Lux

- ☆ Heeseung (exes to lovers)

crawling back to you

- ☆ Jay (academic rivals)

secretly yours

- ☆ Jake (popular!fuckboy x reader, just a bet)

pt. 1 love, lies, and sim jake

pt. 2 from dare to you

- ☆ Sunghoon (she fell first, he fell harder, introvert!sunghoon x talkative reader)

pt 1 my voice stops where you begin

pt 2 project: park Sunghoon

- ☆ Sunoo (best friend to lovers) coming soon…

- ☆ Jungwon (sunshine!jungwon x grumpy yn)

the quiet between us

- ☆ Niki (grumpy nonchalont niki x sunshine reader )

INSPIRED BY : Ur All Mine - Westwood

You sit across from Danielle at a small café table, your sketchbook open but ignored. She stirs her drink and leans in. “Maki’s birthday party is this weekend. You should just make it official with him already. You’ve been flirting for weeks.”

You nod once, eyes on the foam in your cup. Official sounds simple when she says it. In practice, it means another text from Ni-ki, obviously. He coincidentally always finds out about your dating history after him. Last month it was some guy from your art history class. The month before, a barista. Each time the message arrives at odd hours and it's always a question or a rude observation, never asking to get back together nor admitting jealousy. He only wants to remind you he knows.

You set your cup down. “I’ll think about it.”

Danielle raises an eyebrow. “That’s it? Come on. Maki’s pretty fun. You two click.”

You shrug. The real reason sounds so stupid that if you tell her what it really is, she will never let it go. Ni-ki works his underground gigs, tags walls at night, within the fact that he's disgustingly rich. He stays out of your classes and your schedule. You study late in the studio, mix paints, build installations. Neither of you reaches out first anymore and it’s great like that. But your dating life? That pulls him back every time, like clockwork.

The party is two days away. You already know how it will go.

You lean back in your chair and tap your fingers on the edge of the table while thinking. “Yeah, maybe.”

Danielle snorts. “Maybe? Be fucking for real. He’s been texting you every day. What’s the hold up?”

You pick up your cup and take a sip. “It’s not that deep. I’ll see how the party goes.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don't make it a big deal, anyway. You can't let men get to your head.”

You nod once and change the topic to her upcoming exam. Inside your head, you could already picture the message that will come after the party. Ni-ki, jealous as always, pretending he doesn’t care. And of course he will never miss an opportunity to make a mean comment on the guys you talk to, or even try to ruin the beginning of a flirt. Even if he’s the one who fucked all this up and made you who you are now. All of that, without holding an entire conversation with you.

You push open the door to your apartment and drop your bag on the couch. Your phone rings when you’re about to sit down. It’s written Maki on the screen.

“Hey, are you coming to my party Saturday?” he asks right away.

“Of course, I’ll be there.”

“Cool. Do you wanna match outfits? Wear white. We’ll look good together.”

You chuckle. “Damn, bossy as hell. What if I wear black just to fuck with you?”

“Hmm, then I’ll find you and make you change. Or take it off. Your call.”

“Keep dreaming.” you say, smiling despite yourself. The back and forth stays light for another minute and you bring yourself to tell him you need to finish some sketches.

“See you Saturday then, white outfit. Don’t you dare flake.”

You hang up and toss the phone on the bed. A few minutes later you open Instagram. One of your classmate’s stories pops up first. You scroll through it and freeze. In the background, clear as day, Ni-ki stands close to some girl, his hand near her waist while she laughs at one of his stupid joke he probably said. Of course it’s confusing when your ex ; who did you dirty ; exposes himself without an ounce of shame with another girl, and has the nerve to make a single comment on your situationship.

“Fuck.” you mutter under your breath. You close the app, set your phone face down, and turn off the light to drift into sleep.

───

You wake up. It’s Thursday morning and you text Danielle to meet for shopping. By ten you both walk through the mall, racks of clothes between you. You pull out a short plain white dress and hold it up.

“This one?”

Danielle nods. “Try it. Maki said white, right? I think it’ll work.”

You change in the fitting room, step out, and turn to look at the overall. You subtly notice that it bunches up behind your butt when you walk, but it’s not going to be a big of a problem, is it?. Who cares anyway? The dress fits so you obviously buy it. After that you head to the food court and split a large order of fries and two sandwiches at a table by the window.

Halfway through your food you look at her. “Do you think I’ve changed since the breakup?”

Danielle chews and swallows. “Yeah, I do. After Ni-ki you actually moved on. You stopped sitting around waiting for whatever that was. Now you flirt back when guys like Maki show interest. It’s good. You seem so much more lighter.”

You nod and eat another fry. You continue chewing on food while talking about a new series she started watching. You finish eating, pay, and walk out together. By late afternoon you split up at the parking lot. She heads to her car for a study group and you walk the other way toward the row of ATMs on the street corner.

You stand in line behind an older woman counting her cash. Not so long after, a black car pulls up across the street. You could recognize this car model amongst every other one’s. You glance over and see Ni-ki leaning against the hood. A girl stands in front of him and they kiss. You can’t help but gaze back and forth two times, since their kiss was disgustingly agonizingly long. She pulls away to say something close to his ear, and walks off down the block, disappearing. He watches her go before he gets back in the car.

“Ew.” you mutter under your breath. Were our kisses that repulsing to watch?

The car starts and drives straight toward the ATM lane. It stops right behind where you stand. You keep your eyes on the machine ahead, trying to act like you weren’t hoping anticipating for his arrival. The woman finishes and leaves. Ni-ki gets out and stands next to you, so close that you can smell the trace of his signature cologne mingled with cigarette smoke. You’ve had so much memories attached to that scent that it made you slightly squint your eyebrows together.

He stands there and waits. “You saw that earlier?”

You really don’t want to look at him right now. Or you’d rather not see any trace of lipgloss on his lips. “Yes. It was disgusting.”

He lets out a short breath, a laugh disguised in a scoff. You step up to the ATM, punch in your code, and request twenty dollars. The whole time he stays there, hands in his jacket pockets, watching the screen.

“Jealous now?” he asks after a beat.

“No. I was just stating what I saw.”

While he stays still you turn slightly to see him planted beside the machine, eyes on you like he has more to say. It’s only you and him now.

You grab your twenty dollars and the receipt from the slot. Ni-ki steps closer, blocking the easy path back to the sidewalk.

“You don’t care anyway,” he says. “You’re probably flirting with a bunch of guys right now. That’s your thing these days.”

“Fuck off.” you tell him flat. You turn to walk away but he stays at the machine, inserts his card, and selects an amount. The machine whirs and starts dispensing a thick stack of bills that could choke a horse. You pause a few steps away and watch in curiosity.

“Are you planning on buying the whole block?” you ask sarcastically.

He counts the bills quickly and stuffs them into his wallet. “It’s for Maki’s party. We’re tight, so I’m handling the alcohol and the rest of the shit. Bottles don’t come cheap.”

You shake your head. He shuts the wallet and walks past you to his car. The door opens with a loud click. Before he gets in he looks back at you, mouth tilted in that unnerving half-smirk.

“See you at the party. Bring your guys. I’ll be there too.”

‘Bring your guys’ You couldn’t expect much from him. He slides into the driver seat, starts the engine, and pulls away. You stand there a moment longer, cash still in your hand, then head back toward your apartment.

───

On Saturday, you sit on the edge of your bed with your phone pressed to your ear. Maki’s voice comes through clear while you fold the white dress you bought. “That girl from my econ class is definitely showing up even though no one invited her,” he says. “And that dude Anderson? He’s bringing his speaker setup again. Last time it blew out halfway through the night.”

You laugh. “Tell him to keep the volume normal this time. I don’t want another noise complaint.”

The conversation bounces around. Maki updates you on the food he ordered and the playlist he’s making. When you compare him with Ni-ki, you’d obviously think that he was the right guy for you and that your ex wouldn’t stand a chance against him. Nonetheless, you can’t deny the fact that your heart always chases after a particular thing. A thing that maybe Maki doesn’t have that someone else do. After that, he pauses.

“You got a ride? My villa’s pretty far out and I can’t leave to pick you up. I’m stuck setting everything up here.”

You look at the clock. “I’ll figure something out.”

“Ni-ki’s coming from your side of town. It’s basically on his way. I’ll text him to grab you.”

You freeze for half a second. Maki has no clue about your history and that’s weird considering how close he is to Ni-ki. You think about the choices you might have. There’s no bus going that far, and cabs would cost too much.

“Alright,” you say. “Tell him.”

“Cool. He’s reliable for this stuff.”

You both keep talking for a bit and you check the time again and tell him you need to start getting ready.

“See you tonight. Don’t forget. White.” he says before you hang up.

You set the phone down, stand up, and pull the dress from the hanger. You lay it out on the bed and start with your hair. You finish getting ready and check your reflection one more time. Your phone lights up on the dresser. A text from Ni-ki.

Ni-ki [8:07 PM]

Outside in 10.

You read it, set the phone back down without typing anything back. A few minutes later you hear the low rumble of his car pulling up in front of your building. You grab your bag, lock the door, and head downstairs.

He waits by the passenger side, engine still running. You walk over and he opens the door for you out of habit. You slide in. He gets behind the wheel and pulls away from the curb before glancing over. “You don’t usually wear white.” he says.

“It was Maki’s idea. He wanted us to match.”

He makes a small sound in the back of his throat. “Cute. Matching outfits like some high school shit. Really original.”

You buckle your seatbelt and stare straight ahead. “It’s just a color. Drop it.”

He taps his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. “Didn’t say it wasn’t. It’s just funny how you’re suddenly into whatever he suggests. Remember when I joked about bringing another girl around? You lost your shit for weeks.”

The words hit exactly where he meant them to. You remember that night clearly. He had laughed it off as a joke after you found out he actually did bring someone else to one of his gigs while you were still together. Always a joke with him, always something he could walk back. That was the top 1 of the reasons why you should’ve left you listed in your note apps before breaking up with him.

“That wasn’t a joke and you know it,” you say. “You cheated and acted like it was nothing.”

He changes lanes, eyes on the road. “We weren’t even exclusive by then. Or did you rewrite the timeline again?”

“We were.” you answer. “You just didn’t want to admit it when it got inconvenient.”

The car fills with silence for two blocks. He speaks again, voice low.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night. Now you’re playing dress-up for Maki.”

You turn your head toward the window. “At least he doesn’t hide behind ‘it was just a joke’ every time he fucks up.”

That was enough to shut him up.

The villa is still twenty minutes away and the road stretches out in front of you. You watch the passing streetlights without saying anything else. Ni-ki keeps his eyes on the road until the villa comes into view, lights already spilling out from the windows and music thumping low. He parks along the long driveway behind a line of other cars.

He cuts the engine. You unbuckle and open your door at the same time he does. He steps out first, pulls a cigarette from his pack, and lights it. The flame catches quick. As you stand up and close the door, he moves around the front of the car. His hand brushes your side and tugs the hem of your dress down toward your thighs quickly.

“Try not to do anything stupid tonight.” he says around the cigarette, voice so low you almost missed what he said. He takes a drag, exhales smoke to the side, and walks off toward the house without waiting.

You adjust the strap of your bag and head inside on your own. The living room is already filling up and you usually hated crowds. You try to sneak upon people and finally spot Danielle near the kitchen island talking to two other girls from your program. You walk over and join them.

“Y/N,” Danielle says, pulling you into a quick side hug. “You made it. The dress looks so good on you.”

One of the girls, Eunchae, smiles. “We were just talking about who’s already drunk. Anderson started shots twenty minutes ago.”

You smile and lean against the counter. “Sounds about right. Anyone see Maki yet?”

The talk picks up from there. You greet the others, exchange small talk about classes, letting the party noise settle around you.

You leave the group with Danielle and weave through the growing crowd toward the back patio where most of the main action is. Maki stands near the sliding doors talking to a couple of guys holding red cups. He spots you and breaks into a grin.

“I’m so freaking glad you came.” he says.

“Happy birthday again. In person this time.” You step closer and press a quick kiss to his cheek. He turns his head just enough that your lips catch the corner of his mouth for a second. His hand rests lightly on your waist.

“Thanks. You look good in white. That’s exactly what I pictured, even though you look good in any color.”

You pull back but stay close to keep the conversation easy. He introduces you to the guys he’s with, and you chat for a few minutes about the setup and the music. You can already smell the grilled meat from the barbecue and an overwhelming “party” scent. Maki gets pulled into another conversation, so you tell him you’ll catch him later and step away.

Your eyes scan the patio. In the far corner, past the pool lights, sits the designated smoking section. Ni-ki leans against the railing there with a couple of other guys. He’s switched to vaping now. The device glows faintly as he takes a long pull. You watch as he does a slow ghost inhale, holding the vapor in before letting it drift out slowly through his nose and mouth at the same time.

His gaze lifts and locks on you across the distance. His gaze remaining on yours forcefully. The corner of his mouth lifts into a tiny smirk right as the rest of the smoke leaves his lips in a controlled cloud. The light from the string bulbs catches the side of his sharp features. You feel it low in your stomach, that unwanted pull. It looks hot, you have to admit it. How he controls the vapor, and when he watches you while doing it, the smirk signaling he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You turn back toward the house before the moment stretches too long. Danielle waves you over to a new group forming near the drinks table. You join them and focus on the conversation, although the image of Ni-ki in the corner stays at the edge of your mind. The party noise rises around you as more people arrive. You take a cup someone offers and listen to the stories being swapped, forcing yourself to stay present.

You stand with Danielle and the others near the drinks table. Maki walks over a few minutes later carrying a bottle of something stronger. He pours shots for the group and hands you one.

“To another year of making bad decisions,” he says, clinking his cup against yours.

You drink it down and the burn hits quick. You talk about nothing important, laugh at old stories, and pour another round. Danielle refills her cup and gestures toward the patio. “At least Ni-ki’s not causing drama tonight. You two good now?”

Is she serious right now? Maki pauses mid-sip and looks between you and her.

“Wait. Ni-ki is your ex?”

You set your cup down. “Yeah. It was a while ago.”

He blinks once, processing. He looks thrown off rather than mad. “Huh. I didn’t know that. Small world, I guess.”

He finishes his drink and shrugs it off with a half-smile. “I’m gonna go check on people. I’ll be back.” He squeezes your shoulder once and walks off toward the other side of the house.

You shoot Danielle a look. She mouths “sorry” and changes the subject fast. The group keeps drinking, but you can feel the shift. After another ten minutes you excuse yourself and head toward the patio again to get some air.

Maki ends up near the smoking section. He spots Ni-ki leaning against the railing with his vape and walks over. “Hey man, thanks for coming,” Maki says. “And for picking up Y/N earlier.”

Ni-ki exhales a cloud of vapor and nods. “No problem.”

Maki chuckles. “I didn’t know you two had history. Exes, right?”

Ni-ki’s mouth curves. “Yeah. Ancient history. She still acts like I owe her something though.”

Maki laughs lightly. “She’s cool. We’ve been talking a lot lately.”

“That so?” Ni-ki takes another pull from the vape, does a French inhale, and blows the smoke out slow. “She’s not with me anymore. But she’s still my ex. You know how it is.”

The cockiness in his voice could be heard from a mile away. Maki raises an eyebrow, still joking. “Possessive much? She’s her own person last time I checked.”

Ni-ki smirks wider. “Tell yourself that. Just don’t come crying when she ghosts your ass for no reason. She’s good at that.”

They both laugh, a back and forth that stays surface level yet carries tension underneath. Maki claps him on the shoulder once and moves on to talk to someone else. Ni-ki stays where he is, eyes scanning the party again.

You head back inside after the conversation dies down. The party has picked up. Music thumps louder through the speakers and people crowd onto the cleared dance floor in the main room. Danielle pulls you into the group with a few other girls. You move with them, bodies shifting to the beat, hands in the air for the chorus.

Maki finds his way over after a couple of songs. You dance facing him, then turn and press back against him for a few beats, grinding lightly against him. His hands rest on your hips. The alcohol makes everything feel loose. You stay like that for another track before you peel off and tell the girls you need air.

You step out onto the patio again. The night feels cooler now. Fewer people linger outside. Ni-ki still sits on the wide railing in the smoking corner, vape in one hand, a half-empty cup in the other. Two guys talk to him but soon head back inside, leaving him mostly alone.

You walk closer and stop a few feet away. “You’re still smoking that thing. You really can’t go one night without it?”

He looks up, takes a pull, and exhales. “It keeps me from doing worse shit. What about you? Grinding on the birthday boy like that. That’s new.”

You roll your eyes and lean against the railing nearby. The alcohol turns noticeably in your stomach. You breathe deeper, trying to clear your head, eyes focused on the dark yard beyond the lights. Ni-ki notices your light unsteadiness. He stands up and moves beside you, closer than he ever was in your life.

He lifts the vape to his mouth, inhales, and blows a thick cloud of smoke from the corner of his lips so it drifts past your face. His free hand drops to the hem of your dress again and tugs it down from your ass to your thighs with a firm pull.

“Come with me,” he says. “Let’s get you some water before you puke on Maki’s shoes.”

The dizziness lingers. He starts walking toward the side door that leads to the kitchen and you follow him. Most people are still on the dance floor so they’re not going to pay attention if something happens. You lean against the counter near the sink, with your head a little fuzzy from the shots. Ni-ki opens the fridge to grab a cold bottle of water, and hands it to you without a word.

You twist the cap off and take a long drink. He stops vaping, sets the device on the island, and leans back against it directly in front of you. His arms rest on the edge of the counter behind him.

“You’re being nice tonight,” he says. “Even drunk. Not like the old days when you’d tell me to fuck off for less.”

You lower the bottle and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Don’t start acting like you know me. You lost that right a long time ago.”

He watches you take another sip. You set the bottle down with force. “Mind your own business.” you tell him. “Stop trying to ruin my love life every time I talk to someone else.”

Ni-ki pushes off the island and steps forward. He places one hand on the counter beside your hip, the other on the other side, bracketing you in. Without touching you, the space between you shrinks. You can smell the scent of his vape and the subtle alcohol on his breath. He’s not drunk, but neither does he seems sober.

“I don’t give a shit if you choose Maki,” he declares lowly. “I don’t even want you back like that. We both know that. I just don’t like that you’re not mine anymore.”

You stay pressed against the counter, looking up at him. “Then why the fuck can you kiss other girls whenever you want,” you say, “and I don’t have the right to do anything? You get to move on but I can’t even dance with someone without you pulling this shit?”

His eyes stay on yours without moving an inch.

“Because I don’t pretend it’s something bigger,” he answers. “I kiss who I want and it ends there. You start something and suddenly it’s this whole production with matching outfits and rides and everyone knowing your business. It pisses me off that you’re out here acting like you’re free when you used to be mine. That’s all.”

You push against his chest lightly with one hand. He gives an inch but stays close.

“What the fuck am I to you? An object? You don’t own me,” you tell him. “We broke up. Get over it.”

He lets out a short laugh. “I am over it. That doesn’t mean I have to like watching it. Especially not with Maki acting like he’s got a chance at something real.”

Music pulses from the other rooms and it feels distant. He waits for your next words, hands still planted on the counter.

You push past him and walk out of the kitchen. The alcohol still clouds your steps as you head toward the stairs. You start climbing without looking back.

“Stop,” Ni-ki calls after you. “You’re gonna trip like that.”

You ignore him and keep going. Your dress rides up a little with each step, bunching higher on your thighs. A couple of guys standing at the bottom of the stairs turn their heads, eyes dropping to your ass.

“Eyes up, assholes.” Ni-ki snaps at them as he moves quickly behind you.

He follows close on your heels the rest of the way up, his body blocking the view from below. You reach the second floor hallway and stop near an open window for air. He stops right behind you, you feel the heat from him.

You push away from the windowsill, head spinning more than before. The dizziness hits harder. You walk down the hall and open the nearest bedroom door. It’s empty with just a big bed and some jackets thrown over a chair. You go straight to the bed and lie down on your back, eyes closed.

Ni-ki follows you in. “Slow down. You’re drunk.”

“Fuck you.” you mutter, arm over your eyes. “Always acting like you can tell me what to do or like you still have a say. Go find another girl to kiss and leave me alone.”

You hear his footsteps cross the room. The door clicks shut behind him, closing out most of the party noise. He stays near the door for a moment, and then he moves closer to the bed.

“I’m not leaving you up here like this,” he says. “You’ll feel worse if you pass out alone. Drink more water when you can sit up.”

You keep your eyes covered, the room tilting even while lying down. “I hate how you do this. You show up and act like you care only when it suits you.”

He pulls the chair closer to the bed and sits.

You stay on the bed, arm still draped over your eyes. The dizziness refuses to calm down. Ni-ki shifts in the chair beside you. “I know I’m an asshole,” he says after a long pause. “But Maki’s too drunk to take care of you properly. He’s downstairs doing shots and barely standing straight. You think he’s coming up here to hold your hair if you throw up?”

You move your arm and look at him. The room lights feel too bright. “And you think you’re any better? You followed me up here like I need a babysitter.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Someone has to. You drank too much and came upstairs alone. I’m not trying to fuck with you right now. So stay here until it passes a bit.”

You try to move your head on the pillow. The bed feels still under you compared to the floor earlier. Ni-ki gets up from the chair. The mattress dips as he sits down on the edge next to you. His hand lands on the mattress right behind your head, his fingers brushing the pillow.

“You need anything?” he asks. “More water? Something to eat?”

“Fuck off,” you say without opening your eyes. “I don’t want anything from you.”

“Come on. Stop being stubborn.”

“Fuck you, Ni-ki. Seriously. Go downstairs and vape or kiss whoever the hell you want. Leave me the fuck alone.”

You turn your face further into the pillow. He stays seated there, hand still planted behind your head on the bed.

“Do you love Maki?” he asks suddenly.

Why would he ask that all of a sudden? When you try to consider it, you don’t love Maki. You really don’t. Love is a strong word to describe what you’re feeling for him. And when you think about it, you don’t even have a definition for love, since the ‘real’ love you’ve ever experienced was absolutely fucked and toxic. You remain silent and let the question float, unanswered.

He leans in a bit closer. “Have you ever kissed him?”

“Yes,” you confess. “Once on the mouth. And please, it’s really none of your business.”

After your declaration, he softly abruptly kisses you. And weirdly enough, you can’t push him away. The shape of his lips, the curve of his mouth, they all are familiar to you. You’ve kissed him a hundred times and only God knows why it always feels surreal when you do. You stay still under it for a few seconds. When he finally pulls back you wipe your lips with the back of your hand. He laughs low and kisses you again right away. You try to turn your head but he follows, kissing you so you can’t wipe anything off. You manage to get your hand between you for a moment.

“Stop.” you mutter against his mouth. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He kisses you once more, quick and sure. “You told me to go kiss a girl. I’m listening to you.”

You push at his shoulder, a tentative move to use your strength that isn’t even there because of the alcohol. “That’s not what I meant. Can you stop being such an asshole?”

He laughs again, close to you. “You said it. Now you’re mad when I do it. Make up your mind.”

You wipe your mouth again and he’s automatically already leaning in. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I aware of that.” He kisses you anyway and you let him once again. You bicker between kisses, words half-formed and cut off. He keeps the pace just fast enough that you can’t keep wiping your lips clean. Your thoughts spin slower by now, caught between telling him to leave and not wanting him to. You can’t decide.

Ni-ki shifts and towers over you on the bed, one knee beside your leg. Your hands find his shoulders and stay there to anchor yourself. The making out gets more heated, mouths open, breaths mixing, just like the good old days. His hand slides down to the side of your hip. He grips it and whispers against your lips, “I can finally slide this dress up.”

If anything scandalous could possibly happen, you can’t allow that to be known by anyone. Not Maki nor Danielle. And knowing how Ni-ki could just spill that in Maki’s face just to fuck with him. It couldn’t be worse than what this is. You pull back to speak, your face a few inches away from his. “If we do anything right now, you forget it tomorrow. You shut your damn mouth.”

He nods once. “Agreed.”

You tilt your head back as he moves to your neck. “Maki’s downstairs waiting for me.”

He makes an irritated sound low in his throat. “Don’t bring him up while I’m doing this.” He kisses your neck harder and sucks stingily on the skin. You feel the pull as he leaves a noticeable hickey. He moves lower, mouth working along your collarbone, leaving more marks. One after another.

You breathe through it, fingers in his hair. He shifts to the other side of your neck and does the same, sucking until the skin blooms under his mouth. Your thoughts keep circling back to how bad an idea this is, but you don’t want to can’t stop him. He covers your neck and collarbones, alternating between kisses and harder pulls that you know will show tomorrow.

“Fuck,” you mutter when he hits a sensitive spot. He keeps going, hand still firm on your hip under the bunched fabric of the dress. The party noise stays far away and for now the room holds only this.

You feel his hand move under the dress. He slides your panties down your legs easily and tosses them aside. His fingers return between your thighs and caress your folds, slow and patient, waiting for you to get wet.

You find it funny, this power you still have over him, and how easily he would react to a mention on the guys you’re talking to. You smile against his mouth and start talking. “Maki kissed me better last time. His hands didn’t shake like yours do when you’re trying to act cool.”

Ni-ki’s fingers keep moving, teasing your entrance but not pushing in yet. “Stop.”

You ignore him and keep going. “He texts me every day. He says he misses me when I don’t reply. You never did that.”

“Y/N, what are you doing?” he says again, voice tighter. His fingers circle your clit once, then back to your folds, spreading the wetness that starts to build.

You chuckle low. “You’re so easy to annoy. Look at you. Already hard and I haven’t even touched you back.”

He leans down closer, mouth near your ear while his hand works between your legs. “And would you look at yourself? Such a needy little slut, getting wet for your ex while your new boy is downstairs waiting. Can’t even stay loyal for one night, don’t you?”

You breathe sharper at his words, body reacting even as your mind pushes back. His fingers stay teasing, patient, drawing it out. You shift your hips but he doesn’t speed up. The marks on your neck throb in time with your pulse, as he sucked on your skin like a vampire. You know you should tell him to stop but the words don’t come out of your mouth. Anyone who would even just see their ex from afar would run away or ignore them. And mostly after them cheating on you and being an asshole. You feel dumb right now. You let him keep touching you, the mingle of annoyance and heat keeping you there under him.

You feel his hands on your waist. He lifts you without much effort and shifts you onto his lap so you straddle him. Your dress bunches up around your hips. He unbuckles his jeans, pushes them down and leaves his boxers on for a minute, and pulls you closer. He grinds up against you, his hard cock sliding along your wetness through the thin fabric.

You reach down between you and wrap your hand around him. You stroke slowly, spreading the precum from the tip down his length. He exhales sharply, like when he exhales smoke. You position yourself and sink down onto him, taking him in inch by inch until you sit fully on his dick.

“I fucking hate you.” you whisper.

He grips your hips tighter. You start to move, slow at first. The feeling of him inside you brings back too many memories. You rock your hips, hands on his shoulders for balance. He meets your movements from below, thrusting up into you.

“You say that but you’re soaking my cock right now,” he mutters.

Even like this, he finds a way to talk back. You keep riding him, the heat raising in the room. Your thighs press against his sides which makes the bed creaks quietly under you both. You hate how right it feels in the moment, how your body responds to him without hesitation, because you’ll always have this weird connection together. He fills you completely and you let yourself chase that feeling, even while the words “I hate you” echo in your head.

You keep moving on him, hips rolling steadily. Ni-ki’s hands slide down to your ass. He fondles it, squeezing the flesh as you ride him.

“That’s it,” he says, voice low and condescending. “You’re taking my cock so well. Such a good little slut for your ex even after all that talking shit.”

He slaps your ass once, the sound sharp below the muffled music. The sting mixes with the pleasure as you clench around him involuntarily. He does it again on the other cheek, harder this time, then rubs the spot right after.

“Fuck, you feel so tight,” he continues, fondling and kneading your cheeks while you move. “Maki doesn’t know how to handle you like this, does he? But here you are, bouncing on me like you never left.”

You bite your lip to hold back a moan. His words irritate you but they also push you closer. He slaps your ass a third time, grips both cheeks and pulls you down harder onto him with each thrust. His hands stay on your ass, fondling, slapping, controlling the pace as you ride him. Your thoughts scatter between the anger and the building heat and you don’t if anything feels right. You hate how much you like his hands on you right now, the way he praises you like he owns the moment. You keep going anyway, letting the cadence take over.

You press down harder, sitting fully on him and stirring your hips in tight circles so his dick moves deep inside you. Ni-ki groans and grips your ass tighter, hips jerking up. You feel him throbbing, right on the edge.

You lift off him suddenly, his cock slipping out wet and You press down harder, sitting fully on him and stirring your hips in tight circles so his dick moves deep inside you. Ni-ki groans and grips your ass tighter, hips jerking up. You feel him throbbing, right on the edge.

You lift off him suddenly, his cock slipping out wet and hard. You grab your panties from the floor and pull them back on quick. He stares at you, breathing heavy.

“What the fuck?” he says.

You smooth your dress down over your hips. “We said forget it tomorrow. I’m done.”

A knock sounds on the door. Maki’s voice comes through. “Y/N? You in there?”

You glance at Ni-ki once before walking to the door. Your legs feel unsteady but you keep moving. The hickeys on your neck burn under the fabric. You open the door just enough to slip out, leaving Ni-ki on the bed behind you. Maki stands in the hallway, looking concerned.

“Hey, I was looking for you,” he says. “You okay?”

You nod and close the door behind you. “Yeah. I needed to lie down for a bit. Let’s go back downstairs.”

Your mind races as you walk with him, getting occasional stares from him on your neck and collarbones. The wetness between your legs a reminder of what just happened. But everything will be forgotten the day after, right?

The voice was pleasant—a warm baritone with just the slightest hint of an accent.

You turned to find a man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit studying the same photograph with thinly veiled amusement. He was handsome in that polished, untouchable way of the extremely wealthy—perfect hair, perfect posture, everything about him screaming old money.

Under normal circumstances, you might have nodded politely and moved on. Men who looked like him rarely engaged in genuine conversation at events like these.

But something in his expression—a hint of genuine mischief beneath the polished exterior—made you respond honestly.

"I wouldn't say that," you replied diplomatically. "Art is subjective."

"So is food poisoning, but we can still recognize it when we experience it." He gestured toward the photograph with his champagne flute. "This is visual food poisoning."

A startled laugh escaped you, drawing disapproving glances from a nearby couple examining the same piece with exaggerated intensity.

"That's my friend's work you're insulting," you said, lowering your voice.

"Ah." He didn't look remotely embarrassed. If anything, his smile widened, creating a small dimple in his left cheek. "Then I assume you're here out of obligation rather than appreciation."

You studied him more carefully. There was no malice in his expression, only genuine amusement and refreshing honesty.

"Isn't everyone at these things?" You glanced around the gallery. "Half the people here couldn't distinguish between a masterpiece and a child's finger painting, but they'll all have very strong opinions."

"Touché." His smile reached his eyes, transforming his face from merely handsome to genuinely compelling. "I'm Jay."

"Just Jay?" You raised an eyebrow. "No family name? No title or position that should impress me?"

"Tonight, just Jay." He seemed to appreciate that you didn't immediately offer your name in return. "And you are?"

"Just someone who defends her friends' artistic endeavors, no matter how questionable."

"Loyalty," he nodded, as if noting something important. "An underrated quality in rooms like this, where allegiances change with the season's trends."

There was something wistful in his observation, a flash of genuineness beneath the practiced charm. Before you could respond, a commotion near the entrance drew your attention.

A group had arrived, their entrance causing a ripple effect through the crowd—backs straightening, conversations pausing, attention shifting.

"Duty calls," Jay murmured, his expression cooling. The playful stranger who had joked with you was vanishing, replaced by someone more controlled. "It was refreshing to meet you, Just Someone."

And then he was gone, moving toward the new arrivals. You watched as he transformed with each step—shoulders squaring, chin lifting, smile shifting from genuine to practiced.

He bowed respectfully to an older couple at the center of the group, clearly his family. The woman—elegant, with silver-streaked black hair—examined the gallery with the cool assessment of someone accustomed to making judgments that mattered.

It was only when Priya rushed over that you realized who you'd been talking to.

"Do you know who that was?" she hissed, gripping your arm. "The Jay Park. Park Industries! The Korean conglomerate that's expanding into American markets. Did you get his number?"

"We just talked about your photographs," you said, suddenly feeling out of place in your carefully selected but obviously off-the-rack dress. "He called them visual food poisoning."

Priya's expression didn't even flicker. "Jay Park insulted my work? That's practically a career highlight!" She snapped a discreet photo. "Wait until I tell my parents—they'll finally believe this wasn't a waste of my education."

You watched as Jay circulated through the room with practiced ease, his charisma deployed with strategic precision. The man who had stood beside you making irreverent comments might as well have been a different person entirely.

As you left the gallery hours later, you glanced back once to find Jay watching you from across the room. For just a moment, his public mask slipped, and he gave you a small, conspiratorial smile.

You never saw him again. Not in person, anyway.

Three Years Ago

"PARK HEIR ENGAGEMENT ANNOUNCED: JAY PARK TO WED ITALIAN HEIRESS"

The headline splashed across your phone screen during your morning subway commute. Normally, you'd have skipped past such celebrity gossip, but the name caught your attention—that brief memory of champagne and honesty in a New York gallery.

Curious, you tapped the article.

"Jay Park, 29, heir to the Park Industries empire, announced his engagement yesterday to Seraphina Visconti, 26, daughter of Italian shipping magnate Giorgio Visconti. The match unites two of the most influential business families across continents after a whirlwind romance of six months.

"'Seraphina represents everything the Parks value—business acumen, family loyalty, and global vision,' said Chairwoman Soo-min Park in a statement.

"The couple met during Park Industries' expansion into European markets. Sources suggest the marriage will cement a strategic partnership potentially worth billions."

Below the text was a photograph of Jay with his arm around a stunning woman with olive skin and a camera-ready smile. He looked exactly as you remembered—handsome, composed, untouchable. But something about his eyes seemed different. Harder, perhaps. The smile that had crinkled their corners in the gallery was nowhere to be seen.

You stared at the image longer than was reasonable for someone who had spoken to the man exactly once. There was something almost theatrical about the pose, the smiles, the carefully framed opulence.

"Good for him," you muttered, closing the article as the subway reached your stop. "Hope they're very happy together."

You found yourself wondering if he'd made that woman laugh genuinely, or if their relationship was built on the kind of performance you'd witnessed when his family arrived at the gallery.

You didn't think about Jay Park again for a long time.

Last Year

"PARK INDUSTRIES HEIR DISGRACED: JAY PARK REMOVED FROM FAMILY COMPANY AMID SCANDAL"

This headline caught your eye during lunch break. The photograph showed Jay leaving a building, face partially obscured, expression hidden behind dark sunglasses. Even in disgrace, he wore an impeccably tailored suit, though his tie was loosened and his normally perfect hair disheveled.

Something tightened in your chest at the image. You tapped on the article, pushing your salad aside.

"Jay Park has been removed from his position following allegations of corporate espionage and fraud. The Seoul Economic Prosecutor's Office confirmed yesterday that Park is under investigation for his role in the controversial merger between Park Industries and Hanjin Global.

"'Evidence suggests Mr. Park orchestrated the theft of proprietary information to facilitate the merger on terms exceptionally favorable to Park Industries,' stated Chief Prosecutor Kim. 'This represents a serious breach of corporate ethics and possibly criminal misconduct.'

"Sources revealed that Chairwoman Soo-min Park, Jay's mother, personally signed the termination papers. 'It was like watching an execution,' said one executive. 'The family cut him off completely. No defense, no second chances.'

"Adding personal tragedy to professional disgrace, Park's engagement to Italian heiress Seraphina Visconti was terminated shortly before the scandal broke."

You frowned at your screen. Something about the story felt wrong—the swiftness of his family's abandonment, the convenient timing of the broken engagement, the way everyone seemed to distance themselves simultaneously, as if following a coordinated script.

But what did you know? You'd met the man once, years ago. That brief interaction hardly qualified you to judge the situation or the complex dynamics of global corporate politics.

Still, you couldn't shake the memory of his genuine smile, so different from the corporate mask he'd worn for his family. The way he'd spoken about loyalty as an underrated quality.

"Rough fall from grace," your coworker commented, noticing the article on your screen. "Guess even the mighty Parks can't escape karma."

"I guess not," you agreed absently. But privately you wondered what karma had to do with it. From what little you knew of chaebol families, they created their own destinies—and occasionally, their own destruction.

Over the following months, you occasionally saw follow-up articles. The investigation seemed to drag on without clear resolution. Some outlets questioned aspects of the evidence. Others suggested political motivations behind the prosecution.

But as the story faded from headlines, you found yourself wondering sometimes what had happened to the man who had once made you laugh in an art gallery—the man who, for a brief moment, had seemed genuinely human beneath the wealth and privilege.

Four Months Ago - Jay's Perspective

Jay Park stood at the window of his empty apartment, watching Seoul's lights glitter below. The city looked exactly the same as it had before his life imploded—indifferent to his disgrace. Photographers still camped outside his building, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fallen heir.

The penthouse that had once been featured in architectural magazines now echoed with emptiness. Most of the art and furnishings were gone—some seized in the investigation, others reclaimed by his family when they'd cut him off.

His phone—a new one, with a number known to fewer than five people—vibrated on the counter. He ignored it. The nearly empty bottle of scotch beside it held more appeal. He poured another measure into a glass that didn't match the crystal tumblers he'd once collected.

Jay took a long sip, noting with detached interest that his hand no longer shook. Progress, of a sort. The first few months after his downfall, he could barely hold a glass steady.

The evidence against him had been impeccable. Each document, each testimony, each transaction record forming a perfect constellation of guilt. So perfect that, had he not known with absolute certainty he was innocent, he might have believed it himself.

That was the elegant brutality of it—the case was built not on crude forgeries, but on actual actions he had taken, actual meetings he had attended, all recontextualized to tell a story of corruption rather than innovation.

By the time he understood what was happening, the narrative had solidified. His former fiancée had disappeared back to Italy. His family had closed ranks against him. His so-called friends had vanished overnight.

"You always were too trusting, Jongseong."

His mother's words, delivered as she personally collected his company credentials. Not in private—she had ensured there were witnesses. The perfect chairwoman, putting corporate ethics above family loyalty.

He'd spent his entire life trying to prove himself worthy of the Park name, only to be discarded the moment it became expedient.

His phone vibrated again. A text from his attorney: "Prosecutor offering deal. Meet tomorrow."

Jay didn't bother responding. There would be no deal. Not because he was noble, but because accepting a deal meant accepting guilt. And while the world might believe him guilty, he refused to validate the lie.

He returned to the window, scotch in hand. Somewhere in that landscape were the people who had orchestrated his downfall. Were they celebrating still? Or had they already moved on to their next target, his destruction just another successful transaction?

One photograph lay face-down on the counter—Seraphina smiling beside him at their engagement party, her eyes fixed on the camera with practiced warmth. The perfect couple. The perfect alliance. The perfect lie.

"I never saw it coming," he murmured. "Not from you."

That was the truly unforgivable part—not the betrayal itself, but his blind failure to anticipate it. All the signs had been there: her sudden interest when the Hanjin merger was first discussed, her questions about his meetings, her friendship with his cousin.

But he'd been too enthralled with the idea of her—the perfect partner who fit the plan he'd constructed for his life.

Jay drained his glass. He should sleep. Tomorrow would bring more meetings, more denials, more evidence of his spectacular fall.

He was turning from the window when it happened—a sharp, stabbing pain behind his eyes, so intense he dropped his glass. It shattered as he clutched his head, the pain expanding outward like a supernova.

The room tilted sideways. His hand passed through the wall as though it were mist. The familiar contours of his apartment seemed to dissolve, replaced by swirling darkness.

His last conscious thought was strangely clear, cutting through the pain:

I would do it all differently.

Jay opened his eyes to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains.

No—not unfamiliar. His old curtains, from his suite in the family compound. The heavy navy drapes his mother had replaced three years ago.

He sat up with a jolt, banging his head against the headboard with an undignified thud.

"What the—" he muttered, rubbing his forehead while blinking at his surroundings.

This room had been redecorated after he moved out. The traditional furniture, the blue walls, the precise arrangement of his diplomas—all of it had been erased when his mother decided the space needed to "reflect the modern sensibilities of Park Industries' future."

Jay scrambled out of bed, tangling himself in sheets he hadn't slept in for years—1,000 thread count Egyptian cotton in navy blue, not the minimalist white linens of his apartment.

He stumbled to the bathroom. The face that stared back from the mirror made him grip the countertop until his knuckles went white.

"Impossible," he whispered.

The face was his, but not the one he'd seen yesterday. No dark circles. No stress lines. No gray hairs at his temples. This was him from... before.

"I've lost my mind," he announced to the empty bathroom. "This is what a psychotic break feels like."

He splashed cold water on his face, half expecting the hallucination to dissolve.

Back in the bedroom, his phone chimed. Not the anonymous device he'd been using since his disgrace, but his old phone—the one with the Park Industries logo, the one seized by prosecutors.

He approached it like it might explode, picking it up between two fingers.

The calendar notification made him drop the phone directly onto his foot.

"Son of a—" he yelped, hopping awkwardly.

He snatched up the phone again and stared at the date.

Five years in the past.

Another notification: "Meeting with Chairman Kang's team at 11. Merger exploration talks. Confidential."

Kang. The first domino in what would become his downfall. The meeting that would eventually lead him to Seraphina Visconti.

"This can't be happening," he said, running his hands through his hair until it stood in a manner his perfectly-coiffed future self would find horrifying.

The bedroom door suddenly swung open. Jay yelped and grabbed a decorative pillow to cover his chest.

His mother's executive assistant, Mrs. Joseph, stood in the doorway, her expression somehow even more judgmental as she took in his disheveled state.

"Mr. Park," she said with glacial formality, "your mother wishes to remind you that the board meeting begins in forty-five minutes."

"Mrs. Joseph," Jay managed, clutching the tasseled pillow, "what day is it today?"

One perfectly plucked eyebrow rose a millimeter.

"It is Tuesday, Mr. Park. The 17th of October, 2018."

Five years in the past. Confirmed by the human calendar that was Mrs. Joseph, who had never been wrong about a date in twenty years.

"Thank you. Please tell my mother I'll be there."

Mrs. Joseph nodded and closed the door.

Jay stood frozen before bursting into motion, pacing and gesturing wildly.

"Time travel isn't real," he informed his empty room. "This is a complete psychological break."

He stopped in front of the mirror, pointing an accusatory finger at his reflection.

"You are having a nervous breakdown."

His phone chimed again. A text from his cousin Danny: "You look like hell on the security feed. Board meeting in 44 minutes. Pull yourself together."

Jay glanced at the discreet camera in the corner, then back at his phone.

Other people could see him. Other people were interacting with him. This wasn't just in his head.

"I've gone back in time," he whispered, testing the words. "I've gone back in time!"

A hysterical laugh bubbled up from his chest. He had a second chance. A chance to avoid Seraphina. A chance to prevent the merger catastrophe. A chance to protect himself from betrayal before it began.

Then he froze, composing himself. If this was real, he needed to be strategic.

"Park Jongseong," he told his reflection sternly, "pull yourself together. You have a board meeting in forty-three minutes. And then you have a life to completely rebuild."

As he headed for the bathroom, he caught himself whistling. Park Jongseong didn't whistle. Park Jongseong was dignified, serious, and focused at all times.

But then again, Park Jongseong also didn't time travel. So perhaps some new rules were in order.

Forty-two minutes later, Jay found himself seated in the most uncomfortable chair in Seoul—not because of its design, but because of who surrounded it.

The Park Industries boardroom was exactly as he remembered it from before its renovation. Twenty-four seats around a massive mahogany table, each position equipped with a recessed screen and an elegant portfolio. The room smelled of sandalwood and concentrated power.

And around him sat the very people who would one day abandon him without hesitation.

His mother, Chairwoman Soomin Park, presided at the head, her silver-streaked hair in a severe chignon. His father sat opposite, expression fixed in the distant contemplation that had always characterized their relationship. Next to him was Uncle Jiho, whose vote would be first to condemn Jay when the time came. Beside his mother sat Aunt Mina, who would publicly declare his actions "disappointing but not surprising."

They were all watching him. Or perhaps he was just paranoid. Hard to tell which was more reasonable when you'd time-traveled into your younger body.

"The Q3 projections for the semiconductor division," droned CFO Yun. "As you can see, we're exceeding targets by 4.3% despite supply chain challenges..."

Jay nodded mechanically, trying to appear engaged while his mind raced. He kept catching himself staring at people who shouldn't be noteworthy—like Director Kang, who would later introduce him to Seraphina Visconti.

"Jongseong."

He jerked upright, realizing his mother had addressed him directly.

"I—" he began, having no idea what had been asked. "Could you repeat the question?"

A flicker of annoyance crossed his mother's face. "I said, do you have the projections for the European market expansion? The ones you insisted were ready for board review?"

Right. The European expansion. The document that would eventually lead to the Visconti partnership. The first step in his downfall.

"I've been reconsidering those projections," he said, his voice sounding strange in his ears. "I believe we should focus on domestic consolidation before extending into Europe."

A heavy silence fell over the room. In the original timeline, he'd aggressively championed European expansion for months.

"You've been... reconsidering," his mother repeated, each syllable precisely weighted. "Since last night's strategy meeting, where you presented a seventy-page report detailing exactly why European expansion cannot wait?"

Jay cleared his throat, tugging at his suddenly tight collar. "I've had some... insights."

"Insights," she echoed flatly.

"Yes. About... market volatility." Jay caught sight of his reflection in the darkened screen—he looked like someone trying to defuse a bomb while wearing oven mitts. "And geopolitical considerations. Brexit currency fluctuations. You know. Business... things."

Director Kang frowned. "But your analysis specifically addressed Brexit concerns, concluding they presented opportunity rather than obstacle."

"Well, people can change their minds," Jay said, a bit too forcefully.

His mother set down her pen—never a good sign. "Are you feeling well, Jongseong?"

"Perfectly well. Never better."

"You look flushed. And you're sweating."

Jay reached up, mortified to find his forehead damp. Park Jongseong did not sweat in board meetings.

"It's rather warm in here."

"It's sixty-eight degrees, as always," his mother replied. "Your grandfather had similar symptoms before his stroke. The disorientation. The contradictory statements."

"I'm not having a stroke," Jay said, horrified that this conversation was happening in front of the entire board.

"He said the same thing," contributed his aunt helpfully. "Right before he tried to sign a merger agreement with a potted plant."

"I know what day it is," Jay offered as proof of his mental faculties. "It's Tuesday, October 17, 2018."

This did not have the intended effect. If anything, his mother's concern deepened.

"Yes," she said slowly. "Most people with calendars know the date. More relevant is your explanation for this sudden policy reversal."

Jay scrambled for a plausible explanation that wouldn't sound like 'I've seen the future and it ends with all of you betraying me.'

"I received some... intelligence," he said finally. "About certain European partners. It requires verification before we proceed."

This, at least, was the language of business his mother understood. Her expression shifted from concern to calculation.

"What intelligence, and from whom?"

"I'd prefer to discuss that privately," he said, finding his footing. "After I've confirmed some details."

His mother studied him, then gave a slight nod. "Very well. We'll revisit the European strategy next week."

As the presentation resumed, Jay exhaled slowly, only to catch his father watching him with an evaluative expression he couldn't quite interpret.

His phone vibrated. Grateful for the distraction, he discreetly checked the message.

From Jake: Dude, what was THAT? Your mom thinks you're having a stroke, and Danny says you were talking to yourself this morning. Also, Priya's exhibition is Friday, don't forget you promised to come. Her parents are visiting from Mumbai and she's freaking out.

Jay blinked, momentarily confused. Priya? Jake's girlfriend. The photographer. The exhibition.

