🦋Ftezz🦋

-

The office after midnight doesn’t feel like the same building. The lights buzz quieter. The chairs stop squeaking. There’s an eerie sort of calm that settles once the rush hour of deadlines has passed and only the ghosts and last-minute layout edits remain.

Clark is two desks away, sleeves rolled up, tie finally abandoned and flung haphazardly over the back of his chair. He’s squinting at the screen like he’s trying to will the copy into formatting itself.

You’re just as tired—though slightly less heroic-looking about it. Somewhere behind you, the printer groans. A rogue page slides off the tray and flutters to the floor like it’s giving up on life.

Clark gets up to grab it before you can.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” you say as he crouches to retrieve it. “Or fall asleep with your face on the carpet and get stuck there forever.”

He offers a smile, crooked and half-asleep. “I’ve survived worse. Once fell asleep in a compost pile back in high school.”

You pause. “Why?”

“There was a dare,” he says, deadpan. “And a cow. The rest is classified, sweetheart.”

You snort before you can stop it.

It’s late. You’re punchy. The kind of tired that makes everything a little funnier, a little looser around the edges. He sits back down, stretching long limbs with a groan, and you let the quiet settle again.

“You know Clark, sometimes I feel invisible here.” You don’t mean to say it. It just slips out, quiet and rough from somewhere behind your ribcage. 

Clark looks up instantly.

You keep staring at your screen. “It’s all bylines and deadlines, and then the story prints and nobody remembers who wrote it. Doesn’t matter if it’s good or not. No one sees you.” You tap the corner of your spacebar absently. “Feels like yelling into a tunnel most days.”

You expect him to say something vague. Supportive. A standard “no, you’re great!” brush-off. But when you finally glance over, Clark is staring at you with his brow furrowed like someone just insulted his mom.

“That’s ridiculous,” he mutters. “You’re one of the most important voices in the room.”

The words are firm. Not flustered. Not dorky. Certain. It disarms you a little.

You blink. “Clark—”

“No. I mean it, sweetheart," he says, almost stubborn. “You make people care. Even when they don’t want to. That’s rare.”

He looks down at his coffee like maybe it betrayed him by going cold too fast. You don’t say anything. But that ache in your chest eases, just a little.

-

The next morning, you’re halfway through your walk to work when you find it.

Tucked into the side pocket of your coat—the one you only use for receipts and empty gum wrappers. Folded carefully. Familiar ink.

“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”

You stop walking. Stand there frozen on the corner outside a coffee shop as cars blur past and someone curses at a cab a few feet away. You read the note twice, then a third time.

It’s simple. No flourish. No name. Just words—quiet, certain, and meant for you.

You don’t know why it lands the way it does. Maybe because it doesn’t try to dismiss how you feel. It just… reframes it. You may feel invisible, small, unheard—but this person is saying: that doesn’t make your truth meaningless. You matter, even if it feels like no one’s listening.

You fold the note gently, like it might tear. You don’t tuck this one into your notebook. You keep it in your coat pocket. All day.

Like armor.

-

By midafternoon, the bullpen’s usual noise has shapeshifted into something louder—one of those half-serious, half-combative newsroom debates that always starts in one cubicle and ends up consuming half the floor.

This time, it’s the great Superman Property Damage Discourse, sparked—unsurprisingly—by Lois Lane slapping a freshly printed article onto her desk like it insulted her directly.

“He destroyed the entire north side of the building,” she says, exasperated, as if she’s already had this argument with the universe and lost.

You don’t look up right away. You’re knee-deep in notes for your community housing series and trying to keep your lunch from leaking onto your desk. But the words still hit.

“To stop a tanker explosion,” you point out without much heat, eyes still scanning your page. “There were twenty-seven people inside.”

“My point,” Lois says, crossing her arms, “is that someone has to pay for all that glass.”

“Pretty sure it’s the insurance companies,” you mutter.

Lois raises a brow at you, but doesn’t push it. She’s used to you playing devil’s advocate—usually it’s just for fun. She doesn’t know this one’s starting to feel a little personal.

And then Clark walks in. He’s balancing two coffee cups and what looks like a roll of blueprints tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled up and tie already loose like the day’s been longer than it should’ve been. His hair’s a mess, wind-tousled and curling near the back of his neck, and he’s got that familiar expression on—half-focused, half-apologetic, like he’s perpetually arriving a few seconds after he meant to.

He slows as he approaches, catches the tail end of Lois’s rant, and hesitates. Just a second. Just long enough for something behind his glasses to tighten. Then, without warning or warm-up, he steps in like a man walking into traffic.

“He’s doing his best, okay?” he blurts. “He can’t help the building fell—there was a fireball.”

The bullpen quiets a beat. Just enough for the words to settle and sting. Lois doesn’t even look up from her monitor. “You sound like a fanboy.”

“I just—” Clark huffs. “He’s trying to protect people. That’s not… easy.”

He lifts his hand to gesture, but his elbow clips the corner of his desk and sends his coffee tipping. The paper cup wobbles, then crashes onto the floor in a slosh of brown across your loose notes.

“Clark!” You shove back in your chair, startled.

“Sorry—sorry—hang on—” He lunges for a stack of printer paper, overcorrects, and knocks over another folder in the process. Its contents scatter like leaves in the wind. He flails to grab what he can, muttering apologies the whole time.

The tension breaks—not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it. Because he’s suddenly in a mess of his own making, trying to mop it up with a handful of flyers and an empty paper towel roll, red-faced and flustered. 

You can’t help it. You smile. Just a little.

Lois glances sideways at the scene, then turns to you, tone dry as dust. “Well. He’s… passionate.”

You arch a brow. “That’s one word for it.”

She doesn’t notice the way your eyes linger on him. She doesn’t see the shift in your chest when you watch him drop to one knee, scooping up wet files with shaking hands, his jaw tight—not from embarrassment, but from something quieter. Fiercer.

Because Clark hadn’t just jumped to Superman’s defense.

He’d meant it.

Like someone who knows what it feels like to try and still fall short. Like someone who’s carried the weight of people’s expectations. Like someone who’s watched something burn and had to live with the cost of saving it.

You know it’s ridiculous. You know it’s a stretch. But still… your breath catches.

He steadies the last folder against his desk, rubs the back of his neck, and looks up—right at you. Your eyes meet for a second too long.

You offer him a look that says it’s okay. He returns one that says thanks. And then the moment passes. You turn back to your screen, heart pounding for reasons you won’t name. And Clark returns to quietly drying his desk with a half-crumpled press release.

You don’t say anything. But you’re not watching him by accident anymore.

-

You’ve read the latest note a dozen times.

“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”

There’s no flourish. No compliment. Just rawness, stripped of any careful metaphor or charm. It’s still anonymous, but the voice… it feels closer now. Less like a mystery, more like someone standing just out of sight.

Someone with hands that tremble when they pass you a coffee. Someone who knows how your voice sounds when you’re frustrated. Someone who once told you, very softly, that your words matter.

You start thinking about Clark again. And once the thought roots, it’s impossible to pull it free.

-

You test him. It’s petty, maybe. Pointless, probably. But you do it anyway. That afternoon, you’re both holed up near the copy desk, reviewing your latest layout. Clark’s seated beside you, sleeves pushed up, his pen tapping lightly against the margin of your column draft. His knee keeps bumping yours under the desk, and every time, he apologizes with a shy smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes.

You’re running on too little sleep and too many thoughts. So you try it. “You ever hear that phrase? ‘Even whispers echo when they’re true’?”

He looks up from the page. Blinks behind his smudged glasses. “Uh… sure. I mean, not in everyday conversation, but yeah. Sounds poetic.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I read it recently,” you say, like you’re thinking aloud. “Can’t stop turning it over. I don’t know—it stuck with me.”

He stares at you for a beat too long. Then clears his throat and drops his gaze, pen suddenly very busy again. “Yeah. It’s… it’s a good line.”

“You don’t think it’s a little dramatic?”

“No,” he says too quickly. “I mean—it’s true. Sometimes the quietest things are the ones worth listening to.”

You nod, pretending to go back to your edits. But his pen taps a little faster. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s trying to look neutral, maybe even confused. But Clark Kent couldn’t lie his way out of a grocery list.

And if he did write it, that means he knows you’re testing him.

You don’t call him on it.

Not yet.

-

Later that evening, he helps you file your story. Technically, Clark’s already done for the day—he could’ve clocked out an hour ago, could’ve gone home and slipped into his flannel pajamas and vanished into whatever quiet life he keeps outside these walls. But instead, he lingers.

His jacket is folded neatly over the back of your chair, sleeves still warm from his arms. His glasses sit low on his nose, catching the screen’s glow, one smudge blooming near the top corner where he’s pushed them up too many times with the side of his thumb.

He leans over the desk beside you, one palm braced flat against the surface, the other gently scrolling through your draft. His frame takes up too much space in that warm, grounding way—shoulder brushing yours occasionally, breath warm at your temple when he leans in to squint at a sentence.

You’re quiet, but not for lack of things to say. It’s the way he’s reading—carefully, like every word deserves to be held. There’s no red pen. No quick fixes. Just soft soundless reverence, like your work is already whole and he’s just lucky to witness it.

And his hands.

God, his hands.

You try not to look, but they’re impossible to ignore. Big and capable, yes, but gentle in the way he uses them—fingers skimming the edge of the printout like the paper might bruise, thumb stroking over the corner where the page curls, slow and absentminded. The pads of his fingers are slightly ink-stained, callused just at the tips. He smells faintly like cheap soap and newsroom toner and something you can’t name but have already begun to crave.

You wonder—just for a moment—what it would be like to feel those hands touch you with purpose instead of hesitation. Without the paper buffer. Without the quiet restraint.

He leans a little closer. You can feel the press of his shirt sleeve against your arm now, soft cotton against skin. “Looks perfect to me,” he murmurs.

It’s not the words. It’s the way he says them—like he’s not just talking about the story. You swallow, pulse jumping. You wonder if he hears it. You wonder if he feels it.

His eyes flick to yours for just a second. Something hangs in the air—fragile, charged. Then the phone rings down the hall, and the spell breaks like steam off hot glass. He steps back. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for three paragraphs.

You don’t look at him as he grabs his jacket. You just nod and whisper, “Thanks.”

And he just smiles—soft and private, like a secret passed from his mouth to your chest.

-

You don’t go home right away. You sit at your desk long after Clark and the rest of the bullpen has emptied out, coat draped over your shoulders like a blanket, fingers toying with the folded edge of the note in your lap.

“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”

You’ve read it enough times to have it memorized. Still, your eyes trace the handwriting again—careful lettering, no signature, just that quiet ache bleeding between the lines.

It’s the first one that feels more than just flirtation. This one hurts a little. So you do something you haven’t done before.

You pull a post-it from the stack beside your monitor, scribble down one sentence—no flourish, no punctuation.

“Then tell me in person.” 

You slide it beneath your stapler before you leave. A deliberate offering. You don’t know how he’s been getting the others to you—if it’s during your lunch break or when you’re in the print room or bent over in the archives. But somehow, he knows.

So this time, you let him find something waiting.

And when you finally shrug on your coat and step into the elevator, the empty quiet of the newsroom echoes behind you like a held breath.

-

The next morning, there’s no reply. Not on your desk. Not slipped into your coat pocket. Not scribbled in the margin of your planner or tucked beneath your coffee cup. Just silence.

You try not to feel disappointed. You try not to spiral. Maybe he’s waiting. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe you’re wrong and it’s not who you think. But your chest feels hollow all the same—like something almost happened and didn’t.

So that night, you write again. Your hands shake more than they should for something so simple. A sticky note. A few words. But this one names it.

“One chance. One sunset. Centennial Park. Bench by the lion statue. Tomorrow.”

You stare at the words a long time before setting it down. This one’s not a joke. Not a dare. Not a flirtation scribbled in passing. This is an invitation. A door left open.

You slide it under your stapler the same way you’ve received every one of his notes—unassuming, tucked in plain sight. If he wants to find it, he will. You’ve stopped questioning how he does it. Maybe it’s timing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something else entirely.

But you know he’ll see it.

You pack up slowly. Shoulders tight. Bag heavier than usual. The newsroom is quiet at this hour—just the low hum of the overhead fluorescents and the soft, endless churn of printers in the back. You turn off your monitor, loop your coat over your arm, and make your way to the elevator.

Halfway there, something makes you stop. You glance back. Clark is still at his desk.

You hadn’t heard him return. You hadn’t even noticed the light at his station flick back on. But there he is—elbows on the desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes already lifted.

Watching you.

His face is unreadable, but his gaze lingers longer than it should. Soft. Searching. Almost caught. You feel the air shift. Not a word is exchanged. Just that one look.

Then the elevator dings. You turn away before you can lose your nerve.

And Clark? He doesn’t look down. Not until the doors slide shut in front of your face.

-

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it was probably nothing. A game. A passing flirtation. Maybe Jimmy, playing an elaborate prank he’ll one day claim was performance art.

But still—you dress carefully.

You pull out that one sweater that always makes you feel like the best version of yourself, and you smooth your collar twice before you leave. You wear lip balm that smells faintly like vanilla and leave the office ten minutes early just in case traffic is worse than expected. Just in case he’s early.

You get there first. The bench is colder than you remember. Stone weathered and a little damp from last night’s rain. Your coffee steams in your hands, and for a while, that’s enough to keep you warm.

The sky begins to soften around the edges. First blush pink, then golden orange, then the faintest sweep of violet, like a bruise blooming across the clouds. You watch the city skyline fade into silhouettes. The sun drips lower behind the glass towers, catching the river in a moment of molten reflection. It’s beautiful.

It’s also empty.

You wait. A couple strolls past, fingers laced, talking softly like they’ve been in love for years. A jogger nods as they pass, earbuds in, a scruffy golden retriever trotting faithfully beside them. The dog looks up at you like it knows something—like it sees something.

The wind kicks up. You pull your coat tighter. You tell yourself to give it five more minutes. Then five more.

And then—

Nothing. No footsteps. No note. No him.

Your coffee goes cold between your palms. The stone starts to seep into your bones. And somewhere deep in your chest, something you hadn’t even dared name… wilts.

Eventually, you stand. Walk home with your coat buttoned all the way up, even though it’s not that cold. You don’t cry.

You just go quiet.

-

The next morning, the bullpen hums with the usual Monday static. Phones ringing. Keys clacking. Perry’s voice barking something about a missed quote from the sanitation board. Jimmy’s camera shutter clicking in staccato bursts behind you. The Daily Planet in full swing—ordinary chaos wrapped in coffee breath and fluorescent lighting.

You move through it on autopilot. Your smile is small, tight around the edges. You’ve become a master of folding disappointment into your posture—chin lifted, eyes clear, mouth curved just enough to seem fine.

“Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” You drop your bag beside your desk, shuffle through the morning copy logs, and say it lightly. Offhand. Like a joke. “Should’ve known better.” You make sure your voice carries just far enough. Not loud, but not a whisper. Casual. A throwaway comment designed to sound unaffected. And then you laugh. It’s short. Hollow. It dies in your throat before it even fully escapes.

Lois glances up from her monitor, eyes narrowing faintly behind dark lashes. She doesn’t laugh with you. She doesn’t smile. She just watches you for a beat too long. Not with judgment. Not even pity. Just… knowing. But she says nothing. And neither do you.

What you don’t see is the hallway—just twenty feet away—where Clark Kent stands frozen in place. He’d just walked in—late, coat slung over one arm, takeout coffee in the other. He had stopped just inside the threshold to adjust his glasses. He’d meant to offer you a second coffee, the one he bought on impulse after circling the block too many times.

And then he heard it. Your voice. “Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” And then your laugh. That awful, paper-thin laugh.

He goes still. Like someone pulled the oxygen from the room. His hand tightens around the coffee cup until the lid creaks. The other arm drops slack at his side, coat nearly slipping from his grasp. His jaw tenses. Shoulders stiffen beneath his white button-down, and for one awful second, he forgets how to breathe.

Because you sound like someone trying not to care. And it cuts deeper than he expects. Because he’d meant to come. Because he tried. Because he was so close.

But none of that matters now. All you know is that he didn’t show up. And now you think the whole thing was a joke. A stupid, secret game. His game. And he can’t even explain—not without tearing everything open.

He stares down the corridor, eyes fixed on the edge of your desk, on the shape of your shoulders turned slightly away. He watches as you pick up your coffee and blow gently across the lid like it might chase the bitterness from your chest.

You don’t turn around. You don’t see the way he stands there—gutted, unmoving, undone. The cup trembles in his hand. He turns away before it spills.

-

That night, you go back to the office. You tell yourself it’s for the deadline. A follow-up piece on the housing committee. Edits on the west-side zoning profile. Anything to fill the time between sunset and sleep—because if you sleep, you’ll just dream of that bench.

The newsroom is quiet now. All overhead lights dimmed except for the halo of your desk lamp and the soft thrum of a copy machine left cycling in the corner.

You drop your bag with a sigh. Stretch your shoulders. Slide your desk drawer open without thinking. And find it. A note. No envelope. No tape. No ceremony. Just a single sheet of cream stationery folded in thirds. Familiar handwriting. Neat loops. Unshaking.

You unfold it slowly.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to be there. I can’t explain why I couldn’t— But it wasn’t a joke. It was never a joke. Please believe that.”

The words hit like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Then they blur.  You read it again. Then again. But the ache in your chest doesn’t settle. Because how do you believe someone who won’t show their face? How do you believe someone who keeps slipping between your fingers?

You hold the note to your chest. Close your eyes. You want to believe him. God, you want to. But you don’t know how anymore.

-

What you couldn’t know is this: Clark Kent was already running. He’d been on his way—coat flapping behind him, tie unspooling in the wind, breath fogging as he dashed through traffic, one hand wrapped tight around a note he planned to deliver in person for the first time. He’d rehearsed it. Practiced what he’d say. Built up to it with every beat of a terrified heart.

He saw the park lights up ahead. Saw the lion statue. Saw the shape of a figure sitting alone on that bench.

And then the air split open. The sky went green. A fifth-dimensional imp—not even from this universe—tore through Metropolis like a child flipping pages in a pop-up book. Reality folded. Buildings bent sideways. Streetlamps started singing jazz standards.

Clark barely had time to take a deep breath before he vanished into smoke and flame, spinning upward in a blur of red and blue. Somewhere across town, Superman joined Guy Gardner, Hawk Girl, Mr. Terrific, and Metamorpho in trying to contain the chaos before the city unmade itself entirely. 

He never got the chance to reach the bench. He never got the chance to say anything. The note stayed in his pocket until it was soaked with rain and streaked with ash. Until it was too late.

-

It’s supposed to be routine. You’re only there to cover a zoning dispute. A boring, mid-week council press event that’s been rescheduled three times already. The air is heavy with heat and bureaucracy. You and your photographer barely make it past the front barricades before the scene spirals into chaos.

First it’s the downed power lines—sparking in rapid bursts as something hits the utility pole two blocks down. Then a car screeches over the median. Then someone starts screaming.

You’re still trying to piece it together when the crowd surges—someone shouts about a gun. People scatter. A window shatters across the street. A chunk of concrete falls from the sky like a thrown brick.

Your feet move before your brain catches up. You hit the pavement just as something explodes behind you. A jolt rings through your bones, sharp and high and metallic. Dust clouds the air. There’s shouting, then screaming, and your ears go fuzzy for one split second.

And then he lands.

Superman.

Cape whipping behind him like it’s caught in its own storm, boots cracking against the sidewalk as he drops down between the wreckage and the people still trying to flee. He moves like nothing you’ve ever seen.

Not just fast—but impossible. His body a blur of motion, heat, and purpose. He rips a crumpled lamppost off a trapped woman like it weighs nothing. Hurls it aside and crouches low beside her, voice firm but gentle as he checks her pulse, her leg, her name.

You’re frozen where you crouch, half behind a parking meter, hand pressed to your chest like it can keep your heart from tearing loose.

And then be turns. Looks straight at you. His expression shifts. Just for a moment. Just for you. He steps forward, dust streaking his suit, eyes dark with something you don’t have time to name. He reaches you in three strides, body angled between you and the chaos, hand raised in warning before you can speak.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”

Your stomach drops. Not at the danger. Not at the sound of buildings groaning in the distance or the flash of gunmetal tucked into a stranger’s hand.

It’s him. That word. That voice. The exact way of saying it—like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s said it a thousand times before.

Like Clark says it.

It stuns you more than the explosion did.

You blink up at him, speechless, heart stuttering behind your ribs as he holds your gaze just a second longer than he should. His brow furrows. Then he’s gone—into the fray, into the fire, into the part of the story where your pen can’t follow.

You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember how you get back to the press line, only that your legs shake and your palms burn and every time you try to replay what just happened, your brain gets stuck on one word.

Sweetheart.

You’ve heard it before—dozens of times. Always soft. Always accidental. Always from behind thick glasses and a crooked tie and a mouth still chewing the edge of a muffin while he scrolls through zoning reports.

Clark says it when he forgets you’re not his to claim. Clark says it when you’re both the last ones in the office and he thinks you’re asleep at your desk. Clark says it like a secret. Like a slip.

And Superman just said it exactly the same way. Same tone. Same warmth. Same quiet ache beneath it.

But that’s not possible. Because Superman is—Superman. Bold. Dazzling. Fire-forged. He walks like he owns the sky. He speaks like a storm made flesh. He radiates power and perfection.

And Clark? Clark is all flannel and stammering jokes and soft eyes behind big frames. He’s gentle. A little clumsy. His swagger is borrowed from farm porches and storybooks. He’s sweet in a way Superman couldn’t possibly be.

Couldn’t… Right? You chalk it up to coincidence. You have to.

…Sort of.

-

You don’t sleep well the night after the incident. You keep replaying it—frame by impossible frame. The gunshot, the smoke, the sky splitting in half. The crack of his landing, the rush of wind off his cape. The weight of his body between you and danger. And then that voice.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”

You flinch every time it echoes in your head. Every time your brain folds it over the countless memories you have of Clark saying it in passing, like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.

But it means something now.

You come into the office the next day wired and quiet, adrenaline still burning faintly at the edges of your skin. You aren’t sure what to say, or to whom, so you say nothing. You stare too long at your coffee. You snap at a printer jam. You forget your lunch in the breakroom fridge.

Clark notices. He hovers by your desk that morning, a second coffee in hand—one of those specialty orders from that corner place he knows you like but always pretends he doesn’t remember.

“Rough day?” he asks gently. His tone is careful. Soft. As if you’re a glass already rattling on the edge of the shelf.

You don’t look up. “It’s fine.”

He hesitates. Then sets the coffee down beside your elbow, just far enough that you have to choose whether or not to reach for it. “I heard about the power line thing,” he adds. “You okay?”

“I said I’m fine, Clark.”

A beat.

You hate the way his face flickers at that—hurt, barely masked. He pushes his glasses up and nods like he deserves it. Like he’s been expecting it. He doesn’t press. He just walks away.

-

You find yourself whispering to Lois over takeout later that afternoon—half a conversation muttered between bites of noodles and the hum of flickering overheads.

“He called me sweetheart.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Clark?”

“No. Superman.”

Her chewing slows.

You keep your eyes on the edge of your desk. “That’s… weird, right?”

Lois makes a sound—somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “He’s a superhero. They charm every pretty girl they pull out of a burning building.”

You poke at your noodles. “Still. It felt…”

“Weird?” she teases again, nudging her knee against yours.

You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like it hasn’t been clawing at the back of your brain for three days straight. Lois doesn’t press. Just watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then she moves on, launching into a tirade about Perry’s passive-aggressive post-it notes and the fact that someone keeps stealing her pens.

But the damage is already done. Because you start thinking maybe you’ve just been projecting. Maybe you want your secret admirer to be Clark so badly that your brain’s rewriting reality—latching onto any voice, any phrase, any fleeting resemblance and assigning it meaning.

Sweetheart.

It’s a common word. It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Superman says it to everyone. Maybe he has a whole roster of soft pet names for dazed civilians. Maybe you’re the delusional one—sitting here wondering if your awkward, sweet, left-footed coworker moonlights as a god.

The idea is so absurd it actually makes you laugh. Quietly. Bitterly. Right into your carton of lo mein. You tell yourself to let it go. But you don’t.

You can’t. Because somewhere deep down, it doesn’t feel absurd at all. It feels… close. Like you’re brushing against the edge of something true. And if you get just a little closer—

You might fall right through it.

-

Clark pulls back after that. Subtly. Slowly. Like he’s dimming himself on purpose. He’s still there—still kind, still thoughtful, still Clark. But the rhythm changes.

The coffees stop appearing on your desk each morning. No more sticky notes with half-legible puns or awkward smiley faces. No more jokes under his breath during staff meetings. No more warm glances across the bullpen when you’re stuck late and your screen is giving you a headache.

His chair now sits just a little farther from yours in the layout room. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel. You notice it the way you notice when the air shifts before a storm. Quiet. Inevitable.

Even his messages change. Once, his texts used to come with too many exclamation marks and a tendency to type out haha when he was nervous. Now they’re brief. Punctuated. Polite.

“Got your quote. Sending now.” “Perry said we’re cleared for page A3.” “Hope your meeting went okay.”

You reread them more than you should. Not because of what they say—but because of what they don’t. It feels like being ghosted by someone who still waves to you across the room.

You try to talk yourself down. Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe he’s stressed. Maybe you’ve been projecting. Maybe it’s not your admirer’s handwriting that matches his. Maybe it’s not his voice that slipped out of Superman’s mouth like a secret.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But the space he used to fill next to you… feels like a light that’s been quietly turned off. And you are the one still blinking against the dark.

And yet, one afternoon, someone in the bullpen makes a snide remark about your latest piece. You don’t even catch the beginning—just the tail end of it, lazy and smug.

“—basically just fluff, right? She’s been coasting lately.”

You’re about to ignore it. You’re tired. Too tired. And what’s the point in arguing with someone who thinks nuance is a liability?

But then—Clark speaks. Not from beside you, but from across the room. You’re not even sure how he could have possibly heard the guy talking across all the hustle and bustle of the bullpen. But his voice cuts through the noise like someone snapping a ruler against a desk.

“I just think her work actually matters, okay?”

Silence follows. Not because of the volume—he wasn’t loud. Just certain. Unflinching. Like he’d been holding it in. The words hang in the air, charged and too real.

Clark looks immediately horrified with himself. He goes red. Not a faint flush—crimson. Mouth parting like he wants to take it back but doesn’t know how. He tries to recover, to smooth it over—but nothing comes. Just a flustered shake of his head and a noise that might’ve been his name.

The other reporter stares. “…Okay, man. Chill.”

Clark mumbles something about grabbing a file from archives and practically stumbles for the hallway, papers clenched awkwardly in one hand like a shield.

You don’t follow. You just… sit there. Staring at the space he left behind. Because that moment—those words—it wasn’t just instinct. It wasn’t just kindness. It was him.

The way he said it. The emotion in it. The rhythm of it. It felt like the notes. Like the quiet encouragements tucked into the margins of your day. Like someone watching, quietly, gently, hoping you’ll see yourself the way they do.

You think about the phrases he’s used before.

“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.” “Even whispers echo when they’re true.”

And now:

“Her work actually matters.”

All said like they were true, not convenient. All said like they were about you.

You start to notice more after that. The way Clark compliments your writing—always specific. Never lazy. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s proud of something you said, even when he doesn’t speak up. The way he turns the thermostat up exactly two degrees every time you bring your sweater into work. The way he walks a half-step behind you when you both leave late at night.

It’s not a confession. Not yet. But it’s a pattern. And once you start seeing it—

You can’t stop.

-

It’s a quiet afternoon in the bullpen. The kind where the overhead lights hum just loud enough to notice and everything smells like stale coffee and highlighter ink.

Clark’s sprawled in front of his monitor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed with the kind of intensity he usually saves for city zoning laws and double-checked citations. You’re helping him sort through quotes—most of which came from a reluctant press secretary and one very talkative dog walker who may or may not be a credible witness.

“Can you check the time stamp on the third transcript?” he asks, not looking up from his notes. “I think I messed it up when I formatted.”

You nod, flipping through the stack of papers he passed you earlier.  That’s when you see it. Folded beneath the top printout, half-tucked into the margin of a city planning spreadsheet, is a different kind of note. A loose sheet, scribbled across in black ink. Not typed—written. Slanted lines. A few false starts crossed out.

At first, you think it’s a headline draft. A brainstorm. But the longer you stare, the more it reads like… something else.

“The city is loud today. Not just noise, but motion. Memory. The way people hum when they think no one’s listening.” “I can’t stop watching her move through it like she belongs to it. Like it belongs to her.”

You freeze. Your eyes track down the page slowly, like touching something sacred.

The letters are familiar. The lowercase y curls the same way as the one on your very first note—the one that came with your coffee. The ink is the same soft black, slightly smudged in the corners, like whoever wrote it holds the pen too tight when they’re thinking. The paper is the same notepad stock he’s used before. The same faint red line down the margin.

You don’t mean to do it, but your fingers curl around the page. Your chest goes tight. Because it’s not just similar.

It’s exact.

You hear him coming before you see him—those long, careful strides and the faint jangle of the lanyard he keeps forgetting to take off.

You tuck the paper into your notebook. Quick. Smooth. Automatic.

“Hey, sorry,” he says, rounding the corner with two mugs of tea and a slightly sheepish smile. “Printer’s jammed again. I may have made it worse.”

You nod. Too fast. You can’t quite make your voice work yet. Clark hands you your tea—just the way you like it, no comment—and sits across from you like nothing’s wrong. Like your whole world hasn’t tilted six degrees to the left.

He launches into a ramble about column widths and quote placement, about whether a serif font looks more “established” than sans serif.

You don’t hear a word of it. You just… watch him. The way he gestures too big with his hands. The way his glasses slip down his nose mid-sentence and he doesn’t bother to fix them until they’re practically falling off. The way his voice drops a little when he’s thinking hard—low and warm and utterly unselfconscious.

He has no idea you know. No idea what you just found.

You murmur something about needing to catch a meeting and excuse yourself early. He nods. Worries at his bottom lip like he’s debating whether to walk you out. Decides against it.

“Thanks for the help,” he says quietly, as you shoulder your bag. “Seriously. I couldn’t’ve done this draft without you.”

You give him a look you don’t quite know how to name. Something between thank you and I see you. 

Then you go.

-

That night, you sit on your bedroom floor with the drawer open. Every note. Every folded scrap. Every secret tucked under your stapler or slid into your sleeve or left beside your coffee cup. You line them up in rows. You flatten them with careful hands. And you compare. One by one.

The loops. The lines. The uneven spacing. The curl of the r. The hush in every sentence, like he was writing them with his heart too close to the surface. 

There’s no room for doubt anymore. It’s him. It’s been him this whole time.

Clark Kent.

And somehow—somehow—he’s still never said your name aloud when he writes about you. Not once. But every letter reads like a whisper of it. Like a promise waiting to be spoken.

-

The office is quiet by the time you find the nerve.

Desks are abandoned, chairs turned at angles, the windows dark with city glow. Outside, Metropolis hums in its usual low thrum—sirens and neon and distant jazz from a rooftop bar—but here, in the bullpen, it’s just the steady tick of the wall clock and the slow, careful steps you take toward his desk.

Clark doesn’t hear you at first. He’s bent over a red pen and a half-finished draft, glasses low on his nose, the curve of his back hunched the way it always is when he’s lost in edits. His tie is loosened. His sleeves are pushed up. There’s a smear of ink on his thumb. He looks soft in the way people do when they think no one’s watching. 

You speak before you lose your nerve. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Clark startles. Not dramatically—just a sharp breath and a too-quick motion to sit upright, like a kid caught doodling in the margins. “I—what?”

You don’t let your voice shake. “That it was you. The notes. The park. All of it.”

He stares at you. Then down at his desk. Then back again. His mouth opens like it wants to offer a lie, but nothing comes out. Just silence. His fingers twitch toward the edge of the desk and stop there, curling into his palm.

“I—” he tries again, softer now, “—I didn’t think you knew.”

“I didn’t.” Your voice is gentle. But not easy. “Not at first. Not really. But then I saw that list on your desk and… I went home and checked the handwriting.”

He winces. “I knew I left that out somewhere.”

You cross your arms, not out of anger—more like self-protection. “You could’ve told me. At any point. I asked you.”

“I know.” He swallows hard. “I know. I wanted to. I… tried.”

You watch him. Wait. 

And then he says it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the truth, raw and shaky and so Clark it nearly breaks you. “Because if I told you it was me… you might look at me different. Or worse… The same.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Not right away. Your heart clenches. Because it’s so him—to assume your affection could only live in the mystery. That the truth of him—soft, clumsy, brilliant, real—would somehow undo the magic.

“Clark…” you start, but your voice slips.

He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just the guy who spills coffee on his own notes and forgets to refill the paper tray. You’re… you. You write like you’re on fire. You walk into a room and it listens. I didn’t think someone like you would ever want someone like me.”

You stare at him. Really stare. At the flushed cheeks. The nervous hands. The boyish smile he’s trying to bury under self-deprecation. And then you say it. “I saved every note.”

He blinks.

You keep going. “I read them when I felt invisible. When I thought no one gave a damn what I was doing here. They mattered.”

