pau

profiles: [X], [X], [X]

chapters:

0. prologue

1. bag

2. wallet

3. keys

4. phone

5. earphones

6. water bottle

7. glasses

8. reusable straw

9. pens

10. notebook

11. planner

12. receipts

13. lip balm

14. snacks

15. trash

16. textbooks

17. hat

18. umbrella

19. reusable bag

20. watch

21. small pouch

22. vitamins

23. bandages

24. painkillers

25. perfume

26. hand sanitizer

27. hand wipes

28. tissues

29. ear plugs

30. toothpicks

31. cough drops

32. masks

33. spf

34. breath mints

35. folders

36. laptop

37. portable charger

38. calculator

39. charm

40. utensils

41. cushion

42. polaroid

43. dog treats

44. end

bonus chapters:

josh in vegas

himbos

them

“Do you have a copy of tomorrow’s case for discussion?” Jihyo sounds like she’s about ready to cry. Not surprising to you at all, because you’re the same right now. You blink at your laptop screen a few times, trying to get out of your own head. Long, rambling thoughts have always been your biggest vice. And you do it even more when you’re stressed.

You grab a sheet of paper on your bed next to you and lean over the side of it, meeting Jihyo halfway from her own bed.

“Thanks.” She mumbles, looking down at the sheet. She reads it over once, twice, then one more time, before her distraught eyes meet yours.

“What’s the diagnosis?”

You shrug.

Jihyo nearly wails, scratching at her head. “I can’t do this shit. God, I’m going to kill someone.”

You can’t even laugh. You’re too stuck on the presentation open on your own laptop, trying to make the font small enough to fit everything on it, but not so small that it can’t be seen. It’s proving to be way more difficult than you thought.

“Come on. We’re going to grab dinner.” She swings her legs over the bed, ignoring the many papers scattered around her as they wrinkle under the movement. You don’t even question it, clicking ‘Save’ on the presentation a comical number of times to make sure you won’t lose it, then following Jihyo’s footsteps.

It’s colder outside than you anticipated, but it still feels nice. The goosebumps on your skin wake you up a bit, which you desperately need after the fog you’ve been under for the last few hours. Realistically, you know that neither you nor Jihyo can afford to take time off. But enough is enough. You need a break, even if it means you will crash and burn tomorrow.

The campus dorms are separate from the actual university, located across the road from it and scattered over a large area. Every building is more wide than it is tall, only three stories but sprawling over a large area. Medicine, Dentistry, Nursing and Physiotherapy. The backbone of the future healthcare system. When you walk past the park, there’s a small bonfire going on, surrounded by many cheering students egging on three guys holding kegs.

Yup, backbone of the future healthcare system.

Right outside the gated walls of the dorms are many places to eat, catered especially for the thousands of students beside them. You and Jihyo are standing on the sidewalk, wondering what you are in the mood for eating, when a familiar face catches your eye.

“Can’t work either?” Mina smiles, giving you both hugs. Jihyo pouts and shakes her head.

“Do you know the diagnosis for tomorrow’s case?”

Their voices fade as they continue to talk, and you stare off into space. One half of your brain is wondering if you want pizza or something Chinese. The other part is contemplating cutting some info from your presentation so you can fit it on the slide. Someone nudges you, and when you blink back to the present, both Jihyo and Mina are looking at you.

“What’s up with you?” Mina asks.

“Nothing.” You reply almost automatically.

Jihyo huffs and rolls her eyes. “She’s been like this for days, just checking out.”

Mina frowns. “That’s not like you at all.”

“Sorry.” You sigh. “I’m just stressed.”

“You need to take more breaks.”

“Doesn’t help.” Jihyo has her arms crossed and she’s shaking her head. “She’s still thinking of work. I guarantee you she’s thinking about that presentation she has due tomorrow. Aren’t you?”

Caught red handed. You feel your face grow warm and you pout. “…… No.”

Jihyo snorts and Mina laughs a little. You sigh defeatedly.

“Can we just eat?”

The three of you end up at the first place you can see, a small diner where you order burgers, fries and milkshakes. Any food that’s greasy enough to take your mind off the mountains of stuff you have left unfinished. Mina watches you closely as you stare out the window.

“You need to relieve stress.” She says. You hum noncommittally.

“Thanks for the suggestion. I never would’ve known I had to do that.”

Jihyo snorts and elbows you. Mina doesn’t seem fazed.

“I have a solution, but I don’t think our goody little princess will take it.”

That gets your attention. You’ve always hated being perceived as that. Sure, you’re mostly a homebody. You don’t like attending parties too much unless you know a lot of people there, which is almost never. You like spending most of your time in front of a screen, and you’re not very athletic either. You haven’t had anything remotely romantic since university started, even though all your friends have indulged in hookups. And because of all this, since the start of university, you’ve been branded as the kind of risk averse girl who doesn’t really enjoy anything fun. You know it’s all in jest. Your friends love you very much. But it still irritates you.

“What is it?” You ask. You know she’s baiting you, but you want to know anyway.

“There’s this guy in DPT,” she begins, “Totally flaky. Kind of full of himself. But he’s amazing in bed.”

Jihyo’s already in a fit of giggles. She obviously knows who Mina is talking about. You frown.

“Okay. So?”

Mina leans forward, her elbows on the table. “He jokingly put an ad up on the university Facebook group a while ago. Offering….. services…… to any girl that’s interested. It got taken down almost immediately but apparently it actually became a thing, because I’ve heard a lot of girls say he’s always down to hook up as stress relief if you ask.”

By this point, your mouth has dropped open in shock and a small amount of disgust. Both Jihyo and Mina have stupid grins on their faces.

“So he’s a glorified prostitute.”

Mina gasps “He is not! He’s a good guy, actually. A little sleazy but, aren’t all college guys like that? Also, it’s not like he’s asking for payment.”

You gawk at her. “Oh my god, you too?”

She holds her hands up in defense. “Anatomy was really difficult last year, okay?”

You groan and lean down, forehead hitting the table with a dull thunk. Jihyo laughs.

“Thank you for the suggestion.” You give Mina a withering look. “But I’m fine.”

Mina shrugs. “I’m just saying, he's really good. And he’d probably blow your virgin mind.”

Your face flames. “I’m not a virgin.”

“Eight second sex doesn’t count.”

Jihyo is nearly doubled over, face red with laughter. You thank every god in the universe when your food finally arrives.

Mina is wrong, objectively. You aren’t a virgin. In fact, you had a boyfriend in high school. You took each other’s virginities. Of course he came in eight seconds, it was his first time. The fact that you never had sex again and he broke up with you a month afterwards didn’t change anything. You are not a virgin.

No one says anything to you after that day, but the thought annoyingly lingers. You cannot believe a guy would just do that. And even more shocking that girls would agree to hook up with someone who has a reputation like that. Another notion plagues you: how good is he in bed to even have all these girls keep coming to him?

Fuck. These are dangerous thoughts. Especially for someone like you, who can spiral in your mind so easily. And almost like sugar on top, with every passing day, work keeps ramping up. You retreat farther and farther in your mind, thoughts racing and contorting from one shape to another, taking up lives of their own, and before you know it, you’re wondering. What if you were to hook up with this guy too?

In every sense of the word, you are stressed. You don’t know what he does, but it clearly works. Maybe you can take just one night and instead of stuffing your face with greasy food as an outlet, you can have sex. It sounds like an intriguing option.

Maybe it will shut your friends up about you being a prude.

Tracking DPT people isn’t easy as someone in Medicine, and especially as someone in Medicine who doesn’t know more than four people and would rather set herself on fire than talk to new faces. Luckily, those four friends of yours are insanely well connected. There’s no way in hell you’re asking Mina. You won’t give her that satisfaction. So when you call Mingyu about what Mina told you, he has a name for you immediately.

“Yoon Jeonghan.” He says over the phone. Behind him, you can hear a lot of talking and laughing. He’s likely at a party. On a weekday. Figures. “Really cool guy. I’ll send you his number.”

“That would be great.” You reply.

“Y/N, are you sure about this?”

You immediately go rigid. “Why? Is he suspicious?”

There’s a small silence before Mingyu snorts. “You know what, this is good. You need this. Desperately.”

You don’t like his implication, so you just hang up. He sends you Jeonghan’s number mere minutes later, and you reply with a middle finger emoji. He only sends you kissy faces back.

Once you click on Jeonghan’s number and stare at the blank text box, you’re at a loss. What do you even say to him? How do these things go? You really don’t want to ask Mingyu again. He already thinks you’re a loser (affectionately).

You end up sending a small text introducing yourself and telling him which department you are from. He replies around ten minutes later.

[yoon jeonghan]: what can I do for you?

Now you’re at a true loss. What do you say? You type and erase, type and erase for many agonising minutes. Then, another text comes up.

[yoon jeonghan]: im in B wing. DPT. last door on the second floor.

You blink a few times, staring at his text. Fuck, he knows. You feel a little embarrassed, but you think this is more of a reflection of him than it is of you, so you just shut your phone and scramble to get dressed.

Half an hour later, you’re climbing the steps of an unfamiliar building across campus, feeling nervous and jumpy. Your eyes dart around your new surroundings rapidly, but no one is really wandering around. It’s a weekday, so there’s not much activity. The corridors are easy enough to navigate, and you find the room at the end of the hallway very quickly. You shake your hands out, breaths coming irregularly. This is so out of left field for you, and half your mind can’t even process that you would do something so impulsive. You’re not this person at all. But what can you say? Medical school hath changed you.

You knock on the door so quietly that you immediately wonder if you should knock again. He probably didn’t hear it. You’re just thinking of doing it again when the door swings open, catching you off guard. You freeze.

He’s tall, and kind of skinny looking in his oversized t-shirt. But he has this gorgeous, jet black hair that falls down the sides of his face in effortless waves. Hell, it looks even better than your hair freshly out of the salon. He has pretty, almond eyes, a thin nose bridge, and lips so plump that you immediately wonder what they would feel like.

Okay. You get the appeal now.

“You must be Y/N.”

Your head jerks with a nod. “Jeonghan?”

He smiles, and it nearly takes your breath away. God, he’s painfully attractive. He looks you up and down in a way that makes you want to turn around and book it immediately.

“In the flesh. Come in, sweetheart.”

You can feel the back of your neck burn hot at the petname. No one has ever called you that. You step in hesitantly, looking around. It’s a cubicle, with a single bed, a desk, and a wardrobe. Lucky him, he doesn’t have to share with a roommate. You don’t know anyone in the Medicine building who has a single room. Damn physiotherapy people and their many perks.

It’s surprisingly neat. There’s a gaming setup on the desk, a lot of wires, but they’re all stacked neatly. There’s a few books on the side tables and on the floor next to the desk. The bed is made. There’s some posters on the walls. The room has a lot of character. It catches you a little off guard. You don’t know what you were expecting. Maybe a shady dungeon with chains and a mattress as hard as stone.

Jeonghan watches you expectantly. You fidget.

“I- I heard… I mean, someone told me. About- about you.”

He hums, and you can see the amusement on his face, the corner of his lip ticked up just a little bit. You wish the ground could swallow you whole. He huffs out a laugh.

“Should’ve known you’d be shy. You couldn’t even say it over text.”

Your face burns more. You avoid his eyes. When he walks closer, your heart races. You nearly jump away in shock when he leans down, nosing at your hair, brushing over your neck.

“Should we loosen you up a bit?”

Your heart is beating so fast it makes you a little dizzy. He smells really good up close. Fragrant aftershave and something like pine. Your mouth drops open when his lips press to the skin below your ear.

“Yes?” He whispers.

“Yes.” You breathe.

Your consent is all he needs, large hands brushing over your hips before moving up to grip your sides. He presses more kisses over your neck, then up your jaw. Something twinges in your lower stomach, making your insides clench. Your heart is pounding so loud you are scared he will feel it through your rib cage. He keeps traveling up, until his lips brush the corner of your mouth. You turn your head with an instinct that surprises even you, and he hums in approval.

That first kiss makes your knees buckle. Luckily, his hands are giving you enough support to keep you from collapsing. It’s languid, like he’s taking his time with you, and yes, his lips are just as soft as you imagined. His nose nudges yours, making you tilt your head and deepen the kiss. You can’t help your moan, hands fisting his shirt. You can feel his smile on your lips.

When he pulls away, you have to blink furiously to compose yourself. He watches you closely, like he’s trying to figure you out. But you should be the one doing that, if your brain wasn’t completely scrambled right now. You need him to kiss you again, so you lean up on your tiptoes towards him. He chuckles.

The second kiss is even more charged, though you didn’t think that was possible. His tongue comes out to play this time, and you arch into him at the feeling. His hands have become more daring too, exploring your body. He squeezes your ass a little, digs into the plush of your hips. He fiddles with your shirt until he’s coaxing you to put your arms up, pulling it off you. You feel shy suddenly, but he doesn’t seem to notice, going back to kissing you, and his lips wipe away any hesitation that you might have.

He plays with the clasp of your bra a bit, running his fingers over the straps. It sends shivers up your spine. He finally undoes it and pulls it off. He disconnects your lips enough to look down at your chest, whistling low.

“Pretty.” He says. You flush hard, tugging at his own shirt.

