Evermorepoet1903

She covers her mouth with one hand, chocolate brows tying together above wide eyes. “Oh my god. You’re— do you have any idea what people are saying about you?” You nod, timid, body still tight. She rips her hand from her mouth while putting the pieces together, “How fucking long— I don’t even understand— you don’t sing.” 

“I don’t sing,” you repeat, still whispering because you don’t trust your voice at any other volume. 

Still holding onto the back of the couch, she lowers herself until she’s sitting on her calves, eyes still wide, jaw still slacked. She looks up at you and there’s a ghost of a frown on her lips, her voice shaky as she realizes, “You lied to me.” 

“I didn’t lie,” you’re quick to defend. “I just didn’t tell you.” 

Your name falls from her lips coated in disappointment. “You deliberately kept it from me.”

Disappointment is worse than anger. “I kept it from everyone, Jen.” 

“I’m not everyone!” she nearly whimpers, her voice cracking, strained. “This is a whole side of you I don’t know, this is— this is like a whole half of you that I know nothing about! Do you know how many episodes I listened to before I even recognized your voice?” 

Your bottom lip quivers, jaw hinged tight. Her words are like an arrow through your fucking chest. 

“I only realized because you told a story about me. I recognized my own story on my best friend’s secret fucking podcast,” she doesn’t move as she seethes, like she’s frozen in place, too. Your heart wrenches with guilt. “Don’t you think maybe you should have asked me, maybe run it past me that this exists before posting my story online?” 

You’re nodding, fumbling over your words. “I’m sorry, that’s why it’s anonymous—”

“I don’t care!” she yells, standing up off the couch. “I know it’s me, and now I know it’s you.” 

Panic surges through you with force. “Please— Jen, please don’t tell anyone.” 

She stares at you, arms flat at her sides, face twisted in heartbreak. You almost open your mouth again, ready to beg, but she cuts it off by asking, “You don’t trust me, do you?” 

You shake your head. “Of course I—”

Her voice raises again, “You didn’t trust me with your secret, and now you don’t trust me to keep it. You think I’d expose you after you created an entire double life based on fucking anonymity?” 

A double life. Is that really what Unscripted is? A different half of you? Another person detached from yourself, your own personality? Is anything about her, you? Is anything about you, her?

You try a step forward. “I trust you, Jen. That’s not what I meant.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice cracks again, shoulders slumping, face going round. This is so much fucking worse than anger. The sadness, the disappointment… She feels betrayed. 

Your lips part, a strained, guilty noise forcing its way through. You can’t form any words, you don’t know what the fuck you could possibly say to make any of this better. 

Words you’ve said too often lately, you find them inside you again, “I don’t know.”

Now, it just sounds pathetic. A sorry fucking excuse for lying to, for hurting your best friend, your roommate, your sister. But you don’t have a reason; you knew she wouldn’t judge you, you knew she wouldn’t tell anyone, and yet you still didn’t tell her. You don’t know why. 

“You don’t know?” she repeats, like she didn’t hear you the first time. “You’ve spent months strategically hiding this from me, and you don’t know why?” 

Your lips quiver, eyes stinging, chest growing tight. She sees it, but she holds her ground, “Were you ever going to tell me?” 

You don’t trust your voice, so you shake your head. You could have gone your entire life without anyone knowing you’re the face behind the name, the voice behind the stories, the advice, the vulgarity. Tears fall. 

She shakes her head like she can’t choose which words she wants to say first. She looks at the floor. “We live together, we share everything. You know everything about me.” She looks up again, nose twitching with what you’re sure is tears trapped in her chest, “You trusted hundreds— maybe thousands of people with personal, sensitive information I don’t know about you. How is that fair?” 

“They don’t know who I am, Jen,” you blurt, your voice coated in a cry. You still haven’t moved from the door, there’s too much space between you, and it feels wider with each exchange. 

“I do!” she finally shouts, pointing at her chest, a single tear falling down her cheek. “I know you and I fucking love you, what are you so scared of? That I’m not going to love you anymore because you make up stories on a podcast?”

“I don’t make them up,” your voice drops in defense. “They’re all true, at least a piece of them is, even if they didn’t happen to me.” 

She laughs, but it’s hollow, you can hear the congestion in her sinuses. “That’s what you took from that? You think I’m calling you a liar?” 

“No—”

“Do you even understand why I’m upset?” she shouts, patience thinning. “We’ve known each other for years! I thought I knew you down to the fucking bone, and you hid something this— this huge from me. This is huge, the episode you posted today, everyone is talking about it!” 

“I know!” you shout back, taking another step forward. “I know they’re talking about it and I’m terrified! I didn’t mean for this to happen—”

“Who are they?” Her voice is suddenly calm again as she brings the heel of her palm up to her nose. “I know the tall one is Yunho, who’s the other one?” 

You pause, heart dropping. You don’t want to tell her. You have no choice but to fucking tell her. You think your heart might fall out of your ass fully as you mumble, “Wooyoung.” 

She blinks at you. “Wooyoung? Like, Jung Wooyoung? Black hair? Whore? The one I’ve slept with? That Jung Wooyoung?” Embarrassed, terrified of what her response will be, all you can do is nod. Her palms hit her forehead as she circles the coffee table, pacing. She stops again when she’s facing you, piecing it together, “So Tall is Yunho, PMO is Wooyoung. You asked Wooyoung for sex advice about Yunho because you had sex with Wooyoung.”

“No,” you answer with certainty. “I haven’t had sex with Wooyoung.”

“What?” Her hands find her forehead again. “You said you trust him, that he knows you or whatever. Fuck, I fucking knew something was weird with you two at the Penny. What the fuck did you do?” 

You look down at his hoodie still on your body, you remember everything you said to him fifteen fucking minutes ago. What did you do? Too much. Too much to come back from. 

Yunjin looks too, apparently. “Whose hoodie is that?” Your head snaps up, mouth going dry. “I recognize that fucking hoodie, he– what did you do?” 

As if it’s instinct, you drop your shit at the small table beside the door and rip the fucking hoodie over your head, throwing it to the floor like it’s on fire. It feels criminal to be wearing it, like he’s in the room with you, sharing your defeat. She watches it fall to the floor then looks back at you, then to the hoodie again like she’s buffering, trying to put pieces that you still haven’t given her together.

“Why him?” she mutters from across the room. “Why does he know you? Why does he get to know things I don’t?” 

“He doesn’t know about Unscripted,” you mutter just as quietly, chest rising and falling with every single nerve beneath your skin. 

“We’ll circle back to Unscripted,” she’s quick to fire back. “Trust me. Right now, I want you to tell me why Jung Wooyoung knows things about you that I don’t.”

You hate the words that you swear you can taste now, “I don’t know.”

“Yes you do,” she argues, voice edged with frustration. “Tell me. Or is this something else you can’t trust me with?” 

“I don’t fucking know!” your voice raises, strained because you fucking mean it. “I don’t tell him anything, I asked him for advice about Yeonjun and now he knows things about me. I don’t sit down and tell him my fucking secrets, he just— when he says things about me, they’re right.”

“It started with Yeonjun?” Her eyes widen, hands flying to her roots again. “What the fuck? How long has this– I don’t even know what the fuck to call it. When did you hook up?” 

“The night you took me out to get over Yeonjun,” you answer without a second thought. “He found out– whatever, we hooked up in a random bedroom. We didn’t have sex, though.”

Her brows are knitted together. “Then what did you do?”

“I– he– did you listen to the episode about overstimulation?”

Her face drops. “That was him?” 

You nod, bringing your hands up to rub at your face, the words falling from your lips like water now, “That was right before Yunho, and like, literally right before Yunho. And since Yunho, him and I have been weird until I asked him for advice at the Penny, now we’re normal again and he picked me up from work because my car died and then he took me to a batting cage and a diner and then I told him I want to kiss him–”

“What?” she interrupts you, blinking rapidly. “What? Tonight?”

Your voice heightens in pitch, “Like, maybe fifteen minutes ago?” 

“What the fuck,” her palm covers her mouth again. “What the fuck?”

“I didn’t kiss him,” you whisper, cheeks heating all over again. “He said he couldn’t do that to Yunho.”

“Wooyoung said no,” she repeats like she can’t fucking believe it. You nod. “I can’t believe you were the one– since I’ve met you– what the fuck is going on?” 

“Wooyoung!” you finally yell. “Ever since I met him my life has been derailed. He knows me, but the more he knows me the less I know me, like he can see through me, I- I can’t explain it.” 

She gets quiet before she says your name, it sounds pitiful, like she feels bad for you. Your stomach fucking hurts. 

“Come sit down,” she says calmly, pointing to the couch. 

You blink at her, “Jen–”

“Sit down or I swear to god,” she cuts you off, voice stern. You jump into movement, feet carrying you toward the couch as she commands, “You’re telling me everything and you’re going to be honest.”

You’re nervous as you sit on the farthest cushion, knees pinned together, fingers curling into the plush beneath you. “What about Unscripted?” 

“I didn’t forget about it,” she sits on the other side of the couch, pulling her knees up to her chest. “But my best friend who has always been in a committed relationship is acting really out of character right now and I need to know why.”

You run your fingers through your hair as you sink into the couch, your heart split in two. But you tell her, you tell her every single detail, from the night you met Wooyoung to the night you brought Yunho home to what happened before you walked through the door to your apartment. 

“Do you remember the night you found out about Yeonjun? The basket?” she asks when you finally finish, as if she’s been sitting on the question. You nod. “I asked you if he saw you, if he made you feel special.” 

“He didn’t, he never did, I know that–”

“He seems like he does,” she dips her chin. “Wooyoung.”

“Yunho sees me,” you argue. “Yunho is good to me. I’m fucked up for wanting Wooyoung like that.”

“No you’re not,” she quickly argues. “I mean, I don’t think you’re fucked up. It's instinct. You were together the whole night, it makes sense.”

Your voice goes quiet, “He was right, though.”

“Yes, and you didn’t kiss him,” her upper body moves like she’s telling you the obvious. “You didn’t act on the impulse.” 

“Because he stopped me,” you laugh a little on the words. “If he had kissed me, I would have fucked him, Jen.” Yunjin stays quiet, thinking, chewing on her bottom lip. Your head dips backward, “Fuck, I should tell him, shouldn’t I?” 

“Yunho?” She asks. 

“Yes,” you sigh. “It’s not fair if he’s committed to me and that’s all it takes for me to jump some other guy’s bones.” 

Yunjin snorts, “I don’t think this is just some other guy, babe, but I get what you’re saying.” Her lips scrunch to one side, “Do you even want to be committed to Yunho? Do you want to be committed to anyone right now?” 

Your chest feels hollow. “I don’t know.” She nods like she was expecting that answer. “Isn’t that bad?” You lean forward a little. “I don’t– that’s not me.”

“Why can’t it be you?” She shrugs. “You’ve been in a relationship for almost all of your adult life, you don’t even know what it means to fuck around.”

“I don’t want to fuck around–”

“You sure?” she teases, a playful smile on her lips. “It sounds to me like you’re dying to fuck around, especially with Woo–”

“What’s he like?” you cut her off. Purposely. “In bed. Is it valid that everyone wants him?” 

Her lips scrunch again, “Hate to break it to you, but yeah. Absolutely. Like, two-hundred percent–”

“Okay,” you cut her off again. “I get it.” 

“This is all I wanted, by the way,” her voice is low again, serious.

Your brows tie together. “Huh?”

“With Yeonjun, when you finally let me in I felt like I understood you a little better. I love you, I want to know all of the things that make you, you.” 

You frown, heart cracking in two all fucking over again. “I’m sorry, Jen.” 

“And just to reassure you, I won’t tell anyone that you’re Unscripted,” she sits up a little, pushing herself up by the cushions. “But I will say that the more you say, the easier it is to connect you. How the fuck do you even sound like that? You barely sound like yourself.” 

“I tweak it a little,” you grin. “Just a pinch, and it’s worked for me so far.” After another pause, your face rounds out as you say, “Thank you for keeping my secret. I’ll be more careful.”

“Sannie would lose his fucking mind if he knew,” she shakes her head, laughing a little. “Like, lose his fucking mind. Yunho, too. How do you keep a straight face?”

You shrug. “I do what I have to.” 

“Scary,” her head tilts away from you. “You’re scary.” 

“Prepared,” you correct her, holding up a finger. “If you’re gonna keep your identity a secret, you have to be prepared to defend that secret with your life.” Her eyes thin out, and your returning smile is coy. “My bad. I'm referring to everyone else now.” 

The sun is fucking hot. Morning sun is different from evening sun, the air feels clearer, drier, the UV feels ripe, especially if there’s no breeze. There’s not a lick of wind brushing past you as you skip from your stairs into Yunho’s car, heart beating a mile a fucking minute, the sun stripping you as raw as you feel.

Yunjin knows, and she doesn’t hate you. Yunjin knows, and she still loves you. It should be enough to have you feeling on top of the world, relieved, light. But it’s not enough, and you don’t feel even the slightest bit relieved, because there’s more. You almost don’t believe that you have problems bigger than someone finding out you’re Unscripted, at one point you didn’t think it was possible. 

You give him your cheek when you get into his car, but he doesn’t back from it, he doesn’t mind at all. He presses his lips softly into your skin, “Morning, sunshine.”

You can barely muster a smile. “Morning,” you mutter, giving him a one-over. Blonde hair pushed back, comfortable clothes on his body, that sliver of skin out to play like it always fucking is. Damn. 

“Do you want to get coffee or something before we go?” he asks, already reversing his car out of the parking space right in front of your apartment. 

You shake your head, hands sitting politely in your lap, “No, I’m okay. I had coffee already.”

“O-kay,” he hums, pulling out of your development, onto the main road. He looks at you from his peripherals as he asks, “Are you mad at me for not answering last night?”

“What?” you ask, abruptly. “No, oh my god, of course not.”

“Just checking,” he says casually, his head shaking a little. The silence you fall back into is palpable. You’re acting weird. You’re acting fucking guilty and you know it. You try to relax, stretching out your legs, your arms, you try to let your body deflate into his passenger seat. You think you might look like a drunk baby instead, trying to take up as much space as you can.

The drive seems infinitely longer than it usually is because you can’t get your head on straight. You’re paranoid, guilty, you know Yunho can feel that there’s something off but you can’t bring yourself to fucking speak. 

Hey, just so you know, I wanted to kiss Wooyoung last night.

Before you do this favor for me, I want to tell you that I wanted to fuck your friend last night.

You shouldn’t have ever entered exclusivity with me because I’m a fucking mess.

You sigh. He feels it as he pulls into the parking lot of the gym, parking his car in the spot right next to your car. You think of last night, Wooyoung in this exact parking space, you screaming at him to unlock the door under a blanket of rain. 

You never deserved Yunho to begin with.

“Can I ask you something?” Yunho asks, turning his key in the ignition, engine going dead. You nod, sitting up a little, heart knocking against your breastplate. “Did you submit a story to Unscripted?”

You blink. “What?”

He tugs on the handle of his door, climbing out of the driver’s seat. You do the same, keeping your eyes on him the entire time. He talks as he walks up to your car, popping the hood, “Her newest episode is going viral, and it just… sounds familiar.”

You lean your backside up against the passenger side door, “How does it sound familiar?”

He ducks to give you a flat stare around your car’s hood. “Mister Tall and Dominant? Asked him to be more dominant, and he did it as soon as she brought it up?”

You reach for ignorance, at least for a little while longer. “That could be anyone, Yunho. Why do you think it’s you?”

“Because the other guy is Wooyoung,” he says, bringing his attention back under the hood. You feel like your fucking world has been swept from under your feet. How does he know that? What does he know? How is the conclusion that you submitted something to Unscripted, and not that you’re fucking Unscripted?

“He–” you start, already stumbling over your words. “Are you crazy?”

“He told me you asked him for advice, sunshine,” he sing-songs from under your hood. “He told me about last night, too. The batting cages, the diner. Can you grab the bag from my backseat?”

You’re on autopilot as you grab what looks like a black toolbox– tool bag from his backseat, talking as you lay it over the side of your car, in reach for him to go through it. “What else did he tell you?”

Yunho looks up at you. “What else is there to say?”

“Nothing,” you answer immediately. “There’s nothing else. Do you know what’s wrong with my car?”

“Not yet,” he shakes his head, lips scrunching to one side. “I’m gonna try to jump it. Do you know how to jump a car?” You shake your head no, and he smacks his teeth. “We’re fixing that today.”

He digs into the toolbag, grabbing what looks like a power bank, two thick cables. He holds them up to you, “Red and black.” You nod, moving beside him so you can see what he sees. He points into the guts of your car, “That’s your battery.”

You lean forward a little, and he lowers his finger so you can see exactly what he’s pointing at. “Plus sign, red cable,” he explains, then hands the cable-clamp thingy to you. Your brows furrow. “Attach it,” he says like you’ve done this a million fucking times.

“I’m not gonna blow up my car, right?” you ask, holding the cable-clamp thing like it’s an explosive. 

