simpforjae(you)n

You're on your side, one hand curled under your chin, the other flung over the duvet like you'd reached for him in your sleep and found empty air. Your hair is a mess. There's a crease on your cheek from the pillowcase. Your lips are parted the tiniest bit, and your breath is so quiet he has to lean in to hear it.

He leans in. Presses his mouth to your temple, just barely, just enough for you to feel warmth if you were awake to feel it, and then he rolls out of bed.

The floorboards in the hallway are the enemy. He knows which ones creak: the third one from your bedroom door, the one at the top of the stairs near the linen closet, two consecutive ones outside Haneul's room. He's mapped them out over years of late nights and early mornings, and he navigates them now in his socks, stepping over the worst ones like he's walking through a minefield of sound.

Haneul's door is cracked open. He eases it wider and peeks in — his daughter is starfished across her toddler bed, one foot hanging off the edge, her stuffed rabbit crushed against her chest. She's three and sleeps like she's fighting a war. Jay crouches next to the bed and brushes her bangs off her forehead.

"Haneul-ah," he whispers. "Baby. Wake up."

She doesn't.

He tries again, this time with a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Haneul. Come on, my little bear."

She makes a sound like a grumpy cat and swats at his hand without opening her eyes. He almost laughs, he can see where you get your morning disposition from, but he swallows it and tries once more, softer this time, his thumb rubbing her tiny shoulder through her pajamas.

"Mama's special day," he murmurs. "We gotta make breakfast, remember? You said you wanted to crack the eggs."

That gets her. One eye cracks open. Then the other. Her face does something magnificent, confusion, then remembrance, then pure, incandescent excitement, and she's sitting up so fast her rabbit falls off the bed.

"Eggs," she whispers, but it comes out like a scream that's been stepped on.

"Shh, shh, shh—" Jay claps a hand over her mouth, grinning. "Quiet. Mama's sleeping."

She nods against his palm, eyes huge, and he lifts her out of bed. She weighs almost nothing. She always wraps her arms around his neck when he picks her up, always tucks her face into his shoulder, and he's never once in his life gotten tired of it.

Down the hall, the nursery. Dohyun is standing up in his crib, hanging onto the railing, already awake — he always is at this hour, like his internal clock knows dawn is his territory. When he sees Jay and Haneul, he opens his mouth and Jay says, very calmly, "No," which makes Dohyun's face crumple in offense before it can even become a wail.

"I know," Jay says, lifting him one-armed while Haneul clings to the other side. "I know, buddy. But Mama's sleeping. Quiet voice, okay?"

Dohyun is twenty months old and does not have a quiet voice. But he seems to understand the gravity of the situation, or at least he's distracted by Haneul's pajama sleeve, because he reaches over and grabs a fistful of it and doesn't scream.

The kitchen is dark when they get there. 

Jay settles Dohyun into his high chair, the one with the faded dinosaur sticker on the tray that Haneul put there six months ago and nobody could bring themselves to peel off, and crouches down to look Haneul in the eye.

"Alright. You remember the plan?"

She nods, bouncing on her heels.

"What do we do first?"

"Flowers!" she says, too loud, and claps her hand over her own mouth this time. He can see you in her, the way she catches herself, the way her eyes go wide like oops — it's so exactly you that it knocks the breath out of him for a second.

"Right. The flowers are already on the table. I got them yesterday, remember? After work." He tilts his head toward the dining table, where a bouquet of white peonies and soft blush ranunculus sits in your grandmother's old ceramic vase, wrapped in brown paper he hasn't untied yet because Haneul wanted to be the one to do it. "What's next?"

"Eggs."

"Eggs. And what else?"

"Pancakes with the—the—thingy, um—" She frowns, searching. "The faces."

"The faces, that's right." He grins. "Alright, let's do it."

He cracks two eggs into a bowl and lets Haneul whisk them with a fork. 

She's meticulous about it, her little tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth the same way yours does when you're reviewing case files, and she only splashes a tiny bit onto the counter. Jay wipes it up without comment.

The pancake batter is from the container in the fridge, he made it last night after you fell asleep, standing in the dark kitchen at midnight in his boxers, stirring and then washing every single dish and putting it back so you'd never know. 

He pours small circles onto the pan, and Haneul stands on her step stool next to him, watching with her chin on the counter, whispering "flip it, flip it, flip it, flip it, daddy," every time the bubbles appear.

Dohyun gets banana slices. He mashes them into the high chair tray with both fists, and Jay lets him. 

That's what the dog is for, Miso, their old golden retriever, who materializes under the high chair like she has a sixth sense for falling food and sits there thumping her tail against the floor.

When the pancakes are done, Jay lets Haneul arrange them on the plate. She puts two in the center, banana slices for eyes, a strawberry slice for the mouth, blueberries in a zigzag that she apparently says is hair. It looks like a happy monster. It looks like something you'd frame.

"Perfect," he says, and he means it.

He pours your coffee into the mug that says Attorney in gold lettering — the one your law partner got you as a joke when you made partner yourself, the one you use every single morning even though it's chipped on the rim and the gold is flaking off the R. 

He adds exactly one sugar and enough cream to turn it the color you like, the color you described once as "cloudy" and he described as "the exact shade of your skin in winter" and you threw a pillow at him for.

He plates everything. Pancakes. Eggs, scrambled the way you like, soft and wet. Fruit. Coffee. 

A single white peony, stem trimmed, laid across the napkin. And the envelope — the one Haneul drew on for forty minutes yesterday while you were on a call, the one she insisted on gluing glitter onto even though Jay said it would get everywhere, which it did; he's still finding glitter on his dress shirts.

Under the envelope, wrapped in tissue paper printed with tiny hearts: the earrings.

He found them three weeks ago. You'd been scrolling on your phone in bed, half-asleep, and you stopped on a photo and turned the screen to him. "Aren't these pretty?" you said, already half-distracted by something else. "The droopy kind. Teardrop shape. I've always wanted a pair in gold."

You forgot you showed him. He didn't.

They're fourteen-karat gold, delicate, teardrop-shaped drops on fine chains, the kind that caught light when you turned your head, the kind that moved when you laughed. 

He'd had them gift-wrapped at the store and then unwrapped them at home because the store's wrapping job wasn't good enough, and then wrapped them again himself with the heart tissue paper and a ribbon he had to watch a YouTube tutorial to tie properly.

He puts the wrapped box behind the plate, props the envelope against the coffee mug, and looks at the table. Haneul is vibrating with excitement. Dohyun has a few banana slices on his eyebrows.

"Ready?" Jay whispers.

Haneul nods so hard her whole body wiggles.

"Okay. Go get Mama."

You wake up to a small hand patting your cheek and a voice saying "Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama."

"M'awake," you mumble, and Haneul's face blooms into a smile so bright it could replace the sun. 

She grabs your hand and pulls, and you let yourself be dragged out of bed, through the hallway, past the family photos on the wall you keep meaning to reorder, down the stairs with Miso bounding ahead of you like this is the best day of her life too.

And there's Jay, standing in the kitchen in his socks and the grey henley you stole from him last week and he stole back, leaning against the counter with Dohyun on his hip and a smile on his face that is so soft, so unbearably fond, that you stop walking.

"Happy Mother's Day," he says.

The table. The flowers. The food. The envelope with glitter everywhere. The small wrapped box. The coffee in your chipped mug. The pancake monster with its blueberry hair. The morning light through the kitchen window catching the edges of everything like it knows this is supposed to be golden.

"Oh," you say, and your voice cracks on it.

Haneul tugs your hand. "I cracked the eggs, Mama. Both of them."

"You did?"

"Both. And I didn't splash. Only a tiny splash. Daddy wiped it."

"That's—wow—you did so good, baby." You crouch down, and she throws herself into your arms, and you hold her and look up at Jay, and his smile hasn't changed, not even a little — he's looking at you like you invented the concept of morning, like the sun came up because you walked into the room.

"Open it," Haneul says, squirming out of your arms and pointing at the envelope. "Open it open it open it."

The envelope with glitter everywhere. 

Inside, a card — construction paper, folded crookedly, with a drawing of three stick figures: one very tall, one medium, one very small, and a yellow blob that might be Miso. Above them, in Haneul's wobbly handwriting, the words MOMY I LUV YOO SO MATCH and below that, in Jay's handwriting, smaller: And I love you more than my vocabulary could ever be able to encapsulate. Every day. — J

You stare at it. Your eyes are burning.

"Open the box!" Haneul says.

You open the box. The tissue paper crinkles. The ribbon falls away. And there they are — gold teardrops on fine chains, delicate and warm and exactly what you pointed at on your phone screen three weeks ago and forgot about.

"Jay—"

"You showed me," he says, shrugging, like it's nothing, like remembering things you forget about yourself isn't the entire point. "I figured you'd forget you showed me. You always forget."

You're going to cry. You can feel it building, the heat behind your eyes, the shake in your chin. You haven't even had your coffee yet. This isn't fair.

He must see it, because he crosses the kitchen in two strides, shifts Dohyun to one arm, and cups your face with his free hand. His thumb brushes your cheek.

"No crying," he says, quiet, just for you. "It's too early for crying. We have a whole day."

"I'm not crying."

"You're about to cry."

"I'm not." You are. "These are—they're so, so perfect."

"I know." He kisses your forehead. "Come on. Eat your monster pancake before Dohyun decides to share his banana with it."

After breakfast, he doesn't let you touch the dishes.

"Jay, I can at least—"

"You can at least sit on the couch and drink your coffee."

"It's cold now."

"I'll make another one."

"No? I can still drink it, besides I can make my own—"

"Sit." He says it gently, with a kiss to the top of your head, and you sit, because sometimes the only thing to do with Jay in this mode is surrender.

He does the dishes. He does the dishes while Haneul sits on the counter "helping," which is basically just rinsing the same spoon over and over, and Dohyun plays with a plastic cup on the floor. He makes you another mug of coffee. He cuts up an apple for the kids. He wipes down the table. He puts the flowers in the vase properly, unties the brown paper, fluffs the peonies with his fingers like he watched a florist do once.

You sit on the couch with Miso's head on your lap and watch him move around your kitchen like he was built for it, like being a CEO is his job but this, this is what he actually is.

When the dishes are done and the kids are set up with crayons at the coffee table, he sits next to you. Close. His arm around your shoulders, your feet in his lap. He rubs your ankle with his thumb, absent and warm.

"What do you want to do today, sweetheart? Anything? Any plans?" he asks.

"I don't know actually. Anything, really. This is already—"

"No," he says. "Not 'anything.' What do you want? Specifically."

"I don't—Jay, you already got me the earrings, and breakfast, and the flowers—"

"That's the kids' side. That's for this morning. I'm asking about the rest of the day. Afternoon, evening, you name it."

You look at him. He looks back at you. His eyes are steady and certain, the way they are in boardrooms, contract negotiations, and every single time he's decided something is going to happen.

"Whatever I want?" 

"Whatever you want, sweetheart."

"Like—shopping?"

"Like anything. Shopping. Appliances store. The park. A different store. Four different stores. I don't care. Today you point at things and I get them, got it?"

"You're absolutely absurd, Jay."

"Hey! No, I'm consistent. There's a difference, you know?"

You laugh. You can't help it. He grins, and it's the same grin he gave you six years ago across a bar, when you were a second-year associate too tired to function and he was a stranger who bought your drink and then argued with you about tort law for an hour and a half.

"Okay," you say. "Shopping. But I'm not going crazy."

He doesn't say anything. He just smiles and kisses your temple.

He drops the kids at Yumi's at two. Haneul clings to his leg and he crouches down and promises three times that he'll pick her up before bedtime, that she can stay up late if she wants, that he and Mama are just going out for a little while. Dohyun doesn't care; Dohyun is already trying to eat Yumi's cat's tail. Miso stays home with the back door open to the yard.

In the car, you put your feet on the dashboard. He doesn't say anything about it. He never does. He reaches over and puts his hand on your knee instead, and drives.

The boutique you've been eyeing for months, the one with the silk blouses in the window you always slow down for, he pulls into the lot before you can say anything.

"I saw you looking," he says, turning off the engine. "Every time we drive past. You press your foot on the brake just a little, every single time."

"That's—what in the world, how do you even catch that? I don’t, end of the story."

"Yes, you totally do. You brake-check me for silk."

You get out of the car so he can't see you blush, but he catches up and laces his fingers through yours, and you go in together.

He sits in the armchair by the fitting room. Every time you come out in something new, he gives you a real answer, not it's fine or whatever you want but actual opinions, specific ones, the kind that mean he's paying attention. 

He tells you the sage green dress makes your shoulders look incredible. 

He tells you the black one is too stiff, you'll hate it by noon. 

He tells you the cream blouse with the tiny buttons is very you, and when you ask what that means, he says "it means you'd wear it to court and think about me when you button it."

You buy the cream blouse. You buy the sage dress. You buy a linen maxi-skirt you don't need and a pair of sunglasses he picks out, silver frames, slightly cat-eyed, because he says they match the new earrings, and you're already wearing them, the teardrops catching the store's warm light every time you turn.

He pays. You tell him you can pay. He pays anyway, card already out, already sliding it across the counter, already taking the bags before the cashier can offer.

"Jay—"

"It's Mother's Day."

"It's not—you don't have to—"

"What’s the harm in spoiling my queen? I know I don't have to. I want to." He says it lightly, but he's already steering you toward the door, bags in hand, one arm reaching for yours.

The second store is makeup. You don’t actually need anything, but the sight of glossy tubes lined up like candy makes you drift toward the lip section anyway.

He follows close behind, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie while you unscrew tester after tester, swiping colors onto the back of your hand until your skin looks like a paint palette.

“You’re running out of space,” he says.

“I’m conducting important research.”

“You’re smearing six shades of pink on yourself.”

“There are differences.”

He hums like he doesn’t believe you for a second, then suddenly reaches over and flips your wrist gently to inspect the chaos of colors. His brows pinch together in exaggerated concentration.

“This one’s too orange.”

“You don’t know what orange undertones are.”

“I know when it makes you look like you ate spicy noodles.”

You snort. “Oh my gosh.”

Before you can grab another tester, he holds his hand out between you both, palm up.

“Use mine.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’re out of skin.” He wiggles his fingers impatiently. “C’mon, makeup artist.”

“That’s literally not sanitary, Jay, I got this.”

“You just used three testers directly from the display.”

“…fair point.”

Trying not to smile too hard, you drag a mauve shade across the back of his hand. The color looks absurdly delicate against his knuckles, and he watches with the seriousness of someone signing legal documents.

“Hm,” he murmurs. “Not the one.”

“You can’t reject it after one swatch.”

“I absolutely can. Next!”

You laugh under your breath and swipe another color beside it, then another, until his hand is covered in glossy streaks of pinks, berries, roses. He studies every single one like he’s on a judging panel.

Finally, he taps one shade with his free hand — a soft warm rose.

“That one.”

“You picked the most normal color here.”

“Because it’ll look good on you.”

“You say that with a lot of confidence for a man who used to head out in baggy hoodies and skinny jeans twenty-four seven.”

“Hey! Sweetheart, they were the thing back then. Now? I’ve left them behind. Besides, I have no distractions. My judgment is pure.”

“You’re insane.”

He closes his fingers carefully so the swatches won’t smear and looks at you completely deadpan.

“Consistently insane. There’s a difference.”

You buy the lip color. And a new setting spray. And a tiny pot of highlighter he picks up and says "this one, you always run out of this one," and he's right, you do always run out of that one, and the fact that he knows that makes your chest hurt in the best way.

The third store is jewelry. Not because you need more, but because you both see a bracelet, a simple gold chain with a single tiny disc, and he picks it up and turns to you and says, "Haneul's birthday's in three months."

"She's three. She doesn't need jewelry yet."

"Not for her. For you, of course. So you have something of hers that you wear." He pauses. "I'll get her name engraved on the disc. Or—a star, or a heart, or something. Whatever you want, sweetheart."

You stare at him.

"What?" he says.

"You’re literally going to make me flood this whole jewelry store with my tears."

"You've cried in worse places, it’ll be fine."

"That was your fault too."

He buys the bracelet. 

He tells the sales associate he'll come back for the engraving. 

Outside, on the sidewalk, he hands you all the bags and cups your face with both hands and kisses you, slow, deliberate, right there in front of the store window and a woman walking her dog and two teenagers on skateboards, and when he pulls back, you're both flushed.

"Where next?" he asks.

You're smiling so hard your face hurts. "What about… oh my gosh, the park! The one with the big willow tree."

He doesn't ask why. He just takes your hand and walks you to the car.

The park with the willows is the one you found on your first year of dating, back when he was just a sharp-suited guy with a nice car and way too many opinions about your brief writing, and you were just a lawyer who couldn't believe he'd argued a motion and won and then texted you about it like a kid with five golden stars. You'd wandered here after dinner, both of you, still buzzy from wine, and sat under the biggest willow and talked until the streetlights came on.

Nothing's changed. The willow is bigger, maybe. The pond still has the same ducks. The bench by the water has been repainted but it's in the same spot, and Jay sits down and pulls you next to him, and the shopping bags go on the ground at your feet, and his arm goes around you, and it's so exactly like that first night that you feel time fold.

“You know,” you say, “you’re annoyingly good at this.”

“At what?”

“Making me feel loved without making it a big thing.”

He smiles a little. “That’s because it isn’t a big thing.” 

He's quiet for a second, looking at the water. Then he turns to you, and his face is different — not the easy grin, not the playful certainty. Something deeper. Something he doesn't bring out often, not because he's hiding it but because it's too real for small moments.

"I think about it sometimes," he says. "The way you move through the world."

You blink. "Huh?"

"The way you—" He stops, starts again. "You argue in court like you're building a house for someone. Brick by brick. You take cases that eat you alive and you carry them anyway because somebody has to, and you come home and you're so tired you can barely keep your eyes open, but you still read Haneul two stories instead of one, and you still rock Dohyun even though he's getting too heavy for it, and you still—you still find my shirts in the laundry and fold them the way I like, even though I've never once asked you to."

Your throat is closing. You can feel it.

"I think about what it would be like if you weren't here," he says, "and I can't. I can't think about it. It doesn't compute. You're the whole structure. You're the thing everything else hangs on. And I know—I know I'm not always good at saying it, absolutely terrible even, and I know I work too much, and I know sometimes I come home and my head is still in the office—but I notice. I notice everything you do. I notice every single thing, and I don't say it enough, and today—today is just me trying to make a dent in what I owe you."

He looks at you. His eyes are steady. His voice is steady. His hand on your shoulder is gentle enough to break something.

"You're the best thing that ever happened to me," he says. "You and Haneul and Dohyun. The three of you. And I'm going to spend my whole life trying to be worth it."

You're crying. Full tears, silent, rolling down your cheeks, and you can't stop them, and you don't even want to. He sees it and his expression shifts — the deep thing tucks itself away, and the other Jay comes back, the one who makes you laugh, the one who knows exactly how to catch you before you fall too far.

"Okay, that's enough of that," he says softly, and thumbs the tears off your cheeks. "I wasn't trying to make you a mess. I was trying to be romantic."

"You were romantic. You are romantic, Jay. I'm just—"

"You're crying on Mother's Day. That's a violation."

"A violation of what exa—"

"Of the official Mother's Day rules. Section four, paragraph two: no tears allowed on the designated day of spoiling." He wipes another tear with the pad of his thumb. "I'm going to have to issue a citation."

You laugh. It comes out wet and messy, and he smiles, and the smile is so warm you can feel it in your bones.

"There she is," he says. "Come on. The ducks are judging you."

You look over. A duck is, in fact, looking at you from the pond with a sort of flat judgment.

"That duck has nothing to say about my emotional state."

"That duck is a living being. Therefore, that duck is capable of forming its own opinions, and he has some about you."

You lean into him, and he pulls you closer, and you sit there under the willow until the light goes amber, until the shopping bags have tipped over on the grass, until the duck loses interest and swims away.

Dinner is at the Italian place situated at the heart of the city. The one with the bad lighting and the incredible pasta and the owner who knows both of you by name because you've been coming here since before Haneul, since before the house, since before anything except the two of you and the feeling that this might be real, might be.

