towel still over her shoulder and a look on her face that is entirely too knowing for this time of day.

“Come inside,” she says. “I’ll put the kettle on.” You follow her up the porch steps. Gerald is in the window, watching. Inside the house it smells like vanilla and a baking experiment and something that might be dinner taking a turn for the ambitious, and Birdie fills the kettle and sets it on the stove and leans against the counter with her arms crossed and that look still on her face. “So,” she says. “You met Heeseung.” “He found me outside the gates,” you say, dropping your bag on a chair. “He showed me around.” “Mmhm.” She says it in a way that contains a lot. “He’s nice.” “He is.” She nods slowly. “He’s a good boy, Heeseung. His family have been here as long as mine have. His daddy taught him to fix that car himself, the blue one — he was about fourteen when they started on it, worked on it for two years. His mama makes the best peach preserves in the county and she will give you a jar if you so much as look at them.” She pauses. “He’s going to be offered a football scholarship.” You look up. “Yeah?” “Yeah. He doesn’t want it.” She says it simply, without editorialising, like it is just a thing she knows. “He wants to stay here and study music. Plays guitar, did he tell you that?” “No.”

“He wouldn’t, first day.” She unfolds herself from the counter as the kettle starts to murmur. “He doesn’t show that to many people.” She glances back at you with those familiar eyes, your mother’s eyes, and something in her expression is soft and deliberate. “You had a good day.”

It is not a question exactly. You think about Immy’s arm through yours in the hallway. You think about Sunghoon’s complete indifference to being elbowed and Immy’s losing battle with her own smile. You think about Heeseung in the doorframe, easy as breathing, see you later, city girl. “Yeah,” you say. “I think I did.” Birdie smiles and pours the tea and doesn’t say I told you so, which is generous of her, and the evening settles around you soft and warm and ordinary in a way that feels, for the first time, like something you might be able to live inside. Gerald comes down from his windowsill and sits on your feet. “Thursday,” Birdie says, without looking. “I told you.”

By the end of the first week you have learned the following things about Fairview Fall High School. The bathroom by the science block floods if someone flushes the third stall, which Immy told you on day one and which you have since witnessed firsthand. The cafeteria does a peach cobbler on Fridays that is apparently worth rearranging your entire lunch schedule around, according to Sunghoon, who said it with a sincerity usually reserved for serious matters. Miss Beaumont assigns reading like she is prescribing medicine — specific and deliberate and not up for debate. The football team practises every day after school on the good grass and half the school finds reasons to walk past the field while it’s happening, which everyone pretends is coincidental and nobody believes.

You have also learned that Heeseung is there every morning. Not waiting for you, exactly. He is never standing at the gate with any kind of obvious intention. He is just — there. Leaning against the blue car with one ankle crossed over the other and his face tipped up to whatever the morning is doing, talking to someone or not talking to anyone, and when you come through the gate he sees you the way he seems to see everything, which is immediately and without making a production of it, and he falls into step beside you like it is the most natural thing in the world, which by Friday it almost is.

“Morning, city girl.” “Morning.” “Sleep alright?” “Better than the night before.” “That’s something.” He holds the door. You go through. “Birdie feed you before you left?” “Lemon muffins today.” “Lord.” He says it with feeling. “Her lemon muffins are something else.” “You’ve had them?” “She used to bring them to my mama when I was small. I’d eat about four before anyone noticed.” He grins at the memory, easy and unguarded, and you look at him sideways and think about what Birdie said — he doesn’t show that to many people — and you file it away without knowing exactly why.

On Friday Immy decides, without consulting anyone, that you are all going to the diner after school. She announces this at lunch with the confidence of someone who has never once proposed something and been told no, which you are beginning to understand is simply accurate. Sunghoon says “I was going to go home” and Immy says “no you weren’t” and he considers this and says “you’re right, I wasn’t” and that is the entire negotiation. Heeseung looks at you across the table. “You in?” “I don’t have anywhere else to be,” you say. “That’s the spirit,” Immy says, pointing a fork at you approvingly.

The diner is called Mae’s, which is also the name of the woman behind the counter who is somewhere between sixty and ageless and who looks at you when you walk in and says “you must be Birdie’s girl” before you have opened your mouth. You say yes ma’am and she nods like you have passed something and brings over four menus that nobody looks at because apparently nobody here needs a menu. “Usual?” she says to Heeseung. “Yes ma’am.” “Immy, you want the grilled cheese or the club today?” “Grilled cheese, Mae, I’m not complicated.” “Hoon.” “Chocolate shake and whatever Immy doesn’t finish,” Sunghoon says. Mae looks at him over the top of her notepad with an expression that has lived in this diner for thirty years. “I’ll put in an order for you like a normal person.” “I appreciate that.” She turns to you last and there is something in her face that is not pity but is in the neighbourhood of kindness, the particular kindness of someone who has watched a lot of life come through a door and knows what it looks like when someone is still finding their feet. “What do you like, sweetheart?”

You look at the menu properly. Everything on it is the kind of food that takes its time — burgers and cobbler and sandwiches that come with a side of something and a pickle that nobody asked for and nobody minds. You order a club sandwich and a chocolate milkshake and Mae writes it down and goes, and you put the menu back behind the napkin holder and look around. The diner is warm and a little worn in the way of places that have been genuinely used — the vinyl on the booths cracked at the edges, the counter stools slightly uneven, the jukebox in the corner playing something slow and country that you do not recognise but that sounds like it belongs here.

There are photographs on the wall near the register, decades of them, Fairview Fall laid out in black and white and faded colour. Football teams and school groups and a ribbon cutting for something and a woman who might be a younger Mae standing in front of the counter with her arms crossed and a look on her face that has not changed. “She’s been here since before I was born,” Heeseung says, following your eye line. He is beside you in the booth, close enough that you are aware of it without it being a thing. “Her husband built the counter. She buried him about ten years ago and kept coming in every day.” “That’s sad,” you say. “She doesn’t seem to think so.” He tilts his head slightly, considering. “She says this place is where she’s most herself. That she can feel him in it.” He pauses. “I think that makes sense.”

You think about your father’s records lined up on the shelf in your room. The way you run your thumb along the spines of them sometimes before bed without taking any out. You think about how some things are sad and a comfort at exactly the same time and how nobody tells you that before you need to know it. “Yeah,” you say. “It does.” Across the table Immy is telling Sunghoon something with her hands, which is how she tells everything — full body, gestures large and certain — and Sunghoon is watching her with his chin in his hand and the expression he gets when he is listening to her properly, which is soft in a way he would probably deny. She is talking about something that happened in her chemistry class, a lab that went sideways, and she is making it very funny, and Sunghoon is not laughing but he is very close to it, the way he always is with her, like she is the only person who can find the seam of him. “How long have they been together?” you ask quietly. Heeseung glances over at them. “They’re not,” he says. You look at him. “Really.”

“Really.” He says it with the patience of someone who has had this conversation before. “They’re just — Immy and Sunghoon. They’ve been Immy and Sunghoon since we were thirteen.” “That sounds like together.” “Don’t tell Sunghoon that, he’ll short-circuit.” He picks up his water glass. “He knows what it is. He’s waiting for her to decide she knows too.” You look back at Sunghoon, who has apparently made a quiet comment because Immy has stopped mid-gesture to stare at him and then shove his shoulder and he has absorbed the shove with complete serenity, the ghost of something pleased at the corner of his mouth. “How long has he been waiting?” you ask. Heeseung thinks about it. “Thirteen,” he says. “So about four years.” You consider this. “That’s very patient.” “That’s Sunghoon.” He says it simply, like it is just a true thing about his friend, like patience is just the shape of him. “He’d wait forever if that’s what it took.”

The food arrives and the conversation opens up and you let yourself be carried by it — Immy asking you about New York with genuine curiosity and not the performative kind, what do people do there, what does it smell like, is it true the pizza is actually better. Sunghoon asks if you’ve ever been to a baseball game and when you say yes, a lot, his whole face does something interested. Heeseung mostly listens, eating his food — a burger, you note, always a burger — and occasionally adding something that reframes the conversation entirely without seeming to try.

You order the peach cobbler because Sunghoon tells you to and because by now you understand that Sunghoon’s food opinions are to be taken seriously. It arrives warm with a scoop of vanilla ice cream going slowly soft at the edges and the first bite is the kind of thing that makes you close your eyes for a second. “Told you,” Sunghoon says. “You did,” you admit. He nods once, satisfied. Steals a bite of Immy’s cobbler. She moves it closer to him without comment, which is so unconscious that you are not sure either of them notices they’ve done it. You notice.

Mae brings the check and Heeseung takes it before anyone else can reach it and there is a brief argument about this that he wins through the simple method of already having his wallet out, and you make a note to be faster next time.

Outside the diner the September evening is doing something beautiful — the sky going amber and deep at the edges, the heat off the day softened to something almost gentle, the main street quiet in the way it gets when school is out and supper is being thought about. Immy loops her arm through yours on the sidewalk. This is already just something she does. “Walk me home?” she says, and it is not really a question. “It’s on the way to Birdie’s.” It is not on the way to Birdie’s. You have seen Birdie’s map. You walk with her anyway. She talks the way she does everything — fully, with her whole self in it. She tells you about growing up in Fairview Fall, about the way the town feels small until you know where all the seams are and then it feels like it contains everything. She tells you about the lake, twenty minutes out, where everyone goes on Friday nights in summer. She tells you about the drive-in and how Heeseung once narrated an entire film in the wrong voices because the sound wasn’t working in his car and had half the lot in tears laughing. She tells you about the high roads above the town, the ones that wind up through the hills, and how on a clear night you can see the lights of Fairview Fall spread out below you and it looks like something impossible. “You’ll see it,” she says. “When the time’s right, you’ll see it.”

You walk through a neighbourhood that is going golden in the evening light, porch lights coming on, someone’s radio on somewhere, a dog barking once and stopping. It smells like cut grass and the beginning of autumn and something good cooking in someone’s house. “Can I ask you something?” Immy says. “Sure.” “How are you doing.” She says it without the question mark, which you understand means she wants a real answer and not the performed one. You think about it. The real answer, not the easy one. “Some days are okay,” you say. “Some days it hits me out of nowhere and I don’t know what to do with it. Today was okay.” You pause. “Today was actually good.” Immy nods, arm still in yours. “Good days are allowed,” she says. “You know that, right? You’re allowed to have them.” You do know that, in theory. You are still working on knowing it in practice. “My mom would be furious with me if I wasn’t living,” you say. “She was — she was very much a person who lived. Loudly and fully. She would hate for me to stop because of her.” “She sounds amazing.” “She was.” Present tense is the only way. “She is.”

Immy doesn’t correct you. She just squeezes your arm and keeps walking, and you are grateful for that in a way you couldn’t put into words if you tried.

Her house is a white clapboard on a corner lot with a porch swing and a magnolia tree in the front yard that has shed its flowers all over the path. You stop at the gate. “Same time Monday?” she says. “For what?” “For everything.” She waves a hand. “School. The diner, probably. Heeseung driving you home and pretending it’s just convenient.” She gives you a look that is very Immy, which is to say warm and blunt and absolutely certain of itself. “He drove you home the first day.” “He said it was a hundred degrees.” “It was seventy-eight.” She smiles. “See you Monday, honey.” She goes up the path through the fallen magnolia flowers and up the porch steps and the door opens before she reaches it — Sunghoon, who apparently walked her home by a different route and got here first — and she stops on the top step and looks at him and says “how did you—” and he says “I know a shortcut” and she shakes her head and goes inside and he follows her and the door closes.

You stand at the gate for a moment in the evening quiet. Then you walk home through the golden streets of Fairview Fall with your mother’s cardigan tied around your waist and your hands in your pockets and something in your chest that is not quite happiness but is something adjacent to it, something that has warmth in it, something that you think might be the beginning of okay. Birdie is on the porch when you get back, coffee in hand, Gerald at her feet. “Good?” she says. “Good,” you say. She smiles and opens the door and the house wraps around you, warm and vanilla-scented and familiar already in the way that good places get familiar, like your body knew before your mind caught up, and you go upstairs and take out the journal and sit on the bed and write.

Mom, you write. I think I’m making friends. Real ones. The kind you would approve of. Dad, there’s a record shop on main street. I keep meaning to go in. I think I’m working up to it. I wore your cardigan today. It still smells like you, a little. I’m glad.

Outside your window Fairview Fall is settling into night, the street going quiet, a dog somewhere and a radio somewhere and the distant sound of a screen door. Gerald jumps up onto the bed and turns three times and lies down against your leg with the certainty of an animal who has decided this is now his arrangement. You close the journal. You think about Immy saying good days are allowed, the matter-of-fact kindness of it, the way she said it like it was just true and not something that needed softening. You think about Heeseung in the diner, his voice low, she can feel him in it — I think that makes sense. You reach over and touch the edge of the nearest record sleeve. Your father’s handwriting. Y/N will like this one when she’s older. “I’m getting there, Dad,” you say quietly, to the room, to the record, to wherever he is. “I promise I’m getting there.”

—

Miss Beaumont teaches English the way some people play music — like she means every note of it, like she would be doing it even if nobody was listening. Her classroom is the kind of room that accumulates over years. There are books on every surface that was not strictly designed for books. There are quotes written on strips of paper pinned along the top of the blackboard, running the full length of the room, and on your first day you spent the better part of the lesson trying to read all of them instead of paying attention to what she was actually saying, which she noticed, and which she did not comment on, which told you something about her. There is a rug under her desk that does not match anything else in the room and a lamp in the corner that she switches on instead of the overhead light on grey days, which makes the whole room feel like somewhere you might voluntarily spend time. You like it in there. You did not expect to like anything about a new school this much this quickly and you are choosing not to examine it too closely.

The poem is Whitman. Song of Myself, the sixth section, the one about the grass. Miss Beaumont writes the last few lines on the board in her clean, deliberate hand and then sets down the chalk and turns around and looks at the class the way she always does, like she is genuinely curious what you are all going to do with it. “Well,” she says. “What is he saying?” The class does the thing that classes do, which is to say it does very little. Someone offers something careful and non-committal about nature. Someone else agrees with that person. Miss Beaumont listens with her arms folded and the expression of someone waiting for the room to warm up. Your hand goes up before you have fully decided to raise it. “Yes,” she says, and looks at you with something that sharpens slightly, like a lens adjusting.

“He’s not really talking about grass,” you say. “The child asks what grass is and he says he doesn’t know, but then he spends the whole section telling you exactly what it is. It’s the handkerchief of the Lord. It’s the hair of graves. It’s everyone who ever lived, compressed into something ordinary that we walk on without thinking.” You pause. “He’s saying that everything we’ve lost is still here. Just in a different form. And we keep stepping on it and not noticing.” The room is quiet for a moment. Miss Beaumont looks at you with an expression you cannot fully read. “And what do you make of that?” she says. “The idea that the lost are still here.” You think about your father’s records. Your mother’s cardigan. The way you write in present tense because past tense feels like a door closing. “I think it’s something people need to believe,” you say carefully. “Whether or not it’s true.” Miss Beaumont holds your gaze for a moment longer than feels strictly academic. Then she nods, once, and turns to the rest of the class, and the lesson moves on, and you look back down at the poem in your textbook and read the last line again. The smallest sprout shows there is really no death. You underline it. You are not sure if you believe it. You are not sure you need to.

She asks you to stay after. The class files out around you and you gather your things slowly and approach her desk where she is making notes in the margin of something, and she finishes her thought before she looks up, which you appreciate. Teachers who perform attentiveness by stopping what they’re doing the second you arrive have always made you vaguely suspicious. “Sit,” she says, nodding at the chair beside her desk. You sit. The lamp in the corner is on today.

Outside the window the school grounds are going quiet, the afternoon emptying out. “Where are you from originally?” she says, though you suspect she already knows. “New York.” “I thought so.” She sets down her pen. She has the kind of face that has always been interested in things, fine lines at the corners of her eyes from a lifetime of reading in insufficient light. “What did you read there?” “Everything I could find.” You think about your bedroom in the apartment, the shelves your father built along one whole wall, the library card that you used until it was soft at the edges. “My dad used to take me to the Strand on weekends. We’d spend hours.”

“Good man,” she says simply. She opens her desk drawer and takes out a book and sets it on the desk between you. Their Eyes Were Watching God. Zora Neale Hurston. The cover is worn in the way of a book that has been loved by more than one person. “Have you read it?” “No.” “Then read it.” She slides it across. “And come back to me with those wide opinions from the city.” She says it without any edge, but with something pointed in it, something that is less criticism than it is challenge. “You see things. That’s good. I want to know what you see when you’ve read something that will make you work for it.” You look at the book in your hands. “When do you need it back?” “I don’t,” she says. “It’s yours.” You look up. She is already picking up her pen again. “Thank you, Miss Beaumont.” “Come back when you’ve read it,” she says, by way of goodbye.

Heeseung is leaning against the blue car in the parking lot when you come out, turning his keys over in his hand, face tipped up to the sky in that way he has, like he is checking what the weather is planning. He looks over when he hears the door. “Beaumont keep you?” he says. “How did you know?” “She kept me twice in the first month of sophomore year.” He opens the passenger door. “What did she give you?” You hold up the Hurston. He looks at it and nods with the slow approval of someone who has been given books by this woman and understands the system. “Good one,” he says. You get in. He goes around and folds himself into the driver’s side and starts the engine and pulls out of the lot and the afternoon opens up around you — the sky wide and still going gold at the edges, the roads quiet, the radio low. He drives the way he does everything, unhurried, one hand on the wheel, the St. Christopher medal swinging gently. You are almost at Birdie’s when he takes a turn you don’t recognise. “This isn’t—” “I know.” He glances over. “I need to drop something at my daddy’s. Two minutes, I promise.”

He pulls up outside a house that is not unlike Birdie’s — white, porch, well-kept, a truck in the drive — and cuts the engine and reaches into the backseat for a brown paper bag that you didn’t notice before. “Come on,” he says, like it is obvious you would.

You get out. The front yard has a garden along one side of it that is clearly someone’s serious project — beds of herbs and late-summer tomatoes and something flowering that you don’t know the name of, staked and tended, the kind of garden that is visited every day. There is a woman kneeling at the far end of it with her sleeves rolled up and a wide-brimmed hat and garden gloves gone brown at the fingers, and she sits back on her heels when she hears the gate.

“There he is,” she says, and her face does the thing that mothers’ faces do, warm and immediate, like just the sight of him settles something. She pulls off a glove and pushes up the brim of her hat and looks at you with eyes that are Heeseung’s eyes, that same quality of attention, noticing and not making it a thing. “Mama, this is Y/N,” Heeseung says. “She’s staying with Miss Birdie.” “I know who she is.” His mother stands, brushing her knees off, and extends her unglov­ed hand to you with a smile that is the easiest thing you have ever encountered. “I’ve been meaning to get over to Birdie’s and introduce myself properly. I’m sorry it’s taken me this long.” “It’s lovely to meet you,” you say. “Likewise, sweetheart.” She looks at you for a moment with that honest, unhurried attention. “You settling in alright?” “Better every day,” you say, and mean it.

She nods like this is the right answer, then turns to Heeseung and takes the paper bag he’s holding out. “Your daddy’s in the back.” “I’ll just be a minute.” He goes around the side of the house and you are left in the garden with his mother, who does not seem to find this strange at all. She pulls her glove back on and crouches back down beside the tomatoes. “Do you garden?” she asks, conversationally. “No. We had a balcony in the apartment. My mom grew herbs in pots.” You look at the beds, the order of them, the care. “This is beautiful.”

“It keeps my hands busy and my head quiet.” She ties a stem to its stake with a small piece of twine, efficient and practiced. “There’s a lot to be said for things that do both at once.” She glances up at you. “Birdie tells me you’re working in the bookshop.” “Most days after school.” “Good.” She says it simply. “Good for you, and good for her. She’s been on her own in that shop a long time.” She pauses. “She loves having you there. She tells it differently but that’s what she means.” You look at the garden so she does not see what your face does with that. Heeseung comes back around the side of the house with his hands in his pockets, unhurried, and his mother stands up again. “Stay for supper,” she says to him. “I was going to take Y/N home.” “Take her home and come back.” He looks at you. You look at him. Something in his face is asking a question without exactly asking it.

“Actually,” you say, before you know you are going to say it. “Birdie would probably— I mean she always makes too much.” You pause. “You could stay. At ours. If you wanted.” He blinks. Just once, just briefly, like you have slightly surprised him, which is not something that seems to happen to him often. Then the grin settles back into place. “Yeah?” “She’ll be pleased,” you say. “She always asks.” His mother is looking between you with an expression she is not bothering to conceal, which is to say fond and unhurried and absolutely certain of something. “Go on then,” she says, and turns back to her garden.

Birdie opens the door before you have reached the porch steps. She looks at Heeseung and then at you and then back at Heeseung and the smile that crosses her face is the most unguarded thing, warm and quick and immediately suppressed into something more dignified. “Staying for supper?” she says. “Yes ma’am,” Heeseung says. She gives him the look. The I have known you since you were a tot look. “Birdie,” he says, correcting himself. “Better.” She steps back to let you both in. “I’m making pot roast. I want no opinions about it until it’s on the table.” “I don’t have opinions about pot roast,” Heeseung says, following her into the hallway. “You haven’t had mine yet.” She disappears into the kitchen. “Y/N, show him where everything is.” You look at Heeseung. He looks at the house around him with the comfortable ease of someone who is good at being in other people’s spaces — not intrusive, just present, taking it in without making it a thing. He looks at the books on every surface, the quilt on the sofa, Gerald on the windowsill who opens one eye and then closes it again. “Nice place,” he says quietly, and means it. “Come on,” you say. “She’ll want someone to set the table.”

You show him where the plates are and he takes them down without being asked twice, and he sets the table with the straightforward helpfulness of someone raised by people who taught him how to be in a house, and Birdie comes in and out of the kitchen with things and talks to him about his parents and about the football season and about a leaking gutter on the bookshop that apparently his daddy offered to look at three weeks ago and has she called him about it, and he says no ma’am — Birdie — and she says she will tomorrow, and it is the most ordinary thing, the three of you moving around each other in the small kitchen and the small dining room, and it does not feel strange. That is the thing you keep noticing about Heeseung. He does not make things feel strange. The pot roast arrives at the table and Birdie sits down and looks at it with the particular expression of someone who is unsure and hoping for the best, and Heeseung looks at it and says “that smells incredible, Birdie” and she looks at him and says “it could go either way” with such naked honesty that you both laugh. It goes fine, actually. More than fine.

You eat and the conversation wanders — Heeseung talking about the football season, the game next Friday, the way he says it with enthusiasm that is genuine without being the only thing about him, just a part of him, one part among many. He asks you about the Hurston and you tell him what Beaumont said, come back to me with those wide opinions from the city, and he laughs and says “she said something almost exactly like that to me once, I don’t remember what about” and Birdie says “she said it to everyone who’s worth saying it to, she said it to me years ago and I’ve never forgotten it either.” You look at Birdie. “You know Miss Beaumont?” “Before she was Miss Beaumont.” Birdie waves a hand. “She’s been here a long time. Came for reasons of her own and stayed.” She says it with a look that suggests the reasons are a whole other story and not for tonight.

The evening goes slow and easy, the way good evenings do. Gerald comes and sits under Heeseung’s chair, which Birdie points out has never happened with a dinner guest in living memory, and Heeseung looks down at him and says “hey there” very quietly and Gerald does not move, which is apparently a significant endorsement. You clear the plates and Birdie produces a peach cake from somewhere that is extraordinary and the three of you eat it at the table while the night comes in through the window screens, and Heeseung talks about music — carefully, like he is not quite used to doing it, like it is something he keeps in a different pocket — and Birdie asks questions that are good questions, not polite ones, and you watch him answer them and think about what his mother said in the garden.

It keeps my hands busy and my head quiet. You think Heeseung understands that too. You think music is that for him. You think the guitar is something he goes to the way you go to the journal, the way you go to the records — because some things need somewhere to go. He leaves at half past eight, because he has school in the morning and because he was raised right and he knows when an evening has found its natural end. He thanks Birdie for supper with a sincerity that is so complete it is almost formal, and she squeezes his arm and says come back anytime and means it, and he says good night to you at the door with that easy grin, the one that is just him, that is just what he looks like. “See you tomorrow, city girl.” “See you tomorrow.” The door closes. You stand in the hallway for a moment and listen to the blue car start up outside and pull away down the street.

Birdie appears from the kitchen with a dish towel. “Nice boy,” she says, in a tone that contains an entire conversation she has decided not to have yet. “He is,” you say simply. She nods and goes back to the kitchen and you go upstairs and sit on the bed and open the journal and look at the blank page for a while. You don’t write anything tonight. You just sit with the evening, the weight of it, the warmth of it. Gerald jumps up and settles against your leg. Some things don’t need words yet.

The record shop is called Spinning Wheel and it has been on the corner of main street since before Heeseung was born, which he tells you on the walk over on a Thursday afternoon in late September when the heat has finally started to relent into something that feels like the beginning of a season changing. You have walked past it every day since you arrived. You have looked at the window display — a handwritten chalkboard of new arrivals, a turntable set up so you can see it spinning from the street, a cardboard cut-out of Johnny Cash that has been there so long it has faded at the edges — and you have not gone in. You were not ready to go in. The record shop was your father’s thing, his particular joy, the errand that was never really an errand, and you needed to be ready. You did not tell Heeseung any of this. He asked on Wednesday if you had been in yet and you said no and he said “come on then” like it was the simplest thing in the world, which for him it probably was, and that was that.

The bell above the door sounds when you push it open. Inside it smells like dust and something warmer underneath it, like the particular smell of vinyl that you know from your father’s study, from Saturday mornings, from every good memory you have of being small and sitting on the floor beside the record player while he talked you through whatever he was playing. The walls are shelved floor to ceiling. There are crates on the floor sorted by genre in handwriting that has changed systems at least three times.

At the back counter an old man with reading glasses pushed to the end of his nose looks up when you come in and nods at Heeseung with the recognition of a regular. “Lee,” he says. “Mr. Cole,” Heeseung says back. “This is Y/N. She’s staying with Miss Birdie.” Mr. Cole looks at you over his glasses. “You browse,” he says, which you understand to mean take your time and don’t ask me where anything is because it’s organised in a way only I understand. “Yes sir,” you say. He goes back to whatever he is reading. Heeseung moves through the shop the way he moves through everything — easy, familiar, at home. He goes to a crate near the window and starts flicking through without any urgency, pulling things out to look at the sleeve and putting them back, occasionally holding something up in your direction with a questioning look. You move through the other side, slower, running your fingers along the tops of the sleeves.

It hits you about three minutes in. Not hard, not the kind of grief that knocks the wind out of you, but the quiet kind — the kind that just settles behind your sternum and sits there. Your father’s hands doing exactly this. Your father’s voice: you have to feel the edges, you can tell a lot about how it’s been kept. Your father’s face when he found something he had been looking for, the particular happiness of it. You stop at a sleeve and look at it for a moment without seeing it.

“Hey.” Heeseung is beside you, not quite touching. He has learned already, somehow, when to come closer. “You alright?” “Yeah.” You mean it, mostly. “It’s just — my dad loved record shops. This is the first one I’ve been in since.” You pause. “It’s fine. It’s a good thing. I just needed a second.” He nods. He does not say I’m sorry or we can go or any of the things that are well-meaning and wrong. He just waits, turning the record in his hands, giving you the second. Then he holds something out to you. “Look at this one,” he says. You take it. The sleeve is navy blue, simple, the title in clean white lettering. You look at it and something moves in your chest because you know this record. You know this record the way you know your own name — you know the A-side and the B-side and which track your father always skipped back to and the scratch at the beginning of the third song that he said was just part of it now, just part of how it sounded.

“This is—” Your voice does something you do not intend. You clear it. “My dad had this one.” Heeseung looks at the sleeve and then at you. He does not know what he has just handed you. He genuinely does not know, you can see that, he picked it up because he loves it and wanted to show you and that is all, and that somehow makes it more rather than less. “It’s one of my favourites,” he says, carefully, watching your face. “Mine too,” you say. “My dad’s too.” A beat of quiet. Mr. Cole turns a page at the back counter. “You should have it,” Heeseung says. “Heeseung—” “I’ve already got a copy.” He nods at the shelf like this is a minor logistical point and not a kindness. “Take it.”

You look at the sleeve in your hands. Your father’s copy is on the shelf in your room at Birdie’s. This one would be yours. Given to you by someone who loved it without knowing why you needed it. “Thank you,” you say, and your voice is steady, and you are grateful for that. He just nods and goes back to the crate and pulls out something else entirely and holds it up. “What about this one. Your dad ever play you this?” And just like that the shop becomes something you can be in. You spend an hour in there, moving through the crates, playing things on the turntable that Mr. Cole sets up for you without being asked — he is gruff and does not make conversation but he puts a record on when you hold one up with a question in your face and that is its own kind of welcome. Heeseung knows more than you expected and less than your father did and the combination of those two things makes the whole afternoon feel like something that was supposed to happen.

You leave with two records. The navy blue one and a second one Heeseung insisted on, something you had never heard of, trust me, city girl, just trust me. He drops you at Birdie’s in the early evening and cuts the engine but doesn’t get out this time, one arm resting on the wheel, easy.

“There’s a game Friday night,” he says. “Football?” “The very same.” He glances over at you. “You should come. Immy’ll be there — Sunghoon plays, so she’s always there. It’s a whole thing.” “A whole thing meaning what?” “Meaning the whole town comes out. Mae’s does a special. There’s a band that plays in the parking lot after, sometimes.” He says it without selling it too hard, just laying it out, taking or leaving. “It’s a good time.” You think about Friday nights in New York. The specific texture of them — the noise, the speed, the way the city never once lowered its voice. You think about a football field in Fairview Fall with the whole town in the stands and Immy beside you and the evening going cool. “Okay,” you say. He grins. “Okay.” He reaches over and opens your door from the inside, which is a thing the blue car requires because the handle sticks. “See you tomorrow, city girl.” “See you tomorrow.”

Upstairs your room is the particular gold of a late September evening, the light coming in low through the window and lying in strips across the floor. Gerald is on the bed, which is his default position. You drop your bag and sit beside him and look at the records on the shelf for a moment — your father’s, lined up the way he kept them, spines out, everything in its place. You take the navy blue one out of the paper bag and hold it.

Then you get up and go to the shelf and take out your father’s copy of the same record and sit on the floor with both of them in your lap and that is when it comes, the grief, the real kind, the kind that does not warn you. It comes up from somewhere low and you put your face in your hands and you cry in the way you mostly cry which is quietly and completely, not performing it for anyone, just letting it happen because there is nowhere else for it to go. Dad, you think, not in words exactly but in the way grief communicates which is more like weather than language. Dad, someone gave me your record. Someone who didn’t know it was your record. Someone who just loved it. I think you would like him. You sit on the floor until it passes. It always passes.

You wipe your face with the sleeve of your mother’s cardigan and sit there in the evening quiet with two copies of the same record in your lap and Gerald comes and presses his head against your knee, solemn and warm. “Thanks, Gerald,” you say. He purrs. You put your father’s copy back on the shelf in its place. You put Heeseung’s copy beside it. Then you take out the journal. Dad, you write. Someone gave me your record today. He didn’t know. He just handed it to me because he loved it and wanted to share it with me and I think that’s one of the most him things anyone has ever done without knowing they were doing it. I think you would have liked it here. I think I’m starting to.

Friday night arrives cool and clear, the sky over Fairview Fall the deep blue of early evening with the first stars coming through. Birdie sends you out in your jeans and your mother’s cardigan with a scarf she presses into your hands at the door because it gets cold by the second half, baby, take it. Immy is waiting at the gate to the football field in a red Fairview Fall Hawks scarf and an expression of someone who has been doing this for years and still finds it genuinely exciting, which you are starting to understand is just Immy. She finds things genuinely exciting. She is not performing enthusiasm, she simply has it, in abundance, about most things. “You came,” she says, like she is pleased but not surprised. “I said I would.” “I know.” She loops her arm through yours. “Come on, I’ve got us good seats. Middle of the stands, you can see everything.”

The field is lit up and the stands are already filling — families and couples and groups of kids and older men with their arms folded and the studied expressions of people who take high school football seriously, which in Fairview Fall is everyone. There is a smell of popcorn and cut grass and the first bite of real autumn air, and the band is warming up on the far side and someone is selling something from a cart by the gate and the whole thing has the particular energy of an event that a town has built its Fridays around for generations. You find your seats and the teams come out and the stands go up like a wave. You find Heeseung immediately. You are not looking for him specifically but you find him anyway — tall, easy even in the middle of forty people doing drills, moving with the same unhurried quality he has everywhere, like he has never once been in a hurry in his life. He is laughing at something

Sunghoon has said, head tipped back, and from this distance you can see the shape of him clearly — the way he takes up space without demanding it, the way people orient toward him. “There’s Hoon,” Immy says, pointing, then looks at you. “And there’s Heeseung.” She says it without inflection. “I see them,” you say, equally without inflection. She smiles at the field.

The game is not something you know well but Immy talks you through it in a low running commentary that is partly explanation and partly editorial — that was a bad call, that ref has always had it out for us, oh that’s good, that’s Heeseung, watch — and you watch. Heeseung plays the way he does everything, which is to say with a kind of complete and total presence that makes it look effortless even when it isn’t. He is fast and he thinks ahead and when he does something good the stands go up and you find yourself going up with them without quite deciding to. “You’re cheering,” Immy says, pleased. “I got caught up in it,” you say. “Everyone does.” She is already back to watching. “Hoon!” she shouts, when Sunghoon does something that earns it, and he does not look up at her because he is a professional, but something about the set of his shoulders changes. Fairview Fall wins by two touchdowns. The stands come down in a wave of noise and Immy grabs your arm and squeezes it and you are laughing and you are not entirely sure when you started.

The diner after is Mae’s again, every table full, the jukebox going, the particular noise of a town celebrating something. You are in the big corner booth — you and Immy and Sunghoon, still in his jersey, and Heeseung, hair damp from the locker room, the easy energy of someone who has just played well and knows it and is not making a thing of it. The booth is full and warm and loud and Mae brings milkshakes without being asked because she knows, she always knows, and Sunghoon and Immy are already in a detailed debrief of the game in which Immy is more knowledgeable than you would have expected and Sunghoon is listening to her notes with the expression of someone taking them seriously.

Heeseung nudges the milkshake toward you and you take it and then he takes it back and takes a pull through the straw and pushes it back and neither of you mentions that this has just happened, that you are sharing a milkshake, that this is apparently a thing you do now. “Good game,” you say. “Decent game.” He says it honestly, not falsely modest, not proud. “Second quarter was sloppy.” “Immy said the ref had it out for you.” “Immy says that every game.” He glances over at her, fond. “She’s usually right though.” The booth is loud and easy and you eat and talk and the evening stretches out comfortable around you and Mae brings cobbler that nobody ordered and everybody eats and Sunghoon says something very quiet to Immy and she goes pink in a way you have never seen on her before, pink and pleased, and she shoves him and he grins and steals her spoon. You are watching them when you become aware that Heeseung is watching you watch them. You look over. He does not look away. “What?” you say. “Nothing,” he says. He picks up the milkshake. “You just look like you’re somewhere good.”

You take a second with that. With the diner and the noise and Immy’s laugh and the cobbler and the autumn air coming in under the door. “I think I am,” you say. Outside the temperature has dropped the way Birdie promised it would and you cross your arms against it and Heeseung, without any preamble or ceremony, takes off his letterman jacket and holds it out to you. You look at it. “I’m fine.” “You’re cold.” “I’m from New York.” “New York is cold in winter,” he says patiently. “This is October in Texas. Completely different kind of cold.” He shakes the jacket slightly. “Take it.” You take it. It is warm from him and heavy across your shoulders and smells like the blue car — worn leather and something warm — and you put your arms through the sleeves and the cuffs come past your hands entirely and Immy, walking ahead of you with Sunghoon, looks back and says nothing, which is somehow louder than if she had said something.

Heeseung walks you home. Not formally, not announced, just — falls into step beside you through the streets of Fairview Fall while Immy and Sunghoon peel off at the corner with goodnights, and the town is quiet around you, lit up warm in the dark, and your breath shows faintly in the air. You talk about nothing in particular. The game. A song that was on the jukebox. Whether the peach cobbler is better at Mae’s or Birdie’s, which is a debate that has a clear answer and you both know it but you negotiate it anyway because it is the kind of conversation you have when you are not ready for the walk to be over. Birdie’s porch light is on. You stop at the bottom of the steps. “Thanks for coming tonight,” he says. He is standing close enough that you are aware of it, the way you are always aware of it lately, something you keep not naming. “Thanks for asking,” you say. “I didn’t know I’d like it that much.” “Football?” “Fairview Fall,” you say, and mean something slightly larger than that.

He looks at you for a moment with those attentive eyes, and then he leans in and presses his lips to your cheek, warm and brief, the most natural thing in the world. “Goodnight, darlin’,” he says, and takes a step back with that easy grin, hands in his pockets. “Goodnight,” you say. You watch him go back down the street toward where he parked the blue car, unhurried as always. You stand on the bottom porch step in his letterman jacket with the sleeves too long and your cheek warm and you think: that’s just what people do here. That’s a western thing. A friendly thing. That’s just Heeseung being Heeseung. You go inside. You hang his jacket on the hook by the door and go upstairs and sit on the bed and open the journal and look at the blank page for a long time. You write: I think people are just more affectionate here. Then you look at what you have written. Then you close the journal and lie back on the bed and look at the ceiling and listen to the quiet of Fairview Fall and your cheek is still warm and you think, carefully, about nothing at all.

October arrives and picks up speed. This is the thing about settling somewhere — it happens in the background, without announcement. You do not notice you are settling until you already have, until the shape of your days has formed without you consciously building it, and then one morning you wake up and know where everything is and it does not feel like someone else’s house anymore. Birdie bakes on Saturday mornings. This becomes a fact of your life the way the sun coming through the east window becomes a fact, the way Gerald on your feet becomes a fact — inevitable, warm, something you would notice immediately if it stopped. She does not ask you to help but she does not tell you not to, and somewhere in the second week of October you start appearing in the kitchen on Saturday mornings in your mother’s cardigan with your hair still unbrushed and she hands you something to do without comment and you do it, and that is that.

She is teaching you, without calling it teaching. How to fold butter into pastry. How to know by smell when something is ready. How to clean as you go because a clean kitchen is a kind kitchen, which is a thing her mother told her and which she says with the particular tone of someone passing something down. “My mom couldn’t bake,” you tell her one Saturday, your hands floury, watching her crimp the edge of something with a thumb that has done this a thousand times. “She could cook though. Really well. Everything from scratch.”

“Different skills,” Birdie says, without looking up. “I can’t cook to save my life and I’ve made peace with it.” She pauses. “What did she make? Your mom.” You think about it. The specific things, the ones that come with smell and light attached. “Sunday pasta,” you say. “Always from scratch, never from a box. She’d make it in the morning and leave it to dry on the rack and the whole apartment smelled like it all day.” You pause. “And her chicken soup. When I was sick. It was the kind of thing that actually made you feel better, not just warm.”

Birdie is quiet for a moment, working the pastry. “She learned from your grandmother,” she says eventually. “Their mama. She was an incredible cook.” She glances over at you. “Your mom used to write me letters about it when we were young. She’d describe meals she’d made like they were events.” This is new. You look at her. “You wrote letters?” “We weren’t close in the way that means seeing each other all the time,” Birdie says carefully. “But we were close in the way that means I knew her.” She smooths the pastry down. “She wrote beautifully. You get it from her.”

You look back down at what you are doing. Your hands in the flour. The kitchen warm around you. “I know,” you say quietly. “I get it from both of them actually. Dad too.” “I know you do,” Birdie says. “I’ve read your journal.” You look up sharply. She meets your eyes with an expression that is completely unrepentant. “It was open on the table,” she says. “I read one page. The one about the record shop.” She pauses. “I closed it immediately after. I’m not a monster.” You stare at her. “You write beautifully,” she says again, simply, and goes back to the pastry. You go back to the pastry too. There is nothing to say to that, or there is everything, and either way the kitchen is warm and smells like butter and Saturday morning and for a moment the grief sits quietly, like it is giving you the room.

Shopping with Immy is its own education. She moves through the two clothing shops on main street — there are only two, a fact that she acknowledges and has made her peace with — with the authority of someone who knows exactly what she is looking for and exactly where it is and has strong opinions about everyone else’s choices too. She holds things up to you without asking if you want her opinion and gives it anyway and you have learned that her opinion is usually right, which is annoying and convenient in equal measure. “This,” she says, holding up a blouse in a warm amber colour. “I don’t know.” “I do.” She puts it in your hands. “Your colouring. Trust me.” You try it on. She is right. You buy it without further discussion. In return you talk her out of something she has convinced herself she needs on the grounds that she doesn’t need it, she wants it, which is fine, but the cut is wrong and Immy is a woman who should only wear things that are right on her and she knows that, and she knows that you are right, and she puts it back with the reluctant dignity of someone conceding a fair point.

“How do you know about cuts?” she says, on the sidewalk after, linking her arm through yours. “My mom,” you say. “She was very particular about clothes. She said wearing something that doesn’t fit right is like telling a lie with your body.” Immy considers this with the seriousness it deserves. “I’m going to think about that for a long time,” she says. “She was good at saying things like that.” “She sounds incredible.” “She was.” Present tense is the only way. “She is.” Immy squeezes your arm and keeps walking and you walk with her through the golden October streets and the trees are starting to turn and Fairview Fall in autumn is something you were not prepared for, the particular beauty of it, the way the light goes amber and the air goes clean and everything smells like something ending and beginning at the same time.

Their Eyes Were Watching God takes you a few days, which is fast for a book that requires that much of you. You read it in the evenings after the bookshop and in the mornings before school and once for two hours on a Sunday afternoon while Birdie baked downstairs and Gerald slept on your legs and the wind moved in the oak tree outside your window. You go back to Miss Beaumont on a Tuesday after school with the book under your arm and she looks up from her desk and says “sit” before you have opened your mouth and you sit. The conversation lasts forty minutes. She asks you questions that are not really questions — what did you make of Janie’s horizon, what does the pear tree mean to her, where do you think she ends up when it’s all over — and you answer them and she listens and pushes back and you push back at her pushing back and at some point you realise you are arguing, genuinely arguing, about a novel, and it is the most alive you have felt in a classroom in longer than you want to think about.

When you finally stop she looks at you over the top of her glasses with an expression that takes you a moment to read. It is not quite pride — it is something more precise than that, something more like recognition, like she is seeing something she suspected and has now confirmed. “You argued three of those points better than my graduate students did,” she says. “And I was one of them.” “I disagreed with part of your reading,” you say. “About the ending.” “I know you did.” She takes the book back and holds it for a moment. “I think you’re right.” She says it plainly, without qualifying it, and then puts the book on the shelf behind her. “What do you want to do with this? With reading and writing and thinking. After school.”

You have not been asked this since before the crash. You have not asked it of yourself. “English literature,” you say, slowly, like you are finding it as you say it. “I want to study it properly. I want to learn how to talk about books the way you just did.” Miss Beaumont looks at you for a moment. “Good,” she says. “Don’t let anyone talk you out of it.” She opens her desk drawer. “Take this.” Another book. To the Lighthouse. Virginia Woolf. “Come back when you’ve read it,” she says. “Same deal.” You look at the book and then at her and you think about your father, who would have loved her, who would have argued with her for hours and walked out glowing. “Thank you, Miss Beaumont,” you say. “Go home,” she says. “It’s getting dark.”

The cardigan tears on a Wednesday. You catch it on the corner of a shelf in the bookshop — the left cuff, your mother’s favourite, the one she always pushed up to her elbow when she was doing something with her hands — and it snags and you hear it before you feel it, a small clean sound, and you look down and there is a pull in the wool, a run, and then a tear, and you stand very still in the aisle of the bookshop with your hand over it like you can hold it closed. Birdie finds you like that. She comes around the end of the shelf with a stack of returns and sees your face before she sees the cardigan and puts the books down. “Hey,” she says. “Hey, what happened?” You show her. You cannot speak around it, which is ridiculous because it is a cardigan, it is a thing, it is wool and buttons and it can be fixed, but it is also your mother’s and it smells like her and you have worn it every single day since the crash and you cannot speak around it. Birdie takes your hand away from the tear very gently and looks at it. Then she looks at you. “Come on,” she says. “We’re closing early.”

She sits you on the sofa and takes the cardigan and her sewing kit and she fixes it while you watch, her hands sure and small and practiced, and you do not cry while she is doing it because you are past the acute part by then, past the part that takes your breath, and you sit with Gerald in your lap and watch her work and the lamp is on and the house is warm and quiet. “She bought it in a shop on fifth avenue,” you say eventually. “I remember going with her. I was maybe nine. She tried on about six things and came back to this one and said this one is me and bought it.” You look at your hands. “She wore it all the time. It was her comfort thing.” “And now it’s yours,” Birdie says, without looking up from the needle. “And now it’s mine.” Birdie ties off the thread and smooths the cuff and holds the cardigan up to the light and inspects it and then holds it out to you. The repair is invisible. You cannot see where it tore. “Birdie,” you say. “Don’t,” she says, which is what she always says when you thank her, which is her way of saying of course, you don’t have to say it. You put the cardigan back on. She refolds her sewing kit. Outside the window Fairview Fall is going dark and gold and the first proper cold of October is in the air. “Mom loved you,” you tell Birdie. “She thought you were the funniest person..”

Birdie laughs, short and bright and a little wet at the edges. “She was funnier than me,” she says. “She always was.” She closes the sewing kit. “We should have been closer. I should have — I kept meaning to, and then there wasn’t — “ She stops. Clears her throat. “Anyway.” “I know,” you say. “I know you know.” She stands up and smooths her skirt. “I’m making pasta tonight. I’ve been practising.” She pauses. “It will not be as good as your mother’s.” “It won’t,” you agree. “But I’ll eat it.” She laughs again, more solidly this time, and goes to the kitchen, and you sit on the sofa with Gerald and your mended cardigan and the quiet of the house around you, and it is not fine, exactly, but it is something that can be lived in. In the morning you come downstairs and there is a note on the kitchen table. Birdie’s handwriting, on a piece of paper torn from the back of a receipt. For my girl — who is braver than she knows and more her mother’s daughter than she realises. Keep wearing it. She’d want you to. You fold it up and put it in the journal.

The Lees have you and Birdie over for dinner on a Friday in late October. Heeseung’s mother has made enough food for twice as many people, which Heeseung says is just how she cooks, she cannot make a small amount of anything, it is a documented fact. His daddy is a broad quiet man with Heeseung’s eyes and a handshake that is very firm and a way of listening that makes you feel like whatever you are saying is worth hearing. He asks about New York and you tell him and he asks follow-up questions and you tell him more and by the time you are at the table you have told him things about the city you have not thought about in months — the specific smell of the subway in summer, the way the light hits the buildings at six in the evening, the sound of it, the particular sound that is not one thing but all things at once. “You miss it,” he says. Not accusing. Just observing. “I miss parts of it,” you say. “It’s complicated.” He nods like he understands complicated. “Most real things are,” he says, and passes you the bread.

The dinner is loud and warm and good, Birdie and Heeseung’s mother finding each other across the table with the ease of two women who should have been friends years ago and are making up for lost time, and Heeseung’s daddy and Birdie talking about the bookshop gutter which he has apparently actually been meaning to fix, he is sorry about that, he’ll come by Tuesday. At some point the adults move to the sitting room with wine and you and Heeseung look at each other across the cleared table and he tilts his head toward the back door.

The garden is dark and cool, lit by the light from the kitchen window and a three-quarter moon that is doing a lot of heavy lifting. There is an oak tree at the back of the yard and from one of its lower branches hangs a wooden swing — old, clearly original to the house, the rope thick and worn. Heeseung sits on it and you sit beside him on the grass, your back against the trunk, and for a while neither of you says anything in particular. “Mocks next week,” you say eventually. “I know.” He pushes the swing back and forth with one foot. “You worried?” “A little.” You pull your knees up. “I didn’t miss much school after — after the crash. My teachers were good about it. But I still feel like I’m playing catch-up.” “In what?” “Everything except English.” “English you could teach,” he says, easily, matter-of-fact. “I’m not sure about that.” “I am.” He says it simply, like it is a thing he has assessed and concluded. “I’ve seen you in Beaumont’s class. You think differently to everyone else in there.” He pauses. “That’s not a criticism of everyone else. It’s just — you see the seams of things.” You look at the moon through the oak branches. “My dad used to say that,” you say. “He said I could find the argument in anything.” “Smart man.” “The smartest.” You pause. “He would have talked to your daddy for six hours straight tonight. They have the same way of listening.”

Heeseung is quiet for a moment. “I’ll take that,” he says. “That’s a real compliment.” You sit in the cool dark and talk about the mocks — his, yours, Immy’s periodic panic and Sunghoon’s inexplicable calm — and about what comes after, the haziest outline of it, what it might look like. Heeseung says community college like he always does, easy and certain, and you think about Miss Beaumont saying don’t let anyone talk you out of it and think that maybe you are starting to know what you want too, the shape of it at least, English literature and something that uses the part of your brain that found the argument in Whitman and the horizon in Hurston.

“You’ll pass everything,” Heeseung says, when you circle back to the mocks. “I know you will.” “You don’t know that.” “I know you,” he says. “Same thing.” You look at him on the swing in the dark. The kitchen light on one side of his face. The moon on the other. “Heeseung,” you say. “City girl,” he says back. You look away. “Goodnight.”

The mocks come and go in a blur of early mornings and index cards and Birdie’s good baking and Immy’s voice notes that are mostly panic and occasionally useful. You sit in the exam hall with your pen and your mother’s cardigan and you write and write and write, and when it is over you go to the bookshop and shelve things in alphabetical order because it is the most calming thing you know how to do.

The results come on a Thursday morning. You open the envelope at the kitchen table with Gerald watching from his windowsill and Birdie pretending not to hover by the kettle. You passed everything. English, highest mark in the year. Miss Beaumont’s handwriting in the margin of the practice essay: This is what I meant. Well done. You sit with it for a moment. Then you pick up the journal. Mom, you write. I passed. All of it. English highest in the year. I wish you could see it. I wish I could call you. I wish I could hear you say you knew I would. I know you knew I would. Dad, Miss Beaumont says I think differently. You always said that too. I’m starting to think it might actually be true. I’m going to study English literature. I think I’ve known for a while. I’m writing it down now so it’s real.

You close the journal. Birdie puts a cup of tea in front of you and squeezes your shoulder and doesn’t say anything and that is exactly right. You run into Heeseung outside the school gates at lunch, which is where he always is when the weather holds, leaning against the blue car with his face in the sun. He looks over when he hears the gate and reads your face before you have said a word.

“Well?” he says. “Passed everything,” you say. “English highest in the year.” What happens next is that he crosses the space between you in two steps and picks you up, both arms around you, lifting you clear off the ground and turning once, and you make a sound that is mostly surprise and partly laughter and you grab his shoulders and hold on, and he is warm and solid and he smells like the blue car, like worn leather and something warm, and he is laughing too, low and real, right beside your ear. He sets you down. His hands stay on your waist for a moment, just a moment, before they don’t. “Told you,” he says. His voice is the same. His face is the same. Everything is the same except that your heart is doing something you do not have a word for yet. “You told me,” you agree. He grins. “Highest in the year.” “Don’t make it a thing.” “City girl.” He steps back, easy, hands in his pockets. “It’s already a thing.”

That evening Sunghoon finds Heeseung in the parking lot after practice, when everyone else has gone, and leans against the blue car with his arms folded. Heeseung is loading his bag into the back. He glances over. “What.” Sunghoon does not say anything for a moment. He has the expression he gets when he has thought about something thoroughly and arrived at a conclusion and is choosing his moment. “You picked her up,” he says. Heeseung straightens. “I was happy for her.” “I know you were.” “She passed everything. Highest in English.” “I know.”

Sunghoon looks at him. “Heeseung.” “What.” “You know what.” Heeseung is quiet. He shuts the car door. He looks at the middle distance with the expression of someone who has been told a thing he already knew and was hoping not to have confirmed out loud yet. “It’s not—” he starts. “It is,” Sunghoon says. Not unkind. Just clear, the way Sunghoon is always clear, the way he cuts through the middle of things without making a mess of them. Heeseung puts his hands in his pockets. He looks at the school building, the last of the afternoon light on the brick. “She’s still finding her feet,” he says, finally. “I know,” Sunghoon says. “I don’t want to—” “I know.” He pushes off the car. “I’m not telling you to do anything.” He picks up his bag. “I’m just telling you what I see.” He pauses. “You’ve known since the gate on the first day. You should probably get used to the idea.” He walks off across the parking lot.

Heeseung watches him go. The school is empty and the afternoon is going gold and the blue car is warm from sitting in the sun all day, and Heeseung stands beside it for a long time after Sunghoon has gone, looking at nothing, thinking about a girl who talks about her parents in present tense and picks arguments with Whitman and holds his record like it is something precious without knowing why. He gets in the car. He sits for a moment with his hands on the wheel. “Yeah,” he says to no one. “Okay.” He starts the engine and pulls out of the lot and drives home through the golden streets of Fairview Fall with the radio low and the St. Christopher swinging and something settled in him now, something named, sitting quiet and certain in his chest like it has been there a long time. Because it has.

November comes in quietly, the way months do when you have finally stopped counting them. You notice it first in the light — the way it changes angle, goes thinner and more golden, lying longer across the floors in the mornings and disappearing earlier in the evenings until the town is dark by five and the porch lights are all on by the time you walk home from the bookshop. The oak trees on Birdie’s street have gone fully now, the last of them letting go, and the sidewalks are deep in leaves that nobody seems in any hurry to clear because they are beautiful and this is Fairview Fall and there is time.

You have been here four months. You know this the way you know the layout of Birdie’s kitchen, the way you know which stair creaks and which drawer sticks and the precise angle Gerald prefers to be scratched behind the ear. You know the regulars at the bookshop by name and by reading habit. You know Mae’s by booth and by order. You know the way Immy talks with her hands and the way Sunghoon goes quiet when he is actually paying the most attention and the way Heeseung’s voice drops slightly when he is saying something he means, which is most of the time, because Heeseung does not say things he doesn’t mean. Four months. You turn it over in your hands like a stone, testing its weight.

It is heavier than it sounds. It is lighter than you expected.

November does what November does, which is arrive and then be over before you have properly registered it. There are things inside it — Immy’s birthday, which is celebrated with the particular enthusiasm of someone who has been looking forward to it since October, a dinner at Mae’s that goes on until closing and ends with Sunghoon presenting her with a gift that makes her go very still and then throw her arms around his neck while he stands there absorbing it with his hands in his jacket pockets and a look on his face that is the most unguarded thing you have seen on him yet. You do not ask what the gift was. Some things are not yours to know.

There is a Sunday afternoon at the bookshop with Miss Beaumont, who comes in on her day off and spends an hour in the poetry section and buys three things and talks to you about To the Lighthouse across the counter in a conversation that keeps getting interrupted by customers and keeps resuming the moment they leave. She says before she goes, pulling on her coat, “you should think about what you want to write, not just what you want to read” and then she leaves before you can ask her what she means, which you are beginning to understand is her preferred method.

There is a Tuesday when the grief comes out of nowhere — a smell in the street, someone’s perfume, your mother’s perfume, and you are at the corner of main street and you have to stop walking and stand very still for a moment and breathe through it with your hand against the wall of the hardware store while the town moves around you. It passes. It always passes. You write about it that night — three pages, which is more than you usually write, and when you are done your hand aches and the feeling has somewhere to be that is not inside your chest.

There is a Thursday when Heeseung drives you out past the edge of town for no stated reason and parks on a rise where you can see for miles — the land going flat and wide in every direction, the sky enormous above it, the late November light turning everything amber and still. You sit on the hood of the blue car and don’t say very much and it is one of the better silences of your life, the kind that only happen with people you trust without having decided to. November passes. December arrives and brings with it cold that is serious now, cold that means something, and Birdie puts a second quilt on your bed and buys cinnamon for the baking and the town strings lights along main street that go on at dusk and make the whole place look like something you would make up if you were trying to imagine a Christmas.

The drive-in is showing Christmas movies on a Friday in mid-December. This is announced on a chalkboard outside as Holiday Double Feature and whoever writes the chalkboard has drawn a small lopsided Christmas tree beside it that has clearly been done with great affection and no particular artistic talent, and Immy calls it the most charming thing she has ever seen and takes everyone.

Sunghoon’s truck is better for this than the blue car, which Heeseung acknowledges without any defensiveness because the blue car is many things and a comfortable place to sit in the back of on a cold December night is not one of them. You all pile into the truck bed with blankets from Immy’s house — she brought four, which was the right number — and the speakers rigged up on the dash inside play the drive-in audio through the open rear window, tinny and warm. The first film starts. Something black and white, something with snow and a big house and people in good coats making complicated decisions about love. You are not entirely following it. You are warm enough, tucked under a blanket with your knees drawn up, and the cold air is sharp and clean on your face, and above the screen the actual sky is enormous and dark and full of stars in the way that a sky over a small town in December can be, which is a way that the sky over New York never was.

Immy is against Sunghoon’s side with his arm around her in the way that is just their arrangement now, comfortable as furniture. He says something low to her and she tips her head up to answer him and you look away because some things are private even in a truck bed.

“You cold?” Heeseung is beside you, close in the way the small space of the truck bed makes everyone close, close enough that you are aware of it as something other than proximity. “I’m fine,” you say, which is the answer you give. He looks at you sideways. “I’m a little cold,” you say. He lifts the blanket and pulls it more squarely over both of you and you shift slightly without meaning to so that you are closer, and he stays very still when you do, and then he is just — there, warm along your left side, solid and present, and you look at the screen and do not think about it because you have been not thinking about it for a while now and you are getting quite practiced. You are not getting that practiced.

Immy and Sunghoon disappear at some point in the middle of the first film — popcorn, Immy says, we need more popcorn, and they climb out of the truck with the blanket and do not come back for a while. The drive-in hums around you, other cars and trucks glowing softly in the dark, the screen washing blue and white light across everything. You are watching the film. You are also aware of his hand, which has found your knee through the blanket, just resting there, warm and heavy, the way his hand always rests on things — without urgency, without asking for more than it is. “Do you like it here?” he says.

You turn to look at him. He is already looking at you, and his face in the light from the screen is soft and serious and very close, and his eyes have that quality they always have, that quality of seeing you, and you look at him and something in your chest does something you are not ready to name but can no longer pretend is nothing. “Yeah,” you say. Your voice comes out quieter than you intended. “I really do.”

He looks at you for a moment longer. The film plays on. His thumb moves once against your knee through the blanket, a small thing, barely a thing at all. Then he leans in and presses his lips to your temple. Warm and still. Not the quick friendly press of before — this one stays, just a moment, and his nose is cold against your hair. “Good,” he says quietly, against your hair. You look at the screen. Your heart is doing something complicated. It’s not just friendliness, you think, clearly, for the first time, the thought arriving with the quiet certainty of something you have known for a while and have finally let yourself know. It is not just western friendliness and it is not just him being Heeseung and I have been so careful not to see it and I see it. You do not say this. You look at the screen. His hand stays on your knee. The film goes on.

Immy and Sunghoon come back with popcorn that is too buttery and a shared expression of people who went for popcorn and did something else as well and are not talking about it. Immy drops back into the truck bed and looks at you and then at Heeseung and then at you again and her face does the thing it does when she knows something, which is to do nothing, perfectly, too carefully. You take some popcorn. You watch the rest of the film. On the drive home Immy sits in the front with Sunghoon and you and Heeseung are in the back seat of the truck and his shoulder is against yours and neither of you moves away and the St. Christopher swings on the rear view mirror and the heater makes the windows fog at the edges and outside Fairview Fall goes past, lit up and cold and yours, more and more yours every day.

Christmas is the two of you. You and Birdie in the small warm house with Gerald and the tree she made you help her decorate on the first of December because she does not believe in waiting, and the smell of whatever she has attempted for Christmas dinner which is ambitious this year, genuinely ambitious, and the radio on the kitchen windowsill playing carols that neither of you knows all the words to and both of you sing anyway. It is a good day. It is also the hardest day. You knew it would be. You have been knowing it was coming the way you know weather is coming, something in the air before it arrives. Your parents were people who made Christmas — made it loudly and fully and with too much food and a specific record your father played on Christmas morning while your mother made coffee and you sat on the floor in your pyjamas and the apartment smelled like pine and something good. That record is on your shelf in your room. You did not take it out this morning because you were not ready and you knew you were not ready.

After dinner — which is better than it had any right to be, Birdie has been practising — you sit on the sofa with your tea and Gerald and the tree lights going soft in the corner and Birdie comes in from the kitchen and sits beside you and she has something in her hand.

“I’ve been thinking about when to give you this,” she says, “and I decided Christmas was right because your mother would have given it to you herself someday and I want to be the one to do it in her place.” She opens her hand. Your mother’s wedding ring. You know it immediately. The plain gold band, the small diamond, the slight asymmetry where she knocked it against something years ago and had it repaired and you could always see where if you looked. She wore it every day of her life. You have not seen it since the hospital. You cannot speak for a long moment.

“How—” you start. “It came to me with her things,” Birdie says quietly. “I’ve been keeping it safe.” She takes your hand and presses it into your palm and closes your fingers around it. “It’s yours. It always was going to be yours.” You look at your closed hand. “Birdie,” you say, and your voice does not work properly, and she opens her arms and you go into them the way you did in the bus station parking lot in August, and she holds on and you cry into her shoulder, properly, the way you mostly don’t let yourself in front of people, the way you usually save for your room alone.

You cry for your mother and your father and the Christmas morning with the record and the coffee and the apartment and the life that was yours before it wasn’t, and Birdie holds you through all of it and does not say hush or it’s alright because she is too wise to say either of those things and she just holds on. When you surface she is crying too, quietly, in the way she always cries which is privately even when she is in company. “Sorry,” you say. “Don’t,” she says. Which means of course not, never. You sit together on the sofa with the tree lights and Gerald and your mother’s ring in your hand and the radio still playing something gentle from the kitchen, and it is sad and it is also okay, both things fully true at the same time, and you are learning that this is how it is and how it will be — the grief and the warmth living in the same rooms, not cancelling each other out, just coexisting, because they have to. You put the ring on the chain you wear around your neck, the thin gold one your father gave you for your sixteenth birthday. It rests against your chest. It is warm from your hand. You write about it that night. Mom, you write. Birdie gave me your ring. I’m wearing it. I’ll wear it every day the way you did. I’m okay. I’m more than okay, most days. I miss you both so much it’s like weather — it changes, it comes and goes, and sometimes it’s very bad and sometimes it’s just there in the background, part of everything. I think I’m building something here. I think you’d both be glad. Merry Christmas.

January comes cold and clear and the town shakes itself out of the stillness of the holidays and picks back up, and with it comes the Winter Festival.

You have heard about this since October — Immy mentioned it in passing as something the whole town does, and Birdie mentioned it as something that has been happening since before she arrived, and Mae mentioned it as her second busiest weekend of the year and said it with the satisfaction of someone who likes being busy. It takes over the centre of town for a weekend — stalls and food and a brass band and lights strung between the buildings and a stretch of the main street cleared for dancing on the Saturday night, which is the real reason anyone comes, which nobody admits.

Heeseung picks you up in the blue car on Saturday evening. You are wearing the amber blouse Immy picked out for you in October under your coat, and your mother’s cardigan underneath, and the ring on its chain, and he looks at you when you come down the porch steps with the same expression he gets sometimes, the one that is only there for a second before the grin settles back into place, but you see it now, you have been seeing it, you are done pretending you don’t. “You look nice,” he says, easy. “Thank you,” you say, equally easy, and get in the car.

