You openly disliked men, especially arrogant, entitled ones who moved through the world as if it had been built solely for them. Every man in your life has given you a reason to. A father who dismissed every achievement unless it benefited him. An ex who cheated, then somehow made betrayal sound like your failure. Colleagues whose eyes lingered too long, whose jokes crossed lines, whose confidence was mistaken for competence far too often. You never understood why society bent itself around them as though they were the natural center of everything. As if possessing a dick automatically granted authority, importance, the right to be heard first, and doubted last. Truly, what was so revolutionary about having a third leg that made them act like first-class citizen??

The trauma pager screamed before dawn. Sharp enough to cut through the thirty minutes of sleep you had managed to steal in the on-call room. By the time you pushed through the emergency doors, scrub top half-buttoned and hair still damp from a rushed sink wash. The paramedics were already rolling in a young man slick with blood and road dust—multiple collisions, hypotensive, barely conscious. Nurses moved around you in practiced chaos, monitors shrieking, metal trays clattering, everyone waiting for your first order. 

“Or now!” you snapped, gloving your hands as you walked. “Crossmatch six units, call radiology, someone page anesthesia.” 

Then, from just behind your shoulder, calm as if the room wasn’t drowning in panic, came a familiar voice. 

“Already here, doctor.” 

You turned, and there was Jake Sim, leaning into the storm with an easy expression. 

Seeing his smile makes your blood boil. Of course, it was him. Even with alarms blaring, blood on the floor, and a man hovering between life and death, Jake Sim still looked unbearably composed, like this was all mildly inconvenient rather than catastrophic. 

“Try looking useful for once,” you said sharply, already moving beside the gurney as the nurses rushed the patient down the corridor. 

Jake fell into step beside you without missing a beat, one hand adjusting the oxygen mask over the patient’s face while the other checked the monitor leads. “Good morning to you, too, doctor,” 

“It was good until I saw you.” 

“Then I’ll try standing behind you next time.” 

You ignored him. Flipping through the paramedic report clipped to the patient’s chest. Male, twenty-three, motorbike collision, hypotensive on arrival, suspected abdominal bleed, decreasing consciousness. 

“BP?” you asked. 

“Eighty over palp,” a nurse answered. 

Jake glanced at the monitor—expression sharpening despite the teasing tone still lingering in his voice. 

“Airway’s deteriorating. I’m tubing now.” 

“Do it while moving.” 

“Bossy.”

The elevator doors opened, and the team flooded inside with the bed. You stood at the patient’s side, hands pressed firmly over the soaked dressing at his abdomen. Jake positioned himself at the head of the bed, drawing up medication with practiced speed. 

“Etomidate. Rocuronium,” he said. 

The nurse passed them over instantly. You looked up just in time to catch him glancing at you. 

“What?” you snapped. 

“You’ve got blood on your cheek.” 

“I’m aware.” 

“You wear it well.”

Jake laughed under his breath and pushed the medications. Within seconds, he intubated smoothly, securing the tube as the elevator dinged open onto the surgical floor. The door parted. 

“Move.”

The gurney surged forward again, wheels rattling across polished floors as the operating room doors were thrown open. Inside, the scrub team was already waiting. You scrubbed at the sink with aggressive efficiency, barking orders over your shoulder. 

“Prep for exploratory laparotomy. Massive transfusion protocol. I want vascular on standby.” 

Jake entered the room behind you, tying his mask in place. 

“Demanding as always,” he said. 

“Shut up.” 

Jake only chuckled and stepped closer to the scrub counter. 

“You look hot when you’re angry.”

You shot him a flat look over your shoulder. 

“Maybe seek psychiatric help.” 

Jake only smiled again, the same maddening, effortless smile as he moved to the head of the operating table and began preparing to keep your patient alive while you open him up. 

By your second year in trauma surgery, the hospital had already given you a reputation you never asked for. Some called you difficult, others called you cold, but most settled on the nickname whispered through hallways and break rooms with equal parts amusement and caution–the men-hater. 

It was easier for them to say that than admit how many times male residents had tried to explain their own cases back to you, how attendings praised the same ideas only after a man repeated them louder, how patients searched the room for a ‘real doctor’ after you introduced yourself. 

Every sharp reply you gave, every boundary you enforced, every refusal to smile through disrespect became proof of your bitterness in their eyes. Fine. Let them think you hated men. It was simpler than explaining that you only hated what they kept getting away with. 

Then there was Jake Sim. 

The hospital effortlessly adored him; people adored men who were handsome, competent, and just charming enough to never be threatening. Nurses smiled when he entered a room. Residents straightened when he spoke. Even attendings, people who looked unimpressed by default, seemed to soften around him. Dr. Jake Sim, anesthesiology’s golden boy. 

You disliked him on principle. 

Men like Jake moved through life cushioned by a grace rarely afforded to women. If he was blunt, he was confident. If he was playful, he was charismatic. If he challenged authority, he was bold. You had done the same things and been called difficult, abrasive, and emotional. 