Jay orders your wine without asking. The carbonara. A chocolate mousse for dessert, two spoons. He eats half his rigatoni and then swaps plates with you like he always does because the carbonara is better and he knows you'll want it but won't order it for yourself.

You tell him about a case you're working on. He listens the way he always does, fully, completely, like what you're saying is the most important thing in the room, and asks questions that are smart and specific, because he's been listening to you talk about law for six years and he's learned enough to be dangerous.

He tells you about a deal that fell through. You tell him it's fine, it happens. He says it's not fine, he wanted it, and you tell him the next one will be better, and he looks at you like you've just handed him the answer to something.

The chocolate mousse comes. You eat it with two spoons. He gets cream on his lip and you wipe it off with your thumb and he catches your hand and kisses your knuckles, and the couple at the next table smiles at you both like you're something worth looking at.

The drive home is quiet.

The windows are down, just a crack, and the night air is cool on your face. 

His jacket is over your shoulders, he put it there when you got in the car, didn't ask, just draped it and adjusted the collar and turned back to the road. 

In the cup holder between you: two ice cream cups from the place you remembered your childhood friend dreamily talk about, the one that stays open late, the one you discovered when you were pregnant with Haneul and craved mint chocolate chip at eleven p.m. and he drove forty minutes to get it.

He'd driven forty minutes tonight, too. Without you asking. Because he remembers.

You lean your head against the window. The gold earrings shift against your neck. On your wrist, the new bracelet catches the streetlights as they pass, gold chain, tiny disc, blank for now but not for long. On your finger, your wedding ring. On the seat beside you, bags from four different stores. In the cup holder, ice cream. In the driver's seat, your whole entire life, one hand on the wheel and the other reaching over to rest on your knee like it belongs there.

Because it does.

"Hey," he says, not looking away from the road.

"Hey."

"Good day?"

You look at him, the line of his jaw, the henley sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the way his hair is falling after a full day of you running your hands through it, and you think about all of it. 

The eggs Haneul cracked. The pancake monster with its blueberry hair. The flowers. The earrings. The cream blouse and the sage dress and the lip color he chose for you. The bracelet with the empty disc. The bench under the willow. His voice, low and sure, saying you're the best thing that ever happened to me. The tears and the duck and the way he made you laugh exactly when you needed to. The chocolate mousse with two spoons. The jacket on your shoulders. The ice cream in the cup holder.

"Good day," you say.

He squeezes your knee. You close your eyes.

The road unspools ahead of him. The city blurs past. The car hums. And you are so full — of him, of the day, of the kind of love that doesn't just hold you up but builds the ground under your feet — that you don't think you could fit another single thing inside you.

Then he says, quiet, almost to himself, like he's checking: "More than Father's Day?"

You open your eyes. He's smiling. That smile — the one that's only for you, the one that makes you feel like you invented the sun.

"So much more than Father's Day," you say.

"Good." He looks at you, quick, then back at the road. "Because I've already got next year planned."

"You're impossible to deal with."

"A better way to word it is that I’m consistent, sweetheart, there's a—"

"Difference. I know."

He laughs. You laugh. 

Miso's going to lose her mind when you walk through the door, and Haneul is going to want to show you the crayon drawing she made at Yumi's, and Dohyun is going to reach for you the second he sees you, and tomorrow is Monday and there are briefs to file and deals to close and the whole ordinary machinery of your life waiting to start up again.

But right now, you are the most spoiled woman on the planet, and you're not even a little bit sorry about it.

⭐️ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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💿 ࿐ . . every summertime by niki

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

The email had sounded simple enough when you first read it half-awake in bed that morning. Student accessibility services is assigning you as a peer aide for the spring semester. Flexible hours. Escorting between classes when needed. Organizational support. Occasional note-taking. The pay wasn’t terrible, and you needed another campus job anyway, so you accepted before really thinking about what it meant.

You regretted that decision a little when the counselor slid a thin folder across the desk and said, carefully, “He’s… not always easy with new people.”

The folder had almost nothing inside. Just a student profile and a class schedule.

Lee Chanyoung.

Preferred name: Anton.

Under accommodations, there was a longer list than you expected. Extended testing time. Alternative presentation formats. Excused absences during periods of overstimulation. Selective mutism.

“He usually communicates through typing,” the counselor explained. “Or writing. Sometimes verbally, but not often. Don’t pressure him to speak if he doesn’t want to.”

You nodded slowly.

“He’s very intelligent,” she added quickly, like she felt the need to defend him before you’d even met him. “He just struggles with certain social situations and transitions. Some aides have had difficulty because they expected him to respond in typical ways.”

Typical ways. You almost laughed.

“So what exactly am I supposed to do?”

“Mostly help him navigate campus life. Keep him on schedule. Make sure he actually eats sometimes.” Her expression softened faintly. “He responds well to consistency.”

That part stayed with you for the rest of the afternoon.

Consistency.

By the time you found the humanities building, the campus had settled into that gray lull between morning and evening classes. Wet footprints marked the tiled floors from the rain outside, and the air smelled faintly like old books and coffee grounds. You checked the room number twice before knocking lightly against the open classroom door.

Nobody answered.

Inside, students packed their bags noisily while the professor erased the whiteboard. Near the back corner, separated from everyone else by two empty seats, sat a boy with pale headphones hanging around his neck and a cardigan slipping off one shoulder. He was staring at his laptop screen with complete focus, fingers motionless over the keyboard as if he’d forgotten mid-thought what he intended to type.

You recognized him immediately without needing the student ID photo.

He was prettier than you expected.

Not handsome, exactly. Pretty in the way porcelain figures were pretty. Delicate wrists disappearing into oversized sleeves, soft mouth slightly parted in concentration, dark lashes low against his cheeks. His hair looked impossibly soft, falling over his eyes in uneven layers that almost hid his expression completely.

The room gradually emptied around him.

He didn’t move.

You approached carefully, suddenly hyperaware of your own footsteps. “Anton?”

His shoulders tightened immediately.

Not dramatically. Just enough for you to notice.

He looked up after a second, though not directly at you. His gaze stopped somewhere near your chin instead, uncertain and fleeting. Up close, he looked younger than a college student should’ve. There was something guarded about him, but not cold. More like someone constantly bracing for discomfort.

You offered your name gently. “I’m your student aide this semester.”

His expression didn’t change.

Then slowly, he reached for his phone.

The silence stretched long enough to become awkward before the screen lit up with typed words.

| You’re late.

You blinked. “Late?”

He turned the phone toward you properly this time.

| You were supposed to come at 2:40.

You checked the clock instinctively. It was 2:47.

“Oh.” Heat crawled up your neck. “Sorry. The office took longer than I thought.”

Anton stared at you for another quiet second before looking away again. Not dismissively. More like he’d already filed the interaction away somewhere in his head.

You noticed then that he had arranged everything on the desk with impossible precision. Laptop centered. Pens aligned parallel. Water bottle label facing outward. Even the edges of his papers stacked perfectly flush together.

Without warning, he stood.

You nearly stepped back from how sudden it was.

He slid his bag over one shoulder, then paused beside you awkwardly, fingers curling once against the strap. Waiting.

“For me?” you asked before thinking.

A tiny nod.

Right. Escorting between classes.

You followed him out into the hallway, trying not to make it obvious you were observing him already. He walked quietly, head lowered slightly, one hand tucked into his sleeve. Students brushed past in loud clusters, backpacks bumping into shoulders, sneakers squeaking against the floors. Every time someone came too close, Anton subtly shifted away before contact could happen.

He didn’t speak once. You weren’t sure if you were supposed to fill the silence or leave it alone.

“So… what’s your major?” you tried eventually.

Anton pulled out his phone again without stopping his pace.

| Composition and media studies.

“You like music?”

Another pause.

Then:

| I like beautiful things.

You glanced at him.

He remained completely serious.

Something about the answer caught you off guard. Not because it was strange, but because of how plainly he said it, like beauty was an objective category instead of a vague preference.

“What counts as beautiful?”

This time he took longer to respond. You could almost see the processing happening behind his eyes.

Finally, he typed:

| Certain voices.

| Clean piano sounds.

| Rain before it gets dirty.

| People with kind mouths.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

Before you could answer, a group of students burst through the stairwell doors laughing loudly. The sound ricocheted sharply through the narrow hallway. Anton flinched hard enough that you noticed immediately.

His hand caught your sleeve.

Not your wrist. Not your hand. Just the fabric near your elbow.

The contact seemed unconscious.

His fingers twisted lightly into the material while his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder, unfocused and distant for a moment. You could feel how tense he’d suddenly become, every muscle drawn tight beneath layers of soft fabric.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly without thinking.

Anton blinked once.

Then slowly looked down.

Like he’d only just realized he was touching you.

He released your sleeve immediately, but not before his fingertips dragged against your arm through the fabric. Light. Careless. Intimate in a way he clearly didn’t understand.

A faint pink flush spread across the tops of his ears. Not embarrassment exactly. More like confusion.

Neither of you mentioned it.

By the time you reached the music building, rain had started again outside the tall windows, turning the campus silver-gray. Anton stopped near the entrance to his next class, shifting his bag higher onto his shoulder while students filtered around both of you.

You waited for some kind of goodbye.

Instead, he stared briefly at the charm hanging from your bag. A tiny cat keychain.

His eyes lingered on it with open concentration.

Then he reached out suddenly and touched it with careful fingertips. Softly rubbing the plush fabric between his fingers once. Twice.

The movement was so absentmindedly gentle it startled you.

“It was from a friend,” you explained quietly.

Anton nodded faintly but didn’t let go immediately. His thumb brushed across the worn stitching near the ear before he finally withdrew his hand back into his sleeve.

Then he typed something quickly and turned the screen toward you.

| I don’t like most textures.

You looked at the message, then at him.

“But you like that one?”

A pause. Another small nod.

For the first time since meeting him, something in his posture loosened slightly around you. Not trust yet. Nothing that simple. But maybe curiosity.

The classroom door opened behind him.

Anton glanced toward the sound before looking back at you briefly, eyes flickering near yours but never fully meeting them.

Then his phone buzzed softly in his hand. Another message already typed before he turned away.

| You should arrive at 2:40 next time.

-

You spent the rest of the day thinking about him against your will.

Not in the embarrassing way your roommate immediately assumed when you mentioned meeting “a pretty quiet boy” during dinner, but in the persistent, nagging way people stayed in your head when you couldn’t fully understand them. Anton didn’t behave like anyone you knew. Every interaction with him felt slightly mistimed, like his responses existed half a step outside the rhythm everyone else moved to. He wasn’t rude. If anything, he seemed painfully aware of other people at all times. He just reacted differently, processing everything somewhere deeper and slower before deciding what to do with it.

You found yourself replaying small details while brushing your teeth that night. The way he’d described beautiful things with complete sincerity. The careful alignment of objects on his desk. The confused look on his face after grabbing your sleeve, like he genuinely hadn’t realized touching someone unexpectedly might mean something.

At exactly 2:38 the next afternoon, you walked into the humanities building carrying two coffees and an unreasonable amount of awareness about being on time.

Anton was already there. Of course he was.

He sat in the same corner seat from yesterday, laptop open, headphones on this time. His fingers hovered over the keyboard without moving while students shuffled noisily around him. Even from across the room, he looked disconnected from everything else inside it, tucked into his own atmosphere entirely.

You approached quietly. “Hi.”

He looked up immediately.

Not at your eyes. Never your eyes. His gaze caught somewhere near your mouth before flickering away again. His headphones slipped down around his neck as he noticed the drink tray in your hands.

“I didn’t know what you liked,” you admitted, setting one coffee carefully beside his laptop, “so I guessed.”

Anton stared at the cup for several long seconds.

You suddenly wondered if maybe you’d broken some invisible routine and made a terrible mistake.

Then he reached out and turned the cup slowly until the logo faced away from him.

Only after adjusting it did he pick it up.

His fingers were slender, almost delicate-looking, silver rings glinting softly beneath the fluorescent lights. You noticed his nails were neatly trimmed and slightly glossy, as if he buffed them absentmindedly.

He took one cautious sip.

Then another.

A pause.

His phone appeared in his hand a second later.

| Vanilla is acceptable.

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

Anton blinked at the sound, attention catching on your face immediately. Not startled exactly. Focused.

“You sound like you’re reviewing a product.”

He watched you type something into your own phone for class notifications while processing the joke several beats too late. You saw the exact moment understanding landed.

The corners of his mouth lifted faintly.

Tiny. Brief. But unmistakable.

It transformed his whole face.

Before you could comment on it, students started filing into the room more aggressively, conversations overlapping loudly enough that the atmosphere shifted from quiet to crowded within seconds. Anton’s posture changed almost immediately. His shoulders rose subtly. His hand tightened around the coffee cup. The soft crease forming between his brows looked more uncomfortable than irritated.

A boy dropped heavily into the seat beside him without noticing.

Anton froze.

Not metaphorically. Completely.

The student kept talking to his friend across the aisle, elbow spreading over the shared desk space while Anton sat perfectly rigid beside him, fingers curling tighter inside his sleeves.

You looked between them.

Then gently said, “Hey, I think he needs a little more room.”

The student blinked. “Oh. Sorry.”

He shifted over carelessly.

Anton still didn’t relax.

His breathing had gone shallow enough that you noticed it immediately now that you were paying attention. You leaned down slightly toward him.

“Do you want to wait outside until class starts?”

For a second you thought he might ignore you completely.

Then his hand moved under the desk and lightly caught the edge of your cardigan sleeve.

The same way he had yesterday.

Small. Quiet. Automatic.

You waited while he gathered his things with stiff movements before leading him back into the hallway. The moment the classroom door shut behind you both, some of the tension visibly left his body.

You leaned against the wall beside him. “Does crowded noise bother you?”

Anton nodded once.

Rain pattered softly against the windows nearby. Students passed through the corridor in uneven waves, but it was quieter here, the sounds more spread out and manageable.

After a minute, Anton typed something.

| He smelled too strong.

You blinked.

“Oh.”

| And his coat kept touching mine.

The seriousness of his expression nearly made you smile again. Not because it was funny to him, but because he explained discomfort so literally. No exaggeration. No attempt to make himself sound easier or more reasonable.

Just facts.

“You don’t like being touched?”

Anton stared at the screen for a long moment after reading the question.

Then slowly typed:

| I don’t mind when I know it’s happening.

Your heartbeat stumbled embarrassingly hard at the memory of his hand around your sleeve yesterday.

Before you could respond, the classroom door opened again. Students began settling down for lecture, voices quieter now.

Anton made no move to return inside.

“You still have class,” you reminded gently.

His gaze dropped toward the floor tiles.

Then his phone lit up.

| You come too.

“You want me to sit with you?”

A pause. Tiny nod.

Technically, student aides weren’t supposed to attend lectures unless necessary, but the way Anton stood there waiting made refusal feel strangely impossible. He shifted slightly closer while students continued walking around you both, the sleeve of his cardigan brushing your arm for half a second before he stepped away again.

You followed him back inside.

This time, Anton chose seats in the very back row.

You noticed he picked the one nearest the wall.

He sat down first, then hesitated oddly before placing his bag on the opposite side instead of between you. Like he’d considered creating distance and changed his mind halfway through.

Throughout the lecture, he barely looked at the professor. Instead, he typed constantly, notes impossibly organized across his laptop screen. Color-coded. Timestamped. Every heading perfectly aligned.

About twenty minutes in, you noticed movement beside you.

Anton had gone still again.

His fingers rested motionless over the keyboard while his attention fixed somewhere ahead, unfocused. The lecture hall lights buzzed faintly overhead. Someone behind you kept clicking their pen repeatedly.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Anton’s jaw tightened almost invisibly every time the sound repeated.

Without really thinking about it, you reached into your bag for your spare earbuds and placed them gently beside his laptop.

He looked down at them.

Then at you.

“They’re noise cancelling,” you whispered.

Anton stared for such a long time you thought maybe he wouldn’t take them.

Finally, he picked one up carefully between his fingers.

Not putting it in yet. Just feeling the smooth plastic surface.

His thumb brushed over it slowly.

Then, unexpectedly, he placed it back down and typed something instead.

| You notice too much.

You frowned slightly. “Is that bad?”

He read your lips while you spoke, eyes fixed there with quiet concentration.

Then he shook his head once.

A few minutes later, without warning, his shoulder tipped lightly against yours.

Not enough pressure to seem intentional.

Just there.

Warm through layers of fabric.

Anton continued typing with complete focus like he hadn’t noticed the contact at all.

You became aware of his shoulder long before you became aware of the lecture again.

Not because the touch itself was dramatic. It wasn’t. Anton barely leaned into you at all, just enough for the warmth of him to settle against your arm through the fabric of your sweater. But there was something dangerously intimate about how unconscious it seemed. He wasn’t testing boundaries or searching for reassurance. His body had simply decided you were easier to exist beside than everyone else in the room.

And apparently, that was that.

The professor’s voice blurred into background noise while rain streaked slowly down the windows. Anton kept typing steadily, expression soft with concentration. Every few minutes he paused to adjust something tiny: the angle of his pen, the brightness of his screen, the cuff of his cardigan slipping over his wrist. His movements were precise in a way that felt practiced rather than obsessive, like the world only stayed manageable if things remained arranged correctly.

The clicking pen behind you finally stopped.

Anton relaxed almost immediately afterward.

You weren’t sure why noticing that made your chest ache a little.

When class ended, students shoved chairs back noisily and crowded toward the exits in impatient waves. Anton didn’t move. He stayed seated beside you while the room emptied around him, fingers still resting on the keyboard even after the screen dimmed from inactivity.

“You okay?” you asked quietly.

His eyes lifted toward you briefly before drifting away again.

Then he typed:

| There are too many transitions in one day.

You read the sentence twice.

It was such a strange way to describe exhaustion, but somehow it made perfect sense. You thought about how often people expected immediate adjustment from one thing to another without hesitation. Loud cafeteria to silent lecture hall. Crowded sidewalks to empty dorm rooms. Conversation to isolation. Most people did it automatically.

Anton probably felt every shift like stepping between different temperatures.

“That sounds tiring,” you said softly.

His gaze flickered back toward your face then, lingering there a fraction longer than usual. You got the unsettling feeling he wasn’t used to people responding like that. Not dismissing him. Not trying to correct or simplify what he meant.

Just accepting it.

Outside, the rain had worsened into a steady silver downpour. Students hurried across campus beneath umbrellas while water gathered along the sidewalks in shallow reflective puddles.

Anton stood beside the building entrance staring outside with visible hesitation.

“You don’t have an umbrella?” you guessed.

He shook his head once.

“You could’ve checked the weather.”

A pause.

Then his phone appeared.

| I did.

| It said 40%.

You stared at him for a second before laughing again despite yourself. Anton’s attention snapped toward the sound instantly, distracted from the rain.

“What?”

His brows pulled together faintly.

| Why do you keep doing that?

“Doing what?”

| Making that noise.

“Oh.” You smiled a little. “Laughing?”

He considered the word carefully, like matching it to memory.

Then:

| You laugh more quietly than most people.

Something about the observation felt far too intimate for someone you’d known less than two days.

Before you could answer, Anton stepped out into the rain without warning.

“Wait—”

Cold droplets immediately soaked into the dark fabric of his cardigan, dampening his hair within seconds. He didn’t seem to care. Or maybe he cared and didn’t know what to do about it. You hurried after him beneath your umbrella, catching up just as he crossed the sidewalk toward the arts building.

“Anton.”

He slowed.

“You’re getting soaked.”

He looked down at his sleeve like he’d only just noticed the rainwater spreading through it.

Then he typed while still walking.

| I like rain before people touch it.

You almost told him that made no sense before remembering who you were speaking to.

“What does that mean?”

Anton paused near the crosswalk, watching water rush along the curb in thin rippling streams.

For a while, he didn’t answer. Cars hissed past on wet pavement while students crowded beneath awnings nearby. You thought maybe he’d abandoned the thought entirely.

Then:

| Rain is clean when it first falls.

| Afterward it becomes campus rain.

You looked at him carefully.