The festival is everything Immy promised and a few things she forgot to mention, including the fact that the brass band is genuinely excellent and the food stalls go on longer than the main street which means someone has taken over the hardware store car park and nobody seems to mind. You move through it in a loose group — you and Heeseung and Immy and Sunghoon, picking up other people from school and putting them down again, stopping at stalls and eating things that are too good and too hot and burn your fingers in the good way. Immy buys something fried and inexplicable and shares it with you and declares it the best thing she has ever eaten and Sunghoon takes one look at it and says “absolutely not” and eats it anyway when she holds it out to him, and you are laughing, you are genuinely laughing in the cold January air with the lights above you and the brass band somewhere close playing something that gets into your feet.

The dancing starts at eight. The main street clears itself in the way of places where this has happened for generations — people just know, they move back, they make space — and the band shifts into something slower and the first couples move into the middle and then more, and it is warm from all the bodies and lit gold from the strings of lights and it smells like winter and something sweet from the stalls. Heeseung holds out his hand to you. You take it. He dances the way he does everything, which is well and without making a production of it, and you know the steps well enough because Birdie taught you in the kitchen in November on a rainy evening when there was nothing else to do, this is just a two-step, baby, it’s not complicated, and it is not complicated, it is just his hand warm in yours and his other hand at your waist and the two of you moving through the same space in the same direction. You dance for a while.

Around you Immy and Sunghoon are dancing the way they exist, which is easily and entirely, and other couples are moving and the band is warm and the town is all around you, Fairview Fall in January, lit up and cold and full.

The song changes to something slower. Heeseung does not let go. You do not move away. The space between you closes in the natural way of a slower song and you are close enough now that you can feel the warmth coming off him and you look up at him and he is looking at you, and his face is doing the thing it has been doing for a while now, that serious and certain thing, and he opens his mouth. “I’ve been thinking,” he says. “Okay,” you say. “I’ve been thinking that—” He stops. Starts again. “The thing is, I—” He exhales. “You know when you know something and you keep not saying it because you don’t want to—” “Heeseung,” you say. “Yeah.” “Kiss me.” He blinks. Just once. And then something in his face settles, completely, like a thing that has been held at tension for a long time and has finally been allowed to let go, and he brings his hand up from your waist to your jaw, careful, and he kisses you.

It is soft and unhurried and entirely certain, the way he is — no performance, no question in it, just him, just this, just the two of you in the middle of the Winter Festival in the middle of Fairview Fall in January with the brass band playing and the lights overhead and the cold air around you and his hand warm on your jaw.

When he pulls back his eyes open slowly and he looks at you and neither of you says anything for a moment. “Hi,” he says finally. “Hi,” you say. He laughs, low and real, and you laugh too, and he presses his forehead to yours and you stand like that in the middle of the street while the town moves around you, and it is so far from where you started — the bus station, the parking lot, the small wooden sign that said Fairview Fall, Pop. 2,847 — and so completely, entirely right. His thumb traces your jaw once, gentle. “Darlin’,” he says softly. “I know,” you say. “I know.”

You walk home from the festival with his hand in yours. This is not discussed. It just happens — the crowd thinning around you, Immy and Sunghoon peeling off at their corner with goodnights that contain entire conversations neither of them says out loud, and then it is just you and Heeseung on the quiet streets of Fairview Fall in January, your breath showing in the cold air, the festival lights fading behind you, and at some point between the main street and Birdie’s road his hand finds yours and holds it and that is that. You walk without talking much. There is not much that needs saying yet. The kiss is still warm in you, sitting somewhere low and certain, and the town is quiet around you and the stars are out and his hand is warm and you think: this is what it feels like when something is right. You have not felt it before, not exactly like this, and you hold it carefully the way you hold things that are new and true and slightly frightening.

At Birdie’s porch he stops at the bottom step and you turn to face him and he is looking at you in the way he has been looking at you for a while now, except that now neither of you has to pretend it isn’t happening. “Goodnight, darlin’,” he says.“Goodnight, Heeseung.” He squeezes your hand once before he lets go. You watch him walk back down the street — unhurried, hands in his pockets, the blue car waiting at the kerb — and you stand on the bottom step until he is gone and then you go inside. The house is quiet. The tree lights are still on in the sitting room, Birdie having forgotten or having left them on deliberately, which is entirely possible. You hang up your coat and stand in the hallway for a moment, your hand still warm from his. Gerald appears from the sitting room, looks at you, and turns around and goes back. “I know,” you say, to no one. You go upstairs. You sit on the bed. You pick up the journal and hold it and then put it back down because some things need a night to settle before you put them into words. You lie back and look at the ceiling and you are smiling and you do not try to stop it.

Birdie knows in the morning. You do not tell her. You do not have to tell her. You come downstairs in your mother’s cardigan with the ring warm on its chain and she is at the kitchen table with her coffee and she looks at your face and her whole expression does something slow and warm and satisfied, like a woman who has been patient about something for a long time and has been proven right. “Morning,” you say. “Morning, baby,” she says. “How was the festival?” “Good,” you say. “Mm.” She wraps both hands around her mug. “Just good?” You get yourself a cup and sit down across from her and look at her and she looks back at you with those familiar eyes, your mother’s eyes, and she is fighting a smile with everything she has and losing.

“Birdie,” you say. “I’m not saying anything,” she says. “You’re saying everything.” “I’m drinking my coffee.” She takes a very deliberate sip. “I’m simply a woman drinking coffee who is extremely happy on a Sunday morning for no particular reason.” You look at her. She looks at you. The smile wins, on both sides. “He’s a good boy,” she says, finally, simply. “I know,” you say. “His mama will be insufferable about it.” She says this with the warmth of someone who likes his mama very much. “In the best possible way.” You wrap your hands around your cup and look out the kitchen window at the January garden, frost on the grass, the oak tree bare. Something has settled in you, something that was restless and is not restless anymore, and you sit with it in the warm kitchen while Birdie finishes her coffee and does not make a production of anything, because she never does, because she is exactly who she is. “Thank you,” you say, eventually, not about anything specific. She reaches across the table and puts her hand over yours for a moment. “Don’t,” she says. Which means of course. Always. You don’t have to say it.

Monday morning arrives and you walk through the school gate and Immy is there. She is leaning against the wall beside the gate with her arms folded and an expression that is doing extraordinary things — warm and knowing and delighted and restrained all at once, the expression of someone who has known something for a long time and has finally been vindicated. “Hi,” you say. “Hi honey,” she says. “Good weekend?” “Good weekend.” “Anything interesting happen?” “Immy.” “I’m just asking.”

She falls into step beside you. “I’m asking a perfectly normal question about your weekend. I happened to be at the Winter Festival. I happened to see certain things. I’m not saying anything about those things. I’m just asking about your weekend.” “Immy.” “Yes?” “He kissed me.” She stops walking. You keep walking. She catches up in three steps. “I know he kissed you,” she says, and her voice has gone high and bright around the edges in the way it does when she is genuinely delighted and cannot fully contain it.

“I saw him kiss you. Sunghoon saw him kiss you. Half of Fairview Fall probably saw him kiss you.” “That’s fine,” you say, because it is. She grabs your arm and stops you in the middle of the hallway and looks at your face with her hands on your shoulders and her eyes going soft. “Are you happy?” she says. Just like that, direct and real, the way Immy always asks the things that matter. You think about it. The honest answer, the real one. “Yeah,” you say. “I really am.” She makes a sound that is mostly just joy, pulls you into a hug that is brief and tight and completely certain, and then releases you and straightens and composes herself into someone who is simply walking to class. “Good,” she says briskly. “That’s all I wanted to know. Come on, we’ll be late.”

You walk to class. You are smiling. You cannot stop doing that today. Heeseung finds you before lunch. He always finds you before lunch. This is not new. What is new is that when he falls into step beside you in the hallway he takes your hand, easy as anything, like it is something you have always done, and you look down at your joined hands and then up at him and he looks back at you with that grin that has always been just him, that has always been the most natural thing in the world. “Hi,” he says. “Hi,” you say.

“Is this okay?” He means the hand. “Very okay,” you say. He nods once, satisfied, and walks with you down the hallway through the midday noise of Fairview Fall High School, and the school moves around you the way it always has, except that now you are holding his hand and the whole building seems to know it and most of it seems pleased.

It is in the corridor outside the science block that you see Cassie Howard. She’s been interested in Heesueng since October from what you’ve seen. Always loitering beside his locker and asking him to help her with reading for English. She’s a nice girl. But when these interactions happened you couldn’t help but feel jealous. She is with two girls from her class, laughing at something, her hair in a high ponytail, and she looks up when you pass and her eyes go to your joined hands and then to your face. Something moves through her expression — you see it, brief and honest, the particular look of someone who has let something go and is at peace with having let it go — and then she smiles at you. A real smile. Warm and direct. She lifts a hand. You lift yours back. She turns back to her friends and keeps talking and that is the whole of it, clean and simple and kind, and you look at it as you walk past and feel something in your chest that is gratitude, or respect, or both.

“What was that?” Heeseung asks. “Cassie Howard waved at me.” “Yeah,” he says, easy. “She would.” He glances over at you. “This town doesn’t really have time for conflict.” You look up at him — the grin, the certainty of him, the way he says it like it is just a true thing about the place he loves — and you smile, properly, all the way through it. “I like this town,” you say. “I know you do,” he says. “I’ve known for a while.”

The conversation about what you are happens that afternoon, in the blue car, parked outside Birdie’s with the engine running for the heat and the radio low. It is not a serious conversation. That is the thing you will remember about it — it is not fraught or uncertain or full of the nervous energy of something that could go wrong. It is just the two of you in the warm car in the cold January afternoon, talking about it the way you talk about most things, which is honestly and without making it harder than it is.

“So,” he says. “So,” you say. He looks at the steering wheel. Then at you. “I’d like it if you were mine,” he says, which is simple and direct and so entirely him that something in you softens completely. “If that’s something you want too.” “It’s something I want,” you say. He nods. The grin. “Okay.” “Okay,” you say. He reaches over and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear — careful, like he has been wanting to do it for a while and is allowing himself to now — and his fingers brush your jaw and rest there for a moment. “I’ve wanted to do that since October,” he says. “Which part?” “All of it.” He says it plainly. “The hair. The—” He pauses. “All of it.” You look at him in the afternoon light, this boy who found you outside a gate on the first day and showed you around a town that was not your town and drove you home and stayed for dinner and gave you a record he loved without knowing why you needed it, and you think: I was not supposed to stay. I was not supposed to build anything here. I was not supposed to end up in a blue car in January in Fairview Fall, Texas feeling like this. You think: I am so glad I did.

“Heeseung,” you say. “Yeah.” You lean across the console and kiss him, soft and certain, and his hand comes up to your jaw the way it did last night and he kisses you back the same way he does everything, which is completely and without any hurry, like he has all the time in the world and intends to use it, and you think that there is something very specific about being kissed by someone who actually means it, who is not performing it, who is just — there, entirely, in the moment with you. When you pull back he is smiling. Not the grin, not the easy public one — something smaller and more private, something that you think might be just yours. “Go inside,” he says. “It’s cold.” “It’s warm in the car.” “Go inside,” he says again, and the smile gets wider. “Birdie’ll be watching from the window.”

You look at the house. The curtain moves. “Oh my God,” you say. He laughs, fully, head tipping back, and you get out of the car before you start laughing too, and you take the porch steps two at a time and the front door opens before you reach it and Birdie is standing there with the most unconvincing innocent expression you have ever seen. “How was school?” she says. “Birdie.” “What? I’m asking about your day.” You push past her into the warm house and she closes the door behind you both and the sound of the blue car pulling away from the kerb is very clear in the quiet and Birdie hums something small and satisfied to herself in the hallway. “Not a word,” you say. “Not a single one,” she agrees, and goes to put the kettle on, and you lean against the wall and press your hand to your mouth and smile into your palm while Gerald winds around your ankles and the house wraps around you, warm and full, yours.

February in Fairview Fall is the quiet month. The festival is over and the holidays are long gone and the town settles into the particular stillness of a place waiting for spring, going about its business without any special occasion to dress itself up for. The cold is still real but it has lost the bite of January — it is a softer cold now, the kind you can walk in without bracing, and on the clearest days there is something in the light that is almost a promise, a brightness at the edges of the afternoon that was not there in December.

You and Heeseung find your rhythm the way rivers find their course — not by deciding, but by going the way that is natural, the way that offers the least resistance. He picks you up in the mornings. He walks you to class. He finds you before lunch without fail. He drives you home in the blue car with the radio low and his hand finding yours across the console somewhere between the school and Birdie’s road, easy and unhurried, like it is the most obvious thing in the world. It is the most obvious thing in the world. You are still slightly amazed that it gets to be. Birdie makes pointed remarks about how often there are two cups on the drying rack now instead of one, which she does with such elaborate innocence that it is impossible to be annoyed by it. His mother sends peach preserves home with him for you — a jar, then another jar, then a third with a small note attached in handwriting that is Heeseung’s handwriting in thirty years that simply says for Y/N, with love — and you put them in Birdie’s kitchen and they make everything taste like summer. Immy has taken to calling you both insufferable with enormous affection. Sunghoon has said nothing, which is the loudest thing Sunghoon can do.

He takes you to the high roads on a clear Saturday in late February when the sky is the particular shade of blue that only happens in winter, deep and cloudless, the kind of sky that goes on forever. You have seen the high roads from below — from the town, looking up, the winding line of them against the hillside — but you have not been up them yet, and when he turns off the main road and the blue car begins to climb you understand immediately why this is somewhere people go.

The town falls away below you slowly, revealing itself in pieces — the water tower, the church steeple, the football field, the grid of streets you know now, that you could walk from memory — and by the time he pulls off onto the flat ridge at the top and cuts the engine you can see all of Fairview Fall spread out beneath you like a map of a life. You get out of the car without speaking. You both do. The wind up here is different — wider, cleaner, coming from somewhere far away — and you stand at the edge of the ridge and look at the town below and the land beyond it going flat and enormous in every direction and the sky above it all doing what the sky does up here, which is everything. “My dad used to take me to the roof of our building in the city,” you say. You do not plan to say it. It comes out the way things come out when you are somewhere that opens you. “Not to see the city — we could see that from our windows. He took me up for the sky. He said the city was too bright to see it properly from the street but if you got high enough above the light you could still find them.” You pause. “The constellations. He knew all of them.”

Heeseung is beside you, not quite touching, listening the way he listens which is with his whole self, not waiting for you to finish so he can speak but actually receiving what you are saying. “He’d stand behind me and point over my shoulder,” you say. “And he’d say there, do you see it? and I’d say yes even when I couldn’t always see it because I loved the way he talked about them. Like they were old friends.” You look at the sky. The February afternoon is going and the first stars are beginning, faint at the edges of the blue. “He said every constellation has a story and every story is about the same things. Love and loss and people trying to find their way home.” The wind moves. “He sounds like someone worth knowing,” Heeseung says, quietly.

“He was the best person I’ve ever known,” you say. “Him and my mom both. They were—” You stop. The grief is here, the real kind, the kind that comes up from the ground. “They were just the best people. And I don’t know how to—” Your voice goes. “I don’t know how to stop feeling like I should call him every time I see something I want to tell him about.” Heeseung puts his arm around you. Not to stop the crying — you are crying now, quietly, the tears going cold on your face in the wind — but just to be there, to be solid, to be the thing you are not falling into even though you are falling. “You don’t have to stop,” he says. “You can want to call him every time.” “It doesn’t go away,” you say. “People say it gets easier but it doesn’t go away.” “No,” he says. “I don’t think it does.” He says it simply, without flinching from it, without trying to fix it into something more comfortable, and you love him for that in a way that you do not yet have a word for — the particular love of someone who tells you the true thing instead of the easy thing.

You cry for a while in the wind on the high roads above Fairview Fall with his arm around you and the town below and the stars coming through above, and he holds you and does not say it’s okay because he is too wise for that, and he does not say hush because that is not something he would ever say to you, and he does not let go.

When you surface he turns to you and lifts his hand and presses his thumb to your cheek, gentle, and catches a tear that has not finished yet, and then he leans in and kisses where it was, soft, his lips cold and warm at the same time, and then the other cheek, and your eyes close. “Hey,” he says softly, against your face. “Hey,” you say back. He pulls you in properly, both arms, and you press your face into his jacket and breathe and he rests his chin on top of your head and you stand like that on the ridge above the town until you are steady again, until the grief has done what it came to do and settled back into the place where it lives, and the stars are properly out now, a handful of them at least, and you pull back and look up.

“There,” you say. You find the one you know most certainly, the one your father always found first. “That one. Orion. My dad said find Orion first and everything else follows.” Heeseung looks where you are pointing. “I see him,” he says. “He’s always there,” you say. “My dad said that. He said some things are always there, you just have to know where to look.” Heeseung looks at the sky for a moment and then looks at you, and his face in the starlight is so careful and so certain and so entirely his. “Smart man,” he says. “The smartest,” you say. He takes your hand and you stand on the ridge and look at the stars until the cold drives you back into the car, and on the drive home the radio plays something soft and country and his hand is warm over yours on the console and Fairview Fall comes up to meet you, lit and small and entirely yours.

Spring arrives in March like it means it. Overnight, or what feels like overnight, the brown gives way to green and the air changes temperature and quality and the town opens up the way it does when winter is done — windows, doors, people on porches, Mae’s putting tables out on the sidewalk for the first time since October. The football field goes bright again. The oak trees on Birdie’s street bud out and within two weeks are full and green and moving in the warm breeze. Immy announces the lake on a Friday in late March the same way she announces everything, which is as a fact that has already been decided. “Saturday,” she says at lunch. “The lake. All four of us. It’s warm enough.” “It’s barely warm enough,” Sunghoon says. “It’s warm enough,” she says again, with finality. It is warm enough. Just. The lake in spring is the colour of something deep and clear and cold, ringed with trees that are only just coming into leaf, the banks soft with new grass. There are other people there — it is a public place, a Friday night place in summer, but on a Saturday morning in late March it is quiet enough that you have the good stretch of bank largely to yourselves.

Immy has brought a blanket and approximately half of her kitchen and she sets up on the bank with the efficiency of someone who has done this many times while Sunghoon wades in without ceremony and makes a sound that suggests Immy was generous in her assessment of the temperature. You are standing at the edge of the water in your swimsuit — the one Immy helped you pick out, the green one, the one she said was exactly right with your colouring — with your toes in the cold and the spring sun warm on your back, looking at the lake and deciding whether you are brave enough.

You become aware that Heeseung has stopped moving beside you. You look over. He is looking at you. Not in a way that is rude or obvious — in a way that is simply honest, a way he does not quite school fast enough, a way that you catch before it becomes the grin. “What?” you say. “Nothing,” he says. The grin arrives. “You just look—” He does not finish the sentence because Sunghoon, from the water, sends a splash that catches him full across the chest, and you take several steps back to avoid the second wave. “Eyes forward,” Sunghoon says, with absolute serenity. “I wasn’t—” Heeseung starts. “In,” Sunghoon says, and splashes him again. Heeseung goes in, retaliating immediately, and you stand on the bank and laugh at both of them until Immy materialises beside you and says “we should go in before they start trying to dunk each other” and takes your hand and you go in together, fast, because fast is the only way, and the cold hits you all at once and you gasp and then you are in it, properly in it, and after thirty seconds it is perfect, the kind of cold that makes you feel entirely alive.

You spend the morning in the water and on the bank and in the water again. Sunghoon and Heeseung have an argument about something that happened in a football game two years ago that neither of them can fully remember and that Immy referees with the authority of someone who was there and remembers everything. You and Immy lie on the blanket in the midday sun while the boys swim further out and she tells you about the summer she was twelve and she and Heeseung and Sunghoon built a raft in Heeseung’s backyard and carried it out here and it sank immediately and Sunghoon said he knew it would and he had told them so and Heeseung said he was the worst and Sunghoon said he knew that too.

“He was right though,” Immy says. “It was terrible construction.” “Did Heeseung admit that?” “Eventually.” She shades her eyes to look at the water. “He always admits it eventually. He just needs a minute.” She pauses. “That’s one of the things about him. He comes around. He always comes around.” You look at the water too, at Heeseung out in the middle of it, dark head, easy stroke. “I know,” you say. She smiles at the sky.

The afternoon goes golden and then the four of you build a fire on the bank in the early evening in the practiced way of people who have done this before — Sunghoon doing most of the actual work while Heeseung hands him things and makes suggestions that Sunghoon ignores — and you sit around it with blankets and the remains of what Immy brought and the lake going dark and still in front of you.

At some point Immy stands up and says she needs to be home for dinner and Sunghoon stands with her immediately, the way he always does, and there is a small exchange of goodnights and the sounds of them packing up, and then their voices going up the bank toward the road, and then quiet. Just you and Heeseung and the fire and the lake. He has been quiet the last hour in a way that is not unhappy, just interior, something running underneath. You sit with it because you know him well enough by now to know when to wait. Gerald is teaching you this too. Everyone in your life is teaching you to wait. He gets up and goes to the car and comes back with his guitar. You look at it. You have never seen him carry it out of the house before — you know it exists, Birdie told you, you have known it was coming in the way you know spring is coming, something in the air before it arrives.

He sits back down beside you and settles it in his lap and does not look at you. “You don’t have to listen,” he says. “I want to,” you say. He nods once. He adjusts the tuning quietly, the small careful sounds of it, and then his hands find the strings and he begins to play.

It is not a song you know. You do not think it is a song anyone knows — it has the quality of something made, something that grew rather than was written, the melody finding itself as it goes. It is quiet and unhurried and the notes go out over the water and the fire pops and the spring air holds it and you sit very still because you do not want to be the thing that breaks it.

He plays for a while. You look at the lake. You look at the fire. You look at him — his hands on the strings, the concentration on his face, the way he is entirely present in the music, the way everything else about him is here but this particular part of him goes somewhere else, somewhere interior, the same place the journal takes you. He lets the last chord go. The quiet comes back. “That was yours,” you say. Not a question. “Yeah.” He sets his hand flat against the strings to still them. “I’ve been working on it for a while.” “Does it have a name?” He looks at you sideways, and something in his expression is careful and open and slightly vulnerable in a way he rarely is in company. “Not yet,” he says. You look at the lake. “It should,” you say. “It’s too good not to have a name.”

He is quiet for a moment. Then he says, “I’ll figure it out,” and it sounds like he already has, and you do not push it, and the fire burns down and the stars come out and the two of you sit by the lake in the early spring dark and he plays a little more — things you half-know, things that are fully his — and it is one of the best evenings of your life, quiet and full, the kind you will come back to when you need to remember what good feels like.

March becomes April and the bookshop comes into its busiest season — spring cleaning, Birdie says, people remember books exist when the weather turns — and you are in after school most days, shelving and helping and making change and talking to the regulars who have become your regulars too, people who ask after you by name and bring you things from their gardens and tell you things about the town that Birdie has not told you yet.

You are on the ladder reaching for the top shelf on a Thursday afternoon, a stack of returns to be reshelved, when the bell above the door sounds and you do not look down because you are busy and Birdie is at the counter. “She’s in the back,” you hear Birdie say, and then, a beat later: “second aisle.” Footsteps on the wooden floor. You are still reaching for the shelf. “Need a hand?” Heeseung says, below you. “I’ve got it,” you say. You get it. You come down the ladder with the empty stack and he is there at the bottom of it, leaning against the shelves with his jacket on and his hair slightly messed from the wind outside, and he looks at you the way he looks at you now — that private, warm, certain look that is just yours, that you have stopped being surprised by and started simply receiving. “Hi,” he says. “Hi,” you say. “I’m working.” “I know.”

He pushes off the shelf and steps into the aisle and it is narrow enough that he is very close, and he takes the empty stack from your hands and sets it on the floor without breaking eye contact and you look up at him and the afternoon light from the window at the end of the aisle is warm and golden and his hands find your waist. “Heeseung,” you say, with a very specific kind of not-seriousness. “I’ll be quick,” he says, and he is grinning, and then he kisses you back against the shelves, his hands warm on your waist, and you put yours on his chest and the shelves press gently into your back and it is soft and thorough and entirely him and the bookshop smells like paper and vanilla and spring through the open window.

A sound from the direction of the counter. A very deliberate cough. You pull apart. Heeseung drops his forehead to yours and his shoulders shake once, silently. Another cough. Pointed. Patient. With the timing of a woman who has been a bookshop owner for years and has heard everything happen in her aisles and has Opinions. “We should—” you start. “Yeah,” he says. He steps back. He picks up the empty stack from the floor and holds it out to you with the expression of a man attempting innocence. “Reshelving.” “Reshelving,” you agree.

You go back to the front of the shop. Birdie is behind the counter with a customer, her back to you, discussing a book recommendation with complete concentration. She does not look at you. She also does not stop smiling. You catch Heeseung’s eye across the shop. He presses his lips together against the grin. You look at the ceiling. “Really?” Birdie says, to no one, to the air, conversationally, still not looking at you. “We’re working,” you say. “Mm,” she says. “I see that.” The customer looks between all three of you with polite confusion. Birdie recommends them something excellent and sends them on their way and then turns around and looks at you both with the expression of a woman who has said everything she intends to say on the subject without saying a word.

Heeseung clears his throat. “Afternoon, Birdie.” “Heeseung,” she says pleasantly. “You know my stockroom needs reorganising if you’ve got time on your hands.” He reorganises the stockroom. You shelve the returns. Birdie bakes something in the back that smells extraordinary and pretends this is all very normal and you work through the afternoon in the warm, paper-scented air of Read a Cookie while the spring goes on outside the window and Gerald sleeps on the counter and the town moves past the glass. Later, walking home, Heeseung says: “I like your aunt.” “She likes you too,” you say. “That’s what makes it worse.” He laughs, and takes your hand, and you walk home through the April streets of Fairview Fall with the trees fully green and the light going gold and warm and the ring on its chain warm at your chest, and everything is tender and good and slightly too full to hold, the way the best things are.

Birdie goes to visit a friend in Austin on a Friday in April — an old friend, someone from before Fairview Fall, someone she has been meaning to visit for two years and has finally committed to, leaving Thursday evening with a bag and a list of instructions about Gerald that is longer than it needs to be. “He eats at seven,” she says, at the door. “Not six-thirty. Seven. He knows the difference and he will make your life very difficult if you get it wrong.” “I know, Birdie. I live here.” “I’m just saying.” She picks up her bag. “There’s a cobbler in the fridge. Don’t let Heeseung eat all of it.” “I wasn’t planning on—” “I know you weren’t planning on it.” She gives you the look, the fond and entirely unsubtle one. “I’m just saying.” She kisses your cheek. “Be good.” “Always,” you say. She gives you a look that suggests she finds this moderately believable and goes.

The house is very quiet on Friday evening. You feed Gerald at seven — exactly seven, he does know the difference — and you sit on the sofa with your book and the lamp on and the spring evening going dark outside the window, and it is fine, it is completely fine, you have been alone before, and then the phone rings and it is Heeseung. “Hi,” you say. “Hi.” His voice is warm and easy. “How’s the house?” “Quiet.” “Birdie get off alright?” “With a list of Gerald’s dietary requirements and a pointed comment about cobbler.” He laughs. “She left cobbler?” “Don’t.” “I’m just asking.” “Heeseung.” A pause, warm at the edges. “My parents are at my uncle’s tonight,” he says. “I’m at the house alone.” Another pause. “You could come over. If you wanted.” You look at the quiet room. Gerald looks back at you from the armchair with the expression of an animal who has no opinions about your personal life. “Give me twenty minutes,” you say.

The Lee house is lit warm from the inside when you come up the front path, the porch light on, the garden going dark around it. He opens the door before you knock — he must have heard the gate — and he is in a soft shirt with the sleeves pushed up and his feet bare and he looks at you on the doorstep for a moment with that expression, the private one, the one that is just yours. “Hi,” he says. “Hi,” you say, and he steps back to let you in. The house has the particular quiet of a place that is usually full and is not full tonight, and it is warm from the day’s heat still in the walls, and it smells like his mother’s cooking and something underneath that is just the house, just the smell of a place that has been lived in well. He takes your jacket and you follow him to the kitchen where there are two glasses on the counter and something on the stove that he has apparently made, which surprises you. “You cook?” you say. “My mama taught me.” He lifts the lid and checks it. “I’m not as good as she is.” “Nobody is.”

He makes a sound of agreement and you sit at the kitchen counter and watch him finish it and it is domestic in a way that sits warmly in your chest, the ease of it, the two of you in a kitchen with the evening outside and nowhere else to be. He plates it up — something simple, something good — and you eat at the kitchen table and the conversation wanders the way it does when you are somewhere comfortable, from school to music to something Sunghoon said at practice that made the whole team laugh, to the book you are reading, to nothing in particular. “Miss Beaumont asked about you today,” you say. “Yeah?” “She said you were the best argument she ever lost.” He looks pleased. “What were we arguing about?” “She didn’t say. She said you were wrong but you made her think harder about why, and that’s rarer than being right.” He considers this with the seriousness it deserves. “I’ll take that,” he says. “That’s a real compliment.” “I told her that’s what you’d say.”

He smiles at his plate, private and warm, and you look at him across the kitchen table in the lamplight and think about what it is to know someone — to know the way they receive things, the way they hold compliments, the way they go quiet when something matters and loud when something is funny, the way they drive and the way they listen and the way their voice drops when they are saying something true. You have been building this knowledge for eight months without knowing you were building it and now it is just — there, solid, a thing you can lean on.

After dinner he washes up and you dry, the way you have fallen into doing it at Birdie’s, and it is the same quiet domestic ease, his hands in the water and yours with the cloth and the radio low on the windowsill, and at some point he says something that makes you laugh and you lean into his shoulder without thinking about it and he turns his head and presses his lips to your hair and stays there a moment, and then he takes the cloth from your hands and hangs it over the tap and turns to you. “Come on,” he says, quietly.

His room is at the back of the house, overlooking the garden, the oak tree visible through the window in the dark. It is a room that has been lived in for seventeen years — worn at the edges, comfortable, everything in its place but none of it arranged for display. There are records on the shelf, the good kind, stacked carefully. His guitar in the corner on its stand. A photograph on the desk of the three of them — him and Sunghoon and Immy, young, maybe thirteen, standing at what looks like the lake, all of them squinting into the sun and grinning. Books, more than you expected, stacked on the nightstand and on the floor beside the bed. You go to the records first, because you cannot help it, running your finger along the spines the way your father taught you. “You and my dad would have gotten along,” you say. It comes out soft and easy, not weighted, just true. “I know,” he says, from behind you. “You’ve told me enough about him that I feel like I know him a little.”

You turn around. He is close, in the way he is always close now, in the way you have stopped registering as proximity and started registering as just — him, just the space he takes up in your life. “I love you,” you say. You have not said it before. You have known it — you have known it for longer than you have allowed yourself to know it — but you have not said it, and it comes out now in this room with his records and his guitar and the photograph of him at thirteen with his whole life ahead of him, and it comes out the way true things come out when you stop holding them, which is simply and without apology. He looks at you for a moment. Something in his face does what it does when something matters, which is go very still and very certain. “I love you,” he says back. “I’ve loved you since the gate on the first day and I’m done not saying it.”

You look at him. He looks at you. “Since the gate,” you say. “Since the gate,” he confirms. You step into him and he meets you halfway and the kiss is different to the others — not urgency, not the sweet tentativeness of the first one, but something fuller and more certain, something that has all the months in it, all the mornings in the blue car and the evenings at the diner and the high roads and the fire by the lake and the bookshop and the kitchen and all of it, every bit of it, and his hands are in your hair and yours are on his chest and you are both entirely present in it, entirely there. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his forehead against yours, his hands framing your face. “You sure?” he says. Quiet and straight, the way he always is. “I’m sure,” you say. “Are you?” “Since the gate,” he says again, soft, and you laugh against his mouth and he smiles into the kiss. Your hands slide into his hair immediately, pulling him closer, and he exhales sharply, his hand moving from your face to the back of your neck, gripping a little tighter now, holding you in place as the kiss deepens. His mouth moves against yours with more intent, his tongue slower but heavier, like he’s tasting you properly now, like he’s not holding back the fact that he wants this. Wants you.

Your hands move down his back, pressing him closer, feeling the solid warmth of him, and he responds instantly, his body shifting into yours, his thigh pressing between yours without thinking. “Fuck—” he exhales quietly against your mouth. He pulls back just enough to breathe, but his lips don’t leave you — they trail along your jaw instead, down your neck, slower again but heavier, his mouth open against your skin. You feel it everywhere. “Heeseung—” you breathe. He hums softly against your throat, the sound low, vibrating through you, and then his teeth graze your skin — not enough to hurt, just enough to make your breath catch.

“Heeseung—” you breathe. He hums softly against your throat, the sound low, vibrating through you, and then his teeth graze your skin — not enough to hurt, just enough to make your breath catch. “Darlin’…” he says again, against your neck this time, his voice rougher. “You have no idea—” His hands move down from your face, your neck, over your shoulders, your arms, then back in — pulling your shirt up, slower than before but more intentional, like he’s aware of every inch of skin he’s uncovering. You lift your arms for him and he drags the fabric off you, his eyes dropping immediately to your chest.

He exhales. “Jesus—” His hands come up to your tits instantly, full, firm, like he’s been waiting to touch you like this. His thumbs drag over your nipples and you arch into him without thinking. “There,” he murmurs. “Yeah— you feel that?” “Yes—” He presses harder. Rolls your nipple between his fingers. You gasp. “Fuck—” he breathes, almost to himself. “You’re so—” He cuts himself off and leans down, his mouth replacing his hand, taking your nipple into his mouth, his tongue circling slowly before he sucks. Your fingers tighten in his hair. “Heeseung—” He groans softly against your skin, the sound unguarded, and it makes your stomach flip. “Yeah,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath warm against your chest. “Say it again—” You say his name again, softer this time, and his hands tighten on you, his mouth returning, slower but deeper, like he’s losing track of how careful he was trying to be. His other hand stays on your other breast, squeezing, his thumb dragging over your nipple in time with his mouth, and the combination makes your hips shift under him. He notices immediately. Of course he does. “Sensitive,” he murmurs. “Fuck— I can feel it—”

Your hands move down his chest now, pushing his shirt up, needing to touch him too, needing something solid under your palms. He lets you, lifts his arms so you can pull it off, and the second your hands hit his skin, he exhales. “Yeah,” he says softly. “There—” You run your hands over him, his chest, his stomach, feeling the tension in him, the way his body reacts to your touch just as much as yours reacts to his. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs, kissing along your neck again. “So are you,” you whisper. He lets out a quiet, breathless laugh against your skin. “Yeah,” he admits. “I am.”

His hand slides down your stomach, slow, his fingers tracing the line of your waist, your hips, before settling on your thigh. He presses gently, encouraging you to open for him. You do. His breath catches slightly when he sees you open.. His fingers brush between your thighs, light at first, feeling the warmth, the slickness already there. “Fuck,” he exhales quietly. “You’re already—” He stops himself and looks back at your face. “You okay?” “Yes,” you say, breath uneven. “Yeah?” he asks softly. “Good girl,” he murmurs. His fingers move again. More deliberate now. He runs them through your folds, slow, spreading the wetness, learning you the same way he learned everything else — carefully, completely. When his thumb finds your clit, he presses lightly, testing. You react instantly, hips shifting. He notices. “Right there?” he asks. “Yes—”

He circles it slowly, steady, his other hand still resting on your thigh, holding you open. His touch isn’t rushed, but it’s precise, like he’s mapping exactly what you need. “You’re doing so well,” he murmurs. “So good for me.” His fingers slide down, then back up, then he presses one finger into you. Slow. You gasp. He stills. “Okay?” “Yes,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.” He nods slightly. “Alright. I’ve got you, darlin’.” He moves again, pushing deeper, then adding another finger, curling them slightly inside you, watching your face for every reaction. “That’s it,” he says softly. “Just relax— I’ve got you—” His thumb keeps working your clit, his fingers moving in a steady rhythm, and you feel it building, tightening low in your stomach. “Heeseung—”

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know—” He leans down and kisses you again, softer now, his movements syncing — his fingers, his mouth, everything aligned. When he finally moves over you properly, settling between your thighs, his body warm and solid against yours, the shift is immediate. Closer. Heavier. Real. He lines himself up slowly, his hand coming back to your face again, thumb brushing your cheek. “Look at me,” he says softly and then he pushes into you. You gasp, your body tightening around him instinctively. He stops immediately. Completely still.

“Okay?” he asks. “Yes,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”He moves again, slower than he wants to, you can feel it — the control, the effort — but underneath it there’s something stronger now, something that wants more. His hips press into yours, deeper each time, his hand sliding to your hip, holding you, grounding you. “Fuck—” he exhales. “You feel—” You say his name and it breaks him. His rhythm deepens, still controlled but heavier now, more intent, his forehead pressing to yours again. “I’ve got you, darlin’,” he says. “You’re alright— I’ve got you—” Your hands move all over him — his back, his shoulders, pulling him closer, and he responds immediately, pressing deeper, his pace shifting just enough to make your breath catch.

“You feel incredible,” he murmurs. “So warm— so tight—” You gasp. Your body tightens. He feels it. “Yeah— I know—” he breathes. “I know—” His mouth finds your neck again, kissing, slower now but deeper, like he can’t stay away from it, like he needs to feel you there while he moves. “Stay with me,” he murmurs. “I am—” “Good girl,” he says softly. “That’s it—” It builds. Steady and inevitable.. Your body tightens, your hands gripping him, your breath breaking, and he stays right there with you, not rushing, not pulling away, just with you.

“Darlin’—” he breathes. “You’re doing so well—” You come.. His whole body reacts, his rhythm stuttering, then deepening as he follows, his voice breaking softly against your neck as he finishes, still pressed close, still holding you. He stays there. Inside you. Breathing hard. His hand comes back to your face again, thumb brushing your cheek, softer now. “You okay?” he murmurs. You nod, smiling faintly. “Yeah.” He exhales. Relieved. And kisses you again, slow and warm, like he’s not done touching you yet. “Stay with me,” he says softly.

Afterward you lie in the warm dark with his arm around you and your head on his chest and his heartbeat under your ear, and neither of you speaks for a long time because there is nothing that needs saying and it is enough to just be here, to just be this. “Hey,” he says eventually, into your hair. “Hey,” you say. He tightens his arm around you once, just once, and then loosens it, and you lie there in the quiet of his room in the house where he grew up and you think: I was not supposed to stay. I was not supposed to build anything here. You think: I am going to stay.

You fall asleep without meaning to and wake to the dark room and Heeseung warm beside you and the clock on his nightstand reading half past ten. You lie still for a moment, listening to the house, the spring night outside, a dog somewhere distant. Heeseung is awake. You can tell by his breathing. “You okay?” you say. “Yeah.” He says it easily, and he means it, but there is something underneath it, something that has been there since dinner, something you noticed and did not push. You wait. He exhales. “There’s something I should have told you,” he says. “I’ve been meaning to and I kept — I don’t know. I kept waiting for the right time and there wasn’t one so I just didn’t.” You lift your head to look at him. In the low light his face is serious. “The scholarship,” he says. You go still. “Coach put my name forward in January,” he says. “To three programmes. I found out in February that one of them wants me. Full ride. Music programme at a school in Nashville.” He pauses. “It’s a good programme. It’s a real one.” The room is quiet.

“You’ve known since February,” you say. “Yeah.” “It’s April, Heeseung.” “I know.” “That’s—” You sit up. The warmth of the last hour is still in you but something else is in you now too, something cold and specific. “That’s two months. You’ve known for two months and you didn’t—” You stop. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “Because I didn’t want it,” he says. He says it simply, like it is an explanation. “I still don’t want it. I want to stay here. I want community college and music and—”

“That’s not the point,” you say. “The point is you didn’t tell me.” You look at him in the dark. “I heard about it, Heeseung. Someone at school — I don’t even remember who — said something about Coach pushing you for a scholarship and I thought they meant the football one, I thought — I had no idea there was a music one, I had no idea it was real and current and something you were sitting on—” You hear yourself and stop. He is looking at you with an expression that is not defensive, which somehow makes it worse.

He looks like someone who knows he is wrong and is not going to pretend otherwise. “You heard about it at school,” he says. “Weeks ago,” you say. “I didn’t know what they meant. I didn’t know enough to ask.” You get up and find your clothes and he sits up and watches you and does not try to stop you because he understands that this is not something to stop, this is something to let happen. “I’m not angry about the scholarship,” you say, pulling on your cardigan. Your mother’s cardigan, warm and familiar. “I’m angry that you didn’t trust me with it. I’m angry that I heard it from someone else. I’m angry that you let me fall in love with you and didn’t tell me there was a version of the future where you might not be here.” Your voice does not break. You are grateful for that.

“That’s what I’m angry about.” “I know,” he says. “You’re right.” “I know I’m right.” You pick up your jacket. “I’m going to go home.” “Let me drive you.” “I’ll walk.” “It’s dark—” “Heeseung.” You look at him. He looks back, and his face is open and honest and not making excuses, and you love him, you still love him, that has not moved at all, which is its own kind of complicated. “I just need tonight. Okay? I just need tonight.” He nods. “Okay.” You go to the door. You stop. “I’m not going anywhere,” you say, and you mean Fairview Fall, you mean him, you mean all of it. “I just need tonight.” “I know,” he says. “I’ll be here.”

You go home through the spring dark, the streets of Fairview Fall quiet and lit around you, your mother’s cardigan warm on your shoulders and your heart doing several things at once. Gerald is in the window when you come up the path. You go inside and sit on the sofa in the lamplight and pick up the journal. You write for a long time. At the end of it you close the journal and sit in the quiet house and you are still angry and you are still in love and both of those things are fully true and you are learning, slowly, that love is not the absence of anger, it is just what is there when the anger passes. It will pass. He will be there. You know both of these things the way you know Orion — certainly, completely, because someone you loved taught you where to look.

The thing about being angry at someone you love is that it lives in your body. It is not a clean, distant thing. It sits in your chest and your throat and behind your eyes and it makes everything heavier — the morning, the walk to school, the seat at lunch, the backseat of Sunghoon’s truck where the space beside you is wrong now, off-balance, like a room where the furniture has been moved in the night.

You give yourself the weekend. You walk home Friday night and you cry into Gerald and you write in the journal and in the morning you get up and you make tea and you sit with the quiet and you let yourself feel it fully — the anger, and underneath the anger, the fear, and underneath the fear, everything else. You give yourself the weekend because you said you needed tonight and one night was not enough and you are learning to know what you need. Monday comes and you walk through the school gate and he is there, beside the blue car, and you look at him and look away and keep walking, and the air between you is something you have never felt between you before, which is distance.

You do not sit with him at lunch. You sit with Immy, who does not ask questions, who hands you half her sandwich and talks about her chemistry coursework with the focused energy of someone who understands that the best thing she can do right now is be normal, and you love her for it even as you are aware of Heeseung across the cafeteria not looking at you in a way that is very much looking at you. Sunghoon says nothing. He eats. He is a barometer of the situation and he knows it and he stays very still.

Wednesday he comes to the bookshop. You hear the bell above the door and look up from the returns you are sorting and he is there in his jacket with his hands in his pockets and he looks at you with an expression that is not an argument, that is just — him, open and present and a little wrecked around the edges in the way you have not seen him be before.

“Hey,” he says. You look back at the returns. “I’m working.” “I know.” He does not move from the door. “I’m not here to push. I just—” He stops. “I wanted to see you.” “I’m here,” you say, to the books. He stands there for a moment. Then he goes to the shelf nearest the door and starts looking at things, not browsing, just — being in the same room. Giving you something without asking for anything back.

Birdie comes out from the back and sees him and sees your face and does the thing she always does which is to read the room completely and not comment on a single thing she has read. She says “Heeseung, those top shelves need dusting if you’ve got a minute” and he says “yes, Birdie” and she hands him a cloth and he dusts the top shelves and you sort returns and nobody talks and the afternoon goes by and he leaves at closing without saying anything else and the door bell sounds and then the shop is quiet. Birdie puts the closed sign up. She comes to stand beside you at the counter. “You don’t have to tell me,” she says. “But I’m here if you want to.”

You look at the counter. The grain of the wood. The small chip at the corner that has been there since before Birdie bought the shop, that she has never repaired because she says it is part of the history of it. “He kept something from me,” you say. “Something important. For two months.” Birdie is quiet. “A scholarship,” you say. “A real one. Music, in Nashville. He knew in February and he didn’t tell me.” You pause. “I heard it from someone else. I didn’t even understand what I was hearing because I didn’t have enough information.”

“Ah,” Birdie says. “I’m not angry about the scholarship. I know he doesn’t want it. I believe him.” You press your palms flat to the counter. “I’m angry that he didn’t trust me with it. That I had to find out from someone else. That—” Your voice does something unexpected. “That there’s a version of this where he’s not here and he didn’t tell me.” The last part is the real part. You hear it when you say it. Birdie hears it too. She turns to face you fully. “That’s not really about the scholarship,” she says, gently. “No,” you say. “That’s about not knowing,” she says. “About not being told. About something changing without warning.”

The grief comes up then, the real kind, the deep kind, the kind that has been sitting underneath the anger all week waiting for you to stop being angry long enough to feel it. Your parents did not call to say they were leaving the work event. They did not say goodbye. One moment they were in the world and the next moment they were not and you had no warning, no preparation, no chance to hold the last conversation more carefully because you did not know it was the last one. You know this is not the same. You know Heeseung withholding a scholarship is not the same as a car crash on a highway. But fear does not do logic. Fear finds the shape of itself wherever it can. You put your face in your hands and you cry, properly, the ugly kind, the kind that has been building for days and longer than days. Birdie puts her arm around you and holds on and lets you. “I know,” she says, softly, into your hair. “I know, baby.”

“I’m so scared of losing someone else,” you say, into your hands. “I know that’s not fair to him. I know it’s not the same. But I’m so scared.” “That’s not unfair,” Birdie says. “That’s just true. You’re allowed to be scared.” “I love him,” you say. “I know you do.” “It makes it scarier.” “That’s how it works,” she says. “That’s just how it works. The loving and the scared are the same size.” She rubs your back. “That doesn’t mean you stop. You just carry both.” You cry until it’s done.

The shop is quiet and dark except for the lamp at the counter and outside the April evening is warm and the town is going about its business and Gerald has appeared from somewhere and is pressing himself against your leg. You wipe your face. You breathe. “I need to talk to him,” you say. “You do,” Birdie agrees. “When you’re ready.” “I’m almost ready,” you say. She squeezes your shoulder. “Almost is enough,” she says. “Come on. I’ll make tea and we can eat cobbler for dinner and not tell anyone.” “Birdie.” “I’m just saying what’s going to happen,” she says, and goes to put the kettle on, and you stand in the quiet bookshop and breathe and look at the chip in the counter and think about history and what you carry and what you build and the difference between the two.

Almost ready turns out to be another week. Finals are close now — three weeks out — and the school has that particular compressed energy of the end of a year approaching, everyone slightly too loud or slightly too quiet depending on their disposition. You study in the evenings at the bookshop after closing, your books spread across the counter, Birdie moving around you with tea and the occasional baked thing. You study well. Miss Beaumont has given you a reading list for the summer that is long enough to be a compliment, and you are working through it alongside the exam texts, because you cannot not. Heeseung studies too. You know this because Immy tells you, casually, the way she drops things casually that are not casual — Heeseung’s doing his English revision at the library after school, he asked me to recommend something Beaumont would like — and you do not comment and she does not push and the information sits with you.

He still drives you to school in the mornings. You did not ask him to keep doing it. He just keeps doing it. You get in the car and you say good morning and he says good morning and the radio is low and the drive is short and it is the saddest version of something that used to be the best part of your day. He offers his hand one afternoon in the backseat of Sunghoon’s truck, the four of you coming back from somewhere, and you look out the window instead, and you feel him pull his hand back, and the silence in the truck is enormous for about ten seconds until Immy says something completely unrelated in a bright voice and Sunghoon responds and the moment passes but it does not pass, not really, it just goes underneath.

Immy appears at your locker on a Tuesday morning two and a half weeks before finals with an expression that is equal parts loving and done. “Come with me,” she says. “I have class.” “You have ten minutes before class.” She closes your locker for you. “Come with me.” You go with her. This is the thing about Immy — you always go with her. She takes you to the science block. The old one, the one that floods, the one nobody uses anymore for anything except storage. She has a key, which you do not ask about. She opens a door at the end of the corridor and you follow her into a room full of old equipment and afternoon light through dusty windows and— Heeseung.

He is standing by the window with his hands in his pockets and when you come through the door he looks at you and then at Immy and she says “you’re welcome” and steps back into the hallway and pulls the door closed and you hear the key turn in the lock. You look at the door. You look at Heeseung. “She planned this,” you say. “Since last week,” he says. “Sunghoon drew a diagram.” “Of course he did.” A pause. The room is dusty and warm and smells like old chemicals and something that has been closed up for a long time. Light comes through the window in long stripes and dust moves in it.

Heeseung looks at you. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I need to say that first and I need to say it properly.” He takes his hands out of his pockets. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry you heard it from someone else. I’m sorry I let two months go by and kept it from you.” He pauses. “I thought I was protecting you from something that wasn’t going to be a thing. I thought if I turned it down before you had to know about it then it would just — not exist. Not be something you had to think about.” He exhales. “That was wrong. I treated it like my decision when it was about both of us and I didn’t give you the chance to be part of it.”

You look at him in the dusty light. He looks back. “You scared me,” you say. “Not the scholarship. You. The not telling. It made me feel like—” You stop. Start again. “My parents didn’t tell me they were leaving that night. They didn’t call to say goodnight. It was an ordinary evening and then it wasn’t and I had no — there was no warning, there was no chance to—” Your voice is steady. You are proud of that. “I know it’s not the same. I know that. But fear doesn’t do logic and when I realised you’d been keeping something from me about your future it hit me in the same place.”

He crosses the room. He does not reach for you — he stops just short, close enough, and he looks at your face with that quality he has always had, that complete attention. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “I know.” “The scholarship—” “Tell me,” you say. “Tell me properly. What do you want to do.” He is quiet for a moment. “I want to turn it down,” he says. “I’ve known since February that I want to turn it down. Nashville is — it’s far. It’s not here. It’s not—” He pauses. “Music is mine. It’s the thing that’s actually mine, more than football, more than any of it. And I want to study it the way it deserves. But I want to do it here. Community college. Close to my family. Close to Birdie.” He looks at you. “Close to you.” He says it plainly, without making it a plea, just a fact. “This is my life. You’re in it. That’s not something I’m willing to set aside for a programme in a city that isn’t mine.” You look at him. “It has to be your choice,” you say. “Completely yours. Not because of me.”

“It is completely mine,” he says. “You’re part of my life. Choosing my life isn’t choosing because of you. It’s choosing because this is where I belong.” He pauses. “But I should have told you. I should have trusted you with it. That part I got wrong and I know I got it wrong.” The room is quiet. Dust moves in the light. “I was so angry at you,” you say. “I know.” “I’m still a little angry.” “That’s fair.” “I cried to Birdie about it.” Something moves through his face. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and means it.

You look at him for a long moment. The boy who found you outside a gate. Who drove you home and stayed for dinner and gave you a record and took you to the high roads and held you while you cried and played guitar by the lake and kissed you at the Winter Festival and said since the gate and meant it completely.

You close the space between you and put your arms around him and he wraps his around you immediately, both arms, tight, and you press your face into his shoulder and breathe and he presses his lips to the top of your head and holds on. “I’m not going anywhere either,” you say, into his jacket. His arms tighten once. “I know,” he says. “I love you,” you say. “Even when I’m angry at you.” “I love you,” he says, into your hair. “I’m sorry it took me so long to be honest.”

You stand like that in the dusty science lab in the old building that floods, held together by a plan that Immy drew up and Sunghoon diagrammed, and it is not romantic exactly and it is also completely romantic, because this is Fairview Fall and this is them, and you would not have it any other way. From the other side of the door, very faintly, you hear Immy say something to Sunghoon. You hear Sunghoon’s low response. You hear Immy make a sound of satisfaction. Heeseung laughs against your hair. You laugh into his shoulder. He pulls back enough to look at your face and he wipes your cheek with his thumb — you did not know you were crying until he does it — and he kisses you, soft and certain, and you kiss him back the same way. “Are we okay?” he says, against your mouth. “We’re okay,” you say. “Go tell your coach.” “Tomorrow,” he says. “Today,” you say. He looks at you. He nods. “Today,” he says. You step back.

He goes to the door and tries it and it is still locked and he knocks twice and from the other side Immy says “are you done?” and he says “yes” and the key turns and the door opens and Immy is there with Sunghoon behind her, both of them wearing expressions that are so carefully neutral they are the least neutral things you have ever seen. “Good talk?” Immy says. “Good talk,” you say. She looks at your face and his face and her carefully neutral expression gives way completely to something warm and bright and entirely herself. She puts her arm around your shoulders. “Come on,” she says. “We’re going to be late.” You walk to class through the old science corridor — you and Immy ahead, Heeseung and Sunghoon behind — and from behind you you hear Sunghoon say, very quietly, something you cannot make out, and Heeseung says something back, and then there is a sound that is Sunghoon being shoved and not minding. Immy squeezes your shoulders. “Okay?” she says. “Okay,” you say. And mean it, fully, all the way through.

Finals arrive the way the end of things always does — faster than you were ready for and slower than you could stand. The last three weeks of the school year compress into a particular kind of time, dense and pressurised, the days full of index cards and highlighters and the specific exhaustion of a brain that has been asked to hold too much at once. You study at the bookshop counter after closing and at the kitchen table with Birdie’s tea going cold beside you and in the blue car in the school parking lot during free periods, your textbook open on your knees and Heeseung beside you doing the same, the two of you in companionable silence broken occasionally by one of you reading something out loud that the other has to hear.

This is its own kind of intimacy. You did not know that before. You know it now — the particular closeness of working in the same direction, of being tired together, of someone handing you a biscuit at ten o’clock at night because Birdie left a tin and they know you forget to eat when you are deep in something. Immy studies in bursts — intense, focused, slightly panicked, then suddenly fine.

Sunghoon studies the way he does everything, steadily and without visible stress, which Immy finds both reassuring and personally offensive. “How are you not worried?” she says at the diner one evening, revision notes spread across the booth. “I’m worried,” Sunghoon says. “You don’t look worried.” “I know.” He takes a fry from her plate. “It’s a gift.” She stares at him. She steals his milkshake. He lets her. You watch them across the booth and Heeseung’s knee presses against yours under the table and you look over at him and he is already looking at you and the grin is there, warm and private, and you think: I am going to be okay. I have been okay. I am building something here that is mine.

The exams themselves are five days of early mornings and the exam hall and the scratch of pens and the particular silence of a room full of people thinking as hard as they can. You sit in your assigned seat with your mother’s cardigan over your shoulders and the ring warm on its chain and you write. English is last. Three hours in the same hall, the same seat, and Miss Beaumont is one of the invigilators and she does not look at you differently to anyone else in the room — she is professional and precise and entirely fair — but when you hand in your paper at the end and walk past her desk she looks up briefly and gives you one small nod, and that is everything.

You walk out of the exam hall into the May sunshine and Heeseung is there — leaning against the blue car in the car park, face tipped up to the sky, and when he hears the doors he looks over and reads your face before you have reached him. “Well?” he says. “Good,” you say. “Really good.” He opens his arms and you walk into them and he holds you in the school car park in the May afternoon sun and you press your face into his jacket and think: Mom. Dad. I did it. I really did it. “Proudest person in Fairview Fall,” he says, into your hair. “Birdie might have something to say about that.” “Tied,” he says. “Birdie and I are tied.”

The weeks between exams and graduation are the loosest, most golden weeks of the year. There is nothing left to do but wait for results and show up and let the school year finish itself, and so you do — you and Heeseung and Immy and Sunghoon filling the days with the things that have become your things, the diner and the lake and the high roads and the bookshop and long evenings on Birdie’s porch and longer evenings in the blue car parked somewhere with the radio on. The results come on a Thursday morning and they are good — better than good, all of you, and Miss Beaumont leaves a note in your locker that is two lines long and says more than two lines usually can: You were the best argument I ever lost. Go do something with it. You keep it. You put it in the journal.

Heeseung turns down the scholarship the week before graduation. He calls Coach into his office himself — does not wait to be summoned, does not ask anyone to do it for him — and he tells him clearly and without apology that he is grateful and he is declining. He tells you after, in the blue car, with the same simple directness he brings to everything that matters. “How did he take it?” you ask. “He was disappointed,” Heeseung says. “He’ll get over it.” He pauses. “He said I was making a mistake.” “What did you say?” “I said I disagreed.” He looks over at you. “Respectfully.” “Of course.” “I’m always respectful.” “Always,” you agree. He takes your hand across the console.

“Community college music programme starts in September,” he says. “I already registered.” “I registered for English literature last week,” you say. He squeezes your hand. You look out the window at Fairview Fall going past — the main street, the bookshop, the diner, the church, the barbershop, all of it so known to you now, so entirely yours — and you think about September and what it will look like, this town in autumn again, the light going amber, the oak trees turning. You think about being here for it. You think about the shape of a future that is not the one you were supposed to have and is better than you could have built on purpose. “Birdie’s going to cry at graduation,” you say. “My mama’s going to cry at graduation,” he says. “My daddy’s going to pretend he’s not crying and fail.” You are both smiling and the blue car takes you home through the early summer streets of Fairview Fall and the St. Christopher swings and the radio plays and everything is very good.

Graduation is on a Saturday in early June. The ceremony is held on the football field — of course it is, this is Fairview Fall, everything important happens on the football field — with white chairs set out in rows and a small stage at one end with a podium and the faculty in a line behind it and the bleachers full of families who have been looking forward to this for eighteen years. Birdie is in the front row of the family section in a yellow dress — her good one, the one she saves — with her hair pinned up and Gerald’s absence conspicuous because you would not let her bring him, which she argued about and lost.

She is already crying when you find her before the ceremony and she says “I’m not crying” and you say “Birdie” and she says “I’m just very warm, it’s June” and you hug her and she holds on tight. Heeseung’s mother is two seats down with a camera that is serious enough to suggest she means business. His daddy is beside her in a good shirt with the look of a man who has decided to hold it together and is not certain he will manage it. They both pull you into a hug before you go to find your place in the graduating line and his mother holds your face in her hands for a moment and says “we’re so proud of you” and means the we completely. You find your place in the line. Immy is two ahead of you in her gown with her cap at an angle that is very her, and she turns and finds you and grabs your hand and squeezes it hard. “We did it, honey,” she says. “We did it,” you say. Sunghoon is behind Heeseung somewhere in the line and you cannot see him from here but you know he is doing the thing he always does which is standing very still and holding everything together quietly, and Immy knows it too and the knowing is in her face.

Heeseung is ahead of you by several places. He turns before the line starts moving and finds you over the heads of the people between you and he grins — that grin, the one that has always been the most natural thing in the world — and you grin back and then the music starts and the line begins to move.

The ceremony is long in the way that ceremonies are long, which is to say that individual moments of it are everything and the rest of it is just time passing. Names are called and people walk across the stage and the bleachers erupt for each one the way small towns erupt, which is completely and without irony, and Mae is in the stands hollering for every single graduate regardless of whether she knows them, because this is Mae and this is what she does.

When your name is called you walk across the stage and shake the principal’s hand and the bleachers go up and you hear Birdie clearly above everything else, Birdie who is not crying, who is simply very warm, and you think: Mom. Dad. Look. And then the speeches.

The principal speaks first, the usual things, and then she says: “This year’s student address will be given by someone who needs very little introduction in Fairview Fall. Lee Heeseung.” The bleachers respond the way the bleachers always respond to Heeseung, which is warmly and immediately.

He walks to the podium with his hands in his pockets and his cap slightly crooked and he looks out at the crowd with that easy, unhurried quality he has, like he has all the time in the world and intends to use it well. He speaks about Fairview Fall the way someone speaks about a place they love without sentimentality — honestly, specifically, with the detail of someone who has paid attention. He talks about what it means to grow up somewhere that knows your name, about the particular gift of a community that shows up, about Mae’s cobbler and the football field grass and the record shop on main street. He makes people laugh twice and mean it both times. And then he pauses.

“This year we welcomed someone new to Fairview Fall,” he says. “Someone who came here when she didn’t choose to, who stood outside these gates on the first day of school not knowing a single person inside them.” He looks out at the crowd and his eyes find you in the graduating class with the ease of someone who always knows where you are.

“She taught this town a few things this year without meaning to. She taught me what it looks like to carry grief and keep living inside it. She taught me that some things are always there if you know where to look.” He pauses. “She came here for someone else’s reasons and she stayed for her own. And I think—” He stops. The grin, private and certain, just for you. “I think that’s the best thing a place can do for a person. Give them reasons that are theirs.”

The bleachers are quiet in the way of people who are feeling something. Then they are not quiet at all. You look at him at the podium and your vision goes slightly and you blink and the ring on its chain is warm against your chest and you think: Mom. Dad. Do you see? You know they see. The caps go up. This is the moment — the principal says I hereby declare you graduates of Fairview Fall High School and the field erupts and every cap in the graduating class goes up into the June sky at once, a cloud of them, black against the blue, and you throw yours and you are laughing and Immy beside you is laughing and Sunghoon beside her is smiling the widest smile you have ever seen on him and the bleachers are a wall of noise.

Heeseung finds you in about four seconds. He crosses the field with purpose and when he reaches you he takes your face in his hands and he kisses you, right there, in the middle of the graduating class of Fairview Fall High School with the caps still coming down around you and the bleachers still going and Birdie in the front row making a sound that is probably not crying because she is simply very warm. He pulls back and looks at you and his eyes are bright. “Hi,” he says. “Hi,” you say. You are still laughing. “That speech.” “Too much?” “Perfect,” you say. “It was perfect.” He keeps his hands on your face for a moment. Around you the field is full — families flooding in from the bleachers, people finding each other, photographs being taken, the particular happy chaos of an ending that is also a beginning.

“Fairview Fall, Texas,” you say. “Population now includes you,” he says. “Permanently.” “Permanently,” you agree. He kisses you again, softer, and then his forehead is against yours and the June sun is warm on both of you and the town is all around you and somewhere behind you Birdie is making her way across the field in her yellow dress with her camera and his mother is right beside her with hers and the two of them are going to take approximately forty photographs of this moment and you are going to let them. “What comes next?” he says, against your forehead.

You think about September and community college and English literature and his music programme and the bookshop and the blue car and the high roads and the record on its shelf and the ring on its chain and Birdie’s baking and Immy’s late night phone calls and Sunghoon’s quiet certainty and Mae’s cobbler on Fridays and the lake in the summer and Fairview Fall in every season, yours in every season, for keeps. “Everything,” you say. He smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “Everything.” The caps come down around you like the beginning of something. You catch yours. You stay.

“shhh, fuck - keep quiet,” ohyul hissed against your ear as a warning, even though his own voice was shaky from how hard he was pounding into your soaked cunt. his hand stayed clamped over your mouth while the other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise, dragging your ass back against him with every thrust. the uni library was dead silent except for the wet plap plap plap of skin and muffled moans spilling into your nerdy tutor’s palm as he fucked you bent over one of the study tables. your knees kept buckling every time his hips snapped into yours, cock drilling so deep it knocked the breath straight out of you.

deadass ohyul had no clue how this happened. to be honest, it made no sense to him at first why you asked him to help you study for the upcoming biochem exam in the first place. you were the kind of girl everyone stared at when you walked across campus, the kind people would be gawking over and tryna get close to. meanwhile ohyul was just some poor awkward loser with messy curly hair, crooked glasses and zero game whatsoever. 

so when you did ask ohyul of all people, how could he say no? this was the perfect opportunity to sit and talk to the yn. one minute he was explaining stereoisomers to you, the next you were batting your lashes at him and touching his arm every 5 fucking seconds. poor idiot kept jolting in his seat, face red while you leaned in way too close on purpose. 

and here you were now taking his cock in like a champ. deep down you always had a feeling the nerd constantly tryharding in lectures had to be packing something stupid, and fuck - you were right. every thrust had your head spinning, cock dragging against that spot that made your brain go fuzzy while he fucked you rough without even realising it. you loved every second of it.