Worse, Jake seemed entirely aware of the effect he had on people, yet wore it lightly enough to seem innocent. He joked with scrub nurses, remembered everyone’s coffee orders, charmed frightened patients before surgery, and still somehow managed to perform flawlessly once the stakes were real. It would have been easier if he were incompetent. Easier if he were arrogant. Easier if he gave you a clean reason to hate him. 

Instead, Jake Sim was annoyingly good at his job. He’s kind when no one is watching, and most annoyingly of all, far too interested in you. 

You never smiled at his jokes. Never thank him for favors that you hadn’t asked for. Never looked impressed when others did. If anything, you treated him with the same clipped indifference you reserved for men who thought too highly of themselves. 

For some reason, that only seemed to make him come closer. 

The nurses filtered out one by one, murmuring good afternoon, leaving the two of you alone in the oversized room. You reached for the strings of your gown, fingers slower now that the adrenaline had drained away. 

Before you could undo them, Jake stepped behind you. 

You stiffened immediately. “What are you doing?” 

“Relax,” he said, voice low and annoyingly calm. “You’re taking forever.” 

His fingers brushed the back of your neck as he untied the knot. Even through layers of fabric and fatigue, the touch felt far too noticeable. 

“I can do it myself.” 

“I know.” 

The gown loosened, slipping from your shoulders. He stepped away if nothing had happened. You turned sharply. 

“Then why didn’t you let me?”

Jake was peeling off his gloves, expression unreadable now that the teasing had softened. 

“Because your hands are shaking.” 

You froze. You hadn’t even noticed. When you looked down, there it was, the fine tremors running through your fingers, the aftermath of hours spent forcing steadiness into chaos. Humiliating. 

You curled your hands into fists. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

“Mm…” 

That sound alone made irritation flare again. He tossed the gloves aside and walked toward you, stopping close enough that the scent of antiseptic clung to him. 

“You don’t have to act invincible every second of the day.” 

Your jaw tightened. 

“Don’t act as if you know me.” 

“I know enough.” 

Jake studied you for a moment, eyes dropping briefly to your clenched hands before meeting your gaze again. 

“I know you haven’t eaten since yesterday,” he said quietly. “I know you took over suturing because the resident was panicking. I know you blamed yourself when his pressure crashed, even though it wasn’t your fault.” He tilted his head slightly. “And I know you’re about two minutes away from collapsing.” 

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

You hated him. 

Hated the calm certainty in his voice. Hated how he said those things without pity, without mockery, without trying to make himself look noble for noticing. Most of all, you hated that after everything—every clipped response, every glare, every deliberate attempt to keep him at arm’s length, yet he still insisted on treating you gently. 

It was infuriating. 

Why couldn’t he just dislike you properly? 

Why couldn’t he return the coldness you handed him so generously? Why couldn’t he be offended, dismissive, petty? Anything easier to understand than this steady, maddening kindness? 

Men were predictable when they were angry. Predictable when their pride was bruised. They snapped, sulked, withdrew. You knew how to handle that version of them. But Jake Sim only kept showing up with a warm smile, calm eyes, and observations you never invited. 

You wanted to push him into becoming the kind of man you already knew how to hate. Instead, he kept refusing the role. 

The next morning began badly. 

You had slept for three hours on a call-room mattress thin enough that your bones were screaming in agony. Woken twice by pagers that turned out not to be yours, and spilled half of your coffee down the front of your scrubs while trying to read overnight labs. By the time you stepped into the trauma conference room, patience had already abandoned you. 

A cluster of residents fell silent when you entered.

Good. 

You dropped into your seat at the end of the table, flipping open the chart for morning rounds. 

“If anyone presents nonsense today, I’m sending them back to medical school personally.” 

No one laughed. 

Also good. 

The door opened, and Jake Sim walked in carrying two coffees and looking offensively well-rested. Fresh shower. Crisp navy scrubs. Hair still slightly damp. Not a trace of the sixteen-hour shift he had also worked. You narrowed your eyes immediately. 

He noticed, smiled, and changed direction from the empty seat across the room to the chair beside you. Of course he did. 

“You look radiant,” he said quietly as he sat down. 

“Shut up.” 

“Mean already? We haven’t even started rounds.” 

“Dr Sim,” honestly, you almost lost it. 

He set one coffee beside your folder. You stared at it. 

“Take it back.” 

“No.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“I know. You rarely ask for anything. It’s one of your more exhausting traits.”

You pushed the cup back toward him without looking. “Try poisoning someone else.” 

Jake slid it neatly back into place. “Oat milk. No sugar. Extra shot.” 

Your hand paused halfway to the chart. Annoying. 

“You need hobbies,” you muttered. 

“I have one.”

You glanced at him despite yourself. “What?”

He met your eyes, expression perfectly innocent. “Getting under your skin.” 

Before you could reply, the attending entered, and the room straightened instantly. Rounds began in a blur of scans, bloodwork, complications, and clipped presentations. You corrected three residents, questioned one medication order, and dismantled a surgical pan so flawed it nearly offended you personally. 

Jake said little. He simply sat there, reviewing anesthesia notes, occasionally leaning over to slide relevant vitals or postoperative concerns onto your side of the table before you had to ask. You hated how useful he was.

Halfway through the meeting, the attendees discussed a difficult abdominal trauma case from the previous night.