He laughs, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t let that happen, baby.”

You squeeze the clamp, attaching it where he showed you. You look up at him for reassurance, “Is that okay?”

“Perfect,” he says, then holds up the black clamp.

You pop a brow, “Negative?”

“Close,” his head tilts as he sticks the clamp somewhere else in the guts of your car. “Ground point, unpainted piece of metal or a part of the engine so you don’t blow your car up.”

Your lips make the shape before you say the word, “Oh.”

“Try to start it for me,” he says, and you nod, grabbing your keys from his car before slotting yourself in your own driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition. The dash lights up, but the only sound your car makes is a big fat fucking click. 

“One more time,” you hear him over the hood, so you try again. You’re going to hear the clicking in your fucking dreams tonight. You deflate, groaning as he gathers the cables back into his bag, closing the hood. “This is out of my area of expertise, I fear.”

Your top lip lifts, “But you’re Handy Manny.”

He throws the bag back in his backseat, “Sorry, sunshine. I’ll call a tow truck for you.”

You don’t answer because he’s already in fix-it-mode, his phone in his hand, pacing with the other hand on his hip up on the curb while you watch from your driver’s seat. It’s unbearably hot, but you’re too guilty to care. You just let him teach you how to jump a fucking car while you tried to kiss his friend last night. 

You tilt your head, watching him. He turns, meeting your eye through the pocket between your windshield and your open door, eyes focused. It’s unbearable. You blurt, “I tried to kiss Wooyoung last night.”

He holds up a finger. Your jaw drops. He points to his ear and mouths I’m on the phone.

“Hi, yeah, I need a tow, please,” he looks up at the sky as he speaks, and you actually genuinely wish you could fucking disappear. You sink further into the seat, running your hands over your face, into your hair, knees spreading. You wish your brain wasn’t so fucking complicated. You wish you never tried to fuck Yeonjun in Wooyoung’s bedroom. 

“Sorry, they’ll be here within the hour,” he says, sounding refreshed as he hangs over your open door, arms crossed over the top of it. “So, you tried to kiss Wooyoung?”

You lower your hands, face blank. “Yes, last night.”

“Hm,” his head tilts. “He left that part out.”

“He said no,” you’re immediately defending him, defending yourself through him. “I didn’t kiss him.”

“But you wanted to,” his brows furrow from above the door. 

You look at your lap, guilty. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” he says simply. 

Your head snaps upward, brows tied together. “Okay?”

He shrugs. “Do you want me to be mad at you?”

“Kinda,” you shrug, bewildered at the answer. “We’re exclusive and I tried to fuck your friend.”

His brows raise, “You said kiss.”

“I did say kiss,” your lips tighten. “I meant kiss.”

He watches you for a second, eyes dancing to the floorboard beneath you, your steering wheel, the pile of shit in your passenger seat. Finally, he asks, “Do you still want to be exclusive?”

You speak before you can think, “I like you, Yun–”

He grins. “Not what I asked.”

Your lips flatten. “I don’t know.”

He nods, “Okay.”

“Oh my god,” you gruff out, the heels of your palms finding your bare eyes. “Can you please say something else?”

He huffs a laugh, “What do you want me to say? We aren’t dating, we’re exclusively sleeping together.”

“I know,” you basically whine. “But what happens if we aren’t? I like you.”

“I like you, too,” he nods. “It’s not like I’m going to hate you forever if we aren’t exclusive, sunshine. Did you think I’d throw a fit? Call you a cheater?”

Even Unscripted is a fucking cheater. The tips of your ears run hot, “Yeah, kinda.”

He walks around the car door, bending down into his calves beside the floorboard. “I didn’t start this thinking we were gonna get married. You’ve had four boyfriends in total in your entire life. I like you, but I’m not the type to stop someone from doing what they want to do.”

“But you–” you argue. “You’re not hurt at all?”

His head tilts, exposing his teeth in a way that says well, maybe. “I wouldn’t say hurt, but I wouldn’t say I’m emotionless, either. Mingi will be excited.”

Your jaw drops, a punched laugh escaping you. “You’re thinking about Mingi right now?”

He grins, “I think about Mingi often.”

“Have you ever been exclusive with him?” Yunho makes a show of shaking his head no. You deflate into your seat again, “I don’t understand that. Sleeping with someone without having… attachments. The security that they’re into you.”

His brows furrow, “Isn’t sleeping with someone confirmation enough that they like you?”

“No,” you answer quickly. “I mean, like, they’ll wake up tomorrow and still like you.”

“Have sexual attraction and romantic attraction always gone hand-in-hand with you?” he asks, and it’s honest. You nod. His face flattens out. “Have you ever wanted to fuck someone just to fuck them?”

Your lips scrunch as you look up at the roof of your car, thinking. You’re shaking your head as you respond, “No.”

He pops a brow, “Really?”

“No!” you say through a laugh. “I mean it. You know I’ve only had sex with long-term boyfriends, you’re the only exception.”

“And I’m flattered, but you’ve never seen someone walking down the street and just wanted to bang ‘em? Didn’t even want to learn their name?”

“No,” you say with a little more certainty. “The romantic aspect… It's part of it for me. The attraction.”

“So you have to really like someone in order to fuck them?” he asks, clarifying. You nod. His brows furrow, “But you don’t have to date them in order to fuck them.”

“What?” you ask, brows tied together. “No–”

“So you wanted me to be your boyfriend,” he assumes, brows raising. “That night at the party when we kissed, you were thinking in your head, ‘I’m gonna make Yunho my boyfriend’.”

“Don’t talk about yourself in third person, it’s weird.” His head tilts, face flat. You release an aggravated sigh, “Fine, no, I wasn’t thinking that about you. I wanted to sleep with you.”

He grins, “So everything you just said was a lie, basically.”

“I’m confused!” you argue, poking a flip flop at his knee. “I don’t know what I do. I don’t know!”

He laughs, smacking your foot away from him. “Okay, think of someone you want to fuck. Someone who’s not Wooyoung.” Your hands hit your face so hard they clap. He’s laughing again as he reaches up for your hands, pulling them off your face as he sits on the floorboard of your car. “I’m serious, sunshine. Think of someone that you’ve never imagined yourself dating. Someone you’re really, really attracted to, and want just one solid night of really hot, intense fucking.”

Oh, your face is on fucking fire, but you think. You think hard. You think of every single man you’ve ever met, all the guys on campus, the ones that go to your gym, none of them have ever piqued your interest enough to want a solid night of really hot, intense fucking.

But there is someone you’ve wondered about. Someone who gets the back of your neck prickling with sweat whenever you’re around them.

The answer comes naturally, “Jihyo.”

His brows raise. He chokes on a laugh, “Jihyo? Park Jihyo? Friends with Momo, Sana….?”

You nod, “Yes, that Jihyo.”

He pops a brow, “Huh.”

“What?” you immediately press, sitting up a little. “What’s wrong with Jihyo?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head quickly. “I just wasn’t expecting you to– I wasn’t expecting a woman.”

“Are you homophobic when you literally stick your dick up Mingi’s ass?” 

His face goes flat again. “Did you seriously just ask me that?” You giggle. “Okay, Jihyo. Do you want to date Jihyo?”

Your head tilts, eyes dancing around your car again, “I’ve never thought about it.”

“Well, don’t start now,” he says like you’re fucking ridiculous. “Have you thought about fucking her?”

You finally meet his eye again, shrugging. “Once or twice.”

“So everything you just said was bullshit, basically,” he says like he’s caught you, a smirk playing on his lips like this is the most amusing thing he’s ever encountered.

You gasp. “No, it was not bullshit. I like Jihyo, she’s my friend.”

Yunho leans in like he’s telling you a secret, “Have you ever even kissed a girl?”

Your top lip lifts, “Yes, I've kissed Jen!”

“I mean, like, seriously,” he explains with his hands. “I really didn’t take you as fruity.”

“Maybe you have a shit gaydar,” you counter, arms crossing over your chest.

“We’re getting off topic,” he shakes his head. “Would you survive if you had sex with Jihyo tomorrow and she didn’t call you after? Didn’t ask you to be her girlfriend?”

You shrug, “I don’t know.”

“I didn’t ask you to be my girlfriend,” he counters.

“But we talked about exclusivity the next morning,” you fire back. 

“But what if I didn’t bring it up? Would you have fucked me again?”

Your lips scrunch, cheeks heating up. “Yeah.” Yunho gives you a look like you’re trying to bullshit a bullshitter. You moan a noise of aggravation, “It’s different, Yunho. I knew you liked me before I slept with you.”

He shrugs, “Jihyo likes you.”

“Jihyo likes me as a friend,” you raise a finger between you.

He lowers it back down again, wrapping his palm around your finger. “Have you ever asked?” You barely get your no out before he’s sighing. “What are you scared of, sunshine?”

You’re tired of that question. And people asking you what you want. And any other fucking question that you don’t know the answer to.

“Being exclusive with someone doesn’t mean they won’t hurt you, baby.” He’s still holding your fingers as he says it, frowning. “And I know you know that already.”

First Wooyoung, and now Yunho? Your body sags, head drooping forward like the weight of his words sat directly on your back. Is this the aftermath? The mark Yeonjun left on your soul? You thought you were moving on, pushing forward, that Yunho was the very physical proof of your growth. It hurts to know it’s still not enough, that there’s embers left of the fire Yeonjun lit. But Yunho’s right. Wooyoung was fucking right, too, just like he always fucking is.

You look up again, eyes cloudy, face bent up in a frown. “How do I fix that?”

The smile he gives you is soft, comforting. “You don’t need to fix it, baby. I just wish you would live.”

You pout. “Does this mean we’re breaking up?”

His grin widens, a chuckle falling past his lips. “Is break-up the term to use here? Are you asking if we can still be friends? Still sleep together? What are you asking me, sunshine?”

You shrug, “I don’t know. What are my options?”

He runs two hands over his face, laughing into his palms. “Jesus Christ, you’re a piece of fucking work.”

“In a good way?”

He shakes his head before his palms find his lap. “Do you want to keep seeing me?”

“Of course I do,” you answer, that’s a no-brainer.

“Do you want to keep fucking me?”

You blink at him, slowly nodding before you quietly mumble, “Yes.”

“Do you still like me?”

You nod profusely, “Yes, I like you a lot.”

“Then why would we stop seeing each other?” he asks, his voice light. He reaches forward, moving a piece of hair out of your face. “We like each other, the sex is great, there’s no reason to stop.”

“But if you…” you start, then trail off. A little firmer, you ask, “But if you sleep with other people, are you still going to like me?”

His face softens. “Of course I will.”

You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “This is scary.”

“Then I’ll show you that it’s not,” he answers, reassurance lining his words. 

Almost a whisper, coated in fucking anxiety, you ask, “Can you kiss me?”

Without a word, without a second of fucking debate he’s reaching forward, palms swallowing your cheeks like they always do as he presses his lips to yours. It’s soft, just a peck of a kiss before he splits your lips, reassuring you of every word he just said, letting you feel that he’s still here, he still wants you, even if you aren’t fully his. 

He wants you to experience freedom. He wants you to be happy. He wants you to start living your life the way the raw, unshielded fucking part of you wants to live it. Everyone wants you to, apparently.

“Be careful,” he whispers into your mouth, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “If you keep going, the tow-truck guy is gonna catch us fucking in the backseat.”

All you do is laugh, and kiss him harder.

"You were definitely flirting back," San says, grinning across the booth, his eyes gleaming with mischief as if he's just uncovered your secret. 

You take a small sip of your drink, pretending to be disinterested, letting the cool temperature of the glass distract you from the telltale warmth creeping into your cheeks.

The bar is louder and more crowded than you expected—despite knowing that Yunho is friends with over half of the student body population at your university—and the low thrum of the bass mixing with drunken chatter and clinking glassware is almost overwhelming. The smell of fried, greasy food and spilled beer is thick in the air, and the light from overhead bulbs flickers erratically, casting strange-looking shadows across your sticky wooden table. Normally, you would hate this type of unpredictable environment, but sitting here with San and Yeosang, talking about whatever the hell just happened with Hongjoong, allows it to feel somewhat manageable.

You tug lightly at the hem of your skirt, a subconscious effort to edit yourself down into a smaller presence within the booth, and glance around the room. The neon signs over the bar buzz faintly while a group of students in the booth behind you laugh far too loudly, but it all feels distant—like the rest of the space has been muted just for you three. 

"I wasn't flirting," you mumble.

San snorts. "Sure, sure. But come on—you're telling us the whole story! Compliments, joking around, him explicitly noticing your outfit, just like I told you he would..."

You groan softly, staring at the table, wishing you could take back everything you told them. "It wasn't like that. He was just being nice."

Yeosang, sitting next to San, watches your internal struggle more quietly. His expression is calm, almost cautious, as he speaks. "You're downplaying it," he says. "He wasn't just being polite, ____. Complimenting your outfit, asking for your Instagram... those all sound highly intentional."

You blink at him. "Intentional? That's... I don't know, I mean, Instagram—"

"Instagram is the least of it!" San interrupts, leaning forward, excitement crackling in his voice. "Didn't you tell us he stalked your following? The way he lit up when he realized you had the same music taste?"

You bite your lip, trying to ignore the way your stomach flips. "It wasn't—"

"And what about the squirrels?" he practically shouts, slamming his fist on the table with enough enthusiasm to make the ice rattle in your cup. "You two probably looked like dumbasses, all crouched down and taking pictures! That's not normal student-tutor behavior!"

Yeosang side-eyes his friend, slowly sliding his condensation-crusted beer an extra six inches out of his reach. "We might need to start limiting how much you drink before midnight." 

San pouts at him.

"Lightweight," you sneer, and his pout instantly curdles into a frown as he looks to Yeosang for backup.

Yeosang fixes you with a pointed look. "Don't try to change the subject. Look, everything San said is true, but... I think the whole walking together thing is more telling. You two literally followed each other blindly down the wrong path, oblivious to your own destinations. And then you offered to help him, to walk with him more, when he didn't know where to go. That choice..." He gauges your expression carefully. "That's not a choice someone makes if they don't enjoy the company they're keeping."

Your fingers trace the condensation on your glass, remembering the path, the streetlamps, and the way Hongjoong's arm had brushed against yours. "It did feel more natural than I thought it would," you admit softly, almost to yourself. 

San claps his hands together loudly. "See? That's what I'm saying! You were flirting. He was flirting. Everyone was flirting."

You bury your face in your hands, letting out a muffled sigh against your own skin. "Were you there, San? Because I don't think it's that simple."

Yeosang leans back, keeping San's drink just out of his reach. "Intent and perception aren't always the same, though. You can't just ignore his actions because you label them differently."

San groans dramatically, throwing his head back before slapping Yeosang lightly on the shoulder. "I don't even understand what you're saying right now, man. Just say she liked it! She likes him." He turns to you, eyes expectant. "Come on. Admit it."

You peek out through the small gaps between your fingers at the two of them, half-laughing, half-mortified. "I... okay, maybe I did like it? A little bit? It was... nice. He was nice. He pays attention to things, you know? Remembers random details I mention. And then the Instagram stuff... and the music... the squirrels... walking together..."

San throws his hands in the air triumphantly, a smirk plastered on his face. "Exactly! It all adds up!"

Yeosang's gaze lingers longer. "Just pay attention to the pattern," he says. "The compliments, the shared interests, everything. They all point to a connection beyond what you allowed yourself to see at first."

You glance around the bar again, taking in the warmth of the lights against your skin, the low buzz of overlapping voices in your ears, and the faint citrusy bite of the cocktails that were just served to the booth behind you. It's loud, and it's overwhelming, but sitting in here with your friends finally eases the quiet tension that's clung to you all evening. 

You look back up at San and Yeosang, the weight of everything that happened tonight fully sinking in. "It just feels like it shouldn't be this complicated," you admit, staring at your glass.

San snorts, waving a hand dismissively. "It's not that complicated. Trust me. I'm also a guy, in case you forgot. He's probably just testing the waters, you know? Seeing if you're okay with him crossing some professional lines."

You look at Yeosang, seeking a more rational, sober confirmation. He exhales slowly, turning his glass around in a thoughtful circle. "I don't think it's all about testing how far he can push the boundaries," he says finally. "Testing the waters implies confidence, but what you described sounds more like hesitation."

He taps his chin thoughtfully. "I think he wants to cross the line. He's just afraid to. Maybe he's afraid of doing something he can't take back if he misreads the signs you're giving him. And that's why it feels complicated. Not because nothing's happening, but because something is, and neither of you knows who's supposed to make the first move."

You fall quiet, unsure of what to make of it all or how to respond. Your mind drifts back over the night, replaying everything that seemed insignificant in the moment. If Yeosang—and maybe even San—is right, then every tiny detail now feels impossibly large. 

San’s eyes suddenly flick past you, his attention snapping toward the entrance. He straightens in the booth, a grin already spreading across his face.