“fuuuuuuck, you feel s’good.” he slurred out as he got pussy drunk on the way your gummy walls wrap around his cock so good. ohyul’s glasses had slipped halfway down his nose by now, lenses fogged from him panting over the way your body looks underneath him. your cute whines muffled against his palm, drool smearing across it whilst your cunt squeezed him so tight it made him almost cry. 

“look at me.” he blurted out, yanking your head back by your jaw, forcing you to look at him. his shirt open now, buttons barely holding on and his flushed skin exposed under the shitty library lights. there were scratches all over his throat from where you clawed at him earlier for being so desperate and greedy. 

the bookshelf beside you rattled violently every time he slammed into you, loose organic chem notes now scattered across the carpet. your fingers clung helplessly to the edge while your mouth hung open stupidly in broken moans. “yul, too deep, ngh, you’re in my stomach!” 

a strangled noise ripped out his throat as his cock twitched inside you, his thrusts becoming sloppier now. he wrapped an arm around your waist and hauled you tighter against his sweaty chest. 

“yeah? yeah?” he panted, his voice cracking embarrassingly. “gonna make you cum all over this dick.” he said with determination which normally would’ve made you laugh at how cringe he sounds but you were too busy getting your back blown out to care. you could barely answer anymore, all you managed was little nods and hoarse whines. ohyul sounded more pathetic than you though. whining, grunting like an animal, breath hitched in his throat because he clearly never had a girl fucked out underneath him like this. his eyes darted down to the clit hidden underneath your hood so he reached down to rub the nub hard and that had you cumming in seconds.

your whole body jerked against him as he had to slap his hand back over your mouth to smother the scream that left your mouth. legs shaking violently whilst you soaked his cock fully, a creamy ring forming around the base and cunt fluttering around him so hard he almost came right there too. you weakly pulled his hand down so you could babble,

“i-inside! pleasepleaseplease, fuck, oh my god, fuck need it s’bad!” 

ohyul almost froze, a warm pool in his lower stomach getting bigger at the filthy thought. he stared at you with wide eyes through his skewed glasses, looking silly but squeaked out, “y-you serious?”

you nodded furiously and that was all it took. ohyul cursed under his breath and slammed into you one last time, cock throbbing whilst he spilled deep thick ropes of cum inside you with a wrecked groan. his grip tightened on your waist as his hips still fucked into you but slower, ensuring his cum stays inside, breathing ragged against the back of your neck. both of you struggling to catch your breath but you notice how hard ohyul’s cock still is inside you. he slowly pulled you up against him, still twitching inside you as you peer around in a daze to look at him. without thinking you fixed his glasses and pushed them back up his flushed face, his lips bitten red and raw, and bangs sticking to his forehead. from up close you finally paid attention to his looks. he actually doesn’t look bad, almost..cute? without thinking, he pressed a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist before mumbling,

“..again?” 

and how could you say no to this cutie? ♡

Ohyul didn't look up from his screen, merely grunting in affirmation "Yeah."

"Cool. Uh, there’s someone I want you to meet."

That made Ohyul’s fingers pause over the keyboard. He tilted his head up, his dark eyes shifting toward the entryway. Ryul was standing there, looking unusually self-conscious, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. But it was the girl standing slightly behind him that caught Ohyul’s attention.

It was you.

You were holding onto the strap of your tote bag, your fingers tightening against the canvas as you met Ohyul’s gaze. You looked small next to Ryul’s broad frame, a little flushed from the walk up the stairs, and completely out of place in their apartment.

"This is y/n" Ryul said, his chest puffing out just a fraction as he introduced you, a prideful smile breaking across his face.

"Y/n, this is Ohyul. My roommate."

"Hi, Ohyul. It's really nice to meet you" you said, your voice carrying a soft, hesitant warmth. You offered a small, polite wave, your eyes searching his face for any sign of welcome.

Ohyul’s expression didn't change. He didn't smile, nor did he look annoyed. He simply took a slow sip of his water, his analytical gaze washing over you for a brief second before he nodded. He didn't see the appeal, honestly. To him, you just look like every other one of Ryul's ex-girlfriends or one night stands that he always brings over to fuck. He wasn't interested in making small talk or playing the welcoming host.

"Hey" Ohyul replied, his tone flat, almost dismissive. "Nice to meet you."

He turned his eyes straight back to his laptop screen, his fingers resuming their mechanical clicking on the keys.

The silence that followed was thick. You blinked, your hand dropping back to your side, a faint flare of embarrassment coloring your cheeks. You looked at Ryul, your lips parting slightly, unsure if you had done something wrong. Ryul just cleared his throat, clapping a hand on your shoulder to guide you toward his room.

"Don't mind him, he's always like that when he's working" Ryul whispered, though the apartment was small enough that Ohyul heard every word. "Come on, let's go inside."

As the door to Ryul’s bedroom clicked shut, Ohyul finally let his hands rest. He stared at the glowing monitor, the faint scent of a sweet, floral perfume still lingering in the air near the doorway. It was a clean, soft scent that didn't belong in a place like this. He let out a short, quiet exhale through his nose, reached down to pick up his headphones, and slid them over his ears, drowning out the rest of the world.

The days turned into weeks, and the apartment ceased to belong solely to the two men. Your presence became a recurring theme, an expected element of the weekly routine. Ohyul kept to himself, preserving his lifestyle like a ghost in his own home, but it was impossible not to notice the shift.

Ryul changed. The guy who used to survive on instant ramen and frozen pizza suddenly started hoarding fresh groceries in the fridge. Ohyul would walk into the kitchen in the afternoon to find the two of you standing by the stove. Ryul would have his arms wrapped around your waist from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder while you stirred a pot of pasta sauce.

"Baby, you’re in my way" you’d giggle, your shoulders shaking as you tried to nudge him with your elbow. "I can't chop the garlic if you're holding me this tight."

"Don't care. You smell too good." Ryul would mumble into your neck, his large hands sliding down to rest on your hips, pulling your back flush against his chest. He would kiss your cheek, loud and obvious, just to make you blush.

Ohyul would walk past you and Ryul to grab a can of soda, his face a mask of absolute neutrality. He wouldn't say a word, his eyes never lingered on the domestic display. You would always freeze a little when Ohyul entered the room, your voice dropping to a polite murmur. "Oh...hi Ohyul"

"Hey" he’d mutter back, grabbing his drink and immediately retreating to his bedroom, the door clicking shut behind him like a barrier.

On weekends, it was the living room. Ryul would drag the heavy blankets from his bed onto the couch, turning the small television area into a nest. You would sit between Ryul’s legs, your back resting against his chest while some movie played quietly in the dark. Ryul’s fingers would be tangled in your hair, lazily stroking your scalp while you watched the screen, occasionally leaning up to feed him a piece of popcorn.

To Ohyul, it was an exhausting display of sentimentality. He didn't understand the need to be constantly attached, to have another person constantly occupying your space, your thoughts, your skin. Every time he had to leave his room to use the bathroom or get water, he felt like he was intruding on a world that had no room for him. So, he perfected the art of looking through you. When you spoke, he offered one-word answers. When you smiled politely at him in the hallway, he gave a curt nod and kept moving. He thought he was just maintaining boundaries. He didn't realize how his coldness was settling into the quiet spaces of the apartment.

The summer heat had settled heavily over the city, turning the apartment into a stagnant box despite the hum of the old air conditioner. It was a Tuesday evening. Ohyul was in his room, the lights off, the glow of his computer monitor casting sharp, blue shadows across his face. He was exhausted, his shoulders tense from a long day of remote meetings, but his mind was too wired to sleep.

Through the thin drywall that separated his bedroom from Ryul’s, he heard the faint sound of the front door opening and closing. Then, the soft murmur of voices. You were over again.

Inside Ryul’s room, the atmosphere was thick with a quiet, heavy tension. You were sitting on the edge of Ryul’s unmade bed, your knees pulled up to your chest, your chin resting on your kneecaps. Your shirt hung slightly loose over your frame, and your eyes were fixed on the floorboards, tracing the dark grain of the wood.

Ryul was sitting at his desk, turning on his computer but he stopped when he noticed the heavy silence hanging over you. He stood up, his large frame casting a long shadow across the bed as he walked over and sat down beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight.

"Hey" Ryul said softly, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "What's that face for? You've been quiet since we got back from dinner."

You let out a small, hesitant breath, your fingers tightening around the fabric of your socks. You tilted your head up slightly, your eyes swimming with a vulnerability that always made Ryul’s chest tighten.

"Can I ask you something?" you whispered, your voice barely carrying across the small space.

"Yeah, anything. What's wrong?"

"Does... does Ohyul hate me?"

The question made Ryul pause, his hand resting on your shoulder. He blinked, a look of confusion crossing his features before he let out a low, breathless chuckle. "What? Where is this coming from? Ohyul doesn't hate you"

"No, i swear he really does" you insisted, your voice cracking slightly as the insecurity built up in your chest. You let your legs drop, turning your body fully toward Ryul. "He never looks at me. When I say hi, he barely mutters a word back. Yesterday in the hallway, I tried to ask him how his day was, and he just... he walked right past me like I was invisible. It’s like he can’t stand being in the same room as me. It makes me feel like I’m breaking some rules just by being here."

Ryul’s expression softened, the amusement fading from his eyes as he saw the genuine distress on your face. He reached out with both hands, gripping your waist and pulling you onto his lap. You let out a soft gasp as your thighs straddled his, your chest pressing against his broad pecs.

"Listen to me," Ryul murmured, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly tone he only used when he was entirely serious. He wrapped his large arms around your back, pulling you flush against his solid frame. "Ohyul is an asshole to everyone. He's been my best friend for years, and half the time, he treats me like a stranger too. He's just antisocial, y/n. He gets locked into his own head, his work, his routines. It has nothing to do with you. Trust me."

"Are you sure?" you whispered, your hands resting on his shoulders, your fingers digging slightly into the fabric of his t-shirt. "It just feels so personal. Like he's judging me."

"He's not judging shit," Ryul muttered, his eyes darkening as they dropped to your lips. The vulnerability in your eyes, the soft way your body was trembling against his—it was sparking something heavy and possessive in his gut. "And even if he was, it doesn't matter. This is my room. You're my girl. You don't need to care about him. You only need to care about me."

He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours, cutting off any further protest. The kiss was slow at first, a comforting pressure meant to soothe your doubts, but as you let out a soft, shaky sigh into his mouth, the rhythm shifted. Ryul’s hands slid down from your waist, gripping your thighs and squeezing them hard, lifting you up slightly so you were pressing harder against his growing dick.

"Let it go, princess." Ryul whispered against your lips, his hot breath fanning over your skin. "Forget about him. Just look at me."

You nodded against his mouth, your arms wrapping tightly around his neck as the heavy, familiar warmth of his desire began to wash away the cold sting of Ohyul’s indifference.

n the adjacent room, Ohyul was still sitting at his desk. He had heard the initial murmurs, the soft, muffled cadence of your voices through the wall but he hadn't been paying attention to the words. He didn't care. He reached down, picked up his wireless earbuds from the desk, and shoved them into his ears. He turned on a heavy, lo-fi instrumental track, the deep bass thumping against his eardrums, a familiar wall of sound designed to isolate him completely.

He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, waiting for his brain to turn off.

But the drywall in the old apartment was thin, and the bass wasn't loud enough to mask the shift in tone from the next room.

It started with a rhythmic creak. The old wooden frame of Ryul’s bed shifting under a sudden influx of weight. Ohyul’s eyes flicked open in the dark. He frowned, his fingers twitching against his thighs. He tried to focus on the music, turning the volume up until the synthetic drums were ringing in his ears.

Then came the first sound that bypassed the digital barrier completely.

It was a sharp, high-pitched gasp. Your voice. It wasn't the polite, quiet tone you used when you spoke to him in the kitchen. It was breathless, broken, and desperate.

Inside Ryul’s room, your clothes had already been discarded. Ryul had pulled over your shirt (originally his) with impatient, heavy hands, tossing it onto the floor where it landed with a soft whisper. He had pushed you back onto the mattress, his large body instantly hovering over yours, his knees parting your thighs with a rough, territorial urgency.

"Wait, the door—" you gasped out, your hands pressing against his chest as he buried his face in your neck, his teeth nipping at the soft skin right above your collarbone.

"It's locked. Forget the door" he growled, his voice thick with a feral sort of hunger. He reached down, unzipping his jeans with a harsh, metallic rattle that seemed to echo through the wall. He kicked them off, along with his boxers, his thick, rock hard cock instantly springing free, heavy and leaking with precum.

He didn't give you time to adjust. He grabbed your waist, his thumbs digging deep into your hips, leaving pale marks that would undoubtedly turn to bruises by morning. He lifted your legs, draping them over his broad shoulders, opening you up completely under the dim, ambient light of his computer monitor.

You looked up at him, your chest heaving, your bare breasts flattening and swaying with your frantic breaths. You were already slick, your body reacting to his heat before your mind could even catch up.

"Look at you," Ryul muttered, his eyes pitch black as he guided the thick head of his dick against your entrance. "So wet for your man. You're trembling."

"Please Ryul... just do it." you whimper, your hands gripping the bedsheets for dear life, your head tossing back against the pillows.

With a deep, guttural grunt, Ryul snapped his hips forward. He drove his cock deep inside you in one massive, unrelenting thrust, burying his entire length until his groin slammed hard against your ass.

"Ahhh! Fuck!"

The scream tore out of your throat, loud and uninhibited, a pure, raw reaction to the sheer size of him stretching your tight walls wide open. The sound was sharp, cutting through the quiet night like a blade.

Ohyul froze in his gaming chair.

The sound of your scream had penetrated his earbuds so clearly it felt like you were standing right behind him. The music playing in his ears suddenly felt distant, useless. His heart skipped a beat, a sudden, violent jolt of adrenaline spiking through his veins. His posture went completely rigid, his ears straining against the silicone tips of the earbuds.

He didn't want to hear it. He told himself he didn't care. But then came the rhythm.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

It was the unmistakable, heavy sound of skin clapping against skin. A wet, brutal friction that filled the silence of the apartment. Ryul had started moving, his pace immediate and feral, his hips jackhammering into your pussy with a violent, needy rhythm. Every stroke was heavy, his broad frame slamming down against yours, making the headboard of the bed strike the shared drywall with a dull, rhythmic thud.

Thud. Slap. Whimper.

Ohyul’s breath hitched in his throat. He reached up with trembling fingers, ripping the earbuds out of his ears and tossing them onto the desk. They clattered against the wood, but the sound was completely swallowed by the symphony of filth coming from the next room.

He could hear everything now,

Unfiltered.

Raw.

He heard the deep, animalistic groans tearing out of Ryul’s throat, the heavy, breathless grunts of his best friend pounding himself into a woman. But more than that, he heard you.

You were crying out. Your voice was a constant, high-pitched whine, a desperate loop of breathless moans and broken syllables.

"Ryul—ah! More... please—faster right there!" you sobbed, your voice muffled slightly, likely because Ryul was smothering your mouth with his kisses, but the high, whimper of your pleasure leaked through the drywall with agonizing clarity.

Ohyul felt a sudden, aggressive heat pool in his lower stomach. It was a physical reaction, immediate and uncontrollable. His sweatpants suddenly felt entirely too tight, the soft fabric straining against a sudden, raging erection that throbbed with every heavy slap of skin from the next room.

His mind screamed at him to stop. To put the headphones back on, to walk out of the apartment, to do anything else. But his body refused to move away from the sound. The sheer carnality of it. The wet, heavy friction, the desperate, trembling whines you were making, it was sliding into his ears and locking onto his brain like a virus.

"Fuck it" Ohyul hissed under his breath. His voice a gravelly whisper in the dark.

He stood up from his chair, his legs feeling heavy and unstable. He didn't turn on the lights. He moved through the shadows of his room like a predator, his eyes fixed on the shared wall. The thumping of the headboard was vibrating through the floorboards, a physical pulse that matched the frantic hammering of his own heart.

He approached the bed. He didn't lie down. Instead, he climbed onto the mattress, getting on his knees. He crawled forward until his knees were pressed against the edge, his body fully facing the bare, white drywall that separated his life from theirs.

Slowly without hesitation, he leaned forward. He pressed his left ear flat against the cold surface of the wall.

The audio quality changed instantly. It was like switching from a distant radio to a live performance. He could hear the squelch of Ryul’s pre-cum and your own wetness being churned between your bodies. He could hear the sharp, desperate in draws of your breath, the way your teeth clicked together when Ryul hit your sweet spot, the deep, rumbling dirty talk that Ryul was growling into your ear.

"You're so fucking tight, y/n... fuck, you're milking my dick" Ryul’s muffled voice vibrated through the wood.

"Ryul—Ryul, I'm gonna cum, please, don't stop!" you wailed, your voice breaking into a high, trembling whine that made Ohyul’s entire body shudder.

That whine. It was so pretty. So completely vulnerable. It was a sound Ohyul had never imagined you could make at all. The polite, quiet girl who always looked down when he walked past. To hear you broken down like this, reduced to nothing but a shaking, desperate mess of pleasure. It wrecked him.

Ohyul’s hand moved down on its own. His fingers hooked into the waistband of his grey sweatpants, pushing them down past his hips along with his boxers, freeing his thick, throbbing length. It was rock hard, hot to the touch, and already dripping a heavy bead of pre-cum from the sheer intensity of what he was listening to.

He gripped himself, his large palm wrapping tightly around his shaft. His knuckles were white, his veins standing out along his forearm as he began to stroke himself, his hand moving in perfect sync with the heavy rhythm of the skin clapping next door.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

He closed his eyes tight, his ear still glued to the wall. With his vision gone, his mind immediately filled the void with images.

He didn't see Ryul anymore. In his head, it was him standing over you in the dark bathroom. He imagined your breasts bouncing wildly in front of his face, the soft, heavy flesh jiggling with every rough stroke. He imagined his own hands cupping the undersides of your tits, lifting their weight and crushing them together while he buried his dick deep inside your soaking wet pussy.

He stroked faster, his thumb grinding against his own tip, mimicking the wet friction he was hearing.

He pictured your face, flushed, your lips parted, your eyes wide and swimming with tears as you looked up at him through the mirror. He imagined himself leaning down, his hot breath fanning over your neck, his lips brushing your ear as he growled the same filthy shit Ryul was saying.

"Fuck... y/n" Ohyul whispered into the dark room, his voice a tight, choked gasp.

Hearing your name leave his own lips sent a violent shockwave through his core. It felt dangerous. It felt forbidden. It was a line he had never crossed, a boundary he was actively setting on fire with every furious stroke of his hand. But the sound of your whines through the wall was like fuel on a wildfire. You were crying out louder now, your voice rising in pitch, your breath turning into a frantic, staccato panting.

"Ryul! Ryul, now—ah! I'm cumming!" you screamed out, your walls clamping down so hard next door that Ryul let out a loud, breathless roar of his own.

The sound of your climax, the pure, unadulterated sound of you breaking apart through the drywall shattered whatever control Ohyul had left. His hand blurred against his shaft, his strokes becoming violent, messy, and desperate. He was panting heavily, his chest heaving against the cold wall, his forehead pressing into the drywall as his hips twitched involuntarily.

He could picture it perfectly now. He imagined you on your knees under his desk, your breasts gathered together, squeezing his thick shaft tight in your cleavage while you looked up at him with those begging, vulnerable eyes. He imagined his cum erupting, painting your fat tits in thick, white ropes, splattering across your skin while you gasped for air.

"y/n... fuck fuck fuck" Ohyul whined, his voice dropping into a broken, needy whimper that mirrored yours.

His body went completely rigid. His toes curled into the bedsheets, and his abdomen tense into a painful, tight knot as his climax hit him with the force of a freight train. He let out a low, choked groan, his head snapping back as his cock pulsed violently, unleashing thick torrent of cum into his own hand and across his stomach and wall. He kept stroking through the spasms, his breath hitching, his entire body trembling as he squeezed out every last drop, his voice whispering your name one last time into the empty, dark room.

Next door, the heavy thumping slowly ground to a halt. The wet sounds of friction faded into the heavy, ragged breathing of two exhausted bodies. There was the faint sound of sheets shifting, a low murmur from Ryul, and then, a final, quiet silence settled over the apartment.

The sex was over.

Ohyul stayed on his knees for a long moment, his forehead still resting against the drywall. His hand was sticky, his chest heaving as his heartbeat slowly began to drop from its frantic peak. The heat that had consumed him just moments ago suddenly began to evaporate, leaving behind a cold, biting chill.

Slowly, he pulled himself away from the wall. He reached over to his nightstand, grabbing a handful of tissues, and wiped his hand and his skin clean. He pulled his sweatpants back up, his movements heavy and listless.

He crawled back to the center of his bed, collapsing flat onto his back. He stared up at the dark ceiling, the silence of the apartment now feeling heavy, suffocating, and incredibly loud.

The adrenaline was entirely gone now, replaced by a sudden, sickening drop in his stomach. The fog in his brain cleared, exposing the raw, ugly reality of what had just happened.

He turned his head to the side, looking at the bare wall.

A thought slammed into his mind, sharp and violent, cutting through his exhaustion like ice water.

What the fuck am I doing?

His fingers tightly gripped the fabric of his pillow, his jaw clenching so hard it ached. He had just spent the last twenty minutes on his knees, pressing his ear against a wall like a pathetic voyeur, listening to his best friend fuck. But it wasn't just that. He had used your voice. He had used your name. He had closed his eyes and vividly imagined his hands on your skin, his body inside yours, taking what belonged to the only guy who had ever had his back.

I just jerked off to my best friend's girlfriend.

The weight of the realization settled onto his chest, making it hard to breathe. Ohyul closed his eyes, letting out a long, shaky exhale through his teeth. The disgust was immediate, a bitter taste at the back of his throat. He had spent weeks pretending you didn't exist, treating you like an unwanted ghost in his space, only to turn around and use your vulnerability to satisfy his own self.

The apartment was quiet now. No more slaps. No more whines. Just the faint, rhythmic hum of the air conditioner in the hallway. But for Ohyul, the quiet was gone for good. He knows, Every time he would look at that wall, every time he would walk into the kitchen and see you standing there with Ryul, he would still hear that pretty, broken whine. He would remember the weight of his own hand, the sound of your name leaving his lips, and the forbidden fire that had just ruined the only stable thing he had left.

TAGLIST : @bammbi-jeon127 @moneykays @zelyamova @n-nikiimuraa @yushinyuz @reicow @surrik-i (white : can't tag)

Ohyul didn't look up from his screen, merely grunting in affirmation "Yeah."

"Cool. Uh, there’s someone I want you to meet."

That made Ohyul’s fingers pause over the keyboard. He tilted his head up, his dark eyes shifting toward the entryway. Ryul was standing there, looking unusually self-conscious, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. But it was the girl standing slightly behind him that caught Ohyul’s attention.

It was you.

You were holding onto the strap of your tote bag, your fingers tightening against the canvas as you met Ohyul’s gaze. You looked small next to Ryul’s broad frame, a little flushed from the walk up the stairs, and completely out of place in their apartment.

"This is y/n" Ryul said, his chest puffing out just a fraction as he introduced you, a prideful smile breaking across his face.

"Y/n, this is Ohyul. My roommate."

"Hi, Ohyul. It's really nice to meet you" you said, your voice carrying a soft, hesitant warmth. You offered a small, polite wave, your eyes searching his face for any sign of welcome.

Ohyul’s expression didn't change. He didn't smile, nor did he look annoyed. He simply took a slow sip of his water, his analytical gaze washing over you for a brief second before he nodded. He didn't see the appeal, honestly. To him, you just look like every other one of Ryul's ex-girlfriends or one night stands that he always brings over to fuck. He wasn't interested in making small talk or playing the welcoming host.

"Hey" Ohyul replied, his tone flat, almost dismissive. "Nice to meet you."

He turned his eyes straight back to his laptop screen, his fingers resuming their mechanical clicking on the keys.

The silence that followed was thick. You blinked, your hand dropping back to your side, a faint flare of embarrassment coloring your cheeks. You looked at Ryul, your lips parting slightly, unsure if you had done something wrong. Ryul just cleared his throat, clapping a hand on your shoulder to guide you toward his room.

"Don't mind him, he's always like that when he's working" Ryul whispered, though the apartment was small enough that Ohyul heard every word. "Come on, let's go inside."

As the door to Ryul’s bedroom clicked shut, Ohyul finally let his hands rest. He stared at the glowing monitor, the faint scent of a sweet, floral perfume still lingering in the air near the doorway. It was a clean, soft scent that didn't belong in a place like this. He let out a short, quiet exhale through his nose, reached down to pick up his headphones, and slid them over his ears, drowning out the rest of the world.

The days turned into weeks, and the apartment ceased to belong solely to the two men. Your presence became a recurring theme, an expected element of the weekly routine. Ohyul kept to himself, preserving his lifestyle like a ghost in his own home, but it was impossible not to notice the shift.

Ryul changed. The guy who used to survive on instant ramen and frozen pizza suddenly started hoarding fresh groceries in the fridge. Ohyul would walk into the kitchen in the afternoon to find the two of you standing by the stove. Ryul would have his arms wrapped around your waist from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder while you stirred a pot of pasta sauce.

"Baby, you’re in my way" you’d giggle, your shoulders shaking as you tried to nudge him with your elbow. "I can't chop the garlic if you're holding me this tight."

"Don't care. You smell too good." Ryul would mumble into your neck, his large hands sliding down to rest on your hips, pulling your back flush against his chest. He would kiss your cheek, loud and obvious, just to make you blush.

Ohyul would walk past you and Ryul to grab a can of soda, his face a mask of absolute neutrality. He wouldn't say a word, his eyes never lingered on the domestic display. You would always freeze a little when Ohyul entered the room, your voice dropping to a polite murmur. "Oh...hi Ohyul"

"Hey" he’d mutter back, grabbing his drink and immediately retreating to his bedroom, the door clicking shut behind him like a barrier.

On weekends, it was the living room. Ryul would drag the heavy blankets from his bed onto the couch, turning the small television area into a nest. You would sit between Ryul’s legs, your back resting against his chest while some movie played quietly in the dark. Ryul’s fingers would be tangled in your hair, lazily stroking your scalp while you watched the screen, occasionally leaning up to feed him a piece of popcorn.

To Ohyul, it was an exhausting display of sentimentality. He didn't understand the need to be constantly attached, to have another person constantly occupying your space, your thoughts, your skin. Every time he had to leave his room to use the bathroom or get water, he felt like he was intruding on a world that had no room for him. So, he perfected the art of looking through you. When you spoke, he offered one-word answers. When you smiled politely at him in the hallway, he gave a curt nod and kept moving. He thought he was just maintaining boundaries. He didn't realize how his coldness was settling into the quiet spaces of the apartment.

The summer heat had settled heavily over the city, turning the apartment into a stagnant box despite the hum of the old air conditioner. It was a Tuesday evening. Ohyul was in his room, the lights off, the glow of his computer monitor casting sharp, blue shadows across his face. He was exhausted, his shoulders tense from a long day of remote meetings, but his mind was too wired to sleep.

Through the thin drywall that separated his bedroom from Ryul’s, he heard the faint sound of the front door opening and closing. Then, the soft murmur of voices. You were over again.

Inside Ryul’s room, the atmosphere was thick with a quiet, heavy tension. You were sitting on the edge of Ryul’s unmade bed, your knees pulled up to your chest, your chin resting on your kneecaps. Your shirt hung slightly loose over your frame, and your eyes were fixed on the floorboards, tracing the dark grain of the wood.

Ryul was sitting at his desk, turning on his computer but he stopped when he noticed the heavy silence hanging over you. He stood up, his large frame casting a long shadow across the bed as he walked over and sat down beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight.

"Hey" Ryul said softly, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "What's that face for? You've been quiet since we got back from dinner."

You let out a small, hesitant breath, your fingers tightening around the fabric of your socks. You tilted your head up slightly, your eyes swimming with a vulnerability that always made Ryul’s chest tighten.

"Can I ask you something?" you whispered, your voice barely carrying across the small space.

"Yeah, anything. What's wrong?"

"Does... does Ohyul hate me?"

The question made Ryul pause, his hand resting on your shoulder. He blinked, a look of confusion crossing his features before he let out a low, breathless chuckle. "What? Where is this coming from? Ohyul doesn't hate you"

"No, i swear he really does" you insisted, your voice cracking slightly as the insecurity built up in your chest. You let your legs drop, turning your body fully toward Ryul. "He never looks at me. When I say hi, he barely mutters a word back. Yesterday in the hallway, I tried to ask him how his day was, and he just... he walked right past me like I was invisible. It’s like he can’t stand being in the same room as me. It makes me feel like I’m breaking some rules just by being here."

Ryul’s expression softened, the amusement fading from his eyes as he saw the genuine distress on your face. He reached out with both hands, gripping your waist and pulling you onto his lap. You let out a soft gasp as your thighs straddled his, your chest pressing against his broad pecs.

"Listen to me," Ryul murmured, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly tone he only used when he was entirely serious. He wrapped his large arms around your back, pulling you flush against his solid frame. "Ohyul is an asshole to everyone. He's been my best friend for years, and half the time, he treats me like a stranger too. He's just antisocial, y/n. He gets locked into his own head, his work, his routines. It has nothing to do with you. Trust me."

"Are you sure?" you whispered, your hands resting on his shoulders, your fingers digging slightly into the fabric of his t-shirt. "It just feels so personal. Like he's judging me."

"He's not judging shit," Ryul muttered, his eyes darkening as they dropped to your lips. The vulnerability in your eyes, the soft way your body was trembling against his—it was sparking something heavy and possessive in his gut. "And even if he was, it doesn't matter. This is my room. You're my girl. You don't need to care about him. You only need to care about me."

He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours, cutting off any further protest. The kiss was slow at first, a comforting pressure meant to soothe your doubts, but as you let out a soft, shaky sigh into his mouth, the rhythm shifted. Ryul’s hands slid down from your waist, gripping your thighs and squeezing them hard, lifting you up slightly so you were pressing harder against his growing dick.

"Let it go, princess." Ryul whispered against your lips, his hot breath fanning over your skin. "Forget about him. Just look at me."

You nodded against his mouth, your arms wrapping tightly around his neck as the heavy, familiar warmth of his desire began to wash away the cold sting of Ohyul’s indifference.

n the adjacent room, Ohyul was still sitting at his desk. He had heard the initial murmurs, the soft, muffled cadence of your voices through the wall but he hadn't been paying attention to the words. He didn't care. He reached down, picked up his wireless earbuds from the desk, and shoved them into his ears. He turned on a heavy, lo-fi instrumental track, the deep bass thumping against his eardrums, a familiar wall of sound designed to isolate him completely.

He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, waiting for his brain to turn off.

But the drywall in the old apartment was thin, and the bass wasn't loud enough to mask the shift in tone from the next room.

It started with a rhythmic creak. The old wooden frame of Ryul’s bed shifting under a sudden influx of weight. Ohyul’s eyes flicked open in the dark. He frowned, his fingers twitching against his thighs. He tried to focus on the music, turning the volume up until the synthetic drums were ringing in his ears.

Then came the first sound that bypassed the digital barrier completely.

It was a sharp, high-pitched gasp. Your voice. It wasn't the polite, quiet tone you used when you spoke to him in the kitchen. It was breathless, broken, and desperate.

Inside Ryul’s room, your clothes had already been discarded. Ryul had pulled over your shirt (originally his) with impatient, heavy hands, tossing it onto the floor where it landed with a soft whisper. He had pushed you back onto the mattress, his large body instantly hovering over yours, his knees parting your thighs with a rough, territorial urgency.

"Wait, the door—" you gasped out, your hands pressing against his chest as he buried his face in your neck, his teeth nipping at the soft skin right above your collarbone.

"It's locked. Forget the door" he growled, his voice thick with a feral sort of hunger. He reached down, unzipping his jeans with a harsh, metallic rattle that seemed to echo through the wall. He kicked them off, along with his boxers, his thick, rock hard cock instantly springing free, heavy and leaking with precum.

He didn't give you time to adjust. He grabbed your waist, his thumbs digging deep into your hips, leaving pale marks that would undoubtedly turn to bruises by morning. He lifted your legs, draping them over his broad shoulders, opening you up completely under the dim, ambient light of his computer monitor.

You looked up at him, your chest heaving, your bare breasts flattening and swaying with your frantic breaths. You were already slick, your body reacting to his heat before your mind could even catch up.

"Look at you," Ryul muttered, his eyes pitch black as he guided the thick head of his dick against your entrance. "So wet for your man. You're trembling."

"Please Ryul... just do it." you whimper, your hands gripping the bedsheets for dear life, your head tossing back against the pillows.

With a deep, guttural grunt, Ryul snapped his hips forward. He drove his cock deep inside you in one massive, unrelenting thrust, burying his entire length until his groin slammed hard against your ass.

"Ahhh! Fuck!"

The scream tore out of your throat, loud and uninhibited, a pure, raw reaction to the sheer size of him stretching your tight walls wide open. The sound was sharp, cutting through the quiet night like a blade.

Ohyul froze in his gaming chair.

The sound of your scream had penetrated his earbuds so clearly it felt like you were standing right behind him. The music playing in his ears suddenly felt distant, useless. His heart skipped a beat, a sudden, violent jolt of adrenaline spiking through his veins. His posture went completely rigid, his ears straining against the silicone tips of the earbuds.

He didn't want to hear it. He told himself he didn't care. But then came the rhythm.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

It was the unmistakable, heavy sound of skin clapping against skin. A wet, brutal friction that filled the silence of the apartment. Ryul had started moving, his pace immediate and feral, his hips jackhammering into your pussy with a violent, needy rhythm. Every stroke was heavy, his broad frame slamming down against yours, making the headboard of the bed strike the shared drywall with a dull, rhythmic thud.

Thud. Slap. Whimper.

Ohyul’s breath hitched in his throat. He reached up with trembling fingers, ripping the earbuds out of his ears and tossing them onto the desk. They clattered against the wood, but the sound was completely swallowed by the symphony of filth coming from the next room.

He could hear everything now,

Unfiltered.

Raw.

He heard the deep, animalistic groans tearing out of Ryul’s throat, the heavy, breathless grunts of his best friend pounding himself into a woman. But more than that, he heard you.

You were crying out. Your voice was a constant, high-pitched whine, a desperate loop of breathless moans and broken syllables.

"Ryul—ah! More... please—faster right there!" you sobbed, your voice muffled slightly, likely because Ryul was smothering your mouth with his kisses, but the high, whimper of your pleasure leaked through the drywall with agonizing clarity.

Ohyul felt a sudden, aggressive heat pool in his lower stomach. It was a physical reaction, immediate and uncontrollable. His sweatpants suddenly felt entirely too tight, the soft fabric straining against a sudden, raging erection that throbbed with every heavy slap of skin from the next room.

His mind screamed at him to stop. To put the headphones back on, to walk out of the apartment, to do anything else. But his body refused to move away from the sound. The sheer carnality of it. The wet, heavy friction, the desperate, trembling whines you were making, it was sliding into his ears and locking onto his brain like a virus.

"Fuck it" Ohyul hissed under his breath. His voice a gravelly whisper in the dark.

He stood up from his chair, his legs feeling heavy and unstable. He didn't turn on the lights. He moved through the shadows of his room like a predator, his eyes fixed on the shared wall. The thumping of the headboard was vibrating through the floorboards, a physical pulse that matched the frantic hammering of his own heart.

He approached the bed. He didn't lie down. Instead, he climbed onto the mattress, getting on his knees. He crawled forward until his knees were pressed against the edge, his body fully facing the bare, white drywall that separated his life from theirs.

Slowly without hesitation, he leaned forward. He pressed his left ear flat against the cold surface of the wall.

The audio quality changed instantly. It was like switching from a distant radio to a live performance. He could hear the squelch of Ryul’s pre-cum and your own wetness being churned between your bodies. He could hear the sharp, desperate in draws of your breath, the way your teeth clicked together when Ryul hit your sweet spot, the deep, rumbling dirty talk that Ryul was growling into your ear.

"You're so fucking tight, y/n... fuck, you're milking my dick" Ryul’s muffled voice vibrated through the wood.

"Ryul—Ryul, I'm gonna cum, please, don't stop!" you wailed, your voice breaking into a high, trembling whine that made Ohyul’s entire body shudder.

That whine. It was so pretty. So completely vulnerable. It was a sound Ohyul had never imagined you could make at all. The polite, quiet girl who always looked down when he walked past. To hear you broken down like this, reduced to nothing but a shaking, desperate mess of pleasure. It wrecked him.

Ohyul’s hand moved down on its own. His fingers hooked into the waistband of his grey sweatpants, pushing them down past his hips along with his boxers, freeing his thick, throbbing length. It was rock hard, hot to the touch, and already dripping a heavy bead of pre-cum from the sheer intensity of what he was listening to.

He gripped himself, his large palm wrapping tightly around his shaft. His knuckles were white, his veins standing out along his forearm as he began to stroke himself, his hand moving in perfect sync with the heavy rhythm of the skin clapping next door.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

He closed his eyes tight, his ear still glued to the wall. With his vision gone, his mind immediately filled the void with images.

He didn't see Ryul anymore. In his head, it was him standing over you in the dark bathroom. He imagined your breasts bouncing wildly in front of his face, the soft, heavy flesh jiggling with every rough stroke. He imagined his own hands cupping the undersides of your tits, lifting their weight and crushing them together while he buried his dick deep inside your soaking wet pussy.

He stroked faster, his thumb grinding against his own tip, mimicking the wet friction he was hearing.

He pictured your face, flushed, your lips parted, your eyes wide and swimming with tears as you looked up at him through the mirror. He imagined himself leaning down, his hot breath fanning over your neck, his lips brushing your ear as he growled the same filthy shit Ryul was saying.

"Fuck... y/n" Ohyul whispered into the dark room, his voice a tight, choked gasp.

Hearing your name leave his own lips sent a violent shockwave through his core. It felt dangerous. It felt forbidden. It was a line he had never crossed, a boundary he was actively setting on fire with every furious stroke of his hand. But the sound of your whines through the wall was like fuel on a wildfire. You were crying out louder now, your voice rising in pitch, your breath turning into a frantic, staccato panting.

"Ryul! Ryul, now—ah! I'm cumming!" you screamed out, your walls clamping down so hard next door that Ryul let out a loud, breathless roar of his own.

The sound of your climax, the pure, unadulterated sound of you breaking apart through the drywall shattered whatever control Ohyul had left. His hand blurred against his shaft, his strokes becoming violent, messy, and desperate. He was panting heavily, his chest heaving against the cold wall, his forehead pressing into the drywall as his hips twitched involuntarily.

He could picture it perfectly now. He imagined you on your knees under his desk, your breasts gathered together, squeezing his thick shaft tight in your cleavage while you looked up at him with those begging, vulnerable eyes. He imagined his cum erupting, painting your fat tits in thick, white ropes, splattering across your skin while you gasped for air.

"y/n... fuck fuck fuck" Ohyul whined, his voice dropping into a broken, needy whimper that mirrored yours.

His body went completely rigid. His toes curled into the bedsheets, and his abdomen tense into a painful, tight knot as his climax hit him with the force of a freight train. He let out a low, choked groan, his head snapping back as his cock pulsed violently, unleashing thick torrent of cum into his own hand and across his stomach and wall. He kept stroking through the spasms, his breath hitching, his entire body trembling as he squeezed out every last drop, his voice whispering your name one last time into the empty, dark room.

Next door, the heavy thumping slowly ground to a halt. The wet sounds of friction faded into the heavy, ragged breathing of two exhausted bodies. There was the faint sound of sheets shifting, a low murmur from Ryul, and then, a final, quiet silence settled over the apartment.

The sex was over.

Ohyul stayed on his knees for a long moment, his forehead still resting against the drywall. His hand was sticky, his chest heaving as his heartbeat slowly began to drop from its frantic peak. The heat that had consumed him just moments ago suddenly began to evaporate, leaving behind a cold, biting chill.

Slowly, he pulled himself away from the wall. He reached over to his nightstand, grabbing a handful of tissues, and wiped his hand and his skin clean. He pulled his sweatpants back up, his movements heavy and listless.

He crawled back to the center of his bed, collapsing flat onto his back. He stared up at the dark ceiling, the silence of the apartment now feeling heavy, suffocating, and incredibly loud.

The adrenaline was entirely gone now, replaced by a sudden, sickening drop in his stomach. The fog in his brain cleared, exposing the raw, ugly reality of what had just happened.

He turned his head to the side, looking at the bare wall.

A thought slammed into his mind, sharp and violent, cutting through his exhaustion like ice water.

What the fuck am I doing?

His fingers tightly gripped the fabric of his pillow, his jaw clenching so hard it ached. He had just spent the last twenty minutes on his knees, pressing his ear against a wall like a pathetic voyeur, listening to his best friend fuck. But it wasn't just that. He had used your voice. He had used your name. He had closed his eyes and vividly imagined his hands on your skin, his body inside yours, taking what belonged to the only guy who had ever had his back.

I just jerked off to my best friend's girlfriend.

The weight of the realization settled onto his chest, making it hard to breathe. Ohyul closed his eyes, letting out a long, shaky exhale through his teeth. The disgust was immediate, a bitter taste at the back of his throat. He had spent weeks pretending you didn't exist, treating you like an unwanted ghost in his space, only to turn around and use your vulnerability to satisfy his own self.

The apartment was quiet now. No more slaps. No more whines. Just the faint, rhythmic hum of the air conditioner in the hallway. But for Ohyul, the quiet was gone for good. He knows, Every time he would look at that wall, every time he would walk into the kitchen and see you standing there with Ryul, he would still hear that pretty, broken whine. He would remember the weight of his own hand, the sound of your name leaving his lips, and the forbidden fire that had just ruined the only stable thing he had left.

TAGLIST : @bammbi-jeon127 @moneykays @zelyamova @n-nikiimuraa @yushinyuz @reicow @surrik-i (white : can't tag)

He finds it amazing the possibility to reach deep into society and cause a stir with some well-founded arguments. For Heeseung, there was a kind of freedom in knowing how the legal system in his country worked that fascinated him intrinsically. Heeseung has always been curious, especially because he wanted to understand why so many injustices could not be easily resolved. What was stopping a country from truly delivering justice?

But despite being an idealist, Heeseung learned that people can be hypocritical, cold, fake and especially selfish when it comes to something that is about their own interests. And perhaps that is the main reason why the system is so flawed.

Personally, Heeseung can't stand hypocrisy and in his opinion, everything about you screamed 'hypocrisy'. From the way you dressed and carried yourself to the way you spoke – everything irritated him. Initially, he didn't have this curious aversion towards you. He didn't really care about your presence, despite noticing that you drew attention wherever you went.

The hypnotized looks around you and the sneaky approaches trying to create some kind of bond with you demonstrated a clear situation: you were from an important family, or your beauty was a factor that contributed to that. This type of approach was expected within the law school, which was full of people who only cared about other people's backgrounds.

However, Heeseung only confirmed his suspicions when your surname began to be whispered in the hallways. Y/N Park, the famous daughter of a renowned attorney with a giant office in the city center.

Heeseung laughed at the irony: Of course, you are just another privileged rich girl who is only in college as a rite of passage with a ready and perfect pass to a job already premeditated by your father.

There were many people like this in law school, but for some unknown reason you affected Heeseung differently. The way you presented yourself perfectly, without any flaws, almost theatrically bothered him.

But even though he knew you were the type of girl he wouldn't want to get close to, his disdain began to increase after a specific episode. It all started when you were in Criminology class and there was a free debate going on about the ‘Historical Development of Criminology' and what impact it had on law in the modern world.

You were explaining about the evolution of the concept of crime, and how Cesare Beccaria had contributed to the Classical School of Criminology, in which the concept of crime is based on what is in the law with a focus on restoring social order and the criminal justice system, given that the free and conscious choice of a delinquent to commit a crime affected not only the victim, but the entire society.

According to your train of thought, there are social factors that influence people to commit petty crimes and that would eventually be appreciated in other modern schools. But even with your impeccable contribution, Heeseung couldn't take you seriously when he saw you using an overpriced bag while criticizing the dry theory of the classical school.

Heeseung was no fool, he knew that life wasn't fair and there would be people in better financial situations than him. In fact, he had fought hard to get into a good university and study law, so he had a pride about his academic achievements, but there was something about you that drove him crazy. He couldn't put it into words, but you triggered specific emotions in his brain — and the main one was agitation.

So, for every argument you brought up, he inevitably countered with something new. What was supposed to be just a friendly debate between classmates turned into a heated argument between you and him.

“I agree, however, if you allow me to make a brief criticism, we know that even with social issues involved, the key point of free will and the delinquent’s conscious choice to commit a crime – an argument that came from the classical school – is taken into consideration today as well.” Heeseung countered, making you sigh for having cut off your train of thought.

“Of course, but it doesn’t change the fact that social issues have a great weight in this matter.” You leaned over the table and he chuckled “Yes, I agree that they do have an influence, but you must admit that even with all the influence in the world, we know that it's not that simple to understand the conscience of an individual who commits crimes.”

Even though he didn't say much, Heeseung saw how irritated you were: you seemed out of breath, your eyebrows were furrowed, and your gaze was fixed on him. And it was at that exact moment — when your eyes locked for a few seconds and he smirked — that he knew that irritating you would be his new entertainment.

For the first time in his life, he had seen you make an expression other than your serious one or the one with that meticulously adjusted smile you gave when you wanted to appear overly polite. Seeing how he pressed the specific buttons to irritate you was the new entertainment that was missing in Heeseung's college life, and it made him more elated than it should have been.

And this brief rivalry that was born unexpectedly in a debate, continued to extend to test scores, projects and final evaluations in the following semesters. Heeseung couldn't deny that you were very intelligent because he had lost 1st place in many situations, but that didn't discourage him and instead motivated him even more, because each perfect 100 that he achieved and threw in your face was absolutely satisfying.

So Heeseung's college life became hectic, as he was the famous student brave enough to face the "queen" of the course.

The one and only— Lee Heeseung —the reason for your extra study sessions, as you swore you would never let yourself lose to Heeseung in any aspect of academic life.

After all, nothing was better than the feeling of beating Heeseung at the very game he created.

☆

Your reflection in the bedroom mirror seemed to show that everything was in perfect order. Your hair was neat, your clothes were well-ironed, and the hydrated glow of your skin was even more noticeable that late afternoon. But in reality, you were distracted, reflecting on your past.

When you were in high school, your father gave you two options for college:

1) Med school or 2) Law school. That's it.

Unfortunately, you had no choice or desire of your own regarding your future, because according to your father, all that mattered was studying something with a “financial return”. In a way, you understood your father's vision, because he was a man who had suffered from poverty and hunger in the past, and became who he is with a lot of pain and sacrifice. However, the pressure and responsibility that came with being his daughter were very heavy.

A man who had been brutalized by the hard life he had led could not think of other realities in life. Your father didn’t believe in “talents” or “gifts” that couldn’t pay the bills. It didn't matter how good you were at some sport or art-related hobby. If it didn’t bring money home it shouldn’t be pursued – or worse, desired and dreamed of.

When he wanted to talk to you about something specific, he would always call you to his personal office. The same office that you found terrifying because it was so impersonal. The dark gray walls, the low lighting, and the plain furniture, without any memorabilia, photos, or any kind of decoration that would indicate any personality trait — everything gave off a cold, indifferent, distant air.

Since work had consumed his life, you knew you had to take advantage of these minutes of interaction with your father. He would often sit there, typing and reading cases on the computer, with his attention 100% focused on the screen that must have contained sensitive information (that was what your curious mind used to believe).

“You understand, right sweetie? I only want the best for you.” Your father would often take your hand and squeeze it gently as wrinkles crept into the corners of his eyes with the small smile he gave you “Yes, father. I understand.” You would respond like a perfect little doll who obeyed without questioning his ideas.

But even though you’d done everything your father had told you to do up until now, you knew that this wasn't the path you wanted to follow forever.

You wanted options. Options for what to do with your future that didn’t involve working in your father’s office. This expectation that everyone around you has that you will become the next face of your father's office is like a weight that you have to carry, but you’ve already decided that your path will be different.

But no one besides your best friend knows about it.

Luckily, you had always liked law, so you had delved deeper into the careers you could pursue over time. The prosecutor's office seemed interesting, after all, criminal law is a passion of yours. Unlike your father, who liked corporate and civil law, which is why he had all kinds of demands in his office.

However, you could try to become an attorney at another firm and gain experience in another area of law. There were certainly many options for you to explore, and fortunately there was still time for you to figure out what you really wanted to do, and the next steps to take.

As you wandered through thoughts about your future, your best friend and roommate, Gaeul, snapped you out of your prolonged reverie.

“Are you going out?” she was holding a bag of potato chips when she appeared at your bedroom door “I’m going to another extra study session.” You gave her a delicate smile and picked up your bag before heading towards Gaeul who looked at you suspiciously “Again?”

“Sure, why not?” Gaeul sighed “You know you don’t have to do all of this to beat Heeseung.” she followed you through the small dorm “You’re already too good, I don’t understand this rivalry between you two.”

“Gaeul, it’s much more than rivalry.” You took out your keys to open the front door “It’s a matter of honor! I can’t lose to that prick.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure...” she laughed before taking another bite of the potato chip “Have fun babe!” You blew an air kiss that made Gaeul make a funny face “I will!”

☆

The library was quiet, with the perfect atmosphere for a late afternoon study session. This time of day was always your favorite, the sun setting through the window and the tranquility of the place made the environment completely cozy, even if you had to read something grueling.

You were reading the work of a famous criminal law scholar when your peace was interrupted by the soft tapping of fingers on the table in front of you. “Busy?” Heeseung’s unmistakable ironic voice made you take a deep breath, trying not to get irritated by his mocking manner.

One of the rules you strictly follow is that you won’t interact with Lee Heeseung unless it is absolutely necessary. Even though you are a calm and reserved person, the slightest interaction with Heeseung somehow stresses you out.

“Can’t you see I’m obviously studying?” Heeseung felt the vein in his neck throb in irritation and clicked his tongue when he saw how you didn’t even look at his face to answer him.

“Well, I think you need to see this.” he placed the paper in front of your eyes. Reluctantly you placed the book on the table and held the sheet up, looking at the contents of what was there “What is this?” You asked in disbelief as you saw your name paired next to Heeseung’s under a title that said ‘international law project’.

“Are you surprised?” You turned to Heeseung with wide eyes “As you can see, we are partners in Mrs. Jung’s project.” for the first time that day, all of your focus faded in a matter of seconds.

'No. No. No. This couldn't be happening. Me and Lee Heeseung together? In a project?'

“What do you mean? How the hell did this happen?” Heeseung took the liberty of sitting next to you. He leaned back in his chair and ran his hand through his hair “I don’t know either. Earlier I was leaving an extracurricular activity when Jay called me to look at the bulletin board because the pairings for the new project in the international law class had been announced.”

You stopped for a moment and began to remember that in the last international law class, Mrs. Jung had said that there would be a new project for that semester and that she didn't like to draw pairs, so she would choose the pairs herself.

And with the immense luck you had, she decided that the partner who would suit you best would be Lee Heeseung, out of the entire class.

“When I got close to the mural, Jay was staring at me with a hilarious face.” Heeseung gave a clearly frustrated sigh as he ran his hand over his face “I just didn’t expect it to be because of this.”

“This has to be a mistake.” It couldn’t be true. You couldn’t believe this was happening.

“Unfortunately, it’s true, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” Your eyebrows furrowed at Heeseung, who seemed too resigned for your liking “I’m not going to do this project with you, I– we have to talk to the teacher.”

Heeseung gave you a wry laugh “You can try talking to her, but it won’t work.” he picked up the paper from the table and analyzed the names again as if to confirm that it was real “The seniors already told me that Mrs. Jung is strict and doesn’t make exceptions. She never changes her plan.”

Your stomach began to feel heavy with the anxiety that was building up. You also heard these rumors from a senior who had given you tips about the worst teachers she had to deal with.

“I don’t care, I’ll talk to her.”

“Do whatever you want, I warned you.” Heeseung gave you one last pitiful look and got up from his chair “Are you going to leave like that? We need to talk about this.” he looked at you and shrugged his shoulders putting his hands in his coat pockets “The teacher isn’t here right now, we’ll look into this tomorrow.”

If there was something about Heeseung that really stressed you out, it was his attitude like he knew everything and had everything under control. As if he was better than everyone else.

“But we need to align what should be said!” You countered and Heeseung sighed, running his thumb and index finger over his furrowed eyebrows “God, you’re so annoying.”

Your breath stopped for a moment. How could Lee Heeseung have the audacity to call you annoying? Him of all people? The most insufferable person of all?

“What did you say?!” You stood up from your chair “Say that again!”

He smirked and took a step closer to you “You’re annoying.” Your blood was boiling as his face was just above yours “Everything about you irritates me.”

“Look who’s talking.” You scoffed and pointed at Heeseung with your index finger “You’re completely unbearable and you want to talk about me?”

Heeseung's jaw clenched, and you smirked, seeing how he was also clearly irritated by your response "Heeseung, I'm gonna be honest with you. I think you're just an arrogant prick, and I have no interest in working with you." You gave him a false smile while he frowned.

"Well, I feel the same." he said through gritted teeth and walked away "We'll sort this out tomorrow."

"Great." You took the paper and put it inside your book and closed it. Your desire to study had completely disappeared, and now you needed to think about how to talk to Mrs. Jung, because no way in hell you are going to pair up with Heeseung.

No way.

☆

The international law class was lasting longer than usual that Wednesday.

Your legs were shaking as anxiety corroded your entire body. Heeseung looked calm, his head resting on his right hand as he sat a few chairs in front of you. He had no idea of the storm that was happening inside you.

You had to convince the teacher that she needed to choose another partner for you. Anyone would do, even the slowest human being you could handle, except Lee Heeseung. Not him. Doing a project with him would be extremely stressful. You even felt a pang in your head when you imagined the stupid arguments you would have over simple things.

The truth is that initially you didn't care much for Heeseung, but you started to notice that since the beginning of college he did everything he could to talk back to you. He could never agree with you 100%, no matter the topic. So over time you started to nurture these feelings of rivalry and irritation towards him.

It was unbearable how he acted as if he was better than you and tried to prove it at all costs. That's why you made the decision to never let him surpass you, even in simple college activities. You would beat Lee Heeseung, even if it cost you a few more hours of studying.

However, now with this shared project this would certainly be a problem.

When class ended and the students left one by one, Heeseung calmly put his materials in his bag, as if he knew that his stoicism would irritate you. Mrs. Jung was sitting in her chair as she finished organizing some papers when you slowly approached.

“Uh, excuse me, Mrs. Jung. Can I have a few words with you?” Your soft voice drew the teacher’s attention away from her papers, who smiled back at you “Oh, miss Park, of course. How can I help you?”

You bit your lower lip hesitantly as the teacher looked at you carefully “It’s about the recent international law project; I saw that it’s going to be in pairs.” the teacher’s smile widened “Yes, I think it will be a great project for you.” she stood up from her chair holding the sheets “Is there a problem?”

“Actually, there is.” You were hoping internally that your nervousness wouldn’t show too much “I noticed that you chose Heeseung to be my partner, but since we’re not very close, I don’t think it’ll work out.” the teacher’s eyes seemed attentive to you “Then I’d like to ask about the possibility of changing partners.”

Mrs. Jung gave you a small sigh before offering you a gentle smile “Unfortunately, that won’t be possible, miss Park. Since I’ve already separated all the pairs, they’ve already started their research. Besides, it would be problematic to disrupt this entire system because of a request.” You started to feel despair set in your bones “I understand, Mrs. Jung, but it really will be difficult to work with Hees–”

“Miss Park, I chose Heeseung to be your partner because I think you two would be a great pair.” she interrupted you, leaving you speechless “What do you mean?”

The teacher seemed to think for a moment “I think you are a good match. You bring out the best in each other, and I think you will do a fabulous job with this research.”

Heeseung had arrived at exactly this time and stood frozen beside you.

“But—” You were cut off again by the teacher “The pairings will not be changed and this is final, miss Park. Okay?”

“Alright… Thank you for listening to me, Mrs. Jung.” she smiled before grabbing her bag “You’re welcome. I’m looking forward to seeing what you guys come up with.”

Heeseung watched you from the corner of his eye as the teacher left first. You were paralyzed as if a lightning had struck you.

“I told you she wouldn’t change her mind.” he broke the silence and you grimaced in pain.

“Oh, shut up.” You left first trying to accept the idea that you would have to put up with Heeseung as your partner for the rest of the semester.

Heeseung was having an internal debate as he waited for class to end. He didn't know whether he should talk to you and decide to start this research right away or wait for you to say something.

He had sat a few chairs behind you and saw how focused you seemed in class. For the first time this semester, he couldn't pay attention to what was being taught. How was he going to work with the girl he couldn't stand? And worse: for an entire semester? Not even in his worst dreams did he imagine something like this would happen.

As he pondered what to do, Jake glared at him with the corner of his eye “Dude, you’re making a scary face.”

Heeseung looked away and ran his hand through his dark hair “Sorry, I was distracted.”

“Distracted?” Jake smirked “You looked like a creepy staring at her.” Heeseung sighed “I  have to do the international law project with her.”

Jake put his hand over his mouth to contain the laugh that was threatening to escape “Oh man, you’re screwed.”

“I know.” Heeseung leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself “I need to talk to her.”

“Good luck.” Jake gave him a side smile and shook his head as Heeseung remained with his eyes closed.

When class ended, Heeseung gathered all the courage he had and walked towards you. You also looked haggard. Although your clothes were perfect and your hair was as shiny as ever, the circles under your eyes showed your tiredness as you put your materials in your bag.

A small smile began to form on Heeseung’s face, but he held it back. He couldn’t laugh at your face when he knew that he also had to accept the reality that you would have to put up with each other for the next few months.

“Hey.” that was all Heeseung could say as he watched you approach him “Hi.” Your dry response made the atmosphere heavy.

“I need your phone number to schedule the meetings about our project.” he was trying to be civil, no one could complain about that.

You sighed, showing your clear lack of interest in any conversation with him “Okay.”

Heeseung was really holding back his sharp mouth, but you weren't making it easy.

The way your hand handed your phone while you looked away irritated Heeseung deeply “Do you always have to be this petty?”

“What?” You asked confused as he finished putting his number into your phone “Can’t you interact for 5 minutes without being petty? Is it that hard?”

In your mind you couldn't believe what you were hearing. Lee Heeseung wanting to lecture you about pettiness?

“What the hell are you talking about? You’re the one who can’t go 5 minutes without criticizing anything I do.” Heeseung bit his lower lip, trying to hold his tongue. He was already upset, and you weren’t helping.

“Probably because you don’t make it easier?” he sighed and ran his fingertips over his temples, trying to regain his former calm state “You know what, forget about it. Have you saved my number?” his patience was running out, and so was yours.

“Yes, unfortunately.” You whispered the last part, which didn’t go unnoticed by Heeseung.

“See you after class.” he put his phone in his pocket and his backpack on his right shoulder.

You just nodded and left first.

'Yeah, this is really going to be difficult.' Heeseung thought before leaving the room with his mind messed up by the simple interaction you two had.

☆

The library was relatively crowded, but since you previously arranged with Heeseung, you managed to arrive together at the same time.

“Well, look at that. Lee Heeseung isn’t late, I'm surprised.” You teased as you sat down and took your laptop out of your bag.

“Tsk.” Heeseung clicked his tongue as he placed his notebooks on the table “Of course. The sooner we start, the sooner I can leave.” he replied, thinking about how he wanted this torture to end once and for all.

“Finally you said something I agree with.” You retorted as you opened a blank Word document and began sorting through your materials.

Heeseung had already noticed that you liked everything organized. Your materials were always organized in the same way: pens, laptop and a notebook lined up.

“Well, do you have any ideas or suggestions on what we can do?” Heeseung was a little surprised by your question, after all, he expected you to decide everything at once and create a big fight if he disagreed.

“I think this subject is too extensive, we can’t do a generic theme.” You nodded as you stared at the laptop screen “That makes sense. I think we should dive deeper into some specific subjects.”

“I usually research and read about the subject superficially before diving into complicated concepts.” Heeseung showed the sheet of paper from his notebook that had some sketches of past summaries he had done in other subjects.

“International law is a pain because if we read about everything, we’ll waste a lot of time.” You commented, scratching your head, feeling frustrated “Let’s choose some subjects we like and see which ones are the best.”

“Fine.” Heeseung just wanted to get it over with.

For the next 10 minutes you were in complete silence. As if it was a silent mutual agreement that you would only speak if it was absolutely necessary.

Interestingly, the discomfort was bearable. Was it strange that you were sitting side by side without saying anything? Yes, but at least when you didn't say anything, you didn't fight, and that was enough for the moment.

“These are my suggestions.” You looked at the list Heeseung had made, but one suggestion in particular caught your eye.

“Post-war law?” You tilted your head to the side “It’s too generic and complicated, we need to think about it.” Heeseung sighed “How can this be too generic? It’s literally about the law after wars.”

You mockingly laughed “Exactly. What kind of wars are you talking about? Because we can’t talk about every war in existence.” Heeseung felt a stab of anger in his head.

“So, what are your suggestions, genius?” Heeseung’s pejorative tone wasn’t enough to make you lose your patience, so you turned the laptop screen to show your contribution.

“We can talk about certain differences in the legal system in some countries and filter out only the most interesting ones.” Heeseung snorted and pointed at your laptop screen “That’s as generic as my suggestion!”

“Of course not!” clearly the discussion would not end there “We can only choose a few countries.”

“And we could talk about a few wars, for example the most famous ones? Like World War I or World War II?” his ironic tone gave you the creeps, in a bad way.

“It’s still a very simple theme, we should do something more elaborated.” You turned your laptop screen towards you and Heeseung took a deep breath.

“And isn’t your topic simple?” he approached you and looked into your eyes “You just want to do what’s convenient for you, as always.”

“What do you mean by that?” The tone of your voice clearly showed that you were now very mad. How could Heeseung make a single task so difficult?

“Forget it, you wouldn’t understand.” he whispered, clearly irritated.

Another 10 minutes of complete silence. Neither you nor Heeseung wanted to say anything else. It was clear that this would be a difficult task, but you tried to be rational and calm down.

What was at stake here was your grade, your academic record, and your future. You couldn't let Heeseung be an obstacle in your path.

“Look, let’s get one thing straight.” You turned to Heeseung who gave you a lazy look “It’s clear we don’t like each other.”

“Hm.” Heeseung nodded and waved his hands in the air as if he wanted you to get to the point quickly.

“But I don’t care about that. What I really care about is my grades, so if I have to do this damn project with you, I’ll do it.” Heeseung kept looking at you, waiting for you to finish “So, if you put your childishness aside for a moment and really help me, we’ll be able to finish this today.”

You were clearly nervous and out of patience.

“Then, can you please cooperate with me?” Heeseung somehow felt a bit remorseful, thinking that perhaps he had overreacted with the way you seemed to beg for the two of you to end this quickly.

“Okay, we clearly can’t reach a consensus, so let’s use another method.” he pulled his chair closer to you “What are you doing?”

“What do you like?” his bright, dark eyes stared into yours with intensity “What are you most comfortable with in international law?”

“I like the criminal part.” You whispered a little shyly as he got closer to you “Good.” Heeseung began to write in his notebook “I like the human rights part, especially the Post-World War II issue.”

You watched as he outlined the topics you both liked.

“Let’s research these themes and at the next meeting we’ll decide what to do.” he said and leaned back in his chair, looking at you.

“Okay. This might work.” You nodded, thinking it might be a good idea.

“It’ll work.” There it was. The tone of absolute certainty in Heeseung’s voice that usually irritated you, but this time you were satisfied that you had managed to reach a consensus.

“Okay, I’ll start now.” You stood up and headed towards some books in the international law section of the library, while Heeseung decided to research on the internet.

The rest of the meeting you were silent, researching the topics, but this time it wasn't awkward or heavy. You were just two students focusing on what you needed to do.

And that was enough for now.

“So, how is your international law project going?” Jay brought up the topic while he, Jake, and Heeseung were gathered in the campus cafeteria.