“Post-op hypotension likely due to fluid shifts,” one senior resident offered.

You opened your mouth. 

Jake spoke first. 

“Or missed retroperitoneal bleed.” 

The room turned. The attending frowned thoughtfully. “Reasoning?”

Jake gestured toward the scan. Calm. precise. “Expanding flank ecchymosis, dropping hemoglobin despite transfusion, rising lactate.” 

You felt your irritation sharpen. Because he was right. The attending nodded slowly. 

“Good catch. We’ll re-image.”

Then his gaze shifted to you. “Thoughts, doctor?” 

“I think anesthesia got lucky.”

You crossed your arms. A few residents choked back smiles. Jake didn’t even blink. 

“And I think surgery should buy me breakfast.” 

The room laughed. You did not. But when you reached for your coffee a moment later, it was still warm. 

.

.

.

.

A few weeks after the surgery, Jake Sim was still impossible to avoid. 

Not because he chased you through corridors like some desperate intern with no dignity–though you suspected he was capable of it, but because he had somehow woven himself into the rhythm of your days. In trauma calls, he was there before you finished giving orders. In the OR, he stood behind the drapes with that infuriatingly calm voice. In the break room, there would already be a coffee waiting where you liked to sit, as if the cup itself had developed poor judgment. 

You told yourself it meant nothing. 

Jake was friendly with everyone. Helpful to everyone. Annoyingly competent with everyone.

So why should it matter that he remembered your orders before you gave them, or noticed when you skipped meals, or somehow knew exactly how you took your coffee without ever asking?

It didn’t.

That was what you were telling yourself when he cornered you outside the staff elevators after a fourteen-hour shift. The corridor was nearly empty, lights dimmed to evening mode, your pager blessedly silent for once. You were too tired for conversation and too hungry for patience. 

Jake stepped in front of the elevator doors just as they opened. 

You stared at him. “Move.” 

“Dinner.” 

“No.”

“That wasn’t a statement.”

“It sounded like one.” 

“It was an invitation.” 

You jabbed the closed-door button repeatedly. “Declined.”

He reached past you and caught the elevator door before it could shut, entirely too close for your liking. 

“Tomorrow night.”

“No.”

“Tonight, then.”

“No.”

“Coffee after shift.” 

“No.”

Jake tilted his head, studying your face with that same maddening calm he wore in operating rooms and arguments alike. 

“Are you rejecting me,” he asked, “or just enjoying saying no?”

Your jaw tightened. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re stupid or joking.”

“Neither.”

“Then what is this?”

“A date.”

You gave a short, humorless laugh. “Right.”

“I’m serious.”

“That’s the stupid option.”

Something like amusement flickered across his face, but he didn’t step back.

“You really think I’ve been asking because I’m bored?”

“I think men like attention.”

“And you think I’d go through weeks of being insulted for fun?”

“Yes.”

“That’s fair,” he admitted. “But wrong.”

The answer annoyed you more than if he had argued.

You crossed your arms. “You flirt with everyone.”

“I’m polite to everyone.”

“You’re smug with everyone.”

“Only with you.”

“That’s not helping your case.”

“It’s not a case.” His voice lowered slightly. “I like you.”

You blinked once, more out of irritation than surprise.

“No, you like provoking me.”

“I like that too.”

“Jake.”

It was the first time you had said his name without adding an insult after it. His expression changed almost imperceptibly.

“Dinner,” he repeated softly. “One hour. If you hate it, I’ll stop asking.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You promise?”

“No.”

“Unbelievable.”

“But I’ll stop asking for a week.”

“That’s not tempting.”

“It should be. You look tired.”

“I look like I regret speaking to you.”

“You always look like that.”

The elevator chimed impatiently behind you.

You stepped inside, forcing him to move back.

“Goodnight, Dr. Sim.”

He smiled, hands in his pockets, entirely too pleased with himself.

“Think about it.”

The doors slid shut between you. You exhaled sharply, pulse annoyingly uneven. Then looked down and realized he had slipped a protein bar into your coat pocket sometime during the conversation.

You hated him.

.

.

.

.

Three days later, you made a mistake. 

It happened at 12.40 p.m. After back-to-back consults, a trauma activation that turned out to be alcohol and poor decisions, and a resident who asked whether the spleen was ‘strictly necessary’. You were hungry, irritated, and too tired to defend yourself properly. And the last thing you want to happen the next day is Jake still asking you to date. 

After all, luck was never on your side. 

Jake found you outside the imaging suite, leaning against the wall with two coffees and the expression of a man who had never once suffered inconvenience. 

“Lunch,” he said.

“No.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“I meant it yesterday, too.”

“How about today?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Why are you like this?”

“Persistent? Handsome? Deeply committed?”

“Unbearable.”

He grinned. “Still available for lunch.”

You stared at him for a long moment, then at the clock, then at the hallway stretching endlessly back toward more work. You were starving.

The cafeteria was five minutes away.

And if agreeing to one meal made him stop asking for at least a day, it counted as strategic surrender.

“Fine,” you said flatly. “Lunch.”