When Jeonghan pulls it off, you’re a little surprised. He’s not nearly as skinny as he looks when he’s swimming in his loose clothes. He’s lean, nicely carved muscle, just enough meat on him to feel good when your hands begin exploring. He lets you, doesn’t even flinch when you run your fingers over his abs. Your eyes dart further down, and you can see his erection over his sweatpants. You bite your lip.

“How do you want me, pretty?” He asks, lips running lazily over your shoulder. You flush.

“I- I don’t know.”

He pulls away at that a little, looking at you curiously. “You have done this before, right?”

You scowl. “Of course I have!”

“Okay.” He placates you, hands running up and down your bare sides. “So how do you want it? I can eat you out. Or do you just wanna fuck?”

Well, shit. You didn’t expect him to say all that. You’re caught off guard by how vulgar his words are, by how hot he sounds talking like this. Like it’s nothing. Fuck, you’ve never been eaten out before. Are you even ready for something like that? But then again, from what you can see as you look nervously down at his bulge, he’s not exactly small. Mina was right. Eight second sex really doesn’t count. There’s no way you can take all of this.

Jeonghan laughs lightly as he follows your gaze before humming and nodding. He goes back to kissing your shoulder and neck.

“I’ve got you. Just relax.”

That’s exactly what you’re struggling to do, but you don’t tell him that. He walks you both backward until you’re pushing yourself up the mattress to the head of the bed, him on top of you. His fingers curl into the waistband of your jeans and panties before pulling both of them down in one go. You flush at the thought of being completely naked now, his eyes running over you. There’s a heat in them that you didn’t expect, but welcome it regardless. It really does look like he wants you. You don’t know how much of it is an act, or if he really thinks you’re worth looking at like this.

He kisses over your ankle before traveling up slowly, laying his lips on your skin every few beats until he reaches the apex of your thighs. This is entirely new territory for you. Even the thought of a guy down there is mortifying, so yes, maybe your friends aren’t too far off in their assumptions of you. It’s so hot in theory, but here, now, in practice, you’re so nervous it makes every muscle in your body stiffen. Maybe this it too-

You yelp when you feel it, his lips brushing over your slit. Jeonghan is taken aback, pulling away and blinking up at you from between your legs. It’s a strange sight, strange enough to knock you out of your thoughts. He breathes out a laugh.

“Either you’re very distracted, or you really haven’t done this before.”

You peer down at him, held up by your elbows so you can look properly. You hesitate before sighing.

“I haven’t.” You mumble, but you’re quick to clarify. “I didn’t lie. I’ve- I’ve had sex. But no one’s ever….. I’ve never had-”

“Well that’s a shame.” Jeonghan mumbles. He runs his hands over your inner thighs, slow strokes that loosen your muscles a little bit. He thumbs at your outer lips and you flush deeply, but it’s nothing compared to what he says next.

“Anyone who got close enough to have sex with you but didn’t eat out your pretty pussy must’ve been a real asshole.”

He kisses your folds, sucking on them a little. Your mouth drops and your elbows give out, back hitting the mattress. God, this is way hotter than it needs to be. He’s probably just saying all this to make you relax a little and get it over with. You feel something hot, wet and alive run over your lips again before dipping inside, lazily licking over where you’re most sensitive. He tongues at your clit until you let out your first moan. His grip on your thighs, holding you open, tightens.

“That’s it.” He whispers. “Just relax.”

Never in a million years did you think head would feel this good, but Jeonghan shatters all your illusions. He’s so meticulous, discovering parts of you that you didn’t even know could feel good when stimulated. He has no shame about it either. He moans into you when you try to close your legs around his head, or when your fingers thread through his hair. His tongue dips inside you too, swirling, before pulling out and licking upward so he can suck on your clit some more. You get close to your high embarrassingly quickly, and you’re nearly crying when you warn him about it. He only keeps going, consistent in his pace, until you’re jerking and shuddering, cumming hard in his mouth. He doesn’t slow until you’re desperately pushing him away, overstimulated.

“Fuck.” His voice is raspy, ragged. His face is drenched. You can see, even through your teary vision, that his pupils are dilated. “That was so hot, the way you came on my tongue.”

You flush, not knowing what to say. You’re still trying to catch your breath. You jerk back when Jeonghan’s thumb runs over your abused clit. He smirks.

“You gotta do that again for me, pretty. I need to feel that again. On my fingers this time.”

He’s leaning over you before you can even process his words. He presses his forehead to yours, and you feel something prod at your entrance.

“Oh, fuck.” You arch when a solitary finger slips inside you. You’re definitely wet enough, between your orgasm and his spit, so there’s next to no resistance. Jeonghan watches you closely, too closely. You try to turn your head, feeling shy, and he only chuckles, curling his finger inside you. You shriek when something zips through your core.

“Found it.” He grins. It’s so sleazy but so hot. God, is this why your girls are lining up for him?

He sinks another finger inside you before curling it up to the same spot, and this time, you see stars. You writhe and tremble under him, feeling so full with just this. He fucks the soul out of you with his fingers, moving rapidly while his thumb rubs over your clit. The noises turn wetter, sloppier, and Jeonghan bites his bottom lip as he watches you fall apart under him.

Your second orgasm is quicker but even more intense, leaving you near speechless. You can’t even make a sound, mouth open in a silent cry as you feel blood rush roar in your ears. You seize and shudder so much it feels almost animalistic. He doesn’t seem to mind at all.

“Jeonghan.” You weep, grabbing his wrist when it’s too much. Well, it was too much from the minute he put his mouth on you, but two orgasms in, you genuinely feel like you’re about to faint.

“My name sounds so sweet from your lips, pretty.” He says. He keeps calling you that, and it makes your heart race a little. You just turn your head to the side. You’re too bashful to even look at him. He lays a soft kiss on your cheek.

“You want more?”

The thought of more makes your heartbeat pick up again. You turn back to him a little, nose nudging against his. He knows he has your attention. He smirks.

“Come on, tell me. You want my cock?”

Your pussy clenches. You bite your lower lip. Jeonghan thumbs at it, releasing it from your teeth. You nod timidly. He chuckles again.

“Gotta do better than that, pretty. Ask for it like a good girl.”

The thought of saying it out loud lights your face on fire. Your hands fist the sheets, and you feel so nervous. Jeonghan watches you closely in that unnerving way of his. Then, he pushes down, and you feel his hard on press into your cunt, right between your spread legs. Your jaw goes slack.

He wastes no time in slipping his tongue into your mouth. It’s messy and filthy, all tongues and teeth, and he grinds slowly into you, over and over. He’s hard as a rock, throbbing even through the thin material of his pants. You clench pathetically around nothing. You can’t take it anymore.

“Want your cock.” You whine into his mouth. “Please fuck me.”

Jeonghan giggles, honest to god giggles, into the kiss. “So polite. How can I say no?”

When he finally shucks off his pants, your head spins a bit. He’s way bigger than your ex, longer, and he curves just at the tip in a way that you know will feel so good when he slides into you. There’s a large, pulsing vein running up the underside that makes your mouth water a little bit. Never before have you felt the urge to suck a dick until now.

A lot of firsts happening today.

Jeonghan’s eyes are locked on yours as he pumps himself, long fingers wrapped gracefully around his shaft. You watch him with a look of fascination that amuses him, you can see it on his face. He dips his fingers inside you again and you jerk a little. When he pulls out, they’re wet and sticky. He runs them over his cock. You’re shell shocked at his brazen action, and he smirks. Is he just doing all this to see how far he can push you?

When he finally sinks into you, every single thought in your head goes blank. All that incessant thinking and worrying for so many months becomes muted until there’s nothing but static, and the beat of your own heart. You can’t process it, can barely breathe through it. He stretches you like he’s carving a path for himself, dragging over your walls. By the time he sinks all the way to the base, you feel like you can feel him in your throat.

“Holy shit.” He curses, and you see his face crumple in real time, the first sign of his composure breaking. You can’t even moan. You have no air in your lungs.

“You sure you’re not a virgin, pretty? So tight, squeezing the life out of me.” His voice cracks at the end, and he bites his bottom lip hard.

“Move.” You manage to gasp out, hips jerking. He chuckles.

“Hold on. I don’t wanna cum too quick.”

Now that gives you PTSD. Jeonghan takes a few deep breaths, his chest rising and falling. He toys with your clit, like he’s trying to get you to relax around him a bit. Finally, he pulls out and thrusts back in, hard. Any air you may have finally breathed, he knocks right back out.

He sets a fast pace from the start, thrusts hard and deep inside you. You barely have the chance to miss him before the head of is dick is pressing into your sweet spot again, stroking it with even more force than his fingers previously had. You feel so full, like you’re ready to explode just from the force of the pounding you’re taking. You claw at the sheets, and when that isn’t enough, you claw at his arms that frame both sides of your head. His eyes move between your face and your pussy, watching you swallow him greedily, over and over again.

“Jesus, where have you been hiding?” He chokes out. “Can’t believe I missed out on this cunt for so long.”

“God.” You whine, eyes teary. “Don’t stop.”

He shakes his head and grins. “Wouldn’t dream of it, baby. Not until I milk all that stress out of you.”

Frankly, you can’t even remember what you were stressed about. You can barely string two words together except a mantra of Jeonghan’s name over and over. Your orgasm is no surprise, body locking and cumming hard around him, walls fluttering desperately as you cry and gasp through it. Jeonghan groans long and low, eyes squeezing shut before his thrusts turn sloppy. It takes a few more hard slams of his pelvis into yours before he’s pulling out and shooting ropes of his cum all over your stomach. He pumps himself through it, breathing hard, and you can see his shoulders shake, glistening with sweat.

What a sight.

The come down is dizzying. Jeonghan pulls his clothes on quickly before he grabs a towel and leaves the room, coming back with it wet enough for you to wipe yourself with it. You feel awkward as you dress yourself again. Jeonghan flops down on the bed with a tired sigh. You shift on your feet when you’re done.

“I’ll- I’ll go.”

A slow smile spreads on his face. “Don’t get all shy on me now.”

You shake your head and frown. “I’m not. I just don’t know what to say.”

He laughs, nodding. Just before you turn to leave, he gives you a wink.

“Text me any time.”

…………………………………….

Jeonghan’s stress relief programme works wonders for you.

You spend the next week practically buzzing. Your body is a little sore, not enough to actually notice, but enough to keep you alert. The night you come back from his room, you manage to crank out every assignment due in the week because you’re so desperate to not let your mind wander to what you just did. The next day, you get started on work from the coming week. Jihyo is so surprised when she asks you for help and you send her notes that are neat and well compiled.

“Are you taking something?” She narrows her eyes at you. “Ritalin?”

You roll your eyes. “Just say thank you.”

She grumbles out a ‘thanks’. You can’t tell her about Jeonghan. You just don’t have it in you to share that. Your night with him was beyond anything you had experienced before. You know it was casual. You’re sure you would never see him again. So you dont want to make it a big deal by talking about it.

Except, you run into him organically soon after this.

A week and a half later, on a Friday night, you are lounging in bed with a textbook. You’re almost caught up with work, enough that you can take a breather and do some light reading instead. Unfortunately, this gives Jihyo the perfect opportunity to drag you out of the room, claiming you have no excuse to stay home because you don’t have anything due. Dammit.

The party you end up at is outside the dorms at a house a few blocks away. You can’t tell who threw it, but there are a lot of Med and DPT people there. When you see Mingyu standing in the center of the room chugging a bottle, you roll your eyes.

“When does he even get time to study?” You mumble when Jihyo shoves a red cup in your hands. You sniff it and make a face. Disgusting.

“Dunno. But he manages just fine, so don’t worry about him. In fact, you need to shut your brain off for once.”

Before you can reply, she’s throwing her drink back and grabbing another, leading you farther into the room. Mingyu spots you two quickly, and it’s all chaos from there. He knows almost everyone, and he introduces you to people at lightning speed. You won’t remember any of them, but you just nod and smile along. When he reaches the couches in the living room, your heart skips.

“You know Jeonghan.” Mingyu grins, arm around your shoulder shaking you teasingly.

The man in question is sprawled over one corner of the long couch, and his eyes find yours almost immediately. He looks stunning even in the dim light. His hair is half up and half down, some of it falling over his eyes. He’s dressed in all black, and his leather jacket makes him look dangerously inviting. His eyes run over you in a way that makes you shiver. You should’ve worn something warmer. A crop top and skirt were not the way to go.

“What do you mean she knows him?” Jihyo frowns. You stiffen.

“He means I know of him. From what Mina told me.” You lie smoothly. Mingyu squeezes you a little in apology. Obviously he didn’t know you were keeping it a secret.

Jihyo really isn’t in the mood to slow down, because she throws back any alcohol she can get her hands on. This forces you to remain sober so you can take her back when the time is right. You’re so busy with her that you manage to steer clear of Jeonghan. The whole place is too loud, too overstimulating, that you have no time to think about him. Hours later, you’re tired and more than a little cranky when you finally manage to drag Jihyo out of the house. She’s stumbling a little, giggling at something completely normal that she finds exceedingly funny. You huff. How the hell are you going to do this?