Clark’s breath catches. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. He takes a slow step forward, tentative. Like he’s afraid to break the spell. His eyes search yours, and for a moment—for a second so still it might as well last an hour—he leans in. Not close enough to kiss you. But almost. His hand brushes yours. He stops. The air is heavy between you, buzzing with something fragile and enormous. But it isn’t enough. Not yet.

You draw in a breath, quiet but steady. “Why didn’t you meet me?”

Clark goes still. You can see it happen—the way the question lands. The way he folds in on himself just slightly, like the truth is too heavy to hold upright.

“I…” He tries, but the word doesn’t land. His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to the floor, then back up. He wants to tell you. He almost does. But he can’t. Not without unraveling everything. Not without unraveling himself.

“I wanted to,” he says finally, voice rough at the edges. “More than anything.”

“But?” you press, gently.

He just looks at you and says nothing. You nod, slowly. The silence says enough. Your chest aches—not in a sharp, bitter way. In the dull, familiar way of something you already suspected being confirmed.

You glance down at where your hand still brushes his, then look back at him—really look. “I wish you’d told me,” you whisper. “I sat there thinking it was a joke. That I made it all up. That I was stupid for believing in any of it.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow past it. “I just… I need time. To process. To think.”

Clark’s eyes flicker—hope and heartbreak, all tangled up in one look. “Of course,” he says immediately. “Take whatever you need. I mean it.”

A beat passes before you say the part that makes his breath catch. “I’m happy it was you.”

He freezes.

You offer the smallest smile. “I wanted it to be you.”

And for the first time in minutes, something in his shoulders unknots. There’s a shift. Gentle. Quiet. His hand lingers near yours again, knuckles brushing. He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t push.

But God, he wants to. And maybe… maybe you do too. The moment stretches, unspoken and warm and not quite ready to be anything more.

You both stay like that—close, not touching. Breathing the same charged air. Then he laughs under his breath. Nervous. Boyish.

“I’m probably gonna trip over something the second you walk away.”

You smile back. “Just recalibrate your ankles.”

He huffs out a laugh, head ducking. “I deserved that.”

You start to turn away. Just a little. But his voice stops you again—quiet, sincere, something earnest catching in it. “I’m really glad it was me, too.”

And your heart flutters all over again.

-

Lois is perched on the edge of your desk, a paper takeout box balanced on her knee, chopsticks waving in lazy circles while you pick at your own dinner with a little too much focus.

You haven’t told her everything. Not the everything everything. Not the way your heart nearly cracked open when Clark looked at you like you were made of starlight and library books. Not how close he got before pulling back. Not how you pulled back too, even though your whole body ached to close the distance.

But you have told her about the notes. About the mystery. About the strange tenderness of it all, how it wrapped around your days like a string you didn’t know you were following until it tugged. And Lois—Lois has been unusually quiet about it. Until now. 

“I’m setting you up,” she says between bites, like she’s discussing filing taxes.

You blink. “What?”

“A date. Just one. Guy from the Features desk at the Tribune. You’ll like him. He’s taller than you, decent jawline, wears socks that match. He’s got strong opinions about punctuation, which I figure is basically foreplay for you.”

You stare at her. “You don’t even believe in setups.”

“I don’t,” she agrees. “But you’ve been spiraling in circles for weeks, and at this point, I either push you toward a date or stage an intervention with PowerPoint slides.”

You laugh despite yourself. “You have PowerPoint slides?”

“Of course not,” she scoffs. “I have a Google Doc.”

You roll your eyes. “Lois—”

“Listen,” she says, gentler now. “I know you’re in deep with whoever this guy is. And if it is Clark… well. I can see why.”

Your stomach flips.

“But maybe stepping outside of the Planet for two hours wouldn’t kill you. Let someone else flirt with you for once. Let yourself figure out what you actually want.”

You press your lips together. Look down at your barely-touched food.

“You don’t have to fall for him,” she adds, softly. “Just let yourself be seen.”

You exhale through your nose. “He better be cute.”

“Oh, he is. Total sweater vest energy.”

You snort. “So your type.”

“Exactly.” She lifts her takeout carton in a mock toast. “To emotionally compromised coworkers and their tragic love lives.”

You clink your chopsticks against hers like it’s the saddest champagne flute in the world. And later, when you’re getting ready, you still feel the weight of Clark’s almost-kiss behind your ribs. But you go anyway. Because Lois is right. You need to know what it is you’re choosing. Even if, deep down, you already do.

-

The date isn’t bad. That’s the most frustrating part. He’s nice. Polished in that media school kind of way—crisp shirt, clean shave, a practiced smile that belongs on a campaign poster. He compliments your bylines and talks about his dream of running an independent magazine one day. He orders the good whiskey and laughs at your jokes.

But it’s the wrong laugh. Off by a beat. The rhythm’s not right.

When he leans in, you don’t. When he talks, your thoughts drift—to mismatched socks and printer toner smudges. To how someone else always remembers your coffee order. To how someone else listens, not to respond, but to see.

You realize it halfway through the second drink. You’re thinking about Clark again.

The softness of him. The steadiness. The way he over-apologizes in texts but never hesitates when someone challenges your work. The way his voice tilts a little higher when he’s nervous. The way his laugh never lands in the right place, but somehow makes the whole room feel warmer.

You pull your coat tighter when you leave the restaurant, cheeks stinging from the wind and the slow unraveling of a night that should’ve meant something. It doesn’t. Not in the way that matters.

So you walk. You tell yourself you’re just passing by the Daily Planet. That maybe you left your notes there. That it’s just a habit, stopping in this late. But when you scan your ID badge and push through the heavy glass doors, you already know the truth. You’re hoping he’s still here.

And he is.

The bullpen is almost entirely dark, save for a single desk lamp casting gold across the layout section. He’s hunched over it—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, shirt rumpled like he’s been pacing, thinking, rewriting. His glasses are folded beside him on the desk. His hair’s a mess—fingers clearly run through it too many times.

He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, breathing out hard through his nose. You don’t say anything. You just… watch. It hits you in one perfect, unshakable moment. The slope of his shoulders. The cut of his jaw. The furrow in his brow when he’s thinking too hard.

He looks like Superman.

No glasses. No slouch. No excuses. But more than that—he looks like Clark. Like the man who learned your coffee order. Like the one who saves all his best edits for last so he can tell you in person how good your writing is. The one who panicked when you got too close to the truth, but couldn’t stop leaving notes anyway.

And when he finally lifts his head and sees you standing there—still in your coat, fingers tight around your notebook—you watch something shift in his expression. A flicker of surprise. Panic. Bare, open emotion. Because you’re seeing him without the glasses.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur. “Thought I’d grab my notes.”

He smiles, slow and unsure. “You… left them by the scanner.”

You nod, like that matters. Like you came here for paper and not for him. Then you walk over, slow and deliberate, and retrieve your notes from the edge of the scanner beside him. He swallows hard, watching you.

Then clears his throat. “So… how was the date?”

You pause. “Fine,” you say. “He was nice. Funny. Smart.”

Clark nods, but you’re not finished.

“But when he laughed, it was the wrong rhythm. And when he spoke, I didn’t lean in.”

You meet his eyes—clear blue, unhidden now. “I made up my mind halfway through the second drink.” His lips part. Barely. You move to the edge of his desk and set your notebook down. Then—carefully, slowly—you pull out the chair beside his and sit. The air between you goes molten.

Clark leans in a little, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. One hand moves down, like he’s going to say something, but instead, he reaches for the leg of your chair—fingers curling around it. And pulls you toward him. The scrape of wood against tile echoes, loud and deliberate. Your thighs knock his. Your breath stutters.

He’s so close now you can feel the heat rolling off him. The weight of his gaze. Your heart hammers in your chest. And lower.

“Clark—” But you don’t finish because he meets you halfway. The kiss is fire and breath and years of want pressed between two mouths. His hands come up—one to your jaw, the other to the back of your head—and tilt your face just so. Fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you to him like he’s afraid you might vanish.

You moan into his mouth. Soft. Surprised. He groans back. Rougher. You reach for his shirt blindly, fists curling in the cotton as he pulls you fully into his lap—into the chair with him, your legs straddling his thighs. His hands don’t know where to land. Your waist. Your thighs. Your face again.

“You’re it,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’ve always been it.”

You know he means it. Because you’ve seen it. In every note. Every glance. Every moment he looked at you like you were already his. And now, with your bodies tangled, mouths tasting each other, breathing the same heat—you finally believe it.

You don’t say it yet. But the way you kiss him again says it for you. You’re his. You always have been.

His hands roam, but never rush. Your fingers are tangled in his shirt, your knees pressing to either side of his hips, and you feel him—all of him—underneath you, solid and steady and shaking just slightly. The chair creaks with every breath you share. His mouth is still on yours, slow now, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Like he’s afraid if he goes too fast, you’ll disappear again.

When he finally pulls back—just enough to breathe—it’s with a soft, reverent exhale. His nose brushes yours. “You’re really here,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “God, you’re really here.”

You blink at him, your hands sliding to either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing the high flush of his cheeks. He looks so open. Like you’ve peeled back every layer of him with just a kiss. And maybe you have.

His lips find the edge of your jaw next, slow and aching. A kiss. Then another, just beneath your ear. Then one lower, along the soft skin of your neck. Each press of his mouth feels like a confession. Like something that was buried too long, finally given air.

“You don’t know,” he whispers. “You don’t know what it’s been like, watching you and not getting to—” Another kiss, right beneath your cheekbone.  “I used to rehearse things I’d say to you, and then I’d get to work and you’d smile and I’d forget how to talk.”

A laugh huffs out of you, but it melts fast when he leans in again, his breath fanning warm across your skin. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this close. I didn’t think I’d get to touch you like this.”

You shift in his lap, chest brushing his, and his hands squeeze your waist gently like he’s grounding himself. His mouth finds your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth again.

“You’re so—” he breaks off. Tries again. “You’re everything.” Your pulse thrums in your throat. Clark’s hands stay respectful, but they wander—curving up your back, smoothing over your shoulders, settling at your ribs like he wants to hold you together.

“I used to write those notes late at night,” he admits against your collarbone. “Didn’t even think you’d read them at first. But you did. You kept them.”

“I kept every one,” you whisper.

His breath catches. You tilt his face back up to yours, studying him in the low, golden light. His hair’s a little messy now from your fingers. His lips pink and kiss-swollen. His chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. And still, even now—he’s looking at you like he’s the one who’s lucky.

Clark kisses you again—soft, like a promise. Then a trail of them, across your cheek, your jaw, your throat. Slow enough to make your skin shiver and your hips shift instinctively against his lap. He groans quietly at that—barely audible—but doesn’t press for more. He just holds you tighter.

“I’d wait forever for you,” he murmurs into your skin. “I don’t need anything else. Just this. Just you.” You bury your face in his shoulder, overwhelmed, heart pounding like a war drum. You don’t say anything back. You just press another kiss to his throat, and feel him smile where your mouth lands.

-

The city is quieter at night—its edges softened under streetlamp glow, concrete warming beneath the fading breath of the day. There’s a breeze that tugs gently at your coat as you and Clark walk side by side, your fingers still loosely laced with his. His hand is big. Warm. Rough in the places that tell stories. Gentle in the ways that say everything else.

Neither of you speaks at first. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s thick with something tender. Like a string strung tight between your ribs and his, humming with each shared step.

When he glances down at you, his smile is small and almost shy. “I can’t believe I didn’t knock over the chair,” he says after a few blocks, voice pitched low with laughter.

You grin. “You were close. I think my thigh is bruised.”

He groans. “Don’t say that—I’ll lose sleep.”

You look at him sidelong. “You weren’t going to sleep anyway.” That earns you a pink flush down the side of his neck, and you tuck that image away for safekeeping. 

Your building looms closer, brick and ivy-wrapped and familiar in the soft hush of the hour. You slow as you reach the front step, turning to face him.

“Thank you,” you murmur. You don’t mean just for the walk.

He holds your hand a beat longer. Then, without a word, he lifts it—presses his lips to your knuckles. It’s soft. Reverent.

Your breath catches in your throat. And maybe that’s what breaks the spell—maybe that’s what makes it all too much and not enough at once—because the next second, you’re reaching. Or maybe he is. It doesn’t matter. He kisses you again—this time fuller, deeper—your back brushing against the door behind you, his other hand cradling your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you just right.

It doesn’t last long. Just long enough to taste the weight of what’s shifting between you. To feel it crest again in your chest.

When he finally pulls back, his lips hover a breath away from yours. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly.

You nod. You can’t quite say anything back yet. He gives your hand one last squeeze, then turns and disappears down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders curved slightly inward like he’s holding in a smile he doesn’t know what to do with.

You unlock the door. Step inside. But you don’t go to bed right away. You walk to the front window instead—bare feet quiet on hardwood, heart still hammering. Through the glass, you spot him half a block away. He thinks you’re gone. Which is probably why, under the streetlight, Clark Kent jumps up and smacks the edge of a low-hanging banner like he’s testing his vertical. He catches it on the second try, swinging from it for all of two seconds before nearly tripping over his own feet.

You snort. Your hand presses against your mouth to muffle the sound. And then you smile. That kind of soft, aching smile that tugs at something deep in your chest. Because that’s him. That’s the man who writes you poems under the cover of anonymity and nearly breaks your chair kissing you in a newsroom.

That’s the one you wanted it to be. And now that it is—you don’t think your heart’s ever going to stop fluttering.

-

The bullpen is alive again. Phones ring. Keys clatter. Someone’s arguing over copy edits near the back printer, and Jimmy streaks past with a half-eaten bagel clamped between his teeth and a stack of photos fluttering behind him like confetti. It’s chaos.

But none of it touches you. The world moves at its usual speed, but everything inside you has slowed. Like someone turned the volume down on everything that isn’t him.

Your eyes find Clark without meaning to. He’s already at his desk—glasses on, shirt pressed, tie straighter than usual. He must’ve fixed it three times this morning. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, a pen already tucked behind one ear. He’s doing that thing he does when he’s thinking—lip caught gently between his teeth, brows drawn, tapping the space bar like it owes him money.

But there’s a softness to him this morning, too. A looseness in his shoulders. A quiet sort of glow around the edges, like some part of him hasn’t fully come down from last night either. Like he’s still vibrating with the same electricity that’s still thrumming low behind your ribs.

And then he looks up. He finds you just as easily as you found him. You expect him to look away—bashful, flustered, maybe even embarrassed now that the newsroom lights are on and you’re both pretending not to be lit matches pretending not to burn.

But he doesn’t. He holds your gaze. And the quiet that opens up between you is louder than anything else in the building. The low hum of printers. The whirr of the HVAC. The hiss of steam from the office espresso machine.

You swallow hard. Then you look back at your screen like it matters. You try to focus. You really do.

Less than ten minutes later, he’s there. He approaches slow, like he’s afraid of breaking something delicate. His hand appears first, gently setting a familiar to-go cup on your desk.

“I figured you forgot yours,” he says, voice low.

You glance up at him. “I didn’t.”

A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. Soft. A little sheepish. “Oh. Well…” He shrugs. “Now you have two.”

You take the coffee anyway. Your fingers brush his as you do. He doesn’t pull away. Not this time. His hand lingers for half a second longer than it should—just enough to make your pulse jump in your wrist—and then slowly drops back to his side. The silence between you now isn’t awkward. It’s taut. Weightless. Like standing at the edge of something enormous, staring over the drop, and realizing he’s right there beside you—ready to jump too.

“Walk with me?” he asks, voice barely above the clatter around you. You nod. Because you’d follow him anywhere.

Downstairs, the building atrium hums with the low murmur of morning traffic and the soft shuffle of people cutting through the lobby on their way to bigger, faster things. But here—beneath the high, glass-paneled ceiling where sunlight pours in like gold through water—the city feels a little farther away. A little quieter. Just the two of you, caught in that hush between chaos and clarity.

Clark hands you a sugar packet without a word, and you take it, fingers brushing his again. He watches—not your hands, but your face—as you tear it open and shake it into your cup. Like memorizing the way you take your coffee might somehow tell him more than you’re ready to say aloud.

You glance at him, just in time to catch it—that look. Barely there, but soft. Full. He looks at you like he’s trying to learn you by heart.

You raise a brow. “What?”

He blinks, caught. “Nothing.”

But you’re smiling now, just a little. A private, corner-of-your-mouth kind of smile. “You look tired,” you murmur, stirring slowly.

His lips twitch. “Late night.”

“Editing from home?”

He hesitates. You watch the way his shoulders shift, the subtle catch in his breath. Then, finally, he shakes his head. “Not exactly.”

You hum. Say nothing more. The moment lingers, warm as the cup in your hand. He stands beside you, tall and still, but there’s something new in the way he holds himself—like gravity’s just a little lighter around him this morning. Like your presence pulls him into a softer orbit. There’s a beat of silence.

“You… seemed quiet last night,” he says, voice gentler now. “When you saw me.”

You glance at him from over the rim of your cup. Steam curls up between you, catching in the morning light like spun sugar. “I saw you,” you say.

He studies you. Carefully. “You sure?”

You lower your coffee. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

His brows pull together slightly, the line between them deepening. He’s trying to read you. Trying to solve an equation he’s too close to see clearly. There’s a question in his eyes—not just about last night, but about everything that came before it. The letters. The glances. The ache.

But you don’t give him the answer. Not out loud. Because what you don’t say hangs heavier than what you do. You don’t say: I’m pretty certain he’s you. You don’t say: I think my heart has known for a while now. You don’t say: I’m not afraid of what you’re hiding. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you—soft and silken, tethering you to something deeper than confession. You sip your coffee, heart steady now, eyes warm.

And when he opens his mouth again—when he leans forward like he might finally give himself away entirely—you smile. Just a soft curve of your lips. A quiet reassurance. “Don’t worry,” you say, voice low. “I liked what I saw.”

He freezes. Then flushes, color blooming high on his cheeks. His gaze drops to the floor like it’s safer there, like looking at you too long might unravel him completely—but when he glances back up, the smile on his face is small and helpless and utterly undone. A breath escapes him, barely audible—but you hear it. You feel it. Relief.

He walks you back upstairs without another word. The movement is easy. Comfortable. But his hand hovers near yours the whole time. Not quite touching. Just… there. Like gravity pulling two halves of the same secret closer.

And as you re-enter the hum of the bullpen, nothing looks different. But everything feels like it’s just about to change.

-

That night, after the city has quieted—after the neon pulse of Metropolis blurs into puddle reflections and distant sirens—the Daily Planet is almost reverent in its silence. No ringing phones. No newsroom chatter. Just the soft hum of a printer in standby mode and the creak of the elevator cables descending behind you.

You let yourself in with your keycard. The lock clicks louder than expected in the stillness. You don’t know why you’re here, really. You told yourself it was to grab the folder you forgot. To double-check something on your last draft. But the truth is quieter than that.

You were hoping he’d be here. He’s not. His desk lamp is off. His chair turned inward, as if he left in a hurry. No half-eaten sandwich or scribbled drafts left behind—just a tidied workspace and absence thick enough to feel.

You sigh, the sound swallowed whole by the vast emptiness of the bullpen. Then you see it. At your desk. Tucked half-under your keyboard like a secret trying not to be. One folded piece of paper.

No envelope this time. No clever line on the front. Just your name, handwritten in a looping scrawl you’ve come to know better than your own signature. A rhythm you’ve studied and traced in the quiet of your apartment, night after night.

You slide it free with careful fingers. Your heart stutters as you unfold it. The ink is darker this time—less tentative. The strokes more deliberate, like he knew, at last, he didn’t have to hide.

“For once I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to have your lips on mine. But I still think about it anyway.” —C.K.

You stare at the words until the paper goes soft in your hands. Until your chest feels too full and too fragile all at once. Until the noise of your own heartbeat drowns out everything else.

Then you press the note to your chest and close your eyes. His initials burn through the paper like a touch. Not a secret admirer anymore. Not a mystery in the margins. Just him.

Clark. Your friend. Your almost. Your maybe.

You don’t need the rest of the truth. Not tonight. Not if it costs this fragile thing blooming between you—this quiet, aching sweetness. This slow, deliberate unraveling of walls and fears and the long-held breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Whatever you’re building together, it’s happening one heartbeat at a time. One almost-confession. One note left behind in the dark. And you’d rather have this—this steady climb into something real—than rush toward the edge of revelation and risk it all crumbling.

So you tuck the note gently into your bag, where the others wait. Every word he’s given you, kept safe like a promise. You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you’re not afraid of finding out.

-

You’re not official.

Not in the way people expect it. There’s no label, no group announcement, no big display. But you’re definitely something now—something solid and golden and real in the space between words.

It’s not office gossip. Not yet. But it could be. Because you linger a little too long near his desk. Because he lights up when you enter a room like it’s instinct. Because when he passes you in the bullpen, his hand brushes yours—just barely—and you both pause like the air just changed. There’s no denying it.

And then comes the hallway kiss. It’s after hours. The building is quiet, the newsroom lights dimmed to half. You’re both walking toward the elevators, your footsteps echoing against the tile.

Clark fumbles for the call button, mumbling something about how slow the system is when it’s late, and how the elevator always seems to stall on the wrong floor. You don’t answer. You just reach for his tie. A gentle tug. A silent question. He exhales, soft and shaky. Then he leans in.

The kiss is slow. Unhurried. Like you’re both tasting something that’s been simmering between you for years. His hands find your waist, yours curl into his shirt, and the elevator dings somewhere in the distance, but neither of you move.

You part only when the second ding reminds you where you are. His forehead presses to yours, warm and close. You breathe the same air. And then the doors close behind you, and he walks you out with his hand ghosting the small of your back.

-

You start learning the rhythm of Clark Kent. He talks more when he’s nervous—little rambles about traffic patterns or article formatting, or how he’s still not entirely sure he installed his dishwasher correctly. Sometimes he trails off mid-thought, like he’s remembering something urgent but can’t explain it.

He always carries your groceries. All of them. No negotiation. He’ll take the heavier bags first, sling them both over one shoulder and pretend like it’s nothing. And somehow, he always forgets his own umbrella—but never forgets yours. You don’t know how many he owns, but one always appears when the clouds roll in. Like magic. Like preparation. Like he’s thought of you in every version of the day.

You don’t ask.

You just start to keep one in your own bag for him.

-

The third kiss happens on your couch.

You’ve been watching some old movie neither of you are paying attention to, his arm slung lazily across your shoulders. Your legs are tangled. His fingers are tracing idle shapes against your thigh through the fabric of your leggings.

He kisses you once—soft and slow—and then again. Longer. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he might need it later.

Then his phone buzzes.

He stiffens.

You feel the change instantly—the way his body pulls back, the air between you tightens. He glances at the screen. You don’t catch the name. But you see the look in his eyes.

Regret. Apology. Something deeper.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he says, already moving. “I have to—something came up. It’s—”

You sit up, brushing your hand against his arm. “Go,” you say softly.

“But—”

“It’s okay. Just… be safe.”

And God, the way he looks at you. Like you’ve given him something priceless. Something he didn’t know he was allowed to want.

He kisses your temple like a promise and disappears into the night.

-

It happens again. And again.

Missed dinners. Sudden goodbyes. Rainy nights where he shows up soaked, out of breath, murmuring apologies and curling into you like he doesn’t know how to be held.

You never ask. You don’t need to.

Because he always comes back.

-

One night, you’re curled into each other on your couch, your legs thrown over his, your cheek resting against his chest. The movie’s playing, forgotten. Your fingers are idly brushing the hem of his shirt where it’s ridden up. He smells like rain and ink and whatever soap he always uses that lingers on your pillow now.

Then his voice, quiet in the dark, “I don’t always know how to be… enough.”

You blink. Look up. He’s staring at the ceiling. Not quite breathing evenly. Like the words cost him something.

You reach up and cradle his face in your hands.

His eyes finally meet yours.

“You are,” you whisper. “As you are.”

You don’t say: Even if you are who I think you are.

You don’t need to. You just kiss him again. Soft. Long. Steady. Because whatever he’s carrying, you’ve already started holding part of it too.

And he lets you.

-

The night starts quiet.

Takeout boxes sit half-forgotten on the coffee table—one still open, rice going cold, soy sauce packet untouched. Your legs are draped across Clark’s lap, one foot nudged against the curve of his thigh, and his hand rests there now. Not possessively. Not deliberately.

Just… there.

It’s late. The kind of late where the whole city softens. No sirens outside. No blinking inbox. Just the low hum of the lamp on the side table and the warmth of the man beside you.

Clark’s eyes are on you. They’ve been there most of the night.

He hasn’t said much since dinner—just little smiles, quiet sounds of agreement, the occasional brush of his thumb against your ankle like a thought he forgot to speak aloud. But it’s not a bad silence. It’s dense. Full.

You shift, angling toward him slightly, and his gaze flicks to your mouth. That’s all it takes.

He leans in.

The kiss is soft at first. Familiar. A shared breath. A quiet hello in a room where no one had spoken for minutes. But then his hand curls behind your knee, guiding your leg further over his lap, and his mouth opens against yours like he’s been holding back for hours.

He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s spent all day wanting this—aching for the shape of you, the weight of your body in his hands. And when you moan into it, just a little, he shudders.

His hands start to move. One tracing the line of your spine, the other resting against your hip like a question he doesn’t need to ask. You answer anyway—pressing in closer, threading your fingers through his hair, sighing into the heat of his mouth.

You don’t know who climbs into whose lap first, only that you end up straddling him on the couch. Your knees on either side of his thighs. His hands gripping your waist now, fingers curling in your shirt like he doesn’t trust himself not to break it.

And then something shifts.

Not emotional—physical.

Clark stands.

He lifts you with him, effortlessly, like you don’t weigh anything at all. Not a grunt. Not a stagger. Just—up. Smooth and sure. His mouth never leaves yours.

You gasp into the kiss as he walks you backwards, steps confident and fast despite the way your arms tighten around his shoulders. Your spine meets the wall in the next second. Not hard. Just sudden.

Your heart thunders.

“Clark—”

He doesn’t answer. Just breathes against your mouth like he needs the oxygen from your lungs. Like yours is the only air that keeps him grounded.

His hips press into yours, one thigh sliding between your legs, and your back arches instinctively. His hands span your ribs now, thumbs brushing just beneath your bra. You feel the tremble in them—not from fear. From restraint.

“Clark,” you whisper again, and his forehead drops to yours.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and close.

You nod, breath catching. “You?”

He hesitates. Not long. But long enough to count. “Yeah. Just… feel a little off tonight.”

You pull back just enough to look at him.

He’s flushed. Eyes darker than usual. But not winded. Not breathless. Not anything like you are. His chest doesn’t even rise fast beneath your hands. Still, he smiles—like he can will the oddness away—and kisses you again. Deeper this time. Like distraction.

Like he doesn’t want to stop.

You don’t want him to either.

Not yet.

His mouth finds yours again—slower this time, more purposeful. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s waited for this exact moment, this exact pressure of your hips against his, for longer than he’s willing to admit.

You gasp when his hands slide under your shirt, palms broad and steady, dragging upward in a path that sets every nerve on fire. He doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t rush. Just explores—like he’s memorizing, not taking.

“Can I?” he murmurs against your mouth, fingers brushing the underside of your bra.

You nod, breathless. “Yes.”

He exhales, soft and reverent, and lifts your shirt over your head. It’s discarded without ceremony. Then his hands are on you again—warm, slow, mapping out the shape of you with open palms and patient awe.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. His mouth finds the edge of your jaw, trailing kisses down to the hollow beneath your ear. “I think about this… so much.”

You shudder.

His hands move again—down this time, gripping your thighs as he sinks to his knees in front of you. You barely have time to react before he’s tugging your pants down, slow and careful, mouth following the descent with lingering kisses along your hips, the dip of your pelvis, the inside of your thigh.

He looks up at you from the floor.

You nearly forget how to breathe.

“I’ve wanted to take my time with you,” he admits, voice rough and low. “Wanted to learn you slow. Learn how you taste. How you fall apart.”

And then he does.

He leans in and licks a long, deliberate stripe over the center of your underwear, still watching your face.

You whimper.

He smiles, just slightly, and does it again.

By the time he peels your underwear down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, your knees are trembling.

Clark hooks one arm under your leg, lifting it over his shoulder like it’s nothing, and buries his mouth between your thighs with a groan that rattles through your whole body.

His tongue is warm and soft and maddeningly slow—circling, tasting, teasing. He doesn’t rush. Not even when your fingers knot in his hair and your hips rock forward with pure desperation.

“Clark—”

He hums against you, and the sound sends a full-body shiver up your spine.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips brushing you as he speaks. “Let me.”

You do.

You let him wreck you.

He’s methodical about it—like he’s following a map only he can see. One hand holding you steady, the other splayed against your stomach, keeping you anchored while he works you open with mouth and tongue and quiet, praising murmurs.

“So sweet… that’s it, sweetheart… you taste like heaven.”

You’re already close when he slips a thick finger inside you. Then another. Slow, patient, curling exactly where you need him. His mouth never stops. His rhythm is steady. Focused. Unrelenting.

You come like that—panting, gripping his shoulders, thighs shaking around his ears as he groans and keeps going, riding it out with you until you’re trembling too hard to stand.

He rises slowly.

His lips are slick. His eyes are dark.

And you’ve never seen anyone look at you like this.

“Come here,” you whisper.

He kisses you then—deep and possessive and tasting like you. You’re the one tugging at his shirt now, unbuttoning in frantic clumsy swipes. You need him. Need him closer. Need him inside.

But when you reach for his belt, he stills your hands gently.

“Not yet,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet. “Let me take care of you first.”

You blink. “Clark, I—”

He kisses you again—soft, lingering.

“I’ve waited too long for this to rush it,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. “You deserve slow.”

Then he lifts you again—like you weigh nothing—and carries you to the bed. He lays you down like you’re fragile—but the look in his eyes says he knows you’re anything but. That you’re something rare. Something he’s been aching for. His palms skim over your thighs again, slow and deliberate, before he spreads you open beneath him.

He doesn’t ask this time. Just settles between your legs like he belongs there, arms hooked under your thighs, holding you wide.

“Clark—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “I’ve got you.”

And he does.

His mouth finds you again—warm, skilled, confident now. No hesitation, just long, wet strokes of his tongue that build on everything he already learned. And then—without warning—he slides two fingers back inside you.

You cry out, hips jolting.

He groans into you, fingers moving in tandem with his mouth—curling just right, matching every flick of his tongue, every wet press of his lips. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark and hungry and so in love with the way you fall apart for him.

You grip the sheets, gasping his name, over and over, until your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure.

“Clark—God, I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he breathes. “You’re almost there. Let go for me.”

You do. With a cry, with shaking thighs, with your fingers tangled in his hair and your back arching off the bed.

And he doesn’t stop.

He rides your orgasm out with slow, worshipful strokes, kissing your thighs, murmuring into your skin, “So good for me. You’re perfect. You’re everything.”

By the time he pulls back, you’re boneless—dazed and trembling, your chest heaving as he kisses his way up your stomach.

But the way he looks at you then—like he needs to be closer—tells you this isn’t over.

His hands brace on either side of your head as he leans over you. “Can I…?”

Your hips answer for you—tilting up, chasing the heat and weight of him already pressed between your thighs.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

Clark groans low in his throat as he pushes his boxers down just enough, lining himself up—his cock flushed and thick, already leaking, and you feel the weight of him between your thighs and gasp.

“God, Clark…”

“I know,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, hips rocking forward just barely, teasing you with the head of his cock, dragging it through the slick mess he made with his mouth and fingers. “I know, baby. Just—just let me…”

He nudges in slow.

The stretch is slow and steady, his breath catching as your body parts for him. He’s thick. Too thick, maybe, except your body wants him—takes him like it was made to.

You whimper, and his jaw clenches tight.

“You okay?”

“Y—yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. Not even for a second. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, whispering your name, kissing your temple, gripping the backs of your thighs as you wrap your legs around his waist.

“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, buried deep, balls pressed flush against you. “You feel—Jesus, you feel unbelievable.”

You’re too far gone to answer. You just cling to him, nails dragging lightly down his back, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you again.

The first few thrusts are slow. Deep. Measured. He pulls out just enough to feel you grip him on the way back in, then does it again—and again—and again.

And then something shifts.

Your body clenches around him in a way that makes his head drop to your shoulder with a groan.

“Oh my god, sweetheart—don’t do that—I’m gonna—fuck—”

He thrusts harder.

Not rough, not yet, but firmer. Hungrier. The control he started with begins to slip. You can feel it in his grip, in the sharp edge of his breath, in the tremble of the arm braced beside your head.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he grits out, voice low and wrecked. “Every night—every goddamn night since the first note. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You whine, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he snaps—hips slamming forward hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.

“Clark—”

“I’ve got you,” he gasps, fucking into you harder now, his voice filthy and tender all at once. “I’ve got you, baby—so fuckin’ tight—can’t stop—don’t wanna stop—”

You’re clinging to him now, crying out with every thrust. It’s not just the way he fills you—it’s the way he worships you while he does it. The way he moans when you clench. The way he growls your name like a prayer. The way he falls apart in real time, just from the feel of you.

He grabs one of your hands, laces your fingers with his, pins it beside your head.

“You’re mine,” he grits. “You have to be mine.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes—Clark—don’t stop—”

“Never,” he groans. “Never stopping. Not when you feel like this—fuck—”

You can feel him getting close—the way his rhythm starts to stutter, the broken sounds escaping his throat, the way he buries his face against your neck and pants your name like he’s desperate to take you with him.