Jake blinked. For the first time since you’d known him, he looked genuinely caught off guard. Then his entire face changed. Not smug satisfaction. Not teasing triumph. He looked happy. 

Ridiculously, openly happy. 

“Seriously?” he asked. 

You immediately regretted everything. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird, you just said yes.”

“To lunch.”

“With me.”

“To food.”

He laughed under his breath, then straightened so quickly it was almost embarrassing. “Right. Yes. Of course. Food.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why do you look like you won something?” 

“Because I did.”

“You did not.”

“I absolutely did.”

You turned and started walking before he could say anything worse. He fell into step beside you, annoyingly energetic for someone who had also worked all morning. 

“Do you want noodles or rice?” he asked.

“I want silence.”

“Cafeteria might not have that.”

“You’re very close to losing lunch privileges.”

“You’ve already given me privileges?”

You shot him a look sharp enough to cut skin. He only smiled wider.

The entire walk there, Jake was insufferably cheerful. He held doors open, moved people aside with polite excuses, and somehow looked proud simply carrying your coffee beside you. Two nurses passed and exchanged startled glances.

One of them mouthed finally. You nearly turned around. 

By the time you reached the cafeteria, Jake was practically glowing. 

“Explain.”

“What?”

“Why do you look like a golden retriever that just got told he’s going to the park?”

He laughed loud enough to earn stares. “That’s specific.”

“It’s accurate.”

Jake looked at you for a second, smile softening into something less playful. 

“Because you said yes.” he said simply. 

Your chest tightened in a way you deeply resented. 

“It’s lunch,” you said coldly. 

“I know.”

“Not a date.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

“Good.”

He nodded once, still smiling. “Then let’s have lunch.”

You hated that your pulse was uneven over something so stupid. You hated more that when he reached for a tray, he grabbed one for you automatically.

The cafeteria was louder than usual, packed with staff escaping their departments for the brief illusion of rest. Trays clattered, chairs scraped, pagers went off in every corner. You chose a table near the back out of habit. Jake sat across from you like he had been invited there his entire life. 

You set your tray down and immediately noticed he hadn’t touched his food. He is just looking at you. Not casually, not absentmindedly. Looking at you with an expression so openly pleased, it made irritation rise on instinct. 

You frowned and unwrapped your utensils with more force than necessary. “That’s unsettling.”

Jake only leaned back slightly in his chair, still watching you with the same warm, maddening gaze. As if sitting across from you in a mediocre hospital cafeteria was somehow the best part of his week. You hated that. 

“Eat your food,” you said.

“In a minute.”

“Why not now?”

“Busy.”

“With what?”

His eyes moved over your face slowly, almost thoughtfully. “Memorizing this.”

Your chopstick paused midair. “Memorizing what?”

“You're agreeing to have lunch with me. You look annoyed, but less than usual.”

“I look annoyed because I am.”

“Still came.”

“I came for carbohydrates.”

Jake smiled softly. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You looked down at your plate, refusing to acknowledge the sudden warmth crawling up your neck. He laughed quietly, eyes crinkling at the corners. Then his gaze softened again in a way that made your chest feel annoyingly tight.

“I like seeing you like this,” he said.

“Hungry?”

“Relaxed.”

You almost scoffed. “I’m not relaxed.”

“You’re not working. That’s close enough.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the cafeteria blurred around the table. Jake looked at you as if there were no one in the room. No urgency, no performance, just quiet, uncomplicated fondness. It was deeply unfair. 

“If you keep staring, I’m leaving.” 

He picked up his chopstick at last. He only smiled into his food, still far too happy for a man who had simply gotten lunch. 

You told yourself the attention should have irritated you more than it did. 

It should have felt invasive, performative, another version of the same male habit of taking up space wherever they pleased. You had spent years sharpening yourself against men like that. But this didn’t feel like that. 

Jake wasn’t trying to corner you, impress an audience, or collect gratitude for basic decency. He wasn’t asking for anything in return. He simply sat across from you with that stupid soft expression. 

You didn’t hate it. That was the problem. 

Youd idn’t love it either. It made you restless, suspicious, vaguely off-balance in a way you disliked. There was no clear angle to defend against, no obvious flaw to dissect, no cruelty beneath the surface waiting to reveal itself. Just Jake Sim. 

You didn’t understand him. You didn’t understand why a man like Jake Sim, liked by everyone and wanted by easier women, kept choosing resistance. Why did he return after every sharp word? Why did kindness from you seem optional, but your presence somehow mattered? And perhaps most unsettling of all—

"okay you have to stop getting lucky," he muttered.

"that’s not luck."

he cut you a sideways look. you kept your eyes on the screen.

ten minutes later: "new rule."

"you can’t make new rules because you’re losing."

"i’m not losing. whoever dies first owes the other person a kiss."

you looked at him. he was already looking back at the screen, jaw set, completely composed about it, like he hadn’t just changed the entire atmosphere of the room.

"fine," you said.

"fine," he said.

maybe ninety seconds passed. then heeseung walked his character directly into open fire.

you stared at the screen. then at him.

he had this small guilty smile at the corner of his mouth. not looking at you.

"heeseung."

"i slipped."