"What are you looking—"

Before you can even finish the question, San is already halfway out of his seat. He raises his arm high, waving it enthusiastically over your head to signal whoever just walked through the door to come and join your table. 

You turn instinctively in your seat.

The man who steps into view doesn’t hesitate, nor does he pause to scan the crowded room the way most people do. He walks in as if he already knows exactly where he’s going—moving with confidence, like the space will naturally part for him whether it wants to or not. His hair is longer than you expect, dark strands falling loose around his face, brushing his jaw and the nape of his neck instead of being neatly styled or contained. It's the kind of effortless choice that only absolute confidence can pull off.

He's dressed in all black, the sleeves of his leather jacket pushed up his forearms. The dim bar lights catch on smooth skin and ink, your attention snagging on the tattoo winding along his arm—dark lines curling and branching with dangerous elegance, the kind of detailed work that makes you immediately wonder about the history and meaning behind it. When he moves, the leather of his jacket creases softly, reflecting the light, and you get the unmistakable sense that he’s well aware of how he’s perceived by everyone in the room and has no intention of changing a single thing about it.

There's something dangerous in the way he carries himself. His jaw is sharp enough to look like it could cut, and his gaze, even from a distance, is easily the most intense you've ever seen.

And then it lands on you.

It's not brief or polite, nor does he look away when your eyes connect. He looks at you like he's decided on something already, his head tilting. The corner of his mouth curves; it's not soft, and it's most definitely not shy. He's confident. And he's interested.

Deep in your chest, your breath catches completely. 

When he finally reaches your booth, his eyes sweep past you first, landing on Yeosang with a mischievous glint. His grin spreads too easily, shoulders relaxing as though the space now belongs to him.

"Wow," he says as he approaches. His voice is lighter than you expected from his appearance, but no less confident. "Didn't think I'd ever find you here on a night this crowded, Sangie." 

Yeosang lets out an exhale that sounds trapped between a defeated sigh and a soft laugh. "I wouldn't usually be here, but I wouldn't miss Yunho's birthday, either."

The man punches Yeosang's shoulder lightly in a familiar greeting, and then—without so much as asking for permission—he slides right into the empty space beside you. The fit is tight. His thigh brushes yours. He drapes his arm casually along the back of the booth behind your shoulders, boxing you in without ever actually touching you.

And then his gaze lands back on you.

It lingers far longer than any stranger’s should, slow and unbothered by social etiquette, cataloging every detail of your face before he even bothers to speak. His lips curve into a smirk that’s full of unfiltered curiosity.

"Hey," he says, gaze locked onto yours. "I'm Wooyoung."

You force your throat to work, telling him your name, your heart catching at the proximity. Wooyoung's eyes don’t flinch from your face for even a second—not even when San barks out a loud laugh, shattering the tension between you.

"Yeah, ____," San says with an instigating grin, clearly enjoying the scene, "this is Wooyoung. Met him through Yeosang. You’re gonna hate him."

Wooyoung’s head snaps toward San, his eyebrows lowering as his lips twitch in mock offense. "Hey! Let her decide that for herself, asshole!"

San just laughs harder. Beside him, Yeosang shakes his head, chuckling. "Woo and I have been friends since we were kids," he explains, offering a bit of context.

"Unfortunately for him," Wooyoung murmurs, his eyes already flicking right back to you. It’s unnerving how little effort he makes to mask his interest. He's dropped into your space, touched you without hesitation, and yet, somehow, it doesn’t even feel intrusive. 

Your usual defensive instincts try to claw their way to the surface. Who does this guy think he is? Walking in like this, invading my personal space?

Though right beneath that thought, another follows: And why do I not hate it?

"So," Wooyoung continues, leaning slightly closer to you as he addresses the entire table, the corner of his mouth tilting up. You shift subtly, trying to create a sliver of distance, but the movement feels more like an involuntary instinct than an actual necessity. "I sincerely apologize. It was rude of me to barge in and interrupt. What were you talking about before I got here?"

"Her tutor," San blurts out before you can kick him under the table. Heat rushes to your cheeks instantly.

Wooyoung's eyebrows lift as he looks at you. "Damn. I would've pegged you as the type who doesn't need a tutor for anything."

Your lips press into a thin, defensive line. "I don’t need a tutor," you correct him sharply. "It’s required for everyone in my language class."

San chuckles loudly. "She got an 85 on her last test. Needs all the help she can get," he cuts in, sipping the beer he somehow stealthily stole back from Yeosang when neither of you were paying attention.

"San!" you snap, your fingers flying to the stem of your glass as if you were going to splash it on him. He actually jumps back, scrambling to lean against Yeosang for safety. 

Wooyoung bursts out laughing, a loud, uninhibited sound that makes the muscles in your chest tighten in a completely new way. "Aw, what language is it?" he asks with a pout as he watches your fiery reaction. "Fire him. I'll be your tutor instead. Seems like the one you have now isn't doing a very good job."

"No," you say immediately, shaking your head, a weirdly protective instinct over Hongjoong kicking in. "He’s a good tutor. I just... I've never taken Korean before, that’s all."

Wooyoung's grin stretches wider, and he leans even closer, his shoulder pressing against yours as he drops his voice. "I know a little Korean. Seriously, get rid of him. I’ll help you study instead, 자기야."

Your cheeks flare hotter than you ever thought biologically possible. Did he just… call me baby in Korean? The word lingers in your head, unfamiliar in your everyday vocabulary yet somehow having such a strong effect on you.

San bursts into hysterics while Yeosang drops his head into his hands, clearly mortified by his childhood friend's lack of boundaries, but you can barely focus on either of them. All your attention is on Wooyoung. Your mind scrambles for its usual logical defenses, screaming a frantic question: Why isn’t this completely repulsive? 

"I told you, ____," San teases loudly through his laughter, pointing a finger at your burning face. "You’re gonna hate him."

You ignore him, eyes locked on Wooyoung. "Are you like this with every girl you meet?"

He slowly smirks, as if he'd been expecting a challenge from you. "Only the pretty ones."

Across the table, Yeosang groans out of secondhand embarrassment, letting his forehead thump against the table. San is practically rolling around the booth with laughter now, but you don't find a single thing funny. The playful, unapologetic danger in Wooyoung’s words sends a tingle straight down your spine, leaving your heart thumping.

"You're gonna have to try harder than that, Woo," San taunts through his chuckles, calming down a bit. "She’s already gotten plenty of compliments like that from her tutor today."

You stay focused on Wooyoung, refusing to break eye contact. His gaze doesn’t waver, either. There’s no sign of irritation, no hesitation, not even the faintest flicker of concern that another guy might already be occupying your time. If anything, his posture goes looser, his shoulders dropping as he leans back against his draped arm, looking more confident than before—as if San’s words only confirmed that you are entirely available territory for him to claim.

Then, he tilts his head at you, his expression calculating. "He’s into you?"

You immediately open your mouth to shake your head and dismiss it, but you hesitate. Is Hongjoong into you? After everything that happened tonight... do you even know for sure?

You settle on the most honest answer you can manage, forcing your expression to remain neutral and unrevealing: "Maybe."

Wooyoung’s smirk deepens as he studies your lips, then your eyes again. He doesn't look discouraged in the slightest. The ambiguity seems to fuel him.

Is he serious? you think, your mind scrambling for an explanation for how fast this night is spinning out of your control. Are Yeosang and San orchestrating some elaborate prank on you?

He suddenly leans back, creating a few inches of necessary space between you as he stretches one arm lazily behind his head, casual and in control. His eyes scan the rest of the bar, drinking it in like a man who’s already claimed the night before it's even begun. "You three have seriously been hiding out in this corner this whole time?" he says, his tone laced with mock disappointment. "That's criminal. Yunho knows how to pick a good bar. This place has a whole fucking dance floor."

"I'm in," San calls out, jumping up before anyone else.

"No," Yeosang says, flat and unimpressed.

"Absolutely not," you add, just as quickly, your walls snapping back into place.

Wooyoung turns his head to Yeosang first, rolling his eyes. "You always say no, Sangie, and then you somehow end up having the most fun out of everyone in the room."

Yeosang's jaw drops slightly. "That is not true, Woo."

Wooyoung's grin only sharpens. "Give me thirty seconds on the dance floor, and I'll prove you wrong."

But Yeosang shakes his head firmly, crossing his arms. "No."

Wooyoung huffs a bright laugh, then turns his focus to you. "You, on the other hand..." he murmurs, his eyes sweeping over your outfit unashamedly, "I don't know enough about yet."

"I don't dance," you say immediately.

San groans, shoving Yeosang out of the booth, muttering something under his breath about your blatant lies. "Don't listen to her, Woo. She’s actually a really good dancer. She just hates doing it in front of people."

Wooyoung's interest visibly spikes. Without asking for permission, he slides out of the booth and stands up, holding out his hand to you, palm up.

"Come on," he says, nodding over his shoulder toward the pulsing lights of the dance floor. "Just one dance."

Your heart stutters—not because you're actually tempted to yes, but because this is unmistakable. It's not an inside joke between childhood friends. It's not some coordinated prank. It's not even casual, meaningless bar banter. Wooyoung is actually, genuinely flirting with you. 

Still, your brain takes one look at the crowded floor and locks the brakes. There's no way in hell you're going to walk out there and start dancing. Especially not with him.

"No," you say simply.

He doesn't look remotely offended by your refusal. He doesn't push or try to persuade you, either. His hand drops easily back to his side, like rejection is just another possible outcome he's already accounted for and accepted.

"Alright," he says smoothly, his smirk never entirely leaving his lips. "No dancing." Then, without missing a single beat, he tilts his head down to catch your eyes again. "At least let me buy you a drink. I have to get you out of this sad little corner somehow."

Your mind screams caution. You should never, in a million years, find yourself drawn to someone like Wooyoung, so blatant, so forward, and so intense. But as you sit there beneath his unblinking gaze, you can't deny the rush of it. It feels good. It feels like someone is looking at you and wanting you without any kind of guessing game.

You think about Hongjoong: polite, attentive, kind, shy, and distant in the subtle ways that leave you constantly wondering if you’re translating his signals correctly or just projecting your own desperate wishes onto a friendly tutor. And yet, a stubborn, irrational part of your heart still clings to the hope that the looks he gives you might mean something more.

Then you look back at Wooyoung, and the contrast clicks into place: right now, you're not second-guessing, not wondering if you misread a pause, and not carefully testing boundaries masked as politeness. He wants your attention—and he doesn’t see any reason to pretend otherwise.

It takes you a moment to formulate an answer.

Is this wrong?

You try to apply cold logic to the panic. Of course it isn’t wrong. You aren’t with anyone. You don’t even like Hongjoong.

...Maybe you like Hongjoong a little bit. But even if you do, he hasn’t said a single definitive thing to you. He hasn’t claimed anything. For all your analyzing, the most realistic conclusion is that he’s just an exceptionally kind person who was maybe flirting without any real intention of crossing the line.

So then why, as you look at Wooyoung's open palm, does it feel like you're committing a betrayal?

You shake the thought away. It's stupid—you don’t owe Hongjoong your devotion. Wooyoung is right here in front of you, confident, magnetic, almost laughably egotistical, and different from any guy you've ever met. And he’s telling you exactly what he wants: you.

But do you even want him back? You don’t even know his last name—you literally just met him four minutes ago. And yet, the way he looks at you, the way he speaks to you… it's already addictive. You want to know more. 

Finally, you make your decision. "Okay. One drink."

Wooyoung’s grin spreads wide, unmistakably pleased. You take his palm without another thought, sliding past Yeosang and San like they aren’t even there while they exchange confused glances with each other. Your focus is entirely on Wooyoung—on the warmth of his body guiding you through the crowd, the teasing glint in his side profile, and the thrill of saying yes to someone who doesn’t hesitate.

Your final conclusion hits you a little more harshly.

If Wooyoung can make wanting you look this effortless, this immediate... then maybe the math is finally solved. Maybe Hongjoong really doesn't want you. Maybe you were just a struggling student imagining sparks when there were only embers of professional obligation.

He's your tutor, and you're his student.

Nothing more.

An hour later, the bar feels different somehow. It’s significantly louder, for one. The bass reverberates through the floor and into the soles of your shoes, while laughter spills carelessly over itself and bodies press closer and closer together as the night deepens. But the space no longer feels like it’s closing in on you. It exists around you instead of swallowing you whole, like the chaos has learned to curve itself around the perimeter of where you're sitting.

Wooyoung has something to do with that.

A third drink appears on the laminate counter in front of you. This one is bright yellow, catching the bar lights just right, with a beautiful purple flower floating delicately on the surface. You stare at the artistry of the glass, then turn your gaze to him. 

"Wooyoung," you say slowly, incredulous, "you’ve bought me a different drink every single time. I really don't need all of this. I never even told you what I like to drink."

He just smiles, waving your protests off with a flick of his wrist as he lifts his own glass to his lips. "I know exactly what you like," he says, his eyes gleaming over the rim. "You’re really easy to read."

"That’s a little insulting."

"But accurate," he counters with a smirk. "Are you gonna look me in the eye and tell me you didn't love the last two?"

You hate that he’s right—they were, without a doubt, two of the best cocktails you've ever tasted.

You roll your eyes, trying to maintain a shred of your usual defensive posture, but you still bring the new glass to your lips anyway. One sip is all it takes. The balance of flavor is flawless: citrus-forward without being overly sharp, sweet without being cloying. It is, down to the exact flavor profile, exactly what you would've ordered for yourself.

You lower the glass slowly, staring at the purple flower. "…I'm regretting leaving that booth with you."

His grin widens, victorious. "I rest my case."

"I don’t even understand how you—"

"Talent," he cuts in smoothly, leaning back against the bar. He stretches one arm casually along the back of your high barstool—not quite touching your shoulders, but getting close enough. "And basic observation. I told you, ____. I pay attention."

You’re technically sitting forward, your elbows resting on the counter, but you realize belatedly that your body has been unconsciously angled toward him for a while now. Wooyoung, on the other hand, has fully committed. His stool is turned completely sideways, his knees angled directly at yours, his focus never drifting away from your face for more than a second. Even when someone calls his name from across the bar, even when the bartender asks him a quick question, his eyes always come right back to you. 

In the span of just thirty minutes, he's carelessly handed you more pieces of himself than most people manage to reveal in months of friendship. He's so open and casual about everything, treating vulnerability like it’s just another language he happens to speak fluently. Lifelong ambitions, childhood memories, what kind of breakfast he hopes to eat tomorrow morning... it all spills out of him effortlessly.

And somehow, you match his pace.

There is no awkward adjustment period where you feel the need to carefully filter your words or edit your sentences. Normally, you take time with new people. You prefer to observe from a distance first, calculating which parts of your personality are safe to offer up without risking judgment. But with Wooyoung, that instinct dulls. His boldness creates space instead of taking it, like you could say something stupid or blunt or completely wrong, and he’d just tilt his head, smile, and ask you to explain what you meant. 

"So," he says eventually, eyes flicking briefly to your drink before returning to your face, "tell me your major."

You hesitate only a beat. "International Relations."

His eyebrows lift. "No way."

"What?"

"Same," he says easily, leaning a little closer against the counter.

You blink, your first instinct telling you he's lying. "You’re joking."

He laughs loudly. "You don't believe me? I'm dead serious. Okay—technically, I’m a double-major. Culinary arts, too."

That throws you off your script. "Culinary? Really?"

"Yeah. Cooking’s always been my thing," he says, his demeanor softening, a rare glimpse beyond his confident exterior. "Since I was a kid, really."

You smile despite yourself, charmed by the unexpected contrast. "That’s actually kind of—"

"But," he continues, completely steamrolling over the brief moment of softness with a wicked glint in his eyes, "it would be a crime to waste my incredible people skills in a kitchen forever."

You laugh outright this time. "Wooyoung, your ego is insane."

He grins, unbothered and unapologetic. "And yet."

And yet, it works. Anyone else saying those words would make your skin crawl. But coming from him, it feels like confidence sharpened into charm instead of arrogance.

"So what’s the plan, then?" you ask, leaning your chin in your hand. "International chef? Traveling the world and cooking in a different country every month? That would be fun, no?"

His expression shifts—not becoming entirely serious, but more focused on what he's saying. "That's a tempting idea," he admits, swirling the ice in his glass. "But I’m not stupid. Being a chef doesn’t pay the bills unless you’re the absolute best of the best. So, law school it is. One of the top-tier ones, obviously. International law, diplomacy—something that gives me a platform to travel while still funding the exact lifestyle I want to live." He pauses, then smirks. "If I can’t cook my way around the world, I’ll at least eat my way through it on a corporate budget."

You shake your head, smiling. "You’ve thought this through."

"Obviously."

You study him for a second before you say carefully, "I get that."

He looks at you, finally going quiet to let you speak.

"My dream was always to write," you continue before your usual filters can stop you. "When I was a kid, I used to write these ridiculous mini-novels about anything my little brain could come up with. My parents would laminate them at the kitchen table and tell me they were being published." You laugh softly at the memory. "I believed them, too."