“Don’t remind me of that.” he sighed as he sipped on a soda “We managed to have a fight before the first meeting.”

“Damn, you guys are too complicated.” Jake commented with a smile “Luckily my partner on the project is Jay.” he fist bumped Jay.

“You guys are lucky. We’re trying to be civil, but sometimes it’s unavoidable not to get angry.” Jay narrowed his eyes as he studied his friend trying to understand why Heeseung seemed so reactive to you “You guys should see the way she acts. It’s like she does this on purpose to irritate me!”

“Can you believe the Mrs. Jung said she put us together because she thought we were a good match?” Heeseung gave a wry smile while Jake and Jay looked at each other with a knowing look and mocking smiles “She said I brought out the best in her, some shit like that.”

“Well, I somewhat agree.” Jay countered Heeseung “Since you two started interacting, you’ve become more dedicated to your studies.”

“Real, brother. You worry more about her than yourself when exam week comes.” Jake blurted out, and Jay laughed, making Heeseung stunned by his friend's confession.

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.” Heeseung sighed “I don’t care about her. I just like being the best in the class! That’s all.”

Jay smirked and put his arm around his friend's shoulder “Sure, sure… but you can't deny she's hot.”

Heeseung stood frozen in place at what Jay had said. He wasn't blind, he knew you were a beautiful woman, but that didn't change the fact that you were annoying to him.

“None of that changes the fact that she’s annoying.” Heeseung looked away as Jake and Jay chuckled.

“In my opinion, I think you lowkey admire her, but you can’t admit it and that’s why you act like that.” Jake teased Heeseung who was stunned “Just admit you’re into her man, it’s okay.” Jay said and Jake snickered “Huh? You guys are crazy.” he got up from his chair and decided to leave while Jay and Jake laughed.

“C'mon Heeseung! Don't run away like that!” Jake and Jay stood up and decided to follow him while Heeseung went ahead.

So what if you were pretty and attractive? That didn't change anything.

You were still the rich girl he couldn't stand.

☆

After a few days of research, you and Heeseung decided to have a meeting to decide on the final theme for your project.

It was already 16:24 in the afternoon and he still hadn't arrived, which was strange because Heeseung was always on time. Being late for more than 20 minutes wasn't like him.

Before you could text him, Heeseung hurried into the library. He was more casual than ever, wearing a dark gray sweater and a beanie, and you noticed that he was pale with slightly red cheeks and nose.

“Sorry for the delay, something’s got in the way.” he sounded haggard and strangely tired. His voice was hoarser than usual and you could tell he wasn’t doing very well.

“Are you okay?” You asked worriedly. Even though he was annoying, he clearly didn’t look okay “If you’re not okay, we can postpone it and–”

“I'm fine.” he cut you off in a harsh tone “Let's get this over with.” You stared at him in disbelief at the way he was acting.

“Wow.” You spoke ironically and didn’t hold back “Heeseung, what the hell is wrong with you?”

He closed his eyes temporarily, trying not to say anything. As if any noise would hurt like hell inside his head.

“I was just worried because you’re clearly not okay. If you want to be a jerk, then you can be by yourself.” You got up from the chair trying to leave and Heeseung grabbed your wrist “Let go of me.” You looked at his hand around your wrist and felt tortured by how soft and large his hand was compared to yours.

“I’m sorry.” Heeseung opened his eyes slightly and looked at you in a way that you swore you almost saw some kind of affection “Don’t go, please.”

You swallowed hard and sat back down on the chair, seeing how regretful Heeseung looked. “I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just…” he sighed as if he didn’t want to admit his weakness “The truth is, I caught a cold and I’m not feeling very well, but I didn’t want to postpone our meeting.”

“Heeseung, you’re sick! We can do this in a few days, we still have time.” You looked at Heeseung with pity, who coughed a little “You need to recover, come on.”

He let go of your wrist, turning his gaze to you, who stood up again “But what about choosing the theme for our project?” he clearly seemed worried about the project, and you sighed.

“You’re not in a position to study, you need to prioritize your health.” Heeseung watched you grab your bag “We’ll decide that after you recover.”

Heeseung just nodded. At that moment he didn't want to argue or study, he just wanted his bed and sleep for the next 10 hours straight.

“Come on, I’ll accompany you.” You waited for Heeseung to leave first and followed him, after all, how could you trust a guy who was clearly sick.

Before he could leave campus, you bought a warm drink from a vending machine that was right next to the door.

“Here.” You handed the can to Heeseung “It’s good for you, it’s orange juice so it must have vitamin C.”

“Okay, thanks mom.” he replied and your eyes widened at his audacity “Hey!”

“I was joking, silly.” Heeseung gave you a smirk that disconcerted you.

It was the first time he had ever genuinely smiled at you. It wasn't a mocking smile or a fake smile after he said the most passive-aggressive thing possible. He was actually giving you a genuine, real smile.

And you definitely didn't want to admit that he had a very beautiful smile.

“Well, uh… anyways, take your medicine and recover. We’ll reschedule the meeting.” he looked down at the hot drink and gave you another smile before looking back at you. “Okay, see you later.” He – shockingly – kindly said “Thank you.” his gaze was fixed on yours, and for some reason, it made you feel embarrassed.

“It’s nothing.” You looked away “See you later.”

He gave you one last smile before leaving first. As you watched him walk away you began to wonder what kind of man Lee Heeseung was, who insisted on going to your meeting even though he was sick.

☆

You were choosing a movie to watch with Gaeul when your phone vibrated. Gaeul was putting the freshly popped popcorn in the bowl when you saw on your phone that surprisingly Heeseung had texted you.

[Lee Heestupid] — Hey

[Lee Heestupid] — Just wanted to say thank you for the orange juice.

21:46 pm

You smiled a little, seeing that he had the courage to send you a message about something that isn’t your project.

[You] — It's nothing. Are you feeling better?

21:48 pm

[Lee Heestupid] — Yeah, I'm way better now.

[Lee Heestupid] — If you're free, let's meet tomorrow for our project.

21:51 pm

[You] — Sure, it works for me.

21:52 pm

[Lee Heestupid] — Great

[Lee Heestupid] — See you then

21:53pm

[You] — See you.

21:53pm

“Who are you talking to?” Gaeul asked suspiciously as she approached your couch “I was just rescheduling the project meeting with Heeseung.” You locked your phone and tapped the fabric of the couch next to you indicating that you wanted her to sit there.

She stopped in her tracks and gave you a mischievous smile, looking at you. “I can’t believe you were smiling like that while you were texting Heeseung.” You rolled your eyes at Gaeul's suggestive tone “What do you mean? I was normal.” You looked away to the TV “Nuh-uh.” She was clearly enjoying the whole thing “I think you’re starting to like him after all this time.”

“Girl, you’re crazy.” You sighed thinking about Gaeul’s fertile mind and she sat next to you hugging your arm “Come on, admit that you changed your conception of him. Even if it’s just a little.”

You paused for a moment and thought “He’s still insufferable, but this time he was polite.” Gaeul chuckled, taking a handful of popcorn. “Oh, this is going to be interesting.”

“Babe, let’s just watch the movie.” You changed the subject and Gaeul was laughing beside you “Okaaaay.”

☆

As much as you didn't want to admit it, the atmosphere between you and Heeseung had certainly changed a bit. It was noticeable that although his thoughtless sarcasm hadn't changed, you two fought less about your project. Heeseung's posture was still as confident as ever, but a part of you had gotten used to this eccentric trait of his. Maybe he was naturally like this in any area of his life, or maybe he was forced to be like this.

“While I was recovering, I thought about how to combine our interests in our project.” Heeseung looked much better. His face had a healthy glow, his lips were pinker and, curiously, you noticed how his nose was perfectly shaped. Did he always have this insane profile?

“What’s your suggestion?” You asked, adjusting your seat, trying to dispel the strange thoughts that were distracting you “We can talk about criminal accountability and the evolution of post-war human rights within international law.”

You thought for a moment “That might work.” The smile that formed on your face didn’t go unnoticed by Heeseung who was taken aback “It’s just going to be harder than expected, since it’s a topic that we’re going to have to delve into in depth so we can’t leave any gaps.”

“I accept the challenge.” He smirked while looking into your eyes “And what about you? Are you scared?” You rolled your eyes, seeing how he never misses an opportunity to tease you.

“Of course not.” You snorted “You know I never run away from a challenge. After all, I’m the best in the class.” Heeseung’s eyebrow twitched slightly at your insinuation “Actually, we’re tied and you know it.”

“Fine, maybe you’re right.” You sighed “But it doesn’t change the fact that we’ll have to work hard with this topic.” Heeseung gave an airy laugh through his nose seeing how excited you were “Indeed, but at least we were able to officially set the theme of our project.”

“Now we need to define the next steps.” You stretched your arms and Heeseung couldn’t help but see part of your waist when your shirt rose slightly “I guess that’s a good idea, because we also have to study for that civil law presentation in three weeks.” He looked away to the screen of his laptop.

You widened your eyes and turned to Heeseung “Oh my God, I thought it would be in a month!” Opening your tablet's calendar you came across the date marked on a Tuesday in three weeks “I was so worried about our project that I lost track of time.”

“You're welcome.” Heeseung said without looking at you as he researched the subjects he needed to study for your project “It seems like I’m taking up too much of your mind for you to forget a presentation.” He snickered and you grimaced.

“Ugh, you wish.” You sighed as you typed on your laptop causing Heeseung to give you an enigmatic smile.

Yeah. As you thought, Lee Heeseung was still a pain in the ass.

Miraculously, after weeks of not going out, Heeseung was at a party. Contrary to what many people think, Heeseung doesn't go out to many parties. Since he has a scholarship to take care of, his main focus is on studying. However, when he has some free time, he allows himself the luxury of enjoying some kind of fun.

Today was no different as Jake managed to convince him that he needed to clear his head after being sick.

Since part of the international law project was well underway and he had made progress on his civil law assignment, he allowed himself to relax for a few hours at that random party on a Friday. Jake and Jay seemed more lively, taking advantage of the opportunity to play beer pong with boys from other courses.

Heeseung had been drinking for a while now, but nothing seemed very interesting. The music was great, but he was still feeling tired from working twice as hard during the week, so he decided to sit on an old couch that was empty. As he slowly drank, he began to analyze his surroundings, and noticed that he was surrounded by couples or people who were there with the aim of flirting and hooking up with someone.

Personally, Heeseung didn't have many girlfriends. He had gone on a few dates, talked to a few girls, and even had a serious girlfriend for a year and a few months during high school, but nothing had lasted that long. Life hadn't been easy for Heeseung's family, so all he could think about was how he needed to help out at home with the money from tiring part-time jobs and how to pay for his upcoming college expenses.

Love was a distant topic for Heeseung.

Most of the time he was worried about his future and the reality he wanted to improve. That's why love and relationships were foreign subjects on his mind. Jake used to say that he needed to relax a bit and at least try to meet someone during college, but he was too busy.

Too busy studying, working and self-improving but mainly busy thinking about you.

The amount of times you wandered through his mind seemed unhealthy. It was as if you were always there unconsciously, terrorizing the corners of Heeseung's mind. Like a presence he couldn't get rid of, like you were a sticker glued in the album of his thoughts.

He always swore he didn't care much about your appearance, but his breath caught for a moment when from afar he saw you with a short black skirt and a brown turtleneck blouse clinging to your torso. Heeseung felt his body sober up in an instant and he leaned over his knees so he could confirm his suspicion.

That shiny hair and that unique smile were unmistakable in his eyes. Yes, it was you.

Heeseung swallowed hard and felt strange for not being able to take his eyes off you. “Sure, sure… but you can't deny she's hot.” Jay's sentence from that day kept echoing in Heeseung's mind as he tried to convince himself that this was no big deal.

You've always been beautiful. No, you're always impeccable. As if you never had a bad day, you're always well-tied up, wearing a sweet perfume, unbeatable, gorgeous... stunning. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing. In a way, your determination to always show your best version is impressive, especially in the world of law where Heeseung knows how much appearances matter.

But he never really stopped to look at you. Heeseung’s judgment was always clouded by his anger at what you represented. At the spoiled, privileged girl who would never experience what it was like to suffer from not having enough money for leisure or having every penny counted to pay the bills.

Your existence was almost an affront to him—even though you had never done anything to him.

But even though he knew all of this. Even though he had convinced himself that you were his rival, his eyes couldn't take their eyes off your figure. Maybe it was the alcohol in his system, or the fatigue, but your legs seemed even more toned under the dark blue light of the place.

He swallowed hard, seeing how your eyes seemed to sparkle as you talked to a girl beside you that he assumed it was your best friend. Have you always had an outfit that adorned your waist flawlessly like that?

'It's okay, I can admire a beautiful woman.' Heeseung argued in his own mind as if he needed to justify himself for the thoughts he was having at that moment.

Thoughts of how hauntingly attractive you are.

Heeseung bent the cup he was holding a little from squeezing it so hard and ran his hand over his face. He was wondering if he should talk to you or just let it go. Even if he decided to go to you, what would he say? 'Hi, good to see you project partner.'? Absolutely not. That would be too pathetic of him.

After a few seconds of struggling, he decided to stay still. It could have been really awkward if he tried to say something out of the blue. Besides, you were with your friend, so he decided he wouldn't bother you.

However, as if life was playing tricks on Heeseung, he saw a weird man approaching you. A guy he had seen before at the party, and who was clearly not feeling well after drinking way past his limits. From afar Heeseung watched with his eyes as the clueless guy approached and tried to say something to you, which showed instant discomfort.

When the guy dared to touch your shoulder, Heeseung stood up at the same time, feeling his blood boil. You had a frown on your face and were obviously saying no. Even with the loud music, he could tell that you weren't enjoying that approach by the gestures you were making as you got away from the guy.

As he couldn't contain himself, Heeseung stomped towards him and pushed the guy back hard with his forearm. In a single movement he hugged your waist and pulled you towards him, slamming your back into his chest.

“Hey! Are you stupid? She said no!” Heeseung spoke harshly and you turned your face to him, shocked by the situation “Get the hell out of here, son of a bitch!”

“Ahh shi–” before the guy could finish his sentence Heeseung pushed him hard and the guy staggered back while cursing some swear words. The people around started staring at the guy who was clearly drunk and out of his mind.

“Let’s get out of here.” He whispered in your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. You just nodded and turned around with Heeseung as the other guy walked away aimlessly, bumping into other people.

As Heeseung led you through the crowd, your heart was racing. In less than 10 minutes of partying, Gaeul had gone to the bathroom, a drunk man disturbed you, Heeseung had saved you and now had his arm behind your back and his right hand firmly gripped on your waist while the other made room for you to pass.

It was almost like a scene from a movie where the security guard makes room for the protagonist to pass without touching anyone.

Your mind was spiraling when you arrived at the backyard near the kitchen that didn't have many people and had a bench for you to sit on. Heeseung let go of you and closed the kitchen door behind him seeing how shocked you looked at everything that happened.

“Are you okay?” Heeseung’s gentle tone made you finally look at him that night.

Your breath hitched and your mouth hung open seeing that he was wearing a white tank top showing his collarbone, a silver chain over it, an open dark gray jacket and dark jeans.

“Yes...” You felt your cheeks heat up as you noticed how his intense dark eyes didn’t look away from yours “Thank you, Heeseung.” You shyly mumbled feeling your stomach stir as he sighed, running his hand through his hair which was slightly messy, showing a bit of his forehead.

Even if you wanted to deny it, it would be an obvious lie, because clearly Lee Heeseung was so hot that you were at a loss for words.

“Are you sure you’re okay? I can get you a water or something.” He looked genuinely concerned and didn't know what to do to make you feel better, but you smiled gently. “It’s okay, really.” You sighed in relief “You really helped me out back there. Thank you.”

“It’s nothing, as a man it’s what I should do.” He sat down next to you “That guy is an idiot; I should’ve kicked his ass.” You laughed and propped your face on the back of your hand looking at Heeseung “It would have been great entertainment, but you don’t need to harm yourself because of a drunk idiot.”

Heeseung allowed himself to relax after what happened “I guess you’re right… but what really matters is that you’re okay.”

“I am, thanks to you who saved me.” Heeseung gave an almost imperceptible smile, slightly embarrassed by the tone of your voice, but he calmed down when he saw how you looked fine and out of danger. You continued to observe Heeseung's face thinking how curious it was how different he looked when he genuinely smiled.

Heeseung's smile is splendid, like the perfect complement to his handsome profile.

He turned to you and suddenly you felt aware of his gaze.

“To be honest, I was surprised to see you here.” Heeseung confessed “I don’t remember seeing you at the parties I went to.”

He noticed how you gave a weak smile and looked up at the starry sky “It’s because I’ve only been to a few parties since I came to college.”

“Because of studies?” He asked and you nodded “That’s all I care about honestly.”

He gave an empathetic side smile “I know how it is… I can’t fail my grades.”

“You gotta be on top of the class, don’t you?” You teased him with your sarcastic tone and he rolled his eyes smiling “It’s not just that.”

“So, what’s the reason?” You turned and asked him, feeling curious, as he looked at you for a few brief seconds.

Heeseung hesitated for a moment as he didn't know what your stance would be towards his answer, but a part of him wanted to be honest.

“It’s because I need to keep my scholarship.” He confessed and looked at you hesitantly, expecting some kind of exaggerated reaction. Maybe a joke, disdain or humiliation, but he was surprised by your bright face.

“A scholarship?! Wow, that’s impressive!” You were surprised and your face showed it “I had no idea you were a scholarship holder, that’s amazing! Only the best students get a scholarship in our course.”

Heeseung was stunned by your reaction. Maybe he had misjudged you for expecting the worst, but your relationship wasn't the best, so he didn't know what to expect.

"I mean, it's not that impressive. I just worked my ass off to get this scholarship, so yeah... I need to keep it.” Heeseung scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. He didn’t know how to react to being praised, especially a compliment coming from you. His rival.

For Heeseung, the feeling of receiving recognition from someone who doesn't like him very much is more real and impactful than anyone else. Especially because you have all the weapons to criticize him, so receiving a praise from you hits different.

“It’s just the truth.” You moved a little closer to Heeseung, adjusting your skirt, making him glance at your smooth thighs “You know, I just realized something.”

Heeseung’s eyes rose and met yours again “What?”

“I think this is the first time we’ve talked about something that doesn’t have to do with our project.” You laughed and he noticed the gloss you were wearing. Your lips were shining in a mesmerizing way.

“You’re right…” He smiled “I mean, you haven’t cursed at me yet, so I say it’s an improvement.”

“Huh?” You dramatically let out a breath of air and pointed at him. “Heeseung, drop the act. You’re the one who always provokes me and starts bickering.”

Without letting go of eye contact, he brought his face closer to yours and you suddenly felt butterflies in your stomach “You’re not innocent either, you’re always teasing me.” He whispered, making you snort and look away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Heeseung laughed and you noticed how warm the sound of his laugh was “Yeah, let’s pretend you don’t know.”

You were surprised. He seemed different that night, as if he wasn't the Heeseung you knew. The rival you felt so much despise for.

Beneath that serene air he looked like just a normal college boy. And you liked that — but you wouldn’t admit it to him.

“I need a drink.” You suddenly commented and he looked at you “Me too.” Heeseung got up from the bench and stood in front of you “Let’s go inside, the party isn’t over yet.”

“I know and Gaeul must be worried about me.” You stood up sighing thinking about how you’ll have to find your best friend in the middle of the crowd.

“Ladies first.” Heeseung opened the kitchen door and made room for you to go in first.

You rolled your eyes with a smile and walked through the door with your arms crossed “Who would have thought… Lee Heeseung is such a gentleman.”

Heeseung smiled and whispered as you stood beside him “There are still many things about me that you don’t know.”

Heeseung's deep voice was like sweet poison that seemed to penetrate your skin with ease. You swallowed hard, feeling your body heat up slightly, and just walked in without saying anything.

Normally you hated losing any kind of argument with Heeseung, but tonight you would let it slide.

As the night unfolded and you entered the venue together again, Gaeul watched the interaction from afar with a satisfied smile on her face.

Heeseung and you together? Without fighting? You guys would definitely talk about it later.

☆

“Okay girl, spill.” Gaeul leaned against the doorway of your room as you changed the sheets on your bed “What the hell happened between you and Heeseung?”

“What do you mean?” You pretended not to understand her insinuation as you finished fluffing the pillows so you could lie down.

“You know what I'm talking about.” Gaeul came in and sat on your bed, looking at you with that look she only did when she wanted to tease you “I saw you and Heeseung interacting at the party.”

“And what about it?” Gaeul sighed at your stubbornness “I thanked him for helping me with a drunk idiot there who tried to hit on me.”

“What do you mean? Did something happen?” Your best friend looked at you worriedly and you sat down next to her “It was nothing big. When you went to the bathroom a guy was completely wasted and tried to hit on me, but Heeseung helped me.”

Gaeul put her hands over her mouth in shock and her eyebrows furrowed “Babeee, I didn’t know! I’m sorry I left you alone, I never imagined something like this would happen.” She touched your hand and you smiled.

“It’s okay Gaeul, I’m fine.” You squeezed your best friend’s hand, and she smiled sweetly.

“Sooo, you were saying Heeseung saved you?” She looked at you with a teasing face and you laughed “He helped me, like a good human being, okay?”

“Girl, there’s no point in hiding it. I know something has changed between you two.” She seemed 100% convinced and you just rolled your eyes “You’re very creative Gaeul.”

“Come on, don’t tell me you didn’t feel anything different after he saved you.” She approached you, watching you ponder her question for a moment.

In fact, since that event and the brief conversation in the backyard, you started to see Heeseung in a different light. Not to mention how much more attractive he seemed.

“Okay, maybe he’s not that bad.” You confessed and Gaeul’s eyes widened, and her mouth opened in shock.

“Oh. My. God. You totally like Lee Heeseung!!!!” Gaeul stood up excitedly and you made a face “And don’t try to deny it! Your eyes don’t lie! You’re falling for your rival!”

You chuckled and shook your head “Gaeul, I don’t like him, I just think he’s improved as a person… that’s all.”

Before leaving your room, she turned and looked at you with affection and a sweet smile on her lips “Okay, you can keep denying it. But just know that when you are ready to admit your feelings, I’ll be here for you.”

You sighed knowing that Gaeul wouldn't change her mind about this.

But you couldn't help but feel that strange feeling deep in your chest when you remembered how he had held your waist tightly and protected you. The way his eyebrows were furrowed showing the anger he was feeling against that idiot on your behalf. How protective he was at that moment…

His strong hands, along with the bright smile he gave you and how his dark hair seemed to fall perfectly over his forehead.

Okay, you can admit that Lee Heeseung is attractive, but that doesn't mean you like him.

Right?

Heeseung was walking down the halls while Jay was talking about some random basketball topic when he saw your beautiful figure from afar grabbing his attention. You were stunning, as always, but you looked different.

You were smiling as you watched something interesting a boy was showing you on his phone. He recognized the boy as Jungwon, the president of one of the clubs you were a part of. Heeseung couldn't help but feel awkward about the scene. You looked so comfortable and relaxed as you talked to the boy who was undeniably handsome and put together.

A wave of sour feelings flooded Heeseung's chest. His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard, trying not to make it too obvious how much he was staring at you. Heeseung, who had always had this chill aura, felt insanely bothered when he saw how excited the boy seemed while he was making you smile so easily.

It was nothing special. Even he could make you smile if he wanted to, there was nothing special about this guy.

“Hey man, are you listening?” Jay asked and Heeseung looked away trying to ignore the dissatisfaction bubbling inside him “Sorry, can you repeat?” He ran his hand through his hair and Jay sighed “Dude, if you’re going to be jealous of her, please be more discreet, you look like a creepy staring at her like that.” Heeseung dumbfounded stared at his friend “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I’m certainly not jealous.”

“Give me a break man, you were practically staring at the girl.” Jay gave a smirk and Heeseung kept walking trying to resist the urge to look back and see your smile one last time “I'm fine. Let's go.” Jay shook his head and continued walking alongside Heeseung who remained silent for the rest of the way.

He wasn't jealous, was he?

☆

Civil Law was fun until you had to do a detailed essay and slides on dispossession in your bedroom on a Wednesday night. It was already past 11pm and you were still halfway through the paper. Your presentation was due next week, and you were still going over the details of the requirements for reinstatement of possession.

Being a perfectionist was a characteristic of yours that hindered you more than it helped you most of the time. You wanted your work to be perfect and meticulous to the point of not leaving any room for questions. The problem was that this cost you precious nights that you could have been having fun and enjoying life like a young university student.

You were stretching your arms when you were surprised by the sound of your phone ringing on the table. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw Heeseung's name on the screen. What was he doing? He had never called you before.

'Is this an emergency?' You instantly thought and worriedly answered the phone.

“Hello? Heeseung?” The hesitation in your voice was clear “Hm—” Heeseung’s deep voice and breathing suddenly startled you “Yeah, it’s me. Sorry for calling you so late.”

“It’s okay. Did something happen?” Your heart was suddenly racing, and you couldn’t explain why. His laughter on the other end warmed your ear “No silly, I wanted to talk about our project.” The way his voice sounded deeper over the phone made you swallow hard and cross your legs instinctively.

This was pathetic. How could you feel nervous about a phone conversation? And worst of all — with Heeseung?

“Oh, right.” You gave an awkward chuckle “What is it?” It was like you could feel his smile through his breathing on the phone call.

“I was just thinking… maybe it would be interesting to talk about criminal liability for crimes committed during the Second World War with the creation of the Nuremberg Tribunal.” Heeseung said in a calm and soft voice. As if he was flirting, but you knew that couldn’t be possible. He had no reason to flirt with you “Ah, you mean the International Military Tribunal?”

“Exactly.” Was his voice always this sexy? “I think it would be a good topic, and I know you like the criminal side of things, so it could be interesting for us to address this.” Your stomach turned as you realized that Heeseung had paid attention to what you had said weeks ago and thought of this idea based on your personal taste.

“I think that’s a great idea!” You gave him an excited smile as if he could see it “I think it would be wonderful to include this part.”

“Yeah.” He laughed in a way that made you feel like a little girl interacting with her crush “I’m glad you liked it, we can work on that at our next meeting.”

God, you were hating yourself mentally. How could you let yourself be affected and have impure thoughts while Heeseung was talking about the Nuremberg Tribunal?

“Sure!” Was all you could manage to say before he interrupted you “Speaking of which, are you free in the afternoon on Friday? We can start right away.”

“Wait, I’ll check my schedule.” He laughed at your answer and said playfully “Of course you have a schedule.” You usually can’t stand it when Heeseung answers you sarcastically, but this time it was different. It was like he was teasing you, but not with the intention of irritating you, but just joking with you. “I’m an organized person, of course I’ll schedule my appointments in advance.”

“Alright, Miss Organized. Are you free?” You could hardly believe that you were having a friendly conversation with Heeseung over the phone “Yes, we can schedule it at our usual time.”

“Great, it's a date then.” The way he said it was normal, you know that, but the butterflies that invaded your stomach made you feel like a loser. He wasn't asking you out on a date, it was just the work meeting you always had, but you couldn't stay calm like before.

“Uh– Heeseung can I ask you something?” You gathered the courage to continue the conversation “Sure. What is it?” He seemed curious and you bit your lower lip trying to get the courage to ask what was eating you up inside “Why did you call me? You could have texted me…”

Your anxiety reached its peak when he was silent for about 5 seconds and all you could hear was his breathing “I guess I just wanted to talk to you directly about the subject.” He broke the silence and you let out an ironic chuckle “Woah?! I never thought I would hear those words from Lee Heeseung.” Unbeknownst to you on the other end of the line Heeseung had slightly pink cheeks while he had his hand over his eyes “Seriously, this topic is quite detailed so I wanted to get my point across as easily as possible, and over text it would be a hassle.”

“And why didn’t you Facetimed me?” You argued as you jumped onto your fluffy bed “I can’t.” He replied seriously and you hugged your pillow “Why not?”

Heeseung stopped for a second and laughed through his nose, which you could hear through the phone “Because I’m already in bed and I’m shirtless.” You froze, feeling your cheeks heat up at what he said and blamed yourself for imagining him shirtless calling you in the middle of the night “So… it would be a little complicated for me to have to get up, put on a shirt and turn on the lights just to say that.”

“I see… that makes sense.” You swallowed, feeling like an idiot for not knowing how to react with this bombastic information. Shirtless Lee Heeseung calling you at night is something you never expected to happen to you.

'I hope he doesn't think I'm weird.'

“And you? What are you doing up so late?” He asked and you laughed seeing how you needed to turn off your laptop and organize your materials “I was doing my civil law essay.”

“Yeah, this essay is really tiring. It took me a long time to research my topic, but you’ll finish it soon.” He said with that usual confidence with absolute certainty that you would kill the subject “Well, unfortunately I had the misfortune of getting the subject of dispossession, so it's more complicated than it seems.”

“Damn, dispossession is full of details.” He sighed, feeling his eyes grow heavy “My topic is about inheritance law. Heirs and shit like that.” You laughed, noticing how his voice was getting slightly choked with sleep “Are you sleepy?”

“Hmhum.” He nodded even though he knew you wouldn’t see it “I’m tired, I had a lot of work today.” Your legs were swinging in the air as you listened to Heeseung “Well then, I guess it’s time for you to sleep.”

He laughed and agreed “Yeah, you're right. Good night, Y/N.” His sleepy voice tickled your ear and you smirked “Good night, Heeseung.”

With one click he hung up the call and you buried your face in the pillow, giving a liberating scream after the unexpected call.

'Damn it, Lee Heeseung, what did you do to me?'

☆

Despite your good mood, this civil law essay was taking up a lot of your free time and it was tiring you out. You had been reviewing your paper and making slides for your presentation for 3 hours straight.

The civil law professor was known to be strict and detail-oriented, so you wanted everything to be perfect. As you were finishing your slides to clear your mind, your phone vibrated and you felt your body freeze when you saw that Heeseung had sent you a message.

[Lee Heeseung] — Hey

[Lee Heeseung] — Are you busy?

16:47 pm

Your heart jumped into your throat and with slightly trembling hands you picked up your phone and quickly thought about what to say.

[You] — Kinda.

[You] — Finishing the slides for my Civil Law presentation.

16:48 pm

While you were trying to calm down, Heeseung was already answering you at the speed of light.

[Lee Heeseung] — Oh.

[Lee Heeseung] — Want some help?

16:48 pm

The smile that appeared on your face was automatic. How could such a simple message affect you so much?

[You] — Really?

[You] — I mean, it would be nice if it doesn't bother you though

16:49 pm

[Lee Heeseung] — Yeah, it doesn't bother me.

[Lee Heeseung] — Where are you now?

16:49 pm

You took a deep breath, feeling your stomach churn at the excited feelings that were rising from the tone of his messages.

[You] — I'm at the library rn

16:49 pm

[Lee Heeseung] — Alright

[Lee Heeseung] — I'll be there in a few

16:50 pm

[You] — Okay

16:50 pm

Your hands went straight to the front camera of your phone to see how you looked. You started to despair because you hadn't done a more elaborate makeup that afternoon, but you didn't expect to see Heeseung.

Luckily, you had some blush and a reddish gloss in your bag. You touched up your makeup and checked your teeth for any signs of something between them but smiled in relief when you saw that they were perfect.

You adjusted your posture, your blouse, and ran your hand through the strands of your hair to comb them carefully. After feeling that you were minimally tidy, you tried to focus on your slides before Heeseung arrived.

Within 10 minutes Heeseung was already walking past the library door looking for you. When he found you, your eyes met in a second and he smiled. Your anxiety increased considerably as you watched Heeseung walk towards you. With each step he took, you were afraid that your face would show how anxious you were.

It was insane how Lee Heeseung could look so hot wearing a simple black shirt and dark jeans.

“Hey.” He pulled out the chair next to you and sat down while keeping his gaze on yours “It's been a while.”

“Yeah…” You let out the air you were holding “I've been busy with this essay and presentation.”

“I see.” he smiled and leaned forward "What do you need? I'm here to help you."

You hated yourself for not being able to look at Heeseung for so long, so you looked away to your laptop screen.

“I just need to review a few points.” You showed the summary of what you were going to present and the main points “Everything is ready, so I’m editing the slides now because I feel like I need to improve the design of them.”

Heeseung had spent so long without hearing your voice that he was almost grateful to hear you talk so much, even if it was about a stupid presentation.

“If you want, I can show you what I do on my slides.” He moved his chair closer to yours and looked at you. “Okay.” You nodded and made him comfortable so he could do whatever he wanted.

Heeseung placed his left arm behind your chair and brought his face closer to yours coincidentally as he pulled his laptop closer to him.

You felt your heart race when you smelled Heeseung's perfume. That mixed scent of chamomile shampoo married perfectly with his woody scent. It was a soft, punctual and addictive blend. A perfect masculine scent that caught your attention.

“Do you still use PowerPoint?” He mockingly smiled and you raised an eyebrow at him “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, but I personally think it’s hard to work with.” he opened a website in his browser “Try this site, it has easy designs for quick slides.”

“Okay.” You were trying to focus on what he was saying, but his face was distracting you.

His forehead was more exposed than before. His hair was parted in the middle so you could see how perfectly defined his eyebrows were.

How had you not noticed before how handsome he was?

“Look… you can put these dots in a different font so that they are more readable and don’t clutter the view of the slide.” he leaned in closer and spoke close to your ear, making you swallow hard “See?”

“Yes.” You replied, trying to ignore how much Heeseung’s velvety voice tickled your ear.

“Your slides are excellent, they just need some polishing.” Heeseung’s voice was gentle and he seemed focused on the task at hand. A warm feeling filled your heart at the brief compliment he gave you.

“I just want to get this over with.” You sighed “I’m tired and I want to sleep.” Heeseung chuckled and looked at you “You’ll be fine.” Your gaze met his and his eyes gently fixed on your mouth.

Crazy thoughts ran through his mind as he roamed his gaze over your mouth and eyes.

“Thank you for helping me.” You whispered and Heeseung smirked “Of course. I'm your partner after all.”

He looked away from your laptop screen, trying to control himself. You both were in a public space, but he was there to help you, so he would control himself for now.

“What else do you need?” He asked looking at the rest of his slides “I'm all yours today.”

You bit your lips trying not to smile too much at the way he said it.

“We can move forward with our project after I finish my slides.” You suggested and he glanced at you with an amused face “If you have time, of course.”

“Sure.” he smiled and scratched the back of his neck “I have all the time in the world.”

You smiled and decided that it would be perfect to work in something with Heeseung on that peaceful afternoon.

And suddenly you realized that Heeseung's presence had become comfortable to you.

☆

The day was cloudy, with an atmosphere that made you feel lazy and do not want to study at all. However, contrary to the statistics, you were dressed up with your hair brushed, a light pink button-up blouse, a gray ruffled skirt and lots of perfume.

You knew you were dressing up more than usual for a simple work date with Heeseung, but you couldn't help it.

It was as if your body moved on its own when it came to seeing Heeseung.

Without you realizing it, your personal opinion of him gradually changed. Lee Heeseung was extremely complex. At first, he seemed like a jerk who did everything he could to irritate you, but suddenly he showed a different side with his actions. He could actually be an interesting and nice guy when he talked to you like a normal human being and didn't argue for no reason.

He was smart too. Not that you didn't know that before, but the way he was punctual, organized and focused on what he wanted was your type. You couldn't stand people who didn't keep their commitments, and surprisingly Heeseung never missed a meeting you made — to the point of him going to one of your meetings even when he was sick.

It was impossible to ignore the signs that yes, Lee Heeseung could be a nice guy, but that you couldn't see it because you couldn't stand each other for some inexplicable reason.

However, you knew it wasn’t totally your fault for your previously bad relationship. You started to feel a bit resentful ever since he started picking on you. Your theory was that maybe he felt threatened by your academic performance, or maybe there was something more to it. After all, he was now keen to work well with you and didn't care if you also got top marks.

Maybe you misjudged him, or you spent too much time not liking each other for such superficial reasons that you didn't give yourself a chance to get to know each other better.

In any case, you had already come to the conclusion that despite your differences, you had finally managed to understand each other — to the point where you began to feel an undeniable and overwhelming attraction to him.

As you looked at your reflection in the mirror you felt slightly embarrassed. Deep down, it was embarrassing to admit that you were feeling so shaken by Heeseung, the guy you swore you couldn't stand, but so many things had happened that you couldn't deny your forbidden feelings.

And you had already decided that this would stay in your mind and that was fine. It was okay to feel a slight attraction to a man, even if that man was Lee Heeseung.

The difficult part was not showing what you felt when he seemed to be staring at you so deeply whenever you were together. Or when he smiled in a way that made your legs feel weak.

You grabbed your things and left the apartment, trying to distract your mind from those deep thoughts. Today would be a good day, especially since your work was progressing nicely and it was one less thing to worry about.

On your way to the library you decided to buy some juice from a vending machine and came across Heeseung in front of the machine. Suddenly you felt a strange chill in your stomach and tried to give a soft smile to him — one that didn't look forced.

Heeseung turned around and saw you approaching. He looked up and down before giving a smirk that warmed your body. “Hey, came to buy a drink too?” Heeseung kept looking at you intently as he grabbed his soda.

“Yeah, I think we had the same idea.” You awkwardly laughed as he pulled away slightly, grabbing a juice as well “You can't kick your soda addiction, huh?”

“You know caffeine is a must before studying.” He laughingly replied as he opened the can and handed you the orange juice you liked the most “For you.”

Automatically your eyes opened in surprise and you felt your heart warm at Heeseung's sudden action. “What?! Are you serious?”

“Yeah. I can buy some juice for my project partner.” You took the juice feeling your cheeks warm by his action “Thank you…” you replied giving a small smile that didn’t go unnoticed by Heeseung.

“So, are you done with your civil law essay?” he asked, leading the way to the library. His company was no longer strange, and you had to admit that you were really enjoying talking and spending time with him.

“Yeah, but I struggled to finish it all. I was tired of reading about property invasion.” Heeseung laughed and took a sip of his soda “I know how it is. I’ve read so many cases about wills that I don’t want to hear about it any time soon.”

As Heeseung told you about an interesting story he had seen on social media, you analyzed his profile. The way he smiled without realizing it when he told you something he was interested in made you lose focus on the subject.

The way his lips moved was as if they were inviting you. They looked silky, soft and shiny. You barely realized you were staring when he turned slightly to look at you and smiled, waiting for you to answer what he asked. “Sorry, what did you say?” he sighed and smiled ironically “You weren’t listening to me, were you?” You felt your face burn with embarrassment “Sorry, I got distracted for a moment.”

“Damn, what’s so important that made you distracted like that?” He teased you and you gave him an awkward smile.

'Your lips'

“Nothing much, just worried about some things.” Heeseung narrowed his eyes, analyzing you. He knew it was nothing like that, but he wasn’t going to pressure you to talk.

“Okay…” He took one last sip of his soda before throwing it in the trash. From afar, the library door was wide open, revealing that on that afternoon, the flow of students was way bigger than on other days.

When you finally entered the library and found the place completely packed, you felt defeated. There were practically no free tables for you to work at.

“What the hell? Why is the library so crowded?” You whispered and Heeseung scratched the back of his neck “I have no idea, maybe it’s because of upcoming exams?”

You tried to think about something, but nothing came to mind. “Well, I think it’s going to be impossible for us to do our work here.” You said seeing how there was no free space and Heeseung sighed trying to think of a solution.

“What are we going to do now?” You asked, turning to Heeseung, waiting for some suggestion.

Suddenly an idea popped into Heeseung's mind, but it was a dangerous idea and he didn't know if you would accept it.

You bit your lower lip, feeling anxiety hit you with the thoughts that were coming into your mind as you saw how deeply he seemed to be thinking. “I have an idea.” You noticed his cautious tone, as if he wasn’t sure what he was going to say.

“What is it?” He turned to face you fully and you noticed how tall he was. Your insides were churning as he tightened his grip on the strap of his black backpack. There were plenty of places near college that you could go to study, but it might be more difficult and complicated.

“We can go to a nearby cafe, or somewhere else that’s quiet, like my room.” You felt the air catch in your throat and he pursed his lips without taking his eyes off your figure “You can choose whatever’s most comfortable for you.”

You bit your lower lip quickly thinking about his suggestion “But we can go somewhere else if you want.” He reinforced the other option, feeling embarrassed by the sudden suggestion he made.

“No, it’s fine.” You replied almost instantly as you ran your hand through your hair “If your room is quiet and has enough space, then it’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” He didn’t want to pressure you into doing anything you didn’t want to do, so he decided to ask again to confirm “Yeah… the most important thing right now is going to a quiet place to work.”

“Alright, I’ll show you the way.”

You and Heeseung always spent time together, so being alone in his room wouldn't be a big deal.

That's what you were trying to convince yourselves.

☆

There is nothing as unexpected as feelings. This is a fact that Heeseung knows. He understands that human beings are endowed with emotions, thoughts and decisions. Yes, human beings are complex by nature and it is possible for them to evolve and change their thoughts and beliefs over time.

But even knowing all this, he couldn't understand why you were messing with him so much.

He had already rationally decided that he would not get too involved with you. You would do this project and each of you would go on with your lives as normal. However, lately Heeseung realized that his rationality wasn't connected to the things he felt whenever he saw you.

Suddenly he started to feel strange butterflies in his stomach when you smiled at him. The way you spoke was no longer so annoying and he started to find some of your jokes funny.

And the most worrying part was that he no longer felt stressed at the thought of working with you. A part of him was already used to your presence and not only that — he felt excited at the idea of seeing you.

You who didn't used to talk much before, now are sending articles, posts and messages about work and things related to law. Including funny and random things. Someone from outside would say that you seem like friends. Talking, laughing and being seen walking down the hallway together when you meet from time to time.

He knew he no longer felt the same anger as before, but he didn't understand what kind of relationship you had. You weren't really friends, but there was clearly an inexplicable chemistry between you, a kind of invisible tension that was created whenever your eyes met for a few seconds.

It was obvious that you had changed with him. In Heeseung's old vision, you were rude, inconvenient, and completely annoying.

Now you're nice, kind, and helpful whenever he asks you anything. But what scares Heeseung the most is the undeniable attraction he's feeling for you. He's always considered himself a man of values and respect, but his eyes can't help but wander to the curve of your neck when your hair is loosely tied back.

It was impossible not to notice your torso being hugged perfectly by your pink long-sleeved blouse, the smell of your sweet perfume and your shiny mouth; and ever since the party he couldn't stop thinking about your waist and how it felt between his fingers.

It was becoming mental torture to see your mouth almost every day and think about how soft it must be but not being able to do anything about it. It was scary how he seemed to not think straight when it came to you, but what was even scarier was that you agreed to go study in his room.

Even though he was the one who had suggested studying in his room, the fact that you accepted was surprisingly exciting. Yes, you would study as usual, but this time you would be at his desk and in his environment. It was inevitable not to feel nervous about the situation.

He tried to talk about anything random on the way and you even laughed a few times, but both of you were clearly tense. Maybe you just needed to start studying and this would pass.

Heeseung stopped at the door of his dorm, opening it slightly, feeling aware of your presence there. He entered first and took off his shoes, making room for you to pass. “Come in.”

You smiled and left your shoes at the door, feeling slightly shy as you entered his place “Thank you.”

The place was simple, tidy, and decorated differently than you’d expect. Even though he has an eccentric personality, there wasn’t much decor. Heeseung and his roommate were surprisingly minimalists, except for a few pizza boxes on the kitchen counter that Heeseung picked up to throw in the trash. “Don’t mind the mess, Jake and I had pizza yesterday and we passed out after we ate it.”

You chuckled looking at your surroundings “It’s okay, everyone has those days.”

He gave you a side smile, guiding you to the door of his room. Surprisingly, the dorm was bigger than you expected, seeing as he still managed to have a room just for himself.

“This is my room.” He walked into his room, making space for you to observe everything while he grabbed another chair so you could sit at his table.

“It’s really cool.” You felt like you were entering a forbidden and very exclusive place. You never imagined that you would get the chance to see Lee Heeseung’s room. The decor was peculiar, with a framed basketball player’s jersey on the wall and minimalist posters about sports and music.

Interestingly, he liked rock music. You noticed after seeing that he had a few music CDs together on the table, giving it a sophisticated and personal air. You smiled when you saw that there was a photo of him as a child with his parents on the nightstand next to his bed.

But surprisingly, what shocked you the most was seeing the amount of books he had in the place. Yes, Lee Heeseung really liked reading, and especially doctrines of law from the library.

Obviously, he worked hard to be one of the best on the course along with you, but seeing this reality up close was even more impressive.

His bed was tidy, but the books scattered on top of it gave the final touch to what truly meant to be in Heeseung's environment.

“You have a lot of books.” You commented when you saw Heeseung placing the other chair next to his at the table and he mischievously smiled “Of course I do. I want to be an attorney, so I need to read a lot.”

“Attorney?” You raised an eyebrow. “I think it’s cool if you want to follow that path… You’d probably enjoy talking to my dad.” You spoke softly at the last part, but Heeseung heard it anyway.

He noticed that the way you spoke insinuated that you didn't want to follow that path and curiously, as if your father was a distant figure for you.

“Don’t you want to be an attorney?” Heeseung asked you, seeing you going towards his desk and sitting down with a serious expression. “To be honest, I don't know… it’s not my dream.”

He sat down next to you and came closer, trying to make you comfortable. “Do you have an idea of what you want to do?”

“Maybe a prosecutor?” You confessed and smiled shyly. It was the first time you had talked about this dream with anyone other than Gaeul. “It’s still a distant idea, I guess I’ll become an attorney first. That’s what everyone expects of me anyway.”

“Everyone?” He asked gently. “It’s complicated.” You sighed and he realized it was still a sensitive subject that you might not want to explain, and he wasn’t going to pressure you into doing so. He also had things to deal with that he didn’t open up about easily.

“Well, regardless of what you choose, I know you’ll do well.” He commented as he placed his notebooks and laptop on the table. “You’re the only one who’s managed to beat me sometimes, and I know very well that not just anyone can defeat me easily.”

You gave Heeseung a smile, realizing he was trying to cheer you up in his own way. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He smiled and watched you placing your materials on the table, noticing the post-it notes with legal concepts on the wall in front of the table.

“Your room is… interesting.” You commented as you analyzed all the mnemonics and tips he had written on a post-it that was almost falling on the table. “Are you trying to start a fight?” Heeseung looked at you suspiciously and you laughed.

“No, I just think this room suits you.” You grinned “It’s cute.”

“Are you calling me cute?” Heeseung smirked, bringing his face closer to yours. “I’m talking about the room.” You replied, swallowing hard, opening your laptop.

“Well, that's a pity then.” You felt your cheeks burn and your body fizz at the suggestive tone of his comment.

Maybe you were seeing things, but it looked a lot like Lee Heeseung was flirting with you right now.

“So, before we start,” He continued to look at you while you tried to pretend that you weren’t feeling weak with his presence so close “I’m going to the kitchen to drink some water. Do you want something to drink?” He asked and you shook your head “No, I’ll drink the juice you gave me later.”

He gave a little smile of pride seeing that you actually accepted the juice he bought for you.

“Alright then, I’ll be right back.” Heeseung nodded and stood up as you tried to calm down.

'It's okay, he was just teasing me. I just need to calm down and focus on my studies.' You thought as you tried to convince yourself that the tension in the air was just some kind of illusion and not the harsh reality.

☆

Heeseung was in the kitchen getting a glass of water trying to understand the situation he was in. You were there, in his room, with your beauty shining like the morning breeze.

It felt like a dream. At first he didn't even know how to explain why he suggested it, but his intrusive thoughts were faster, shockingly you had accepted. In a way, you were there to study like you always do in the library, but this time he was feeling strange.

He wanted something to happen and this wasn’t good.

Because it meant that Heeseung had finally accepted his feelings of attraction towards you and was considering doing something about it.

He took a deep breath and decided to control himself for the sake of your project. However, as much as he tried to focus on his studies, the moment he walked past his bedroom door and saw you sitting cross-legged, your hair loose showing your neck, and the way you were biting the tip of your pen while focused on your laptop screen, all his common sense went straight out the window.

“So, can we start?” Heeseung asked, swallowing hard and scratching the back of his neck, feeling nervous. “Sure, where do you want to start?” You asked, looking at him with the sexiest eyes he swore he had ever seen in his life. “We can read the article you suggested.”

“Alright.” He smiled seeing how excited you seemed about the project. “By the way, I saw your CDs and posters.” You changed the subject as he opened the file on his computer “You’re quite… eclectic.” He chuckled and turned to you “Why? Did you think I only listened to one type of music?”

You shook your head and gave him a side smile. “I thought you were more into the classics.”

“I like a little bit of everything, you know? I can appreciate different types of art.” He noticed the way your skirt seemed to have ridden up the moment you adjusted yourself in your chair.

“I’m surprised.” He looked away, trying to control his thoughts. But it was hard when you looked like a goddess next to him. “Every day I discover something new about you.”

“Well, I told you that there are a lot of things about me that you don’t know.” He replied as he locked gazes with you. Heeseung definitely had a unique charm.

“Fair enough.” You replied and he gave you that smile that made your legs lose strength. “I think I made too many assumptions about you.” You confessed, leaning against the table and he brought his face closer to yours “Yeah? Maybe you should get to know me better then.”

You felt your body catch fire at the way he whispered an octave lower than normal and smirked “Yeah, maybe I should.”

Heeseung felt his face and ears heat up at the way you were looking at him.

He knew something had changed between you and the tension was so intense you could cut it with a knife.

His eyes dropped to your exposed neck. Your sweet scent was intoxicating the air and the necklace you were wearing was shinier than usual. It adorned your collarbone magnificently.

Did you have to look this good for a measly study date?

He didn't know if he could cross that invisible line between you, so he slowly approached you, lowering his gaze to your mouth. Since he was sitting on your left side, his right hand went up to your face and tucked a single strand of your hair behind your ear.

You felt a shiver run through your body as his fingertips lightly touched your ear.

His face moved closer to yours agonizingly slowly, and you felt his sweet minty breath fan your face.

Heeseung instinctively wet his lower lip with his tongue and you felt your breath catch as he lowered his right hand to the corner of your neck, touching you gently.

Your eyes locked into Heeseung's intense, dark eyes, and you felt your body fizz at the way he was staring at you. It was intense, serious, deep, as if he wanted to convey a message that only you would understand. You didn't need to say anything. The way you looked at each other was the answer to the unspoken question that floated implicitly in the air.

The desire you both feel is mutual.

He moved closer and pulled your neck towards him, pressing the spot with his long fingers. You closed your eyes when you felt his mouth brush against yours as if he was testing your reactions.

Heeseung kissed you, gently pressing his lips against yours, sending a dose of pleasure through your body. He gave you a long peck and quickly pulled away to make sure that this was really happening.

He was kissing you. This is real.

He smiled over your lips and kissed you again, with more intensity, making you pull him by the collar. Heeseung's left hand landed on your left thigh, squeezing the skin there and you felt your stomach churn.

Heeseung bit your lower lip and you moaned, making him feel a wave of pride invade his body. Your arms wrapped around his neck, while your hands went straight to his soft hair.

All you wanted to feel was the soft strands of his gorgeous hair between your fingers and you finally knew what that felt like. Heeseung groaned into your mouth as you pulled his hair and scratched the back of his neck with your nails.

Heeseung felt like he had ascended to heaven as he felt your soft lips moving over his. You were like water on a dry day that he couldn't get enough of.

Not even his deepest thoughts could recreate the exultant feeling he felt when he finally kissed you. He was thirsty and wanted more. As much as he tried to hold it in, his deep desire was stronger and he happily gave in to its sweet taste.

You separated for a brief second to catch your breath and he licked your lower lip making you open your mouth slightly sighing as he deepened the kiss with his tongue.

The kiss that started soft was now intense, passionate and more desperate. You ran your hands down Heeseung's neck until they stopped on his chest. Heeseung intertwined his right hand in your hair while his left rested on your lower back.

Heeseung kissed you intensely, as if he couldn't stop. You lost track of time as you let yourself be numbed by the feeling of Heeseung's tongue exploring your mouth.

He sucked on your bottom lip before attacking your neck with longing open-mouthed kisses. “You're so beautiful.” He whispered against the skin of your neck as he brushed it with his lips making you press your thighs together and sigh in pleasure “So fucking beautiful.”

You held onto Heeseung’s hair and his left shoulder as he got closer “Heeseung.” You whispered but were interrupted by his mouth kissing the column of your neck with desire.

“You drive me crazy.” He whispered in your ear making you roll your eyes back and moan embarrassingly. Heeseung felt his pants tighten at the reactions and sounds you made.

His left hand went to the buttons of your pink blouse with slight desperation. He was panting and you were spaced out with so many things happening at the same time.

You knew you wanted Heeseung, but you didn't know it would be this intense.

“Fuck” He trailed kisses from your throat to your collarbone, allowing the scent of your perfume to sweetly intoxicate his senses “It’s hard to contain myself when you’re like this.” He whispered over your mouth, kissing you again.

You couldn't form a coherent sentence. Your heart was racing, your breathing was short, and even though you were sitting down, you felt all the strength in your legs evaporate.

His hands went to your thighs, smoothing them up under your skirt. You reached out to take off the denim jacket he was wearing and he smirked over your mouth.

"So eager, huh?” he teased you and you sighed, frowning “Look who's talking.” You whispered wryly trying not to be embarrassed at how breathless and needy you sounded.

“Thought you liked it when I teased you, babe.” Heeseung’s sensual tone as he took off his coat made you lose the last of your breath. His shoulders looked even bigger up close.

“Just shut up and kiss me.” You whispered and pulled Heeseung by the collar of his shirt, making him give you several kisses and smile on your lips “So bossy…”

The way Heeseung's mouth seemed to fit perfectly into yours was impressive.

Heeseung's hands went under your shirt, squeezing the bare skin of your waist, giving you goosebumps and making you moan into Heeseung's mouth.

He was relentless. Heeseung's mouth devoured you with fervor and desperation, leaving you breathless. You held onto the hem of Heeseung's shirt as he pulled away slightly, turning his head for a moment.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, feeling your entire body tremble.

“Wait.” Heeseung reluctantly moved away a little more, hearing noises from outside “Do you hear that?” He turned to the door and you breathlessly tried to focus on what he was saying.

Until you noticed – the sound of keys moving near the principal door latch. You adjusted your skirt down and buttoned the first few buttons of your blouse that Heeseung had unbuttoned.

Suddenly you were paralyzed and stared at each other when you heard the key opening the main door in the room.

“Man, I'm dead, I want to sleep the rest of the afternoon.” Jake spoke loudly and you and Heeseung quickly separated from each other as he tried to fix his hair and appear as natural as possible.

You adjusted your seats as if you were studying your computer screen intently.

“Heeseung, are you there?” Jake knocked on his friend’s bedroom door and opened it at once “I need to tell you what happened to me at the coffee shop—” Jake’s eyes widened and he froze when he saw that you were in Heeseung’s room.

Heeseung glared at him with a menacing look. That look that implicitly said 'get the hell out of here'.

“I’m kind of busy right now, Jake.” He said through gritted teeth and his friend gave an awkward smile and scratched his head “Oh sorry to disturb you guys. I didn’t know you were studying … but it’s good to see you y/n.” He greeted you and you nodded politely “Hi.” Your voice came out soft and thin with fright.

“Well then, we’ll talk later.” Jake said to Heeseung with a teasing look making Heeseung want to kill him at that moment.

He closed the door to Heeseung's room and you were left in absolute, awkward silence.

Your heart was racing and your breath was still coming in short gasps. What the hell had happened?

“Sorry, I forgot Jake could come back earlier today.” Heeseung sighed as he ran his hand over his face, trying not to feel embarrassed by the awkward situation you both found yourselves in.

“It’s okay.” You gave a small laugh through your nose “We can try studying now… if you want.” Heeseung looked at you and mischievously smiled “Honestly, I don’t know if I’m in the mood to study right now.” He confessed looking into your eyes, hitting you like an electrifying lightning bolt.

You nodded and smiled, feeling your insides stir at Heeseung’s gentle tone “Yeah, me too.”

So, in silent agreement, you decided to organize the table and put away the materials. Even though the tension was still there, Jake cut the mood, so all that was left was the weird tension and the end of this unsuccessful study session.

After you packed your things, Heeseung walked you to the door and looked at you apologetically “Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you back?”

“No, it’s okay.” You smiled and felt embarrassed remembering what happened moments before trying to calm your heart.

“Okay.” He leaned against the side of the door, crossing his arms and smiling at you “We’ll schedule the next meeting later.” He whispered as he tried to contain a smile with his teeth biting his own lip.

You nodded and slowly turned around “Bye, Heeseung.” He gave you that shy smile that only he knew how to do “Bye, y/n.”

After he closed the door and you walked out into the hallway, all you could think about was what had happened that afternoon.

You kissed. No, you had made out intensely and passionately, but the scariest thing is to think of what would have happened if Jake hadn't interrupted you.

And the worst part is that you wanted more.

Heeseung was still awake, staring at his ceiling as he remembered what had happened that afternoon.

After you left, Jake tried to talk to Heeseung but he went off to clear his head — which clearly didn't work out very well. Even though he tried to occupy himself and do other things he was still numb to the feeling of your mouth on his.

Heeseung couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, you appeared in his mind. He couldn't forget the feel of your soft skin under his fingers, your bright, pleading eyes, and how soft your mouth was.

He ran his hand over his face trying to control himself, but he couldn't help but feel hot when he remembered your kiss. He had taken the risk of kissing you, but he didn't expect your response to be as intense as his.

Heeseung couldn't pinpoint when everything changed, because 3 months ago he couldn't stand you, but now he couldn't wait to see you.

He picked up his phone and saw that it was almost 1 am and he couldn't get you out of his head. Your scent was tattooed on his mind and he knew he wanted to smell it again.

Heeseung wanted to see you, touch you, kiss you again.

But a doubt hovered over his mind: what about you? What did you want? Do you regret it? Or did you also like it and want more?

Heeseung knew there was no way to guess that now, but he would do whatever it took to find out.

☆

It's been 3 days since you and Heeseung were in complete silence.

After what had happened in his room, you were still in shock. But the fact that you and he didn't talk anymore was worrying and it irritated you.

You guys made out in his room and he couldn't send you at least a good morning text? Or anything else? How would you communicate and behave when you had to meet for your project after this?

Deep down, you didn’t know whether you regretted it or not. You don’t want to mess up your – finally – good relationship, but at the same time, you want to kiss him again. You don't know how this will impact the two of you, but you know you don't want to get ghosted by Heeseung or get weird by it.

Like a mature adult, you tried to occupy your mind with your civil law presentation, but the worst part was that nothing could get the vision of Heeseung out of your head. The words he whispered and how he kissed you like he’s been longing for it for a long time… it was too much.

The day of the presentation had already arrived, and even though you were confident in your knowledge, you were afraid to see Heeseung again.

You don't know how to behave or what to say when you see him. You could barely translate the things you were feeling at that moment when he intensively kissed you. In the end, all you knew was that even though you were irritated, you could barely see him without feeling your stomach twist and your body heat up.

On the other hand, for the first time in his life, Heeseung was excited to see your performance.

You were already at the front of the class with your slides turned on and waiting for the professor to give the go-ahead for you to start presenting.

Heeseung was sitting a little further forward so he wouldn't miss any details. His gaze met your and he gave a smile that made your insides melt.

It was different to feel that this time Heeseung's presence made you more nervous than usual.

When you started your presentation, everyone stopped and hung on every word.

Mainly Heeseung.

It was curious how you didn't look nervous while you clicked on the slides to explain your topic. Your confidence exudes how much you had prepared for the presentation, making him admire you even more. He eyed you attentively, not wanting to miss any of your moves. Your hands weren't shaking, and the way you presented yourself was so delicate and so fierce at the same time. He smirked watching how you pointed to the topics on the slide.

You really used his idea for your slides.

'Such pretty hands.' He thought about how it would feel them touching his face, his skin, him. The horde of forbidden thoughts filling his mind.

He swore he was really paying attention to what you were saying, but he got distracted so easily that even he couldn't explain why.

Suddenly he realized that he was thinking about things that definitely had nothing to do with possessory dispossession but had to do with what it must be like to see you on top of him while his hands roamed over your body.

His thoughts were interrupted when you finished your presentation perfectly making the sound of claps fill the room.

Once again you had outdone yourself in a presentation, but this time Heeseung wasn't analyzing the way you explained or trying to see if you would make mistakes in your diction. Now he could only think about how admirable your effort was.

Especially how he wanted you so bad.

However, when class ended, you had disappeared without giving him a chance to talk to you, leaving Heeseung even more anxious. What did he have to do to finally be able to talk to you again?

The ballroom was adorned with bright lights and chandeliers with sparkling stones that could blind you if you stare at them for too long. The buffet tables were extravagant (as always) and contained every type of food you could imagine. Seafood, pasta, and a variety of drinks. The exaggerated extravagance mixed with the forced, discreet laughter was a known sound that made your ears itch.

People were dressed in all the elegance that the event required, and everyone seemed polite and well-behaved. However, even from a distance you could capture several fake smiles, carefully placed on the faces of poor university students who were trying to survive in this environment by flattering more well-known and experienced attorneys in search of a possible internship or job at a renowned firm.

The P&J Foundation event was one of the only ones open to university students and law school graduates looking to meet future work partners or new opportunities in the job market.

And of course you would be there, “enjoying” the extravagant decorations, the lectures and the valuable advice from several experienced professionals — that’s the main reason why people go there anyway. But one of the biggest reasons was that your father was one of the sponsors, so missing out was not an option.

Even though it was a beneficial event for several college students, you felt slightly uncomfortable due to the judging looks people gave you when they saw you standing there drinking whatever was on the table without talking to anyone.

You were silent, observing the environment. Since you arrived, you had only greeted a few attorneys who approached to ask about your father, and not about you. It was as if you weren't even an option, but just the daughter of the great attorney Park.

In a way, it was comforting to know that the event wouldn't last long and maybe someone you knew would show up to relieve your boredom.

Someone like Heeseung.

“You look lonely.” Heeseung’s unmistakable voice behind you stole your attention, making you turn around at once “Maybe you need some company?”

Your breath caught in your throat and your eyes widened at the sight of Heeseung in a black suit and parted hair in front of you.

Your eyes shamelessly roamed over Heeseung's entire body seeing how the suit was intricately molded to his torso and waist. The black dress shirt he was wearing underneath was plain and was slightly open to reveal a bit of Heeseung's collarbone and his thin silver necklace.

“Oh, it’s you.” You swallowed hard and kept your face straight, nonchalant at seeing him. After 3 days of not talking to you, this is how he shows up?

He had his hands in his pants pockets and approached you with that smirk that drove you crazy “You look beautiful.” He took your hand and gave it a soft kiss on your knuckles while piercing through you with his intense eyes.

You felt butterflies in the pit of your stomach and a shiver ran down your spine seeing Heeseung's delicacy. Even if you wanted to be angry at him, it would be difficult to remain that way when he acted like this, it’s like he knew exactly what to do to disarm you.

“Thank you.” Heeseung’s eyes couldn’t move away from your figure, making your neck heat up.

“Your suit looks good.” You spoke sincerely and Heeseung chuckled “Just my suit?” He whispered, bringing his face closer to yours and firmly held your waist making you look away.

“What do you want, Heeseung?” Your cheeks were burning and your lips puckered in a cute pout that Heeseung found adorable even if you were speaking in a harsh way.

“Can we talk?” You felt weak at his gentle tone combined with the way he sweetly stared at you “Talk about what?” He chuckled through his nose and tilted his head so he could whisper in your ear “Stop pretending like you don't know.” The way his warm breath tickled your ear made you dizzy.

“Fine.” You sighed and crossed your arms trying to maintain your posture “Let's go somewhere.” You weren't going to talk about this in front of everyone, so you decided to lead the way to some secluded place where you would have the privacy you needed while you struggled to organize your thoughts. What was he going to talk to you about? The kiss? What did it really mean?