His hair clung damply against his forehead now, soft dark strands curling slightly at the ends from the moisture. There was something vulnerable about him standing there in the middle of the gray afternoon looking entirely consumed by a thought no one else would ever have.

“You think about things strangely,” you murmured before you could stop yourself.

The moment the words left your mouth, regret hit hard.

Anton’s expression changed immediately.

Not dramatically. Just quieting.

His fingers stilled against his phone screen.

You opened your mouth quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

But he was already looking away from you.

Shit.

The walk to the arts building suddenly felt much longer.

Anton stayed half a step ahead the entire time, cardigan sleeves pulled over his hands again. You replayed your sentence over and over in your head, trying to figure out exactly where it had gone wrong. You hadn’t meant strange in a bad way. If anything, talking to him felt oddly refreshing compared to the exhausting predictability of everyone else.

But maybe he’d heard that before.

Maybe people had spent his entire life calling him strange.

By the time you reached the building entrance, guilt sat heavily in your stomach.

“Anton.”

He stopped but didn’t turn around fully.

“I’m sorry,” you said carefully. “I wasn’t making fun of you.”

Silence.

Rain hammered softly against the glass doors nearby.

Then Anton finally looked toward you, eyes lowering automatically before they could meet yours completely. Up close, you noticed faint water droplets caught in his lashes.

His phone lit up slowly.

| I know.

But he still looked hurt.

The realization unsettled you more than it should have.

You stood there awkwardly while students brushed past into the building around you. Anton readjusted the strap slipping off his shoulder with damp fingers, movements slower than usual now.

Then, unexpectedly, he stepped closer.

Close enough that your umbrella tilted awkwardly backward from the movement.

His hand appeared near your sleeve again.

Not grabbing this time.

Just touching the wet fabric lightly between two fingers.

“You’re cold,” you said quietly.

Anton blinked once, looking down at where rainwater darkened the cuff of your sweater too.

After a few seconds, he typed:

| You came into the rain anyway.

You weren’t sure why that sentence lingered so heavily in your chest afterward.

Maybe because he said things so plainly that they stopped sounding plain at all.

You came into the rain anyway.

Like it meant something.

Anton followed you silently into the arts building, water dripping softly from the ends of his sleeves onto the polished floors. The lobby buzzed with low conversation and distant piano scales echoing from somewhere upstairs, students moving between practice rooms carrying instrument cases and sheet music folders pressed against their chests. Compared to the rest of campus, the building felt strangely warm, almost sleepy, lit gold by old hanging lamps instead of harsh fluorescents.

Anton visibly relaxed the moment the doors shut behind you.

Not entirely. He never seemed entirely relaxed. But his shoulders lowered slightly, and his breathing evened out again beneath the soft hum of music drifting through the hallways.

“You have class here?” you asked.

Small nod.

“What kind?”

He typed one-handed while wringing rainwater absentmindedly from the cuff of his cardigan with the other.

| Composition lab.

That explained the major, at least partially. You tried imagining him making music and immediately could. Not performance. Nothing loud or attention-seeking. Something intricate and emotional and probably far too beautiful for most people to understand properly.

A girl passing through the lobby slowed suddenly when she noticed Anton.

“Chanyoung!”

He stiffened instantly.

She either didn’t notice or pretended not to. “Professor Kim was asking where your revised arrangement went. Did you ever email it?”

Anton’s gaze dropped toward the floor.

Three seconds passed.

Five.

The girl’s smile faltered slightly as the silence stretched.

You watched panic build subtly beneath Anton’s expression, not dramatic enough for most people to catch. His fingers curled tightly into the soaked fabric hanging over his hands. His lips parted once without sound emerging.

He was trying.

Your chest tightened.

“He probably hasn’t had the chance yet,” you answered gently before the silence could become humiliating.

The girl blinked toward you like she’d forgotten other people existed. “Oh.”

Anton remained completely motionless beside you.

“Well…” She laughed awkwardly. “Tell him Professor Kim’s been emailing.”

Then she hurried off down the hallway.

The second she disappeared around the corner, Anton exhaled softly through his nose.

Not relief exactly. More like recovery.

You looked at him carefully. “You don’t like when people expect answers right away.”

His eyes shifted toward you. Then downward again.

After a moment, he typed:

| Sometimes words don’t arrive before the moment is over.

The sentence hit you so hard you almost forgot to breathe for a second.

You wondered suddenly how many people mistook his silence for indifference when really it was delay. Like his emotions and thoughts existed behind glass slightly thicker than everyone else’s.

“That sounds frustrating,” you said quietly.

Anton stared at the phone screen after reading your response. His thumb hovered near the keyboard as if he intended to say more.

But instead, he slipped the phone back into his pocket.

A nearby piano stumbled through the same wrong note three times in a row from one of the practice rooms upstairs.

Anton visibly winced.

“You can hear that from here?”

Tiny nod.

“That’s kind of impressive.”

Another wince at the fourth mistake.

Then, unexpectedly, he reached for your wrist.

Not dramatically. Not even fully.

His fingertips just settled there lightly, cool from the rain, before he began guiding you toward the staircase without explanation.

The contact shocked you enough that you followed automatically.

Anton climbed the stairs quietly, still holding your wrist with absentminded gentleness the entire way. Not possessive. Not nervous. Casual in the way someone might carry an object they’d already decided belonged beside them.

Meanwhile your heartbeat had become humiliating.

On the third floor, the hallway narrowed into rows of small soundproof practice rooms with rectangular windows set into each door. Music spilled unevenly through the walls anyway — violin scales, fragments of jazz piano, someone singing warmups badly enough to make Anton’s nose wrinkle slightly.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

He noticed immediately.

“What?”

Anton tilted his head faintly.

“You make expressions even when you don’t talk much.”

A pause.

Then he let go of your wrist abruptly like he’d only just remembered he was touching you at all.

The sudden absence of warmth felt strangely noticeable.

Anton stopped outside one of the practice room doors and pushed it open carefully. Inside sat a keyboard, two chairs, scattered sheet music, and little else. The room was dimmer than the hallway, insulated from most of the outside noise.

You stepped inside after him.

“This is yours?”

He nodded once, already moving toward the keyboard.

The room changed him somehow.

Not personality-wise. More like the tension he carried around campus loosened in specific places here. His movements became smoother, more instinctive. Comfortable.

Anton sat down on the bench and adjusted the sleeves falling over his hands before resting his fingers lightly against the keys.

Then he froze.

You waited quietly.

After a few seconds, he typed into his phone again without looking up.

| You can sit.

“Oh. Right.”

You settled into the chair nearby while rain tapped softly against the narrow window beside the piano. Anton remained still for another long moment, staring at the keys with intense concentration.

“You don’t have to play for me,” you said gently, suddenly worried he felt pressured.

He shook his head immediately.

Then finally, he played.

The first notes were so soft you almost missed them.

Not a melody at first. Just careful fragments unfolding slowly beneath his fingertips, delicate and thoughtful and strangely lonely. The sound filled the small room without overwhelming it, each note lingering long enough to feel intentional. Anton’s expression changed while he played. Not happier exactly, but clearer somehow. Like music translated things his body couldn’t organize into speech quickly enough.

You watched his hands move across the keyboard.

Beautiful hands, honestly.

Long fingers. Silver rings glinting faintly under the dim lights. Sleeves slipping down toward his knuckles every few seconds before he impatiently pushed them back again mid-song.

The music deepened gradually, weaving into something fuller and aching enough that your chest hurt unexpectedly listening to it.

Anton never looked at you once while he played.

But somehow it still felt like being let inside something private.

When the final note faded, silence settled gently back over the room.

You realized only then that you’d stopped moving entirely.

“That was really pretty,” you whispered.

Anton stayed motionless at the keyboard.

Then slowly:

| You keep using that word.

“Pretty?”

A tiny nod.

You smiled faintly. “Do you not like it?”

For the first time since meeting him, Anton actually looked close to nervous.

Not externally. You were just beginning to recognize the signs now — the slight tension in his jaw, fingers rubbing together beneath oversized sleeves, gaze fixed stubbornly on the piano keys.

Finally, he typed carefully.

| No one usually means it kindly.

Something inside you softened painfully at that.

The practice room suddenly felt smaller, quieter, the rain outside reduced to a dull silver murmur against the windows. Anton kept his eyes lowered toward the keyboard after showing you the message, shoulders slightly hunched like he regretted saying it at all.

You thought about him walking across campus with his oversized cardigans and careful posture, about the glossy shine on his nails, the silver rings, the softness he didn’t bother hiding even though people probably noticed immediately. You could already imagine the kind of comments college boys made when someone didn’t fit neatly into whatever version of masculinity they found acceptable.

“You know I mean it kindly,” you said gently.

Anton didn’t respond right away.

His fingers drifted absentmindedly across a few silent piano keys without pressing hard enough to create sound. Thinking. Processing. You were beginning to realize he often needed silence the way other people needed conversation.

| I know now.

Now.

Not before.

Your chest tightened again.

Before you could answer, voices echoed loudly down the hallway outside the practice rooms. Several students passed by laughing, the sound muffled but sharp enough to pull Anton immediately out of whatever calm the piano had given him. His posture straightened. His hands stilled.

One of the voices paused near the door.

“Oh, he’s in there.”

Another laugh. “Of course he is.”

The doorknob rattled lightly.

Anton froze so suddenly it almost frightened you.

Not fear exactly. Anticipation. Like his body had learned to brace before his mind even caught up.

The door opened halfway before either of you could react. Two boys from what looked like an ensemble class leaned inside casually, both carrying instrument cases.

“There you are,” one of them said. “Kim keeps emailing about your arrangement.”

Anton’s gaze dropped instantly toward the floor.

Neither of them acknowledged you at first.

“You gonna answer him this year or what?” the other joked.

Silence.

You watched Anton’s fingers slowly curl into the sleeves covering his hands.

The first guy sighed awkwardly after a few seconds. “Right. Sorry.”

But he still lingered there waiting, clearly expecting some kind of response.

Anton’s throat moved faintly.

Nothing came out.

You could almost feel the pressure building inside the room.

“He said he’ll send it,” you interrupted quietly before the silence could turn cruel.

Both boys finally looked toward you.

The second one blinked. “Oh.”

Then, lowering his voice slightly but not enough, “Does he just not talk ever?”

The question landed heavily.

Anton remained perfectly still at the piano bench beside you, expression unreadable now in that way you were beginning to hate because it meant he’d withdrawn somewhere unreachable.

“He talks,” you answered before thinking. “Just not whenever people demand it.”

The room fell quiet.

One boy looked embarrassed immediately. The other shifted awkwardly against his instrument case strap.

“Right,” he muttered. “Whatever.”

They left a second later, the door clicking shut behind them.

Silence rushed back in.

Anton still hadn’t moved.

You exhaled slowly, anger simmering hotter in your chest than it probably should have after only two days of knowing him. “They were being rude.”

Nothing.

“Anton?”

His hand moved toward his phone slowly.

Then stopped halfway there.

Instead, he pressed both sleeves against his mouth briefly, eyes fixed somewhere distant across the room. Processing again. You could see it happening now — the delayed impact arriving piece by piece after the interaction already ended.

When he finally typed, the message appeared slower than usual.

| They weren’t trying to be mean.

“That doesn’t make it better.”

Anton stared at the screen after reading that.

Then:

| Most people become uncomfortable eventually.

The matter-of-factness of the sentence hurt more than self-pity would’ve.

Like he’d accepted it as inevitable.

“Well, I’m not uncomfortable.”

The room went very quiet.

Anton blinked once.

Then again.

You got the distinct feeling you’d said something unexpectedly important.

His attention lifted toward your face slowly, cautiously, eyes stopping just short of yours like always. For a second he looked almost disoriented, as if he didn’t know where to place the statement inside his understanding of people.

Then his phone buzzed softly in his hand.

| Not yet.

The words startled a laugh out of you before you could stop it.

Anton watched your reaction immediately, shoulders loosening just slightly at the sound.

“You’re kind of mean, you know that?”

A pause.

Then:

| You laugh when you aren’t upset anymore.

You stared at him.

Anton stared back in that indirect way he had, gaze hovering near your mouth while he read your expression carefully. Observing. Cataloging.

“You notice everything,” you murmured.

He processed that silently.

Then typed:

| Only things I need to remember.

The air in the room suddenly felt too warm.

Before you could recover, Anton stood from the piano bench in one smooth movement and crossed toward the stack of papers scattered near the music stand. He crouched to reorganize them with immediate focus, aligning the corners carefully against the floor before clipping them together.

You watched him for a second before kneeling automatically to help.

Anton went still beside you.

“What?” you asked.

His eyes flickered toward your hands gathering the loose sheets.

Then toward your knees pressed against the carpet beside him.

Finally:

| You don’t have to do that.

“It’s literally two papers.”

He kept s taring anyway.

Up close like this, you noticed how long his lashes were again. Ridiculously long, honestly. They cast faint shadows against his cheeks whenever he looked downward.

Without thinking, you reached over and brushed a damp strand of hair away from his eyes.

The second your fingers touched him, Anton stopped breathing.

Not metaphorically.

Actually stopped.

Your hand froze too.

His skin was cold from the rain. Soft.

You should’ve pulled away immediately.

Instead, both of you stayed there for one horribly suspended second, Anton staring at you with open confusion written across his face. Not discomfort. Something more startled than that, like his brain had failed to categorize what just happened.

Then, slowly, very carefully, he leaned forward.

Just slightly.

Into your hand.

Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt.

Anton didn’t seem to notice the effect he had on people when he did things like this. Or maybe he noticed reactions without understanding where they came from. Either way, the movement was small enough that another person might’ve missed it entirely — the faint tilt of his head against your palm, the way his eyes lowered halfway shut for a second like he was concentrating on the sensation.

Soft.

That was the first thought that hit you.

Not just physically. His entire presence felt soft in ways the world probably hadn’t handled gently.

Then realization flickered across his expression.

Anton pulled back immediately.

His hand came up halfway toward his face before stopping awkwardly in the air. You watched confusion move through him in real time, slow and visible behind his eyes as he tried to process the interaction after it had already happened.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, dropping your hand back into your lap. “I shouldn’t have just—”

Anton shook his head hard enough to interrupt you.

Not upset. Just overwhelmed.

He stared down at the papers scattered between you both, fingers tightening once around the edge of a music sheet before he typed something with abrupt intensity.

| Don’t apologize for touching me if it was kind.

The sentence settled heavily between you.

You looked at him carefully. “Has nobody ever told you there’s a difference?”

Anton frowned faintly.

“Between wanted touch and unwanted touch.”

He went still again.

Not frozen this time. Thinking.

You could practically watch him sorting through memories and information behind his eyes, reorganizing old experiences against the new wording. After a long silence, he typed slowly:

| People usually touch me accidentally.

Something about that answer made your chest ache.

You thought suddenly about crowded hallways brushing against him, strangers shoving past without warning, uncomfortable handshakes, impatient taps on the shoulder when he didn’t respond quickly enough. Touch that happened to him instead of for him.

And maybe because Anton processed emotions later than everyone else, maybe by the time discomfort fully arrived, the moment had already passed.

“That’s not the same thing,” you said quietly.

He read the sentence twice.

Then:

| You ask before doing things.

You almost pointed out that you hadn’t asked before touching his hair, but Anton continued typing before you could.

| Most people decide things for me first.

The practice room felt unbearably quiet after that.

Outside, someone played scales down the hallway while rain tapped steadily against the narrow windows. Anton gathered the rest of his papers into a neat stack again, movements slower now, attention split somewhere deeper inside himself.

“You think about people a lot, don’t you?” you asked softly.

He glanced toward you.

Then away.

A tiny shrug.

After a moment:

| I have to study people longer than other people study me.

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Because it was true, probably.

Most people would look at Anton once and make immediate assumptions. Quiet. Strange. Awkward. Difficult. Sensitive. Meanwhile he seemed to spend enormous amounts of energy trying to understand everyone around him properly while they rarely extended the same patience back.

Your eyes drifted toward the music sheets in his lap. The notes were impossibly neat, handwritten annotations arranged with color-coded precision along the margins.

“You really like organizing things.”

That earned the faintest reaction from him. Almost defensive.

| Things behave better when they’re organized.

You smiled slightly. “People don’t?”

Immediately, before even typing:

“No.”

The sound startled you both.

Anton’s eyes widened a fraction.

It was the first time you’d heard his voice.

Quiet wasn’t even the right word for it. His voice sounded soft in the same way fabric could be soft, low and airy from disuse, almost careful around the edges. Like speaking required more physical effort for him than most people realized.

For a second neither of you moved.

Then color rose slowly into Anton’s cheeks.

He looked away so quickly it almost gave you whiplash.

You tried not to react too strongly, suddenly aware that if you made a big deal out of it he might retreat completely.

But your heartbeat was going insane.

“You’re right,” you said gently, pretending your pulse wasn’t stumbling all over itself. “People are kind of impossible.”

Anton kept staring stubbornly at the floor.

The blush spread all the way to the tips of his ears now.

You bit back a smile.

“You have a nice voice.”

The reaction was immediate.

Anton’s shoulders drew up slightly, like the compliment physically struck him somewhere sensitive. He tucked his hands deeper into his sleeves and focused aggressively on aligning the papers again even though they were already perfectly straight.

Interesting.

“You don’t like compliments?”

A pause.

Then, quietly this time, barely above a whisper:

“I don’t know.”

You almost melted directly into the carpet.

Anton seemed startled by his own answer too. His throat moved faintly afterward, like he was still adjusting to the unfamiliar feeling of speaking aloud. But he didn’t fully shut down again. If anything, he looked more disoriented than distressed.

“You don’t know if you like compliments?”

Tiny shake of his head.

“Why not?”

He reached for his phone again, clearly more comfortable typing complicated thoughts than saying them.

| Sometimes people compliment me because they think I’m strange.

| Like observing an animal that learned something impressive.

Your expression must’ve changed because Anton immediately looked down again.

“I wasn’t doing that,” you said quietly.

He nodded before you even finished.

| I know.

That I know sounded different now too. More certain than earlier.

You sat there for another moment listening to the muffled music outside before your phone buzzed with a calendar reminder.

Work shift. Ten minutes.

“Shit,” you muttered, checking the screen. “I have to go.”

Anton’s attention lifted immediately.

“I forgot I’m covering someone at the library tonight.”

The atmosphere shifted so subtly you almost thought you imagined it.

Not disappointment exactly.

But something adjacent to it.

Anton looked toward the rain-streaked window automatically before typing:

| You don’t like leaving in the middle of things either.

You stared at him.

“No,” you admitted softly. “I guess I don’t.”

For a second he just watched you gather your bag and jacket. Or rather, watched your hands. Anton seemed to focus on hands often, you realized suddenly. Movements. Gestures. The physical shape of emotion instead of eye contact.

When you stood, he stood too.

Immediately.

Like it was obvious he should.

“You don’t have to walk me out,” you said.

Anton blinked once, confused.

Then:

| I know.

But he still followed you anyway.

The hallway outside the practice room had grown quieter by the time you left, most classes already in session. The muffled sounds of instruments still drifted through the walls in uneven fragments — piano chords from somewhere downstairs, a violin stopping and restarting the same passage over and over again, distant laughter echoing briefly before fading down another corridor.

Anton walked beside you without speaking.

Not awkwardly silent. Just present.

You were beginning to realize there was a difference with him.

Most silence between people felt empty because both parties waited for someone to fill it. Anton’s silence felt occupied already, crowded with observation and delayed thoughts and tiny details he seemed to absorb constantly without comment. Walking beside him made you hyperaware of your own movements in return — the squeak of your shoes against the polished floor, the shift of your bag strap on your shoulder, the warmth lingering in your palm from where he’d leaned into your touch earlier.

You tried very hard not to think about that too much.

At the stairwell landing, Anton stopped suddenly.

You nearly walked past him before turning back. “What?”

He looked distracted by something over your shoulder. Following his gaze, you noticed a girl descending the stairs carrying a bouquet wrapped in pale pink paper. Tiny white flowers peeked through the plastic.

Anton stared openly.