"you did not—"

"the controls are—"

"heeseung."

he finally looked at you and the smile dropped into something quieter. you leaned in and kissed him. soft, short, nothing dramatic. when you pulled back he turned away immediately and picked up his controller again, and you watched him press his lips together once, quick, like he was recalibrating.

"okay," he said after a moment.

"okay," you said.

you both went back to the game. he won the next round and made a point of telling you about it in significant detail. you let him. he was louder than usual for the next twenty minutes and you understood that for what it was—heeseung dealing with the fact that it had mattered more than he’d planned for it to. the wanting had gotten ahead of the cool.

somewhere in the third round you shifted without noticing and he was sitting closer than he needed to be, occasionally correcting your aim, his commentary clipped and practical. at some point between rounds you realized his hand had settled over yours on the controller and neither of you had moved.

he didn’t bring it up again. he didn't need to. but he’d wanted it enough to cheat for it, and you both knew that.

PARK JONGSEONG

forty minutes of jay getting ready and you’d been in his room the whole time, sitting on his bed, watching. he wasn't anxious, just precise. there's a difference, and he’d be the first to say so.

"you look fine," you said.

he turned from the mirror. "fine."

"jay—"

"that's a nothing word."

"you look good."

"was that difficult." he turned back, satisfied, fixing his collar. you rolled your eyes but you were smiling and he clocked it without looking.

you got up eventually and came over to fix his lapels without being asked. he let you, arms loose, watching you in the mirror. you moved to his tie—knot was slightly off. you started correcting it and your eyes were down, focused, and then you glanced up to check the line and jay was already looking at you. not at the tie. at you.

and your heart made the decision before your head finished the sentence.

you kissed him. soft, quick, and immediately you stepped back—

"we should get going—"

"hold on."

you stopped.

he didn't close the distance right away. he just looked at you, and there was nothing playful in his expression. just jay, with the full weight of his attention on you.

"i’ve been your friend for a long time," he said. "i'm not going to stand here and pretend that didn't happen. and i'm not going to make it into something small just because the timing's not perfect."

you looked at him. "jay."

"i’m just telling you what i want." a beat. "you can think about it."

then he reached past you for his keys and held the door open like the conversation was done, like he hadn’t just quietly upended everything.

you walked out. he fell into step beside you, same as always.

but he didn't take it back. and he didn't make a joke about it. and that, more than anything, was how you knew he'd meant every word.

SIM JAEYUN

layla had been the center of the afternoon from the moment you got there, and jake was completely fine with it.

"she likes you," he said, watching her put her head in your lap for the third time.

"she likes everyone."

"she really doesn't." he reached over to scratch her ear. "she’s particular."

you looked down at her. she was looking up at you with the most earnest expression a dog had ever managed. you laughed and rubbed her side and she flopped over immediately like you’d granted her something.

jake was watching the two of you with something easy on his face. the afternoon had been like this—no plan, just his place, layla, the particular comfort of being somewhere you belonged without having to explain it. you’d been friends long enough that this was its own kind of thing.

"she’s genuinely the best," you said.

"yeah." a pause. "she and you are my two favorite girls."

you looked up.

he met your gaze and held it. calm, certain, no joke waiting behind it. just jake, watching you with that particular stillness he had when he meant something.

you felt the shift. so did he.

he leaned in, unhurried, and you didn't move away. his thumb brushed your cheekbone, light, and he kissed you—the kind that didn't rush itself, that felt like something he'd been deciding for longer than this moment. when he pulled back he stayed close, thumb still at the edge of your face.

"so," he said quietly.

he pulled back and stayed close, thumb still at the edge of your face, and he looked at you for a second without saying anything.

and you watched something flicker across his expression—something quieter than his usual ease—and realized he was actually waiting. jake, who made everything look effortless, sitting here with his heart slightly on his sleeve.

"hi," you said softly.

the breath he let out was almost a laugh. he dropped his forehead to yours for just a second before sitting back, and the smile came slowly—the real one, not the performative one.

"so," he said. "that happened."

"it did."

"and you're okay with that."

it wasn't really a question. but it also kind of was.

"yeah jake," you said. "i’m okay with that."

the smile that broke across his face was immediate and a little ridiculous and he looked away for a second like he needed a moment. layla, sensing the shift in energy, sat up and put her head in his lap and he laughed properly then, scratching her ears.

"layla knew," he said quietly, more to himself than you.

"knew what?" you said.

he looked back at you. "that this was gonna happen eventually."

you looked at him—soft eyes, easy smile, hand finding yours on the cushion like it belonged there.

"yeah," you said. "maybe she did."

PARK SUNGHOON

it started because you said a movie was mid.

forty minutes later the debate had migrated from the couch to the kitchen while sunghoon made tea and was still going, sunghoon as methodical about being right as he was about everything else.

"the second half was weak," you said.

"the second half was intentional."

"something can be intentional and weak."

he paused. "okay fair." then immediately: "still good though."

you'd known him long enough to know this was just how he argued. precise, composed, quietly committed. you'd told him it was annoying once. he’d said thank you.

back in the living room. you on the couch, him on the floor with his back against it because one of the cushions was allegedly uneven, which you had told him multiple times was not true.