Wooyoung's smile softens, surprisingly genuine now.

"But eventually, as I got older," you go on, "I realized that passion doesn’t always equal sustainability. So I forced myself to find something adjacent. Law or diplomacy, exactly like you said. It's still writing, technically... only, structured. If I can’t write novels on beaches or in the mountains somewhere, I can at least see the world while drafting briefs for court cases and corporate lawsuits."

He lets the moment sit for a second. "We're the same," he says quietly.

"I was set on working in China for a long time," you admit, the sting of your scheduling dilemmas returning. "I studied Mandarin all through high school. But now…" You trail off, looking down at your drink. "Being forced to take Korean instead kind of threw a wrench into my plan."

"France," he says immediately.

You tilt your head, blinking at the sudden pivot. "France?"

"I’ve been studying French since I was twelve," he shrugs. "My parents were actually born there, but I’ve somehow never been." 

You find yourself smiling at how differently the two of you approach life—he's bold, reckless, and entirely confident in his forward momentum, while you're careful, methodical, and constantly calculating the risks. And yet, the destinations the two of you have in mind are the same.

"Did you meet Yunho through our major, too?" Wooyoung asks, already lifting two fingers toward the bartender as if the man has just been waiting for his cue. Another drink appears moments later, condensation already beading on the glass placed beside him, all while you continue to carefully nurse yours.

"Kind of," you say, a grin touching your lips. "We actually met in our Korean class. But we have the IR lecture together, too."

He nods thoughtfully, winking at the bartender as a thanks. "I have Poli Sci with him." Then he exhales a quiet laugh. "You know, for a really long time, I thought I was the most extroverted person on the face of the planet. Like, untouchable levels of social stamina."

"And then?" you prompt, entertained.

"And then I met Yunho," he finishes, glancing around the room with a shake of his head. "I swear, that guy is friends with the entire school. Just look at this place. At least ninety-eight percent of these people are probably here because he invited them personally." He scans the dense crowd again, brow furrowing. "I haven't even seen him yet tonight."

You follow his gaze, eyes skimming over what feels like hundreds of bodies packed together—laughing, dancing, and shouting to be heard over the music. It’s everything you normally avoid: the crowds, the noise, all of it. But tonight, tucked into this small pocket of space with Wooyoung, it feels vastly more tolerable than usual.

"I haven’t seen him since we arrived, either," you admit, turning back to your drink. "He's my best friend, so we always drive together, with Yeosang and San. But you know how he is—the second he finishes his first drink, he vanishes straight to the dance floor."

"Speaking of which," Wooyoung says lightly, eyes flicking back to you, "are you ready to dance yet?"

You don’t even bother hiding your reaction this time. You roll your eyes, completely unimpressed by his persistence. "Wooyoung. This is the third time you've asked me. I'm not going out on that dance floor."

"Hm." He pretends to seriously consider this, tapping his fingers against his glass. "Interesting."

"Why is that interesting?"

"Because I feel like we’ve been dancing all night already."

You stare blankly at him. "Please never say that line out loud again."

The corner of his mouth quirks for a split second before he breaks into laughter, his shoulder shaking. "What? You don't like it when I flirt with you?"

"Not like that," you reply, your tone teasing despite yourself.

"Oh?" His eyebrows lift in a challenge. "So there are ways you like it."

You open your mouth to fire back a clever retort—and promptly forget every single word you were going to say.

"Um. Well. I don’t—"

"Like this, maybe?" he murmurs. He reaches out toward you slowly, giving you more than enough time to pull away. But you stay exactly where you are.

His fingers gently tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckles lightly grazing the skin of your cheek on the way back down. His touch is so light it's barely even there, but it sends a jolt straight through your body nonetheless.

Your breath stutters in your throat as heat blooms under your skin. All night, the space between you has felt incredibly charged, but now, with a single touch, it feels like he's just upped the voltage.

You don’t miss the way his eyes darken, or how his smirk deepens when he realizes the exact caliber of the reaction he’s just pulled out of you.

"Aw," he says softly, teasing you. "Are you getting shy now?"

That comment pulls you out of the haze immediately.

"No," you say, scrambling to pull your walls back up. "What—what do you even mean by that?" Your tone comes out sharp and defensive, which just causes him to let out a laugh under his breath, amused by your attempt to push him back. He tilts his head slightly, his eyes systematically tracing the contours of your face.

"I told you," he says easily, running a hand through his long hair as he shifts his weight against the counter. "I’m good at reading people." His eyes stay on yours, curious rather than intense. "You’re confident. You’re not awkward in social settings; you just don't like them. You obviously know how to talk to people, even if you're more of an introvert."

You scoff dismissively. "That’s not exactly groundbreaking, Wooyoung."

"But," he continues, lifting a single finger to stall your argument, "you hesitate."

You blink. "About what?"

"About letting things just happen," he says, shrugging his shoulders like he's stating the most obvious fact in the world. "You like having control over your environment. You like knowing what’s coming next. But when you don't know? When someone else takes the lead?" His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up to your eyes. "You listen."

Your breath hitches. Just barely.

"There it is," he murmurs, satisfied. "That look."

You open your mouth to aggressively argue the point, then promptly shut it when you realize any protest will only prove him right.

He laughs again, clearly living for every second of this. "Relax. I don’t mean it in a bad way. It’s cute." He leans back slightly, taking a casual sip of his drink. "You're smart. You don’t need anyone telling you what to do."

Then, like an afterthought, he adds:  "But sometimes, I think you might like it when someone does."

Your face feels hot now, and you hate that he can tell. You glare at him, though it lacks any real, venomous heat. "You’re reading way too much into this conversation."

"Maybe," he concedes. "Or maybe I just know what I’m looking at." His grin sharpens. "Don’t worry, ____. I'm a patient man. I’m not trying to rush anything here. Besides, half the fun of the night is watching you pretend you're unaffected by me."

You shake your head, a breathless, disbelieving laugh slipping past your lips. "This entire conversation is completely ridiculous."

He laughs, lifting his glass toward you in a silent, solitary toast. "We'll get there," he says lightly. A promise and a joke all at once.

Instead of formulating a response or fully grasping the implications of his words, your attention shifts, caught by movement near the front entrance of the bar. 

You notice him right away—not because he’s making a scene, but because he looks exactly the way you always do when you find yourself completely out of your element.

Mingi is standing just inside the doorway, his tall frame slightly hunched over as his eyes anxiously scan the room. He looks like he's trying not to take up too much space or be in anyone's way, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other every few seconds, his long arms hanging awkwardly at his sides. You watch from the counter as someone brushes past him, and Mingi instinctively steps back, murmuring a quick apology even though he hadn't been in the way at all.

You've always found it strange how people on campus seem wary of him just because of his intimidating frame and features. In class, he's always gentle, intelligent with his words, laughs a little too loudly at his own jokes, then winces like he's worried he disrupted the lecture hall. He's awkward in a loud, endearing way.

His eyes find you. The relief on his face is immediate, his shoulders relaxing like he finally spotted something familiar in all the noise, even though you're not super close. He starts heading toward your spot at the bar without a single shred of hesitation, his long legs moving faster than he probably realizes, like he's worried you'll vanish if he doesn't hurry.

Wooyoung notices your attention shift and glances lazily over his shoulder, following your gaze. "You know him?" he asks casually, turning back to swirl the remaining ice in his glass.

"Yeah," you say, smiling at the sight of your classmate. "We have Korean together."

By the time Mingi actually reaches your barstools, his intimidating aura has dissolved. Up close, he actually looks shy, slowing to a stop while smiling tentatively like he doesn't want to intrude on your conversation.

"Hey, ____," he greets you, his voice naturally deep. He nods politely at Wooyoung, who returns it with an amused little wave.

"Hi, Mingi," you reply easily. "You look like you're looking for someone."

He lets out a small, slightly embarrassed laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Uh—do you know where I can find Yunho? He texted me and told me to come out tonight, but there are way more people packed in here than I thought there would be."

You glance around at the sea of bodies. "Yeah," you say with an understanding nod. "Yunho has a crazy amount of friends. He's probably somewhere in the middle of the dance floor—"

"MINGIIII!"

The volume of his voice makes you flinch as Yunho barrels into view, grinning wildly from ear to ear, eyes glassy with a mix of alcohol and pure joy. His hair is damp with sweat, his shirt wrinkled like he's been dancing nonstop for hours, and he's holding two drinks that slosh dangerously over the rims as he practically tackles Mingi into a hug.

"Mingi! Heyyy, Mingi!" Yunho shouts, looping an arm around his broad shoulders with zero regard for personal space. "You made it!"

Mingi freezes for half a second, a little startled, before grinning widely as Yunho shakes him excitedly. "Of course I did, man." 

Yunho immediately shoves one of the sweating glasses into Mingi's hand, nearly spilling. "Here! Drink up! You like to party, right? We're having fun tonight!"

Mingi barely even registers the drink being forced on him, still beaming at Yunho. "Yeah, man! Let's—"

Before he can finish a sentence, Yunho's attention snaps over to the bar, landing on you before sliding over to Wooyoung. His grin stretches even wider, if that's physically possible.

"Oh!" he yells loudly, his face lighting up. "Perfect! Wooyoung, dude!" He points a finger at him. "Take a picture of me with my two favorite people!" 

Your brows lift in perfect unison with Mingi’s, bewildered surprise flickering across both your faces.

Two favorite people?

Every single time you’ve brought Mingi's name up since that day at the café, Yunho has deflected—masterfully changing the subject, brushing it off, or pretending he couldn't hear you. You assumed there was something there. Maybe a little crush, some passing interest he wanted to keep secret from the group.

But this drunken declaration definitely feels a whole lot bigger than that.

Yunho grabs your wrist with one hand and Mingi’s sleeve with the other, tugging you out of your seat. He pulls you both closer and wedges himself in the narrow space between. His long arms sling around your shoulders, bringing you into his chest with sloppy, uncoordinated enthusiasm.

"C'mon," he says, his words just slightly slurred as he beams at Wooyoung. "Smile!"

Mingi's smile breaks out huge and gummy, eyes crinkling as he gladly leans into the center. You can't help but laugh outright, relaxing into your best friend's sweaty touch and letting yourself be pulled into the moment.

Wooyoung doesn’t hesitate to stand, reaching smoothly into the deep inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulling something out. You register the object in pieces first—the black strap, the metallic edges, the unmistakable silhouette of a lens—

"Is that a camera?" you blurt out, keeping your face fixed in a wide smile just in case he decides to snap the picture right away.

He grins behind the device as he lifts it directly to his eye, his posture shifting just slightly so he can capture a better angle of the three of you. He looks so natural holding it, like it's second nature for him. "Yeah, it is."

You blink. "Do you just always... carry an actual camera around with you?"

"I love photography," he explains easily, adjusting the focus ring on the lens with careful fingers. "There's a hidden pocket inside my jacket that's big enough to hold it securely. I bring it with me whenever I go out."

Of course he does, you think, letting out a surprised laugh as you literally look at him through a new lens, wondering just how many more layers there are left to unwrap.

Yunho squints at the camera, leaning forward until his nose is practically pressed against the glass of the lens. "Woah, dude. This is fucking cool."

Without breaking his stance, Wooyoung calmly presses the tip of his index finger against Yunho’s forehead and pushes him back into place. "Yunho. Do not touch my camera."

Yunho just laughs off the warning. "Okay—wait—no—hold on, this is my good side. Or is it—" He turns his head completely to the right, second-guesses his choice, and then immediately gives up, slinging his heavy arm right back around your shoulders with enough force to nearly knock you sideways. "Okay! Go!"

The three of you are wrapped together in a loose, lopsided embrace, the closeness smelling like cologne mixed with sweat and alcohol. Wooyoung takes a few calculated steps back into the crowd, his eye pressed firmly against the viewfinder.

The shutter clicks once.

Immediately, Yunho lets go of you and Mingi, laughter bubbling out of him as he reaches forward and carelessly snatches the expensive camera straight out of Wooyoung's hands. "Let me see how it looks!"

"Yunho—" you start, instinctively reaching out after remembering Wooyoung's warning from a few seconds ago.

But Yunho is already staring at the digital screen on the back, his jaw dropping. "Wowww."

You and Mingi both lean in without thinking, your heads hovering over Yunho’s shoulders as you peer down at the small, glowing screen.

And then, you freeze. 

Because the shot is, without exaggeration, beautiful.

It's not the typical, awkwardly posed, flash-blinded photo you expect to see captured at a college bar. The lighting is warm and golden, catching the edges of everything just right: the glow of the liquor bottles behind the bar, the soft blur of bodies moving in the background. Yunho is frozen mid-laugh, his eyes crinkled, joy practically radiating off him despite how visibly drunk he is. Mingi looks relaxed and genuinely happy, his gummy smile wide and free of hesitation.

And you—you barely even recognize the person looking back at you. You aren't stiff, and you aren't half-turned away from the camera like usual. Your shoulders are loose, and it's clear that your smile is a real one. Your eyes are bright and alive, like you belong exactly where you're standing. There's no trace of a performance, no overthinking, and no cautious waiting for some social variable to go wrong.

You hadn't fully realized just how tightly you'd been holding yourself together all night—all semester, really—until you see this proof of yourself letting go.

"Oh," you breathe. "Wow."

Yunho squints down at your awestruck expression, then throws his head back, his laughter echoing over the music. "Right? I look incredible!"

You shake your head, a smile tugging at your lips as you nudge his side lightly, mindful of his already questionable balance. "No, you idiot, it's not just you. This is... this is really good."

You glance up without thinking, your eyes instinctively searching for the photographer, and find that Wooyoung is already watching you.

He's leaned back against the bar, arms crossed loosely over the chest of his jacket, his eyes fixed on you like he's reading every micro-expression as it crosses your face. When your eyes meet his, he tilts his head and gives you a wink. It's smug—it's like he knew he could capture you the exact way you needed to see yourself tonight. 

Before you can form a sentence to tell him exactly how stunning the photo is, Yunho thrusts the expensive camera carelessly back into Wooyoung's hands and grabs a tight hold of Mingi's arm. "Alright! Enough standing around! Come on, Mingi, let's get out there!"

Mingi beams, his face lighting up as he lets himself be pulled away. He doesn't even glance back at you.

You and Wooyoung are left alone again.

The absence is noticeable immediately. Yunho's booming laughter fades into the dense mass of noise near the dance floor, Mingi's tall silhouette is swallowed whole by bodies and lights, and suddenly there's space between the two of you and the rest of the bar. The music still pounds, but it feels farther away now, dulled by the quiet bubble that seems to reform around you and Wooyoung.

He leans back against the bar beside you, one ankle crossing over the other, posture loose and relaxed. He watches the room the way someone watches a movie they've already seen a hundred times: amused, observant, and not really fully invested in the plot anymore.

You glance at his profile, then back at the crowd.

"If I'm too boring for you," you say lightly, half-joking and half-serious, "you're always welcome to go out there and join them. I'm sure you know at least half the people in this place anyway."

He turns his head, looking at you like you've said something unexpected.

"You're right," he says after a moment. "I do."

You hum softly in response, keeping your eyes trained on the dance floor, expecting him to make his exit.

But he doesn’t continue right away. He tips his head back, scanning the exposed piping of the ceiling like he’s considering your casual comment more seriously than it probably calls for.

"I’ve never really done this before," he says finally.

"Done what?"

"This," he repeats, gesturing with a slight nod of his head between the two of you and your half-empty glasses. "Just sitting. Drinking. Talking. Watching the room. Usually, when I'm out at a place like this, I’mthe one on the floor being watched." His mouth quirks, and he shrugs. "It’s nice. Kinda peaceful."

"Oh," you say. You're surprised by his answer. But he says it so earnestly that you don't really doubt the validity of his words.

You don’t know quite what to do with that, so you just take a sip of your drink and let the silence stretch.

Wooyoung notices. He studies the lines of your face for a second, catching how your shoulders relax when you realize he’s not secretly itching to leave you behind for a wilder crowd.

He shifts, angling his body toward you more fully, his knee brushing yours again. "Hey," he says, tone casual again. "What’s your favorite food?"

The question catches you off guard. "My favorite—what?"

"Food," he repeats, smiling. "Try to keep up."

You think for a moment. "I don’t know. Pasta, maybe?"

His features light up immediately as if you’ve just given him the exact answer he wanted.

"That’s perfect," he says. "I’ll cook for you."

You blink. "You’ll… cook for me?"

"Saturday," he continues, unbothered by your confusion. "Seven p.m. My place." He watches your face closely now, your composure wavering under the proposition. "I'm not a culinary arts major for nothing, you know. I’m unbelievably good in a kitchen."

Your brain stutters on the inputs. Saturday. His place. Dinner.

Your mind immediately floods with a dozen reasons to say no—how fast this is moving, how little you actually know him, how this is exactly the kind of situation you're usually smart enough to avoid. Saying yes to a drink in a public space with your friends nearby was one thing. Saying yes to this feels like stepping into unfamiliar territory without any kind of safety net at all.