Not at the girl. At the flowers.

The intensity of his focus almost made you smile.

“You like those?”

His attention flicked back toward you, caught.

Then he nodded once.

“They’re just baby’s breath.”

Another small shake of his head this time. Incorrect.

Anton typed carefully while still watching the bouquet disappear downstairs.

| They look soft.

Of course that was his reason.

You wondered if he categorized the world entirely through sensory feeling. Soft. Sharp. Loud. Beautiful. Wrong. Safe.

The realization made him seem somehow even more vulnerable.

As you continued downstairs, Anton drifted closer beside you whenever groups of students passed in the opposite direction. Not enough to touch. Just enough that his sleeve brushed your arm occasionally before he corrected the distance again. Like his body naturally sought proximity before his mind remembered it was supposed to maintain space.

By the first floor lobby, the rain outside had softened into a fine mist coating the windows silver.

You adjusted your bag strap. “I’ll see you tomorrow before your lecture?”

Anton nodded immediately.

Then hesitated.

You could tell by now when something was stuck inside him trying to become language.

His fingers moved once against the edge of his sleeve before he finally typed:

| You don’t have to keep talking when I stop responding.

“Oh.”

You frowned slightly. “Was I talking too much?”

He looked alarmed instantly and shook his head hard enough that damp strands of hair fell into his eyes again.

Quickly:

| No.

| Most people become uncomfortable with silence.

You stared at the screen.

Then at him.

“Do you?”

Anton seemed genuinely confused by the question.

| With silence?

“Yeah.”

A long pause.

| Silence is easier because nobody expects immediate versions of you.

The words settled somewhere deep in your chest.

Immediate versions of you.

You thought suddenly about every rushed conversation you’d ever had, every moment people interrupted each other or filled pauses before anyone could truly think. Anton moved through interactions like someone translating feelings manually while everyone else operated automatically.

No wonder he got exhausted.

“You think really beautifully sometimes,” you murmured before you could stop yourself.

Anton went still. Not tense. Just attentive in that startlingly complete way he had.

Then slowly, carefully, he typed:

| You say things to me like they aren’t dangerous.

The comment confused you for half a second before understanding arrived.

Compliments. Kindness. Gentleness.

Things he’d apparently learned to handle cautiously.

Your chest ached again.

“Well,” you said softly, “they aren’t dangerous.”

Anton looked at you for a very long time after that.

Not direct eye contact. You still weren’t sure he’d ever fully meet your eyes comfortably. But his attention stayed fixed near your face with unusual steadiness, expression unreadable beneath the soft fluorescent lobby lights.

Then someone entered the building loudly behind you both, the door slamming harder than necessary.

Anton startled.

Not dramatically, but enough that his hand caught the fabric of your sleeve again automatically.

The movement happened so naturally now that neither of you reacted immediately.

His fingers stayed there lightly curled against your wrist while he glanced back toward the entrance, orienting himself. You looked down at the contact for a second before lifting your eyes toward him again.

Anton followed your gaze belatedly.

A flush spread across his face almost instantly.

He released you carefully this time instead of jerking away.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

The second the word left his mouth, surprise crossed his expression again. Like he still wasn’t entirely deciding when speech happened.

You smiled a little despite yourself. “You don’t have to apologize every time you touch me.”

Anton stared.

You watched the sentence process in real time.

Slowly. Dangerously.

His lips parted slightly before closing again. He looked down toward his own hand like it had become unfamiliar to him somehow.

Then his phone appeared.

| I think about it afterward.

“What part?”

| Whether I was supposed to know something.

Your heartbeat stumbled.

“About touching?”

Tiny nod.

The honesty of it nearly killed you.

You leaned against the wall slightly, trying to steady yourself before answering. “Most people attach meaning to physical affection.”

| Even small things?

“Yes.”

His brows pulled together faintly.

| That seems exhausting.

You laughed softly before you could help it. “It can be.”

Anton watched your face with quiet concentration.

| When you touch me it feels calm.

| So afterward I don’t understand why everyone makes those things complicated.

The entire world seemed to tilt sideways for one horrifying second.

Anton, meanwhile, looked completely sincere.

No flirting. No awareness of the effect he’d just had on you. He said things the way people described weather patterns — observationally, honestly, without understanding how intimate they sounded once spoken aloud.

You were absolutely doomed.

Before you could respond, Anton’s phone buzzed sharply in his hand. The sudden sound made him flinch slightly before checking the screen.

His expression shifted immediately.

“What is it?”

He turned the phone toward you.

A calendar notification.

Dinner — 6:00 PM

Underneath it, another smaller reminder:

Eat full meal. Not snacks.

You blinked.

Then looked at him slowly. “Did someone actually schedule meals into your phone?”

Anton took the phone back.

After a moment:

| I forget.

“You forget to eat?”

Tiny shrug.

| Other things are louder.

-

You looked at him for a moment longer than necessary after that.

Other things are louder.

Anton said sentences like they were simple facts, then left you standing there trying to recover from the weight of them afterward. You wondered if he had any idea how revealing he sounded sometimes, how easily little pieces of himself slipped into conversation before he could recognize them as personal.

Probably not.

“Have you eaten today?” you asked carefully.

Anton’s silence answered first.

You stared at him. “Anton.”

Another pause.

Finally:

| A banana.

“Since when?”

His eyes drifted upward slightly, thinking.

| Morning.

Your chest tightened in immediate irritation. “That’s not enough.”

He looked mildly confused by your tone, like your concern had arrived too intensely for him to categorize right away. You were beginning to notice that too — strong emotion seemed to make him pause longer, processing each word more carefully before deciding how to react.

“I mean…” You exhaled, softening your voice. “No wonder you’re tired.”

Anton leaned lightly against the wall beside you, cardigan sleeves pulled over his hands again while students passed through the lobby in scattered groups. He looked genuinely thoughtful now, considering your statement with unusual seriousness.

| I didn’t notice until you said it.

“That you were hungry?”

Small nod.

You weren’t sure why that made you sad.

Maybe because Anton seemed disconnected from his own body half the time, noticing discomfort only after it became impossible to ignore. Hunger. Overstimulation. Emotions. Everything arrived delayed.

“Well,” you said, adjusting your bag again, “you should eat before your next class.”

His gaze shifted toward the rain outside immediately.

Avoidance.

“You don’t want to go to the dining hall.”

Another tiny nod.

Too loud. Too crowded. Too unpredictable. You could practically map the reasons out yourself already.

“You could get takeout somewhere quieter.”

Anton didn’t answer.

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “You’re not going to, are you?”

| Eventually.

“That means no.”

Anton blinked slowly, caught.

The expression that crossed his face was so unintentionally cute you almost got angry about it.

Before you could stop yourself, you sighed and said, “Come on.”

He frowned faintly

“Where?”

“There’s a café behind the library that stays pretty empty around this time.”

You watched confusion spread across his expression in stages. Then surprise. Then something more hesitant underneath both.

“You don’t have to,” he said quietly.

The soft sound of his voice caught you off guard again. It was still strange hearing him speak aloud after spending most of the past two days communicating through typed messages and silence. His voice felt intimate somehow. Fragile in a way people instinctively leaned closer to.

“I know,” you said gently. “I want to.”

Anton stared at you for a second too long after that. Then lowered his gaze first.

You were starting to suspect he did that whenever emotions became too large to process immediately.

The walk to the café was quieter than usual because the rain had driven most students indoors. Damp leaves clung to the sidewalks, the entire campus washed gray and silver beneath the evening sky. Anton stayed close beside you without seeming aware of it, occasionally brushing against your shoulder before drifting away again.

At one point, your umbrella tilted slightly from the wind.

Anton adjusted it for you automatically.

Not taking it from your hands. Just reaching up carefully to straighten the angle so the rain stopped hitting your sleeve.

The gesture was so natural it took you a second to even process it.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

He nodded once like the action required no acknowledgment.

The café sat tucked behind the library exactly as promised, warm yellow light glowing through fogged windows. Inside smelled like espresso and cinnamon with soft instrumental music low enough not to overwhelm the room. Only a few students occupied the scattered tables.

Anton stopped just inside the doorway.

You turned toward him. “Too much?”

He looked around carefully.

Then shook his head.

Relief loosened something in your chest.

While you ordered at the counter, Anton lingered several feet away studying the dessert display with complete concentration. Not the food itself, you realized after watching him for a moment.

The colors. The arrangement.

Tiny fruit tarts lined perfectly in rows beneath warm lighting. Frosted cakes decorated with edible flowers. Soft pink macarons stacked like polished stones.

Beautiful things.

You smiled to yourself before ordering.

When you carried the drinks and food back to the table, Anton immediately moved his phone and sleeves out of the way for you with careful precision. You set a sandwich in front of him.

His eyes widened slightly.

“That’s too much,” he murmured.

“It’s half a sandwich.”

“It’s large.”

“You had a banana six hours ago.”

Anton stared at the sandwich like you’d handed him a complicated assignment instead of food.

“You remembered.”

The words landed strangely soft between you.

“Of course I remembered.”

Something changed in his expression again. Small enough that another person probably wouldn’t notice. But you were starting to recognize these tiny shifts now — the way his shoulders loosened when he felt safe, the faint unfocusing of his eyes when emotions became difficult, the careful stillness whenever he was trying to hold onto something internally.

Anton picked up the sandwich obediently after a moment.

You expected him to eat delicately.

Instead, he took one bite and immediately closed his eyes.

Not dramatically. Just briefly.

Processing.

“It’s good?” you asked, amused.

After swallowing, he typed one-handed:

| The bread texture is correct.

You laughed so suddenly a nearby student glanced over.

Anton’s attention snapped immediately toward your face.

Again.

Always again.

He watched your reactions with such complete focus it made your stomach feel strange.

“What?”

His fingers stilled against his phone.

| You laugh differently now than yesterday.

“Oh?”

Tiny nod. Less careful.

You looked down at your drink for a second, suddenly embarrassed by how comfortable you’d already become around him. It had only been two days. Two very strange, emotionally days.

Across from you, Anton continued eating in small precise bites while occasionally glancing toward the rain streaking the café windows. His damp hair had finally begun drying, soft dark strands curling slightly near the ends.

Without warning, he spoke again.

“You touch people a lot?”

You nearly choked on your coffee.

“What?”

Anton looked immediately concerned, like he’d skipped too many conversational steps again without realizing it.

“You…” He paused, visibly searching for the words. “Move close easily.”

“Oh.”

Heat crept into your face embarrassingly fast.

“I mean, not everyone.”

Anton processed that carefully while peeling the wrapper from his straw with meticulous attention.

“Only people you like?”

You stared at him across the tiny café table while he waited with complete sincerity for an answer, entirely unaware of how loaded the conversation had become.

“I guess so,” you admitted quietly.

Anton nodded once.

Then returned to eating like he hadn’t just destabilized your entire nervous system.

For a while, neither of you spoke again.

The café settled into a comfortable hush around you both, low music blending with the soft hiss of the espresso machine behind the counter. Rainwater crawled slowly down the windows in thin uneven trails, turning the lights outside blurry and gold. Anton seemed calmer here than anywhere else you’d seen him on campus so far. Not fully relaxed — you were beginning to think that state barely existed for him — but settled enough that the constant tension in his shoulders had eased.

You watched him absentmindedly peel the paper sleeve from his straw into perfectly even strips.

Not fidgeting.

Organizing.

His sandwich sat precisely centered on the napkin between bites.

“You always do that?” you asked softly.

Anton glanced up.

“With objects.”

Then his eyes drifted toward the neat pile of paper strips beside his drink.

“Oh.”

He looked faintly embarrassed for the first time all evening.

“I’m making a mess,” he murmured.

“No, you’re not.”

You reached over before thinking and straightened one of the uneven paper pieces he’d missed. Anton went completely still watching your fingers brush the table.

The silence stretched.

“You don’t get irritated by things?”

The question caught you off guard. “What kind of things?”

He gestured vaguely toward the strips.

“The wrongness.”

You looked down at the table.

Then back at him slowly.

“I mean… sometimes.”

Anton waited.

“But not like you do, I think.”

He stared at your mouth while you spoke, expression thoughtful and slightly distant again. Processing. You were getting frighteningly good at recognizing when he’d gone inward like that.

After a moment, he typed:

| Most people say I overreact to discomfort.

The ache in your chest returned immediately.

You wondered how many parts of himself Anton had spent years apologizing for simply because other people experienced the world less intensely than he did.

“Well,” you said carefully, “if something genuinely feels overwhelming to you, then it’s overwhelming. Even if other people don’t understand it.”

Anton stopped moving entirely. Listening.

You saw the exact moment your words landed somewhere important.

His fingers tightened once around the edge of his sleeve before loosening again. Then he lowered his gaze toward the table almost abruptly, like he suddenly needed somewhere else to look.

“You say things softly,” he said after a while.

Your heartbeat stumbled.

“What does that mean?”

Anton frowned faintly, searching.

“Like…” He paused again. “Like you don’t want them to hurt anyone.”

The sincerity in his voice nearly killed you on the spot.

You looked away first this time, pretending to focus on your drink so he wouldn’t notice how flustered you’d suddenly become.

Across from you, Anton continued studying you openly in that indirect way he had. Not eye contact exactly. Attention contact. Total and unnervingly observant.

Then his phone buzzed against the table.

The reaction was immediate.

His shoulders tensed before he even checked the screen.

You watched his expression shift as he read the notification. Not upset. Just… burdened.

“What is it?”

Anton turned the phone toward you after a second.

Mom calling

He stared at the screen while it rang. Didn’t answer.

The vibration stopped after several seconds before immediately starting again.

“You should probably pick up,” you said gently.

Anton looked genuinely distressed by the idea.

“She worries if I don’t.”

“Then answer?”

Another ring.

He swallowed faintly before pressing accept and lifting the phone to his ear.

You looked away automatically to give him privacy, but silence stretched so long you eventually glanced back.

Anton hadn’t spoken.

He sat perfectly still listening to the voice on the other end while his thumb rubbed repeatedly against the edge of his sleeve beneath the table.

Then, very quietly:

“Yes.”

A pause.

“No.”

Another pause.

“I ate.”

Something in your chest twisted at how carefully he said each word, like speech over the phone required even more concentration than face-to-face conversation.

His mother’s voice carried faintly through the speaker, too muffled to understand.

Anton’s gaze drifted toward you unexpectedly.

Then away again.

“Yes,” he whispered after another long silence. “I’m with someone.”

Your stomach flipped embarrassingly hard.

Whatever his mother said next made faint pink rise into his cheeks almost instantly.

“No,” he murmured quickly. “Not like that.”

You nearly inhaled your straw.

Anton looked absolutely horrified the second he realized you’d probably heard that.

His fingers tightened around the phone.

“No,” he repeated, quieter this time. “She’s my aide.”

The sentence shouldn’t have stung. It did anyway.

You hated yourself a little for that.

Another stretch of silence followed while Anton listened again, expression becoming more and more strained by the second. You could almost see the social exhaustion building in real time.

Then finally:

“I know.”

A beat.

“I’ll sleep.”

Another.

“Yes.”

And softer this time:

“Love you too.”

The call ended.

Anton immediately set the phone facedown against the table and exhaled through his nose like he’d been holding tension in his lungs the entire time.

You looked at him carefully. “You okay?”

He nodded automatically. Too quickly.

You didn’t call him out on it.

Instead, you stirred your drink quietly while Anton reorganized the paper sleeve strips again despite already arranging them perfectly. The café lights reflected softly against the silver rings on his fingers.

After a minute, he spoke without looking up.

“She asks if I’ve eaten every day.”

You smiled faintly. “Sounds like she knows you well.”

Anton’s expression shifted strangely.

“She remembers things even when I don’t tell her.”

The words lingered between you both.

Then, after another pause:

“You do that too.”

Your chest tightened so suddenly it almost hurt.

Before you could answer, Anton finally looked up fully enough that his eyes nearly met yours for half a second. It was the closest he’d gotten yet.

“She’ll think…” He stopped, visibly reorganizing the sentence mid-thought. “She’ll think you’re important.”

The café suddenly felt too warm again.

You stared at him across the table while he remained completely sincere, completely unaware of the effect he had when he spoke like this. He wasn’t flirting. He wasn’t testing anything. Anton just said honest things before understanding the emotional consequences attached to them.

And somehow that made it worse.

“What do you think?” you asked quietly before you could stop yourself.

The second the question left your mouth, Anton went still.

Slowly, carefully, his attention fixed near your face again while the entire café blurred strangely around you.

Then, after what felt like forever, he answered in a voice barely above a whisper.

JONGSEONGㅤif given the chance, would kiss you anywhere and everywhere, but your lips hold a special place in his heart— even more ever since you two got married.

“stay still,” you order, a tug at his tie as a warning. it is a ritual for you to do his tie every morning while he admires your pretty face.

and jay would never admit but he likes when you get a little bossy with him. “yes ma’am,”

but then his leans in for a kiss— quick and soft— with a proud grin on his face. “jay—” another kiss, you feel him smiling into it. “—let me do your tie—” and another, with his hands on your waist. “park jongseong!”

he kisses you yet again, this time for a little longer. “can’t help it, darling,”

“you’ll be late for work,”

“i’ll tell them i was busy kissing my beautiful wife,” and with that, his lips are over yours all over again.

JAEYUNㅤkisses your belly and thighs like it’s a ritual. don’t get it wrong, he would kiss your anywhere— there is no one favourite place, just a little preference.

your boyfriend has set his alarm for fifteen minutes earlier because he wants to wake up and smother you in kisses— all the way from your cheeks, lips, chest, then staying for a long, long time on your belly.

“gonna miss you, love,” his words everyday as he gets up for work, little complaints whispered against your skin amidst kisses that trail down to your thighs. “should i quit?”

and you laugh— he loves making you laugh the first thing in the morning. “don’t be silly, jake,”

“right,” he plants a chaste kiss to your inner thighs while his eyes stay fixed on yours. “gotta make sure i earn a lot so i can spoil you,”

SUNGHOONㅤkisses your wrist like a promise, like a confession, and like a warm hug from someone who’s entire world is you.

“rough day?” he senses it the second you walk in through the door, shoulders slumped with exhaustion.

you don’t even have to say it, he is already walking to you, helping you out of your coat, putting away your bag, making you comfortable on the couch.

he takes your hand in his ever so gently then kisses your palms, wrist— his lips linger there a few seconds longer— then the other hand before pulling you into a warm embrace.

“missed you,” just two words from you and you know he will stick to your side for the rest of the night.

SUNOOㅤloves smothering your face with kisses, wanting to drown you in love, but your cheeks have his heart.

“you’re—” his hands cup your face, a kiss planted to both your cheeks. “ —so—” and one more. “ —cute,”

you sigh, pointing at your laptop. “i need to finish this—”

“and pretty,” and he cuts you off efficiently with another kiss to your cheek. “time for a break,”

he has it all planned out: cup of nice tea or maybe your favourite snacks and lots of kisses peppered all over your face, especially your cheeks that he holds carefully in his hands like you’re something precious, because you are.

“you work so hard,” another kiss— forehead then cheek, again, while caressing the other with his thumb. and that’s how evenings are with your fiancé, kisses and praises.

JUNGWONㅤalways finds himself gravitating towards the nape of your neck like a moth to the flame.

like always, his hands snake around you from behind, lips immediately falling over the skin of your nape in a gentle kiss. “you smell so good. new perfume?”

a random question, really. he only wants an excuse to hold you for as long as he can. “yes, i got it a few days ago,”

you continue with your post shower routine and he continues to adore you with little kisses, moving down to your shoulders. “you should wear it more,”

and his lips move over your skin with practiced ease, knowing all the spots that make you shiver— you can feel him smirk when he gets a little sound out of you.

he continues with his little ministrations, hands getting a little risky, might have even left a little mark. “wonie!” and before you could complain further, he is already pulling you to bed.

NI-KIㅤmight be taller than you but his favourite thing is to get on his knees and kiss your waist like a ritual.

or pull you between his legs after a long day as he melts on the couch, losing himself with his face buried in your stomach and waist.