"it’s noticeably higher on the left," he said.

"it is not."

"it is."

he looked up at you from the floor. you looked down at him. he had that expression—blank on top, something dry underneath. the debate had dissolved somewhere in the last hour and now it was just the city noise outside and the two of you not doing much of anything.

you'd been looking at him without really meaning to. he turned and caught you.

so you leaned down and kissed him. slightly awkward given the angle—you on the couch, him on the floor—and when you pulled back he was looking at you with an expression you couldn't inspect.

a beat.

"geometrically," he said slowly, "that was about thirty degrees off—"

"sunghoon—"

"there was a simpler approach to—"

"are you seriously—"

"i'm noting it."

his ears were red. you could see it clearly and he knew you could see it, and the more composed he tried to go the more obvious it got. you pressed your lips together.

"it's warm in here," he said.

"it is not warm."

"the tea—"

"sunghoon."

he stopped. looked at you. the joke dropped, just for a second.

then he got up from the floor and sat next to you—on the left cushion, the uneven one—and kissed you properly. no bad angles. certain. when he pulled back he looked straight ahead.

"the cushion," he said, "is definitely higher on this side."

"oh my god."

"i'm just confirming—"

"you just kissed me."

"i’m aware." he was fighting a smile now. losing. "i can do both."

you shook your head. he let the smile happen and said nothing else, and didn’t move away, and that—for sunghoon—was basically everything.

KIM SUNOO

the party had been genuinely good. the kind where the energy holds without anyone forcing it, which was mostly sunoo—not because he was the loudest but because he had this way of making every person in the room feel like they were exactly where they should be.

by the time the last person left it was late. the place was a mess. streamers on the floor, cups everywhere.

you stayed to help. he didn't ask.

"you really don't have to," he said, already knowing you weren't going anywhere.

"i know," you said, and grabbed a trash bag.

you moved through the living room together without talking much, just working around each other. the music had gone soft. at some point you ended up in the kitchen finishing the last of the cups and sunoo showed you a video someone had taken earlier—something in the background no one had caught in real time—and you laughed and he laughed and then he set his phone down and looked at you.

"thank you," he said. "for staying."

"it’s your birthday."

"that’s not why you stayed."

you looked at him. sunoo registered more than he let on. you’d always known that about him—that the warmth wasn't surface level, that he was quietly watching things, quietly filing them away.

you didn't have a response.

and he kissed you. one hand coming up to your face, soft, unhurried. not impulsive—deliberate. when he pulled back he looked at you the same way he had before, just with something more open in it.

"i’ve been wanting to do that for a while," he said.

you felt the question you weren't saying. he heard it anyway.

"i didn’t want to get it wrong," he said simply. "i needed to be sure."

"were you?"

he looked at you. "yeah."

you laughed softly. he smiled—full, bright—and handed you the last trash bag like the moment could just exist without becoming a whole thing. that was sunoo. he knew how to hold something carefully and still make it feel easy.

YANG JUNGWON

late night study sessions with jungwon had a rhythm. you’d start focused, productive, and then somewhere around the two hour mark it would start dissolving—not because either of you stopped trying, but because there's a limit to how long you can look at the same material before your brain starts refusing.

tonight was no different. notes across the table, laptop open, two cold coffees nobody finished. jungwon had his pen but hadn’t written anything in a while.

"i’ve lost it," you said.

"same." he closed his notebook. "take a break."

you leaned back. stared at the ceiling. he stayed where he was, quiet, and you'd known him long enough to know what that particular quiet mean’t—that he was thinking about something he hadn’t said yet.

you looked over at him.

he was already looking at you.

he leaned across and kissed you—and it wasn't brief. it started soft and then neither of you stopped it when you could have, and by the time you pulled back the room felt different. smaller. the lamp on the table was the only light, and jungwon was still close, and there was nothing composed about his expression.

he didn't say anything right away.

you looked at him. he looked back at you with that expression he had—the one that was almost neutral but not quite, the one that mean’t he was quietly pleased about something.

"you kissed me back," he said.

"you kissed me first."

"i know." a small pause. "you still kissed me back."

you opened your mouth. he tilted his head slightly, waiting, and there was something unbearably composed about him considering his ears had gone a little pink.

"jungwon—"

"i’m just stating it," he said. "for the record."

"you’re so—"

"accurate?" he offered.

you gave him a look. he smiled—small, controlled, losing the battle slightly—and turned back to his notebook like the matter was settled.

"ten more minutes," he said. "then we can talk about it."

"we're talking about it now—"

"ten minutes." he was definitely smiling at the page now. "i’ve been patient this long."

NISHIMURA RIKI

you'd been at it for a while—trading tiktok videos back and forth, the kind of spiral where one leads to another and fifty minutes disappear. niki had good taste in what he sent you. you’d noticed a while ago that he always watched your face before looking back at his phone.

you put yours down at some point and your eyes landed on the chrome hearts on his dresser—rings, a couple necklaces, laid out like it was nothing.