Your anxiety was already at its peak, but you felt a sense of deja vu when he placed his hand behind your back as you walked down the hall.

“So, are you enjoying the event?” He asked in a whisper and you snickered “’Enjoying’ is a strong word...” Your sigh made Heeseung raise an eyebrow “It’s boring.”

“I thought these parties were your thing.” He confessed and you mockingly glanced at him “I’m just used to them, but they’re usually a drag.”

“Yeah, it must be hard growing up going to rich people’s parties and eating the best of the best.” He said ironically and you pushed him lightly, giving him a sour smile “It’s not that fun when you have to flatter others so they don’t talk bad about you or your father.”

Your confession made him stare at you for a moment and go silent. Heeseung knew that you were a layered person and that in the past he had a lot of bad impressions of you, so maybe he needed to admit that he was wrong and try to see things from your point of view.

Suddenly you left the main hall and managed to find an empty room in an isolated corridor away from everyone. You entered and realized that it was a small storage room full of folders on dark grey shelves, a table and a locked cabinet.

After you both entered the room, Heeseung locked the door behind him, and you stood in front of the table with your arms crossed, impatiently staring at him. Unfortunately for your heart, it seemed like his addictive scent was even more evident in this closed room.

“So?” Your tone was impatient “What do you want?” He slowly smirked and approached you cautiously.

“You seem angry.” he stood in front of you making you scoff and put your hands on your hips “You didn't answer my question, Heeseung.”

Heeseung took a deep breath and looked away for a moment. He spent the whole afternoon mentally rehearsing what he was going to say, but now that he was in front of you it was different. Your red dress was making him lose his mind.

He needed to be honest, and he wouldn't run away anymore.

“I'm sorry.” your face softened at the sincerity in his voice “I’m sorry for disappearing, I know I should have said something.” Heeseung looked at you tenderly and touched your cheek “But ever since we kissed, I got crazy, like I genuinely couldn’t sleep, study or do anything without you showing on my mind” he breathed out “So… I needed to understand what I was feeling.”

You swallowed hard as you waited for him to finish.

“The truth is that I can’t stop thinking about you.” he whispered, moving closer to you “I know that since we met, we haven’t gotten along, and maybe I’m at fault at this because I’ve been an idiot to you several times, but there’s just… something about you…” he slid his fingertips under your jaw “You drive me crazy.”

Your heartbeat was already going crazy, while your breath was caught in your throat. The closer he got, the more you felt your feelings stir.

“What do you mean by that?” you frowned and crossed your arms, trying not to be shaken by Heeseung’s words and scent invading your senses.

He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. “What I mean is that I’m here admitting that I want you.” he spoke directly making your legs weak.

Heeseung came closer and you felt your back touch the table behind you. His hands went straight to your waist as he pressed your body against his. Your back arched slightly and Heeseung brought his face closer to yours. “Do you really want me?” you asked shakily under the atmosphere pressure, and he smiled.

"Yes, I want you." he whispered against your mouth as he gripped the corner of your neck with the long fingers of his right hand "Isn't it obvious?"

His body radiated a unique heat that destroyed all your sanity. His dark eyes looked at you with intensity, breaking down all the defenses you swore you had put up against him.

“You’re all I have on my mind.” his smooth lips brushed against yours and your breathing became heavy “Can I kiss you?” his question was like an arrow being pierced through your heart “Yes.” you whispered, holding onto Heeseung’s forearms.

He smiled and kissed you passionately, pressing his body against yours. An electrifying current ran through your entire body when you felt his lips move intensely and passionately.

Heeseung kissed you with an insatiable desire. He couldn't get enough of your taste. He always wanted more and more. Suddenly, you groaned when you felt his tongue slide over yours and his hands grip your hips.

You couldn't deny it. Heeseung knew exactly what he was doing, and it was so hot that you pulled him by his collar wanting more.

Heeseung moved his kisses down to your jaw and you gasped when you felt him grab your body by your thighs and place you on the table behind you.

“Did you dress up for me?” he whispered as he attacked your neck with desire “No, I always dress well.” you tried to answer feeling your breath quicken. Your hands went straight to Heeseung’s hair and he smiled against your skin “Aw, it’s a shame. I thought you wanted to impress me.”

Heeseung kissed your sensitive spot below your ear and you moaned making him smile against your skin “Why? Are you impressed?” you teased Heeseung and he moved his hands up your thigh under your red dress.

“Yeah.” he placed a lingering kiss on the center of your throat making your body tremble with desire “You're looking so fucking beautiful in this dress.” he kissed you again as you pulled him towards you with your legs. This time he kissed you slowly and deeply while holding onto your loose hair.

Heeseung was on cloud nine. How much he had missed feeling your lips on his, clashing in perfect harmony. When you pulled away from his mouth to breathe and began to kiss the length of his neck, he moaned, making you close your legs around him.

“You should see me when I'm not wearing it, then.” you whispered sensually before biting Heeseung's ear making his breath shaky as he squeezed your thighs tightly “Fuck — stop teasing me, baby.” The way he called you made your stomach turn.

“Why? What are you going to do if I don't stop?” You looked into his eyes, faking innocence, and began to slowly open the buttons of his suit, teasing him with your fingertips “You don't wanna know.” he smirked holding your neck tightly “I'm going to ruin you.” he bit your lower lip making you moan and squeeze his hips with your legs pulling him closer, seeking any kind of contact.

When you finished unbuttoning his suit, you ran your hands over his black dress shirt, sliding down his chest to his stomach, noticing how surprisingly defined he was. Heeseung instinctively groaned into the kiss and pulled your hair back to attack your neck and collarbone, making you gasp.

All of your reactions were like fuel that further fueled the fire inside Heeseung. He knew he couldn't go all the way in this storage, but the way you moaned and squeezed him with your thighs was making it difficult to control himself.

“You're making it hard for me to stop.” Heeseung said in a broken sigh with his forehead pressed against yours as his hands explored you beneath your dress “I want to touch you.” You could see the longing in his glossy eyes, especially by the way his cheeks and ears were burning red.

How beautiful he looked in that state of despair. A sight that only you had the privilege of having: seeing Lee Heeseung completely surrendered to you begging to touch you.

“Okay.” You whispered and cupped your hands around his cheeks, pulling his face to yours in a kiss, making him melt inside. It was insane how his mouth fit perfectly on yours, as if it was made especially for you.

Your entire body was on fire. The butterflies danced deep in your stomach when he slowly pulled the sides of your panties down as he ravished your mouth with his desperate kiss.

Heeseung's bangs were already losing their definition from all the movement and small beads of sweat accumulating on both of your foreheads making you think that your clothes were a big impediment.

With trembling hands, you began to open the buttons of his blouse, feeling the soft skin of his neck and collarbone under your fingers making him let out low grunts that shuddered your mind and body.

He forcefully pulled your legs closer to the edge of the table, making your body arch slightly. Your breathing became uneven as he removed your panties completely, letting them fall to the floor.

In a brief moment of sanity, you couldn’t believe you were doing this with Heeseung inside a storage room. This was dangerous, insane, lewd, and unfortunately, you liked it. It’s like your brain shuts out whenever you get involved with Heeseung.

As his hands began to roam the inside of your thigh you began to feel more desperate. “Heeseung, p–please.” Your stutter made Heeseung smile as his fingers slid across your skin teasingly.

“What?” he asked as he left a trail of kisses on your cheek “Please. Touch me.” You were on edge and he wasn’t helping.

He smiled against your skin, taking small bites on your jaw as his right hand slowly rose, as if to test your patience.

“Heeseung.” You dug your fingers into his shoulder, whispering, like a plea.

But before he could give you what you wanted, your phone started ringing madly. You were startled by the sound, and he pulled away for a moment so you could find your phone in the middle of the table.

You looked at the screen and your body stiffened when you saw that it was your father calling you. Heeseung instantly noticed the change in your body language and distanced himself enough to look at your face.

“Damn it.” You tried to steady your breathing “It’s my father.”

Heeseung stood up straight and reluctantly let go of your body, trying to catch his breath. He felt irritated. Why did it seem like someone always managed to ruin the mood between you two whenever you were alone?

He soon noticed that you were hesitating, so he grabbed your panties and gently pulled them up over your legs and touched your cheek with his knuckles “You need to take this call, don't you?” he asked in a tender whisper and you nodded, feeling suddenly ashamed of the situation you found yourself in.

“I'll give you some space.” he stepped away, closing the buttons on his shirt that you undone and straightening his suit again.

As Heeseung fixed his hair, you closed your legs, feeling completely frustrated at the interruption, and jumped off the table, adjusting your dress.

With a cough to regulate your voice, you answered your phone trying to sound normal.

“Hello? Father?” Heeseung leaned against the wall and stared at you from afar as you lowered the fabric of your dress.

Your face showed an expression of defeat, feeling like this situation is more complicated than it seemed.

Suddenly Heeseung began to reflect on how easily he lost control when he was with you. It seemed like it was too easy to lose himself in you, as if there were no consequences.

“What?” You felt your heart stop at what you just heard “Are you here at the event?”

Heeseung and you looked at each other at the same time, knowing what that meant.

You would have to face your father that night.

☆

Heeseung had helped you adjust your dress before you left the storage room first. Since he didn't want to draw attention, Heeseung had the idea of you going first and then he would leave.

You were clearly upset, frustrated, and tired. Why did your father have to come to this event now? Your mind could barely think straight after what had happened in the storage room.

Your heart calmed down, but you couldn’t forget Heeseung’s confession. How sincere and desperate he sounded. Your mind constantly went back to the way he talked, touched you, acted. He was addictive.

As you mingled through the crowd looking for your father, Heeseung watched you from afar, analyzing your behavior. Apart from the fact that you were a begging mess minutes earlier, the way you tensed every time your father was mentioned made him think there was something more about you that he needed to uncover.

You randomly wandered through the main ballroom and Heeseung approached your figure again “You seem lost.” he commented and you laughed lightly hearted “I’m just looking for my father.”

“What’s he like?” Heeseung asked looking at the crowd with you “Serious? A bit scary, I guess...” you whispered the last part, and he arched his eyebrow “I’ll be right by your side then.”

The way Heeseung showed he cared for you made you smile slightly “What a gentleman…” he smiled feeling the irony of your voice “Of course, I know how to treat a woman.”

You glanced at him, seeing how he was giving that naughty smile that meant he was thinking about things that had nothing to do with chivalry.

“Sweetie, I'm glad you came.” before you could say anything, your conversation was interrupted by your father's voice.

Heeseung turned to the side and saw how unusual your posture was. You suddenly looked more rigid, serious and with a monotonous expression.

You turned to your father and gave him that weak smile that Heeseung knew wasn’t genuine. “Hello, father.” Heeseung noticed how you called your father in a distant and formal way. As if you didn’t have the freedom to call him whatever you wanted.

“I didn’t expect you to come.” As always, you communicated only what was necessary with your father. Nothing less and nothing more. “I managed to get some free time to come see you and see my event.”

Heeseung realized what that meant. He was the famous Attorney Park who sponsored events and ways for people from difficult backgrounds like himself to have a chance in the legal field.

He was a legend in his field and his intentions seemed good, so why did you seem so distant?

“And who is this fine gentleman?” He turned his gaze to Heeseung who instantly bowed and extended his hand in a polite way “I'm Lee Heeseung, sir. Pleased to meet you.” He friendly smiled and your father shook his hand while he analyzed his figure.

“He’s my friend from college.” You replied, surprised at your father’s friendly interaction with Heeseung.

Heeseung didn't miss how you had called him friend and how strange it sounded. He didn't want to be your friend, he wanted much more.

“I didn’t know you had such a polite friend.” Your father seemed to be in a good mood while you felt a little more comfortable seeing that your father had taken a liking to him.

Then suddenly you started to realize how important this had become to you. His opinion of Heeseung was important because you really cared about him.

“I feel honored, sir.” Heeseung smiled gently “So, Heeseung.” Your father's attention was solely focused on Heeseung “Tell me, what do you think of this event?” Your father asked Heeseung, who swallowed hard and gave a gentle smile, feeling his gaze fixed on him.

“I think it is a terrific opportunity, sir. I had the chance to have a fruitful conversation with a few attorneys along with a friend and we had some great legal advice.” he was sincere and you bit your lower lip trying to contain your smile at how his vocabulary suddenly went back to being completely formal compared to the way he normally speaks to you.

It was hilarious to see him chatting calmly and composed as if he hadn't been absolutely ravishing you just minutes ago in a storage room.

“That’s great.” Your father gave a satisfied smile with his answer “Me and a few other colleagues sponsored this kind of event because life wasn’t easy for us, so we want to help the next generation in the best way possible.” Heeseung looked away to see Jake seemed more well-behaved than usual as he chatted with two older attorneys from afar.

“It’s an amazing event, sir. We are really grateful for this unique opportunity.” Heeseung smiled sincerely as your father seemed pleased with the conversation “What do you plan to do in the future, son?” Heeseung was left speechless for a moment “I want to be an attorney, sir.” You noticed how his voice trembled a little and you noticed how this was a big deal to him. This is his dream for real.

“That’s wonderful.” Your father gave a smile that left him stunned. It had been a long time since you had seen your father smile like that. “Since I became an attorney, I’ve been able to change my family’s lives, so I would say it’s worth it.” Heeseung felt an instant sense of identification with the sentence your father said.

“That’s why I have high expectations for my daughter.” He looked at you and you gave a tense smile that Heeseung instantly noticed “She’s the best in the class so she would indeed be a sensational attorney, but if I may say this, sir, I believe that regardless of the career she decides to pursue in law, I know she will be successful, because she’s brilliant in everything she decides to do.” Heeseung spoke seriously and you looked away from him, feeling your heart melt completely with his praise.

He could have promoted himself or just kept quiet. But he decided to risk it all by praising you to that degree, even without knowing your father.

And just like lightning strikes a tree and burns it, you realized the obvious truth: you were in love with Lee Heeseung and would accept the consequences that would come with that reality.

Your father looked at the two of you making it obvious he was analyzing the situation and understanding what was happening right there. The way Heeseung firmly said that, and you got shy made it obvious that you two were more than friends.

“It’s true.” Your father’s answer surprised you “If I’m being honest, I wish she could be an attorney like me, without the sufferings I had to go through, but I know her path can change, so I want her to be successful in any field.” You felt your body stiff. It was the first time your father had said something like that about you.

He didn't open up about his feelings very much, so you always thought that being an attorney in his office was everything he dreamed of and determined for you. "That’s why I’m strict with you.”  He looked at you with that stoic look you never understood “Well, you know I want the best for you, my dear." You nodded, feeling a whirlwind of sensations.

This interaction was different from what you expected. Your father was a mysterious man, of few words and curious actions, but you knew he was trying his best, despite being terrible atcommunicating his own feelings.

You may need more time to talk until you finally understand what kind of person your father is, but this brief, unexpected interaction is enough for now.

“Since you want to be an attorney, then come visit my office someday.” he turned to Heeseung who was stunned by the proposal “I can give you some advice when I have time.”

“It would be an honor, sir.” He showed your father an excited smile and you held back the urge to tease him right there. He was so cute when he got excited about a subject that interested him, especially about law.

“Father, you’re going to take all his time.” You said, smiling with your eyes, and your father laughed out loud “That’s right, I came here to stop by quickly and ended up talking too much.”

Your father shook Heeseung's hand and turned to you “Come visit me later, sweetie. It's been a while since we had dinner together.” You gave a slight smile and nodded “Of course, father.”

With one last greeting he took one last look at you and Heeseung before leaving without saying anything.

A part of you felt relieved, because for the first time in years you didn't feel so awkward after interacting with your father.

“Who would have thought, I'm alive to see Lee Heeseung wanting to go to my father's office.” You mocked Heeseung and he laughed, running his hand through his hair.

“Is that how you learned to give that fake passive-aggressive smile of yours?” he asked in a comical tone looking into your eyes and you smiled gently “It’s a basic prerequisite for survival in this environment.”

“It seems like a complicated cycle.” he said gently, turning to you “It is. You need to be perfect, always.” You glanced at Heeseung, seeing how stunning he was that all you could think about was how you wanted to attack him again “But I learned to deal with it.”

He looked at you again and felt a wave of remorse hit him. Ever since you met, he had been completely stupid and unbearable with you because of assumptions he made in his mind, but the more he got to know you, the more he realized that you were completely different.

“You know, I think I’ve been misjudging you all this time.” Heeseung confessed and you were surprised by his revelation “I thought you were the kind of insufferable rich girl who had no sense of reality, but I guess I was an idiot for thinking that without getting to know you first.”

“Heeseung—” “No, let me finish.” He looked into your eyes and touched your cheek with his hand as gently as possible “I’m really sorry for being such an ass to you for so long.”

Your heart seemed to explode as you heard Heeseung's sincere words.

“In a way I judged you because you seemed like you had an easy life, while I had to fight for a lot of things.” he sighed and closed his eyes for a moment “I know this is no excuse and I was immature and stupid, but I want to start over with you. Can we?” You gave him a mischievous smile “How can I deny it when Lee Heeseung is admitting his own defeat before me?”

He smiled, taking your hand between his knuckles “I'm serious. I'm sorry for the way I acted. I think you messed with me in some way since the beginning and I didn't know how to deal with those feelings.” the way he was finally opening up and confessing why he was so unbearable made everything fit together in your mind “So that’s why you were so annoying?” your suspicious look drew a hearty laugh from Heeseung “Yes, that too, but to be honest… it's actually really fun to tease you.”

You looked at each other for a moment, making him give that damn smirk that reminded you why you get lost in Heeseung every time you get alone. “I'm really trying to contain myself here, but you're not cooperating.” He whispered and looked away, making you give a discreet laugh.

“Oh, I didn't know you got so worked up because of me.” You whispered holding his arm innocently “I’m sorry mr. Lee, it's my fault.”

Heeseung looked at you like you were the most magnificent thing on the face of the earth. Suddenly he smiled and offered his arm so you could wrap your hands around it. “You better stop, or we won’t get to enjoy the rest of this event.”

You held his arm and smiled excitedly “Why? What are you going to do?” Heeseung sighed and gave one last whisper in your ear “Or we’ll have to finish what we started in that storage room.”

And with a few words Lee Heeseung made the nervousness boil in the pit of your stomach, making you excited about the idea of doing lewd things with him.

If someone had told you at the beginning of the semester that you would now be dating Lee Heeseung and walking hand in hand around campus, you would have thought they were crazy and needed to be hospitalized. But here you were, walking with a wide smile and bright eyes, your hand intertwined with Heeseung's soft fingers.

Gaeul was the first to know and she let out such an excited scream that you swore the entire building heard it. Yes, she was clearly loving the news and repeated several times about how 'she already knew' and 'it was obvious and only you didn't realize it' , but either way it was wonderful to feel like you had your best friend's support and to see how excited she was for your happiness.

Yes, indeed you were very happy, and this was unexpected since it was something you hadn't planned, it just happened. Heeseung had taken you out to dinner, given you roses and a necklace that officially symbolized that you were together. And of course, this was much more than you expected.

Ever since you and Heeseung were chosen as project partners, your mood was constantly tested, and you swore it was the worst thing that could have happened to you this semester. However, despite the initial disagreements, you ended up seeing another side of each other and you were surprised by the person Heeseung revealed himself to be.

A wonderful and passionate man in everything he does.

“Ugh, you guys are disgustingly cute.” Jake commented as Heeseung ate his lunch after putting more tomato on your plate because one day you said you loved the cafeteria salad.

“Thanks? I guess…” Heeseung laughed at his friend’s reaction while you ate your lunch calmly.

After you started dating Heeseung, you got to know more of his friends, and because of that, you realized that you didn't interact as much with people from college, so it's good to feel that your circle of friends has increased significantly.

“I always knew you two were a good match.” Jay said, taking a drink of juice, and Gaeul agreed with him “Oh my God, yes!!! I said the same thing! But she didn’t believe me.”

“Hey, why is our relationship being a topic at lunch?” You replied and they laughed, amused by the situation.

Heeseung was in a good mood. The atmosphere was lively, comfortable, and ideal. It was as if everything was going very well.

Just one thing that was making him nervous: The lack of time for you two to be alone.

Aside from the times you needed to meet up to study and work on your project, his activities and work were cutting into your time together and it was driving him crazy. He simply wanted to spend quality time with you without having to leave quickly because of some appointment or because someone interrupted you.

That's why he had decided that that day would be just for the two of you. He had already told Jake that he wouldn't talk to anyone and that he needed to be at peace with his girlfriend. So, after much debating, he decided that he needed to be alone with you and that was the day you would finally be together.

☆

“Babe, I can't believe we finally have some free time.” Heeseung was lying on his bed completely satisfied while you were lying flat on top of him. His right hand was firmly on your waist while his left rested on your cheek. His thumb drew patterns on your skin while you played with the buttons on the collar of his shirt “I know right? I guess our project and your job took a lot of our time.”

“I was dying to be like this with you.” He confessed, sliding his hand down your back “Just you and me.” You giggled, suddenly feeling shy “Me too.” Your confession made Heeseung smile mischievously.

How good it was to know that no one would interrupt you.

“Yeah?” He smiled, giving you a kiss on the cheek, another on your nose and finally on your mouth, making you smile gently.

Heeseung knew that you had become his calm place. Where he could rest and most importantly, stay.

It was curious how you had snatched his heart completely in just 4 months.

Because despite canceling himself out daily for the goals he felt he needed to accomplish, your presence came like a thunderbolt, changing his reality and allowing Heeseung to feel things he no longer remembered how they were.

He remembered what it was like to feel genuine desire for someone. What it really meant to genuinely care for someone.

“Hmhum.” You murmured in agreement with him, feeling his hands slide gently down to your behind squeezing the skin there making you sigh with pleasure.

“Is this okay?” he asked, acting innocent as he lifted the fabric of your skirt to touch your bare skin. His wet lips slid down your cheek, heading towards your neck.

Heeseung wasn’t in a hurry. He had all the time in the world, and he was going to enjoy most of it.

“Yes.” You replied trying not to lose your senses, as Heeseung kissed your neck at the slowest pace possible “You're so pretty, baby. Did you choose this skirt just to see me?” He asked and you smiled, nodding your head.

He smiled over your skin and nibbled, making your breath tremble and moan softly. Heeseung wanted to show you how desired you were, and he would take as much time as necessary to do so.

The afternoon was calm, silent, just like the afternoon of the day you kissed for the first time. He still remembers your subtle hesitation, as if you didn't know what to do at that moment but still responded to his kiss in a way he never imagined.

With his left hand Heeseung moved up the velvety skin of your back beneath your blouse. Your skin was soft, delicate, with a velvety touch that he loved to feel.

He couldn't get enough of the contrast of how soft your skin was compared to the hardness of his hands. He kissed your jaw slowly in a way that made you close your eyes and surrender completely.

When he finally reached your lips you intertwined your fingers in his hair, pulling him towards you. How you had missed this.

Heeseung kissed you slowly, taking his time as he enjoyed the softness of your lips moving against his. He could taste a faint strawberry from the lip gloss you were wearing.

The damn lip gloss that always caught his attention.

The kiss quickly sped up as Heeseung licked your bottom lip, making you gasp and moan as his tongue entered your mouth. He was no longer patient, after all, it was very easy to lose all control when it came to you. His hands went down under your skirt and grabbed your skin, making your desperate moans be swallowed by Heeseung's mouth.

Heeseung's handprints were left on the skin of your thighs, as if they were a tattoo of his deep desire that you wanted to keep it. He kissed you eagerly, thirsty, wanting to taste every inch of your body and touch you as you deserve.

He pulled your body up tightly, holding onto your hips, making him grunt at the sensation of your body pressing over his pants. He was breathless, but he didn't want to stop kissing you. He moved away slightly to adjust himself on the bed and you felt your head spin with all the action.

Your lips were already bruised from the desperate kiss, and you felt a chill in your stomach seeing how Heeseung's mouth was red and swollen and he still wanted more. He wasn't satisfied, he wanted to taste your entire body and mark it with everything he had: his hands, his lips and his teeth.

He grabbed the hem of your shirt and his breath hitched as you sat lightly on top of him and took off your own shirt “Are you blushing Heeseung? How cute…” You teased him by holding his cheeks, seeing how red they were along with his ears. Heeseung was feeling sick at the sight of you topless, wearing only a delicate pink lace bra and your short skirt that was already rolled up.

“Yeah.” Your hands rested on his chest, feeling his heartbeat at a frantic pace. He was so mesmerized by you that he could barely respond. His eyes roamed over your curves and he swallowed hard as he ran his hands up the skin of your torso, sending shivers down your spine.

“You're so beautiful, baby.” He whispered into your neck as he marked your skin with his teeth making you weak “Want to see more of you.” You pulled Heeseung’s face towards you, kissing him intensely. The mixture of your breaths with the suffocating encounter of your tongues made the air around you heat up.

Your hands pulled Heeseung's black shirt up as he helped you by giving you desperate kisses. Your body heated up at the sight of Heeseung's defined abs and you slid your fingertips across his skin, making Heeseung moan.

Heeseung wrapped his arms around you and turned you around, placing your body on the mattress and climbing on top of you.

He was absolutely breathtaking.

The strands of his bangs tickled your nose as he kissed you passionately. Your fingers gripped the back of his neck and your nails scratched the skin there, making him let out low grunts that made you even hotter.

Your hands slid down Heeseung's toned back as he trailed kisses along your jaw, down the line of your throat, kissing over the skin of your chest.

Heeseung made it his personal goal to mark all the skin on your body with his mouth if that was possible. He kissed and marked with hickeys whatever was possible while his hand squeezed the skin of your chest under your bra making you whimper.

With his right hand he moved up your back touching the clasp of your bra, opening it as he kissed the skin of your belly going lower and lower.

Amidst your sighs, Heeseung in one action took off your skirt and underwear, leaving you a little embarrassed and shocked with his dexterity.

Instinctively you closed your legs as he looked at you, feeling that his self-control had already disappeared. You were completely perfect.

But he wanted more.

Your soft skin seemed to glow with the small beams of light that escaped from his bedroom window. You were there, beneath him without clothes, and he was sure that you were the most beautiful woman in the world.

No one would ever compare to you.

“Don't be shy, I want to taste you.” he got on his knees, touched the top of your knees and slid down your legs looking at you between his messy bangs as you felt your heart explode inside your chest “Spread your legs for me, baby.”

Your insides churned with agitation, and you obeyed him slowly, feeling your cheeks heat up at the bold way he spoke.

Heeseung's gaze changed. He looked determined, insatiable, and desperate to taste every part of your skin.

He stood between your legs, kissing down your belly to the lower part of your stomach, holding onto your thighs, making you place your hand on his face, caressing him lightly. He felt his heart melt at your affection.

Heeseung placed his face in the palm of your hand, placing a tender kiss on the inside of your skin. He nuzzled into the warmth of your hand before giving you a lewd look that made your breath catch.

He kissed your thighs, making you anxious. His dark brown hair revealed reddish highlights from the light and you noticed the small mole he had on his forehead.

There was no denying that Heeseung was beautiful. And he was all yours.

Every time you felt Heeseung's mouth marking your skin, your breath hitched, and you closed your eyes at the overwhelming sensation. He didn't fail to notice how soaked you were already, making his pants tighten.

Heeseung devoured you with desire. He was relentless, savoring and sucking on your skin at an insane pace, as if he was starving. At times, he looked at you, taking it your reactions and feeling a sense of pride fill his chest at how desperate you looked by his marks. Your hands pulled his dark locks, making him grunt as you became numb with pleasure.

Your legs were wobbly, but Heeseung held on tightly while he marked more spots on your skin. You noticed how the veins on his forearms ran up to the back of his hands.

At that moment he was incredibly sexy.

You could not form comprehensible words, only broken moans and loud sighs that couldn't be translated.

“Feels so good, Hee.” You almost cried and Heeseung felt his heart clench at the way you called him “More.”

Heeseung on the other hand loved it all. He loved losing himself in you and seeing how desperate you became as he skillfully worked your body.

“Fuck—” He took a deep breath and gave a shaky sigh before sucking another spot at your inner thigh “Say that again, princess.”

“More, Hee—” Your voice could barely finish his name while Heeseung felt his pressure rise at the sound of your voice and panting moans.

As you melted under Heeseung's mouth, he held your hips so they wouldn't move up while he continued to kiss your bare skin from your lower stomach up to your mouth.

He gave you a tender peck on the corner of your mouth “You taste so good baby.” He whispered in your ear, sending shivers down your spine as you felt his hands roam over your body possessively “I want to make you mine.”

“Please.” You nodded with your eyes closed “I need you.” He smiled and kissed you once more as his right hand combed through your hair, intertwining his fingers in the strands on your scalp.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing him madly, hoping he would understand all the feelings you wanted to deliver intrinsically with your kiss.

With ragged breathing he got to his knees, undoing his belt, while you tried to recover from everything that happened.

His forehead was wet with sweat and some strands of his bangs stuck to his skin. You felt your body tremble with anticipation, biting your lower lip at the sight of Heeseung giving a mocking smirk while not taking his eyes off you.

“How do you want it?” he teased you as he took off his pants, seeing how completely needy you were for his touch “Slow?” he took off his piece of clothing, hovering over you “or rough?”

A shiver ran down your spine at the question and he smiled watching as you closed your legs lightly around his hips at the last suggestion.

“Rough, huh?” He pulled your body closer by your hips and straddled you again “Is that right?”

That afternoon would be all about you. Heeseung decided that making you feel good would be his top priority and nothing else mattered. If you wanted it rough, he would give you exactly that.

“Yes.” You replied in a low whisper feeling your chest heave with excitement and Heeseung brushed his lips over yours “Yeah? You're so naughty, baby.” he bit his lower lip holding your wrists beside your head “You have this innocent pretty face, but you like it rough, huh?”

He crashed his lips into you with a deep kiss again, exploring your entire mouth violently with his tongue. He came to the conclusion that he would never get tired of your lips.

It was a messy, wet, intense and completely overwhelming kiss. Heeseung released your wrists, wrapping you in his arms, pulling your body into him, making your stomach knot with his aggression.

Your moans were swallowed by Heeseung's mouth as the pressure of his body on yours drove you crazy. He began attacking your neck with open kisses as he positioned himself between your legs.

“Please, Hee.” Heeseung smiled seeing how you begged for him. Just like the way he always dreamed of “I want you so bad.”

Your hands grabbed his strong shoulders, and he sucked in a breath, trying to control himself with the ecstatic sensation of your body enveloping him completely “You want me, baby?” Heeseung members were shaking as he heard your delirious whimpers in anticipation “So, be good for me and wait like a good girl.”

Heeseung's heartbeat was already racing in an insane rhythm as he held onto your hips tightly, sinking it into the mattress, but not giving what you wanted. “S-Stop teasing, Hee.” You whispered in despair, and he breathlessly moaned, feeling your nails scratching the back of his head between your choking whimpers.

“Sorry baby, I just wanna take my time with you.” While you felt Heeseung’s body completely over yours, your nails sank down the length of his beautiful, toned back, scratching his skin, and your forehead rested on his shoulder, hiding your face. Heeseung grabbed your jaw and pulled your face to him, kissing you, making your eyes water slightly “Look at me.” he whispered with a shaky breath over your mouth “I want to see your pretty face.”

“Hah—” You opened your slightly blurry eyes and could barely respond to Heeseung, who was breathing irregularly, adjusting himself at the perfect position “C'mon baby, you can take it.” he whispered, wrecking you completely.

Heeseung felt butterflies in his stomach seeing the sight of you beneath him writhing in pleasure. It was lewd, sexy and scorching. It was everything he wanted: to see you completely surrendered under him while he roughly handled you.

He finally realized that every day he discovered more reasons to love you, and he was happy that your love story was just starting.

At that moment, nothing else crossed your mind other than his name: Heeseung. So, you allowed yourself to give yourself completely to Heeseung and fall apart under his touch and the intoxicating feeling of his body on top of yours, giving you everything you wanted most.

☆

After a long bath and more stolen kisses, you were cuddling on Heeseung's bed while he stroked your hair.

“I'm so tired.” He said, smelling his shampoo on your damp hair “I need to sleep for about 10 hours straight to recover.”

You laughed and gave him a kiss on the cheek “How a college student would find time to sleep for 10 hours?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll find a way.” he touched your cheek with the back of his fingers, caressing the spot “And you? Are you tired?” You nodded as you let yourself be numbed by the smell of Heeseung’s perfume “This semester killed me.”

“I know right? It feels like we didn’t even have a break.” He stroked your hair affectionately “And speaking of breaks… my dad wants you to have dinner with us next time.” You spoke in an uncertain tone, afraid of Heeseung’s reaction to the sudden invitation “Really?” He smiled at the corner of his mouth and looked at you, noticing how shy you were “Yes, at the last dinner we had he mentioned that he wanted me to invite you. I think deep down he realized that there was something between us since the day of the foundation event.” Heeseung chuckled remembering the interaction they had.

You felt more comfortable seeing how excited Heeseung seemed with the invitation “Sure, I’ll go.” he looked at you with a loving look that filled your chest “And how was dinner?”

“It was kinda weird… but nice.” Heeseung noticed a slight smile on your face. You usually had a strange relationship with your father, but ever since the day of the foundation event it seemed like your father had shown a new side. “We didn’t talk much, but I think I’m finally understanding a bit how my father’s mind works.”

Heeseung remained silent, leaving you comfortable to vent “Did you talk about your plans of not working on his office after graduation?” you smiled a bit “Kinda... I talked about the informal invitations I received from other offices, and he seemed neutral. He said I should analyze the opportunities that will come my way very carefully.”

“That sounds like a good answer.” Heeseung commented and you nodded “I feel like since my dad spent most of his time working to give me the best, we never really talked much, but now I think he’s trying, in his own way.”

“Maybe he’s not good with words, but he seems to care about you.” Heeseung stroked your cheek with his thumb “It was always like that, he never said much, but he tried his best.”

“Well, at least you had the courage to tell him about the proposals you received and now you can rest easy.” You smiled and gave Heeseung a long kiss that melted his heart “Yes, thank you for listening to me, baby.”

“Of course, love.” He gave you a long kiss on the cheek and looked into your eyes with an amused look “So… does that mean your father likes me?” Heeseung wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, giving you that confident smile that made you push his face away as he laughed “Oh, here you go again...”

“What? It's true.” He watched you run your fingers through his hair “I’m the best son-in-law he could ask for.”

You gave a mocking smile seeing Heeseung's confidence “And to think that I'm dating you... maybe I've gone crazy.” He pulled you by the waist, giving you a hug from behind and a kiss on the back of your neck “Yes... crazy about me.”

Yes, you had to admit that he was right.

You were crazy about Heeseung.

Mrs. Jung was attentive with a serene and calm expression as she watched you present your project. The entire class seemed impacted by the union of the best students in the course creating an impeccable synchronization. It was impressive how you were able to complement each other on the points where each of you had difficulty.

You and Heeseung were a duo that seemed to be perfect for chaos, but right now, everything seemed to fall into place as you showcased your incredible project with unique nuances. From the beginning, you overcame many barriers to give your best, and finally you could reap the fruits of your hard work.

“In conclusion, we must recognize that this evolution of human rights within international law is of utmost importance. In short, International States are not only composed of power and sovereignty, but also of individuals who need to be protected and guarded.” Heeseung naturally confidently ended his part by introducing the final conclusion of the project. It was clear that this was the environment in which he felt comfortable, presenting something he had the authority to speak about.

“And therefore, the protection of human rights is not just a mere internal concern of each Internacional State, but also of the entire global legal system.” You finish the presentation to the sound of polite applause filling the room. Mrs. Jung gave a satisfied smile and stood up from her chair holding the evaluation clipboard she was holding.

“I must say, when I paired you up I knew you had potential, but I’m immensely surprised.” You swallowed hard, fearing her assessment, since she was known as a strict teacher. “You decided to approach a complex topic, but the way you both explored and conducted the research was very interesting. It was a pleasant surprise, I’m very satisfied.”

Heeseung and you looked at each other, feeling flattered by the teacher’s praise. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Jung.” You thanked her and went to sit in your seats with smiles on your faces.

As Mrs. Jung called the next pair, Heeseung was feeling elated. You had finally finished this project and you had definitely gotten top marks, but the best part was knowing that he had won the best prize: you.

Heeseung's hand touched your thigh discreetly under the table and you turned to him trying not to smile. "Hee! What are you doing? We're in class!” You whispered in his ear and he gave a small smile “Relax, I'm just recovering my energy.”

You gave an airy laugh and placed your hand over his, intertwining your fingers “Can't believe I'm dating you.” He gave a closed-mouth smile and leaned down to your ear “I know, right? You're so lucky…” Heeseung whispered in an ironic tone and you held back from laughing.

“Oh, please.” You commented playfully “I’m trying to concentrate here, Hee.” Heeseung sighed and squeezed your hand before placing an affectionate kiss on your palm “My bad, baby. You're so pretty I lost my focus.” You rolled your eyes but felt your heart flutter “So cheesy…”

“But you love it.” He smiled and turned to the front.

You really loved the antics of Lee Heeseung, your former rival, project partner and best boyfriend you could ask for.

☆

1 YEAR LATER

Lying in your bed while reading a doctrine was Heeseung's guilty pleasure. Your mattress was much softer than his, your pillows were super comfortable, and the sweet smell of the bamboo air freshener you bought was chef's kiss.

He was calm, reading one of your favorite criminal law books that you had recommended due to the author's impeccable didactics. Your eyes scanned his figure, admiring his concentration.

He was wearing glasses, with messy hair and a black tank top that definitely wasn't cooperating with your thoughts. He looked too perfect, too good for someone who was just reading.

You usually loved doing your makeup or any other kind of activity while Heeseung read something in your room. Even the silence was comfortable between you because of his warm presence.

But today you couldn't concentrate properly. Heeseung was too handsome, and it was disturbing your mind. How dare he be so sexy like that without even trying?

It was unfair how he was so mesmerized by his book that he didn't realize how needy you were just by the sight of Heeseung in your bed.

You climbed onto your bed and crawled towards him, who seemed more focused than ever. When Heeseung felt your weight on his lap, he looked up from his book and stared at your angelic face. “What are you doing?” You smiled, pulling the book down “You need a break.”

“Babe, I was finally getting the grip of The Fruit of the Poisonous Tree theory!” He groaned feeling your body rub against the fabric of his pants “I’m just getting rid of your stress.” You said innocently as you placed the book on another corner of the bed “My stress? I think you are getting rid of your stress, miss.”

He held onto your waist, watching you hold onto his chubby cheeks. It was disconcerting how he could be cute and sexy at the same time. “Okay, maybe you’re right, but I still think a break would be good to you.” You gave him a peck on the lips that made him smile over your mouth.

“Yeah?” he asked, fitting his face into your neck “I guess I need a break then.” You sighed, feeling him run his lips along the length of your neck and smiled against your skin “Great.” your fingers intertwined in Heeseung’s soft hair, making him grunt and attack your mouth.

With your left hand you took off Heeseung's glasses and threw them on the bed as you deepened the kiss. His hands slid down your torso, eliciting broken moans from you.

As your senses were lost in Heeseung, your cell phone vibrated with the notification of your email.

We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for an internship position at our law firm. We look forward to receiving your answer as soon as possible. — Jung & Taylor Legal Advisors

Perhaps your and Heeseung's journey into the legal world was just in the beginning.

☆

☆

taglist:

@hoonprksung @beomluvrr @baedreamverse @firstclassjaylee @elynxoxo @cutehoons02 @deluluscenarios @strayy-kidz @dearestdreamies @seungjiseyo @engeneheree @gardenwonn @icywifey02 @jellymiki @tunafishyfishylike @ikeuwoniee @manuosorioh @smlbch @hoonheepretty @woniehearteu @ecwipsecoffee @m1kkso @uni-versalizar @norihoyeon @heelovesmeknot @fancypeacepersona @yohanabanana @gotmetrippinlikewowwow @onlyticket-home @immelissaaa @soondoongdoriii @woniedoyouloveme @invsomnixa1 @jayrelics @hi00000234567 @daisyintherainsposts @wemalyri @letwiiparkjay @fan143 @wonwon1e @taehyunmybae02 @yeoungie

What I immediately love about the beginning is the way Hee talks about the system and the fact that is flawed and then pivots to the hypocrisy of it all and just tying it to the mc’s behaviour—it just shows how much he actually thinks about her because despite him not really caring about her presence, hes very attentive of her and plays it off with just her drawing attention.

I think too because the class dynamic is obvious its easier for Hee to lean in a bit more to thinking she is hypocritic because not only is it easy considering shes from an upper middle class but also because of the way she seems to carry about her self (i assume with confidence and a “i dont care” kind of attitude) would in fact make sense to irritate Hee and make him dislike her to the extent that he does.

He couldn't put it into words, but you triggered specific emotions in his brain — and the main one was agitation.

I love that he’s just agitated at her existence honestly. Also love that immediately from MC’s perspective, you can tell what her family dynamic is like just from her college options alone. Not only does it highlight an issue in a lot of cultures where this kind of behaviour is present (even if the family isnt necessarily well off) but given her family history it also shows the root of why some parents give their children limited choices in their career paths; their own battles with poverty and its their way of protecting their child from going through the same hardships even if it involves dismissing your clear talents or interests.

The way your hand handed your phone while you looked away irritated Heeseung deeply “Do you always have to be this petty?”

“What?” You asked confused as he finished putting his number into your phone “Can’t you interact for 5 minutes without being petty? Is it that hard?”

Im laughing it this because im just as confused like, where is she petty? She’s disinterested sure, but if she was truly petty i think she wouldnt have even talked to him in the first place.

“And isn’t your topic simple?” he approached you and looked into your eyes “You just want to do what’s convenient for you, as always.”

Honestly, I’d love to know whats exactly so convenient about this for her, i genuinely do not see it. Maybe its because I agree with her sentiments in just doing a more complicated/non-basic topic for the sake of it, so perhaps I am a bit biased but I dont get Hee’s point of view pertaining to it (love him still tho).

Loving the way Jay and Jake tease Hee about his interactions with MC from the way he seems more worried about her during exam season to the fact that she’s attractive and he admits it before brushing it off with ease that shes annoying is king of cute. I love that its just her social status is what irritates him the most which makes sense why all the arguments he starts with her feel baseless (at least imo)

I think its cute that mc is super accommodating to Hee seeing his clear exhaustion but hes so snappy about it.

“I’m sorry.” Heeseung opened his eyes slightly and looked at you in a way that you swore you almost saw some kind of affection “Don’t go, please.”

I just think from here and their conversation after is so cute because despite the clear animosity between them mc still cares for him and his wellbeing and gets him orange juice and everything :((( and the way he genuinely smiles at her?? Im so fucking soft man

I love mc making Hee’s nickname Lee Heestupid thats oddly cute. But whats even cuter is the way he messaged her to say thanks again and she asks if hes better :( 

“We can talk about criminal accountability and the evolution of post-war human rights within international law.”

This is such a cool topic i cant lie. As a resident law hater, (for no other reason than it has too many words and uses the most complicated words in the english lexicon—native language btw) I am actually so intrigued by the entire law aspect of this fic because its so in depth and I appreciate that despite my distaste for it.

But he never really stopped to look at you. Heeseung’s judgment was always clouded by his anger at what you represented.

Love this because despite seeing her (and admitting to her beauty) this emphasizes that he hasnt looked at her beyond the privileged girl he sees and ugh, something about this line just gets to me.

I love that he notices her clear discomfort in the guy approaching and goes as far as to get him to back off, which is not only respectful but super sweet because despite not liking her, he respects and understands shes a woman and idk, its just a cute scene to me. Super glad for their little bonding moment after, theyre actually so cute when they arent biting each other’s head off.

Girl friendships in fics will always make me happy so Im always appreciative to see Gaeul and the moments she has with the mc, shes such a sweet and darling side character honestly.

You were smiling as you watched something interesting a boy was showing you on his phone. He recognized the boy as Jungwon, the president of one of the clubs you were a part of. 

The way my brain immediately went Aww. Jungwon has the ability to raise the motherly instincts in me and just ahh, this little interaction makes me happy. Also Hee being jealous is so hilarious to me even if he doesnt openly say it; hehe Jay picking up on it makes me giggle

I love that as certain things happen between them we see how their thoughts on each other transform—Hee becoming jealous and mc realizing how attractive his voice sounds. I love this.

“I guess I just wanted to talk to you directly about the subject.” 

A line like this would drive me crazy honestly.

“Because I’m already in bed and I’m shirtless.” You froze, feeling your cheeks heat up at what he said and blamed yourself for imagining him shirtless calling you in the middle of the night.

AHHH?? That feels so flirtatious to me, screaming

At this point they feel more like friends because Hee coming to help her finish her Civil Law presentation is cute honestly, what the fuck

In any case, you had already come to the conclusion that despite your differences, you had finally managed to understand each other — to the point where you began to feel an undeniable and overwhelming attraction to him.

This had me so excited, more changes are about to begin

“Damn, what’s so important that made you distracted like that?” He teased you and you gave him an awkward smile.

'Your lips'

Oh my god, what if I scream??

Im so glad she delves more into her family dynamic, very subtly and I also enjoy Hee’s ability to pivot the topic a bit since he realized the sensitivity of the topic. Aksi Hee becoming more filtarious will be the death of me like

“Are you calling me cute?” Heeseung smirked, bringing his face closer to yours. “I’m talking about the room.” You replied, swallowing hard, opening your laptop.

“Well, that's a pity then.” You felt your cheeks burn and your body fizz at the suggestive tone of his comment.

What if I just combusted

He wanted something to happen and this wasn’t good.

I will pass out i swear (freaking out so bad)

Heeseung kissed you, gently pressing his lips against yours, sending a dose of pleasure through your body. He gave you a long peck and quickly pulled away to make sure that this was really happening.

Giggling because oh my god, its finally happening and its so sweet too jesus, Ill throw up

Not even his deepest thoughts could recreate the exultant feeling he felt when he finally kissed you.

I will pass out for real

BIT JAKE DISTURBING NOOOO😭😭😭😭

“You look beautiful.” He took your hand and gave it a soft kiss on your knuckles while piercing through you with his intense eyes.

Girl istg I cant take this what the ?!?!

He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. “What I mean is that I’m here admitting that I want you.” he spoke directly making your legs weak.

You are single-handedly writing lines to make me crazy

“You should see me when I'm not wearing it, then.” you whispered sensually before biting Heeseung's ear making his breath shaky as he squeezed your thighs tightly “Fuck — stop teasing me, baby.”

Dont know if I wanna be Hee or her in this moment christ.

Man, first jake now her dad; the universe is really going out of its way to stop them. To make it worse, her dad is there?? I feel sick.

And just like lightning strikes a tree and burns it, you realized the obvious truth: you were in love with Lee Heeseung and would accept the consequences that would come with that reality.

Oh my god, this is so fucking sweet what

I lovelovelove that the entire interaction has made him realize fully what she had to deal with and the fact that he apologies?? On my knees oh my god

If someone had told you at the beginning of the semester that you would now be dating Lee Heeseung and walking hand in hand around campus, you would have thought they were crazy and needed to be hospitalized. But here you were, walking with a wide smile and bright eyes, your hand intertwined with Heeseung's soft fingers.

Oh my god I giggled again, im so happy hehe

I love that despite the relationship with her dad still being kind of unclear, you can tell theres improvement with the way hes so neutral with her going to other offices, its progress and Im happy with it. At least she should be able to find herself in the world of law better I think :) 

We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for an internship position at our law firm. We look forward to receiving your answer as soon as possible. — Jung & Taylor Legal Advisors

Perhaps your and Heeseung's journey into the legal world was just in the beginning.

Oh my god the end. Im so glad I read this, genuinely soso glad, I loved ever moment of it from the play in the class dynamics, the complexity behind it (i truly appreciate the way mc’s dad got out of poverty making it much more complex), the way the relationship between hee and mc began with hee’s distaste being him viewing her so one note and just like “any other rich girl” and mc irritated with just the attitude she got from him. And just the way their relationship blossomed so sweetly. Ugh, again Im so glad I read this.

The sun poured golden ribbons over the stone path, warm and gentle as it kissed the castle grounds. Somewhere beyond the hedges, the faint splash of the courtyard fountain echoed—a lullaby of water meeting water, rhythmic and calming.

You sat nestled within the pale embrace of a gazebo, its wooden frame delicately laced with ivy and blooming wisteria, soft petals swaying with every tender breeze.

The book in your hands was worn in the corners but loved—its parchment pages aged, the ink slightly faded yet still carrying the weight of every word.

A sigh left your lips, soft and drawn out.

“'And in silence, he longed for what he dared not touch,'” you read aloud, your voice barely rising above the wind. “What a tragic sort of devotion…”

Your fingers tightened around the spine.

The garden stretched out before you, a sea of color—roses, tulips, peonies, and little blue forget-me-nots nestled near the base of every trimmed bush. Everything was alive, and yet it all stood still, like the entire world paused to listen.

Footsteps padded softly across the gravel behind you.

“Milady,” came the quiet voice of one of the castle maids, her head bowed low as she placed a fresh tray of refreshments upon the small table beside you. Crystal glasses caught the light, and the silver tray gleamed beneath the sun.

You offered a gentle smile. “Thank you.”

She returned it, modest and fleeting, before stepping back. “Shall I leave the strawberries as well?”

“Yes, please,” you replied, adjusting the folds of your gown with one hand.

The silk skirt pooled around you in waves, layered with pale pastels, laced edges, and gold-stitched bows that shimmered every time you moved. A corset hugged your waist, cinched just enough to be proper, but not unbearable—a compromise between elegance and comfort.

She bowed again. “Call if you need anything, my lady.”

“I always do,” you murmured, your gaze falling back to the book.

You turned the page delicately, brushing your fingertips against the words as though they were fragile glass.

And then, quietly to yourself, “How strange it must be, to long for someone in secret… and be loved loudly by someone else entirely.”

You were just about to turn the page—fingertip sliding gently under the parchment—when you heard it.

Footsteps.

Your gaze lifted from the book and drifted to the right, toward one of the many winding paths that led into the garden. Sunlight spilled across the white cobblestone in slanted rays, dancing between the petals and ivy.

Prince Heeseung.

Your breath caught for only a second—but your smile came instantly, unbidden, as if your heart had recognized him long before your eyes did.

He looked like he belonged in the very pages of your book—dressed in a tailored white coat lined with gold filigree that caught the sun at every turn.

The fabric shimmered faintly with each step he took, the polished black boots beneath his dark trousers clicking softly against the stones. His hands were careful, cradling a fresh bouquet of lilacs—your favorite, which he never once forgot.

The lilacs were nearly the same shade as the ribbon in your hair.

His dark hair was brushed back in soft waves, a few strands falling loosely near his brow. And those eyes—those warm, honey-brown eyes—found yours with ease, with something gentle tucked inside their gaze.

“Princess,” he greeted with a smile that turned your knees to air. His voice, low and warm, always had a way of curling around your name like a promise.

You sat up straighter, your hands folding over your lap as you tilted your head at him, playful. “You walk like a man with secrets.”

“I walk like a man bringing flowers to the only one who makes the garden look dull,” he said, grinning as he reached the steps of the gazebo.

“Oh, how terribly dramatic of you.”

Heeseung chuckled, holding out the bouquet. “And yet it made you smile.”

You accepted the lilacs carefully, the scent washing over you like a memory. “You know, the florists will start suspecting you’re courting someone.”

“I am courting someone,” he replied easily, eyes never leaving yours.

Your cheeks warmed under the weight of his gaze.

“Lucky her,” you said softly, brushing your thumb over one of the petals.

Heeseung stepped closer, just enough to lower himself onto the bench beside you—his posture relaxed, his shoulder brushing yours faintly. His arm rested casually behind you on the seat, not quite touching, but close enough to feel.

“Lucky me,” he corrected, leaning in the slightest bit as his voice dipped lower. “For having a princess who reads poetry and meets me in gardens.”

You laughed under your breath, looking down at the bouquet once more. “You always say the right things.”

Heeseung tilted his head, expression soft. “Only when I’m around you.”

You gave him another smile, one that crinkled your eyes and pulled at the corners of your lips. Then, with a careful hand, you set the bouquet beside the refreshments—delicate lilacs now resting in the sun’s golden glow, nestled beside chilled lemonade and a dish of strawberries.

“Come closer,” you said gently, patting the spot beside you with a slight tilt of your head.

And he did.

Heeseung obeyed with that boyish grin tugging at his lips, sinking into the bench with ease until his shoulder brushed yours—warm, familiar. The closeness was effortless, the kind that came with hours and weeks and years of knowing. Of loving.

He turned slightly, eyes gleaming as if simply sitting beside you made the world right again.

“How was practice?” you asked, reaching instinctively for his hand, your thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles.

He let out a dramatic sigh, one that rattled from the very depths of his chest before he leaned in further—head finding its way to the crook of your neck, nose brushing the soft skin there as he inhaled.

“Exhausting,” he murmured, voice muffled by your skin. “Sunghoon almost ripped my sleeve off.”

Your brows raised, amused. “Did he now?”

“All because I told him he ought to start thinking about finding a lady of his own. He’s only two years younger than me, but you'd think I told him to marry a goat the way he reacted.”

You stifled a laugh.

“And Jongseong?” you asked, already guessing.

“Backed me up, of course,” Heeseung grinned into your neck. “He even dragged Jungwon into it—said the two of them were becoming old maids with swords.”

You gasped playfully. “Cruel!”

Heeseung laughed, his breath tickling your skin. “Cruel but not wrong. So naturally, the younger ones decided the only reasonable response was chasing us through the courtyard with their blades drawn like little terrors.”

You blinked. “With actual swords?”

“Oh yes,” he said, sounding far too amused. “They meant business. The knights on patrol just stood there, watching. I think one of them placed a bet.”

You giggled, running a hand through his soft hair as he leaned further into you, completely unbothered by decorum or the passing time. Your fingers threaded through the dark locks gently, combing through with care as if he were the most precious thing in the garden—and he was.

Heeseung hummed under your touch, arms moving around your waist as he drew you closer until there was no space left between you.

“You spoil me,” he mumbled, eyes fluttering shut.

“And you let me,” you replied with a teasing smile, brushing your fingers along his temple.

“That’s because I’d gladly die in your hands,” he muttered sleepily. “Even if your hands are… very soft. And smell like roses.”

You laughed again, delighted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m yours,” he corrected, holding you tighter.

And then—without warning—he leaned in and began pressing warm, slow kisses against the slope of your neck. One. Then another. His lips trailing softly just below your jaw, then lower, brushing against the skin just above your collarbone—barely hidden by the delicate neckline of your gown.

“Your dress is unfair,” he whispered between kisses, voice low and teasing. “Makes it impossible to behave.”

You let out a breathy giggle, hand curling into the fabric of his sleeve. “You’re impossible, Heeseung.”

“Mm, say it again.”

“You’re impossible?”

“No. My name. I like it when you say it like that.”

You cooed gently, tilting your head as he angled for your lips. His gaze dipped to your mouth, and his hand moved up the side of your back, eyes half-lidded and completely enamored.

And just as your lips were about to meet—

“Heeseung hyung!”

The prince froze mid-movement, groaning against your skin like a man personally betrayed by the gods.

Another voice followed, louder and more frantic.

“Hyung? We’ve been looking for you for ages!”

From beyond the tall rose bushes near the edge of the gazebo, two familiar figures stumbled into view—Sunoo and Riki, each looking like scolded puppies who’d wandered too far from their leash.

“Unbelievable,” Heeseung muttered under his breath, finally lifting his head with the most exasperated expression. “What could possibly be so urgent?”

Sunoo offered you a sheepish smile as he waved. “Good afternoon, Princess. Sorry to interrupt.”

Riki, meanwhile, had already sauntered over and shamelessly plucked a macaron off the silver tray in front of you, examining it like he’d just discovered a new species. “Pink. My favorite.”

Heeseung narrowed his eyes. “Riki.”

“I figured if I’m going to interrupt, I may as well get a snack.”

Sunoo sighed and folded his arms. “Hyung, the head of the knight guard—Hwan—has been looking for you. Something about finalizing next week’s banquet security plans?”

At that, Heeseung visibly deflated, letting out a second, louder groan before dramatically resting his chin on top of your head like a sulking child. “I’m not going.”

You stifled a laugh, reaching up to play with the ends of his hair. “You do know you’re the crown prince, yes?”

“I do,” he mumbled. “And yet I feel incredibly underappreciated.”

Riki snorted as he took another bite of the macaron, his voice muffled by sugar. “Relax, brother. Princess (Y/N)’s not going anywhere.”

Heeseung gave a noise of agreement and nuzzled further into your hair, arms still locked firmly around your waist. “Exactly. This is clearly a case of poor timing and disrespect toward royal romantic affairs.”

Sunoo rolled his eyes. “You say that as if your ‘romantic affair’ isn’t sprawled across a public gazebo.”

“Then they should build us a private one.”

You laughed again, threading your fingers through his hair as he melted into you like a spoiled cat. Riki and Sunoo exchanged one last glance before Riki shrugged and grabbed a second dessert.

“We’ll tell Hwan you’re ‘in conference.’”

“And tell him to come back never,” Heeseung added, voice muffled into your hair.

You sighed through a soft laugh, tapping his arms gently where they were stubbornly wrapped around your waist. “My Prince,” you said with mock sternness. “If you don’t get going, Hwan will double your training hours. Maybe even triple.”

He let out a groan—not very prince-like—as he nuzzled into you one last time. “Cruel. You wound me, my love.”

“You’ll survive,” you hummed, gently nudging him away. He reluctantly loosened his grip, though he still hadn’t made any effort to actually stand.

You smiled fondly. “Come on. The earlier you finish your duties, the earlier you can be with me again.”

That made him perk up, his eyes suddenly lighting like sun-touched gold. “Now that is motivation.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your cheek—warm, lingering, a promise tucked into it.

“Ugh,” Sunoo groaned dramatically, throwing his head back. “Do you have to kiss every five seconds?”

“Some of us are still single,” Riki added, arms crossed with an exaggerated pout.

You grinned. “Well, maybe if you two stopped terrorizing every debutante at every ball…”

Heeseung snorted, standing at last with a stretch before he placed one last, feather-light kiss to the top of your head. “Ignore them, princess. They’re simply jealous.”

You brushed your hands gently along the front of your gown, preparing to stand as well. “I must get going back inside,” you murmured, glancing toward the palace doors. “The sun is starting to turn hotter, and I might melt before you return.”

Heeseung stepped beside you immediately, his hand finding the small of your back with natural ease. “Then I’ll escort you,” he said. “It’s on the way to the courtyard anyway.”

He looked to Sunoo expectantly. “That alright?”

Sunoo gave a small, understanding nod. “Of course. We’ll catch up with the captain while you two take your sweet time.”

As you moved forward, the heavy layers of your gown shifted around your legs, the delicate fabric and gold embroidery trailing slightly behind you. You let out a tiny sigh, brushing your skirt to the side.

“These gowns were not made for walking,” you muttered.

“They were made for floating, though,” Heeseung teased, offering his arm with a grin. “And I’m honored to be walking beside the most beautiful one to ever wear them.”

You flushed as you took his arm, allowing him to guide you gently toward the entrance of the palace. Behind you, Riki mock-gagged and grabbed another macaron while Sunoo simply shook his head, already anticipating a very dramatic retelling of this moment at dinner.

“I’m serious,” you added playfully over your shoulder, glancing at Heeseung. “Hwan is already so tired of your antics. Please, spare the poor man.”

That made the prince laugh—a sound so full and bright that it echoed against the walls of the palace garden like music. “Alright, alright,” he said, pulling you just a little closer. “For your sake, I’ll behave. But only slightly.”

The afternoon breeze was kind to your skin—neither too warm nor biting. It danced through the open corridor, carrying the scent of roses and distant sunlight as you strolled leisurely, your gown trailing behind like golden water. The lace fluttered slightly with each step, your slippers tapping gently against the polished stone floor.

Your two handmaidens flanked you, both young, bright-eyed, and as full of energy as always. The three of you had long abandoned any sense of formality as laughter echoed softly down the hall.

“White and gold,” you said confidently, letting your fingers trace the embroidered detailing of your sleeve. “No combination has ever looked better.”

They both gasped as if you had uttered gospel.

“I told her the same thing!” one of them chirped. “Gold goes with everything. It brings out the elegance in the plainest of things.”

“And it’s so regal,” the other sighed dreamily. “Like something only worn by goddesses and queens.”

You laughed, soft and genuine, as you reached the spiral stairs that led to the tower balcony. The stone was cool beneath your fingertips as you climbed, sunlight spilling in through narrow windows that cast slanted beams along the walls.

Stepping out onto the balcony, the three of you were greeted by the view of the castle’s courtyard below—alive with the clang of swords, thuds of boots, and echoes of distant chatter.

“There they go again,” your handmaiden giggled, pointing toward the princes at the far end of the yard.

You followed her gaze and stifled a laugh of your own as you caught sight of Jungwon’s sword accidentally hitting Riki with the hilt—straight to the side.

Riki let out a loud yelp, and without missing a beat, launched himself at the cat-like prince, chasing him in furious circles around the yard as their sparring partners stood stunned.

“They’re going to fall face-first into the fountain one of these days,” you muttered, watching as the younger princes dashed around wildly.

Your eyes scanned across the yard—rows of knights moving in formation, sparring amongst themselves, or preparing equipment—until they landed on a more composed sight. Prince Heeseung.

He stood slightly away from the others, deep in conversation with the ever-serious Captain Hwan. Between them lay a large scroll, its corners pinned with small weights, possibly a map of the castle grounds.

You could just barely make out their gestures—Heeseung pointing toward a marked area while Hwan nodded sharply. Likely preparations for next week’s banquet, you thought.

“The crown prince looks far too serious today,” one of the girls murmured, following your gaze.

“He always does when Hwan’s involved,” the other added, then nudged your arm with a sly smile. “Now those knights over there, though…”

You turned your head just as she gestured to the opposite end of the courtyard, where Prince Jaeyun and Prince Jongseong—both shirt-sleeved and flushed from training—were surrounded by a group of younger knights. Their laughter echoed faintly, the two clearly in the middle of friendly teasing.

“They’re the heart-stoppers of the guard,” she sighed dramatically. “Imagine catching one of those eyes from below the helmet.”

You chuckled, resting your arms on the balcony railing. “They’re charming,” you admitted. “But Prince Heeseung has my heart.”

Both girls turned to you with the same dreamy expression.

“As he should,” one said, smiling. “You’re both lucky.”

“Betrothed and still looking at you like he’s thirteen again, sneaking out of language lessons to see you in the garden,” the other added with a fond laugh.

You let out a soft breath of laughter, the memory settling sweetly in your chest. “He still acts like it,” you mused. “He gifted me lilacs this morning and almost forgot he had training until Sunoo dragged him out.”

They both laughed at that, clearly endeared.

“And every time he kisses you in public, Prince Riki looks like he’s about to hurl,” your handmaiden added through a grin.

You covered your mouth to stifle the sudden laughter, nodding in agreement.

“Honestly,” you sighed, “I should start rewarding the poor prince for tolerating all our affections.”

“You already do, Your Highness,” one handmaiden said with a wink, leaning her elbows on the stone railing.

The other smiled softly, her voice quieter now, a sincerity woven into her words. “You were the sister figure they always needed, you know.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in tone.

“They’re adored by everyone,” she continued, eyes trailing down to the chaos of the courtyard. “The Queen loves her sons dearly—but with the business of the court, the councils, the expectations—well… they needed someone to be there. And you were.”

“She’s right,” the first agreed. “From the moment you met them… they looked up to you. Just as much as they look up to Prince Heeseung.”

The wind blew gently again, carrying with it the laughter of the younger princes and the faint scent of lavender from the courtyard gardens.

Your gaze softened as it drifted across the yard—Riki now wrestling Jungwon to the ground playfully while Jaeyun scolded them half-heartedly in between sword swings.

They had always looked at you that way, hadn’t they? As if your presence gave them peace in ways no royal decree or bloodline ever could. They weren’t just princes to you. They were yours. In some small, cherished way—they had become the brothers you never had.