“gosh, you’re so amazing,” a soft, quiet praise falls off his lips— he can compliment you all day, all night. “can never get enough of you, baby,”

thread your fingers through his hair and he sighs ever so gently against your skin, lips mapping your skin inch by inch with feathery kisses of love.

He was handsome, that was certain, no one could deny it. And his council had pressured him to take concubines in addition to a wife to conceive an heir as quickly as possible and secure his lineage. It wasn't something that bothered him, so he took a wife and concubines to live at court.

However, it always degenerated and ended badly. His wife couldn't stand him spending so much time in his concubines' chambers and would end up throwing a fit, jealous and bitter towards the concubines. Sunghoon couldn't stand the shouting and would end up dismissing his wife or worse…

So yeah, no one wanted to get too close to the emperor's private life, especially since after six years, no heir was yet in sight. After two wives, Sunghoon decided to take a third, making Y/N, the eldest daughter of the great Y/L/N family, his wife. When the announcement was made, her mother had long wept over her daughter's departure, not wanting to see her married to the man, but protesting would do nothing.

Y/N hadn't flinched and had bid farewell to her family before climbing into the carriage that took her directly to the royal palace. Servants immediately took her to her private quarters in the East Wing, preparing her for the ceremony.

Dressed in her long red robe, the young woman didn't look up at her husband until the priest asked them to exchange their vows before pronouncing them husband and wife. She had to admit, Sunghoon was a very attractive man, and she could fall for him. But she won't.

The emperor gazed at her, appreciating the woman before him. Sunghoon gently took her hand in his and placed a kiss on it, Y/N gave a small curtsy. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the concubines whispering among themselves, betting on how long she would last against them.

"I will await you in my quarters, husband," Y/N declared, looking Sunghoon straight in the eye and speaking loudly enough for all to hear. "Come or not, I don't care." Sunghoon's eyes widened, not expecting such an affront. His wife bowed to greet him, then turned away, her ladies-in-waiting bowed awkwardly before trotting after her.

Arriving in her room, Y/N immediately removed the hairpins that were pulling her hair, placing them on small velvet cushions. Her ladies-in-waiting exchanged glances, not used to the calm of the emperor's wives. "Empress…"

"Have my suitcases arrived ?" Y/N asked.

"Yes, Empress."

"Can you put my things away ?" she asked, looking at two women. "Lay out my robes by color and put my books in the library, please." They nodded and quickly got to work while the other two helped her remove her robe. "I'd like to take a bath. I haven't been able to wash after that long journey, I had to go straight to my wedding."

"I'll heat some water right away, Empress."

"Take your time, I'm in no hurry." In her silk robe, the new empress stretched out on a sofa, her legs delicately folded, a book in her hand. Her attendants worked in silence, throwing her sideways glances. Her bath finally ready, Y/N removed her robe and entered the tub, immersing herself in the water.

The hot water relaxed her, and she closed her eyes, resting her head against the edge of the basin. She could feel her ladies-in-waiting's stares and sighed. "Speak, I can feel your stares from across the room."

They stepped forward cautiously, as if expecting a fit of nerves instead of calm. "Your predecessors met unfortunate fates, Empress."

"Yes, I heard that. Except I'm not here to play lovey-dovey with Sunghoon. I only want to live, and above all, survive the three hags who serve as his concubines. If they're expecting fits of jealousy, shouting, and tears, they'll soon realize that the only circus here is them."

The ladies-in-waiting visibly relaxed, sporting timid smiles. "We are happy to hear that, Empress. I am Hina. And this is Jiya, Suha, and Sunwoo."

"There's no need to call me 'Empress' when we're alone, Lady Y/N will suffice."

"Alright, Lady." Y/N got out of the tub and grabbed the towel handed to her to wrap herself in. She dried off and put on her nightgown.

"You may retire, I'll manage until tomorrow morning." The women bowed and left the room, the door closing softly behind her. Y/N sighed, finally enjoying the silence of her own company.

She slipped under the sheets and opened her book, reading a few pages by candlelight. She didn't expect Sunghoon to join her for their wedding night and therefore wasn't disappointed not to see him arrive. Y/N placed her book on the nightstand and blew out the candle to extinguish it. Tomorrow is another day.

Y/N didn't avoid Sunghoon, at least, she didn't try to. She simply didn't care where he might be or with whom, so her daily life was quite peaceful. Everyone at the palace expected the new empress to be as jealous as the other two, but seeing her lack of reaction and her calm disconcerted them all. But a little peace at the palace was also welcome.

Y/N was actually closer to the palace staff than to her own husband. It wasn't unusual for her to stop by the kitchen to greet the cooks or to stroll through the gardens talking to the gardeners. She was well-liked at the palace.

The young woman also fulfilled her role as empress by attending all of her husband's councils with the advisors and ministers, even if it meant sitting for hours listening to them talk about uninteresting things.

Y/N was sitting on her throne next to Sunghoon's, upright with her legs elegantly folded. Her dark red robe draped over her curves like a delicious caress, her fingers tapping the armrests of her throne to distract herself.

"If winter arrives before we can bring enough resources to the capital, we'll have to tighten our belts until spring returns !" a minister declared, once again raising the issue of winter provisions. She rolled her eyes, having heard this dozens of times since her arrival at the palace without any solution being proposed. "You know very well that merchants can only reach the capital through the mountains in winter, but the snow makes the crossing too difficult !"

She scoffed, exasperated by all these words said for nothing. To her right, Sunghoon glanced at her, contemplating her bored face. "Something to say, wife ?"

Silence fell over the throne room. Gazes slowly turned to Y/N, who wasn't surprised by her husband's call, looking at him without blinking. "Your ministers are useless, husband."

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, his mouth curving upward. "Excuse me ?"

She ignored him and rose from her throne, descending the steps to approach the table around which the ministers and advisors stood, maps and parchments covering it. Y/N fixed her gaze on the minister who had first stated the problem. "This is the fifth council I've attended, and you keep repeating this provision problem over and over. You keep complaining without ever proposing solutions."

"Empress, I…"

"Did I say you could talk ?" The man closed his mouth without a word. "It's all well and good to talk, but if no action is ever taken, we might as well dissolve this council right now. The problem isn't knowing whether we can transport enough food for the winter here, but how to ensure we can still have some even when snow makes the mountain crossing impossible. It's not that the merchants don't want to cross it, it's that they don't have time to do it in one day and are afraid of getting stuck in the mountains. You want a solution ? Here's one. You have four months before the first snows arrive, use the remaining funds from the last taxes to build several shelter chalets and inns in the mountains to accommodate the merchants. Thus, they can make the crossing without fear of freezing to death or their mounts breaking their legs. It doesn't matter if they take an extra week as long as we have the provisions in the end. You complain about all the problems you have to solve without ever considering the origin first."

Y/N turned to Sunghoon, who was watching her with a smirk, and placed a hand on her hip.

"So yes, I think your ministers shouldn't be ministers if they can't use their brains, unless the origin of the problem here is that they don't have any at all."

She turned on her heel, having heard enough for the whole day, and left the throne room, her personal guards on her heels. She wasn't going to put her ladies-in-waiting through those long useless hours. "God, these ministers are all incompetent !" Her ladies-in-waiting rose at her arrival, bowing.

"Lady, would you like some tea ?" Jiya suggested.

"Yes, good idea." The woman busied herself preparing tea while Y/N settled onto the sofa.

"You should stop attending councils if they put you in this state, Lady."

"And have people say behind my back that I'm not doing what's expected of me ? No way. I was just hoping that Sunghoon surrounded himself with smarter people." Y/N took the cup of tea Jiya handed her and took a long sip of the fruity liquid that relaxed her. She finished her drink in no time, then stood up. "Let's take a walk in the gardens, Ladies. Let's enjoy the sun."

She linked her arm with Suha's and emerged from the room. Walking through the palace, the women entered the gardens, the bushes perfectly trimmed and the flowers aligned. It was definitely Y/N's favorite place in the palace. It was always peaceful and problem-free.

"Well, well, well." Y/N turned and stifled a sigh as she saw the concubines coming toward them, waving their fans.

"If it isn't our great Empress taking a stroll in the gardens." They giggled, and Y/N stared at them wearily.

"If you had learned good manners like ladies, you would know that you should bow before your Empress," she said, turning her gaze toward the roses.

"You little…" The first concubine was held back by another. "You won't last here ! We are the emperor's true companions ! All these women they marry meet the same fate ! Death or exile !"

Y/N chuckled, her fingers tracing the flower petals. "How cute that you think you'll live here forever. You, low-born girls who only serve as cock warmers for my husband."

"At least we can enjoy his presence ! Unlike you, who have never shared his bed !"

"What's going on here ? We could hear you screaming from the other end of the garden." All the women turned to see Sunghoon and his Lord friends joining them, their hands clasped behind their backs. Immediately, the concubines took their victim stance and threw themselves at the emperor to complain.

"My love ! The Empress insulted us !"

"Yes, she called us low-born girls ! Even though we are royal concubines !"

Sunghoon looked up at his wife, who didn't care what the concubines could complain about, preferring to focus her attention on the flowers, which were decidedly more interesting. "The roses are magnificent at this time of year," she said to her ladies-in-waiting. "We must enjoy them before winter makes them fall."

"Yes, Empress," Suha smiled. "Let us ask the gardeners to make several bouquets for your apartments." Y/N smiled tenderly at the youngest of her servants, caressing her cheek.

The Emperor couldn't take his eyes off her, having never seen a smile light up her face since their marriage, at least not in his presence. And her gaze turned cold again when Y/N looked at him.

"Husband, you'd better put leashes on your dogs. Regardless of the deplorable taste you have in women you want to sleep with, I would appreciate it if you would train them. Bowing in the presence of the Empress and speaking only when invited is a golden rule at court."

"See, she's insulting us !" But Sunghoon was far from listening to their lamentations.

"If you think I'm jealous, think again and don't dream. I only expect the respect I deserve in this palace. They may be your concubines, but they are only whores you chose for a little fun."

Y/N fixed her gaze on the concubines and smirked. "And these little mice would do well to remember that I am the only daughter of the greatest house after the royal family, and if something serious were to happen to me, my father, the General, would be happy to hunt down those responsible." The women swallowed.

The Empress inclined her head. "Husband. My Lords." She rolled her eyes at the concubines. "Whores."

Her ladies-in-waiting giggled as they walked away beside her, Y/N sporting a satisfied smirk. Sunghoon followed her with his eyes until they disappeared into the palace, and his concubines rushed at him. "My love ! Do something !"

"Punish her ! Have her whipped so she learns her lesson !"

Sunghoon snapped out of his contemplation and turned his gaze to her, scoffed, and pushed them away with his arm. "I have better things to do than start conflicts with my wife. Go complain to whoever will listen and don't bother me."

He walked away with his Lords, the concubines fuming because they had never been treated like this. And the Empress would pay for it.

The following days were very strange. Even though Y/N and Sunghoon still weren't speaking to each other, he was more observant of his wife and discovered her in a new light. He had learned more about her, what she liked and what she hated, and found that she might not be so bad after all.

Y/N stared at Sunwoo when her lady-in-waiting returned carrying a cat in her arms. The white-furred animal looked around the room curiously. "What is that ?"

"It's a gift from the Emperor, Lady. He gave you this cat to entertain you, hoping you wouldn't be too bored."

"Sunghoon gave me this cat ?"

"Lady, it's so romantic," Hina cooed, looking up from her embroidery. "The Emperor has never given any gifts to his previous wives ! Perhaps he's beginning to like you !"

"Don't be ridiculous, Hina." Y/N took the cat from the woman's arms and stroked its head. The cat began to purr, and she found herself smiling. "I suppose I can accept this gift. But don't tell him."

Her servants giggled but nodded. Y/N named him Snowflake, and he definitely loved his new mistress, spending hours lying across her lap or on her bed. It wasn't uncommon to see the cat follow the Empress through the palace as if he were her bodyguard.

Y/N was returning from the library, carrying Snowflake in her arms, when a small body collided with her. She looked down to see a little boy who had fallen on his bottom and leaned down to help him up. "Sorry, E-Empress," he stammered, missing one of his front teeth. "I didn't mean to…"

"Don't worry, it's alright. Are you lost ?"

"Y-Yes. I'm looking for my mom, she works at the palace."

"I'll help you find her. What's her name ?"

"Sun-nia."

"She's one of the cooks, if I'm not mistaken. Your mom makes the best cakes I've ever eaten." The boy nodded, knowing his mother's talent for baking.

"Dear wife."

The young woman turned to find Sunghoon in front of her, flanked by two guards. "Husband." The boy hid behind her when he saw the terrifying emperor.

"Who is this ?"

"The son of one of the cooks. He got lost looking for his mother, so I was going to walk him there." Y/N patted the boy's head, he moved away from her. "Come on. Don't worry, he's not going to eat you." The child quickly bowed before hiding behind her again, making her smile.

Something made Sunghoon's heart beat a little faster as he looked down at the cat in her arms. "I see you accepted my gift."

"Indeed. I thank you, I really like cats. Alright, I'll see you later if you wish."

He nodded, and Y/N took the boy's hand to lead him toward the kitchens, the emperor watched them leave. A child among them would be so nice, something he had wanted for a long time…

"Seon-jun." One of the guards stepped forward. "Have my quarters moved to the East Wing where my wife is, not to the West Wing of the concubines. Let them have only guest privileges, not those of the royal family."

"Yes, Emperor." The soldiers exchanged relieved looks. The emperor was finally coming to his senses, they couldn't take those mistresses anymore.

Y/N was sleeping peacefully, Snowflake curled up at her feet, when she felt the blanket being pulled back and a body slipping into her bed. Her fingers closed around the handle of the knife she hides under her pillow, and she turned to press the blade against the person's throat.

"Jesus Christ, woman ! It's me !" Sunghoon whispered. She sighed and lowered her knife, putting it back in its safe place. "Why do you have a weapon under your pillow ?"

"You never know who might slip into my bed in the middle of the night," she mocked, giving him a weary look over her shoulder. "Like you, husband." She pulled the blanket over herself to go back to sleep, closing her eyes. "Why are you here, anyway ?"

"I settled into the adjacent room. I'm your new neighbor."

"I don't want you as a neighbor."

"Why ?"

"I don't want to hear you snore."

"I don't snore," Sunghoon defended himself.

"Yeah, right." Y/N gave Snowflake a stroke as he came to lie down beside her, giving her husband a threatening look. It made him smile as she kissed the top of his head, resting her head on her pillow.

Sleep soon overcame her again, while Sunghoon remained wide awake, watching her back, her chest rising and falling at the regular rhythm of her breathing. He couldn't fall asleep, his mind was racing in all directions, preventing him from finding rest.

The young woman woke up a few hours later, thirsty, getting out of bed to approach the table where the carafe rested. She filled herself a glass of water, bringing it to her lips and emptying it. She walked toward the window to observe the landscape bathed in moonlight.

Stifling a yawn, Y/N closed the curtain and turned toward the bed, startled to find Sunghoon watching her. "You scared me ! Did I wake you ?"

"No, I wasn't sleeping." She frowned, turning back to lie down and pulling the duvet over herself.

"Why ?"

"I have insomnia. And I can't stop thinking."

"That's bad." She lay back down, breathing deeply as her body relaxed. The young woman froze when she felt Sunghoon's body press against hers and his arm wrap around her waist.

"Is this okay ?" he asked.

"Yes." Happy with her answer, Sunghoon pressed his chest to her back, nestling his face in the crook of her neck. His eyes closed, he was finally feeling sleep overtake him when he heard her voice.

"Sunghoon ?"

Say my name again…

"Mmm ?"

"If you intend to play the husband at night when no one is watching, you can go fuck yourself. I will not be the secretly loved wife. And I certainly will not be another woman you repudiate. Do you want me ? Then show it to everyone. Do you want to sleep in my bed ? Fine, but don't go warming others' anymore. Be my husband, and I'll be the wife at your side."

"You would be the Empress at my side, and I would be your husband." Satisfied, Y/N nodded and let herself be lulled by his warmth to fall back asleep. Sunghoon listened to her breathing, his fingers tracing small circles on her waist, and her presence granting him the comfort he had so hoped for.

The change didn't happen overnight, but gradually, the servants and guards began to notice the Emperor's attentions toward his wife. Asking for her favorite pastries to be served during long councils or sending her herbal tea in the evening. He joined her more regularly at meals and was often caught watching her.

Of course, Y/N was satisfied to see that Sunghoon kept his promise, and if he continued like this, she would be ready to give him a chance. After all, she wanted to have a pleasant life with her husband if that was also what he desired.

The biggest shock was that Sunghoon hadn't visited his concubines' chambers for several weeks, which had never happened before. And the women were outraged to see that the Emperor had succumbed to his wife and no longer paid them any attention.

Sunghoon was coming out of his office accompanied by Lords Jay and Jake when his concubines approached him, dressed lightly enough to seduce him. "Hello, my love."

"Hi, Lords, we hope we're not bothering you." The young man nodded slightly to invite them to speak, which gave them courage.

"Why wouldn't you come to our chambers tonight ? You've had so much to do lately, we could help you relax."

He looked at them without a word. Before, he would have accepted without hesitation, seeking the pleasure that would ease his thoughts, but now, only the image of his wife came to mind.

"Thank you, but I will spend the night with my wife. Find yourselves lovers if you need someone."

They blushed with anger as they walked away, throwing a fit. Jake elbowed his friend, who turned his head toward him. "So, it seems your little wife pleases you."

"She is my wife, of course she pleases me," Sunghoon said, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, but you killed the others," Jay mocked.

"Stop it with that ! Those are just rumors ! I never killed anyone, and you know it, I just sent them back to their families with a large compensation. I'm sure it was Heeseung hyung who started those rumors."

"He's capable of it," Jake chuckled. "But what's different about her ?"

Sunghoon turned his gaze to the gardens, where Y/N was sitting on a bench, Snowflake on her lap, reading a book. The sun's rays reflected off her loose hair, and his eyes were drawn to her lips as she ran her tongue over them.

"Wow, we've lost him," Jay laughed. "God help us." The Emperor snapped out of his contemplation and bumped into them, muttering, as they snickered.

Y/N wasn't surprised to see Sunghoon join her at nightfall, which he now did every day. He slipped under the sheets, burying his face in the pillow. She gave him an amused glance. "Hard day, husband ?"

His voice was muffled by the pillow as he nodded. She set her book down on the nightstand before kneeling on the mattress, taking advantage of his bare chest to slide her hands along his back, massaging his tense muscles up to his shoulders.

Sunghoon groaned as he felt his muscles relax under her massage, the sensation of her fingers massaging his skin sent shivers down his spine. He turned his head to the side, his arms crossed under his chin. "This is divine, wife."

"I'm glad to hear it."

He rolled onto his back and pulled her into his arms, Y/N sprawled across his chest. Her cheek pressed against his chest over his heart, she could hear it beating fast. Sunghoon nestled his face in her hair, closing his eyes. "Thank you for giving me a chance."

"You kept your promise, you deserve it." He smiled and kissed her forehead.

Y/N soon fell asleep, Sunghoon didn't really sleep, only dozing due to his insomnia. His wife's presence beside him relaxed him, although sleep took a while to find him. That's why he heard the bedroom door open and the first floorboard creak.

He frowned, his eyes opening in the darkness to see two silhouettes slipping through the shadows. Without a sound, he slid his hand under Y/N's pillow to grab the knife she kept there.

He waited for the intruders to advance far enough, their shadows projected onto the bed, before pouncing. He crashed to the floor with one of the men, the sudden movement pulled Y/N from her sleep. She saw Sunghoon fighting on the ground with one of the intruders, the second one aiming for her.

The young woman jumped to her feet, grabbing one of the swords that served as decoration below the headboard but was just as deadly. She parried the man's blade, he grabbed her ankle and pulled her toward him. She stumbled out of bed, and they both staggered on the floor.

Her sword slipped from her grip in her fall, allowing the man to pin her to the ground, his hands closing around her throat. Y/N grabbed his wrists to try to force him to let go, in vain. Sunghoon saw his wife in a bad position, seeing red.

"Don't fucking touch my wife !"