You firmly remind yourself that you don’t owe this man a single thing. You could easily say no.

And yet, as you sit there hesitating, he isn't pressuring you. He doesn't try to fill the silence with cheap lines, and he doesn't lean closer to sweet-talk you into compliance. He waits you out, relaxed and confident, looking sure that whatever answer you give him will be the honest truth.

What's the absolute worst that could happen if you just let yourself find out?

"Okay," you say, slowly nodding. "Yeah. I'd like that."

His smile is immediate, slow, and satisfied. You figure that he expected you to say yes, but still appreciates the fact that you chose it for yourself.

"Good," he says simply, lifting his glass to lock his eyes with yours. "It's a date."

And before he can say anything else—before your frayed nerves can catch up to your mouth—a familiar figure appears at your side.

"There you are," Yeosang says, slightly out of breath as though he'd been searching the whole establishment for you for a while now. "I’m heading out. Are you ready?"

You glance past his shoulder toward the pulsing dance floor. It is definitely getting late, and the collective energy of the crowd has visibly started to shift—louder and looser than before, arriving at a frequency that is just a little too much for your comfort.  You can tell by the tight line of Yeosang’s expression that he's feeling the same drain.

"Yunho already yelled at me through the crowd and told me he’s catching a ride back with whoever this Mingi guy is," he adds flatly. "Whether Mingi agreed to that or not."

You laugh softly, nodding once as you gather your things. "Yeah," you say, sliding your phone into your purse. "I’m ready."

But as soon as the words leave your mouth, you turn back toward Wooyoung—and that's when you realize that this night is finally coming to an end. The bubble the two of you have been existing in for the past hour is finally about to burst of its own accord. 

"Um," you say, pushing yourself away from the bar, your fingers lingering against the cool surface for half a second longer than necessary. "I guess... I’ll, um, see you Saturday, then."

He doesn’t answer you right away. He steps closer, not crowding you, but getting close enough that his voice can drop a notch despite the thumping music.

"Seven," he reminds you quietly, his eyes holding yours. "Don’t be late."

Something about the effortless command in the way he says it makes your pulse jump. You lift an eyebrow, your defensive, bantering instinct flaring up, unable to help yourself.

"Or what?" you challenge softly. 

For a split second, his smile sharpens wickedly.

"Be patient, baby. You'll find out."

A furious wave of heat blooms under your skin immediately. Oh, god, you think, I shouldn't have asked that.

A quiet laugh slips out of him, rich with satisfaction, thoroughly pleased that he pulled the reaction he wanted out of you without even trying. "See you Saturday, ____," he adds.

You look at the curve of his smirk and realize you absolutely do not trust your own voice to respond right now without embarrassing yourself. So, you don’t. You just offer him a final, breathless nod, pretending your thoughts aren't already running ahead to a night that hasn't happened yet, and follow Yeosang out of the bar. 

Yeosang's car is filled with a calm quietness that usually settles your overwhelmed mind after a long night. You listen carefully to the hum of the engine, the soft rush of air bleeding through a cracked backseat window, and the occasional whoosh of another car passing by. Streetlights streak gold across the windshield in quick intervals, illuminating the road ahead before slipping away into the rearview mirror again and again.

Normally, you look forward to this part of the night: the moment when the noise finally shuts off, when the music and the overlapping conversations fall away and leave you with your own safe, familiar thoughts. Relief usually sinks into your bones the second you're back inside a quiet space like this.

But tonight, the relief never comes.

Your leg bounces faintly against the passenger door, as if your body is trying to shake loose the tight, complicated knot sitting low in your stomach. You stare out the window, watching the familiar landmarks of your college town blur past in the dark, trying to pinpoint the feeling clawing at your chest: anxiousness, nervousness, or maybe even guilt?

Yeosang drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely in his lap. He hasn't turned on any music. He rarely does after crowded nights like these. You've always appreciated that trait about him—he always seems to know when silence is best.

After a few miles of absolute quiet, he glances over at your profile. He clears his throat softly, a subtle warning that he's about to break the silence you so love.

"You and Wooyoung..." he starts carefully. "You seemed like you were hitting it off."

You swallow hard. Your first instinct is to pour everything out—to explain every detail, to unpack the entire night the way you usually do. The bold, unfiltered flirting. The way Wooyoung never once hesitated to tell you exactly what he was thinking or what he wanted. That communicating with him felt vastly easier than it ever has with any other guy before. But the words knot together before they reach your mouth. Something in you resists saying it out loud.

So, this time, you keep things simple.

"Yeah," you say quietly, keeping your eyes on the blurred treeline outside. "He seems really... nice."

Yeosang hums, his eyes back on the road ahead. You can feel him thinking beside you, choosing his next words with the utmost care. His jaw tightens slightly as he stares through the windshield, then relaxes as he decides how much to push.

After another block or two, he exhales.

"____," he says gently. "I’m gonna be honest with you."

Your stomach dips uncomfortably, but you nod anyway. "Okay. Go ahead."

"I’ve known Wooyoung for a very long time," he continues, his eyes tracking the empty road. "And he’s… not exactly the best guy when it comes to girls."

You stay quiet.

"Or guys, for that matter," he adds after a beat, glancing at you briefly to gauge your reaction before looking right back at the pavement. "Honestly, he just—" He searches for the right phrasing, grimacing a little. "For lack of a better word, he really just… loves to fuck."

Despite yourself, you huff out a weak laugh.

"I’m serious," Yeosang says, not unkindly. "If you somehow didn't manage to notice tonight, that guy is just perpetually horny. And when he sets his eyes on someone he wants…" He trails off, then shakes his head. "He doesn't really let go easily."

The car slows to a gentle stop at a deserted red light, the entire interior of the sedan washed briefly in crimson. It feels exposing.

"In all the years I've known him, I’ve never seen him in an actual, serious relationship," Yeosang continues, laying the facts out bare. "Not once."

You stare straight ahead through the windshield now, your hands folded tightly in your lap, your fingers twisting together slowly.

"I’m really not trying to say he’s a bad person," he adds quickly, afraid of being misunderstood or making you panic. "He’s fun. He’s fiercely loyal to his friends. Honestly, he's one of the best friends I've ever had in my life. But I just want you to know what kind of situation you’re walking into before you make a conscious decision to get involved with him."

He hesitates, a long, careful pause, before he delivers the final sentence more softly.

"Because… I know you. And you're just not that kind of girl."

You let his words sit for a second, the red light finally clicking over to green.

"Oh," you say softly.

The warning doesn’t land the way you expect it to. You're not embarrassed, you don't feel the sting of hurt pride, and you have absolutely no sudden urge to rationalize your actions or protect Wooyoung’s reputation.

If anything, you feel relieved. Yeosang just confirmed that Wooyoung doesn't want anything serious.

You hadn’t even realized the pressure was there: the expectation forming the moment Wooyoung looked at you like that, like interest always had to translate into more. Commitment. Emotional vulnerability. Long-term consequences. But Yeosang's blunt words strip all of that scaffolding away in a breath: Wooyoung wants something uncomplicated, explicitly clear, and entirely temporary.

With the pressure lifted, your thoughts drift, inevitably, back to the place they’d been stuck all night before Wooyoung ever walked into the bar: Hongjoong.

Deep down, in the quietest, most honest corner of your analytical brain, you know undeniably that you like him. But you also know, with cold logic, that nothing will ever actually come of it.

He’s your tutor. That is a hard academic line that doesn’t just blur, no matter how many times you replay their brief interactions in your head or wonder what certain prolonged looks might have meant. If he really wanted you, wouldn’t you know by now? If he cared for you in the way you sometimes foolishly let yourself imagine, why would every conversation feel uncertain?

Kindness isn’t the same thing as desire. Intellectual attention isn’t the same thing as romantic intention.

So maybe this situation with Wooyoung is actually a good thing. Maybe, from a purely practical standpoint, it's exactly what you need. Bold, obvious, and refreshingly uncomplicated, Wooyoung doesn’t leave a single millimeter of room for interpretation. He looks you dead in the eye and essentially says, I want you. It's a logical choice, really. Maybe a distraction like Wooyoung is precisely what you need to finally force your brain to stop overanalyzing a fantasy that will never happen.

However, the thought brings a new wave of nerves, because there’s also a difference between intellectual clarity and physical readiness.

The fact is, you’ve never been with someone like Wooyoung before.

You’re still a virgin. Of course, you dated in high school. You've been with guys before, gotten close enough to feel the pull of physical chemistry, but you'd always stopped before it crossed that line: sometimes because the timing didn’t feel right, sometimes because you simply weren’t ready. Sometimes, because you liked the safety of being able to pack up and leave a situation without giving too much of yourself away to someone. 

But now—Saturday. His place. Dinner.

You’re not naïve enough to pretend you don’t fully understand what his invitation implies. Wooyoung isn’t subtle about his desire, and you don’t need him to be. There’s no illusion of romance or forever layered over it. All he's really promising you is a door that, once you choose to step through it, doesn’t easily close again.

Sitting in the quiet of Yeosang's car, you realize it's no longer a question of what Wooyoung wants from you. The only question left on the table is whether you actually want it.

"Thank you," you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper, breaking the silence that’s been stretching between you for the last few miles. "For telling me."

Yeosang glances over at you briefly, giving you an understanding nod. "Of course," he says simply. "Always."

The remainder of the ride passes without another word.

When he pulls up along the curb in front of your dorm, the clock on the dashboard glows 1:52 a.m. The brick building looms in front of you, dark and still against the night sky, the vast majority of its windows unlit. 

You gather your bag and keys, your fingertips unconsciously tracing the neat seams of the leather passenger seat as you delay the inevitable. You pause with your hand resting on the door handle, taking a slow breath, reluctant to leave the safe cocoon of his car just yet.

"Night, Yeosang," you murmur.

"Night, ____," he says softly, fighting off a yawn. "Text me if you want to grab breakfast tomorrow morning. Or lunch. Whenever you wake up."

You offer a small smile. "I will."

The door shuts behind you, and the cool air hits your skin, reminding you that you're officially back in reality. You walk up the concrete steps slowly, your student ID heavy in your hand, tracing the path through the hallways until you reach your room. 

By the time you step inside, the exhaustion you’d been fighting finally crashes over you.

So much happened tonight. And yet, as you stand in the center of your dark room, you’re still not entirely sure what you’re feeling.

You move through your nighttime routine on autopilot. You kick off your shoes, pull your hair up messily, and splash some cool water on your face, though it does little to quiet the buzz in your head. You don't linger in the bathroom long; you pat your skin dry with a towel, smooth on some moisturizer, and brush your teeth without really registering the movements.

When you're done, you reach into your drawer for the most comfortable thing you own: one of San’s T-shirts, stolen shamelessly from the laundry pile weeks ago and never returned. It hangs loosely off one shoulder, soft from being washed a hundred times, the hem brushing mid-thigh. You crawl into bed, burrowing into the blankets.

For a moment, you just lie there on your back, staring up at the ceiling. 

Then your phone buzzes against your mattress.

You blink against the sudden brightness as you reach for it, expecting Yeosang to be checking to make sure you got upstairs safely. Instead, you see a message preview from an unknown number.

You tap it open.

Unknown: Saturday at 7. You’ll see. I’m just as good a cook as I am a photographer.

Below the text is the photo Wooyoung took earlier—the warm lighting, the candid laughter, the effortlessly flattering composition that still surprises you and doesn't feel staged at all. You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head as if he could somehow see you through the screen.

Who did he even get your number from? San, probably. Or maybe Yunho was drunk enough to hand it over.

You save the contact, typing his name in with a little tremble in your hand, and download the photo to your camera roll.

You lock your phone—then unlock it immediately when an idea sparks: Hongjoong follows you on Instagram now.

The thought sends a ripple of nerves through you. You haven't posted anything to your story in ages, probably not since your last vacation. You usually prefer to stay quiet on social media, keeping your life offline, but right now feels like as good a time as any to break that streak.

Without really thinking, you open the app. Your fingers hover over the photo as if it might bite you. You select it, tagging Yunho and Mingi in small, discreet text hidden in the bottom corner. Beneath it, you type a simple, cryptic caption: 🍾>🎂.

It's ironic, obviously—you’d always choose a birthday cake over a night out drinking—but you know Yunho will think it’s hilarious when he wakes up tomorrow. 

Your thumb hovers over the 'Share' button, hesitating. It feels strangely intimate, putting a piece of your night out into the world after not posting for so long. Before you can overthink it into inaction, your thumb presses down. Then, immediately, you squeak, tossing your phone across the bed like it burned your palm, heart racing as you bury your face into your pillow.

What am I doing?  You scold yourself silently, the embarrassment hitting you. Why does it matter if Hongjoong sees it? Why the hell am I posting a picture just for him?

You had literally just told yourself in the car that Wooyoung could be the practical solution to help you move past your tutor. Maybe, deep down, a part of you still wants him to notice you—even if you hate that you do.

Your phone buzzes again, interrupting your thoughts.

You flinch slightly against your pillow. Your first guess is Wooyoung, sending you another teasing message to remind you of Saturday night.

You sigh softly, reaching across the blankets for your phone without thinking—but you almost drop it directly onto your face when you see the notification on your lock screen.

@ no1likeme8_8 replied to your story.

Your heart slams against your ribs so hard it knocks the breath right out of you. You fumble with your phone, catching it at the last second with clumsy fingers, then freeze completely under the blankets.

No. There's no way.

You swallow nervously, staring at the screen. You don’t open the notification right away. You can’t. Because what could he have possibly replied?

Your thumb hovers over the screen as you force yourself to take a shallow, steadying breath. Then, you tap.

The message loads.

@ no1likeme8_8: An A in Korean > 🍾

A quiet, breathless laugh slips out before you can stop it, driven far more by shock than humor. You bring the phone inches from your face, rereading the brief sentence almost ten times just to ensure your eyes aren't playing tricks on you in the dark.

Does he reply to everyone's stories like this? Is this just academic humor, harmless and impersonal? But if it's strictly professional, why would he even feel the need to reply to a story posted at two a.m. at all?

For a split second, Wooyoung’s smirk flickers through your mind. Tonight, it wasn’t like this with him; you didn't have to decode a single sentence. Saturday. Seven p.m. My place. Easy.

You look back at Hongjoong’s message, the contrast glaring.

Against your better judgment, you type out a response and hit send.

@_____: I don't think one night will kill my grade.

The message delivers. You exhale slowly through your nose. You're only half-aware of the faint buzz of the remaining alcohol still swimming in your system, the leftover giddiness of the bar making the world feel just a little bit lighter. And a whole lot riskier.

His reply doesn’t take long at all.

@ no1likeme8_8: Are you sure? @ no1likeme8_8: It’s my job to make sure you're focused.

You blink.

You know he's joking. The wording is too dry for him not to be. And yet, something about the text makes your stomach twist. Is he teasing you? Or drawing a line? Or, in the worst-case scenario for your sanity, is he doing both at the same time?

You read the two sentences again, trying to find a tone where there isn't any.

What does he actually mean by that? It logically sounds like a warning, but the context of the late hour makes it feel like he's flirting.

You position your thumbs over the keyboard and start typing out a safe, dry response.

Then quickly, you delete it. If he’s joking, maybe you're allowed to joke back. If this is something, shouldn’t you meet him where he is? Or is that exactly what you shouldn’t do?

Then—maybe it's the lingering buzz of the cocktails, or the way your heart still hasn't slowed down, or the small thrill of being noticed by him—you decide to throw caution to the wind and be just a little bit bold.

@_____: Okay. Maybe you're right. @_____: I'll stay focused from now on, Mr. Kim.

The second it sends, your stomach flips.

You wouldn’t have uttered those words out loud. Not ever. But then again, you're pretty sure he wouldn’t have said any of this to your face, either.

The typing bubble doesn't appear right away this time.

Seconds tick past. You stare unblinkingly at the screen, nerves prickling uncomfortably under your skin, your brain already replaying the text. That was probably too much. No, it was definitely too much. You imagine him pausing on the other end, frowning at his screen, and regretting that he had ever replied to your story in the first place.

You’re just about to give up and lock your phone out of mortification when the typing bubble appears.

It takes significantly longer than his previous reply, long enough for the anticipation to turn uncomfortable. Then, his message finally comes through.

@ no1likeme8_8: I'd expect nothing less.

Your heart drops straight into your stomach.

Is this him returning the same energy? 

Your fingers curl tighter around your phone, heat creeping up your neck and into your cheeks. He’s being playful. You’re almost sure of it now. But there's something so irritatingly controlled about the way he phrases every syllable that makes you doubt yourself, like he's carefully making sure he doesn't cross a line.

Or maybe he’s just better at this than you are.

Wooyoung doesn’t even cross your mind now. Just minutes ago in the quiet of Yeosang's car, you were telling yourself to move on from the foolish idea that Hongjoong might actually want you. And somehow, with a single notification, he’s undone all of that logic all over again.