You sighed through a smile, delicately pushing your hair back over your shoulder, careful not to disturb the lilac bow resting perfectly near your crown.

“Enough with this sentimental talk,” you murmured, though your voice was thick with affection. “You’re going to make me cry.”

Both handmaidens giggled, nudging each other playfully.

“I’d offer my handkerchief, but it’s silk and I don’t want to ruin it,” one teased.

“Such loyalty,” you quipped, laughing along, your heart lighter now.

Your gaze floated back to the courtyard, naturally—always—seeking him.

Heeseung was still beside Hwan, nodding along to something the knight was pointing to on the map. His arms were folded behind his back, posture noble and every bit the Crown Prince. But then—almost as if the gods whispered your name into his ear—he looked up.

Right at you.

The seriousness faded instantly. His brows softened. His lips curved into a grin brighter than any sunbeam could ever hope to rival.

You giggled quietly, your hand raising in a gentle wave toward him. Heeseung returned the gesture with no hesitation, his smile only growing wider as he waved back, completely unbothered by Hwan’s sharp sigh beside him.

Below, the courtyard erupted.

“OI—LOOK AT THAT! THE PRINCE IS SMILING!”

“You sure that’s our Crown Prince?!”

More teasing hollers rang out as knights and princes alike noticed the sudden softness in their usually stoic eldest. And then—

“Noona! Hi!” Jungwon shouted from where he was pinned by Riki, waving his arm wildly while the younger prince sat on his back like a triumphant puppy.

You covered your mouth, trying—and failing—to hold in the laughter that spilled from your chest.

Then Jongseong’s voice echoed from below, loud and teasing. “Come down here! It’s hot up there, you know!”

He wasn’t wrong. In the few minutes you'd lingered at the stone balcony, the once-soft breeze had given way to a harsher warmth. The sun bore down with more intent now, and you found yourself squinting slightly under its golden glare.

You nodded in agreement and stepped away from the railing, your handmaidens trailing just behind, still giggling about the interaction like it had been the most charming thing they’d seen all day. You couldn’t blame them—it really was.

As you descended the winding steps and approached the edge of the courtyard, the sight that greeted you was one of casual chaos—Jungwon brushing dust from his tunic.

Riki now tugging at Sunghoon’s sleeve as the elder prince tried to ignore him with utmost patience while seated on one of the carved stone benches. Knights moved in rhythm nearby, sparring or catching their breath, the clang of steel and soft thuds of boots filling the air.

Your handmaidens, ever the schemers, gave you one last nudge forward.

“Go on,” one whispered with a grin.

“Oh, don’t give us that look, Your Highness,” the other added when you turned to glare, all faux-offended elegance. “You’re the one engaged to him.”

Before you could retort, they laughed and slipped away—heading straight toward a few young knights polishing their swords under a shaded tree, whispering and giggling like it was a market square and not royal training grounds.

You sighed with fond exasperation, shaking your head. “Unbelievable.”

But your thoughts were quickly interrupted by a familiar warmth at your back.

A hand gently found your lower spine, fingers curling just slightly—a touch meant only for you. You looked up to see Heeseung already beside you, as if drawn by instinct.

“Princess,” he murmured softly, before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. His voice was low, threaded with affection and familiarity.

You smiled at him, heart fluttering despite how often he did that—how natural it had become. “Your brothers are creating chaos.”

Heeseung chuckled, eyes lifting briefly toward the mess of limbs and swords still clashing nearby. “If they come back with their tunics torn again, I’m blaming Jongseong.”

“I heard that!” Jongseong called from somewhere near the fencing rack, earning another soft laugh from you.

The two of you began walking toward the area Heeseung had been previously, where a large table had been set under a temporary canopy.

Scrolls and maps lay sprawled across it, Hwan stood nearby, his posture straight and composed as always, though his expression warmed when he saw you.

“Princess (Y/N),” Hwan greeted with a small nod, voice crisp.

“Sir Hwan,” you replied, offering a gentle smile as your eyes flicked toward the detailed flood plan spread out before you.

Ink lined the parchment in precise, looping script—notes and arrows detailing various parts of the castle, side entrances, garden paths, and service tunnels. Red wax marked certain points, perhaps the ones in need of reinforcement.

The upcoming banquet was to host royals from three nearby kingdoms—it was no surprise security had become the highest concern.

Heeseung stepped beside you again, eyes flicking toward the plan. “We’re adjusting the placements for the northern watchmen,” he explained. “The last storm weakened the stone wall near the greenhouse.”

“I see…” you murmured, leaning in just a bit. “Does that mean the western rose arch will be blocked off?”

Heeseung blinked, a touch surprised. “Yes—how did you know that?”

You smiled faintly. “I remember which part of the garden floods first. We used to race through there, remember? When we were younger?”

Heeseung chuckled. “You always cheated. You’d pretend your skirt got caught, and I’d turn around to help—then you’d sprint past me.”

You tried not to laugh, but failed. “I never cheated.”

Hwan cleared his throat politely, trying not to smile too much. “Well, if we’re done reliving the princess’s war crimes…”

Heeseung chuckled, the sound low and fond as he pressed another kiss to the top of your head—like habit. His hand curled more firmly around your waist as he turned back toward the map, eyes scanning the ink-streaked parchment with renewed focus.

“Minjun,” he called, gesturing to one of the younger knights standing nearby, armor gleaming faintly under the sun.

“Take the final plan to the western and southern wings. Make sure Sir Jiwon and Sir Minho review them thoroughly. And pass it along to the patrols stationed at the back gardens.”

“Yes, Your Highness!” the young knight responded quickly, already moving with purpose.

“And Sir Hwan—” Heeseung added, catching his knight just as he began to turn away, “hold a meeting with the guards tomorrow morning. I want every possible weak point reinforced and every post briefed, understood?”

“Understood, Your Highness.” Hwan bowed at the waist, casting you a brief respectful smile before walking off. His exit left a small bubble of quiet around you and Heeseung amidst the occasional clatter of sparring swords and the buzz of wind.

With the absence of his ever-stoic personal knight, Heeseung turned fully to you.

A grin tugged at his lips, soft and lazy, like he had no interest in returning to the royal rhythm of duty just yet. He looked down at you, eyes twinkling, and then without warning, both hands found your hips—gentle but confident.

You blinked up at him, caught off guard. “Heeseung,” you hissed, eyes flickering to the side where a few knights—not so subtly—pretended to focus on tying bootlaces or checking their gear. “Are you serious? In front of all these young men?”

Heeseung only laughed, head tipping back slightly. The sound was musical and boyish and so unlike the Crown Prince everyone else bowed to.

“They’ve seen worse,” he teased, leaning in a little, nose brushing yours before pulling away just slightly. “Besides, I’m only reminding them what love looks like.”

You gawked at him, flustered and trying not to smile.

Heeseung's grin softened then, his thumb rubbing a slow circle against your hip. “Do you have plans this afternoon, my heart?” he asked, voice low and full of intention. “Because if not, I was going to steal you away.”

You laughed under your breath, warmth bubbling in your chest. “I do, actually. Tea time.”

Heeseung pouted dramatically. “Again?”

“Yes, but this time your mother invited me,” you said with a knowing look. “And apparently, your brother Sunoo begged her to include him. Said he was going insane from training every day, and sparring with Sunghoon is ‘slowly ruining his will to live.’ His words. Not mine.”

That made Heeseung snort. “Poor Sunoo. I warned him—Sunghoon takes no prisoners, not even in practice.”

“He said your brother has no mercy,” you confirmed with a giggle, “and refuses to hold back just because he’s younger.”

Heeseung rolled his eyes, mock-exasperated. “Sunghoon doesn’t even hold back on me.”

You shrugged playfully, “Well, he has your mother’s approval for being ‘disciplined.’”

Heeseung groaned. “Please don’t tell me she said that again.”

“She did,” you replied, smiling wide. “Right after she compared you to a ‘cloud of mischief.’”

Heeseung dragged a hand down his face, clearly wounded. “I’m her firstborn. How is this fair?”

You only leaned in to whisper, “You’re my favorite prince. That’s all that matters.”

Heeseung looked at you like you hung the stars just to light his way.

But a smirk crept up on his face, the type of playful mischief you knew all too well. He leaned in closer, voice low and teasing against your ear, “So you’re saying… you have other favorites?”

You gasped dramatically, eyes widening with faux betrayal. “What? I would never—” you paused for effect, then added with a grin, “But if I did… Jungwon’s a very close second.”

Heeseung clicked his tongue, pretending to pull away. “Unbelievable. Betrayed in daylight. By my own betrothed.”

You laughed, unable to hide your grin as you leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “You’re still number one.”

“I better be,” he murmured, before cupping your cheek gently and stealing a real kiss this time—soft, warm, and full of all the affection he never seemed to run out of. You smiled into it, fingertips brushing the hem of his sleeve as you stayed there for a breath too long.

“I’m honored, noona!”

You both startled at the voice, pulling away just in time to see Jungwon grinning wide, his hands clasped behind his back as he strolled over with a puffed-out chest. He practically radiated smugness.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he added innocently, though his mischievous eyes said otherwise.

You giggled, arms opening instinctively. “Come here, you.”

The second youngest prince leaned in, wrapping you in a brief but warm hug. You ruffled his hair with a sisterly laugh just as Heeseung groaned beside you.

“Oh no. Now we’re hugging him too?”

Before Jungwon could respond, Heeseung reached over and roughly tousled the younger boy’s hair, effectively ruining the neat style Jungwon’s handmaid had worked on earlier that morning.

“Hyung!” Jungwon yelped, swatting at his older brother’s hand with a glare. “Do you mind?!”

Heeseung shrugged with a proud grin, not sorry in the slightest. “Affection builds character.”

“It builds trauma,” Jungwon muttered under his breath, brushing his dark bangs back into place with a scowl.

Still, he didn’t move away right away. He just sighed, casting a sideways look at his brother before straightening his shoulders like he had something important to say. “Come on, hyung. I’m not eleven anymore.”

That made you smile fondly.

“I know,” Heeseung said quietly, voice laced with something softer, something older. “But you’ll always be my annoying little brother.”

Jungwon rolled his eyes, cheeks flushing the tiniest bit before he turned on his heel with a dramatic huff. “Whatever. Just don’t embarrass me again in front of the knights!”

Heeseung smirked as he watched the younger boy storm off.

“No promises,” he said, just loud enough for Jungwon to hear.

“I heard that!”

You and Heeseung laughed, watching the youngest stalk toward the training field like a prince on a mission.

Still smiling, Heeseung turned to you again. “So… Jungwon, huh?”

You looped your arm through his. “He’s charming.”

Heeseung made a dramatic face as he led you away from the courtyard, your steps falling into rhythm with his as you both began walking through one of the many open-air corridors that stretched between the training grounds and the main castle. Sunlight filtered through the tall arches, casting golden lines across the stone floors.

“Charming,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “Unbelievable.”

You rolled your eyes, swatting his arm lightly. “Come on, don’t pout. Doesn’t he like some princess from the neighboring kingdom or something?”

“My love,” he said with a faux-wounded pout, placing a hand over his chest. “You are from the neighboring kingdom.”

You gave him a deadpan look. “The other one, Hee. You know what I mean.”

He chuckled, his shoulder bumping yours as he nodded at a few knights that passed by and bowed to their Crown Prince. “I’m only teasing, my love. You wound me with your accusations.”

“Oh please,” you drawled, pretending to flip your hair. “You’d survive a thousand of my wounds and still crawl back with a bouquet of stolen garden roses.”

“I don’t steal them,” he said defensively, eyes wide. “I borrow them.”

You snorted. “They're still dying in a vase somewhere, my thief.”

“Ah, but they die for love,” he whispered dramatically, and you both burst into quiet laughter, the sound echoing softly against the archways.

As you entered the main castle, the air shifted cooler against your skin. The familiar stretch of marble under your shoes and the pristine white-and-gold corridors felt like coming home.

You leaned into Heeseung naturally, no longer needing to keep up appearances of royalty. Here, you were just his. And he was just yours.

“Did you know,” Heeseung started, voice low and casual, “that one of the kitchen boys swears he saw a raccoon sneak into the pantry last night?”

You blinked. “What?”

“He says it ran off with a wedge of brie. I’m inclined to believe him.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “If it’s the same raccoon that stole my slippers last month, I’m filing a formal complaint.”

Heeseung smirked. “We’ll draft a letter. ‘To His Royal Sneakiness, Lord Raccoon.’”

“‘Please return the slippers. And the cheese.’”

You both snorted again, shoulders brushing, hands nearly touching but not quite. Not until Heeseung gently reached over and linked your pinky with his.

As you approached the end of the hallway, two stationed knights nodded respectfully at Heeseung, who gave a short nod back, the air between you momentarily still.

Then, with a small tug, he guided you down a quieter wing of the castle and opened a pair of familiar ivory doors—the ones adorned with subtle silver embroidery, vines carved into the wood. Your shared bedroom.

It wasn’t common for betrotheds to share a room before marriage. But then again, nothing about you and Heeseung had ever been traditional.

You’d known each other since you were in diapers, practically raised beside him during summer visits and royal meetings. Your parents were longtime allies, your mothers best friends, and your fathers forever trying to outmatch each other in chess.

So when Heeseung looked his parents in the eye and asked, “Why wait?”—with that charming, persuasive voice and soft gaze—they had merely exchanged a look and nodded. And you had moved into the Crown Prince’s wing a week later.

Heeseung stepped aside to let you in first, hand brushing your lower back gently.

“I still can’t believe this room is technically mine too,” you murmured, looking at the familiar blend of warm candles, velvet throws, and the little reading nook by the window he’d helped you decorate himself.

“You say that every time,” he smiled, closing the door behind you.

“And I mean it every time.”

You moved to sit at the edge of the bed as Heeseung discarded his royal sash and coat onto the nearby chaise. He walked over, cupped your cheeks, and leaned down until his forehead pressed against yours.

“My love,” he said softly. “This room was mine. But it’s only ever felt like home when you were in it.”

“And, you’ve been sleeping in the same bed with me since we were fifteen. Why do you always act like you’ve kissed me for the first time?” he murmured, eyes gleaming.

Your jaw dropped in disbelief. “You arrogant—”

Without hesitation, your fingers found his cheek and you pinched—hard.

He hissed. “Ow—! Okay, okay, that’s uncalled for!”

“Shut up, Lee Heeseung,” you grumbled, though the amused twitch in your lips betrayed you.

He laughed, low and full, his hands finding your cheeks once more—but this time, there was no trace of playfulness in the way he tilted your chin upward, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Come here, then,” he whispered.

And then he kissed you.

A proper one.

His mouth moved against yours with practiced ease, tilting just enough to deepen the kiss, his hand sliding to the back of your neck to keep you exactly where he wanted you. You sighed into him, hands curling around his forearms as the warmth between you bloomed fast—like fire catching silk.

He pulled back barely an inch, just enough to catch his breath and your dazed expression. Then, without a single word, he sank onto the bed, tugging you by the waist and pulling you to straddle his lap.

You gasped, landing atop him with a jolt as your palms pressed against his chest.

“Heeseung!” you hissed. “You little—”

He cut you off, arms curling around your waist and dragging you in closer—flush now, no space between your chest and his, your skirts spilling around both of your legs. His lips brushed your ear.

“Finish that sentence, and I’ll make sure you say my name louder next time,” he whispered.

Your breath hitched.

“Heeseung,” you warned, voice trembling from the heat he lit in your stomach.

“Yes, my love?” he said, all mock innocence—his hands not-so-innocently sliding over your waist, fingers curling around the fabric at the dip of your back.

“I have tea with our mothers and Sunoo,” you reminded, heart racing, mind spinning.

He clicked his tongue. “They’ll understand. They adore you. Especially Sunoo—he probably planned this delay.”

You let out a half-laugh, half-sigh, resting your forehead on his. “We can’t keep doing this in broad daylight.”

“Then let’s get married already,” he replied instantly, eyes gleaming as his grip on your hips tightened just slightly, anchoring you to him. “That way, I can kiss my wife whenever I damn please.”

You leaned in again, eyes twinkling, catching his lips in a playful kiss that had him chasing after more.

As you pulled back just enough to breathe the words into his mouth, you smiled, “We are at the end of the month, patience, my prince.”

But Heeseung only growled lowly, a sound vibrating in his chest, deep and utterly possessive.

“Not when you sit on me like this,” he muttered—voice thick, the restraint cracking.

He didn’t wait for your teasing reply.

He surged forward, claiming your lips in a kiss that had nothing soft about it this time. It was all heat and desperation—his mouth molding to yours, tongue brushing boldly against the seam of your lips until you gasped and gave in.

You couldn’t stop the small sound that escaped your throat, your fingers digging into the lapels of his shirt, clutching him like he was the only solid thing keeping you grounded.

Your breaths grew louder, shorter—shared between kisses that turned more and more feverish. Heeseung only paused to stare at you, chest rising and falling. His eyes, which held stars just seconds ago, were now blazing with something darker, needier.

And still—still so full of love.

He didn’t say anything as his hands moved behind you, already knowing what to do—his fingers skillfully unlacing the back of your corset. It wasn’t the first time. It was second nature to him by now, and the realization sent a rush of heat all over you. While you would usually fumble with the ties for minutes at a time, he did it in less than ten seconds, eyes never leaving yours.

“Show-off,” you muttered breathlessly, cheeks warm.

“You wouldn’t need help if you didn’t keep choosing the ones with so many damn laces,” he shot back with a smirk, but it faded as quickly as it appeared—his gaze trailing down.

Your hands went to the buttons of his vest with haste, lips brushing against the edge of his jaw as you worked them open. He let you, watching with a hunger that made your fingers tremble slightly.

Once the last button gave, you pushed the garment off, and Heeseung flung it somewhere across the room with zero care.

“Too slow,” he murmured.

You barely got a breath in before he was tugging at your sleeves, your dress slipping down your shoulders in one smooth motion. The soft fabric hung loosely on your arms, exposing the delicate skin of your collarbones, your chest rising and falling rapidly beneath it.

“You’re killing me,” he said quietly, forehead leaning against yours again. “Do you know what you do to me?”

You couldn’t answer. Not when he was looking at you like this.

Not when his mouth kissed every bit of skin the dress dared reveal. From your shoulder to the hollow of your throat. Slow. Devout. Like worship.

“I want you,” he whispered into your skin. “Not just now. Not just like this. I want every part of you, every night, every morning. In this room. In that temple. Before the gods and after them.”

You shivered, pulling him closer by the front of his shirt. “You already have me, Heeseung. You always have.”

A guttural sound tore from his throat as his hand gripped the laces of your dress. “Say it again,” he breathed, lips brushing against your collarbone.

“You have me,” you whispered, heart pounding. “Every piece. Every breath.”

With one swift motion, he loosened the bodice, the fabric sliding off your shoulders and pooling at your waist. He drew back slightly, chest rising and falling, eyes devouring the bare skin now revealed to him. His gaze was starved—like he’d waited centuries to touch you like this.

“Mine,” he groaned, hands trembling slightly as they moved over your ribs, your waist, the dip between your hipbones. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

His mouth followed the path of his hands—slow, deliberate. He kissed down your neck, nipping at the skin just below your jaw until a breathy moan escaped you. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, voice strained as he left a trail of marks, warm and tinged with devotion. “The gods have nothing on you.”

When his lips reached the softest part of your chest, his hands gripped your hips tightly—almost possessively—pressing his forehead against your sternum for a second like he was trying to calm himself.

Then he looked up at you, pupils blown. “I’ll worship you like this,” he said, voice rough, “until the stars burn out.”

You didn’t get the chance to answer.

He grabbed your thighs, flipped you effortlessly onto your back, and pressed you into the mattress. Your breath caught in your throat as he pulled the rest of your dress off with a low growl, letting it drop to the floor. His body hovered above yours now, heat radiating between you as your bare skin met his.

“You make me lose control,” he said, almost like a confession. “And I don’t want it back.”

His mouth was everywhere—claiming your neck, your shoulders, the curve of your stomach. His name slipped past your lips again and again, soft and helpless, like a prayer and a curse all at once.

He kissed you then—deep, head-spinning, like he wanted to taste your soul. “Let me have you,” he murmured between kisses. “Let me love you the way I was always meant to.”

And when he finally lowered himself between your legs, hands splayed across your hips, tongue tracing fire across your skin, he whispered, “I’ll leave no part untouched.”

His lips grazed the inside of your thigh, slow and reverent, like he was memorizing you inch by inch. His thumbs dragged upward, parting you gently, and when he looked up—eyes dark, hungry, reverent—you nearly forgot how to breathe.

“Stay just like this,” he murmured, voice low, almost trembling. “Let me taste what’s mine.”

And then he buried his face between your thighs.

A gasp tore from your throat as his tongue moved against your core—firm, relentless, like he had something to prove. And maybe he did.

Maybe he was proving that no one else could ever make you feel like this. That no other hands, no other mouth, no other name would ever fall from your lips in this way.

Heeseung groaned against you, the sound vibrating straight through your bones. “You’re everything,” he muttered, voice muffled by your skin. “Sweet. Divine. Addicting.”

Your hips bucked, but his grip only tightened—holding you down, keeping you open. “Don’t run from it,” he said, looking up briefly, mouth glistening. “Take it. Take all of me.”

Then he dove back in—slower this time, more intentional. He licked into you like a man starving, like he wanted to carve his name into you with every flick of his tongue.

Your fingers twisted into his hair, a moan spilling out of you so raw and desperate it made him groan again—deeper this time, as if he felt it.

He sucked gently, then harder, then just right—and your body arched, breath catching as your thighs shook around his head. “That’s it,” he whispered, not letting up. “Come undone for me. I want to feel you lose yourself.”

And when you did—back arched, fingers digging into his scalp, his name a broken chant on your lips—he didn’t stop. Not even then.

Heeseung stayed there, kissing you through it, tongue softening to gentle licks, like he couldn’t bear to let go of the taste of you.

“You taste like heaven,” he said hoarsely, crawling back up your body. “And I’m never going to stop sinning.”

His mouth captured yours in a kiss so deep and possessive, it left you dizzy. His hand cradled the back of your head, the other splayed at your waist as he kissed you like he’d never let you go.

When he finally pulled away, your lips were parted, your breaths uneven, your body still aching for more.

You blinked at him, dazed. “I should—shouldn’t I… return the favor?” you managed to breathe, fingers lightly tracing the edge of his jaw. “It’s only fair.”

But Heeseung only chuckled, low and fond. He clicked his tongue as he cupped your chin between his thumb and forefinger, shaking his head. “Not now, my love,” he said, tone full of mock discipline. “Don’t you have tea with our mothers and poor, bored Sunoo?”

You stared at him, scandalized. “You—!”

Your mouth hung open in shock, lips still tingling from his kisses, body still humming with want, and Heeseung had the audacity to smile—smile—as he kissed you again. Tender, slow, and sweet. But the taste of you still lingered on his lips, and the moment it hit your tongue, your cheeks flushed deep crimson.

He pulled back with a grin, clearly satisfied with your flustered state. “There’s that look I love,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the corner of your kiss-bitten mouth.

You squeaked as he got up, completely unhurried, and bent to retrieve your dress from where it lay pooled on the carpet. He handled it with surprising care, holding it up like it was made of glass, before walking over to grab your corset next—still slightly unlaced from earlier.

He turned to you, holding both items up. “Come now, princess. I may be a selfish man, but I’m not about to be blamed for you being late to tea.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You are absolutely going to be blamed. You undressed me, Heeseung.”

He only smirked as he crossed the room again, kneeling in front of you as he gently helped you slip back into the gown. “And I’ll do it again later,” he whispered, wickedly close to your ear, “but slower.”

You hissed, slapping his shoulder lightly. “You menace.”

Heeseung laughed softly, guiding your arms through the sleeves and then slipping around to lace your corset like it was second nature—deft fingers pulling the strings tight, not too firm, but enough for you to feel properly put together again. His knuckles grazed your back as he worked, and you swore he did it just to rile you up.

“You’ve done this way too many times,” you mumbled, folding your arms as he tied the last ribbon neatly.

“Practice makes perfect,” he replied cheekily, placing a final kiss on your shoulder before straightening up.

Your reflection in the gilded mirror caught your eye—cheeks rosy, lips swollen, hair slightly mussed, but glowing in a way you couldn’t quite hide.

You groaned under your breath.

With a quick sweep, you pulled your hair over one shoulder, trying in vain to cover the fresh marks Heeseung had shamelessly left trailing along your neck and collarbone.

“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered as you frantically smoothed your sleeves and tried to pat down the mess of curls he’d tangled earlier.

Behind you, Heeseung strolled over, a knowing grin tugging at his lips. “Here,” he said, lifting the delicate golden circlet that had been knocked off and tossed aside somewhere between his kisses and your surrender.

He gently placed it atop your head, careful not to tug or misplace a single strand. Then, with surprising finesse, he combed his fingers through your hair and pulled a few pieces loose to frame your face just right. The strands softened your features, made your flushed cheeks look like a gentle blush rather than a royal scandal.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Forgive me for the mess, my love,” he whispered against your skin, his voice laced with playful guilt.

You puffed out your cheeks, glaring at his reflection in the mirror. “Mess? Heeseung, I look like I just survived a storm.”

You puffed out your cheeks, glaring at his reflection in the mirror. “Mess? Heeseung, I look like I just survived a storm.”

“You look like a woman in love,” he teased, clearly far too pleased with himself. “And slightly ravished, yes, but radiant nonetheless.”

You smacked his arm as he burst into soft laughter.

He reached for his coat from the chaise and slipped it on with practiced ease, but left his royal sash on the side—too formal for a simple walk across the castle, and besides, you both knew he wanted an excuse to not look too princely in front of Sunoo, who would definitely tease him about it.

He offered his hand, and you took it with a begrudging sigh. “You’re lucky I’m fond of you.”

“I’m aware,” he grinned.

With your hand in his, he opened the door and gently tugged you along the corridor, nodding at the knights stationed nearby, who respectfully bowed but absolutely did not miss the light flush on your face or the smug tilt of Heeseung’s smile.

As the two of you walked, fingers still entwined, you couldn’t help but glance sideways at him.

“Should I expect a scolding from your mother for being late?”

Heeseung hummed thoughtfully. “No. But from Sunoo? Absolutely.”

You groaned. “He’s going to smell the perfume and still say, ‘Why do you smell like sex?’”

Heeseung laughed out loud. “Because you do.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You planned this.”

He just gave your hand a little squeeze. “I can’t help it. I like when you leave with part of me on you.”

You choked back a sound—half flustered, half delighted—and smacked his chest again. “You’re awful.”

“And you’re late for tea.”

You rolled your eyes fondly as Heeseung gently tugged you down the main marble steps and out into one of the many open-air gardens nestled in the kingdom’s sprawling palace grounds.

A breeze kissed your cheeks as the scent of lilacs and chamomile floated in the air, winding between columns and trellises of soft wisteria, the sunlight hitting just right

Then the scent grew stronger—steeped lilac tea, freshly poured.

You paused with a soft inhale. “My favorite,” you murmured with a smile.

Heeseung glanced sideways at you, eyes already on your face. “Yeah, I know,” he said simply, like it was obvious—because to him, it was.

You rounded the hedge-lined path and reached the open gazebo area in the heart of the garden. Woven vines framed the white pillars and soft silks blew gently from above, casting dappled shadows on the large round table filled with silver-tiered trays of fruit tarts, scones, sweet breads, and golden jars of jam. The sound of bickering cut through the serene setting.

“No, I’m telling you! Apricot is a universal jam—like, anyone would pick it!”

“Universal doesn’t mean it’s good, Riki! Raspberry is superior, and everyone with a tongue knows that!”

You laughed under your breath at the familiar sight of Sunoo and Riki, seated on opposite ends and leaning toward each other with exaggerated scowls.

Sunoo’s sleeves were dramatically pushed up like he was ready to duel with a spoon, and Riki’s pout was so intense it could’ve curdled milk.

Your smile grew as your eyes landed on the two women seated elegantly between them—your mother, Queen of your homeland, draped in soft burgundy with jewels that shimmered beneath the garden light, and Heeseung’s mother, the Queen of this kingdom, regal in deep navy lined with gold.

They sat side by side, teacups in hand, mid-conversation and sharing a laugh—the kind that spoke of decades of friendship, diplomacy, and sisterhood.

Heeseung slowed beside you, offering a slight bow of his head.

“My queens,” you said softly as you approached, your tone still laced with respect despite the fondness behind your eyes. You followed Heeseung’s lead, dipping your head slightly.

“Oh, please,” your mother groaned playfully. “Do we still have to do this every time?”

The Queen beside her smiled knowingly. “You’re about to be our daughter-in-law, not a courtier.”

“Sit, sit,” your mother added with a wave of her hand.

You and Heeseung chuckled, and he leaned in to kiss the top of your head once more, hands resting on your arms just a moment longer before he let go.

“I’ll leave you in good company,” he said, eyes locking with yours. “Try not to let Sunoo drag you into jam debates.”

Sunoo looked up, eyes wide. “You agree with me, right?” he demanded before Heeseung could even take a step back. “You like raspberry more, right?”

Heeseung only smirked. “I like peace and quiet. Which I clearly won’t get here.”

You snorted behind your hand as Heeseung’s mother laughed, waving her son off. “Go, Heeseung, before Sunoo recruits you into his crusade.”

Heeseung chuckled and gave you a parting wink before disappearing through the garden arch.

You turned back to the table and gracefully took the seat beside your mother, smoothing down your skirts.

Sunoo immediately leaned in and whispered, “Tell me you noticed the lip marks on your neck.”

“Sunoo!” you hissed, glancing at the queens who pretended not to overhear, amused smiles tugging at their lips.

“What?” Riki snorted, sipping his tea far too smugly. “You’re the one who came back glowing like you just won a war.”

You sighed deeply, cheeks already flushing again. “I hate both of you.”

Your mother smiled behind her cup. “Oh, sweetheart… you’re in love. We were all insufferable once too.”

The night of the banquet arrived with stars high and proud in the velvet sky, but even they would dim compared to what awaited within the castle walls.

You stood before the towering gilded mirror in your shared chambers, the scent of roses and lavender oils clinging softly to the air. Your hair was being twisted and pinned into perfection by skilled fingers, each strand smoothed and coiled as your lady-in-waiting delicately fastened glittering earrings to your ears.

Another slid your necklace into place—a heavy yet elegant piece of red garnet and obsidian, catching the flickering glow of the chandelier like drops of fire and shadow.

Your gown was made of the richest velvet in black, kissed with deep red silk layers beneath, cascading like spilled wine around your legs. Embroidered gold vines twirled across the bodice and sleeves, wrapping you in something regal, something worthy of a queen.

A knock at the heavy oak doors pulled everyone’s attention.

“May I?” Heeseung’s voice called from outside, deep and silken, already warm with a smile.

You barely had time to answer before the door cracked open, and there he was—standing in all his glory.

The red and black of his coat matched yours perfectly, the fabric gleaming with intricate golden embroidery and crystal embellishments that sparkled beneath the room’s warm lights.

His broad shoulders carried the weight of a kingdom and yet, the moment his eyes found you—his world narrowed.

He stood there, still, breath caught in his chest.

“…My gods,” he whispered. “You look like you walked out of a dream.”

You gave a soft wave of your hand, a simple motion that dismissed the flurry of handmaidens and attendants. With quiet bows and knowing smiles, they exited swiftly, leaving only the two of you in your glowing, silent world.

Heeseung didn’t wait.

He crossed the room in long, purposeful strides and spun you gently in place, eyes devouring every inch of your form. Your dress flared at your movement, brushing against the polished marble like a whisper.

“You’re unreal,” he murmured, hands settling on your waist as he stopped your twirl. “You look like a flame carved into royalty.”

“And you,” you teased, trailing your fingers down the gleaming lapel of his coat. “Look like temptation in human form.”

Heeseung grinned, gaze dropping to your lips for half a second too long. “Then what happens when royalty meets temptation?”

You raised a brow, smirking as you replied, “A scandal the bards will sing about for centuries.”

Heeseung laughed, rich and deep, before tugging you closer by the waist. “Let them sing, my love. Let them sing.”

His forehead pressed gently to yours. “Tonight, everyone will see what I’ve always known.”

“That I’m yours?” you whispered.

“No.” He shook his head slowly. “That I’m yours.”

He kissed your hand before pulling your arm through his.

“Shall we go make the entire kingdom jealous?”

You grinned, your fingers tightening around his. “Lead the way, my prince.”

With that, Heeseung offered his arm like a true royal consort and guided you out of the warm, perfumed sanctuary of your shared chambers. The heavy double doors closed behind you, and the subtle echo of your steps fell against the polished stone floors.

Two royal knights—adorned in your shared kingdom’s colors of crimson and onyx—followed at a respectful distance, silent and poised.

The corridor was dimly lit by torchlight, flickering shadows casting dancing patterns across the walls. But inside your little bubble, the world felt quieter, warmer. You and Heeseung strolled side by side, caught in easy conversation that dissolved any remaining nerves.

“Do you remember last month’s banquet?” Heeseung asked with a smirk, nudging your side.

“You mean the one where you complained about the wine?” you teased, arching a brow.

He scoffed dramatically. “It wasn’t wine. It was grape juice in disguise.”

You burst into soft laughter. “You pouted about it for a full hour. Told the steward you expected something aged, not squeezed fresh that morning.”

“I’m a prince. I expect stringency in my wine,” he said in a mock-snobby voice, chin tilted upward as you giggled.

But your smile faded slightly as you reached the archway that led to the Great Hall. You could already hear it—the hum of noble chatter, bursts of light laughter, and the elegant trill of string instruments playing from the balcony above. The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine filled the air.

Your posture straightened instinctively, hands smoothing down the front of your gown. Heeseung noticed.

He slowed his pace, his hand sliding gently around your waist to pull you closer. His lips dipped to your ear, his voice low and soothing.

“There’s nothing to be scared of, my love,” he whispered. “They should be scared of you.”

“You are the future Queen of both kingdoms,” he continued, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, a quiet storm of pride behind his smile. “And you’ve already won their prince.”

Your cheeks warmed, but the nerves began to ease. You exhaled, squeezing his hand in silent gratitude. “Thank you,” you whispered.

Heeseung only grinned, squeezing back once before the chamberlain standing just outside the banquet doors struck his staff once against the marble.

“Presenting,” he boomed, his voice echoing through the high-arched ceilings, “Crown Prince Lee Heeseung of House Lee, and Crown Princess (L/N) (Y/N) of House (L/N).”

At once, the hall stilled. Music faltered. Conversations died mid-sentence. It was like the world hushed—like the wind itself bowed.

All eyes turned.

Every noble, every knight, every courtly guest from both your homeland and Heeseung’s, rose from their seats. Heads lowered in bows and curtsies, hands pressed over hearts in solemn reverence. But more than formality, there was awe—undeniable awe—at the sight of you two.

Your steps were fluid as you and your prince made your way toward the long banquet table seated at the front of the room. Your parents were already seated—your mother glowing in cream and emerald, your father in sleek royal navy. Heeseung’s parents sat beside them, regal and composed, eyes glinting with something between pride and fondness.

The long table had empty seats between the kings and queens—but your eyes caught the familiar shadows of six tall figures standing further back. The other six princes. They stood at the side of the hall, backs straight, hands clasped behind them, watching as the two of you passed.

When you drew near, they bowed in unison with the crowd—a sea of heads dipping low in reverence.

But only they rose slowly, eyes glinting with quiet respect.

Jungwon was the first to lift his head, a smirk tugging at his lips as he mouthed dramatically, “About time.”

You suppressed a laugh.

Heeseung only rolled his eyes subtly and pulled your chair out for you like the proper gentleman he always was. “Your throne, my queen,” he teased softly.

The moment you were both seated, the hall gradually stirred back to life. Conversations resumed, the orchestra picked up its melody again, and the clinking of goblets filled the golden-lit room.

You greeted your parents first—your mother reached over the table to press a kiss to your cheek, her rings cool against your skin. “You both look stunning,” she said, eyes dancing. “But don’t just sit there like old monarchs.”

“Go,” Heeseung’s mother added, smiling behind her teacup. “Socialize. Be young. Dance. Be adored.”

Your father gave a playful huff. “Yes, yes, impress your subjects.”

Heeseung let out a breathy laugh and rose from his seat, pulling your chair out once again as he offered you his hand. “Shall we obey our queens and kings?”

You took it with a grin. “What choice do we have?”

He placed a gentle hand at the small of your back as he led you from the front dais and into the growing crowd. Your gown swished elegantly around your legs as you walked, and the subtle music and chatter wrapped around you like silk.

It didn’t take long to reach the cluster of princes near the long side of the room—familiar faces all dressed in variations of dark velvet, adorned with gold, sapphire, and crimson embellishments. The other royal heirs.

“Look who decided to show up,” Jongseong teased as he raised his glass at your approach, eyes glinting. “And matching too. I should’ve expected the dramatics.”

“You’re just jealous,” Heeseung quipped, “that your partner doesn’t coordinate with you.”

“You don’t have a partner,” Jaeyun pointed out.

“Exactly my point,” Heeseung smirked.

You couldn’t help but laugh, stepping a little closer to the group when—

“Oh my gods!” A familiar voice squealed behind you.

You turned just in time to be pulled into a sudden, elegant hug, delicate perfume surrounding you as Wonyoung grinned from ear to ear.

“It is you,” she beamed. “I told Yujin it was you and she said, ‘No, that can’t be her, she’s probably still getting ready—’”

“That does sound like me,” Yujin said with a giggle as she joined, wrapping her arms around you in a warm embrace. “But seriously, look at you! This dress? That crown? Prince Heeseung’s gonna have a hard time keeping people away tonight.”

“Please, he’s already glaring at everyone who makes eye contact with her,” Wonyoung whispered playfully, tipping her head toward your prince.

You glanced back—Heeseung, very much still engaged in conversation with Sunghoon, had his arm folded as he gave the other prince a look. You couldn’t hear the words, but you definitely saw the eye roll Sunghoon gave in response.

“Still boring as ever,” Woonyoung said under her breath, giving Sunghoon a pointed look.

Heeseung caught the tail end of that and shook his head with a laugh, muttering to Sunghoon, “Don’t mind them, they’ve been like this since we were kids.”

“I do mind, actually,” Sunghoon muttered back dryly, lifting his glass. “I was having a nice quiet moment before the fanclub showed up.”

“Oh, poor baby,” Wonyoung cooed sarcastically.

You giggled as she and Yujin each hooked an arm through yours, pulling you just a little away from the boys and deeper into the social haze of the room.

“You have to tell us everything,” Yujin said, eyes wide with curiosity. “How’s your room? Did the Queen really let you redecorate the west wing? Is it true that Heeseung almost punched a steward for misplacing your earrings last week?”

“Okay, that one was not my fault—” you began.

“Defensive,” Wonyoung grinned. “That means it’s true.”

You let out a snort, eyes trailing briefly to Heeseung just a few feet away, standing tall among his brothers. He caught your gaze with that familiar amused tilt of his head, his lips twitching as if he was holding back a laugh of his own.

“I swear,” Wonyoung continued, drawing your attention back. “Sunghoon nearly pushed me into the fountain last week.”

“What?” you blinked.

“All I said was that he walks like he owns the ground he steps on,” she huffed dramatically, flipping her hair. “Which is true, by the way. And he said, ‘Perhaps you should walk on water next time so I don’t have to see your face.’ Can you believe that?”

You burst into laughter, hand covering your mouth as Yujin gasped beside you. “He did not say that.”

“Oh, he did. Ask him.” Wonyoung nodded toward Sunghoon, who—unaware he was being discussed—was now slowly sipping from his own goblet, side-eyeing the trio of you as if expecting more trouble.

You and the girls dissolved into giggles again, your shoulders bumping lightly as the night continued to swell with warmth and music. Soon enough, more familiar faces began approaching, drawn to the lively cluster you had unintentionally created.

A group of princesses from neighboring kingdoms swept in, silk gowns gliding across the marble floor, their hair braided in intricate gold-threaded patterns, each one offering hugs and kisses on the cheek in greeting.

“Princess (Y/N), it’s been too long.”

“You look divine tonight, truly.”

“We heard about your new position—Crown Princess now, huh?”

You smiled graciously, cheeks warming under the compliments as you exchanged hugs and pleasantries, your fingers brushing over glittering sleeves and layered skirts. The perfume of lilac and fresh berries mixed with the sound of laughter and violins in the air.

Then, Yujin reappeared with a golden goblet, holding it out to you with a grin.

You eyed it skeptically. “You know I have the alcohol tolerance of a dying rabbit, right?”

“It’s not wine, your highness,” she sing-songed, lifting her chin. “It’s grape juice. I promise. I even tasted it.”

You narrowed your eyes, suspicious. “Yujin, last time you said that I ended up singing to a ficus tree.”

“That ficus was deeply moved,” Wonyoung said solemnly, hand over her chest. “You had it in tears.”

You rolled your eyes but took the goblet anyway, the cool metal glinting in the light. You took a sip—sweet, chilled grape juice, just as she’d said.

“…Okay, fine,” you mumbled. “You’re forgiven.”

Yujin smiled smugly. “As I always am.”

The chatter around you buzzed softly—princesses and lords weaving in and out of conversations, the noble youth of kingdoms mingling under chandeliers and candlelight.

You glanced once more toward Heeseung, only to find he was already watching you. Elbow leaned against a polished oak table, golden goblet in hand, the lamplight tracing the sharp line of his jaw. His head tilted in quiet admiration, lips slightly curled upward like he couldn’t help himself.

You gave him a soft smile, one only he could read through the crowd, and mouthed, “I’m okay.”

His grin deepened just slightly before he dipped his head in a subtle nod, his attention returning to the conversation he was having with someone you recognized instantly—Prince Taehyun of the Southern Kingdom, poised and calm as always, expression unreadable even while sipping wine.

“Did you hear,” Yujin leaned in close to whisper behind her goblet, her voice conspiratorial, “Prince Beomgyu’s got it bad for Taehyun’s older sister?”

Your brows shot up. “Seriously?”

“Oh, deadly serious. And Taehyun doesn’t approve—” she paused, nose wrinkling, “—or disapprove. Which, honestly, makes it worse.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up. “Of course he doesn’t. He’s too diplomatic to give a straight answer.”

Wonyoung perked up beside you, eyes wide. “Wait, wait. Isn’t she the one who wore that gold corset at the Summer Moon banquet last year?”

“The very one,” Yujin confirmed, nodding. “And Beomgyu’s been in love ever since. I’m telling you, it’s been a mess.”

You nearly choked on your sip of juice, laughing. “Oh gods—do you remember the night Beomgyu told me about it?”

Yujin blinked, then her mouth split into a knowing grin. “The drunken night in Dalanor’s banquet hall?”

You nodded, eyes sparkling at the memory. “He had one too many glasses of wine and started ranting about how Taehyun keeps throwing him into a spiral.”

Wonyoung leaned in eagerly. “What did he say?”

“He was so drunk, he grabbed Heeseung’s shoulder like he was the last sane man in the world,” you said through a giggle, “and went, ‘Your Highness, is it yes or no? Does he want me to marry her or does he want to stab me in my sleep?’”

Yujin laughed, nearly spilling her drink. “I remember Heeseung’s face! He just laughed and poured him another drink.”

You grinned. “And Beomgyu started sobbing into his goblet about how Taehyun winked at him when he mentioned the wedding idea. A wink. What does a wink even mean?”

“It means,” Wonyoung drawled dramatically, “welcome to royal romance hell.”

The three of you burst into laughter again, the sound bubbling up and mixing with the music in the air. You glanced back over toward Heeseung just in time to see him casually glance your way once more—his gaze lingering for a beat longer than it needed to, as if your laugh pulled his focus no matter where he stood.

Then he turned back to Taehyun, the two princes deep in what looked like a heated discussion about wine—or possibly the definition of flirting—while the night carried on around you.

You fidgeted with your fingers, gloved hands resting delicately over the fabric pooled at your lap. The royal carriage swayed gently with each turn, the soft creak of gilded wheels and distant sounds of celebration muffled behind velvet-lined walls.

Your white wedding gown—stitched with fine silver thread and delicate pearls—billowed across the floor like a river of moonlight. It was heavy, grand, and far too large for the carriage… but you didn’t mind.

Matching jewelry adorned your ears, neck, and wrists—heirloom pieces passed down through generations, each gemstone kissed by history and polished for this day.

Your veil shimmered like frost under the faint sunlight peeking through the curtained window, yet none of it glittered as brightly as your nerves.

Across from you, your mother and father sat side by side, their fingers loosely intertwined as they watched you with a softness that only parents could carry.

Your mother smiled first, the kind that carried decades of wisdom behind it. “Your hands always fidget when you’re nervous,” she said, gently reaching over to fix a strand of hair that had slipped from your veil.

“But you don’t need to be. You’re marrying for love—not alliance, not duty. That alone makes your union more powerful than any treaty signed before it.”

You blinked, lips parting in a slow smile. “Do you really think so?”

“I know so,” she replied, squeezing your hand. “I’ve seen the way Heeseung looks at you. Like the stars themselves would bow if you asked them to. That kind of devotion cannot be taught—it’s rare, and it’s real.”

You felt your throat tighten just a little.

Then your father let out a quiet sigh, the sound a little too heavy to hide. His eyes stayed on you, warm and just slightly glassy. “I told myself I’d be ready for this,” he said. “But nothing could prepare me to see my little girl in a wedding gown.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out half choked. “You’re going to make me cry.”

He reached for your hand, squeezing it between his own. “You’ll always be my little girl. Even when you're crowned queen. Even when you have children of your own. That will never change.”

You nodded slowly, breathing through the swell in your chest. “Thank you, Father. Thank you both.”

The carriage began to slow, the golden wheels rolling over polished stone as the sound of bells rang out in the distance.

Your breath hitched. You could hear the faint murmur of voices outside, the gathered crowd, the music… and just beyond it all, the sacred temple—its white marble steps lined with petals, towering pillars wrapped in garlands of lilacs and white roses, the banner of your kingdom billowing gently in the breeze beside Heeseung’s.

A high priest awaited at the top of the stairs, hands folded in reverence. The temple doors stood open, glowing with sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. It looked like a dream carved into reality.

The door to the carriage opened with a creak.

Your father stepped out first, extending his hand to help you. You took a deep breath as your gloved fingers slid into his, and your feet touched the polished stone ground. The hem of your gown brushed the flower-strewn path as you stood tall, eyes lifting toward the temple ahead.

“Ready?” your father asked, voice low beside you.

You nodded, slowly, then turned to look back one last time at the carriage—at the road that brought you here—and finally, forward again. “Yes. I’m ready.”

Your mother let out the smallest breath of a smile, a hand delicately pressing over her heart as she watched you with glassy eyes. One of the royal knights approached her with a polite bow, then gently extended his arm.

She took it with practiced grace, allowing herself to be escorted to her place at the front row of the temple—where the sacred lights from the stained-glass windows painted the marble floors in hues of gold and violet.

You stood at the start of the long aisle, the flower-strewn carpet lined with lanterns and pale petals. The air inside the temple was reverent, heavy with the scent of lilac and rosewater, lit only by candlelight and divine sunbeams that poured through the windows like blessings themselves.

And at the end of it all—standing before the altar beneath arching stone and blooming ivy—was Heeseung.

His white ceremonial suit shimmered under the temple lights, the gold embroidery gleaming with each breath he took. Crystals lined the trim of his royal jacket, catching the light like stars. His hair was perfectly styled—yet a single strand still fell naturally over his brow—and gods, he had never looked more like a king.

Heeseung swore his breath left his lungs.

The moment your figure stepped onto the aisle, framed by light and shadow, your gown flowing like starlight behind you and veil trailing with each slow, graceful step—he couldn’t stop the smile that bloomed across his lips. Not the small kind. Not the gentle kind. The full kind, the one that crinkled his eyes and made his chest ache with a thousand unsaid words.

“By the gods,” he murmured under his breath. “She’s real.”

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Could only stand there in full awe as if you were the very goddess the temple was built for.

Your gaze met his—warm, filled with every memory and every dream you’d ever shared. And as you stepped closer and closer to the altar, the sounds of hushed gasps and admiration filled the pews.

Heeseung barely heard them. He only saw you.

At the end of the aisle, your father stood tall but emotional as he gently guided you the last few steps forward. Once the music slowed, he turned toward Heeseung, looking the prince in the eye with all the weight of a father handing off the most precious thing he’d ever protected.

He took Heeseung’s hand and placed yours in it.

“Take care of her,” your father said, his voice deep but warm, soft with meaning. “She’s always been our light.”

Heeseung’s expression softened instantly. He nodded—not with stiff formality, but with reverent sincerity. “Always,” he whispered. “With all I have.”

Your father gave a small, proud smile before stepping aside, finding his seat beside your mother, who wiped the corner of her eye with her silk handkerchief.

You and Heeseung now stood before the altar together.

Fingers interlocked.

He looked down at you, and the way his thumb grazed the back of your knuckles sent a wave of calm through you.

“You look like every prayer I never thought would be answered,” he murmured so only you could hear. “And I must’ve done something right in a past life… because you're walking straight to me.”

You felt your heart rise to your throat as your eyes welled up—but you smiled, wide and unstoppable.

“Then hold me like you’ll never let me go,” you whispered back, voice trembling slightly.

“I already do,” Heeseung breathed, gaze locked on yours. “I already have.”

And somewhere behind you, the temple bells began to chime.

The ceremony was about to begin.

The gods were watching.

And the entire kingdom held its breath—for this union, for this love, for the future they believed in.

Laughter spilled from your lips like music, even as your hand tightened around Heeseung’s. The sky was dusted with sunset, the air alive with the roaring cheers of thousands—your people, your kingdom, the witnesses to a union that would be written into history books and bedtime stories alike.

“Careful,” Heeseung chuckled, eyes glinting as he helped you navigate the ornate steps of the royal carriage. “The gown’s winning the battle right now.”

You gave him a playful glare but let him hoist the heavy train of your dress just enough so you could climb inside without tripping. The velvet cushions cradled you immediately, the whole space fragrant with rose petals and wild lilac—gifts from the palace staff who had prepared it in secret.

Heeseung followed in after you, and the moment he closed the door behind him—sealing out the deafening celebration, the blinding flash of royal photographers, the weight of the world—

He turned to you.

And pulled you into him.

The kiss was firm and full of everything he hadn’t said at the altar. His hands cradled your jaw with devotion, lips pressing to yours like they were finding home.

You smiled against his mouth—because how could you not?—arms wrapping around his shoulders as your laughter was swallowed into the warmth of him.

He only pulled away when your lungs begged for air.

And even then, he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand, fingers trembling ever so slightly as his gaze dropped to the dazzling ring glittering on your finger.

A rare golden band, wrapped in tiny vines of diamonds. At its center—a stone so clear and so rare, it was said to have been taken from the gods’ altar themselves, gifted only to royal soulmates.

Heeseung sighed softly, brushing his lips against the gem once more, before lifting his gaze back to you.

“My wife,” he whispered, as if saying it for the first time made it real. His voice cracked with the weight of it, eyes shining like the stars overhead. “My beautiful wife.”

The word settled in your chest like a prayer answered.

You reached forward, cupping his cheek, fingers threading into the strands of his dark hair that had begun to fall from their styled place. His skin was warm under your touch, his eyes—god, his eyes—were filled with nothing but wonder.

Your voice trembled as tears began to blur your vision. “And you’re my husband,” you whispered. “My beginning. My middle. And my always.”

Heeseung’s eyes fluttered shut for a second, as if the moment was too much. Then he leaned into your touch, turning just enough to kiss your palm.

“Remind me to thank the gods for making you,” he said softly, pressing your forehead against his. “Because there is no way I deserved this. Deserved you.”

“You deserve everything,” you whispered, pulling him closer. “Everything, Heeseung.”

You let out a soft breath, letting your forehead rest gently against his chest, the rise and fall of it slow and steady beneath your cheek.

His arms wrapped around you instinctively, pulling you closer, your white gown crinkling slightly between your bodies but neither of you cared.

“We’re headed to the island, right?” you murmured into the fabric of his coat, fingers curling around the lapel, the velvet soft under your touch.

Heeseung hummed, chin resting gently on the top of your head, his voice vibrating against your cheek. “Mhm. The very island I had that mansion built on… for us.”

He smiled as he spoke, almost shy about it. “Just for the two of us to spend our honeymoon in peace. No titles. No duties. Just you. Me. And the sea.”

You giggled, tilting your head up slightly to press a kiss to the tip of his chin. “I swear, I have the best husband ever. The perfect prince ever.”

That made his whole face light up. He beamed, heart full, like he was just realizing he could finally hold you like this without rules or eyes or limits. His hand slid to your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin as he whispered, “You’re perfect. Really perfect.”

You flushed, lips curling in a soft smile. “Well… I’m just glad the island isn’t that far from the mainland. At least we can come and go whenever we want.”

Heeseung snorted, pulling back just enough to give you a playful look. “You mean you can come and go as you please,” he said, eyes teasing. “Because you have a habit of storming off on me, my love.”

You gasped with a laugh, swatting lightly at his chest. “That was one time—!”

“Three,” he corrected smoothly. “Once after I forgot your birthday flower, the other when I fell asleep halfway through your poetry reading—”

You narrowed your eyes. “And the third?”

He grinned. “I don’t even remember, I think you were just being dramatic.”

You let out a mock gasp of offense, which only made Heeseung laugh harder. He pulled you back in, kissing your temple as he whispered, “I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth, you know. Even if you storm off again.”

“Even in this giant dress?” you teased, gesturing to the sheer volume of fabric surrounding you.

He nodded solemnly. “Even if I have to carry you and the fifteen layers of it across the entire kingdom.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing too loudly, burying your face back into his chest as the carriage bumped gently along the road—your fingers tangled in his, your heart full, your future already unfolding before you in soft gold and island winds.

You gasped as Heeseung thrust into you again, deep and unrelenting, his rhythm messy and desperate now—etiquette forgotten, restraint burned to ash.

He moaned low into your ear, voice wrecked. “Fuck—been dreaming of this,” he whispered, lips dragging along your jaw. “Years of holding back—do you even know what you’ve done to me?”

You whimpered, arching into him as your nails raked down his back, drawing soft, broken curses from his lips. “Heeseung—”

“That’s it,” he breathed, kissing you hard, possessive. “Say my name like that again, sweetheart—please—”

“Heeseung,” you gasped, body trembling under him, overwhelmed by the sheer stretch and heat of him, of this, of everything. “You’re my husband—y-you’re really mine—”

That did something to him.

He growled low in his throat, pulled out, and you whined at the loss—but then he flipped you onto your stomach, firm and commanding, and patted your ass twice, a dark gleam in his eyes as he said, “Up, love. Let me see you.”

You obeyed on instinct, body moving to all fours, ass raised, face flushed against the pillows.

“Fuck,” he muttered behind you, dragging his hands down your spine. “Look at you… gods, you’re perfect.”

He lined himself up again, the thick head of his cock brushing against you, teasing, making you whine and twitch in anticipation.

“Beg for it,” he said, voice barely steady. “Just once. Please, baby—after everything—I need to hear it.”

“Please, Heeseung,” you whimpered, backing against him. “Please… I need you.”

He slammed back into you with a groan that echoed off the high ceilings, one hand gripping your hip, the other wrapping around your waist to pull you against him. The sound of skin meeting skin was shameless, vulgar, as he lost himself in the heat of you, panting curses into your shoulder.

“You feel like fucking heaven,” he moaned, head dropping to your back. “This body—this fucking body was made for me.”

Your cries grew louder as his thrusts deepened, more erratic now—driven by years of pent-up love, desire, obsession.

When he reached forward and wrapped his fingers around your throat, pulling your back to his chest, he whispered against your ear: “Mine. My queen. My wife. I’ll spend the rest of my life ruining you like this.”

And as your walls clenched around him, body trembling from the pleasure blooming like wildfire inside you, he kissed your temple—soft, reverent, the only gentle thing in that moment—and whispered, “Give it to me, love. Let go. Let me have all of you.”

You shattered with a cry, the kind that echoed off the walls, one hand gripping the sheets as your body convulsed around him. Your release hit hard—white-hot and overwhelming—and Heeseung groaned against your skin, hips stuttering as you clenched tight around him.

“That’s it,” he rasped, pressing kisses along your shoulder, hips still lazily rocking into your overstimulated body. “Fuck—so good for me, so perfect.”

You could barely breathe, chest rising and falling as sweat clung to your skin. But Heeseung wasn’t done—not even close.

He hooked two fingers under your chin, lifting your face to meet his. Your eyes were glossy with tears, lips parted as soft whimpers spilled out of you. Heeseung’s gaze flickered between your eyes and mouth, his own expression completely undone.

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he murmured, then kissed you—sloppy, desperate, like he was trying to taste the moans still lingering in your throat.

But then he pulled away—just enough to flip you back onto your back, drawing a gasp from your lips as he manhandled you closer to the edge of the bed.

“Heeseung—” you breathed, voice cracking.

He leaned down, kissed the tears slipping from the corners of your eyes with such gentleness it made your heart ache.

“I know, baby,” he whispered. “I know. But I need you one more time.” Then he raised your legs, resting them over his shoulders, and thrust back in.

Your cry was broken, high and breathless, your hands flying to his arms for something to hold onto as your body arched into him.

“Still so tight,” he groaned, hips rolling into you deep and slow, like he was savoring every second. “Gods, you take me so well, even after—fuck, I’ll never get over this.”

You sobbed softly, overwhelmed by the stretch, the intensity, the sheer love in the way he moved inside you.

He leaned down, folding your legs closer to your chest, his forehead pressed against yours as he whispered, “Look at me. Let me see you fall apart again.”

And then he slammed into you—hard and sloppy, each thrust punching a moan out of your throat as he hit that spot inside you that made your eyes roll back instantly.

“Heeseung—ah—!” you cried, voice ragged, high, needy.

“That’s it,” he rasped, watching your face with a wild hunger in his eyes. “That’s the face I wanted to see—gods, look at you—so gone for me.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. The pleasure was blinding, white-hot and all-consuming as he plunged into you over and over, cock hitting so deep and so perfect, your body had no choice but to obey.

Your mouth hung open, drooling a little, moaning with every deep, brutal thrust—and Heeseung ate it up like a man possessed.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, sweat dripping from his brow as his pace grew faster, rougher. “I’ve fucked you stupid, haven’t I?”

You whimpered, tried to answer, but only a breathless moan left your lips.

He smirked darkly. “Can’t even talk. Just taking it. Letting me ruin you.”

Your body jolted with every movement of his hips, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the chamber like a prayer.

“I’m close,” he panted, voice shaking. “You’re squeezing me so tight, gods, I’m gonna—fuck—”

You could only whimper, tears sliding down your cheeks again from the overwhelming heat building inside you.

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear, voice low and wrecked. “I’ll fill you up,” he whispered. “Make you mine. Want you so round and full of me. Barefoot in the palace with my child inside you—fuck, baby, you’d look so perfect like that.”

A strangled moan ripped out of you, nails digging into his arms as your legs trembled around his shoulders.

“Wanna get you pregnant,” he kept going, voice turning desperate as his thrusts grew rougher. “Wanna see your belly swell. Everyone’ll know you’re mine—all mine. My wife. My queen. My everything.”

You cried out, and he kissed the tears from your cheeks again, groaning as your body tightened around him.

“Gonna give it to you,” he gasped. “Take it—take all of me—”

And then he buried himself deep one final time, spilling inside you with a long, low moan, his whole body shaking as he pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged, arms trembling.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “I love you—I love you—I love you.”

He kissed you again—deep, slow, as if trying to pour every bit of himself into your mouth, like he didn’t know where he ended and you began. His hands were still trembling, still greedy even now, cradling your face.

Then, slowly, gently, he eased your legs down from his shoulders, never once letting go. His hips shifted just enough so that he could wrap his arms around you, rolling onto his side and taking you with him—still buried inside you, warm and full and his.

You let out a soft gasp as your body adjusted, sensitive and raw, but comforted by his arms pulling you flush against his chest.

Heeseung let out a shaky exhale, pressing his nose into your hair. “Still with me?” he murmured, lips brushing your temple.

You nodded sleepily, breath shallow, heart pounding as you pressed your palm against his bare chest—feeling his heartbeat racing beneath your fingertips.

He kissed your forehead, and then your cheek, then the corner of your lips, his voice low and thick. “I’m not pulling out,” he mumbled, half-drunk on love, half-drunk on you. “Not yet. Not ever.”

You laughed softly—weakly—body still pulsing from everything. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” he muttered, pulling you impossibly closer, like he wanted to fuse your bodies together. “I meant what I said, you know. About getting you pregnant. About seeing you with my child.”

“I want all of it,” he whispered. “You in this bed, in our castle. You walking through the palace holding your stomach. You with my name, my ring, my child. I want everything.”

You could barely speak. So you just whispered, “You already have everything.”

His eyes fluttered shut at that, a soft, boyish smile tugging at his lips.

The room was quiet, save for your breathing, the soft rustle of the silk sheets tangled beneath you. You were both still trembling from the aftermath—but wrapped in him, filled by him, you felt like the world had stopped moving just for the two of you.

The royal library was bathed in the soft light of the afternoon sun, golden beams streaking through the high arched windows. The gentle rustle of pages echoed quietly, along with Jaeyun’s voice reading aloud from a worn leather-bound storybook.

“…and then the young prince lifted the veil of thorns, finding the princess fast asleep, untouched by time, heart still waiting for his,” Jaeyun read, lips curling into a fond smile as he glanced down at your belly, voice softening even more. “He kissed her, and—”

You huffed, adjusting your position with an audible grunt as you shifted your weight on the deep-cushioned couch. It was custom-made, one of Heeseung’s many attempts to appease your growing complaints about how “every chair in the palace was clearly built for pain and suffering.”

Jaeyun winced. “Uh… did I do something wrong, noona?” he asked carefully, lowering the book.

You sighed heavily and gave him a sweet smile, brushing his arm. “No, sweet boy. You’re perfect. Don’t let the thundercloud above my head scare you.”

His brows furrowed in confusion before glancing up—and that’s when he saw your husband, standing near the grand shelf of magical history books, looking like a deer caught in divine, hormonal headlights.

Heeseung blinked. “What… what’d I do?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just stared. A slow, furious, finger-pointing kind of glare.

Heeseung looked behind him. Then pointed at himself. “Me?”

Jaeyun immediately started packing up the book with the speed of a trained soldier. “I’m gonna, um… give you two some privacy. Or leave the continent. Whichever’s safer.”

You gently held his wrist. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Jaeyun. Don’t let the idiot standing near the bookshelf convince you otherwise.”

Heeseung’s jaw dropped. “Wait—what idiot—hey!”

That’s when you sniffled. Loudly. Tears instantly welled up in your eyes as your lip trembled, and you looked down at your round belly, hand resting protectively over it.

Jaeyun froze in horror. “Noona—wait, are you crying? Did I—?”

From across the library, Jungwon’s head snapped up, quill falling from his fingers. He was at your side in a heartbeat, eyes wide and worried.

“What happened?” Jungwon asked, voice soft but urgent, his hand gently resting on the edge of your couch as he leaned over. “Noona, what’s wrong?”

You pointed at Heeseung again, face crumpling as the tears rolled down your cheeks. “He forgot my pickles and sour cream,” you sniffled. “I woke up and it wasn’t there and I waited and waited and I was starving and craving and he just—”

“Oh.” Jungwon tried very, very hard not to laugh, biting the inside of his cheek as he nodded seriously. “Pickles and sour cream. A fatal offense.”

“I didn’t forget!” Heeseung defended, walking closer, arms flailing slightly in helplessness. “I mean—I did, but not on purpose! I had to help Jungwon with the—”

Jungwon lifted his hand, still grinning. “Forgive my brother, noona,” he said sweetly. “I think it’s partly my fault. I made him stay up last night helping me deal with some… knight stuff.”

You raised a brow, still crying, still very much hormonal. “What kind of knight stuff?”