And you’re almost there too.

You don’t even realize your hand is slipping until he’s gripping it again—pinned tight to the pillow, your fingers laced in his and clenched so tight it aches. The bed frame is starting to shudder beneath you now, the headboard knocking a rhythm into the wall, and Clark is gasping like he’s in pain from how good it feels.

His hips snap forward again—harder this time. Deeper. More desperate.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m sorry,” he grits, voice ragged and thick, “I’m trying to—baby—I can’t—hold back—”

You moan so loud it makes him flinch.

And then he breaks.

One second he’s pulling your name from his lungs like it’s the only word he knows—and the next, he slams into you so hard the bed shifts a full inch. The lamp on the bedside table flickers. The candle flame bursts just slightly higher than before—flickering hot and fast, the wick blackening with a thin curl of smoke. It doesn’t go out. It just burns.

Clark’s back arches.

His cock drags over everything inside you in just the right way, hitting that spot again and again until you’re clutching at his shoulders, babbling nonsense against his skin.

“I can’t—I can’t—Clark!”

“You can,” he pants. “Please—please, baby, cum with me—I can feel you—I can feel it.”

Your body goes taut.

A white-hot snap of pleasure punches through your spine, and your vision blacks out at the edges. You tighten around him—clenching, pulsing, dragging him over the edge with you—and he loses it.

Clark curses—actually curses—and growls something between a moan and a sob as he slams into you one last time, spilling deep inside you. His body locks, every muscle trembling. His teeth scrape the soft skin of your throat—not biting, just grounding himself. Like if he lets go, he’ll come undone completely.

The lights flicker again.

The candle sputters once and steadies.

He breathes like a man starved. His chest heaves. But you can feel it—under your hand, against your skin. His heart’s not racing.

Not like it should be.

You’re gasping. Dazed. Boneless under him. But Clark… Clark’s barely even winded. And yet—his hands are trembling. Just slightly. Still laced in yours. Still holding on.

After, you lie there—chests pressed close, legs tangled, the sheets barely clinging to your hips.

Clark’s arm is slung across your waist, palm wide and warm over your belly like it belongs there. Like he doesn’t ever want to move. His nose is tucked against your temple, breath stirring your hair in soft little pulses. He keeps kissing you. Your cheek. Your jaw. The edge of your brow. He doesn’t stop, like he’s afraid this is a dream and kissing you might anchor it in place.

“Still with me?” he whispers into your skin.

You nod. Drowsy. Sated. Floating.

“Good.” His hand runs down your side in one long, reverent stroke. “Didn’t mean to… get so carried away.”

You hum. “You say that like I didn’t enjoy every second.”

He smiles against your neck. You feel the curve of it, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

A moment passes.

Then another.

“I think you short-circuited my bedside lamp somehow.”

Clark freezes. “…Did I?”

You roll your head to look at him. “It flickered. Right as you—”

His ears turn bright red. “Maybe just… a power surge?”

You arch a brow. “Right. A romantic, orgasm-timed power surge.”

He mutters something into your shoulder that sounds vaguely like kill me now.

You grin. File it away.

Exhibit 7: Lightbulb went dim at the exact second he came. Candle flame doubled in height.

-

Later that night, long after you’ve both dozed off, you wake to find Clark still holding you. One of his hands is under your shirt, splayed low across your stomach. Protective. Possessive in the gentlest way. His body is still curled around yours like a question mark, like he’s checking for all your answers in how your breath rises and falls.

You shift just slightly—and his grip tightens instinctively, like even in sleep, he can’t let go.

Exhibit 8: He doesn’t sleep like a person. Sleeps like a sentry.

-

In the morning, you wake to the scent of coffee.

Your kitchen is suspiciously spotless for someone who swears he’s clumsy. The pot is full, the mugs pre-warmed, your favorite creamer already swirled in.

Clark is flipping pancakes.

Barefoot.

Wearing one of your sleep shirts. The tight one.

You lean against the doorframe, watching him. His back muscles flex when he flips the pan one-handed.

“Morning,” he says without turning.

You blink. “How’d you know I was standing here?”

“I, uh…” He falters, then gestures at the sizzling pan. “Heard footsteps. I assumed.”

You hum.

Exhibit 9: He heard me from across the apartment, over the sound of a frying pan.

-

You’re brushing your teeth later when you spot the mirror fogged from the shower.

You reach for a towel—and notice it’s already been run under warm water.

You glance at him, and he just shrugs. “Figured you’d want it not freezing.”

“Figured?” you repeat.

He leans against the doorframe, smiling. “Lucky guess.”

You don’t respond. Just kiss his cheek with toothpaste still in your mouth.

Exhibit 10: He always guesses exactly what I need. Down to the second.

-

That night, he falls asleep on your couch during movie night, head on your thigh, hand around your wrist like a lifeline.

You swear you see the movie reflected in his eyes—like the light isn’t just hitting them but moving inside them. You blink. It’s gone.

You look down at him. His lashes are impossibly long. His mouth is parted. His breathing is steady—but not quite… human. Too even. Too perfect.

Exhibit 11: His pupils did a thing. I don’t know how to describe it. But they did a thing.

-

The next day, a car splashes a wave of slush toward you both on the sidewalk.

You brace for impact.

But Clark steps in front of you, faster than you can blink. The water hits him. Not you.

You didn’t even see him move.

You narrow your eyes. He just smiles. “Reflexes.”

“Clark. Be honest. Do you secretly run marathons at night?”

He laughs. “Nope. Just really hate laundry.”

Exhibit 12: Literally teleported into the splash zone to shield me. Probably didn’t even get wet.

-

And still… you don’t say it.

You don’t ask.

Because he’s not just some blur of strength or spectacle.

He’s the man who folds your laundry while pretending it’s because he’s “bad at relaxing.” Who scribbles notes in the margins of your drafts, calling your metaphors “dangerously good.” Who kisses your forehead with a kind of reverence like you’re the one who’s unreal.

You know.

You know.

And he knows you know.

Because he’s hiding it from you. Not really.

When he stumbles over his own sentences, when his smile falters after a late return, when his jaw tenses at the sound of your name whispered too softly—you don’t see evasion. You see weight. You see care.

He’s protecting something.

And you’re trying to figure out how to tell him that you already know. That it’s okay. That you’re still here. That you love him anyway.

You haven’t said it yet—not the knowing, not the loving. But it lives just under your skin. A second heartbeat. A full body truth. You think maybe, if you just look him in the eye long enough next time, he’ll understand.

But still neither of you says it yet. Because the space between what’s said and unsaid—that’s where everything soft lives.

And you’re not ready to let it go.

-

The morning feels ordinary.

There’s a crack in the coffee pot. A printer jam. Perry yelling something about deadlines from his office. Jimmy’s camera bag spills open across your desk, and he swears he’ll fix it after his coffee, and Lois is pacing, muttering about sources.

And then the screens change.

It’s subtle at first—just a flicker. Then the feed cuts mid-commercial. Every monitor in the bullpen goes black, then red. Emergency alert. A shrill tone splits the air. Someone turns up the volume.

You look up.

And everything shifts.

The broadcast blares through the newsroom speakers, raw footage streaming in from a local news chopper.

Metropolis. Midtown. Chaos. A building half-collapsed. Smoke curling upward in a thick, unnatural spiral.

The camera jolts—and then there he is.

Superman.

Thrown through a brick wall.

You feel it in your bones before your brain catches up. That’s him. That’s Clark.

He’s on his knees in the wreckage, panting, bleeding—from his temple, from his ribs, from a gash you can’t see the end of. The suit is torn. His cape is shredded. He’s never looked so human.

He tries to stand. Wobbles. Collapses.

You stop breathing.

“Is Superman going to be ok?” someone behind you murmurs.

“Jesus,” Jimmy whispers.

“He’ll be fine,” Lois says, too casually. She leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee like it’s any other news cycle. “He always is.”

You want to scream. Because that’s not a story on a screen. That’s not some distant, untouchable god.

That’s your boyfriend.

That’s the man who brought you coffee this morning with one sugar and just the right amount of cream. The man who kissed your wrist in the elevator, whose hands trembled when he whispered I want to be enough. Who holds you like you’re something holy and bruises like he’s made of skin after all.

He’s not fine. He’s bleeding.

He’s not getting up.

You freeze.

The bullpen keeps moving around you—half-aware, half-horrified—but you can’t speak. Can’t blink. Can’t breathe.

Your hands start to shake.

You grip the edge of your desk like it might anchor you to the floor, like if you let go you’ll run straight out the door, out into the chaos, toward the wreckage and the fire and the thing trying to kill him.

A part of you already has.

A hit lands on the feed—something massive slamming him into the pavement—and your knees almost buckle from the force of it. Not physically. Not really. But somewhere deep. Something inside you fractures.

You don’t know what the enemy is.

Alien, maybe. Or worse.

But it’s not the shape of the thing that terrifies you—it’s him. It’s how slow he is to get up. How much his mouth is bleeding. How his eyes are unfocused. How you’ve never seen him look like this.

You want to run.

You want to be there.

But you’re not. You’re here. In your dress pants and button-up, in your neat little office chair, with your badge clipped to your hip and your heart breaking quietly.

Because no one else knows. No one else understands what’s really at stake. No one else sees the man behind the cape.

Not like you do.

Your vision blurs.

You wipe your eyes. Pretend it’s nothing. The bullpen is too loud to hear your breath catch.

But still—your hands tremble and your heart pounds so violently it hurts.

And you cry.

Quietly.

You cry like the city might if it could feel. You cry like the sky should. You cry like someone already grieving—like someone who knows what it means to lose him.

The footage won’t stop. Superman reels across the screen—his suit torn, the shoulder scorched through in a blackened, jagged arc. Blood smears the corner of his mouth. There’s a limp in his gait now, one he keeps trying to mask. The camera catches it anyway.

The newsroom is silent now save for the hiss of static and the low voice of the anchor describing the damage downtown.

You sit frozen at your desk, the plastic edge biting into your palms as you grip it like it might stop your body from unraveling. The taste of bile has settled at the back of your throat. Your coffee’s gone cold in its cup.

Across the bullpen, someone mutters, “Jesus. He took a hit.”

“Look at the suit,” Lois says flatly, standing by one of the screens. “He’s never looked that rough before.”

“Dude’s limping,” Jimmy adds, pushing his glasses up. “That alien thing—what even was that?”

Their words feel like background noise. Distant. Warped. You can’t seem to hear anything over the white-hot panic blistering in your chest.

You blink, your eyes burning, throat tight. You can’t just sit here and cry. Not in front of Lois and Perry and half the bullpen. But your body is trembling anyway. You clench your hands in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your skin.

He’s hurt.

And he’s still out there.

Fighting.

Alone.

You can’t just sit here.

You shove your chair back hard enough that it scrapes against the floor. “I’m going.”

Lois turns toward you. “Going where?”

“I’m covering it. The attack. The fallout. Whatever’s left—I want to see it firsthand.”

Lois’s brow lifts. “Since when do you make reckless calls like this?”

“I don’t,” you snap, already grabbing your coat. “But I am now.”

Jimmy’s already halfway to the door. “If we’re going, I’m bringing the camera.”

Lois hesitates. Then sighs. “Hell. You two’ll get yourselves killed without me.”

You don’t wait for her to finish grabbing her phone. You’re already out the door.

-

Downtown is a war zone.

The smell of scorched concrete clings to the air. Smoke spirals in uneven plumes from the carcass of a building that must have been beautiful once. Sirens scream in every direction, red and blue lights flashing off every pane of shattered glass.

You arrive just as the dust begins to settle.

The battle is over but the wreckage tells you how bad it was.

The Justice Gang moves through the remains like figures out of a dream—tattered and bloodied, but upright.

Guy Gardner limps past, muttering curses. “Next time, I’m bringing a bigger damn ring.” Kendra Saunders—Hawkgirl—has one wing half-folded and streaked with blood. She ignores it as she checks on a paramedic’s bandages. Mr. Terrific is already coordinating with local emergency crews, directing flow with a hand to his ear. And Metamorpho—God, he looks like he’s melting and re-solidifying with every breath.

And then…

Him.

He descends from the smoke. Not in a blur. Not with a boom of sonic air. Slowly. Controlled.

But not untouched.

He lands in a crouch, shoulders tight, the line of his jaw drawn sharp with tension. His boots crunch against broken concrete. His cape is torn at one edge, flapping limply behind him.

He’s hurt.

He’s so clearly hurt.

And even through all of it—through the dirt and blood and pain—he sees you. His eyes lock onto yours in an instant. The rest of the world falls away. There’s no press. No chaos. No destruction.

Just him.

And you.

The corner of his mouth lifts—just a flicker. Not a smile. Just… recognition.

And something deeper behind it.

You know know. 

And he is letting you know.

But he straightens a second later, lifting his chin, slotting the mask back into place like a practiced motion. He squares his shoulders, winces barely perceptible, and turns to face the press.

Lois is already stepping forward, questions in hand. “Superman. What can you tell us about the enemy?”

His voice is steady, but you can hear it now—hear the strain. The breath that doesn’t quite come easy. The syllables that drag like they’re fighting his tongue. “It wasn’t local,” he says. “Some kind of dimensional breach. We had help closing it.”

Jimmy’s camera clicks. Kendra coughs into her hand.

You’re not writing.

You’re just watching.

Watching the soot along his cheekbone. The split in his lip. The way he shifts his weight to favor one side. The way the “s” in “justice” drags like it hurts to say.

He looks tired.

But more than that—he looks like Clark.

And it’s never been more obvious than right now, standing under broken sky, trying to pretend like nothing’s changed.

You want to run to him. You want to hold him up.

But you stay rooted.

When the questions start to slow and the press begins murmuring among themselves, he glances over. Just at you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, barely audible.

You nod. “Are you?”

He hesitates. Then says, “Getting there.”

It’s not a performance. Not for them. Just for you.

You nod again. The look you share says more than anything else could.

I know.

I’m not leaving.

You don’t have to say it.

When he flies away—slower this time, one hand brushing briefly against his ribs—it’s not dramatic. There’s no sonic boom. No heat trail. Just wind and distance.

Lois exhales. “He looked rough.”

Jimmy nods. “Still hot, though.”

You say nothing. You just stare up at the empty sky. And press your shaking hand over your heart.

-

You fake calm.

You smile when Jimmy slaps your shoulder and says something about getting the footage up by morning. You nod through Lois’s sharp-eyed stare and mutter something about your deadline, your byline, your blood sugar—anything to get her to stop watching you like she knows what you’re not saying.

But the second you’re alone?

You run. It’s not a sprint, not really. Just that jittery, full-body urgency—the kind that makes your hands shake and your legs move faster than your thoughts can follow. You don’t remember the trip home. Just the chaos of your own pulse, the way your chest won’t stop aching.

You replay the scene again and again in your mind: his landing, the blood on his lip, the flicker of pain when he looked at you. That not-quite smile. That nearly imperceptible tremble.

You’d never wanted to hold someone more in your life.

And when you reach your door, keys fumbling, heart still hammering? He’s already there.

You pause halfway through the doorway.

He’s standing in your living room, like he’s been waiting hours. He’s not in the suit. No cape. No crest. Just a plain black T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, his hair still damp like he just showered.

He looks like Clark. Except… tonight you know there’s no difference.

“Hi,” he says quietly. His voice is soft. Familiar. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You blink. “Did you break through my patio door?”

He winces. “Yes. Sort of.”

You lift a brow. “You owe me a new lock.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” He says with a roll of his eyes. 

A silence stretches between you. It’s not tense. Not angry. Just full of everything neither of you said earlier.

He takes a step toward you, then stops. “How long have you known?”

You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and toe off your shoes before answering. “Since the lamp. And the candle,” you say. “But… mostly tonight.”

He nods like that hurts. Like he wishes he could’ve done better. Like he wishes he could’ve told you in some perfect, movie-moment way.

“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” he says quietly.

You walk to the couch and sit, your limbs finally catching up to the adrenaline crash still sweeping through you. “I’m glad I found out at all.”

That’s what makes him move. He sinks down beside you, hands on his knees. You can see it in his profile—the exhaustion, the regret, the weight he’s been carrying for so long. You’re not sure he’s ever looked more human.

“I’ve been hiding so long,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I forgot how to be seen. And with you… I didn’t want to lie. But I didn’t want to lose it either. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Your throat tightens. “You won’t,” you say. And you mean it.

His head turns then, slowly, eyes meeting yours like he’s trying to memorize your face from this distance. You don’t look away.

When he kisses you, it’s not careful. It’s not shy. It’s like something breaks open inside him—softly. The dam finally giving way.

His hands cradle your face like you’re something he’s terrified to shatter but needs to feel. His mouth is hot and open, reverent, desperate in the way it deepens. He kisses like he’s anchoring himself to the earth through your lips. Like everything in him is still shaking from battle and you’re the only thing that still feels real.

You reach for him. Thread your fingers into his hair. Pull him closer.

It builds like a slow swell—hands tangling, breathing harder, heat coiling low in your stomach. He pushes you back gently against the cushions, his body moving over yours with careful precision. Not to pin. Just to hold.

You feel it in every motion: the restraint. The effort. He could crush steel and he’s using that strength to cradle your ribs.

He undresses you with reverence. His fingers tremble when they touch your bare skin. Not from hesitation—but because he’s finally allowed to want. To have. To be seen.

You undress him too. That soft black T-shirt comes off first. Then the flannel. His chest is mottled with bruises, a dark one blooming across his side where that alien creature must’ve hit him. Your fingertips trace the edge of it.

He exhales, shaky. But he doesn’t stop you.

You’re straddling his lap before you realize it, chest to chest, foreheads pressed together.

“Are you scared?” he whispers.

Your thumb brushes his cheek. “Never of you.”

He kisses you again—slower this time. More control, but more depth too. His hands glide down your back and settle at your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needs the reminder that you’re here. That you chose this.

The rest unfolds like prayer. The way he touches you—thorough, patient, hungry—it’s worship. Every gasp you make pulls a soft, broken sound from his throat. Every arch of your back makes his eyes flutter shut like he’s overwhelmed by the sight of you. The way he moves inside you is deep and aching and full of something larger than either of you.

Not rough. But desperate. Raw. True.

And even when he falters—when his hands grip too tight or the air warms just a little too fast—you hold his face and whisper, “I know. It’s okay. I want all of you.” And he gives it. All of him. Until the only thing either of you can do is fall apart. Together.

Later, when you’re curled up on the couch in a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing, he rests his forehead against your temple.

The city buzzes somewhere far away.

He whispers into your skin: “Next time… don’t let me fly off like that.”

Your smile is soft, tired. “Next time, come straight to me.”

He nods, eyes already fluttering shut.

And finally, for the first time since this began—you both sleep without secrets between you.

-

You wake to sunlight. Not loud, not harsh—just soft beams slipping through the blinds, spilling across the floor, warming the space where your bare shoulder meets the sheets. You blink slowly, the weight of sleep still thick behind your eyes, and shift just slightly in the tangle of limbs wrapped around you. He doesn’t stir. Not even a little.

Clark is still curled around you like the night never ended—his chest at your back, legs tangled with yours, one arm snug around your waist and the other folded up against your ribs, fingers resting over your heart like he’s guarding it in his sleep.

You don’t move. You can’t. Because it’s perfect. You let your cheek rest against his arm, warm and solid beneath you, and you just listen—to the steady rhythm of his heart, to the rise and fall of his breathing, to the way the silence doesn’t feel empty anymore. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more grounded than you do right now, held like this. It isn’t the cape. It isn’t the flight. It isn’t the power that quiets the noise in your chest.

It’s him. Just Clark. And for once, you don’t need anything else.

He stumbles into the kitchen half an hour later in your robe. Your actual, honest-to-god, fuzzy gray robe. It’s oversized on you, which means it fits him like a second skin—belt tied loose at the hips, collar gaping just enough to make you lose your train of thought. His hair is a mess, sticking up in soft black tufts. His glasses are nowhere to be found. He scratches the back of his neck, blinking at the cabinets like he’s not entirely sure how kitchens work.

You lean against the counter with your arms folded, watching him with open amusement. “You own too much flannel.”

Clark glances over, eyes squinting against the light. “I’ll have you know, that robe is a Metropolis winter essential.”

“You’re bulletproof.”

“I get cold emotionally.”

You snort. “You’re such a menace in the morning.”

“And yet,” he says, opening the fridge and retrieving eggs with the careful precision of someone who’s clearly trying not to break them with super strength, “you let me stay.”

You grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He burns the first pancake. Which is honestly impressive, considering you weren’t even sure it was physically possible for someone with super speed and heat vision to ruin breakfast. But he flips it too fast—like way too fast—and the thing launches halfway across the skillet before folding in on itself and sizzling dramatically.

You raise an eyebrow. Clark stares down at the pancake like it betrayed him. “I didn’t account for surface tension.”

“Did you just say ‘surface tension’ while making pancakes?”

“I’m a complex man,” he says solemnly.

You lean over and pluck a piece of fruit from the cutting board he forgot he was slicing. “You’re a menace and a dork.”

He pouts. Full, actual pout. Then shuffles over and kisses your shoulder. “I’ll get better with practice.”

You roll your eyes. But your skin’s still buzzing where his lips brushed it.

Later, you sit on the counter while he stands between your knees, coffee in one hand, the other resting warm on your thigh. It’s quiet. Not awkward or forced—just soft. Full of little glances and sips and contented silence. There’s no fear in him now. No carefully placed pauses. No skirting around things. He just… is. Clark Kent. The boy who spilled coffee on your notes three times. The man who kept writing to you in secret even when you didn’t see him.

“You’re not what I expected,” you say, fingers brushing his arm.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I don’t know. I guess I thought Superman would be… shinier. Less flannel. More invincible.”

“Are you saying I’m not shiny enough for you?”

“I’m saying you’re better.”

He blinks. And then—just like that—he smiles. Not the bashful one. Not the public one. The real one. Small and warm and honest. The kind of smile you only give someone when you feel safe. And maybe that’s what this is now. Safety. Not the absence of danger—but the presence of someone who will always come back.

His communicator buzzes from somewhere in the bedroom. Clark lets out the most exhausted groan you’ve ever heard and buries his face in your shoulder like it’ll make the world go away.

“You have to go?” you ask gently, threading your fingers through his hair.

“Soon.”

“You’ll come back?”

He lifts his head. Meets your eyes.  “Every time.”

You kiss him then—slow and deep and familiar now. The kind of kiss that tastes like mornings and memory and maybe something closer to forever. He kisses you back like he already misses you. And when he finally pulls away and disappears into the sky outside your window—less streak of light, more quiet parting—you just stand there for a moment. Barefoot. Wrapped in your robe. Heart full.

You’re about to start cleaning up the kitchen when you see it. A post-it note, stuck to the fridge. Just a small square of yellow. Written in the same handwriting you could spot anywhere now.

“You always look soft in the mornings. I like seeing you like this.” —C.K.

You read it three times. Then you smile. You walk to the cabinet above the sink, open the door—and stick it right next to all the others. The secret ones. The old ones. The ones that helped you feel seen before you even knew whose eyes were watching.

And now you know. Now you see him too.

All of him.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

-

Annoyed, he reached for his phone without checking the caller ID. "What."

"Hey, Wonwoo!" Mingyu's voice rang through, far too cheerful for his liking. "You remember that money you owe me?"

Wonwoo leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple. "I paid you back."

"Yeah, like, half. You still owe me ₩103,000."

Wonwoo scowled. "What do you want, Mingyu?"

"I'll cancel the debt if you pick up my sister from her hagwon."

Wonwoo blinked. He could practically see Mingyu's smug face through the phone. "...Are you serious?"

"Dead serious. Think of it as a fair trade. You get out of debt, and I don't have to leave my photoshoot early. Win-win, right?"

Wonwoo exhaled sharply, glancing at the gaming laptop he had been saving up for. A hundred thousand won wasn't something he could just brush off. And really, what was so hard about picking someone up? He'd just drive there, wait, and drop her off. No big deal.

"Fine. Send me the details."

"Knew I could count on you!" Mingyu cackled before promptly hanging up.

Wonwoo stared at his phone, regretting everything.

Later that evening, Wonwoo pulled up in front of the hagwon (cram school), resting his arm on the window frame as he scrolled mindlessly through his phone. The street was packed—students flooding out, parents calling names, engines revving. He ignored all of it, his attention on the notifications lighting up his screen.

A knock on the window pulled him out of his trance. He looked up.

There you were, bright-eyed and smiling. Mingyu's sister. You had the same features as him, Mingyu was handsome, there was no second guessing you'd be really pretty as well.

It really runs on the family huh, but your energy was a complete contrast. Where Mingyu was overbearing, you seemed naturally lighthearted.

Wonwoo unlocked the door, watching as you slipped inside. "Hey, thanks for picking me up! I could've taken the bus, but this is definitely an upgrade."

He put his phone down and shifted into drive. "Mingyu made me."

"Obviously." You laughed, buckling your seatbelt. "If it were up to you, you'd rather be home playing some game, right?"

Wonwoo glanced at you briefly before focusing back on the road. "...Something like that."

You stretched out in the passenger seat, completely unfazed by his short responses. "Figures. My brother said you never leave your house unless it's life or death."

"He exaggerates. I go out when I need to."

"Mmm-hmm. Like now?"

"Like now."

You laughed again, shaking your head. "Unbelievable."

You both drove in silence for a bit, though it wasn't uncomfortable. You hummed softly to whatever song played on the radio, while Wonwoo kept his eyes on the road, appreciating the fact that you weren't forcing conversation.

Then, after a few minutes, you turned to him. "So, what's the real reason Mingyu couldn't pick me up?"

"I told you. Photoshoot."

You raised a brow. "And you believe that?"

Wonwoo hesitated, then shrugged. "Not really, but it's not my problem."

You grinned. "Smart man."

He smirked slightly but didn't comment.

When you pulled up in front of your house, you unbuckled your seatbelt and turned to him with an easygoing smile. "Thanks again, Wonwoo. I owe you one."

"No, you don't. Mingyu does."

You laughed. "True. But still, I appreciate it."

Wonwoo just gave a small nod. "It's fine."

As you stepped out of the car, you waved. "See you around!"

He didn't respond, but after you disappeared into the house, he lingered for a second longer than necessary before finally driving off.

Maybe the day hadn't been a total waste after all.

A couple of days later, Mingyu called Wonwoo again, but this time it wasn't for any money or favor. Instead, he was inviting him over to his apartment for a casual hangout.

"Yo, you coming? I'm having a few friends over tonight, including Joshua, Seungkwan, Vernon, and Minghao. It's nothing special, just wanted to hang out."

Wonwoo was about to decline—he had a ton of work to do—but then Mingyu dropped the one detail that made him reconsider.

"Oh, and my sister will be here too. She's staying with me for the weekend, so I figured you could catch up with her."

Wonwoo didn't immediately respond. It wasn't the idea of seeing Mingyu's sister that stopped him—it was more the fact that he wasn't entirely sure how to act around you yet. The two of you hadn't really had a chance to talk much after that brief car ride. He had no idea what you'd be like outside of that moment, and Mingyu always had a way of making everything a little awkward when it came to his little sister.

"...Fine," Wonwoo finally relented, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'll stop by."

When Wonwoo arrived at Mingyu's apartment, the atmosphere was relaxed. Joshua was already lounging on the couch, casually scrolling through his phone, and a few other friends were scattered around, chatting. Mingyu was in the kitchen, preparing snacks—probably to feed his giant appetite. The usual loud energy that always accompanied Mingyu's presence was alive in the air.

But there was no sign of you.

Wonwoo made his way to the living room, greeting Joshua with a nod, but the silence between them was noticeable. Joshua shot him a playful glance, but before they could talk much more, Mingyu called out from the kitchen.

"Yo, Wonwoo! Help me with these drinks!"

Wonwoo reluctantly walked into the kitchen, but as soon as he stepped through the doorway, he froze.

There, standing at the counter, was you—completely at ease, casually chopping vegetables as if you'd been there the whole time. You looked up at him, your eyes lighting up in surprise.

"Oh, you're here!" you exclaimed with a smile, your hands still busy at the cutting board. "I didn't think you'd be the first one to show up."

Wonwoo blinked, a bit caught off guard. He hadn't expected to see you in the kitchen, especially not so comfortable.

"You're... here?" he said, unsure of how to react. "I thought you were... uh, I don't know... staying in your room or something."

You let out a small laugh, your eyes sparkling with amusement. "I was, but then Mingyu didn't have enough snacks. He asked me to help out." You gestured to the plates you had already prepped, your movements smooth and confident, as though you'd done this a thousand times. "I figured you'd all be hungry."

Wonwoo was honestly impressed. The last time he saw you, you were cheerful and talkative, but he didn't expect this... domestic side of you. He felt a little out of place in the kitchen, but he didn't want to act awkward.

"I'm sure Mingyu can handle it," he replied, trying to mask his surprise with a nonchalant tone.

You smirked, clearly catching onto his tone. "Yeah, but I'm sure he'll make a mess of it. You know how he is." You shook your head, looking back at your brother as Mingyu popped his head around the corner, grinning.

"I heard that!" Mingyu called, sticking his tongue out before retreating back to the living room.

You chuckled at his antics before focusing back on the food you were preparing. "Anyway, I'm glad you made it. I figured we'd finally have some time to talk," you said, your voice light and welcoming, making it clear you weren't bothered by the sudden interruption.

Wonwoo nodded, still trying to shake off the initial surprise. "Yeah, I guess we never really got to chat much." He leaned against the kitchen counter, unsure of where to go from there.

"You're a bit of a man of few words, huh?" you asked with a teasing grin, raising an eyebrow as you slid the plate of veggies aside. "Mingyu always talks about how you're so quiet, but I didn't realize it was this bad."

Wonwoo gave you a half-smile, feeling slightly embarrassed. "I don't talk much unless I have to," he said, his usual dry tone creeping through.

You just laughed, the sound easy and warm, making him feel less self-conscious. "Well, I'll make sure to fill the silence then," you said cheerfully, as if you were on a mission to make him feel comfortable. "You're kind of a hard nut to crack, but I think I can manage."

The tension that had been there earlier started to melt away, and Wonwoo found himself talking a little more than he usually did. You asked him questions, talked about school, and even joked about how overprotective Mingyu could be at times. As the minutes passed, he realized how much easier it was to talk to you than he initially thought.

By the time he moved back into the living room with the snacks, there was no awkwardness between the two of you anymore. You had succeeded in doing what few could—making Wonwoo feel at ease.

A few days later, Wonwoo had stayed at Mingyu's apartment, slacking off on the sofa while playing some horror games on Mingyu's television.

"You're really bad at Identity V, Mingyu," Wonwoo teased, getting a little frustrated at how Mingyu had to be revived multiple times.

"Just switch the game already, this one's boring," Mingyu groaned, throwing the controller to the side.

Wonwoo just chuckled, not even pausing the game.

Then, the doorbell rang.

Mingyu groaned, dragging himself off the couch. "Ah, right. I forgot—my sister was dropping off some kimchi from Mom before she heads to cram school."

When you stepped inside, you flashed Mingyu a quick smile before handing him the containers. "Mom said to eat it while it's fresh."

Mingyu took them with a nod, already peeking inside. "Smells good." Then, without looking up, he asked, "You want me to drop you off at cram school?"

You shook your head. "Nah, I'll just take the bus. It's not that far."

Wonwoo, who had been watching from the couch, found himself unexpectedly... disappointed? He wasn't sure why, but he had kind of looked forward to talking to you again. You were easy to be around—bubbly, charming, and not at all fazed by his quiet nature. Not many people could handle his silence so effortlessly.

Mingyu, meanwhile, was still leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. "You sure? It's getting late."

"I'll be fine," you insisted, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. "It's just cram school, not a different planet."

Wonwoo hesitated for a second before speaking up. "Hey."

You turned toward him, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

He cleared his throat, feeling a little out of place but saying it anyway. "I can walk you."

You blinked, clearly surprised. "Oh? Why, so you can chat me up again?" you teased with a wink.

Mingyu snorted, looking between the two of you. "Since when do you offer to walk people places, Wonwoo?"

Wonwoo shot him a look but didn't bother responding. Instead, he turned back to you, waiting for your answer.

You grinned, clearly amused by the whole situation. "Alright, alright. But no awkward silences, got it?"

Wonwoo nodded, grabbing his jacket as he followed you out the door. Mingyu watched the two of you leave, shaking his head with a grin. "Well, that's new."

Mingyu leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene with growing amusement. Wonwoo wasn't the type to jump at social interactions, especially not when it came to people outside their usual circle. And yet, here he was, offering to walk you to hagwon like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Mingyu's brows furrowed, suspicion creeping in.

No way. Does Wonwoo... like my sister?

The thought nearly made him laugh out loud. He knew Wonwoo well—too well, in fact. His best friend wasn't the type to wear his emotions on his sleeve, let alone make some grand romantic gesture. But still, the way he lingered, the way his gaze flickered toward you, even the fact that he was putting in the effort to talk—something was definitely up.

Mingyu smirked, but he kept his mouth shut. For now.

"So," he drawled, pushing off the doorway, "you two gonna be alright?"

Wonwoo shot him a look, equal parts unimpressed and knowing. Meanwhile, you just rolled your eyes. "We'll survive, Gyu."

Mingyu chuckled. "Alright, alright. Have fun, lovebirds."