“I have a car.” You hear a familiar voice. You don’t expect to see Jeonghan. You hadn’t seen him all night except at the very beginning, so you assumed he left, probably with someone else. But he’s here now, hands buried in the pockets of his dark jeans. You are half inclined to say no, but just the thought of taking Jihyo back like this is enough to make you cry, so you simply nod.

Jeonghan brings the car around and helps you put Jihyo in the backseat, where she promptly falls asleep. You sit in the front with him, and you feel awkward all over again.

“You didn’t text me, pretty.” He says. You forgot how the nickname makes your face flush.

“I didn’t think you were serious.” You mumble. Jeonghan looks confused.

“About what?”

You sigh, hesitating a little. “I’m not really….. a casual hookup person. So I think it’s best if we stay away from each other.”

Jeonghan chuckles. “Damn, I’m getting broken up with.”

You try to shake your head but Jeonghan just brushes it off. He’s clearly joking. And it’s not like this means anything. So you don’t say anything more, hoping the uncomfortable air dissipates a bit. Thankfully, you aren’t far from the dorms at all. Jeonghan parks in front of Med and offers to help you take Jihyo up. You can’t say no even if you want to, since she’s fully dead weight now.

He’s great support in dragging her to the room. In fact, he does most of the heavy lifting, which you are grateful for. You dump Jihyo on her bed, pulling her shoes off and covering her with a blanket. She doesn’t as much as flinch. You straighten a little, sighing.

“Thank you.” You smile at him. He shrugs it off. You walk him to the door. When he puts his hand on the knob, he pauses.

“So, we’re really over?”

You blink, surprised. “We were never really a thing.”

“I know.” He hums, watching you with heated eyes. “But it was fun. Shame that it’s ending before it even properly began.”

You fidget a little, staring at your hands. Jeonghan steps closer, his fingers find your chin, tilting your head up.

“Can I get a goodnight kiss?”

You consider it a little before nodding. “Okay.”

One kiss won’t hurt. Except it’s not one kiss. Jeonghan deepens it the second your lips meet his. His hands run over your hips, over the sliver of skin between your skirt and your tiny top. You shiver, hands squeezing his biceps. His tongue slides into your mouth and you moan. The same heady feeling from that night comes back, the one that leaves you dumb and brainless with him. His tongue runs hungrily over yours. You clench around nothing.

“W-we should stop.” You manage to whimper into his mouth. He moans.

“Neither of us want that.”

He crowds you into the wall until you’re pressed between it and his chest. He kisses you harder, deeper, and you feel like you’re high on him, all consumed by him. He smells so fucking good it makes your head spin. Your fingers bury themselves in his hair and you tug harshly, and he seems to like that, because he groans into your mouth.

“You had to wear the tiniest little skirt, didn’t you?” He bites your bottom lip. “Wanted to bend you over right in the middle of that house.”

“You-” Your breath stutters. “You can’t say stuff like that.”

“Why?” Jeonghan pulls back enough to lick down your jaw and nibble at your neck. You arch into him. “Does it turn you on?”

You don’t want to tell him that yes, it does turn you on. The raw need he says he has for you is so foreign, but so welcome. Before you can say anything, Jeonghan pulls off your neck and sinks to his knees.

You gape at him, shocked. His hands are urgent, pushing your skirt up and hooking a hand under your knee so he can hook it over his shoulder.

“Jeonghan!” You hiss, but you can’t say a thing further. Your hand flies up to clamp over your mouth when he runs his tongue over your clothed core. He wastes no time in pulling your panties aside and tonguing right at your slit, finding your clit immediately to suck on it.

It’s so much all at once, an assault on the senses. You tremble, nearly losing your balance if it weren’t for Jeonghan’s hands holding you tight to him. He chases after you with his mouth when you try to jerk away. He laps at you like he’s starved for your taste. It feels so good that you can’t decide if you want to pull away (Jihyo is right there) or if him eating you out like this is a thrill you want to lean into. It feels so dirty, so all consuming. You buck into his mouth and his resulting moan is depraved. Your orgasm is fast approaching. You can’t stop it even if you try.

“Fuck, Jeong- Jeonghan-…. Hannie.”

You have to bite your hand to keep from crying out, your high tearing through you with the force of a car crash. You shake and shudder over him, his hands holding you up with a strength that surprises you. He doesn’t stop until you’re whining and pushing his head away, cleaning you up until you can feel his spit cooling on your skin.

He lets your leg down gently, soothing a hand over it and laying a kiss on your thigh before standing up. His hair is no longer tied up, messy around his head. He is soaked down his chin and to the column of his throat. Your cheeks flame, breaths still coming heavy. He lays a kiss on the heated skin.

“Thanks for the meal.”

You can’t even say anything before he’s kissing you one last time and quickly leaving. You blink harshly, wondering what the fuck just happened.

You find his hair tie on the floor the next morning.

………………………………..

You can’t stay away from Yoon Jeonghan. You tried once, and it ended with him on his knees in front of you, making you cum on his face. Since then, you’ve forgotten the amount of times he’s made you cum. On his tongue, on his fingers, and most gloriously, on his cock. He’s made you feel things you genuinely didn’t think were possible. He whispers into your ear such filthy words that you have a hard time even processing them. Says he’s ‘pussy drunk’. That he can’t live without his fill of you. So he finds you, once or twice a week, and he drags you back to his room because it guarantees privacy. Or he fucks you on your own bed when you know Jihyo is out for the night. Either way, he’s around you a lot more than you ever expected him to be.

Jeonghan is whip smart. You deduced that he was witty a long time ago, but he is a rare combination of book smart and street smart that you didn’t know even existed. You both have the same anatomy course, so you study together sometimes. Of course, he’s horny all throughout it, but if you make it interesting, he is more than willing to participate. His favourite is when you strip off one piece of clothing with every question he gets right. It always ends with sex, because everything with Jeonghan ends with sex, but it feels more charged like this, when he’s talking and laughing with you, that sweet little twinkle in his eyes that makes your heart race.

Jeonghan has an unhealthy obsession with fast food, which works out great for you since stress makes you crave greasy food too. You will often find yourselves in some fast food place outside campus, usually spicy fried chicken, late at night between studying and making assignments. He isn’t a big drinker, and neither are you, but you like sharing a beer with him sometimes. Jeonghan is just so comfortable in his own skin. He has no guilt or shame about anything he does, or any choice he has made. It contrasts with you, who always has ten different things playing in your head at one time, doubting, analysing, restructuring. He’s perceptive. He can tell when you’re about to spiral, letting out a disapproving little tut before tapping your forehead.

“Don’t fly away and leave me here alone.”

He says weird stuff like that.

It means nothing. It can’t. Jeonghan is notoriously a fuck boy. Everyone knows it. Hell, he advertised it in the university Facebook group once. What more is there to say? He likes sex, you like sex. You give it to each other. That’s it. Getting closer to him like this is the natural consequence of spending time together. There’s no deeper meaning here. But then you hear something, a floating rumor, and you almost can’t believe it.

“Didn’t know he was being picky.” Some girl who was having lunch on the same table as you said. You’re sure Mina told you her name when she introduced you guys, but you were, once again, lost deep in thought. You didn’t catch it. “He’s never rejected me before.”

Mina rolls her eyes. “He’s never rejected anyone before.”

“Miyoung says he hasn’t hooked up with any of her friends either. He’s been ignoring everyone’s calls or messages.”

You’re rock still as you stare at your plate. This can’t be true. You and Jeonghan are just…… messing around. Relieving stress. It’s not anything more. Before you can think, you’re pulling your phone out to text him.

[me]: where are you

The reply is instant.

[hannie]: dorm. u coming?

You reply with an affirmative, and half an hour later, you’re knocking on his door. He opens it with a lazy smile, hair tousled and shirt wrinkled. It seems he was still in bed. You’re mad at yourself that he looks even more attractive to you like this.

“Hi, pretty.” He hums, pulling you in and shutting the door, planting a kiss on your neck. He wraps his arms around you, hands already wandering under your shirt. You huff.

“I heard a rumor.”

“Hm?” He seems distracted, fingers dipping just a little in the waistband of your jeans. You plough forward.

“Some girls complaining that you have been dodging their calls.”

He snorts into your neck. His teeth dig teasingly into your skin. You push at his stomach a little, trying to put distance between you two.

“Jeonghan, are you only sleeping with me?”

He pulls off your neck briefly, but lays a kiss on your jaw instead. “Yeah.”

Now you really push him away. He takes the hint and detaches, but he looks confused.

“Why? Why aren’t you sleeping with other girls?”

His face twists into something more amused. “You know, it’s usually the other way around. Girls are mad when their boyfriends are sleeping with other girls.”

Your heart stutters at the statement. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

He pouts. “Hurtful. Are you sleeping with other guys?”

You balk at him. “No!”

“So you’re only sleeping with me, and I’m only sleeping with you.” He hums, looking thoughtful. He’s clearly being unserious. You don’t appreciate it. “Some people might say that we’re…… exclusive?”

“We’re not dating.” You say, dryly.

“We spend time together. We study together. We have sex. We talk to each other all the time either in person or over texts.” He’s listing things off on his fingers. You are growing more irritated with every point. He seems to notice, because he gives you one of those sweet smiles of his that make you melt. You try to hold strong.

“Okay, pretty. We’re not dating. But I would like to.” He grows more serious, stepping forward again to caress your sides.

“You like me?”

Jeonghan huffs, leaning forward so his forehead touches yours. “Darling, I’m obsessed with you.”

So many pet names. It’s always endless pet names with him. You love it. Your heart beats fast. You fiddle with his shirt.

“You really haven’t been with anyone since then?” You mumble.

Jeonghan’s lips brush on the corner of your mouth, an action laced with affection. “Only you. Can’t get enough of you. You drive me crazy.”

You giggle a bit. “Okay.”

“Hm?”

“Fine. I’ll date you.”

His smile is blinding. This time, his lips taste even sweeter against yours.

The camera light blinked red.

Recording.

YN leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her desk like a seasoned late-night host who definitely had her life together and had never once cried into a tub of chocolate ice cream at 2:13am while rewatching old messages.

“Alright,” she said smoothly, brushing an invisible speck of dust off her sleeve. “Let’s talk about heartbreak.”

Her room was perfectly curated in that effortless way that actually required approximately three hours of moving things two centimetres to the left.

Soft lamp glow? Check. Plant that she watered twice a week and spoke to encouragingly? Check. Neutrals with a pop of sage green? Obviously.

She tilted her head just enough for the light to catch her cheekbone.

Professional.

Composed.

Dangerously persuasive.

“So,” she continued, clasping her hands together, “if someone rejects you… or ghosts you… or suddenly ‘needs to focus on themselves’ right after you emotionally invest—first of all?”

She smiled sweetly.

“That’s embarrassing for them.”

Beat.

Then she lifted a finger.

“Rule number one: rejection is not a reflection of your worth. It’s a reflection of their inability to recognise a spectacular opportunity.”

A pause for dramatic effect.

She had mastered the pause.

“You are not hard to love. You are not too much. You are simply offering champagne to someone who only drinks tap water.”

She let that settle.

Somewhere in the future, comments would explode.

queen behaviour say it louder tap water is CRAZY

YN leaned closer.

“Now rule number two — and this one is important — stop romanticising people who do the bare minimum.”

Her expression sharpened slightly.

“If the bar is on the floor and they still manage to trip over it, that is not someone you cry over. That is someone you block.”

She snapped her fingers once.

Clean.

Efficient.

Therapeutic.

“Heartbreak feels catastrophic because we attach meaning to it. But really? It’s just emotional withdrawal. Your brain got used to a dopamine source, and now it’s throwing a tantrum.”

She smiled again.

Sympathetic.

Understanding.

Mildly savage.

“You don’t need closure. You need perspective.”

She reached over and tapped the camera lightly.

“And perspective is this: the right person will not make you question whether you matter.”

A small inhale.

Then, softer—

“You shouldn’t have to audition for someone who already sees you.”

Silence filled the room for half a second.

Perfect.

She ended with a reassuring nod.

“You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

Click.

Recording stopped.

Immediately, she collapsed backwards into her chair.

“…I deserve an award,” she muttered to the ceiling.

Because delivering emotional wisdom was exhausting.

Her phone buzzed almost instantly.

Upload successful.

She grinned.

Another video for the masses.

Another reminder that she, YN — sociology and psychology double major, heartbreak whisperer, reluctant campus micro-celebrity — absolutely knew what she was talking about.

Her stomach growled.

Right.

Food.

Also class.

Preferably in that order, but the universe was cruel.

She shoved her laptop into her bag, grabbed a protein bar she would forget to eat, and bolted out the door.

--

The campus buzzed with mid-morning energy — bicycles whizzing past, conversations stacking on top of each other, someone laughing too loudly at something that definitely was not that funny.

YN weaved through it all with practised ease.

Until she saw him.

Joshua Hong.

Standing near the entrance to the social sciences building.

Sunlight practically framed him like the universe itself had hired a lighting crew.

He was laughing at something his friend said, head tipped back slightly, eyes crinkling.

And YN—

Stopped.

Functionally.

Emotionally.

Spiritually.

Crush status: terminal.