A distant memory stirred—something about an art gallery in New York, some terrible photographs, and...

He frowned, trying to recall. There had been someone there, hadn't there? Someone he'd spoken to briefly. He couldn't remember a face or name, just a vague impression of a genuine laugh and an honest conversation.

He typed back: Not having a stroke. Just reconsidering some strategies. What time Friday?

Jake's reply came instantly: 8PM, Klein Gallery in Chelsea. Wear something that makes you look less corporate robot, more human person.

Jay tucked his phone away, the half-formed memory already fading as more pressing concerns demanded his attention.

"Jongseong, do you have anything to add to Director Park's assessment?"

Jay looked up to find the entire board staring at him again. He hadn't heard a word of what Director Park had said.

"I think Director Park's assessment is... comprehensive," he managed, having no idea what he was endorsing.

"He asked for your input on canceling the Daewon acquisition."

"Right." Jay straightened. The Daewon acquisition—a company they had purchased and later sold at a significant profit in his original timeline. "I believe we should proceed with the acquisition. Their patent portfolio alone justifies the investment."

Director Park nodded approvingly. "Exactly my point."

Jay relaxed marginally, only to tense again when his mother spoke.

"That's interesting, considering Director Park just recommended we cancel the acquisition due to their overvalued patents."

The room fell silent. Jay felt heat creeping up his neck.

"I was... testing to see if anyone was paying attention?"

His mother's sigh could have withered steel. "We'll take a ten minute recess. Jongseong, my office. Now."

As the board members filed out, his father paused briefly beside him.

"Whatever's going on with you, fix it before your mother decides you need medical intervention. Or worse, reassignment."

With that less-than-comforting advice, Jay followed his mother to what would undoubtedly be the most awkward conversation of his newly-regained past life.

"Close the door," his mother instructed as they entered her office, a minimalist sanctuary of glass and steel.

Jay obeyed, steeling himself for the dissection that was about to occur.

"Sit," she commanded, taking her place behind a desk large enough to land a small aircraft.

He complied, automatically adjusting his posture to the rigid formality expected. Twenty-nine years of conditioning didn't disappear even with temporal displacement.

"What is happening with you?"

"Nothing serious, I assure you. Just a temporary—"

"That was not a board performance worthy of a Park," she interrupted. "You contradicted yourself, failed to pay attention, and gave the impression of someone who is either incompetent or unwell. Neither is acceptable."

"I apologize, Mom. It won't happen again."

The moment the word left his mouth, Jay was surprised at his own casualness. Mom. Not "Mother" or "Chairwoman" as he'd taken to calling her in professional settings.

His mother's expression softened almost imperceptibly—visible only to someone who had spent a lifetime learning to read her minute facial cues.

"It's been a while since you've called me that in this office," she noted, neither disapproving nor sentimental. The Parks might be ruthless in business, but family was family. "Though it doesn't exempt you from explaining your behavior this morning."

"I'm simply... reconsidering certain aspects of my approach."

"Your approach," she echoed skeptically.

"Yes. I've been thinking that perhaps I've been too rigid. Too focused on following a preset path without questioning whether it's the optimal route."

Her expression shifted subtly. "And this revelation came to you when, exactly?"

"Recently," he hedged.

"I see." She tapped one nail against her desk. "And does this 'reconsideration' include your personal life as well?"

Jay tensed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you've spent five years claiming to be too focused on your career for serious relationships, despite my repeated reminders that a suitable marriage is an essential component of your position. If you're reconsidering 'preset paths,' perhaps this is an area you might prioritize."

And there it was. In the original timeline, this conversation had led to his first introduction to the Visconti family.

"I don't believe my focus should be on marriage at this time," he said carefully.

"And yet you're now suggesting we delay European expansion, which leaves you with considerably more bandwidth." She opened a drawer and removed a slim folder. "I've taken the liberty of updating your candidate dossiers."

Of course she had. In his mother's world, suitable marriage partners were assessed with the same due diligence as potential acquisitions.

"I appreciate your thoroughness, but I'll handle this aspect of my life myself."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. "You've been 'handling it yourself' since graduation, with no results. The Kang family has been quite direct about their interest in an alliance through their daughter."

Jay suppressed a grimace. Se-yeon Kang. The woman who had introduced him to Seraphina at her father's request.

"The Kangs are not a suitable match," he said sharply.

"On what basis?"

On the basis that they were integral to his destruction, he thought bitterly.

"I have concerns about their long-term business ethics," he said instead.

"Interesting." She made a note on her tablet. "I wasn't aware you had investigated the Kang operations."

"I make it my business to be thorough."

"Perhaps you're not as distracted as you appeared in the boardroom, then."

Jay recognized the familiar pattern—his mother testing him, probing for weaknesses. In his first life, he'd been so desperate for her approval that he'd missed the manipulation.

"I should prepare for the Kang meeting," he said, rising. "I'll need to review the materials given my reconsideration of our European strategy."

She nodded, dismissing him with a wave. "Don't embarrass yourself again. The board already thinks you're following in your grandfather's neurological footsteps."

At the door, he paused. In his previous life, he'd walked out of this office and directly into the trap being laid for him.

"One more thing," he said. "Who originally suggested the Visconti Group as a potential European partner?"

If the question surprised her, she didn't show it. "I believe Chairman Kang mentioned them at the economic forum in Davos. Why?"

"Just mapping connections. It helps me visualize the relationship web."

Her eyes narrowed slightly—the look she gave when recalculating her assessment. "Your grandfather used to say something similar. Before the stroke, of course."

With that parting barb, she dismissed him.

As Jay left, his phone vibrated again. Another text from Jake:

Almost forgot—Priya says to bring that friend of yours from the investment firm if he's still in town. She needs all the connections she can get.

Jay frowned. What friend from what investment firm? He didn't recall...

And then it clicked. The half-remembered interaction from the gallery. There had been someone else there that night—not just the person he'd spoken to, but someone he'd been introduced to later.

If he attended this exhibition, he might run into that person again—the one whose laugh he vaguely remembered. Not that it mattered particularly. Just a curious coincidence in his reshuffled timeline.

He pocketed his phone, mind already turning to more immediate concerns. The Kang meeting. The European strategy. The trap he needed to dismantle piece by piece.

A random stranger he'd once met at a gallery was hardly worth dwelling on when he had an entire future to reconstruct.

Autumn in New York welcomed Jay with crisp air and streets still gleaming from an afternoon shower. He stood outside the Klein Gallery in Chelsea, straightening cuffs that needed no adjustment.

The city felt different now—full of possibility rather than the shame and failure it would represent in his original timeline. Here, five years before his downfall, no photographers lurked hoping to catch the disgraced Park heir. He was just another wealthy visitor, anonymous in a city that specialized in ignoring the important.

The past three days had been a calculated offensive against his future ruin. Altered procurement strategies. Reassigned personnel. Extensive documentation that couldn't be manipulated later. He'd even faced down Kang himself, politely declining the European expansion that would eventually lead to his destruction.

All while maintaining the perfect Park Jongseong façade.

This trip to New York offered both strategic cover and unexpected relief. For a few precious hours, he could breathe without the weight of his name.

He checked his watch. He was early, deliberately so. Jake and Priya would arrive in twenty minutes, giving him time to assess the gallery and determine if his half-remembered encounter would repeat itself.

But the vagueness didn't matter. What mattered was the opportunity to alter one small variable in the equation of his life.

Since his mother had mentioned marriage in her office, a strategy had been forming in his mind. In the original timeline, the months following this trip had seen increasing pressure about his relationship status. His mother had begun introducing him to eligible candidates—all with their own agendas, all connected to the world that would eventually close ranks against him.

And then came Seraphina. Perfect, beautiful, accomplished Seraphina. The woman who would eventually help orchestrate his destruction.

But what if he removed that variable entirely? What if he preempted the whole process? Elementary business strategy: block your opponent's best move before they make it.

Inside, the gallery was minimalist—white walls, polished concrete floors, strategic lighting. Jay moved through the space with practiced ease, accepting champagne from a passing server.

Priya's work was exactly as he remembered—technically proficient but emotionally distant. Black and white urban landscapes hinting at decay and renewal. He paused before one he remembered discussing in the original timeline—the one he'd compared to food poisoning.

"Considering an acquisition?" a voice asked. Not yours. The gallery owner—Klein himself.

"Just appreciating the composition," Jay replied smoothly.

He scanned the room peripherally. The space was filling with the expected crowd—moneyed New Yorkers performing interest in emerging artists, critics with studied expressions of judgment.

But no sign of you.

A flicker of concern crossed his mind. Had his earlier manipulations altered the timeline so significantly that you wouldn't attend?

"Mr. Park!" Priya approached with nervous energy

"The exhibition looks excellent," Jay said, offering Priya a polite air-kiss. "Your work has evolved considerably."

A kind lie. Her work was exactly as he remembered it.

"That means so much coming from you," Priya gushed. "Jake said you've been impossibly busy with the European expansion plans."

Jay shot Jake a warning look, but his friend merely shrugged.

"Sorry, forgot it was all very hush-hush and corporate espionage-y." Jake clapped Jay's shoulder. "You look terrible, by the way. In an expensive, tailored way, but still terrible. Are you sleeping these days?"

In his first life, Jay would have bristled at such criticism. Now, after everything, he felt unexpected gratitude for Jake's honesty. He'd forgotten this about their friendship—how Jake treated him as a person, not the Park heir.

"Sleep is for those without quarterly projections," Jay replied dryly.

"You're not fine, you're just good at faking fine. The Park family specialty." Jake surveyed the crowd. "Speaking of fake, look at all these people pretending to understand Priya's art when half couldn't tell profound commentary from pictures of garbage."

Priya elbowed him. "My parents will be here any minute. Please pretend to be cultured."

"Fine. I'll practice my 'this speaks to me spiritually' face." Jake grinned and headed for the bar.

"He's impossible," Priya sighed affectionately. "But he's been amazing with my parents. Even learned Hindi phrases for my father."

Jay nodded, remembering with a pang how Jake and Priya's engagement had been "postponed" after his disgrace. No one wanted ties to a pariah, not even his oldest friend.

"Jay?" Priya studied him. "Are you okay? You seem... different somehow."

Before he could answer, the gallery's atmosphere shifted—the crowd parting for Priya's parents. She excused herself, leaving Jay alone.

His mind returned to his strategy. He needed someone who could occupy the space Seraphina would fill, disrupting the timeline ending in his ruin. Someone far removed from his world.

You—if you showed up—would be perfect. Not for any particular quality, but for what you weren't. You weren't connected to his family's web of alliances. You had no ties to competing conglomerates. You carried no hidden agenda.

Your ignorance of his world wasn't a liability—it was your greatest asset. You couldn't be manipulated by the forces that orchestrated his destruction because you existed outside their sphere.

It wasn't personal. He didn't need a soulmate; he needed a shield. The fact that he remembered your laugh was merely incidental. A convenient connection point for his strategy.

The gallery door opened, admitting a gust of cool air and a latecomer—you.

Recognition hit immediately. How had he forgotten so many details? Your self-conscious movements. Your genuine curiosity instead of affected boredom.

Jay moved toward you before consciously deciding to, drawn by the chance to rewrite this small piece of his past. He intercepted you at the photograph he knew you'd examine—the one you'd defended despite its quality.

He reminded himself: this was strategy, not sentiment. Business, not emotion. This was about survival.

"It's quite terrible, isn't it?" Jay said, repeating his original words.

You turned, and he was struck by your direct gaze—no calculation, just human curiosity.

"I wouldn't say that," you replied, amusement tugging at your mouth. "Art is subjective."

"So is food poisoning, but we recognize it when we experience it." He gestured with his champagne. "This is visual food poisoning."

A startled laugh escaped you—genuine, unguarded. The sound hit Jay with unexpected force. For a moment, his calculated facade cracked, replaced by a genuine impulse to connect.

He pushed the feeling aside. Focus on the objective.

"That's my friend's work you're insulting," you said quietly.

"Ah. Then you're here from obligation rather than appreciation?"

"Isn't everyone?" You glanced around. "Half these people couldn't distinguish masterpieces from finger paintings, but they'll have strong opinions borrowed from the last opening."

The conversation unfolded exactly as before—eerie yet comforting.

"I'm Jay," he said, memorizing your face.

"Just Jay? No impressive title?"

"Park. Jay Park. But I'd prefer to be just Jay tonight."

You assessed him with refreshing directness. "And what does Just Jay do when not critiquing photography?"

Another deviation from the original timeline. A small ripple that could grow into a wave.

"Corporate strategy," he replied vaguely. "Nothing as interesting as defending questionable art. And you are...?"

The gallery door opened, and Jay felt a cold jolt as his family entered, causing the usual ripple through the crowd. His mother, father, relatives—all unaware they would eventually abandon him when convenient.

This was the moment. Originally, he'd left without your name, swept back into the path leading to Seraphina and his destruction.

Not this time.

"I should warn you," he said conspiratorially, "I'm about to transform into someone less honest and more boring. Corporate obligation." He nodded toward his family. "But before I do—your name? In case our paths cross again."

Behind this casual request lay his entire strategy. Your name would be the first stone in his new foundation.

As he waited, his gaze intensified slightly. To you, it might seem like normal interest. To him, it was the focus of someone placing extraordinary significance on an ordinary exchange.

This wasn't just about a name—it was about architecture. The careful redesign of his future. And you, unknowingly, were about to become a cornerstone.

"Y/N"

-

The syllables hung in the air between them for a moment. Jay's smile shifted—genuine now, not the practiced expression he deployed at corporate functions.

"It's been a pleasure meeting you, Y/N." He reached for your hand, a brief, professional clasp. "Unfortunately, duty calls."

He slipped you his card—not the formal Park Industries one, but a sleeker personal version with just his name and private number. A deliberate choice. The first move in his new game.

"Perhaps we'll cross paths again," he said. His tone casual, but his gaze wasn't. It held yours a moment longer than social convention dictated.

Then he was gone, transforming with each step toward his family. Shoulders squaring. Expression cooling. The brief glimpse of honest humanity tucked away beneath the polished exterior of Park Jongseong, corporate heir.

You watched him bow to his mother, exchange handshakes with other family members, fluidly inserting himself into their formal orbit. The man who had made irreverent comments about art seemed to evaporate entirely.

"The exhibition demonstrates impressive technical skill," Jay's mother observed an hour later, champagne flute held at a precise angle. "Though the subject matter is rather... conventional."

This assessment came after a methodical circuit of the gallery, during which the Park family had drawn considerable attention without seeming to notice it.

"Priya has potential," Jay replied diplomatically. "Her composition exhibits strong understanding of negative space."

Art criticism wasn't the point of this conversation, and they both knew it. His mother was watching him carefully, calculating something behind her perfect smile.

"I spotted you speaking with someone earlier," she mentioned with practiced casualness. "Before we arrived."

And there it was. Nothing escaped her notice.

"A friend of the artist," Jay said, matching her casual tone. "We were discussing the merits of contemporary photography."

"I see." His mother's gaze swept the room, locating you within seconds where you stood chatting with Priya near the bar. "Not the usual social circle you frequent."

"Perhaps that's refreshing." Jay sipped his champagne, strategic in his mild defiance. "One tires of the same conversations."

His mother's eyebrow arched slightly—the equivalent of open surprise from anyone else.

"Interesting," she said, recalculating variables in her mental dossier. "Does this relate to your sudden disinterest in the European expansion?"

"Not directly," Jay replied. "Though both reflect a broader reassessment of paths worth pursuing."

She studied him with the penetrating gaze that had intimidated business rivals for decades. "You've changed, Jongseong. Since when, I'm not certain. But something is different."

"Growth isn't change, Mother. It's evolution." He'd never spoken to her this way in his first timeline—confident but not confrontational. "The core remains the same."

His father approached, ending their private exchange. "The Visconti Group's representative just arrived," he informed his wife. "The one you wanted to meet."

Jay's pulse quickened. In the original timeline, this casual introduction had been the first seed planted. The beginning of his eventual destruction.

"Another time, perhaps," Jay interjected smoothly before his mother could respond. "I promised Jake I'd speak with some potential collectors. His girlfriend would be devastated if the night wasn't successful."

His father's expression registered mild surprise at this unusual prioritization of friendship over business.

"Of course," his mother said, analyzing this new data point. "Family supports family's associates. That's the Park way."

The subtle reminder of obligation came with her practiced smile. Not a reprimand, but a note being filed away for future reference.

Jay inclined his head respectfully and moved away, circulating through the crowd with practiced ease. He exchanged pleasantries with critics, complimented the gallery owner, and strategically positioned himself near a group of potential collectors, laying groundwork for a purchase that would help Priya's career.

All while remaining acutely aware of your location in the room.

-

Two hours later, Jay found himself in a strategic position near the coat check as you prepared to leave. The gallery had begun to empty, the initial excitement of the opening fading into the routine pattern of a Thursday night in Chelsea.

"Leaving so soon?" he asked, timing his approach to appear coincidental.

You looked up, surprise flickering across your face. "Just Jay. I thought you'd be trapped in corporate obligation all night."

"A temporary reprieve." He smiled. "The family business discussions have moved to dinner at Le Bernardin."

"Very fancy," you commented. "I'm headed for much humbler fare—the subway and takeout."

Jay glanced at his watch. "Actually, I find myself with an unexpected hour before I need to join them. Perhaps you'd allow me to buy you a proper dinner? There's an excellent place just around the corner." He kept his tone casual, the invitation seemingly spontaneous.

You hesitated, studying him with that direct gaze he found so refreshing. "Why would you want to have dinner with a complete stranger when you clearly have more important places to be?"

The directness of the question caught him slightly off-guard. In his world, people rarely questioned Park Jongseong's motivations to his face.

"Because you're the only interesting conversation I've had all evening," he replied, allowing a hint of genuine feeling to color his words. "Everyone else is either trying to sell me something, impress me, or secure an introduction to my mother."

You considered this, head tilted slightly. "And what makes you think I'm not doing the same?"

Jay laughed—a real laugh, not his polished social chuckle. "The fact that you just asked that question, for starters."

Something in your expression softened. "One hour. And it had better be good food."

"I never compromise on quality," Jay assured you, suppressing the satisfaction of a well-executed strategic move. "The restaurant is just three blocks from here."

As you walked together into the crisp autumn evening, Jay maintained the perfect balance of professional distance and personal interest. He asked about your work (freelance journalism), your history with Priya (college roommates), your thoughts on New York's cultural scene (overpriced but occasionally transcendent).

Each piece of information carefully filed away. Each response analyzed for potential complications or advantages to his developing strategy.

The restaurant—an upscale Italian place with discreet lighting and well-spaced tables—provided the ideal setting for his purposes. Impressive without being intimidating. Exclusive enough to require his name for a last-minute table, but not so ostentatious that it would make you uncomfortable.

"So," you said once you were seated and had ordered, "are you going to tell me what Park Industries actually does? Or am I supposed to pretend I don't know you're practically royalty in South Korea?"

Again, that directness. Jay found himself genuinely smiling.

"Technically, we do everything from semiconductors to shipping," he replied. "But that's hardly dinner conversation. I'd rather hear more about your work. Journalism must give you a unique perspective."

"Nice deflection," you noted, but allowed the conversation to shift.

For fifty-three minutes, Jay executed a perfect performance of genuine connection. He asked thoughtful questions. Shared carefully selected personal anecdotes. Displayed just enough vulnerability to seem authentic without revealing anything truly significant.

He studied your reactions, adjusting his approach subtly based on what resonated. When you responded to his dry humor, he offered more. When certain topics sparked genuine interest in your eyes, he explored them further.

A strategic seduction—but not a romantic one. He was securing an ally. Establishing a connection outside the corrupted network that had eventually destroyed him.

When his phone vibrated with a text from his mother, he allowed himself a calculated show of reluctance.

"Duty calls," he said, echoing his words from earlier in the gallery. "I've enjoyed this conversation more than you know."

"It was surprisingly pleasant," you agreed with a hint of amusement. "Despite the suspicious circumstances."

He signaled for the check. "Suspicious?"

"Wealthy heir suddenly interested in random gallery-goer? That's either the beginning of a romance novel or a cautionary tale." You smiled to soften the words. "I'm still deciding which."

Jay laughed again, caught between strategic calculation and genuine appreciation of your perception.

"Perhaps neither," he suggested. "Perhaps just two people enjoying conversation without agenda."

"Everyone has an agenda," you replied, gathering your things. "Even if they don't recognize it themselves."

How right you were. If only you knew the elaborate mental chess game he was playing, with you as a central piece.

Outside the restaurant, he made his final move of the evening—perfectly calibrated for maximum effect without seeming too eager.

"I'll be in New York for another two days," he said casually. "If you're free tomorrow evening, perhaps you could show me a part of the city tourists don't usually see. Something authentic."

The invitation was designed to appeal to your evident independence and local knowledge. To position you as the expert rather than the pursued. A subtle flattery that didn't register as manipulation.

"I might be available," you said, considering. "Depends on my deadline."

"Of course." He nodded respectfully. "You have my number. No pressure either way."

As he hailed a taxi for you, he allowed his hand to brush yours briefly—a manufactured moment of connection carefully designed to seem accidental.

"Goodnight, Y/N," he said as you stepped into the cab. "I hope to hear from you tomorrow."

You smiled through the window, giving a small wave as the taxi pulled away.

Jay watched until the taillights disappeared into Manhattan traffic, then straightened his tie and hailed his own car. His expression shifted seamlessly from warm interest to cool calculation.

Phase one: complete. You had been introduced into the equation. A new variable with the potential to disrupt the entire sequence leading to his downfall.

As his driver navigated toward Le Bernardin, Jay mentally mapped the next steps. He would need to provide his mother with enough information to satisfy her curiosity without triggering her strategic instincts. Plant seeds with his father about potential advantages of connections outside their usual network. Begin building documentation that would position you as a completely independent connection, not part of any competing corporate interest.

His phone buzzed with a message from his cousin Danny: Mom says you're acting strange. She wants intel on whoever you were talking to at the gallery.

Jay smiled tightly. The family machine was already turning its attention to this unexpected development. Exactly as he'd anticipated.

He typed back: Just making connections. Nothing significant.

Let them underestimate this move. Let them dismiss you as a casual interest, a temporary distraction.

By the time they recognized the strategic importance of what he was building, it would be too late. The timeline would be irreversibly altered.

And Jay Park would never again find himself standing alone in an empty apartment, betrayed by everyone he had trusted.

Another message appeared on his screen—this one from an unknown number.

Tomorrow, 7pm. Wear comfortable shoes and nothing that screams "I'm worth kidnapping for ransom." – Y/N

Jay allowed himself a moment of genuine satisfaction. The pieces were moving exactly as he'd calculated.

Tomorrow, the real work would begin.

-

The next evening proved Jay's instincts correct. You were indeed the perfect variable to introduce into his equation.

You arrived at the designated meeting spot in Washington Square Park wearing jeans, a well-worn leather jacket, and boots that suggested you actually walked places rather than being chauffeured. Jay had followed your instructions, trading his usual bespoke suit for dark jeans, a cashmere sweater, and shoes that would survive more than a board meeting.

"You clean up nicely," you said, appraising his attempt at casual attire. "Almost pass for a normal person."

"My greatest performance yet," he replied with a self-deprecating smile. "Where to first?"

"That depends. What's your tolerance for authenticity? Real New York isn't exactly five-star accommodations."

Jay's smile widened. "Test me."

And you did. For the next three hours, you led him through a New York he'd never seen despite countless business trips. Hidden speakeasies accessed through fake phone booths. A Ukrainian diner where the servers scowled and the food defied description but somehow tasted like memory. A rooftop garden secretly maintained by an elderly couple who'd been cultivating it since the 1970s.

Throughout the evening, Jay maintained his careful balance—genuinely enjoying himself while strategically gathering information. Your job prospects (promising but unstable). Your family situation (supportive but financially modest). Your relationship status (refreshingly unattached).

Each piece of data confirmed what he'd hoped: you were the perfect candidate. Independent enough to make your own decisions, stable enough to be reliable, ambitious enough to appreciate opportunity, and disconnected enough from his world to be safe from manipulation.

"Admit it," you said as you sat on rusty chairs atop the secret garden, city lights spread before you. "This is better than whatever fancy restaurant your family's at tonight."

"Infinitely," Jay agreed, and meant it. The evening had been unexpectedly liberating. Here, he wasn't Park Jongseong, heir and corporate prince. He was just Jay, a guy experiencing New York's hidden corners with an interesting woman. "Though my mother would need smelling salts if she saw these chairs."

You laughed, the sound still as honest as he remembered. "Why do I get the feeling you're not often allowed to just... exist? Without expectations or performance metrics?"

The observation was so accurate it momentarily disrupted his careful strategy. For a second, he considered telling you everything—the time travel, his disgrace, his desperate plan to rewrite his future.

But of course, that was impossible. Who would believe such madness?

"The privileges of my position come with corresponding obligations," he said instead, allowing a rare glimpse of genuine feeling. "My path was charted before I was born."

You studied him in the dim rooftop lighting. "And you've never considered drawing your own map?"

Jay looked out over the city, contemplating how to answer. The strategic response would be something vague but intriguing. But something about this night—about you—made him unexpectedly honest.

"I'm attempting to redraw certain sections now," he said quietly. "It's... complicated."

"Family complications or business complications? Or are they the same thing for you?"

"Inextricably intertwined," Jay confirmed. "The Parks don't separate business from family or family from business. It's all one ecosystem."

"Sounds suffocating."

"It can be," he admitted, surprising himself again with his candor. "But it's also... secure. Structured. There's comfort in knowing your role."

"Until the role becomes a cage," you observed.

The conversation was veering dangerously close to truth. Jay redirected gently.

"What about you? No family business directing your path?"

You shook your head. "Just student loans and rent directing my career choices. Not exactly the same scale of problems."

"Different cages," Jay said. "Different gilding."

A comfortable silence fell between you. Below, the city pulsed with energy—millions of lives intersecting, diverging, each on their own trajectory.

"I should probably get you back to civilization," you said eventually. "Before your security detail reports you missing."

Jay checked his watch, surprised to find it was nearly midnight. The evening had passed with unexpected swiftness.

"I've dismissed security for the night," he said, rising from the rusty chair. "But you're right, it's late. Let me walk you home."

You shook your head. "That defeats the purpose of me showing you hidden New York. I'll walk myself home like a proper New Yorker."

"At least let me get you a car."

"The subway is faster this time of night."

Jay smiled at your stubbornness. Another quality that made you ideal for his purposes. "Then I'll accompany you to the subway."

As you descended from the rooftop, Jay made his decision. The evening had confirmed everything he needed to know. You were perfect—self-sufficient, perceptive, and most importantly, unconnected to the web that would eventually try to destroy him.

It was time to set his actual plan in motion. Earlier than he'd originally calculated, but the opportunity was too perfect to ignore.

Outside the subway entrance, you turned to say goodbye. "This was surprisingly enjoyable, Just Jay. You're not at all what I expected."

"Is that a compliment?"

"An observation." Your smile took any sting from the words. "Maybe I'll see you next time you're in New York."

It was the opening he needed. Jay took a calculated breath.

"What if it were sooner than that?" he asked, carefully casual. "What if I had a proposition for you?"

Your eyebrows rose slightly. "A proposition sounds suspiciously like business."

"Perhaps a merger of interests," Jay said, watching your reaction closely.

"I'm not qualified to consult for Park Industries, if that's where this is going."

"Nothing to do with the company. This is personal." Jay paused, choosing his next words carefully. "Would you have dinner with me tomorrow? There's something I'd like to discuss that could be mutually beneficial."

Wariness crept into your expression. "That sounds ominous."

"It's not illegal or immoral," he assured you. "Just... unusual. But I think you might be the perfect person for it."

"Now I'm definitely concerned."

Jay smiled, allowing genuine warmth to show. "Trust me enough for one more dinner? If you hate the proposal, we part as friends with an interesting story about the time a Korean businessman made you a strange offer."

You studied him for a long moment. "Fine. But a public place, and I reserve the right to walk out if things get weird."

"Perfectly reasonable terms," Jay agreed. "I'll text you the details."

After you disappeared down the subway steps, Jay hailed a car back to his hotel. His mind was already composing the proposal, weighing phrases and possibilities. The timing was delicate. Too direct, and you'd be justifiably alarmed. Too vague, and you'd dismiss it as absurd.

But if presented correctly, with the right incentives and assurances...

It could work. It had to work.

-

The restaurant Jay selected for their final evening was elegant without being ostentatious. Private enough for serious conversation but public enough to meet your safety requirements. He arrived early, ensuring the perfect table—secluded but visible, with clear sightlines to exits.

You arrived precisely on time, wearing a dress that suggested you'd taken this meeting more seriously than yesterday's casual exploration. Good. It indicated you were intrigued enough to make an effort.

"I half-expected to be stood up," Jay said as you sat down.

"I considered it," you admitted. "But curiosity won out. I spent all day trying to imagine what this mysterious proposition could be."

"And your theories?"

"Either you're recruiting me for corporate espionage, or this is an elaborate setup for asking me on a real date."

Jay smiled. "Neither, though the second option is less absurd than the first."

The waiter brought menus and wine recommendations. Jay ordered for both of you—not to control, but to expedite. The sooner pleasantries were addressed, the sooner he could present his case.

Once the preliminary course was served and privacy assured, Jay leaned forward slightly.

"Before I explain, I want to establish context," he began. "My family situation is... complicated. As the heir to Park Industries, certain expectations exist regarding my personal life."

You nodded, waiting for him to continue.

"Among these is the expectation that I'll marry strategically. Someone who enhances the company's position, preferably from a compatible business family."

"Arranged marriage in the 21st century?" You raised an eyebrow. "That seems archaic."

"It's framed as 'guided choice,'" Jay explained. "But the outcome is essentially predetermined. The candidates all fit a specific profile, vetted extensively by my mother."

"And you don't want that," you guessed.

"I've seen where that path leads," Jay said carefully. "It's not favorable."

"So what does this have to do with me?"

Here was the critical moment. Jay took a measured breath.

"I'm proposing an alternative arrangement. A marriage of convenience, with clearly defined parameters and mutual benefits."

Your expression froze. "Excuse me?"

"I know how this sounds," Jay said quickly. "But please hear me out before deciding."

You sat back, arms crossed. "I'm listening, but this better be good."

"What I need is someone outside my world. Someone my mother can't manipulate or compromise. Someone with no hidden corporate agenda or family ambitions." Jay held your gaze steadily. "Someone like you."

"And what exactly would I get from this arrangement, besides the obvious headache?"

"Financial security," Jay said simply. "Complete financial independence. A generous settlement that would eliminate your student loans, housing concerns, and career pressures. You'd be free to pursue your writing without worrying about making rent."

He could see the calculation happening behind your eyes. The journalist weighing an unbelievable story.

"This would be a temporary arrangement," he continued. "Two years maximum. After which we would part amicably, with your financial future secured and my family obligations satisfied."

"You're serious," you said, realization dawning.

"Completely."

"But why me? You could find countless women willing to make this deal."

"Because you don't want anything from me except what we explicitly agree to," Jay explained. "You don't care about the Park name or legacy. You have no connection to our business rivals. You're honest, independent, and most importantly, you see me as a person, not a position."

You were silent for a long moment, processing.

"What would this arrangement involve... practically speaking?"

"A legal marriage. A public relationship that appears genuine. Attendance at certain family and business functions. Cohabitation in Seoul, though with separate living spaces." Jay outlined each point precisely. "No romantic or physical obligations whatsoever."

"And after two years?"

"A quiet divorce with a generous settlement. You return to your life with complete financial freedom. I gain time to secure my position without my mother's interference."

You studied him intently. "What aren't you telling me? This seems too... calculated."

Jay hesitated. How much could he safely reveal without sounding deranged?

"My mother is pushing me toward a specific alliance that would be disastrous," he said finally. "I need to block that move decisively. Your presence provides that blockade."

"Corporate chess using marriage pieces," you murmured.

"An apt metaphor."

The waiter arrived with the main course, forcing a pause in the conversation. Jay waited patiently as you considered his proposal.

"I'd have to move to Korea," you said finally. "Learn a new language, navigate a completely foreign business world, pretend to be in love with someone I barely know."

"All significant challenges," Jay acknowledged. "Hence the substantial compensation."

"How substantial?"

He named a figure that made your eyes widen slightly.

"Plus all living expenses, travel, and a housing allowance upon our separation," he added. "Financial security for the foreseeable future."

You took a sip of wine, buying time to think. Jay remained silent, giving you space to process.

"Why should I trust you?" you asked finally. "No offense, but this sounds like the beginning of a thriller where the protagonist never returns from Seoul."

"A valid concern." Jay reached into his jacket and removed a USB drive. "This contains a draft contract outlining everything we've discussed, plus insurance clauses to protect you. Have your own lawyer review it. Make any reasonable amendments."

He placed the drive on the table between you.

"I don't expect an answer tonight," he continued. "Take time to consider. Research me, the company, the arrangement. I'll be in New York three more days."

You didn't touch the drive. "Are you always this prepared?"

"I don't propose convenient marriages on a whim," Jay said with a hint of humor. "This is a strategic decision for both of us."

"And if I say no?"

"Then we enjoy this excellent meal, I thank you for considering it, and we part as friends with an unusual story."

You finally reached for the drive, turning it in your fingers thoughtfully.

"Two years of my life," you mused. "Pretending to be someone I'm not."

"Or two years experiencing a world few ever see from the inside," Jay countered. "With material for the book you mentioned wanting to write. And afterwards, complete freedom to pursue whatever you wish."

He could see the writer in you considering the possibilities. The practical side weighing the financial security. The cautious part still suspicious of his motives.

"I'll think about it," you said finally, slipping the drive into your purse. "That's all I can promise right now."

"That's all I ask." Jay raised his glass slightly. "To unusual propositions and careful consideration."

You hesitantly clinked your glass against his. "To whatever the hell this is."

The rest of dinner passed in lighter conversation, Jay deliberately steering away from the proposal to give you mental space. As they finished dessert, he sensed you had more questions brewing.

"Just ask," he said gently. "Whatever you're thinking."

"Why marriage?" you asked bluntly. "Why not just date someone your mother doesn't approve of until this mysterious alliance threat passes?"

A perceptive question. Jay had prepared for it.

"Because dating is easily dismissed as temporary infatuation. Marriage is definitive. It removes me completely from the candidate pool and blocks the specific alliance my mother is orchestrating."

You nodded slowly. "And there's really no romantic component to this? No hidden agenda where you're hoping for more?"

"None whatsoever," Jay assured you. "This is a business arrangement with clearly defined boundaries. Any personal friendship that develops would be separate from our agreement."

Outside the restaurant, you paused before parting ways.

"This is insane," you said, shaking your head slightly. "Completely insane."

"From a conventional perspective, yes," Jay agreed. "But sometimes unconventional solutions are necessary for unusual problems."

"I'll call you," you said. "After I've thought about it. And possibly had my head examined."

Jay smiled. "I look forward to hearing from you, whatever your decision."

As you walked away, Jay allowed himself a moment of cautious optimism. You hadn't immediately rejected the idea. You'd taken the contract. You were considering it.

Phase two: initiated.

The path to avoiding his destruction was unconventional, certainly. But with each step, each calculated move, he was redrawing the map of his future.

And for the first time since waking up five years in his past, Jay felt something akin to hope.

-

"He asked you to what?"

Priya's voice carried across the café, drawing glances from nearby tables. You winced, motioning for her to lower her volume. Two days had passed since Jay's proposal, and you'd finally broken down and called Priya. Some things were too bizarre to process alone.

"Keep it down," you hissed. "I haven't decided anything."

"Sorry," Priya whispered dramatically, leaning across the table. "But you can't drop 'Korean billionaire wants me as his contract wife' and expect normal volume control."

You stirred your coffee absently. The USB drive sat heavy in your bag, untouched since the dinner. Every time you considered plugging it in, reality reasserted itself. People didn't just get propositioned for fake marriages by corporate heirs. Not in real life.

"Maybe I imagined it," you said. "Stress-induced hallucination."

"Honey, you don't hallucinate trust fund provisions and prenuptial terms." Priya tapped the table emphatically. "And Park Industries is the real deal. My cousin works in finance and says they're basically royalty in Korea."

You sighed, glancing at your phone. Three missed calls from your editor about a deadline. Two emails from your landlord about the rent increase. A notification about your student loan payment.

Normal life, insistently demanding attention while some alternate universe beckoned from a USB drive.

"What would you do?" you asked.

Priya considered this, stirring her chai thoughtfully. "I'd wonder why me. Of all the women in New York—hell, in the world—why pick someone he met at my mediocre exhibition?"

"He said I don't want anything from him. That I see him as a person, not a position." You shrugged. "And apparently I'm not connected to any rival companies."

"That's... oddly specific." Priya frowned. "Like he's running from something."

A memory flashed—Jay on the rooftop garden, talking about redrawing sections of his path. The wistfulness in his voice when he mentioned roles becoming cages.

"Maybe he is," you murmured.

"Look, Y/N, this is either the strangest fantasy or the most interesting opportunity of your life." Priya grabbed your hand. "But either way, you should at least read the contract. Writer curiosity, if nothing else."

You nodded slowly. She was right. Whatever this was—elaborate joke, midlife crisis, legitimate offer—you couldn't make a decision without information.

"What about Seoul?" you asked, voicing one of the hundred practical concerns cycling through your mind. "My life is here."

"Your life is a studio apartment with questionable plumbing and editor who underpays you," Priya said bluntly. "Seoul has universal healthcare and a subway system that actually works."

"And a language I don't speak."

"And a completely fresh start, financial security, and material for that book you've been talking about writing since college." Priya squeezed your hand. "I'm not saying do it. I'm saying don't dismiss it without considering the insane possibility that this fever dream might actually be real."

Your phone pinged—a text from Jay:

No pressure on your decision. But if you'd like to discuss further, I'll be at the same restaurant tonight at 8. Whether you come or not, I enjoyed our time together.

Priya peered at the message. "Polite. Not pushy. Gives you space." She raised an eyebrow. "For a corporate shark offering a fake marriage, he's surprisingly... decent?"

"That's what makes this so confusing," you admitted. "He seems genuine, even when discussing something completely manufactured."

"Maybe that's why he thinks you'd be good at this. You're both honest about the dishonesty." Priya sat back. "So, are you going tonight?"

You stared at your phone, the mundane world of deadlines and bills momentarily suspended as you considered stepping further into whatever alternate reality Jay Park occupied.

"I guess I'll start by reading the contract," you said finally.

Priya grinned. "That's my practical journalist. Verify, then trust."

"I didn't say I trust him," you protested.

"Honey, you wouldn't have called me if you weren't already halfway to saying yes."

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it again. She wasn't entirely wrong.

Whatever this was—fever dream or opportunity—you couldn't shake the feeling that Jay Park had seen something in you that even you hadn't recognized. Something valuable enough to upend both your worlds.

And despite every rational objection, part of you wanted to find out what it was.

-

After accepting Jay's proposal, everything moved quickly, but not without moments that made you question the purely contractual nature of your arrangement.

The first time you caught yourself actually looking at Jay—not as your contractual fiancé but as a man—was during a video call about logistics. He'd just finished a workout, answering your call in a fitted t-shirt damp with sweat, hair disheveled in a way you'd never seen before.

"Sorry for my appearance," he'd said, seemingly unaware of how the thin fabric clung to his chest and shoulders, revealing a physique usually hidden beneath perfect tailoring.

"It's fine," you'd replied, fighting to keep your eyes on his face rather than the defined muscles visible through his shirt. "We were just discussing flight details, right?"

You'd blamed your distraction on the strangeness of the situation. Just a natural reaction to an objectively attractive man. Nothing more.

-

Your Korean lessons began three weeks after you'd accepted his proposal. The language was challenging, but Jay insisted on joining occasionally, his pronunciation impeccable as he demonstrated sounds your English-trained mouth struggled to form.

"Fuck," you muttered one evening, dropping your head to the table after another failed attempt at a particularly difficult honorific. "I'm never going to get this right."

Jay looked up from his laptop, eyebrows raised. "I've never heard you swear before."

"I'm usually more professional," you admitted. "But this language is kicking my ass."

He closed his computer and moved to the chair beside you. "Try again. It's all in the tongue placement."

You made another attempt, mangling the syllables spectacularly.

"No, like this." Jay demonstrated slowly, exaggerating the mouth movement. You found yourself staring at his lips, noticing their perfect shape, the way the bottom one was slightly fuller than the top.

After your third failure, he sighed. "May I?" he asked, gesturing toward your face.

You nodded, not entirely sure what he was asking permission for.

He reached out, placing his thumb gently against your lower lip. "You need to press your tongue here, behind your teeth, not against your palate."

Heat surged through you at the unexpected contact. His thumb lingered, moving slightly against your lip as he demonstrated the position. Your eyes locked, and something shifted in his expression.

"Try again," he said softly, his voice lower than before.

You attempted the word, hyperaware of his fingers still resting lightly against your jaw.

"Better," he murmured, his eyes dropping to your mouth. "Almost there."

The air between you thickened. His hand should have moved away by now. It hadn't.

"Jay," you said, barely audible. Not a question, just an acknowledgment of whatever was happening.

For a moment, you thought he might lean in. Instead, he blinked and withdrew his hand, clearing his throat.

"That's enough for today," he said briskly, returning to his original seat. "You're making progress."

But that night, alone in your room, you caught yourself touching your own lip where his thumb had been, replaying the moment when his professional demeanor had briefly cracked.

-

Three weeks in, during dinner at a restaurant in Tribeca, Jay brought up the public aspects of your arrangement.

"We need to discuss how we'll appear as a couple," he said, his tone practical but not cold. "Physical boundaries. Forms of address."

"Like pet names?" you asked, taking a sip of wine.

"Exactly." He seemed relieved you understood. "In Korea, especially in my position, excessive public displays would seem inappropriate. But certain... intimacies are expected between engaged couples."

"So hand-holding, yes. Making out in boardrooms, no." Your joke earned a genuine smile from him.

"Precisely." He hesitated, then added with uncharacteristic uncertainty, "And regarding names..."

"What do people usually call you? Besides Jay or Mr. Park?"

His expression shifted subtly. "My mother calls me Jongseong. Business associates use Mr. Park. No one has ever used anything... affectionate."

The admission felt strangely vulnerable coming from him.

"What would you be comfortable with?" you asked.

His eyes met yours directly. "I've always thought 'babe' or 'baby' seemed... nice. Natural." The words seemed difficult for him to say, as if admitting to a secret preference. "But only if it feels comfortable for you."

The request surprised you – this controlled, strategic man wanting something so ordinary, so human.

"I can try that," you said, watching as relief softened his features. "Might take practice to say it without feeling weird, though."

"We have time to practice," he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

-

Shopping for your new wardrobe didn't happen in a fairy tale montage. Instead, it involved practical discussions of events you'd attend, climate considerations, and cultural norms.

"These social signifiers matter to my family," Jay explained as you examined a designer dress that cost more than your rent. "But your comfort matters to me."

"To our arrangement," you corrected gently.

He paused, meeting your eyes. "Yes. And to me personally."

The statement hung between you, neither acknowledged nor dismissed as you continued through the high-end boutique. The personal shopper brought Jay a selection of suits to try as well, and despite your best intentions, you found yourself watching as he emerged from the fitting room in each new outfit.

The last one—a charcoal gray suit cut to perfection—made you momentarily forget the contract entirely. The tailor knelt, making adjustments to the trousers while Jay stood in front of a three-way mirror. The jacket emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the tailored pants fitting perfectly across his ass.

You didn't realize you were staring until Jay's eyes met yours in the mirror, one eyebrow raising slightly. You quickly looked away, heat rising to your cheeks at being caught.

When you glanced back, the corner of his mouth had lifted in a small, satisfied smile.

-

Your parents were understandably shocked by the engagement announcement. The video call with them and Jay could have been disastrous, but he navigated it with surprising warmth.

"I understand this seems sudden," he told them, his formal demeanor softened. "I value your daughter's independence and perspective. Those qualities are rare in my world."

Later, alone, your mother had texted: "He's careful with his words around you. Watches how you react. Not sure if that's good or concerning."

"Still deciding," you'd replied honestly.

Six weeks after your agreement, you found yourself helping Jay pack for Seoul in his hotel suite, the reality of what you'd committed to finally sinking in.

"Second thoughts?" he asked, noticing your silence.

"Seventh or eighth, at least," you admitted.

You expected a strategic reassurance. Instead, he sat beside you on the edge of the bed, not touching but close.

"I have them too," he said quietly. "This arrangement... it's unusual for both of us."

"You seem so certain about everything."

"I'm certain about what I'm avoiding," he clarified. "Less certain about what we're building."

The honesty was refreshing. Not romance, but genuine transparency.

"Let's try something," you suggested. "Just to see how it feels."

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

You cleared your throat, feeling slightly ridiculous. "Could you pass me that folder... babe?"

The pet name hung awkwardly between you. Jay blinked, then a small, genuine smile formed.

"Here you go," he replied, handing you the folder, then hesitating before adding a tentative, "...babe."

You both laughed at the strangeness of it, the tension breaking.

"That was terrible," you admitted.

"Catastrophic," he agreed, his eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. "But it will get easier."

It was the first time you'd seen him truly laugh. Something shifted subtly between you – not love or even attraction necessarily, but the foundation of something human and real beneath the contractual arrangement.

Eight weeks after the proposal, you boarded his family's private jet bound for Seoul.

As the plane leveled off, Jay handed you a thin folder. "Key family members and dynamics. Not a test, just preparation."

You nodded, grateful for his understanding that you wanted to succeed at this, whatever "this" was becoming.

"Thank you," you said. Then, after a moment's hesitation, added, "...baby."

It still felt strange, but less forced. Jay's expression softened in response.

"You're welcome," he replied, his voice warm in a way it hadn't been during those first calculated conversations weeks ago.

Neither of you were in love. That wasn't part of the contract. But as the plane carried you toward Seoul, there was a growing sense that whatever performance awaited might be built on something more substantial than just legal terms.

Not romance, not yet. But a partnership forming its own unique shape – part strategy, part genuine connection, and all uncharted territory.

-

Arriving in Seoul felt like stepping into another dimension. A fleet of black SUVs with tinted windows. Security personnel with earpieces. Photographers kept at a careful distance by a team of efficient PR staff.

"Ready?" Jay asked quietly, his hand finding yours as the plane door opened.

You nodded, though "ready" seemed an absurd concept for what awaited.

The moment you stepped onto Korean soil, Jay transformed—his posture impeccable, his smile exactly the right blend of pride and discretion. His arm slid around your waist, protective but not possessive.

"Perfect," he murmured, his lips close to your ear. "Just like that."

The performance had begun.

to be continued.

-

“Thank you for joining us once more,” Mr. Bang begins. He must sense the tension coiled in your body as he gives you a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, we aren’t retracting the offer.”

Phew. Your shoulders slump in relief. 

"We have made some adjustments and added an addendum to the contract." He slides the document across the table toward you. Highlighted below the main clauses is a section labelled Relocation, and beneath it, two choices sit side by side: relocate, and visit your current location twice a month, or stay at your current location, and visit the other twice a month. 

"After further discussions, we realized the issue stemmed from the fact that the Board is obligated to remain mainly at one location, which means that location ends up receiving the bulk of the focus, the improvements, while—"

"While the other gets ignored," you finish, before you can stop yourself.

"Exactly that." One of the directors speaks up, and you're fairly certain, from the sharpness in her voice, that she's the treasurer. "Now, you can stay at this location if you'd prefer. But we'll schedule in regular visits to the other, where you'll spend two to three days at a time."

"Of course," Mr. Bang adds, "you still have the rest of the cycle to decide. But hopefully, this change makes it easier."