You don't know what this is. You don't know what he wants, or what you're allowed to want back from him.

All you know is that your thumbs are already moving across the keyboard to respond. And this time, you don't do a single thing to stop yourself.

“Do you guys remember Mister Tall from my zip-tie episode? Yeah, me too. Turns out he’s actually Mister Tall and Dominant, but he wasn’t being dominant with me, or at least not as much as he wanted to be. It’s like I could smell it on him, but he wouldn’t do it, like he was holding himself back or something. Now, the obvious answer is to say, ‘Hey, Mister Tall and Dominant, why won’t you just fuck me the way you want to?’ and then it’s a done deal, right? You talk about it, you fix it, sex gets better, you move on. But because my brain works a very specific and certain way, my thought process was: how can I get him to do it, without telling him to? Because apparently just saying the words is a fucking death sentence.”

“It’s all very silly and stupid, and I should have just brought it up to him. He’s a sweetheart, and the moment I told him it was like a switch had flipped. I didn’t know you could have such an extensive conversation about kinks, I didn’t realize how many actually exist, how long a conversation could be about it. I like to think I’m pretty well-versed, but apparently I am not. Let’s just say I’m still learning about kinks, especially about the ones I like the most. The last four days have been very… active for me. My ass hurts. Still. But I’m getting off-topic now.”

“Have you ever had someone straight up ask you what you want, and you can’t answer? You can’t verbalize exactly what you enjoy, you rely on experience, you know what feels good when it’s happening. But when you’re not in the moment, when you’re standing outside of it, what the fuck do you want? What the fuck do you like? It’s weird, it’s like my brain shuts off. I think that’s why I asked the other guy, the one I hooked up with before, because in a very weird and strange and off-putting way, he knows me. I still can’t comprehend how he knows me, if I look back and analyze every interaction we’ve ever had, there’s no logical reason for why he knows me so well. I must be easy to read or something, I don’t know.”

“At first, I thought I asked him for advice because he’s a pretty active guy. And by active, I mean he’s had sex with everyone and their mother, I mean, you’ve probably fucked him. I am not using hyperbole here, I am so serious when I say every-fucking-body. If you need sex advice, you ask the sex guy, right? Logical. I have friends I could have asked, fuck, I could’ve asked on this fucking podcast and had you guys send in your goddamn advice, but I asked him. And it’s sitting with me in a heavy way, why I made that choice, why I trust his advice before even asking for anyone else’s. And the logical reason is because he’s the sex guy, right? But the more I think about it, it’s because he knows me, I trust him. Do you guys fucking know what he told me? That I’m not submissive. What the fuck? He basically said I’m someone who needs to fuck, not someone who needs to be fucked. Again, what the fuck?”

“It’s kinda weird, it’s like he knows me without me giving him permission to know me. I think I always thought that being learned is a conscious thing, like, a choice you make. You tell people your secrets, you show them your vulnerable side, you cry, you laugh in front of them, and they pocket all of these different facts about you. What about when it’s not your own choice? When you accidentally show sides of yourself that you don’t mean to, and now some guy has all this random-ass information about you. He knows what you like, who you are, what you look for, and they’re all facts that you didn’t mean to give him, and they’re all true. It’s fucking weird. But now I trust him, and he’s not someone who seems like he… could be trusted, I guess. I’m not really even sure if he knows my name.”

You pause, thinking. Then you laugh a little, because your listeners don’t press play on your podcast to listen to silence, and a tiny laugh breaks up the seriousness of it all. “That was a lie, he definitely knows my name. I think. I know some things about him too, I guess, weird shit, though. I know his phone number, his Instagram username. I know at least five people that he’s slept with. I know why he fucks so often… kinda. I know when he’s lying, or when he’s intentionally trying to piss me off, I know the difference between his insults. Sometimes they’re real–and they fucking hurt–but sometimes he’s just deflecting, or he wants to get out of the conversation. I know he’s a fucking asshole. I know that he doesn’t like being understood, he fucking hates it if you even come close to knowing what’s underneath all the bullshit– I know– I know it bothers him that I never know what I want.”

Your brows furrow, irritation bubbling in your gut. “But why does that even bother him? None of my choices affect him, nothing I do should matter. Why does he even care? I could literally go the rest of my life letting other people make my own choices for me, and it would have no effect on his life whatsoever. Why is he so interested in knowing? You know, I’ve actually never wondered that, why he even gives a fuck. He came to my–”

You cut yourself clean off, eyes widening. “I’m losing track because he actually pisses me off more than anyone I’ve ever met in my entire life. This outro today is full of my rambling, I’m so sorry if you’re sitting at home thinking what the fuck is she talking about? My bad, for real. Anyways, the point is that I brought it up to MT&D, and he’s been fucking me right ever since, thanks to Mister Piss-Me-Off. I guess. Mister Tall is a good guy, I think the only guy who’s ever put so much into me, figuratively and literally. He lets me figure my shit out on my own, he lets me bring it to him, and he accepts all of it, even me. He’s patient, he’s kind, he’s a fucking sweetheart and I probably don’t deserve him. But I have him, so no one else can, and I’m not sorry about it.”

“I hope you all have a great night, or a great rest of your day, whatever time it is for you. Sorry that the think piece today was… whatever the fuck that was, but it was unscripted, as always.”

You press stop on your laptop. You spent the whole first forty-five minutes talking about backshots which led to libidos which led to fucking Viagra before the confession segment, and for some reason, you don’t really feel the need to listen to it all again. The pauses, the stuttering, everything could stay today. You pull up Spotify, and before you know it, the episode is uploaded. 

You check your phone and your lock screen is lit up from notifications, forty fucking two from the group chat Yunjin added you to last night. She planned a night out this Friday, or, Jihyo planned it for one of the girls she’s friends with. The invitation was offered to you and Yunjin, so she passed it along to San, Wooyoung, Yunho and the rest of their frat, who were all now in this orgy of a fucking group chat on your phone. You, Yunjin, and eight men. Eight. 

You don’t even read the messages. You pull up your thread with Yunho and see three silver bubbles awaiting your reply.

yunho: is ur car still making that noise?  yunho: i have class at 4 but im free after. oh fuck u work today right yunho: im going to class now but i can look at it after class!! come over after ur done work

You smile at your screen, immediately typing back. 

you: yes it is im scared pls fix it handy man you: did u ever watch handy manny growing up  you: lowkey thats u you: but yes ill come over after work have fun at class <3

Checking the time, you realize you’re supposed to be at work in thirty minutes. Thirty. 

“Oh, fuck,” you mutter under your breath, shooting up out of your bed like gravity doesn’t apply to you. Racing around your room that was now dirty again, you search for a bright purple collared shirt and a clean pair of jeans. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you repeat under your breath, ripping through the pile of clothes on your floor, no longer caring if what you grab is dirty or clean. You need to do fucking laundry.

You didn’t check the cleanliness of either article of clothing before throwing them on your body, rushing to your bathroom to fix your hair, and applying a little makeup before your shift. There’s a lot of people who go to the gym you work at, a lot of beautiful, gorgeous people. Filling your water, throwing a snack into your purse, you rush out to your car that seems angry at you for even trying to drive it. 

“Be nice to me,” you order from the driver’s seat, ignoring the singular, loud click, and the grinding noises that follow when you throw the transmission into drive. You don’t even turn music on for your quick trip, you’re too close to being late, and for you, arriving anytime after fifteen minutes before your shift is considered late.

You’re reminded no one gives a fuck when you walk inside, throwing your purse under the counter, placing your water where you always keep it, beside the monitor that shows you everyone who scans in. You greet the coworker you’re relieving with a smile, clock in, and even though your nervous system just experienced twenty different levels of adrenaline, it all calms when you stand behind the counter, prepared to do absolutely fucking nothing for the next four hours. 

The last hour of your shift is when you actually leave the counter. Re-racking weights, mopping the floors, sanitizing machines, it’s easy shit, it’s why you applied in the first place. They don’t give you an extreme amount of hours, the work is the exact opposite of grueling, and you get to stare at gorgeous, muscled people for hours. It’s an easy, well-paying job that you don’t mind working, especially when you get snippets of campus gossip when people walk inside. 

The first hour, the gossip makes you feel uneasy. Two women scanned in, giggling about Mister Tall and Dominant and Mister Piss-Me-Off. You had to will your face from going pale as you smiled at them, acknowledged them while they scanned their student IDs.

Then the second, two guys you’ve never seen before smacking each other’s chests about how you can’t trust bitches. You had curses on your tongue, ready to fire before you heard the rest– even Unscripted is a fucking cheater. You actually gasped at that, then they looked at you like you had three heads, so you forced your expression back into neutral. A cheater?!

In the third hour now, you can’t stop scrolling social media, typing Unscripted in every search bar you can think of. It’s filled with discourse: MT&D vs. PMO, is emotionally cheating the same as physically cheating, who is Unscripted, there’s a fucking megathread on r/Unscripted. 

“Wow, playing on your phone on the clock? Should I call your manager?”

You smack your phone down face-first against the counter, caught red-handed. Wooyoung stands in front of you, a lazy smirk on his lips, hair pulled back off his tanned, angled face, gym bag over his shoulder. He’s covered in droplets of rain, in your deep internet dive you didn’t even notice that it was pouring outside, slamming against the concrete just beyond the clear, gym doors. Fitting. 

“Fuck off,” you sneer, pushing yourself off the counter, crossing your arms. Friends again, yes, but you fear your dynamic might never change from exactly this.

His brow lifts, making sure you see him curiously glancing down at your phone. “Whatcha lookin’ at? Something you shouldn’t be looking at while you’re working?”

“You’re gross,” you throw back at him, picking up on what he’s insinuating. “You haven’t been here to run at night in weeks.”

“Drama,” he sings. “It’s been, like, a little over a week, I just haven’t felt like it.” He throws his elbows over the counter, head tilting as he teases, “Look at you, paying attention to what I’m doing. Do you time me, too?”

You thin your eyes, “I do, and I think you’re really brave for running in public.”

His lips part, brows scrunching, “What’s that supposed to mean?” You immediately laugh, and he stands up straight again, palms braced on the counter. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Come talk to me when you can run a five-minute mile,” you’re still laughing as you say it. 

“I run a six-minute mile!” he argues, voice raising in pitch, clearly offended.

“Then go run it, asshole.” You point towards the treadmills. “Stop bothering me while I’m on the clock.”

“Fine,” his lips tighten before a smile curves them again. “Wouldn’t want to take you away from your amateur, homemade videos.”

You roll your eyes, forgoing an answer. Wooyoung leaves and you pick your phone back up instead of starting your closing duties, opening the subreddit and scrolling.

MT&D/PMO MEGATHREAD – KEEP ALL DISCUSSION HERE

unpopular opinion: tall & dominant deserves sm better

Theory: I think PMO is the overstimulation guy

is anyone else wondering who PMO is? if he’s fucked everyone, someone has to know him

“I trust him” LMAOOO she bouta get her heart broken again grab ur popcorn yall

You curse under your breath. Maybe you shouldn’t have clicked post so quickly. Maybe you should have at least listened to the episode before letting the fucking internet get to it first. There’s still no way to connect it back to you, so you take a calming breath, run your fingers through your hair, and leave your phone under the counter while you start your closing rounds.

Your calming breath does absolutely fucking nothing to help you. All you can do is think while you work, you didn’t even notice Wooyoung leaving, and surprisingly, he didn’t bother you before he left. He probably assumes he’ll see you back at his house, which he will, if you can get the fuck out of this building. When you come back to your phone, you’re scared that you’ll touch the screen and a million messages of ‘are you Unscripted?’ will pop up one after another. Instead, it’s just the stupid fucking group chat that you still refuse to open. 

Instead, you open Spotify, and your heart sinks immediately when the numbers next to your episode are already outperforming every other episode you’ve ever posted. The spike is alarming enough that you shove your phone into your back pocket, sprint around the gym to shut all the lights off, and grab your keys to fucking leave.

“Fuck,” you mutter when you feel the cold rain hitting your back, twisting the key in the door, pulling on it twice because you have to, just to be sure the gym is locked properly. You run to your car, cursing like a sailor with every step, you only let out a breath when you’re seated in the driver’s side. You shove your key in the ignition, turning it, and your car clicks. Once. That's it. 

“No,” you mutter, turning it again. It clicks, but it doesn’t fucking start, the dash doesn’t even light up. You refuse to believe it. You try again, click. “Are you fucking kidding me!?”

You fish out your phone from your pocket, hands still covered in droplets of rain, you dial Yunho. It rings five agonizing times before you make the loudest sound of frustration you’ve ever summoned, hanging up. 

Before texting him, your eyes catch on the group chat. There aren’t any new messages from the last time you checked, but the thread is still at the top of your screen, begging for attention. The last text sent is from Wooyoung, and all it says is ‘ur fucking stupid san’.

You call him. Three rings, and his confused voice pours into your ear, “Hello?”

“Hi,” all of your frustration is wrapped up into one singular word. “I’m… my car won’t start, and I was supposed to come back to your house anyway, and you just left the gym–”

“I’m on my way. Stay in the car, it’s storming,” he says, and then hangs up. You pause for a second before dropping your phone from your ear back into your lap, a little dumbfounded at how simple that was. 

Sighing, you try turning your key in the ignition again, frowning when it clicks back like it’s fucking taunting you. Why did you call him? Why did you ask him for advice? Why did he say yes before you even asked the question?

You shiver for the entire ten minutes it takes for him to get to you. Rain should be comforting, the soft, rhythmic noises of water hitting the glass on your windshield, even the rough pangs slamming against the steel hood of your car, you can’t find any fucking comfort right now. Especially as he pulls up beside you in a low, blacked-out sports car you have to squint to make sure he’s actually inside of. 

You curse when freezing droplets hit your back again, jiggling his door handle that’s fucking locked. “Unlock it!” you yell at his window, and it’s raining so hard you can’t even hear it unlock, you tug at the black handle until it finally gives. 

“Jesus Christ you’re fucking soaked,” is the first thing he says when you tumble into his passenger seat, immediately greeted by the smell of him. Masculine, not too heavy, mixed with the scent of a thunderstorm.

“No shit.” You hug yourself, cringing at the feeling of your hair sticking to you. At least it’s warm.

“What’s wrong with your car?” he leans forward to look over your body, like he’d be able to see the issue through the rain, from a different vehicle.

“Do I look like a fucking mechanic?” you snap, finally looking at him. Immediate consequences for your actions, for asking him to get you— you don’t have it in you to banter with him, your humor was stolen by the internet. “I tried to start it and it wouldn’t start.”

“Damn,” he stares at it like he might revive it with his fucking eyes. His hair is down again, messy over his face, his tank still on his body, sweatpants on his legs. Fuck him. You feel heat on your backside seeping into your clothes, your skin, and you finally look around, taking in the details of his car. 

“What the—?” you mutter, staring at the black leather seats, the manual shifter, the wide, dimmed screen at the center of the dash. “Are you rich?”

“What?” His brows furrow, sitting back in his seat. “No, I’m not rich, why the fuck would I be rich?” 

“Your car is nice.” You run a hand over the leather of the center console, feeling the lines in the soft material with your palm. “Your seats are heated and you drive stick. That means you’re probably rich.” 

He snorts, “I’m rich because I drive stick? Did you hit your head on the Smith?” 

“It would explain why you’re so arrogant,” you shrug, crossing your arms as you sit back in your seat. “Let me guess: mommy’s boy? She gets you everything you want because you’re her smart, perfect son?”

“Where am I taking you, Virgin?” He sits properly in the driver’s seat, right hand moving to the gearstick, and your eyes slide toward it as you hear him press the clutch. His tattoo peeks over his forearm, small, intricate details, thorns of a rose. 

“Your house.” You force yourself to look away as you pull the seatbelt over your front. Your eyes betray you as he shifts into reverse, then first as he pulls out of the parking lot. 

“Is this the aftermath of watching your amateur videos, or do cars just really get you going?” he asks coolly, not even looking at you as he pulls out onto the main road. 

You look up, mortified that he caught you. His hair sits behind his shoulders like he ran his fingers through it as he pulled into the parking lot, but it’s the purple bruising his neck that catches your eye. Purple that wasn’t contrasting his golden skin an hour ago. 

Immediately, you grill him. “Where were you?” 

He looks at you from his peripherals, for just a split second. “What?”

“Where were you before you picked me up?” 

“Getting the skin sucked off my dick.” His lips curve a little as he says it, humored by his own answer. 

“What?” You blink at him, dumbfounded. “Why’d you pick me up then?”

Like it’s the only plausible answer, he replies simply, “You called me.” 

“Yeah, but I could have called someone else,” you argue. “You didn’t have to leave a hookup, or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” he retorts under his breath in a huff of amusement. “Do you want me to take you back to your car? Or would you rather wait here so I can pick back up where I left off?”

You gruff a sound of irritation instead of answering. You pull out your phone, turning your brightness down before checking your Spotify stats again, then refresh the subreddit. It's all growing— the listens, the posts, the debates, you feel fucking sick. 