"can i try one on."

he looked up. "yeah, which."

you pointed at a longer necklace, a cross pendant. he picked it up and moved behind you to put it on, hands coming over your shoulders to fasten the clasp.

you looked at yourself in the mirror. it sat heavy. looked right.

niki was still behind you, looking at you in the mirror. you caught his eye in the reflection for just a second and then he leaned down and kissed the side of your face—not your cheek, not your lips, somewhere between. quiet and quick.

you went still.

you turned around slowly.

"did you just kiss me."

"mhm."

"just—mhm?"

"what do you want me to say." he picked up his phone. put it back down. picked it up again. "it happened."

you stared at him. he was doing a very convincing impression of someone who was fine.

"niki."

"what."

"you’re on your phone."

"i’m always on my phone."

"you haven’t looked at it once."

he looked at it. aggressively. at nothing. you watched him scroll for two seconds and lock it.

"okay," he said, setting it face down. "yeah. i kissed you." he met your eyes finally, expression completely flat except for the fact that he'd now said that sentence twice in ten seconds. "and?"

"and i’m just—you kissed me and then picked up your phone—"

"i was giving you a moment to process."

"you were hiding."

"i don’t hide."

"niki—"

"i was giving myself a moment to process," he said, with great dignity.

you looked at him. he looked back at you, chin slightly raised, completely committed to the bit while also clearly waiting for you to say something that actually mattered.

"okay," you said.

he blinked. "okay as in."

"okay as in i didn’t want you to stop."

he nodded once. slowly. like he was taking that in and filing it somewhere.

"cool," he said.

"cool?"

"cool." he reached out and straightened the pendant on you, eyes down, the smallest smile happening on his face that he was not going to acknowledge. "cool."

you shook your head. he finally looked up and the smile got slightly less deniable.

some things don't need more words than that.

secret bf jungwon who holds your hand under tables the first time he did it, you nearly shot up in your seat from the sudden warmth that covered you. you and jungwon were sat next to each other, having dinner with a few of your friends. one moment your attention was focused on listing out potential meal orders, and the next second, you were all too aware of jungwon sat closely next to you, his fingers grazing softly over your knuckles, gauging your reaction to see whether this was okay, before ultimately closing in. you felt your heart take a leap, your own hand soon tightening the hold on your boyfriend’s as the both of you tried to hide your obvious smiles that were definitely not because of the alfredo chicken shown on the menu.

secret bf jungwon who pulls you aside to make-out a friendly gathering usually meant that you and jungwon would be engrossed in conversation amongst your friend group. that was prior to your relationship, as now friendly gatherings consisted of jungwon eyeing you down several times, waiting for the right moment to strike. you felt him without seeing him, his hand tugging at your wrist before you got dragged off to the quiet that was the empty kitchen. “jungwon wha-” your words would get smothered by the sudden press of his lips against yours. you never had the time to brace yourself, and you don’t think you’d ever get used to it—the way he kissed you with such feverish need, as if you disappeared from him for far too long. “hi.” he’d mumble against your jaw, marking the outline of his smile onto you.

secret bf jungwon who subtly flirts with you for someone who agreed on keeping your relationship hidden, jungwon seemingly couldn’t find it in him to fully commit to it. he was shameless, in various ways. but especially with his not-so discreet way of flirting with you. at first it was little things, small compliments about your appearance varying from “you look good today” to “you look cute in that.” it used to not get much of a reaction out of you or even others—until he grew bolder. practically flaunting your secret. “i bet that one tastes nice when kissing.” he once ‘observed’ when you and your friend were busy discussing lipglosses. it rendered you speechless, and you friend’s jaw had actually fell in shock. and that was only the beginning "i think you should kiss it.” when jay accidentally gave him a paper cut. “she’s mine.” when someone joked about dating you. albeit not very direct, it was still enough to have your friends gushing over his ‘obvious like for you.’ if only they knew.

secret bf jungwon who suggests you sit on his lap truthfully, there was enough space in the car for one more person to squeeze in. but jungwon, the opportunist that he is, didn’t miss a beat when he tugged you by your sleeve. “sit.” he pulled you closer towards his body, his legs spread ready in invitation. you nearly let out a gasp at the sudden move, your head shooting up to scope out the audience that was watching the two of you. “jungwon” you warned under your breath, though to no avail. he didn’t listen. of course he didn’t. with a final tug, he’d managed to pull you into him, your body angled awkwardly on top of him. “is everything okay?” your friend had asked warily, as if interrupting a sacred moment. “it’s okay, i offered her to sit with me.” jungwon spoke for the both of you, his eyes never leaving yours that were obviously more panicked than his. no one said anything, but you could definitely feel the secret glances sent your way throughout the whole ride as you sat atop your boyfriend, his fingers lightly drumming against the side of your thighs.

secret bf jungwon who gets defensive over you jungwon wasn’t unfamiliar with the art of playful teasing, hell, he might even be a master at it. but all signs of teasing would conveniently leave his body when it comes to you. and god forbid someone tries to poke fun at you in a way he fears might come off insulting. “that’s not funny.” he’d deadpan, and suddenly the light mood turned more tense than needed. “dude, chill. i’m just joking.” they’d usually defend back, and jungwon would hum. his eyes scanning your face for any signs of discomfort. only when he was 100% sure that whatever the person said in fact didn’t bother you, would he let his guard down and pretend like nothing happened. like he didn’t just let obvious jokes fly over his head on purpose. “right.” he’d sigh out, and everyone would look at him weird, because it wasn’t like yang jungwon to be against jokes towards friends. but you weren’t just a friend. if only they knew.