"Yes," you say, "I think it's completely changed my decision, actually."

Every expression in the room turns toward you, quizzical, intrigued. “I'm going to choose the option to stay at this location," you announce. "I love it here. I can't imagine leaving."

You pause, aware that every eye in the room is still fixed on you, waiting for you to explain yourself further, so you do. "This place is where I built everything that matters to me. The people I work with, the routines I've settled into… I've spent years learning this location, understanding its rhythms, knowing which corners get busy and which ones go quiet depending on the time of day. Starting over somewhere else would mean unlearning all of that." You glance briefly at the document still open in front of you, then look back up. "I know the visits will pull me away for a few days here and there, and I'm prepared for that, but my life is rooted here. I have people who depend on me being present and consistent, and I don't think I can just give that up. 

Folding your hands over the table, you feel significantly less stressed than ever now that you've voiced your thoughts. "So yes. I am happy to accept the offer of promotion.”

---

a/n: shortest chapter in the world IM SAWRY also TYPOS 🫪but next chap is the final 💔 the starving games reference in the big 2026 ifykyk. thank u for 100 followers !!

The lace of your underwear, chosen specifically because Jungwon's fingers caught on the fabric when he peeled them off your hips, is wound twice around your wrists and knotted tight between them, your palms pressed together in front of you like you're praying. The fabric is soaked, clinging to your skin, the delicate scalloped edge digging faintly into the underside of your left wrist every time you shift.

Jungwon is kneeling on the stone floor in front of the slab, and two of his fingers are inside you — moving so slowly you could scream. They push in, curl, drag out. In, curl, drag. The rhythm is agonizing, each stroke precise enough to press right against the spot that makes your thighs tense and your stomach clench, but never fast enough, never hard enough, never enough. His thumb works your clit in tight circles that keep you right at the edge of something without ever letting you fall into it. His other hand grips your thigh, holding you open, thumb pressing into the soft inside of your knee.

"Jungwon, I swear to—ugh, shut the fuck up and do more fucking," you whine, and your voice comes out thin, swallowed almost entirely by the steam and the sound of the water.

He tilts his head. His wet hair falls across his forehead in dark, uneven pieces, and his eyes, sharp and impossibly pleased, lift to meet yours. His fingers don't change pace. They don't even stutter.

"Mm, use that mouth for me, pretty girl. What were you talking to me about last night? The new boutique by the Italian restaurant we always head to?" he coos, voice silky and warm, and the bastard is smiling. A genuine, easy smile, like he's asking you about brunch plans while his fingers are buried inside you.

You open your mouth and every syllable you attempt to form collapses into a moan halfway out because his fingers curl again, pressing against the spot that has your whole body bow forward and your tied hands fall against his shoulder for balance. The lace drags wet against his skin. A sound rips out of you that isn't a word, isn't a name, isn't anything but want, and Jungwon watches it happen with the kind of attention that has your thighs squeezing against his hand.

He beams up at you. "Oh, yes! Wonderful, baby. Very interesting, I'll take you there soon."

You splay your tied hands in protest, shoving weakly at his shoulder, but his fingers continue to go in and out of you with that same unbearable, glacial patience. The heel of his palm grinds against your clit on every downstroke now and your legs are shaking, the warm water running down your thighs mixing with everything else, slicking the stone beneath you. "Fuck, just shut up and eat my pussy."

Jungwon's smile changes. His eyes go dark and warm at the same time, and his tongue drags slow across his bottom lip like he's been waiting for you to say exactly that. He pulls his fingers out of you so slowly you feel every inch of the withdrawal. The loss of them makes you clench around nothing, a whine building in your throat before you can stop it.

"Since you asked so nicely," he murmurs, his voice stripped of that playful lilt. Then his mouth is on you.

His tongue is hot and immediately relentless. He licks a broad, flat stripe from your entrance to your clit, gathering every drop of you. His lips close around your clit and he sucks, gentle at first, then harder, and the noise that leaves your mouth is mortifying and you can’t even bring yourself to care. The water from the rainfall showerhead runs down your stomach and over his jaw, pooling where his mouth meets you, warm rivulets mixing with your wetness and dripping from his chin onto the stone slab beneath you, and the added heat makes every stroke of his tongue feel amplified, filthy, too much.

"Oh—fuck, Jungwon—" Your tied hands drop to his head, fingers tangling into his wet hair and pulling, and he groans against you. The vibration rockets straight through your clit and down into your thighs and you grind forward into his mouth without meaning to, chasing the pressure, and he lets you. He lets you ride his face, his tongue flattening so you can drag yourself against it, and the friction is blinding.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his lips still brushing you, breath hot against your soaked skin. "Yeah, pull my hair. Show me how bad you want it." His tongue drags across his bottom lip, tasting you, and his eyes are heavy-lidded and black. "You're so wet, baby. All over my face. Fuck." He says it like he's savoring it. Then he dives back in, and this time his tongue is pointed and precise, flicking rapidly against your clit before he sucks it into his mouth again, and the rhythm he builds is punishing. His hands grip both your thighs now and he forces them wider, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, forearms flexing, the muscle in his shoulders shifting visibly beneath his wet skin. The strength of him is casual and devastating, like he could keep you spread like this for hours and never tire.

Your head falls back against the wet stone wall. The water hits your chest and throat, runs in hot streams between your breasts, and your hips move on their own, grinding against his mouth, chasing the rhythm his tongue is setting, and every time you get close, every time the heat coils tight and rising in your stomach, every time your thighs start to tense and your breathing goes shallow — he slows down. Eases the pressure. Licks you soft and open-mouthed until the edge recedes and you're left shaking and dripping, the orgasm retreating just out of reach, your body burning with the denial of it.

"Jungwon, I'm going to kill you," you gasp, and your voice cracks, your hands tugging at his hair in frustration.

He laughs against you. The vibration of it hums through your clit, your thighs clench hard around his head and he doesn't even flinch — he just keeps you pinned open with those hands, keeps his mouth exactly where it is, keeps laughing while you writhe. "You're not gonna kill me. You're gonna come on my face. I just want it to feel good when you do. I want you to feel it everywhere."

"It would feel better if you didn't keep stopping—"

His tongue flattens against your clit and he drags it up, slow and firm. Your sentence dissolves into a broken, high sound that echoes off the stone walls. He does it again. Each stroke heavy, his mouth so wet with you. Lewd sounds filling the small glass-walled space wet and rhythmic beneath the drum of the water. Then he pulls back again, just his mouth, just enough, and his fingers find you again, two of them sliding back inside so easily it makes your face burn, your body still so wet and open from his mouth that there's no resistance at all.

"You're so wet, baby. So fucking wet for me." His voice is rough now, the teasing lilt frayed at the edges. He fucks you slowly with his fingers while his thumb rubs your clit in tight, maddening circles, and he watches your face with that dark, hungry focus. "You taste so good. I could do this all night."

"Don't you dare."

"Mm, where’d you get all this attitude from? What's the magic word?"

"Jungwon."

"That's my name, not the magic word." He curls his fingers. Presses up. Your back arches off the stone wall and a sound punches out of you that you've never heard yourself make before, loud enough to cut through the drum of the shower. "There it is. That's what I wanted."

He lowers his mouth again. This time he doesn't stop. His tongue works your clit in tight, wet circles while his fingers fuck into you steadily, angled perfectly, pressing that spot on every stroke until your vision blurs. The edge comes back fast, coiling tight and hot in your stomach, spreading down through your thighs, your toes curling against the wet stone, and this time when you arch toward him he doesn't pull away. He moans against you, low and genuine, like he's the one being touched, like eating you out is getting him off — and maybe it is, you realize, because when you glance down past your tied hands you can see his cock, hard and heavy between his thighs, twitching against nothing every time you clench around his fingers.

"Yeah, fuck—come on my face, you dirty girl," he mutters into you. The words vibrate through your clit, and his fingers thrust deep and curl, and his tongue sucks, and the coil snaps.

Your orgasm hits you so hard your vision whites out for a second. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands grip his hair so tight your knuckles ache. Your hips jerk against his mouth in uneven, desperate thrusts while the pleasure rolls through you in waves. His tongue works you through it, gentle now, lapping at you while you shake and clench around his fingers, and when you finally still, he presses one last slow, open-mouthed kiss to your clit before pulling back.

He looks wrecked. His lips are glistening, his chin wet with you and the shower water, his hair a mess from your hands, and his chest is heaving, each breath shuddering out of him like it costs him something. His eyes are black. His cock is hard, achingly hard, flushed dark and heavy between his thighs, the tip flushed and leaking, and the sight of him kneeling there, desperate and still holding your thighs open with steady hands, makes something raw and hungry twist in your stomach. He got like this from eating you out. That thought alone makes you throb.

"Get up here," you breathe, and you reach for him with your tied hands, the soaked lace stretching between your wrists. "Come here. Come here."

He rises from the stone floor in one fluid motion, water streaming down his chest and stomach, and you grab his shoulder and pull him in. Your mouth finds his and you kiss him hard, open-mouthed, tasting yourself on his tongue, and he groans into it, his hands bracing on the stone wall on either side of your head. You can feel his cock against your thigh, hot and slick. The fact that he's this hard, this desperate, because he spent the last twenty minutes with his mouth between your legs makes you dizzy.

Your tied hands slide down his chest, over the hard planes of his stomach, his abs jumping beneath your touch, and you wrap your fingers around him. Both palms press together around his cock, the lace binding tight between your wrists. He's slick with precum and shower water, hot and rigid in your hands. He throbs against your palms when you squeeze gently.

"Oh fuck—" His voice cracks. His forehead drops against yours, his eyes squeezing shut. "Baby, fuck—"

"Feel good?" you murmur against his lips, and you stroke him slowly, both hands working him together, the soaked lace dragging against the sensitive underside of his cock with every movement. His hips thrust into your grip involuntarily, chasing the sensation, and his breathing goes ragged and uneven.

"So good, fuck, you feel so good—" He's whining. His voice pitching up on every exhale, his hands fisting against the stone wall, his abs clenching tight with every stroke of your palms. His cock is throbbing in your hands, and you can feel him getting closer — the way he twitches, the way his thrusts lose rhythm, the way his moans fracture into desperate little gasps.

"Such a good cock, baby," you breathe against his jaw, pressing kisses along his throat where his pulse is hammering. "So thick. You're so hot, Jungwon, you're so fucking hot—got yourself all worked up eating me out, didn't you? Loved it, didn't you? You absolutely loved making me come on your face."

A moan rips out of him, his hips jerk forward hard, fucking into your hands, his cock sliding through your grip slick and fast. "Yes—fuck, yes, I loved it, you taste so good, I love it here, I love—"

You can feel it. He's literally right there. His thighs are trembling, his breathing is gone, his cock is twitching constantly in your hands, and his whole body is coiled tight, seconds from snapping.

You pull your hands away. His hips thrust into empty air and a broken, devastated sound leaves his mouth. Before he can protest, you guide him forward, position him at your entrance — you're so wet, so open from his fingers and his mouth, and the blunt heat of him pressing against you makes your breath catch. You hook your tied hands behind his back and pull him in closer, pull him into you, and he sinks inside in one long, deep thrust that steals the air from both of you.

"Fuck—" Jungwon's voice breaks. His arms give out. His chest hits yours, warm and pressed flat against you, and his face buries into your neck and he shudders so hard you feel it in your teeth. "Oh my—shit, baby, you feel—fuck, you're so—"

He doesn't finish the sentence. His hips pull back and snap forward and the sound that comes out of him is broken and beautiful, his length dragging slow and deep out of you before thrusting back in. He’s thick enough that you feel every inch of the stretch, thick enough that your walls clench around him involuntarily and he groans like he's dying.

"Good boy," you gasp into his ear, and his hips stutter and slam forward harder. "Fuck, you feel so good inside me. Such a good fucking cock, baby. So thick. You're doing so good."

He whines into your neck, thrusting into you deep and hard. The water runs down his back and over your joined bodies and every thrust sends it splattering against the stone floor. His hands find your thighs and he grips them, forces them wider apart, opens you up with that casual strength so he can sink deeper and the new angle makes you cry out, his cock hitting that spot inside you with every thrust now, relentless and deliberate.

"Good boy," you gasp into his ear, and his whole body shudders, his hips slamming forward harder. "Fuck, you feel so good inside me. Such a good fucking cock, baby. So thick. You're doing amazing."

"Jungwon—there, right there, fuck, don't stop—" Your hands drag down his back, the lace catching on his wet skin, your nails scraping red lines into his shoulders. He's pounding into you now, the teasing control from before completely gone, replaced by something raw and hungry.

"I won't stop—I've got you, baby, I've got you—" He pulls back enough to look at you, and his face is devastating. Wet, lips swollen, eyes glassy and dark. His forehead presses to yours and his breath comes in ragged pants against your mouth, his hips never slowing. "Am I doing good? Tell me I'm doing good. I need to hear it."

"Such a good boy," you breathe, and you watch his face crumble with it, watch his eyes squeeze shut and his hips lose their rhythm entirely, thrusting into you deep and uneven. "You feel so fucking good, baby. So good. You're so hot, you're so perfect, you're—fuck—right there, don't stop, harder—"

He fucks into you harder, deeper, his hands gripping your thighs so tight you know there'll be bruises tomorrow, his cock throbbing inside you, and you can feel yourself building again, the edge coming back fast, coiling tight with every thrust, every drag of him against that spot, every desperate whine spilling from his mouth.

"Come inside me," you gasp, and his whole body seizes. "Come on, baby, give it to me, you've been so good—"

"I'm—fuck—I'm gonna—" His voice pitches high and breaks. His hips slam forward one last time, deep, burying himself fully inside you, and he comes with a sound that's barely human. The heat of him filling you pushes you right over the edge and your orgasm crashes through you for the second time, your walls clenching around him, your tied hands gripping his back, your body arching against his.

He keeps thrusting through it, riding out every wave for both of you, his breath hot against your throat. The water drums on. The steam fills the glass-walled space. His hands loosen on your thighs and slide up to cradle your hips, gentle now, and he stays inside you while the aftershocks roll through you both in diminishing tremors.

When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are soft and hazy and his lips curve into that same easy smile from before. "So," he murmurs, voice hoarse and wrecked. "About that boutique."

You stare at him. Then you laugh and shove his shoulder with your tied hands. "We can talk about that after this."

He presses a slow, soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. He reaches down and tugs at the lace knotted between your wrists, working the wet fabric loose with careful fingers until your hands are free, the skin beneath pink and faintly marked from the pressure. He brings your wrists to his mouth and kisses the inside of each one, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Let me wash your hair," he says quietly, already reaching for the shampoo on the stone ledge, and you lean back against the warm wall and let him, the water cascading over you both, the steam soft and close and safe around you.

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🎹 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ഒ try me by the weeknd

✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !

That includes knowing who to follow on Instagram, who not to approach in the hallway, who to invite in group projects, and who to sit with in lunch. He goes by what makes sense and knows who the hell doesn’t belong in his circle, who rightfully has his phone number, and who can comment on his Instagram posts. 

Except when it comes to substances. He’s not a drug addict but he does enjoy good weed. 

He did listen during chemistry lectures, which basically means he knows a thing or two about pharmaceutics — at least the important parts like which produce larger surges of dopamine and intense euphoria. So while they get drug orientations every start of the school year and the addition of the entrepreneurial mindset of a businessman his father has passed down to him; Riki’s a fucking a jackpot. He simply believed every structure had blind spots, and if someone was smart enough to notice them, then maybe they deserved to profit a little. 

Maybe that made him a hypocrite. He knew that. Sometimes, in the middle of his own judgment, the thought would occur to him that he was not exactly living inside the moral boundaries he pretended to respect.

So with all of these in mind — weed-seller and social scale follower — imagine his surprise seeing a text from you.

You, an A-tier cheer captain with perfect grades and perfect friends and a perfect boyfriend and someone he doubts even has ever touched weed within a 10 feet radius because of how goody-two-shoes and slightly more socially-conformed you are, texted him: 

you: hi you sell right

The kind of surprise a priest might feel if the Virgin Mary asked to borrow a dildo.

Riki stared at his phone for a full thirty seconds. Not because he was shocked by the question itself — he’d gotten worse, far more incriminating messages from people with nothing to lose – but because of who it was from. Your name sat there, attached to a profile picture he never thought would sit on his chat log. Someone who followed the rules so well she barely seemed to touch the ground and practically flew up the school field with the school banner.

This was not how the structure worked. Nope.

He knew you didn’t look at people like him unless it was to borrow a pen or unwillingly get assigned to a lab partner. You definitely weren’t supposed to be asking him this. 

Riki leaned back in his chair and rethought the logistics. He wasn’t paranoid – paranoia implied irrationality. This was risk assessment, you’re high visibility, you’re a liability, you’re a cop in disguise, you’re a prig who’ll ruin his cloak and dagger, you’re holier-than-thou. You’re interesting.

riki: ???? is this a test loll

you: ? its a question

riki: u fr????

you: js tell me if its a no i have money

riki: 3pm behind the science building

you: ok thanks

But more than whatever you are, he knows this was stupid. This was the kind of deviation that got people caught and into the most flouting position he’ll ever be, therefore ruining his very wish to stay within a lawful system. It was, unequivocally, a very bad idea.

And yet he finds himself at the back of the building while he reevaluates the measures of bad-ness in the idea. If math really has been on his side along with his really athletic stature, he can run when you pull out as witness to his little dissenter mood. It halts when he sees you rounding the corner in your cheer uniform — ponytail perfect, knee tape slightly crooked, eyes darting like you weren’t sure you belonged back here — he realizes something his knees will give out before he can even try to walk away.

You stop a few feet away from him, awkward, out of place, glowing like a wrong answer circled in red. You stare at him with your arms crossed, hyperaware when his eyes follow the silhouette of your frame like he’s finding a covert surveillance device underneath your pleated skirt.

Riki talks calmly, like this wasn’t insane at all, like he hasn’t been in his head for the past hours: “So,” he starts, hands slipping into the pockets of his hoodie. “What do you need?”

The question should’ve been easy. You’d rehearsed it in your head on the walk here, timed it with your steps, told yourself not to sound like an idiot. But standing this near — near enough to notice the faint, clean smell of cologne and something green and earthy — you blank.

You shift your weight, arms tightening across your chest. “Um. Weed.”

Riki blinks once, and immediately he knows what this is. He studies you the way he did with lab results that didn’t line up with the predictions — or maybe it did exactly, and he can’t believe it was that easy.

“…Okay,” he said. “What kind?”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

“What kind.” he repeats.

You felt heat crawl up your neck. “Just… normal?” you say, immediately hating yourself. “Like. The kind people use?”

A corner of his mouth twitches before he can stop it. Then he licks the inside of his cheek, shaking his head when he realizes that yeah, his guess is right. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” he says. 

You bristle. “So?”

“You don’t even know dosage. Or strain. Or why you want it.” His eyes flick up to yours. “Do you?”

Your confidence wobbles, the polished composure you wore so easily in hallways cracking just a little now. He pulls out a small, neatly labeled bag and holds it between his fingers instead of handing it to you. “This is low THC,” he explains. “Won’t make you freak out. But I need to know what you specifically need so you don’t… panic.”

This was supposed to be transactional, quick, something you could tuck away and forget about. Yet every risky glance you take, he doesn’t look like someone who’d hold anything against you.

Riki sighs, about to put the bag away. “Look, let’s just forget —“

“I just,” you start, then sigh because there’s no cool way to say it. “I don’t know. I had a bad week. I wanted to try something.”

When you finally look up, he’s watching you differently. Not like you’re stupid or embarrassing, though you feel plenty of that on your own. His brows have lifted slightly, the faint amusement in his mouth fading into something quieter as he takes you in properly: your tight grip on your own arms, the way your eyes keep darting away.

And it makes it worse.

You meet his eyes for half a second before looking away with a small huff, embarrassed by the sudden attention. 

He puckers his lips slightly, staring at the thing in his hand like he’s thinking. At first, you think he might be deciding if you’re worth the trouble, but then he nods once. “Okay,” he says. “So you’re not becoming a stoner. You’re just trying a new cuisine.”

You blink at him, then laugh under your breath before you can stop yourself.

His mouth twitches, but hides it. He steps closer, just enough that you can see the smoothness of his skin, like he owns expensive skincare. He’s very tall, in a way that surprises you maybe because you’d just never stood this close before.

Really, you never spent time looking at Riki Nishimura. You’ve known the name, because who can ever look past the opulent sound of it, but to know the man behind it didn’t matter. After texting him, you don’t know what you expected either, maybe someone grubbier and smelled like smoke, someone with dry lips from all the ash. You thought he’d smell like one of those hippie guys who sold sketchy shit while wearing the same beanie for three years. 

But no, he smells like a familiar perfume your father owns in his fragrance wardrobe.

And his clothes are annoyingly nice, like the hoodie is probably more expensive than it looks and the loose pants are intentional, not lazy. 

Also, he’s 6’1.

“This,” he taps the bag lightly, “will help you relax. Body high, mostly. You’ll still be functional. But since it’s your first time, better not fuck around too much.” 

He’s still standing in front of you, close enough for you to notice the way his lashes lower when he looks at the bag in his hand, and you feel deeply, horribly stupid for only realizing now that he looks like that. 

Your gaze lingers, and he catches it. Riki clears his throat, spine straightening a little. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say too fast.

He only hums. You tighten your arms across your chest. “Just give me the thing.”

He finally hands you the bag, and you eye it once you feel its weight in your palm; leafy and green and brown and not you — but it doesn’t look so bad right now. It looks enticing, even, which you won’t try to admit out loud.

“Twenty,” he says, not planning to converse himself with the sudden discount. 

You dig into your bag, finding for the vintage pink wallet that screams the contrast of cannabis in your palm right now. “You know,” you say, hesitant but honest, “I don’t know. It’s weird how we’ve never talked before.”

That gets him. He chuckles even if there’s nothing funny about what you said, but there is something humorous about the fact he remembers shit you obviously forgot. He’s quick to question the lack of indifference, because he remembers it well that this is definitely not the first time you two talked.

“We were partners in freshman year,” Riki says.

He watches your face blank in real time, and something about it makes his mouth lift again, but not kindly enough to be mean. More like he expected it and still finds it a little funny that you are proving him right.

“English lit,” he adds. “The mythology presentation.”

For a second, he looks at you like someone who’s always known you, and you look at him like you’re seeing him for the first time. He sees it flash in your eyes, that maybe you remember him more than just some guy who sells weed to irresponsible decision-makers.

“Oh,” you say.

Riki nods once, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh.”

Until your phone buzzes to drag you back from this little bubble you’re in – your boyfriend’s name lights up the screen and Riki notices it too.

“Oh,” you say again, clearly out of your own head. “I — sorry.”

Something shifts, like the structure rebuilds and reasserts itself back into proper footing. You pull the bills from your wallet and press them into his hand. “Thanks,” you say. “For, um. The stuff.”

He closes his fist around the money, nods once. “Yeah.”

You hesitate like you might say something else, so you just tuck the bag away and step back. “I’ll go,” you say.

You turn the corner first. Riki exhales only when you’re out of sight, and chews on his bottom lip before hitting the side of his fist against the wall without real effort. He turns the other corner, parting from the rendezvous kept between eng lit and discounts.

The thing is, Riki knows you before whatever you are now. Miss Perfect who buys weed from Mister Lowkey Weed Seller — it’s a whole tangle in his brain in which he can’t exactly comprehend, but while he smokes a joint and music blasts through the speakers from the house party he’s dragged into, your picture’s pinned with red strings. 

He’s known you since third grade. You’ve been part of the cheer team before puberty, and since then you’ve accumulated likable girls your age into your circle, then the guys from the football team after. It becomes a whole coupling session when the age came right, which Riki is convinced is just some orgy labeled friendship goals in curated Instagram. He thought you were mean mostly because that’s what someone like you would be — but he does know a thing or two about you, other than the assumption of character. You’ve been in the same group projects against your will, sometimes you’d stand next to each other by the queue lines in the cafeteria, sometimes you’d bump against him in the hallway when you’re chasing time.

Is it weird he kept tabs? Maybe.

He always noticed, obviously, why wouldn’t he? You are not exactly unnoticeable. You’re nicer than your friends, you say sorry when you accidentally bump into someone, you say thanks to the staff, you say good morning to strangers, you’re pretty, you’re talented, you’re smart, you laugh at his jokes, you bought weed from him, you’re pretty, you’re perfect, you’re funny, you’re ridiculously pretty —

Riki takes another puff, too fast and too harsh, earning a rough cough from his throat. Heeseung chuckles, giving him an aggressive pat on the back when he leans his elbows against his knees. “Geez, first time?”

Riki shoves his arm away with a laugh, unsure where this is coming from. Because on top of every other noticeable trait you have, you have a boyfriend. So. Yeah. He knows better than to think about you.

He sinks deeper into someone else’s couch — leather, cracked at the seams — while the bass rattles the walls and bodies blur together in the dim lights. Smoke hangs thick in the air, clinging to his clothes, his hair, his thoughts. He takes another drag, slower this time, lets it sit in his lungs until the noise dulls around the edges.

Across from him, someone’s laughing too loud, then a couple is making out like it’s an Olympic sport. Heeseung steals the joint from his fingers and flicks the ash into an empty cup.

“You look fucked,” Heeseung says.

“I’m not,” Riki replies automatically.

“Mhm.”

Riki pushes himself up from the couch, suddenly restless. He just wants a drink — something cold, something that doesn’t make his head spiral because even the thought of weed pulls him back to this cheerleader. So he goes to the kitchen, instinctively saying half-assed sorry’s to strangers without meaning them. 

Until he bumps into someone.

For half a second, he genuinely wonders if the side effects are finally catching up to him, because his head feels several feet away from his eyes and the kitchen lights look more hazy than they should.

But it’s you, he knows that because your kind voice apologizes; the way you always do, the way your friends don’t. Your shoulder knocks into his chest and you’re already stepping back, eyes wide a fraction of a second when you look up. Riki freezes too, unsure what to do with his hands or his feet or where to look without threading too close to the sternum your lowcut top exposes. Up close, under dim kitchen lights instead of school hallways, you look unreal — hair loose, lips parted like you’ve been laughing. 

“Riki,” you say, breathless, like his name slipped out before your brain could catch it.

His name on your mouth does something stupid to him. 

“Hey,” he says, too softly. He’s just thankful you don’t notice the slight roughness of it.

You smile, small and polite — but there’s something else underneath it now. Recognition that shouldn’t exist, not in the structure where you’re meant to forget that you know; one where he looks up at you from beneath your echelon, now he’s standing close enough that you have to tilt your chin to look up at him.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you say.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “I didn’t either.”

You glance past him, toward the other room, toward where your friends probably are — or your boyfriend. Then back at him, polite in a way he’s sure is because you’re you and not because he’s him.

“I don’t usually see you in… parties,” you say. 

He puts both hands in his pant pockets, shoulders loose, eyes on yours like the noise around you doesn’t have enough authority to interrupt.

“You don’t usually look,” he says.

It’s not said rudely, just calm, like he’s stating something obvious enough that both of you should stop pretending around it.

Your fingers tighten around your cup. “That’s not true.”

Riki tilts his head, eyes moving over your face. “Yeah?”

You hate how it sounds coming from him, low and slow and almost amused, like he knows you’re lying before you do. You scoff a quiet laugh, eyes looking away because you can’t keep looking at him. 

“I mean, I know you exist.” You look back up at him when you say it, bottom lip catching between your teeth before you can stop yourself.

His eyes drop for half a second, then he smirks and looks away, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying not to say something.

When he looks back, his face is calmer. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

The question is casual enough that it almost sounds harmless. You glance elsewhere instinctively, like you’re going to find him close. “Somewhere.”

“Specific.”

“He’s with his friends.”

Riki just nods, doesn’t wanna push, even though he’s pretty sure you don’t actually know where he is. Leaving is the smarter and normal thing to do. The thing a girl with a boyfriend and a reputation and a phone full of unread messages from her friends would do.

Instead, you stay there. And Riki’s got that tabbed already.

You hesitate, fingers worrying at the rim of your cup. “I, um. I haven’t — used it yet.”

Riki blinks. “The stuff?”

You nod, cheeks warming. “I just… don’t really know how.” It’s weird being this honest with someone you barely know, yet your bones don’t buzz with the prompt demand to pause. It must be the slight slosh, it’s the only real thing to excuse why you’re not pulling away.

For a second, he just looks at you. Then his mouth curves, slow and amused. “You bought weed without knowing how to use it?”

Your face warms, but you try not to look embarrassed. “Okay, well.” You lift your cup a little, like that somehow helps your argument. “You can teach me.”

Riki grimaces immediately, playful but clear. “Sounds like a bad idea.”

You blink. “Wow. Rude." You huff, looking away, but you’re smiling a little because he doesn’t sound scared of you. Or impressed by you. Or desperate to keep you there. He just sounds like he already knows better and hates that he has to be the one saying it.

He sighs, looking away for a second. “Fuck, fine.” his jaw clenches. “But not here.”

You try not to smile and fail almost immediately. You take one step back, still looking at him. “I’ll text you. Maybe later?”

Someone calls your name from the other room and you exhale, dragging back through the fracture. The music spikes and someone bumps into you again, closer this time, and Riki’s hand lifts instinctively, hovering over your waist without touching. 

Your eyes flick down, then back up to his. “Nice seeing you,” you say finally, voice softer now. 

“Yeah,” he says. “You too.”

You step around him, brushing past just close enough that he catches your scent — which is bad, because now he’ll have to remember that too. When you disappear back into the crowd, Riki stays rooted in place for a beat too long.

He exhales, rubs a hand over his face, and laughs quietly to himself.

He really, really knows better.

Which somehow makes it worse.

Riki glances back to see you’re sitting on the couch now, legs tucked in, your boyfriend’s arm slung easily around your shoulders. He leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, which makes you smile and ease back into him. Riki turns away to open the fridge and grabs the coldest beer he can find. He lifts it and downs it in one go, throat burning at the coldness and bitter taste.

He shouldn’t do this. He really shouldn’t.

Later, in that strange lull when the party has gotten worse and louder — you text him.

You: bathroom upstairs

The bathroom is cramped and clean but gross in concept: flickering light, foggy mirror, the smell of cheap air freshener. You’re perched on the edge of the sink when he slips inside and locks the door behind him, eyes bright, a little nervous, because being in a bathroom with you feels worse than any sketchy deal he’s made.

“Okay,” you whisper, like you’re conspiring. “So. Teach me.”

He winces, glancing around. “This is… not ideal.”

You just grin. He laughs despite himself and sets the weed down on the closed toilet lid, grimacing when he starts rolling paper against it. Once he’s done, he holds the roll up to your mouth and he tells you to lick it. You follow through, leaning down and sticking your tongue out to lick the side. He clears his throat, trying not to think about the way you looked doing that, trying not to imagine anything else.

He’s careful, not clinical or a lecture when he instructs, just calm and reassuring like he’s trying to keep you comfortable more than correct. When he hands the final roll to you, your fingers shake a little as you take it.

“Like this?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Slow.”

You cough immediately after trying, sharp and sudden, bending forward with a surprised laugh. “Oh my god — why does it — ”

“Hey,” he says, too fast, stepping closer, hand hovering at your back. “You okay?”

You wave him off, still laughing, eyes watering. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

He watches you like you might disappear if he looks away. You’re laughing, which isn’t comforting Riki even in the slightest because the last thing he needs is to not be a conformist and end up in jail for accidentally supporting your homicide.

You try again, better this time. You still cough, laugh, cough again, but way more manageable as time goes by.

“Sorry,” you say, breathless.

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “You’re doing fine.”

You keep at it, stubborn in that way of yours, until the coughing eases and something in your shoulders loosens. You lean back against the wall, head tipping gently, eyes half-lidded.

“Oh,” you murmur. “That’s… actually really nice.”

Riki lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a nervous laugh slipping out. He leans back against the wall, hand through his bangs, exposing the skin of his forehead. “Jesus fucking Christ,”

You nod slowly, smiling to yourself. “My brain’s quiet.”

He watches you for a moment: relaxed, unguarded, glowing in this tiny bathroom because you don’t belong here at all, holding a joint Riki himself rolled for you. Really, you never belonged anywhere that tried to put you in a box, and he wasn’t going to make himself an exception to that opening.

He tries thinking about who you really are, beyond what most people would take you as. Though he knows not to fantasize a tale where he saves the damsel from her golden label. He takes you with memory and not assumption: cheer girl, disciplined afternoon drills, academically smart, socially competent, good. But tonight, while you lean against the cracked sink and stand diagonally across him, he sees a side he never thought he’d secretly behold.

Your eyes flick to him. “You’re a good teacher.”

He swallows. “You’re an easy student.”

Riki rolls another one for himself, hands steadier now that you’re settled, and lights it with a quiet flick. The bathroom fills with a softer haze this time, the kind that wraps instead of hits like a downer high school series. He takes a drag, exhales toward the ceiling, letting the room reek with shouldn’ts and endorphine boosters.

You smoke more confidently now, less harsh and rough when you let the smoke run down your throat. Your eyes are a little red, lashes heavier, the sharp edges of you blurred into something warmer and looser, less polished and picture perfect the way your boyfriend would like. Riki thinks — stupidly — that he’s never seen you look better.

You lean your head back against the wall again, staring at the ceiling like it’s just told you a secret. He doesn’t stare, actually. He keeps his eyes narrowed to the broken tile in front of him like he’ll discern the reason it’s cracked (maybe someone opened the door too hard, maybe someone once stood there trying to look normal while his heart acted stupid over a girl, which was especially humiliating when the whole point of being high was to feel less insane). Sometimes he’ll permit himself to glance, but even the very glimpse of your smudged lipstick makes him look away and inhale the fuck outta that weed.

Then, suddenly, with eyes still trained to the dim bathroom light — “I thought you were,” you start, then laugh, a little too loud before clapping a hand over your mouth. “Sorry. I thought you were, like… this weirdo.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Wow. Honesty hour already?”

“No — ” you groan, waving the joint like you’re conducting an orchestra. “I mean it nicely. You always stayed away from everyone. I figured you were judging us.”

“Us?” he repeats, amused, cocking a brow when he glances at you.

“You know. People like me.” You squint at him, trying to focus. You gesture at yourself ineptly, clearly out of the ordinary intellectual capacity you clench tight, not when rickety makes up for your feet.

He quickly looks away, trying not to smile. 

“Loud. Annoying.” you clarify, hand gesturing around.

He tilts his head, considering. “Was I supposed to be friends with people like you?”

You blink, like you’re thinking about what he said and calculating the rationale behind his causes. It was a hit, one that steadies a thought in your brain.

“Is that so bad?”

The question knocks the breath out of him, especially when you look up at him like that, eyes bright and wide. He blinks, and then he laughs, coming out quieter this time, looking away because he can’t keep eye contact with you. “I didn’t think you’d want that.”

“Why not?”

Because there’s a system. Because there’s levels to this shit. Because you have a boyfriend. Because you’re untouchable. Because you’re perfect and he’s whatever this was. Because people like him didn’t get pulled into your orbit unless it was transactional. Like weed exchanges and favors on the toilet. 

For now, he shrugs. “Seemed like you already had your people.” 

You hum, nodding slowly, then smile. You tap the joint, watching some ash fall to the tiles. “They’re loud.”

He smiles back despite himself. “Yeah. They are.”

The bathroom feels like it’s floating away from the music that pumps loud through the pipes, a constant reminder that there’s more than the stinky bathroom you two share as a secret. It’s risky because it’s merely wood that separates the crypticity of Mary Jane from the Average Joe you two function in individually.

You glance at the joint, then at him. “You’re not weird, by the way.”

“Oh?” he says, eyebrow lifting. He even scoffs, because he (un-admittedly) finds you adorable. 

“You’re just… quiet. You keep to yourself, but that doesn’t make you… eccentric.” You grin lopsided, cheeks warm but you ignore that. “You’re nice.”

That one gets him, more than he’d ever admit to anyone. Riki looks over, and for half a second, his gaze slips lower before he forces it back to your face. You’re already looking at him, all soft eyes and honest mouth, like you have no idea what you’re doing to him.

He looks away first, rubbing the side of his jaw like that might help. “You’re high,” he says.

“Maybe,” you confess. “But I mean it.”

He’s been called quiet and nice all his life, but that was never the full truth. He just knew who deserved access to the rest of him, and most people didn’t. It wasn’t personal. He could talk when he wanted to, laugh when something was actually funny, keep a conversation going if he cared enough. He just didn’t feel the need to prove he had thoughts by saying all of them out loud.

Riki takes a drag, exhales slowly, looking over the tiles of the bathroom while he rethinks the decision he’s about to drop. He clears his throat before speaking, “You’re not mean either.”

Your eyes widen a little, gaze recklessly steady at his side profile. “You thought I was?”

“Everyone did,” he says honestly, smiling a little.

You make a face, frowning at him even though he refuses to look at you. “That’s rude.”

He laughs, really laughs this time, head tipping back. When he looks at you again, you’re smiling up at him like you’ve discovered something new and decided to keep it. For a moment, it feels like maybe there was always a version of this where you talked in bathrooms and shared smoke and didn’t belong where people expected you to.

You take another small drag, then suddenly straighten when you decide to take him in. He’s wearing a jacket over his hoodie, simple sweats loose around his hips. Only a few strands of his dark blonde hair graze over his forehead, leading down to the sharp features you only really notice now.

You never thought Riki Nishimura was ugly. Now, you can’t help but think that he’s… kinda hot.

You’re high, you’re just gone. That’s why. It also explains why you nudge closer than you have been before, letting your skirt brush slightly against his pants, thighs grazing slightly against his.

You’re both still smoking — slow now, like the room itself has decided to breathe with you. The bathroom feels even smaller than before, shrinking with every second the music downstairs gets louder but muffled through the wooden door keeping you a secret. Your head feels light, buoyant, like you’re floating a few inches above your body. Maybe it’s the weed. Maybe it’s the half-drinks you’d taken before this. Maybe it’s neither.

He stares at the tile beneath his boot like it holds the secrets of the universe, or like it had the equations for him to understand gravity’s intentions and how it led to him feeling your softness against him.

“Is there something on the floor?” you laugh.

He just huffs, shaking his head because that’s all he can do right now. You’re still leaning back and he’s still standing just a little too close. Your knee brushes his again, accidental but not corrected.

He looks down at you then. The red in your eyes, the crooked smile, the way you’re leaning just a little toward him like gravity’s doing something new. You lean closer because you’re completely zooted and smart-Riki who knows better, leans away and only lets his chest tighten. His eyes drop traitorously down to your lips, and he’s not fast enough to look back up. You notice, of course, which makes you both look away and straighten back on your feet instead of the wall. 

Riki clears his throat, smoking the last of his before he rids of it against the sink. “You gotta go?” he asks out of the blue, which makes you frown a little. It wasn’t exactly a statement, but you know when things are implied and telling, so you shove back the nerves and remember that he’s different from you.

You’re not his type of person. He probably likes more chill people who actually know how to roll this shit — not the sheltered ones who’s clueless with THC or terms alike it.

“Yeah. I guess.” you smooth out your clothes even though nothing’s wrong with them.

He realizes what he just did, especially now that you’re not even looking back at him. He tries correcting himself, to backtrack, but the moment you glance back up, he’s silenced. You put your unfinished joint in his hand. “See you.” You say just before unlocking the door, slipping through it, and accidentally slamming it too hard.

Riki reels in from the solitude of the silence, like he’s now just realizing the ruins he broke himself. He sighs in resignation, head falling forward in defeat. “Shit.”

He stares at the thing in his hand, unfinished and yours, half-burnt and still warm.

“Idiot,” he mutters to himself, dragging a hand down his face. He can still feel the ghost of your skirt brushing his leg, the way you didn’t look back because he gave you a reason not to.

But the bathroom still smells like you — sweet perfume tangled with smoke — and the joint is there, remaining as an accusation wrapped in paper. He turns it between his fingers, thumb brushing the spot where your lipstick smudged faintly against the edge.

Riki exhales, then lifts it.

He wraps his lips around it carefully, stupidly aware of the fact that yours were there first. The thought alone makes his chest tighten, heat creeping up his neck and pelvis as he takes a slow drag.

He closes his eyes as he exhales, leaning his head back against the wall, heart thudding too loud for a room this small. For a split second, he imagines you still there — tilted smile, red-rimmed eyes, saying his name like it belongs to you, all while your boyfriend waits in the living room.

He laughs shakily under his breath. It’s so wrong.

After that, you two haven’t really talked for weeks. 

That part isn’t weird. You both have lived the majority of your lives settling with the insouciance despite recognition, and one night in a bathroom, smoke and secrets and red eyes, isn’t enough to reroute that kind of muscle memory. Riki tells himself that over and over, like it’s a theorem he’s already proven.

He hasn’t been worried. He still goes to class, still shows up on time, still hands in assignments with some effort. The only difference — although barely worth mentioning — is that he’s been dipping into his stash more often than usual. A little before bed. A little after. 

Riki exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling, telling himself — again — that this doesn’t mean anything and it doesn’t have anything to do with the cheer girl he kinda had a moment with in the bathroom.

It’s so fucked, even if you don’t think being his friend is bad, because you’re not meant to be a part of this. He was simply curious that Miss Cheerleader bought weed from him and kinda trusted him way too fast and that wasn’t just some everyday occurrence — that’s the only best psychological explanation why you’re here even when you’re not.

You have a boyfriend. He’s not about to be a homewrecker. Yet it’s not helping.

No talking for weeks, reaching a month even. That says enough. He has to stop.

“Probably about Little Miss Perfect.”

Riki flinches like someone just snapped a rubber band against the back of his neck. He sits up, glaring at Heeseung. “What the fuck,” he blurts. “How do you know that?”

Jake slowly looks up from his laptop, eyes lighting up like he just unlocked a bonus level.

“Oh my god.” Sunghoon’s grin spreads and Heeseung laughs, clapping like he’s won because technically he did, at the mental betting at what keeps Riki Nishimura downing his marijuana greenhouse.

“Ohhh,” Heeseung says, taunting and annoying. “So it is about her.”

Riki blinks. “No.”

“That was the weakest no I’ve ever heard,” Jake says immediately, pointing a finger at Riki. “You’re a guilty man, aren’t you?”

Riki scoffs, scrambling, fingers rubbing against his temple in attempts to cool. “You’re literally insane. Why would it be about her?”

Heeseung shrugs, casual. “I saw you two talking at that party.”

Riki’s stomach drops. “You — what?”

“Relax,” Heeseung says, laughing. “I wasn’t spying. You two just kinda had a freeze frame by the kitchen. Wasn’t so hard to notice.”

Riki opens his mouth, just to close it. Then he runs a hand through his hair with the irritated slant of said illegality stamped in your name. “We were just talking. Nothing happened.” Riki snaps, defensive again, hands up like he’s caught. 

Jake squints at him. “Then why are you acting like that?”

Riki looks away. Usually, it’s enough answer to more teasing and mocking, but maybe not this time. Because now, it raises actual questions that regard his very bearing at this monumental association with you — a damn unicorn of a scene snatched out a comedy fantasy movie.

Heeseung asks carefully, “Are you, like, her boy toy or something?”

Riki whips around with the flush of unpredictability and utter shock. “What? No!”

Heeseung grins again, gentler this time. “Okay, not her boy toy. What now?”

Riki exhales, long and slow, falling back supine against the floor with the decency of a man with boundaries and the understanding of someone brilliant to keep himself away. “Nothing. She has a boyfriend. She lives in a different world.”

It’s realistic. He thinks he’ll drag the shit out of his stash to get his mind off this, because Riki Nishimura was a conformist by all means.

You’re where you’re supposed to be.

You laugh at the jokes while dawdling down the hallway with girls you actually consider your friends, your boyfriend’s arm heavy around your shoulders like it belongs there. You learned how to roll your own joints now, practiced with irritated little shrieks until it stopped being embarrassing, until they came out neat and perfect between your fingers. You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone, actually. Independence always looked good and natural on you.

Then Riki walks past with Heeseung and Jay.

Backpacks slung low, shoes dragging lazily against the floor, laughing about something stupid like someone’s terrible quiz score. Riki’s eyes stay forward like always, keeping his business private from everyone. Especially from you.

You don’t acknowledge each other beyond the bare minimum of peripheral awareness of two classmates that happen to be in the same class and two planets in the same orbit. Your boyfriend tightens his arm around you, leaning down to murmur something about lunch plans. You nod, glossed lips wrapped around a lollipop, sugar sweet and cherry-flavored on your tongue. You should be listening, you’re sure you are, until he passes.

Your eyes follow Riki — not openly, just enough to catch the back of his neck, the familiar slope of his shoulders, the same boy who leaned against a bathroom wall while you were high and laughing too much, knees brushing his because the room was small and neither of you moved away.

The lollipop slides down your tongue: all artificial sugar because the substance stays at home in the back of your secret drawer, while some of it just passed you down the hallway.

“I’ll catch up,” you say lightly, lifting your boyfriend’s arm off your shoulders. “I forgot something.”

You slip away before anyone can think too hard about it, weaving through the hallway with your lollipop still between your lips. You keep enough distance to make it look accidental, watching as Heeseung and Jay split off with quick fist bumps and loud voices. Riki keeps walking and pushes open the door to an empty lecture hall before disappearing inside.

You stop outside, remembering that this is probably the part where you’re supposed to turn around. Where the perfect, reasonable version of you remembers her boyfriend, her friends, her place in the hallway. Where the status quo reaches for your wrist and pulls you back into line.

Well, you push the door open.

Riki is near the front row, one hand still on the strap of his bag when he looks up from his seat, legs spread wide, thumbs midway to scroll through his phone. His eyes widen slightly, posture going still like he did not think you’d actually follow him.

For some reason, it thrills you. Because now he’s looking at you.

You pull the lollipop from your mouth, twirling the stick between your fingers as the door clicks shut behind you. “Hey.”

His eyes flick briefly to the door behind you. “You lost?”

This isn’t a bathroom of some random houseparty. There’s no smoke, no music, no excuse, just you, Riki, and an empty lecture hall in the middle of the school day — which means you came here on purpose.

“You should roll a joint for me again,” you say, like it’s so simple. “One of these nights.”

Riki blinks once. Then he huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “What, you haven’t learned since last time?”

You step closer anyway, slow and unhurried, allowed to exist wherever you want. He leans back against his seat, still careful and invisibly (but truly) restless. “I did.” you answer, then you smile small and lazy. “You’re just better at it.”

That gets him (because you’ve been knowing what to say to get him). His eyes lift to you, amused now, something low and unreadable settling there which sets you on fire because you have no idea what he’s thinking, not even a little hint. 

“Flattery,” he says, then scoffs.

You hum and step closer, close enough that his knee is almost in front of your thigh. Riki leans back in his seat, one arm loose over the desk beside him, phone forgotten in his lap. 

“There’s another party this weekend,” you say. “At McKay’s. You and your friends should go.”

He tilts his head. “Should we?”

“I think so.” You shrug. “Good music, large pad, beer games.” 

He chuckles, eyes dropping briefly to the floor before meeting yours again. “And you’ll be there.”

“Probably.”

“And you’ll want me to roll one for you.”

You pull the lollipop from your mouth, tapping it lightly against your lower lip as you think. “If you’re offering.”

“I’m not,” he says, but his mouth twitches.

You lean back against the edge of the desk beside him, copying his ease like you have any right to be comfortable around him. From far away, it would look casual, just two classmates talking before class. Except there’s only you standing between him and the empty rows, him sitting back in his seat, looking up at you with that unreadable expression while you try not to smile too much.

He should probably feel insulted that you only do this when nobody can see — maybe he does, if he still believes in self-respect. It’s just hard to stay offended when you’re looking at him like that.