Her brain, usually a powerhouse of analysis and rationality, shut down like someone had pulled the emergency plug.

Look at him.

Just look.

Tall without being intimidating.

Warm without trying.

The kind of smile that made you feel like you’d just been handed a blanket fresh from the dryer.

She had liked him since first year orientation.

It had begun innocently.

A shared pen.

A group discussion.

One time he remembered her preferred coffee order.

Which was honestly a dangerous level of attentiveness.

Ever since then, her feelings had grown steadily, like a houseplant she absolutely should have pruned but instead watered aggressively.

Did he know?

Probably not.

Hopefully not.

Dear universe, please not.

She started walking again.

Forward.

Toward the building.

Toward Joshua.

Tow—

Oh.

Oh no.

He was looking at her.

Abort mission.

Too late.

He stepped forward just as she reached the glass doors and pulled one open.

For her.

He smiled.

Actually smiled.

Not polite-smiled.

Not stranger-smiled.

Warm-smiled.

“Morning.”

Her brain disconnected from her body.

“Hi,” she croaked.

Excellent.

Strong.

Charismatic.

She stepped through the doorway—

—and immediately walked straight toward the adjacent glass panel.

THUNK.

Not full impact.

But enough.

Enough that time itself seemed to pause out of second-hand embarrassment.

Joshua’s eyes widened.

“Whoa— careful.”

His hand hovered near her elbow, not quite touching.

Concern radiated off him.

Concern.

For her.

She wanted to dissolve into the floor.

“I meant to do that,” she said quickly.

He blinked.

“…You meant to walk into the glass?”

“Yes.”

A beat.

“Testing structural integrity.”

Why.

Why would she say that.

Joshua’s mouth twitched.

He was trying not to laugh.

Which was somehow worse than if he just had.

“Well,” he said gently, “it seems structurally sound.”

She nodded, pretending this was a perfectly normal exchange between two psychologically stable adults.

“Good. Excellent. Love that.”

She speed-walked inside before her dignity could suffer further casualties.

Behind her, Joshua chuckled softly.

It echoed.

Repeatedly.

In her soul.

She pressed a hand to her face.

Recover. Recover. Recover.

You are an influencer who gives advice to thousands.

You cannot perish because a boy held a door.

She made it halfway down the corridor before a voice drifted lazily from behind her.

“Well.”

Slow.

Amused.

Dangerous.

“I’ve seen many mating rituals in my life, but headbutting architecture is a new one.”

YN froze.

She did not need to turn around to know who it was.

Yoon Jeonghan.

Academic rival.

Professional menace.

Owner of the most irritatingly observant brain on campus.

She turned anyway.

He leaned against the wall like he’d been there for hours purely to witness her humiliation.

Arms crossed.

Eyes sparkling with delight.

“You saw nothing,” she said.

“Oh, I saw everything.”

He pushed off the wall and fell into step beside her.

“On a scale from one to catastrophic, how would you rate that performance?”

“It was a demonstration,” she snapped.

“Of?”

“What not to do.”

“Ah,” he nodded thoughtfully. “Educational. Very public service of you.”

She quickened her pace.

He matched it effortlessly.

Annoying.

“Tell me,” he went on, “is this strategy part of your broader romantic plan, or was today a special event?”

“I do not have a romantic plan.”

“You walked into a wall because he smiled.”

“That is a gross misinterpretation of events.”

“You’re right,” he said. “The wall walked into you.”

She stopped abruptly.

“So help me, if you repeat this to anyone—”

“Relax,” he said lightly. “I value this too much to share. Premium entertainment should be savoured.”

She glared.

He smiled wider.

Curse his symmetrical face.

They resumed walking.

Students streamed around them, but Jeonghan remained laser-focused.

Then he tilted his head, studying her with unsettling precision.

“You realise,” he said casually, “you stare at him like he’s the last helicopter out of a zombie apocalypse.”

She inhaled wrong.

Air went somewhere it absolutely should not.

She coughed violently.

Jeonghan waited.

Patient.

Smug.

When she could finally breathe again, she wheezed, “I do not.”

“You do.”

“I don’t!”

“You track his movements like a wildlife documentary narrator.”

“I do no such thing!”

“If I handed you binoculars, would you thank me?”

She made a strangled noise.

“Why are you like this?”

“Observant?”

“Insufferable.”

“Synonyms,” he said cheerfully.

She narrowed her eyes.

“And why, exactly, are you monitoring where I look?”

“Psychology major,” he replied smoothly. “Human behaviour fascinates me.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I prefer ‘scholar.’”

She groaned.

They reached the lecture hall.

Students filtered inside.

Jeonghan held the door open this time.

She hesitated.

He lifted a brow.

“Go on. It’s safe. I checked for glass.”

She contemplated violence.

Instead, she walked in with as much dignity as possible.

Which was not much.

They took their usual seats — opposite ends of the same row, because neither would surrender the superior viewing angle of the lecturer’s slides.

Rivalry was about principles.

She pulled out her notebook.

He did the same.

A silent competition began immediately.

Who wrote faster.

Who asked sharper questions.

Who would inevitably score higher.

Halfway through the lecture, she risked a glance sideways.

Jeonghan was already looking at her.

He smiled lazily.

She scowled and looked away.

Focus.

Notes.

Cognitive frameworks.

Attachment theory.

Do not think about Joshua.

Do not think about how he smelled faintly like cedar.

Do not—

A folded piece of paper landed beside her notebook.

She stared at it.

Slowly opened it.

Inside:

step one: stop concussing yourself in front of your crush

Her pen pressed so hard into the paper she nearly tore it.

She scribbled back.

step one for YOU: mind your business

The reply came seconds later.

my business is human tragedy. yours is unfolding beautifully

She kicked his chair.

He did not even flinch.

Infuriating.

When class ended, she stuffed her things into her bag with unnecessary aggression.

Jeonghan stretched leisurely.

“Lunch?” he asked.

“With you? I’d rather walk into another wall.”

“Don’t tempt fate.”

She slung her bag over her shoulder.

Then paused.

Joshua stood near the front, chatting with someone.

Her gaze betrayed her.

Just for a second.

Jeonghan saw.

Of course he saw.

He always saw.

Something flickered behind his eyes then — quick, unreadable — before amusement returned.

He looked back at her.

Then, very casually, he said:

“You know… I could help you.”

She frowned.

“With what?”

He tilted his head toward Joshua.

“With that.”

Her stomach flipped.

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because you would sabotage me for sport.”

He considered this.

“…Fifty percent true.”

She turned to leave.

He caught up easily.

“I’m serious,” he said. “You like him. He’s oblivious. It’s inefficient.”

“I do not need your help.”

“You walked into a window.”

“That was unrelated!”

He studied her a moment longer.

Then smiled slowly.

Strategically.

“Oh,” he said, almost to himself.

“This is going to be fun.”

She stopped again.

“Excuse me?”

He met her gaze, something sharp and knowing settling into place.

And just like that, the air shifted.

Rivalry sparked brighter.

Challenge accepted.

a/n: sry for the lack of updates. hope this alm 2000 word chpt makes up for it

Eunbyeol has her hands on her hips, pout deepening by the second as she stares down the pink bicycle your aunt gave her. Training wheels off, a challenge declared.

“You promised you’d teach me,” she says, sharp and insistent in the way only six-year-olds can be.

The problem? You don’t know how to ride a bike either. Never learned, never told anyone, and now you’re standing here caught between disappointing her or… admitting it. So you do the only thing you can think of. You call him.

Lee Seokmin answers on the second ring, his voice already a smile. 

“Hey. What’s up?”

You hesitate, because you always do with him. Because Seokmin is sunshine bottled into a person, the kind of gentle that feels undeserved in your hands. He’d cry if someone else stubbed their toe. He’s been showing up for you for months now. Carrying groceries, waiting outside your work, slipping you little notes that say eat well or don’t forget to rest, all without asking for anything back. Courting you quietly, patiently. 

And you? You’ve never let yourself give in, not fully.

But Eunbyeol’s glare could cut steel.

“I, um,” you start, shifting the phone against your cheek. “Do you… maybe know how to ride a bike?”

There’s a short pause. Then his laugh bright, delighted, like you’ve just given him the best news all day. 

“Of course I do. Why?”

And just like that, you’ve dragged him into it.

Now, at the park, Eunbyeol is wriggling impatiently as you tighten the strap on her helmet. She looks like she’s about to take off for the Olympics instead of wobbly first attempts at pedaling.

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” you ask for what feels like the tenth time, glancing at Seokmin who’s crouched down checking the bike’s wheels. 

“I mean—you don’t have to, I don’t want to bother you—”

“Y/n,” he cuts in gently, looking up at you with that easy smile that always manages to disarm you. 

“If I wasn’t okay with it, I wouldn’t be here.”

“But still—”

“I want to be here.” His tone is soft but steady, like he knows exactly what you’re doing—trying to make sure you’re not a burden. And he won’t let you get away with it.

You swallow, focusing instead on adjusting your sister’s knee pads. Eunbyeol beams at Seokmin like she’s known all along he’d come save the day. Kids always seem to trust him instinctively, and you can’t blame them. Sunshine, in human form.

“I’m ready!” Eunbyeol announces, wobbling as she straddles the bike.

“Not yet,” you say quickly, trying to tug her elbow pads tighter. “You need—”

“She’s good,” Seokmin assures, standing now and brushing off his hands

He takes the handlebars, steadying the bike while Eunbyeol grips them. “Okay, champ. Here’s the deal. You pedal, I’ll hold on, and we’ll go slow. No rushing, promise.”

She nods, practically vibrating with excitement. You step back, suddenly useless, watching as he jogs alongside her, one hand steady at her back, the other keeping the bike upright. He’s laughing, she’s shrieking with glee, and you’re standing there realizing just how natural he looks here. With her. With you. Like he belongs in this picture you’ve always been too scared to frame.

From where you stand a little ways off, you probably just see him jogging alongside the small bike, grinning and calling out encouragements. 

To Seokmin though, this is everything. The little girl’s laugh, the way her hair bounces in the wind, the weight of her trust in his hands.

“See? You’re doing it!” he cheers, steadying the bike as she pedals. Eunbyeol looks over her shoulder, face smug, dimples flashing in a way that makes him think oh, so that runs in the family.

When they’re a bit farther away from you, Eunji looks at him

“I know how to ride a bike already,” she declares matter-of-factly.

Seokmin blinks. “Huh?”

“The ahjumma and ahjeossi at the bakery near our apartment taught me.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal, focusing on her pedaling. 

Then, without missing a beat, she says, “But unnie really wanted to ask you. She won’t call you first unless she really, really needs to, but… I know she misses you.”

Seokmin nearly trips over his own feet. For a second, he can only stare at the back of the little girl’s head, his grip on the bike faltering before he steadies it again. And then, unbidden, the laugh comes. The kind of laugh that squeezes his chest because Eunbyeol, in all her six-year-old bluntness, has just cracked him open.

He bites down on the inside of his cheek, trying not to let it spill into something wetter, heavier. But still, he feels it. The rawness of being told, in the simplest way, that you miss him. That maybe all his waiting, all his patience, isn’t just one-sided hope.

“Thanks for telling me, champ,” he murmurs, voice thick but warm. “That means a lot.”

Eunbyeol just grins like she’s won something, legs pumping harder now, and Seokmin can’t help but glance toward you across the park, his heart full and breaking all at once.

Eunbyeol’s legs wobble a little, but Seokmin steadies the bike easily, jogging beside her. She’s quieter now, thoughtful in that way kids sometimes get, like she’s holding a secret too big for her small body.

Then she says it.

“Unnie gets sad all the time.”

The words are so soft, so matter-of-fact, they slip past his guard before he can brace himself. His chest tightens, his throat dries.

“But,” Eunbyeol continues, turning her head just enough to catch his eye, “she smiles when she’s with you.”

Seokmin nearly loses his breath. He feels it, like a string pulled taut inside him, one that’s been straining for months but finally snaps under the weight of something so unbearably honest. He knows your situation, knows the nights you’ve had to be both mother and sister, knows the weight you never let anyone else carry.

That’s why he never pushes. That’s why he waits, why he lets you decide when to reach out, why he’s content being the steady presence at your side. Because he knows you’re already carrying more than most people could bear.

But hearing it from Eunbyeol, it’s almost too much.

He laughs, but it’s broken at the edges, trembling. Not the loud sunshine laugh people expect from him, but something quieter, rawer. His eyes sting, and he blinks fast, because the last thing he wants is for Eunbyeol to see him cry and worry.

When he glances down, she’s blinking up at him with those wide, unflinching eyes.

“Do you really think so?” he manages, voice thick, trying for lightness but not quite reaching it.

She nods, solemn in a way that makes her look older than six. “I know so.”

And Seokmin feels his heart break and heal all at once. The noodle shop is warm and noisy, steam fogging the windows as bowls clatter and conversations hum all around. Eunbyeol is perched beside you, legs swinging under the table, happily slurping her noodles like it’s the best meal she’s ever had.

You glance across the table at Seokmin, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “Thank you again—for today. For everything. I know I keep saying it, but really—”

He shakes his head, cutting you off with that smile that makes your chest ache. “Hey. Don’t thank me. Any time I spend with you is better than anything else I could be doing.”