“Why’d you call me?” he asks. You don’t even look up. 

“I don’t know. Yunho didn’t answer.”

There’s a pause before he speaks again, your nail sliding against your screen and the rain hitting the car the only noise. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Huh?” You look up at that, locking your phone, letting it fall into your lap. “Nothing.” 

“You’re quiet,” he notices. “Your battery’s probably just dead, Virgin, it’s not a big deal. Yunho can jump it tomorrow.” 

“I don’t—” you start, then cut yourself off. “I know, it’s fine. Sorry.” 

He looks at you, brows furrowed. “Seriously, what the fuck is good with you?” 

“Nothing!” you stress, voice raising. “Fuck, nothing is fucking wrong.” 

You fall into silence again. Your phone feels hot in your lap, begging for you to pick it up, to see what everyone’s saying about you. You bounce your knee, looking out the window, teeth clamping over your bottom lip.

“Virgin—”

“I swear to god, if you don’t shut the fuck up I’ll actually fucking kill you,” you finally turn to him, voice so calm it’s almost scary. 

His lips tighten, palm leaving the gearstick to raise it in defense, but he doesn’t answer. For what feels like ages you sit there, arms crossed over your chest, mind reeling over every little thing you can’t control. You shouldn’t have posted the episode. If the man sitting beside you listened to it— you can’t even think of that fucking happening or else you might actually throw your guts up.

Staring through the windshield, you realize you don’t know where you are. You should have gotten back to his house five minutes ago. Your body straightens, fight or flight kicking in, head snapping to the side, “Where are we going?” 

“You’ll see,” he answers casually, too fucking casually for it to be down pouring, driving this far outside of campus. He's kidnapping you. He’s kidnapping you and you’re going to fucking die. 

“I’m serious, Wooyoung,” you press, tone holding the weight of it. “Take me home.” 

He glances at you, your hand gripping the center console, the other tightened in a fist in your lap. “You seem like you need to hit something, Virgin. I’m taking you somewhere you can do it.” 

“The only thing I want to fucking hit is you,” you sneer, anger returning to your tone. “I shouldn’t have fucking called you.” 

“Well, you did.” He looks at you again, brows high and lips tight as if he’s saying you’re shit out of luck. “We’re two minutes away, just try it. If you want to leave, for real, then we’ll leave.” 

Your jaw clenches, unclenches, and you sit back in the seat, defeated. “If you kill me, I’ll haunt you. That's a promise.”

“I don’t need your blood on my hands, Virgin,” he says through a breath, turning the steering wheel with the edge of his palm onto a side street only lit by dim orange every other block. It does nothing to ease your racing heart. 

But two minutes he promised, and two minutes it was until he was pulling into a fairly lit parking lot, backing into a space right at the front. You don’t realize how tense you actually are until he turns the car off, your body physically relaxing, melting into the heated, leather seat. 

He reaches between you into the backseat, giving you a view of the expanse of his chest peeking out from the tank, his chain that slides with the stretch of his body. You slide your eyes to the parking lot in front of you, silent until he throws something on your lap. 

You look at him, brows lifted. He nods at the fabric in your lap, “You look like Barney. Put it on.” 

“I’m in my work uniform.” You look down at your bright purple shirt, your Barney-colored shirt. You frown, but pick up the sweatshirt anyway, black with white detailing on the back. You unclip your seatbelt to tug it over your head. 

“Better,” he looks satisfied before he reaches for his door handle, grabbing his wallet and keys from the cup holder before getting out. Begrudgingly, you follow, finally looking at the sign over the entrance. 

Bat Ball Indoors— with a phone number beneath it. You stop in your tracks, blinking at the sign, putting the pieces together in your mind. Not only did he take you to a fucking batting cage, it’s a janky batting cage? 

When you glance at the side, ready to berate him for taking you to a goddamn batting cage instead of taking you home, he’s already at the front door, gripping the handle. “Are you coming, or do you enjoy getting rained on?”

You tug the hood over your head, jogging toward him. “Are you paying for this shit, Mister Rich?” 

He opens the door for you, “Get inside.” 

Hugging yourself again, you’re greeted by lighting that’s too fucking yellow, somehow still bright enough to make you squint. It’s warmer inside, not heated, but a dry warmth that’s an immediate comfort from the stickiness of outside. Your sneakers scuff against the floor, and when you look down, it’s covered with tracks, other people whose sneakers did the same. 

“Jung!” You pick your head up to see an old man behind the counter. Bald, short, he stands behind a register that looks like he’s had it since the nineties. Actually, you’d put your money on the fact that the entire place hasn’t changed since the nineties. 

There’s baseball shit on the walls, signs reading something about cleats and helmets, the glass covering the lights is stained with yellow. There's a faint cigarette smell, but it’s not overpowering or uncomfortable, it compliments the scent of rubber and rain. 

Wooyoung talks to the man, you can’t be bothered to listen as you finally notice the cages. Separated by old, heavy netting, there’s only three and they’re all empty. Long tunnels of turf, a target made by red tape on ripped, black netting at the back of each cage, a tiny black machine beside the target you can only assume shoots balls at you. You want to go home. 

“Thanks,” you hear Wooyoung say at the same time as the cash register rings. You bring your attention back to him and he’s smiling like this is his favorite place in the fucking world. “Come on, Virgin.”

You look behind you and the bald man doesn’t seem to be bothered by the nickname, or he’s so old he just doesn’t hear it. You follow Wooyoung to the farthest cage, still confused enough that you don’t know what question to ask first. He’s holding a bat, a helmet, everything scuffed, clearly worn. 

You choose to not ask a goddamn thing. “I’m not putting that on my head,” you eye up the helmet hanging off his fingers. It’s still somehow bright red, even if it’s covered in streaks of black and white, a line of black electrical tape stretching over the front. 

“Oh, yes you are,” he says sternly, pushing the helmet straight into your chest. It sends you backward a step, but instinctively your hands wrap around it. The inside looks… used. You cringe. “My bet is that you’ll get hit in the head with a ball at least once. You need it.” 

Your top lip lifts, “What the fuck are we even doing here, Wooyoung?” 

“You’re gonna hit some balls,” he says, slotting the bat between his thighs. He reaches forward, stealing the helmet from your chest just to pull it down over your head. “Balls that aren’t mine, in case that wasn’t clear.” 

You push your hair out of your face, scowling under the helmet. “I wouldn’t give me that bat if I were you.” 

He hands you the bat automatically, amusement glimmering in his eyes. “Go take your anger out on something that isn’t me.” 

You take the handle cautiously and it’s heavier than you expected it to be, your eyes go wide as you fix your grip. It’s silver, or it used to be, now covered in scratches, small dents, patches where the metal has worn off, leaving asymmetrical marks of black. The handle is sticky, covered in old athletic tape, you hate how it feels in your hands. Looking back up at Wooyoung, you fantasize about how satisfying it would be to swing it at the side of his head. 

You glance at the cage instead, specifically the small square of turf that’s basically nonexistent. That's probably where you stand. Like he can read your thoughts, Wooyoung points to it, “Stand there. I’m gonna put a token in, then you hit the ball with the bat. Easy enough, right?”

“How many?” you ask, walking towards the spot of nonexistent turf. He answers twenty-five as he grabs the token from his pocket, sliding it into some kind of control panel. The machine turns on and you jump at the sound of the mechanical noise until it clunks, a ball shooting straight out.

You yelp as it flies right past you, jumping backward. You whip around to Wooyoung, “What the fuck?!” 

“You were supposed to hit that, by the way,” he points to the ball now on the ground, the hit saved by netting along the back wall. 

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” you sneer, turning back to the machine that was making noise again. You try to fix your hold on the bat, staring at the hole the ball comes out of across the turf, but it flies past your head before you’ve even registered that it shot out. You stand straight up, turning back to Wooyoung who looks fully amused. “It’s fucking broken.” 

“It’s not broken, dumbass,” he points his hand towards the machine. “You just wasted two balls. Focus.” 

You push a breath through your lips, focusing. You swing the bat over your shoulder, aligning your hands, and as the ball shoots out after the clunk, you swing. And miss. 

Refusing to look behind you, your lips scrunch in frustration, gripping the bat harder. You swing, it shoots past you. You actually fucking growl in frustration, and Wooyoung’s laughter follows.

You refuse to feel embarrassed. Turning around, you sneer, “You think this is fucking funny?”

“Extremely,” he’s grinning, leaning up against the side wall, arms crossed over his chest. “Keep your eye on the ball, Virgin.” 

“It’s too fucking fast!” you shout just as another ball whips past you. You jump again, and his snorted laughter just pisses you off more. “This is fucking bullshit, and you’re an asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muses from behind you. “Keep your legs shoulder-width apart and bend your knees.” 

“I’ve played Wii Sports, thanks,” you huff, but as you look down at your feet, you need to spread them. And bend your knees more. Fixing your stance, you stare at the machine again, and for the sixth goddamn time, you miss. 

“Nineteen left, in case you can’t count.” 

“I can fucking count!” you shout back, ignoring how quickly his laughter follows. 

“Relax your arms, Virgin. Keep your body solid, but let your arms be loose.” 

You don’t change a thing as you miss the seventh ball. Jaw locking, you brace your core, relaxing some of the tension in your arms. On your eighth swing, you feel a little resistance, you can hear the ping of the ball just slightly connecting with the metal of the bat. 

You stand straight up, eyes wide. “Oh my god.” Turning to see where it landed, watching it roll along the floor, you ask him, “Did you hear that!? Did you see it!?” 

“Try hitting it next time.” 

“I’ll fucking kill you,” you bite back. “I’ll hit you with the fucking bat, with my shoulders squared and my grip fucking loose you bitch—” Another ball swings past. “Fuck you, look what what you did. You made me miss another one!” 

You can hear his smile as he says, “You missed the one before it, too.” 

“I fucking hit it!” you yell back, fixing your stance again. You don’t even graze the tenth ball, and your shout of anger reverberates through the entire fucking building. 

“You’re swinging too late,” Wooyoung’s tone is direct, guiding. It wouldn’t help even if it was nice. 

“No fucking shit,” you shoot back. 

“Swing earlier, then.”

You stand straight up, brows tied together as you turn around to look at him. “Why are you acting like my fucking coach? Do you want to come do it yourself?” 

He pushes off the wall, uncrossing his arms, “I played for fourteen years. Ball.” 

You turn just as the ball shoots past you. “Fuck!” 

He comes up beside you, holding his hand out for the bat. You hand it to him, then the helmet as you ask, “You played in high school?”

“Four to eighteen,” he explains as you switch positions with him, backing up to where he stood leaning up against the wall. You can only assume his stance is perfect. Knees bent, knuckles lined up along the bat, fingers flexing and unflexing along the handle. 

“Why’d you stop?” you wonder, letting your head rest against the wall. From where you stand, it’s like slow motion, the sound of the machine, the muscles in his back flexing as he swings, his biceps, his forearms… he hits the ball perfectly. “You’re a fucking asshole.” 

He laughs, stepping backward, “I quit because I didn’t want to play in college. Everyone thought I would, but I was over it. I’m a finance bro now.” 

When he pulls the helmet off, you push off the wall, taking it from his hands to put it back over your head. “Finance bro doesn’t really suit you.” 

He hands you the bat, “Yeah? What would suit me, then?” 

“A master’s degree in sex education,” you quip. He huffs a laugh and you smile, too, because you know that joke was fucking funny. You quickly realize you didn’t learn a thing from watching him as you line yourself back up, and he knows it too when you miss another goddamn ball. 

“You’re still doing it wrong, Virgin.” 

You know. Yet you bite back anyway, “Wooyoung, I literally just fucking copied you.”

“You were watching me,” there’s amusement in his tone, accompanied by the truth of it. “Not watching me.” 

You feel heat in your ears, you blame it on the helmet. Feigning ignorance, you mutter, “That’s what I was supposed to be doing.” 

You swing again. 

“Swing earlier.” 

You loose a steadying, cool breath, and swing earlier. The following crack through the building confuses you until you feel the vibration in your arms, watching as the ball soars through the cage. 

“I hit it?” You whip around to face him and he’s already smiling. Running straight to him, you scream, “I fucking hit it!” 

You don’t even process that you’ve wrapped yourself around him, that he’s laughing with one arm around you. “I’m a fucking professional. Draft me for the fucking NHL.” 

He lets you go, laughing harder, “That’s hockey, Virgin.” 

“Who fucking cares?” you shout, pointing back toward the cage. “I hit the fucking ball!” 

He nods his chin toward it, “Go do it again.”

So you do. In the last remaining ten balls, you successfully hit six, and even though it’s out of twenty-five, you feel like a goddamn professional, ready for the big leagues. What was only supposed to be one round quickly turned into two, trading places with him just to scoff and berate him for his skill. Your palms sting, your arms ache, the helmet is glued to your fucking forehead, at one point your hoodie was thrown in the corner, sweat sliding down your spine. Your body is tired, but your mind is alive; you aren’t ready to go home yet. 

“Thanks, Mr. Choi,” Wooyoung gives baldie a wave on your way out, and you thank him quietly from behind Wooyoung in the midst of pulling his hoodie back over your head. It had stopped raining at some point while you were inside but the air is still heavy with humidity, the cool air meeting the warm pavement leaving a thick layer of fog on the ground. 

“Spooky,” you mumble absentmindedly, watching the fog rising as you walk toward his car. “Are you hungry?”

His hair is frizzy now, curling at the ends, golden skin flushed with exertion from slamming the last eight balls across the cage. He shrugs, one hand for the handle, “I could eat.”

“Well, I’m hungry,” you shoot him a look from across the roof of his car, one that says I was only asking you to be nice. “Get your wallet out, Mister Rich.”

He’s smiling by the time you sit in the passenger seat. “Are you ever going to let that go?”

“Nope,” you answer plainly in a single huff of breath. “Where are we going?”

He turns his key in the ignition, and the engine comes to life beautifully in a smooth, effortless sound. You wish your car sounded like that right now. 

“There’s a diner up the road,” he offers, pressing the clutch, throwing the gearstick into first.

“Wow,” you scoff. “Just a diner? Mister Rich is taking me to a measly little diner?”

He shakes his head, upshifting when he pulls onto the main road. You fuck with the screen in the center of his dash, swiping through the different apps, pulling up Spotify. You ignore Unscripted’s logo as you scroll up, looking for his liked songs, shuffling them. 

“Risky,” he mumbles, brows raised when you look over at him. “All my liked songs? Do you know how many liked songs I have?”

Something rock starts pouring through the speakers, it’s soft, easy, the perfect song to fill the cabin of his car. “This one’s nice,” you shrug, settling back into your seat. When he pulls into a parking lot right after, you huff a laugh. “You weren’t joking when you said around the corner, huh? You’re very precise with your distance calculation.”

“I’m very precise with a lot of things,” he responds coolly, and you think it might be the third time today that he’s beat around the bush with intentionally vague language. You know just how precise he is with a very certain thing.

You don’t comment on it, you let the silence speak instead as he pulls into a parking spot, killing the engine. The diner is cute, older than the batting cage place, maybe. Checkered floors, booths, red stools lining the counter, everything about the space is warm and inviting. The hostess barely looks up from her phone as she tells you where to sit, pointing to a table two booths down from the entrance.

Your stomach growls the moment a menu lands in your hands. Feeling heat in your cheeks, you comment on it before Wooyoung has a chance to, “I literally have not eaten a singular thing today.”

“Don’t order the entire menu,” he eyes you over the top of his menu. “I’m not wealthy enough to satisfy the kind of hunger I just fucking heard.”

You can’t help your grin as you open your menu, landing on breakfast foods upon opening it, forever your favorite. It’s nostalgic for you, it reminds you of home, it’s always been a diner staple no matter what time of day it is. Lifting your eyes to look at the man across the cream-colored table, you wonder if he has a diner staple. If there’s anything on the menu that reminds him of home.

It’s kinda weird, you think. Sitting across from him in a diner, of all places, and not feeling the familiar Wooyoung-induced rage in your chest. You’ve never been around him for so long, other than the night you spent together in the bedroom of a frat house, this is different. A nice kind of different, though, like tonight exists only to make you reconsider everything you’ve ever thought about him. The shield, the hookups, the arrogance, you’ve never had a reason to think about Wooyoung beyond sex or wit, but sitting across from him reminds you that there’s a person inside him, too.

He can feel your gaze. Without looking up, he asks, “Do you want to take a picture?”

“Maybe,” you lower your menu, head tilting. “I’ll show it to the rest of your frat, let ‘em know you’re capable of interacting with a woman outside of a bedroom.”

He mimics you, lowering his menu, brows furrowed. It’s clear he remembers when you said the opposite of those words verbatim the night in your apartment. “I’ve always been capable of being friends with women.”

Your laugh is obviously sarcastic. “Sure.”