Riki nods once. “I’ll think about it.”

Satisfied, you push off the table and head for the door. “Cool.”

When the door shuts behind you, he thinks about red eyes and smoke, about how your usual crowd will be there, your boyfriend’s arm around you just before you sneak away to Riki’s. 

You’re trouble, which makes Riki smile. ‘Cause he knows damn well he’s going to that party.

-

McKay’s house is already vibrating when Riki gets there with Heeseung, Jake, and Sunghoon — bass rattling the windows, someone yelling about cups, someone else yelling back about something incomprehensible. Riki isn’t a frat boy at all, and he doesn’t really go to parties, but the perfume layered on top of alcohol is basically familiar territory.

“This place is a fire hazard,” Jake mutters, stepping over a discarded heel.

Riki scans the room pretending he doesn’t mean to, observing layouts and people, when really he’s actually looking for one specific designer wardrobe of a person.

He doesn’t see you, but he sees your usual crowd scattered around the room, posing with red cups they barely drink from and laughing a little too loud whenever someone points a camera at them. You’re not there, nor is your boyfriend, and that usually speaks for itself already.

Heeseung nudges him, already mischievous with the smile Riki can’t see. “Little Miss Perfect?”

“Fuck off,” Riki replies, flat.

Jake’s halfway to disbelief when he narrows his eyes at Riki. “You’re already staring.”

“She’s not even here,” the former hisses.

“Looking for her, though.” Sunghoon teases, practically grinning widely.

Riki pushes past them. “I’m getting a drink.”

He doesn’t get a drink. He goes through hallways and in between bodies that nudge abruptly into him, half-assed apologies going through one ear and out the other while he properly finds footing again and again. When he gets to the bathroom and finds it locked, he groans and leans back against the wall. For now, he flicks the light on his own joint and smokes away while he waits — for you, for the bathroom, for anything to make him think going here was worth it at all. 

Too many girls brush against him, too many of them apologizing with tilted heads and lashes batting. He has no interest in rewarding the performance, not tonight, not when the party is already crawling under his skin, all bass-heavy music, sticky floors, smoke in the air, perfume clinging to his throat, and people packed so tightly he can’t move without touching someone. It’s too much at once; too loud, too hot, too bright, too dark. Then he sees it, and everything in him goes still.

Your boyfriend has another girl pushed against the bedroom wall. 

Riki sees this through the crack of the door, just slightly opened enough for him to see how he moves his hand underneath her skirt really fucking aggressively. They’re kissing too, and it’s not at all sweet or even arousing; it’s just straight out gross. He chokes, coughing so rough and loud and forward he has to lunge himself off the wall and straight through the crowd because his first instinct is you.

Your boyfriend is cheating on you.

What the fuck is happening? Why’s your boyfriend fucking a girl like someone who knows nothing about clits? Now, Riki isn’t an expert about pleasing women but he’s watched porn enough to know that Exhibit A over there was straight-up persecution. 

He finally spots you near the kitchen, talking to one of your friends with a cup in your hand. He starts toward you, but someone shoves past from behind, and he bumps lightly into your shoulder. You turn, already halfway to apologizing until you see him, your face already changing before you can stop it.

“You came,” you say, eyes flicking around before coming back to him.

He’s kinda out of breath, from the smoke and from hurrying, but he smiles too. “Yeah.”

While you’re still smiling, Riki clears his throat. It’s casual like he’s asking for a lighter, not like he’s abput to derail your night, ‘cause truth be told, he’s not sure he knows how you’ll react to the information. To be honest, he thinks about how it’s only fair — maybe — because he doubts your boyfriend knows you sneak into bathrooms with another guy. And sure, his hand isn’t performing DJ on your pussy, but the shared secrecy of eye contact with loaded tension is much more intimate than whatever the hell that was.

“Uh,” he says, hand rubbing on his jeans. “Can we talk? Like. Somewhere quieter.”

You blink. Then you nod, already stepping closer so he has to lean down to hear you.

“Bathroom or outside?” you ask, half-teasing.

“Outside,” he says easily.

The night is cold enough to make everything feel quieter, like it’s only the two of you standing under someone’s porch light while music leaks through the walls behind you. It’s strange, because you’re not even friends, not really, but the little space between you feels private in a way Riki doesn’t know what to do with. He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath since the second he walked into the house, then leans back against the railing and looks at you standing across from him.

He tries finding the words first, but the way you’re looking at him tightens his chest faster than his brain can work out. Is this karma for your cheating boyfriend? Is he the instrument God has given you to slam notes back to the guy you’re practically cheating on too? 

Then Riki clears his throat, casual as hell. “I saw something inside,” he continues, tone still chill but eyes a little sharper now. “Your boyfriend.”

Your smile falters. “What about him?”

“He’s, uh.” Riki taps ash off the joint. “He was fucking a girl. On a wall.”

You stare at him for a while, and he’s half-expecting you to lash out, on him, on the crowd, on your boyfriend, on something. 

Instead, you laugh this small, amused breath that slips out of you before you shrug, like he told you your boyfriend spilled punch on his shirt and not that he had just seen him with another girl.

What the fuck is happening?

It feels a lot like you don’t care and that surprises Riki leading him down a rabbit hole of introspection. He was already expecting you to cry and sob or scream in the party about how much of a dick he is, how you trusted him and gave him everything — all things they do when they find out their boyfriends are cheaters.

No, you just, “Wow.” then huff a laugh. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

He blinks once, watching you carefully while you regather your thoughts as a woman who’s been said something paltry rather than an admission of an affair. To be honest, Riki doesn’t understand, so now he just stands there and looks stunned. And confused. Very confused, actually.

Riki squints at you like he’s trying to solve a trick question. “That’s it?” he asks. “That’s your reaction?”

You shrug, lifting your cup to your lips for a sip. “I mean. It’s been happening. “We’re just sorta together for our parents. They’re friends so… but that’s a story for another night.”

Oh. He never thought fake relationships were a thing.

That makes sense. How come Riki didn’t know? Was he so out of touch from school gossips hat he genuinely didn’t know that you’re actually not the perfect couple he thought you two were? Is that why Heeseung and Jake and Sunghoon didn’t react so badly? Has this been a thing? Oh my God, Riki’s ecstatic and he hasn’t even finished a joint yet.

He lets out a quick, unguarded sound. “Jesus.”

You lean back against the railing across from him, far too relaxed for a revelation that should have ruined someone’s eyeliner. Riki watches you for a second, waiting for the anger, the hurt, the sharp inhale before you turn and storm back inside. But you just stand there, cup in hand, looking more inconvenienced than heartbroken.

That’s when it hits him, slow and weirdly humiliating, that you might not care about the relationship at all.

“But,” you say lightly, “thanks for telling me.”

He blinks, then shakes his head a little. “Yeah.” His voice comes out slower than usual. “No worries.”

You glance at the joint between his fingers, your eyes lingering a second too long on the veins along his hand. “You always this heroic when you’re high?”

“No,” he says, deadpan. “It’s just who I am.”

You laugh, and despite everything, his mouth twitches. He looks back toward the door, half-expecting your boyfriend to come out and make the night complicated. When no one does, he relaxes, shoulders easing, but not completely.

Because this is new information.

Someone inside screams the chorus to a song, and the night’s way too cold for the silence that buzzes. Riki offers the joint without looking at you, just holds it out between two fingers like it’s nothing.

You hesitate for half a second. But you take it.

“You have a car?” you suddenly ask while you take a puff.

Riki blinks once, then lets out a quiet laugh, dragging his thumb along the bridge of his nose. Right, so this is his life now. He sells you weed one time, and somehow he’s standing outside a party while your boyfriend (?)  cheats inside and you look mildly bored about it.

It’s stupid. It’s also the most interesting thing that’s happened to him in months.

So he just sighs and slumps back a little. “Yeah. I do.”

“Let’s go,” you say, completely not a question, flicking the finished joint on the pavement and trampling it beneath your heel. “I wanna smoke.”

He lets you trail after him through the side yard like this is already something you do, like he isn’t silently praying no one sees you following him away from the party. Gravel crunches under your shoes, the bass growing duller behind you as you cross the street toward his Supra, parked sleek and dark under the streetlamp. Riki unlocks it without looking back, rounds the hood, and opens the passenger door for you like it’s nothing.

You notice. You just don’t say anything.

Inside, the car actually smells clean and like coffee, for someone you’ve assumed is mad about marijuana and sorts alike (well, again, he’s proven how neat he is just for smelling so fucking good). He slides into the driver’s seat and just sits there for a second before turning the engine on, heater clicking low. 

The silence settles, but it doesn’t feel awkward, which Riki finds suspicious. Maybe it’s because you’re not acting like the version of you he’s used to, all neat edges and perfect timing. Now your heels are on the floor of his car, your hair is loose around your face, and you’re curled into the passenger seat of a Supra you’ve never sat in before like your body decided to trust him before your brain could argue. He clears his throat, trying to get rid of the warmth at the back of his neck, but you only glance at him like you don’t notice. The hem of your skirt rides up consequently, and he tries his hardest not to look.

“Thanks. For caring.”

He shrugs, one hand resting loose on the steering wheel. “Didn’t feel right not to tell you.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

The radio flicks on — some pop song bleeding through the speakers. He then pulls out pre-rolled joints from his pockets, which he sheepishly apologizes for hygiene and, well, it’s a bit delated, although you just smile and take one. He lights yours up and you two stay there, settled in his warm seats, dissolving the chill with cannabis down your system like two people who doesn’t give a shit about the system and fucking power dynamics and popularity status.

Again, weird. Hanging out in his car like you’re old buddies who smoke in free time on the usual. 

If he told himself a month ago that he would be smoking weed with the team cheer captain, he would have laughed his ass off about inhaling too much narcotics that totally screwed mental frameworks. Yet now, he’s stealing a few glances at you beside him, getting high off his greens, and he doesn’t feel completely off-center about it. It’s the weed obviously, but he feels steady. It’s charged because you’re not talking but your thoughts are everywhere, and even if you protrude the profile of indifference — he knows you care. Then again, what does he know about you, right? You are the odd in the equation, the alternative hypothesis that proves the difference in variables, and talks about the impact on the situation.

Now, conformist Riki Nishimura, who has spent his whole life respecting the ladder, is starting to wonder what happens if he climbs high enough to stand beside someone like you.

He stares through the windshield the second before he speaks. “You’re not what people think you are.”

You blink, caught off guard as you turn to him. “Is that good or bad?”

He huffs. “Depends who’s thinking it.”

You smile a little, your eyes moving over him before you can pretend they didn’t. Riki isn’t brawny in that loud, gym-mirror way, but he’s taller than he should be, broader than he looks from a distance, and unfairly very put together. His throat moves when he breathes in, and you catch yourself watching it for one embarrassing second too long.

You chew on your bottom lip. “And what do you think?”

Riki shifts in his seat, hand fidgeting against the wheel like he’s weighing how honest he’s allowed to be. “I think you’re quieter than your reputation.” 

You study him now — the calm posture, the way he never overdoes anything, the way his voice stays even like he’s learned not to tip his hand. 

He glances at you, then back ahead. “Makes it easier.”

You look at him for a second too long. “Easier for who?”

“You tell me.”

The car feels smaller and the windows are fogged enough that the streetlamp outside is just a blur of light now, like you’ve been sealed off from everything else. Away from the reality that boxes you two into something that makes sense rather than accepts. 

You laugh once, but it comes out softer than planned. “You always psychoanalyze girls in your car?”

“No.”

“Just me?”

His mouth twitches. “You asked.”

You turn your head toward the window, trying to keep your face normal. “You don’t know me that well.”

“I know.”

Riki finally turns to you, one hand still resting loose on the steering wheel. His eyes are a little low, a little unreadable, but not careless — that might be the problem.

“I’m not saying I do,” he says. “I’m saying people don’t either.”

Your fingers fidget with the joint, rolling it carefully between them even though you’re barely paying attention to it anymore. The tip glows faintly, forgotten for a second, and Riki reaches over without thinking to tap the ash into the tray before it can fall on your skirt.

You look down at his hand, then back at him when he hands it to you.

“Don’t you think that’s weird?” you ask. “Like, what kind of girl is cheer captain and smokes weed? Who gets into a fake relationship because of her parents? Doesn’t that sound kind of fucked?”

He looks at you for a moment.

Then he leans back, eyes returning to the windshield. “I sell weed.”

He says it from the driver’s seat of a spotless car that smells like coffee and cologne. It’s stupidly funny, actually, the whole contrast of him that kinda looks like you.

You laugh before you can stop yourself. “That’s different.”

“How?” he snickers.

You open your mouth, then close it again because you don’t actually have a good answer. “I don’t know,” you admit, laughing a little. “It just is.”

He hums like he expected that. Then he glances at you before back through the windshield. “I don’t think you’re weird,” His eyes flick over your face. “I think you’re bored.”

Obviously, that makes you furrow your brows. Obviously, you let him continue speaking.

“Of your boyfriend. Your friends. Your parents already knowing what you’re going to do.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Probably bored at being good at the same shit every day.”

You should probably deny it. It surprises you that you don’t, even though you’ve sworn hatred towards men that think they can assume your personality because of one little circumstance.

“That’s why you’re here, right?” Riki’s eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face. 

Your throat tightens.

“With me,” he adds.

He doesn’t smile like he won, he just sits there with one hand loose on the wheel, like he already knows the answer and is kind enough not to make you say it.

The air between you feels worse, like the moment before a storm cracks open into his car, and electrocutes you with a spark you’ve never experienced in your life. Which is eccentric considering you’re not the type of girl who’d be in Riki’s car instead of a party dominated by your friends, getting high off shit that would make your parents pass out. 

You scoff and look away, shaking your head like the whole thing is ridiculous. “You talk like you know everything.”

“I just guessed one fucking thing.”

You roll the joint between your fingers again, slower now. “Maybe I just wanted to try something.”

“With me?”

Your eyes cut to him, and you see there’s a slight curve to his mouth, like he heard the shape of your answer before you even made it. 

You huff. “You’re so annoying.”

Neither of you moves. Just suspended there, breathing the same warm air, the song on the radio dissolving into background noise, the world narrowed down to inches and intent and maybe weak will and strong urges. The tension’s palpable, solid enough that you could feel it grow between your thighs.

You’re probably one more joint away from being zooted, and Riki knows this of course, which is why he keeps his eyes narrowed across him and not the woman who’s audibly shifting in her seat. 

He’s high too — faster than usual — and it makes the moment stretch in this you know kind because he’s thinking bad. He keeps his gaze trained somewhere between the fogged windshield and the blur of your reflection in it, like it’s the only thing keeping him at bay.

For the record — you’re both twenty, obviously adults, even if the world still insists on calling you kids. Which is also the very age people let you experience the paradox of being too grown and too immature for anything consistent, so the underestimation you endure as an adult, smart woman, cheerleader, and a kinda-child — wow you’re in deep detestation for that system.

So you take control of things you can handle.

You’re a conformist, no doubt. Except in areas you loathe men’s freedom in yet expect restraint for women. So… in diminutive ways, you indulge. Like weed. Like running council. Like wearing short skirts. Like Riki Nishimura.

You glance at him sideways, voice light, almost bored. Almost. “So,” you say, like you’re asking about his major or what song’s playing on the radio. “I will ask you something kind of personal.”

Riki exhales a quiet laugh. “You’re already in my car smoking my weed. I think the line’s gone.”

You smile, satisfied, then tilt your head back against the seat. 

“Are you a virgin?”

The question hangs there. Unembellished and very dangerous in its simplicity. Also, of course, bold, which makes Riki actually freeze — a half-second pause where even his breathing stutters. Then he scoffs, shaking his head like he can’t believe you just dropped that between the heater hum and the low bass leaking from the house.

He blames the weed, though part of him wishes it isn’t from that.

“You always ask things like that?”

“I’m curious,” you say easily. “And a little high.” you gesture with your thumb and forefinger.

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking to you now despite himself. “Why?” he asks. “Does it change your opinion of me?”

You meet his gaze, unblinking. “I don’t know yet. That’s why I asked.”

He huffs a soft laugh. He admits to embarrassment, even if it doesn’t cover his entire skin with flush and heat, he’s never found himself in this position. But honestly, nothing from the past few weeks has ever been something he prepared for — which he has you to blame, of course.

“Yeah.” he licks the corner of his lips, refusing to meet your eyes while he taps the steering wheel. “I am.”

Your eyebrows lift, impressed but not shocked. “Huh.”

Riki looks over. “Huh?” he mocks.

You bite back a smile and turn toward the window, but the reflection gives you away. “I just didn’t expect that.”

He scoffs, looking back at the windshield. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug, still smiling a little. “You sell weed. And you drive this car.”

“And?”

“And you look like that.”

For one second, Riki’s fingers still on the steering wheel, and he learns to shut up. He lets out a quiet laugh after, but it sounds different this time, lower and almost embarrassed. “You’re so fucking high,”

That makes him quiet, makes him adjust on his seat. He’s touched a woman before, but no one’s ever sat on his dick, nor has he ever been in anyone. So maybe he’s half a virgin, maybe he’s just a sore loser. He watches you as you move, as you turn in the seat, knees pressing into the leather, facing him fully now. The space changes instantly, the air recalibrating around your movement and maybe even pushing you further toward him.

Riki stiffens — just suddenly very aware, and perhaps a little scared. “Uh,” he says, brows knitting. “What are you doing?”

You tilt your head, resting your hands casually on the seat, perfectly balanced. “Bored, like you said,” you say. “And my boyfriend’s cheating on me. Again.”

He swallows. His gaze drops, then snaps back up to your face, like he’s trying very hard to stay respectful and failing in slow motion because you’re especially gorgeous tonight. “That’s… not a great combo,” he says.

“Not really,” you agree.

You lean in just enough for him to feel it — not touch, not yet. Just close enough that he can smell your gloss, the faint sweetness still clinging to you, and the cannabis that if he warrants himself the scary concept, is his mark on you.

“At least you don’t think I’m boring.”

Riki exhales, a real one this time, like he’s surrendering to the moment instead of fighting it because what can a simple guy like him do, right? His eyes flick to your mouth again — longer now — and when he looks back up, there’s a decision there, from someone who’s tired of conforming.

You close the distance then, slow enough that he could pull away if he wanted to. When he doesn’t, your lips meet in a kiss that’s brief and soft at first. Riki’s hand lifts instinctively, stopping just short of your waist, hovering there like he’s giving you the choice.

When you kiss again, you’re pressing harder, with the very intent to steal the air from his lungs. So that is what happens, you inhale and climb over the console and close your knees around his waist and he’s breathing shakily against your mouth, fighting for the oxygen he’s willingly giving away. 

Your cunt presses against the zipper of his jeans, and when you roll, he pulls away like he’s burnt. 

“W-wait — this isn’t — we can’t do this.” He shakes his head insistently, looking down your joined thighs while he regains composure.

You frown. “Why not?”

He looks back up at you, eyes wide and glossy from the taste of your cherry gloss and his greens in your mouth. He looks like he can’t handle this. You’re high, he’s high, this isn’t a good idea. You’re perfect, he’s not, this isn’t a good idea. You’re pretty and he sells weed, this isn’t a good idea.

“Because you have a boyfriend.” he says weakly.

You smile, fingers brushing into the hair at his nape. “Not really.”

He stares at you before he laughs, quiet and disbelieving, like the whole situation is so stupid he has no choice but to let it be funny for half a second. You’re in his lap, his car is fogged, your party is across the street, and apparently your boyfriend is more of a family arrangement than an actual person you care about. 

“This is so fucked,” he mutters.

Still, he kisses you anyway. His hand finally settles at your waist, firm enough to make your breath catch. His fingers press into your flesh just before he pulls you closer and his hips thrusts up underneath you.

His bulge presses hard against your clothed cunt, and a small whimper slips out his mouth. Your thighs practically clench around him, your core tightening as you rub yourself on him. Beneath the jeans secured around his hips, the start of his v-line peeks, in which you softly graze with your thumb.

“F-fuck,” he whispers, resigned while he lets his head fall back against the headrest.

When you kiss him again this time, it’s slow and languid and licking into his mouth, and your hips start rolling against his while he unconsciously bucks into you. You gasp at the feeling of his growing erection despite the jeans, and you can’t help but feel rushed because it’s been way too long. 

His body’s hot and he doesn’t understand why he can’t even talk properly. “Are you okay?” you ask, kissing his cheek. He just nods.

“This is so wrong,” Riki says softly and raspy.

You just smile and kiss him again, feeling how sloppy he’s starting to become when your tongues meet. You set the pace, careful with how you bite and suck, more of a learning curve with what you like best rather than devouring. Riki realizes this and slows down too, relaxing underneath your thighs while his cock remains bulging against you. Your soft fingers slither at the back of his hair, tugging and caressing, while he finds the courage to sneak his tongue into your mouth.

When you pull to breathe, he’s practically panting. “You can touch me.” you whisper.

His gaze practically flicks up to look up at you, silently asking for clarification. You don’t use words, you instead take his wrists and start dragging his hands from your waist to underneath your shirt. His breath hitches at the feeling of your soft skin against his, watching intently as you guide his hands further beneath your cotton top, until his fingers slightly grazes the soft swell of the underside of your breasts.

“Shit.” Riki mutters, his breath unstable when you let go. He looks for your eyes, asking for instructions, except you just smile and lean in to kiss him again with your hands on his jaw. 

So he takes it upon himself to move by his own. His fingers grazes the soft skin, careful and learning, testing the underside swell by gently squeezing. After that, he gains confidence, hands going further up until they touch your nipples. 

You gasp, pulling away to breathe when he starts gently pinching them, rolling them against the pads of his fingertips. He plays with them for a little while, watching your reactions when you sigh heavy, when your eyes close, when you lean further against his touch. It’s so good, he doesn’t even notice how painfully hard he is when he can feel just how sensitive your nipples are, when he can feel the weight of your breast as he cups them.

After a while, he finally stops, hands gliding down your ribs instead, thumbs still grazing slightly at the curve. Your kissing eases, reduced to pecks and softness. At rest and caress, you giggle and he chuckles, finally reeling in from the moment at how high he feels.

From your taste, your softness, your clothed pussy still pressing against his hard-on.

“You’re good for a virgin.” you say.

At that, Riki huffs and leans his head back against the rest, caressing your waist while he watches your face. You’re very pretty, even when your lipsticks smudged and you’re clearly teasing him, not touching him at all. 

He doesn’t mind. He doesn’t think he’ll mind for a long time. “I’m trying to make decent decisions.”

You tilt your head. “And kissing me is one?”

His jaw tightens a little, but he smiles. “It’s a very bad decision.”

“Mm.” You lean closer, but you don’t kiss him this time. “You stopped.”

“Because I don’t want to be your rebound,” 

The teasing fades just a little. Your fingers, which had been lazily tracing the back of his neck, slow, and now you look at him too, at the way he’s looking at you like something cliche is about to happen now that he’s tasted something better than marijuana.

“You think I’d use you?” you ask.

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

You study him for a moment. His nose and ears are still pink, which admittedly does something to you. It makes him look shyer somehow, less untouchable, like all that quiet control has slipped just enough for you to see he’s not as unaffected as he wants to seem.

He looks back at you, thumb moving once at your waist. “Let me take you out.”

You stare at him. “You’re asking me on a date right now? While I’m sitting on you?”

His mouth twitches despite himself. “Not my best timing.”

You laugh, soft and surprised, but he doesn’t laugh with you right away. You lean in again, slower and softer, just lips meeting and staying there, but his breath still hitches. You lets it last for a few seconds before you pull back, still close enough that your noses nearly brush.

“Ask me when we’re not high.”

Then he laughs once, quiet and disbelieving, his hand flexing at your waist. “Fine.”

Riki drives you home that night and you arrive at around 3 am, friends completely unaware of where you are or who you’re with — but you don’t care, even when your phone’s blown out of weird proportion. You laugh when he insists on walking you to your front porch, just to make sure you don’t slip and fall and he wouldn’t lose his favorite weed customer. 

“You’re ridiculous, Riki Nishimura.” you shove at his arm weakly.

“And you,” he leans down enough that his nose nudges yours. “are so pretty.”

You laugh harder, admittedly a little flustered the way you never have been before. He tells you to eat something real when you head in, and you mock him for it but he just smiles and nods,  agrees with the idea he is so, very stupid and funny for you.

Riki thinks the universe is testing him. Because ever since last night, every single thing reminds him of you. 

The cherry gloss taste still ghosting his mouth when he wakes up, the faint perfume lingering on his hoodie, even the stupid heater smell in the car feels different now, like the seats remember the way you climbed over the console and kissed him until his dick ached for you.

“Dude,” Jake says, throwing his duffel bag. “You look like shit.”

Riki drags a hand through his hair. “Thanks.”

Jake doesn’t push it, which Riki appreciates for about three seconds before he sees where the cheer team is practicing. On the other side of the gym court, you’re standing with your friends, ponytail tied high, hands on your hips while you go over counts as the captain. You’re not doing anything special, occasionally laughing at something one of the girls beside you says, but Riki still feels his attention pull toward you like it has no discipline left.

He looks away first.

PE is already starting by the time he reaches their side of the court. He pulls his sleeveless shirt down properly and rolls his shoulders once, mostly because he needs something to do with his body. His hair keeps falling near his eyes, and he can feel sweat gathering at the back of his neck before class has even properly started.

He tells himself not to look. But then he looks.

You’re already looking too.

It only lasts a second. Your eyes meet his, then drop briefly to his arms before you turn back to your friends like nothing happened. Riki presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek and looks at the ball in his hands, suddenly way too aware of himself.

Jake notices, but all he does is glance between the two of you. “Since when do you know her like that?”

Riki bounces the ball once. “I don’t.”

Jake gives him a look. Riki doesn’t look back. “Not like that.”

“Okay.”

The drill starts, and for a while, it’s just run, catch, dribble, pass, move. Riki focuses on the court, on the PE teacher’s whistle, on the ball against his palms. It works for half the time, until your voice cuts across the space, counting with the rest of the cheer team, and he misses a pass by half a second.

“Pay attention,” Jake says, not even laughing.

“I am.”

“You’re really not.”

Later, when the class breaks for water, Riki walks toward the drinking fountain and finds you there already, refilling your bottle. Your friends are a few steps away, talking among themselves, close enough to notice if either of you makes it obvious, far enough that neither of you has to pretend not to see each other.

He stands behind you to wait for his turn, and from afar, it doesn't look scandalous. You take your time refilling your bottle, eyes forward, one hand steadying the plastic under the stream. He keeps his gaze on the wall in front of you, jaw working once, because he knows exactly what you're doing when you lean a little farther than necessary and let the silence stretch.

Your skirt shifts when you bend, showing the backside of your thighs and the slight swell of your ass, and he sighs through his nose like he's deeply disappointed in both of you. Then he looks away completely.

You bite back a smile.

When the bottle finally fills, you straighten and cap it slowly, still not moving right away. He doesn't meet your eyes when you step aside, he just moves in, bends toward the fountain, and presses one hand against the edge for balance.

Then it's your turn to look away. But you don't, not even shamelessly. Because you’re the girl who got things her way and never got scared of the repercussions.

His sleeveless shirt pulls against his shoulders when he leans down, arm tense from holding himself there, the veins along his bicep showing under the gym lights. Water hits his mouth, and you watch the way his hair falls near his eyes, the way his throat moves when he swallows. It's stupid, actually, how normal he's being and how much worse that makes it.

Riki finishes drinking, straightens, and wipes the water from his chin with the back of his hand. Only then does he look at you.

You're still staring. And for a second, neither of you says anything.

His expression barely changes, but something in his eyes does, like he caught you and decided not to make it easy. "What?"

You blink, then lift your bottle a little. "You took forever."

He looks at you, calm, unreadable, except for the faint color rising at the tips of his ears and the slight lift on the corner of his mouth. "You're one to talk."

Your friends laugh at something behind you, and the sound snaps the moment thinner, not enough to break it, but enough to remind you both where you are. You glance over your shoulder, then back at him, only to find he's still watching you. Not obviously, just enough to show that he knows exactly what that night did to you, and worse, exactly what this day is doing too.

And that he’s enjoying the view.

You tuck your bottle against your chest and step back. "Try not to miss another pass."

His mouth curves. "Then don't distract me."

The second he says it, your smile gets bigger, like a shared inside joke between you two now. Then you turn back to your team, and he stays by the fountain for one extra second, pretending the afternoon heat is the reason he can't stop feeling warm. In the locker room, he pretends it’s celibacy that’s making his cock hard again, and not the picture of you bending in front of him, the fat of your ass presenting itself to him so adorably.

In the cafeteria, while pages turn and keyboards clack for an upcoming test for biology, you try your best to stay focused the way you can on the usual. Riki was right about you — you were smarter than what people thought, and the merit beside your name is shocking to a whole lot when it’s pasted on the board. 

You think you’re no longer smart. Not when you’re staring at the open reviewer in front of you, color coded with little sticky tabs but you’re still distracted.

You grab your coffee and drink, just to try if that could help with your lost concentration. Something about protein synthesis and cell division. Something about how Riki’s hands looked wrapped around the steering wheel that one night while he called you weird and interesting in the same breath.

This is so inconvenient.

“Babe.”

Your boyfriend slides into the empty chair beside you like he owns the furniture, sunglasses pushed up on his head even though the cafeteria lighting could barely offend a bitch. His hand settles automatically on your thigh beneath the table, casual and familiar, and you almost flinch.

“You disappeared last night,” he says casually.

You lean back in your chair. “I told you I left.”

“Yeah, but where?”

You think briefly about Riki’s car parked under the streetlamp — fogged windows, heated air, cherry gloss smeared on his mouth, plump lips smirking in restraint, hands squeezing you in the right place, keeping you in place.

“I just went home,” you reply smoothly.

Your boyfriend hums, clearly unconvinced, but also has about three seconds of emotional stamina left for the topic, so he lets it go and steals one of your fries instead. “My parents want dinner with you this weekend.” he says instead.

He continues talking about it but you’re staring at the flashcards and reviewers in front of you, imagining what your parents would say if Riki would’ve showed up to a family dinner instead. Maybe he’d appear in different clothes, a white button-up just to sit there and attempt to look polite in ways he isn’t with you — which makes your heart jump a little. 

Dinner drags on for three excruciating hours.

Three whole hours of crystal glasses and polished silverware and your boyfriend’s parents discussing investment portfolios. The restaurant is one of those stupidly expensive places where portions are microscopic and every waiter looks vaguely judgmental — you don’t complain, you’re rather very grateful for his parents (sometimes).

You sat there in a pretty dress your mother picked out. Your boyfriend talks over you twice when you try contributing to the conversation, his mother asks about your grades before asking how cheerleading is going, like academics and aesthetics are the only two things remotely interesting about you. At some point, your boyfriend likes another girl’s Instagram story right beside you at the table and everything about the night is just bad.

You just feel tired, especially on the way home. 

Tired in the way performances always leave you feeling like you’ve spent hours acting inside a role you got stuck with years ago — because it mostly worked in your favor, until that one time you decided to jump out of your comfort zone and try weed. It’s the worst thing you have done, but it’s the only thing that made you feel good.

Your heels click quietly against the marble floors when you enter your house and you make it halfway upstairs before the pressure behind your eyes finally cracks. Obviously, you don’t sob out of sadness, just frustrated tears slipping down your cheeks while you struggle with the zipper of your dress. “Fuck,” you mutter.

Your makeup’s ruined now; mascara faintly smudged beneath your eyes, lipstick mostly gone except for traces still staining your mouth. 

Before you can think too hard about it — which is kind of bad — you open Riki’s contact, and your fingers move faster than your dignity can intervene.

you: he actually sucks so bad like genuinely i think talking to drywall has more nuance

You exhale through your nose and laugh weakly at yourself because obviously Riki probably has better things to do than babysit you after 9PM, not when you’re just another weed customer and smoking buddy he had. You toss your phone onto the bed and sit in silence for a second, still in your dress, earrings discarded somewhere.

You try not to think about anything for the minutes you’ve spent staring at the ceiling: not about Riki, or your dumb boyfriend, or your (im)perfect life, or the way Riki kissed you, or the way he looked at you, or the way he thought about you. 

Because that's the part that bothers you most. Not the kiss itself, not even the fact that you wanted it, but the way he seemed to actually think about you before touching you. Like you weren't just pretty or convenient or someone people liked because you made sense beside them. Riki looked at you like he was trying to understand you, and somehow that felt more intimate than anything you've ever had.

And maybe that makes you painfully average.

Maybe you’re not special at all, maybe you’re just another girl in the long, embarrassing history of girls who developed feelings for the first boy who looked at them like they were a person. Congratulations, really. Very original and groundbreaking, for being part of the emotionally confused teenage girls.

You turn onto your side and press your face into your pillow, immediately hating yourself for how dramatic that feels.

Until something taps three times against your window.

Your brows furrow immediately because your bedroom is on the second floor and nobody normally knocks on windows like some suburban horror movie, you don’t even try to look because of what could be there. For a second, you genuinely think you’re hallucinating from emotional exhaustion and expensive restaurant food and maybe (you did not do prior research) the possibility of the long term hallucinations of marijuana.

Then it happens again. Three deliberate taps.

You sit up slowly from the edge of your bed, the strap of your dress slipping off one shoulder while your heels remain abandoned somewhere near the door. When you turn to the window, your heart practically falls from your chest when you see Riki standing outside like a fucking delinquent moron. He’s standing on the roof of the first floor near your window, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, while one hand steadies himself against the frame. 

You burst out laughing while fumbling with the lock of your window. Riki’s entire expression softens the second he hears you laugh and that does something unhealthy to him.

Because he drove for twenty minutes thinking about you crying over some guy who doesn’t even look at you properly, wondering if climbing a house at this hour officially qualifies as insanity (he’s never done that before, and it doesn’t sound so conformist right now either). Riki’s usually good at self-restraint, at risk assessment, at understanding what makes sense and what doesn’t.

For the record, this doesn’t make sense. Yet here he is anyway.

 “Hi.”

You stare at him in disbelief once you finally open your window. “What the fuck are you doing?” you whisper-yell.

“You sounded sad.”

“Is that supposed to be an answer?”

“What?” he says defensively while climbing inside carefully. “You said your boyfriend sucks. That sounded shitty.”

The second he lands properly inside your room, he looks at you before anything else. He’s used to seeing you fixed with perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect posture, like you just stepped out of a university brochure about good conduct and that the school cheer spirit is something one definitely needs for personal development.

This version of you feels familiar, and traitorously and selfishly, he thinks it’s for him.

Your dress is wrinkled now, your jewelry sits slightly crooked against your skin, your makeup’s smudged enough to expose the eyebags underneath, and your hair’s started falling from whatever expensive style you wore to dinner.

Riki swallows once before he can stop himself. “You were crying?”

Immediately, you look away, a bit embarrassed when you realize what you look like. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird,” he says quickly, hands lifting instinctively. “I just.”

He cuts himself off because he suddenly realizes he has no idea how to navigate this. Girls usually don’t text him while being miserable and summon him to their bedroom windows like some modern romance movie directed by a bad romcom enthusiast. Nothing is romcom-y about this.

So instead, awkwardly, he holds the backyard vegetation toward you.

“I got you these.”

Flowers. They aren’t roses and lilies, especially not the peonies your boyfriend orders because it looks better in pictures. They’re not anything arranged like the bouquets your boyfriend’s family sends during competitions and birthdays and events where impression matters. They usually screamed ‘I have money’ so I had my manager fix these for you.

Riki brought you wildflowers, which are tiny white, yellow, and purple ones bundled unevenly together like he picked them himself on the side of the road and decided, yeah, these ones are perfect. They’re crooked and asymmetrical and a little pathetic, and it weirdly looks a lot like you.

You take them carefully, looking down at the tiny flowers bundled together with what suspiciously resembles a broccoli rubber band.

“Oh my God,” you laugh quietly. “These are so ugly.”

He looks offended immediately. “Okay, first of all, fuck you.”

You laugh, open and loud. “They’re literally weeds.”

“I mean. Matches us, no?” he argues.

You’re still smiling when you bring them closer to inspect, and he notices your eyes when you admire them because he notices everything when it comes to you now, apparently.

“He made you cry?” he asks quieter this time.

You look up at him, flowers resting against your chest while you slump a little. “Not exactly.”

He raises his brows. “That means yes.”

You sigh, gaze dropping to the petals between your fingers. “He’s just…” You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know. I guess I’m really sick of it.”

Riki stays quiet — not because he doesn’t have thoughts, but because he has too many.

The thing is, he understands that social hierarchy is basically one giant theater production and he’s spent his entire life studying how to survive inside it correctly — he’s admitted to live in it quite comfortably. Which people to talk to, which ones to avoid, what behavior keeps life stable and uncomplicated, who not to sell weed to.

You were supposed to be part of that stable world, the part that he shouldn’t have had any associations with. Instead, you’re now standing barefoot in front of him holding ugly flowers with watery eyes while confiding in him like he’s become something safe. Now he’s giving a girl weeds for flowers, while his own cannabis has become untouched for quite a while now.

You narrow your eyes up at him suddenly, a teasing smile on your lips. “You could’ve used the front door.”

“And say what?” he snorts. “‘Good evening, your daughter texted me so I’m here to comfort her?”

You laugh again and Jesus Christ, he thinks he’d probably climb ten more roofs if it meant hearing that sound a second time.

Which is not good at all.

He looks around your room now, and he finds that is not in the dramatic movie sense where he’s overwhelmed by femininity and candles or whatever bullshit directors think teenage girls do in bedrooms. It’s just your space and that feels undeniably you in a way he’s never gotten access to before — never thought he would, actually. There’s a stack of annotated reviewers on your desk beside skincare products, then a half-folded cheer uniform hangs over your chair. Your bookshelf is organized by color at first glance, but he notices that some books are stuffed sideways and doubled-up like gave up halfway through organizing.

You’re contradiction after contradiction. Which feels fitting considering Riki’s currently inside the bedroom of a girl he once categorized under absolutely not my problem.

This is exactly why social structures exist. To prevent situations like this where a guy who sells weed ends up standing in the bedroom of a girl who looks expensive enough to kill him.

You set the flowers carefully on your vanity like they’re not random plants held together by produce rubber. Riki watches how gentle your hands are, watches the way your dress slips slightly higher on your thigh when you move.

You step closer to him after, eyes peeking through your lashes, and he starts to feel drunk from your perfume.  “You really came all the way here because I was sad?” you ask softly.

Riki opens his mouth automatically with something sarcastic prepared because that’s safer, because joking is easier than admitting the truth. But then he looks at you looking at him like he’s become something important frighteningly fast.

Honesty slips out before he can stop it. “Yeah.”

Your eyes soften in a way that completely wrecks him, because nobody’s ever looked at him like this before — like he did something meaningful instead of useful.

You step even closer now until there’s barely space between you. “You’re really bad at being casual,” you murmur.

He huffs a laugh. “You climbed into my lap the first time we kissed.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I was high.”

“And what’s your excuse now?”

Your lips twitch and his gaze drops there instinctively.

Big mistake, because now he’s thinking about kissing you again and suddenly being in your bedroom at midnight feels significantly more dangerous than it did when he drove here. Riki clears his throat and looks away first. Usually he’s good at eye contact, good at keeping composure, good at staying levelheaded even when situations become complicated, because he knows emotional regulation keeps things orderly, predictable, and safe.

You are none of those things anymore.

Standing this close to you feels like someone slowly dismantling every sensible thought process he’s ever had and replacing it with bad decisions and pretty girls in wrinkled dresses. 

Riki swallows, eyes still not fully on yours. “Do you know what you’re gonna do?”

You sigh, shoulders dropping a little as you look away. “I don’t know.”

Riki nods, though he doesn’t look surprised. “Well,” he says quietly, “you aren’t happy.”

The honesty in his voice catches you off guard, because it isn’t dramatic or possessive or demanding — it’s actually the complete opposite. He says things carefully. Your boyfriend never talks to you carefully. 

You study Riki for a second — the slight flush across his cheeks, the hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, the fact he literally climbed your house because you sounded sad over text. 

Clearly, he’s lost the plot somewhere. He might find it in your room, but why would it be there?

You look at the boy who notices everything about you, who reads you better than anyone ever did. And maybe that’s pathetic, but after a long time of performance and image, you can’t quite find irrationality when something finally sees you so clearly. 

You don’t even realize you’re crying again until his expression changes. The tears just spill over quietly, slipping down your cheeks before you can catch them, and for a second, you don’t understand why his eyes drop there with so much concern because you aren’t sad, nor overwhelmingly happy.

His hand lifts and his fingers touch your cheek lightly and carefully. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the tear before it reaches your jaw. Then the other hand comes up too, steadying your face with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten worse than the crying did. You stare up at him while he wipes your face like it’s something important, his hands warm, his touch steady even though his breathing isn’t. He just keeps his palms against your cheeks, thumbs soft under your eyes, focused on you.

Riki’s thumb slows beneath your eye, his gaze moving over your face with something almost pained. “You’re too pretty to cry over him,” he says quietly.

Your hand lifts before you can think better of it, fingers wrapping gently around his wrist to keep him there. His skin is warm beneath your palm, and for a second, his whole body seems to still when you touch him. You look up at him because he’s so tall this close, broad enough to block out half your room, and he’s holding your face like you might bruise if he moves wrong.

“I’m not crying over him,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter, “I think I’m crying because I want someone else.”

His hand stays against your cheek, but his thumb stops moving entirely. He has no immediate answer right now, no dry comment waiting in the back of his throat, no clever way to make the moment smaller than it feels. He just looks at you, like he heard you perfectly and still needs another second for it to reach the rest of him.

He shifts closer, but only slightly, careful enough that you notice the restraint. “Are you sure?”

You let out a tiny, breathless laugh. “Yes.” 

Then your gaze drops from his eyes, not because you’re embarrassed exactly, but because looking at him straight on feels like standing too close to something bright. Your eyes settle on his chest instead, on the front of his hoodie rising and falling with a breath he’s clearly trying to control. His hands move from your cheeks, careful and slow, until his palms settle just beneath your jaw while his fingers slip behind your ears, curling gently at the back of your neck. 

For a second, you think he’s going to kiss you.

Actually, you know he is. You can feel it in the way his breathing changes, in the way his eyes drop to your mouth and stay there this time, no pretending it was an accident. He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne and whatever terrible decision-making brought him to your window.

Then something in you panics — not because you don’t want him to.

That’s the problem. You want him so much it feels insulting to every sensible part of your life (even though you’ve made many irrational choices that have shamed them anyway). You want him in your room, in your space, in the middle of all the pretty, curated pieces of yourself nobody else gets to see messy. You want him, and it would be so easy to lean up and let that be the answer. But there is still one stupid, technical, irritating thing standing between you and that, so you pull back a little.

He freezes immediately, hands dropping like he thinks he did something wrong. “What?”

“I need to do something.”

His brows pull together. “Right now?”

You turn away before you can lose your nerve, moving toward your bed where your phone is half-buried in the sheets. Your hands are unsteady when you pick it up, which is annoying because you are not the kind of girl who fumbles — you are the kind of girl who answers essay questions with proper structure, corrects formations instinctively, and pretends she’s fine so convincingly that people believe it until it becomes inconvenient not to.

Calling your boyfriend while Riki Nishimura stands in your bedroom after midnight is, admittedly, not your most elegant moment, but there’s a kind of clarity to it too.

He stays behind you, quiet, watching as you scroll to the contact you have ignored for most of the night. His name on your screen looks strange now.

The call rings twice.

Riki moves closer, though not touching you yet, just behind your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the heat of him. It makes focusing much harder, which is extremely inconsiderate for someone who climbed into your room to be supportive.

Your boyfriend answers with your name, voice already irritated. “It’s late. I’m busy.”

You close your eyes for half a second. “I’m just letting you know. We’re done.”

There is a pause. “What?”

You swallow, your grip tightening around the phone. “I’m breaking up with you.”

Behind you, Riki goes very still. Your boyfriend lets out a humorless laugh. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yes.”

“After everything? After tonight, you’re just gonna call me and say that?”

You stare at the wall in front of you. It’s absurd, actually, how little the anger reaches you. Maybe you should be shaking or crying harder or preparing a speech that starts with all the ways he hurt you — instead, you feel strangely calm.

He starts talking again, louder this time, something about your parents, his parents, how you’re overreacting, how you both agreed, how you don’t get to act innocent either. Until Riki’s hand appears beside you, and he takes the phone from your hand.

Your eyes widen. “Riki.”

He looks at the screen, hears your boyfriend still talking, then tosses the phone onto the bed, where it lands face-up against the sheets, the call still running, your boyfriend’s voice now small and furious through the speaker.

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

His eyes stay on yours. “You already broke up with him.”

On the bed, your ex says your name again, sharp and confused, but neither of you are looking at the phone. 

Riki lifts one hand, not touching your face yet, just brushing his knuckles lightly near your jaw like he’s giving you one last chance to move away.

That is all he needs before he kisses you. It is not rushed, not messy from panic, just a little harsh from jealousy. But it’s slow enough to make your knees feel unreliable, steady enough that your whole body seems to understand before your brain does. You grab the front of his hoodie and he exhales against your mouth, the sound going straight through you. His hand settles at the side of your neck, thumb brushing under your jaw while his other hand finds your waist, careful but sure. 

The phone is still there, your boyfriend is still talking. It should ruin the moment, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes the whole thing feel worse in the way your heart is pounding too hard, in the way Riki keeps kissing you like he’s trying not to prove a point and failing anyway, in the way you know this is a terrible way to end a relationship and still cannot bring yourself to care.

Riki pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead almost touching yours. “He talks a lot,” he says quietly.

You laugh before you can stop yourself, and he kisses you before you can even finish a thought he physically cannot hear another word about your boyfriend tonight, earning a gasp from your mouth. It’s soft at first, his mouth catching yours that makes you go still for half a second, surprised, and then your hand tightens around his wrist as you kiss him back. He exhales through his nose, quiet and shaky, and his fingers press a little more firmly into your nape, not pulling you in too hard, just holding you.

You make this soft startled sound against his lips and he swears it nearly kills him on impact. When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead bumps lightly against yours. 

“I don’t wanna talk about him anymore,” he says quietly.

His voice comes out rougher than before. You stare at him for a second, and your lips twitch.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He kisses you again almost immediately, and this time you kiss him back just as fast, your chests pressing against one another until you can feel the rapid beat of his heart through his hoodie. His hands find your waist, the weight of them warm and steady through the thin fabric of your dress, like he’s grounding you and keeping himself grounded too.

You tilt your head up to meet him properly, rising slightly onto your toes without meaning to, and he bends down into you like the movement pulls something out of him. His fingers press carefully at your sides, thumbs shifting once against your waist. The kiss deepens then, your hand sliding up the front of his hoodie until you’re holding onto him too.

Riki exhales against your mouth, almost shaky, and his grip tightens for one second before he loosens it again, like he’s reminding himself to be careful.

Without so much as a few words, your gaze meets his. But that’s not enough for him, not when he needs to hear that you want this too. The zipper you struggled with earlier starts undoing when his hand finds the back, before he leans in just enough for his voice to drop between you. 

"Words, baby," he whispers.

He isn't teasing now. His voice is low, but careful, like he needs to hear you say it before he lets himself want anything more.

You swallow, fingers tightening lightly in his hoodie. "I want you."

Riki watches your face for a second, and when he sees the true genuineness and want in your eyes, he lets himself have it. He dips down to your height, capturing your lips in a kiss again, before fully pulling the zipper down to the small of your back. With barely any effort, the dress slides off your body and pools around your feet on the floor. 