secret bf jungwon who gets smug when people appreciate you jungwon loves showering you with compliments, but even more so, he loves hearing praise coming from those around him when it comes to you. it was like music to his ears. hearing your friends call you beautiful, which you were. jungwon thinks you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. hearing others say you’re too kind, which was true. jungwon wishes the whole world could experience the way you treat others with kindness. and his favourite of them all—how your future husband will be lucky to have you. because yes, jungwon would be. and he would make sure that any other possible husbands wouldn’t find their way into your life. because as selfish as it was, only he wishes to be your lucky future, a dream he already preaches as your unknown boyfriend.

secret bf jungwon who gets jealous when it came to the aspects of a secret relationship, the one thing jungwon might loathe with all his heart is the fact that he has to be subjected to you talking to others. though never romantic, jungwon can’t help the way his chest tightens and the twinge of jealousy he feels whenever he spots you talking to another guy. take jake for instance, jungwon likes jake. but why was he stood so close to you? why did he have the biggest grin on his face? and what could you possibly be talking about for this long? if feeling this way wasn’t already enough, his inability to hide his sour moods probably caused even more suspicions. “you’re frowning.” jay saw. jungwon couldn’t even fight the furrow between his eyebrows from forming. “it’s nothing.” jungwon mutters, but it was everything. and if it wasn’t for your constant assurance with words and actions, jungwon might think he’ll snap one day and let the whole world know you’re his.

jungwon is lying right beside you, hair messy and sticking up in every direction, face peaceful in sleep. you’re both fully clothed (thank god), but that doesn’t stop the absolute terror flooding your system. this is his bedroom. you remember fragments of last night too many shots, loud music, jungwon laughing as he dragged you onto the dance floor, promising he’d take care of you. but after that? blank. complete blackout.

oh no. oh god no.

“jungwon…” your voice comes out as a cracked whisper, shaky and terrified. you shake his shoulder gently at first, then harder when he doesn’t stir right away. “jungwon, wake up. please.”

he hums sleepily, eyes fluttering open. those familiar cat-like eyes focus on you, and for a second he just blinks, processing. then a serious expression settles over his face. he props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with an intensity that makes your stomach drop.

“what… what happened last night?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper, already dreading the answer. your hands are clutching the blanket. “did we… did we sleep together?”

jungwon stays quiet for a long moment, his gaze steady and unreadable. the suspense is killing you. he doesn’t smile, doesn’t crack a joke like usual. instead he lets out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his messy hair as if he’s trying to find the right words.

“yeah… we did,” he says finally, voice low and serious. “we slept together.”

your soul literally leaves your body. the room spins. you feel like you’re about to pass out, heat rushing to your face as a million panicked thoughts crash through your head at once. best friends. drunk. what if everything is ruined now. what if he regrets it. what if—

“you were really into it too,” he continues, tone grave, eyes never leaving yours. “kept saying my name and everything. couldn’t keep your hands off me.”

you’re going to die. right here. right now. your mouth opens, but no sound comes out, just a pathetic little squeak as you stare at him in pure horror.

jungwon holds the serious face for a few more agonizing seconds, watching the way your eyes widen and your cheeks burn. he loves this look on you. the complete and utter panic mixed with embarrassment. it’s too good. his lips twitch.

then he breaks.

a loud burst of laughter escapes him as he collapses back onto the pillow, clutching his stomach. “oh my god— your face! you actually believed me!” he wheezes, tears forming at the corners of his eyes from how hard he’s laughing. “we didn’t do anything, you idiot! you were so drunk i had to carry you back here. you passed out the second your head hit the pillow. i just slept next to you because you wouldn’t let go of my shirt and kept mumbling ‘don’t leave me alone, wonnie’ in the cutest voice ever.”

you stare at him, relief crashing over you so hard your body goes limp. “yang jungwon, i swear to god i’m going to kill you,” you groan, grabbing a pillow and smacking him with it while your heart is still racing a mile a minute.

he’s still laughing, dodging half-heartedly as he grabs your wrists to stop you. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry! but you should’ve seen your face — it was priceless. i couldn’t resist.”

you flop back down beside him, covering your burning face with both hands while he continues chuckling softly beside you. after a moment he tugs one of your hands away gently, still smiling that mischievous cat smile.

“for the record… if we ever do sleep together, i promise it won’t be when we’re blackout drunk. and you’ll definitely remember every second of it.”

you peek at him through your fingers, heart doing a stupid little flip at the teasing tone mixed with something softer underneath. “you’re the worst best friend ever.”

“yeah, but you love me,” he grins, pulling you closer so your head rests on his chest. “now go back to sleep.”

you grumble something about wanting revenge later, but you’re already relaxing against him, the relief and familiar warmth of your best friend making the morning feel a lot less terrifying.