He plunged the dagger into the side of the one attacking him before throwing himself at his wife's assailant, knocking him out with an uppercut, as the guards rushed into the room due to the commotion.

"Y/N !" He rushed to her, lifting her in his arms to set her on the bed. His gaze hardened when he saw the finger marks around her throat as she coughed, struggling to catch her breath. "You alright, baby ?"

She nodded, bringing the glass of water he handed her to her lips. The Emperor turned to the soldiers who had arrested the two intruders, clenching his fists when he saw their armor, confirming they worked at the palace. "Who gave you the order ? Was I the target of this assassination attempt ?"

They didn't answer, and Sunghoon grabbed one by the collar, lifting him off the ground. "Answer me ! And perhaps I will be lenient !"

"We were supposed to kill the Empress…"

"Why ? Under whose orders ?!" Sunghoon released the man after getting his answer, fixing his gaze on his wife.

He approached the bed and took her face in his hands to place a kiss on her forehead. "No one will hurt you again, I promise you." He turned to the soldiers. "Take these two to the dungeons, let them await their sentence."

The guards nodded and left the room. Sunghoon lay back down beside Y/N, holding her in his arms. Neither of them managed to find sleep until sunrise, remaining in each other's arms.

The Emperor called an emergency council to discuss the night's attack, the strangulation marks were still fresh on Y/N's neck despite the makeup applied by her ladies-in-waiting.

The couple sat on their thrones, the advisors and ministers facing them. "Did they talk ? Did you manage to get them to confess the culprit ?"

"Yes, it wasn't difficult. They will be executed at sunset, along with the instigators of this attack."

"Who are they ?" Sunghoon waved his hand, and soldiers returned with his three concubines in chains.

"Using your favors to manipulate soldiers and order them to kill the Empress was not clever," the young man declared. "They will be killed with the two soldiers tonight."

"You can't kill us ! You don't have the right !"

"Silence !" Sunghoon thundered, slamming his fist on the armrest of his throne. "When you attack my wife, your Empress, you must expect consequences ! This is treason !"

"How can you prefer her to us ?! She is useless !"

Sunghoon fumed, Y/N placed her hand on his arm to urge him to keep his calm. "In fact, their complaints annoy me. Take them to the courtyard and execute them now."

The women begged, cried, and screamed for mercy, but Sunghoon only turned his eyes to his wife. Y/N smiled at him, approving his decision, and he squeezed her hand in his, promising himself that no one would ever lay their hands on her again.

Except him, of course. Because she was his favorite wife. Only his.

Masterlist

Teaser

The Arrangement

Cold Palace Walls

Cracks in the Ice

Rumors & Jealousy

The Argument

Almost

Betrayal

The Distance Between Them

Confessions

The Crown & The Choice

You had been in love with Jay Park since the second year of high school.

It started as something quieter than a crush — a slow, warm pull every time he leaned over your desk to show you a riff on his phone, or when he'd wait for you after class with one earbud dangling, offering the other so you could listen to the same song.

He was always cool, a little sharp with his humor, but never cruel.

He remembered the small things: how you liked your coffee, the way you fiddled with your sleeves when you were nervous, the fact that you secretly wanted to learn guitar even though you were convinced your fingers were too clumsy.

Two months had passed since graduation, and the two of you had slipped into this strange new version of adulthood.

No more uniforms, no more bells dictating your day. just late nights, cheap takeout, and the growing tension that neither of you had named.

You told yourself it was just a silly, accumulation of caring over the years.

But lately it had become something heavier. needier.

Because it wasn't just his smile or the way he looked at you like he could read every thought behind your eyes.

It was the guitar lessons.

Every few nights you ended up in his room — that warm, low-lit sanctuary at the back of his aparment.

Soft golden lighting, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with wood polish and whatever bottle of wine he'd opened that evening.

He'd sit behind you on the bed or on that worn leather stool, chest brushing your back as he guided your fingers along the fretboard.

His voice would drop low when he corrected your posture, breath warm against your ear.

And every single time, you left that room wet, aching, and painfully aware of how badly you wanted more than just his hands on yours.

Tonight, that ache felt louder than usual.

The restaurant was still buzzing when you all stepped outside.

The four of you had taken over a corner table for nearly three hours — pasta plates half-empty, bottles of soju and beer scattered like evidence.

Heeseung had been the calm anchor as always, laughing deeply at Jake's ridiculous stories about his latest failed attempt at cooking.

Jake, true to form, had been loud and playful, teasing you about how red your cheeks got after your third glass.

"Alright, i'm tapping out" Heeseung said, stretching his arms above his head. he grinned at you and Jay. "you two heading back too?"

Jake slung an arm around your shoulders for a second, giving you a quick squeeze. "don't let Jay bore you to death with more guitar talk."

You laughed, the sound a little loose from the alcohol. "too late. i think i'm officially addicted."

Jay stood a step behind you, hands in the pockets of his dark jacket, watching the exchange with that trademark half-smirk.

He hadn't drunk much — maybe one beer the whole night. he never did when he knew he'd be the one making sure everyone got home safe.

"Get home safe, hyung" Jay told Heeseung, bumping fists. "Jake, stop burning your kitchen down."

Jake flipped him off playfully as he and Heeseung headed toward the main road to catch a cab. you waved until they disappeared around the corner, the streetlights catching their silhouettes.

And then it was just you and Jay.

It was barely past 9 PM, but the city had already slipped into that quieter, darker version of itself.

The restaurant sat on a side street lined with closed shops and a few scattered people hurrying home.

Neon signs flickered softly in the distance. your cheeks felt warm, the alcohol humming pleasantly in your veins, making everything feel a little softer around the edges.

Jay glanced at you, dark eyes scanning your face.

"You good?" he asked, voice low and steady. "you look a little flushed."

"I'm fine" you answered, maybe a touch too quickly.

You smiled up at him, feeling bolder than usual. "just… warm. and i don't really want to go home yet. my brothers are probably screaming at some video game right now. your place is quieter."

He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. that familiar mix of amusement and something unreadable.

"You sure? i can drop you off. you drank more than usual tonight."

You stepped a little closer, the alcohol loosening your usual shyness. "i'm sure. i'd rather be with you."

The words came out softer than you meant them to, almost flirty. Jay's gaze lingered on you for a beat longer than normal before he nodded.

"Alright. let's go."

The walk to his place wasn't long.

Jay kept pace beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed every few steps. he didn't say much, but he was always like that — comfortable in silence.

Every once in a while he'd glance over to make sure you were steady on your feet.

When you finally reached his apartment, you stepped into his room, the familiar warmth settled over you like a blanket.

The lighting was exactly how he liked it: soft, gold tones from the tall floor lamp in the corner.

His acoustic guitar rested on its stand beside the electric one. a half-finished bottle of red wine sat on the low wooden table next to two clean glasses.

The small leather couch had a couple of blankets thrown over it, and the walls held photos — some of the group, some of just the two of you from random outings over the years.

It smelled like him: wood, faint cologne, and that subtle hint of wine that always seemed to linger here.

Jay shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over the back of his chair.

"Sit" he said, nodding toward the couch. "i'll get you some water first. you're going to thank me tomorrow."

You dropped onto the couch, watching him move around the room with that effortless confidence.

Even after years of friendship, you never got tired of looking at him. the sharp line of his jaw, the way his black hair fell across his forehead, the casual way his shirt stretched across his shoulders.

He came back with a glass of cold water and handed it to you before pouring himself a small amount of wine.

"You're really not that drunk, are you?" you asked, teasing lightly as you sipped the water.

Jay chuckled, settling beside you on the couch. not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat of his body.

"I'm sober enough to know you're tipsy" he replied, voice smooth. "and sober enough to know you get chatty when you are."

You laughed softly, pulling your legs up onto the couch.

The alcohol made your thoughts swirl — memories of all those guitar lessons mixing with the deeper, filthier ones you tried to push down.

You'd been in love with him for years.

But lately, the need had grown teeth.

It wasn't just romantic anymore.

You wanted him.

Wanted his hands on you for reasons that had nothing to do with chord positions. wanted to know what his mouth felt like. wanted to taste him.

To have his cock in your mouth, heavy and warm, to hear the way his voice would break if you took him deep.

Not anyone else's. just Jay's.

Those thoughts had been getting louder since the lessons started two months ago.

Every time his fingers covered yours on the strings, every time his chest pressed against your back and he murmured instructions against your ear… you left his room throbbing, panties ruined, fingers slipping between your legs the second you got home.

And now here you were again, in his room, a little drunk, heart racing.

"Now you're quiet" Jay observed, tilting his head. his dark eyes studied you carefully. "what's going on in that head of yours?"

You bit your lip, feeling heat rise to your cheeks that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

"Just… thinking about how long we've been friends" you said, keeping your voice light. "feels weird sometimes. like we're actual adults now."

Jay hummed in agreement, taking a slow sip of wine. "yeah. but some things don't change." he glanced at you, a small smirk playing on his lips. "you still suck at guitar."

You gasped dramatically, shoving his shoulder. he laughed — that low, rich sound you loved — and caught your wrist gently before you could pull away.

"See? still easy to mess with."

His thumb brushed over the inside of your wrist, just once. the touch sent electricity straight down your spine. you didn't pull away.

The air between you felt thicker than usual. the golden lighting cast soft shadows across his face, making him look even more unfairly handsome. you could smell his cologne again, warm and familiar.

"Jay…" you started, not even sure what you wanted to say.

He raised an eyebrow, still holding your wrist loosely.

"Yeah?"

You swallowed. the need you’d been carrying for years — the filthy, aching want — sat heavy on your tongue. but you weren't brave enough yet.

Instead, you just smiled, shy but warm, and leaned your head against his shoulder like you'd done a hundred times before.

"I'm glad you're my best friend" you whispered.

Jay was quiet for a moment. then his hand shifted, resting lightly on your knee.

"Me too" he murmured.

But his fingers stayed there, warm through the fabric of your jeans, and neither of you moved to change the subject.

The night was still young, and the tension that had been building for years felt dangerously close to spilling over.

The water helped a little, but the alcohol still buzzed warmly through your system, making your limbs feel loose and your thoughts dangerously unguarded.

You watched Jay move across the room with that effortless grace he always had. he reached for one of his guitars, and your breath caught.

He picked up the acoustic — his prized custom-made gibson Vesper.

The instrument looked beautiful under the soft café-gold lighting: dark wood with elegant black binding, sleek and modern with a vampire-inspired design he'd once explained to you in detail.

It was his baby, the one he played when he wanted something intimate and warm-toned.

"I've been working on a new melody" he said casually, settling on the stool across from the couch. his long fingers wrapped around the neck of the Vesper like it was an extension of himself. "want to hear it?"

You nodded, maybe a little too eagerly. "yeah… show me."

He strummed a few soft chords first, then launched into the short piece. just five or six seconds of a smooth, melancholic melody that shifted into something warmer, almost seductive in its simplicity.

His eyebrows furrowed slightly in concentration, lips parted just a fraction as he focused. the way his fingers moved — precise, confident, pressing and sliding along the frets — made heat pool low in your stomach.

God, you didn't even know if you actually cared about learning guitar anymore.

Was it the music? or was it just him?

The way his forearms flexed, the focused set of his jaw, the way the warm light caught on his sharp cheekbones and made his dark hair look softer.

You wanted him so badly it embarrassed you sometimes.

Especially tonight, with the alcohol making your skin feel too hot and your inhibitions paper-thin.

In your head, the thoughts were already spiraling: kneeling between his legs, taking his cock into your mouth, tasting him, hearing that low voice of his break while you sucked him deep. not just any dick. his.

Jay finished the short melody and looked up, smirking when he saw your expression.

"Not bad, right?" he asked.

"It was beautiful" you said honestly, your voice a little breathy. "i love how it sounds on the Vesper."

He stood and walked over, offering you the guitar. "you know the basics now. let's try teaching you your first real short melody. nothing too crazy."

You took the Vesper carefully, the wood warm from his hands.

On the outside, you looked focused and innocent, adjusting the strap and sitting up straighter.

"Posture." Jay reminded you.

He moved behind you on the couch, one leg on either side of your body so he could reach around. his chest pressed lightly against your back as he corrected the angle of the guitar on your lap.

One hand settled on your shoulder to straighten your back, the other sliding down to adjust your left hand on the fretboard.

His touch was warm. deliberate.

You bit your lip hard without thinking, a quiet little sound escaping as his fingers covered yours, guiding them into position. the alcohol made it impossible to hide your reaction — your cheeks burned, your thighs pressed together instinctively.

Jay paused. you could feel him smirk against the side of your head.

"Easy there" he murmured, voice low and teasing near your ear. "don't break my strings with that death grip. or is the Vesper too much for you tonight?"

You let out a shaky laugh. "shut up. i'm trying."

He didn't move away immediately. his fingers stayed over yours a second longer than necessary, then he pulled back just enough to watch but remained close.

"Go ahead. start with the first four chords i showed you last time. slow."

You tried.

Your fingers felt clumsier than usual from the drinks, but you managed to hit the notes — not fluid, not pretty, but recognizable. better than a total beginner.

The Vesper's rich tone filled the room even with your imperfect playing.

Jay hummed approvingly. "not terrible. you're improving."

Then, out of nowhere, he dropped the bomb.

"So… how was that blind date with Sunghoon a week ago?"

Your fingers slipped. a horrible, discordant twang rang out from the guitar. you winced.

"Why are you asking about that?" you said quickly, glancing over your shoulder at him.

Jay shrugged, leaning back against the couch but still watching you closely. his expression was casual, but his eyes were sharp. "just curious. Jake mentioned Sunghoon told him you two… hooked up."

The room felt suddenly warmer. you stared down at the guitar, fingers frozen on the strings.

It was true.

You'd gone on that blind date desperate to convince yourself that your insane attraction to Jay was just horniness. just lack of sex.

Sunghoon was good-looking, you'd slept with him after a couple of drinks. the sex had been… fine. mechanically okay.

But it left you emptier than before. because all you could think about during and after was Jay. how you wished it was Jay's hands, Jay's mouth.

It had only made your filthy fantasies about your best friend worse.

You tried to play it off, strumming a few awkward notes that sounded completely off-key. "Jake needs to mind his own business. why is he such a gossip?"

Jay chuckled, that low, amused sound that always sent shivers down your spine. he reached over and gently corrected your finger placement again, his touch lingering.

"Because he's Jake. and you're avoiding the question."

You huffed, the alcohol making you bolder even as embarrassment burned your face. "it happened, okay? it was… whatever. not life-changing."

Jay raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by how flustered you were getting. "not life-changing? damn. poor Sunghoon. but ifeel like details are missing."

You shot him a look, trying to sound defensive. "i've grown up, you know. i'm not that irresponsible girl from high school who told you every dirty detail about her first time in graphic, disgusting detail anymore."

Jay laughed outright at that, leaning closer again. his breath brushed your neck.

"Oh yeah? because i remember that conversation very clearly. you did not hold back. 'it felt like a sad hot dog in a hallway' was the line that still lives rent-free in my head."

You groaned, covering your face with one hand while still awkwardly holding the guitar with the other. "i was drunk and stupid! and like… seventeen."

"You're still a little drunk tonight" he pointed out, voice teasing but softer. "and still oversharing, apparently."

The conversation hung between you, heavy with years of history. you tried to play again, but your notes kept clashing — messy, out of rhythm, completely unfocused.

Jay didn't stop you. he just watched, eyes dark and thoughtful under the warm lighting.

You sighed. "it was just an escape, Jay. i thought maybe if i… did something, it would quiet my head. but it didn't. it was okay, but… it wasn't..." you trailed off, not brave enough to finish that sentence.

It wasn't you.

Jay was quiet for a long moment. his hand came to rest on your lower back, a casual but intimate touch as he leaned in to adjust your right hand strumming position.

"You're thinking too hard" he said eventually, voice low. "that's why it sounds like the guitar is in pain."

You laughed despite yourself, the sound shaky.

Being this close to him, drunk, with his hands on you and your mind full of filthy thoughts about sucking him off right here in this room… it was torture.

The lesson continued like that for a while longer.

Jay guided you through the simple melody, patient even when your playing fell apart. every correction involved him touching you — fingers on yours, hand on your waist to fix posture, knee brushing your thigh.

Each touch sent sparks through your body.

At one point you shifted on the couch, and your thigh pressed firmly against his. you didn't move away. neither did he.

"You're really warm" he commented after a while, almost absentmindedly. "still feeling the drinks?"

"Yeah" you admitted, biting your lip again as his fingers guided yours into a new chord. "everything feels… a lot right now."

Jay hummed. his voice dropped lower. "i can tell."

The air in the room felt thicker.

And as Jay leaned in once more to correct your hand, his lips accidentally brushing the shell of your ear as he murmured instructions, you wondered how much longer you could keep pretending this was just about learning guitar.

The warmth of his breath sent a shiver racing down your spine. you froze, fingers stiffening on the frets of the Vesper.

The rich, dark wood of the guitar felt heavier in your lap now, like it knew the real reason your heart was hammering.

"I… i think i can't keep playing right now" you admitted, voice softer than you intended. the alcohol made your words feel thick on your tongue. "i'd love to, though. your Vesper sounds so beautiful. it's honestly such a pretty guitar. the tone is just… perfect."

Jay pulled back slightly, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest. that sound — God, that sound — always did dangerous things to you.

He reached around you to gently take the guitar from your hands, his fingers brushing over yours one last time.

"Yeah? she's my favorite for a reason" he said, standing up with the instrument.

He walked over to the stand and carefully placed the custom Gibson Vesper back in its spot, adjusting it with the same care he always showed his things.

You watched him move, the soft golden lighting casting gentle shadows along his shoulders and arms.

The room felt smaller now. cozier. the faint scent of wine still lingered in the air, mixing with his cologne and the wood polish from his guitars.

He turned back to you, hands sliding into the pockets of his jeans. "it's getting late anyway. past eleven already. you're pretty drunk, and i'm not letting you go home like this. you can just stay over. saves time, and your brothers are probably still up causing chaos."

You let out a bright, tipsy laugh, the kind that came out a little too loud because of the alcohol. "yeah? okay. i'd like that. a lot, actually."

Jay's smirk deepened, but there was something softer behind it. "didn't even think twice, huh?"

"Nope" you said, popping the 'p' playfully.

He walked over to the built-in closet near the back of the room and pulled out clothes. two oversized t-shirts — one black, one dark gray — and a pair of soft black pajama shorts.

He held them out to you.

'Here. you can wear these. that dress looks cute but it's not exactly sleep-friendly. too cold in here at night if you're not covered up properly."

You stood up, a little unsteady, and took the clothes from him.

Your fingers brushed his, and you felt that familiar spark again. "thanks, Jay."

Before he could say anything else, you grabbed the bundle and slipped behind the heavy cream-colored curtain that separated the small changing corner from the rest of the room.

It was something he'd put up after one too many late-night study sessions when you'd crash here.

You heard him laugh quietly on the other side.

"Drunk you is way shyer than sober you" he teased, voice warm with amusement. "usually you just strip down in front of me like i'm not even here. claiming 'we're best friends, it doesn't matter.' but the second alcohol hits… curtain time."

You fumbled with the zipper of your dress, cheeks burning. "shut up. i'm being responsible."

"Responsible" he echoed, clearly not buying it. you could hear him moving around, already changing too. "sure."

"I am!" you called back, laughing as you pulled his t-shirt over your head. it smelled like him — clean laundry, faint cologne, and that comforting warmth that always made your stomach flip.

The shorts were a little loose on your hips, but they were soft and comfortable. "i've grown up. i'm not that chaotic high school girl anymore."

You stepped out from behind the curtain, adjusting the hem of the oversized shirt. and then you stopped dead.

Jay was in the middle of pulling his own shirt on.

He already had the gray pajama shorts on, hanging low on his hips, but his torso was still bare. the warm lighting highlighted every line of muscle on his chest and abdomen — the result of casual gym sessions.

His skin looked smooth, shoulders broad, that sharp V-line disappearing into the waistband of his shorts.

You let out a soft, involuntary exhale, almost a gasp. your heart skipped hard.