Too busy getting drunk on his plump lips, you don’t even notice his hands roaming over your skin, his fingertips memorizing the arch of your spine, before gliding up to the curve of your ribcage. You don’t notice how close he really is until his fingers find the underside part of your breasts. You pull away with a gasp, seeing him smile coyly when you finally realize you’re naked in front of him, and how he’s massaging your mounds in his hands.

He lets his thumbs brush your hardened nipples, watching your face scrunch and melt with fluster. He holds you so well, heat rushing all over your skin with the way he studies your body, eyes carefully taking in every detail about you. He continues stroking your nipples and massaging your breasts when he bends down again, kissing the corner of your lips before trailing over to your jaw. He presses open mouthed kisses on your pulse next, sucking and biting to leave love bites there.

You moan, all breathy and heavy, and his cock twitches in his sweats. For a man that’s been so cautious with you, he can’t help but fight the urge to pound into you recklessly right now.

“On the bed,” he prompts softly, taking a step forward. 

You obey with no fight, pathetically stepping backward until you sit back on the soft mattress. You adjust a little to get on your knees, eyes finding his through your lashes again. He’s looking at you with half-open lids, hand already reaching up to the back of your head, fingers tangling with your hair. He likes you like this, on your knees and your face so fucking close to his bulge, he can practically see it.

And because he has been so kind to you, you want to recompense for all of it. Your fingers hook at the hem of his sweatpants, keeping your gaze steady on his face to watch the way he reacts when he realizes what you’re about to do. You drag his pants down, enough for it to slip down his legs. 

His cock bulges in his briefs, begging to be set free. You cup it gently and he lets out a low moan, deeper than his usual, and when you look up, he’s just watching you. You lean in, only to lick a stripe from the bottom to top — his grip on your hair tightens, and you feel him pull you closer. Since you both don’t hold any godly kind of willpower, you waste no time lowering the fabric.

Riki’s stupidly long cock springs forward once you remove his briefs, and everything about it just makes sense. It isn’t excessively thick in girth, but it’s length makes you wonder if it can even fit at all. It’s pale at the base and turns pink towards the tip, the slit lathered with pre all over the head, all for you.

You bite your lip, not being able to help the thrilled grin on your face, eyes bright at the sight of it. He clears his throat, caressing the back of your head gently. “You good?”

You snicker, reaching up to wrap your hand around the base. He chokes out a gasp, stilling completely yet his hips buck forward. He watches you handle him so delicately, even the way you start pumping his dick, watching the way pre-cum leaks out the tip. You lean forward, tongue flat against the head, tasting him. 

“O-oh, s-shit —” his breathing becomes heavy, arm flexing involuntarily as he keeps rubbing the back of your head.

You giggle, tilting your head a little to press soft pecks all over his length. “Watch me, sweet boy. Okay?” 

You’re a fucking tease. That’s all he manages to come up with before his brain completely blanks out when you tilt forward and let your mouth close around the head of his dick. You start to suckle on it, tongue playing with the slit a little. Then you push forward, enough the tip touches the back of your throat and your cheeks hollow around his length.

And he’s still too fucking long. 

You start choking a little, tears touching your waterline. You stroke the part you can’t reach, and he can’t help but smirk arrogantly.

Heavy breaths turns into deep groans, trying to keep his sounds to himself but the way you look as your head bobs on his dick, practically choking as you suck on it, and his hand flexing a tight grip on your hair — this has got to be better than any fucking narcotic ever. He bets morphine won’t ever feel this good. “Y-you’re fucking sublime, baby,”

You retract your mouth, going back to suckle on the tip, before taking him all back down your throat. His hips jerk forward, you can tell just how gentle he’s trying to be even when he’s losing all control. 

And it’s too good, because twenty years of chastity has started to reach him faster than the way you rub him. He feels his abdomen tighten, and fuck does his balls feel tense. So as any illogical, preposterous, unsound idiot ever, he pulls you away from his cock. He holds you by your hair, slowing you down as you stare up at him, eyes wide and confused, lips wet from your saliva and his fluids.

“What the fuck?” you mutter, catching your breaths. 

Riki licks his bottom lip, and you can see every restraint holding him back from breaking you. The tips of his ears are red, and his eyes, once so tender and meticulous, looks down at you like he just can’t wait to fuck you senseless. They’re sharper than they ever have been, and once since this night began, you’re scared.

“Easy,” he drawls, hand withdrawing from you completely. He takes a step back, just enough to admire the way you look, panting and on your knees, breasts exposed and perky. Then with a small smirk, he pinches the edge of his hoodie. “You always this impatient?”

He slides the hoodie over his arms, the cloth revealing flesh that practically glow from your vanity lights. His chest and shoulder width is broad and wide, flat in that boyish way you love, expanding to the chiseled arms. You can feel yourself salivating at the muscles, at his taut abs, delicate grooves that trace down to a sharp v-line. Even his obliques and traps are so defined.

“Get on your back.” he rasps, and you don’t let yourself react before lying down, head against your soft pillows. He kneels in between your legs, eyes trailing over your body. He hooks his fingers over the elastic of your panties, just before he slowly pulls them off you, slow enough to make you embarrassed.

“Riki,” you murmur sheepishly, but he ignores you, keeping his eyes narrowed to the way your cunt glistens, your own fluids leaking out of you. She’s perfect, and his already frustrated cock twitches. 

Blonde hair sticks to his forehead, and his eyes are dark when your gaze meets again. He hovers over you, caging you against the bed before he leans in, kissing you again. Your lips part for him, breaths mingling, getting hot and heavy as his hand finds your ass. He squeezes the fat there, fingers digging into your skin. “You’re making it hard to think, pretty girl.”

You manage a giggle, though it quickly turns to soft moans when he kisses your jaw and presses his cock against your cunt. 

“Riki, please,” you can see how swollen his cock has gotten.

“I don’t know if I can be gentle,” he breathes, his arms tensing as he keeps himself up. He strokes himself a bit, just before he aligns the tip with your aching hole.

Your brain has gone hazy, not being able to process anything other than the way he kisses your neck when the head of his cock pushes through your folds, and immediately your arms come to his back, nails digging into his muscles. He tenses too, giving a sharp exhale when his length slides past the tight muscle and rubs against your gummy walls.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face against your neck while your teeth bite down your bottom lip. “G-god, that’s so good,” 

His hips closes against your pelvis, while his tip brushes against your cervix so good he’s pretty sure you’re sucking him in. And you feel stuffed, more than you ever have been, by Riki’s long cock. “Good fucking pussy, shit —”

Your legs are open wide for him, pressing flat against the mattress. And that’s enough for him, just to see you so spread beneath him, cunt squeezing him so tight; enough for him to pull back and watch the way your fluids wrap slick around his cock. Your hips wiggle for him, and that’s all he takes before slamming his hips back into you.

Riki’s jaw hangs open, a low moan gushing out him, strained and heavy into your ears. 

“R-Riki — f-f-fuck —”

The sounds of squelching pussy and skin slapping echoes throughout your entire room, walls so tight around his cock as you gasp. The pace is set already, quick and fucking drilling into you even though you’ve known him for his care and caution — yet he pounds into you like he doesn’t give a fuck about anything but his pleasure.

“S-s-so good — ugh, Riki — fuck,” you scratch his back muscles, tensing underneath your nails. His pelvis and abs are tight, slamming himself so hard against your cunt like he can’t keep himself apart from you.

He continues groaning, his eyebrows furrowed, eyes half-lidded watching you, completely fucked out while he admires the way your tits bounce every time he rocks his dick deep into your cunt. His lips part to moan your name, and you love how he almost whimpers when you squeeze around him. 

Then he stills, though only fast enough before he slides an arm beneath your waist and gathers you closer, like he’s scooping you into him without fully lifting you. 

“W-what are you —” 

“On your stomach.” 

You can only blink and nod, before turning around, suddenly feeling empty when his dick slips from inside you. You settle on your hands and knees, then lie on your chest, face pressed to the soft pillow. “Fuck, my good girl.”

You can’t see him anymore, and you’re not sure with how you feel about it — not until you feel his warm body press against your back, his chest hovering slightly over you. He presses a hand on the back of your thigh, gently adjusting your knee higher, the position immediately spreading your folds more than you would have thought. 

“Lift your hips for me, baby,” he breathes, voice low and strained.

You obey, pussy clenching around nothing when he whispers quiet praises as your ass perks up and your folds glisten for him again, slick oozing out from you. You get on your hands a little, just enough to lift yourself and look over your shoulder. Without much of a warning, he pushes his cock back deep inside you again, walls welcoming him with a dirty squelch, your breath catches, then escapes in a quiet gasp.

“There, just like that —” Riki moans, his v-line pressed tight against your ass.

Then he continues, retracting his hips only to slap back inside you. The new positions doing fucking wonders to you, stretching you a whole lot more, his dick fucking you so raw that you can’t help the screams you let out. He presses his hands against your waist, fingers ingrained to lift your ass up and pound into you right after, grip so tight it’s already bruising.

You fuck yourself against him too, slapping back against his hips, cock choking in your tight walls. His eyes are almost rolling back, if not for how obsessed he is watching your ass shake and tits bounce every sloppy stroke, his hand sliding under you to grope your mound. He fondles with it, pinching your nipple and loving the weight of it against his palm. 

Sweat’s getting hot and the air’s smells too much of sex, he can feel it when his balls clench and how desperate he’s starting to get.

You look over your shoulder and he meets you halfway, leaning over to capture your lips in a passionate kiss. It’s full of saliva and it’s warm, messy in a way that tells how close you both are.

Then with so little strength (can’t compare to Riki Nishimura, really), your weight falls back to the pillow, face and chest pressed against the softness while your ass stays up. If not for his large hands keeping you up and still, you would’ve fallen over completely. 

Your abdomen clenches and pressure builds in there, and he continues rutting into you while you become a puddle of sweat and moans. “R-right there — fuck, Riki — !”

“I-I’m gonna fucking cum, s-shit – I’ll blow a fucking load in you —” his hips drive into your pussy with a new kind of intensity, faster and deeper somehow, his tip hitting your cervix that has you throbbing around him.

“Cum all over me, baby, please —” he whines, face pressed against your shoulder. 

You feel hot spurts of him fill you the same time your cunt clenches around him one final time, legs twitching while his hips come to a stutter. Cum settles in your hole, warm and full and sticky and practically seeping out of you. He collapses on top of you, unconsciously maybe, his heavier weight pressing over your body.

Your vision goes white for a bit, then it comes back, only for you to see hair all over your face, stuck with sweat and saliva. He’s still on top of you, but you can feel him carry himself a little, making sure not to crush you right after cumming in you.

Quiet beats stretch out the moment, and you don’t even notice his arm tucking underneath you to massage your tit, a tired laugh leaving your mouth when you do. When you both muster enough strength, he straightens just enough to lift himself off of you, while you manage to get on your hands. By the time you look over your shoulder, he’s already leaning in, his mouth finding yours again, a hand still fondling with your breast.

“Riki,” a small sheepish smile curves on your lips, all while he presses soft pecks against your mouth and jaw. 

“Hm?” he hums, tired and spent, clearly having nothing else to do but to kiss you. His breaths are still shallow, eyelids heavy before shutting completely.

You giggle, putting your hand over his on your breast. “Get off me,” you say with a playful grin. “You’re so heavy!”

WIth a quiet groan, he listens. He slides out of you, unplugging you to let your fluids out. Then he lies down, and he hasn’t realized how strained his muscles are until he sinks into the softness of your bed. He relaxes inevitably, while you stay up just to admire him for a bit.

Riki Nishimura is never going to be insecure about his looks, but the way you stare at him with dilated pupils that match his, especially post-sex, he can’t help but grow a bit bashful. 

He huffs out a laugh, one hand reaching out to squeeze your waist because you feel so far. "So do you have a no-cuddle policy, or," he murmurs.

You laugh before you can stop yourself because he's so stupidly funny for someone trying to sound serious. Instead of answering, you shake your head and lean more of your weight against one hand, the other resting against his chest as your fingers trace lazy, thoughtless shapes.

He watches you do it for a second, his expression going quiet in that way that makes your stomach turn. Then you glance up at him. "Can you roll one for me?"

He sighs so heavily it almost sounds personal. Before you can even react, his arm hooks around your waist and pulls you down against his chest, firm and immediate, like the idea alone offended him. Your hand lands against his abs to catch yourself, your cheek nearly brushing his shoulder as he keeps you there.

“Throw that shit away,” he says, voice low near your ear. “I swear to God.”

You blink, caught against him. “What?” His arm stays around you, warm and unmoving. “Why?”

Riki looks at you with half-lidded eyes, sleepy and a little strained, like even answering takes effort. “Because,” he murmurs, his grip softening at your waist, “after tonight, I think I found something better.”

Your jaw actually falls open. For one second, all you can do is stare at him, because there’s no way Riki Nishimura just said that to you while looking half-asleep and impossibly calm, like he didn’t just say something that made your entire stomach turn over and tighten all over again.

Then you smack his chest lightly. “Riki.”

He chuckles, low and tired, the sound vibrating against your palm. His arm stays around your waist, keeping you close even when you try to lean back enough to glare at him properly.

“What?” he murmurs, eyes barely opening more. “Use my dick instead, I won’t get mad.”

You smack his chest harder, earning a yelp from him. “Riki!”

He laughs under his breath, but before you can pull your hand back, his fingers wrap around your wrist. His eyes open a little more as he looks at you, still tired, still amused, and then he tugs you. 

You land over him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips as his arm settles around your waist to steady you. For a second, neither of you moves. Your hand stays pressed to his chest, his heartbeat is faster than he's pretending. "Careful," he murmurs, like he wasn't the one who pulled you.

"You're so annoying," you whisper again, but it comes out softer this time, a quiet breath as you lean down to him. You're close enough now that your noses brush, close enough to feel his smile fade against your mouth.

Riki's gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes. Your fingers stay flat against the broad hardness of his chest while his hand stays warm at your waist, slowly smoothing over the curve of your ass.

“Ride me?” he whispers against your lips.

You sigh, rolling your eyes while your mouth curves to a grin, back straightening. You act like you think about it, only for your exposed cunt to start grinding against his cock — which, obviously, because he is a very simple man, erects again.

A simple man such as he, all he knows is that he is yours.

RULE ZERO: DO NOT RUIN THE FRIENDSHIP

When you were twelve, Jaeyun got you both grounded.

He had the brilliant idea of bringing a bottle of whiskey home — something one of his soccer teammates had stolen from his father’s cabinet and hadn’t known how to get away with now that it had been opened and already had a swig taken from it.

Jaeyun didn’t know why he decided to take charge of it, much less bring it home — he could have just let his teammate deal with it alone, for God’s sake. But perhaps because he liked the thrill of secretly carrying it and the astonishment in your eyes when he took it out of his backpack, he did bring it home. 

But the fact was — neither of you drank any of it, yet his brother — the Mr. Perfect, as you used to whisper in each other’s ears — had caught you with your hands on it, and in the end it didn’t matter.

You were grounded for four weeks. No phones, video games, or allowances. You were only allowed to go to school and straight back to your homes — Jaeyun having only the small detour of dropping you off before going to his. 

It made you miss the Seoul Annual International Book Fair. A major literary gathering with author events, book markets, and cultural programs that you had been looking forward to. 

Nerdy, he had told you, which only made your tears flow even harder, and he felt so bad about it that he gave you a voucher the next morning, a handmade thing that got you laughing when he handed it to you.

Jaeyun had never been much of an artsy type. The voucher was irregular, and his handwriting was so bad you could barely decipher the words free wish — but perhaps because it was his way of trying, you took it, promising you would use it well.

That was probably when it started: the first page of a guide he would never mean to write, on how not to ruin a friendship that felt bigger than him because as he watched you folding the paper and tucking it into the front pocket of your sweater like a keepsake, he had a sudden clarity that he would do anything not to lose you.

You never really used the voucher.

Eleven years into your friendship, you never once brought it up. 

Perhaps because Jaeyun always did everything for you, the voucher seemed useless. 

When you got asked for a date for the first time in your life, Jaeyun agreed to go shopping with you — even though he despised every second of it — and when you called him afterwards, telling him to come over so you could rant about it, he once again was there without the voucher having even passed through your minds. He simply came and stayed there, listening to you, your backs side to side on the hardwood floor of your bedroom until the walls had turned orange and pink with the sunrise.

When you crashed your father’s car and called him crying, he asked where it had happened with his jacket already on and searching for his keys.

And when you moved out of the university dorms somewhere around your second semester, Jaeyun was carrying your boxes and luggage without you even glancing at his side. 

So it felt a bit weird now, seeing you pushing the little thing through the counter — its edges turned so yellow with the advance of the years that he could see it even in the bar’s reddish light — and especially with the words that followed: 

“Sleep with me,” you said. 

RULE #1: DO NOT ACCEPT RECKLESS REQUESTS

Don’t answer requests she makes when she’s drunk, mad, or sad — that’s when she turns reckless. I’m supposed to get her home, get her water, and let time take the sharp edges off whatever she thought she wanted. If I do my job right, she’ll wake up with a headache — maybe puffy eyes — but no regrets. At least not the kind that have my name on them.

Arcano wasn’t as fierce as the name made it seem.

If Jaeyun were being honest, it was, in fact, a terrible bar. Awful, actually.

The seats were constantly sticky, and the tables were permanently stained with something spilled too long ago. The restrooms always smelled like weed and sex, and there was writing on the walls telling you who to call for a good time — but, awful as it was, it was the only bar on the outskirts of the university, and the drinks were cheap, which made it a reasonable choice for anyone who wanted to get drunk in the middle of a weekday. 

Which, apparently, was what you were doing. 

You had called him, your voice softened and a little slurred at the edges, even as you tried to keep it brief — trusting him to hear the truth between your words, as he always did — and making his body go tight, that low instinct already moving beneath his skin with the need to make it better.

Jaeyun came in without question, his eyes scanning through the dim room. Tables first, booths next, then the bar counter, because putting things in order always helped him keep control — but then he saw you, and his heart hitched hard enough to make his hands unreliable.

Arcano was nearly dark, red bulbs offering more irritation than light, and yet whatever sheen clung to its corners now seemed to gather around you; the glint of bottles, the thin neon humming above the bar. Even the noise shifted, bending your way subtly, as if the room itself couldn’t help but want to be near you. 

Or perhaps it was only him — caught on you like gravity, a quiet flaw built into his body that only ever showed itself in your presence.

Across the bar, the music shifted, and someone laughed too loudly as a glass hit the counter with a wet little sound, but none of it reached him the right way, not while you were there, bent toward the counter with your hair falling forward and your shoulders loose with drink and something sharper underneath it.

Jaeyun swallowed and pushed his hair back off his forehead — the gesture automatic in the way habits were — as he closed the last steps in.

You shifted on your stool as he stopped behind you, small and unthinking, leaning back into him as if it was the most natural thing in the world to put your weight onto his chest merely because you trusted him to catch it without ever asking. And he did, his body reacting before his mind did, his arms raising and settling just enough to keep you upright.

He didn’t understand how you did it — how you could recognize him without looking. If your bones had memorized the shape of him and refused to forget even here, in a terrible bar, with alcohol in the air and the whole world pretending not to watch, or if you merely felt the same gravity as him, because you, too, had been built with some quiet flaw that only ever showed itself in his presence.

“Hello,” you said, tipping your head back to look at him.

“Hello, Princess,” he said, leaning in just to drop a kiss on your forehead. But you smelled like vanilla and white flowers — the kind of soft sweetness you always insisted on having threaded through every perfume you owned — and he allowed himself to breathe you for a second more before he let go, sliding onto the stool beside you. 

His jeans brushed your bare thigh, and when you turned toward him, he had no other option than to spread his legs further apart, opening space so your knees fit between his; and for a second, Jaeyun’s brain focused on the image, slowly and cruelly, taking the stark line of your skin against denim, the heat of you seeping through a fabric barrier that suddenly felt too thin to be decent. Your knees fit perfectly between his, and the placement was so intimate it might’ve been accidental if he hadn’t felt how quickly his body registered it as right.

He went still.

Not because he didn’t want more contact, but because he did. Because he wanted it in a way that made him feel juvenile, and his restraint could turn into nothing but a costume you’d just tugged at the seam.

So he forced himself to look up, his gaze finding your face like it was the only safe thing left, but it only turned to be worse. 

You were flushed from the alcohol and the heat, color blooming across your cheeks and the bridge of your nose as if you’d been kissed too many times already. And your eyes were bright in that unfocused way that made his whole body ache with protectiveness and something he refused to name. 

Jaeyun swallowed, dropping his gaze before he could stop it — and that was when he saw the dress. 

Low-cut, and reckless in the quietest way, exposing your skin in a soft curve that made his throat tighten, not because it wasn’t vulgar or blaring, but merely because it was you — warm, real, and too close. 

And resting there, right in the center of it all, was the necklace he’d given you on your fifteenth birthday, the thin chain catching what little light Arcano offered and holding it like a secret. Jaeyun felt something in his chest twist — sharp and familiar. A gift, a promise, a piece of him you’d kept on your skin for years without making a thing of it.

He blinked, dragging his eyes back up, back to your face, as though that could undo what he’d seen. As though looking anywhere else could turn his thoughts into something normal again, but it didn’t.

“You called me,” he said in the end, voice light on purpose, aiming his gaze at the safe edge of your hairline instead of your eyes. 

“Is there a question in this statement?” you asked, your head tipping to the side the way it always did when you were teasing him, letting a strand of hair slip loose and rest against your cheek.

Jaeyun huffed a quiet breath through his nose, something that almost counted as a laugh if anyone else had been listening. The bar noise swelled and dipped around you — ice clinking in glasses, a burst of laughter from a booth, the bass thudding like a distant heartbeat — and for a second it made the moment feel ordinary. Like this was just the two of you, playing the same game you’d played a hundred times.

“I don’t know,” he said. “You’re the linguistics genius among us.”

His hand lifted without thinking and brushed the strand away — quick, familiar, and thoughtless — the kind of gesture that belonged to years of friendship. He didn’t linger. He didn’t let it become a thing. He just tucked it back like he’d done it before and would do it again. Still, you felt the contact anyway, blinking at him, and it took you a moment to speak again.

“I think there was,” you said, your voice more serious than he expected. “I need to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

You turned halfway on your stool to reach into your purse, and Jaeyun took the moment to breathe — really breathe, looking across the room as his hands found and pushed at his hair, steadying himself. 

Overhead, a red bulb faltered, and the neon hissed in — thin, stubborn light clinging on.

“Yun,” you called.

He turned to you again, catching as you slipped the voucher toward him, the piece yellowed into something that didn’t belong to the present. His own handwriting stared up at him, crooked and absurd in the way only a teenage promise could be.

Jaeyun’s lips parted around a question, but the words slipped before they could reach his mouth.

“I’m using it,” you announced, slurring a little — but not enough to take the weight of the words that followed:

“Sleep with me.”

Jaeyun inhaled too fast and choked on the air, like the sentence had gone straight for his throat and his body refused to swallow it. He coughed once, twice, eyes watering, and hated himself for how obvious it was.

“Drink,” you said, lifting your glass toward him — offering it with the careless kindness of someone who had no understanding of the damage they were capable of causing.

Jaeyun pictured you rummaging through your drawers for the voucher, trying to guess when the decision had formed. Whether it had been planned. Whether it had been impulsive. Whether the dress had been chosen with him in mind—

He didn’t get to finish the thought.

He took the glass too fast, his thumb grazing your knuckle — more an echo of a touch than a touch itself — but his whole body registered it like a confession. And he forced himself to bring it to his mouth and swallow it. The liquor burned his throat, cheap and harsh and useless, and then — for one horrifying second — he tasted you there, sweet and faint beneath the sting.

He set it down.

“What—” he tried, but his voice came out wrong, and he forced himself to clear his throat. “Where’s Baekhyeon?”

Because it felt reasonable to ask where your boyfriend was when you were asking him to sleep with you.

Your eyes gleamed at the name and then cleared just as quickly. Whatever that feeling was, it was banished with a blink before you reached for your glass again, considering the few drops he’d left.

“We broke up,” you said.

“When?”

“Today — or yesterday.” Your brow creased. “I’m not sure. What time is it?”

“But why?”

You shuddered, already turning toward the bartender for another drink, but Jaeyun reached for your wrist and drew you back in. His hands were cold against your warm skin, and a shiver danced across you, strong enough to make your shoulders tremble.

He let go.

“Princess, talk to me,” he said. “What happened?”

And so you told him, your words coming rushed and messed up, one long stream being pulled out of you because now that you’d started, you couldn’t afford to stop. You told him how Baekhyeon had gotten quieter for some time now — absent — balancing himself on that thin space where he could keep you without having to show up. And whenever you asked what was wrong, he kept saying he’d been thinking, whatever that meant, as if the word could stretch indefinitely and still count as effort — like you were supposed to wait politely while he decided if you were worth choosing because he wasn’t sure anymore, but still expected you to stay soft about it: keep answering, keep waiting, keep existing in the exact place where he could reach for you whenever he felt like it. And when you finally said it out loud, he told you you were overreacting — like wanting clarity was something you needed to unlearn.

And it wasn’t just that. He got calm in that way people do when they’re trying to sound reasonable, like if he kept his voice soft enough then you would start doubting your own memory. He said that you were making it bigger than it was — and then he asked you why you were trying to start a fight. And when you didn’t back down, he laughed a little — not kind — and told you were being dramatic. So you left.

“But it’s so humiliating, Yun,” you said, your hands dragging down your face, hiding it as you folded forward and rested on him again — forehead against his shoulder, your whole body fitting into the space between his thighs like it had always known where to go.

Jaeyun reached out without thinking, one hand settling at the small of your back as the other slid into your hair, fingers tangling gently there — holding you together in the only way he knew how.

“It’s not like I thought he was going to be my forever one. I never even considered it, but I thought — God.” You let out a laugh that didn’t even try to sound like humor. “I’m a virgin in university, Jaeyun. After having a boyfriend. Do you know how stupid that feels? I kept waiting for something to feel right, and now it just feels like everyone else has learned how to do this — how to be with someone, how to start, how to stop — and I am still a little girl who doesn’t know where to put her hands.”

The whole sentence hit and sank in with a dull ache, shifting a fault line in him so sharply his whole body twitched. His fingers flexed against you, tightening at your back before he could stop himself, because this was simply his first instinct: pull you in, hold you tighter, so perhaps he could keep you from breaking by sheer force of his will.

But then he hated himself for it — for the greedy relief that came with the feeling of you against him, for the way wanting and protecting acquired the same face in his body — and he loosened his grip immediately, forcing his touch back into something safer, something that could still pass as friendship.

“Hey,” he said. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“I’m feeling terrible,” you muttered. “Like I might have done something wrong in my life.”

“Princess,” he said again, the nickname rolling softly through the air, and for a moment, it didn’t feel like a joke at all. “Look at me.”

You shook your head, stubborn even like this, forehead still pressed where you’d chosen to hide. And Jaeyun exhaled through his nose, trying to sand the edge off himself before it could cut you.

“You’re drunk,” he told you. “And you’re not thinking straight.”

You didn’t react this time — which somehow made it worse.

“Come on,” he said, his hands slipping away only so they could find you again, but this time, somewhere safer. His palms spread on the bare skin of your arms to guide you up. “I’m taking you home.”

“But—” you began, your gaze sliding to the voucher.

Jaeyun reached for it and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans, taking it out of your sight like he could make the exchange never happen — like merely hiding it could erase the fact that something had moved inside his chest with your ask, and now refused to calm down.

“I’ll keep it safe,” he said, and the promise tasted older than tonight.

He helped you off the stool with one hand at your waist as the other caught your purse, looping it around his wrist before he returned it to your elbow — steadying and guiding, making sure your feet landed where they were supposed to.

You swayed into him, coming so close that when you spoke, he not only heard you, but felt it through his skin.

“You always do.”

Jaeyun’s fingers flexed once again at your side.

“Yeah,” he said, looking ahead as he led you through the mess of bodies and sticky tables. “I know.” 

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

Outside, it was already spring in theory, but in practice, Arcano’s door swung shut behind you, and the night folded over — winter still pressing into April nights, and making it chilly.

The sidewalk out in front was uneven in that neglected-university-outskirts way, broken slabs and hairline cracks waiting for someone careless, and tonight, that someone was you. 

Jaeyun watched as you made it three steps before you stumbled. It had been nothing significant, just your ankle rolling in a way that could have passed unnoticed — but he was watching, and before you could pretend that it hadn’t happened, his hand had already closed around your forearm, firm and quickly, holding you.

He brought you closer to him on instinct, the lines of your bodies collapsing and melting under the same yellow wash of streetlight, and when you looked up at him, it gathered in your eyes in tiny gold flashes, softening you at the edges, and making you look heartbreakingly close; the tiny gasp you released warming his mouth.

“Easy,” he muttered. 

“I am being easy,” you argued, but you made no effort to disengage yourself from him, and so, neither did he — letting you both stay in the dim hush of the night for a moment more before he finally eased back, shrugging out of his jacket and easing you into it, one sleeve first and then the other. 

Jaeyun gave your purse back, and only when your fingers closed around it did he turn and drop into a crouch in front of you — shoulders broad and steady on purpose.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“Taking you home,” he replied. “Get on.”

“I can walk.”

“You can barely negotiate a curb,” he argued. “Get on.”

Jaeyun waited then, bracing himself for another surge of protest, but instead, you leaned forward, your arms sliding around his shoulders, automatic, and with the kind of trust that never failed to set a quiet ache behind his ribs.

But if anything, he hooked his hands under your thighs and stood, letting your weight settle against him and your cheek to press into the side of his neck, warm and familiar.

“This is a bit embarrassing.”

“This is practical,” Jaeyun said. “Better than having to take you to the hospital over an ankle you refuse to admit you could break.”

You hummed, and he huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, tightening his hold as if you could slip out of his hands.

As if he would let you.

“Princess,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, “you’re going to be the death of me someday.”

You didn’t react this time — either because you didn’t hear it, or because your hazy mind had already filed it somewhere dangerous for tomorrow — but in any case, Jaeyun kept walking.

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

Jaeyun’s apartment building greeted you in the same failing way it always did. The hallway light flickered with stubborn inconsistency, always seeming one second away from burning out, and the front door still refused to open unless someone met it with a shoulder and a certain amount of conviction.  

He did it one-handed, you still on his back and refusing to let go even when he had to fumble for the key, his free hand going to his pockets once, twice, while the other kept you anchored against him, steadying you with the same absent care, as though you were simply part of the equation.  

Inside, the living room looked exactly the way it always did — dim, cramped, familiar in the ugly way cheap rent always was. Sneakers lay abandoned near the entrance like they’d given up halfway through the day. A laundry basket sat in the corner with the quiet menace of something that had been ignored too long.

And a few steps in, Sunghoon was there — barefoot, hair damp, skin still carrying that clean, just-showered warmth, as if he’d stepped out of steam and decided the world could handle itself for a while.  

His gaze flicked to you, draped over Jaeyun, then back to him, and his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

“She really can do whatever she wants to you,” he said, flat as anything.

At the sound of his roommate’s voice, Jaeyun felt you shift against him, lifting your head just enough for the night’s air to slip into the space you’d made.

“Hello, Hoon,” you said.

“Hello, Princess.”

The hallway light blinked out, wiping your shadows clean for a quiet beat before Sunghoon shifted, and the sensor caught it, coaxing the bulb back to life. Jaeyun adjusted his grip like it meant nothing, like you weren’t warm against him in all the places he worked hardest not to think about. You shifted at his back once more, settling and slipping, and his shoulders tightened on reflex — prepared to steady you, prepared for anything — except your next words.

“If Yun doesn’t, would you do it with me, Hoon?”

“Do wh—”

“Nothing,” Jaeyun snapped. “She’s drunk, and I’m taking her to my room.”

Sunghoon’s brows rose at his roommate’s urgency, his mouth twitching deeper, but he didn’t push. If anything, he stepped back, clearing the way like Jaeyun needed permission at all.

“Tell me tomorrow, Princess,” Sunghoon called after you, loud enough to be heard down the hall. “Though I’m pretty sure Jaeyun will do it for you.”

Jaeyun didn’t give you the chance to answer.

He was already moving, turning down the hall. And when he reached his room, he shifted your weight higher with a small, efficient jerk of his arms, then shoved the door open with his shoulder.

The motion-sensor light in the hallway faltered again behind you, a brief blink of dark, and then the room swallowed you whole — quieter, warmer, smelling faintly of detergent, old cologne and whatever Jaeyun used to pretend he didn’t care about.

He stepped into his room and kicked the door shut with his heel, shutting the rest of the apartment out — Sunghoon’s smugness, the hallway’s flicker, all of it cut off as if it had never happened.

Yet still, he didn’t set you down. Jaeyun carried you the last few steps to his bed, and when he finally tried to set you down, you clung tighter — arms locking around his shoulders as your thighs pressed against his sides. 

“No,” you said, and there was no explanation required. It didn’t matter that it had been six months since you last shared a bed. He knew your rules just as much as he knew his: you didn’t do beds before a shower — much less in outside clothes. You didn’t even sit on them in anything that had been out in public.

“Princess,” he sighed. “It’s my bed. I don’t have that rule.”

“Your bed is contaminated,” you decided.

Jaeyun went still for a second, like sheer willpower might make you reasonable. But it didn’t. You stayed latched onto him, stubborn as a vow, and he realized — again — how useless he’d always been at saying no to you.

He sighed again.

“Fine,” he said. “Fine — let’s take a shower first.”

He tried to lower you, shifting his hands to set you down properly, but the moment your heels brushed the floor, you stiffened in protest, clinging harder.

“No shoes inside,” you reminded him, as if he were the one being difficult.

Jaeyun’s eyes shut for a brief beat — his surrender arriving the way it always did with you, tender and doomed.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”

He crouched carefully, still keeping one arm hooked around your legs so you wouldn’t tip, and reached for the thin strap of your heel. His fingers worked quickly and practiced, undoing what he could without looking like he was paying attention. 

Only when both heels had slipped free did he straighten again — and only then did you finally loosen, sliding down from his back. Jaeyun kept his hands on you the whole time, steadying you through the transfer, guiding you down until your bare feet found the floor without a stumble.

“There,” he said. “Now cooperate.”

Jaeyun went to his drawer and pulled out a t-shirt so old it had softened past saving, turned into the kind of thing that should’ve been discarded a long time ago. But it was the one you always chose when you slept over, and so it stayed — stupidly and hopefully, waiting for you.  

He pushed his hair back off his forehead, his hand lingering there for a beat before he reached for a towel and stood up.  

“Come,” he said then, placing his hand behind his back to encourage you to catch up and grab it.

You held hands across the apartment and into the bathroom, letting go only when Jaeyun reached for the switch and snapped the light on — white and harsh in a way that suddenly made the night tangible.  

“The lock is broken,” Jaeyun said.  

“Wasn’t Jongseong going to fix it months ago?” you asked.  

Jongseong had, but it broke again and again, and by the fourth time, the three of them had decided it was what it was and left it to its habits.

“I’ll wait outside,” he said. “Can you handle yourself?”

You leaned against the sink, head tipping to the side. Your necklace sparkled with the movement, catching the bathroom light in thin, bright flickers, and all at once, he regretted asking.  

It all felt too real, too reckless. What if you asked him to stay and help you, as it had happened a dozen times before Baekhyeon?

He couldn’t trust himself to make good decisions — couldn’t trust himself to help you out of your dress without looking. Not with the voucher still in the pocket of his jeans and your words coiling through his mind, slowly displacing all his other thoughts.

He was suddenly wild under the fluorescent lights of the bathroom.

“I’ll be right outside,” he said, reaching past you to set the towel on the counter, then the shirt beside it — lining them up like order could keep the night under control. “Take your time.”  

“Okay.”  

Jaeyun didn’t say anything as he stepped out. He merely pulled the door shut and folded himself down in front of it — knees up, forearms crossed above them, and his fingers tightening against the sides of his jeans for a quiet moment before he let go. 

From inside the bathroom came the soft shift of fabric. Then the small, telltale clink of something against porcelain — your necklace, surely your necklace — before the water finally started to run. And Jaeyun let out a slow breath he couldn’t quite believe in.

It wasn’t the first time he’d guarded a door for you, and he should’ve known how to breathe through it by now.

But tonight had reached in and rearranged all the defenses he’d built, and now he was back at the beginning with nothing solid to brace against. His fingers flexed once again, anchoring himself to the pressure and the bone, and making him almost miss the complaint of a floorboard down the hall.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jongseong’s voice carried from the hallway. “Why are you sitting on the floor?”

“The lock doesn’t work,” Jaeyun said.

“It never worked.”

“She’s inside.”

“Who?” Jongseong asked — more reflex than curiosity — because the moment his gaze landed on Jaeyun, the question dissolved on its own, understanding settling without needing a name.

“Oh, it’s been a while,” he said, and Jaeyun’s mouth tightened, the words pressing an old bruise.

It had been six months since you last slept here, to be exact — the same amount of time you’d been with Baekhyeon, and the same amount of time Jaeyun had been pretending the distance was natural. Reasonable. Maybe even healthy.

It wasn’t as if Baekhyeon had forbidden your friendship with him, or your sleepovers at this apartment. Baekhyeon was—

Jaeyun’s mind halted.

For a second, he tried to call him nice, the word rising up like it wanted to be fair — but he recoiled from the generosity of it, because your confession at Arcano was still echoing in his body.

The fact that Baekhyeon never forbade your friendship didn’t change what it meant to hear you say you’d been made to feel humiliating for wanting clarity — for wanting to be chosen like it wasn’t the bare minimum. Nice didn’t undo the image of you folding in on yourself as you said it, like you’d already started taking the blame out of habit.

So Jaeyun said nothing. He only breathed out, real slow, between barely parted lips, and let the silence carry what his mouth couldn’t afford.

Jongseong leaned back against the opposite wall and crossed his arms, staking out the space without saying a word because that was how he always did. He didn’t press — never that. Jongseong just stayed, letting the world breathe between them until it started to feel like an invitation people never knew how to refuse.

Jaeyun looked away.

“She called,” he said. “She was at Arcano. Drunk — not falling-over drunk — but enough.”

“Baekhyeon?” Jongseong asked, not because he was looking for gossip, but because it was logistics. It was the obvious missing piece.

“They broke up — he broke up with her,” he said. “Something about not being sure anymore.”

“Damn.”

Jaeyun hummed in agreement, and because he didn’t know how to bring up the topic, he merely said: “She asked me to sleep with her.”

Jongseong blinked — actually blinked, his whole body failing with the sudden information.

“She asked you,” he repeated.

Jaeyun’s jaw flexed. “Yeah.”

“To sleep with her.”

The words hung there between them, obscene in how plainly they fit the shape of the night. Jaeyun breathed out slowly through his nose; the air itself didn’t want to make room for them.

“And you said?” Jongseong asked, though his tone already suggested he knew the answer. Everyone knew Jaeyun’s reputation. Everyone knew he didn’t say no to much — especially not to you.

“I said no,” Jaeyun replied. 

Jongseong stared at him, then let out a low whistle, indecisive whether to be impressed or concerned.

“Don’t make it weird,” Jaeyun muttered.

“I’m not making it weird,” Jongseong said. “I’m just—” He paused, pondering what his next words should be. “You’re kind of famous for not being the guy who says no. Not to her.”

Jaeyun’s lips parted, his tongue already rolling in to say something, but the words stuttered and stammered, refusing to leave immediately, and Jongseong shifted his weight, glancing down the hallway once as if checking whether Sunghoon would appear and make this worse. But when he didn’t, he looked back at Jaeyun and waited again.

Of course he did.

Behind the door, the shower shifted pitch — water on tile instead of skin, the soft scrape of movement as you’d turned under the stream — and Jaeyun’s shoulders tightened at the sound, reflexive and stupid, like his body wanted to go in there and steady you with his hands.

He forced himself to stay where he was.

“You know what the problem is?” Jaeyun asked.

“Tell me.”

“I know her,” he said, and he hated himself for how quickly it came out, like a confession that had been waiting all night. “I know she meant it.”

Jongseong’s expression softened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“But what if it changes something?” he asked. “I could say yes, and for one night I’d get—”

He cut himself off, shoving his hair back as if he could physically push the thought out of his head.

“Fuck — I’d get something I’ve wanted for a long time.”

“And then?”

“And then she’d wake up, and something could flick.” Jaeyun said. “Like she’d look at me and realize she made a mistake. Like she’d hate me for letting her.” His grip tightened once, then loosened. “Like I’d lose the only part of her I’m allowed to have.”

The hallway seemed to draw in around him, the air thickening as if it could listen. And Jaeyun lowered his voice in response.

“I’d rather have just a part of her forever than have her entirely for a night and lose her in the morning.”

“That’s — that’s more honest than I expected.”

Jaeyun let out a humorless breath. “Thank you.”

“I’m not done,” Jongseong said, because of course he wasn’t. “You’re treating having her like it’s one thing.”

Jaeyun frowned, irritation returning on instinct because it was safer than admitting Jongseong was right. 

“It’s either you stay in the safe version of your friendship forever — half-measures, unsaid things — or you sleep with her and blow it up.”

“But it could happen.”

“But it also couldn’t — not if you do it in the right way.”

“In the right way,” Jaeyun scoffed. “That clears everything up.”

“When she’s sober,” Jongseong continued, ignoring the sarcasm like it was a symptom. “You tell her the truth she can use.”

“Like what?”

“You tell her you said no because she was drunk.”

“Obviously.”

“And you tell her you care about her too much to risk the friendship over a night.”

Jaeyun’s stomach tightened. The sentence was too clean — neat edges, no mess, nothing anyone could accuse him of — and it sounded like something he was allowed to say. But it wasn’t the real reason, though. The real reason lived lower in him, hot and humiliating because of the selfishness of it. 

Jaeyun cared too much to let you choose him with alcohol blurring the corners, too much to wake up and find your eyes clear and horrified — he cared too much to have his name become the sharpest part of your regret.

He didn’t want a night he’d have to defend. He wanted a tomorrow that didn’t require forgiveness.

He couldn’t lose you.

“And if she guarantees nothing will change?” he asked, and his voice sounded small there, drowned out by the fantasy of it.

“You decide,” Jongseong said. “You do it, or you don’t. But don’t lie to yourself that you can keep something by freezing it.”

“I can keep it by not touching it.”

“And you can lose it that way too,” Jongseong said, immediately and all at once making Jaeyun halt. “You’re already changing. She’s already changing. Baekhyeon happened. Tonight happened.” 

“So what?” Jaeyun asked. “You think I should accept?”

“I think you should accept the conversation,” Jongseong corrected. “Not the drunk proposal. Not the chaos. Not the one-night disaster you’re picturing.”

He paused, just long enough for Jaeyun to swallow.

“It’s the best way,” Jongseong added. “Because it’s the only way she gets to choose you with a clear head — and you get to be chosen without feeling like you stole it.”

“Fine,” he said. “I will talk to her tomorrow — when she’s sober.”

“Good.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, but then Jongseong nodded toward the bathroom door with a faint grimace that tried to pass for humor. “Rap on my door when she’s done, yeah? I need to use the bathroom, and I don’t feel like getting murdered for walking in on — whatever this is.”

Jaeyun shot him a look, he wasn’t going to, and Jongseong knew it but if anything, his mouth quirked, teasing and mean, as he turned and started back toward his room, leaving Jaeyun alone with the thin shaft of light coming from under the door, the broken lock, and the sound of you moving on the other side — alive, breathing, and close enough to ruin him if he let himself reach.

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

The bathroom door opened with a tiny complaint from its hinges. Your figure momentarily silhouetted against the spill of light before he blinked and put you into focus, barefoot, hair slicked back and tucked behind your ears, cheeks still flushed from the shower, alcohol, and something that didn’t belong to soap or steam. His old shirt hung off you all wrong and yet perfectly: too big in the shoulders, too long in the hem, but familiar in a way that made Jaeyun’s chest tighten.

Perhaps he was dreaming this night.

“I thought I heard someone,” you whispered.

“It was Jongseong,” he replied, smoothing his tone into something casual, in the hope that you wouldn’t notice the way Jongseong’s appearance now sat warm and heavy beneath his ribs, pulsing each time he breathed, threatening to spill.

“Did we wake him up?”

Jaeyun shook his head and pushed himself up, his joints protesting with stiffness from the position and from the sheer act of not moving every time his instincts had told him to go in and make sure you were okay. “No. He just needed the bathroom.”

You nodded at him, and Jaeyun reached his hand to you, the gesture so unconscious, he didn’t notice he had done it until you reached back to him, fingers finding the slots between his, and intertwining your hands.

“Let’s go,” he murmured, already turning and guiding you down the short stretch of hall.

He wasn’t sure what time it was, but when he opened the door to his room, the world outside seemed vivid in comparison, a mist of light blue and purple coming through his open window, and spilling across the rumpled sheets and the scatter of things that made the space undeniably his: a jacket draped over the chair like it had been forgotten mid-thought, a half-open book, and a glass of water caught a thin slice of shine. The air was warmer in here, carrying the faint, familiar mix of laundry soap and skin and something clean underneath everything that had happened.

“Lie down,” Jaeyun said, swinging your interlaced hands toward the bed even though he expected you to refuse, saying something about contamination or demanding clean sheets, and forcing him into the familiar rhythm of your rules because that was how it always went — he was already halfway bracing for it, already planning how to humor you through it without letting his hands linger where they shouldn’t — but you moved then, slipping from his touch and laying on the mattress without protest. And it was somehow worse than anything.

“Princess,” he called, not really sure what the rest of the phrase was supposed to be, and the nickname hung in the air longer than it was necessary.

“Aren’t you coming?” you asked, and he was caught by the simplicity of it.

“Close your eyes,” Jaeyun said. “I’m going to get changed first.”

You made a small sound that almost counted as a snort, like the idea of him needing you not to look was ridiculous. But you did it anyway — eyes shut, face turned into his pillow, going still with the kind of obedience you only ever gave him when you didn’t want to argue.

Jaeyun changed quickly, like speed could make him safer. Jeans off. Sweatpants on. Shirt pulled over his head and tossed it somewhere he refused to look at. He kept his movements efficient, controlled — all about angles and purpose — because he couldn’t afford softness. Couldn’t afford the way tenderness turned reckless when it had nowhere to go.

By the time he finished, you hadn’t moved, and for a moment, he thought you’d fallen asleep, your body finally ceasing. But when he stepped closer, you opened your eyes, the dim light catching in them like a held secret, glazing along your lashes, turning your gaze into something soft and deep, as if whatever remained of the light had found a way to live inside you.

And Jaeyun hovered at the edge, forgetting for a beat how to be anything but pulled in.

He sat on the bed, and you shifted closer, cheek pressing deeper into his pillow like it belonged there — like you belonged there.

And the fact that you were smelling like him didn’t help. His shampoo was tangled in your damp hair. His soap clinging to your skin. The boring smell of him with something sweet underneath — vanilla and white flowers — threaded through it all. Like the night had taken the parts of him that were supposed to be private and braided them through you.

He wouldn’t sleep tonight.

“Yun,” you called. “About what I said—”

“Just sleep,” he cut in. “We can talk tomorrow.”

Your mouth parted as if you wanted to argue on principle. But your body betrayed you in the softest way: your breathing deepened, your fingers loosened on the sheet, your forehead sank into his pillow as if it was the only safe thing left in the world.

Jaeyun lay down beside you before he could think too hard about it, keeping the space between your bodies like a rule — a boundary he could hold — but you drifted closer inch by inch, pulled by some instinct that had never learned to be afraid of him. Your knee brushed his leg. Your hand settled near his, warm and lax, fingers curved like they might reach if you dreamed the right dream.

Jaeyun didn’t move. He only stared at the ceiling and listened to you breathe — slow and even — trying not to count it.

Tomorrow, he told himself.