Jungwon cleared his throat. “Uhm. A few of the southern patrol horses were unshod, and the stablemaster said the armory budget was overspent again. So we were fixing allocations and—”

“Oh, so horses are more important than your pregnant wife?” you cut in, voice trembling as you narrowed your eyes at your husband.

Heeseung panicked. “No! No, absolutely not—I would die for you. I would kill for you. I was going to go after breakfast and—”

“You said that yesterday!” you cried, covering your face.

Jaeyun stood behind Jungwon now, whispering, “We should probably leave before she gives birth out of spite.”

“Smart,” Jungwon whispered back.

Heeseung rushed to your side, dropping to his knees in front of you and placing both hands gently on your belly.

“My love, please,” he said, looking up at you with big, guilty eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ll get you all the pickles. All the sour cream. I’ll grow a pickle tree if I have to. Just please don’t cry, it breaks my heart.”

You glared at him for one more moment before sighing, lower lip still wobbling. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Heeseung beamed. “That’s a relief. Because I love you too. And you, little one,” he said, pressing a kiss to your belly. “Don’t worry, father will bring home all your weird cravings.”

You sniffed again, wiping your face as Heeseung pulled out a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed your cheeks gently.

“…You want ice cream with chili flakes too?” he asked cautiously.

“Obviously,” you muttered. “I’m not a monster.”

Jungwon and Jaeyun had already vanished by then, likely off to send a servant to retrieve a very urgent royal order of pickles and sour cream.

You sniffled once more, dabbing your own cheek as you tapped your fingers insistently on Heeseung’s arm.

He blinked. “Huh?”

You gave him a look.

“Oh! Right—right, sorry!” he scrambled, immediately hopping to his feet in a heartbeat. One arm slipped behind your back, the other lacing through your fingers with practiced ease. “Here we go—one, two—”

You groaned as he gently helped you up from the cushioned couch, belly stretching against the fabric of your soft dress. “Ugh. This is all your fault.”

Heeseung winced. “Yes, I—I know.”

“I should have your cock chopped off for this, you little—”

“Whoa—! Okay!” Heeseung laughed nervously, heart thudding against his ribs as he tucked you closer to his side. “Easy now, love. You scare me sometimes.”

You shot him a narrowed glare. “Sometimes? You should live in fear.”

“I do!” he said immediately, guiding your steps slowly and carefully as you waddled your way toward the hallway. “Every waking second, actually. Have I mentioned how stunning you look while plotting my demise?”

You clicked your tongue, though your cheeks betrayed you with the faintest tinge of blush.

Pregnancy had turned you into an emotional tempest. One second, you were smiling sweetly and asking Heeseung if he’d sing to the baby—and the next, you were threatening bodily harm over poorly cut fruit or lukewarm tea.

He loved you more for it. Terrified? A little. But madly in love? Completely.

Heeseung tried not to laugh at the memory of last week, when one of your most beloved royal cooks almost got fired.

You had wobbled your way down to the kitchen, belly-first, eyes ablaze. He had just finished making your requested plate of crackers—and forgot the sour cream.

The way you gasped, horrified, clutching your chest like your world had ended.

“I waited all day for this,” you whispered like a betrayed ghost. “And no sour cream? Off with your hat. No—your head!”

The poor man stood there, blinking in shock as you fumed.

By the time Heeseung had rushed in—dragging Sunghoon behind him for backup—he found you mid-sob and mid-threat, the cook still trying to apologize.

Sunghoon, eyes wide, bowed quickly to the cook. “We’re so sorry—she’s, uh—pregnant. Very pregnant.”

The cook only chuckled, waving it off. “It’s alright, Your Highness. This happens all the time. It’s quite normal, really.”

“Normal?!” Sunghoon whispered in horror as you let out a wail again.

Back in the present, Heeseung looked down at you now, walking slowly through the castle hallway, his hand cradling your back while you leaned your weight into him.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You sighed. “No. I’m bloated, I’m mad at you, my ankles feel like they’re being crushed by divine punishment, and I’m sweating in places no princess should sweat.”

“…So that’s a yes?”

You smacked his chest, and he only grinned, leaning down to kiss your temple again. “I love you, you know. You’re terrifying. But I’m obsessed with you.”

“I know,” you muttered, lips twitching upward despite yourself.

As you passed a stained-glass window, you paused and turned to face him—hand still on the curve of your belly.

“…You really forgot the pickles?” you asked again, narrowing your eyes.

Heeseung’s face went pale. “I swear to the gods, I’ll name our firstborn Sour Cream if that’s what it takes to make it up to you.”

You burst into laughter so hard you had to lean against him again.

The palace gardens were in full bloom.

You walked slowly beneath the soft morning sun, the wind warm and gentle as it kissed your face. Every step felt like a task and a half at nine months pregnant, your belly stretching the limits of your once-elegant maternity dress that now clung to you like it was begging for retirement.

Still, you needed the air.

The lilacs and lavenders had just been planted—your favorite colors. A gift from Heeseung after you spent an entire evening crying because you missed the way your childhood home used to smell.

“They’re blooming beautifully,” you murmured as you waddled beside your mother and mother-in-law, who were deep in discussion about installing fountains near the kingdom gates.

“A marble structure, perhaps,” your mother-in-law offered, gesturing with her fan. “Something timeless, to match the new rose archway.”

Your own mother nodded, her hand resting gently against your back. “And maybe benches shaded by wisteria vines—good for walks like these.”

You smiled faintly, hands settled protectively over your belly. You felt huge. Round and sore and terribly emotional.

Lately, all you wanted was Heeseung. You missed his hands on your belly, his kisses at the corners of your mouth, the way he’d whisper “You’re still the most beautiful woman in the world” every time you cried over not fitting into your royal robes anymore.

Poor Heeseung had endured months of emotional whiplash—you throwing pillows at him one minute, begging for cuddles the next—but he never wavered. Always patient. Always soft.

You sighed. “That man is too good for me.”

A sharp pang shot through your lower abdomen.

Your hand shot down to your belly as your breath caught, and in the next heartbeat—warm liquid trickled down your legs, soaking the hem of your dress and dripping onto the garden soil below.

Your eyes widened.

The queens turned to you instantly. “Darling?” “What is it?!”

“I think… I think my water just broke,” you whispered.

Panic, majestic and maternal, swept through both women. Your mother’s voice shot up first. “Servants! Fetch the midwife—now!”

“The healer too!” your mother-in-law added. “And blankets! Bring towels! Quickly!”

You winced again, grabbing at your lower back as another cramp rocked through you. “I can walk! I’m fine—just… need help.”

“Absolutely not,” your mother huffed, hooking her arm under yours with impressive strength for someone in full court attire. “You’re not walking anywhere without us.”

The two queens flanked you like royal guards, one on each side, carefully helping you take slow, careful steps back toward the palace. You groaned at each movement, breath labored, hands trembling.

“Where is Heeseung?” you whined, voice wobbling.

“He’s in council with the stewards—someone will fetch him,” your mother-in-law promised, rubbing soothing circles on your back. “Don’t you worry, darling. He’ll be with you before the next contraction hits.”

“I swear if he misses this—” you hissed as another pain bloomed in your spine, “—I’ll induce a second pregnancy just to make him suffer through the next one!”

Both queens laughed despite themselves.

“You’re doing wonderfully, sweetheart,” your mother whispered, kissing your temple. “Heeseung will come running the second he hears. Just hold on a little longer.”

“And scream at him when he does,” your mother-in-law added with a mischievous grin. “It’s tradition.”

You let out a strangled half-laugh, half-sob as your foot crossed the marble threshold of the castle.

“Bring hot water!” a maid cried out. “Prepare the birthing chamber!”

Servants scrambled like a military drill as the two queens continued leading you toward the royal wing.

And as another wave of pain rolled through you, sharp and sudden, you gripped both women’s hands tightly and muttered—

“…Heeseung is so dead.”

The words had barely left your mouth when a young servant, barely older than a squire, nodded frantically at your mothers’s command.

He turned on his heel and sprinted down the castle corridors, nearly slipping on polished marble as he weaved past nobles and guards. His face was pale, his steps frantic—because everyone in the kingdom knew that when it came to you, Prince Heeseung did not waste time.

Especially not today.

The council room sat in a gilded hallway of the eastern wing, its doors heavy with ornate gold carvings, muffling the sound of bored sighs and shuffling chairs from within.

Inside, the seven princes were scattered across the long oak table, listening—somewhat respectfully—as an aging duke discussed property disputes near the northern border.

Heeseung sat at the center of the table, shoulders square, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. His jaw tensed as he adjusted the fit of his vest, trying to mask just how miserable he looked.

Beside him, Jongseong leaned on an elbow, eyes half-lidded in sheer exhaustion. “If he says the word acreage one more time, I’m jumping out the window.”

Sunoo, who had long given up on pretending to listen, was poking Jungwon with a quill, whispering, “Bet you a week of your rations that hyung zones out and agrees to give the entire north to some greedy lord.”

Jungwon rolled his eyes, muttering, “He already did last month.”

Across the table, Riki and Sunghoon were whispering animatedly—probably about girls or sword duels or which of them would win in a wrestling match if their lives depended on it.

Jaeyun had a book propped open on his lap, held just under the table’s edge, completely absorbed and occasionally mouthing the words under his breath.

Heeseung cleared his throat, trying to gather enough composure to politely end the duke’s hour-long monologue. “We’ll reconvene to review—”

The council room doors flew open so hard they rattled on their hinges.

All seven princes shot up, hands instinctively flying to their sides as if expecting danger. The guards posted at the entrance had barely enough time to react before the young servant stumbled into the room, panting so hard it sounded like he’d just outrun a horse.

Heeseung was already halfway to standing, eyes sharp and alert. “Speak.”

The servant didn’t even bow. “T-The princess! Princess (Y/N)—she’s gone into labor!”

The words hit Heeseung like lightning.

Everything else vanished. The air, the weight of duty, the politics, the room itself—it was all just static in the background.

“Council dismissed,” Heeseung ordered, voice hard and final.

He didn’t wait for a single reply. He threw his glasses on the table with a clatter, not even bothering to place them gently, and shrugged off his coat as he made for the door. His vest was still half-buttoned, his cravat slightly askew, but he didn’t stop to fix any of it. He just ran.

“Hyung!” Jongseong called after him, but he was gone.

Sunoo blinked. “He didn’t even breathe.”

“Why do I feel like we’re in labor too?” Riki muttered, already on his feet.

“Heeseung-hyung’s going to faint before (Y/N) does,” Sunghoon said, half amused and half terrified.

Back in the halls, Heeseung’s footsteps echoed like thunder. Servants scrambled out of the way, bowing quickly before darting aside. He passed the main stairs, two wings of the palace, and stormed through three doors before finally reaching the private chambers near your bedroom—where the royal birthing room had been prepared days in advance.

He saw the royal guards, saw the maids darting in and out with wet cloths and blankets.

And then he heard you.

A muffled cry of pain from within.

His heart nearly stopped.

Heeseung stood just outside the doors, hand on the carved gold handle, breaths ragged as he tried to steel himself—but just before he could push it open, a commanding voice echoed through the corridor.

“Prince Heeseung, you cannot go in.”

He turned, startled, eyes narrowing as he was met by the flowing robes of the Archbishop of Decelis, flanked by a few elder members of the High Council—those who hadn’t been in attendance during the earlier meeting. Their expressions were grave, respectful, but firm.

“What?” Heeseung snapped, his tone already laced with disbelief. “Why not?”

One of the older men stepped forward, hands folded neatly in front of him. “My prince, it is tradition. Men are not permitted inside the royal birthing chambers. It is an honored law of the land.”

Heeseung dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated and on the verge of unraveling. “Tradition?” he echoed, almost laughing bitterly.

“That’s my wife in there. My child. And you’re telling me I can’t be with them because of some old, dusty decree written before any of you were even born?”

The Archbishop stood firm. “It is to maintain the sanctity and protection of both mother and child. We must follow protocol.”

Heeseung clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring, his heart screaming inside his chest. Behind him, hurried footsteps approached—the rest of his brothers flooding into the corridor one by one, panting and wide-eyed.

“Hyung, we came as fast as—” Jungwon began before seeing the situation unfold.

But Heeseung didn’t turn to them.

Because just then, through the thick double doors, he heard you scream again.

His spine straightened. His vision tunneled.

A young maid appeared from the side chamber, looking breathless and flushed. “Prince Heeseung!” she called, bowing quickly. “Her Highness is calling for you. She keeps asking—she’s crying, asking where you are.”

Heeseung moved for the doors again, only for the Archbishop to raise a hand, stepping into his path once more.

“Your Highness, please—”

“Do you like being the Archbishop of Decelis?” Heeseung asked sharply, voice low and dangerous.

The man froze.

The council members stiffened.

“Do you?” Heeseung repeated, eyes like wildfire.

“…Yes, my prince.”

“And you all,” Heeseung turned to the councilmen. “Do you like your titles? Your seats? Your influence?”

No one answered.

He took a slow, threatening step forward, each word like a blade. “Would you like to remain the Archbishop of Decelis? And remain members of this council?”

The hallway went deadly silent. Even the guards didn’t breathe.

Because Heeseung had never raised his voice. Never threatened anyone. Never looked like this before. But now—he was livid. A man unhinged by love, fear, and a cry from someone he couldn’t bear to be separated from.

“You forget your place,” he growled. “That’s my wife. That’s my child. And I swore before gods and men to protect her, cherish her, be by her side in every joy and every pain. And if any of you think for a second that I’ll let her scream for me alone while you stand here quoting traditions—”

His voice cracked at the edge.

“Then you’re not just wrong. You’re finished.”

The Archbishop opened his mouth—then closed it again.

“I said move.”

The men parted.

Heeseung didn’t waste another second—he slammed the doors open and marched in, not as a prince, not as a future king, but as your husband.

As a man about to become a father. As someone so in love with you that the thought of you suffering made him feel physically ill.

You were there, on the padded birthing bed, your back supported by pillows, your hair sticking to your forehead with sweat, hands gripping the sheets so tightly your knuckles were white.

Your mother and mother-in-law were at your side. The midwife—an older woman with gentle hands and sharp instructions—was calmly checking your status.

You looked up, eyes glassy and tired, and—

“Heeseung,” you whimpered.

He rushed to you without a word, dropping to his knees beside the bed and grabbing your hand. His fingers trembled as they laced through yours. “I’m here. I’m here, love, I’m right here.”

“I told you you were dead,” you gasped between contractions, squeezing his hand hard enough to crush bone.

Heeseung winced. “If I survive this, I’m building you another garden. Bigger. Full of lilacs. And pickles. And sour cream. Just—keep breathing, okay?”

You cried. “This is your fault!”

“Yes, it is,” he agreed, kissing your hand desperately, forehead resting against your arm. “I’m a terrible husband. I’ll never touch you again—I’ll sleep in the stables if I have to.”

“You’re damn right you will,” you hissed, then screamed through the next wave of pain.

Heeseung paled, but kissed your temple anyway. “You’re doing amazing, my love. You’re almost there.”

Behind him, one of the queens whispered, “He’s more scared than she is.”

And he was.

Because he’d faced sword fights, battles, political scandals, and enemy threats. But nothing terrified him more than the idea of you in pain.

The midwife barely glanced at him, too focused on the task. She peeked between your parted legs and gave a tight, pleased smile. “She’s fully dilated. We’re ready.” Then she dropped onto the birthing stool at the end of the bed and called over her shoulder, “You, get the clean towels. And the water, now.”

“Yes, madam!” a maid stammered as they scurried to follow.

“Alright, Your Highness,” the midwife addressed you gently now, her voice calm but firm. “When I say push, I need you to push hard, understand?”

You nodded, breath hitching. “It hurts—gods, it hurts so much—”

Heeseung was already at your side, kneeling beside you despite the thick gold embroidery of his royal vest crumpling beneath him. He took your trembling hand and pressed it to his lips, his forehead leaning against yours.

“You can do this, love,” he murmured, voice cracking. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You sobbed softly, body trembling. “I’m scared…”

“I know,” he said. “But you’re strong. So strong. You’re everything. And our baby—our little prince or princess—they’re so close. Just a little more, okay?”

Another contraction hit and the midwife barked, “Push!”

You cried out, gripping Heeseung’s hand so tightly it felt like you might break it, and he welcomed every second of it—because if he could take your pain for you, he would a thousand times over.

“That’s it!” the midwife encouraged. “Good girl, Your Highness, again!”

Heeseung wiped the tears streaking down your cheeks with his other hand, pushing the damp strands of hair off your sticky forehead, his lips kissing every inch he could reach.

“I love you,” he whispered. “You’re doing so well, I’m so proud of you.”

But after another few rounds, you fell back against the pillows, exhausted. “I can’t… I can’t anymore, Hee…”

“Yes, you can,” he whispered, desperate now, tears pricking his eyes. “You’ve made it this far, you can. Just one more, darling. Please. Our baby’s waiting for you.”

You whimpered, chest rising and falling fast, but his hand didn’t leave yours, and his words—warm and trembling—wrapped around you like armor.

“One more push!” the midwife called again. “I see the head! One big push, my lady!”

You screamed as you gave everything, every last ounce of strength in your body—and then—

A sharp, high-pitched cry cut through the air.

The room stilled.

Heeseung gasped, tears immediately spilling down his cheeks as the sound hit him like an arrow through the heart.

“She’s here,” the midwife breathed with a smile. “A healthy baby girl!”

The moment your daughter was wrapped in warm linens and placed against your chest, your body quaked with sobs—relief, exhaustion, love, everything. She was tiny, pink, and perfect, crying softly as her fists curled against your skin.

“Oh, gods,” you wept, arms trembling as you cradled her. “She’s so… she’s so little…”

Heeseung was crying openly now, brushing soft, trembling kisses over your cheeks, your temple, your lips—everywhere.

“You did it,” he breathed, voice shaking as he stared at you like you hung the stars. “You did so good, love. She’s perfect. You’re both perfect.”

He pressed his forehead against yours, his hand gently stroking your daughter’s soft downy head. Her cries softened, soothed by your warmth, and when her tiny hand flailed, Heeseung instinctively wrapped his finger around hers.

“She’s got your nose,” he whispered with a teary laugh.

“And your eyes,” you whispered back, voice breaking as more tears fell.

He kissed you again, lingering and reverent.

“My queen,” he murmured, voice soaked in awe, “my love, the mother of my child…”

And for the first time in forever, the kingdom outside went quiet—because in that room, on that bed, with your daughter in your arms and your husband holding you like you were made of gold.

You stood in the quiet, polished halls of the royal wing of the museum, the scent of aged books and lavender floor polish lingering in the air.

Jungwon and Sunoo had excused themselves a few minutes ago, excited to take pictures by the towering marble fountain near the entrance, leaving you to explore at your own pace, sipping on the lilac tea you bought from the museum café.

Your footsteps slowed to a stop when you turned the corner and came face to face with it.

A massive oil painting, stretching from the polished floor almost to the vaulted ceiling. Encased in a golden frame, dusted only at the corners with time. And in it, frozen in hues of soft ivory and golden light—

“Prince Lee Heeseung and Princess (L/N) (Y/N), in a timeless embrace beneath a canopy of lilacs and lavenders.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

The artist had captured something so impossibly intimate it made your chest ache. Heeseung stood tall, dressed in a white military-style coat, adorned with golden embroidery that shimmered even under the museum’s soft lights. His hand gently cupped the princess’s cheek, gaze tender and unguarded, as if the entire kingdom didn’t exist when she was near.

The princess wore a flowing white gown with a lilac sash, long sleeves embroidered with delicate gold threads, mimicking vines curling around her arms. She looked up at him, her eyes almost tearful with love, one gloved hand clutching the edge of his coat as though anchoring herself to him.

But it wasn’t just the beauty of the painting that left you frozen.

It was her face.

Her face—your face.

Same eyes. Same smile. Same shape of the nose and curve of the chin. Even the way she tilted her head slightly, like she was listening to something only he could whisper.

You took a shaky breath and stepped closer, glancing at the golden standee resting just beside the red velvet rope:

“Prince Lee Heeseung and Princess (L/N) (Y/N). Captured in the royal gardens during the Spring Festival of 1782.

This portrait is one of the most beloved in the royal collection, known not just for its artistic mastery, but for the love story it represents. Theirs was not a marriage of convenience or political alliance—but one of deep, enduring love.

They were said to have loved each other until their very last breath.”

You blinked at the plaque, rereading your name etched in gold again and again, as if the letters might rearrange themselves into something more logical.

“…That’s not funny,” you whispered, barely audible.

A slow chill crawled up your spine as you looked back at the painting.

What were the odds? Your name. Your face. The same features captured in oil centuries ago. Was the tea messing with you? Were you sleep-deprived?

You turned to glance behind you, half-expecting Jungwon and Sunoo to be playing some elaborate prank, but the corridor was empty.

You let out a small exhale and turned back to the painting.

But you weren’t alone anymore.

There was someone standing beside you.

A tall figure, dressed in a sleek black blazer and slacks, his silhouette sharp against the soft golden lighting of the gallery. His hands were tucked into his pockets, posture relaxed, but his gaze… his gaze was fixed right where yours had been moments before—on the painting. Unmoving. Focused. Like it meant something.

Your eyes flicked down to the silver pin on the left lapel of his blazer: the Decelis University insignia. A student, then.

You shrugged to yourself, figuring he was probably here on the same field trip. You took another sip of your lilac tea, the floral taste now bittersweet on your tongue as your heart settled in your chest again.

“It’s uncanny,” he murmured beside you.

You blinked and tilted your head slightly. “Are you talking to me?”

His lips curved, not quite into a full smile—but into something quieter, gentler. And his voice—God, his voice was warm. Deep, but velvety.

“Maybe,” he said. “I don’t really see anyone else here besides you.”

You let out a soft laugh, caught off guard. “Wow. Is that your line, or do you just flirt in front of 18th-century paintings?”

“Only with people who look like they’ve just seen a ghost,” he teased.

You turned to him, finally taking in his features properly. And your breath caught in your throat.

His hair was dyed a soft lilac—the exact same shade as the flowers in the painting. It caught the sunlight pouring in from the museum’s high glass windows, casting a faint halo around his head. But it wasn’t just the hair. It was the eyes. The way he looked at you—not like a stranger—but like someone remembering.

“What did you mean by uncanny?” you asked softly, your grip tightening around your tea cup.

He glanced at the painting again, then back at you.

“Well,” he began, “for starters… she looks exactly like you.”

You swallowed. “Yeah,” you said, voice smaller than you meant. “I noticed that.”

The stranger beside you let out a soft laugh—not the polite kind, but the real one. Full-bodied and warm, the kind that came from the chest, from somewhere deeper. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, something boyish blooming across his face as he fully turned to face you now.

He was breathtaking up close.

Lilac hair tousled like the wind had played with it on the walk here, his blazer crisp and worn with ease, like he wasn’t trying to impress anyone—but still somehow did.

There was something timeless about him. Like his face didn’t belong to any specific era. Like it had been painted in oil and carved into memory long before today.

He glanced back at the painting again and tilted his head slightly, a smirk playing at his lips.

“Well,” he teased, “the real one looks way better.”

Your breath hitched.

Heat rushed to your cheeks before you could stop it. “Oh my gods,” you muttered under your breath, fighting a smile as you stared at the floor, willing it to open and swallow you whole.

He chuckled, clearly pleased with your reaction.

You sighed, defeated, and risked another look at him.

The way he stood there, relaxed but attentive. The way he smiled like he already knew you—like he was waiting for you to remember too. The way his eyes searched yours with a kind of gentleness, like he didn’t want to scare you off, but couldn’t help getting drawn in.

You finally found your voice again, soft but steady.

“Well,” you said, looking right at him this time, “you look exactly like him, so…”

Your hand lifted slightly, finger pointing toward the prince in the painting, but he didn’t follow it. His eyes were on you. Only you.

He took a step closer.

Not too much—but just enough that you could smell his cologne, something clean and woodsy, like cedar trees after the rain.

“You think so?” he asked, voice quiet, as if the question itself held centuries of weight.

You nodded.

And you gave him the smallest smile. The kind of smile you only give someone you feel like you’ve known your whole life—someone you’ve missed before you even met.

His eyes softened.

And then he looked up at the painting once more, but not for long. “They say those two married for love, not for politics,” he murmured. “That they stayed together until their last breath.”

You blinked. “You know the story?”

“Bits and pieces,” he said. “My professor’s a nerd about royal bloodlines. Said they were the last real fairytale before the world became… complicated.”

“…That’s kind of beautiful,” you said quietly.

“Yeah,” he replied, looking back at you. “It is.”

You stared at each other for a moment too long.

And in that silence—filled only by distant footsteps and the soft hum of the museum—you felt it.

That pull in your chest.

Like gravity—but gentler. Like you’d been waiting your whole life to stand in this exact spot, with this exact person, under the eyes of your past selves immortalized in paint and gold leaf.

You swallowed down the weight in your chest and cleared your throat, unsure how to ask the question on your tongue without sounding absolutely unhinged. But the curiosity burned hotter than your nerves.

So you looked up at him, voice hesitant but steady.

“…What’s your name?”

He turned to you, that boyish grin softening into something quieter—shyer, even. He chuckled under his breath and reached a hand toward you, the sunlight from the glass ceiling catching on the silver ring he wore.

“Lee Heeseung,” he said.

You stared.

You had to blink once, twice, to make sure you heard him right.

The same name etched into the gold plate by the painting.

The same name whispered by fate across brushstrokes and centuries.

The same name that made something in your bones stir like they remembered.

Was the universe playing a joke? A test? A cosmic prank?

Or had it been quietly arranging this moment since the day you were born?

You were certain if someone snapped a photo of this second, the stars would burn a little brighter behind the frame.

You reached for his outstretched hand, your fingers brushing against his palm. The moment your skin touched his, a jolt shot up your arm—not painful, not harsh. Just… warm. Familiar. Like home.

He didn’t let go.

And honestly? You didn’t want him to.

His fingers wrapped around yours just right, firm but careful, like he already knew you needed both comfort and gentleness.

“And you?” he asked, voice softer now. Like he was scared to breathe too hard and shatter something delicate.

You swallowed, heart loud in your ears.

“(L/N) (Y/N),” you said, breathless.

Something shifted in his eyes.

Like a sunrise cracked through storm clouds.

Heeseung smiled—slowly, knowingly. “Nice to meet you, Princess,” he murmured, still not letting go.

Your breath hitched.

The nickname shouldn’t have meant anything coming from a stranger. But from him—it felt like the world had finally remembered a story it forgot to finish.

In that fleeting space between his smile and your breathless heartbeat, you realized something:

Maybe some loves weren’t just meant to last lifetimes.

Maybe some loves were lifetimes.

Maybe you and him—Lee Heeseung, the stranger who felt like a memory—had been chasing each other through history, always finding, always losing, always waiting.

And as the sunlight spilled through the stained glass, casting lilac and gold across your skin, you smiled.

Because somehow, in a crowded museum filled with relics of the past—you had found your future.

──

it has been a week since you got the message.

seven days since your phone lit up with his user for the first time. seven days since those words slid across your screen and rewired the chemistry in your chest—since that simple, perfect sentence cracked something open inside of you and refused to let it close again.

god, you were so fucking hot. why don’t you let me see what more you’re capable of doing?

you didn’t answer at first. not out of disinterest or shock, but because your breath caught in your throat and refused to let go. because your body lit up in a way it hadn’t in years. because the sudden heat that flooded your skin felt so raw, so consuming, you didn’t know if it came from fear or desire or both. you stared at the message in the dark of your room, the sound of your breath uneven, your fingers hovering over the screen like it might burn you.

and then you said yes.

you haven’t looked away from him since.

you haven’t stopped thinking about the way his voice curls into your ears, low and patient and warm with something just shy of menace—how he never tries to impress you, never tries to talk himself up, just says what he means and means what he says. you still haven’t seen his face. not fully. he’s careful with his camera, careful with his angles, his hair always falling into the frame and covering the details that might make him feel too real. but that doesn’t matter. because it’s not his face that made you agree.

he told you his name on the third night. not dramatically. not as a reveal. just tucked into the middle of a message like a comma.

heeseung. thought you should know.

and that was it. no last name. no photos. no follow-up. and for some reason, that made you trust it more.

the days since then have been slow and fast in turns. mornings feel stretched out, your body heavy with anticipation you don’t know how to burn off. nights feel electric—your phone screen the only light in the room, your fingers trembling as you read and reread everything he sends. he’s not always sweet. he’s not always careful. but he always makes you feel seen. he always reminds you that you said yes. and you keep saying yes, over and over, in every message you return.

until this morning, when the yes had to become real.

because today’s the day. tonight’s the night. and he’s waiting.

your bag is half-packed. your body is half-numb. you’ve been staring into your closet for twenty minutes now, unsure of what it means to dress for someone who’s already seen you at your most bare—someone who watched you fall apart in silence, whose voice sat in your head while your fingers pushed deeper into yourself than they ever had before.

he told you to bring whatever makes you feel good.

and you wish you knew what that was.

you tug down a black lace lingerie, something you bought months ago and never wore—something that felt too bold, too obvious, too much skin. you smooth it out over your bed with slow, reverent hands, then lay a silk robe beside it. then another option. then another. the pile grows until it looks more like you’re preparing to become someone else than getting dressed. because maybe that’s what this is. not a costume. not a mask. but a version of yourself that hasn’t been touched yet. one that only lives in the shadow of a camera light.

you fold everything slowly. precise. intentional. like the way you pack will dictate the way he undresses you.

be ready by 7.

────୨ৎ────

you don’t remember the drive—not in any clear way, not in the kind of way that leaves images you can describe. you remember the sound of your bag shifting across the seat beside you, the constant press of your thighs against each other beneath your hoodie, the way your fingers curled into the hem like they were holding on for stability. you remember the driver didn’t speak, and you were grateful. you didn’t think you could have formed a sentence anyway. the city moved around you in streaks and shadows, lights bleeding into the windows like soft threats, buildings you couldn’t name passing in patterns you didn’t register. your stomach stays tight the whole way, curled in on itself with the kind of heat that makes you feel nauseous, but not sick. it wasn’t fear in the way most people feel fear. it was quieter. heavier. like your body was preparing itself for something it had never done before, but had already decided it would endure.

the car slows, and you know before the driver says anything that you’ve arrived. something in your chest drops, cold and sudden, and it stays there as you look out the window. the building is sleek. modern. smooth walls and quiet lighting. tall glass that reflects just enough to keep the inside hidden. it looks expensive. clinical. the kind of place people rent for short terms, the kind of place that doesn’t hold stories—just moments. 

your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you flinch even though you were expecting it.

unit 603.

you stare at the words, fingers gripping your phone tighter than you mean to. your eyes trace the message once, then again. it’s not dramatic. not aggressive. just information. a direction. a point of no return.

your lips part. not to speak—just to breathe. just to test if you still can. you turn your head toward the driver, your mouth opens like you might ask him to keep going, to turn the car around, to pretend none of this happened. maybe you’ll say you made a mistake. maybe you’ll lie and say you have the wrong building. maybe you won’t say anything at all—you’ll just go home, crawl into bed, and forget that this ever felt real enough to chase. but you don’t. the air stays trapped in your throat, and the words never come.

because you remember why you’re here.

you remember the numbers at the bottom of your bank statement. you remember the rent due in four days. you remember the red stamp on that envelope and the way you stood in the corner of your kitchen with your heart thudding so loud it felt like it might shake your teeth loose. you remember your first video—the shaky way your hands touched your skin, the breathy little moans you tried to bite back, the way your legs trembled when you came—and how that one night covered groceries for the week. the one that paid for a quarter of your tuition bill. you remember the messages. the tips. the strange little thrill that came with being seen.

so you open the door and step out into the cold.

the night wraps around you immediately. the air has a bite to it—nothing violent, just enough to raise goosebumps along the backs of your thighs. you adjust your hoodie and sling your bag higher onto your shoulder as you approach the building, heart thumping with a rhythm that doesn’t match your pace. the inside is even quieter than it looked from the outside—soft lighting, clean tile, no front desk, no noise. you walk toward the elevator like your body’s been programmed to do it, and when the doors open with a sound that feels too loud in your ears, you step inside and keep your eyes down.

the mirrored walls don’t help. they catch you from every angle, all soft curves and stiff limbs and the subtle trembling of your fingers where they press against your thigh. you don’t look at your face. you know what you’ll see. too much. too vulnerable. too obvious.

the ride is short but unbearable.

each number lights up like a warning.

and then the doors part again, and you’re stepping into a hallway that looks like all the others—long, narrow, lit with warm bulbs that hum faintly overhead. the carpet swallows the sound of your steps. you feel like a ghost. like someone halfway between becoming and undoing.

unit 603 is near the end.

you don’t rush toward it. you walk slowly. deliberately. like your body is stalling, trying to delay what’s inevitable. like maybe if you just slow down enough, the tension will go away. the heat in your stomach will ease. 

it doesn’t.

you stop in front of the door and just stand there. you don’t reach for the handle. you don’t knock. you don’t breathe. you just… exist, trembling slightly, caught in the kind of silence that feels like it should be protected.

your eyes drop to your feet. you shift your weight. the strap of your bag digs into your shoulder, and your hand reaches for it without thinking, like it might steady you. your other hand hovers near the door, fingers flexing once, twice, like they want to touch something they don’t believe they deserve.

you don’t knock.

you don’t have to.

you could leave.

you could turn around right now. no one’s seen you yet. you could head back to the elevator, back down to the street, call a new ride, go home, crawl into your bed and cry about it later. tell yourself you’ll find a different way to get the money. a different life.

your heel shifts.

your body starts to turn.

and then, quietly—smoothly—the door opens.

you freeze.

the hallway holds its breath with you.

you don’t know what you expected to see. you don’t know what you hoped he’d look like. you don’t know if you even dared to imagine. maybe you thought he wouldn’t answer. maybe you thought you’d stand out here until the hallway lights went out and the quiet pressed into your lungs so tightly you couldn’t take it anymore. maybe you thought you’d be strong enough to leave.

but now the door is open.

and he’s real.

and everything in your body goes still.

your eyes widen instantly, and for a full second—maybe two—you forget how to move. your fingers curl tighter around the strap of your bag, breath caught at the base of your throat, chest tightening like it’s reacting to something it never thought it would see in real life. because there he is. standing just inches from you. real. solid. and so painfully beautiful it almost feels cruel.

he’s tall, taller than you imagined, his frame filling the doorway with a presence that makes everything behind him blur. his body is broad and built in a way that feels effortless, like he was never trying to be impressive—he just is. his arms are bare, exposed by the loose black tank that clings to the outline of his torso and drapes perfectly over the swell of his chest. his skin is smooth and golden, glowing faintly under the warm hall light, veins barely visible where they run down his thick forearms. he looks strong in the way that matters—not for show, not posed—but like he knows how to use every inch of himself. like he could hold you up and tear you open in the same breath.

his hair is the same cotton candy pink from his previews, but messier now—soft strands falling over his forehead in loose waves, the ends curling just slightly where they brush against his temple. it looks like he’s been running his hands through it all day, and the idea of those hands—big, rough, ringed—tangled in your hair, gripping your hips, wrapped around your throat—makes your stomach twist so tightly you have to shift your weight. a few strands cling to the side of his cheek, the light catching on the moisture like maybe he just showered, or maybe he’s been waiting. pacing. preparing.

his ears are a constellation of silver, pierced through with hoops and cuffs and studs that glitter faintly each time he shifts. one of them dangles slightly—a thin, delicate chain brushing the edge of his jaw. and then your eyes land on his mouth.

and you stop thinking altogether.

his lips are almost too pink. full, soft-looking, the kind that look like they’d leave a stain on your skin no matter where they touched. he has the faintest indent of a bite mark on the lower one, like he’d been chewing at it without realizing, and it glistens slightly with the sheen of spit or gloss or both. you don’t know if you want to kiss him or watch him speak. maybe both. maybe forever.

and then his eyes meet yours.

brown. impossibly dark, but warm. deep in a way that makes you feel like you’ve already said too much, like he’s pulling the truth out of you just by looking. they glimmer faintly in the low light, lined with thick lashes that make him look devastatingly pretty and disarmingly unreadable all at once. there’s a slight drop to his gaze, heavy-lidded like he’s already seeing you undressed. like he’s been seeing you that way from the moment you said yes.

they remind you of boba pearls—glossy and rich and bottomless. and just as dangerous. you feel like you could fall into them without realizing you were drowning until it was already too late.

you’re frozen.

completely and utterly off guard.

this is not what you expected. not what you prepared for. not the image you tried to sketch in your head based on his previews. you thought he might be attractive, sure—maybe even cocky. you assumed he’d be confident, comfortable in his skin, maybe a little smug about how much he’s watched you. but this?

this is something else entirely.

he’s not just beautiful. he’s unreal. he looks like something that stepped out of the fantasy you didn’t even know how to finish. and he’s looking at you like you’re the one that took too long to arrive.

he smirks, soft and knowing. 

“i knew you’d still be here.”

his voice doesn’t just sound good. it sounds dangerous. smooth and rich and low enough to sink through the fabric of your hoodie and press directly into your skin. it’s slower than you expected, a little raspier, like it’s made for private conversations and whispered commands. it doesn’t rise above a murmur, but it fills the space between you completely. it curls under your ears and down your neck and makes your stomach dip so hard it steals your balance for half a second.

you swallow, but your throat is dry.

your heart flutters violently against your ribs, pounding loud enough you wonder if he can hear it. your lips part slightly, maybe to say something, maybe just to breathe, but no sound comes out. your tongue feels too heavy. your mouth is too unsure. and the last thing you want to do is stutter over yourself while he’s standing there, relaxed and perfect and waiting.

your eyebrows pinch together without meaning to—just a small, confused furrow, like your body is trying to process what your brain can’t catch up to. you hadn’t thought this far ahead. hadn’t planned for what it would feel like to be seen like this. not through a screen. not through a message. but here. in person. under his eyes.

you thought you were prepared.

you were wrong.

he doesn’t say anything at first. he just stands there in the doorway, holding it open like it weighs nothing, while your whole body feels impossibly heavy. his gaze is steady, quiet, unwavering—not intense, not invasive, just there. patient. like he’s not surprised you showed up, like he always knew you would. like this moment was never a question.

when he finally shifts to the side, it’s a small, effortless movement—barely more than a step—but it sends something sharp through your chest. he doesn’t gesture. he doesn’t usher you in or flash a grin or try to ease the nerves that are curling tighter in your stomach. he just opens the space. clears the path. leaves it entirely up to you.

you hesitate for a beat longer than you mean to. the hallway feels colder now, the air thinner somehow. your fingers twitch where they’re clenched around the strap of your bag, your heartbeat pressing against the inside of your ribs like it wants out. but your legs move. maybe from instinct, maybe from need, maybe because part of you knows that if you don’t do it now, you never will.

you cross the threshold.

the air inside is warm—soft and still, carrying the faintest trace of something unfamiliar and expensive, something dark and clean and musky like amber or smoke. it hits you in a slow wave, curling up your nose and settling in the back of your throat. you take a shallow breath, then another, but it doesn’t help. everything feels too quiet now. too private. the silence inside the apartment is thicker than the silence outside, not empty, but full—of tension, of weight, of waiting. like the walls know what’s about to happen. like they’ve already seen it a hundred times.

you take a few careful steps forward and stop just inside, unsure what to do with yourself. unsure where to stand, unsure what to look at. your body is taut with nerves and anticipation, your hands suddenly too aware of themselves. your mouth is dry. the sound of the door clicking closed behind you is sharp in your ears, the lock sliding into place like a thread being pulled tight.

you don’t turn to look at him. you can’t. not yet.

his apartment is clean, but not in a soulless way. everything is curated. intentional. the lights are low and warm, tucked beneath shelves and mounted in corners, glowing like dusk instead of buzzing like daylight. the walls are matte, smooth concrete or something close to it, and the furniture is dark—black, deep gray, the kind of colors that drink light instead of reflecting it. a massive bed dominates the space, not tucked into a corner, not hidden behind doors, but bold and unashamed in the middle of the room. the sheets are dark. rumpled. there's a throw blanket tangled at the end, half falling over the side. and scattered around the perimeter of the space, you spot his gear—tripods, light stands, cameras. they’re sleek and familiar, but somehow more intimidating now that they’re not behind a screen.

he gestures toward the kitchen with a small tilt of his head, his hand brushing lightly against your lower back as he leads the way, not forceful—just present. his touch is gentle, careful, a whisper against fabric that leaves warmth in its place as you follow the slow rhythm of his stride. the kitchen glows in soft amber light, casting long shadows across the clean counters and illuminating the faint sheen of condensation on the glass he’s set out for you. it’s quiet here, the kind of quiet that doesn’t press but cradles, wrapping around your shoulders like a weighted blanket. he moves like the silence belongs to him, like he’s always known how to make space feel soft instead of suffocating. the air smells like faint vanilla and spice, like clean linen and a memory you can’t name. you slide onto the stool he pulled out for you, your palms damp against your thighs, the hem of your hoodie gathered loosely in your grip. heeseung remains standing across from you, arms braced on the counter, eyes soft but intent as they meet yours.

“before anything else,” he begins, voice low and smooth, every word laid down like silk on stone, “i want to talk about boundaries.” he doesn’t blink too much when he speaks, doesn’t fidget, just holds your gaze with something steady, like it’s not a challenge but a promise. his hands spread slightly against the marble surface, fingers relaxed, the veins on his forearms faint but visible beneath warm skin. he’s not performing. he’s not playing a part. it’s in the way he waits—silent after each phrase, giving you room to process, not expecting your answer before you’re ready to offer it. “if there’s anything you don’t want to do, say it. if you change your mind mid-way, say it. we stop whenever you say stop, and i won’t ask why.” there’s nothing rehearsed in his tone, no false sweetness, only care shaped by confidence and restraint.

you nod slowly, your eyes dipping toward the glass he set in front of you, its surface dewy against the soft light. your throat is dry, but your voice finds its way through the haze, low and hesitant but certain. “i’m okay with most things,” you say, the words trembling slightly as they leave your lips. he nods as you speak, never interrupting, never shifting his weight too abruptly, like he wants you to feel the space between each word instead of rushing past it. “but it’s been a while,” you admit, your shoulders curling inward slightly, your hands clasping together in your lap. he doesn’t react with surprise or even curiosity—just attentiveness, the kind that feels like a door being held open instead of a window being peered into. “and… i don’t want to show my face,” you finish, the truth dropping into the space between you with more weight than anything else you’ve said. “i want to stay anonymous.”

his expression doesn’t flicker, doesn’t shift into confusion or disappointment—it deepens, softens even, like your request settles into place with ease. “we’ll work around that,” he says, the certainty in his voice firm enough to anchor you, even as your nerves start to pool low in your stomach again. “no face, no identifiers. close shots, over-the-shoulder angles, shallow focus. i’ve done it before, and it works.” he moves slightly, adjusting the way he leans against the counter, one hand tapping once against the glass as if to ground the moment. “this is about what makes you feel good, not what the camera sees,” he adds, voice dipping even lower, like it’s meant to reach beneath your skin. “if you don’t want the world to know it’s you, then they won’t.” your chest eases at that, something unspoken unraveling in your lungs. he doesn’t ask why. he just honors the request like it’s law.

you look up at him then, really look, and his gaze hasn’t drifted once—it’s still locked to yours, patient, open, unreadable but safe. he hasn’t made a single move to close the distance between you again, even though it would be easy. his restraint isn’t cold—it’s reverent, like he’s watching you bloom slowly and doesn’t want to bruise the petals. “thank you,” you say, quieter this time, the words heavy with relief you didn’t realize you were holding. he nods, a small motion that carries more weight than it should, then steps back just enough to gesture toward the hallway. “bathroom’s on the left if you want to change,” he says. “take your time.” you slide off the stool with a breath you didn’t know you were holding, your legs moving on instinct, the pulse between your ribs still uneven but quieter now. you clutch your bag loosely, fingers curled around the strap like a lifeline, and head towards the quiet hall.

the bathroom is clean and warm, wrapped in that same subtle scent of something smooth and expensive and low—soap and eucalyptus and a hint of whatever lived beneath his skin. you lock the door behind you gently, setting your bag on the closed toilet lid, your reflection already waiting for you in the wide mirror. the light here is softer than expected, casting a muted glow over the white tile and catching faintly on the metal fixtures, making everything feel a little too clear. you unzip your bag slowly, each sound exaggerated in the quiet, each movement deliberate but hesitant. the fabric of your hoodie feels heavier now, like it doesn’t want to be peeled away, but you force your hands to keep moving. you fold your jeans with care and lift the set from your bag, the lace cool against your fingers. you pull it on carefully, the straps snug where they wrap around your shoulders, the softness of the fabric suddenly feeling like too much.

you face the mirror again, eyes sweeping slowly over the new version of yourself standing there—exposed, yes, but not ruined. the lingerie hugs you in all the places you thought you wanted to hide, lifting and shaping you into something elegant, something quiet but striking. but even as you look, your stomach knots. you think of the camera. of your body in motion. of being watched, of being remembered. of existing somewhere outside yourself. the doubts creep in slowly, delicate as poison—what if you look awkward? what if you can’t do it? what if he’s disappointed the second he sees you? your fingers brace against the sink, palms flat, knuckles pale, your breathing shallow and uneven. for a moment, you wonder if you should leave before it starts.

but then you think of his voice again—measured, thoughtful, unrushed. you’re in control here. you remember how he looked at you—not like something to consume, but something to hold, to coax open with time. your chest rises and falls once more, slower this time, deeper, steadier. you adjust one last strap, swipe your thumb beneath your bottom lip, and blink once at your reflection. she doesn’t look scared anymore. she looks like someone beginning. you reach for the doorknob and step out into the hallway, the cool air brushing against your skin, your pulse quickening with every step back toward him. and you know, as your bare feet sink silently into the dark flooring—that you’re about to let someone see you, truly, maybe for the first time.

when you return to the room, the silence greets you like a held breath, still and warm and heavier now, coiled around the soft glow of ambient light and the faint hum of something electric in the walls. heeseung is standing near the kitchen still, his posture easy but not casual, one hand resting lightly against the counter, the other falling slowly to his side as he looks at you. his eyes catch on the shape of you like he wasn’t prepared, like he thought he was but somehow still feels like the floor just dropped out beneath him. his gaze sweeps down, slow and deliberate, not in hunger but in reverence, like he’s taking in something rare he’s never seen in full daylight. he doesn’t speak right away, but the silence between you blooms like a confession, every second weighted with something unspoken but deeply understood. your bare feet shift against the hardwood, the coolness of it whispering up your calves, grounding you even as your breath begins to shallow. his lips part slightly, like he wants to say something—maybe a compliment, maybe a request—but nothing comes. and then finally, slowly, he steps forward.

his approach is quiet, not calculated but intentional, his body moving like it already knows how not to startle you, how not to rush, how not to steal. he stops a foot away from you, eyes still holding yours, one corner of his mouth lifted in something soft, something just shy of a smile. you can feel the heat radiating off of him now, feel the quiet pressure of his presence like it’s brushing against your collarbone, your ribs, your thighs. his hand lifts slowly, fingers hovering just beside your arm, and he doesn’t touch you—just lets the air between your skin and his feel thicker than it should. his voice, when it comes, is low and quiet and perfectly clear. “can i show you where we’ll start?” he asks. your lips part, and your nod is small, breathless, but sure. he waits a second longer, then gently tilts his head toward the center of the room.

the bed looks larger now than it did earlier, all shadow and suggestion, the dark linens catching the warm light and folding it into softness. you follow him slowly, each step silent, deliberate, your nerves curling into your spine and blooming down your arms like smoke. the mattress dips faintly under your weight as you sit, the fabric cool beneath your thighs, your back straight but uncertain. heeseung lowers himself beside you, not quite touching, his knees bent and body angled toward yours like he’s shielding you from the rest of the room. his hand rests on the bed between you, close enough that your pinky grazes his knuckle, but he still doesn’t reach. his eyes find yours again, deeper now, full of something steadier than want. he breathes in, slow and even, his tongue wetting his bottom lip before he speaks. “can i kiss you?” he asks, and it’s not a whisper—it’s a vow.

your heart stutters in your chest, not from fear, not from surprise, but from the weight of being asked—of being given the choice. the air around you hums with heat, not the kind that scorches but the kind that builds, lingers, waits for ignition. you meet his eyes fully now, let yourself hold there, let him see what it means for you to say yes. your voice is quiet when it comes, but steady, a single word laced with permission. “yes.” he doesn’t move all at once—he moves like something precious, something unfolding, his hand lifting first to cup your jaw, fingers warm where they press against your cheek. your breath catches when he leans in, not because you’re afraid, but because you’ve never been kissed like this—not yet, not even now. his nose brushes yours, a breath shared in the space between, and then, gently, he closes the gap.

his lips are soft but sure, pressing against yours with a slow ache that makes your knees curl into the mattress and your fingers tighten in your lap. he kisses you like he’s reading you, like every tilt of his head is a question and every pull of his lips is an answer you didn’t know you could give. his hand stays on your jaw, his thumb tracing lightly against your cheekbone, grounding you even as your pulse picks up. there’s no rush, no hunger, no desperation—just heat, slow and sinking, pouring into your spine and rising up behind your ribs. you kiss him back with equal weight, not matching his rhythm but meeting it, finding your own within it. the room feels quieter now, the lights dimmer, the air denser with the sound of your shared breathing and the subtle hitch of your chest when he shifts closer. his other hand moves to your thigh, not gripping, just resting there, heavy and warm.

when he pulls back, it’s not abrupt—it’s a soft retreat, like he’s giving you time to breathe, to think, to want more. he stays close, his forehead resting lightly against yours, the bridge of his nose brushing your own, his thumb still stroking your cheek. his eyes are closed for a moment, and when they open again, there’s something darker in them—still soft, but heavier now, like want coiled behind patience. you don’t speak. you don’t need to. your body is already leaning forward again, your lips parting just slightly as your breath mingles with his. he waits, just a second, just to be sure, and then you feel the kiss again—deeper this time, fuller, still slow but firmer, like he’s letting go of a layer he’d been holding back. your hand lifts to his chest, pressing lightly against the cotton of his shirt, feeling the heat of him through the fabric, the steady beat of his heart.

you’re not sure when it happens—when your thighs brush, when his hand slides slightly higher on your leg, when your breath comes faster—but it’s there now, pulsing between your bodies. you’re not overwhelmed. you’re alive. every nerve alert, every part of you tuned to the press of his mouth and the pressure of his palm and the low sound he makes when your lips part just enough for him to taste you. it’s not just a kiss—it’s something more deliberate. a grounding. a beginning. and it feels exactly like it should. when he pulls away again, his eyes meet yours, searching—not for doubt, but for reassurance, for confirmation that you’re still here, still with him, still choosing this. and you are.

he doesn’t rush the question—he asks it like he’s offering you the last word in a language only the two of you speak. “are you ready?” heeseung says, and it sounds less like a formality and more like a thread of silk brushing across your skin, soft and waiting. you pause for half a breath, letting the moment linger there between your chest and his voice, letting it settle just behind your ribs. you meet his eyes, steady now, your heart loud but your voice quiet and sure. “yes,” you answer, and it lands softly, but it rings through the room like a bell. heeseung gives you a single nod—silent, smooth, composed—and then turns slightly toward the camera. the lens is positioned precisely, angled just enough to capture the space you share while keeping your identity untouched. he reaches for the remote resting on the bedside table, presses one button, and the soft red light comes on.

the room doesn’t change when it starts recording—it just feels heavier. the silence stretches a little longer, the air thickens a little deeper, and your skin starts to feel like it’s holding more than just heat. he doesn’t turn to the camera. he doesn’t acknowledge the lens. his eyes are on you, and only you. heeseung takes a slow breath and shifts his position on the bed, moving a little closer, the dip of the mattress drawing your knees toward his. his hand reaches up, fingertips brushing lightly against your jaw, and his touch is warm, sure, almost grounding. he watches your reaction like it’s the only thing he needs to see to move forward—like your body gives permission long before your mouth does. “can i kiss you?” he asks again, even now, when you’ve already said yes to everything else. and when you nod—small, breathless, trembling a little—he moves in with a reverence that feels like worship.

his lips meet yours with the kind of care that makes your chest ache, a kiss not rushed or shallow but deliberate, slow and full of intention. he doesn’t press for more than you give—he lets the rhythm unfold with time, lets your lips part when they’re ready, lets the tension curl warm and slow between your knees. his hand stays cradling your cheek, thumb stroking the soft skin just beneath your eye, as if he’s memorizing the exact way you feel beneath his fingers. your breath stutters slightly when the kiss deepens, when his mouth opens just enough to taste you, when your tongue brushes his in something quiet but certain. his other hand finds your thigh again, not moving higher, not demanding, just resting there—heavy and warm and present. you kiss him back with something softer than desperation, something more vulnerable than lust. your fingers twitch, aching to hold onto something, and when they finally curl into the edge of his shirt, he lets out a breath that sounds a little too much like relief.

he doesn’t speak when he pulls back—he just watches you, eyes dark and steady, breathing a little heavier than before. your forehead brushes his, your mouths still so close they could reunite with a single breath, and the quiet feels louder now than anything else in the room. you feel his fingers flex against your thigh once, like he’s holding something back, like he’s still giving you room to shift or stop or say anything else. but you don’t. you just nod again, slower this time, your eyes half-lidded, mouth still tingling with the press of his. “good,” he whispers, and the word moves through you like heat. then his hand slides—just slightly, just above your knee—tracing the edge of your thigh with the same patience he kissed you with.

his lips find yours again before the silence can thicken too much, and this time the kiss is heavier, more certain, laced with the tension that’s been building since you stepped inside his apartment. his hand doesn’t rush higher, doesn’t slide beneath your lace just yet—it just lingers, exploring the softness of your skin in slow strokes that burn like silk dragged over bare flame. you part your lips more eagerly now, letting him taste the corners of your breath, letting his tongue find yours in something messier, something that leaves your lungs stuttering and your thighs tightening together. your fingers drag up his chest, slow and careful, the fabric of his shirt warm beneath your touch, the steady drum of his heart loud enough to match your own. heeseung groans softly against your mouth when your grip tightens—low and hushed, like the sound slipped out without permission.

when he pulls back again, it’s only to look at you—really look, his gaze trailing from your eyes down to your lips, then back again, lingering like he doesn’t know where he wants to settle most. your breathing is ragged now, lips kiss-bruised and chest rising in slow, uneven swells, your hands still resting against his collarbones like you’re afraid he might float away if you let go. his thumb brushes across your bottom lip once, dragging lightly over the spot where his teeth had pressed seconds before. “you okay?” he murmurs, not because he thinks you’re not—but because he wants to hear it from you. you nod again, slower this time, your voice catching in your throat as you answer. “yes,” you whisper, and your legs shift slightly where they’re tucked under you on the bed.

heeseung leans in again—not to kiss you this time, but to trail his nose down the curve of your cheek, to inhale the scent of your skin where it glows faintly warm. his lips press against the corner of your mouth, then the edge of your jaw, slow and reverent, like he’s tasting gratitude. his hand moves again, slightly higher this time, fingertips tracing the underside of your thigh, still careful, still asking. his lips find your collarbone, pressing once, then again, just beneath the strap of your lingerie. his teeth graze the edge of your skin there, not biting, just lingering, a question written in touch instead of speech. and when you tilt your head to give him more room, heeseung breathes out a soft, broken sound against your neck that makes your core clench and your pulse spike.

“you like that, baby?” he asks, his voice husky against your skin, his teeth grazing your shoulder—but never biting, never hard enough to leave a trace. you nod, breathless, and tilt your head back further, offering your throat like instinct, letting him kiss and suck and worship without ever crossing the boundary. his hand tightens gently around your thigh, holding you still as your hips roll against his palm, wetness soaking through the lace with each drag. the moan you let out is quiet but needy, slipping out against his ear as he nuzzles beneath it and hums in return.

his fingers pause just at the hem of the lace, the pads of them slipping under with a kind of patience that makes your lungs seize and your hips twitch. the fabric drags slightly against your folds as he shifts it to the side, the air hitting your bare heat and making you tremble despite the warmth of the room. he groans under his breath when he finally feels you, his fingertips gliding slowly through your slick, parting you so delicately it makes you clench around nothing. your thighs try to close out of reflex, but his palm presses gently against the inside of one, guiding them apart without force—just the weight of intent. his mouth is still at your neck, lips soft, kissing lazily beneath your jaw as if he isn’t already making you fall apart with nothing but his hand. “you’re soaked for me,” he breathes, lips brushing the edge of your earlobe now, and the sound of it nearly makes you whimper. his fingers drag through your folds again, this time stopping at your clit, circling it slowly in wet, aching spirals. you’re already shaking, your head dropping back slightly as the pleasure coils tighter in your core.

heeseung doesn’t rush the motion, doesn’t press harder than necessary, just works your clit with the kind of care that makes your vision blur and your body hum with electricity. his fingers are long and warm, slick with you, moving in soft, controlled circles that never lose rhythm, never falter. every time your hips shift to chase the pressure, he meets you halfway, adjusting the angle, letting you grind subtly against the heel of his palm. his other hand stays at your waist now, anchoring you in place, thumb rubbing gentle strokes into your hip like he’s reminding you to stay with him. his mouth hasn’t left your neck, only moved lower, teeth grazing your skin without ever biting, lips pressing over every place your pulse flutters wild beneath your flesh. “that’s it,” he whispers, low and soothing, “just like that, baby…” your breath is broken now, little gasps slipping out between parted lips, and you can barely keep your eyes open, your lashes fluttering as the pleasure builds deeper in your belly. your fingers reach for his arm, gripping at his wrist like it’s the only thing tethering you to the bed beneath you.

he kisses down your neck with the same rhythm he’s touching you, soft and unhurried, lips brushing along the delicate edge of your collarbone like he wants to memorize it with his mouth. your skin is warm beneath his tongue, flushed and trembling, and his breath leaves it damp as he continues to move lower. his fingers never stop working your clit, thumb pressed gently but firmly, circling in slow, wet loops that make your thighs twitch and your hips rock forward on instinct. you can feel the weight of him between your legs without him even being there yet, just his hand and his mouth and the thick tension swirling in your core like a storm waiting to snap. he lifts his head for a moment to look at you—eyes dark, wide, mouth flushed from kissing your skin—and the way he looks at you makes something ache deep in your chest. “you tell me if it’s too much, okay?” and when you nod, breathless and already shaking, he finally slides his middle finger down and pushes it slowly inside.

you gasp—high and sharp, your mouth falling open as the stretch hits, not painful but deep, too real, too much after so long without. his finger sinks in carefully, inch by inch, and he watches your face the whole time, like every twitch in your brow and shift in your hips is more important than anything else in the world. your walls pulse around him, already clenching tight, wet and warm and so reactive his jaw tightens with the effort of keeping his own hips still. he exhales against your collarbone and presses his lips there again, kissing gently as he begins to move the finger in and out, slow and shallow. his thumb keeps working your clit, synced perfectly with the curl of his finger as he searches for that spot inside you that will make you crumble. you can’t speak—your breath is too staggered, your moans too broken to shape into words—but the way your body arches toward him says enough. “fuck, you feel so good,” he murmurs, kissing just beneath the swell of your chest, his voice vibrating through your skin. “you’re perfect like this.”

your breath hitches when he curls the single finger inside you again, the slow glide of it dragging perfectly against your walls, thick and precise like he knows exactly where to touch without needing to be told. your body is already arching into him, your hips grinding down against his hand as the slick sounds between your thighs grow louder, needier, messier. he doesn’t tease—not once—he keeps the rhythm steady, intentional, with every motion designed to draw the tension higher, to coax your body open instead of ripping it wide. when your walls begin to flutter, tightening around him with the kind of resistance that begs for more, he presses a kiss to your sternum, right between your breasts, and lifts his head just slightly. “gonna give you two, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing over your skin as he speaks, his voice dark and low and reverent. “i want you to take it slow for me, yeah?” you nod, breathless, your nails digging into his forearm as his finger slowly pulls out. the moment his second finger presses in beside the first, your mouth falls open on a soft, broken moan. the stretch burns for a second, sharp and thick, but his thumb keeps circling your clit, and the pleasure blooms fast enough to swallow the sting.

his lips part as he watches the way your body reacts—your thighs trembling, your hips jerking up, your slick coating his fingers as he begins to move them in a slow, twisting rhythm that makes your stomach flutter. heeseung groans softly, his forehead brushing your chest as he sinks lower, dragging the flat of his tongue along the curve of your breast with aching care. “so fucking tight,” he breathes against your skin, his voice thick with restraint, his jaw clenched as your pussy clenches down on his fingers. “you feel unbelievable, baby.” his mouth moves to your breast, kissing softly over the top of it, then trailing down until his lips brush over your nipple through the thin lace. he sucks gently, just enough to make you whimper, and the combination of his mouth and his hand makes your eyes roll back into your head. his fingers curl inside you again, deeper this time, pressing right against that spot that makes your whole body jerk, and he doesn’t stop—he does it again, and again, and again. your back arches off the bed, your fingers clutching the sheets now, your breath coming in broken little pants that you can’t control.

he pulls the lace down with his teeth—slow and controlled, his mouth never leaving your skin—and when your nipple is bare, he takes it into his mouth like it’s something sacred. the suction is warm, wet, steady, and his tongue flicks just enough to make your core tighten dangerously around his fingers. every motion feels choreographed, like his entire body is synced to yours—your breath, your pulse, your need, all dictating the way he moves. his fingers fuck into you slow but deep, knuckles brushing your soaked entrance with every stroke, the squelch of your arousal thick in the air between your bodies. his thumb never leaves your clit, drawing small, precise circles that keep you trembling, unable to come down from the tension he keeps pulling tighter and tighter. “you’re doing so good,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your chest, “taking me so well, baby, just like that.” your hands move instinctively, threading into his hair, tugging gently at the soft strands as your head tips back into the pillow. he groans at the touch—low and needy—and his pace shifts slightly, fingers thrusting just a little faster, a little rougher, still watching your every breath.

your thighs begin to tremble uncontrollably, the pleasure peaking in your lower belly, every muscle tensing like you’re caught on the edge of something massive. you can barely speak, barely form a thought, the only thing in your mind is him—his hand, his mouth, the deep pull of his voice every time he praises you. he lets go of your nipple only to kiss a path across your chest to the other, his lips never leaving your skin, his breath fanning out over every inch he touches. “you gonna cum for me?” he whispers, his voice shaking now, wrecked with how wet you are, how tight you are, how you’ve soaked his hand with nothing but slow kisses and a little praise. “let me feel you cum, sweetheart.” your body jerks when his thumb presses harder against your clit, circling faster, and your moan breaks—loud, breathy, raw. your hips buck, your walls clamp down around his fingers, and everything inside you snaps.

you cum with a force that steals your breath, your body seizing beneath him, your voice reduced to high, desperate whimpers as the orgasm crashes through you. he doesn’t stop—his fingers slow but stay buried inside you, his thumb softening into soothing strokes, guiding you through the aftershocks as your legs tremble and your stomach flutters. his lips kiss over your chest again, murmuring sweet, quiet things into your skin—“so good for me,” “so beautiful,” “you’re perfect like this”—until the tension in your limbs begins to fade. he finally pulls his fingers out, slowly, carefully, and your pussy twitches with the absence, fluttering around nothing, still dripping with your release. he lifts his hand, coated in your slick, and glances at you once with heat in his eyes before licking his fingers clean, slow and shameless. your chest rises and falls in uneven waves, your eyes glassy, your thighs sticky and trembling where they rest open. and all he does is smile—soft, sinful, and absolutely wrecked—with the taste of you still on his tongue.

he climbs over you slowly, the mattress shifting with his weight as he settles between your legs, his thighs bracketing yours while your slick coats the sheets beneath you. his hands press gently into your hips, guiding you back into the center of the bed, keeping you open for him as his mouth finds your throat again. you feel the heavy drag of his cock through his sweatpants, thick and hard, pressing flush against your soaked slit with nothing but damp fabric between you. the sensation makes your head fall back into the pillow, a sharp gasp catching in your throat as your hips roll up, grinding against him without even meaning to. he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates in his chest and melts into the curve of your neck as his lips drag down to your shoulder. “fuck… you feel that?” he rasps, his hips rocking down just once, slow and deliberate, forcing a desperate moan from the back of your throat. he grinds again, firmer this time, the head of his cock catching perfectly against your clit through the soaked material, and it makes your eyes flutter closed. “so messy for me already, baby.”

your moan slips out before you can stop it, soft and high and cracked open with heat. 