"Bye, Mingyu," you deadpanned, grabbing Wonwoo's wrist and tugging him down the hallway before your brother could say anything else. Wonwoo barely had time to process it before he was matching your pace, hands stuffed into his pockets.

The air between you was light, easy. You glanced up at him with a grin. "Didn't think I'd ever get you to walk me to hagwon. Kinda fun, huh?"

Wonwoo huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Not what I expected to be doing today, that's for sure."

You nudged him lightly. "What, hanging out with me is that bad?"

He glanced at you—really looked this time. You were different from Mingyu's usual crowd. Where his friends were loud and chaotic, you had this effortless energy that didn't demand anything from him. You just... talked, and somehow, he found himself talking back. It was weird, but not in a bad way.

"You're different," you mused, tilting your head. "I mean, I knew you were quiet, but you're not as... closed off as I thought you'd be."

Wonwoo smirked slightly, gaze forward. "I'm still quiet."

"Mm, not with me," you pointed out, eyes twinkling. "Why's that?"

Wonwoo hesitated, not because he didn't have an answer, but because he wasn't sure how to say it. Instead, he settled for the truth, plain and simple. "I don't feel like I have to try so hard with you."

Your steps slowed just slightly, your expression softening. "Huh. That's kinda nice."

He exhaled a small chuckle. "Guess you're a special case."

"Ooo, so I'm special?" you teased.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," he muttered, but the faint smile on his face gave him away.

The conversation drifted into easier topics, laughter and playful jabs exchanged as the hagwon came into view. Wonwoo still didn't know what exactly made him want to be around you, but he didn't mind figuring it out along the way.

Meanwhile, back at the apartment, Mingyu leaned against the window, watching the two of you disappear into the distance.

Yeah, something was definitely up.

And as your older brother, he was gonna keep an eye on it.

A few days after that walk, Wonwoo found himself running into you more often than he expected. At first, it was innocent enough—quick encounters while he was out running errands or grabbing coffee with Mingyu. But soon, those moments stretched longer, turning into something he actually started looking forward to.

It didn't help that teasing you had become his new favorite pastime.

You'd be minding your own business, walking down the hallway in Mingyu's apartment building, when suddenly, you'd sense a presence behind you. Turning around, you'd find Wonwoo leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk playing at his lips.

"Going somewhere, princess?"

The nickname never failed to make you flush, though you'd gotten better at rolling your eyes in response. Still, it was the way he said it—so effortlessly teasing—that made your stomach flip, like you were missing the punchline to some inside joke.

At first, you chalked it up to friendly chatter. But the more it happened, the harder it became to tell if he was just being playful or if there was something else beneath it.

Then came the café incident.

You were sitting with your friends, chatting about classes, when one of them suddenly perked up, nodding toward the entrance. "Hey, isn't that your boyfriend?"

You blinked in confusion, following their gaze—only for your breath to catch slightly when you saw Wonwoo stepping inside, exuding that quiet, effortless confidence he always carried.

"What? No way," you sputtered, your voice catching as you waved off the idea.

Your friends exchanged knowing looks. "Come on, we've seen you two together all the time lately," one of them pointed out. "And let's be real, you'd make a cute couple."

Your face went hot. "He's not my boyfriend!"

"Then why do you look so guilty?" Another friend smirked.

Before you could form a coherent response, Wonwoo approached the table, sliding into the seat next to you as if he belonged there. "What's all this talk about me?" he asked, his deep voice laced with amusement.

"Nothing!" You nearly choked on the word, sitting up straighter.

Your friends weren't buying it. "We were just saying how cute you two look together," one of them supplied, grinning mischievously.

Wonwoo, the absolute menace, didn't even flinch. Instead, he leaned back lazily, his lips curving into that smirk that made your heart stutter. "Cute, huh?" he mused. Then, with a glance in your direction, he added, "She's already shy around me. You think she'd survive being my girlfriend?"

You gawked at him. "Wonwoo!"

He chuckled, clearly enjoying the way you flustered so easily. "Relax," he murmured, leaning in slightly, just enough to send your brain into overdrive. "I'm just helping you out. You should be thanking me for making you so popular."

You shot him a glare, but your friends were eating it up, laughing as they nudged each other. "Honestly, you two are like an old married couple already."

You groaned, burying your face in your hands, half-expecting the ground to swallow you whole. Meanwhile, Wonwoo looked way too pleased with himself, the playful glint in his eyes only growing stronger.

And from that day on, it only got worse.

Every time he ran into you, your friends' words echoed in your mind, making you hyperaware of every smirk, every lingering glance, every low chuckle. You weren't sure if it was all just a joke to him, but the real problem was—you were starting to hope it wasn't.

Because, teasing aside, there was something about the way he looked at you lately. Something softer, something unreadable. And that? That was the most confusing part of all.

Over the next few days, it became a pattern—these little run-ins, the teasing, the way Wonwoo always seemed to appear right when you thought you'd get a break from his smug remarks. If you were being honest, it was starting to feel less like coincidence and more like... something else.

Like right now.

You had just finished your class at the hagwon and were walking home when you heard footsteps behind you. At first, you didn't think much of it. But then—

"Hey, princess."

You nearly tripped over your own feet. Whipping around, you found Wonwoo standing there, hands in his pockets, looking entirely too smug.

"Seriously?" you huffed. "Do you have a tracker on me or something?"

He chuckled, falling into step beside you. "Nah. Just good timing."

"Suspicious timing," you muttered under your breath.

He grinned. "What, you don't like seeing me?"

You opened your mouth, ready to give a snarky reply, but the words stuck in your throat. Because, truthfully, you did like seeing him. You liked how he always managed to sneak into your day, turning normal moments into something else—something charged with a kind of tension you weren't sure how to handle yet.

But you weren't about to admit that.

"Did you just happen to be in the area, or are you stalking me now?" you teased instead, nudging him lightly with your elbow.

Wonwoo made a thoughtful sound, tilting his head. "Hmm. I guess I should start charging for my services if I'm going to be your personal bodyguard."

You rolled your eyes. "Bodyguard? Please. What are you protecting me from? My own two feet?"

He smirked. "You almost tripped earlier. Maybe you do need me."

Your mouth opened, then closed. He had a point, but you weren't going to let him have the satisfaction of winning this round. Instead, you crossed your arms and shot him a playful glare.

"You're insufferable, you know that?"

"And yet, here we are," he mused, his voice low, almost amused. "Walking home together. Again."

You faltered. There was something about the way he said it—like he was reminding you that these weren't just coincidences anymore. That maybe, just maybe, he was seeking you out just as much as you were looking forward to seeing him.

The thought made warmth creep up your neck.

The walk continued, the air between you shifting—still lighthearted, but tinged with something heavier, something unspoken. At some point, you felt the faintest brush of his hand against yours. It was barely anything, just a fleeting touch, but it sent a jolt up your spine.

You glanced at him, half-expecting him to be smirking at your reaction, but instead, Wonwoo was looking ahead, his expression unreadable.

The silence stretched between you for a beat too long.

"You're quieter than usual," you finally said, your voice softer now.

Wonwoo hummed, glancing at you. "Just thinking."

"About what?"

He hesitated, then shrugged. "You."

Your breath hitched. You blinked, caught completely off guard by the casual way he said it—like it wasn't something that would send your heart into a tailspin.

He must've noticed your reaction because his lips twitched into something close to a smirk. "Surprised?"

You scoffed, desperate to regain some control over the conversation. "You say that like I should just expect it."

"Maybe you should," he said, voice smooth, teasing, but with a weight behind it that made your stomach flip.

And just like that, the game between you shifted. It wasn't just harmless teasing anymore. It was charged, loaded with something more than just playful.

You were in trouble.

And worse? You weren't sure you minded.

Wonwoo should've seen it coming.

He was halfway through his iced americano when Mingyu—who had been rambling about his fantasy basketball team for the past fifteen minutes—suddenly leaned forward with a serious look. The shift in his tone was so abrupt that Wonwoo nearly choked on his drink.

"Don't date my sister."

Wonwoo blinked. "...Huh?"

Mingyu crossed his arms, leveling him with a look that was rare for him—stern, like he wasn't just joking around. "I'm serious. I know how you are, Wonwoo."

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow, feigning nonchalance. "How am I?"

"You don't do relationships," Mingyu shot back. "You flirt, you have fun, and then—poof—you're gone."

"That's not true," Wonwoo muttered, looking away.

"Dude. Jiwoo? Jiekyo? Mijin?" Mingyu listed off names, counting on his fingers. "You get bored too easily. My sister's not just some girl you can play around with."

That one stung.

Wonwoo clicked his tongue, tapping his fingers against his coffee cup. "You make me sound like some heartless asshole."

Mingyu exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, I'm not saying you're a bad guy. I know you, Wonwoo. You just... don't take these things seriously. And I don't want her getting hurt because she thinks you do."

Wonwoo didn't answer. He could argue—say that things were different this time, that maybe he didn't know why, but the usual rules didn't seem to apply whenever you were involved. But he also knew Mingyu had a point.

Did he even know what he was doing?

Mingyu must've taken his silence as agreement because he nodded, looking satisfied. "Good. I just wanted to clear that up."

And that should've been the end of it.

Except... you had other plans.

The problem was, you were very aware of Wonwoo's usual avoidance tactics. And yet, despite Mingyu's warning (which you totally overheard, thank you very much), you weren't about to back off. If anything, it made things more fun.

So, naturally, you decided to corner Wonwoo after one of his gym sessions.

You found him outside, sitting on a bench, scrolling through his phone like he wasn't sweating buckets from lifting weights for an hour.

"Hey," you greeted, plopping down beside him.

He glanced at you, then back at his phone. "Hey."

Silence.

You smirked. "You're avoiding me."

His thumb hovered over the screen. "No, I'm not."

"You so are." You leaned in, trying to peek at his phone. "What, are you texting my brother to report my suspicious activities?"

He sighed, locking his phone and shoving it into his pocket. "Your brother would kill me if he knew we were talking right now."

You tilted your head. "Funny, I don't see Mingyu around."

He shot you a flat look. "That's not the point."

"You're acting like he owns me or something," you teased, nudging his arm with your shoulder. "What, are you scared of him?"

Wonwoo exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "It's not about that—"

"Then what's it about?"

He paused.

You took the chance to scoot closer. "Let me guess," you hummed, tapping your chin dramatically. "You think you'll break my heart? That you'll flirt, we'll have fun, and then poof—you're gone?"

Wonwoo visibly stiffened.

Bingo.

You grinned. "What if I told you I like a little risk?"

He groaned. "Don't say stuff like that."

"Why? Is it making things harder for you?"

He looked at you then, really looked at you—like he was trying to figure out if you were messing with him or if you actually meant it. And that's when you knew you had him.

"Relax, Wonwoo," you said, leaning back with a smug smile. "I just wanna grab coffee. Not a wedding ring."

He exhaled, shaking his head, but you caught the small smirk tugging at his lips. "You're impossible."

"And you are running out of excuses."

He stared at you for another beat before groaning, rubbing his face like you were the biggest headache of his life. Then—finally—he let out a short laugh, shaking his head.

"Fine," he muttered. "One coffee."

Your grin widened. "I knew you liked me."

"Shut up."

And just like that, the game was back on.

You should've known.

One coffee turned into another. Then into late-night calls. Then into hanging out at Wonwoo's apartment, always under the pretense of studying or just chilling.

Which was a huge lie. Because, really, what kind of studying involved Wonwoo's knee pressed against yours, his fingers grazing yours every few minutes, and him murmuring things in that low voice that made your brain short-circuit?

The worst part? He knew what he was doing.

And the proof?

Right now.

You were hanging out at his place after a long day, claiming his couch like it was yours while he sat beside you. Some dumb multiplayer game was on the screen, and you were so sure you were winning.

Until Wonwoo conveniently lost at the very last second.

"You're so bad at this," you teased, laughing as you nudged his arm.

Wonwoo, who had been sitting back lazily just seconds ago, suddenly leaned forward. "You made me lose on purpose."

You gasped dramatically. "How dare you accuse me—"

Before you could finish, he moved.

Fast.

One second you were playfully bickering, and the next? You were flat on your back, pressed against the couch, with Wonwoo hovering above you—his hands trapping you on either side of your head.

Your brain short-circuited.

"W-Wait—"

Wonwoo's knee nudged between your thighs, pressing down just enough to make you hyperaware of every single point of contact between you. The air shifted, playful teasing melting into something heavier.

Something that made your skin burn.

The way he looked at you—half-lidded eyes roaming over your face, his smirk growing as he took in your reaction—made your stomach twist into knots.

The corner of his lips curled. "What's wrong?"

Your throat was so dry. "You're—you're too close."

He hummed, tilting his head slightly. "Am I?"

And then—because this man had no mercy—he dipped even lower, his nose brushing against yours as he whispered against your lips,

"You started this."

A second later, his lips crashed onto yours.

Soft but demanding, like he had been holding himself back for too long. His hands slipped down, gripping your waist, fingers digging into your sides as he pulled you impossibly close. The kiss was slow at first—just a gentle press of lips—but then Wonwoo tilted his head, deepening it, his mouth moving against yours with a languid, intoxicating rhythm.

You melted.

Your hands, which had been gripping onto his hoodie for dear life, moved on their own—one slipping into his hair, tugging slightly. The groan he let out against your lips sent a shockwave down your spine.

Wonwoo's hands moved lower, resting on your thighs before effortlessly pulling you up onto his lap.

The sudden shift made you gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders to steady yourself. But before you could even think, his lips found yours again, this time more urgent, more needy.

And you?

You couldn't even pretend to fight it.

Because Wonwoo kissed like he meant it. Like he was making up for all the stolen glances, the teasing touches, the lingering tension that had built up between you for weeks.

And you let him.

Because, honestly?

You wanted it just as much.

From that night on, it was impossible to pretend you weren't completely wrapped around each other's fingers.

Sure, Mingyu didn't know yet, but Wonwoo made it really hard to act normal.

Like when he'd pick you up from hagwon (cram school) at night, leaning against his car like some effortlessly hot drama lead, hands in his pockets, waiting for you. And when you walked up, flustered and mumbling about how someone might see?

He'd just smirk and lean down, murmuring, "Let them."

Or when he'd help you study at the library but deliberately lean in too close—his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, "You're not focusing."

As if he was helping??

And the worst part? He loved seeing you flustered.

Like the time he casually pulled you into an empty library aisle, tilted your chin up, and kissed you right then and there.

"You keep getting distracted," he murmured against your lips, eyes gleaming with amusement.

And you?? You just stood there, clutching your book like your life depended on it.

But hey. What Mingyu doesn't know won't kill him, right?

...Right?

---

Honestly, you and Wonwoo had been too good at sneaking around.

The stolen kisses in empty library aisles. The late-night study sessions that turned into him pulling you onto his lap just to mess with you. The way he'd casually lean against his car outside your cram school, hands shoved into his hoodie, waiting like some effortlessly cool drama lead.

Y'all really thought you were slick.

Until one night.

You were saying your goodbyes outside your house, the streetlights casting a golden glow over the both of you. Wonwoo had driven you home like always, but this time, instead of the usual quick peck and see you later, he leaned in, his hands resting on your waist, his breath warm against your lips.

"You're so cute when you're nervous," he murmured before pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, tilting his head just right so you felt it all the way down to your toes.

And that was the moment your soul left your body.

Because the second Wonwoo pulled away—both of you breathless, smiling like lovesick idiots—you heard it.

A slow. Dramatic. Clap.

You froze. Wonwoo froze.

And then—

"Well, well, well. Look what we have here."

Your blood ran cold.

You turned around so slowly you swore time slowed down.

And there, standing in front of the house, arms crossed, wearing the most betrayed expression you'd ever seen, was Kim Mingyu.

"Oh, shit," Wonwoo muttered under his breath.

"OH SHIT IS RIGHT, JEON WONWOO," Mingyu roared, stalking forward like an older brother about to ruin your entire existence.

You instinctively stepped in front of Wonwoo like that was gonna protect him from the absolute storm that was about to hit. "Mingyu, listen, before you freak out—"

"BEFORE I FREAK OUT???" Mingyu's voice cracked, eyes darting between you and Wonwoo. "YOU'RE KISSING MY BEST FRIEND ON OUR FRONT PORCH LIKE IT'S A K-DRAMA AND YOU WANT ME TO STAY CALM???"

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Looked at Wonwoo for help.

Wonwoo: 😬

You: 😭

Mingyu let out a deep sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose before turning to Wonwoo with the deadliest glare known to man.

"You. Follow me. NOW."

Wonwoo shot you a look—part this is it, I'm gonna die and part I regret nothing. And then he followed Mingyu inside like a man walking to his execution.

You just stood there, hands on your head, wondering if you should start preparing a eulogy.

Because one thing was certain.

Kim Mingyu was about to ruin your entire love life.

You had never paced so much in your entire life.

Standing outside your front door, you tried to listen in—tried being the keyword. But Mingyu's voice was booming from inside the house, and you could already tell from his tone that he was about to make Wonwoo regret all his life choices.

You pressed your ear against the door.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

Oop. You winced. That was not a good start.

"Mingyu, calm down—" Wonwoo started, but Mingyu was having NONE of it.

"CALM DOWN? OH, SORRY, SHOULD I THROW YOU A PARTY INSTEAD? CONGRATS, YOU'RE DATING MY BABY SISTER??? BRO, I TRUSTED YOU!"

There was a pause. A deep sigh. Then:

"I told you to break up with her."

WHAT.

You slammed the door open so hard it bounced off the wall.

"EXCUSE ME??"

Both of them turned to you like deer caught in headlights.

"YOU WHAT???" you yelled, pointing at Mingyu like he'd just confessed to murder.

Mingyu blinked at you like he just realized what he said. "Uh—wait. No, that's not what I—"

Wonwoo was dying. You could see it. He was looking between the two of you, lips pressed together, trying so hard not to laugh.

You turned to Wonwoo, still pointing at Mingyu. "DID YOU KNOW THIS?"

Wonwoo immediately held his hands up. "Nope. No idea. But honestly, this is the best plot twist I've ever witnessed."

"Mingyu," you hissed, grinning like an absolute menace. "Wonwoo's a great guy. Make him break up with me and I'll never talk to you again."

Mingyu let out the loudest groan, dragging his hands down his face. "I DIDN'T MEAN IT LIKE THAT. I meant—I don't know! I just didn't want you dating Wonwoo of all people!"

"Wow. Okay. Ouch," Wonwoo muttered, actually offended.

Mingyu whirled on him. "I'M SORRY, BUT DO YOU KNOW YOUR OWN HISTORY? YOU'RE A HEARTBREAKER, BRO. I'M NOT LETTING YOU BREAK MY SISTER'S HEART."

Wonwoo's face immediately darkened. "Mingyu," he said, voice low.

And just like that, the room shifted.

Because that tone? That was not Wonwoo the sarcastic asshole. That was Wonwoo the serious guy who doesn't mess around when it comes to things that matter.

Mingyu must've felt it too, because his whole demeanor changed.

"I'm not playing around with her," Wonwoo said, steady and clear. "I'm not screwing this up." His gaze flickered to you—soft, almost apologetic, like he hated that this conversation was happening in front of you.

"I like her," he continued, voice quieter now. "A lot. More than I probably should." He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "And I get it. You're looking out for her. But Mingyu, you have to know—I wouldn't start something with her if I wasn't serious about it."

...

DEAD. SILENCE.

You held your breath, watching Mingyu's expression shift.

He looked at you. Then back at Wonwoo.

Then back at you.

And then—he sighed the biggest sigh of his life.

"Ugh. Fine." He dragged a hand through his hair, groaning. "Fine. If you two wanna make out and be disgusting, whatever. But," he said, suddenly deadly serious, "if you hurt her, Wonwoo, I swear on my life—"

"I know," Wonwoo cut in, smirking. "You'll kill me."

"No," Mingyu said. "I'll make you wish I did."

WELL.

You weren't sure whether to be relieved or terrified.

But at least you and Wonwoo weren't hiding anymore.

And the best part?

Mingyu would never find out just how much sneaking around you two had already done.

Mingyu had no idea what he had just unleashed.

Because the second he begrudgingly gave his approval, Wonwoo had decided on a new mission in life:

Make. You. Flustered.

And he was very good at it.

---

EXHIBIT A: THE COUCH INCIDENT

Mingyu was in the kitchen, completely unaware of what was happening in the living room.

You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, a controller in hand, fully focused on the game—or at least, you were trying to be.

Wonwoo, on the other hand?

Oh, he was definitely not focused on the game.

He was watching you. Studying you like a predator stalking its prey.

And the moment you made a mistake in the game, he pounced.

"HAH—GOTCHA," he laughed, tackling you onto the couch.

You yelped, the controller flying out of your hands as Wonwoo pinned you down, his arms caging you in.

"W-Wonwoo—!" you stammered, wide-eyed.

"Cheaters don't deserve to win," he teased, leaning closer. His weight was warm, his cologne intoxicating, and his smirk was nothing short of sinful.

And just when you were about to absolutely combust, he dipped his head—

And kissed you.

Deep. Slow. Lingering.

Your hands fisted his hoodie, a helpless whimper slipping from your lips as he tilted his head, kissing you deeper.

His lips moved against yours like he had all the time in the world. Like this was something he'd wanted to do for so, so long.

And then—

"WHAT THE ACTUAL FU—"

MINGYU.

Mingyu. Was. Here.

You froze.

Wonwoo froze.

Mingyu's scream could have shattered glass.

"WONWOO, GET YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF MY SISTER RIGHT NOW."

But Wonwoo?

Wonwoo smirked.

And he didn't move.

Instead, he pressed another slow, deliberate kiss to your lips—just to spite Mingyu.

"OH MY GOD, YOU—YOU—"

You didn't even know who moved first—Wonwoo scrambling off you or Mingyu lunging at him like a wild animal.

All you knew was you were absolutely dying of embarrassment.

EXHIBIT B: THE STUDY SESSION FROM HELL

You should've known studying with Wonwoo was a terrible idea.

Not because he wasn't helpful—he was. Very helpful.

But his idea of helping you study was apparently making you flustered as hell.

You sat across from each other in the library, a pile of textbooks between you. Wonwoo was supposed to be quizzing you, but instead—

Instead, his foot nudged yours under the table.

You ignored it.

Then his foot slid up your calf.

Your breath hitched.

And when you finally looked up at him, the bastard was smirking.

"W-what?" you stammered, gripping your pen so tight you thought it would snap.

Wonwoo propped his chin on his hand, voice low and teasing.

"Nothing," he murmured. "Just wondering how long you can focus before I distract you."

Oh. Oh.

You gulped.

And then—you felt a shadow loom over you.

MINGYU.

Again. AGAIN.

His arms were crossed. His expression? A mix of pure disgust and betrayal.

"...Am I interrupting something?" he asked flatly.

You and Wonwoo both jumped apart like you'd been electrocuted.

"N-no!" you squeaked.

Mingyu's eyes narrowed.

"...Are you two seriously making out in the LIBRARY???"

Wonwoo, without missing a beat: "Wouldn't be the first time."

Mingyu died on the spot.

Mingyu was 100% sure he was living in his own personal hell.

Because every time he turned around, Wonwoo was doing something to make his little sister blush like crazy.

A hand on her waist. A whisper in her ear. A kiss on the cheek.

AND IT WAS DRIVING MINGYU INSANE.

He started setting rules.

"NO KISSING IN FRONT OF ME."

But then, Wonwoo would smirk and kiss you on the forehead instead.

"NO TOUCHING."

So Wonwoo would lace your fingers together behind his back, out of Mingyu's sight.

"NO SECRET GLANCES—OH MY GOD, I SAW THAT, YOU THINK I CAN'T SEE YOU TWO STARING AT EACH OTHER??? STOP IT. STOP IT RIGHT NOW."

Wonwoo, grinning like a menace: "I don't know what you're talking about."

Mingyu was this close to throwing himself off a cliff.

The moment Wonwoo got you alone in his apartment, there was no hesitation. The second the door clicked shut, his hands were already on you—warm, firm, desperate in a way that sent shivers up your spine. His fingers trailed along your waist, pulling you flush against him before he backed you up against the kitchen counter, his dark eyes locked onto yours, filled with something dangerous—something hungry.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" he murmured, voice low and rough, the heat of his breath fanning over your lips.

Before you could answer, his lips crashed onto yours, devouring, claiming, stealing every last ounce of air from your lungs. His hands roamed, fingers sliding down the curve of your back, gripping, exploring, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. Your knees nearly buckled from the intensity, the sheer heat of it all, but Wonwoo held you firm, like he'd never let you go.

His lips trailed down, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, your neck, sucking lightly until you whimpered—until he had you melting for him, hands gripping onto his shirt like you needed something to hold onto or else you'd fall apart.

"Wonwoo," you gasped when he suddenly hoisted you up onto the counter with ease, spreading your thighs so he could step between them, his hands sliding under your dress, fingers tracing the sensitive skin along the inside of your thighs.

You barely had time to react before he tilted your chin up with his fingers, his lips brushing yours as he whispered, "Tell me to stop."

But you didn't. You couldn't. Instead, you pulled him in, kissing him with all the desperation you felt in your body.

He groaned into your mouth, deep and guttural, and suddenly, the warmth of his hands was gone—but only so he could hook his fingers around your dress and unzip it, painfully slow.

The fabric slid off your shoulders, pooling around your waist as Wonwoo's eyes darkened. His fingers traced down your bare skin, mapping out every inch of you, as if memorizing the way you shivered under his touch.

Then, in one swift motion, he lifted you off the counter with ease, his lips never leaving yours as he carried you through the apartment—straight to his neatly arranged bedroom.

You barely had time to take in your surroundings before Wonwoo pinned you onto the bed, hovering over you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his eyes burning into yours.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted this," he muttered against your lips before kissing you senseless— deep, slow, and thorough, like he was savoring every second.

His lips trailed lower, down your neck, your collarbone, his hands exploring, teasing, making you squirm under his touch.

He was taking his time, driving you insane, and when his fingers finally dipped lower, teasing at the edge of your underwear, you let out a shaky breath.

"Wonwoo," you pleaded.

He smirked, dragging his lips back up to your ear. "Patience, princess."

But patience was the last thing on your mind when he finally, finally touched you.

The second his fingers slipped past the band of your underwear, featherlight but deliberate, you shivered beneath him. Wonwoo took his time, tracing along your soaked heat with the slightest pressure—just enough to make you tremble, but not enough to satisfy the aching need building in your core.

He was cruel like that.

His lips brushed against your ear, his voice low, deep, and intoxicating.

"Look at you..." he murmured, dragging a single finger down your slick folds before circling your entrance—just barely pushing in. "So wet already. Is this all for me?"

Your breath hitched, your fingers tightening in his shirt.

"Wonwoo, please—"

A sharp gasp left your lips when he suddenly pushed in one finger, slow and deliberate, letting you feel every inch before curling it just right, pressing against that sensitive spot inside you.

"Please what, baby?" His smirk was dangerous, his movements even more so as he added a second finger, stretching you, filling you, setting an excruciatingly slow rhythm that made you feel helplessly desperate.

Your hips bucked instinctively, seeking more, but Wonwoo only chuckled, his free hand pressing you down against the mattress.

"Needy little thing," he muttered before dipping down to kiss you again, swallowing every whimper, every broken moan as his fingers moved faster—deeper.

You were barely holding onto reality at this point. The heat, the pleasure, the way his voice sent shivers through your spine—it was too much and not enough all at once.

Then suddenly, he was gone.

You whined at the loss, blinking up at him in frustration, but Wonwoo only chuckled as he pulled his shirt over his head—revealing his lean, toned body, his sharp jaw, his intense gaze locked onto yours like you were the only thing he could see.

"Relax, baby," he whispered, crawling back over you, caging you in beneath him. "I'm not done with you yet."

His lips trailed lower, down your neck, your chest, your stomach— his tongue and lips teasing, tasting, claiming every inch of your skin until you were gasping beneath him.

By the time he reached your soaked heat, you were already a mess—whimpering, squirming, aching for more.

And when he lowered his head between your thighs, his dark eyes flickering up to meet yours just before his tongue flicked against your most sensitive spot—

You swore you saw stars.

The first stroke of his tongue sent a full-body shudder through you, your fingers immediately tangling in his hair as he dragged the flat of his tongue along your soaked heat.

Wonwoo hummed at the taste, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you still as he set a slow, torturous rhythm—kissing, licking, sucking—his tongue swirling around your sensitive bud before flicking against it in teasing little strokes that left you gasping for air.

Your thighs trembled, threatening to close around his head, but he only chuckled against you, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure through your already overwhelmed body.

"Already shaking, baby?" he murmured, lips brushing against your core, voice dripping with amusement and hunger. "Thought you wanted more?"

You barely had time to answer before his tongue plunged inside you, and that was it—your head fell back against the pillow, your back arching off the bed, your grip in his hair tightening as he ate you like he was starving.

Deep, slow strokes. Messy, wet kisses. His nose brushing against your clit just right.

It was filthy. It was heaven.

Wonwoo knew exactly what he was doing, and he was doing it so well it had you a whimpering, moaning mess beneath him, your legs trembling as he took his sweet time ruining you.

The heat in your stomach coiled tighter and tighter, your thighs twitching with every sinful movement of his mouth, until—

"Wonwoo—I'm—"

He didn't stop. If anything, he devoured you harder, one hand reaching up to lace his fingers with yours while the other pinned you down as you cried out, your orgasm crashing over you so hard your vision went white.

Your whole body tensed, shook, melted all at once as he licked you through it, riding out your high until you were twitching from oversensitivity.

Only then did he finally pull away, lips and chin glistening, looking up at you with dark, satisfied eyes.

"You taste so fucking good," he muttered, crawling back up, his body hot and solid against yours as he captured your lips in a messy, heated kiss—letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

And just when you thought you couldn't handle any more, you felt it.

The hard press of his cock against your thigh. Heavy. Hot. Desperate.

Wonwoo groaned against your lips, his hips grinding against you in slow, torturous drags.

"I need you, baby," he whispered against your lips, his voice wrecked with hunger, want, need.

He reached down, gripping himself, lining up against your still-throbbing heat—

"Tell me you want this."

His voice was gravelly, deep, wrecked, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hot against your lips.

You exhaled, still dizzy, still trembling, but you knew exactly what you wanted.

"Wonwoo..." You cupped his face, brushing your lips against his, meeting his dark, burning gaze.

"I want you. All of you."

That was all he needed.

With a low, guttural groan, he pushed in—

The stretch of him had you gasping—a slow, deliberate push that filled you inch by inch, his cock dragging along your walls so deep, so hot that your nails dug into his shoulders.

Wonwoo groaned against your throat, his breath ragged as he stilled inside you for a moment—his fingers gripping your thighs tightly, almost trembling.

"Fuck—you're so tight, baby," he muttered, voice wrecked, strained, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your neck as he bottomed out.

The feeling was overwhelming. The stretch. The heat. The way his hips were pressed flush against yours, his cock pulsing inside you.

"You okay?" he whispered, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your lips.

You barely had time to answer before he rolled his hips, dragging himself out before pushing back in with a slow, deep thrust that had you moaning into his mouth.

And then he did it again. And again.

Slow. Deep. Hard.

His hands gripped your hips tightly, pulling you against him with every thrust, burying himself so deep you felt him everywhere.

"You feel so fucking good," he groaned, forehead pressed against yours as his pace quickened, the slow drag of his cock turning into harder, deeper strokes.

Your body arched beneath him, chasing the friction, your legs wrapping around his waist as you gasped, whimpered, moaned, nails raking down his back as he thrust into you harder.

The room was filled with the sound of skin against skin, of breathless gasps, of desperate moans.

The pleasure built fast and hot, your body tightening around him, your thighs trembling as his movements turned desperate, hungry.

"Wonwoo—" you moaned his name, voice wrecked, needy, broken.

His pace stuttered at that—his grip on your hips tightening as he buried himself deeper, faster, harder, hips snapping against yours in deep, punishing thrusts.

"Say it again," he growled against your lips, his hand slipping between your bodies, fingers pressing against your sensitive clit, rubbing tight, slow circles.

"Wonwoo—oh my god—"

The heat coiled tighter, your body tensing, trembling, shattering—

And then you were falling apart.

Your orgasm crashed over you in waves, your body tightening around him as you cried out, gasping his name, trembling beneath him.

Wonwoo groaned, cursing under his breath, his thrusts turning erratic, deeper, rougher as he chased his own high—until with one final, deep thrust, he buried himself inside you, his body shuddering as he came, moaning your name against your lips.

For a moment, the room was silent, heavy with heat, with breathless gasps, with the aftershocks of pleasure still running through both of you.

Then, slowly, he pulled out, pressing a lazy, lingering kiss to your lips, his hands still holding your body so close, so tight.

You were dazed, boneless, completely ruined.

And so was he.

Wonwoo chuckled, breathless, tucking your hair behind your ear as he smirked down at you.

"Think Mingyu's gonna kill me if he finds out?"

You groaned, shoving him playfully, but he only laughed, kissing you again, slower this time, softer.

"You're mine now, you know that, right?"

And with the way he was looking at you, you knew there was no going back.

The aftermath was warm, quiet, and dangerously comfortable. Wonwoo was still half on top of you, his body radiating heat, his breath slow and steady against your shoulder. His arm was firm around your waist, keeping you close, like he wasn't ready to let go.