Tomorrow, he would be brave. Tomorrow he would say the right things — the usable truth, as Jongseong had called — the truth you could hold without cutting yourself on it. 

Tomorrow, he would not ruin you, or the fragile shape of a friendship he’d carried for years like a glass of water.

But tonight—

He turned his head just enough to look at you, and stayed awake anyway — guarding the morning like it was the most dangerous thing he’d ever faced.

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

Jaeyun woke up to the morning sunlight filtering through the still-open window of his bedroom, and you curled into him, cheek on his shoulder, as your hand rested on his chest.

He didn’t move — he couldn’t bring himself to move — he didn’t even let his breath deepen because his first thought was the same one it had always been, old as instinct and just as merciless: don’t wake you. Don’t jolt you out of whatever gentle, thoughtless trust had guided you here in the dark and kept you here in the light. He merely stared at your hand on his chest.

Your fingers were loose, resting over his heartbeat like they’d found it by memory. Like your body had reached for the most familiar thing in the room and settled before your mind could intervene.

He swallowed.

The sunlight was falling in slow stripes across the sheets and across the line of your shoulder beneath his shirt, turning the old cotton into something almost translucent, and catching on your necklace. Dust drifted through the brightness like the morning was innocent — like the world hadn’t heard what you’d asked for last night, hadn’t seen the way his restraint had shaken under the skin.

He’d stayed the whole night trying to remain as far as he could tell. And still, here you were — curled into him like this was allowed. Like this was fine. Like you belonged in the hollow of his shoulder with your palm over his heart, claiming the one part of him he’d never learned how to hide.

You made a small sound in your throat, barely more than a breath, and nudged closer, your knee tucking nearer, your fingers flexing once against his shirt, and the heat of you spread through him like something inevitable.

His gaze drifted to your face.

Sleep had unmade you cruel in its sweetness; your lashes cast a faint shadow under your eyes; your mouth was parted just slightly, softened by the quiet. There was no teasing there, no armor, no bright deflection — only you, unguarded, and breathing against his shoulder like you trusted him to hold.

Because he would — he always would.

Jaeyun swallowed and very carefully — so carefully it bordered on absurd — slid his arm out from beneath your head, immediately receiving a small sound of protest from you, brows drawing together, and for one panicked second, he thought you’d wake.

But if anything, you only turned your face further into his pillow, drifting your hand from his chest to the sheet between you.

Jaeyun sat up slowly, pushing his hair back off his forehead as if he could physically push the feeling out, and looked at you once more.

Then he reached for the blanket and pulled it higher, covering you with a tenderness that felt dangerously close to a confession — tucking the edge beneath your arm, smoothing it down over your ribs, restoring order because order was the only thing that kept him from doing something reckless — before he stood up, crossing the room barefoot.

Jaeyun left the room, pulling the door nearly shut behind him, careful not to let the latch click.

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

The kitchen met him as it always did on weekdays.

The sink was crowded with his roommate’s morning small evasions — a cup abandoned to the drying rack, a plate left half-rinsed as if someone had set it down and decided they couldn’t be bothered to finish. Old coffee grounds sat in the filter, gone cold and sour, and the air held that faint, stubborn bitterness like it had seeped into the walls.

Jaeyun stood in the middle of it all for a moment, then two — trying to make his brain behave.

Tomorrow, he had said, and it was tomorrow.

He exhaled through his nose and opened the fridge, scanning the shelves as if the answer to what to do with his hands might be hiding behind the milk, but not even this they had. There were eggs, half a loaf of bread, butter, something green that had once been vegetables in a kinder timeline, and the strawberries he bought weekly and kept in the back, pretending it wasn’t for you.

He closed the door on impulse, pushing his hair back off his forehead before he reopened it and grabbed the eggs.

Jaeyun had never been a breakfast person, but he needed something to do with his hands that morning, and so, he warmed the pan, melting the butter as he had seen you do a dozen times. 

He cracked the first egg too hard, and a piece of shell fell in, forcing him to fish it out with the edge of a fork with a curse under his breath. The second one cracked clean. And he caught himself staring at it for a second, mildly offended by success.

He scrambled the eggs the way he tuned a circuit on the bench — low heat, constant motion, watching for the first hint of runaway before it could burn. The toast popped up asymmetrically overdone, one side dark enough to count as a failed test, and he scraped it back with a knife like he could calibrate it into passing.

He got strawberries in the back of the fridge, rinsed them, and set them on a plate.

And by the time it started to look like something someone might eat, he heard you, softly coming down the hall and making the air shift, the apartment itself holding its breath.

Jaeyun turned, and there you were in the doorway — his shirt hanging off you, hair a mess, eyes brighter than they had any right to be.

Your gaze landed on the plates — on the counter, catching the eggshells still on it, the crumbs of his burned toast, and the strawberry tops before it moved to him.

“You made breakfast,” you said, the corner of your lips shifting into a smile.

“I’m aware.”

You padded toward him, bare feet on the kitchen tile, and suddenly you were so close, he could smell you, his soap still clinging to your skin. Your eyes were puffy, your cheeks still a little flushed, but the embarrassment had already arrived; Jaeyun could see it in the way you held your shoulders, in the way your gaze didn’t stay on his for too long.

“I’m sorry,” you said suddenly.

Jaeyun leaned his hip against the counter, arms crossing because if he didn’t put his body in order, his face might betray him. “You were drunk. You called me. I picked you up. That’s not like it never happened.”

“I remember what I said.”

Jaeyun went still.

“I’m not going to pretend I don’t,” you said. “Or that I said it only because I was drunk — I mean, I was drunk.” 

You paused, heat creeping up to your cheeks and making it a tone warmer.

“Jaeyun, I’m—” You pressed your palm to your forehead briefly, as if you could push the shame back inside. “I’m in university. I’m still a virgin. And it’s not even because I’m some — saint. It’s because I kept waiting for the right moment.”

Your voice dropped. “But now it just feels like I’ve been standing still while everyone else moved.”

Something moved in Jaeyun’s chest then — sharp, protective, and making him push himself off the counter before he meant to, closing the space between you in a step he didn’t ask permission for.

“Princess,” he called, his voice as soft as the way his arms eased apart, but he didn’t touch you. Didn’t put his hands on your shoulders or tuck your hair back or do any of the things his body begged him to do on autopilot — because this was morning, and you were sober, and this mattered.

“You don’t owe anyone a timeline,” he said. “And you don’t have to make it some performance to prove something.”

“I know, Yun, it’s just that—” Your mouth tightened, lips pressing as you searched for the shape of the truth. “When I think about it, I keep coming to the conclusion that it would be safe if it were with you.”

“Do you remember that party at Seoyeon’s where they did that stupid bottle game, and we both had our first kisses in her parents’ closet?” you asked. Jaeyun blinked at the sudden turn of topic, but nodded anyway. “It was awful and so awkward. The guy made it so awkward. And the whole time I remember — the whole time I remember wishing it had been you on the other side of the bottle, because it would’ve been easier if it were you.” You swallowed. “If it were you, I’d be safe — and it’s still true, I know it would be okay with you,”

“You’re the person I trust the most in this world.”

The whole sentence went straight through his ribs and sank there, spreading through the parts of Jaeyun that had learned to stay careful until his restraint loosened another notch, and his chest went tender with it, so sudden it almost hurt.

In his mind, he was back at Seoyeon’s party, you laughing and brushing the situation off in front of him, cheeks flushed even in the low light with what he thought was shyness. And perhaps it had been. Perhaps he hadn’t been completely wrong: you’d been shy there, but not because you’d just had your first kiss, but because you’d wished he was the one there. He, your best friend — and the thought came so suddenly he couldn’t prevent it — he wanted it to be him, too. He wanted to be your first in every way that counted.

And that was exactly what you were offering to him.

Jaeyun swallowed, his fingers flexing on the counter.

“Do you truly want it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“But nothing can change between us,” Jaeyun said. “We start as best friends. And even if this — if this thing doesn’t work and we turn out to be awkward, we end as that. Best friends. No matter what.”

You held his gaze, and for a moment, he was afraid that you’d heard what he hadn’t meant to say: the way he’d started listing boundaries like constraints in a design brief, as if naming the limits out loud could keep the system stable, keep you from failing him. But you only tilted your head, a small smile gathering at your mouth, warm and unalarmed.

“Are you afraid of losing me?” you asked, teasing with an offer to laugh — to dissolve the moment back into something safe. But when he looked at you, his eyes were solemn. So solemn that whatever retort you’d been about to throw at him got stuck somewhere between your lips and your courage.

“Yes,” Jaeyun said, and the teasing fell away.

Your breath caught for a moment before you exhaled, your face softening into something older than jokes.

“Okay,” you whispered.

“Okay,” he echoed.

Your gaze flicked to the counter again, to the two plates resting there, and suddenly the objects felt too ordinary, too real.

“So,” you said, voice a little too bright, “we’re doing this?”

Jaeyun’s mouth twitched. “Eat.”

“That was not an answer.”

He reached past you, grabbing a fork, and placing it in your hand with exaggerated seriousness.

“Eat,” he repeated. “Then we talk.”

“Jaeyun.”

He held your gaze, and the air between you tightened with something that had nothing to do with breakfast.

“Yes,” he said, his voice coming out rougher than he wanted it to. “We’re doing it.”

“Good,” you said, and then, because you were you, because you couldn’t help yourself: “When are we doing it?”

Jaeyun stared at you.

“Are you—” he began. “Are you trying to schedule sex?”

“Seems reasonable.” You shuddered. “Or do you want us to do it now—”

“No,” he cut in, eyes narrowing, but the fondness in it betrayed him. “Tonight.”

“Don’t you have classes?”

“Are you having second thoughts?” he countered.

“Tonight,” you agreed. “My place?”

“That makes more sense,” he said, not only because he didn’t want his roommates hovering around, but because if he kept you here, if he kept you in his bed again, he didn’t trust the part of him that wanted to pretend you didn’t already belong.

“Okay,” you said.

“Okay,” he echoed.

Jaeyun straightened, grabbed his own plate, and turned away from the counter as if he hadn’t just scheduled the end of the life he’d been carefully maintaining like a lie. As if he’d invited you to the movies instead of into the most dangerous part of him.

“Eat,” he said again, voice rough. “Before I change my mind.”

You took a bite of eggs, crunching your nose. “These are terrible.”

“They’re edible,” he argued.

You smiled around your bite, and in the brilliance of it, Jaeyun noticed with sudden clarity that you might not be drunk, you might not be mad, but it had been a reckless request.

And he had just said yes.

He should’ve panicked.

He should’ve backed out and clung to his rules until they cut him open.

But he only watched you — standing in his kitchen with his shirt draped around you, alive and real and trusting him with clear eyes, and he couldn’t make himself care about the danger.

RULE #2: DO NOT TOUCH HER IMPROPERLY  

Some touches are allowed because they keep her safe — elbow, shoulder, wrist, maybe her waist; small steadying things I can explain without it sounding like a lie. Improper is anything I do for myself. Improper is touching her like I’m owed something just because I’ve been here a long time.

Jaeyun liked electrical engineering — he really liked it — perhaps more than he’d ever admitted out loud.

There was something about how he could take a mess of a problem — wires crossing like arguments, values that looked meaningless until he stopped panicking and actually looked — and reduce it to rules that held. KCL. KVL. The calm mathematics of not lying to himself. Find the reference. Label the nodes. Define the direction. Solve.

If he couldn’t control other things — timing, people’s feelings, the way you could laugh like nothing was wrong while something in him quietly broke — then at least he could control this.

At least here, the world had edges. Here, the answer existed, and he found some calmness in it.

But not tonight.

Jaeyun sat in the last row with his book open and his pen in hand, trying to make his body obey.

But the professor’s voice moved through the room, muffled by the low hum of the projector and the whisper of AC that never quite cooled the lecture hall. Something about the transient response. Something about step inputs and settling time. Jaeyun stared at the diagram on the slide until it started to blur, because all he could see was you in his kitchen, barefoot on his tile. His shirt on your body. Your mouth around the word tonight like it was a dare and a promise and a joke all at once.

He wrote a line of notes, realizing a moment too late that it didn’t make sense; it was just a string of symbols that meant nothing. His jaw tightened. He scratched it out so hard the paper tore, then froze, breathing through his nose like he could sand himself back into something normal.

He tried to listen again, forcing his gaze to the board, and his brain into the shape of equations.

But the truth was: he wasn’t there anymore.

He was already walking to your studio apartment. He was already at your door, pressing the code of your keypad as he had done a thousand times. 

He was already hearing your voice say his name the way you always did when you wanted something — and he hated that the wanting in him answered like a trained dog.

His leg bounced under the desk as his eyes moved to the clock.

The second hand dragged itself forward like it was doing it on purpose, like time had decided to become cruel just to prove it could. Jaeyun forced himself to look back down at the board. Forced his jaw to unclench. Forced his foot to stop bouncing.

It didn’t work.

He dragged a hand through his hair, knuckles scraping his scalp, and stared at the open page like he could threaten it into giving him peace.

Step response.

Damping ratio.

Overshoot — his chest felt like overshoot.

Jaeyun exhaled slowly, then made a decision, closing his book with a sound sharper than it should’ve been in the lecture hall, a final clap that made the person in front of him glance back, but Jaeyun didn’t care. If anything, he slid the book into his bag, capped his pen, and stood.

Outside, the late afternoon air hit him with a faint bite — winter pretending it hadn’t left yet. And the campus was loud in the way it always got near the end of the day: students spilling out of buildings, scooters whining by, laughter too bright, life too easy.

Jaeyun walked straight through it, taking the quickest route off campus, cutting between two buildings, and down the narrow street that always smelled like fried food and stale cigarette smoke.

He didn’t stop to think — didn’t even breathe; he only followed the line to your apartment complex, pushing the door open and taking the stairs, two at a time.

At your door, the keypad was there, small and impersonal, a little square of plastic and numbers that shouldn’t mean anything. But Jaeyun had always been stupidly good at remembering what mattered, and your passcode was one of those things he picked up without asking, without naming it as intimacy — the way he learned strawberry was your favorite fruit when you were both twelve, the way he memorized the sound of your laugh before he realized he was paying attention. Four digits. He knew it — he had used it a dozen times, but as his finger found the first digit, he froze because him knowing it all too well, suddenly felt like trespassing.

Jaeyun stared at the numbers. His hand still in the air, suspended, and ridiculously caught between two versions of himself. The one that had always been allowed inside your life, the one that had walked into your space carrying groceries and textbooks and your bad moods like they were part of his schedule, and the one standing here now, with the taste of tonight still sharp in his mouth, and the knowledge that tonight is not errands or emergencies.

He exhaled, slowly, trying to make his body act normal — trying to make his hand stop trembling with the sheer idiocy of wanting.

But couldn’t, and when he raised his hand again, he only knocked at the door and waited, hearing his own pulse in his ears, a stupid, loyal metronome that refused to slow down. 

And then — movement.

The smallest sound from inside. Footsteps. A shift of air through the crack of the frame, like your apartment exhaled before the door even opened.

Jaeyun straightened without meaning to, shoulders going back like he’s bracing for impact. His hand dropped to his sides, finding his pockets because he refused to be caught halfway through panic.

Warm light spilled through the gap, and the scent of your place followed it — something clean and faintly floral, the trace of whatever you always used that made you smell like comfort when you hugged him goodbye. And there you were, framed in the doorway as if you’d been waiting in the exact spot where he would have to see you all at once.

For half a second, Jaeyun couldn’t breathe, his lungs catching, devastated by you.

“Hi,” you said. It was the same word you’d always used, yet it didn’t sound the same. “Did you forget the code?” 

Jaeyun swallowed, forcing his face into something neutral.

“No,” he managed, his voice coming out rougher than he wanted it to. But if anything, you hummed at him, requiring no further explanation, as you opened the door a little wider so he could come in.

Jaeyun had molded the moment when he would step into your place in his mind enough times to believe he would be prepared when it finally came into reality. 

Yet it didn’t.

He tried to don a neutral aspect, tried to speak — make some joke — but the words stayed in, hooked into years, and yanked, allowing nothing but air to pass through his lips.

Your apartment was small in the way studios always were — everything close enough to touch from the same spot, everything bearing the faint imprint of your routines. A blanket was folded too neatly on the end of the bed. A mug sat on the counter that looked like it had been rinsed and set down without being fully put away. A stack of books with their spines cracked in the middle like they’d been loved, not displayed.

And there was you — too close, too real.

You hadn’t really changed since he had seen you early on; you were the same girl he had known his whole life, and yet, there was something different about you tonight, and it made something in him tighten until it felt sharp.

Jaeyun shut the door behind him with his foot, careful not to let it slam, yet the click of the latch sounded louder than it should’ve, and he stood there for a beat too long, backpack strap still across his shoulder, hands in his pockets.

“Shoes,” you remembered, because you couldn’t help yourself, and a laugh escaped through him, familiar enough to settle him.

Jaeyun bent, unlaced his sneakers, slipped them off with quick, efficient motions before he lined them near the door and dropped his backpack.

When he straightened, you were still watching him, draped in a dress that didn’t try to be subtle.

It hugged you way too prettily, clinging to your waist and hips like it had been made with the sole purpose of making him forget he’d ever learned how to breathe. The neckline dipped just enough to show skin, and right there — resting against it like a quiet, years-old claim — was the necklace he’d given you. 

“Jaeyun,” you called. And he knew this tone — he knew it so damn well. It was your do something. 

And so he did, striding in your direction, his hands already reaching for your face, cradling it on his palms before he looked down at you with a small question that he couldn’t come to pronounce because you were already replying by closing your eyes, tipping your head up so he didn’t need to do much to catch your top lip within his.

It was your first kiss. Jaeyun had known you for his whole life, but it was the first time he had come to know your mouth, and it felt almost like a travesty of the universe.

You tasted like strawberries, sugar, and something so familiar that his chest ached, threatening to break open and groan escaped him when you parted your lips, allowing him to dip his tongue inside, pressing against yours until he couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t you.

You and the way your hands found the front of his t-shirt and curled on it.

You and the way you pulled him along with you as you stepped back — and back, until the back of your knees had hit the mattress, and you had no other option but to fall on it, his hands bracing around your face, one knee bent and pressed where the skirts of your dress had pooled in too high.

You didn’t say anything as you reached for him, rushing your hands beneath the blue shirt and pushing it over his shoulders.

“Wait, Princess, wait,” he asked. “Slow down.” 

“Is this how you always do it?”

And he could have lied, could have merely said yes, that was how he took all the other girls, but he didn’t.

“No,” he said. “It’s because it’s you and me.”

You stared at him, and suddenly the room felt too small for your heartbeats, too quiet for how loud everything inside of him turned.

But then, you leaned in and kissed him again — slower this time — giving him space to meet you properly. 

His hand slid from your jaw to the side of your neck, his thumb pressing and feeling your pulse through the tip of it as his other hand followed the line of your shoulders, moving further and further until his palm had found your waist, his fingers spreading on you the way he always did to anchor you — except that now it was less anchoring than keeping you.

You shifted beneath him, your leg sliding close enough to brush the inside of his thigh, and Jaeyun felt it like a jolt — small, accidental, and devastating — traveling straight through his length, and making his breath catch.

He forced himself to hinder — force himself to keep his head clear. But his body was already answering you, heat gathering with every centimeter of contact, the novelty of it turning molten and bright in his blood — wanting to move, to press in, to take what you were offering without thinking. 

“Tell me if—” he started, then stopped, trying to rearrange his thoughts. 

“If what?”

“If you want me to stop,” he managed. “Say it if you—”

“I won’t,” you said, and the certainty in it hit him like a punch.

Jaeyun exhaled, pressing his forehead to yours — not kissing, not moving — just breathing the sweet scent of you, vanilla and white flowers, the same he always had as he counted the seconds like he could make them behave through the sheer force of his want.

“You’re sure?” he asked — because he had to — because he knew that this was the line where everything became real, and everything before this was going to feel small in comparison.

“Yes, Sim Jaeyun,” you whispered. “I’m sure.”

“Okay,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “Okay.”

Jaeyun’s fingers found the strap of your dress, sliding it with a gentleness that didn’t match the way his pulse was climbing, easing it down through your shoulder slow enough that it felt like a question you could stop without words — yet you didn’t — and the dress shifted with a soft whisper through your body. 

He leaned in and pressed his mouth to the skin he’s uncovered — one brief kiss, then another — until the dress loosened and pooled lower, until he could guide it away and reveal your lingerie set, pinkish in a way that only made your skin warmer under the lights of your apartment. 

His breath hitched.  

You were beautiful in a way he’d always known, but also in a way he’d never allowed himself to study — never this close, never with permission. Never with the soft spill of your skin under his hands, much less with the heat of you turning every familiar detail into something obscene and new. 

His hand splayed over your belly, the tips of his fingers skimming the lower edge of your bra before he slid down, finding the band of your panties and hooking it lightly.

“You’re—” he began.

“Don’t get too full of yourself, Jaeyun,” you murmured. “I dress like this because I just happen to have no bad sets.”

The laugh that left him was helpless, more air than sound, relief threading through it because you were still you, even here, even now, just in your lingerie set and with skin turning reddish because of his kisses, and it truly didn’t matter that you interpreted him wrongly this time. 

“Right,” he managed. He couldn’t argue with anything you said — not right now — not never. “Of course.”

Your fingers curled in his shirt, pulling him closer — not frantic, not desperate — just needy, and Jaeyun went still for one beat to let himself feel it: the pull, the permission, the way your hands on him turned his years of restraint into something soft and breakable.

“Of course,” he whispered again, bending down and kissing you, your temples first, and then your cheeks — his lips pestering over your face with soft pecks before he moved lower, discovering that one sensitive spot underneath your jaw, and when you gasped, he took it as an incentive to move to the column of your neck, his mouth parting as his tongue slipped out in a tiny tease that got you gasping softly — almost silently, hands closing at the shoulders of his shirt as if you couldn’t help yourself.

“You’re sensitive,” he murmured, tucking his discovery carefully alongside all the other details he’d collected about you over the years.

You called for him, but if it had been a warning or a submission, you lost interest in the rest of your thought as he kissed you again, open mouth and tongue rolling against your skin, surely leaving a mark, and making a moan to rumble through your lips instead. 

Jaeyun’s eyes flicked up to your face, and he didn’t let go — not even when his hands slipped to your back, the tips of his fingers finding and curling on the clasps of your bra. Not even as he opened it and slid further into you, kissing the tip of your breast and sending goosebumps through your skin. 

He never let go.

And when his lips parted, tipping his tongue out, and making your hands move to the back of his head, fisting at his hair almost bitterly, he only smiled against you, the movement adding another coating to the sensation and making your arch against him.

He licked you softly, licked you hard, covered the areola with his lips and pulled the tip into his mouth, pulled more and harder, until your back arched even more and created a gap between the mattress that his hands took no time to fill, his fingers spraying through your skin and holding you still as his mouth moved, leaving your nipple just to create a path through your body, trailing down to your sternum, your stomach — taking in every piece of your skin in between his lips.

Jaeyun lifted his head then, just enough to look at your face properly, catching the flush on your cheeks, the way your lips had parted because your breath had turned pant, your chest moving too fast and allowing your necklace to sparkle.

The room was suddenly too small for how loud his blood had gotten. 

For a moment, he didn’t kiss, didn’t lick, didn’t give either of you the mercy of motion; he only held still and watched, like he needed to see what he was doing to you before he let himself do more.

“Princess,” he breathed, the word slipping out before he could decide on anything else. 

You looked at him, and your gazes locked as they had done a dozen times across the existence of you, yet the moment acquired that dream quality because you were here, bare in a way he’d only imagined in the abstract — late at night, in the quietness of his room, in the version of his imagination he kept locked away like contraband — and the distance between wanting and having had narrowed to a single breath.

Jaeyun swallowed, trying to steady himself, before let the moment break by degrees — his palm slid down the slope of your stomach, slow enough to feel like asking, fingertips grazing your skin as if he were relearning it; as if touching you like this rewired something in him that had always been too careful until his fingers finally found the band and paused there, hooked lightly under the elastic.

He looked back up at you then, thumb stroking once along your hip as his other hand held you steady at the small of your back, refusing to let you drift away from him — from this.

“You okay?” he murmured, and it sounded like he meant all of it.

You nodded at him, and he moved — quietly relentless — his knuckles brushed your thighs on the way, accidental touches that weren’t accidental at all, and the sound you made hit him physically. 

He had never been so hard in his whole life.

He guided the panties lower, and lower, until they slipped free; and for a beat, he just held them, as though the simplest thing in his hand had become proof that the night had finally crossed into real.

Then he set them aside without looking, his attention snapping back to you immediately — hand returning to your inner thigh with a firmer hold than before. 

“If I do anything you don’t like — you tell me, okay? We have to communicate.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoed. 

His thumb drew one more slow line along your inner thigh, watching the way you answered it before he allowed himself to lower his head again, kissing the inside of your knee this time — soft — almost innocent, if the moment hadn’t been burning at the edges. Then another kiss, slower, lingering, his mouth warming you as his hands guided you open with a care that felt reverent. 

“You are just — beautiful,” he heard himself say.

You let out a small sound that wasn’t quite a breath and wasn’t quite a laugh, startled by how earnest he was being. Your cheeks warmed, and you turned your face just slightly, like you could hide behind the angle.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, aiming for teasing, but it came out too soft for anything but shyness.

And Jaeyun’s mouth twitched, a helpless curve that didn’t reach humor so much as relief. And his hand tightened once at your thigh, then gentled, thumb stroking a quiet line as if to soothe the flush he’d put in you.

“Yeah?” he said. “But is it okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, the word threaded through the quiet laugh that escaped you. You didn’t dress it up, didn’t offer an explanation, didn’t hand him the because — you just let the answer be simple. But it wasn’t simple at all, not to him because he heard the rest in the way your gaze found his and held: yeah, you said, because it’s you.

The first touch of his mouth against your folds was light enough that he didn’t even taste you, but your body still reacted: a sharp inhale, a pull through your spine, the instinctive arch that made his own breath break low in his throat.

And when you tipped your hips to him, he mouthed you again, his hands sliding further into you, thumbs finding the tender flesh of your hood and lifting it — leaving your clit in full exposure for him to lean in, the tip of his tongue kneading the sensitive flesh around, slightly rubbing before he pressed it, unable to prevent the sound that escaped his throat then — something between reverence and desperation. 

It took your smile away — your lips parting in a gasp as your fingers met and wove through his hair, pulling him in a demand that he had no second thoughts before obeying, giving you another lick — a harder one.

His tongue twirled all around the edge, then he pressed a kiss over it — a long, tender wet kiss before he lowered his head and licked at the entrance of your body because you were clenching around nothing, and it suddenly felt too evil, and Jaeyun would never be evil to you.

He pushed his tongue against your hole, and then, he pushed again until his tip went inside it, and he had to control his will to roll his eyes back.

Even his boldest fantasy hadn’t come close to how sweet you actually were. And the thought landed too tender to survive, cracking him open into something darker because being careful had started to feel like another kind of denial, and he couldn’t come to continue to restrain himself when you had given him all the permission. Jaeyun lifted his head just long enough to look at you, eyes blown wide and honest, as if he was giving you one last chance to pull him back. To tell him to stop. To make him good again.

Yet you didn’t. And something within him shifted. His hands held you firmer, spreading you open as he went back to you no longer soft-edged, and decided to stop hovering at the threshold, giving you what you were asking for.

Jaeyun’s grip tightened as he worked on you, alternating between broad strokes and precise licks on that one spot that never failed to make you cry out his name.  

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Let me hear you.”

Your response came almost immediately — a broken moan that seemed to come from somewhere so deeply inside of you, Jaeyun felt your own desperation reverberating through his entire body.

You were getting closer, he could tell by the way your thighs kept quivering under his hands, your breathing becoming more and more ragged with each pass of his tongue, but it wasn’t enough — he needed to see it: the moment pleasure turned undeniable, the moment he could stop wondering if he was reading you wrong.

Jaeyun retreated with a torturous care, pressing a final kiss to your folds as he pushed himself back onto his knees and earned a protest from you.

“Yun—”

“Not yet,” he said. “For now, I need you to hold yourself open for me. Can you do that, Princess?”

You nodded despite yourself, spreading your legs further apart — pushing the soles of your feet against your sheets for some leverage and fuck.

The sight of you like this — glistening with your fluids and remnants of his saliva — the sight of you so ready for him.

He could hardly breathe.

He brought one hand down through your thigh, his thumb resuming the circular motions on your clit while his other hand moved to your seam, teasingly brushing the tips of his fingers through before he slid a single one inside.

You were so wet already, he slipped with no resistance, and it was so dizzying — everything about it was so dizzying — he hardly heard you panting as he began to move his finger in and out, your stomach tightening and giving a small convulsion, but you kept your legs apart as he had asked you to.

It was a false deed, honestly — as if Jaeyun could command anything when both of you knew — he was the one to always follow. 

But he really didn’t care.

When Jaeyun felt you opening up to him, he added a second finger in, curling them slightly to discover that one spot that soon enough got you into a mess — squeezing him with your release as your hands grabbed at your sheets. Your lips parted around his name, and your hair turned wilder as your head pushed against your pillows, arching your back in that one beautiful bow before you melted again.

“Princess,” he called, and you clenched at the endearing name, a velvet heat that he felt in his very soul.

You hadn’t done anything to him, but Jaeyun felt utterly undone by you. His breath was coming in short, ragged gasps just by watching you.

God — he could come just by watching you.

You were so wet. His hand was coated with you, white slick dribble coming out of your cunt, making each of his moves obscenely loud in the quiet night, yet — all he could think was how stunning you were like this, so lovely and so his.

He wanted to keep looking — to hold the moment still, to learn it by heart, and make it something real enough to survive the morning. But he wanted to look away, too, all at once — startled by the sheer size of his wanting.

You had so much power over him, it was terrifying even to examine the way you owned his soul. When your gazes caught, his heart seemed to burst in his chest.

Was he doing it for you, or doing it for him? He couldn’t tell anymore.

He curled his fingers deeper inside of you, making you mumble something unintelligible, a sob ripping through your chest and already threatening to turn into a release. Jaeyun couldn’t help but grin at the sound, reveling in the way your body trembled and arched underneath his touch.

You thrashed and thrashed as he still tended you the way you needed, stroking the spots inside that made you shudder and rubbing at your clit until he heard you panting, his own name falling from your lips in a breathless moan before it turned into whimpers, and when you came around him, he leaned in to kiss you.

Jaeyun stayed close through the last shiver, like he didn’t trust the world not to startle you out of it. He kissed you again — slower now, softer — catching your mouth as your breathing stuttered, and pretending that he could take the edge off the intensity just by holding you there. His hand eased from its grip into a gentler touch, smoothing along your thigh.

“Hey,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

His forehead brushed against yours as his hands smoothed over your body, taking you through until he could cup your face, and his thumb could reach for the corner of your mouth, wiping away the evidence of his kiss with a tenderness that didn’t match how wrecked he looked. He swallowed, chest rising and falling too fast, and forced himself to slow his breathing until yours started to follow.

“Still okay?” he asked again, softer, as if the question mattered more now than it had before.

You nodded at him, managing a flimsy sound that might’ve been yes, and Jaeyun pressed another kiss to your temple, then your cheek, unhurried, almost devotional, as if he needed to apologize for his own intensity.

“You did so well,” he whispered. “Tell me what you need. Water? A minute? Do you want me to hold you, or—?”

“Jaeyun,” you cut.

“Yes, Princess?”

Your hands slid to the back of his neck, fingers curling and weaving through his hair, holding him still.

“I need you.”

It might have been the words, the small plea that took Jaeyun anew because he would never refuse anything you asked him, or perhaps it was the way you said them, a bit flimsy because you couldn’t control it still, but either way, he gave in, slipping from your hold only so he could take his t-shirt off. 

He almost choked when you stood with him, your hands reaching for his lower abdomen, nails scraping his skin slightly before you took his belt and unbuckled it. 

“Princess,” he called, the questions already on his tongue, shaped by habit, and the need to do this right.

But you didn’t give him time.

Your hands moved for his jeans, unzipping them as if you’d decided you were done waiting, easing them down in one smooth, impatient motion. The room seemed to go hushed around the sound of it — denim shifting, breath catching — until the only thing left was the sudden, helpless awareness of his length slapping against his abdomen.

Your hand found him, fingers curling around him almost beautifully, closing and molding with a care that didn’t match, and making his whole body go taut, breath pulling tight in his chest like it had nowhere to go. Not because he didn’t want it — God, he wanted it — but because he did, too much, too fast, the kind of wanting that threatened to ruin the rest of the night by sheer impatience.

He caught your wrist gently, holding you as his forehead dipped toward yours again, his eyes shutting.

“If you do that,” he began. “I’m not going to last.”

The honesty of it landed between you, sharp with embarrassment. And when he opened his eyes again, there was something almost pleading in the way he looked at you — like he was asking you not to laugh, not to make him feel small for how quickly you could undo him.

“Another time,” he promised, realizing the implications of his words a fraction too late. Not just later tonight. Not just when you feel like it. But again. As if he’d already decided that there was going to be a future where he got to learn you — and be learned — without rushing.

But you didn’t tease him. When you looked at him, your gaze holding his until the heat in his face had nowhere to hide, you merely nodded.

“Okay,” you said.

You were no warmer than Jaeyun was, but when he touched your waist, your skin shivered, a fine tremor running under his fingertips.

“Okay,” he echoed.

You let him ease you down onto the sheets, smoothing you into place as he followed you down, bracing himself over you without crushing you, and kissed you — slow, mouth soft, reverent in a way that made the moment feel almost holy.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” he whispered. “Tell me if—”

“I know,” you breathed, and the words sounded so much like trust — Jaeyun’s throat worked, and he kissed you again and again and again, only letting go to reach down beside the bed for his jeans, fingers finding the pocket by feel — clumsy in a way he never remembered being. His breath caught when you made the smallest sound behind him, and he hurried to get his wallet free, forcing it out with a practical shuffle before the faint and quick tear of foil came in the hush.

He slid it on with shaky hands that he hoped you wouldn’t notice.

But you did — of course you did. 

When he climbed back over you, you reached for his arms, your fingers brushing down until you found his hands.

“You’re shaking,” you whispered, your brows knitted, and searching his face like you were afraid you’d pushed him somewhere he didn’t want to go.

Jaeyun went still.

“Because it’s you,” he replied, not giving himself time to consider how much he had exposed with this mere phrase. 

Of course he was shaking. He’d wanted you for so long it had grown into something foundational, something he’d learned to live around and never touch. And now you were here beneath him, looking at him like he was allowed — like he was chosen — and his wanting hadn’t been foolish after all.

His throat worked. He tightened his fingers around yours, trying to make the shaking stop by force.

“If I mess this up, you won’t ever let me hear the end of this,” he smoothed.

You laughed at him — familiar in a way that loosened something in his chest, easing everything inside him as if the sound of you had always known where to press to make him breathe again.

“Don’t worry,” you said. “I’ll keep it all as another of our secrets.” 

“What other secrets do we have?”

“What you had under your bed when we were teenagers,” you began. “That you couldn’t sleep without a lampshade until you were twelve. Where we were on your eighteenth birthday. That you cried watching The Notebook—”

“Everyone cried watching The Notebook at least once.”

“Baekhyeon didn’t—”

“Did you watch it with him?”

“It’s my favorite movie, of course I did,” you said. “But don’t worry, it was just once — it’s funnier with you anyway.”

“Obviously,” he said. “Everything is funnier with me — and we are about to have a lot of fun.”

You laughed again, softer and only because he was allowed to — he kissed you again, his hands smoothing your thighs, your calves, his fingers moving and curling around your ankles and pulling you to him, lifting your legs to his hips.

You stiffened as his tip made contact, your body going taut beneath him and he stopped like he’d been trained for it, like every instinct he had rewired itself around not hurting you. His grip shifted back from your ankles to your thighs — his thumbs stroking small, steady circles as if he could coax your muscles out of panic.

“Princess, look at me,” he murmured. “Do you want me to stop?”

You shook your head, a little bit too frantically as if you were afraid he would really stop it, and Jaeyun exhaled through his nose, a sound that stood somewhere between a laugh and a prayer. He kissed you once, slow and grounding, then another at the corner of your mouth.

“Okay,” he said. “Then we go slow. I’m right here.”

He shifted — barely enough to change the angle, but you seemed to feel it and his thumb reached for you seam, wetting the tip of it with your fluids, and finding your clitoris, rubbing it in slow and deliberate circles that got you closing your eyes, moving your hips, and welcoming whatever he was giving.

Jaeyun made himself still enough to read you, his eyes tracking your face with the kind of focus that might’ve felt clinical, if it hadn’t been so tender. He watched your breathing first, then your mouth, then the tiny shifts in your shoulders before he slowed and it eased again.

He moved in careful increments, pausing whenever your breath changed. Waiting whenever your brows pinched. His hands steadied you — firm at your thighs, gentle at your waist, and holding you through the newness of it.

“Tell me,” he whispered. “Is it okay?”

You nodded and he lowered his forehead toward yours.

It was slow at first, all about him discovering the new shape of you, but soon enough, it was confident and knowing. When he drew back, he knew exactly how to move back in, how to make you tighten around him, and his name to escape from your lips a little bit more frantically as his rhythm increased.

Your fingers spread through the back of his neck, fingers twisting at the hair at his nape and bringing him closer and closer, as if you couldn’t help it. And when your breath turned ragged and your fingers tightened, Jaeyun pressed his mouth to your temple, whispering your name like a promise he could finally keep.

Even if only temporarily.

“Yun, I’m going—”

“It’s okay, Princess,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

And this time he meant it in every way.

“Come for me, babe.”

You twisted under his body, even as he kept you pinned in place with his hands on your hips, squirming and whimpering your way through it, finishing with an almighty shudder as you came a second time, and it was so beautiful, and overwhelming — he tried to stay careful. He tried to keep his breathing even. But you said his name like you needed him, and something in him cracked clean through.

He buried his face against your neck, a shaky sound trapped in his throat. “Princess—”

He didn’t have room for anything except you.

No thought. No control. Just the force of feeling, cresting too high and too fast, until it dragged a groan from him with your name inside it — like that was the only thing he could say when he finally lost himself — and with a final, deep thrust, his body tensed and spilled inside of you — groaning your name. The echo of it carved into your skin as he buried himself, his fingers molding into your skin with an intensity that left behind indentations as the waves of his pleasure washed over.

Jaeyun hadn’t realized how noisy you both had been, but the room felt suddenly too quiet after. 

And for a beat, he only stayed still — his forehead tucked against the curve of your neck, breathing you in like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of the air between you, the feeling of your pulse under his mouth, your fingers still lost in his hair, and your bodies so tangled, he couldn’t quite tell where he ended and you began — his whole soul afraid that the moment would slip away the second he admitted it had happened.

But then, you made a small sound, and it made him force his head up — just enough to look at you.

He brushed his knuckles along your cheek, then paused, thumb hovering at your lips because he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you like this now that the moment was gone. 

“You okay?” he asked, the question already worn thin by the number of times he had used it through the night, but it felt heavier somehow, meaning more than any of the earlier ones ever had.

But if anything, you only nodded — leaning into his touch as your lashes fluttered shut.

“Just stay,” you whispered.

And so, he stayed — rolling you both through your bed, his back sinking into the mattress as he drew you to his chest, giving you a place to rest as if it was any other night and you were merely best friends falling asleep together. He stayed until your heartbeat evened out against him and the room turned orange and pink with sunrise, dust motes catching in the full light like glittering hush, and the night had inevitably bent itself into morning.

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

Jaeyun lay on your bed, holding a breath in his chest as if it could keep the morning from happening. The sun slipped through your parted curtains and spilled across the room — patient and indisputable — turning everything into proof.  

Your dress was still pooled on the hardwood, your panties right above it, and his jeans were so close it could’ve been one thing. Your bra was still at the edge of the bed, pink, half-tucked into the sheets he couldn’t remember tangling.  

He let the breath go, and the mattress answered, making you stir — just a little — your head rolling off his chest until your chin found him again.  

When your eyes opened, the light caught and held — as if it had nowhere else to be.  

Jaeyun felt the instinct to speak. Something practical. Something safe. Something that could be filed under morning conversation and good friend behavior.  

Are you okay? he thought. Do you need water? 

Do you want me to make breakfast again and pretend I don’t care when you mock me for it?

But you didn’t give him time.  

You lifted your head — sleepy as it was certain — brushing your nose against his before you caught his lower lip between yours and kissed him in a way that made teasing feel like a promise.

Jaeyun went utterly still, his hands hovering, useless with hesitation. He had spent years learning which parts of you he was allowed to hold — elbow, shoulder, wrist; the small, steadying touches that could be explained without telling on himself.  

But this was your room.  

Your bed.  

Your morning.  

And you were kissing him like you’d never once needed an explanation, catching his lower lip — so gentle it hardly counted as a bite — holding it for one heartbeat longer before you let him go and eased back.

Jaeyun blinked, and the muted morning light dazed him — your room pressing in with a kind of hush that made it feel like a dream: sun-warm sheets, the sound of breath, the closeness of you like something he hadn’t earned but had been given anyway. He let it hold him for a suspended moment before he leaned in and kissed you again, this time with more feeling than thought — one hand found your waist, as the other slid behind your neck, tilting you up to him.

Your breath caught at that, and for a moment, Jaeyun feared he had gone too far — too fast. He’d finally slipped enough to not be able to lie and pretend he hadn’t broken his second rule, but then you shifted, sliding a leg over his hips, straddling him like it was the most natural place in the world to be, and something in him went quiet with the rightness of it.

He didn’t move first. He didn’t take. He only held where you’d placed him.

And when you parted — pulling back just enough for you to breathe — it carried the kind of practicality that had always been your shared language. 

“I need a shower,” you said.

For a beat, Jaeyun blinked at you, incapable of understanding the words. But then, his brain latched onto it, and he felt thankful. A shower meant tiles. Water. Soap. Clean lines. A task that could be completed. A thing he could do without interpreting your mouth, your eyes, the way your kiss had said stay.

“Okay,” he heard himself say. “Okay, yeah.”

Jaeyun shifted carefully, guiding you off him with hands that tried to remember what permitted felt like — waist, ribs, shoulder — anywhere that could still pass as gentle logistics instead of want. His gaze skated away from your face on instinct, as if looking at it too directly might pull him back under, and slipped out of the bed.

You followed, swinging your legs over the side of the bed, slightly swaying — more due to sleepiness than weakness, but Jaeyun’s body reacted anyway. He reached for you, his hands steady on your arms.

He helped you up. Guided you through your studio: past the small table with the stack of books, past the mug you never fully put away, and into the narrow bathroom where the tiles were warm and the mirror caught the gold of morning and gave it back to him as evidence.

Your skin carried so many marks from the night before that his breath caught.

He looked away so fast it felt like a flinch.

Jaeyun moved like he was trying to fix the world.

He turned on the light first. Then the fan. Then the tap — hot first, then cold, adjusting in small increments until the water felt right because putting things in order always helped him keep control. 

He watched the water steam faintly as it ran, watched it like it was a system he could calibrate.

He set a towel within your reach. Folded it once, then unfolded it because the fold looked too neat and he didn’t want you to notice how nervous he was. Then he reached for your shampoo and put it back where it already was, because he suddenly ran out of things to do, but his hands still sought for something.

You leaned your hip against the sink and watched him with that quiet softness that made his chest feel too full. The bathroom was suddenly too bright for how careful he was trying to be.

“Yun,” you called, and he turned to you like a man answering a question in class — focused, braced, trying to keep his face neutral.

“Yeah?”

You tilted your head, gaze flicking once before you merely stepped past him, your hands brushing and taking his, pulling him to the shower with you.

The steam gathered immediately, beading on his skin, blurring the sharp edges of the morning until the world became smaller and quieter.

“Sometimes, I can hear you thinking,” you said. “Did you know that?”

“I’m sorry,” he replied.

You laughed at that, but didn’t say anything. You merely turned around, reaching for the shampoo bottle he had previously rummaged and gave it to him. 

“Wash my hair,” you said. 

And so, he did.

Jaeyun took the bottle, pouring shampoo into his palm — more than he needed, because his hands were unsteady — and rubbed it between them until it warmed and foamed. Then his fingers slid into your hair, working the suds in small circles at the crown of your head, careful and thorough, moving outward as the steam gathered and the water ran down your spine. His knuckles grazed your ear once. An accident, maybe. But you let out a sound — more a sigh than anything, and something in Jaeyun tightened anyway, a flare that made his chest feel too warm. His jaw flexed at it, and he forced his hands to stay where they belonged — his attention to stay on the sequence, because sequence meant control: lather, rinse, repeat.

He rinsed you with his palm shielding your forehead, water sluicing through your hair in clear sheets. The gesture was intimate in the most domestic way — protective, and practiced — as if he’d been doing it for years.

And maybe that was why it did him in.

You must have felt the pause in him, the way his body went too still behind you, because when he finally finished, you turned to him, reaching for the bottle, and pouring shampoo into your own palm as you stepped closer — the warm line of you almost meeting the warm line of him, and slid your fingers into his hair.

Jaeyun didn’t know what to do with himself.

He merely bent a little so you could reach, letting your hands take over with a quiet competence that made his throat work. Water ran down his temples, traced the line of his jaw, caught at his lashes. He kept his eyes on the tile like a prayer — like if he looked at you, he’d lose the last clean edge of himself.

You rinsed him, and only when you tapped his hands — did he straighten again.

Then you smoothed soap over his bare skin, starting at his shoulders, your palms unhurried and warm. Down his collarbones. Over his chest.

Jaeyun’s breath broke when you reached his lower abdomen, your fingertips hovering dangerously close to the ache he’d been holding back, and making a sound slip from him — low, involuntary — rushing before he could trap it.

“Princess,” he said, but the word carried no warning at all, and you merely allowed your fingers to rest there, steady as the way your gaze met his.

“You said another time,” you remembered. 

Jaeyun froze.

Not because he didn’t understand. Because he did. Because the memory arrived with humiliating clarity: your hand curled on him in a way that made his honesty slip out raw and breathless last night.

He dragged in a slow breath through his nose. Steam beaded along his lashes; water traced the line of his jaw. He still didn’t look at you — not fully — like eye contact might knock the last brace out from under him while he was still negotiating with himself. Like he was trying to find the border between permitted and improper and realizing you’d moved it with one sentence.

“Are you asking me?” he began. “Or—”

“I’m asking,” you said.

His gaze found yours.

“Okay,” he whispered.

He took your wrist and guided your hand, not down, not yet, but to his jaw, to his throat, to a place he could handle without losing himself.

“Slow,” he said, and you nodded at him, letting your fingers linger.

Your thumb brushed the hinge of his jaw first — testing, almost absent — before your hand slid lower and lower, following the line of his throat, his collar bones. Water ran between your knuckles and his skin, warm and constant, making every touch feel softened at the edges, as if the steam had filed down the danger until it could pass for tenderness, but Jaeyun’s pulse changed immediately, his heart racing as though it too wanted to reach for you through his skin, meeting where your fingers brushed against his chest.

Jaeyun’s lips parted in a soft gasp as you reached for him, tentatively brushing through his extension. Starting from the already flushed tip and moving to the prominent veins all over him and then, all the way back, receiving an almost imperceptible buck of his hips in response.

“Okay?” you asked, and he nodded, but it wasn’t an answer so much as a reflex — his body trying to behave when his mind had gone helpless and searched for something to say — something small enough to fit inside a bathroom, inside steam, inside the ordinary noise of water hitting tile.

But there was no small word that fit because how could he say that anything you did with him would be okay?

How could he say that if you asked for his heart, he would open his ribs for you? If you reached in and took it, he would hold still and even tender you if you faltered.