He almost argues back, but he’s cut off by the waitress who says absolutely nothing about the sheer amount of food you order. Wooyoung, on the other hand, as soon as she walks away he’s on your ass about it. “Do you think I’m made of money?”

“Definitely,” you nod, bringing your glass of water up to your lips. “Bands and a bitch-ass attitude.”

His laughter is obnoxious, dripping in amused disbelief as he retorts, “Bitch-ass attitude? Are you sure you’re not projecting?”

“My attitude has been fixed and cured,” you lower your water back to the table, brows high. 

Without missing a beat, he quips, “Yeah? And who fixed it?”

“Some rich asshole with a bitch-ass attitude,” you muse, and you can’t fight the smile that curves your lips. He smiles, too, and there’s a pause between you before you both snort your laughter. You feel it more, the absence of rage, the fact that there’s absolutely nothing forming beneath your skin, you feel light. When has being around Wooyoung ever felt fucking light?

“Can I ask you a question?” Your chest feels tight as the question forms on your tongue. He nods, brows lifted, tongue swiping along his upper row of teeth beneath his lips. “Why did you come get me?”

“I already told you.”

“You said it’s because I called,” you start, leaning forward, crossing your arms over the table. “But you were fucking someone and you didn’t even tell me you were fucking someone, you just came as soon as I called.”

His brows furrow. “What answer are you looking for here, Virgin?”

“An honest one.” You don’t know what kind of answer beyond that. “Why’d you come get me?”

“Because you called me,” he repeats, voice tight like he doesn’t know how else to say it.

Your lips flatten. “That’s not a fucking answer.”

“That is the fucking answer,” he argues. You say his name like you’re threatening him. He sighs, deflating back into the booth. “What else was I supposed to do? It was storming, your car died, and you called me.”

Your lips scrunch to one side, “You could have said no.”

“Why the fuck would I say no to you?”

“Because we’re barely even friends!” you argue, exasperated. “I barely know anything about you, yet you came to get me as soon as I called.”

“You’re making it out to be more than it is,” he shakes his head, picking up his own water. There’s sarcasm lacing his tone as he continues, “Would you rather me say it would break my fragile heart to leave my friend’s girlfriend in a dead car during a storm? Is that the answer you’re looking for?”

“I’m not his girlfriend,” you just about growl. “That’s how you look at me? I’m suddenly reduced to being Yunho’s?”

His face morphs into utter, sheer fucking disbelief. “You’re the one who literally just said we’re barely friends!”

You can’t answer. You don’t even have a witty response. “Okay, fine. You’re right.”

“Then what the fuck are you mad about?”

You run your hands over your face, “I’m not mad, Wooyoung.”

“You asked me a question and now you’re getting pissed the fuck off at every single answer I give you. What do you want from me?” When you look up at him, you can’t answer. He huffs out a punched, hollow laugh. “Right, almost forgot, you don’t know what you want. Why does there have to be more? Why can’t you just leave it for what it is?”

“You’re a fucking hypocrite,” you sneer. “You don’t accept any answer I give you about anything and now you’re asking me to accept your bullshit answer.” 

His lips tighten in a line. Your grin might be actually fucking evil. 

“Answer,” you taunt, even nodding your chin toward him as you lean back in the booth. “You’re obsessed with explaining me to me, Jung Wooyoung. Explain yourself instead.”

“I–” his lips part, then close. Instead, he blurts, “Ask me something then. Something different than why I came to pick you up.”

You sit with it for a second, then you’re forced to sit with it longer as your food arrives. Seeing it in front of you, a display that could probably feed a family, even if you’re starving it feels absurd and you can’t help but fucking snort. Wooyoung has a grin on his cheeks, too, one he’s obviously trying to hide, looking up at you through his brows, acting like he’s focused on his own food. 

“You’re helping me finish all of this,” you announce, rearranging your plates.

“I don’t even think the two of us could finish all of it,” he’s shaking his head as he says it. “Just wasting my money for fun.”

You hum your amusement, reaching for the syrup, pouring the perfect amount over your plate. Picking up the knife, you cut into your stack of pancakes while asking, “Why didn’t you kiss me back?”

You lift your eyes to see him looking at you surprised, confused, his mouth full of food. “Hm?”

“I asked.” You drop the knife back onto the table as if your cheeks aren’t on fire. “Your turn."

He finishes chewing, swallowing before he answers just as plainly, “I did kiss you back.”

Like asking wasn’t humiliating enough. “Okay, then you stopped. You left. Why?” 

He fucks around with his food before answering, his tone even. “You didn’t want to kiss me.”

“Here we fucking go again,” you mutter under your breath, shaking your head. “How did I not want to kiss you if I kissed you? What sense does that make?”

“You were trying to prove me wrong, Virgin. You didn’t kiss me because you wanted to kiss me, you kissed me because I backed you into a corner,” he explains while not even looking at you. He keeps playing with his food, finishing his sentence by taking a bite.

Your ears are so fucking hot they hurt. “I thought– I assumed you would jump at the– why did you care what my intentions were? I kissed you.”

“You think I didn’t know you were using it– using me to win the argument?” his mouth is full as he asks. “I wasn’t gonna fuck you just so you could prove a point.”

“You fuck people you don’t even know,” you argue, even if you aren’t sure why you’re arguing.

“I fuck people who want to fuck me,” he says with certainty. “That’s the difference.”

You don’t know why you’re still talking. “Maybe I wanted to fuck you.”

“You didn’t want to fuck me,” his voice lowers. “You wanted to win.”

Your jaw clenches, “Why do you care so fucking much?”

“I have my own rules, believe it or not,” he tightens his lips, raising his brows. “I don’t really take well to being a pawn anymore.”

“A pawn?” your head jerks forward with the question, offended. “I wasn’t using you.”

“You kissed me to make yourself feel better,” he shrugs, taking another bite. “That’s pretty much the textbook definition of pawn-ism, no?”

“I think this is the definition of dramatic,” you quip, brows tied together. “What do you mean by ‘anymore’? Were you once emotionally available enough to actually have a girlfriend?”

He huffs amusement through his nose, “Nah. When my parents split up, I was in the middle. I was sixteen– it’s a long story. It was ugly.”

 You see him stiffen after the revelation, his body going rigid, staring at his plate like he can’t believe the words left his mouth, like he can’t bring himself to look at you. Your stomach drops, you weren’t expecting an honest answer.

“Well,” you start, picking up your fork again. “I still think calling yourself a pawn because I kissed you is dramatic. What if I just wanted round two?”

“Everyone wants round two,” he looks up through his brows, and it’s relieving to see a glimmer of amusement. “You’re not special.”

“Sure,” you muse. “That’s why you stopped getting–and let me repeat it verbatim–the skin sucked off your dick to come pick me up.”

“You’re a pain in my fucking ass, Virgin,” he gripes, pointing at you with his fork. “Shut the fuck up and eat your breakfast.”

You’re giddy as you shove your fork into a pancake, a smile on your cheeks as you house it down. You swear it tastes better now, as do the rest of the four sides you ordered along with it. At one point Wooyoung poked into your food, his plate already cleared, and your bickering picked right back up where it left off because naturally, you knew the two of you could finish all the food, even if he doubted you. 

Mister Rich he is, Wooyoung slid his card over the counter at the front, making you impossibly more giddy that he did it without complaint. Your belly full, your limbs growing achier by the minute, by the time you get back in his car, you’re ready to go home. Not his home, though, you need your own bed, you need your shower, you need to wash the rain and the sweat and the Wooyoung off of you.

For the first time in three hours, you check your phone. You didn’t notice that you left it on the floor of his car, only finding it after it dawned on you that you haven’t seen it in hours. Before pulling up your stats or the orange app that beckons to you, you check your messages. 

There’s six from Yunho, and you can’t believe you haven’t thought about him once.

yunho: handy manny what is that yunho: ok i just googled it thats actually funny as hell yunho: im so sorry i fell asleep after class yunho: i just saw u called, are u ok? isnt ur shift over by now

Enough time had passed for his newer messages to have a time stamp written on the screen between them. 

yunho: ok now im worried yunho: i called u three times pls answer asap before i report u missing 

“Oh, fuck,” you mutter under your breath, fingers typing at lightning speed.

you: im so sorry my car died wooyoung picked me up you: im alive omg im sorry i didnt text u

“What’s wrong?” Wooyoung asks, eyes sliding over your screen. “Oh, Yunho?”

yunho: fuckkk im so sorry i didnt answer yunho: thank god he picked you up yunho: wyd? are u still with him?

“Fuck,” you grind out harshly, again. “He’s so fucking nice.” 

Wooyoung huffs a laugh. “Yeah, that’s like, his entire attraction.”

“You forgot the tall part, and the big dick part, and the angel sent from heaven part,” you add.

Wooyoung doesn’t respond, one hand turning the wheel, the other upshifting as he pulls out onto the main road.

you: yes we just got food you: im gonna go home tho if thats okay with u you: im so fucking exhausted

yunho: of course sunshine yunho: ill come get you in the morning and then we can go look at your car

you: thank you <3 yes pls you: see u in the morning 

You sigh, slapping your phone against your denim-covered thigh, sinking back into the passenger seat, looking straight through the windshield. Your head turns to the side, “Can you take me home? Like, to my place?”

“You don’t wanna see your tall, big dicked angel sent from heaven?” Wooyoung teases.

Your eyes thin out. “I’m tired, I’ll see him in the morning. He’s gonna fix my car.”

“Of course he is.” It sounds like a jab, but there’s no irritation in his tone, nothing malicious. It’s the truth, because of course Yunho’s first objective would be to fix your car as soon as he found out you’re safe and sound. 

Picking up your phone, ready to open Spotify, you catch the sight of Unscripted’s logo still on the wide screen on his dash. Your lips scrunch to one side, debating before you ask him, “Why do you listen to Unscripted?”

“I don’t,” he answers quickly, irritation returning tenfold to his tone.

You pop a brow. “You know I can see it on the screen, right?”

He takes his hand off the gearstick just to swipe it off the screen. It shows what’s playing now instead, the same rock song as before. “Look at that, it’s gone now. Magic.” 

He’s so fucking stupid that you laugh. Instinctively, you quote, “Yer a wizard, Harry.”

He looks at you wide-eyed for a second before erupting into laughter, body folding forward, into his steering wheel. “Shut the actual fuck up.”

You laugh with him, mainly because his laugh is funny, your quote was so innate you weren’t even trying to be funny. Looking at him, his wide grin, seeming so unshielded, so free… a door is opened that you’ve deliberately kept closed since that first night with Yunho. 

The laughter dies down, and you let the feeling die with it. “Okay, but seriously,” you press again. “Why do you hate Unscripted?”

He pulls up to a red light, downshifting until the car comes to a full stop. He looks at you expressionless as he says, “I think she’s full of shit.”

Your top lip lifts. Monotonous, you rebut, “Really?”

“She is,” he shrugs like it’s obvious. “She says all that personal shit, but won’t say who she is. Seems like there’s a reason for it.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want the entire campus to know her personal business,” you argue.

Upshifting, pressing on the gas, he fires back, “Maybe she doesn’t want the entire campus to know it’s not real.” Your stomach feels heavy, and it’s not the food. Before you can get the chance to respond, he’s already continuing, “I can respect the need for privacy because she’s a woman, but I don’t think she’s hiding from all the douchebags on campus that would harass her. I don’t know.”

Your brows furrow, “Then who else?”

“The people who know her,” he responds simply. “The people who would know it’s not true.”

Your head shakes, brows tied together, stomach souring with every word he speaks. “But it is true. She’s gone to your parties, she was there with us–”

“Some of the shit she talks about I can believe,” he waves a hand between you. “It’s the way she talks about it. I just don’t believe the persona or whatever the fuck.”

You hate that you ask, “What persona?”

“I have sex, I have a lot of sex–”

“Wow, ground breaking journalism happening–”

“Listen. Who she is aside, I have a lot of sex, but I get a lot of shit for it. I caught chlamydia over a year ago and I’m still berated for it almost every fucking day. She has a lot of sex and she’s praised for it. She avoids consequence because she’s anonymous, and it just feels really fucking fake to me.”

Your lips scrunch. “That’s actually fair. Double-standard.”

“It’s usually the opposite,” he leans back in the driver’s seat, downshifting as he turns onto your street. “It’s never a man who gets shit for fucking, but for some reason, I do.”

“Maybe it’s because that’s all anyone knows about you,” you say quieter, almost like you aren’t sure if you really want to say it. “I once told you that you curated your own reputation.”

He makes a face, one that says yeah, I know. “My reputation is what it is, Virgin. Nothing I can do about it now.”

“That’s not true,” you argue, brows scrunching. “You proved today that you can have a friendship with a woman. That’s a step in the right direction, no?”

Pulling up in front of your house, he throws the gear into park and shoots you a blank stare. “What’s the use of a step in the right direction if I’m never going to take another step?”

“Why can’t you?”

His head tilts, debating. “I can, I just won’t.”

You turn in the seat, facing him. “Because…?”

“I don’t want to be responsible for how someone else feels,” he says simply, only his head turned toward you. Then his lips curve, “I don’t want to end up in a sex-less marriage like the one you were about to get yourself into, Virgin.”

You scoff through a smile, “Asshole.” Unclipping your seatbelt, you bend one knee up into the seat as you say, “I think you might have a fucked up view on relationships, Mister Rich.” 

His brows raise, lips tightening. No shit. “If you’re happy, your partner is happy. If you’re sad, then you’re bringing down your partner, too. Everything you do, you have to be conscious of the other person. If they give something up for you, if they move for you, if the relationship fails and it’s not your fault, it’s your fault anyway because you’re the only person to blame.”

Your brows raise at the rant. “Can I ask?”

He’s quick to answer, “No.”

“Can I at least point something out?” your head tilts, smile playing on your lips. He sighs, and to you, that’s a yes. “You just spent, like, four hours out of your Wednesday night to make someone you’re barely even friends with feel better.”

“That’s different,” he argues.

“Yeah?” you ask, smile growing. “How about all the times I asked you for advice, and you gave it? Or when you came to my apartment because clearly something was so wrong that I left the Penny?”

His face stays flat. “What are you getting at, Virgin?”

“Nothing,” you shrug, voice light, high-pitched like the word is a song. “Just noticing and realizing things.”

“Oh,” he laughs the word, finally turning to face you. “You figured me out, huh?”

His car is too small for him to be this close to you. You can still smell him, the storm, you can taste every single word, every emotion that’s passed between you tonight. Grasping onto nonchalance as hard as you fucking can, you shrug, “It’s not as hard as it seems.”

His eyes drop, but they’re back on yours before you can register it. “You think so?”

Your heartbeat picks up, you can feel it knocking on your breastplate, begging you to pay attention to it. You can’t look away from him, you’re stuck as your chest fills, as your breath turns shallow. Your eyes drop to his pretty, full lips, lips you’ve kissed before, lips you want to kiss again. 

You don’t think you’ve ever been more honest with Jung Wooyoung than when you tell him, “I want to kiss you.”

He says your name like it’s a warning, like you’re nearing dangerous territory. You let him see it, the want in your face, your eyes. He watches, letting you see the debate in his. 

His voice is almost airy as he says, “You wanted to kiss me last time, too.”

“Last time, I wanted to be right,” you whisper. “I want you, Wooyoung.”

He clenches and unclenches his jaw like he’s fighting his own instincts. He turns, sinking back into his seat, muttering a rough “Fuck” under his breath. He runs his palms over his face, sorting his fingers through his hair, and he doesn’t look back at you as he says, “Yunho’s my friend, and he likes you.”

Your body blooms with warmth, but it’s embarrassment instead of the heat you wish was washing through you. You feel still as you uncurl your body, reaching for your purse, your keys, your water bottle. “Right,” you mutter, almost automatically, as if your brain has shut off entirely.

He speaks as you reach for the door handle. “What are you doing?”

You look back, confused. “Leaving?”

“Why are you leaving?” he sits up a little, face twisted with enough emotion you can’t pinpoint it.

“Hello?” You look around as if you’re missing something. Embarrassment twists into frustration, “I just finally fucking told you what I wanted and you rejected me.”

“Because you’re dating my friend–”

“I’m not dating him!” you nearly explode.

“You’re exclusively together,” Wooyoung says matter-of-factly. “Don’t get out of the car thinking that I don’t want you, because I fucking want you. I can’t do that to Yunho.”

“Goodnight, Wooyoung, thank you for tonight,” you say in one big shoved together breath, and climb out of his stupidly fucking low car. He’s in the middle of calling your name when you slam it behind you, forcing yourself to turn on your heel and walk up to your apartment.

Your brain feels like static with every step. You can’t piece together words, thoughts, you can’t function all the way up to your door, opening it just for all the lights to be on. Food is spread across the coffee table, the TV is on, Yunjin’s laptop is open on the couch, her phone right beside it. 

Her face is grave. You glance at the TV, the Unscripted logo, your own fucking voice pouring out from the speakers. Your body feels like ice. This is it. 

She doesn’t even let you close the door behind you before she’s asking, “Is it you?”