"You good?" he murmured, his voice deep, low, still wrecked from what just happened.

You hummed, nuzzling closer, feeling the soft press of his lips against your forehead.

This was nice.

Too nice.

And then your phone vibrated.

Wonwoo groaned, burying his face in your neck. "Don't answer it."

But you had to. Because when you reached for it, Mingyu's name was staring back at you.

Shit.

You shot up so fast that Wonwoo barely had time to react before you were scrambling for your clothes, your heart pounding.

Wonwoo, still half-naked and looking so effortlessly wrecked, just lay there, watching you in pure amusement.

"Relax," he said, grinning like a menace. "He doesn't know you're here."

You shot him a glare, still clutching your phone like it was a ticking bomb.

"He will if I don't answer," you hissed, and before Wonwoo could make another smart remark, you swiped to pick up the call.

"Mingyu?"

"Where the hell are you?"

You froze. Shit.

Wonwoo was watching you closely now, eyes dark with amusement, but he didn't move—just propped himself up on one elbow, looking like sin itself.

You cleared your throat, desperately trying to sound normal. "I—I'm at the library."

Wonwoo bit his lip, shaking his head.

Liar.

"The library?" Mingyu sounded skeptical. "You never stay this late."

Think. Think.

"Uh, yeah, well—Wonwoo said he'd help me study," you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

The silence on the other end was deafening.

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow.

"Mingyu?" you tried again.

"You're with Wonwoo?"

Your stomach dropped.

Wonwoo, the absolute devil that he was, just grinned, running a hand through his messy hair like he wasn't literally in bed with you.

"You—" Mingyu let out a sharp exhale. "I swear to god, if that bastard tries anything—"

"Relax!" you cut in quickly, forcing out a laugh. "It's just studying."

Wonwoo snorted.

Mingyu sighed. "I don't trust him."

"Gee, thanks, Gyu," Wonwoo said loudly, just to be annoying.

You glared at him, mouthing 'shut up' before turning back to the call. "I'll be home soon, okay?"

Mingyu grumbled something under his breath but eventually let you go.

The moment you hung up, you turned to Wonwoo, scowling.

"You were not helpful."

Wonwoo only smirked, sitting up, the sheets sliding down his torso, revealing even more of his very distracting body.

"Studying, huh?" he teased.

You threw a pillow at him.

"Shut up."

Sneaking around was thrilling.

Maybe it was the risk of getting caught, or maybe it was the way Wonwoo would sneak touches when no one was looking—his fingers grazing your waist, his lips brushing your ear just to whisper the most unnecessary things.

But Mingyu was getting suspicious.

And Wonwoo? He was making it worse on purpose.

Like now.

You were sitting across from Mingyu at a café, trying to act normal, when Wonwoo slid into the seat beside you—so close that your knees bumped under the table.

"Gyu," he greeted casually, stealing a fry from Mingyu's plate.

Mingyu narrowed his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

Wonwoo just shrugged, unfazed. "Saw you two and thought I'd join."

Liar.

You knew for a fact that he had been waiting outside the whole time, texting you the filthiest things under the table, just to watch you squirm.

Now, he was acting innocent.

And he was way too close.

So close that you could feel the heat of his thigh against yours, the brush of his fingers as he reached for another fry.

Mingyu was still watching him suspiciously.

And then Wonwoo did it.

His hand, sneaky as hell, slid under the table.

Onto your thigh.

You froze.

Your breath caught in your throat as his fingers pressed against your bare skin, teasing, stroking, inching higher.

You shot him a warning look, trying not to choke on your drink.

He only smirked, looking way too entertained.

Mingyu, completely unaware, was rambling about something—basketball? A movie? You weren't even listening. Because Wonwoo was dragging his fingers along the hem of your skirt, toying with it, barely slipping underneath.

You squeezed your legs shut, but it only trapped his hand there.

His gaze flickered to yours, dark, teasing.

'Relax,' his eyes seemed to say. 'Unless you want him to notice.'

You bit your lip so hard it almost hurt.

Mingyu frowned. "Why do you look weird?"

Shit.

You cleared your throat, forcing a smile. "I—I don't?"

Mingyu narrowed his eyes.

Wonwoo, the absolute menace, just chuckled and leaned back, finally pulling his hand away.

"You should eat more, princess," he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear.

Your entire face burned.

And Mingyu? Oblivious.

For now.

Your voice was barely a whisper, heart pounding as you felt Wonwoo's breath against your ear.

"That's what makes it fun," he murmured, voice low, teasing.

This was dangerous. Reckless, even. But you couldn't stop yourself.

It started as a simple study session. Wonwoo had picked you up after hagwon, claiming he'd "help" you with your assignments.

Total bullshit.

Because now?

You were pressed up against the library bookshelf, the dim glow of the emergency exit light barely illuminating the mischief in his eyes.

Your breath hitched as his lips brushed over your jaw, slow, calculated. "You're so easy to mess with, princess."

You swallowed, trying to act indifferent, but your body betrayed you.

Because his hands were already on your waist, sneaking under your oversized hoodie, fingertips grazing your skin, making you shiver.

"Wonwoo," you warned, voice wobbly. "Someone might see—"

He kissed you.

Cut you off completely, swallowing any argument you might've had. It was deep, consuming, with just enough desperation to make your knees buckle.

And he knew.

He gripped your thighs, lifting you effortlessly, pressing you harder against the shelves. You gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist instinctively.

His lips traveled down to your neck, kissing, sucking—leaving marks in places only he would see.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging slightly, earning a low groan from him.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he murmured against your skin, his voice sending heat straight to your core.

And then, his hand slipped under your skirt.

You gasped, back arching as he dragged his fingers along your soaked panties, teasing.

"Already wet for me?" he whispered, grinning when you squirmed in his grip.

"Wonwoo," you hissed.

"Shh," he hushed, lips finding yours again, muffling your soft whimpers. "Unless you want someone to catch us."

Fuck.

This was so, so wrong.

But god, it felt too good to stop.

His fingers moved against you, slow, deliberate, applying just enough pressure to make you tremble.

And then—

"Hello? Is someone there?"

A voice.

Somewhere in the library.

You froze.

Wonwoo, however?

He didn't stop.

His fingers kept moving, rubbing slow, lazy circles against your clothed heat.

"Wonwoo," you pleaded, voice barely a breath.

He just smirked.

The footsteps got closer.

Your heart pounded as Wonwoo kissed you again, swallowing your gasps as he slipped his fingers past the fabric, stroking your bare heat.

And then—

The footsteps faded.

Whoever it was, they were gone.

And you were falling apart in Wonwoo's arms.

He didn't stop until your body was trembling, until your head fell against his shoulder, until you were gripping onto his sweater like it was the only thing grounding you.

And then, finally, he pulled back.

He grinned, watching you struggle to catch your breath. His fingers—still wet from you—slid up your thigh, leaving a teasing trail.

"You were so loud, princess," he whispered against your ear. "I almost thought you wanted to get caught."

FUCK.

---

There were no fancy words, no grand declarations.

But when Wonwoo loved, he showed it in every little thing he did.

It was the way he kept your water bottle filled when you were too busy studying. The way he brought you warm meals when you forgot to eat. The way he let you borrow his headphones, knowing you liked his playlists better than yours.

Even now, as he sat in his gaming chair, his fingers absentmindedly traced circles on your bare thigh, pulling you closer onto his lap.

"You're too busy for me," you pouted, resting your chin on his shoulder as he adjusted his headset.

Wonwoo smirked, clicking a button on his keyboard. "I just spent two hours helping you study, princess. What do you mean?"

You huffed, nuzzling into his neck. "I mean, you're always playing games or working. I miss you."

His fingers paused on the keyboard.

A moment later, he let out a sigh and removed his headset, turning to face you.

"You're clingy," he teased, but the way his hands slid up your arms, the way his thumb brushed your cheek, said otherwise.

"You like it," you shot back.

He chuckled, pulling you in for a soft kiss. It was lazy, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world for you.

Maybe he did.

Because after that, he turned off his PC.

You blinked. "You're done?"

"Yeah." He stood, effortlessly carrying you to the bed. "I'd rather spend time with you."

Your heart melted.

"But your game—"

"It's just a game," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. "You're more important."

Fuck.

That did things to you.

You clung to him tighter, burying your face in his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Wonwoo wasn't the type to say 'I love you' a hundred times a day.

But he showed it. In the way he adjusted your blanket at night. In the way he massaged your shoulders after a long study session. In the way he never let you walk on the side of the road.

And in moments like this, where he'd drop everything just to hold you.

"You don't need anything but me, right?" he whispered against your hair, voice warm, teasing.

You smiled, pulling him closer.

"Right."

You were curled up on the couch, drowning in an oversized hoodie that—surprise, surprise—smelled like Wonwoo. The weight of your laptop sat in your lap, screen glowing with the absolute horror that was your unfinished assignment.

Two thousand words. Due tomorrow. You had written ten.

A dramatic sigh left your lips as you flopped onto the cushions, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to life.

Wonwoo, who had been watching you from his desk, barely glanced up from his monitor. "You're sulking."

"You're ignoring me," you shot back, hugging a pillow.

"I'm working," he replied, but there was a teasing lilt in his voice. "And you should be too."

You groaned into the fabric. "I can't. I have no motivation."

Finally, he turned his chair around, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he studied you. His dark eyes flickered with something unreadable—fond amusement, exasperation, love, all tangled into one.

"You're acting like a baby," he murmured, but the way he got up and walked toward you said otherwise.

And then—before you could process it—he was lifting your legs and settling himself between them, pulling you into his lap with ease.

"W-Wonwoo?" you stammered, hands instinctively gripping his shoulders.

"You don't have to ask, princess," he said, voice soft, low, knowing. "I already know what you need."

Your breath hitched.

And then his lips were on your forehead—one slow, lingering kiss.

Then another on your cheek.

Then your temple.

Then your nose.

The kind of kisses that weren't just physical, but something deeper. Like he was pouring everything he felt into them without saying a single word.

Your heart felt like it would burst.

"W-Wonwoo," you whispered again, but this time, it came out softer, more delicate.

"Mm?" He hummed, resting his chin on top of your head.

You swallowed. "You're distracting me."

He let out a soft chuckle. "Good."

You wanted to be mad, but how could you be?

Especially when he wrapped his arms around you tighter, rocking you slightly, like he was trying to comfort you without even realizing it.

Like you were his whole world.

---

Wonwoo didn't like extravagant gestures.

But spoiling you? That was different.

He'd do anything to make your life easier.

Which is why, when you walked into your apartment after a long day, you stopped in your tracks at the sight of takeout containers neatly placed on the table.

Your favorite food. From your favorite restaurant.

And beside them—a brand new necklace, delicate and subtle, but undeniably expensive.

You blinked.

"Wonwoo?"

From the couch, he looked up from his book. "Yeah?"

You pointed at the table. "What is this?"

"Food," he deadpanned. "And a gift."

You narrowed your eyes, crossing your arms. "Why?"

He shrugged. "You had a long day."

Your heart faltered.

You took a slow step forward, staring at him. "Wonwoo, I told you not to keep buying me things."

"And I told you to stop acting like you don't love it," he murmured, flipping a page.

You huffed, but your face was already burning. "That's not the point!"

"You're so spoiled, you know that?" he said, tilting his head. "If I don't do this, you sulk."

"I do not."

"You do," he smirked, and before you could argue, he was standing up, taking slow steps toward you.

Your breath caught.

"You like being taken care of," he murmured, stopping just inches away. "And I like taking care of you."

Fuck.

Your pulse skyrocketed.

"Wonwoo," you whispered, and his hands slid up your arms, featherlight, teasing.

"Mm?"

"You're not being fair."

He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, sending shivers down your spine.

"Neither are you," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

And just like that, you melted.

Wonwoo wasn't a morning person.

But when he woke up to the empty space beside him, his eyes narrowed instantly.

You were supposed to be asleep in his arms, tangled in his sheets, where he could keep you safe and warm.

Instead—

He blinked blearily, pushing the covers off. The faint glow from your laptop illuminated your silhouette, hunched over at the desk.

"Baby?" His voice was gravelly, hoarse from sleep.

You turned, blinking at him. "Did I wake you?"

Wonwoo ran a hand through his hair, eyes flickering between you and the glowing screen.

He didn't say anything. Just stood up, walked over, and gently closed your laptop.

You gasped. "Wonwoo, I need to finish—"

"Later," he murmured, voice low, commanding. Not angry, not strict. Just firm.

You opened your mouth to protest, but then—he was lifting you effortlessly, carrying you back to bed.

"W-Wait—"

"Shh," he whispered, tucking you back under the sheets before crawling in beside you.

Then his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you against his bare chest, his lips grazing your shoulder.

"Come back to bed," he murmured.

You shivered. "But—"

"You can finish in the morning," he whispered, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your neck. "Just stay with me right now."

And really, how could you say no to that?

"You're exhausted. Just sleep, princess."

The dull ache in your shoulders was killing you.

It had been a long-ass day, and all you wanted to do was collapse.

But your laptop blinked back at you, merciless and taunting, deadlines creeping closer.

Wonwoo watched you silently from across the room, arms crossed, brows furrowed. You could feel his stare, heavy and knowing.

"You need to sleep," he finally murmured.

You didn't even look at him. "I'll sleep after this."

A beat of silence.

Then—before you could react—arms wrapped around you from behind, lifting you with ease.

"W-Wonwoo?! Put me down—!"

"No." Deadpan. Unbothered.

And just like that, you were in bed.

He pressed you into the pillows, throwing the blanket over you like tucking in a child.

"W-Wait—"

"You're exhausted," he muttered, climbing in beside you. "Just sleep, princess."

You tried to fight it. You really did.

But then—his arms tightened around you, his lips ghosted over your forehead, and his warmth melted into your body.

And suddenly... your eyelids were too heavy to keep open.

Damn him.

"Give me your bag, princess."

College was draining you.

You had just finished a three-hour lecture, your brain barely functioning, your bag heavy as hell.

And then—there he was.

Waiting outside, tall and gorgeous in a black hoodie and sweats, hands in his pockets, eyes softening the second he saw you.

Wonwoo, your personal chauffeur.

You sighed in relief, grateful for his presence alone.

Until—he took one look at your slouched shoulders and frowned.

"Give me your bag."

You blinked. "Huh?"

He nodded at your shoulder. "Your bag. Give it."

You clutched it instinctively. "It's not that heavy—"

Wonwoo didn't even let you finish.

He gently pried it from your grip, slinging it over his own shoulder like it weighed nothing.

"Wonwoo—"

"You looked tired, princess," he murmured, taking your hand. "Let me take care of you."

Your heart skipped a beat.

...Yeah. You weren't arguing with that.

"Sit still, princess. Let me take care of you."

You sighed in bliss, eyes fluttering shut as Wonwoo's fingers worked through your damp hair, massaging your scalp.

God, he was good at this.

His touch was gentle, slow, firm—soothing every little knot of tension you didn't even know you had.

"You're going to fall asleep," he murmured, amused.

"Mm," you hummed, barely awake, tilting your head into his hands.

He chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. "You're so easy to please."

You smiled, eyes still closed. "Only when it's you."

Wonwoo paused.

And then—you felt his lips on your neck, slow and deliberate, his voice dropping into that low, teasing drawl.

"I like the way that sounds, princess."

Shit.

Suddenly, you weren't sleepy anymore.

"Stop looking at me like that, princess, or I'll take you right here."

Wonwoo knew what he was doing.

The man had zero shame when it came to making you blush, and he thrived off of it.

Which is why—when you were in the middle of a crowded restaurant, surrounded by people—he had the audacity to run his hands up your thighs under the table.

Your breath hitched.

"W-Wonwoo—"

He smirked, taking a casual sip of his drink. "Something wrong, princess?"

You shot him a glare, but your face was burning.

"I hate you," you muttered under your breath.

"Liar," he whispered back, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles on your skin.

You gulped, shifting in your seat. "We're in public."

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

"Stop looking at me like that, princess," he murmured, voice deep, teasing. "Or I'll take you right here."

Your breath caught.

And the worst part? You knew he meant it.

"I missed you, princess."

The night was quiet, the air cool, the city lights glowing softly through the window.

Wonwoo had been away for a few days—a work trip, nothing major—but God, you had missed him.

And apparently—he had missed you too.

Because the second he got back, he grabbed you by the waist, pulled you into his lap, and buried his face in your neck.

"You good?" you laughed, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

He didn't answer.

Just... held you.

Long. Deep. Like he was soaking in your warmth, grounding himself in your presence.

And then, after a few moments—he whispered against your skin, voice low, hoarse.

"I missed you, princess."

Your heart melted.

You pressed a kiss to his temple. "I missed you too."

His arms tightened around you.

"I know."

"Stay close to me, princess."

Crowds were overwhelming.

Wonwoo didn't care about them much—he was good at blending into the background, unbothered.

But you? You were a whole different story. One talk with a stranger, you'd be friends with them almost too immediately.

Which is why—his arm was always around your waist, keeping you pressed firmly against him.

"Wonwoo, I can walk by myself, you know," you teased, looking up at him.

He just hummed, pulling you closer. "I know."

You rolled your eyes, but secretly?

You loved it.

Because as long as he was there, holding you like this, you never had to worry.

Not about getting lost.

Not about anything.

The night was warm, suffocating with tension, electric with something neither of you could fight.

It started innocent enough.

A late-night drive. The city lights flashing past. His hand on your thigh, firm, possessive, always touching.

You had been teasing him all night. Unintentionally, of course.

Or maybe not.

Because when you leaned in, whispered something soft, something sweet—

He snapped.

Before you could react, he pulled into a secluded parking lot, turned off the engine, and turned to you with dark, burning eyes.

"Out," he ordered, voice low, rough.

Your breath hitched. "Wonwoo—"

"Now, princess."

You gulped. Obeyed.

The second you stepped outside, he was on you.

He pinned you against the car, one hand in your hair, the other gripping your waist, his lips crashing into yours—hot, desperate, consuming.

"You drive me insane," he growled against your mouth, pressing his body against yours, forcing you to feel just how much you affected him.

Your fingers curled into his hoodie, tugging him closer, chasing his warmth, his touch, his everything.

"I need you," you breathed, and that was all it took.

The world disappeared.

Nothing existed except him—the way his hands roamed your body, the way his lips marked your skin, the way he whispered, 'Mine. All mine.'

And when he finally—finally—gave you what you both needed, it wasn't just lust.

It was love.

Raw. Overwhelming. Unshakable.

And as he held you close, forehead pressed to yours, breath uneven but laced with affection—

You knew.

You would never belong to anyone else.

And neither would he.

Your back hit the cool metal of the car. Wonwoo's body pressed against yours, solid, burning, intoxicating.

"You've been teasing me all night," he murmured, trailing kisses down your jaw, his breath hot against your skin.

Your lips parted, a shaky breath escaping when his hands slipped under your dress, fingers skimming up your thighs.

"I wasn't teasing," you whispered, but your voice betrayed you.

Wonwoo chuckled darkly. "Liar."

His fingers dipped between your legs, pressing against the heat that had been building all night.

You squirmed, gripping his hoodie, your body arching into his touch.

"Wonwoo—"

He swallowed your plea with a kiss, deep and desperate, his tongue sliding against yours, stealing every thought from your head.

"Tell me how much you want me."

Your breath hitched as he pushed your panties aside, his fingers stroking slow, deliberate circles that made your knees buckle.

"I—" You gasped, gripping his shoulders. "I want you. Please."

That was all he needed.

With one swift movement, he spun you around, pressing your front against the car, his hands exploring, teasing, making you beg.

"You love being touched like this, don't you?" he whispered, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "Needy little thing."

You could barely breathe, let alone answer.

And when he finally—filled you, stretching you with a slow, deep thrust—

You shattered.

Your nails scraped against the car's surface, your moans mixing with the night air, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

Wonwoo didn't stop.

Didn't slow down.

Didn't let you come down from the high before pulling you back against his chest, one hand gripping your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

"Open your mouth," he murmured.

You obeyed without thinking—and he kissed you, deep and messy, swallowing your moans as he drove you to the edge again.

"Mine."

His voice was a growl, his arms tightening around you, his thrusts turning erratic, desperate.

And when you finally fell apart with him, gasping, trembling, completely undone—

He didn't let you go.

He held you close, pressed kisses against your skin, whispered against your lips—

"I love you."

And for the first time, you realized—this wasn't just desire.

This was obsession.

This was forever.

The night was warm, suffocating with tension, electric with something neither of you could fight.

It started innocent enough.

A late-night drive. The city lights flashing past. His hand on your thigh, firm, possessive, always touching.

You had been teasing him all night. Unintentionally, of course.

Or maybe not.

Because when you leaned in, whispered something soft, something sweet—

He snapped.

Before you could react, he pulled into a secluded parking lot, turned off the engine, and turned to you with dark, burning eyes.

"Out," he ordered, voice low, rough.

Your breath hitched. "Wonwoo—"

"Now, princess."

You gulped. Obeyed.

The second you stepped outside, he was on you.

He pinned you against the car, one hand in your hair, the other gripping your waist, his lips crashing into yours—hot, desperate, consuming.

"You drive me insane," he growled against your mouth, pressing his body against yours, forcing you to feel just how much you affected him.

Your fingers curled into his hoodie, tugging him closer, chasing his warmth, his touch, his everything.

"I need you," you breathed, and that was all it took.

The world disappeared.

Nothing existed except him—the way his hands roamed your body, the way his lips marked your skin, the way he whispered, 'Mine. All mine.'

And when he finally—finally—gave you what you both needed, it wasn't just lust.

It was love.

Raw. Overwhelming. Unshakable.

And as he held you close, forehead pressed to yours, breath uneven but laced with affection—

You knew.

You would never belong to anyone else.

And neither would he.

Your back hit the cool metal of the car. Wonwoo's body pressed against yours, solid, burning, intoxicating.

"You've been teasing me all night," he murmured, trailing kisses down your jaw, his breath hot against your skin.

Your lips parted, a shaky breath escaping when his hands slipped under your dress, fingers skimming up your thighs.

"I wasn't teasing," you whispered, but your voice betrayed you.

Wonwoo chuckled darkly. "Liar."

His fingers dipped between your legs, pressing against the heat that had been building all night.

You squirmed, gripping his hoodie, your body arching into his touch.

"Wonwoo—"

He swallowed your plea with a kiss, deep and desperate, his tongue sliding against yours, stealing every thought from your head.

"Tell me how much you want me."

Your breath hitched as he pushed your panties aside, his fingers stroking slow, deliberate circles that made your knees buckle.

"I—" You gasped, gripping his shoulders. "I want you. Please."

That was all he needed.

With one swift movement, he spun you around, pressing your front against the car, his hands exploring, teasing, making you beg.

"You love being touched like this, don't you?" he whispered, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "Needy little thing."

You could barely breathe, let alone answer.

And when he finally—filled you, stretching you with a slow, deep thrust—

You shattered.

Your nails scraped against the car's surface, your moans mixing with the night air, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

Wonwoo didn't stop.

Didn't slow down.

Didn't let you come down from the high before pulling you back against his chest, one hand gripping your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

"Open your mouth," he murmured.

You obeyed without thinking—and he kissed you, deep and messy, swallowing your moans as he drove you to the edge again.

"Mine."

His voice was a growl, his arms tightening around you, his thrusts turning erratic, desperate.

And when you finally fell apart with him, gasping, trembling, completely undone—

He didn't let you go.

He held you close, pressed kisses against your skin, whispered against your lips—

"I love you."

And for the first time, you realized—this wasn't just desire.

This was obsession.

This was forever.

In that moment, Fred was bamboozled, his eyes darting between Filch, angrily approaching down his corridor, and a rather pink-looking Snape coming up yours. Luckily, you weren’t in such a daze. Grabbing his hand, you tugged him up.

“Come on” you say in a hurried yet sweet tone

“Yes, ma’am” he smirked, allowing you to lead him as you hopped quickly through one of the archways and across the courtyard to your escape.

End of flashback

After that, you and Fred met often. Your friendship wasn’t exactly secret, but to your family and friends, it all appeared surface-level. They didn’t know about the pranks you both pulled together back at Hogwarts, or how you would gush to each other about everything and anything, or how you both purposefully chose flats nearby after graduation. No, to the rest of the world, you and Fred were nothing more than acquaintances and neighbours.

“Morning” you greet the table softly, a sleepy smile across your face as you walk over to the kitchen, automatically melting into the conjoined hug of your parents

Fred can’t help but smile a little as he looks away from the scene and back to the table. Over the years, your friendship has grown into something more. There hadn’t been some defining moment when his friendly sentiment matured into love, it was the gradual kind of love, slow, inevitable, until his heart only had room in it for you

“You alright, sweetie?” Fred's head raises at Lily’s voice across from him “You’ve been quiet this morning?” she checks in, her maternal affection warming his heart

His parents were spending the Holidays with Bill and Fleur as she was too close to her due date to travel this year, and the Potters had been more than happy to invite the rest of the Weasley clan to stay with them instead

“Oh, I’m grand” he brushes off her concern “Think I had a bit too much firewhiskey last night” he jokes, earning some laughs from those around him and a small shoulder squeeze from George

George, however, knew he was lying. He’d noticed how different his twin had been acting lately, especially this holiday. Still, he kept his distance, knowing Fred would come to him eventually, just he always did. That didn’t stop him from worrying all the same

“You sure?” he whispers, eyeing his twin

“Yeah, I’ll be okay, promise” Fred assures, gifting a fond smile 

Conversation flows again once more as Sirius and Remus join the table, recounting the previous evenings events and filling those who tapped out early on the later escapades. You sit down a few moments later, carefully carrying your mug of hot chocolate, being cautious not to lose any of your marshmallows along the way

“Merlin y/n…” George chuckles as you take a seat across from him “...you want some hot chocolate with those mallows?” 

You smile quietly at the teasing, though Fred’s sure if he was any closer, he would be able to feel the heat from your cheeks

“Leave her alone” Ginny jumps to your defence, gently elbowing her brother “You’re just jealous you don’t have one” she teases him back before shooting a wink in your direction

You giggle at that, as does Fred, looking at you fondly as the table settles back into quiet conversation. It doesn’t take long for your eyes to meet his, sleep still clinging to them as you mouth a small ‘hi’. He returns the greeting, and your soft eyes linger on his for a few moments before your smile deepens, and you turn away beginning to fill your plate with the mornings feast

Fred was sure you felt the same way as he did. Nothing was ever said aloud, but there were clear signs, from the soft grazing of hands to stolen glances at lips, even moments like the one just now, littered with quiet confessions and longing. But today was the day that was all going to change. Today was the day he would ask you to be his, but first he had to overcome one major obstacle…your parents.

They were the overprotective type, to the point every boy in this room, plus Ginny, had been given the talkfrom them at one point or another, practically forbidding them from ever dating you. Fred got the talk during his final year at Hogwarts when you and he were paired together in  Herbology. Word had gotten back that you and he had been spending time together in the library. Of course, after he explained you two were merely working on your project, they lightened up, but he never forgot how relieved they were, nor how his talk seemed far more intense upon hearing others recount their own

“Alright” Sirius announces as he stands up, Remus following “Anyone need anything else from the shops? Last orders before the shops shut” he claps his hands lightly 

“We need some more rum for the pudding” James asks, earning a hum of acknowledgement from Sirius, while Remus shares a knowing look with Lily who had, in fact, helped him in polishing off the last of the rum the night before

“Dad, could we get some big marshmallows to make s’mores?” you speak up “With the good chocolate?” you add shyly, flashing those adorable eyes of yours that they could never resist, not that they ever did

“Of course, pup” Remus chuckles, secretly excited himself, now had an excuse to buy more chocolate for his stash without arousing Sirius’ suspicion “Well, if that's everything, we’ll be off”

Remus and Sirius gave a quick wave as they headed out of the room to grab their coats while Fred sits in thought. This was his chance, an opportunity to grab your parents alone 

“Where are you off to?” George asks as Fred stands up, drawing the attention of the entire table

Fred flashes a smile, mostly for you and George as your brows furrow in concern “I’m going to give them a hand. Could use the fresh air to wake me up” he says, keeping up his hungover façade, everyone seems to buy it except yourself and George, however, you both let it go for now as he heads off to catch up with your fathers 

Fred hurried out into the cold, his coat only half on as he spotted your parents. 

“Merlin they walk fast” he mutters, jogging to catch up while his thoughts race 

This is it. Just ask. They’re reasonable men. They won’t murder you on sight… probably

“Hey! You two need a spare hand?” Fred called, finally tugging his coat into place.

The men turn around, glancing at one another before pleasant surprise crosses their faces 

“Course, more the merrier. Young lad like yourself can help us carry” Sirius shrugs happily while Remus gestures, hithering for him to join

As they all trecked through a fresh coat of snow, the conversation is light. They ask of his family, the shop, his and George’s plans for expansion to Hogsmeade next summer. Fred is thankful, it gives him the chance to actually connect with them one on one, he asks about their school days, their best pranks, the map. He even learned how they came to the decision to adopt you, leading to a small ramble from Sirius about how proud he was of you on the way back…

“...you know she's just like Moony when he was young…” he says, referring to your shy nature “...though she does have a cheeky side, I know this will surprise you, but she’s a little chatterbox when she gets going…” he continues on

Fred tries his best to hide his smile. It did not surprise him, he adored your rambles, especially that little bounce you did when you were excited 

Remus chuckles, gently interrupting his husband off “As much as I love your chatter my love. I’m curious to hear more about how you're doing?” he redirects, his voice kind but pointed “You’ve told us about the shop but…” he trails off, searching for the right words

Sirius, as usual, cuts straight to the point “A little birdy may have let slip that you’re going through a bit of a dry spell” 

Fred’s eyes widen, cheeks reddening as he’s taken aback “Ugh…well…umm” he strugges, unable to find words, which only made the couple in front of him chuckle

“I’m sorry Fred, my husband lacks a degree of subtlety…” Remus says, shooting Sirius a look but said man is seemingly unbothered, likely stuck on the word husband and the love sick glow it gave him “What we mean is we’ve noticed ourselves you’ve been a little off since you got here, like your mind is elsewhere” Remus continues “And, well, we may have been talking to George last night. I asked him how things were going with Lee; he mentioned that you’d stopped going out much. He seemed quite worried about you”

Fred lets out a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck “It’s true. I’ve stopped going out as much as I used to” he agrees, though he did not expect this to be the direction this conversation was going

“Growing out of it?” Sirius’ asks, head tiltin with an understanding smile “Happened to me once upon a time” 

“You’re half right” Fred admits with a small nod “I have grown a lot since Hogwarts but…there also a reason why nothing ever worked out for the long run” his voice steadies, realising the conversation was leading in the direction he needed it to, his thoughts becoming clearer

This is it. Just say it

“Is there someone special?” Remus asks softly, and Sirius’ expression shifts from mild curiosity to sudden realisation, Fred Weasley, major flirt and prankster extraordinaire has fallen in love

Fred’s eyes flick between the two men, inhaling deeplt before speaking, his voice filled with conviction “Well…that's actually why I offered to help today. I’m in love with your daughter” 

Silence

Fred watches their eyes widen in surprise before their expressions become unreadable. The weight of his confession lingered in the chilly air and he braces himself. They clearly hadn’t been expecting that, and there was still a very real chance he was about to decked at the side of the road 

“You…” Sirius blinks a few times, shaking his head slightly “You…love her? Not just some passing infatuation or…forbidden fruit nonsense?” he poses holding himself back, his tone wasn’t cruel but the question stung nonetheless

Fred stands his ground, his voice firm yet sincere “I do. Very much. I know I haven’t always been the most shining example, but…loving her is the easiest thing I’ve ever done. She’s my best friend. I feel safe around her, seen, listened to…even adopted her rambling” his voice softens, getting a little embarrassed at his gush “She’s my favourite person…don’t tell Georgie” he adds at the end with a nervous laugh

Remus’ expression remains stoic, but Sirius’ soften slightly at Freds sincerity 

“Are you begging for forgiveness…” Remus finally asks “…or are you asking for our permission”

Fred’s lips quirk into a small smile “Permission” he confirms without hesitation

Remus and Sirius stare at him for a moment, then glance at one another, something unspoken passing between them

“Do we mess with him?” Sirius whispers to Remus, his hand covering his mouth as he lets a cheeky grin slip through

“As fun as that would be, I think he’s waited long enough” Remus replies softly ”...and so has our pup” 

After a few more moments to let Fred think they were really debating the issue Remus turns back towards him and nods “Yes” he says simply

Fred blinks “Seriously?” 

Sirius rolls his eyes playfully “Yes, seriously. But if you hurt her…” his tone turns deadly sirius “We will kill you” he warns

Fred smiles wide, relief and joy washing over him “Understood” he nods, but his excitement can no longer be contained “Thank you!” he lunges forward pulling them both into a tight hug, practically lifting them off the ground

Sirius chuckles “Alright…alright! Put s down before we change our minds”

Fred awkwardly sets them down, cheeks red but still wears a huge smile, one that wont be getting wiped off anytime soon. The three resume their walk back to the Potters, but on the way back Sirius glances over his shoulder at Fred

“So, when are ya planning on telling her? Tonight?”

Fred freezes mid step

Remus stops too, a knowing laugh escaping him “You have no idea, do you?”