The words are simple, easy, but they land heavy in you.

Then he shifts his gaze, softer now, toward Eunbyeol, who’s making a small mountain of kimchi on the side of her bowl. “And honestly… it’s more fun when she’s around.”

Your breath catches, heart pulling painfully tight. Because that’s it, isn’t it? That’s why you’ll never deserve him. Not when he doesn’t just see you, but sees her too—accepts her as part of the picture without hesitation, without pause.

You shouldn’t want someone this good, this gentle, this selfless. You shouldn’t, but you do. With every fiber of you, you do.

And sitting here, watching him laugh when Eunbyeol makes a noodle moustache, you realize just how dangerous it feels—loving him silently, wanting something you’ve convinced yourself you can’t have.

Eunbyeol skips a few steps ahead, humming to herself, her helmet bouncing slightly with every hop. You’re walking slower, pushing her little bike along the path, the late afternoon sun painting everything in gold.

Seokmin falls into step beside you, hands in his pockets, glancing at you every few seconds. “You good?” he asks softly, his voice low enough so only you can hear.

You glance at him and give him that smile. The one you’ve mastered—gentle, practiced, reassuring. The one that says I’m fine, don’t worry about me.

But he knows better. He’s seen that smile too many times to believe it anymore.

“Yeah,” you say, adjusting your grip on the bike handles. “I’m fine.”

And there it is again—that same smile. The one that hides the weight you carry, the exhaustion you’ll never voice, the ache he knows you tuck away so no one else has to see.

Seokmin’s chest tightens. Because he wants so badly to take that burden from you, to tell you you don’t always have to smile through it, not with him. But he doesn’t push. He never does. He just walks beside you, steady and quiet, hoping that one day you’ll let him be the place where you don’t have to hide.

The path winds toward the park exit, gravel crunching under your shoes. Ahead, Eunbyeol darts from one patch of flowers to the next, singing under her breath, the sound carrying like little bells in the breeze.

Seokmin keeps pace with you, his shoulder close enough to brush yours but not quite touching. He glances sideways again, catching the curve of your smile as you watch your sister. It’s soft, but it carries that same edge, that practiced brightness he’s learned to read like a second language.

“You don’t always have to,” he says quietly.

You blink, turning to him. “Don’t always have to what?”

He hesitates, then gestures lightly at your face. “Smile like that. Like it’s your job to make the whole world believe you’re okay.”

Your hands tighten slightly on the bike handles. You open your mouth, maybe to deflect, maybe to laugh it off, but he keeps going, voice low and steady.

“I know you’re tired. I know it’s been… a lot. Taking care of her, taking care of yourself. And I know you don’t like leaning on people.” He swallows, forcing down the heaviness in his throat. 

“But you can, you know. On me.”

The words hang between you, heavier than the setting sun.

Up ahead, Eunbyeol turns and waves at the two of you, her laugh cutting through the quiet moment, and you lift your hand to wave back, your throat tight.

Beside you, Seokmin doesn’t press. He just walks a little closer, close enough that if you leaned even slightly, you’d find him right there. Always there.

=

The café smells faintly of roasted beans and sugar, the last traces of warmth clinging to the air even as you lock the register, wipe down the counters, and pull the lights one by one until only the faint glow from outside remains. It’s nearly midnight, the streets outside quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your shoulders sink a little heavier.

You push open the door, bag slung over your shoulder, keys jingling in your hand. The cool air bites against your skin. You’re ready for the long walk home, ready to just melt into bed—when you stop dead in your tracks.

He’s there.

Leaning against the lamppost just across the street, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, hood pulled over his hair. Lee Seokmin.

For a second you just stand there, blinking, because you hadn’t called him, hadn’t texted him, hadn’t said a word. But that’s the thing about him, isn’t it? He shows up. Even when you don’t ask. Especially when you don’t.

Your chest tightens before you force a smile, lifting your hand weakly. “Seokmin? What are you—what are you doing here?”

He pushes off the lamppost, crossing the street in a few easy strides. His grin is wide but soft, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. “What do you mean, what am I doing here? Making sure you’re not walking home alone at this hour, obviously.”

You shake your head, already protesting. “You didn’t have to. I can manage—”

“Mm.” He cuts you off, tilting his head as if to weigh your words. 

“You could. But why should you have to? When I can be here?”

Your throat feels tight again, the kind of tight that makes it hard to look at him directly. So you focus on fumbling with the strap of your bag instead. 

“You must be tired. Don’t you have schedules early tomorrow?”

“I’ll survive.” He shrugs, falling into step beside you as you start walking. “Besides, I’d rather be tired from seeing you than rested from not.”

You glance up at him at that, startled, and he just laughs, eyes crinkling, like he didn’t just casually drop something that makes your heart stumble in your chest.

The two of you walk in silence for a while, your footsteps echoing on the pavement. Seokmin glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “You’re working too much.”

You let out a breath, a small laugh that isn’t really amused. “You sound like my aunt.”

“Then your aunt is right.” His tone isn’t sharp—it never is—but there’s a firmness there, a quiet plea woven into the gentleness. 

“Two jobs, running after Eunbyeol, taking care of everything by yourself… You never stop, do you?”

You grip the strap of your bag tighter. “I don’t have much of a choice.”

“I know.” His voice drops, softer now. “I know you don’t. And I’m not trying to tell you what to do. But I just—” He pauses, scratching the back of his neck before looking at you fully. “I just wish you’d let someone make it a little easier. Even if it’s just walking you home.”

Your steps falter for a moment, and he notices—of course he does. He always notices. You don’t answer, not right away, because if you open your mouth, you’re not sure what might come out.

Instead, you finally manage a small, tired smile, one that doesn’t hide quite as much this time. 

“You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“Not when it comes to you,” he says simply.

And with that, he takes the bag from your shoulder before you can argue, slinging it over his own like it weighs nothing, his free hand brushing close enough to yours that your fingers nearly touch with every step.

For once, you let him.

The fluorescent lights of the convenience store hum faintly as you step inside, the sharp chill of the air-conditioning sweeping over your tired skin. The shelves are mostly full, the place quiet at this hour, and you reach straight for the aisle you know best—the one with the snacks you promised Eunbyeol.

“She’s going to be out cold by now,” Seokmin says lightly as he follows you. “But you’re still bringing her something, huh?”

“Of course.” You reach for her favorite gummies without hesitation, then crouch to grab the chocolate milk boxes she always insists taste better than the cartons. “She’ll ask first thing in the morning.”

Seokmin just shakes his head, smiling to himself as he wanders down the next aisle. You don’t think much of it until you join him at the register a few minutes later, arms full of Eunbyeol’s treats—only to see his pile.

Your favorite chips. The iced tea brand you always choose without thinking. That one sandwich with the egg salad filling no one else ever touches, except you.

You blink. “You—”

He shrugs, placing his items on the counter. “What? You’re allowed to spoil your sister. I’m allowed to spoil you.”

Your lips part, but no words come out. Because it’s so simple for him, so natural, this way he balances you without even trying. You, always remembering what Eunbyeol likes, always putting her first. And him, remembering what you like, putting you first without making you feel guilty for it.

The cashier rings everything up, and you stand there with your hands clasped around your bag strap, that voice in your head stirring again. The one that always whispers when moments like this happen.

You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve him.

You force a smile, thanking him again, trying to ignore the lump in your throat. He just shakes his head, sliding the bag of snacks into your arms like it’s nothing, his fingers brushing yours in a way that makes your heart ache.

“Come on,” he says gently, as though he doesn’t notice the war behind your smile. “Let’s get you home.”

=

The late afternoon sun is mellow, casting long golden streaks across the park. You and Eunbyeol sit side by side on a worn wooden bench, her legs too short to reach the ground, kicking idly while she licks at the melting vanilla swirl in her cone. Yours drips too, but you’re more focused on making sure she doesn’t drop hers all over her dress.

For a while, it’s quiet—just the hum of cicadas and the squeals of other kids running past. Then, in that sly, too-wise way she gets sometimes, Eunbyeol leans closer, her voice muffled around a mouthful of ice cream.

“You like Seokmin oppa, right?”

You nearly choke on your bite, coughing as the ice cream goes cold and heavy down your throat. “W-what?”

She turns her head, cheeks puffed out, blinking at you like you’re the silly one. 

“You like him.”

You laugh too quickly, too nervously “Eunbyeol, eat your ice cream before it melts.”

But she doesn’t let up, just shrugs and licks at the dripping edge of her cone. “It’s okay. I like him too. He’s nice. He always makes you smile. Not your fake smile, the real one.”

Her words hit sharper than she’ll ever know, sharper than she should know at her age. You freeze, caught off guard, your chest tightening with that familiar ache.

“Byeol-ah…” You start, but your voice is softer, tired in a way you can’t disguise.

She swings her legs harder, as though to punctuate her point, eyes still on you. “It’s true. You’re less sad when he’s around.”

And just like that, she goes back to her ice cream, like she hasn’t just dismantled all the walls you’ve carefully built.

You stare at her, at her sticky cheeks and too-big helmet hair that still hasn’t quite settled, and you can’t decide if you want to laugh, cry, or both. Because of course she’d see it. Of course she’d know.

You glance down at your own cone, melting too fast in your hand, and let out a shaky breath.

That voice returns, you don’t deserve him. But louder, buried somewhere under the ache, is a whisper you can’t ignore: maybe you want him anyway.

You sigh, slumping against the back of the bench, your ice cream already melting down your fingers. Eunbyeol is watching you now, chin propped in her hand like she’s just cracked some kind of mystery and is waiting for your confession.

Finally, you let out a tiny laugh and say, “I like him too much. That’s the problem.”

Her brows furrow, her little face scrunching. “Why?”

You glance down at her, at the seriousness in her eyes, and can’t help but chuckle again, shaking your head. 

“You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“Unnie.” She draws out your title like she’s scolding you. “That’s not fair. If you like someone, and someone likes you back, why is that a problem?”

You blink at her, surprised by her logic, and then laugh outright, the sound helpless. “You’re six, why are you asking me these questions?”

“Because you’re not making sense,” she says matter-of-factly, licking the ice cream threatening to drip onto her hand. “If I like strawberry ice cream and strawberry ice cream likes me back, that’s good, right? That’s easy.”

You press your lips together, trying not to laugh at the comparison. “People aren’t ice cream, Byeol.”

She huffs, swinging her feet harder. “Well, maybe they should be. Then you wouldn’t look so worried all the time.”

That knocks the air out of you for a second, the way she says it so innocently, like she hasn’t just exposed the one thing you’ve been trying to keep hidden. You reach over and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling softly despite the lump forming in your throat.

“You’re too smart for your own good, you know that?”

Eunbyeol grins, satisfied with herself, and takes another big lick of her cone. “I know. But I’m right too.”

And you can only shake your head, laughing softly as you turn your gaze back to the park, wishing for once that the world really were as simple as your little sister believed it to be.

=

The restaurant is lively, buzzing with the chatter of after-work crowds and clinking glasses. The warm light reflects off wooden tables crowded with dishes, the savory smell of grilled meat wrapping around you the moment you step inside.

You hadn’t planned to come. Yyour first instinct had been to politely decline, to say no, Eunbyeol needs me home. But Seokmin’s voice had been so certain, so gentle. Take her. It’ll be good.

And now here you are, tucked into a booth with him, Mingyu, and Hao. Eunbyeol sits between you and Seokmin, her little legs swinging, wide-eyed at the spread of food filling the table.

Mingyu leans over first, grinning like he’s known her forever. “You like tteokbokki? Spicy?”

She shakes her head with all the seriousness of a six-year-old. “Not too spicy.”

“Got it.” He carefully scoops the sauce off one end of a rice cake before sliding it onto her plate.

Hao, ever the calm one, smiles softly and nudges the small plate of dumplings closer to her. “Try these. They’re not spicy.”

Eunbyeol beams, already won over, and you can’t help the laugh that slips from you. “She’s going to think you two are spoiling her.”

“That’s the plan,” Mingyu says, grinning, and Hao just shrugs like it’s only natural.

Meanwhile, Seokmin has been quiet beside you—not withdrawn, just steady. Every so often, he slides a piece of grilled pork belly onto your plate, adds a wrap of lettuce with sauce already tucked inside. When you fuss over Eunbyeol’s food, making sure her rice is mixed just right, he nudges your elbow gently.

“Eat too,” he murmurs.

You glance at him, flustered. “I am—”

He raises a brow. “One bite in thirty minutes doesn’t count.”

Heat rises in your cheeks, but you obey, taking the wrap he’s made for you. He doesn’t press the matter after that, just keeps quietly tending to your plate, watching you in that way he always does—like he notices every small thing, every moment you forget yourself.

Across the table, Mingyu leans toward Hao, muttering not-so-quietly, “Is it just me, or is this the softest thing you’ve ever seen?”

Hao smirks, eyes flicking between you and Seokmin. “It’s not just you.”

You pretend not to hear them, busy cutting Eunbyeol’s dumpling in half, but your ears are warm.

And still, that voice lingers in the back of your head, whispering with every quiet gesture Seokmin makes—you don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve him.