Jaeyun swallowed, throat tight, breath catching on the way out as he reached for you, his fingers splaying over your cheek as his thumb reached for where a drop had taken place on your skin. 

“I’m okay,”  he said then, the closest answer he could give for what he meant. If you could feel the shape of the unspoken right alongside the spoken, you didn’t show it. 

Your hand merely closed around his length, fingertips tracing the same places his mind had traced a thousand times in private, and every pass of your hand felt like it rewrote him — like your touch didn’t just touch, but claimed a truth he’d been denying for years.

Jaeyun’s breath hitched as you guided him closer, his eyes shutting as his forehead tipped to the curve of your neck.

“Princess,” he whispered, not really sure if he intended to say something, but the sudden call made you pause, your hand motionless enough to make his breath hitch again, his hips bucking and chasing for the friction still. 

“Don’t stop,” he said, and perhaps it had been the words, perhaps it had been the way he said it, more like a plea than a request. But you didn’t — even when his grip tightened on you, his finger shaping bruises on your hips, and his lips parted, leaving a matching one at your neck.

You didn’t stop, even when he came into your hand. You merely gentled him, moving to his stomach, his chest, smoothing him down until his breath wasn’t so ragged and his heart had come into peace beneath your touch.

“Yun,” you called, and he hummed at you, still pressed close, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted like he’d forgotten what to do with the air. Water clung to his lashes. Steam softened the hard lines of him into something boyish, something undone. For once, he wasn’t braced for impact — he was simply there, breathing, and letting you see him, and it was strange how it made your kiss just even better.

How he could simply melt into you.

You smiled at that — small, warm — kissing the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then a place beneath his jaw that made Jaeyun’s eyes flutter shut, his head tipping just slightly to give you access, like his body wanted to cooperate even when his mind still tried to keep score.

“Princess,” he breathed again, and this time it sounded less like a plea and more like disbelief.

Your hands found him at your hips, guiding it down through your body, the swell of your ass, giving him enough time to grow on it, and take the lead, brushing over warm skin, following curves with a care that made it feel devotional rather than desperate. 

“Okay?” he murmured, because he couldn’t help — he couldn’t ease — not until you had nodded, brushing your noses and making something within settle with the gentleness of it.

Jaeyun exhaled and stepped closer. One hand halted at your waist while the other slid down and around, his fingers tightening briefly against your skin before he shifted, and lifted one of your legs — guiding it up to rest against his hip.

His tip brushed against your seam with the new position, barely anything, but you drew in a breath that didn’t quite make it back out to you, and a faint, trembling noise escaped through your lips instead, and he couldn’t help the soft, almost-gentle smugness that warmed his smile.

He rolled his hips against yours, and your head tipped back, eyes closing and lips still parted on that same faltered breath, allowing sunlight to catch on your skin in the shift, warm and liquid-gold along the lines of you.

“Bed,” you whined, and you didn’t need to tell him twice. 

Jaeyun turned the taps off, not really checking if he had done it properly, before he took you in his arms again, folding your legs around his waist as he walked you back down the short stretch of your place. Water tumbled from you both — tiny drops trembling loose with each step, catching the light before they fell in a thin, gleaming trail on your floorboards.

But you didn’t complain, you didn’t even say anything. When he placed you on the mattress; you merely spread your legs further — wordlessly making room for him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Condom,” you reminded him. “Do you have more?”

For a moment, the question didn’t make sense, but then, he nodded at you, slipping from your touch — just enough to reach for the wallet still tossed on your floor.

“How many did you bring?” you asked, and although Jaeyun had listened to it and understood, he didn’t reply, he allowed the question to hang in the air, a flush of warmth spreading up to his cheeks because the memory of him piling it at the chaser before he went to his classes last evening was too fresh still. 

Just enough, he had thought like he wasn’t, in fact, hoping.

Hoping that it wouldn’t be a one-time thing.

Jaeyun’s fingers fumbled once at the wallet before he forced them steady. He didn’t let himself look at you while he did it; if he looked, he’d lose the last clean thread of control he had left, and so, he merely tore the foil, the sound too loud in the quiet room, and the practical motions that followed felt like an anchor — something procedural to keep him from drowning in the fact that you were watching.

He climbed back onto the mattress, moving slowly, knees sinking into the sheets between your thighs. The bed dipped under his weight, and you shifted automatically to make space for him, your body already well known in the shape of him.

Jaeyun paused above you.

Water still clung to your hair, darkening the strands where they stuck to your neck. Your skin gleamed in the soft light — warm, flushed, kissed by steam and morning and the evidence of him. You looked up at him with your mouth slightly parted, breath uneven, eyes steady and it hit him so hard it almost made him gentle to the point of breaking.

“Princess,” he said, but if anything, you reached up, fingers catching at the back of his neck — not pulling him down, only holding him there — close enough to feel your breath on his mouth. Close enough that he couldn’t lie to himself about how much he wanted it.

Jaeyun lowered his forehead to yours and breathed once, then twice, as if he was counting himself into calm.

“Tell me if—” 

“I know,” you cut, and he snorted at that, his hands finding your thighs, and spreading there with care — measuring you, reading you, bracing you the way he always did when something mattered and he couldn’t afford to do it wrong.

He pulled in slowly, pausing each time your breath changed. Waiting when your fingers tightened in his hair. Listening like your body was the only language he trusted.

“Okay?” he murmured against your mouth.

“Okay.”

Jaeyun exhaled, giving himself a moment before he shifted his weight and settled in deeper.

You made a small sound at that, and Jaeyun halted — caught mid-motion as his eyes stayed on your face, searching for the smallest crack of discomfort, for anything he might have missed and could never forgive himself for.

“Talk to me, Princess,” he said. “Is it too much?”

“No,” you whispered. “It’s — good.”

That answer landed somewhere under his ribs and stayed.

Jaeyun’s eyes shut for a beat. And when he opened them again, he looked wrecked in the quietest way.

He kissed you once more, slower, lingering at the corner of your mouth, your cheek, beneath your jaw — mapping comfort into you the way he mapped calm into circuits, the way he tried to fix the world when it was too big.

And then he moved again, careful and deliberate, letting the moment become real one breath at a time.

The sheets gathered under your fingers. The room narrowed to heat and the sound of his name caught in your throat. Jaeyun held you like he could keep you safe simply by refusing to rush, like tenderness was the only rule he needed now.

“Look at me,” he whispered, and you did, blinking under the morning light and making him swallow, his chest swelling then, big enough to break open with love for you. And perhaps, you had felt it too — heard it in his voice, this sickening desperation, because your hands found his face, cupping it with a tenderness that didn’t match the way he was burying deep inside of you, his tip forming an eminence on the lower part of your belly as he worked on you with slow, long thrusts, and making you come in the morning haze.

Jaeyun collapsed beside you, his back sinking into the mattress as you followed rolling so you rested over his chest.

“Always,” you whispered, the word coming so suddenly, Jaeyun blinked down at you, his head rolling so he could search your face, confused if he had asked you something in his own haze. But sunlight picked strands of your hair, reflected through your damp skin. And he couldn’t make sense of anything.

“What?”

“I’m always okay when I’m with you,” you said.

He knew that he shouldn’t — but Jaeyun felt so right about it.

He felt so right when you called him Sunday afternoon, a tiny can you help me with something? rolling from your tongue and making him sprint to your place, being greeted with you already in your lingerie and you didn’t lie — you had no bad sets.

When he brought you down onto the bed, he didn’t even care about taking it out of you; his fingers merely reached in between your thighs, holding the piece as he slid inside of you.

He didn’t know then, if his hands were still doing their job or if they’d defected. If he was still keeping you safe — or if he’d finally started touching you like he’d wanted to for years, and breaking one more rule.

But as he held you, listening to you breathe quickening and setting against the curve of his neck, he couldn’t make himself care.

Again.

RULE #3: DO NOT BE POSSESSIVE  

I’m her best friend. I always have been. That doesn’t give me the right to be possessive. If I can’t be calm about her, I at least have to be kind. If I touch her, it has to feel like a question she can stop — not a claim. And if someday she chooses someone else, I have to accept it. I have to accept it like it won’t split me in half.

Jaeyun woke to movement.  

Not the slow, sleep-warm kind he’d grown used to in the past weeks, but something quicker — restless. Drawers scraped open and knocked shut again in the same nervous motion; fabric whispered against fabric, and hangers clacked as they were shoved aside.

He didn’t open his eyes — not yet. He listened to you instead: your bare feet skimming the floor, the breath you kept trying to hush, the tiny hitch of frustration when something wasn’t unfolding the way you needed it to.  

And that — that was what pulled his eyes open at last. You sounded wound tight with it, and Jaeyun couldn’t stand the idea of you being anything but fine.

You were half-dressed — shorts on, bra, hair still messy in the way only the mornings after managed, the frizz denoting the number of times he had made you come the night before, arching and pushing your head against the sheets — one of his t-shirts clutched in your hands like it belonged to you more than it belonged to him.

“What—”

You looked over your shoulder at him, guilty only for the fraction of a second it took before your face rearranged into something else.

“Sorry,” you whispered. “I’m late.”

Jaeyun pushed himself up on his elbows, the sheets slipping down his waist. He blinked slowly, trying to coax his mind into one piece through the morning haze.  

“Late for what?” he asked — voice rough with sleep and something worse.  

“My exam,” you said, already turning and moving another hanger. This time you pulled a blue plaid shirt free — the kind you’d been loving to borrow and make him come to collect it himself, your scent worked into the fabric like a quiet claim disguised as comfort.  

“You’re stealing that,” he said.  

You didn’t even bother to look guilty. “Borrowing.”  

“My wardrobe is becoming empty.”  

“And yet,” you said, turning to him with that familiar tilt of your mouth, “you really don’t hate it.”

Jaeyun didn’t answer. He merely watched as you stepped in close again, stealing the air from between you, as you pressed a kiss to his mouth — soft, swift, like a blessing you left behind on purpose.

And the second you pulled away, he moved. Jeans in his fists, he dragged them on as he went, stumbling through the doorway — desperate to be the first thing at your heels.

He caught you at the exact moment his roommates did — both of them lingering in the living room, their backpacks slung over one shoulder, caught in their coffee-stained routines — until the second they saw you and stopped like they’d walked into an invisible wall.

Sunghoon’s gaze went straight to the shirt.  

Then to Jaeyun.  

Then back to you, his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile.

Jongseong’s eyebrows lifted, slow and serene — the kind of calm that only existed because he liked chaos best when it belonged to someone else.

“Morning,” Jongseong said.

“Morning,” you replied — too bright. “I’m late.”

“Exam?” Jongseong offered, easing into conversation the way he always did: polite, steady, giving everyone an out.

Jaeyun cleared his throat. “She’s late.”

“I am late,” you echoed, pointing at him like it was somehow his fault you’d woken up tangled in his sheets instead of your own — in a room with no alarm clock at all, because Jaeyun despised morning obligations. “But yes.”

You crouched by the door, fingers quick on your laces, and slipping your shoes on.

Sunghoon’s eyes tracked you the whole time, amusement sharpening at the edges of his expression as Jongseong, bless him, kept the conversation where it belonged — safe, ordinary. 

“Good luck,” he said.

“Thank you,” you chirped, already halfway upright again. “Do you have exams too?”

“We’re finishing our exams too,” Sunghoon said. “We should go out after. Celebrate.”

Jaeyun’s jaw worked, like he was chewing down whatever sound wanted to come out of him.

“Arcano?” you asked, and Jongseong’s expression tightened into immediate refusal. He despised the bar, convinced it was what got him hospitalized during his first semester. “I know it’s terrible, but Yun has classes until late tonight — it’s the most reasonable for him.”

For a moment, the room went strangely quiet.

Jaeyun’s gaze found yours and held, warmth rising in him — quiet, disarming — and he went still with it, not knowing where to put the feeling. His mouth parted on a reflex, then he swallowed it back.

Jongseong’s eyes flicked to Jaeyun, then back to you.

“Fine,” he said at last. “But if anyone ends up in the ER again, I’m haunting all of you.”

“That’s fair,” Sunghoon said.

“You don’t have to—” Jaeyun began.

“I — we want to,” you cut in, the words coming as gentle as it was final before you stood and took the knob. “Text me the time!”

You slipped out with a bright, hurried smile, the borrowed shirt hanging off you like a secret, and making Jaeyun step forward, holding the door open so he could stand in the doorway, lingering in the shape of you leaving, and the way you’d arranged the world so he could follow.

When Jaeyun finally clicked the door shut, silence filled the hallway for exactly two seconds before Sunghoon whistled. 

“So,” he began, but Jaeyun didn’t look at him; his gaze stayed on the closed door. “Friends-with-benefits?”

Jaeyun’s jaw flexed. “Don’t.”

“Oh, it is that.”

“It’s not—” Jaeyun started, pushing his hair back off his forehead before he turned to his roommates. “I mean, I don’t know! We haven’t talked about it.”

“But you should,” Jongseong said, his voice neutral enough for Jaeyun not to hear the warning it carried until the air in the room shifted.

“Baekhyeon talked to me yesterday,” Sunghoon said.

“What?” Jaeyun asked, more as a reflex than in fact, understanding what it meant. “Why?”

Sunghoon’s gaze flicked to the door before it moved to Jongseong. And Jaeyun didn’t need anyone to spell it out — his roommates had already talked about this when he wasn’t there.

“He wanted to ask about her,” Sunghoon said. “He didn’t come in aggressive — he came in like he was trying to be the reasonable one.”

Jongseong’s mouth flattened. “Careful.”

“I’m not being cruel,” Sunghoon replied. “I’m telling you how it felt — and it felt like he’d rehearsed it.”

“What did he say?” Jaeyun asked, his voice warped to his own ears. “Exactly.”

“That was it,” Sunghoon said. “He just asked if I’d been seeing her around.”

He paused. 

“And if she was with someone else.”

Jongseong’s eyes cut to Jaeyun, concern flashing there before he forced his expression back into stillness.

“And?” Jaeyun asked.

Sunghoon’s mouth twitched. “I’m not stupid, I didn’t say you both have been acting like bunnies over the past few weeks.”

“Do you think she told him something?”

“No,” Sunghoon cut. “That’s the thing — I think he has been trying to contact her, but she has been ignoring him.”

And suddenly, it made sense — all those times he’d watched you skim your phone, thumb hovering over the screen, before you set it aside and you looked back at him, a smile forced into place.

God — he’d been so silly for overlooking it.

“He broke up with her,” Jaeyun said. 

“We are not telling you this to make you stressed,” Jongseong cut in. “We are just telling you so you can decide — this thing of yours is working for now, and I am glad for you — she apparently doesn’t want Baekhyeon back, which is great, but it might be someone else someday, and you will have to decide if you are okay with having only a part of her again.”

The apartment fell silent at this, and only then did Jaeyun notice how fast his heart was beating. It hummed against his ears, so loud he couldn’t even think.

When you were both younger — ten, maybe eleven — you had camped in your parents’ garden, your backs side by side on a too-thin blanket and a tent that never stopped letting the wind in. The world had been so silent, you’d whispered that it felt like there were only the two of you in the world, wouldn’t it be nice? You had asked. Back then, he’d rolled his eyes and said something dumb to make you grin, too young to consider anything.

Now, in his hallway with your perfume still on his skin and your borrowed shirt still bright in his mind, he understood what you’d meant. It would be so nice — so nice — if the world really could narrow down to just the two of you, and choosing you didn’t mean risking everything else. And he didn’t know whether that thought made him in love or made him dangerous.

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

By the time Jaeyun arrived at Arcano, you were already on the dance floor with Jongseong and Sunghoon.

And it was stupid, honestly, how whenever he thought he was getting used to your existence, you managed to surprise him — newly lit, newly impossible — you stood between his roommates, eyes sparkling, arms half around Sunghoon’s shoulders as you both shouted the lyrics of a song that was too loud and too familiar, and Sunghoon was singing like he meant it, even if he was off-key on purpose. Jongseong yelled the chorus at your back, his face turned upwards as if the ceiling had personally offended him.

Arcano was the same as it had always been — red bulbs that made everyone look like a rumor, sticky floors that clung to the soles of your shoes like the place didn’t want anyone leaving sober, and bass so loud it turned thought into vibration. The air smelled like cheap liquor and perfume and sweat and the faint bite of citrus from a just-spilled drink. 

And it’s too much — everything was too much.

But the moment he stepped further, you turned to him — not searching, but sure — as though you knew he was going to be standing there.

Gravity, he thought.

He moved through the bodies like he’d done it a hundred times — shoulders angled, hands careful, a quiet apology here and there, never shoving, never rushing. The bass beat against his ribs and still he stayed steady, eyes on you the whole time as if the rest of the room was just static.

You didn’t meet him halfway — you never did — you stayed where you were, your body turned subtly toward him, and only when he got close enough, your hand lifted, fingers finding his. And the moment you held him, the noise of Arcano seemed to dull around the edges, like the room had agreed to give you a fraction of quiet.

His hand was cold while yours was warm, and a shiver danced across you, strong enough to make your shoulders tremble.

And God — he wanted to kiss it. 

You had changed since the morning, trading the shorts and t-shirt for a white dress, but his shirt remained, draped around your shoulders, and making his breath catch — he tightened his grip only enough to be sure you felt him back.

“Hi,” you said, loud enough to be heard over the music, but soft in the way you always became with him.

“Hi,” he replied.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Sunghoon shouted. “We were about to file a missing person report.”

Jaeyun huffed a breath that almost counted as a laugh. He had gone to the apartment after his classes to drop off his backpack, but he didn’t feel like explaining, not when you were squeezing his hand — small, and private.

“Did you eat?” you asked, and Jaeyun felt the absurd tenderness of it. The fact that you could be in a bar, sweating and laughing and alive, and still your first instinct with him was care.

“Yes,” he lied automatically.

Your eyes narrowed. “Yun.”

“I ate.”

“You ate what?” you asked, and Jaeyun opened his mouth, but his words stalled, and so he closed it again.

“He didn’t eat,” Jongseong said.

“He did that thing where he decides worrying is a food group,” Sunghoon agreed.

Jaeyun’s jaw flexed, but his hand stayed linked with yours like the connection mattered more than winning. “I’m fine.”

You didn’t argue, or at least, not right away. You just watched him for a second, your expression shifting into something softer and knowing, like you could see through him even in red light and bass.

“I am getting you something,” you said. “Stay here — don’t wander.”

Sunghoon leaned in. “He literally can’t. He’s on a leash.”

Jongseong barked a laugh. “Be nice.”

Jaeyun opened his mouth to protest, but you were already gone — your smile tossed back at him before you turned toward the bar and leaving him to stand there, eyes following, and tracking the small obstacles: the drunk guy who swayed too wide, the table edge that could catch your hip, the slick patch of floor near the booths. All the little risks the world liked to place in your path, as if daring him not to rush up and fix it before it could hurt you.

You barely had reached the counter when he approached you. 

For a moment, Jaeyun thought it was a guy merely trying his luck with you, but then he shifted, red light catching on his features and Jaeyun recognized him immediately. 

Baekhyeon.

Your body stiffened as he leaned in, his mouth close to your ear for a moment before you shifted sideways, trying to create space. Jaeyun couldn’t hear the words leaving your mouth, but your body was speaking loudly enough: no.

Yet Baekhyeon didn’t step back; when you seemed to be about to leave, he reached out, his hand closing around your wrist, and forcing you to stay.

Jaeyun didn’t even think, Sunghoon shouted something behind him, but he was already moving, shoving through people, and cutting a direct line toward you.

“Just listen — fuck, I’m talking to you.” Jaeyun heard Baekhyeon say, his grip still on you.

“And I said I don’t want to,” you said. “Let go—”

“Let her go.”

Baekhyeon turned at the sound of his voice, eyes unfocused and caught in that ugly space between sober and drunk. For a second he only stared, his brain having to wade through the noise to understand what he was seeing. But then, something in his face tightened, reading the truth between the lines and understanding, all at once, that you weren’t alone here. That you weren’t waiting to be won back. That whatever space he thought he still had in your life had been filled.

Or worse — that it never existed at all.

Jaeyun inhaled, his chest filling with a silly compassion toward Baekhyeon because he, too, wouldn’t know what to do if he ever found himself being dismissed from your life like this, but then Baekhyeon’s hand tightened on your wrist, making your fingers contract in pain, and Jaeyun exhaled, letting it all go. 

He would crawl through hell, cut himself open until his body had become numb to pain, but Jaeyun surely would never hurt you — never.

“Let her go,” Jaeyun repeated.

“Here he is.” Baekhyeon laughed, the sound of it echoing oddly loud in Arcano’s air. “Always on time like a good little lap dog.”

Jaeyun’s jaw flexed once. And Baekhyeon’s smile widened, bright in that unpleasant way that said he’d found the exact spot to press.

“What is it, man?” he went on. “You show up, you play hero, you get to be the good guy. That’s the deal, right?”

His gaze snapped back to you.

“And you,” he said, sweetly, as if he could deny he was being mean underneath. “You always keep him there. On standby. Like an emergency contact you can kiss.”

The air went tight.

“Baekhyeon,” Jaeyun warned, and the other released your wrist, flicking his hand in a dismissive gesture as he looked around the bar.  For a moment, Jaeyun believed Baekhyeon had given up, putting an end to it, but then he turned back at you again, eyes brighter than ever.

“Don’t act like I’m the crazy one,” he said. “I saw it — every time you called her, she softened. Every time you showed up, she lit up. I was never the one — she just let me borrow the role until she was ready to stop playing innocent and let you crash,”

“I just didn’t expect she’d do it this fast — she always played so hard to catch with me—”

Jaeyun didn’t decide to shove him — he didn’t plan it — his body merely moved like it had been waiting for permission from something older than thought.

His hands drove into Baekhyeon’s chest, making him stumble back, hard, and knocking into someone behind him. 

Drink spilled onto the floor, and the scent of it rose almost immediately — sharp citrus and cheap sugar, muddled by the stale sweetness already living in the boards. It cut through the sweat and perfume for half a second, bright as a peel torn open, before the warmth of the room swallowed it again and left only the sour bite of liquor drying in the air.

“What the fuck—?” Baekhyeon barked. 

“Yun,” you called, but it was already too late.

Baekhyeon launched himself at Jaeyun, his knuckles across Jaeyun’s cheekbone with a hot, skidding sting.

For a beat, the impact didn’t hurt the way it should’ve — it was just information — pressure, heat, the metallic taste of adrenaline flooding his mouth.

But then, something in him snapped.

The image of Baekhyeon’s hand around your wrist flashed behind his eyes like a short circuit, and Jaeyun moved before his mind could catch up, his fist driving forward on instinct, a short, brutal arc — no finesse, no warning — just the need to hit back, to end it, to make Baekhyeon understand with his body what his brain refused to learn.

The punch connected.

Jaeyun felt it in his knuckles, in the jolt up his arm, in the startled give of flesh beneath bone — and the sound that left Baekhyeon was small, shocked, as if he hadn’t expected consequences to be real. Jaeyun didn’t wait to see what it did to his face. He only stepped in closer and did it again.

Baekhyeon fell on the dirty floor, Jaeyun above him, fist in the middle of another throw, when someone hooked an arm around Jaeyun’s chest from behind and hauled him up.

“Stop it,” Jongseong snapped. “You’re going to ruin your damn face.”

But Jaeyun barely heard him. He was still leaning forward, still straining toward the floor like if he just landed one more hit, the feeling in his chest would finally loosen, and make sense. 

Jongseong tightened his hold, bracing his weight behind Jaeyun’s back like an anchor.

“Yun,” you called.

Your voice wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

Jaeyun froze like you’d put a hand straight on his spine. His fist hovered, trembling with leftover momentum, and then you were standing in front of him, your hands on his face — warm palms cupping his jaw, thumbs brushing his cheekbones as if you could physically pull him back into himself.

“Yun,” you said again, closer and eyes searching his. And just like that, the fight drained out of him in a shuddering rush. His shoulders sagged. His breath broke. He let Jongseong hold him up for a second longer than he should’ve needed before he leaned on your touch.

“Princess, I—”

“Come with me,” you said. “Can you?”

For a second, Jaeyun couldn’t find the shape of an answer. Not because he didn’t have one — but because he had too many, a lifetime of yeses he’d never said out loud. His body was still buzzing with violence, his knuckles still singing, but your hands on his face made the world narrow into something he could survive. You were asking like it was a choice, like he was a person with options, when the truth was simpler than that: he had been following you since he was old enough to recognize your voice in a crowd. Since gardens and tents and school hallways. Since the first time you turned and expected him to be there — and he was.

“Yes,” he breathed, and the word came out rough, almost broken with how easy it was. Because you could’ve asked him to walk through fire and he would’ve stepped forward without thinking, just because you were the place his instinct went when the world got sharp. His hand rose, uncertain at first, then settled at your wrist like a question he’d spend his whole life answering the same way. 

Always.

You looked past him to Jongseong and nodded, a quiet reassurance, and Jongseong finally released Jaeyun.

“Come,” you said, your fingers slipping into his.

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

Arcano’s neon shrank behind you with every step, its red glow thinning into something distant and irrelevant, but Jaeyun’s body hadn’t gotten the memo yet. The adrenaline still sat high in his chest, making his breath feel too big for his lungs, his heart beating like it was trying to outrun what had happened. He kept swallowing like he could force it down.

You didn’t talk much at first. You didn’t need to. You just walked — your fingers laced through his.

And every time his grip tightened without meaning to, you squeezed back once, small and reassuring. It’s okay. I’m here. 

The street was cooler than it had any right to be, so closer to the summer, late-night air cutting cleanly through the smell of booze still clinging to him. The city sounded normal — cars passing, a laugh from someone’s balcony, a distant siren that didn’t belong to you. It was strange, how quickly the world returned to ordinary after a fight. As if nothing could be important for more than a few minutes.

Jaeyun glanced at you once, then again.

You looked furious in a contained way, like your anger had somewhere to go now that you’d gotten him out. Your mouth was set, your brow faintly pinched. Your thumb brushed the side of his hand, absent and grounding, like you couldn’t help checking he was still there.

Jaeyun’s chest tightened.

He wanted to say something useful. He wanted to apologize in a way that would actually fix it. But every sentence he tried to build collapsed into the same thing: I saw him touch you and I lost my mind.

Instead, he stayed quiet and let you lead.

You pushed the code into the keypad of your door with muscle memory, the little beep sounding too loud in the stairwell before it buzzed open and revealed your apartment.

Quiet in the specific way your place always was — soft, contained, familiar, smelling like clean laundry, faint florals, the lived-in warmth of your routines. The small lamp near your bed cast a gentle yellow glow that made everything look calmer than it felt. Books stacked neatly where they always were. A mug by the sink. A blanket folded too precisely at the end of the bed like you’d been trying to keep your life in order by force.

“Shoes,” you remembered. “Then sit by the counter.”

Jaeyun did as you said, slipping out of his shoes before he went to your counter and sat down on a chair, his hands on his thighs, and palms down, like he was trying to behave as you rummaged around — drawers, cabinet, a small basket you moved too roughly — the soft clack of objects knocking together filling the silence between you.

“First aid,” you muttered. “I know I have it.”

“Princess,” he said quietly.

“Don’t move.”

“I wasn’t going—” he began, but stopped, suddenly understanding. You weren’t being dramatic, but practical, anchoring the night into tasks: disinfectant, gauze, bandage. The same way he always did when his emotions got too big to hold comfortably.

You found the kit with a little gasp before you crossed back to him and set it on the table with a soft thud, bending slightly so you could see him properly.

“Give me your hand,” you said.

Jaeyun hesitated for a fraction of a second — then extended it.

Your hand closed around his, gently turning it over in the light, and beneath this sudden clarity, you frowned, eyebrows knitted, lips pressing into a thin line. The wounds were worse than it seemed. There was a cut over his fingers, bleeding as a darker bruise spread over. You reached for them, the tips of your fingers wandering through his skin as if you could erase them with your bare touch.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Jaeyun went still, your words reaching past the cuts and hitting something deeper.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t say you’re sorry for that.”

“It’s my fault—” you started. 

“No,” Jaeyun cut in. “No. He did that. Not you.”

You turned to the aid kit on the kitchen counter, dropping your gaze like you could hide behind the small, practical motions of it — like if you focused hard enough on gauze and antiseptic, he wouldn’t see the way your eyes had gone wet. But Jaeyun did. He always did, in the quiet, unfair way he noticed everything about you.

“I hate that you got hurt because of me,” you said.

Something in Jaeyun’s chest tightened — sharp and aching. 

He leaned forward in the chair before he fully knew he was doing it, his uninjured hand sliding to your wrist, fingers curling gently around your skin as he pulled you onto his lap.

The motion was clumsy with the chair and the counter and the first aid kit half-open, but the moment you settled, your thighs bracketing his hips, the world narrowed into something that made painful sense.

His hands came up to your face, palms cupping your cheeks as his thumbs brushed along your cheekbones, cleaning your tears like he had done when he got you both grounded at twelve, and like he’d done again years later, on the night you crashed your father’s car — your hands shaking on his wrists, as he told you to breathe.

He made you look at him.  

Your eyes were wet and bright, with tears, the shine gathering at the lower lid until it spilled and traced down your cheek, and his chest ached at that low instinct already moving with the need to make it better.

“Don’t take the blame,” he said. “I can’t stand it when you do that.”

Your breath hitched.

“It wasn’t your fault — he grabbed you and said those things. He—” Jaeyun’s throat worked, and for a second his voice broke. “I heard the way he talked to you, and I didn’t know how to be calm about it. If there’s someone to blame here, it isn’t you. It’s me.”

You stared at him for a second before your hands lifted, your fingers finding and resting at his wrists as they always had.

“Yun,” you whispered.

Jaeyun’s breath shuddered out, and he leaned forward without thinking.

And for the very first time, you met him halfway.

Your kiss was soft at first — careful, but Jaeyun answered too eagerly.

His grip tightened at your cheeks, bringing you closer as if he believed his existence lay in the acknowledgment of you — on how your heartbeats resonated together, how naturally your hands curled around his shoulders, and the sensations your bare fingertips are capable of drawing on his skin.

He kissed you like he was still at Arcano. 

Like he was still shaking.

Like the only way to stop the night from replaying was to overwrite it with you.

His nose pressed hard against your cheek as his tongue licked over your own, slipping past your lips, and tasting that stupid strawberry cocktail you always ordered on your nights out, sweet and a little floral, like summer dissolved and turned on a flavor, and his thumb pushed at the corner of your mouth, asking for more.

He couldn’t come to care that it wasn’t protection anymore, but possession. He just wanted proof that you were still here.

Your hands slid into his t-shirt, fingers curling at the thin material the way they always did when you wanted him close, and it was enough to steal a sound from him — quiet, and yet completely wrecked — his arms slipped, and tightened around your waist, pulling you nearer until there was no space left to misunderstand.

“I’ve been trying to be good. I keep failing when it’s you,” he heard himself say. “I don’t know how to be only your friend anymore.”

There was a lost moment — a second where none of you moved, and Jaeyun thought that he finally did it — he had finally ruined the friendship, but then, you leaned in again, lips on his as your knees tightening around his hips, your weight settling into him like you’d chosen the place on purpose.

And it made him exhale like relief.

His uninjured hand slid along your side, finding you. The curve of your waist. The line of your ribs. The warmth of you under your dress like a living proof he couldn’t talk himself out of. He paused every time your breath changed, as if he was listening for the smallest no, for any flicker of doubt.

But you didn’t give him one. Instead, you tipped your forehead to his, noses brushing, and whispered his name in that soft, wrecked way that always pulled something honest out of him.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, the words rough around the edges. “Tell me and I—”

You kissed him before he could finish, fingers threading into his hair, holding him so close, he not only heard the next word, but felt them. “You.”

Jaeyun’s throat worked.

He lifted you — not smoothly, not perfectly, because the chair was in the way and the counter was too close and the first aid kit lay open like a dirty evidence — but he did it anyway, with a gentleness that didn’t match the violence still humming under his skin. He carried you those few steps like it mattered, like the distance between your kitchen and your bed was a threshold he needed to cross carefully.

When he set you down, you caught the back of his t-shirt and pulled him after you.

He braced his weight so he wouldn’t crush you, forearms on either side of your shoulders, head dipping until his mouth found you again, again and again, pressing kisses along your cheek, your throat, the place beneath your ear that always made your breath hitch and he made a question of always finding it. His hand slid down your arm to your fingers, lacing them together above your head for a moment like a question, like an offering, and when you squeezed back, he let himself believe you.

His shirt went first, easing off your shoulders like a last, familiar layer — then your dress, and then your bra, quietly as the breath you released when he leaned in again and kissed the tip of your breasts, one at a time before he moved to your sternum, your stomach — taking in every piece of your skin in between his lips.

When he reached your panties, he didn’t care about taking them off; he merely kissed you over them, the thin lace not doing much to dull the feel of his mouth over your cunt and making you shiver, hands coming to his hair and threading almost bitterly, but if anything, he hummed, giving you another kiss and then, another. Open mouthed and tongue sneaking out every now and then to bump against your covered clit, and making you squirm in his hands, head thrown back, and sliding away a bit.

He pulled you into him, hands grabbing at your thighs so he could push his face back between them, licking a flat, slow stripe over your cunt. The lace did nothing to hold your fluid this time, and he tasted you through, his eyes closing almost instinctively to savor it better. 

“You taste so good,” he couldn’t help but say. “So fucking good.”

A grin broke across your face — bright, and disarming — and Jaeyun forced his arms to push him up, kissing it like he could keep it there, among your already flushed cheeks, and your hair messy against the sheets because God — he was so in love with you.

“Princess,” he called, not really sure if he had something to say. But you hummed at him anyway, hands reaching for the hem of his t-shirt, and slipping your fingers underneath it.

His abdomen tensed and contracted as you wandered through, your trembling fingertips grazing through the lines long memorized, and pushing the piece up and up, until he had no other option but to lift his arms and help you take it off. 

Jaeyun groaned as you moved to his belt, unbuckling it with the same ease you unzipped his jeans.

“Shit,” he murmured. 

“What?”

“Condoms,” he whispered. “I — we used the last one yesterday. I was going to buy after Arcano.”

“That’s okay.”

It was his turn to halt, your words catching somewhere between sound and meaning. “What?”

“That’s okay,” you repeated, and when he didn’t move, you arched up beneath him, lips finding his ear. “I am saying that you can hit it raw, Yun.”

He made a sound — small and involuntary — the kind of honest noise his body made when his mind was still trying to pretend it had control. And you laughed the way you’d always done to turn moments into something survivable.

Jaeyun’s face heated immediately, color climbing up his neck.

“Don’t,” he managed, as if the word could stop you from seeing him like this — undone by you, made soft by a sentence and the brush of your mouth near his ear.

But you only smiled wider, eyes shining with the kind of fondness that hurt.

And Jaeyun — God, Jaeyun — looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with how much he felt. Like love had taken up residence in him years ago and never once paid rent, and now it was everywhere: in his breath, in the way his hand hovered and then settled, careful, as if touching you was a question he wanted to keep asking for the rest of his life.

He exhaled, a little shaky. Then, because he couldn’t help it — because you were laughing and alive beneath him, and he was hopeless — his mouth twitched.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Princess,” he whispered, the words rough with tenderness.

You shook your head, not quite dismissively, but more like you couldn’t believe how silly he was — how silly he was for you. 

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Hips up, babe,” he instructed, and you met him there, your body moving on a quiet arch, as you pushed at your feet, and allowed him to curl his fingers at the band of your panties, sliding them away before his hands returned to your inner thigh, your calves, taking over your ankles, and pulling you toward him. 

You shivered as he pushed himself inside of you, your fingers digging into his back as your lips parted on a quiet moan that he made up for you — Jaeyun simply not being able to be quiet at the feeling of you around him with no limitation and groaning loudly.

Jaeyun never thought he would be the type of guy to be emotional over taking a girl without a condom, but it was you with him, and when he started moving again, it was slow and deep, each thrust deliberate as if he wanted to memorize every sound you made, every way your body responded to his. The friction was different, he could feel every ridge, every pulse of you around. And it was almost too much, the intimacy of it making his chest tight with emotion he couldn’t name.

Jaeyun hissed, looking down between your bodies, eyes all warm and glazed as he watched how you fit together for a quiet moment before his forehead dipped and rested against your shoulder, his breathing uneven, as if he was trying to keep the night from turning reckless again.

He was so careful with you it felt like devotion.

But then, you drew him closer — insistent — and he finally let his body answer with the same honesty his voice had tried to avoid. Jaeyun kissed you until you tasted like him. Until your hands clung. Until the space between your bodies stopped feeling like a rule and started feeling like a lie. Each thrust of his hips pronounced with a wet clash, and the sound of your headboard hitting the wall.

And it was too much, honestly — you were too much.

When you came, he followed — quietly, inevitably, his breath breaking as if your body had taken his and led it somewhere he’d never learned to survive. Yet still, he didn’t punish you; he stayed close, slowly towing your climaxes for as long as he could. And when he finally stilled, he pulled back with a tenderness that looked almost like it broke him to let you go.

Jaeyun eased down and let his head rest against your lower stomach, breathing there for a second — then another — almost as if his lungs needed to relearn how to work. Your hand found him, threading into his hair, fingers combing gently until his face softened and his eyes fell shut. And, for the first time all night, his body stopped bracing.

RULE #4: DO NOT LET HER KNOW YOUR TRUE FEELINGS  

If I say it out loud, I make it her problem. I put something heavy in her hands when she never asked to carry me. And I’m afraid — plain and simple — that if she knows, everything changes. And if everything changes, she might step back. She might leave. I can survive wanting her. I can survive swallowing it. I can’t survive losing her. So I’ll keep it useful: jokes, rides home, answers at 2 a.m., the kind of loyalty that looks harmless from the outside. I won’t say I love her. I won’t say I’ve always loved her. I won’t turn our friendship into a question she has to solve.

Jaeyun stayed where he was a little longer than he ought to have, his palms splayed at your sides, lips parted against the skin of your stomach as he pressed a kiss there, and then, at your hips, your thighs, covering all the way to your knees and back up again. 

You shivered as he nipped at the tender skin just inside your hip, your fingers tightening in his hair for a moment before you eased again — slow, and unconsciously, keeping time with your breath.

“Jaeyun,” you whispered, and perhaps it had been the way your breath changed then, caught on something that he couldn’t quite hear, but his heart wavered in his chest.

He knew you enough to know it was the beginning of a confession. He just didn’t know what kind. And that was what scared him: not the truth itself, but the possibility of it. That you might be about to ask for distance. That you might be about to reach for a word that would make him either the safest thing in your life — or the mistake.

“Could you turn the lights off?” you asked. 

It could have sounded silly then. But it was something old between you — something you’d done as kids when you needed to confess something embarrassing, something heavy. As if darkness could make secrets smaller. As if not seeing each other’s faces could make bravery easier.

Jaeyun propped himself up, knees pressed against your mattress as he reached for your lampshade and turned it off.

The room darkened instantly, but not completely — not with your curtains still open and the city’s light streaming in, painting the walls in soft silver and distant neon, scattering stripes on your sheets.

Jaeyun hadn’t noticed how still you both had become until a car passed outside, its tires whispering over the asphalt before it was gone, and the room held onto the quiet that followed, too complete, too attentive.

The sheets rustled softly as Jaeyun lay back down beside you, not touching you — not yet. He just stayed close enough that when you turned to him, he could feel you through the dark, but then you reached for his hand, interlacing your fingers as you had done when you were nine and whispering that you’d heard your parents arguing and didn’t know where to put the feeling, you were thirteen and admitting you were terrified that one day you’d grow up and he wouldn’t be yours to keep.

“Talk to me, Princess,” he whispered.

“Baekhyeon wasn’t wrong,” you said, the words scattering through the space of your bodies so quickly, Jaeyun took a moment to catch it all, and when he did, he went very still, eyes sharpening on your face.

“Not about you,” you added. “But about me — he wasn’t wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you remember my first date?” you asked.

Jaeyun let out a breath that was almost a laugh, except it didn’t contain humor. Of course he remembered. He remembered the outfit. He remembered your perfume. He remembered how a strand of hair didn’t quite stay on your pins and he kept fixing it while you paced through your room. He remembered how his fingers lingered there for one last time before you slipped through the door.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “I remember.”

You stared at your hands for a beat, thumb brushing against his knuckles. 

“I thought you would tell me not to go,” you admitted. “But you didn’t, and so I went, and through the whole day I kept thinking oh, it would have been so much better if Yun was here,”

“The same thing happened with Baekhyeon — I kept wishing you were there with me instead, and I thought it was just because you’re my best friend and everything is funnier when it’s just us. I thought it was just because I feel safer when I’m with you, but—” you paused. “But through these last weeks, I just realized that I truly wished you had asked me to stay,”

“I truly like us.”

Nothing in the room moved, but something in him did, his internal footing slipping, the world turning unstable while his body stayed perfectly still beside you.

Jaeyun’s mouth parted, but his body acted like it was still losing its footing. His breath snagging, throat tightening, the words jamming as if speech required solid ground he no longer had. And in the middle of his silence, you created your own answer.

“Never mind, I just—” you began, slipping from his touch and slipping away, but he caught you then, fingers closing around yours again and keeping you there.

“I’ve wanted to tell you to stay a thousand times.”

Your breath caught at his words, your gaze lifting to his and holding, steady and unblinking, the kind of eye contact that made everything feel suddenly too honest to survive. His grip tightened on your fingers, then gentled again, careful not to turn it into a claim — only a question he was asking with his whole body.

“I wanted to,” he said. “When you had that first date. When you called me after and tried to laugh about it, like it didn’t get under your skin. When you—” His breath caught. “When you started seeing Baekhyeon, when he called when we were together. Every time — every damn time — I wanted to ask you to stay.”

Jaeyun lifted your joined hands to his face, turning them slightly so the backs of your fingers brushed his cheek. 

“But I didn’t,” he whispered. “Because I thought if I told you to stay, that was when I was going to lose you entirely — and you know, Princess, I can handle being your best friend forever. I can handle being the one you call when you’re sad or drunk or mad — even if it’s just for you to leave once the moment passes. I can handle having only parts of you.”

His voice lowered. “But I can’t handle losing you.”

You turned toward him properly then, shifting until your faces were close enough that when you spoke, he didn’t just hear the words that followed, but he felt them.

“I would have stayed,” you said. “Every damn time — I would have stayed.”

Jaeyun made a sound that didn’t belong to him — small and raw — the sentence going straight through his ribs and lodging there.

His grip on your hand tightened — and his forehead dipped toward yours, hovering there as if he didn’t trust the space between you not to change its mind. 

“Stay, Princess,” he asked.

“I’m going nowhere.”

FINAL RULE: NO MORE RULES  

I wrote rules that were supposed to keep me from ruining us. I thought that if I could define every boundary, I could pretend I could control the outcome. Don’t accept reckless requests. Don’t touch her like I’m owed. Don’t be possessive. Don’t say the words that might make her leave.

A small guide for surviving her without losing her.

But I’m not losing her.

She’s here. She’s not a maybe, not a mistake, not something I have to handle with gloves on. She’s with me — clear-eyed, chosen, real. And for the first time, the future doesn’t feel like a threat I need to solve. It feels like something we’re walking into together.

So this is the last rule: no more rules.

Not because I’ve stopped being careful with her — fuck, I’ll always be careful with her. But because I don’t need rules to keep her close when she’s already choosing to stay. Because I don’t have to hide love inside procedure anymore. Because I can finally stop bracing, and start living in the simplest truth I’ve ever had:

Around you is a blur of muted colours and somewhat familiar faces, the other students wearing thick coats and wool scarves and yet, amongst them all, you’re always able to pick out your favourite. It’s nothing special– a black bomber– but it has never been the jacket that catches your eye, not necessarily; it’s the person wearing it. 

You’ve known Yang Jungwon since the first semester of your first year at university.

Back then, a boy named Jake was nothing more than your assigned partner for a chemistry lab, but slowly, he became one of your closest friends. And unlike most other first-years, he’d opted out of rooming in the university residence, choosing instead to rent a small three-bedroom apartment just off campus with two guys he’d known since high school. When he invited you over for the first time, you were expecting nothing more than a quiet evening spent studying for a midterm together.

What you had absolutely no idea would happen, however, was that you would end up meeting the person who would completely occupy your every thought for the next three years.

Your phone buzzes in your lap. 

jungwon: where are you??? i saved you a seat

you: look behind you silly

You watch as Jungwon tilts his head back, eyes sweeping across the lecture hall for a few seconds before finally landing on you. The moment he sees you, a smirk pulls at his lips, and he nods toward the empty seat to his side.

It’s almost embarrassing, you think, the way your body moves on its own, already gathering your lecture notebooks and shoving your pens back into your bag. You make your way down the steps two at a time, stumbling over backpacks and outstretched legs, trying to rein in the eager expression tugging at your face, but to no avail.

“Finally,” he whispers, nudging his knee against yours softly. “I thought you abandoned me.”

There’s a teasing glint in your eyes as you glance over at him and feign thoughtfulness. “Well, I was thinking about it.”

He lets out a chuckle, shaking his head as he focuses back to the front of the room, where the professor is getting ready to start the lesson. “Liar,” he mumbles under his breath.

You grin. He’s right, you’d never do that. And even though you should turn to the front too, you let your gaze linger on his features for a moment longer. The curve of his nose, the sparkle in his eyes, the small birthmark at the bottom of his jaw... You’ve memorized these details, traced them so many times in your mind that they feel permanently etched there. 

But if you were smarter, you’d realize that just because you can predict the way his smile will form before it reaches his lips, it doesn’t guarantee that he can do the same for you. 

—

“And then he nudged my knee! when I tell you–”

A squeal cuts you off. “He what?!” Yunjin practically launches herself upright on the couch, eyes widening. “I’ve been saying that he likes you.” 

As your roommate and best friend, she has been by your side throughout what you guys have jokingly started calling the Jungwon Saga since day one. She was there when you got back to your dorm in first year, rambling about the cute boy Jake lives with, and she was there when you embarrassingly spent an entire evening analyzing the meaning behind a good luck text before your first final exam. Yet perhaps most importantly, she’s always there to tell you that you aren’t imagining things.

Not that you need much convincing. You pride yourself on the fact that you’re pretty good at reading body language and gauging the signs someone might give off. After all, you can always tell when one of your friends has a crush. You notice how their eyes track the person a little too long, the way their voice changes when they talk about them, how they somehow always end up bringing them into every conversation despite there being zero correlation.

It’s obvious because it's almost exactly what you do with Jungwon. 

“I’m serious,” she insists, watching the flush on your cheeks grow. “You cannot tell me you don’t see it after all this time.”

You laugh as you tuck your legs beneath you on the couch. “I mean... I’d like to think he likes me too,” you give her a pointed look, “but it’s not like he’s actually done anything about it.”

Though humbling to admit, not once has Jungwon actually made a move on you. And as much as you can sit here and list every little thing he’s done that makes you believe there are underlying feelings, you know there is one thing you don’t have. A confirmation, in words. What was that famous phrase going around on social media? If he wanted to, he would? Something like that. So far, he hasn’t done the ‘would’ part, which is a bummer, but there are still so many other hints that point to some sort of romantic inclination that you choose to ignore what the relationship gurus on TikTok say. 

“Okay, but still,” your friend says, waving her hand dismissively. “The year isn’t over.” 

“Hm?” You raise an eyebrow.

“I’m mean,” leaning forward, her hands coming to rest on your shoulders. “Maybe he’s just waiting for the right moment.” 

“The right moment?”

“Yeah! Think about it: you’re in the final semester of your final year, lots of work and studying to do. He’s probably aware of the fact that you are stressed and wants to make sure he doesn’t add to it.”