“Honestly?” Fred admits, a sheepish grin spreading across his face “I didn’t think I’d get this far”

Thank you for reading ♡

You’ve long since reconciled with Minghao’s tendencies when it came to his academics and his art. With a half roll of your eyes, you settle down onto the couch next to him. The offending assignment stares up at you. 

“It’s not bad,” you say as you eye the piece. In your honest opinion, it really isn’t terrible. A part of you must admit, though, that it’s not really up to Minghao’s usual standard. The strokes are not as defined; the edges are a little rough. 

What’s supposed to be a piece for his The Art of the Human Form class looks more like something akin to abstract impressionism. 

Minghao lets out a low sound of displeasure at your feedback. “You don’t understand,” he says frustratedly. 

When you don’t immediately respond, he runs a hand over his face. “Sorry,” he sighs. “I just— I really need to pass this class.” 

You give him a reassuring pat on his knee. For a moment, the two of you just sit on the couch, staring down at the homework that’s brought him so much grief. “What’s your issue with the class, anyway?” you ask after a long moment of silence. “Is it the professor?” 

“No, the professor’s good. Great, even.” 

“Your material?” 

“That’s never been the problem.” 

“Well, what is it then?”

A groan slides past Minghao’s lips; he lets his head fall on to the back of the couch. You turn to glance at him and you see the way his face is contorted with defeat. The words he speaks next sound like they were an actual struggle for him to verbalize.

“I’m not good with live models,” he admits. A beat. He seems to realize that you’ll see right through him, so he adds, “Nude live models.” 

You sink your teeth into your lower lip. Minghao catches the telltale sign of you holding back your laughter and he turns to glance at you again. “What?” he grumbles.

“You’re too… polite, Hao,” you say delicately, leaning back against the couch until your shoulders are pressed against each other. 

“You think I’m a prude.” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“You were thinking it. ‘Polite’ was just your way of letting me down gently.” 

This time, you don’t hold back the fond giggle that escapes you. It was no secret that Minghao was a bit of a prig. When asked about his lack of experience with dating or intimacy, his answer had always been the same: Too busy. Too busy with uni to fuck around and find out, to mess with people he didn’t really care about. 

Some of Minghao’s annoyance seems to ebb at the sound of your laughter. He gives a slight shake of his head like he’s ridding himself of an unbidden thought before saying, “Maybe I should just drop the damn class.” 

You nudge him in the side with your elbow. “You’ve never given up on anything in your life,” you chide. “Don’t start now.” 

The platitude does very little to lift Minghao’s mood. He goes into a rapid-fire tangent about his gripes with the class, ranting about everything from the models to his coursemates. You zone out a bit— knowing it was sometimes for the best to let your best friend go on and on— until you feel the buzz of your phone in your pocket. 

Right. You had a study session. 

You try to extricate yourself from the conversation by cutting through Minghao’s tirade with an absentminded, “Well, if you ever need my help, you know where to find me.” 

That shuts him up. 

“Wha— what?” he stammers. 

Both of you fall into a terse moment of silence. It’s like you’ve just realized what you said, what you’ve implied, and you mentally curse yourself for spacing out to the point that you’ve suggested something so out of left field. 

You rise from the couch without glancing down at Minghao; a part of you thinks this might give you some more courage to double down, to feign nonchalance. “If you need any help with the class,” you say as breezily as you can manage. “Like, if you need somebody to model for you or something.” 

There’s an almost distressed way to how Minghao says your name, then. “I’m supposed to work with nude models,” he repeats, like he’s not unsure you caught it the first time. 

“I’m aware.” 

“Are you—” 

“Only if you need it, Hao. It’s not that deep.” 

It is kind of that deep, honestly. Your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of its chest, but you do your damndest to keep your expression neutral as you go to grab your things. You’ve never been so grateful to have a valid excuse to cut your time short with your roommate. 

“If it’ll help you stop complaining,” you joke in a bid to inject some levity in the conversation. “Then I’m all for it.” 

He only lets out a disgruntled mumble in response. His words are incoherent, lost in the way you’re already halfway out the door. 

You call out your usual goodbye. “Text me what you want for dinner.” 

His typical response— “Take care”— hits just as the front door closes behind you. You might’ve imagined it, you think, but Minghao’s voice sounded just a little bit strained around the two words. 

It takes Minghao two weeks to come to a decision. 

Clearing his mind helped, but it’s really the most recent graded assignment that gets underneath his skin. A ‘C’. Minghao has never gotten a ‘C’ in all of his years of art school.

You’re working on something by the dining table when Minghao bursts into your shared apartment. 

“Does the offer still stand?” he spits out before he can change his mind. 

“Hm?” You glance up at Minghao, unsuspecting as ever. “What, getting pizza for dinner? I mean, yeah.” 

Your nightly text exchanges about what to have for dinner is the last thing on his mind. He takes a fortifying breath, his fingers clutching tightly around the strap of his messenger bag. 

“Not dinner,” he grits out. “The other offer.” 

Good Lord, he thinks with despair as you stare up at him skeptically. I’m really going to have to spell this out. 

He decides to go for the ‘show, don’t tell’ route. He fishes through his bag until his fingers snag his latest graded homework. Wordlessly, he crosses the room and sets it down next to your laptop. 

Your expression of confusion gives way to one of something that resembles sympathy. “Oh, Hao,” you say, and the words grate in his ears.

“I don’t need your pity.” His sharp words are dulled by the way he’s raised his fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose in a gesture of sheer exhaustion. “I just need to practice.” 

The realization of your flippant offer being taken seriously seems to dawn on you. Minghao wants to die then and there. He’s already backtracking, attempting to take it back before you can say a word. 

“Forget it,” he says. He can only hope his ears don’t look as red as they feel. “That was stupid.” 

Your hasty call of “no, no” has him freezing. “Sorry, I just— wasn’t expecting it tonight,” you say. 

Minghao can’t even look you in the eye without wanting to die of shame. You go on, your voice cautious as ever. “The offer still stands. Of course it still stands.” 

He attempts to sputter out some words about you not having to do this, about not wanting to make you uncomfortable, but you’re already getting to your feet. “Don’t make this weird,” you reprimand him. 

“But this is weird,” he protests weakly.

“I’m your roommate. I’m your best friend!”

“That’s precisely why this is weird.” 

You’re standing in front of him, now, trying to rearrange your expression into one of sternness. It doesn’t really do much, considering the way you’re at least a head shorter than him. 

“I’m the best shot you’ve got.” You plant your hands on your sides and tilt your chin up. There’s a hint of a challenge in your gaze. “So what’ll it be, Xu?” 

“No need to pull out the surname,” he says dryly. After going through a single, quiet prayer in his head, he jerks his head towards the living room. “Let’s go at it, then.” 

“Now?” 

“When else?” 

It’s your turn to blush this time. Minghao tries his darndest to keep a straight face as you stumble over your complaint. “I haven’t showered yet—” 

“That’s nothing new to me,” he shoots back, earning him a swat to the chest. He rubs at the spot you hit before grumbling, “Fine, fine. How long do you need to get ready?” 

“I’ll be quick,” you promise him as you dart off to the bathroom. Minghao resists the urge to say that he doubts it. 

His worries aren’t unfounded. By the time you emerge from your ‘quick’ shower, over half an hour has passed. He’s doodling absentmindedly in his sketchbook when he hears the door creak open. 

“About goddamn—” The last word catches in his throat as he turns to face you. 

Minghao has seen you in various states of undress in your years of friendship. He’s seen you in the skimpiest outfits before heading out clubbing, seen you in sinful bikinis during your yearly beach trips. But this? The sight of you in a beige bathrobe with the belt left untied, revealing a hint of your bare front? 

He clutches his pencil so tightly that he’s scared it’ll snap. 

“About time,” he manages, even though he’s not entirely clear what he’s referring to.

It takes an hour for you to regret your offer. 

Once the initial shyness had passed, all that was left was the restlessness. Minghao had put one of the dining room chairs in the living room for you to pose on, and you’ve spent the better half of the past sixty minutes just sitting there with your feet flat to the ground.

It’s surprisingly easy to comply with Minghao’s mumbled requests. Shift a little to the left. Move your hand to your thigh. Stop moving. 

The last command is muttered with a lot more frequency. When you try to cross your legs. Stop moving. When you go to scratch your elbow. Stop moving. When your eyes wander over to some nondescript point in the room. Stop moving. 

“You’re brutal,” you rumble after his nth ‘stop moving, please’. “This is inhumane.” 

“You signed up for this,” Minghao answers, his gaze briefly flitting over his sketchbook before going back to his work.

There’s something undeniably attractive about the way Minghao’s fingers are clutching his graphite pencil. A lot about him was attractive— the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the purse of his plump lips as he worked. But his fingers were a whole other monster all together. Long and lithe, with the nails painted to whatever he thought matched his flavor for the week. You can almost imagine what those fingers would look like in your—

Minghao drags you out of your unbidden daydream with a call of your name.

“Could you tilt a bit to your right?” he says gruffly. You scramble to comply, almost like you’re terrified he might have heard your thoughts if you didn’t move fast enough.

He lets out a small ‘tch’ of disapproval at just how much you twist. “Not like that,” he protests, putting his pencil down for the first time in the past hour. “Only about an inch. No, no—” 

“Pose me, then.” 

Where did this brazenness come from? You think that your tenseness is partly to blame, but there’s also an undercut of provocation in your tone. Surprise flits across Minghao’s expression for only a moment. 

He schools his expression into something more neutral as he places his sketchbook face down on the couch. This is a bad idea, you think, as he crosses the distance between you in small, measured steps.

It’s a bad idea, you muse, because if he touches you, he might just feel the rapid thump, thump, thump of your pulse. 

If he does notice, he makes no indication of it. His gaze is perfectly cool as he gently holds your shoulders. You can see the pencil marks on the side of his palm, the smudges of graphite transferring to your otherwise unblemished skin. 

Minghao does as you’ve asked. His pushes are light as he maneuvers you to angle yourself some certain way, and you swear there’s not a single breath of oxygen in the room. 

“There,” he’s saying as he goes to take a step back. 

Something akin to panic rises like bile in your throat. You don’t know why, you don’t know what has possessed you, but one of your hands shoots out for Minghao’s retreating form. He pauses when your fingers wrap around his wrist.  

“Where—” The words escaping you are almost a gasp. “Where do you want my hands?” 

Minghao looks down at you, his eyes imperceptibly wider now despite his attempt to keep calm. “Right where you had them,” he replies. 

You swallow around the lump in your throat, your hand sliding down to clasp his instead. “I— forgot where they were,” you say. It’s a lame excuse, but Minghao doesn’t seem like he’s about to call you out on it. “Show me again?” 

His hand is limp in your hold. For a long, terrible minute, you think you’ve overstepped. 

Then, something in Minghao’s jaw twitches. The hand that’s holding yours pushes your arm, just enough for your elbow to rest on the back of your chair.

He goes to position your other hand right over your upper thigh. Near where you want it, where you need it, but not quite there. 

Your teeth sink into your lower lip as you bite back a groan of frustration. Minghao catches the look on your face.

“Why?” he asks quietly, his voice a touch tight. “Uncomfortable?” 

“No.” You freeze at how your response comes out almost like a whine. Minghao freezes, too. 

You try to think of propriety and professionalism. You try to think of your years-long friendship with Minghao; of how awkward it would be to keep being roommates if you’ve somehow overread into this situation. 

All that goes out the window as you shift your hand slightly upward. His hand— the one still on top of yours— follows as your fingertips brush over your core. Your tone is shaky as you prompt, “It would be better here, no?” 

Minghao’s gaze snaps from your hand near the apex of your thighs, to the barely-concealed heat burning over your cheeks. His sharp features are perfectly controlled but there are the smallest signs spurring you on. His dilated pupils, the bob of his Adam’s apple. 

“You want it here?” He isn’t moving his hands. He also isn’t moving away. He looms over you, one hand holding your upper arm; the other, still close to your center. 

“I’m open to suggestions,” you say, your eyes roaming over his face for any signs of discomfort. 

A beat. And then—

Torturously slow, Minghao begins to move. He guides your hand closer to your heat until your fingertips are pressing a little more firmly against your entrance, where wetness is already beginning to pool. You clench around the feeling of nothing as Minghao remains careful about not letting his own fingers touch you just yet.

“I think this is good.” His voice is lower now. “What do you say?” 

You feel like your entire body will betray you if you try to say anything. For now, you opt to only give a jerky shake of your head. 

“No?” A corner of Minghao’s lip twitches upward in the ghost of a smile. You cling to that familiar grin as he pushes your hand up just a little more, just enough to have the tip of your middle finger pressing into your entrance. At this point, he’s moved his own fingers to wrap around your wrist. 

“Not enough?” he coos, even though he doesn’t look like he’s faring any better himself in the department of restraint. “What about here, then?” 

Minghao tugs at your wrist until your middle finger is sliding right into your slick. 

Your breath hitches in your throat. You feel your hand twitch, but Minghao only tightens his hold around your wrist. 

“I need you to answer me,” he mumbles, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s keeping you from moving your finger any further, and something about his demeanor tells you that it would be a bad idea to use your free hand to regain some control. Not when he was looking at you like this. 

“More,” you croak out. 

Minghao’s tongue darts out to swipe over his lower lip. “More,” he repeats, his own voice equally broken. He finally breaks his gaze to look down at the way your finger is buried inside you, at how your hand is completely his to move. “Alright, then.” 

Wordlessly, he guides you into pulling your finger out and then easing it back in. This time, his focus is entirely on the way you swallow up your finger with each shallow thrust; how his own movements are dictating your pace, your pleasure. 

You writhe in the chair, feeling absolutely mortified at how quickly you can feel heat building in your stomach. It’s been simmering for the past hour; this was only leading you to the tipping point. And Minghao isn’t even touching you yet at this point, just helping you get off. 

“Hao,” you exhale, your breath warm against his face. He finally looks back up at you and you can see all of his want on his expression, clear his day. “Hao, I need—” 

Him. You need him. That’s what you mean to say. 

But your best friend seems determined to drag this out for all its worth. 

“You need to stop moving,” he murmurs as he deftly pries your index finger free from its curl. “I don’t think I’ve said that enough.” 

This time, he helps you push two fingers into your heat.

Your head lolls back and your lips part in a silent gasp. Minghao seizes the opportunity of more skin being bared to him. He leans down to press a chaste kiss to your jawline, then to your collarbone. All the while, he keeps driving your own fingers into you.

It feels like a special kind of purgatory.

“Please, Hao,” you plead. 

“Words,” he mumbles against our skin, rewarding— or punishing— you with a particularly sharp thrust of your two fingers. You fold in half at the sensation, only managing to still sit somewhat upright by virtue of Minghao’s other hand holding your back up against the chair. “Use your words, pretty.” 

You bury your face in the crook of his neck. There’s a wretched quality to your voice as you pant, “Need you, please. Need your fingers instead.” 

“And why’s that?” 

“‘Cause—” You clench around your fingers; he feels your body tense underneath him. Both of you let out small sounds of pleasure at the reactions. “Your fingers are better, they’re— they’ll get me there faster— please, oh—” 

Your incoherent babbling seems to amuse and appease Minghao, enough for him to give in. 

He pulls your two fingers out and, before you can whine about the loss, he replaces them with two of his. They’re as brutally precise as you’d imagined them to be. Your knees almost close in an attempt to tide the pleasure that’s about to crash down, but Minghao holds your thighs apart with his other hand. 

“Don’t.” His voice is strained with effort. “Wanna see you. Please?” 

It’s the tacked on please that bowls you over, that has you nodding helplessly. You’d do anything Minghao asked if he asked in that tone. 

The squelches of his two fingers thrusting into you are obscene, but not quite as filthy as the sounds that slide past your panting lips. You moan and whimper and whine, and each little noise only seems to have Minghao moving with renewed vigor. He’s pulled away from your neck to watch you, but his eyes keep darting from your microexpressions to the way his fingers are swallowed up by your velvet heat. It’s like he can’t decide where to look first. 

“You’re a work of art,” he chokes out, his teeth grinding together as he focuses on your face. “So goddamn beautiful— sitting here all nice and pretty for me.” 

One of your hands fly to his hip in a desperate bid to hold onto something, to anything of him.

“Gonna finish,” you sob as you force your eyes open to meet his. Inadvertently, you cant your hips upward to meet one of his sharper thrusts, and the friction has the two of you moaning a little more. “Hao, fuck, can I—?” 

“Please,” he pants. “I need it. I need it so, so bad—” 

You climax with a silent scream, a sound that’s muffled as you lurch forward and press your face back into his neck. His other hand holds the back of your head in a supportive gesture as you come undone, coating his two digits in your slick. 

Minghao lets out a low cuss as he presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “You’re so beautiful,” he says dazedly, sliding his fingers out of you carefully. “How are you so beautiful?” 

All you can manage is a shaky laugh as you come down from your high. As you keep your head pressed against Minghao, you catch sight of the tent in his sweatpants. Tentatively, you reach up one hand to cup him over the fabric. 

He says your name like it had been punched out of him. “Hey—” he tries to say in warning, but his body betrays him by bucking into your hand. 

“How long has that been there?” Your voice trembles, thick with a heady mix of exhaustion and desire. 

Minghao’s gruff response comes as your fingers twitch around the outline of him. “Since you stepped out of the damn shower,” he admits lowly.  

You let out a contemplative hum. There’s still a low ringing in your ears, a slight buzz in your brain from the last vestiges of your orgasm, but it can’t just be you who’s having all the fun. 

You shift back a bit so you can meet his gaze. You’re torturously slow as you palm his aching hardness, and you revel in the way Minghao reacts above you. His eyes have all but rolled into the back of his head and breathless little gasps are rising from the back of his throat.

“You’ve posed my hands,” you say, trying— and failing— to keep your tone even. “Wanna show me where my mouth should be, Hao?” 

His fingers tighten at the strands of your hair. He lets out just one more cuss before he’s using his other hand— the one still coated with your release— to pull down his bottoms. 

“Watch and fuckin’ learn, pretty,” he breathes, and you have a good feeling that he’ll make good on the threat.       

Moon was right, as always. You looked very dazed, eyes staring up at him brightly, cheeks heavily flushed- yet you wobbled where you stood and the heavy scent of alcohol seemed to fill the air around you.

‘Silly little thing, why wou- CATCH HER!’ Moon snapped loudly, pulling his attention to you as your body collided with his own, your face nuzzling against his stomach as you rambled happily, hugging yourself tightly to his warm frame.

That was…more than okay. It was fantastic actually, he didn’t get the chance to hold you often, and he treasured every opportunity when they came!

He may have held you longer than was considered proper then, basking in how soft and affectionate you were being for what felt like hours. And maybe it was, but good things couldn’t last forever, and the announcement of the building closing soon echoed loudly over the music.

‘No no no no no, that wouldn’t do! It’d be dangerous for (Y/N) to leave like this!’ He told Moon, worried and frustrated and…happy for an excuse to have you sleep over for the first time.

Even Moon felt a shiver of delight at the thought, the two of them always scrambling to spend even an extra minute with you before you had to go home for the day.

It got a little burry for you after that, but Sunny had made sure you were safe and comfortable (and unable to stumble drunkenly into danger thankyouverymuch) by scooping you into his arms and carrying you up to his room, tucking you tightly into bed with a soft kiss to the forehead and a mumbled “Sweet dreams Sunlight”

Your slurred out “love you both, sooooooo much.” made his processor stall for a moment, his much larger body still managing to loom over you despite sitting on the floor, still as a statue at your words.

You were out like a light the next moment.

---

Large hands gripped your thighs firmly, gently pressing them back against your chest as cool hips snapped down into you in a sudden movement. His rather proportional length glided into you with ease as your wetness seeped around him, your battered heat red and sensitive as he thrust into you roughly.

Over and over and over again.

You’d lost track of time so long ago, but it felt like they’d been at this for hours now…

Moaning loudly as his cool, wet tongue lapped against your neck, you reached out behind you blindly until oversized fingers laced through your own, a flash of yellow catching your eye for a moment as Sun pressed a kiss to your captured hand.

Moon growled against your throat then, and it would have felt like a threat if it wasn’t for the way he tried to pull you closer- reach further than possible inside you. A shiver ran through your body as his sharp teeth nipped at you teasingly, his pace slowing down yet again as your peak tried to sneak up on you both.

He always seemed to know when you were close, and that was both a good, and a bad thing.

“Not yet pretty thing, not yet.”

“Moon please, please I-”

“Not. Yet.”

The large, blue toned animatronic stopped moving entirely then, his mouth pulling away from your neck with a smirk as you whined and wriggled beneath him, desperately seeking relief for the sweet torture they were putting you through.

Your thighs were pressed further down in response, his hips keeping him pressed deeply and unmovingly inside you. Huffing in irritation, you tried to tilt your head back to lock eyes with the large form looming just behind your head, your flushed face pleading and desperate despite not being able to see him fully.

“S-Sunny please, I need you so bad!”

An almost desperate whine sounded from the yellow and gold animatronic then, the hand holding your own gripping you tighter.

“You’re doing so good Sunlight! SO good! I know you can wait just a little longer, you’re such a good girl!”

He sounded almost as wound up as you were, and you knew from the faint wet noise you could now hear (since they weren’t being drowned out by your own rather lewd noises), that he was stroking himself to the sight of you being pinned to the ground and put on display just for him.

All while being fucked in a Mating Press by his other side.

It wouldn’t surprise you if he’d been edging himself along with you, refusing to cum until you got to as well (it wouldn’t be fair if he did cum first, and he was a stickler for keeping this relationship fair)

“It’s okay pretty thing, we’ll take good care of you. Forever and ever…” Moon huffed out, clearly fighting with himself to stay still if the twitches his cock gave inside you were anything to go by.

And didn’t that just sound absolutely perfect?

You’d loved these two for so long now, and while you didn’t remember how you got in this situation, you wanted there to be a forever and ever.

“Forever?” You whined out, plush lips wet and bitten from the hours of sweet kisses and rough edging you’d happily endured.

His bright red eyes watched your every twitch, flashing slightly as your walls tightened around him.

“And ever,” He hissed out deeply, the words fighting their way from his mouth as he started grinding into you deeply, the tip of his cock rubbing so far inside you that you though for a moment he’d finally found his way into your womb. “and even after that.”

And oh, wasn’t that a thought.

To be fucked so full of these two that they filled every inch of your cunt, to have them dripping out of you for days, only to have it all done again when you felt too empty. To have them by your side always, never letting you go. Never.

The echoing twin curses filling the room notified you that you’d said that out loud, but no one could blame you in your fucked out state, could they?

It was such a perfect thought, and it sank hooks into you brain as your body ached with arousal.

Suns face was suddenly filling your vision as his counterpart seemed to snap, twitching and cursing and growling as he sat up straight, an odd whine filling the air as both of their voices seemed to crackle and glitch out.

“ơ̵̲̙̪̝̏̉̾̌û̸̼͉̳͇̺r̴̲̱̽͋s̵̡͎̘̬̺̎̐” you’d never heard Sunny use that tone before, had never expected it from the bright and cheerful bot- so deep and possessive as he came into view beside you, fist tightly wrapped around his large weeping cock.

“Fucked full, P r e t t y thing wants to be fucked full of us.” The way Moon’s hips moved seemed unnatural, so desperate, and in your worked up state it took little more than hearing your own words parroted back to you for your mind to just-

“Gonna breed you pretty thing, fill you full so good. Fuck the pretty thing so full she’ll n̶̯̓̀ẽ̴̻̫̮͖̿v̷̡̼̬̤̂̊̚e̶̩̺̖͐͒̕r̷̥̲̾ leave us.”

-break.

“Please,” your voice didn’t sound like your own to your ears, so utterly fucked out and desperate. “please fill me up, wanna make you both daddies, you’d be so good! So perfect! Please pleasepleaseplease just let me cum-”

“Doitmoon,fillheruppleaseplease,wanttobeadaddy,seeherallroundandfulland Ò̴̡͎̜̳ ̴̖̙̙͎̩͖͋̅U̵̧͎̤͙̱͊́̐̄͌̉ ̵̠̦̳̹̑͗̐̈́̐̕Ŗ̴̛͚̥̠̺͊͒ ̴̩̰͕͐̉́̃͒͜͝S̵̻͛”

You didn’t know if it was the way Moon was fucking you that finally pushed you over the edge, teeth snapping together loudly, a snarl on his face as he whined and panted. Or maybe it was the utterly ruined look on Suns face as he openly drooled and twitched besides you, tongue slipping from his mouth and his cock hanging heavy as he tried to press himself against you as you babbled mindlessly.

Maybe it was the way they both seemed utterly ruined by your words.

Either way, when your orgasm finally washed over you, it was like nothing you’d ever felt before…

…and then you woke up.

---

Eyes snapping open with another plea catching in your throat, you felt your walls clenching around nothing, hips grinding against the pillow you were holding between your thighs…

Pillow?

Finally coming to your senses as your orgasm faded into a dull buzz rolling through your body, your sleep heavy eyes finally glanced around the brightly lit room-

And there he was, the object of your affection (and apparently, wet dreams)

He was pressed back against the wall furthest from you, drool dripping from his open mouth as he bit down on one of his fingers, his teeth oddly sharp looking as his eyes watched you intently- yellow sun rays retracting and twitching frantically as he panted sharply.

Silly, considering he didn’t even need to breath.

Looking closer as you shook off any leftover haziness, you noticed that his clothing was ruffled and in disarray. A comment on how unlike him that was sat on the end of your tongue until you spotted his other hand, seemingly twitching with a mind of its own as it gouged deep marks into the wood next to him-

Not just there either. Everywhere within arm’s length of him was scratched up or torn, almost like a one-sided fight had broken out on his side of the room.

“S-Sunny?”

His whole body twitched in your direction, a lunge almost, before he seemed to catch himself and press back against the wall even harder than ever as he twitched and fought with himself, drooling obscenely as an almost pained whine left him.

“Sunny are you okay, what’s wrong?!”

“Lupin, honestly, just throw me a class where he won’t be there.”

The grey-haired man sighed, nuzzling his face in his palms. Shaking his head at the girl in front of him, he titled the screen of his computer towards her. “Psychology might go well with chemistry… you got biology too?”

Y/n looked at her advisor beady eyed. “...yeah.”

“Alright. That’s all,” the sound of the button resonated throughout the room as Lupin sat back in anticipation.

“Psychology it is,” she typed furiously in her phone, and judging by the smile on her face, Lupin knew it had to be Weasley on the other side. “Ginny’s in the course too?”

“Yeah, all your friends are, on the side note, this class meets thrice a week- alternate days- Monday, Wednesday and Friday. You can check the timings with Professor McGonagall.”

Doing a little dance mentally, she braced up her sling bag, and cooing a ‘thanks, have a great day’, she skipped towards the dorms.

Was she anticipating psychology because it would be fun? ...maybe

Was she anticipating it because he won’t be there? ...definitely yes!

“Before we enter the hell hole of the second semester,” Y/n giggled at her red-haired friend, as she fell back on the bean bag beside Hermione, “we need to have fun!”

Pansy sent a look to Y/n which read like ‘have they drunk their ass off?’ to which she only passed another look.

First semester wasn’t that bad; Y/n had excelling scores in her courses except the fact that he got almost the same in all the classes they shared.

The only class she seemed to like in his presence was chemistry. Oh, before you ask the reason, they had Professor Snape.

Pretty self-explanatory.

“Look, look, look,” Hermione ticked her fingers in suspicion, “if only Ginny and I would be honest, it wouldn’t be worth it…”

Pansy clicked her tongue in disgust while Luna drifted into the kitchen to help the tipsy Ginny.

“Just for tonight,” Y/n pulled the raven-haired girl beside her, who was still shooting glares at Granger for the stunt she was pulling in. “I’m happy for today.”

“Because you snogged that high rated guy?” The Weasley cackled from the counter, earning a light smack from the blonde. “What do they call him…? Potter!”

Y/n rolled her eyes as she drifted to open the windows, the first reason being, he would get disturbed.

Yeah, don’t judge this girl by her mind.

“I heard he took psychology this semester.”

‘He toOK WHAT?”

“Psychology?” Pansy answered bluntly as she swigged the glass Ginny held out for her.

“Fuck this semester too.”

The bushy-haired girl sniggered from the corner, “I thought you would be happy, it’s the first time in three years that we get the same course.”

“Yeah, but that scar faced Potter? He’s a pain in ass!”

“I beg to differ,” Ginny snorted in amusement, “he’s...how Pansy describes...nice, hot guy…”

“I didn’t!” Pansy retorted as she emptied her glass. “He’s polite though, I never get why you two don’t get together?”

“Oh, I got this,” Y/n leaned forward, earning pretended serious looks from the group. “Back in our first year, we were both running for the same associated student positions, and wow, suddenly we were rivals!”

This met with several ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ from the group.

“On the second note, he gets almost the same marks as me, yeah wait for it, Ginny, that roasts me to level 50. And last semester when Hermione had borrowed his contraband hotspot and managed to set it on fire? Yeah, he framed me for it!”

“I don’t know…” Hermione shrugged at her. “He’s a nice friend of mine-”

“Yeah, but I got framed for it!”

“They need to spend a night together to sort this aggression out,” Luna chirped, which met the hums of all and an eye roll from Y/n.

“Really? What is it, really? A high school?”

“Sounds like a hyped enemies to lover trope!”

➶ ｡˚ °*. * ·

“Before we start with this semester,” Y/n struggled to listen intently, all thanks to the Potter slanders she blabbered the whole night, “I advise you all not to waste your precious time in fighting me. This course of psychology is meant as a-”

The door opened with a ‘wham’ and Y/n didn’t even need to turn around and look towards the door of the lecture hall.

Oh, definitely, it had to be Potter.

She heard a small chuckle from Pansy, who, judging by the smirk on her face, was definitely planning.

“Yes?” Y/n puckered her brows at her. “What is it?”

“Nothing much,” the girl shrugged, “I’m planning on asking Ginny out-”

“What! Really? Why didn’t you tell this sooner?”

“Okay? Wait there. I just thought-”

“As I was saying, before Mr. Potter decided to politely intrude on us,” McGonagall started again, her fingers drumming the surface of the heap of colorful blinders, “The course is meant much as a project rather than lectures. Project as a team of two. By the end of the month, I’d be pleased to let you know that the groups have already been made. Yes, Ms. Weasley, don’t latch on to Granger. If you decide to turn revolutionary, I don’t care.”

Y/n sighed from the last row of the aisles. There wouldn’t be a way she could have been paired with Potter?

“Professor Lupin is on his way, and he will assign you your partners. To avoid plagiarism of ideas, every group will have a different topic.”

To Y/n’s utter dismay all her friends were paired up with each other and as Lupin moved to her at the end, she had already sworn to drop this course.

Of course, it had to be Potter, it had to be Lupin’s doing, for God’s sake!

“It’s Potter?”

“Oh! So our little girl has got smarter,” Professor Lupin grinned as he nodded. “Alright, you can move next to him.”

Y/n poked her head from behind the Professor to find the same uninterested, verdant eyes glaring at her.

Smirking, she pointed to the vacant seat beside her. To Lupin’s utter displeasure, he copied her actions. There was no way their kiddish rivalry would end.

For fifteen minutes, the seat poking game continued. At last, the Professor had to sign in.

“Children, children, you both are twenty one. I can use my authority over you both, but what small children say, let’s compromise?”

“Can’t she just walk to the front of the hall and end this stuff?” The raven-haired boy shot, pointing to the front aisle.

“And you? Too scared to come to the back?”

The whole class of twenty-nine pairs of students along with a pair of professors ogled in interest.

“I call in for compromise!” Lupin chimed in. “It will be a shame if Professor McGonagall handles twenty-nine pairs of students alone and I keep on struggling with one.”

Y/n brushed off the bubbling urge to jump at Potter and strangle him as she followed Lupin to a row exactly in the middle of theirs.

Potter greeted her with a scoff and she replied with another.

“Alright, time for the topic, I’ve five topics for you both to choose from- the twist is you don’t get to see the topic.” He picked up five different blinders and placed them in front of the two explosive students. “Choose a color.”

“Blue-”

“Green-”

“I said blue!”

“Green, Professor, I choose green!”

“I came to the class first,” Y/n squinted in rage as she turned to her assigned partner. “I have the right to choose!”

“I got to know that you will stick to my throat for this semester first. It’s my right-”

The adult inhaled deeply for another hell ride. “Are you both in your terrible-twos, honestly? One of you just suck up your pride and compromise.”

“Fine,” the green-eyed boy huffed after a silent battle of five minutes. “Blue it is.”

Y/n simpered in little victory as she grinned at the Professor. But as she opened the flap of the blinder, her heart latched into the stomach.

“Attraction and Love?”

“Oh, that’s a nice topic!” The Professor winked at them before retreating to the podium.

“Don’t look at me like I knew the fucking topic.”

“That’s why I’m better- I chose green.”

She ignored his ‘self love at it’s best’ rants as she opened her laptop. “Like I was going to choose that fucking color you chose.”

➶ ｡˚ °*. * ·

“What about the time you both actually talked?” Luna tilted her head in curiosity. “Has it ever happened?”

“Why are you all wasting my Sundays over that Potter?” Y/n groaned as she tapped an extremely rude message to him over fixing a better time for discussing the bloody project.

“Come on… loosen up!” Hermione whined as she flapped through her Greek mythology books. “Having an upper hand on Ginny is fun.”

Y/n gave her a look which read, ‘honestly? I’m no book!’