Jay noticed immediately. he tugged the shirt down quickly, but not before you got a full view.

His eyebrow arched, that signature smirk returning.

"Damn. you really are wasted tonight" he said, voice low and teasing as he stepped closer. "if you want, i can tie you up so you can control yourself better. keep those wandering eyes in check."

Your brain short-circuited for a second.

Yes. God, yes. tie me up. use me. anything.

The filthy thought flashed through your mind so fast it made you dizzy. but on the outside, you just let out a nervous laugh, shoving his shoulder lightly.

"Stop it" you mumbled, still smiling. "i'm fine. perfectly fine. just… surprised you're changing in the middle of the room, that's all."

He chuckled, running a hand through his dark hair. "this is my room. and you've seen me shirtless plenty of times. at the beach last summer, remember? or when we went swimming at Sunoo's parents' pool?"

"That was different" you muttered, walking over to the couch and dropping down onto it, pulling one of the soft blankets over your legs.

Your face felt hot. the alcohol wasn't helping you hide anything.

Jay followed, sitting on the other end of the couch but turning toward you. the room felt even more intimate now — just the two of you in comfortable clothes, the golden lights dimmed slightly, the faint sound of the city outside barely audible.

"So" he said after a moment, grabbing the half-empty bottle of water and taking a sip before offering it to you. "you really didn't enjoy it with Sunghoon?"

You groaned, covering your face with both hands. "we're back to this?"

"I'm curious" he said simply. "you're my best friend. if some guy didn't treat you right or couldn't make it good for you, i need to know. i'll kick his ass if necessary."

You peeked at him through your fingers. he looked genuinely relaxed, but there was that focused intensity in his eyes again — the same one he got when he was trying to read you.

"It wasn't bad" you said slowly, lowering your hands. "he was… nice. polite. good-looking, obviously. but it just felt… mechanical. like we were both going through the motions. i thought maybe sleeping with someone would help clear my head about certain things, but it only made it worse."

Jay tilted his head. "worse how?"

You shrugged, tracing patterns on the blanket with your finger.

Your mind was still swirling with images you couldn't say out loud —his low groans filling this exact room.

"Just… confirmed some stuff" you said vaguely. "that i'm probably not built for casual stuff. my brain gets too loud."

Jay was quiet for a beat. then he shifted closer, stretching his arm along the back of the couch until his fingers lightly brushed your shoulder again.

"You've always been like that" he murmured. "even back in high school. you overthink everything. except when you're telling me way too many details about your personal life."

You laughed, the sound breathy. "i was young and stupid. and you were the only person i trusted enough to say that stuff to."

"Still am?" he asked, voice quieter now.

You met his eyes. the tension between you felt alive, humming under the surface. "yeah. still you."

The silence stretched comfortably. Jay eventually stood up. he grabbed another blanket and tossed it over you before settling back down — closer this time, so your legs were almost touching.

"Remember when we first became friends?" he asked suddenly, staring at the ceiling. "you used to sit there during lunch, pretending you weren't listening to me play. i thought you were cute. shy, but cute."

Your heart fluttered. "i had the biggest crush on you for like… two years before i even admitted it to myself."

Jay turned his head to look at you, surprise flickering across his face for a split second before that cool mask returned. "Yeah?"

"Yeah" you whispered, the alcohol making you honest. "but you were always so… you. cool. talented. out of reach. so i settled for being your best friend instead."

He didn't answer right away. instead, he reached over and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. his touch lingered.

"You're not out of reach to me" he said softly.

The words hung heavy in the air. your body felt warm all over — from the drinks, from his proximity, from years of wanting.

You turned onto your side to face him better, the blanket slipping down slightly.

"Jay… can i ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Have you ever… thought about me like that? more than just a friend?"

He was quiet for a long moment, dark eyes studying your face. then he gave you that half-smirk again, the one that made your knees weak.

"I'm not drunk enough to answer that tonight."

You laughed, but there was nervous excitement bubbling inside you. "coward."

"Maybe" he said, chuckling. "or maybe i'm just responsible. one of us has to be when the other is this tipsy."

You spent the next hour talking like that — about old memories, stupid fights you had in high school, the group chats with Heeseung and Jake that always got chaotic, how weird it felt to be actual adults now.

Eventually, you both were in bed under thin blankets.

Jay's voice was low and soothing. every once in a while his hand would brush your arm, casual touches that felt anything but.

At some point you shifted, and your head ended up resting against his chest.

He didn't push you away. instead, his arm came around you, holding you loosely.

"You're warm" you mumbled sleepily, the alcohol finally catching up to you fully.

"So are you" he replied, voice barely above a whisper.

Your mind kept drifting back to filthy places even as sleep pulled at you — imagining sliding your hand under the waistband of his shorts, tasting his skin, hearing him say your name in that deep tone.

But for now, you let yourself enjoy the closeness. the safety.

Jay's fingers traced slow patterns on your back through the t-shirt.

"Get some sleep" he murmured against the top of your head. "we'll talk more in the morning. when you're sober."

You nodded, eyes already closing.

But even as you drifted off, safe in his arms in the soft golden light of his room, you knew one thing for certain:

Pretending was getting harder and harder.

You lay there for what felt like forever, curled against his side under the soft blanket, but sleep refused to come.

The alcohol had loosened your body, but your mind was wide awake, buzzing with years of suppressed feelings and the heavy warmth of Jay's arm draped loosely around you.

Every small shift of his body, every steady breath he took, made your skin prickle with awareness.

Jay wasn't sleeping either. you knew him too well — he never could fully relax until he knew you were safe and asleep. it was one of those quiet protective habits he'd had since high school.

With a soft sigh, you sat up slowly, the oversized t-shirt slipping slightly off one shoulder. you stayed close, your thigh still pressed against his.

Jay shifted beside you, propping himself up on one elbow. his dark hair was slightly messy, and his eyes scanned your face with that familiar sharpness.

"Can't sleep?" he asked quietly.

You shook your head. "too many thoughts."

He hummed in understanding but didn't push. for a moment, comfortable silence settled between you again. then you spoke, the alcohol still giving you just enough courage.

"You know… i doubt Jake would've randomly told you about Sunghoon unless you asked him first." you turned your head to look at him directly. "so why the curiosity, Jay?"

Jay let out a slow sigh, running a hand through his hair as he stared at the ceiling for a second. when he looked back at you, his expression was calm but serious.

"Because you're my best friend" he said simply. "it's my job to look out for you. to make sure no dickhead hurts you, gets your hopes up, or leaves you feeling like shit afterward. i've been doing that since we were in secondary school. nothing's changed."

You fell quiet, processing his words.

The weight of them sat heavy in your chest. his protection had always felt safe… but lately it felt like something more. something that made your stomach twist in confusing, needy ways.

Jay noticed your silence. he tilted his head slightly. "why are you thinking about all of this right now? you know i worry about you. that's not new."

You bit your lip, fingers playing with the edge of the blanket. "i guess… i've been wondering lately if i've ever mistaken your protection for something else. like… possessiveness."

Jay stared at you for a beat, then let out a low, genuine laugh — the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.

He sat up fully now, swinging his legs so he was facing you directly. the movement brought him much closer, your knees nearly touching, his presence suddenly filling your space.

"Possessiveness?" he repeated, still chuckling in disbelief. "you're way too drunk to be throwing words like that around."

You met his gaze, your heart beating faster. "i'm drunk, but i'm sober enough to notice that you're the one acting weird tonight."

Jay laughed again, softer this time, shaking his head. "me? weird?"

He leaned in a little, voice dropping. "you're the one whose breathing keeps changing every time i get close. the one who keeps pressing your thighs together when my hand brushes your arm or when i fix your posture during lessons. you think i don't notice?"

Your mouth went dry. heat flooded your cheeks.

He was right — painfully right. you'd been doing exactly that for the past two months during every guitar session. and tonight, with the alcohol stripping away your filters, it was impossible to hide.

You stayed silent for a long moment, just looking at him. then you put on that fake-innocent expression you knew he could see right through — wide eyes, slight tilt of your head.

"If you know all of that… why don't you do anything about it?"

The question hung in the air like smoke. Jay's smirk faded into something more intense, more focused. his dark eyes searched yours carefully.

"Because i'd never do anything you haven't asked for" he said, voice low and steady. "not with you. never."

Your face grew hotter. you could feel the blush spreading down your neck.

The tension in the room thickened, wrapping around both of you. you were hyper-aware of everything: the way his bare arm looked under the golden light, the faint scent of his skin mixed with the laundry detergent on the t-shirt he was wearing, how close his mouth was if you just leaned forward a few inches.

You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. "and if i did ask… would you give it to me?"

Jay didn't answer with words right away.

Instead, he reached out slowly, his fingers gently brushing your hair away from your face before tucking it carefully behind your ear.

The touch was light, but it sent electricity racing across your skin. His hand lingered there for a second, thumb grazing your cheekbone.

Then he nodded. once. slow and deliberate.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

The simple gesture and that quiet confirmation made your stomach flip violently.

In your mind, the thoughts rushed in unfiltered — filthy, desperate images of his hands on your body, his voice in your ear, finally giving in to what you'd wanted for years. but you stayed still, letting the tension stretch.

Jay's eyes stayed locked on yours, calm but burning with something deeper. he didn't move closer or pull away. he just waited, giving you the space to decide what came next.

"You're really going to make me say it out loud, huh?" you murmured, a nervous little smile tugging at your lips.

He smirked again, that trademark Jay confidence returning. "i'm not assuming anything with you. i've known you too long. if this is what you want, you're going to have to be clear."

You let out a shaky breath, shifting slightly on the bed.

Your thigh pressed more firmly against his. neither of you moved away.

"I've wanted this for so long" you admitted quietly, the alcohol and years of repression loosening your tongue.

"Not just tonight. since we were in high school. every time you taught me guitar… every time we'd end up here talking until 3 a.m.… it's been driving me crazy."

Jay listened without interrupting, his expression unreadable but his body language open.

He moved one hand on the bed near your leg, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.

"You hid it well" he said eventually, voice rougher than before. "most of the time."

"Guess i'm not hiding it anymore."

He chuckled softly. "No. you're really not."

Another stretch of heavy silence. your eyes dropped to his mouth for a second before flicking back up. Jay noticed, of course.

He always noticed.

"You're nervous" he observed, not teasing this time. just stating it. "your pulse is going crazy right here." his fingers lightly touched the side of your neck, feeling your heartbeat.

You didn't deny it. instead, you leaned into his touch just slightly.

"I'm nervous because it's you" you whispered. "because if we do this… it changes everything."

Jay's thumb brushed slowly along your jaw. "it doesn't have to. not unless we want it to."

His words were careful, responsible — so typically Jay.

Even now, when the air between you crackled with years of built-up desire, he was still thinking about protecting what you had. it only made you want him more.

You stayed like that for a while longer, talking in low voices.

Every small movement — your fingers brushing his arm — felt loaded.

The tension was thick enough to taste. your body ached with it, a deep, warm need that had been growing for years, sharpened by every guitar lesson, every late-night conversation, every moment you'd spent pretending.

But still, you didn't cross the line. not yet.

The silence between you stretched, thick and electric. your heart hammered so hard you were sure he could hear it.

The soft lighting in Jay's room wrapped around both of you like a secret, making every small movement feel heavier than it should.

You shifted closer on the bed, moving until you were on your knees beside him.

Jay was leaning back against the pillows in a way that left space — deliberate space. if you wanted to climb on him, kiss him, do anything… he wouldn't pull away. his dark eyes followed you calmly, patient as always.

"You don't have to feel any pressure" he said quietly, voice low and steady. "even Heeseung and Jake noticed. they've been telling me for weeks how obviously into me you are. i couldn't exactly deny feeling it too… but i didn't want to make things weird between us."

His honesty hit you hard. you leaned in slowly and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, lingering there for a second. his skin was warm under your lips.

"I don't want things to get uncomfortable either" you whispered against his cheek. "if we do this… if something happens… i promise i can pretend it never did. until we figure out how we really feel. no pressure on you either.”

Jay nodded once, then shifted back until he was leaning against the headboard of his bed.

The blankets were rumpled around you both.

You hesitated only a moment longer before swinging one leg over his lap and settling yourself straddling him.

The oversized t-shirt you wore rode up your thighs slightly as you sat down. Jay's hands came up naturally to rest on your waist — steady, supportive, but respectful.

His fingers didn't wander lower. he simply held you there, giving you balance without pushing for more.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. you were both breathing a little heavier. your hands rested on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart under the thin fabric of his shirt.

You traced small, nervous circles with your fingertips, exploring the firm muscle you'd stared at so many times during those guitar lessons.

Jay watched you closely, that cool, observant expression still on his face even now.

"You've been thinking about this for a long time, haven't you?" he murmured.

You nodded, biting your lip. your hands slid slowly up his chest to his shoulders, then back down again, feeling the warmth of him through the shirt. "yeah… especially during those lessons. every time you sat behind me… every time your hands were on mine…"

You leaned forward and kissed his other cheek, then the corner of his jaw. your fingers kept moving, sliding over his collarbones, down his arms, learning the shape of him like you'd wanted to for years.

Jay's grip on your waist tightened just slightly — not enough to control, just enough to show he was affected.

"You have no idea how hard it's been keeping my hands where they belong during those lessons" he said, voice dropping lower, a little rougher around the edges.

"Sitting that close to you, feeling you react every time i touch your fingers… knowing you're getting wet just from that. it's been driving me fucking crazy too."

Your breath hitched at his words. the slight dirty edge to them — so rare from him — sent heat rushing through your whole body. you pressed your palms flat against his chest again, feeling how his breathing had changed.

"I want you to teach me what good sex feels like, Jay" you finally whispered, the words spilling out shy but honest.

Your face burned as you said it, but you didn't look away.

Jay's eyes darkened, but he still held himself back. his thumbs brushed slow, soothing circles on your waist over the t-shirt.

"You're sure?" he asked, even now checking. "we can stop anytime. this doesn't change anything if you don't want it to."

"I'm sure" you breathed.

You leaned in and finally kissed him properly.

The first kiss was soft — tentative, testing.

His lips were warm and surprisingly gentle against yours. then you tilted your head a little more, deepening it, and Jay responded with a low hum that vibrated through his chest.

One of his hands stayed firmly on your waist while the other came up to cup the back of your neck, not pulling, just supporting.

You kissed him again, slower this time, savoring it. your hands grew bolder, sliding under the hem of his shirt to touch bare skin.

You traced the lines of his abs, feeling the way his stomach tensed under your fingertips. Jay let out a quiet breath against your mouth when your nails grazed lightly over his skin.

"Fuck..." he muttered between kisses, voice husky. "you've been holding back a lot, haven't you? all those times you sat in this room acting innocent while your mind was somewhere filthy…"

You smiled shyly against his lips, still that mix of timid and needy. "Maybe."

Your hands kept exploring — running up his back, feeling the muscle there, then back to his chest.

You could feel how hard his heart was beating. you shifted slightly in his lap, not grinding, just adjusting closer, and Jay's fingers flexed on your waist.

He kissed you again, a little deeper this time, his tongue brushing yours carefully. when you pulled back for air, he rested his forehead against yours.

"You're shaking" he observed quietly, always noticing everything. "still nervous?"

"A little" you admitted, your fingers still tracing patterns on his chest under his shirt. "but i want this. i've wanted it for so long."

Jay's hand slid up your back in a slow, comforting stroke. "then we take it slow. i'm not rushing anything with you."

His voice dropped again, that slight dirty tone returning. "even if i've thought about bending you over that guitar stool more times than i should admit."

Your face flushed hot. you kissed him again to hide your embarrassment, hands cupping his face now.

The kiss grew heavier, more urgent, but Jay kept control — never letting his hands move lower than your waist, never pushing your hips down against him.

You broke the kiss and pressed your face into his neck, breathing him in as your fingers continued their slow exploration of his torso.

You could feel him getting hard beneath you, but he made no move to do anything about it.

"Tell me what you've thought about" you whispered against his skin, shy but curious.

Jay let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating against your cheek. "you really want to hear that right now?"

You nodded, kissing his neck softly.

He exhaled slowly. "a lot of nights after you left these lessons… i thought about how pretty you look when you're concentrated. how your breathing changes when i get close. thought about what sounds you'd make if i finally touched you properly instead of pretending it was just about guitar chords."

Your thighs squeezed instinctively around his hips. Jay noticed but didn't comment on it, just kept talking in that low, controlled voice.

"I've wondered how you'd taste" he added, almost casually. "how you'd look sitting on my lap like this, trying so hard to stay quiet because your brothers might hear if we were at your house."

You let out a shaky breath, your hands tightening on his shoulders.

The tension was almost unbearable now — heavy, aching, delicious. you kissed him again, deeper, your body pressing closer against his chest while your hands roamed freely under his shirt.

Jay kissed you back with the same measured intensity, one hand still steady on your waist, the other gently threading through your hair. he was hard beneath you, you could feel it clearly, but he remained the same Jay — cool-headed, teasing even now.

"You're going to kill me if you keep touching me like that" he murmured against your lips, a hint of a smirk in his voice. "those hands have been driving me insane for months."

You smiled, a little breathless, and kissed the corner of his mouth. "good. because you've been doing the same to me every single lesson."

The two of you stayed like that for a long time — kissing slowly, touching carefully, talking in low voices between heated moments.

The world outside felt far away. years of friendship and hidden desire were finally cracking open, but still slowly, still safely.

Jay pulled back after one particularly long kiss, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip.

"Still okay?" he asked, eyes searching yours.

You nodded, leaning in to kiss him again.

Neither of you were ready to stop yet. the night was young, the tension was perfect, and for the first time, you weren't pretending anymore.

You kept kissing him, deeper now, with a hunger that surprised even you. despite the innocent, pure look on your face — wide eyes, flushed cheeks — any shyness had melted away under the heat of the alcohol and years of built-up need.

Your hands moved with purpose, sliding down Jay's chest, over his stomach, until you boldly palmed the obvious bulge straining against his gray pajama shorts.

Jay let out a sharp breath against your mouth, then another low sigh as your fingers rubbed him slowly through the fabric. je was hard, thick, and warm under your touch. you didn't hesitate, stroking him with more confidence, feeling him twitch under your palm.

"Fuck…" he muttered between kisses, his voice rougher.

He finally broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look down between your bodies.

There you were — straddling him, hand shamelessly rubbing his erection right beneath where you sat. his dark eyes darkened further.

"You're not playing around tonight, huh?" he said, voice low and slightly amused, but clearly affected.

You leaned in closer, lips brushing his ear, your voice needy and breathless. "i need you so bad right now, Jay… please. i want you to fuck me."

Jay let out a short, surprised laugh, the sound husky. "then take all your clothes off" he said, half-joking, half-challenging, that signature teasing tone still there even now.

But you were too far gone.

Without hesitation, you sat back on his thighs and pulled the oversized t-shirt over your head, revealing your bare chest. then you lifted your hips and slid the pajama shorts down your legs, kicking them aside until you were left in just your panties.

Your skin felt hot under his gaze.

Jay cursed under his breath — a low, impressed "shit…" — as his eyes raked over your body. his hands stayed respectful on your waist for a moment longer before he helped steady you.

"Come here" he murmured, pulling you back onto his lap properly.

The kissing resumed, hotter this time.

Your hand returned to stroking him through his shorts while his mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, then down your neck.

He sucked lightly on your skin, not enough to leave marks yet, but enough to make you whimper softly.

You ground against his bulge slowly, feeling the friction through the thin layers separating you. Jay's breathing grew heavier, his hands finally sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.

"You've been hiding this body from me during all those lessons?" he said against your neck, voice low and a little dirty. "sitting there acting all innocent while i was trying not to think about how you'd look like this… straddling me, touching my cock like you own it."

You moaned softly at his words, your hand squeezing him firmer. "i thought about it every time."

Jay kissed you hard again, then shifted both of you. he moved you off his lap gently and stood up, quickly pulling his own shirt off and dropping his shorts.

His cock sprang free — hard, flushed, and bigger than you'd imagined in your filthiest thoughts. he was smooth, well-kept, the head already glistening.