“heeseung…” his name trembling on your tongue like a secret that finally escaped. his whole body jerks at the sound, like he wasn’t expecting to hear it, like it did something to him that he wasn’t ready for. he lifts his head, eyes dark and wide and hungry, his breath hot against your cheek as his hand slides up to cup your jaw. “say that again,” he breathes, thumb brushing your bottom lip, voice low and tight like he’s barely holding it together. “please, baby—say my name again.” you do—whispered at first, then louder, your moan broken around it as your hips buck up into his again, grinding shamelessly into the thick line of his cock. “heeseung…” you whimper, and he lets out a sound that’s half a growl, half a praise, pressing his forehead to yours as his hips grind down harder. “fuck, just like that,” he groans. “keep saying it. don’t stop.”

you can barely think anymore, the friction dragging over your sensitive clit, your core still pulsing from your orgasm, your skin too hot and your breath too fast. heeseung keeps rocking against you, not thrusting, just grinding, slow and deep, letting the drag of his cock over your soaked folds speak for itself. every roll of his hips pushes a new moan from your mouth, and every time his name leaves your lips, his rhythm falters like he’s losing control one syllable at a time. he’s not speaking now—just breathing, hard and fast, his mouth open against your shoulder as he chases the pressure, the heat, the tension pulling tight in his spine. his hands are on your hips again, holding you down as you writhe beneath him, his name falling from your lips in messy, broken cries that make his cock twitch harder against you. “god, you’re driving me fucking insane,” he chokes out, grinding harder now, faster, like he needs the friction or he’s going to snap. “i could cum like this—just like this, fuck—just from you saying my name like that.”

you’re soaked again already, the wet drag of your pussy against his cock leaving a dark, sticky stain on his sweats, and the sound of it makes your face burn. he kisses your jaw again, his lips soft and reverent, like he’s grounding himself before he loses what little control he has left. “you make me so fucking hard, baby,” he groans, voice rough against your ear, “you don’t even know what you do to me.” his hips stutter as you arch up, grinding harder, needier, chasing the pressure and the weight of him and the sound of your name in his mouth. your fingers claw at his back now, slipping under his shirt, dragging your nails down the smooth muscle there as he grinds again and again. his name falls from your lips like a chant now, breathless and ruined and wrecked, and each time he reacts—his hips jerking, his teeth biting down on a moan, his hands gripping you tighter. “again,” he begs, lips at your throat. “say it again—please.”

heeseung pulls back just slightly, just enough to sit up on his knees between your thighs, the cool air brushing over your sticky skin in the wake of his body. his eyes never leave you as he lifts his shirt with one hand and tosses it aside, exposing lean lines and smooth muscle, his chest flushed with heat, his collarbones glistening faintly in the low light. your breath catches, and before you can even say anything, he’s dragging his fingers down the waistband of his sweats, sliding them low on his hips until his cock finally springs free—thick, hard, flushed deep red at the tip and already slicked with precum. your thighs twitch at the sight of him, your mouth parting on instinct as your eyes drop and your stomach coils at the sheer size of him. he watches you watch him, and the look on his face shifts into something darker—needier—like he knows exactly how you’re feeling. “you want it?” he asks, his voice a low rasp as he wraps a hand around the base and strokes once, slow and tight. “you wanna feel it, baby?” you nod quickly, breathless, the answer already written across your body in the way your legs part further, your back arches, your fingers curl into the sheets.

he lowers himself again, one hand steadying his cock, the other gripping your thigh as he settles between you, his body flush against yours once more. the first drag of him through your folds punches a moan straight out of you, loud and broken, your hips jolting upward as the thick head of his cock slides perfectly over your clit. heeseung groans low in his chest, teeth clenched as he guides himself back and forth, letting your slick coat his shaft, every motion slow and heavy and deliberate. “fuck—so wet,” he mutters, his voice wrecked, breath catching as the head of his cock catches at your entrance before he pulls back again. he doesn’t press in yet—he just teases you, again and again, the tip dragging down your slit, catching, slipping, soaking. “say it again,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth as he rocks his hips forward just enough to make you feel every inch of him. “say my name like you did before.” you moan it again—soft, breathless, full of want, and it makes him hiss through his teeth, his forehead dropping to yours.

he keeps moving his hips, sliding his cock over your pussy in slow, deep grinds that make the head catch at your entrance just enough to make your walls flutter and your thighs shake. heeseung’s breathing hard now, the muscles in his arms flexing beside your head, sweat starting to gather at the nape of his neck as he holds himself above you. “you feel that?” he groans, cock slick and heavy between your folds, grinding against your clit with every roll of his hips. “you feel how fucking hard i am for you?” you nod, gasping, your back arching off the bed as your body chases more pressure, more friction, more him. “i could do this all night,” he rasps, voice cracking against your throat. “just like this—grinding my cock on you while you moan my name like that.” 

“heeseung…fuck..” you whimper it again and he nearly loses it, his hips stuttering, cock twitching, precum smearing hot across your swollen clit. “fuck, baby. don’t stop.”

you don’t—you can’t. the way he feels against you is too much and still not enough, the thick head of his cock dragging through your folds, slicking you up more with every stroke. your pussy is dripping now, soaked and swollen and clenching on nothing, desperate for him, but he just keeps teasing—keeps grinding—like he’s determined to make you come again before he even gets inside. he leans down to kiss you again, tongue messy and breath ragged, and his hips roll deeper, grinding the head of his cock harder against your clit until you cry out into his mouth. “say it again,” he whispers between kisses, his voice hoarse, eyes burning into yours. “say it while i make you come just like this.” you moan it again and again—his name spilling off your lips like prayer, like surrender—and the sound of it makes him twitch, makes him curse, makes his cock slide lower and nudge right at your entrance again. you gasp, trembling, and he pulls back just barely, smirking against your lips. “yeah… just like that.”

heeseung doesn’t speak at first—he just looks at you, eyes locked to yours, breath coming heavy as he reaches down to line himself up with your entrance. the swollen head of his cock rests right against your soaked slit, and you feel it twitch, leaking more precum that drips down over your folds as you clench around nothing. his hand tightens on your thigh, holding you open for him, and when he pushes just the tip in, you both moan—his, low and broken in his chest, yours sharp and high as the stretch hits hard and fast. “fuck…” he breathes, voice cracking as his forehead drops against yours, “you’re so fucking tight.” your walls flutter around him already, pulling him in instinctively, and it takes everything in him not to sink in all at once. “relax for me,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth as he strokes your side with his free hand, “breathe, baby… let me in.” you nod, your legs trembling, your nails digging into his biceps, and with one slow, steady push, he eases in another inch. the burn is intense, but it’s exactly what you need—he’s so big, so thick, and your body is clenching so hard it makes your vision blur.

he stills halfway in, giving you a second to adjust, his mouth pressed to your jaw as he breathes through his nose and murmurs softly into your skin. “you feel unreal,” he says, voice wrecked, like he’s speaking through gritted teeth just to keep control, “so warm… so wet… you’re fucking perfect.” your body trembles beneath him, thighs twitching, toes curling, your hips arching off the mattress in a slow, involuntary motion that makes him groan deep and filthy. his hands move to cradle your hips, holding you steady as he rolls his in return, easing another inch into your soaked heat. the stretch makes your eyes flutter shut, makes your mouth fall open in a breathless moan that turns into a plea, your fingers gripping the sheets now. “heeseung…” you cry, broken and sweet, and it makes his cock twitch deep inside you, his hips rocking forward until he’s fully seated, the base of him pressed snug to your aching folds. “fuck, that’s it,” he growls, his jaw clenched, sweat starting to bead along his temple, “you’re taking me so well, baby… so fucking good for me.”

he doesn’t move yet—he just stays there, deep inside you, letting your walls pulse and flutter around his cock while he kisses your temple and whispers through shaky breaths. your pussy clenches again, so tight and hot that he has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from coming too fast, and his hand lifts to brush your hair back from your face, his thumb sweeping over your cheekbone. “i can feel you squeezing me,” he whispers, so low it almost sounds reverent, “like your body doesn’t wanna let me go.” you nod, whimpering, your whole body buzzing from how full you are—how stretched, how completely consumed by him you feel. his cock fits inside you like it was made for it, like every vein and curve was molded to your walls, every inch pushing against spots you didn’t know were there. “you’re so deep,” you whisper, voice shaky, breath caught, and he presses a kiss to your lips again—soft, open-mouthed, messy. “i know, baby,” he says, and the way he says it—like it’s a promise—makes your whole body tremble again. “you want more?”

his hips pull back slowly, just enough to make you feel the stretch of his cock leaving your body, the drag so thick and heavy it makes your breath hitch. your walls flutter at the loss, already aching to be full again, but before the whine can slip out, heeseung thrusts forward—slow and smooth, burying himself back inside you until your bodies are flush again. the moan that escapes you is soft and breathless, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as your back arches, your chest pressing into his. “that’s it,” he breathes against your ear, his voice low and shaking with restraint, “just like that, baby—take it.” he sets a rhythm that’s deliberate, not fast, just deep—so deep—like every stroke is meant to make you remember the exact shape of him. the bed rocks beneath you in soft, steady pulses, the slick sound of your bodies filling the space between each breath. your pussy clenches around him with every thrust, soaking his cock with more wetness, and he groans, long and low, his mouth brushing the side of your neck. “you’re so fucking tight,” he says, the words barely a whisper, “you’re milking my cock, baby…”

you cry out his name again, broken and high, your voice shaking as your hips start to move in sync with his, meeting each stroke with the kind of desperation that makes your thighs burn. heeseung’s hand slides up your body, past your waist, your ribs, and finally settles around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, his thumb brushing softly against your jaw. “keep saying it,” he tells you, fucking you deeper now, his strokes heavier, thicker, the drag of his cock so intense it makes your eyes roll back. “say my name while i’m inside you.” and you do—his name tumbling out between gasps, your lips parted, your moans turning to pleading whispers that make his pace stutter. heeseung’s head drops to your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged, his teeth grazing your skin as he tries to keep control. “fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, his voice raw now, wrecked, as he drives back in deeper. “you were made for this—you were made for me.” your nails dig into his back, dragging down his spine, your walls clenching again, tighter, hungrier.

his thrusts grow a little rougher now, not fast but more forceful, each one punching moans from your chest and making the bed creak beneath you. the rhythm is everything—steady and perfect, his hips rolling with precision, never breaking contact, always dragging back just to push deeper again. his hand on your throat moves to cradle your jaw now, tilting your head so he can kiss you, sloppy and breathless and open, your tongues tangling as you moan into each other’s mouths. his other hand grips your hip harder, holding you still as he grinds deep into your core, your clit brushing against his pelvis with every thrust. your pussy is soaking him now, slick dripping down his cock, your inner thighs sticky, your skin flushed and trembling. “you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he says, kissing down your neck again, “i could stay buried in you forever.” and he means it—you can hear it in the way he moans when your walls tighten, in the way he slows down just to feel it, in the way his voice cracks when he says your name again. “don’t stop, baby. don’t stop saying it.”

heeseung’s lips don’t leave your skin as he slowly starts to move again, his cock still deep inside you, twitching slightly from the last wave of pleasure. your body is warm and pliant beneath him, flushed and wrecked and trembling, but still hungry—your walls fluttering around him like they’re begging for more. he lifts his head slowly, brushing his thumb across your cheek, and you see it in his eyes—there’s no hesitation left, just need, raw and open and laced with something darker now. “turn over for me,” he murmurs, voice thick and low, like the words are dragging out of his throat from somewhere heavy. he leans back just enough to let his cock slide out, and even the loss of him makes your body ache, your pussy clenching at the emptiness. you move without thinking, already shifting beneath him, rolling to your stomach as your thighs tremble against the mattress. his hands are on your hips instantly, lifting you up just enough so your ass tilts higher, your chest pressed to the sheets, your back arched beautifully for him. “just like that, baby,” he groans, one hand sliding down your spine, the other gripping your ass as he positions himself behind you, “fucking perfect.”

you feel him again—his cock dragging slow between your soaked folds, thick and hot and still dripping with both of you as he lines himself back up with your entrance. your breath hitches when the head presses against your hole again, pushing in with that same slow, stretching pressure that makes your jaw drop open. he slides in deeper this time, the angle sharper, the thrust more intense as he sinks into you inch by inch, both of you moaning as he fills you back up completely. “fuck—you’re tighter like this,” he groans, hands gripping your hips hard now, thumbs digging into the softness of your skin as he pulls you back onto him. you’re gasping into the sheets, your hands fisting the covers, your knees spread wide as your pussy takes him all the way to the base. the new angle hits deeper, rougher—his cock dragging against spots that make you cry out, your body jolting with every thrust. “look at you,” he breathes, hips snapping forward, his cock slamming into you now with full control, “taking me so good, baby… so fucking deep.” your moans get louder, more desperate, your voice breaking on his name as you start to fall apart all over again.

he builds a rhythm that feels brutal and perfect, his hips slamming against your ass, the clap of skin on skin echoing through the room with every thrust. your walls are soaked now, slick running down your thighs, the mess of your first orgasm coating both of you and making every stroke louder, wetter, filthier. heeseung growls under his breath as he leans forward, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, gently pulling your head up so your cheek turns toward him. “say it again,” he demands, breath hot against your ear as he pounds into you from behind, “say my name while i fuck you like this.” your voice shakes as you sob it out—“heeseung, heeseung, heeseung”—and the sound of it makes his hips stutter, his grip tighten, his cock jerk inside you. “that’s it, baby—keep moaning for me,” he groans, his hand sliding down your front now, finding your clit again and rubbing tight circles while he keeps thrusting into you hard and deep. your legs tremble, your elbows give out, your chest sinking into the sheets as your second orgasm starts building fast, burning low and hot and uncontrollable.

his thrusts grow slower, deeper, deliberate again—not to ease you, but to let you feel it all, to make your body stretch around every inch of him like it’s learning him. he doesn’t say anything for a second, just breathes through clenched teeth, his hands gripping your hips like handles as he watches the way his cock disappears into your soaked pussy with every roll of his hips. your moans are soft and broken, spilling into the pillow as you push back to meet his rhythm, the pressure building inside you sharp and sweet. “you’re dripping, baby,” he pants, voice dark and strained, “can you hear that?” and you can—the filthy, wet squelch every time he fucks into you, your slick coating his cock, the mess of both your bodies echoing in the quiet room. his fingers tighten around your hips, dragging you into him harder now, the new angle hitting deeper, the tip of his cock nudging your cervix in a way that makes your back arch and your breath catch. “i’m not gonna stop,” he groans, and he means it—you can feel it in the way his body moves, like he’s addicted to the way you take him. “not until i feel you cum on me again.” his voice breaks on the last word, and you choke on a moan, your thighs already starting to tremble from how close you are.

his free hand slides down again, slipping between your legs to circle your clit with his fingers—still soaked from earlier, still trembling with how sensitive you are. “i know you’re close,” he says, breath hot against your back as he leans over you, his cock still grinding deep into your pussy with slow, firm thrusts, “i can feel it—you’re squeezing me so tight.” your body jerks under him, your hands clawing at the sheets, your moans broken and high as the pleasure builds higher, tighter, hotter. he doesn’t let up—not with his cock, not with his hand—he keeps fucking you slow and hard, his fingers pressing tight circles against your clit until your legs shake uncontrollably. “come on, baby,” he whispers, voice right in your ear now, “cum for me again—cum on my cock, let me feel it.” and the way he says it—so low, so desperate—breaks something open inside you. your pussy clamps down, walls fluttering in tight, wet pulses as your second orgasm takes hold, crashing over you harder than the first. “fuck—heeseung!” you cry, your voice breaking, your whole body convulsing under him as you cum, hips jerking wildly, back arching, mouth open and gasping.

heeseung groans loud—filthy—his hands grabbing your hips tight as your pussy squeezes around him, your slick spilling down his cock and dripping onto the sheets. “holy fuck,” he growls, hips stuttering, his pace falling apart as he ruts into you hard, deep, chasing his own release now. “you feel—so good—so fucking good,” he moans, each word punched out between heavy, desperate thrusts. your body is limp beneath him, ruined and twitching, but he holds you up, keeps you open, keeps driving into you like he can’t stop. “i’m gonna cum,” he gasps, “gonna cum inside you again, baby—fuck—i’m not pulling out.” your moan is soft, breathless, nothing but wrecked permission. heeseung groans, loud and broken, as he thrusts deep one last time and spills into you, hot and thick, his cum flooding your pussy in long, heavy pulses. he doesn’t stop moving, not right away—he keeps grinding into you, burying it deeper, fucking it up into your sore, overstimulated cunt like he wants it to stay. your walls twitch around him, fluttering from the aftershocks, your breath shallow as he collapses forward, his chest pressed to your back, sweat-slick and panting.

he stays inside you as long as your body lets him, his cock twitching with every breath, his cum warm and sticky between your thighs, leaking down onto the sheets. his arms wrap around your middle, pulling you close, holding you still as your body shivers beneath his, overstimulated and buzzing. he kisses your shoulder slowly, reverently, murmuring soft things you barely register—“you were perfect,” “i didn’t want to stop,” “you’re so fucking good.” his voice is hoarse, wrecked from moaning your name, from holding back, from fucking you like he meant it. your eyes flutter closed, your body loose and heavy, your chest rising and falling with each shaky breath. heeseung doesn’t move, doesn’t let you go—his arms stay locked around your waist, his cock still half-hard inside you, like he can’t stand the idea of being anywhere else. “stay like this for a minute,” he whispers, kissing the back of your neck. “just like this, baby… let me feel you a little longer.”

heeseung’s chest rises and falls against your back, each breath brushing over your shoulder as his arms slowly loosen around your waist, just enough to let you shift. you let out a soft sound—half-whimper, half-sigh—and he presses a kiss to your spine, so featherlight it almost doesn’t register. “hold on,” he whispers, low and hoarse, and he pulls out carefully, the slow drag of his cock making your body twitch as his cum begins to slip out of you. he steadies your hips with one hand, still gentle, still warm, and reaches for the small remote near the bedside table with the other. you hear the soft beep as he presses the button, the red light fading instantly, the lens no longer watching, no longer recording. he exhales deeply, like some part of him only now lets go, and he sets the remote aside before turning back to you. “it’s off,” he says softly, brushing your hair back from your face, his fingers trembling just slightly. “it’s just us now.”you hum faintly in response, eyes half-closed, body limp and heavy against the mattress, and heeseung smiles—small, crooked, fond—before leaning down to kiss your temple. “you did so fucking good,” he murmurs, his voice all warmth now, rough around the edges but soft with pride, with affection. he moves slowly, lifting himself from the bed and disappearing for just a moment, the faint sound of running water coming from down the hall. when he returns, his hands are full—warm washcloth, small towel, a bottle of water already uncapped. he kneels beside you again, coaxing you onto your back with a careful hand on your hip, and when your body winces from the soreness, he just nods. “i’ve got you,” he says gently, his eyes full of something deep and quiet. he cleans you up slowly, thoroughly, without rushing—starting at your thighs, then between your legs, wiping away the mess with care, never looking away from your face.

the rag is warm, soft, comforting against your skin, and his touch never loses its patience, even when you shiver or twitch from the overstimulation. “tell me if it’s too much,” he says, barely louder than a breath, his hand resting lightly on your knee as he presses the cloth between your legs once more. your voice is weak when you say “you’re okay,” but it’s enough—his shoulders relax, and he finishes the last gentle sweep before setting the rag aside and covering you with the clean towel. he presses another kiss to your thigh this time, lingering, almost reverent, before he climbs back into bed beside you, body warm, arms open. “come here,” he whispers, and you move slowly, shakily, letting him pull you into his chest. the moment you settle against him, everything melts—his hand in your hair, your cheek against his collarbone, the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear grounding you completely. “you’re everything,” he says again, and this time it isn’t just praise—it’s a truth.

he stays like that with you, holding you close, stroking your back, letting the silence settle like a blanket. the heat from your bodies still lingers, but it’s not heavy anymore—it’s soft, intimate, something woven into the quiet between your breaths. heeseung doesn’t try to fill the silence with anything unnecessary—he just exists with you, his touch constant, his presence wrapping around you like something you never realized you needed. his hand moves to your waist, tracing lazy circles against your skin, grounding you gently, reminding you that you’re safe, that it’s over, that you’re okay. “do you want anything?” he asks quietly, lips brushing your hairline, and when you shake your head, he nods, content to just be here with you. his fingers curl around yours beneath the towel, and you feel his thumb stroke the back of your knuckles once, twice, again. “we’ll stay like this as long as you want,” he says. “there’s no rush.”

you feel your chest swell at that—your lungs tightening with the weight of something you don’t want to name, something warm and stupid and dangerous. the words hit you somewhere low and vulnerable, curling beneath your ribs like they belong there, and for a second, you almost let it. you almost believe this could be more, that the way he touches you means something deeper, that this warmth he gives isn’t just for the camera. but then you remember the red light, the lens, the view count still sitting at zero. you remember why you’re here in the first place—money, rent, survival. and just like that, you shift again, sitting up slowly, the sheet slipping down your chest as you turn your back to him. “i should go,” you say quietly, forcing the words out like they don’t scrape your throat raw. heeseung moves beside you, confusion creasing his features as he reaches out gently, his hand brushing your back. “wait—what’s wrong?”

you stand before he can touch you again, grabbing your clothes from the floor and pulling them on with unsteady hands, refusing to look at him. “nothing’s wrong,” you say quickly, too quickly, because everything feels wrong now—the closeness, the softness, the way your body still buzzes with the ghost of his touch. “this was great. it was good.” you pause, slipping on your hoodie, heart pounding too loud in your chest. “but this is business, remember?” heeseung’s face shifts at that—something subtle breaking in the way he exhales, in the way his eyes fall to the sheets, then back to you. “i know,” he says quietly, sitting up, raking a hand through his hair. “i just didn’t think you’d want to leave so fast.” you ignore the way that stings and reach for your phone, already stepping toward the door. “can you call me a ride?”

he doesn’t argue, doesn’t beg, doesn’t guilt you—he just nods, slides out of bed, and grabs his own phone from the nightstand. the air feels heavier now, the silence between you no longer soft but sharp, cutting against your ribs with every breath you try to take. you watch him through your lashes as he types, jaw tense, his brows furrowed like he wants to say something he knows he shouldn’t. “ride’s five minutes away,” he says, voice flat, and you nod, hugging your arms around yourself even though you’re fully dressed. neither of you speak again—not until the buzz of your phone signals the driver’s arrival, and even then, you just give him a short, “thank you,” before heading for the door. he doesn’t stop you, but you feel his eyes on your back the entire time, like he’s memorizing the way you walk away. the door clicks shut behind you, final and quiet, and it takes everything in you not to look back.

────୨ৎ────

you don’t cry in the ride home—you’re too tired, too overwhelmed, too busy replaying the feeling of his hand on your jaw, the warmth of his voice in your ear. your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you pull it out without thinking, eyes widening at the notification that lights up your screen. 

@heefreakshow posted a new video: “moan for the camera, baby.” 

your stomach flips, breath catching as you tap it open, watching the views tick up in real time—hundreds, then thousands, climbing faster than you can process. the comments pour in, the gifts, the subscribers, and your inbox is already starting to fill with names you don’t recognize. 

your eyes stay fixed to the numbers, the sound of the car engine barely registering over the pounding of your heart, the dull throb between your legs still pulsing with the ghost of his cock. comments begin pouring in, flooding the screen in a blur of praise and fire emojis, messages of “who is she?” and “this is fucking art,” and “the way he touches her???” flashing by too fast for you to breathe. the heat in your chest blooms again, twisting tight, painful in a way you can’t name—because this was supposed to be just business. but it doesn’t feel like business when you’re watching yourself fall apart under him, when your moans play back through the speakers like something sacred, when he touches you like you matter. your hand tightens around your phone, jaw clenched, eyes wide as the numbers keep rising—ten thousand, twelve, fifteen—until you can’t look anymore. you close the video, thumb hovering over the home screen, heart still pounding.

and then it hits—a soft buzz. one new message.

@jayafterhours has sent you a message.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ it's not proofread so sorry >-< but i hoped y'all enjoyed it anyways !!

It all started when you were eighteen, dragged by Lia to her family’s annual summer bash at their stupidly gorgeous beachside mansion. Think white walls, glass doors opening to ocean views, the kind of place that smells like sea salt and expensive perfume.

You were out of place, clutching a soda can like a lifeline, your sundress feeling too frilly, too you in a crowd of Lia’s loud, confident relatives.

Lia—your best friend since you were six, trading Pokémon cards and secrets under blankets—was your saving grace, all wild curls and brighter-than-the-sun energy. She thrived in chaos, weaving through the party like she owned it, while you trailed behind, heart pounding every time someone new said hi.

Then you saw him. Heeseung. He was leaning against a deck railing, a glass of lemonade in hand, looking like he’d stepped out of a dream you didn’t know you were having. His dark hair caught the sunset’s glow, falling in soft waves over his forehead, and his eyes—deep, hazel, and impossibly warm—held a spark that made your chest ache. His jawline was sharp enough to cut through your thoughts, his lips always on the edge of a smile, like he knew something you didn’t. He was twenty-one, a music trainee with a voice that could break hearts, and he carried himself with this easy, untouchable charm that made you feel small and huge all at once.

Lia, sharp as ever, caught you staring. “Oh no, Y/N,” she whispered, grabbing your elbow with a grin. “Not Heeseung. My cousin? You’re doomed.”

You flushed, ducking your head, but you couldn’t stop looking. When she introduced you, your voice came out barely above a whisper. “Hi, I’m Y/N,” you managed, eyes fixed on the wooden deck because meeting his gaze felt like staring into the sun.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like a song you’d replay on loop. “Lia’s told me about you. You’re the one who keeps her out of trouble, right?”

You laughed, nervous and too loud, and Lia snorted, rolling her eyes. “More like she’s the one who needs saving,” she teased, nudging you. Heeseung’s smile widened, and you felt it—like a hook in your chest, tugging you toward him. That was it. One look, one sentence, and you were gone.

From then on, Heeseung was your secret obsession. Every summer, every holiday dinner, every time Lia dragged you to her family’s events, you went, knowing he’d be there.

You weren’t bold, not like Lia, who could charm a room with a laugh. You were the girl who lingered in corners, who blushed when eyes met hers, who overthought every word before it left her lips.

But with Heeseung, you felt everything louder—every glance, every accidental brush of his hand, every time his laugh filled the room. You’d catch yourself staring at his hands as he played the grandpiano in the mansion, or at the way his shoulders moved when he tossed a volleyball on the beach.

And Lia? She saw it all.

“You’re so whipped,” she’d say, sprawled on your dorm bed after a long day, tossing a pillow at you. “Heeseung’s got you wrapped around his finger, and he doesn’t even know it.”

“Shut up,” you’d mumble, burying your face in your hands, but you couldn’t deny it. You were whipped. You’d spend hours replaying the smallest moments—how he’d held the door for you at a family barbecue, his fingers grazing your back for a split second; how he’d asked you what book you were reading, his head tilted like he actually cared.

You’d lie awake at night, imagining what it’d be like his. His girlfriend. How it would feel to kiss him, to feel his voice vibrate against your skin, to know him the way you wanted to.

The summer you were nineteen, Lia’s family rented a cabin in the mountains, and you got a front-row seat to your own personal torment. Heeseung was everywhere—laughing with his cousins, helping with dishes in the kitchen, his voice echoing through the wooden halls as he sang to himself.

You tried to play it cool, but your shyness betrayed you. You’d fumble your words when he talked to you, your cheeks burning when he sat too close during movie nights, his knee brushing yours on the couch.

One evening, you were reading on the porch, curled up with a blanket, when he sat beside you, holding a mug of hot chocolate.

“Quiet out here,” he said, his voice soft, like he didn’t want to break the spell of the night. “You always hide away like this?”

“I’m not hiding,” you said, too quickly, your heart racing. “Just… like the quiet.”

He smiled, slow and warm, and you felt it in your bones. “You’re cute when you’re nervous,” he said, and you wanted to sink through the floor. Instead, you ducked your head, muttering something about the book in your lap, and he let it go, but not before his eyes lingered, like he was trying to figure you out.

Lia was relentless after that. “He so knows you’re into him,” she said, painting her nails while you died inside. “He’s teasing you, Y/N. It’s, like, his favorite hobby now.”

“He’s not,” you protested, but you weren’t so sure. Heeseung had this way of looking at you—intense, almost deliberate—that made you wonder if he could see the chaos in your head.

But you were too shy to act on it, too afraid of what might happen if you crossed that line with Lia’s cousin. So you kept it locked away, letting it burn you up from the inside.

By twenty, the tension was a living thing. Lia’s family planned another beach house trip, and you went, your heart a tangled mess of hope and fear. You weren’t the bold type, but you weren’t invisible either—you’d wear your favorite sundresses, let your hair fall loose, laugh a little louder when you knew he was watching.

Heeseung noticed. You’d catch him staring across the pool, his eyes dark and unreadable, or he’d find excuses to talk to you, asking about your classes, your music taste, your life. Every conversation felt like a tightrope, your shyness warring with the part of you that wanted to lean into him, to close the distance.

One night, you were on the beach, the party raging behind you, the air cool against your skin. You’d slipped away to breathe, the waves crashing softly at your feet. Heeseung followed, his presence like a shadow you couldn’t shake. He stood beside you, hands in his pockets, staring out at the ocean.

“You’re always running off,” he said, his voice low, almost swallowed by the waves. “What’s got you so spooked?”

You hugged your arms, avoiding his eyes. “I’m not spooked,” you said, but your voice shook, betraying you. “Just… needed air.”

He turned, his gaze heavy on you. “You sure it’s not me?” he asked, half-teasing, half-something else. “You get all quiet when I’m around.”

Your face burned, and you wanted to disappear, but you forced yourself to look at him. “Maybe you’re just… intimidating,” you said, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

He laughed, soft and warm, stepping closer. “Me? Intimidating? Nah, Y/N. You’re the one who’s hard to read.” His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you thought he might say something more, might bridge the gap you were both dancing around.

But he just smiled, stepping back, leaving you with a racing heart and a thousand unsaid words.

Lia was waiting when you got back to the house, her smirk sharp enough to cut. “You’re blushing,” she said, poking your cheek. “What did Heeseung do now?”

“Nothing,” you muttered, swatting her hand away, but she just laughed, flopping onto the couch.

“You’re hopeless,” she said, but there was affection in her voice. “He’s my cousin, Y/N, but I’m not blind. He looks at you like… I don’t even know. Like you’re a puzzle he wants to solve.”

“Stop,” you said, hiding your face, but her words stuck with you, feeding the fire that wouldn’t let you go.

Now, at twenty-one, you’re back at the beach house for another summer, and you’re done hiding. You’re still shy, still prone to blushing under his gaze, but you’re tired of letting fear hold you back. Lia’s been teasing you all week, dropping hints to Heeseung when she thinks you’re not listening, and you’ve caught him watching you more than ever—his eyes lingering on your lips, your bare shoulders, the way you move when you think no one’s looking.

Tonight, with the house buzzing with friends, music, and the humid pulse of summer, you’re ready to let the tension snap. You’re not bold, not really, but you’re ready to be brave, to let Heeseung see the girl who’s been burning for him all these years.

The beach house is alive tonight, a pulsing heartbeat of music, laughter, and the clink of soju bottles on the glass coffee table. The air is heavy with the scent of salt from the open windows and the faint tang of alcohol, the kind of summer night that feels like it could swallow you whole. You’re sprawled on the couch, your bare legs tucked under you, a red solo cup cradled in your hands.

The room is crowded—Lia’s friends, some of her cousins, a few randoms who tagged along for the vibe—all sprawled across the living room, the floor littered with empty bottles and snack wrappers. The energy is chaotic, electric, and you’re trying to keep up, but your heart’s been a mess since you locked eyes with Heeseung an hour ago.

He’s across the room now, leaning against the wall, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he laughs at something one of his cousins says.

He’s wearing a black tank top that shows off his lean arms, the kind of casual that shouldn’t look that good but does, like he’s mocking the universe for making him so untouchable.

His eyes flicker to you every now and then, quick but deliberate, and each time, your stomach flips like you’re eighteen again, crushing on a boy you can’t have.

Lia’s beside you, her curls bouncing as she leans forward, her grin sharp and dangerous. She’s been watching you watch him all night, and you know she’s about to make your life hell.

“Truth or dare, Y/N?” Lia asks, her voice loud enough to cut through the chatter. The room quiets, heads turning, and you feel the weight of everyone’s attention like a spotlight.

Your cheeks heat up, and you curse yourself for being so easy to read. Lia’s got that glint in her eye, the one that says she’s about to push you right into the deep end.

You swallow, trying to play it cool despite the nervous flutter in your chest. “Dare,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. You’re shy, always have been, but you’re not about to let Lia make you squirm in front of him. Not tonight. You’ve spent years pining, years letting Heeseung’s presence turn you into a blushing, stuttering mess. Tonight, you’re done hiding.

Lia’s grin widens, and you can practically see the gears turning in her head. “Oh, you’re bold tonight, huh?” she teases, tapping her chin like she’s plotting world domination.

The others hoot and laugh, egging her on. Heeseung’s watching now, his head tilted, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile.

“Alright, Y/N,” Lia says, leaning closer, her voice dripping with mischief. “I dare you to… spend fifteen minutes alone with Heeseung in the upstairs guest room.”

The room erupts—whistles, gasps, a few “oh shits” from Lia’s rowdier friends. Your heart stops, then kicks into overdrive, pounding so hard you’re sure everyone can hear it.

You glance at Heeseung, and he’s still leaning against the wall, but his posture’s shifted, his eyes locked on you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. He raises an eyebrow, a silent question: You in?

“Y/N’s gonna combust,” one of Lia’s cousins calls out, and everyone laughs, but you barely hear them.

Your face is burning, but you force a smile, trying to channel some of the confidence you wish you had.

“Fine,” you say, standing up, brushing imaginary lint off your shorts. “Let’s go, Heeseung.”

The room loses it, whooping and cheering like you’ve just agreed to fight a dragon.

Lia’s practically cackling, her eyes glinting with victory. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” she yells as Heeseung pushes off the wall, his stride easy but purposeful as he heads toward the stairs.

You follow, your heart in your throat, the weight of everyone’s eyes on your back. You’re shy, yeah, but you’re not backing down. Not when Heeseung’s looking at you like that, like he’s been waiting for this moment as long as you have.

The stairs creak under your feet, the noise of the party fading as you climb higher. The hallway is dim, lit only by a single wall sconce, and the air feels cooler, quieter, like you’re stepping into a different world.

Heeseung leads the way, pushing open the door to the guest room with a casual flick of his wrist. You step inside, and he closes the door behind you, the soft click echoing like a gunshot in the silence.

The room is small, intimate, with moonlight streaming through the balcony doors, casting silver patterns on the hardwood floor.

The bed is unmade, sheets rumpled, and there’s a faint scent of lavender from an air freshener somewhere. You stand there, arms crossed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he is, how alone you are. Your shyness creeps in, making your throat tight, but you swallow it down, meeting his gaze.

“So,” Heeseung says, his voice low, teasing, like he’s savoring every second of this. He steps closer, and you have to tilt your head back to look at him, his height making you feel small in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying. “Lia’s having fun with this, huh?”

You laugh, but it’s nervous, breathy. “She’s evil,” you say, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, your fingers trembling slightly. “She knows… you know. About me.” You wince as soon as the words slip out, wishing you could take them back. Too much, too soon.

Heeseung’s eyebrow quirks, but his smile is soft, not mocking. “Oh, I know,” he says, and your stomach drops. “She’s been dropping hints for years, Y/N. Not exactly subtle.” He takes another step, close enough now that you can smell his perfume—something warm and spicy that makes your head spin. “But you’re not subtle either. The way you look at me? It’s hard to miss.”

Your face burns, and you look away, your shyness winning for a moment. “I’m not—I mean, I don’t mean to—” you stammer, but he cuts you off with a soft chuckle, stepping even closer until there’s barely a foot between you.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice dropping lower, softer, like a secret. “Don’t apologize. I like it.” His eyes are on you, intense, searching, and you feel like you’re unraveling under them. “You’ve been driving me crazy for years, you know that? Every summer, every damn time you show up in those little dresses, laughing with Lia, looking at me like you’re scared but you want me anyway.”

Your breath catches, and you stare at him, wide-eyed, your heart pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. “You… noticed?” you manage, your voice small, like you’re afraid the words will break the spell.

He laughs, a low, rumbling sound that sends shivers down your spine. “Noticed? Y/N, you’re all I see.” He reaches out, his fingers brushing your arm, light but electric, and you feel it everywhere—your skin, your bones, your racing pulse. “You think I don’t catch you staring? The way you blush when I get too close? It’s fucking adorable.”

You’re dying, you’re sure of it, your heart about to give out under the weight of his words. You’ve spent years hiding, thinking you were invisible, but he’s been watching you just as closely, and the realization makes you dizzy. “I didn’t think you… I mean, you’re you,” you say, stumbling over the words. “You’re Lia’s cousin, and you’re… you know, Heeseung. I didn’t think you’d care.”

His hand pauses on your arm, his fingers curling slightly, warm against your skin. “I care,” he says, and there’s no teasing now, just raw honesty that makes your chest ache. “I’ve cared for a while. But you’re Lia’s best friend, and I didn’t want to make things messy. Didn’t want to cross that line.” He pauses, his eyes searching yours. “But we’re here now, aren’t we?”

You nod, your throat too tight to speak. The air between you is thick, heavy with everything you’ve both left unsaid for years. You’re still shy, still trembling under his gaze, but there’s a spark in you now, a tiny flame of courage that’s been building since that first summer. You take a shaky breath, stepping closer, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the pull of him like gravity.

“What are we doing, Heeseung?” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but he hears it, his eyes darkening.

“Whatever you want,” he says, his voice rough, like he’s holding back. “You tell me, Y/N. You’re the one who’s been running from this.”

You swallow, your heart racing, your hands itching to touch him, to close the distance you’ve been dancing around for years. “I’m not running now,” you say, and it’s the bravest thing you’ve ever done, standing there, offering yourself up to the one person who could break you.

Heeseung’s breath hitches, and then he’s moving, closing the gap in one swift motion. His lips crash into yours, and it’s like the world stops—everything stops, the party, the noise, the fear. It’s just him, his mouth hot and hungry, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you against him. You gasp into the kiss, your shyness melting under the heat of it, your hands finding his hair, tugging him closer. He groans, low and deep, and the sound sends a jolt through you, pooling low in your stomach.

The kiss is messy, desperate, years of want poured into every slide of his lips, every flick of his tongue. You’re pressed against him, his body hard and warm, and you can feel the way he’s trembling, like he’s been holding back as long as you have. His hands roam, sliding up your sides, under your shirt, his fingers grazing the bare skin of your waist, and you shiver, pressing closer, wanting more, needing everything.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he murmurs against your mouth, his voice rough, wrecked. “You have no idea what you do to me.” His hands slide higher, teasing the edge of your bra, and you whimper, a sound you didn’t know you could make, your body acting on instinct, not thought.

“Heeseung,” you whisper, and it’s a plea, a prayer, everything you’ve ever wanted wrapped in his name. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy with want, his lips swollen from the kiss. He’s beautiful, devastating, and you’re so far gone you don’t know how you’ll ever come back from this.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he says, his mouth trailing to your jaw, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your head spin. “Every summer, I saw you and thought, God, she’s it. Every damn time.” His voice is low, raw, and you’re certain you can feel it in your soul, wrapping around you like a melody.

His hands move higher, one slipping under your shirt, his palm warm against your stomach, and you arch into him, your body moving before your mind can catch up, wanting him closer, deeper, more.

You’re dizzy, lost in him, your shyness a faint echo that only makes this moment sharper, more real. You tug at his tank top, your fingers clumsy but desperate, and he leans back, his eyes dark and heavy as he watches you. “You sure?” he asks, his voice low, almost a growl, and you nod, your breath shaky but unwavering.

“Never been surer,” you say, and it’s the truth, spilling out like it’s been waiting years to be heard. You reach for him again, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense under your touch, and he groans, low and needy, capturing your lips in another kiss that’s deeper, hungrier, like he’s trying to pour every unspoken word into you.

His hands are bolder now, one cupping your face, the other roaming your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine, teasing the edge of your bra. You’re trembling, overwhelmed but not hesitant, not with him. You want this, want him, want to finally let go of the distance you’ve been keeping for years.

You pull him closer, your lips parting for him, and he takes it, his tongue sliding against yours, slow and deliberate, making you melt into him.

The bed is behind you, the sheets rumpled and inviting, and you’re so close to falling into it, to letting this moment swallow you whole. His body presses against yours, and you can feel his want, the evidence in the way he holds you, the way his breath catches when you shift against him.

Your hands slide down his shoulders, your nails grazing his skin, and he shudders, his lips breaking from yours to trail down your neck, hot and urgent, leaving sparks in their wake.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice muffled, rough with need. “No idea how long I’ve wanted you like this.” His hands are everywhere, one sliding up your thigh, the other still under your shirt, teasing higher, and you whimper, a sound you didn’t know you could make, your body acting on instinct, craving him.

You’re ready to give in, to let him take you wherever this leads, your shyness no match for the fire he’s lit inside you. You tug at his hair, pulling him back to your lips, and he groans, the kiss messier now, more desperate, like you’re both running out of time. Your heart is pounding, your skin burning under his touch, and you’re so close to saying yes, to letting go of everything that’s held you back—

Knock, knock, knock.

The sound is a gunshot, sharp and jarring, cutting through the haze of want. You freeze, your heart lurching, and Heeseung pulls back, his lips still hovering over yours, his breath ragged. “

Fuck,” he whispers, his voice strained, his eyes wide with the same shock you feel.

“Y/N! Heeseung!” Lia’s voice rings through the door, loud and teasing, dripping with amusement. “Fifteen minutes is up, you lovebirds! Get your asses back down here!”

The party’s noise creeps back in, muffled but undeniable, and the spell shatters. You’re both breathing hard, your hands still tangled in his hair, his still on your waist, but the moment’s gone, stolen by Lia’s relentless grin and the creak of the floorboards outside. You pull away, your face burning, your shyness rushing back but not enough to regret what just happened. You fumble for your shirt, smoothing it down, your hands trembling as you try to catch your breath.

Heeseung runs a hand through his hair, his jaw tight, his eyes locked on you like he’s not ready to let this go. “Y/N,” he starts, his voice soft but urgent, and you meet his gaze, your heart still racing.

There’s no fear in you now, no worry about what this could mean for you and Lia, for your friendship, for everything. You just want him, and you’re tired of pretending you don’t.

“We should go,” you say, your voice quiet but steady, and it’s not because you want to stop, but because you know Lia’s not going anywhere until you open that door. You’re still shy, still prone to blushing under his gaze, but there’s a new certainty in you, a spark that wasn’t there before.

Heeseung nods, slow and reluctant, his eyes never leaving yours. “This isn’t over,” he says, his voice low, a promise that makes your stomach flip. “You know that, right?”

You nod, because you do know. You’ve known it since that first summer, since the first time his voice made your heart skip. You open the door, slipping out, and Heeseung follows, his presence a warm shadow at your back.

Downstairs, the party’s still alive, music pulsing, laughter spilling over like the soju on the table.

Lia’s waiting at the bottom of the stairs, her arms crossed, her smirk so sharp it could slice through the tension between you and Heeseung. “Well, damn,” she says, her eyes flicking between your flushed cheeks and Heeseung’s messy hair. “That was a long fifteen minutes. Have fun?”

You want to melt into the floor, your shyness making you shrink under her gaze, but you force a smile, muttering, “Shut up, Lia.” Your voice is too high, too shaky, and she cackles, loud and delighted, like she’s just won the lottery.

Heeseung’s cooler, leaning against the banister with a shrug. “Just talking,” he says, his voice smooth, but there’s a glint in his eyes that dares her to push. Lia raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it, and you know she’s going to grill you later, but for now, she just laughs, shaking her head.

The game moves on, someone else taking the hot seat, but you’re barely present, your mind still upstairs, replaying the feel of Heeseung’s lips, the way his hands burned against your skin.

You sit back on the couch, your cup forgotten in your hands, stealing glances at him across the room. He’s back against the wall, laughing with his cousins, but his eyes find yours every few minutes, quick and knowing, like a secret you’re both guarding.

The night drags on, the party growing louder, drunker, but you’re sober now, the buzz of alcohol replaced by the buzz of him. Lia’s watching you like a hawk, her teasing playful but relentless. “You’re so red,” she whispers, poking your cheek, and you swat her hand away, muttering something about the heat, but she’s not fooled. “You and Heeseung, huh? I knew it. I fucking knew it.”

“Stop,” you hiss, but you’re smiling, because you’re not afraid anymore.

You want this, want him, and Lia’s teasing feels like permission, like she’s cheering you on even if she won’t say it outright. She leans back, sipping her drink, her eyes glinting with mischief, and you know she’s not done meddling.

Hours later, the party starts to wind down, people stumbling home or crashing on couches. You’re exhausted, your shyness making the chaos draining, but you don’t want to leave, not when Heeseung’s still here, his presence pulling you like gravity.

You’re helping Lia clean up, tossing empty cups into a trash bag, when Heeseung finds you in the kitchen, the house quieter now, the air softer.

“Hey,” he says, leaning against the counter, his voice low, just for you. “You okay?”

You nod, your heart racing again, your shyness flaring under his gaze but not enough to stop you. “Yeah,” you say, focusing on the cups in your hands to steady yourself. “Just… a lot, you know?”

He steps closer, and you feel it—the heat of him, the pull that’s been there since that first summer. “About upstairs,” he starts, and your breath catches, because you’re ready to hear it, ready to dive back into that moment. “I meant what I said, Y/N. This isn’t just tonight for me.”

Your hands tremble, and you set the cups down, finally meeting his gaze. His eyes are serious, no trace of the teasing boy from earlier, just raw, unguarded want.

“Heeseung,” you say, your voice shaky but full of longing, “I want this too. I’ve wanted it for so long.”

His breath hitches, and he steps closer, his hand reaching for yours, his fingers brushing yours, warm and sure. “Then let’s do this,” he says, his voice soft but steady. “No hiding, no running. Just… us.”

You nod, your throat tight, because it’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of, and for once, you’re not afraid of what it means.

You’re ready, shy but certain, ready to let Heeseung be more than a crush, more than a secret. He squeezes your hand, just for a second, then lets go, his smile soft and promising.

Lia finds you a minute later, her eyes narrowed but playful. “You two are so obvious,” she says, tossing a sponge at you.

"Go sleep, Lia." Heeseung says as shej shrugs.

“Just makeout already.” She laughs, shaking her head, and heads upstairs, her voice trailing behind her like a blessing.

Lia’s voice—“Just makeout already”—lingers like a melody, a spark tossed into the dry kindling of your heart. She’s gone now, her footsteps fading up the stairs, her laughter a soft echo in the beach house’s quiet corridors.

The kitchen is still, save for the hum of the fridge and the distant pulse of the party winding down in the living room. You’re standing there, trash bag forgotten, your skin tingling with the memory of Heeseung’s kiss, your heart a quiet storm of longing and courage.

Heeseung’s watching you from across the counter, his eyes a warm, molten hazel that seem to hold the night itself. His black tank top hugs his frame, his hair a soft mess, and there’s a gentleness in his gaze that makes your shyness feel like a strength, not a cage.

He’s not just Lia’s cousin, not just the boy who’s haunted your dreams for four summers. He’s the one who sees you, who’s always seen you, and tonight, you’re done letting that slip through your fingers.

“You’re blushing,” he says, his voice soft, a thread of amusement woven through it. He steps closer, the space between you shrinking, and it’s like the air shifts, charged with something new—not the frantic heat from upstairs, but something deeper, like a promise waiting to be spoken.

You laugh, a shy, breathy sound, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Can you blame me?” you say, your voice quieter than you mean, but it’s steady, anchored by the truth you’ve carried for years. “You’re standing there looking like… like you.”

Heeseung’s smile is slow, a crescent moon breaking through clouds. “Like me?” he teases, but there’s no edge to it, just a warmth that makes your chest ache. He’s closer now, close enough that you can smell his perfume again.“You’re gonna have to explain that one, Y/N.”

You bite your lip, your shyness bubbling up, but you push through it, meeting his gaze. “Like you’re everything I’ve been thinking about since I was eighteen,” you say, and it’s not a grand declaration, but it’s yours, raw and honest, laid bare in the dim light of the kitchen.

His breath catches, and for a moment, he’s still, his eyes searching yours like he’s memorizing this moment, this you.

“You have no idea,” he says, his voice low, almost a whisper, “how many nights I’ve thought about you. How many times I saw you laughing with Lia, or reading on the porch, and wanted to tell you how much you got under my skin.”

Your heart stumbles, full and heavy, because it’s not just words—it’s the truth you’ve felt in every glance, every brush of his hand, every summer you spent pretending you didn’t love him. “Then tell me now,” you say, your voice trembling but sure, your shyness a soft edge to your bravery. “Show me.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Heeseung closes the distance, his hands finding your face, cupping your cheeks like you’re something precious, something holy. His lips meet yours, and it’s not the desperate crash from upstairs—it’s slow, deliberate, a vow pressed into every gentle movement.

You sigh into him, your hands sliding to his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart under your touch. The kiss deepens, his tongue brushing yours, and it’s like a song you’ve always known but never dared to sing.

He pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips. “I love you, Y/N,” he says, and it’s not a confession thrown into the heat of the moment—it’s a truth he’s carried as long as you have, laid bare in the quiet of the night. “I’ve loved you every summer, every moment you were here, every moment you weren’t.”

Your eyes sting, not from sadness but from the weight of it, the beauty of finally hearing what you’ve dreamed of. “I love you too,” you whisper, and it’s like letting go of a breath you’ve held for years. “I’ve loved you since that first day, when you smiled at me and I forgot how to breathe.”

He laughs, soft and bright, and it’s the sound of everything falling into place. “Then we’ve been idiots, haven’t we?” he says, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you closer. “Wasting all this time.”

“No more wasting,” you say, your shyness fading under the certainty of this moment, this love. You kiss him again, bolder now, your hands tangling in his hair, tugging him closer. He groans, a low, needy sound that sends a shiver through you, and you press yourself against him, feeling the hard lines of his body, the warmth that’s all him.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough with want, and you nod, your heart racing but not with fear—only anticipation, only him. You take his hand, leading him through the quiet house, the party a distant hum, the world narrowing to just you two.

The stairs creak under your feet, the hallway dim and intimate, and you push open the guest room door, the moonlight spilling across the bed like an invitation.

Inside, Heeseung’s hands are on you again, but it’s different now—less frantic, more reverent, like he’s worshiping every inch of you. He kisses you slow, deep, his tongue teasing yours until you’re dizzy, your hands clutching his shoulders for balance.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, his voice soft, his lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, the sensitive spot below your ear. “Always have been.”

You blush, your shyness peeking through, but you don’t pull away. “You too,” you say, your hands sliding down his chest, tugging at his tank top.

He lifts his arms, letting you pull it off, and you pause, taking in the sight of him—his skin golden in the moonlight, his muscles lean and defined, his eyes dark with love and want. You touch him, your fingers tracing the lines of his collarbone, his ribs, and he shudders, like your touch is a flame against his skin.

He reaches for your shirt, his eyes asking permission, and you nod, lifting your arms. He pulls it off, slow and careful, his gaze drinking you in—the lacy bra you wore tonight, the soft curve of your waist. “God,” he breathes, his hands hovering, like he’s afraid to touch something so perfect. “You’re unreal.”

You laugh, shy but warm, and pull him closer, kissing him to silence his awe. His hands find your skin, warm and sure, sliding up your back, unhooking your bra with a gentleness that makes your heart ache.

You let it fall, and his eyes darken, his breath hitching as he takes you in. He kisses you again, his hands cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing your nipples, and you gasp, the sensation sharp and electric, pooling low in your stomach.

Heeseung’s lips trail down, following the path of his hands, kissing your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breast. He takes a nipple into his lips, soft at first, then a teasing bite that makes you moan, your fingers tightening in his hair.

“Heeseung,” you whisper, his name a plea, and he hums against your skin, the vibration sending sparks through you.

“Love hearing you say my name like that he murmurs, his voice low, as he moves to your other breast, giving it the same care, the same devotion. You’re trembling now, your shyness a soft edge to the overwhelming want, and he notices, pulling back to meet your eyes. “You okay?” he asks, his hands still on your hips, grounding you.

“More than okay,” you say, your voice is quiet but sure, and you tug him back, kissing him hard, letting him know you’re not stopping, not now, not ever.

Your hands find his shorts, fumbling with the button, and he helps you, sliding them off, leaving him in just his boxers. You can feel him, hard and wanting, and it makes you blush, but you don’t shy away—you want this, want him, and you’re ready to take it.

Heeseung’s hands slide to your shorts, his fingers brushing the waistband, and he looks at you, his eyes asking, always asking. “Yes,” you whisper, and he undoes them, slow and careful, sliding them down your legs.

You step out, left in your panties, and he groans, low and soft, his hands gripping your hips like he’s anchoring himself.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he says, his voice rough, but there’s love in it, a tenderness that makes your heart swell. He kisses you again, guiding you backward until your legs hit the bed, and you sit, then lie back, pulling him with you. He hovers over you, his weight a comforting press, his eyes searching yours.

“I love you,” he says again, like he needs you to know, and you nod, your hands cupping his face, your thumbs brushing his cheeks.

“I love you too,” you say, and it’s a vow, a truth that’s been yours forever. You kiss him, soft and deep, and he shifts, his hands sliding to your panties, tugging gently.

You lift your hips, letting him pull them off, and then you’re bare, vulnerable but not afraid, not with him.

Heeseung’s eyes rake over you, reverent, like you’re a work of art he’s afraid to touch. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says, and you blush, your shyness peeking through, but you reach for him, pulling him down, needing his skin against yours.

He kisses you, his hands roaming, one sliding between your thighs, finding you wet and wanting. You gasp, your hips bucking into his touch, and he groans, his fingers teasing, slow and deliberate.

“So good for me,” he murmurs, his lips on your neck, his fingers circling, and you’re trembling, your shyness melting under the heat of his touch.

He slides a finger inside your cunt, then another, and you moan, your hands clutching his shoulders, your body arching into him. He moves slow, learning you, watching your face, and you feel seen, cherished, loved.

“Heeseung, please,” you whisper, your voice shaky with need, and he kisses you, soft and deep, before pulling back, his eyes dark with want.

“Want to taste you,” he says, his voice rough, and your breath catches, your shyness flaring but not enough to stop you. You nod, and he moves lower, his lips trailing down your stomach, your hips, until he’s between your thighs, his breath warm against you.

He kisses your inner thigh, soft and teasing, and then his mouth is on you, and you’re gone, your hands fisting the sheets, your moans soft and desperate.

He’s slow, deliberate, his tongue teasing, tasting, and you’re trembling, your shyness forgotten as you lose yourself in him. “Fuck, Heeseung,” you gasp, and he groans, the vibration sending you higher, closer to the edge.

He doesn’t stop, his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place as you fall apart, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave, leaving you breathless, shaking.

He kisses his way back up, his lips soft against your skin, until he’s hovering over you again, his eyes searching yours. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, and you blush, your shyness returning, but you pull him down, kissing him, tasting yourself on his lips.

“I want you,” you whisper, your voice quiet but sure, and he nods, his hands sliding to his boxers, pushing them off. You glance down, blushing at the sight of him, hard and ready, and he chuckles, soft and warm, kissing your cheek.

“We’ll go slow,” he says, his voice gentle, and you nod, trusting him, loving him,“You sure?” he asks, one last time, and you nod, pulling him closer.

“I’m sure,” you say, and he kisses you, deep and slow, as his cock teases your entrance before he presses into you, inch by inch, filling you. You gasp, your hands clutching his shoulders, the stretch intense but perfect, and he pauses, letting you adjust, his lips on your forehead, your cheek, your lips.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice tight, like he’s holding himself back, and you nod, your hands sliding to his back, pulling him closer.

Heeseung’s lips are still on yours, his breath a ragged hymn against your skin as he presses himself deeper, filling you with a slow, deliberate stretch that makes your toes curl. You gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders, the intensity of him—hot, hard, and wholly yours—sending sparks through every nerve. He pauses, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes half-lidded with restraint and reverence. “You okay?” he murmurs, voice tight, like he’s leashing a storm for your sake.

“More than okay,” you whisper, your shyness a faint tremor beneath the molten want in your voice. You pull him closer, your legs wrapping around his hips, urging him deeper, and he groans, low and guttural, the sound igniting something primal in you. Your hands slide down his back, nails grazing his skin, and he shudders, his control fraying as you give yourself to him, no more walls, no more fear.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he rasps, his lips trailing to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, a claim that makes you moan, soft and needy. “You feel so fucking good. So tight, so perfect.” His hips move, slow at first, a deep, grinding rhythm that has you arching into him, your breath hitching with every thrust. Your shyness lingers in the way you bite your lip, but it’s no match for the fire he’s stoking, the way he’s unraveling you with every touch, every word.

“Harder,” you breathe, surprising yourself, your voice a plea wrapped in courage. You’ve never been bold, never been loud, but with Heeseung, you want to shatter every quiet corner of yourself. His eyes snap to yours, dark and hungry, a flicker of surprise giving way to a smirk that’s pure sin.

“Harder?” he echoes, voice low, teasing, like he’s daring you to mean it. You nod, your cheeks burning, and he grips your hips tighter, fingers bruising in the best way. “You sure, baby? ‘Cause once I start, I’m not holding back.” The pet name drips from his lips like honey, and you clench around him, a whimper escaping before you can stop it.

“Please,” you beg, your hands clutching his shoulders, your body trembling with need. “I want you, Heeseung. All of you.”

That’s all it takes. His restraint snaps, and he thrusts deeper, harder, the bed creaking under the force of him. You moan, loud and unrestrained, your head tipping back into the pillow as he fucks you with a rhythm that’s relentless, possessive, like he’s claiming every inch of you. “That’s it,” he growls, his voice rough, his lips brushing your ear. “Let me hear you, Y/N. Let me know how good I make you feel.”

You’re lost in him, your shyness drowned by the pleasure, your body moving with his, meeting every thrust, chasing the high that’s building, burning. His cock hits a spot inside you that makes you see stars, and you cry out, your nails raking down his back, leaving marks he’ll feel tomorrow. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groans, his hand sliding between you, fingers finding your clit, circling with a precision that has you trembling, so close to the edge you can taste it.

“Cum for me, baby,” he murmurs, his lips on your neck, his fingers relentless, and you’re gone, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave, pulling you under. You clench around him, moaning his name, your body shaking as he fucks you through it, his thrusts slowing but never stopping, drawing out every last shudder.

He’s still hard, still moving, and you’re panting, oversensitive but wanting more, wanting him to feel what you’re feeling. You push at his chest, your shyness peeking through but not stopping you, and he pulls back, eyes questioning. “My turn,” you whisper, voice shaky but sure, and his breath hitches, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Fuck, yes,” he says, rolling onto his back, pulling you with him until you’re straddling his hips, his cock slick and hard beneath you. You blush, your hands trembling as you brace them on his chest, but his gaze is steady, encouraging, like he’s handing you the reins. “Ride me, Y/N. Show me how you want it.”

You’ve never done this, never been on top, and your shyness makes you hesitate, but Heeseung’s hands are on your hips, guiding you, his voice a low rumble. “You got this,” he says, and you believe him, lifting yourself, positioning him at your entrance, and sinking down, inch by inch, until he’s buried deep. You both groan, the angle intense, and you pause, adjusting, your breath ragged.

“God, you look so fucking good like this,” he says, his hands roaming your thighs, your waist, his eyes dark with want. “Move, baby. Take what you need.”

You start slow, rocking your hips, finding a rhythm that makes your toes curl, his cock hitting deep, perfect. His hands grip your hips, not controlling, just grounding, and you move faster, bolder, the pleasure building again, hotter, sharper. “That’s it,” he groans, his head tipping back, his throat a taut line you want to kiss, to bite. “Fuck, you’re gonna kill me, Y/N.”

You lean forward, your hands on his chest, your lips finding his in a messy, desperate kiss, all teeth and tongue as you ride him harder, chasing your high, chasing his. His hands slide to your ass, squeezing, guiding you faster, and he groans, low and broken, his control slipping. “Fuck, I’m close,” he rasps, his hips bucking up to meet you, driving deeper, and you moan, your own climax building, so close you can feel it in your bones.

“Cum inside me,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can think, your shyness buried under the raw need to feel him, all of him. His eyes widen, a flicker of hesitation, but you shake your head, kissing him hard.

He groans, a sound that’s almost pained, and thrusts up harder, his hands bruising your hips as he chases his release. “You sure?” he gasps, voice tight, and you nod, desperate, your lips on his jaw, his neck, begging without words. He thrusts once, twice, and then he’s gone, spilling inside you with a groan that shakes you, his body trembling beneath you. The feel of him, hot and deep, pushes you over the edge again, and you cum with him, clenching tight, moaning into his mouth as you ride out the waves together.

You collapse against him, your breath ragged, your heart pounding against his, and he wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his lips soft against your forehead. “Fuck, Y/N,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, laced with awe. “You’re everything.”

You blush, your shyness creeping back, but you smile, nuzzling into his chest, his heartbeat a steady anchor. “You too,” you whisper, and it’s quiet, but it’s enough, a vow in the moonlight.

He shifts, pulling out gently, and you whimper at the loss, but he’s quick to grab a tissue from the nightstand, cleaning you both with a care that makes your heart ache. He pulls you back into his arms, the bed creaking under you, the moonlight painting your skin in silver. “We’re doing this,” he says, voice firm, a promise against your hair. “You and me. No more games.”

You nod, your cheek against his chest, his warmth seeping into you. “No more games,” you echo, and it’s a truth you’ve carried for years, finally free.

The next morning, the beach house is a ghost of last night’s chaos, sunlight streaming through the windows, the air smelling of coffee and salt. You’re in the kitchen, pouring a mug, your hair a mess, Heeseung’s shirt dwarfing your frame. Your shyness is back, a soft flush on your cheeks as you catch your reflection, but there’s a glow in your eyes, a secret you’re carrying from the night before.

Lia stumbles in, her curls wild, her grin sharper than the sunlight. “Well, well,” she says, leaning against the counter, her eyes flicking from your shirt to your face. “Look who’s wearing Heeseung’s clothes. You two finally stop dancing around each other?”

You choke on your coffee, your face burning, but you laugh, shy but warm. “Shut up, Lia,” you mumble, but there’s no heat in it, just love. She cackles, throwing an arm around you, hugging you tight.

“Fucking finally,” she says, her voice softer now, sincere. “You’re good for him, Y/N. And he’s crazy about you. I’m happy.”

“Thanks,” you whisper, your throat tight, because her words mean everything. She pulls back, grabbing her own mug, still smirking, and you know she’ll tease you forever, but it’s hers, it’s family.

Heeseung appears a moment later, hair damp from a shower, his smile soft and private as he sees you in his shirt. “Morning,” he says, voice low, and he leans down, kissing your temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Lia gags dramatically, but she’s grinning, already pulling out her phone, probably to text her cousins the gossip.

“Get a room,” she says, but she’s laughing, heading out to the porch, leaving you and Heeseung in the quiet kitchen. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you against him, and you lean into him, your shyness a soft glow, your love a steady flame.

“Told you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. “This isn’t going to make everything we have over.”

You smile, turning to kiss him, slow and sweet, the taste of coffee and him mingling on your tongue. “Good,” you whisper, and it’s a promise, a truth, a love that’s finally yours.

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

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