But then Eunbyeol laughs at something Mingyu says, sauce on her cheek, and Seokmin reaches over instinctively to hand you a napkin, as though he knows you’ll want to wipe it away for her.

The streets are quieter now, the dinner rush fading into the hum of late-night traffic. Neon signs glow soft and hazy, and the air has that faint crispness that means autumn is just around the corner.

Up ahead, Seokmin walks easily, Eunbyeol fast asleep against his shoulder, her arms looped loosely around his neck. Her little shoes dangle with each step he takes, completely at peace in his hold.

You hurry after them, your bag bouncing against your hip. “Seokmin, let me—seriously, she’s heavy. I can carry her.”

He doesn’t even slow down, just glances back with that bright, teasing grin. “Heavy? She’s light as a feather. You think I’m gonna let you carry her after you’ve been working two jobs all week? No way.”

You roll your eyes, breath puffing out in exasperation as you catch up. “I’ve carried her plenty of times.”

“Yeah,” he says, turning his gaze forward again. “And tonight, you don’t have to.”

There’s no room for argument in his voice—not harsh, but certain, gentle in the way he always is with you. Like he doesn’t just say things, he promises them.

You walk a little slower then, falling into step beside him. From this angle you can see Eunbyeol’s face pressed into the curve of his neck, the way his arm cradles her with such care it makes something ache in your chest.

He looks natural like this. Too natural.

You hug your arms across yourself, eyes fixed on the ground. “You really don’t have to do all this, you know.”

“What, carry her?”

“Carry her. Show up. Help. Everything. You don’t have to.”

He chuckles softly, not loud enough to wake your sister. “I know I don’t have to.”

“Then why?” Your voice is quieter now, uncertain, like you’re afraid of the answer.

He shifts Eunbyeol slightly in his arms, adjusting her weight, and then glances down at you, his smile gentler this time. “Because I want to.”

The words sink into you, deeper than you mean them to. And you can’t bring yourself to argue anymore. Not when he’s walking steady beside you, carrying what you can’t, both literally and in ways you’re still too afraid to name.

For a while, the only sound is his footsteps, steady and strong, and your own heart pounding louder than it should.

You glance at him. At the way he doesn’t even look strained, at the way his hand holds her securely like she belongs there. And that’s when it slips out.

“I don’t deserve you.”

The words are so low you almost convince yourself they won’t reach him. But his head tilts just slightly, steps faltering for half a beat. He heard.

Your stomach drops. Panic claws up your chest. Before he can open his mouth—before you can see whatever’s written on his face—you move.

“Let’s go,” you say quickly, brushing past him, walking faster, your bag bouncing against your side. You don’t dare look back. You already know. You know he’d argue, he’d tell you otherwise, he’d say all the things you’ve secretly wanted to hear but don’t think you deserve.

So you walk ahead, the sting in your chest sharper with every step, hoping he’ll let it go. Hoping he won’t press.

Behind you, Seokmin adjusts Eunbyeol carefully, his gaze fixed on your retreating back. His throat tightens with everything he wants to say, everything he’s been holding back for months. 

But he doesn’t call out. Not yet. Instead, he follows. Steady, quiet, carrying what you can’t, like always.

The apartment is hushed once Eunbyeol is asleep, her little body curled under the blanket, clutching the stuffed rabbit she never lets go of. You smooth her hair back once, twice, then quietly close her door.

Seokmin is waiting by the entryway, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, his expression as warm as ever. You walk him out, the night air cool against your skin as the two of you step into the hallway.

“Thanks again,” you murmur, trying to sound casual, like your heart isn’t still beating from what slipped out earlier. “For dinner. For… everything.”

He smiles at you, but this time, it’s a little different. There’s weight in his eyes, something steadier, heavier than his usual brightness. And before you can retreat into another polite thank you, he says it.

“You know you’re wrong.”

You blink. “Huh?”

He takes a breath, then meets your gaze, unflinching. “About what you said earlier. About not deserving me.”

Your chest goes tight, heat rushing to your face. “Seokmin, I—”

“No.” His voice is quiet but firm, cutting off your protest. “I’ve been holding back because I know you’ve got enough on your plate. I didn’t want to push, didn’t want to make you feel cornered. But I can’t let you keep believing that.”

You stare at him, stunned, as he steps closer—not too close, just enough that you can’t ignore the warmth radiating from him.

“You’re the strongest person I know,” he says, every word steady, deliberate. “You’ve taken care of your sister, you’ve worked yourself to the bone, you’ve carried things most people would have collapsed under. And still, you smile. Still, you show up. Do you have any idea what that means? What that looks like to me?”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Your throat feels too tight.

“You think you don’t deserve me?” His voice softens, gentler now. “Y/n, I’m the one who wonders every day what I did to deserve you.”

It breaks something inside you. Because it’s everything you wanted to hear, everything you never let yourself believe. And it terrifies you.

“That’s exactly why I don’t deserve you,” you whisper, voice shaking. “You’re kind, and gentle, and you say things like that, and it just—it proves it. I can’t give you what you give me, Seokmin. I can’t.”

His jaw tightens, but his eyes never leave yours. “If only you could see yourself the way I see you.”

You shake your head, but he takes another step forward, his voice lower, almost pleading.

“You see flaws, burdens, exhaustion. I see someone who’s fought every day for her sister, someone who still finds a way to laugh even when she’s tired, someone who makes people around her feel safe just by being there. That’s the person I see. That’s the person I—” He stops himself, swallowing hard before finishing. “That’s the person I want.”

Your breath hitches, tears stinging your eyes, but you still try to argue. “You’re making me sound like I’m more than I am—”

“You are more than you think.” His voice is fierce now, not loud but burning with conviction. “And if you can’t believe that yet, fine. Then I’ll believe it for you. As long as it takes.”

Silence stretches, heavy between you. You can hear the thrum of your heart in your ears, can feel the way his words have carved straight through every wall you built.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t know what to say.

=

It’s been a few days since then, he doesn't push, doesn't try to ask. He texts every now and then, reminding you to watch or checking if you're working late again. 

One day He's just getting something from the store when he bumps into Byeol. He was just running a quick errand, slipping into the corner store for some ramen and drinks. But fate has a strange way of finding him, because as he rounds the aisle, he nearly collides with a small figure in a pink jacket.

“Whoa!” He steadies the bag of chips in his hand before smiling down. “Byeol-ah?”

Her little head tilts up, wide eyes brightening when she recognizes him. “Seokmin oppa!” she chirps, and the ahjumma with her bows politely, explaining she’s watching Eunbyeol while you’re at work.

Seokmin kneels a little, smiling so she doesn’t feel like he’s towering over her. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re getting milk.” She proudly holds up the carton in her hands, and he laughs, ruffling her hair gently.

It’s then she leans in, like she’s about to tell him a secret. “Oppa,” she says, lowering her voice even though the store is quiet, “unnie cried yesterday.”

Seokmin’s smile falters. “…She did?”

Byeol nods solemnly, her tiny lips pouting. “She always cries when she thinks I’m asleep. I don’t know why.” She fidgets with the carton in her hands

“Unnie doesn’t tell me things. She just works and smiles and… she gets sad when she thinks I don’t see.”

His throat tightens. He already knows. He’s seen glimpses of it, the tired curve of your shoulders, the way your smile sometimes doesn’t quite reach your eyes. But hearing it from your little sister, so plainly, so innocently, it breaks something in him.

“She really likes you, you know,” Byeol suddenly adds, her voice lighter, as though she’s connecting dots in her own childlike way. “She smiles more when you’re there.”

Seokmin laughs, but it’s quiet, shaky at the edges. Half joy, half heartbreak. He presses a hand over his chest for a second, like he needs to keep himself steady.

“I like her too, Byeol-ah,” he says softly. “More than she knows.”

Byeol tilts her head, curious. “Then tell her.”

Seokmin’s lips part, but no words come out. He just looks at her and wonders if maybe, just maybe, she’s braver than her unnie ever allows herself to be.

He swallows, managing a smile as he taps her nose gently. “Maybe I will.”

But inside, he’s already made the decision: he can’t keep holding back, not when the weight you carry keeps breaking you in quiet, hidden ways. If he can be the one to ease it, even a little, then he has to try.

=

Seokmin’s phone buzzes against his desk, the caller ID flashing your name. He freezes. It’s been days since you last spoke—days of silence, days where he forced himself not to push, not to demand. And now… you’re calling.

His chest squeezes tight. He answers immediately.

“Hello? Y/N?”

At first, all he hears is your uneven breathing, the sound of you trying and failing to steady yourself. His heart races. Then your voice—small, broken.

“Seokmin—” A sob cracks through. “I—I can’t find her—Eunbyeol—she’s—”

That’s all he needs.

He’s already on his feet, grabbing his coat, his keys. “Where are you?” His voice is sharp with urgency, but still gentle, grounding. “Y/N, tell me where you are.”

You choke out the name of the place, words trembling, scattered. He doesn’t even wait to process. He’s out the office doors, coworkers glancing up in surprise as he rushes past.

Traffic blurs, the world reduced to the thundering of his heart, the desperate grip of the steering wheel. Your crying echoes in his ear, every ragged breath tearing at him.

“Listen to me,” he says firmly through the phone, trying to keep his voice steady for you. “I’m on my way. You’re not alone, do you hear me? Just hold on, Y/N. I’ll find you. We’ll find her.”

He drives faster than he ever has, every second stretching like an eternity, praying—begging—that you and Byeol are both safe by the time he gets there.

Your legs feel like they might give out at any moment. You’re standing just outside the school gates, hands shaking as you grip your phone to your chest, tears blurring everything. The teacher’s words keep echoing in your head—she’s not here, she never came in today.

But that’s impossible. You remember. You remember her hand in yours, the way she turned back to wave at you, her pink ribbon bouncing with every skip of her little steps. You remember.

So why isn’t she here?

You’re still unraveling, chest heaving with sobs, when someone grabs hold of you. Strong, warm hands. Seokmin.

“Y/N!” His voice cuts through the fog in your head, urgent, desperate. He pulls you into his chest, anchoring you as your legs buckle. “Hey, hey, look at me. What happened?”

“I—she—” You can barely get the words out. You clutch at his shirt like it’s the only thing holding you together. “I dropped her off, I know I did. She waved, she—she waved goodbye—and they said—” Your voice cracks, tears spilling faster. “They said she never came in.”

Seokmin’s arms tighten around you, and for a moment he just holds you while you break against him, his jaw clenched against the rush of fear crashing through him. His hand strokes over your hair, steadying even though inside he’s anything but.

“Okay,” he says finally, gently but firmly, the way he always speaks when you need grounding.

“Okay. We’re going to find her. Do you hear me? We’re going to find Eunbyeol.”

You shake your head, gasping. “What if—what if something happened, Seokmin, what if—”

“Don’t.” His voice is sharp this time, cutting off the spiral before it swallows you whole. He cups your face, forcing your wet eyes to meet his. His own are glassy, terrified, but resolute. 

“Nothing’s going to happen to her. We’ll get her back. I promise.”

And even though panic still claws at your chest, something in the way he says it makes you cling to him harder, because if there’s anyone you can believe right now, it’s him.

Seokmin doesn’t waste a single second. One arm stays firm around your shoulders as if he can shield you from the world, the other gesturing quickly as he speaks to the teacher again.

“When was the last time you checked attendance? Did no one see her at all? Pink ribbon, white shoes, small pink backpack—please think.” His voice is sharper than you’ve ever heard it, tight with urgency but never cruel.

The teacher stammers, “N-no, she wasn’t in class. We thought maybe she was sick, that’s why—”

“She wasn’t sick,” Seokmin cuts in, hand tightening on yours when he feels your body jerk with another sob. He lowers his tone then, trying to hold back the anger rising in his chest. “If a child isn’t in class, someone should’ve called. You can’t just assume.”

You whisper, broken, “I—I dropped her off. I saw her go inside—”

He squeezes your hand immediately, eyes flicking down to you. “I believe you. I believe you, Y/N. We’ll retrace, okay? Just breathe for me.”

You try, but every inhale shakes. He doesn’t let you stand frozen. With his arm still anchoring you, he leads you down the street, scanning every corner, every little shop near the school. He stops at the crossing guard, describing Byeol in detail, asking if she’d seen her this morning. He moves to a street vendor, then another. 

Every time, he keeps you close, his thumb brushing across your knuckles, grounding you.

At one point, he digs his phone out with one hand, still holding onto yours with the other. You hear him, clipped but steady:

“Mingyu? I need you. Eunbyeol’s missing. I’ll explain later—just drive around the neighborhood near Y/N’s place, near the school. Check parks, convenience stores, anywhere she might wander. Bring Hao too.”

Your knees buckle again at the word missing, but Seokmin’s arm is instantly around your waist, keeping you from falling. He tucks you into his side, his jaw clenched, but his touch never harsh.

“Seokmin…” your voice cracks. “What if I—what if I lost her?”

He stops walking. Turns you to face him. His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing away your tears even as his own eyes brim red.

“You didn’t lose her. Don’t say that. This isn’t your fault, Y/N. We’ll find her. Together.”