“That was...well, that was back in the first year too. The time when we were choosing our student organizations. You remember that day when he walked into me? That very day!”

“Yeah…” the bushy-haired girl yawned. “I’ve to admit, he looked super cute that day.”

“Hermione,” Y/n warned as she typed yet another rude message, “he’s your best friend.”

“I know but I’m just complimenting! His blue eyes looked so charming!”

“Excuse me?” Y/n looked at her in disbelief. “He’s got green eyes.”

“And I thought you said you never look at him!” Hermione howled as she poured herself a glass of water.

“Hermione, that’s gross.”

“Alright, what about Attraction and Love?”

Luna and Hermione chuckled as Y/n walked out of the room, the laptop tucked under her arm.

“Open the damn door!” The girl shouted as she continued slamming the door. “Potter, I swear, if you don’t, I’ll do something even I don’t know.”

On the other hand, there was a tense silence inside. As Draco and Ron watched the raven-haired boy pacing in the kitchen at the ever increasing pace of banging. “Can’t any one of you just tell her I don’t exist?”

Ron shook his head and motioned towards the door.

What bloody nice friends he has got.

Slowly, he opened the creaking door, just enough to get a glimpse of her face.

“Oh? Are you standing in front of my door?” He smiled at her. “Let me just politely slam the door on your face.”

“Don’t you dare!” She stuck her foot between the door, still scared that he is Potter, and he knows no restraint of rudeness when it comes to her. So to be honest, there were ninety nine percent chances he would still close the door on her foot.

No matter how out of luck she is when it comes to him, he did not close the door.

Oh God, just bless him a little.

“As much as I hate sharing this semester with you, I just wanted to inform you that I’ve already started.”

“So have I,” he huffed and walked inside, leaving her no option but to follow.

“What are you on? Page two?”

“Not exactly. I’m on twenty.”

“You are not.”

“Oh, you bet, I’m.”

Alright, maybe coming here wasn’t the nicest plan.

➶ ｡˚ °*. * ·

With two weeks into the project, Y/n was shaking in disapproval that more than half of the class had already completed their project on their respective topics, but whenever they met together, there seemed no way out to even write an extra page.

Sentences were slashed out due to lack of a comma, a foreign word as ‘adolescence’ and what not.

Y/n definitely had the murderous urge to throw his goddamn specs, shut the laptop and just walk away.

If Lupin ended up pairing them together, oh lord, then Lupin sucks.

And right now, as she climbed the stairs for the chemistry class, seeing Potter was the last straw on her hat.

As soon as their glares met (if it would have been a movie, some window must have shattered with the intensity of their glare), they both started racing up the five flights of stairs, three steps a time, apparently due to some reason even they didn't know.

“I’m telling you, just stop! Don’t follow me!”

“Follow? You?” He seethed back. “Maybe you should stop! Just stop running!”

No matter what happened in those five minutes, they didn’t stop unless they were standing (more like slouching) in front of the chemistry class, panting heavily and trying to avoid the amused looks of their classmates.

“Yes?” Y/n mentally groaned at the flick of black robes as Professor Snape stood in front of them. “You both are late.”

So there were no surprises when they both sat at the back of the class, not to mention, together.

“You know?” Y/n tried to ignore him whispering beside her as she continued to vigorously pen down the notes. “I’ve the keys to the roof of the Chem building...and you look like you need somewhere to-” Her eyes dilated as she slammed her hand onto his mouth, nearly knocking him off his chair.

“Honestly, shut up. Or I'll leave your goddamn chair and you bloody fall down.”

And again they were interrupted by the Professor’s glare and a smooth remark of ‘Get out the class.’

➶ ｡˚ °*. * ·

“Your friends are suing my friends over their good looks-”

“No, please wait,” Y/n held up her free hand, the other still latching onto the door. “ It’s more like your friends are suing my friends over their good looks, and wow, I didn’t know I had to be stuck up with you tonight for completing that shit, well...hello there.”

This time, she eyed him intently, the black sweats did make him look good. Ignoring the weird palpitations that were going straight into her brain, she closed the door behind him.

“Don’t risk sitting here. We can do it in my bedroom?”

“And why’s that?”

“Drunk Hermione and Ginny are dangerous.”

So that was it.

As she sat on the corner of her bed, politely leaving him the other corner of the room (where he had to sit on the floor), furious typing followed, with occasional comments on the sentence structure.

“Your headphones are really loud!” Y/n shouted at him. “Like I can make out Mendes’ lyrics and I’m legit sitting across the fucking room!”

He looked at her oddly. Was it true they were loud? Should he lower them?

But on the second thought, he decided, fuck her.

After five minutes of silence, he gasped unexpectedly, garnering her attention.

“What?”

“You work for the campus radio station, don’t you?”

“Yeah-”

“And you are the one who passively and aggressively keeps dedicating songs to me!”

“That’s not true!”

“Wait-” he scrunched his nose at her bashful expression. “Is that a smile?”

He smiled as he heard her walk away with a small shout of “if you tell anyone about this, I’m fucking killing you!”

➶ ｡˚ °*. * ·

Just an hour before they were supposed to be submitting the file, yet, all thanks to their sudden literary genius brains, every sentence had become a battlefield.

“That’s wrong.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“Just telling.”

As a notification flashed over his screen, he deleted another full paragraph of her, because hey, she deleted his sentence.

“No, no, no!” She kicked him on the shin as he simpered. “You fucking cheat!”

“Oh really?” She saw him leaning intensely on the table, and decided to grab that so-called intimidating position. “You cheated first!”

“No, seriously, I want to bloody throw this laptop on your face, but I decided that you aren’t worth it.”

As she moved back, breathing heavily, he followed, his glare prominent over her. And then, it all clicked him.

“You are a genius, aren’t you? So tell me, Y/n L/n, what have you even known about attraction.”

“Oh, Newton, I have got this,” she clicked her finger challengingly. “When attracted to someone, your eyes dilate. Psychology says that bodies sweat more and move in sync, due to mirroring habits people have when they are high on endorphins. Dopamine levels rise as well as serotonin. Dopamine helps regulate movement, attention, learning, and emotional responses. It also enables us not only to see rewards but to take action to move toward them. Since dopamine contributes to feelings of pleasure and satisfaction as part of the reward system. It also plays a part in addiction. Serotonin in the brain is thought to regulate anxiety, happiness, and mood. The more you have the better your mood. It was also seen that the putamen and the insula light up on an MRI. Indicating that the studied person is experiencing feelings of romantic love, or attraction.”

She ended triumphantly, totally out of breath. “Oh wait, did I add holding deep gazes and increased body temperature? Yeah, fucking take it.”

Potter just smirked in response, and of course, seeing this weird retortment, Y/n couldn’t help but wipe her temple of a stray drop of sweat.

What he wanted, honestly?

“Do you notice? I think the bloody hell not.”

“Notice what?”

“Your eyes are dilated- every fucking time you argue with me. You did sweat, don’t think I don’t see what you do, and your body moves in sync for whatever reasons you stated. And oh, wait” he mimicked the last part as he shut the laptop, leaning extremely close to her. “Have you never held deep gazes with me? So let me know, Y/n L/n, do you really hate me or has this been attraction this whole time?”

For the next two minutes, everything remained still. As his hot breath continued fanning over her, she squeezed her eyes shut.

Was she an absolute tosser this whole time?

The whole world felt like shattering at their feet as she captured his lips in a kiss. He groaned, pushing her into the wall, as her teeth dug into his lips.

Maybe, it had been attraction this whole time.

By the time his lips attacked her neck for the second time, her eyes had snapped open, pushing him back.

“Fucking hell, Harry, the project!”

“Alright, everyone in their places!” Lupin chimed behind McGonagall who strolled to collect the projects. Everyone seemed to be in their seats, except- oh, the pain in ass pair.

Idly walking, he reached the last row and stood near Ginny.

“Where are those two? Didn't kill each other for sure?”

Ginny looked up with a small laugh. “No, but you might want to sit down to listen. Five minutes before the class started, Harry picked up Y/n and ran out of the campus- no, Y/n was kissing him.”

that you want nothing more than for him to put his hands on you again. you want him so much that you have to clench your fists and tell yourself to get it together.

the universe must like to mess with you, as you receive a text from him at that exact moment. stopping in your tracks on the street, you’re just about to read it when you feel a hand on your shoulder.

once you’ve looked up from your phone, you see the devil himself standing there with a meek little smile on his face, which has you scoffing when he greets you. “hi.”

his dark hair is slicked back as he sports a thick winter jacket, jeans and black shoes. god, he’s handsome. why is he so annoying?

instead of responding to his greeting, you just speak your mind. “what’re you doing here?”

“chan mentioned you had an appointment in the neighborhood, so here i am. i wanted to see you.”

“why?”

“what, am i not allowed to visit my partner in crime?”

you purse your lips. “i thought we both agreed on discretion regarding our relationship.”

“and what kind of relationship is that?”

“an understanding.” your response comes out colder than anticipated, but you stick with it. “look, gyu, what we did… we probably shouldn’t do it again.”

he seems surprised. and a little disappointed, which he hides very quickly, but not quick enough.

so he pouts at you, doing his best not to dwell on it. “okay. any particular reason?”

you inhale sharply, trying to give him the best possible excuse you can come up with. “we agreed to keep it professional, didn’t we?”

“we did.” he nods, speaking in a way as if he were focusing on something else. “is that all there is to it? or do you have another reason?”

his gaze is playful, which makes you smile as you look down at your feet for a moment. “i’m sure you can fill the blanks.”

“interesting choice of words.”

“god, you’re such a perv.”

mingyu laughs when you punch his shoulder, his hand comfortable on your lower back. you don’t swat it away, utterly contradicting your previous words, but you can’t find it in yourself to care that much.

two days later, you’re over at his apartment, continuing your research where you left off last week, and you’re not sure if you’re imagining things, but it feels like there is a palpable tension in the air. soft rain taps against the windows while you’re looking at some security footage his friend seungkwan sent over about an hour ago.

with the two of you sitting beside eachother as you’re looking at the screen of your laptop, you find it difficult to focus on the footage, because you feel electrified by his mere presence. it’s ridiculous. he accidentally brushes your knee with your hand, and you feel a rush going through your body. a candle is lit on the table — his tan skin looks beyond beautiful, his brown eyes piercing through yours like never before.

you want him.

you. want. him. and no one else.

it’s driving you nuts, and as if he can read your mind, he begins to talk about it.

“i haven’t been able to stop thinking about our kiss.”

while the footage keeps playing in the background, you bite your lip, sucking in a breath. “gyu.” you say his name in a near scolding manner.

“do you like me?” he suddenly turns his head to face you, which feels borderline intrusive. like he’s able to see everything that’s going on in your head and heart.

it steals your breath, making your voice sound somewhat strained as a result, and you can’t even bring yourself to lie about it any longer. “i might.”

“i like you. a lot.” he says, and when you think he’s getting closer to you, you stand up from your seat, doing whatever you need to do to get it back together. you don’t want him to know how you really feel, so you clench your fists in your place, your back facing him.

“what does it matter? we’re nothing more than partners. that’s all there is to it.”

as you shake your head to yourself, he gets up as well, moving to stand behind you. “is that why you kissed me?”

“it was just the heat of the moment.”

“you’re a good liar — but not that good.” mingyu shamelessly eyes your body up and down, and when you look over your shoulder, he meets your gaze with something that appears to resemble pride, in a way.

arrogance, perhaps.

for whatever reason, that ticks something off in you. “you want me to be honest? fine. i don’t want to like you, mingyu. i didn’t want to enjoy that kiss. i’ve spent years hating you to the bone, and changing that opinion on you feels like betraying myself.”

he blinks at your sudden and blunt confession, but it’s honest and clear to him.

then he nods in understanding.

“just… hypothetically, if i said i wanted to kiss you again, what would you do?”

you notice a clear difference in his tone, his breathing, his eyes dropping down to your lips — oh, he’s fucking turned on. he knows you want him as badly as he wants you. you both know it.

“i’d tell you it was a one-time thing.”

he gets closer to you, eyelids hanging low and the hint of that damn smirk tugging at his mouth. “how about one more? for good measure. just to get our rocks off.”

the proposition is almost laughable, yet you selfishly find yourself agreeing. “just once?”

“just once.” the palm of his hand cups your jaw, and you know you’re done for when you lean in first, causing him to smile triumphantly right before his lips lock with yours.

this is what you’ve both been yearning for the past week. now that you have it, it feels like drugs, almost — addicting.

you kiss him with vigor, and his tongue slips into your mouth, leaving you aching for more. it’s when his hand pulls you closer by your waist that you force yourself to back away from him, both you and him gasping for air.

“gyu, we were supposed to—”

“keep things professional, i know,” he breathes out, his forehead resting against yours as if he has to make the biggest decision of his life, “but i don’t want to anymore.”

his hands are still on your waist, trailing down to the flesh of your upper legs, and he squeezes it, feeling sick at the idea of someone touching you there that’s not him.

“need you so bad. please — let me touch you.”

looking at his desperate form for a moment, you internally decide to go for whatever your body wants — and that’s to have him tonight.

so you roll your eyes, pulling him to you by his black t-shirt, your hands on the back of his neck before he can comprehend it. he hoists you up by the back of your thighs, taking you to his spacious bedroom.

your back touches the soft bed within seconds. his hands continue to glide up and down your body, and he subtly puts his one hand underneath the hem of your shirt, fingers touching your warm skin, and you almost forget to breathe.

mingyu feels your fingers pulling at the waistband of his jeans, and he relishes in how eager you are. he kisses your neck and moves lower painfully slowly, causing you to writhe underneath him, because you need him now.

it’s certainly a first for you to have such a need and desperation to fuck someone. and for him, of all people. if you had known about this in the morning, you wouldn’t have believed it.

but then again, the tension has been brewing between you two for years, reaching its highest point over the last couple weeks.

maybe he was onto something when he suggested for you to fuck him back in the strip club.

his lips are touching your bare stomach, and you show a hint of dominance by undoing the buttons of your pants and shoving down your panties, putting your hand on his head to guide it between your legs.

and he just lets you.

he takes your pants and underwear from your ankles and discards the pieces on the floor, hands on the back of your thighs once more as he pushes them to lean over his shoulders.

the first few seconds are spent basking in his excitement. his heart races when he looks you in the eye, and he grins to himself before diving in.

for some reason, he feels this primal urge to prove himself to you, to make you feel good like no one ever has before.

whatever the hell it is that made him have such a massive change of heart, he doesn’t know.

but he does know one thing — he worships the ground you walk on.

so to hear you gasp and whine for him when he eats you out only spurs him on to keep going, to make it dirtier and messier and keep having you moan his name.

mingyu encourages you to pull on his hair, and with each strand being pulled, he grows harder in his pants. he moans at the pain, humming against your pussy while his tongue is buried inside you.

you’re grinding against his face and he hums again, loving the feeling. “rub it in my face, baby, ‘s so good—” he babbles as his cock is rock-hard and throbbing against the fabric of his jeans, and he rubs his hard-on against the matress to get any kind of friction.

over the course of the years, even while hating him, you wondered if he was good in bed.

you didn’t think your question was going to be answered by first-hand experience.

he’s not only sickeningly good at providing pleasure — he seems to get off on it, too. your fingers clamp on his long strands of hair, thighs around his head, almost suffocating him, and even when you hit your first climax, he just keeps going. his tongue moves as if you’re not completely crumbling before him.

with a sudden sensitivity hitting you, you have to pull his face from your pussy, and he looks at you with lust-blown eyes and your wetness smeared over his lips and chin.

yeah, you fucking like him. jesus.

the little fang-shaped teeth he has show themselves when he grins at the mess he’s made of you. “want me to go again?”

“would you?”

“i’d keep going for hours if that’s what you want.”

pressing your lips together, you inhale deeply, ‘cause he looks like he means it, too. “well, as great as that sounds, i want you in me. now.”

he would’ve had a damn field trip eating you out again, but he certainly won’t complain, because he’s about to bust in his pants from just looking at you. his eyes return to your figure when you take your shirt off, dick twitching when you unclasp your lacy bra and show your completely bare body to him.

“are you just gonna keep staring?” you ask teasingly, and he needs a few seconds to get his brain running again, chuckling at your words before he removes his own clothes, pushing you back to lay you down.

“can’t help that i like what i see.”

you’re about to give him a witty retort in return when you feel the tip of his cock at the entrance of your hole, pushing forward just the slightest bit, and your lashes flutter at the sensation. he bites his lower lip at the feeling, a sudden intensity hitting the both of you.

then he pushes himself inside, inch by inch, achingly slowly. your brows scrunch together and you throw your head back, manicured nails digging into his bedsheets.

“hah—gyu—” you mumble, tension setting into your shoulderblades as he stretches you open, and you’re so tight that he feels just as suffocated as you do.

“fuck, you’re fucking tight.” he huffs out, utterly savoring your wetness wrapping around him. “can i keep going?”

at hearing the question, a breathy laugh escapes you. “how fucking big are you to have to ask that?”

“well, ‘m only halfway in right now, baby.”

fucking hell. the look on your face is borderline horrified, because jesus, you’re gonna need to adjust to him.

he lowers his chest to hover above yours, and your hands immediately move to his back, nails aching to dig into his skin. he’s only focused on your face now, and he pushes himself in all the way, watching your face contort in pain and pleasure.

your body stiffens for a second before it relaxes, and he has to hold down the urge to start moving. “that’s it. took me all the way in,” he mutters, and you nod to yourself, accidentally clamping down on him, at which he groans.

the first movements are small, slow — gentle. you release long, dragged-out moans that are the single hottest thing he’s ever heard. but he needs more, needs to get rid of the little voice in his head to fuck you hard and stupid.

he pulls out almost entirely before slamming back in, and the erotic whine you let out is just too good to his ears.

so he does it again, again, again. he fucks you to the point a different part of him takes over, ruthlessly seeking the pleasure and pain that gets him off like nothing else. he likes it fast, hard, and deep, and by the looks of it, you do too.

you’re clinging onto him with every thrust, every kiss, every moan, and he loves it.

mingyu moans, eyebrows knitted together as he’s hypnotized by the feeling of himself sheathed all the way inside you. “take it — take my fucking cock.”

“mhm. a little harder — please?” you beg, and if he wasn’t in love with you yet, he certainly is now. how on earth do you look as gorgeous as you do whilst half fucked-out, still needing more?

naturally, he gives in to you, doing whatever you ask of him. he fucks you harder, his grip on your waist tightening with each thrust.

you come to one conclusion — you don’t think anyone’s ever fucked you this good.

his mouth latches onto your tits, sucking at your nipples, and you bring his head up to kiss him again. it’s sloppy, and his movements begin to slow a little, your wetness dripping down his cock. “god, you’re fucking perfect.”

“want more, gyu. i want you to cum in me.”

“you—” he stutters out, “you want it?”

nodding at him, you even push yourself against him, his cock sinking just a little deeper into you.

so he fucks you as hard as he can until he feels himself hitting that blissful climax, continuing to roll his hips and stuff you as full of him as possible. then he sits up with a thin layer of cold sweat on his back, and he pulls himself out as slowly as he entered you, watching drops of cum seep out of your hole.

“so much for professional.” you breathe out, after which you both chuckle, and he leans in to kiss you again, and you get on top of him, taking charge, and he shivers in anticipation.

the night becomes an increasing blur with every kiss, every touch, every thrust — it’s hard to say what time it is or how many times you’ve gone at it when you finally let yourself sink into a deep sleep.

when you wake up beside him in the morning, you watch his sleeping form, your heart flutters.

it’s bizarre how he’s made you feel a kind of love you didn’t even know existed before. a feeling of great complexity and intensity that’s settled deep into your gut whenever he’s near.

as if he’s become a part of you that you can’t let go.

checking your phone, you know it’s time to get up, since you’ve got an important agenda today. yet when you try to silently slip away from his bed, you feel a warm hand on yours.

“don’t go.” he pleads, his voice lower and raspier than usual from sleeping. there’s a certain desperation in his now open eyes, and it affects you.

“i have to. appointments i can’t cancel, you know what that’s like—”

but he’s not talking about your day.

“i’m afraid of people leaving me,” he suddenly admits with a shaky tone, “and i like what we have. i like you. i guess i’m scared that… this was just a one-time thing, ‘cause it wasn’t for me. i don’t want to go back to what we were before all of this.”

processing his words, you nod, touching his cheek, reassuring him. “it wasn’t a one-time thing for me, either. you have me, i promise.”

“okay.” he gently smiles at you, his fingers caressing yours, and you lean in to press a kiss onto his lips, which he immediately reciprocates.

you give him a quick goodbye after putting your clothes on, and he’s left smiling to himself in bed while you walk out of his apartment with the same expression.

but you should know by now that all good things come to an end — one way or another.

ix. WHO ARE YOU, REALLY?

the two weeks since your first time sleeping together have been nothing but excitingly ignorant bliss. in between his meetings and family commitments and your meetings regarding your father’s business relations, you’ve been meeting eachother in the middle at every opportunity, the investigation of your father’s death fading into the background bit by bit, getting lowered on your list of priorities.

none of your friends are aware of your relationship – since it’s a secret, and neither of you have really labelled it yet – as far as you know, anyway.

being with him is comfortable to you, and surprisingly enough, he’s the first person who’s made you feel like you could breathe properly after the chaos that your father’s death caused.

“do you really have to go out at this hour?”

“yeah, unfortunately.” he presses a kiss to your lips before pulling his shirt on while you’re still naked on his bed. “i’ll be back as soon as i can, but you don’t have to wait for me, okay? it’s probably gonna take a while.”

with a sigh, you nod, pouting a little. “okay. i’ll probably go take a shower and head home after.”

he kisses the top of your head this time, and it all feels awfully domestic.

but it’s a good feeling.

mingyu takes in the sight of your bare face and body covered in nothing but his sheets, and he feels like things were meant to be like this. like you two were always indirectly tied together, and now this is your reality.

“you’re allowed to stay as long as you want. i’ll call you later, baby, yeah?” he hums against your lips, and you nod, wanting nothing more than to pull his shirt off and drag him back into bed with you.

“mhm. you should go, or you’ll be late.”

he chuckles, his mouth grazing the top of your hand before he exits the room, slinging his bag over his shoulder and leaving you alone in his apartment.

after taking a short nap, you decide to get up and take a quick shower.

this might be the first time you’re completely on your own in his place — so you feel like checking out what he’s got lying around here.

it’s not because you don’t trust him, truly. you just like to snoop around a little, out of curiosity.

you peek into his drawers, his closet, his personal things, except for what he’s got kept under lock and key.

what intrigues you are the clear scratches on the floor by the cupboard. everything in his apartment is perfectly clean and clearly well taken care of, so this makes you raise a brow.

you figure the scratches were made by moving the cupboard to the side, so you do the same thing, trying to see if there’s a particular reason for it.

it’s hard to contain a scoff once you lay your eyes on what is apparently hiding behind it.

a safe hidden behind a cupboard. seriously? did he take inspiration from your father’s office or something? this is starting to get a bit weird.

the safe seems to require a code with six digits to be unlocked, and since the system and mechanics seem on the older side, you doubt it would send off any signals if someone tried out a wrong code.

biting your lip, you give in to your curiosity, and try out a few codes.

a popular choice for codes are always birthdays, often loved ones, and since mingyu is a complete softie in that regard, you figure it might be worth trying out.

you remember his father’s birthday from the tombstone at the graveyard where your father was buried as well. his mother celebrated her birthday last week, so that’s easy.

unfortunately, neither of the codes work.

fuck, what was his sister’s birthday again? you don’t remember. then an idea pops up in your head – she probably made a birthday post on social media at some point. you search the username and scan her profile, and within a minute, you’ve found it.

with your phone in hand, eyes going from the screen to the rotating dials, you enter the code, and the sound of a clicking lock causes your heartbeat to quicken.

it worked.

throwing your phone onto the bed, you open the safe, several items catching your eye.

there’s quite some things in there considering it’s such a small space. some stacks of money, a few vials with clear liquids in them, a gun, a passport with his photo but a different name – what the fuck is this? his backup plan to start a new life in case he needs it? that’s close to paranoid, especially for a guy who seemingly has no enemies.

behind the piles of dollar bills, you find a few old-fashioned cassette recorders stacked up, each of them numbered from one to ten.

as your curiosity gets the better of you once more, you take the recorders out of the safe and put them on the floor, where you sit down to listen to whatever’s on them.

you click the button at the back of the device, noise beginning to crack through the small speaker.

“i know recording myself confessing to something as grave as this could be my downfall, but… it’s something i need to get off my chest. i need to.” your hear him inhale sharply. “i’m setting a plan in motion that will lead to someone’s death. it’s not something i’m proud of, but he’s threatening my family. i don’t know what else to do.”

your eyes widen as you listen to the rest of the tape. he’s talking about killing your father, using a poison to take him out. once it’s finished, you look for the second tape with shaky fingers.

“getting it done shouldn’t be hard. the real issue is having an alibi, and if necessary, i need someone to put the blame on. the death of someone as important as him will draw attention, so should they assume he didn’t die of natural causes, they’re gonna want to convict someone. i can only think of one person who fits the criteria — his daughter.”

it’s like the confirmation you’ve been waiting for. this is what he’s been hiding all this time. of course he didn’t want to help you without an ulterior motive.

your heart breaks the moment he says it. just how much of a fool have you been?

“we’ve always hated eachother. looking back, i’m not sure how it started, but it did. she’s the only one who could have a solid motive. i don’t want to frame her, or anyone for that matter, but if the police decide it’s not an accident, i’ll have no other choice. maybe her lawyer can find a way around it.”

tape three.

“the plan is to pretend i have a lead on the killer when i’m actually planting fake evidence to make her seem like the culprit. i talked to her in the graveyard today, but she completely lashed out at me. it’s hard to tell who she hates more — me, her father, or herself. though i didn't know her hatred for me ran this deep, nor that she was this lonely. i kind of feel for her.”

tape four.

“she just agreed to be my date to the gala next week, though she's certainly not thrilled about it. understandably so, i guess. she's quite intimidating when she’s mad. maybe i should take notes, seeing how she always stands so firmly on business.”

tape five.

“i didn’t think she’d go as far as to go through my room. she’s more determined than i gave her credit for. god, i could barely keep it together when she said whoever killed her father did her a favor. it’s maybe the only good thing about this whole mess. i wanted to scream, tell her that it was me who did her that favor.”

tape six.

“leave it to her to interrupt a stripper’s lap dance and take me with her instead. the man taking money out of her father’s account was hired by me — i needed to subtly prove to her that it couldn’t have been me, ‘cause i was at the other side of the city when it happened. i was curious to see if she’d take the bait, and she did. she mentioned something about wanting someone who would let her be… uninhibited. it scared and surprised me; mostly because i want the exact same.”

tape seven.

“we broke into her father’s office together. it was… thrilling. exciting. she keeps surprising me with how daring she is. somewhere underneath that hard surface hides someone who’s aching for adventure, i think. maybe we’re more similar than i thought. and she’s so clever, i just—i like her. like, platonically, of course. we work well together. i should probably be more careful, try not to get too close. who knows what that might lead to.”

tape eight.

“i kissed her. i fucking kissed her. well, she kissed me first, but… i kept it going. not just a little peck, no, a full-on makeout session. it was… the type of kiss they talk about in the romance novels. i’ve never felt that big of a need to kiss someone before. and she’s so gorgeous, too. i wonder if she’s thinking about it as much as i am right now.”

tape nine.

“wonwoo says i have feelings for her, in a way. i… i feel like there’s no going back if i acknowledge it. but there's something about her, it's like... i'm not sure. like she and i are on the same wavelength. we’re so different yet so similar.”

tape ten.

“the police are tightening their grip. they wanna name the culprit, and fast. i’ve thought of turning myself in, but i’ll ruin the family name if i do that. my mom and sister will be cast out if that happens. and then there’s… her. god, she’s become so special to me. i can’t go through with it — i can’t. the idea of losing her makes me feel suffocated. fuck, i don’t know what to do.”

and just like that, you close your eyes for a moment.

everything falls into place.

putting the final tape to the side, your cheeks are wet from the tears that have been silently rolling down your cheeks ever since you hit the first play button.

he doesn’t really like you — of course he doesn’t. he’s just using you for his own gain, to cover up his crime.

it’s then that the heavy sobs come out. you utterly fall apart, feeling weak and manipulated and alone.

terrifyingly alone, more than ever before.

but you force yourself to stop crying by telling yourself that you won’t allow him to use you anymore. you need to be steps ahead of him now that he’s not aware of you knowing this information, so you wipe your tears away and play all the tapes again, but this time with your phone making recordings of each one of them.

overcome by your emotions, you feel ready to throw up.

whatever you’re about to do, it’ll probably come back to bite you in the ass later, but you don’t care. not anymore. everything’s already gone to hell anyways.

when mingyu arrives at his apartment a few hours later, it’s empty. he frowns when noticing that your clothes and things you had lying around are all gone, but shrugs it off, believing you probably had a good reason for taking them back home.

but when he calls you the next day, you don’t pick up. you don’t answer any of his texts. your staff by the gate tells him that no visitors are allowed into the driveway, meaning he can’t even get to your front door anymore.

something’s happened. he just doesn’t know what.

long after he’s had his dinner, the rain comes pouring down from the dark clouds in the sky, thunder rumbling in the distance as you make your way to the front door of mingyu’s apartment.

he instantly notices something is very wrong once he lays eyes on you. you look like you’ve just gone through hell and back.

you let yourself in before he can say anything, so he closes the door behind you, confusion painted across his face. “i’ve been calling you — what’s going on? did something happen?”

oh, the question immediately pisses you off even more than you already are. this is about to be fun. “well, you’d know.” you grumble.

“know what?”

“that you killed my fucking father.”

the words strike like lightning. you finding out about the truth certainly wasn’t part of the plan, and since you seem so convinced, he doesn’t have much faith in trying to convince you of his innocence.

when his surprised expression fades, you finally see the truth written all over his face. his jaw is clenched tight, lips pressed together into a thin line, and he suddenly looks very guilty. “how… how did you find out?”

“the tapes. who the fuck records their own confession to murder? were you trying to get me to find out?” you rhetorically ask, eyes blazing fire.

mingyu huffs to himself. he knew he shouldn’t have kept those tapes — fuck.

“look, i—” he swallows, attempting to mend the situation, but you don’t let him speak.

“no. you’re going to tell me exactly what you did and why you did it. you owe me that much.”

he flinches, closing his eyes for a moment, lowering his head, his way of showing he accepts his defeat. “your dad… i always thought he wanted me around because he liked me, but after all those years, that turned out to be a lie. i found out he was blackmailing my mom with evidence of my father’s wrongdoings before his passing — fraud, embezzlement, all of that. we’re talking millions of dollars here. the damage it would’ve done to my family if that ever came out… it’s something i had to prevent. hell, i wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one behind my dad’s car accident. so i did what i thought was necessary.”

you can only scoff. “of course. how noble of you.”

“i’m sorry.” he tells you, but it’s a lie. your father was a despicable man, loved by no one. not really, anyway.

“if you’re going to lie to me, at least do it well.” you scold him, turning away from him for a moment, looking at the rain outside through the large windows of his apartment. “how did you kill him? i wanna hear you say it.”

“can’t we talk about—”

interrupting him, you turn around, the pistol from his safe in your hand, and it’s pointed at him. he anxiously awaits your next move.

“don’t make me ask again. i don’t particularly feel like repeating myself.”

he shudders at the view of the gun pointed at him, but does what you tell him to. “i poisoned him. he had no idea, didn’t suspect me at all. i told him to go home, so he’d die there.”

“where i would be, too. perfect plan, huh?”

“the plan was to make it look like a death from natural causes. the poison would be out of his system by the time the authorities were to perform the autopsy on his body — but then they found him dangling from the ceiling instead. that wasn’t my doing, so i figured the poison got to him to the point he wanted a quicker way out. you were there, with a reasonable motive. i panicked and made a choice.”

inhaling sharply, your eye twitches. “you chose to frame me.”

“i was going to.”

“oh, give me a break. don’t start acting like you care about me, now.”

“except i do. it was different in the beginning — but then i just—i didn’t remember why i hated you. i couldn’t even fathom a possible reason to. i started liking being around you, and you felt it too. i know you did, you said it yourself.” he pleads, getting closer to you, not giving a damn that the barrel of the gun is touching his chest at this point.

a tear escapes your eye, but your anger is still there. “you know what the thing is, mingyu? i don’t even care that you killed him. hell, if you had come to me after our interrogations and confessed that it was you, i would’ve thanked you. what i care about is that you took advantage of me when i was vulnerable, and that you made me feel like i mattered to you when you were all just doing it for your own gain.”

it’s like you’ve ripped his heart out of his chest. he wishes he could make you understand that you’ve made him feel more alive than anyone he’s ever met, that you’ve grown to mean so much to him in a ridiculously short span of time. that he’d go to hell and back to protect you now.

“you matter to me. more than anyone else.”

all you can do is let out a sarcastic fit of laughter; you don’t trust a single word that comes out of his mouth. “i need you to tell me something. did you sleep with me because you actually wanted to or because you felt like you had to in order to manipulate me to get closer to you?”

he seems appalled at what you’re implying. “of course i wanted to. all i ended up wanting was you—”

“don’t you fucking lie to me!” you burst out angrily, at which he flinches, but his frustration brings him to confess his true feelings.