“I bet,” she continues, raising a finger, “maybe he’ll ask you out after graduation. You know, when things calm down.”

You tilt your head, considering it.

One thing you’ve noticed about Jungwon is that he is extremely thoughtful, always taking his time to consider how his actions might affect other people. So perhaps Yunjin is right, to some degree. Then, because there’s only so long you can spend dissecting your (lack of) love life before remembering you have actual responsibilities, you glance toward the kitchen. “Anyway,” you say, pushing yourself off the couch, “what do you want for dinner?”

Yunjin blinks. “What do we have?”

“Well…I kinda forgot to go grocery shopping, so our options are pretty slim pickings right now.”

Grabbing her phone, she opens the local food delivery app. “Order in?”

-

So after consuming an amount of pizza that must not be voiced aloud, you eventually decide that moving to your bed is a battle you are no longer willing to fight. By the time you’ve showered, changed into your pyjamas, and completed your nightly routine, the apartment has gone quiet. Settling into your bedsheets, you scroll on your phone, catching up on missed messages you’d forgotten to reply to throughout the day. 

You’re halfway through watching an Instagram reel your friend Sunghoon sent when your phone vibrates in your hand; a new notification blooming at the top of your screen. Your eyes flick up toward the same of the sender, and your heart does a heavy, traitorous thud in your chest. 

jungwon: hey, i think you’d like this song!

Quickly, you click the link to the song, and within seconds, you’re smiling and rolling around your bed in giddy excitement. The minute it ends, you replay the song from the beginning, letting the melody fill the quiet of your room as you stare at the little message bubble above it. 

He heard this and thought of you! Out of everyone he could have sent it to, he chose to send it to you!

As cringe as it may be, you take a screenshot of the text and open your chat with Yunjin. She may be in the room next to yours, and definitely awake, but you’re so comfortable there’s no way you’re getting up. Just as you’re about to press send, your phone buzzes again, and it’s another message from Jungwon, but this time, it’s not a private message. Rather, it’s sent to the group chat you have with him and Jake, and some more university friends. 

jungwon: guys this song is a banger and a half 

Below that is the exact song he sent you.

Okay… so you guess it isn’t the cute shared moment between the two of you that you thought it was, but he sent it to you first, so that should mean something at the very least. You try not to let the disappointment lodge itself in your throat as you switch back to your private chat with him, and like the message. 

—

You might honestly have a heart attack.

Seated across from you, Jungwon has his head buried in a textbook, one hand lazily playing with the edge of the page while the other scribbles notes into the margin. He’s wearing a black beanie pulled low over his forehead, a plain black t-shirt, and grey sweatpants. Altogether, it might just be, and this is objectively speaking, the single most lethal clothing combination a man can put together, and it takes everything in you not to spend the whole studying session checking him out— a Herculean task, really.

To your left, Jake is meticulously making flashcards for the upcoming midterm, mumbling definitions under his breath (you know he’ll ask you to quiz him on them later), and on your right, Jay is asleep, to nobody’s surprise. This is how your afternoons usually go: after dying of boredom in a lecture, the four of you, or whoever else you share a class with, move to the campus library to do extra reading and review any new information.

“Yo,” Jake says suddenly, not bothering to look up from the stack of flashcards in his hands. “Y’all going to that party on Saturday? I think it’s at Yeonjun’s.”

You'd already been invited by the man himself the last time you ran into him, though you hadn't exactly been counting down the days. Loud music, sticky floors, and squeezing through a house shoulder to shoulder with strangers weren’t usually included in your idea of a good time. Still, Yunjin had made it abundantly clear that she intended to go, and after nearly four years of knowing each other, you'd learned a very important lesson: What Yunjin wants, Yunjin gets. 

“Yeah,” you shrug. “I’ll probably be there.” 

At that, Jungwon’s head lifts as he looks at you. “You’re going?”

“Mhm.”

He hums once, absentmindedly, then looks back down at his notes. “I’ll go too.”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you force yourself to look anywhere but him to avoid getting caught cheesing. You totally influenced his decision! It’s times like this when you’re 100% convinced he likes you. Like who would say that if they weren’t interested? You’re not complaining. Plus, if he wasn’t going to go, your already non-existent motivation would have dropped tenfold. Perhaps with a little bit of alcohol in the system...

The right end of the table wobbles as Jay stirs, peeling his cheek off the textbook he'd been using as a pillow. There's a deep, blotchy imprint pressed into his skin where the pages had folded beneath him.

You burst out laughing before you can stop yourself, slapping a hand over your mouth, eyes wide as you try to smother the noise (rookie mistakes). A few heads turn from nearby tables, searching for the source of the disruption.

“Are you going to go?” You whisper once you've composed yourself.

From the corner of your eye, you see Jake’s cheeks puff up with air as he, too, tries his very best to hold in his laughter. 

“I’m too tired to make a decision right now,” Jay grumbles back, dragging his hands through his hair. It makes you roll your eyes. That’s code for ‘No, unless there is weed.’

From under the table, you feel something pushing against the front of your calf, and your gaze flits over to Jungwon, who’s leaning a bit further back in his chair, peering at you with one eyebrow raised. Wordlessly, he looks at Jay and gives you a look, and you know immediately that he’s thinking exactly what you are.

“I’m pretty sure Yeonjun’s plug will be making an appearance.” He coughs behind a fist, and Jay sits up so quickly you’d think he’s been possessed. 

“Heeseung? No way. I thought he transferred.” The fact that that is what gets Jay to be the most alert he’s been since entering the library…

“He did, but he’ll never turn down a party.” 

—

Said party is already well underway when you step through the front door of Yeonjun’s place. 

It has been propped open to let in the cool spring air, though it does very little to combat the heat trapped inside, and it makes you feel bad for the neighbours, who are undoubtedly debating whether or not they should call the cops with a noise complaint. Music spills out from somewhere deeper in the house, loud enough that the bass rattles faintly beneath your feet as you step over the piles of abandoned shoes and get past clusters of people gathered in the entryway. The living room is stuffed full of students from every faculty imaginable, many of whom you vaguely recognize just from walking around campus, or the dining hall from first year.

"I told you we'd be late," Yunjin yells back to you as she catches your wrist, weaving the two of you through the crowd before you lose each other. "If we'd left forty minutes earlier, we wouldn't have to fight for our lives like this just to get inside."

You laugh, nearly bumping into someone. "This is your fault. You wanted to pre-game for an hour before coming.”

“Yeah, yeah, but imagine arriving here sober? I’d probably turn right back around.”

A fake scoff escapes you, and she lets go of your hand, looping her arm through yours as the two of you finally emerge into a slightly less crowded corner of the room. The drinks table has already been picked over by the time you reach it, with only a few bottles of cheap liquor and beer sitting scattered amongst half-empty bags of chips and melting ice. You settle for a random bottle of gin and what’s left of the tonic. 

"There you are!"

You turn to find Kazuha and Chaewon making their way through the crowd, each carrying drinks of their own, and it takes no time to get comfortable with them. Along with Yunjin, they round out your closest friend group. The four of you quickly fall into conversation, joking about the horrific midterms and about the potential ‘prospects’ at the party. Chaewon is eyeing some guy in a wifebeater, and you suppress the urge to gag at his outfit choice.

Every few minutes, someone new comes by to say hi and hug you all before going back to their little party group, and despite originally not wanting to come that much, you can’t deny that you’re having a good time. 

Yet, your eyes seem to have a mind of their own, because they keep drifting toward the direction of the entrance, hoping to catch sight of Jungwon or at least one of the other guys, since you know that once you see one of them, the rest aren’t far behind. Before your focus shifts back to your friends, a wave of loud cheering rolls through the room. Even from another part of the house, you can easily pick out his laugh first. 

Not long after, the boys filter in, Jake animatedly telling some story that has Sunghoon and Riki cackling, while Jay trails behind with his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. Following him is Sunoo, and beside him is, of course, Jungwon.

It takes him less than a second to spot you and your friends, his face brightening immediately as he pushes through some students to greet you. 

"There she is," he says warmly as he reaches you, slinging an arm around your shoulders, and pulling you briefly into his side. “You made it.”

Your heart flutters so violently it almost distracts you from the fact that, a moment later, he lets you go and turns to Kazuha, greeting her with the same easy side hug. Then Chaewon. Then Yunjin, his smile never changing. After him, Jake, Sunghoon and Niki come and give you hugs of their own, while Sunoo waves and Jay, well, Jay has already vanished, presumably in search of Heeseung. 

"Good to see you guys," Jungwon says, looking between all of you. "I'm gonna go steal some drinks before they're all gone." 

“Pretty sure they already are,” Chaewon snorts. He laughs, disappearing back into the crowd, and the second he’s out of sight, three pairs of eyes swivel and land on you. You give them a warning look as their eyebrows wiggle in unison, trying your best to wordlessly point out the very important fact that his friends are still standing with you.

Choosing not to indulge them, you deliberately turn your body to the left, starting up a conversation with Sunoo and Sunghoon. Before long, you're laughing again, the conversation having drifted between upcoming finals, summer plans, and the general excitement of graduating. At this point, ten or so minutes have passed, and you secretly wonder where your favourite boy is. Luckily for you, the next time you glance away, you spot him. 

Jungwon has a cup in one hand and appears to be making his way back when someone reaches out, fingers wrapping gently around his forearm to stop him. A girl you don’t think you’ve ever seen before stands on the tips of her toes, and she leans in to say something you can't quite make out from where you’re standing. He pauses immediately, turning his body downward and moving his face close to hers. Oh?

Knowing it’s probably nothing, your own attention returns to whatever ridiculous story Sunoo has now moved on to. He’ll be back soon. 

But time passes faster than you realize. "We're gonna move to the sunroom," Kazuha announces suddenly, gesturing toward the hallway. "It's impossible to hear anyone in here." 

And as your group makes their way to the new spot, your movements pause for a brief second when you see Jungwon is still talking to the same girl. She’s speaking, both hands moving as she speaks, and he’s listening attentively. They look completely absorbed in each other, standing very close to each other as they converse. And although you may like him, you would never stoop so low as to interrupt or join them, as much as the urge is there. It isn’t your place to swoop in and attempt to mark your territory, so you continue on.

A few hours later, it's clear everyone has hit their limit. Between the dancing, the socializing, and getting dragged into games you barely understand the rules of, your social battery is well and truly dead. So it's no surprise that the second someone floats the idea of leaving, it's met with unanimous approval. "I am starving," Riki groans dramatically, clutching his stomach.

"I vote convenience store," Jake pipes up. "I'm craving instant ramen."

"Nah," Jay counters. He came and found you guys a while ago, having wandered off to find Heeseung, and if his eyes are anything to go by, he definitely found more than just his friend. "Ice cream."

"It's three in the morning."

"I’m high."

Nobody can really argue with that. Within the next few minutes, everyone has managed to find their shoes and sweaters, put them on, and exit onto the street. Even Jungwon, who had been AWOL practically the entire night, appears. The difference in temperature from when you arrived versus now hits you right away, and you instinctively pull your sleeves over your hands as you step onto the sidewalk.

The walk to the convenience store isn't long, though it takes nearly twice the time as it probably should, due to the collective effect of the night's… substances. Jungwon remains a few paces behind the rest of the group as you make your way over.

His head is tilted toward his phone, thumbs moving quickly across the screen as the glow of a notification lights up his face every few seconds. He doesn't seem to notice that the distance between himself and everyone else has slowly grown when he smiles faintly at whatever he’s reading before typing something else, and you wonder who he's texting. Whoever it is, he manages to catch up again by the time everyone reaches the convenience store.

Twenty minutes later, you’ve migrated to the small park a block away, planting yourselves around a weathered wooden bench. Riki, Sunghoon and Jake sit on the grass despite the cold, while the rest of you perch on the backrest or sit properly. Wrappers begin stacking up in the middle as everyone steals bites from one another's snacks. You barely notice Jungwon has gone quiet until Riki suddenly points at him with a mouthful of chips. “Dude. Who are you texting?”

Looking up, and maybe shy from the sudden attention, the other boy quickly shuts off his phone, turning the screen over against his thigh before slipping it into the pocket of his hoodie. “No one.”

The younger one’s eyes narrow. “I’m calling cap.” 

“Whatever, bro.”

He doesn't touch his phone for the rest of the night, but you can tell he wants to.

—

The weeks continue on much the same, except something feels... different.

Initially, you can't quite put your finger on it. After all, nothing has changed in any obvious way. You still see Jungwon at group hangouts, you still exchange the occasional text, and he still talks and jokes around the way he always does. But at the same time, you’re no idiot. You’ve been in love with the guy for quite a while now, over-analyzing his every move, so it would be stupid for you, of all people, to not notice even the slightest shift in behaviour.

Evidence #1: He’s begun skipping lectures.

Now, Jungwon isn’t exactly the type to colour code his notes or chase extra credit opportunities, but he does take his studies seriously. He stays on top of assignments, shows up to class, and rarely falls behind. He wouldn't miss a lecture unless he was genuinely sick or something important had come up. Which is why seeing the seat beside you remain empty for an entire hour and a half without receiving a single text, makes zero sense. It’s just one time, though, so you don’t need to worry about it too much. 

But when it happens again, just one week later, you begin to question things. You don’t know if it’s your place to text him, or not. Unfortunately, one of the things that comes along with liking someone is the inability to be casual about literally anything. With him, you tend to overthink even sending a quick message, because what if he doesn’t reply? Or what if he does reply, but it’s super dry? Either way, you’d feel bad. Ultimately, you choose not to text him.

If he wanted to keep you in the loop, he’d do it himself. 

"You know where Jungwon's been lately?" you ask Jake one afternoon as the two of you walk out of your advanced analytical chemistry lab together, your backpacks slung over one shoulder.

He shrugs. "Not really. I think he's just been hanging out with some other friends recently."

“Oh.” There's a brief pause before you nudge his arm. "Well, tell him he can't disappear forever. We have one of our last miderms coming up and it's worth like thirty percent of our final grade." 

“Trust me,” your friend says, “he knows. I’ve been on his ass about it for ages.”

Evidence #2: He no longer keeps his word.

And that evening, after putting it off for nearly an hour because you don't want to seem like a desperate loser, you finally cave and open your messages.

you: heyyy wanna study together tomorrow? 

It doesn't take long for his reply to come through.

jungwon: yes i would love to :)) let's do our usual spot at 3pm

You blow out a breath of relief, a soft smile gracing your features. Maybe you were truly going crazy. He has a life, and though you’d love to be privy to more parts of it, you aren’t, but at least you have this. 

The next afternoon, you arrive at your usual table in the library ten minutes early.

In first year, the two of you found it, tucked into the far corner beside the windows, hidden just enough from the rest of the floor that nobody else ever seems to claim it, and ever since then, it’s become the study location. You spread your notes across the surface and take your laptop out of your bag, arranging everything exactly how you like it, and while you wait, you start studying. 

Truthfully, you don't even realize he hasn't shown up until nearly thirty minutes have passed. You've been too busy reconstructing proteins on Py-Mol to bother checking the time, your fingers typing away on the keyboard as you add more beta sheets. It's only when you finally glance at the clock hanging on the wall that your stomach sinks.

Huh. That’s… unlike him. 

You expect him to show up soon, stumbling in, apologizing for his tardiness, anything, really. You don’t expect for an entire hour to pass, then another, and another. With each minute that slips by, the knot in your chest ties itself a little tighter. The rational thing would be to send another message, like hey, are you still coming?  But the longer you wait, the more humiliating the idea becomes. If he forgot, reminding him would only make you feel worse, since you wouldn't want him to rush over, and if he didn't, well, then you'll have your answer anyway. 

Drowning in the embarrassment for having been stood up on a study session of all things, your thumb presses his contact until the mute notifications option appears. You don’t know why you do it. Perhaps the only explanation is to help silence your growing anxiety, your growing dread. 

You flip your phone over, set it down beside your pencil case, and compel yourself to look back down at your notes. 

Evidence #3: When you do interact, he gives you nothing. 

You’re trying your hardest to give Jungwon the benefit of the doubt, since it’s only fair. People get busy, plans can change, you know that. You aren't some unreasonable person who expects Jungwon to drop everything the second you ask to spend time together. It’s not like you need to be his first priority– you don't even need to be close to the top of the list– but a small part of you thinks that if he cared even the slightest amount about your feelings, then he would try. 

The next time you see him is a few days later in the Enzyme Chemistry & Biocatalysis course. Like always, as you’ve been finding lately, you notice him before he does you. Regardless of the fact that he ditched you in the library, you refuse to be petty, save him the seat beside you, and when he sits down next to you, you smile. “Hey.”

“Hi,” he replies, pulling out his notebook. You brace yourself for his apology, ready to wave it off and move past it, but then, to your shock, neither of you speak. In fact, minutes pass without a single word exchanged. You’ve never felt so awkward around him before. 

“So…” you begin in an effort to break the weird atmosphere, shifting in your place, “you never came to the library the other day.”

“Oh, oops”

Breathing out, “Yeah, I waited for a while."

Jungwon exhales, leaning back slightly in his chair. "yeah, sorry. Something came up."

Your nose scrunches at how thin that sounds, at how much more you feel like you deserve. "Okay.” The word comes out slowly, although you do your best to keep your voice light. "I get that. I just wish you had texted me or something."

He looks like you from the corner of his eye, not even bothering to turn his head fully. Then, “alright, my bad.”

You force yourself to nod, just to end the conversation, before turning back toward the front of the classroom just as the professor begins setting up the lecture slides. The words on the screen blur together as you attempt to focus, but your mind keeps replaying the interaction over and over again. Was it too much to expect a proper apology? You can’t help but think that the Jungwon of five months ago would've handled this differently.

The rest of the lecture passes in silence.

Usually, you and Jungwon walk out together afterward to go to the library or cafe. Today, you pack your bag and leave without sparing him a glance. 

At night, you lie awake staring at the ceiling, hating how much power one person has over your emotions. It makes you want to shake yourself. You’re about to graduate from university, for crying out loud! You’re not some high schooler anymore; shit like this shouldn’t get to you, but it does. 

When you interact with him, your entire day brightens. The bare minimum, like one joke, one smile, or one small gesture, and suddenly you feel euphoric. But when he feels distant or doesn’t seem to pay you any attention, it ruins everything. Today, your entire mood hinged on a conversation that lasted less than ten seconds.

Less than ten seconds!

You turn onto your side, pulling your blanket closer, your phone sitting untouched on your nightstand as your mind wanders off to a place it’s never dared to explore. Have you just been imagining it all, him pulling away and acting differently? It’s as if something between the two of you has shifted. Or it could be that there was nothing there to begin with. 

The thought is painful enough that you instantly try to push it away, but once it appears, you can't seem to get rid of it.

Did Jungwon ever actually like you? Because when you like someone, you want to spend time with them, you look for excuses to talk to them, you notice when they're gone, you make an effort.

You have spent years convincing yourself that there was this thing between the two of you. The shared moments, lingering glances, casual touches, inside jokes. You have replayed conversations so many times that you could probably recite his own words back to him. It couldn't all have been nothing, right? There's no way.

A realization settles somewhere deep in your chest, heavy and uncomfortable. 

Frustratingly, your eyes begin to burn. You squeeze them shut, willing the tears away before they have the chance to fall. 

—

Along with the last weeks of the semester, comes a resolve. A resolve to get over him. To enjoy the little time you have left of university and allow yourself to exist without Yang Jungwon taking up so much space in your life.

At first, it's liberating. You hadn't realized how much energy you'd been pouring into thinking about him until you finally stopped. Now, you can hang out with your friends without being that one person who can't stop bringing up some guy, and your friendships are better for it. The version of you from first, second, or even third year would never have believed you could go nearly a month without talking to Jungwon. And yet here you are, deep in your fourth-year glory, proving it's possible after all.

For a while, you believe that this is it, that getting over him wouldn’t be nearly as hard as you anticipated it would be. Except, faintly, in a hidden corner in the deepest, darkest crevices of your heart, you note that he hasn’t even tried on his end of the friendship. He hasn’t cared to reach out to you, only interacting in the shared group chat. And while you do see him attending group hangouts, he’s really only there physically, and even then, sometimes he’ll leave early or just stay to the side, too busy being preoccupied with his phone. Has he always been like this, and you just chose not to see it? Were you always the one initiating things? You'd like to think not, but honestly, you don't know anymore.

The only two times his name appears on your phone for the rest of the school year are when he needs something.

jungwon: hey do you have the notes from yesterday's lecture? couldn’t make it to class today

And because old habits die hard, you send them over. The second time, however, you find yourself hesitating. 

jungwon: missed another lecture sry. notes??

His audacity should be studied, you surmise. You don’t owe him anything! 

you: no sorry, come to class next time

jungwon: alr i’ll just ask jake then

you: kk

As hapless as it may be, not a single ounce of guilt courses through your veins. You’re past the point of deluding yourself that he likes you based on some arbitrary interactions, and you’re no longer going to try to get him to like you by doing random tasks that, in any other world, he wouldn’t need help with.

During the last group get-together of the semester before finals, your friends notice the change. Yunjin’s eyes flick between you and Jungwon as she takes a sip of her drink, brows furrowed in confusion. “Are you seriously not even going to say hi?”

Shaking your head, you look around the room “Nah, we’ve already waved eachother.”

That earns you a suspicious look. "Okay...?"

You chuckle, bringing your hand up to pat her shoulder. "Yunjin, I'm fine."

She doesn't look completely convinced, and neither do Chaewon and Kazuha once they clock it too. Throughout the night, they keep trying, doing things like trying to casually suggest getting another drink from the kitchen when Jungwon is there, or steering the conversation toward wherever he’s sitting. You’re on the receiving end of increasingly unsubtle looks every time he walks past, your friends essentially begging you to make a move, though to no success.

—

The final nail in the coffin is the night before graduation, on a walk down the same streets you’ve walked thousands of times. 

There is something oddly comforting in it, knowing that soon enough these familiar paths will no longer be part of your daily routine, that the late night visits to the convenience store and the early morning gym sessions before campus grows crowded will fade into memory. Everything feels a little more sentimental now, pulled down by the knowledge that tomorrow marks the end of this particular chapter of your life.

Jake walks beside you as the two of you take your last late night walk as university students, reminiscing about the memories made over the years: some of them silly, some surprisingly tender. He has always been your safe space, a friend who has never once judged you for anything, and maybe that's why the confession slips out so easily.

“Jake?”

“Hm?”

You stare below at the pavement beneath your feet, watching your shoes move with each step. "You know I've had the biggest crush on Jungwon for the longest time, right?" 

After a small pause, "yeah," he says quietly, "I know." 

"Ugh, I honestly thought something was going to happen this year." 

"I don't know why,” you continue, “I think I had some wild delusion that after all these years of knowing each other, something would eventually change." You laugh self-deprecatingly, "Obviously not." 

To you right, Jake doesn’t laugh. Instead, he looks ahead, his expression thoughtful. "For a while I thought he liked you too.”

Your steps falter. “What?”

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking uncomfortable. "Like, there were moments where I was pretty sure. The way he acted around you sometimes..." 

You kick lightly at a loose pebble on the sidewalk; it skitters ahead. "Yeah, well, whatever he felt for me wasn't romantic."

It is at this moment that Jake turns to face you fully, and the expression that paints his features has your lips pursing in immediate suspicion. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Hearing him say your name so gently is enough to send your stomach twisting into nervous knots. With the hesitation lacing his voice and his obvious refusal to meet your eyes, you feel as though you already know what's to come. “I’m sorry I’m the one telling you this.”

“Telling me what?”

Jake looks genuinely upset. “Jungwon has a girlfriend now.”

At first you don’t react, not because you don't understand what he means, but because your brain seems to reject the information before it can fully settle. You had spent this entire semester slowly coming to terms with the fact that Jungwon probably didn't see you the way you saw him, and that was fine. You were able to accept that him not returning your feelings wasn’t going to ruin your life, and that once you let go of any expectations, the ache would eventually fade. But this is different.

Knowing he doesn't like you is one thing. Knowing he likes someone else is another.

The world around you continues moving, completely unaware that something inside you just broke. You hope it’s not your heart. 

“Who?” Your voice cracks.

Hesitating again, Jake watches you carefully, reluctant to cause you any more pain. "I think they met at Yeonjun's party." 

Ah. 

He doesn’t need to explain any further; your mind has already filled in the blanks. She’s the girl who grabbed Jungwon's arm when he came back with drinks, the one he was talking to for the rest of the night while you waited for him to come back to your group. The girl he had been texting when everyone went out for snacks after the party, who somehow became more important than the lectures he stopped showing up to, more important than spending quality time with his friends, and evidently, you.

All of a sudden, everything makes sense. 

You feel the familiar sting growing behind your eyes and let out a small, broken laugh that doesn't sound like you at all. "This is so embarrassing," you whisper, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to bury your face in both hands.

The tears come quickly after that, and you hate how easily they fall, hate that after all this time, after convincing yourself you were finally moving on, you were just lying to yourself. You don't want Jake to see you like this, not over something that feels so foolish and immature, but you're only human, and you wear your emotions like a badge.

"Hey," he says tenderly from beside you. Your friend’s hand settle against your back, rubbing slowly as he tries to offer as much comfort as he can. His voice is soft when he speaks again. "It's not embarrassing, okay? I promise it's not." 

Still, the reassurance only serves to tighten your throat more. Your voice is muffled behind your hands when you choke out, "It just hurts so much.”

And Jungwon having a girlfriend somehow isn’t even the worst part of this revelation. It is the realization that for almost four whole years, you carried around this hope that maybe one day he’d finally make a move, and yeah, he was making moves, just not on you.

You can’t stop your thoughts as they spiral, searching through every possible version of events, every moment where you wonder if you could have done something differently. What if you had told him in first year? What if you had been more obvious? What if you met him at that party, instead of her? What if, what if, what if. 

"I'm so stupid," you rasp, shaking.

Jake immediately shakes his head, squeezing your shoulder. "No, you're not."

Out of all the emotions crowding your chest right now, you’re surprised to find that anger isnt one of them. It couldnt be. Jungwon never promised you anything, or intentionally gave you false hope.

He was kind to you, he cared about you, and he treated you like a friend. The problem was that you took every small act of kindness and every moment of platonic intimacy and built them into something bigger because you wanted them to mean more, despite them not having that deeper message you were looking for. And when you broke through that façade and saw his actions for what they really were, you didn’t know what to think. He didn’t start hating you or ignoring you on purpose; he just got a girlfriend. 

You wish you could go back to first year and tell yourself not to bother, because now, with graduation only a day away, all you can think about is how much time you lost on him.

---

A/N: there will be a part two!! i split it bc there will be a time skip, and i didn't feel it meshed well all in one fic. i will keep the taglist the same for pt2 but please comment if you want to be added! comments & reblogs are always appreciated :)

Sometimes, on rare occasions, he'll have breakthroughs; he'll find a random ceramic plate at the supermarket, one that has the particularity of- for once- looking decent, and he'll buy it for you, wrapping a little bow around it in guise of covering the price tag.

Other times— well, most of the time, he'll bypass the moodboards and color grades you send him daily— instead finding the ugliest items possible and calling them ‘gorgeous’.

Sunghoon has the taste of an 89 grandma hooked on life support— and he's shameless about it.

He folds everytime he sees something ugly- it's actually starting to become funny. Like this one time, he sent you a link for the ugliest table cloth ever made, called it ‘western vintage’— when it look like it could've been a substitute for toilet paper during the covid pandemic.

To sum up, you wouldn't let him touch your mood boards with a 10'' pole. Sunghoon is incapable of color coordinating things— so much so that you're almost certain he's color blind but just won't say it.

The man thinks neon orange and mustard yellow look good together, for fuck's sake.

But unlike his decoration skills— he's a master at hunting for apartments, that he is.

Ever since you started talking about moving in together— he's taken up a true realtor hobby the way he spends all his time on housing websites. There's not a day that goes by without him sending documents over— scheduling visits, handling it all.

You'd rate him a 12/10 in terms of reliability.

The decoration part though? A minus 78.

Sunghoon's an accomplished man however tacky his taste in household items is— the kind you see and think 'oh damn he's got it under control'. It's not so much about his broad back and big arms- but rather his self restraint, assertiveness and stance. He reeks of success and power even when he parades none of it— which is probably why women (and men) line up to get a taste of him. 

But don't fool yourself, Park Sunghoon indulges in none of that. No no, he keeps to himself— careful and reserved, never letting anyone get too close; he deliberately chooses not to entertain hedonistic habits and instead, surrounds himself with an elite of handpicked, exclusive friends.

You are one of the lucky people Sunghoon chooses to let in— you met by happenstance; during your first year of highschool, back when you'd go back and forth between Seoul and the outskirts to visit your divorced mom, and he just so happened to be on a train with you one day. You spent the next few hours in said train because of technical difficulties, and bonded over the last bottle of water you carried in your bag during a heatwave.

Friendship, sometimes, begins with nothing grander than that.

Over the years, you maintained the same relationship— close but not too close, with enough privacy to allow a drawn line. Sunghoon knew not everything but only a few big secrets of yours— that was how you sustained the equilibrium. You knew most parts of him— his kind, thoughtful and attentive side, inclusive of his darker and broodier side.

But you had no idea what he looked like when he was all in— when there were feelings involved, so naturally you couldn't claim to know him entirely.

You both applied to the same college and hung out any chance you got during the first years, alternating between his home— a high-end penthouse— and yours. Sunghoon was good company, he had good taste in music and movies— knew how to entertain and cook, and had a very specific kind of humor that you so happened to like.

He had long pianist fingers despite being terrible at instruments, he took care of his nails like they were a mirror of his soul— and had tan lines from his expensive Audemars Piquet watch, which he kept religiously in a safe. He wasn't a man of luxury, yet, he liked gifting expensive things to family and in consequence, you.

At the top of the list of things you loved about Park Sunghoon, sat his habit of always skipping songs in his playlist and listening to them all the way through.

He gave a chance to everything, second chances included.

In second was that he could spend hours in a bookstore without buying anything— he never said know to hang outs at the museum and never pretended to like something for convenience.

You could spend hours talking about the things that make Park Sunghoon who he is— the little patterns in his daily life that constituted a special place in yours, by constant exposure.

But what you cant really elaborate on is why you two linked the way you did— why it feels so fusional— yet never transcends the line between platonic and questionable.

In brief, that's how —through a fortunate set of circumstances— you ended up making the decision to live with Park Sunghoon.

        You push the oversized cart through the wide aisles of the furniture store, wheels squeaking against the floor, while Sunghoon walks beside you like he owns the damn place. His broad shoulders brush against yours every few steps, and he's got that half-smirk on his face—the one that says he knows exactly how ridiculous this whole trip is but he's indulging you anyway.

The moodboard you printed out (the one you spent three sleepless nights perfecting on Canva) is crumpled in your free hand, colors and swatches already starting to smear from how many times you've waved it at him like a battle flag.

"Sunghoon, I swear to god, get your nasty eyes off that floral chair before I leave you here," you say, steering the cart sharply away from a display of hideous patterned armchairs that look like they belong in your grandma's attic.

He laughs, low and warm, the sound rumbling through his chest as he reaches over to snag the moodboard from your fingers. "Come on, it's vintage. You said you wanted vintage."

"You're acting like you know anything about 'vintage', give it back to me," you shoot back, snatching the paper back.

Your inside voice is begging to know why you even tolerate this idiot so much— when his taste is actual garbage. But out loud you just roll your eyes and bump the cart into his hip. "Stick to the moodboard. Beige, sage, warm wood tones. Neutral with pops of green. That's the assignment dick face."

Sunghoon leans on the cart handle, his long fingers drumming against the metal. Those fingers that always look too elegant for someone who once tried to convince you neon orange throw pillows were "classy".

He's wearing a simple black t shirt today, stupidly expensive wraparound sunglasses resting on his nose, but he still manages to look like he walked out of a magazine. People keep glancing at him as they pass— women, mostly— and you feel like the little black sheep; like you're somehow gonna get beat up just for standing next to him.

"Fine, fine. Safe, whatever you say boss," he says, but his eyes are already drifting toward a section of overly ornate side tables. "But hear me out—one statement piece. Something with personality."

"Personality for you means ugly," you mutter, but you're smiling. You can't help it— he has such an old-person soul.

You turn into the living room section, rows of sofas stretching out of sight; Sunghoon grabs a throw pillow from a display and holds it up dramatically. It's mustard yellow. Of course it is.

"See? This would look great with the neon orange you're so scared of," he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

"You're colorblind man. I'm calling your mom later and telling her to get you tested." You yank the pillow out of his hands and toss it back onto the shelf with exaggerated disgust. "We're getting the charcoal sectional. It's on the moodboard. Page three. Look at the damn moodboard, Hoon."

He's laughing again, that genuine one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look younger than the composed, successful version of himself he likes to portray. "You're so bossy when you're nesting. It's cute."

"Fuck off," you say, but there's no heat in it. You're both pushing the cart now, shoulders bumping on purpose. The conversation flows easy, the way it always does with him—l ike slipping into warm water after a long day.

"Okay but seriously," you continue, steering toward the modular sofas, "the sectional has to be big enough for everyone. Housewarming party is happening whether you like it or not. We need space for people to sprawl but also it needs to look good enough for pictures."

"Yeah, sounds right." Sunghoon nods, running a hand through his dark hair. "Speaking of housewarming party, you should send out invites. But we're not doing it the first week. Let's actually unpack before we have seven idiots destroying our new place."

'Our place,' your mind echoes, the words feeling a little too big. This has always been your dream, finding someone you truly hit it off with and move together. But you always thought it would be a girl for some reason... not a 6ft-something man.

"Right. Anyway, Jungwon and Riki are not allowed near the drinks unsupervised. Those two get tipsy off one beer. Remember last time? I don't wanna go through that again."

Sunghoon snorts, grabbing a fabric swatch from a nearby display and rubbing it between his fingers like he's some kind of expert. "Jungwon gets emotional when he's drunk, it's hilarious. We'll put them on snack duty, or water duty. Make them the responsible ones for once."

"Yeah. Let Jay and Heeseung handle the drinks, Jake can DJ or whatever shit he wants to do. Sunoo will probably show up with flowers and make everything look ten times better than we could anyway." You stop the cart in front of a massive L-shaped sectional in a perfect warm gray. It matches the moodboard almost exactly. "This one. This is it. Sit on it."

Sunghoon drops onto the cushions with zero hesitation, spreading his long legs out and patting the spot next to him. "Come test it. Make sure it doesn't hurt your back.”

You sit, sinking into the fabric. It's comfortable, really comfortable. "It's perfect. Soft but not too soft. And at least it doesn't look like a grandma passed away on it."

"Damn okay," he says, but he's grinning. "I still think that one tablecloth had potential."

"That tablecloth looked awful. We're never speaking of it again." You lean back, shoulder to shoulder with him on the display sofa. "Okay, furniture plan: this sectional, the wooden coffee table —not the one with the weird carvings you liked— and those floating shelves for the books. No ugly ceramic stuff unless I approve it first."

He turns his head toward you, close enough that you can smell his cologne— something clean and expensive that always lingers on your clothes after hanging out. "You're really not letting me have any input, huh?"

"Your input is vetoed for life after the neon orange thing. I still have nightmares about that absolute shit of a color combo." You poke his arm, "But fine. You can pick the plants. Within reason. No carnivorous ones or anything that'll die in two weeks because you forget to water them."

Sunghoon's eyes light up like you just handed him the keys to a new luxury car. "Plants? Really? I get full control?"

"Limited control," you correct quickly, already regretting it as you both stand up and start pushing the cart again toward the greenery section. "I'm watching you. One ugly plant and it's going in the trash. No— you're going in the trash."

The plant aisle is a jungle of green— monstera, fiddle leaf figs, snake plants, pothos hanging everywhere. Sunghoon immediately beelines for a dramatic-looking plant with variegated leaves that honestly looks kind of cursed.

"No," you say flatly, grabbing the cart handle to stop him. "That one looks dangerous. Pick something normal."

"It's a prayer plant," he argues, turning the pot around to show you the tag. "It folds its leaves at night. Cute, right? Western vintage."

You burst out laughing, the sound echoing a little too loud in the aisle. A couple nearby glances over, but you don't care.

"You and your fucking western vintage. Get the monstera, it's a classic. Hard to kill and matches the moodboard."

He raises one eyebrow. "You're killing my vision."

"Your vision needs to be euthanized Sunghoon please." But you're smiling as you say it, and you end up compromising on two monsteras and one smaller prayer plant because apparently you're weak.

You load them carefully into the cart, leaves brushing against your arms.

As you wander deeper into the store, the conversation drifts. Sunghoon picks up a set of minimalist ceramic plates— actually decent ones, for once— and holds them up for approval.

"These are... good," you admit grudgingly.

He chuckles, remembering the supermarket plate incident. "See? I can have taste. When I try really hard."

"Rarely. Don't get cocky." You add them to the cart.

Your mind is racing with details: how the apartment will look with his stuff mixed with yours, how his piano (the one he barely plays but keeps because it "looks sophisticated") will fit in the corner, whether the lighting in the new place will make his tan lines even more obvious when he's cooking shirtless like he sometimes does — wait what?

"What about the housewarming menu?" you ask, changing the subject before your thoughts spiral. "Jay will wanna take over the kitchen. We should let him— he's the only one who won't burn water. Jake can bring desserts, Sunoo will handle the vibe and... Heeseung... can sit there— I guess."

Sunghoon nods, pushing the cart with one hand while scrolling through his phone with the other, probably adding things to the apartment checklist you made. "And we keep Jungwon and Riki on hydration duty."

"Exactly. Lightweight kings." You laugh, imagining it.

The cart is filling up— throw blankets in approved colors, a couple of lamps that don't scream "granny's house," some simple glassware. Every item feels like another brick in this new shared life. It's exciting and yet terrifying.

You stop in the bedroom section because, of course you do and Sunghoon eyes a massive bed frame with a dramatic headboard.

"Don't even think about it," you warn. "Simple. Platform bed. No weird carvings."

"But it has presence," he teases, flopping down on the display mattress dramatically. He pats the space beside him again. "Test it with me. Important decision."

You hesitate for half a second— this is how rumors start— before climbing on. The mattress is firm but comfortable.

Sunghoon turns on his side to face you, head propped on his hand.

"Admit it," he says softly, that reserved smile playing on his lips. "This is gonna be good. Even if my taste is shit."

"Your taste is atrocious. But yeah... it's gonna be good. As long as you let me control 90% of the decorating and you keep handling the apartment paperwork like the reliable slave you are."

He laughs quietly. "i’m so good at apartment hunting, right?"

"Exactly." You stare at the ceiling for a moment, both of you lying there on the display bed like idiots. "Party guest list is locked. No randoms. Just the group."

"Deal." Sunghoon sits up, offering you a hand to pull you up too.

You continue through the aisles, banter never stopping and he tries to sneak a hideous abstract sculpture into the cart; you catch him and replace it with a sleek wooden one.

You argue over rug textures— "This one feels like a cloud, Hoon." "It looks like puke."— and laugh until your sides hurt.

By the time the cart is overflowing and you're heading toward checkout, the sun is dipping lower outside the store windows.

You pay (splitting it because that's how you two do things—fair, balanced), and as you wheel everything out toward his car, you can't stop smiling.

Being best friends with a member of the male species, is a really weird thing. See, people tend to view you completely differently when they learn that your best friend is in fact a tall buff guy who happens to be rich. They immediately think, there's no way you're "just friends."

That a guy like him— would never settle for platonic with someone like you. They assume you're fucking, or at least that you're one wrong grocery run away from it.

You've heard the whispers, seen the side-eyes. Hell, even some of the group has thrown in a sly comment or two over the years. But you know where you stand with Sunghoon. Best friends. Ride-or-die. The kind of bond that doesn't need labels to feel solid.

You're both loading the last of the bags into the trunk when Sunghoon's phone buzzes. He pulls it out, checks the screen, and gets this weird little smile, not his usual half-smirk, something you've never seen before. You shrug it off though, it's probably his mom sending another recipe or one of the guys in the group chat. Whatever.

"Everything good?" you ask, tossing the last bag in.

"Yeah," he says, pocketing the phone. "Nothing important."

You head out of the store, arms aching from hauling all the items. Before you can even complain, Sunghoon's already reaching over.

"Let me carry that, you're tired," he says, grabbing the heavier bags like they're nothing.

You trail behind him with the lighter stuff and the plants, both of you looking like a married couple fresh off a furniture run. The thought flickers through your head for half a second and you immediately drop it.

Nope. Not elaborating on that. Giving it any weight just makes shit weird.

But see— you’ve lied a lot from the get go. Since the introduction you’ve said quite a lot of false things— the biggest one being, “it’s purely platonic between me and Park Sunghoon.”

God knows even the most perfect things have cracks in them, right?

The drive back is easy, windows down, your playlist skipping through songs like always because you have the attention span of a goldfish when it comes to music. You're already mentally arranging the living room, trying to picture where the monstera will look best without clashing with his inevitable ugly finds.

"You're not sneaking that funny plant into the main area, by the way," you tell him, poking his arm. "It's going in a corner."

Sunghoon laughs. "You're so dramatic. Jeez."

"Dramatic my ass. It looks like it belongs in a haunted house. We're sticking to the moodboard, dickhead."

He just grins, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "You're lucky I take care of the actual important stuff. Otherwise you'd be living in a beige prison."

"Beige prison is better than neon orange hell," you shoot back, grinning. "Stick to hunting apartments like a neat freak."

By the time you pull up to your building, the sun's almost gone. Sunghoon kills the engine and helps haul everything upstairs without being asked, the two of you bumping shoulders in the elevator like always.

In 3 weeks, you and Park Sunghoon will be living together, life is good.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

Life is NOT good. Fuck life. You're standing in your bathroom, shivering in a towel after what was supposed to be a quick shower but turned into a goddamn ice bath.

The water went from lukewarm to straight-up arctic in under thirty seconds. No hot water. Again. Your ancient landlord has been "looking into it" for two weeks, which is code for doing absolutely jack shit.

You're tired, your hair is half-washed, and you have a morning lecture tomorrow. So you do the only logical thing: you call Jake.

"Dude, I'm dying. My shower is spitting ice cubes. You're the only one I know who's good with this plumbing crap. Please save me."

Jake laughs on the other end. "Yeah, yeah, I'm on my way. Gimme twenty."

Twenty minutes later there's a knock at your door and you open it to find not just Jake, but the whole circus: Jake with a toolbox, Sunghoon looking unfairly put-together in a black hoodie, and Heeseung trailing behind with a bag of snacks like they're here for a movie night instead of a plumbing emergency.

"You said you were coming, not bringing the entire zoo," you groan, stepping aside to let them in.

Jake grins, already kicking off his shoes. "They were with me when you called. Couldn't leave them behind. Sunghoon said he's an expert at watching other people work, and Heeseung brought chips."

"Team morale," Heeseung adds solemnly, holding up the bag. "Also I'm excellent at moral support."

You wrap your hoodie tighter around yourself. "Fine. Just fix my shit before I freeze to death."

Jake heads straight to the bathroom while you, Sunghoon, and Heeseung camp out in your tiny living room. The conversation flows easy, the way it always does with them.

"Uni is kicking my ass," you complain, flopping onto the couch. "Rent's going up again next month and my part-time job pays like shit. Being an adult is a scam."

"Tell me about it," Heeseung says through a mouthful of chips. "I'm living off instant ramen. My landlord raised the rent too— said it's 'market rate.' Market rate my ass. I'll market rate his ass, see how that goes."

Sunghoon leans against the wall, arms crossed, looking amused. "You two are dramatic. Just move somewhere better."

"Easy for you to say, Mr. Penthouse," you shoot back. "Some of us aren't out here swimming in good credit scores."

From the bathroom, Jake's voice echoes. "Pass me the wrench! And stop complaining about rent—the sink is fixed in like five minutes, watch."

You hear clinking and cursing as Jake works. Sunghoon eventually wanders over to "supervise" (aka stand there looking pretty while Jake does everything). You and Heeseung keep chatting about stupid professors, upcoming deadlines, and how none of you can afford to eat out anymore without feeling guilty.

Jake emerges twenty minutes later, wiping his hands. "Fixed. Your hot water heater was just throwing a tantrum. Should be good now."

"You're a godsend," you tell him, genuinely relieved. "I owe you dinner or something."

"Make it the good ramen, not the cheap shit," Jake says, grinning.

You're all sprawled out now, snacks open, relaxed. Sunghoon sits on the arm of the couch, close enough that you catch a whiff of his cologne— clean, expensive, the same one he's worn for years. For some reason it hits different tonight but you shake it off.

Then, casually, like he's commenting on the weather, Sunghoon says, "By the way, I met someone on that group outing last weekend. Mina. She's cool. We're grabbing coffee sometime."

Ah. Nice?

You blink, forcing a smile. "Oh? That's great, Hoon. She sounds nice. You should go for it."

Inside, there's this weird little twist in your stomach. Not jealousy or anything dramatic—just... off. The type of feeling that makes you want to jackhammer the "?????" button on your keyboard.

You push it down immediately. Supportive friend mode. That's where you stand bitch.

He nods, that reserved smile appearing. "Yeah, we'll see. She's into photography or something. Might be fun."

Jake and Heeseung immediately pile on with teasing questions, the conversation shifting into typical guy shit-talk about dating apps and whatnot. You laugh along, throwing in jokes about Sunghoon's questionable taste in everything except women, apparently.

But that faint twist lingers as you breathe in his cologne again.

You tell yourself it's nothing. Just a weird day. Life's already been kicking your ass with cold showers— you don't need to overthink this too.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

You're the biggest overthinker the world has ever known. It's been one week before move-in and your brain won't shut the fuck up. Ever since Sunghoon casually dropped the Mina news, you've been spiraling in the most ridiculous way possible.

What if he turns into one of those dudes who gets a girlfriend and suddenly disappears? The type who's glued to her 24/7, canceling plans and turning your shared apartment into her second home.

Would she have a problem with you being there? Some girls get weird about their boyfriend living with a female best friend, even if it's been strictly platonic for years…

And honestly? How the hell does someone even start dating a guy knowing he's about to move in with a girl?

Sure, you know there's nothing there, but not everyone gets that. People already assume shit when they see you two together.

You keep telling yourself it's fine, that nothing's going to change, but your brain is a professional at inventing problems that don't exist yet

You're still overthinking it when you meet Sunghoon and the landlord at the new apartment for the final walkthrough.

The place looks even better than you remembered— sunlight pouring in, fresh paint, that perfect spot in the living room for the charcoal sectional. The landlord drones on about the terms, pointing out outlets and explaining the heating system.

You nod along, trying to focus on the important stuff.

Sunghoon's only half there, his phone keeps buzzing and he's texting back with that small, distracted smile. You don't have to ask who it is. Mina. Of course.

"Everything looks good to me," you say, signing your part of the lease after the landlord walks you through the final checklist. Sunghoon signs right after, barely glancing up from his screen before sliding it back.

"Cool," he mutters, typing another reply. "We're good then.”

The landlord leaves and you're both standing in the empty living room, keys in hand. It should feel exciting—this is your place now—but your stomach is doing that stupid twist again.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

Later that night you're both at his current place, surrounded by half-packed boxes, eating takeout on the floor like broke uni students. Except well… you're the only one that's actually broke.

Sunghoon's in a good mood, legs stretched out, picking at his food.

"She's really cool, you know?" he says suddenly, eyes lighting up in that rare, genuine way. "Mina. We talked for like three hours last night. She gets my humor and she's into the same movies. I think you'd like her actually."

You force a smile, swallowing the weird knot in your throat.

"That's awesome, Hoon. I'm happy for you. Seriously. If she puts up with your neon orange taste, she must be a saint."

He chuckles, leaning back against the couch. "She called my prayer plant 'interesting.' That's good right?."