And then, softer, almost breaking, “Just—don’t shut down on me, please. Stay with me. She needs both of us right now.”

You nod shakily, because if there’s anything holding you together in this unraveling moment, it’s him.

About an hour  later, when Hao called and said they found her.

Mingyu was the one carrying her when they came into view. Her little pink ribbon was still bouncing against her shoulder, that tiny backpack hugging her back like nothing in the world had gone wrong. Minghao trailed behind, his expression unreadable but his steps quicker than usual, like he didn’t want to let her out of sight again.

The moment you spot her, you’re already running forward, voice breaking, “Eunbyeol!”

Mingyu crouches down fast, setting her on her feet just in time for her to barrel straight into your arms. You drop to your knees on the pavement, clutching her so tightly she squeaks.

“Where were you—do you have any idea how worried I was?!” your voice trembles, part relief, part panic. You pull back just enough to search her face, checking if she’s hurt, if there’s even a scratch. “I told you to go to school, Byeol. You can’t just—just disappear like that!”

But she just blinks up at you, wide-eyed and calm. “Unnie, you were crying so much… I just wanted you to smile again.” She says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “So I went and looked for Seokmin oppa.”

The words hit like a blow, knocking the air out of the night. You freeze. Even the street noise feels quieter.

Minghao exhales, soft but heavy. Mingyu looks down at her, then away, like he’s trying to give you privacy but can’t shake off the sting of what she said. Seokmin… Seokmin just stands there, a few steps behind you, his chest rising unevenly as he tries to process that this six-year-old, with all her bright stubbornness, thought of him first.

You grip Byeol tighter, tears brimming again. “Eunbyeol…” your voice cracks, but she only nestles into your shoulder like she’s already forgiven herself.

And none of the four of you—Seokmin, Mingyu, Minghao, or you—say anything for a long moment. Because it’s not just about her wandering off anymore. It’s about what it meant, what she revealed without even realizing.

That in her little world, the person she believes can make you smile again… is Seokmin.

Seokmin moves before anyone else can.

He doesn’t rush, doesn’t let panic show on his face. He just lowers himself slowly, crouching beside where you sit on the curb with Eunbyeol in your arms. His knees brush the pavement, one hand steadying himself on the ground, the other reaching carefully toward your little sister as if she’s something fragile, precious.

“Byeolie,” his voice is soft, so soft you almost miss it beneath the buzzing of the streetlamps. “You scared unnie today, you know that?”

She pulls back from your shoulder just enough to look at him, lips pressing together like she’s deciding whether to pout or nod. Finally, she says, “I’m sorry. But… unnie was sad. And you make her smile.”

Your breath catches, but before you can react, Seokmin smiles—gentle, aching. His thumb brushes a stray strand of hair away from her face. “You’re really smart, aren’t you?” he murmurs, and she beams at the praise. “But, Byeol-ah… even if you wanted to see me, you can’t just walk off on your own like that. The world out there is big and sometimes scary. If something happened to you…” His voice falters for the briefest moment, then steadies. “…If something happened, your unnie would never stop crying. And neither would I.”

Her eyes widen, not used to him sounding serious. She tilts her head. “You’d cry too?”

He chuckles, watery, his dimples not hiding the way his eyes glisten. “Of course I would. You’re my favorite little sister.” He says it like it’s a promise, like he’s claiming her as family without hesitation.

That makes her grin. “Then I’ll be careful next time,” she declares, childlike but sincere, reaching out her tiny pinky finger. “Promise.”

Seokmin hooks his pinky with hers without missing a beat, his big hand dwarfing hers completely. “Promise,” he says, and seals it with a light tap of his thumb on hers.

You can’t speak. You’ve been sitting there the whole time, your arms still wrapped tight around Byeol, but your gaze is fixed on Seokmin—on how patient he is, how steady, how he never once let his voice sharpen or scold too harshly. How he looked at your sister like she was his own.

And then, as if sensing you, he shifts his gaze. His eyes meet yours, and for a split second, you see everything he hasn’t said. His relief at finding her safe. His quiet heartbreak at your tears. His longing—no, his choice—to always be there, even when you think you don’t deserve it.

But he doesn’t press. He never does. He just reaches out, resting his hand lightly over yours where you’re clutching Byeol, grounding you with the same gentleness he gave her.

“Let’s go inside,” he murmurs. “She’s tired. You are too.”

You nod, because your throat is too tight to answer. You let him help you stand, let him take some of the weight when your knees almost buckle, and for once, you don’t argue when he steadies you.

The door to your room creaks open quietly, a soft knock against the frame before Seokmin steps inside. You’re sitting on the edge of your bed, shoulders hunched, eyes red and swollen. You’ve tried to muffle the sound of your crying in your hands, but it’s useless—he can hear every sharp inhale, every trembling exhale.

He doesn’t speak right away. Instead, he takes in the sight of you, his chest tightening. It’s been weeks since you last let him close, and yet here you are now, raw and breaking in front of him.

You drag your palms down your face, muttering between shallow breaths, “God, I feel like an idiot.”

That’s what finally gets him moving. He crosses the room in a few steps and kneels in front of you, the way he had with Eunbyeol earlier. His hands hover for a moment, hesitant, before he rests them lightly on your knees. His voice is low, steady, careful.

“You’re not an idiot,” he says.

“Yes, I am.” Your voice cracks, and fresh tears slip down your cheeks. “I lost her, Seokmin. For hours I didn’t know where she was, I thought—” You choke on the words, pressing your fist against your mouth. “I thought something horrible happened and it was my fault because I’m all she has and I still—still messed it up—”

“Stop,” he cuts in gently, but firmly enough to make you pause. His hands squeeze your knees. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

You shake your head stubbornly, eyes squeezed shut. “You don’t get it. I’m supposed to protect her. I’m supposed to be strong, but I can’t even keep it together for her. And then you show up—like you always do—fixing everything, being…” Your throat tightens. “…being perfect. And it just makes me realize how much I don’t deserve you.”

His breath leaves him in a shaky laugh, though there’s no humor in it. He shifts closer, his hands sliding gently from your knees to hold your trembling hands. “You’re still saying that,” he murmurs. “Even now, after everything.”

You look at him finally, eyes glassy and lost. “Because it’s true.”

“No,” he says, his voice quiet but unyielding. “You don’t see yourself, do you? You don’t see the way you hold everything together with your bare hands. The way you love Byeol so fiercely that you’d break yourself a thousand times over just to keep her safe. The way you… the way you still find space to care for everyone else, even when you’re running on empty.”

He swallows hard, eyes never leaving yours. “Do you know what I see, every time I look at you? I see someone stronger than anyone I’ve ever met. Someone who keeps going, even when it hurts. Someone who doesn’t even realize how much light she gives off, even when she thinks she’s drowning.”

You’re crying again, but this time it’s silent—tears slipping steadily down your cheeks as his words sink in.

He squeezes your hands tighter. “You don’t have to deserve me. That’s not how this works. I’m here because I want to be. Because there’s no one else I’d rather be with. You don’t need to be perfect. You don’t need to be anything but yourself. And that’s enough for me.”

The room is heavy with the weight of his words, but also light—like he’s taken some of the burden you’ve been carrying and shouldered it himself.

You swallow hard, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. Your voice is small, cracked.

“What, I get too much for you?” you whisper, looking anywhere but him. “I come with a lot of baggage, Min. You don’t—”

“Don’t,” he cuts you off, sharp enough that you freeze. His tone isn’t angry, but it’s firm, commanding your full attention. His eyes lock on yours, intense in a way that makes your breath hitch.

“Don’t you dare say I don’t want you because of that,” he continues, his voice lower now, but steady. “Your baggage? Your scars? Your tears? They’re part of you. And I want all of you. Every messy, complicated, beautiful part.”

You blink rapidly, fresh tears threatening again. “But it’s not fair to you—”

“Fair?” He lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Do you think I’m here because it’s easy? I’m here because I choose you. I knew what I was walking into the first time I saw you carrying Byeol’s backpack that was twice her size while juggling three things at once and still smiling at her like she hung the moon. I knew you had burdens. I knew you carried more than most people ever should. And you know what I thought?”

You just stare at him, lips parted, breath caught.

He leans closer, his words deliberate, unshakable. “I thought—God, I want to be the one to stand beside her. I want to be the one she can lean on. I want to be the one she doesn’t have to be strong with all the time.”

Your throat closes up. You can’t breathe, can’t speak.

Seokmin softens, his voice breaking just slightly as he says, “So don’t push me away by calling yourself baggage. You’re not a burden. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Both of you are.”

The silence that follows is deafening, filled only by your uneven breaths and the pounding of your heart.

Seokmin doesn’t stop—he can’t. Not when he sees the way you’re crumbling in front of him, the way your hands twist into the hem of your shirt like you’re holding yourself together by threads.

His voice is steady, but there’s a tremor underneath, one born of too much love and too much fear of losing this moment.

“You’re never too much,” he says firmly, leaning forward until you can’t escape his gaze. “And you’re never not enough. Not to me. Not to Byeol. Never.”

You shake your head, half in disbelief, half in defense of the walls you’ve built for so long. But he doesn’t let you look away.

“Do you hear me?” he presses, softer now, but so sure. “All the things you think disqualify you from being loved, they’re the reasons I admire you. The reasons I love you.”

Your breath catches audibly, and for a second you think maybe you misheard him. But his eyes, dark and unshakable, tell you he meant every syllable.

“You take care of everyone, even when you’re breaking. You give pieces of yourself away like you’ll never run out. And you still think you’re not enough?” He shakes his head, almost angry at the thought. “You’ve been more than enough since the first day I met you. To Byeol. To me. To anyone who’s lucky enough to know you.”

Your lips tremble. You want to argue, want to push back with every insecurity screaming inside you, but the words die in your throat because—God, he means it. Every word.

He sees your silence for what it is and steps closer, voice barely above a whisper now. 

“Please… stop telling yourself those lies. Let me prove you’re worth everything. Because you are. You always have been.”

The moment his words sink in, it’s like something inside you finally snaps. Your chest caves under the weight of everything you’ve been holding in—every sleepless night, every worry about Byeol, every ache you buried because you thought you had to stay strong.

You stumble forward before you even realize you’re moving, and Seokmin is already there, arms wrapping around you like he’s been waiting—like he was built for this very moment.

The sobs come out broken, ugly, louder than you wanted, but he doesn’t flinch. He just holds you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressing against your back, keeping you anchored when you feel like you’re unraveling in his arms.

“Shh,” he murmurs into your hair, but it’s not the kind of shh that tells you to stop—it’s the kind that says I’m here, cry if you need to, I’m not going anywhere.

Your fists clutch at his shirt, desperate, like if you let go even for a second you’d drown. “I—I can’t do this alone anymore,” you choke out between sobs, voice raw.

“Then don’t,” he answers immediately, pulling you in closer, his own voice thick. “You don’t have to. Not with me here.”

You shake your head against his chest, words tumbling out in fragments. “I don’t… I don’t want to be a burden, Min. You deserve—someone who isn’t—”

“Stop,” he cuts in, firm but gentle, tilting your face up so you have to see the way his eyes shine with unshed tears. “I deserve you. Just you. The way you are. With Byeol. With everything. Don’t you get it? I don’t want easy. I want you.”

Something inside you breaks again, but this time it’s not from pain—it’s from the terrifying, breathtaking relief of finally letting yourself believe him.

You sag into him fully then, your tears soaking his shirt, your breathing ragged as he rocks you slightly, like he’s trying to soothe you the way you soothe Byeol. His lips press against the crown of your head in the gentlest kiss, lingering there as if he could transfer his steadiness into you.

For the first time in years, you stop fighting. You let yourself lean, let yourself be held. And Seokmin holds you like it’s the most natural thing in the world—like it’s all he’s ever wanted.

When your sobs quiet down into hiccups, he whispers, “You don’t have to earn love. Not mine. Not Byeol’s. You already have it.”

Your fingers tighten in his shirt, and in a cracked whisper, you finally let the words slip out, terrified but true:

“I love you, Min.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months, and his arms tighten once more. “I love you too,” he breathes, no hesitation, no doubt. “So much more than you’ll ever know.”

And there, in his arms, you finally feel what it’s like to not carry everything alone.

=

It's been a few weeks and life, well for once it was good to you.

It’s barely seven in the morning when you stir awake, the faint clatter of pans and a shriek of laughter cutting through the quiet of your apartment. You squint at the clock on your nightstand, groaning when you realize it’s far too early for this much noise. At first, you think Byeol’s just gotten overexcited watching cartoons again, but then you catch the sound of another voice—low, familiar, laughing so loud it rumbles through the walls.

You blink yourself awake, slipping out of bed in your oversized T-shirt, hair a mess, heart already softening because you know exactly who that is.

Padding barefoot into the living room, you’re met with chaos—your kind of chaos. Eunbyeol, standing on a chair pushed up to the counter, is holding a whisk almost as big as her arm, batter smeared on her cheek. Seokmin’s beside her, apron on (where he even got that, you don’t know), trying and failing to stop her from flicking pancake batter in his direction. The whole kitchen smells like vanilla and butter, and the air is buzzing with their laughter.