He sat back down against the headboard and pulled you back on top, but this time he guided you into a different position.

He turned you so you were facing away from him, your back to his chest, straddling his lap in reverse.

"Like this" he said quietly, voice steady but thick with want. "i want to feel you."

His hands settled on your hips, guiding you as you lowered yourself.

He didn't enter you yet — instead, he pulled your panties to the side and slid his cock between your folds, letting you grind along his length. the heat of him against your wet pussy made you gasp.

You leaned back against his chest, one of his arms wrapping around your waist to hold you steady while his other hand reached down to rub slow circles on your clit.

His mouth was right by your ear, breathing warm against it.

"Slow" he reminded you, always in some control. "we've got all night."

You rocked your hips, sliding along his cock, coating him with how wet you were.

Jay groaned softly, the sound vibrating against your back. he kept rubbing your clit with practiced fingers, occasionally squeezing your breast with his free hand, rolling your nipple gently.

"Feel how hard you made me?" he murmured, lips brushing your ear. "all those guitar lessons… you sitting between my legs, biting your lip every time i touched you. i wanted to pull you back against me just like this."

You moaned, moving faster against him. Jay adjusted his grip, lifting you slightly before finally guiding the head of his cock to your entrance.

"Ready?" he asked, checking one last time.

"Yes" you breathed.

He lowered you slowly onto him, inch by inch.

The stretch was perfect — full, deep, overwhelming in the best way.

When he bottomed out, both of you let out shaky breaths. he stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, his arm tight around your waist, the other hand still between your legs rubbing your clit.

Then he started moving.

He thrust up into you in a steady rhythm, deep and controlled.

You braced your hands on his thighs, leaning forward slightly as you rode him in reverse, matching his pace.

The position let him hit deep with every roll of his hips, his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you.

Jay's breathing was ragged now, but his voice stayed low near your ear. "that's it… just like that. you feel so fucking good."

His hand on your clit never stopped, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.

The other hand gripped your hip, guiding you down onto him harder.

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the warm room, mixed with your soft moans and his occasional low groans.

You leaned further forward, hands on his knees for leverage, bouncing on his cock while he thrust up to meet you. Jay cursed again, the view from behind clearly affecting him.

"Look at you" he said, voice strained but still teasing. "taking me so well after wanting it for years…"

The pleasure built fast — the angle, his fingers on your clit, the deep thrusts.

Your thighs started trembling. Jay noticed, as always, and wrapped his arm tighter around you, holding you close as he fucked you through it.

Your back arching against his chest, a broken moan leaving your lips. Jay kept moving, slower now, drawing it out, murmuring quiet praise against your neck.

He didn't stop completely. after you caught your breath, he guided you to lean all the way forward, chest almost to the bed, still connected.

He sat up straighter behind you, hands on your hips as he thrust deeper, faster, chasing his own release.

The position was intense — you face down, ass up, Jay behind you thrusting with controlled power. his hands roamed your back, occasionally gripping your hair lightly to pull you back against him.

"Fuck, you're squeezing me so tight" he groaned.

You pushed back against him, meeting every thrust. Jay's pace grew more urgent, but he never lost that cool edge — always making sure you were okay, his hands soothing even as he fucked you harder.

You kept moving on him, rolling your hips in a slow, needy rhythm as you rode Jay in reverse.

Your back was pressed against his chest, his cock buried deep inside you with every downward motion.

The stretch felt incredible, and the position let you feel every inch of him. your hands gripped his thighs for balance while his arm stayed wrapped around your waist, the other hand still teasing your clit with slow, deliberate circles.

But Jay had other plans.

His hands slid to your hips, gripping firmly but not harshly.

With a low murmur against your ear — "let me take over for a bit" — he guided you forward. you leaned down, hands bracing on the bed as he smoothly shifted your body off his lap and onto all fours. the transition was fluid, his cock slipping out for just a second before he positioned himself behind you.

Your hips stayed high, ass up, while your chest and face pressed down into the mattress.

The soft sheets muffled your heavy breathing as Jay knelt behind you.

He reached forward, gathering both of your arms gently but decisively, pulling them behind your lower back. he held your wrists together with one hand, limiting your movement without being overly restrictive.

His grip was secure, controlling, but still careful — classic Jay.

"Fuck… Jay…" you moaned loudly, the sound shameless and needy.

Your voice echoed in the warm room, much louder than you'd ever been with anyone else. "it feels so deep like this…"

He rubbed the head of his cock along your soaked folds for a moment, teasing, before pushing back inside you in one smooth, deep thrust.

You cried out, face buried in the mattress as your ass stayed arched high for him.

Jay started moving — deep and fast, but not brutal.

Each thrust was powerful and controlled, hitting that perfect spot inside you with precision. the sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, steady and rhythmic.

"Shit, listen to you" he said, voice low and slightly amused even now.

"You're so loud tonight. all those years pretending to be shy during our lessons… and now you're moaning like this with your face in my bed."

You whimpered loudly in response, unable to hold back. "i can't help it… you're so deep— ahh!" another loud moan tore from your throat as he thrust particularly deep, holding it there for a second before resuming his pace.

Jay kept your wrists pinned at your lower back with one hand while his other hand reached up and gathered your hair.

He didn't yank it — he simply held it firmly, using it as leverage to keep your head down against the mattress while he fucked you. the gentle tug on your scalp sent sparks through your body.

"That's it" he murmured, breathing heavier but still composed. "keep that ass up for me. you feel incredible like this… so wet. been thinking about this view for months every time you left my room."

Your moans grew louder, unrestrained. every deep thrust pushed a new sound out of you — high-pitched whimpers mixed with desperate gasps and full moans.

Your hips pushed back against him instinctively, meeting his rhythm as much as his grip on your wrists allowed.

"Jay— oh god, right there— fuck" you cried out, voice breaking. Your face stayed pressed into the sheets, cheek turned to the side, eyes half-closed in pleasure.

He leaned forward slightly, chest closer to your back, changing the angle just enough to make you see stars.

His thrusts never faltered — consistent, deep, fast enough to make your thighs shake but never rough enough to cross into discomfort.

"You're squeezing me so tight" he groaned near your ear, voice rough but still that familiar Jay tone — teasing underneath the lust. "all that tension from the guitar lessons finally coming out, huh?… you were this wet thinking about me fucking you like this?"

"Yes— fuck" you moaned loudly, almost sobbing into the mattress.

Your body rocked forward with each thrust, but Jay's hold on your wrists and hair kept you exactly where he wanted you. "i need more… please don't stop—"

He didn't.

He kept the pace steady, fucking you thoroughly.

Minutes passed like this — long, drawn-out, filthy minutes filled with the wet sounds of your bodies connecting and your increasingly loud moans. Jay would occasionally slow down to grind deep inside you, letting you feel every inch, before picking up speed again.

After a while, he released your wrists but only to adjust your position further.

He gently pushed your upper body fully down onto the bed, guiding you into a prone-bone angle — your hips still tilted up, legs slightly spread, chest and face pressed flat against the mattress.

He moved with you, covering your back with his chest as he slid back inside.

This new position felt even deeper. Jay's weight pressed you into the bed as he thrust down into you, one hand still tangled in your hair, the other braced beside your head for support.

"Still good?" he asked between thrusts, voice low and caring even as he fucked you harder. "tell me if it's too much."

"It's— ah... it's perfect— Jay, fuck" your voice was loud and broken, moans spilling out continuously now.

The mattress muffled some of them, but not enough. you were loud, needy, completely lost in the sensation.

Jay let out a low chuckle that turned into a groan as you clenched around him. "you're going to wake up the whole house if you keep moaning like that. not that i mind… i like hearing how much you need this."

He kept the rhythm deep and fast, hips snapping against your ass with controlled power.

The angle made his cock drag perfectly against your g-spot with every stroke. his hand in your hair kept you grounded, his lips occasionally brushing your shoulder or the back of your neck as he fucked you.

"You're doing so well" he murmured, voice husky against your ear. "my best friend moaning my name while i fuck her exactly how she needs."

"Jay— please…" you whined loudly, pushing your hips back as much as the position allowed. your hands gripped the sheets tightly, body trembling from the sustained pleasure.

He kept going, deep, fast, relentless but never rough.

Always observant — adjusting when your moans pitched higher, slowing for a few strokes when your thighs shook too much, then building the pace again.

Jay kept his steady, deep rhythm, fucking you thoroughly from behind while you stayed pressed into the mattress. your loud moans continued filling the room without filter — raw, needy, and unrestrained.

But he wasn't done changing things up.

He slowed his thrusts gradually, then pulled out carefully.

Before you could protest the sudden emptiness, he flipped you onto your back with strong but gentle hands.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was between your legs again, spreading them wide and settling on top of you.

This time, though, he hooked both of your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half.

Your hips lifted off the bed as he leaned forward, bringing his face close to yours. the new angle made everything feel impossibly deeper.

"Jay— fuck—" you moaned loudly as he pushed back inside you in one smooth motion.

Your voice cracked with pleasure, eyes fluttering. "it's so deep like this… i can feel everything—"

He braced his hands on either side of your head, his dark eyes locked on your face as he started moving again. deep, fast strokes that made your breasts bounce with every thrust.

Your legs trembled over his shoulders, ankles near his ears.

Jay's expression stayed focused — that cool, controlled look mixed with clear desire.

He wasn't being rough, but the way he drove into you was relentless, hitting that perfect spot over and over.

"Look at me" he said, voice low and a little strained. "want to see your face while i fuck you."

You tried, but another loud moan tore from your throat as he ground deep inside you, rolling his hips in a way that made your toes curl. "ah— Jay, right there— don't stop—"

Your hands flew up to grip his arms, nails digging into his biceps as he held you folded beneath him.

The position left you completely exposed, hips tilted up, taking every inch of his cock with each thrust.

You were so loud now — moaning, whimpering, gasping his name repeatedly.

The sounds bounced off the walls of his warm-lit room.

Jay leaned down further, almost bending you in half, and kissed you messily.

His tongue slid against yours as he kept thrusting, the wet slap of skin on skin growing louder. when he pulled back, his breathing was heavier.

"You're so fucking loud tonight" he murmured against your lips, a hint of that teasing smirk appearing even now.

"I can't— ah, it feels too good—" you cried out, head falling back against the pillows.

Your face was flushed, lips parted, eyes glassy with pleasure. every deep thrust pushed a new moan out of you. "Jay… Jay, please— it's so much—”

He kept the pace fast and deep, hips snapping forward with controlled power.

The angle made his cock drag perfectly against your g-spot on every stroke. one of his hands moved down to rub your clit again, adding another layer of overwhelming sensation.

You were a mess beneath him — legs over his shoulders, body folded, moaning shamelessly loud with every movement.

Your hands roamed his back, scratching lightly down his skin as pleasure built higher and higher.

"Fuck, you feel perfect" Jay groaned, voice rough but still composed.

He kissed your neck, sucking lightly as he continued thrusting. "been wanting to have you like this for so long. all spread out, taking me so well… moaning my name like you can't get enough."

"I can't— i really can't—" you sobbed-moaned, voice breaking. your hips tried to move to meet his thrusts, but the position left you mostly at his mercy. "it's so deep, Jay… i'm so close already—"

He immediately slowed his pace just enough to keep you on the edge without pushing you over, drawing out the moment. His thrusts became long, deliberate strokes — pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in deep and grinding against you.

"Not yet" he said softly, almost teasing. "we're not done."

He changed the angle slightly, pressing your thighs further back as he leaned over you.

The new depth made you cry out even louder, your voice echoing in the room. Jay's hand stayed on your clit, rubbing slow circles while he fucked you with those deep, fast strokes.

Sweat glistened on both your bodies under the soft brown-gold lighting. Jay's hair fell messily over his forehead as he watched your face, always observant, always checking your reactions.

"Every time I hit this spot right here—" he thrust deep and ground against you to emphasize, making you moan loudly again. "—you get even wetter. you really did want this bad, didn't you?"

"Yes— god, yes— i've wanted you for years—" you gasped, voice loud and broken.

Your hands gripped his shoulders tighter as another wave of pleasure washed over you, keeping you right on the edge.

Jay kept going, deep and fast, but always controlled. he would lean down to kiss you messily every so often, swallowing some of your loud moans before pulling back to watch you again.

His hand never left your clit, building the tension higher without letting it break.

After a while, he lowered your legs from his shoulders but kept them spread wide. he stayed on top, chest pressed to yours in a more classic missionary, but still deep and intense.

His hips rolled against yours in a steady rhythm, grinding deep with every thrust.

"Still okay?" he asked between strokes, always the caring one even now.

"So okay— fuck, Jay, it feels amazing—" you moaned loudly, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him deeper.

The room filled with the sounds of your loud, needy moans, his low groans, and the wet rhythm of your bodies moving together.

Jay kept the pace deep and fast, drawing it out, making the pleasure last as long as possible.

He kissed your neck, your jaw, your lips — mixing tenderness with the raw intensity of how he was fucking you.

His hand occasionally slid up to hold one of your wrists above your head, not pinning hard, just keeping you in place while he drove into you.

"You sound so pretty when you're this loud" he whispered against your ear, voice rough. "moaning for your best friend like this… after all this time."

Your response was another loud, broken moan as he hit that perfect angle again.

The tension kept building, higher and higher, but Jay expertly kept you both teetering right on the edge — not letting either of you fall over just yet.

You were right on the edge.

Your body was shaking underneath Jay, legs wrapped tightly around his waist as he fucked you deep and steady. your moans had become desperate, broken cries that filled the entire room.

"Jay— i'm so close— please, i'm gonna cum—" you gasped loudly, your voice cracking with need. your nails dug into his back as the pressure built unbearably tight inside you.

But Jay suddenly slowed down, then stopped moving completely, buried to the hilt inside you. he held perfectly still, breathing heavily against your neck.

"Not yet" he murmured, voice low and composed, that teasing control still fully intact. "you're not cumming yet."

You let out a loud, frustrated whine, trying to roll your hips up desperately, but he pinned you down with his weight, refusing to give you the last bit of friction you needed.

"Jay… please…" you begged, voice needy and loud. "i was so close—"

He kissed the corner of your mouth softly, then slowly pulled out of you, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness.

Your pussy throbbed painfully, slick and desperate.

Jay moved down your body with deliberate calmness. he spread your legs wide, settling between them on his stomach.

His dark eyes looked up at your flushed, innocent-looking face as he wrapped his strong arms around your thighs, holding you open for him.

"Since you're being so loud and impatient" he said, voice husky but still teasing, "i'm going to taste you instead. but you still don't get to cum until i say so."

Before you could respond, Jay leaned in and dragged his tongue slowly up your soaked folds.

You moaned loudly, back arching off the bed at the sudden intense pleasure.

"Fuck— Jay—"

He took his time, exploring you with his mouth like he had all night. his tongue moved in slow, broad strokes from your entrance up to your clit, savoring how wet you were.

Then he circled your swollen clit with the tip of his tongue, applying just enough pressure to keep you right on the edge without pushing you over.

You were loud — extremely loud. your moans echoed shamelessly in his warm-lit room as he ate you out.

"Oh my god— Jay… that feels so good—" you cried out, one hand flying down to grip his hair. your hips tried to buck against his face, but his strong arms kept your thighs firmly pinned down, controlling your movements.

Jay hummed against your pussy, the vibration making you whimper even louder.

He alternated between long, slow licks and focused sucking on your clit, occasionally dipping his tongue inside you. his technique was precise and confident — typical Jay, even in this.

"You taste even better than i imagined" he murmured against your wet skin, voice slightly muffled. "all those guitar lessons… and i had no idea how sweet this pretty pussy was."

You moaned brokenly, head thrown back against the pillows. "Jay— please— i need to cum so bad— i can't take it—"

He ignored your begging and continued devouring you.

His tongue flicked rapidly over your clit for a few seconds, then slowed down again, edging you mercilessly.

Every time your thighs started trembling harder and your moans pitched higher, he would pull back slightly, kissing your inner thighs or blowing cool air on your sensitive folds until the orgasm threat faded just enough.

You were a complete mess — loud, desperate, and dripping.

"Ah! Jay— your tongue feels too good—" you sobbed, voice hoarse from how much you'd been moaning. your free hand gripped the sheets tightly beside you, knuckles turning white.

Jay slid two fingers inside you slowly while his mouth focused on your clit, curling them upward to press against that sensitive spot. the combination made you cry out even louder, almost screaming his name.

"Jay— fuck— i'm so close again— please let me cum this time—"

But he pulled his fingers out and slowed his tongue once more, denying you for the third time.

You let out a loud, frustrated whimper, tears of overwhelming pleasure pricking at the corners of your eyes.

"Not yet" he repeated calmly, kissing your clit softly. "i want you shaking for me first."

He buried his face deeper between your legs, sucking your clit into his mouth while his tongue flicked rapidly.

The wet, obscene sounds of him eating you out mixed with your loud, broken moans. he kept you spread wide, completely exposed, as he worked you over with expert patience.

Minutes passed like this — long, torturous minutes of Jay's mouth on your pussy.

He would bring you right to the brink with fast, focused licks and suction, then slow down to lazy, broad strokes that kept the pleasure simmering without exploding.

Your body was covered in a thin layer of sweat, thighs trembling uncontrollably around his head.

"You're dripping all over my chin" he murmured, voice low and slightly dirty. "such a messy girl tonight. and still trying so hard to be quiet when we both know you can't."

"I'm not— i can't be quiet— Jay, please—" you moaned, almost incoherently now.

He slid his fingers back inside you, fucking you slowly with them while his tongue circled your clit.

The dual sensation had you seeing stars, right on the edge once again.

Your voice was getting hoarser, your moans desperate, needy sobs as he continued edging you with his mouth for what felt like forever.

Jay between your spread legs, focused and in control, while you writhed and moaned loudly beneath his skilled tongue.

He was clearly enjoying himself, occasionally humming in satisfaction against your pussy or glancing up to watch your innocent face contort with overwhelming pleasure.

"You're doing so well holding it for me" he praised softly between licks. "just a little longer…"

Your body was on fire, every nerve ending screaming for release, but Jay kept you right there — teetering, desperate, and completely at his mercy.

Now you were shaking uncontrollably, your thighs trembling around Jay's head as he continued working you with his tongue.

Jay sucked your swollen clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue rapidly while his two fingers curled deep inside you, pressing firmly against that sensitive spot.

His dark eyes flicked up to watch your face as he pushed you over.

"Jay— fuck— i'm cumming—!" you cried out loudly, voice breaking into a high-pitched moan that echoed through the room.

The orgasm crashed over you hard.

Your back arched violently off the bed, hips jerking against his face as waves of intense pleasure ripped through your body.

You moaned shamelessly loud, almost screaming his name as your pussy clenched around his fingers and flooded his tongue.

But Jay didn't stop.

He kept his mouth on you through the entire orgasm, licking and sucking gently but consistently, drawing it out and immediately pushing you toward another peak.

"Jay— oh my god, it's too much... i just came— ah" you wailed, one hand gripping his hair tightly while the other twisted in the sheets. your legs shook uncontrollably around his shoulders.

He hummed against your pussy, the vibration sending aftershocks through you.

"I know" he murmured, voice low and slightly smug against your wet folds. "but you sound too pretty when you're falling apart. i'm not done with you yet."

He continued eating you out with focused determination — slow, broad licks mixed with quick flicks on your oversensitive clit.

His fingers kept moving inside you, curling and thrusting steadily. the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth on your dripping pussy filled the room alongside your loud, hoarse moans.

After several long minutes of this delicious torture, Jay finally pulled his mouth away, his lips and chin glistening with your arousal.

He looked up at your flushed, wrecked face with that signature cool smirk.

"On your stomach again." he said quietly, voice rough with want.

You barely had the strength to move, but he helped you, flipping you onto your belly with strong, careful hands.

He pulled your hips up so you were in doggy again — ass high, chest and face pressed down into the mattress, exactly how he liked you.

Jay knelt behind you and rubbed his hard cock along your soaked folds before pushing back inside you in one smooth, deep thrust. you moaned into the sheets as he filled you again.