“it’s not a lie, because i’m in love with you!” he raises his voice in desperation, “i don’t care if you shoot me right here, right now. it won’t change how i feel about you.”

your heart shatters even more, because he sounds so genuine, yet it doesn’t make you feel the way it should.

the words should probably bring some kind of twisted comfort, but they feel like a gut punch instead. you grab your chest to stop yourself from hyperventilating. “at least i was right at the beginning. the golden boy is a fucking murderer. you’ve played your part well, i gotta admit.”

he watches you breathily laugh and cry at him, and all he can do is stare back at you with teary eyes and a guilty face.

“please don’t say that.”

“why? does it hurt, hearing the truth?”

“i swear to you—”

you shut him up by pushing him backwards with the pistol against his chest. “you know, when you bothered me after the funeral, when i had my breakdown, i wanted nothing more than to cave in your skull with a rock. looking back, i should’ve just done it. would’ve spared me this whole mess.”

surprisingly enough, you simply put the pistol back in your jacket pocket, but mingyu is just as if not more afraid of you. your gaze is the harshest, coldest, meanest he’s ever seen it. all you do is look at him and he crumbles.

and yet he still wants you. he knows you hate him to the bone, you detest every part of him, and he still. wants. you.

and he intends to show you that, because he’s willing to throw every last shred of pride and dignity he has let out the window if it means you’ll show him you want him even the smallest bit. “i’ll prove it to you. if you ask me to turn myself in, i’ll turn myself in. i’ll do it, for you.”

god, he seems so genuine in it, too.

your breaths are ragged, and you feel like you need to get literally anywhere else, out of the suffocation that is this room with him in it. you barely even noticed he’d taken a hold of your hand until now.

“i can’t do this. just—just let me leave.”

he does.

the moment the door slams shut behind you, he has to grab the nearest object to hold himself up, leaving him wondering what the hell just happened.

x. WHEN IS A MONSTER NOT A MONSTER?

the following days are spent anxiously pacing in his apartment. what is he supposed to do? what should he say to you? what should he tell the press, that he’s innocent? guilty? what should he tell his family? that he killed a man to protect them and their reputation? would they even look him in the eye if he confessed?

he waits and waits and waits for his arrest to come, for the police to barge into his home and take him away to a cold, dark prison cell — yet the day never comes.

personally, he wonders if you’re waiting it out to make you feel as shitty as you’ve probably been feeling since the day you discovered his true colors.

nearly a week after the fight between you, he decides he can’t take it anymore. he needs to see you.

you doubt you’ve ever felt as miserable as you’ve felt these past days. it’s like you’re torn between hating mingyu for taking advantage of you and hating yourself for being stupid enough to fall for it. to fall for him.

because no matter how much you want to deny it, you did.

something you desperately needed was a distraction, which is why you ended up accepting wonwoo’s invitation to the event his father is hosting tonight at his estate just outside the city. with your little black dress on and hair perfectly styled, you down a glass of champagne next to wonwoo, who looks a bit concerned. “everything okay?”

the noise of chatter and soft music in the background only overwhelms you more. “yeah. i just… haven’t had alcohol in a while.” you mutter a bullshit excuse, not really caring whether you sound believable or not.

“i get it if you don’t feel like being here right now, with everything that happened recently. i can take you home if you want.”

“and miss out on your father’s celebration?”

“there will always be another one.” wonwoo shrugs, looking at you like nothing else in the room matters. he has a little smile playing on his lips that’s far too gentle — you almost feel undeserving of a gaze that loving.

but you don’t hold eye contact with him for long, because the source of all your current problems suddenly walks into the room — and he looks good. criminally good.

the red suit with its low neckline draws even more attention to him than usual, along with several expensive pieces of jewelry adorning his wrists and fingers.

“he’s here? that’s strange. he said he wasn’t coming.” wonwoo mumbles, and you do your best to keep your composure and hide the sudden anxiety that blooms in your chest.

“shame. the party was just getting good.” you scoff to yourself, replacing your empty champagne glass with a full one.

it’s then that mingyu’s eyes find yours, and even while politely saying hello to the elders greeting him, he keeps sneaking a peek your way, as if to try to get away from the people surrounding him to get to you.

oh, fuck no. you’re not in the mood to talk to him right now.

“i’m just gonna go and use the restroom, okay? i’ll be right back.” you say to wonwoo, hoping to find yourself a spot in the shadows where you can properly get some air.

you hardly catch his response as your legs are already moving on their own, as far away from the man in red as possible.

passing through a quiet hallway, you find yourself finally alone at the bottom of a staircase, and with no one else around, you sit down on the first few steps, a sigh escaping your mouth.

“did my appearance surprise you?”

as you recognize his voice, your blood runs cold.

looking behind you, he’s standing at the top of the stairs, his hands in his pockets. he appears surprisingly relaxed, even if his fingers slightly tremble against the fabric of his trousers.

“you have some nerve showing up here.”

mingyu purses his lips. “why don’t you come up a couple steps?”

when you finally meet his gaze, his heart skips a beat. your brows are knitted together. “why would i do that?”

“because we’d be on the same level. equals.”

“is that what you want?”

“i think you already know the answer to that.”

biting your lip to yourself, you get up on your feet, heels clicking on the creaking wood with each step. once at his level, you look at him with hostility – he only shows intrigue.

“why haven’t you given me up yet? it’s been a week.”

“i have my reasons.” you shrug, the anger remaining in your features. “what? scared i’ll ruin your reputation?”

his tone suddenly changes into something more desperate, emotional. “i just want to know what you’re gonna do. if you wanna turn me over to the police, fine. but do something, please—”

“you’re not in a position to be making demands.”

“i’m not demanding, i’m asking.”

“go fuck yourself, mingyu.” you snap at him, looking around you before lowering your voice. “what did you think was going to happen when you came here tonight? that i would just let you in on everything? the last thing i owe you is an explanation.”

as the tension continues to rise between you, the argument causes you to step closer to eachother.

his chest heaves out of frustration, because you make a more than valid point, but he still has his own interests at heart. “i know that.”

“so then why show up tonight? don’t bullshit me, i know you’re not here for wonwoo.”

“are you? what are you doing here?”

“what the hell is your problem?” scoffing at him, you intend to push him by his chest, but he grabs your wrists instead.

“you are my problem.” he breathes out angrily as if he were confessing his sins, his hands remaining on your skin. “everything fell apart because of you.”

“if you’re actually trying to pin this on me, i’ll hit you in your fucking jaw until it bleeds.”

he only pulls you closer. “and i’d let you. do you still not get it?”

his grip on your wrists falters, and he softly rubs over your skin with his finger, and you hate your body for reacting to it.

christ, you think to yourself, has he been standing this close to you this whole time?

the smell of his perfume plagues your senses, and a feeling you can’t quite place washes over you when you catch him looking at your lips, and you realize his one hand is slowly gliding past your waist.

are you really going to let yourself fall into his trap again?

“everything okay?”

the words aren’t uttered by you nor mingyu — wonwoo peers up at you from your former spot at the bottom of the stairs.

of course he’s been sensing that there was something going on between you the moment you showed up at the strip club, but this clearly confuses him, since you’re still supposed to hate one another.

fuck. how much of the conversation did he hear?

mingyu hesitantly releases his hands from your body, and you take a step backwards, both of you focusing on wonwoo. “yeah, i’m fine.”

as if to make the situation even worse, the fucking inspector that’s leading the investigation appears behind wonwoo, curiously looking at his two main suspects standing side by side.

the situation feels suffocating. wonwoo points at the older man, “he was looking for you. that’s why i came to see if you were here — i didn’t know you were, um — occupied.”

“i’m not occupied.” with the way you completely disregard mingyu’s existence, it’s almost as if he weren’t even here. you make your way down the steps, smoothening over the fabric of your dress and taking a deep breath to get a hold of yourself again.

the inspector glances at mingyu one last time before asking you if he can talk to you privately, which you agree to.

mere minutes later, you’re standing in a secluded room, far away from the rest of the crowd, arms crossed over your chest, a dim light flickering on the ceiling above you.

“i wanted to talk about the investigation.”

“talking to me off-record again? this isn’t a good look on you.” you sneer at the man, who puts up his hands before his chest.

“i know. but it’s for a good reason.” he defends himself, at which you frown. “i have a proposition for you.”

“which is?”

“i need your help catching the person who killed your father.”

pursing your lips together, you let out a bitter chuckle. “like i would know anything—”

“you were just speaking to him, actually.”

the weight of his words makes your eyes widen. this is the first time he’s expressing who he believes is the culprit, after all these weeks.

your breath hitches in your throat. “you think mingyu is guilty.”

the inspector nods at the conclusion you’ve drawn. “he’s smart, i’ll give him that. but not invincible.”

“what will you do? do you have evidence against him?”

“i have enough that makes me sure that it was him, but not enough to defeat him in court. he’s rich and uses that to his advantage.” he explains, sounding almost hopeful. “so that’s where you come in.”

“me?”

“what i need is evidence that even he can’t work around, no matter how many people in the system he chooses to bribe. you told me the nature of your relationship was sexual — i don’t need to know if that’s true or not. but i’ve noticed he seems fond of you these days. you can use that to get him caught. we can’t let him get away with it.”

his voice rings through your ears, sounding like a convincing whisper. biting down on your tongue, you clench your fists, the predicament you currently find yourself in making you wish the ground would just swallow you whole.

you subtly glance down at your phone for a moment.

the evidence is right there, on the phone in your hand. you’ve recorded all the tapes with your phone — the confession, murder weapon — it’s all the evidence needed. you could give it right now and everything would be over.

yet not a single word comes out of your mouth.

the inspector sighs, offering you a final sentiment. “be careful with him. people can be deceiving.”

and with that, he exits the room, leaving you alone with the voice in your head.

your next moves are crucial. you know what you’re about to do is risky, but it’ll be worth it. it has to be worth it.

once you’ve left the inside of the estate through the backdoor, the event continues for the evening while you ponder over the choice you’re about to make in the backseat of the cab.

shrugging off your coat as you enter your home, you still in your movements when your eyes find the stairs — the spot where the police had to cut down your father’s cold, dead body.

with your gaze remaining on the former crime scene, you press on mingyu’s number to call it.

he picks up faster than lightning, but you don’t allow him to speak.

“meet me in the city tomorrow. 10:30, outside your mother’s firm. don’t be late.”

you hang up right after.

fuck, you should really sell this place. the fact that your father’s wandered around here is more than enough reason.

that he died here as well isn’t great either, but that’s really a minor detail.

with your arms crossed, you scoff, a half-smile that’s almost smug sitting on your face. “if only your death had welcomed us sooner.”

the next morning, you lean your head against the wall of the building you’re meeting at, a cold wind blowing through your hair as you’re sunken deeply into thought.

it’s comfortably quiet, honestly. you’re fond of this type of weather, the white, grey-ish sky, the breeze in the air, some rain on occasion.

you glance at the watch on your wrist — why the fuck is mingyu still not here? what possible reason could he have to be late when this is what he was practically begging for?

just as you’re about to grab your phone from your pocket to call him, someone pulls you by your arm and drags you into the alley beside the building.

“what the fuck!?” you huff out, and then you finally get a good look at the person who grabbed you.

of course it’s him.

“i’m sorry.” mingyu breathes out, his usually neatly styled hair now messy, several strands hanging loose in front of his forehead, the stress visible in his features.

to be together like this feels messy yet weirdly intimate. a few strands of your hair are caught between your lips, and you feel his breath on your face, his hands on your body, even your hands find their way back to him.

as if it’s natural.

“what the hell are you thinking?!” you hiss at him, pushing his hands off you, backing yourself as far up against the wall as possible.

“someone was following me, i was — i thought you’d lured me here to turn me in.”

“you—” is all you can push out of your throat before a sigh leaves you. of course he’d think that. god, what a mess.

burying your face in your hands, it feels like you’re both on the verge of a complete breakdown. both lost, not sure where to go, not sure what’ll happen next.

you thought you’d found a sense of direction in eachother, but that fell apart like a house of cards hit by the wind.

naturally, it begins to rain right when you’re talking to him outside. sighing to yourself, you gesture for him to come with you to your car in the half-empty parking lot, which he wordlessly agrees with.

it’s pouring by the time you’re both seated, the heavy rain rolling down the glass windows of the car.

it’s completely silent between you as you sit beside one another, staring dead ahead at the street.

your voice is hoarse when you tell him your verdict on the matter.

“we’re gonna cover it up.”

mingyu turns his head to look at you in disbelief, but you don’t move a muscle. “… what?”

“i believe i’ve told you i don’t like to repeat myself.”

“no one in their right mind would do that. no one would help me cover it up.” he exhales, eyes moving rapidly as he tries to process what you’re proposing to him.

“no one in their right mind would commit murder, either, but that certainly didn’t stop you.”

well, you have a point there.

“just tell me one thing,” mingyu asks, hoping you’ll look at him, “why? why do this for me?”

he could cry the moment you do meet his eyes. it’s like he sees a different version of himself staring back at him. “because you did the right thing. i would’ve done the same. well, except for your little affair with me.”

with his heart beating against his chest, he gently touches your hand. “everything i told you was true. it may not have been real in the beginning, and i’m sorry for pretending back then, but it’s real now. i swear that to you.”

you bite your lip. “give me one good reason why i should believe you.”

mingyu can taste his tears at this point. he needs you to believe him, he needs you — and that is terrifying but addictive. “the tapes. you can have them if you want.”

“i don’t need them. they hold no value to me.” you already made copies of them anyway.

“then what can i give you to prove myself?”

“nothing.” you immediately cut him off, eyes blazing fire, but even mingyu can see you do share that sadness that he does, mourning the loss of your connection. “from now on, we avoid contact over the phone as much as possible. you’ll destroy the tapes, the poison — get rid of all of it. we’ll work together until we’ve covered it up, and after that, it’ll be like whatever we had never existed. we’ll be nothing more than strangers to one another.”

“how on earth would we go back to strangers after what we did?”

“by never talking to eachother again.” you respond, swallowing the rising lump in your throat, fingers twitching from feeling suffocated. “get out. you can come over to my place tomorrow, and we’ll… figure out how to handle everything.”

mingyu looks at you, and he knows you won’t let him in again, certainly not now. so he nods.

he thinks of what to say, yet nothing comes out.

so he leaves you in your car without saying another word, walking away with nothing but his mistakes on his mind.

xi. I HATE YOU LIKE MY OWN REFLECTION

“so, what do we do now?”

“our best shot is to try to frame someone else, then take them out of prison after the conviction and pay ‘em good money for it.”

mingyu cocks a brow at your choice. “so you wanna go and do the exact same thing i wanted to do?”

you can’t help but glare at him. “yes, just without the manipulation. don’t think for a second i’ve forgiven you, or that i will in the nearby future, because i can assure you that won’t happen.”

well, so much for trying to get into your good graces again. “noted. so, how do we, um… find a suitable victim? someone who won’t rat us out.”

“my contact in the police force has sent me a list of all the other suspects. we pick someone, threaten to kill them if they don’t cooperate. easy.”

mingyu finds your lack of filter both intriguing and scary, like a switch was flipped and you’re suddenly ready to undertake even more violent measures than him. but then again, he was hiding quite some things too. “okay.”

it’s two days later when you’re holding a now former member of the housekeeping hostage in your spacious private parking garage.

“you can’t make me do this! this is insane!” he cries out, and you roll your eyes, holding the gun in your hand as easily as you’d carry a bottle of water.

you simply shrug. “it’s not impossible.”

“i’ll lose everything!”

“probably. but you’ll also gain a lot of money, enough to get you a comfortable life elsewhere in the world.”

“no, no, i’m not doing this. you can’t make me!”

mingyu looks to you for permission, you grant it with a nod, and he takes your gun to hit the guy in the face with it. you sink down to bend your knees, lowering to your victim’s level.

“i don’t think you get it. either you agree to do this, or you’re not making it out of these walls alive. trust me, if i have to shoot you, i will.” you sternly tell him, attitude changing from casual to threatening.

your partner in crime, who’s still holding the gun, is beyond impressed. he briefly thinks it over —has this part of you always been hiding underneath the surface?

“or maybe it’s your family i should start with? i’ll pick it apart, one by one.” you suggest, feigning innocence in your voice.

it’s then that the man is finally forced to accept your offer, after which you smile triumphantly and tell him he can go home like nothing happened. mingyu watches the change in your behavior, leaving him wondering how the hell you’re the same person he’s come to know over the past months.

but it hardly changes his now deeply-rooted affection for you.

a few days later, you’ve successfully orchestrated your plan and set it in motion, with the man from housekeeping supposedly coming forward with his confession tomorrow.

it’s late at night when mingyu’s still over at your house, and he asks if he can open the bottle of vodka standing on the counter.

“sure. whatever.” you mutter, the stand-offish demeanor you used to hold up around him before getting to know him having returned.

he doesn’t like it. no, scratch that — he can’t stand it.

so he pours you both a shot. “i’ve been thinking about something.”

“well, that must’ve been exhausting for you.”

hilarious. really. he chooses to ignore your sarcasm for now. “in the car, you said i did the right thing. that you would’ve done the same.”

“and?”

“do you really not… hate me for killing him? at all?”

“no.”

“you hate me for… lying to you about it.”

“no.”

his brows knit together. “so…”

“again, don’t take this as a compliment, but i really thought you were smarter than this.”

“i’m just… confused on your stance on the whole thing. that’s all.”

taking a breath, a bitter chuckle leaves your mouth. “i hate it when people make fun of me, like — that’s the worst thing you could do to me. and you tried to get to know me, work with me, pretended to care for me, all while secretly knowing that it wasn’t genuine and you were going to put me in prison. and after i found out, it felt like you were just ridiculing me, for… i don’t know. giving in to you so easily. for being desperate to have at least one person actually care about me the way i thought you did.”

he processes your words with the heavy burden of guilt weighing on his shoulders, while you take another shot of alcohol.

well, he fucked up. miserably.

“when i created the plan to frame you, i… almost held a grudge towards you, like you did to me, for a reason i couldn’t even think of. i was going to be putting someone i hated in prison. a sacrifice i was willing to make for the people i loved. but you completely blew me away. as time progressed, i… couldn’t fathom i used to hate you, or even disliked you. even if you don’t accept my apology, i need you to know that i never… never made fun of you. and i’m sorry for hurting you in the way that i did.”

his heartfelt sentiment gets to you, and you hate it.

“even if i did accept your apology, what then? we’ll just move on with our lives as if this whole thing never happened either way.”

now that you’ve unintentionally given him a sense of hope, he downs another shot of vodka to give himself courage. “it doesn’t have to be like that.”

“what?”

“i still want you.” he breathes out, mentally saying fuck it and deciding to finally be completely honest with you.

the words seem to have caught you off-guard, after which you scoff at him once you realize what he’s saying. “you’re not serious.”

“i am,” he replies without hesitation, following you in your tracks when you stand up, “and you know what i think? you still like me, too.”

“no i don’t.”

now that you’ve turned around to him, you realize how stupid of a move it was to do so. with every step he takes forward, you go back, but there’s only so much room before you hit the wall. “you’re not being very convincing.”

“gyu—”

“i like it when you call me that.”

at a loss for words, you look behind you to find you’re nearly out of space. “i don’t like you.”

“and here i thought we were both being honest with eachother.”

god, all he does is look at you and you feel willing to let him touch you again. he made you feel so good — you liked him so much.

mingyu feels it. he sees you fighting with yourself in your head, so he figures all you need is just a little push to get you back where he had you, to be able to kiss you and hold you and call you his.

with his left hand, he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, and within a second, he’s pushed his mouth against yours.

fuck, it’s been only two long weeks since he last kissed you, but it felt like forever. this feeling, his touch — you doubt you’d ever be able to feel that with anyone else.

but something in you is still fighting back.

you muster the will to push mingyu away, and he licks his lips from the gloss on yours. both of you panting heavily, you shake your head. “no. we’re not doing this.”

“what? something we both want?” he breathes out, chest heaving up and down.

“something we shouldn’t.”

“why not?”

“because i’d never forgive myself for giving in to the guy who was gonna frame me for murder.”

he merely shrugs, downplaying the situation for his selfish interests. “we hated each other back then. you’d have done it too, you said it yourself.”

his words are true — but it still hurts.

“you’re a liar.” you say to him, and he knows you’re only saying it for one reason — to convince yourself to not give in to what you really want.

“yeah. and so are you.”

that is what momentarily causes your brain to shut down. “what?”

his hand cups your jaw. you can feel his breath on your bare skin, his gaze on your body, shamelessly checking you out before he meets your eyes again. “what we had was real. you make everyone else in my life seem like… nothing.”

“oh, so i’m special, huh? or are you just trying to get back into my good graces so i don’t rat you out?”

his eyes keep lingering on the skin of your cheeks, your neck, exposed collarbones, and he doesn’t even look you in the eye while answering. “you can do whatever you want. i’ll still want you once i’ve gotten out of prison.”

god. he’s really that into you?

“gyu…” you mutter, almost pouting, and he holds your face, nodding as if he understands.

“i know, i know—” his breathing is unsteady as he confesses every dirty little sin on his conscience, “i like being a little selfish, y’know? even when one of my friends mentioned something about liking you, i didn’t tell you, ‘cause i wanted you.”

you’ve got a feeling who he’s talking about. “so what’d you say to him?”

“i said you had something going on with someone else, which wasn’t exactly a lie, since you were on top of me that same night.” he barely allows himself to finish the sentence before kissing you again, putting all his vigor into it, and you decide to indulge both him and yourself this once.

he pushes you up against the wall, and you shove him away again, holding onto the cupboard beside you when you both catch your breath.

“what if i like him better than you?”

“you wouldn’t.”

“why? ‘cause you’re so likeable?”

“because he’d never accept you for who you really are, and you’d find him boring,” he tells you as a possessive streak overcomes him, “just like no other girl would ever want me and i only want you.”

“so i should let you have me because no one else will. what a compelling argument.”

“no. because you want me.” fucking hell, he’s pretty sure his sex drive has never been this high before. “so have me, baby. please — i’m all yours.” he rasps, pressing a kiss so chaste to your lips, they barely touch. his hands burn on your skin.

“maybe i will.” you mumble, which elicits the smallest smirk from him.

he rubs up against you. “you make me insane.”

“pretty sure you already were.” is the last thing you say before kissing him, finally giving in to the feelings you still hold for him.

the sudden motion takes him by surprise, but he regains his composure to kiss you back within seconds. you make him feel so sickeningly good, he practically worships the ground you walk on.

mingyu is always tactile, be it with his friends, family, or in this case — you. his hands are practically glued to your body, pulling you as close to him as possible.

and normally he likes to take his time when it comes to sex. but he’s just so hot right now that he needs some kind of friction, some kind of release. so he lifts you up to take you to your bedroom, where he wastes no time to plunge his fingers into you.

“fuck—gyu—”

this is all he wants. to hear you moan his name like that and watch you writhe underneath him while his cock throbs as he rubs it against the bed.

“you look so pretty like this.” he grins, curling his fingers to watch you squirm and feel you clench around him.

jesus, his pace is high. higher than any other time he’s done this before. the pressure in your stomach builds so fast that you’re almost overwhelmed by the feeling, at which you instinctively reach down to hold his wrist, but to no avail, because he keeps going.

“say you like me back and i’ll make you cum.”

even through the pleasure he’s giving you, you manage to pull your mean attitude back up. “are you that desperate?”

not only does he seem completely unaffected by the snark in your voice — he might even like it.

“so what if i am?” he shrugs, his fingers moving in and out of you while he kisses and sucks on the skin of your neck.

when he moves onto your jaw, he suddenly hits the right spot inside you, and your eyes roll back, a dragged-out moan escaping you.

“bet that feels good, hm?” he whispers, his fangs showing when he smiles slyly, “c’mon — say it. i’ll make you feel so good, baby.”

right after the words come out of his mouth, he threatens to take his fingers out, and you grab his wrist once more, this time to keep him as close as possible.

“fine — i like you.”

like a war general who just won his greatest battle, he’s beaming at your confession. “good. put your legs over my shoulders.”

well, he certainly is determined. he’s back in his previous position in no-time, now with your legs up, and you try to not clench your thighs around his head too much as his digits piston in and out of your hole.

your orgasm hits you within what feels like a minute, and mingyu keeps going even when your legs are shaking and trembling on his shoulders.

the drag of his cock inside you is heavenly. he’s a big man, and you always need to adjust yourself to him, but fuck is it good.

you always like the slower strokes best, he’s learned. slow and deep, to make you feel every inch of him, and he can bury himself in you to the hilt every single time.

“god, you’re always so tight.” he has to suck through gritted teeth to not completely lose it, ‘cause you’re clenching down on him so much that it almost hurts.

“that’s ‘cause you don’t fuck me enough.”

“we should fix that, then.” he responds, sliding his cock in and out of the pooling wetness between your legs, and as the minutes go by, you continue to find yourself in his arms, your body plastered on his.

it’s the ringing of your phone from the nightstand that pulls you out of the erotic haze.

mingyu turns his head to the side, the dark strands of hair hanging beside his head as he’s still hovering above you.

his chest still heaves when he picks up the device to show you the caller id. “you never did tell me what he wanted to talk to you about.”

all you can do is chuckle — a sound that comes across as if you know more than he does. “he’s onto you. thinks you’re guilty. not far from the truth, is he?”

throwing your phone to the other side of the bed, he pushes himself a little deeper into you, loving the way you have to bite your lip to suppress a whimper. “and he wanted you to give him evidence, i bet.”

“he did.”

“did you?”

“since you still have the freedom to fuck me — take a wild guess.”

this time it’s him who lets out an arrogant laugh. “i knew you liked me too much.”

“i could still do it, y’know.”

“oh, i know you could.” he bites his lower lip before kissing you so vigorously again — as if you’re the air he breathes.

xii. ROUGH HEWN BY UNFORTUNATE EVENTS, AND GIVEN BREATH BY NECESSITY

with the noise of the fireplace crackling, you stand by the window of your mansion’s spacious living room, staring outside as you’re anxiously rubbing your fingers over your collarbone.

the man you and mingyu forced to act like he was guilty of murdering your father has supposedly confessed yesterday morning, and yet you’ve still heard nothing. which is strange.

extremely strange.

“they could still be interrogating him.” mingyu tries to ease both your and his own nerves, but you shake your head, your back still facing him.

“something’s wrong. if it were convincing enough, i would’ve heard something. fuck.”

he gets up from the soft couch to wrap his arms around you from behind. “we just gotta be a little more patient. the guy knows what’s at stake should he mess it up.”

letting out a sigh, you nod. “yeah, i guess you’re right.”

just when he’s pressed a kiss on the top of your head, the doorbell rings — whoever that may be.

mingyu remains in his spot by the window while you go ahead to check who’s visiting you. your breath is almost stolen completely from you once you see who it is.

“coming to visit me at this hour?”

the inspector gives you a fake smile in return. “it’s important.”

so you let him in, keeping up the nonchalance in your attitude. mingyu raises a brow at the older man walking into the room, and he crosses his arms over his chest.

“i had someone coming into the station yesterday — one of your father’s former staff. he confessed to the murder.” the inspector begins. “unfortunately for him, i said i’d already figured out who the culprit was, and so i sent him back home.”

“someone confessed and you didn’t think about telling us?” mingyu questions angrily, and you really have to force yourself not to show how impressed you are with his acting skills.

the other man in the room is less impressed. “why would i tell you something you’re already aware of? you orchestrated it.”

oh, shit.

as your eyes widen, it’s quiet for a moment.

“i really hope you have actual proof to back this accusation.” mingyu sneers, clearly hostile towards the man while you silently take a few steps back, slowly hiding yourself more in the shadows by the walls.

“traces of poison were found in the reports of the autopsy. it was disregarded at first because of the small amount, but i eventually began to consider it evidence when i discovered you recently purchased that exact formula from a dealer who’s been on our radar for a while.”

the hairs on your neck suddenly stand upright. is this it? is the person you’ve grown so attached to actually going to get arrested?

“thing is, if i were to arrest you, you’d probably be let go. i know you both have contacts in the police force as well as the justice system, i almost caught someone messing with the autopsy results — but despite that, i know the truth.” the man nods to himself. “and that is, mr. kim, that the only charge against you is attempted murder.”

mingyu seems confused. “attempted?”

“the poison didn’t kill him. you’re guilty of something, definitely, but you’re no murderer.” the inspector’s gaze suddenly shifts from your partner to you, a deep frown setting into your forehead. “the only player in this game that wasn’t making any sense to me was you.”

“me?”

“you know, in my many years in this line of work, i’ve found it a rarity to have a suspect possessing such an… inscrutible expectant stillness. the gears in your head are constantly turning, but no one’s really sure what it is that goes up in there. you’re an enigma.” he says to you, and you listen to him with a raised brow.

as you remain silent, he continues. “at the event a few weeks ago, when i spoke with you, i came to you and told you i suspected him to be the culprit — the man you’ve hated from day one. the opportunity to make him go away was practically given to you, yet you did nothing with it.”

scoffing at him in disbelief, you tilt your head. “that’s all you have against me? baseless speculation?”

“not exactly baseless. see, the autopsy report showed one more thing — he was choked before the hanging. your father was unconscious before you put that rope around his neck.”

it’s so quiet, you’re pretty sure the two men in the room are able to hear your heartbeat at this point.

mingyu turns to look at you with a puzzled expression, and you finally decide to drop the façade you’ve upheld for so long.

“oh, so what?” you shrug, finding the accusation bothersome at best.

the sudden change in demeanor catches mingyu completely off-guard. he can’t fully comprehend what’s going on here. “you—you killed him?”

you press your lips together. “whatever you used on him wasn’t enough to kill him, but it was enough to make him violent. he came home that night just—fucking losing it. stumbling over everything, his eyes were all red, and he yelled at me because he thought i was the one who poisoned him. ‘cause naturally, he’d never suspect you. my father was one to hit me on the cheek whenever he was really angry with me, but he’d never gone further than that. the poison must’ve worked him up so much that he lost rational thinking. so he began to accuse me of trying to kill him, after which he tried to choke me, but i managed to throw him off, and he passed out. and i figured it’d been enough of his torture, so… i hung him in the stairwell to make it seem like a suicide.”

the inspector nods knowingly. “you murdered him in cold blood.”

you’re quick to respond with your defense, though you don’t really care anymore. “did you not hear the part where he tried to kill me?”

mingyu looks like a kicked puppy when he processes your confession. “so you’ve been lying to me this whole time?”

the words elicit a scoff from you. “that’s real bold, coming from you.”

“but you—you agreed to help me figure out who your father’s killer was. why would you do that if you did it?”

“at first i didn’t, as you know, but you were just so fucking persistent. so i figured i could try to divert your attention from me. i was going to convince you that it was a suicide. then i hear the tapes, you admitting that you poisoned him, and everything made sense. but hey, at least i wasn’t trying to frame you.”

the jab directed at him makes him feel guilty again. “so we both did it.”

“in a way. though i’d argue it was somewhat self-defense. i mean, he came onto me, tried to kill me—”

“you made a mistake and you know it.” the inspector interrupts, making you roll your eyes as he scolds you. “you should’ve called the police. but you didn’t, you just decided to hang him instead!”

“he deserved it!” you retort, displaying the clear hatred you’ve always felt towards anyone who tried to defend the man who raised you. “i don’t care what you think. and you said it yourself — i have everyone in the justice system on my payroll, if necessary. threatening to kill a family member or two also works like a charm.”

it’s silent for a few seconds after you’ve revealed this side of your true nature, and the man just stares you in the eye before grabbing a device from his backpocket.

when he clicks on the button, you already know what it is.

he recorded the whole conversation, and you already know he can’t be bribed, so this is a real problem — because it’s the one piece of evidence needed that will destroy you both.

“you do realize how stupid it was to come here alone, right?” you ask rhetorically.

“what, will you kill me too?” he asks, and when both you and mingyu deadpan a stare at him, he knows the answer.

he’s not getting out of this room alive unless he forfeits the recording.

when you and your partner in crime exchange a glance, the inspector attempts to make a run for it, only to be tackled by mingyu once he’s reached the door.

one last sacrifice.

the sound of a blade piercing through skin makes you jump, your fingers twitching.

blood begins to trickle down his body, after which mingyu pulls out the knife and pushes it in once more, higher up in the chest this time.

“oh, jesus—fuck!” you gasp to yourself when you feel the bloodsplatters hitting your face and neck, and mingyu rips the blade from the inspector’s body, letting it fall onto the carpeted floor.

you both stare at the freshly created crime scene, and you pinch the bridge of your nose, mostly just annoyed at having another crime on your hands.

“well, that is unfortunate.” mingyu sighs, after which you press your lips together, looking up at him.

“understatement of the year. did you have to stab him that quick?”

“sweetheart, he would’ve locked us both away if i didn’t.”

“i guess so.” locking the front door to ensure no one can enter, you cross your arms. “so. are we burning, burying or dumping him in a lake?”

mingyu stares at the body on the floor before locking eyes with you, and it’s like making a silent deal — that you’re in this mess together, and only together can you come out of it, as bloody and violent that road may turn out to be.

well, at the end of the day, you suppose your father was right about one little thing.

you and kim mingyu are, indeed, good together. just not in the way he imagined.

after all, love can exist even in the murderous heart.

thanks for reading! let me know if you enjoyed it x