“Yah! Oppa, you’re supposed to flip them, not burn them!” Byeol squeals, giggling so hard she almost drops the whisk.

“Yah? Yah?? Did you just—” Seokmin gasps dramatically, clutching his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. 

“It’s seven in the morning, Seokmin. Why are you this loud? And why,” you gesture to the absolute disaster on your stove, “does my kitchen look like a flour bomb went off?”

They both turn at the same time—Byeol beaming, Seokmin sheepish but grinning anyway.

“Surprise breakfast!” Byeol announces proudly, batter still dripping from the whisk she’s holding like a trophy. “We’re making pancakes for you, unnie!”

“Pancakes and…” Seokmin lifts the pan in his hand, showing a very questionable-looking blob. 

“…experimental pancakes.”

You snort, rubbing your temples. “I don’t know whether to be touched or terrified.”

Byeol hops down carefully, scampering to your side and tugging you toward the table. “Sit! Oppa said we have to take care of you today! No cooking, no cleaning—just sit and eat.”

Your chest squeezes at that. She sounds so earnest, and when you glance up, Seokmin is watching you with that quiet, knowing smile—the one that always sees right through your walls.

“I said that,” Seokmin adds, turning back to the stove. “So sit, please. You work too much. Let us take care of you today.”

You roll your eyes but obey, sliding into a chair at the small table. Byeol bounces onto the seat beside you, chattering away about how she cracked the eggs “all by myself” and how Seokmin almost dropped the milk.

“Lies!” he calls out without turning around. “She’s the one who almost spilled it, I saved it like a hero!”

“Oppa is lying,” Byeol whispers conspiratorially into your ear, giggling when he whirls around with a spoon pointed at her like a warning.

“Yah, I heard that!”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up before you can stop it. It’s so ridiculously domestic—Seokmin fussing over pancakes in your kitchen, Byeol giggling beside you like this is the best day ever—and for a second you just let yourself sit in it.

A few minutes later, he finally brings over a plate, sliding it onto the table with a flourish. The pancakes are slightly lopsided, some too brown, but the sight still makes you smile. He places a fork in front of you, crouching a little so he’s eye level.

“Go on,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Try it and tell us how amazing we are.”

You raise a brow, cutting into the stack. “What if it’s bad?”

“Then lie,” he deadpans, making Byeol erupt into another fit of laughter.

You take a bite, chew slowly, and hum. “...Not bad, chef. Not bad at all.”

Byeol claps her hands in triumph, and Seokmin beams so wide you swear your tiny kitchen gets brighter. He leans over, brushing a quick kiss against your temple before you can protest, murmuring just for you:

“Get used to this, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

Your throat tightens, but you smile anyway, because for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel so scary to believe him.

=

The park is quiet in that late afternoon way—sun still warm but dipping lower, shadows stretching across the path. The air is filled with the sound of Eunbyeol’s little bike bell, ringing proudly every few meters as she pedals ahead, pink ribbon on her helmet bouncing with each wobble of the handlebars.

You and Seokmin walk a few paces behind her, your joined hands swinging lazily between you. Every so often she glances back to make sure you’re watching, and each time Seokmin cups his hands around his mouth to shout, “Go, Byeol-ie, champion rider!” like she’s competing in the Olympics. She beams so brightly you can’t help laughing.

“She’s going to start expecting a cheer squad every time she does anything now,” you tease, bumping your shoulder lightly against his.

“Good,” he grins, squeezing your hand. “She deserves it. Besides, I have plenty of energy to cheer for both of you.” He tilts his head toward you, eyebrows wagging in that exaggeratedly silly way of his. “Imagine me on the sidelines of your office, yelling ‘That’s my girl!’ every time you finish paperwork.”

You laugh so hard you have to cover your mouth. “God, Min, that’s mortifying.”

“And romantic,” he insists, putting on a mock serious expression before breaking into that sunbeam smile again. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring a banner with your name on it. Maybe pom-poms.”

You groan, but your heart feels impossibly light. It’s been a long road to here—to this moment of peace, laughter, and quiet certainty—and the thought makes your smile soften. You glance at him, the way he’s watching Byeol with so much love it almost aches, the way his thumb keeps brushing over your knuckles like he’s memorizing you all over again.

“Min,” you say quietly, tugging his hand so he looks at you. “Thank you.”

His brows lift, like he’s about to joke, but when he sees the sincerity in your eyes, his smile gentles. “For what?”

“For…” You swallow, emotions prickling at your throat. “For staying. For seeing me. For loving her, loving me, even when I thought I didn’t deserve it.”

Seokmin slows his steps, pulling you just a little closer until your sides are pressed together. He looks at you like he did that night outside your apartment—open, steady, unshakable. “Hey,” he murmurs. “I told you already. You were never too much, and never not enough. Not to me. Not ever.”

Your breath hitches, but before you can say anything else, Eunbyeol’s bell rings again and she shouts, “Unnie! Oppa! Watch me go no hands!”

Both of you yell “NO!” at the same time, sprinting a few steps forward while she giggles mischievously, hands back on the handlebars immediately. You’re breathless with relief and laughter, and Seokmin is bent over, hands on his knees, pretending like he’s aged twenty years from the scare.

“Yah, you’re going to give us gray hair before we’re thirty,” he groans, shooting her a mock glare that only makes her laugh harder.

When he straightens, he slings an arm around your shoulders, tugging you close as you both watch her speed ahead again. “She’s fearless,” he says softly, pride and awe lacing his voice. Then, turning to you with a grin that makes your chest ache in the sweetest way, he adds, “Just like her sister.”

For years, you and Seungcheol had operated under the unspoken, yet rigidly enforced, rule of "just friends." You were the kind of best friends who shared too much, touched too often, and flirted shamelessly, but always with that invisible, unbreakable barrier keeping things strictly platonic. Or so you told yourselves. Your hands would brush, linger, and pull away. Your jokes would skirt the edge of something more, then snap back into comfortable banter. It was a dance you knew by heart, a familiar rhythm that kept you close but safe. You'd perfected the art of casual intimacy, the kind that convinced everyone else – and sometimes even yourselves – that there was nothing more to see here.

That dance, however, felt particularly fragile after your latest toxic situationship imploded, leaving you feeling hollowed out and raw. You were wallowing, nursing a bruised ego and an even more bruised heart, when Seungcheol called. His voice, usually so steady and confident, had a subtle tremor that told you he was burning out. He'd been working himself ragged, the stress evident even over the phone. "You know what we need?" he'd declared, cutting through your self-pity with his characteristic directness. "An escape. A proper, off-the-grid island getaway. Just us. Recharge and reset."

The idea, so sudden and yet so perfectly Seungcheol, was like a cool splash of water on a fevered brow. A few days later, you were booking flights, a spontaneous decision fueled by your heartbreak and his undeniable exhaustion. He found a gorgeous one-bedroom villa – beachfront, private, idyllic. It was perfect. Almost too perfect.

"Only one bed, huh?" you'd teased, trying for lightheartedness, a practiced smirk on your face. "Guess we'll have to share." The words felt easy, familiar, but your stomach did a clumsy, surprising flip, a secret reaction you quickly squashed down. You told yourself it was just the excitement of the trip, the novelty of it all. He just chuckled, a deep, warm sound that did nothing to settle your nerves. "Yeah, well, you snooze, you lose, right?" he'd shot back, his eyes twinkling. It was all so normal, so you two, and yet, something felt subtly, irrevocably different.

The journey itself was a blur of chatter and comfortable silence. You talked about work, about your recent breakup (or, more accurately, you vented, and he listened, offering quiet support and the occasional, perfectly timed sarcastic jab that made you laugh despite yourself). He played your favorite songs as you drove from the airport to the villa, singing along off-key just to annoy you. It was pure Seungcheol – your rock, your confidant, your oldest friend and the bestest one you could ever ask for.

Arriving at the villa, the air was thick with the scent of salt, hibiscus, and something else entirely – a quiet, electric hum that wasn't quite tension, but not quite relaxation either. The main room was open-plan, leading directly onto a veranda overlooking the turquoise ocean. And right in the center, a massive, inviting king-sized bed. It seemed to dominate the space, a silent third party to your carefully constructed friendship.

"Alright, pick your side," Seungcheol had announced, tossing his duffel bag onto the foot of the bed. You’d chosen the side closest to the window, claiming the view. He’d just grinned, taking the other. You unpacked quickly, trying to ignore the way your eyes kept drifting to the shared sleeping arrangement.

As dusk settled, painting the sky in fiery oranges and purples, you found yourselves on the veranda, sipping cold drinks, listening to the gentle lapping of waves. The conversation flowed easily, tales of childhood mischief mixing with recent work dramas. It felt good, familiar, safe. This was exactly what you needed. Just friends, unwinding.

Later, after a simple dinner and a couple more drinks that loosened your limbs and tongues, you both retreated indoors. The soft glow of bedside lamps cast long shadows across the room. You changed into your sleep clothes in the bathroom, feeling a strange mix of anticipation and nerves. When you emerged, Seungcheol was already in bed, propped up against the pillows, scrolling on his phone. He glanced up, offering a tired but warm smile.

You climbed in carefully, creating a chasm of sheets that, despite the vastness of the bed, felt surprisingly small. You lay back to back, the cool sheets a thin barrier between you. But the mattress dipped slightly where he lay, and you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, just inches from yours. Your shoulders brushed his, a small, innocent contact that felt anything but. Every nerve ending in your back seemed to be screaming an alert, hyper-aware of his presence, the steady rhythm of his breathing. The ocean outside whispered secrets you couldn't quite decipher, and the distant calls of night birds felt like a soundtrack to your racing thoughts.

You must have drifted, a light, restless sleep barely skimming the surface of your consciousness. Because the next thing you knew, a warm, heavy weight draped across your waist. Seungcheol had rolled over in his sleep, his arm settling naturally around you, pulling you closer. Your back was pressed flush against his front, and his breath, soft and even, ghosted across your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

You froze, every muscle in your body locking up. Your mind raced, screaming at you to move, to break the contact, to preserve the sanctity of "just friends." But your body refused to obey. You could feel the steady beat of his heart through his arm, a rhythm that was now inexplicably syncing with your own frantic pulse. The air between you, once comfortable and easy, now crackled with an undeniable energy. The scent of him – clean laundry, faint cologne, and something uniquely him – filled your senses.

You lay there for what felt like an eternity, rigid and awake, while he slept on, blissfully unaware of the havoc he was wreaking. Every instinct screamed at you to pull away, but another, far deeper part of you, the part you rarely acknowledged, yearned to lean back into the warmth, to melt into his embrace. The 'just friends' rule suddenly felt like a flimsy excuse, a paper-thin wall against a rising tide.

Sleep didn't come. Your heart, it seemed, had forgotten how to, too. It throbbed a frantic, uncertain rhythm, a stark counterpoint to the quiet, steady beat of his. You closed your eyes, but the darkness offered no escape from the undeniable truth slowly dawning in your chest: this trip, this shared bed, this casual touch… it was already changing everything.

The insistent, melodic trill of exotic birds outside finally pulled you from your restless, half-sleep. It wasn't the harsh squawk of city pigeons or the monotonous hum of traffic, but a sweet, vibrant chorus that felt utterly alien and utterly perfect. Sunlight, impossibly bright and golden, streamed through the sheer curtains, painting stripes across the pristine white sheets. For a blissful second, you were just here, wherever 'here' was, free from the crushing weight of your last relationship and the gnawing anxiety of everyday life.

Then, the weight around your waist, the soft, rhythmic breathing on your neck, jolted you fully awake. Seungcheol’s arm was still draped over you, warm and heavy, his body a solid, comforting, and utterly terrifying presence pressed against your back. Your breath hitched. Your heart, which had just begun to slow, picked up an anxious flutter again, a hummingbird trapped in your ribs. This wasn't just a sleepy shift, you realized. This was a deliberate, intimate cuddle, even if he was still lost in the depths of slumber. Every nerve ending sang with an awareness of him – the subtle scent of his skin, the gentle rumble of his breathing, the undeniable heat radiating from his side.

Carefully, painstakingly, you began to disentangle yourself. It felt like defusing a bomb, each tiny movement a risk. Don't wake him. Don't make it awkward. Just… slide away. You slid his arm back onto his side of the bed, slowly, inch by agonizing inch, holding your breath until your lungs burned. He stirred, a soft sigh escaping his lips, and your heart leaped into your throat. You braced for him to open his eyes, to catch you mid-escape, but thankfully, he just settled back down, his breathing deepening. You slipped out from under the covers, tiptoeing to the bathroom with a silent, fervent prayer of relief. The cool tile beneath your feet was a welcome shock after the warmth of the bed.

After a quick, almost frantic, shower, you dressed in your swimsuit – a simple, dark one-piece – and emerged to find the bed empty. A damp towel lay crumpled on Seungcheol’s side, and the faint, fresh scent of his shower gel lingered in the air, oddly comforting. A pang of something you couldn't quite name – disappointment at his absence mixed with a profound sense of relief that you hadn’t had to face him right then – went through you. You felt a little like you’d dodged a bullet, but also, surprisingly, a little bit cold.

You found him outside, and the sight immediately stole the breath from your lungs. He was standing at the edge of the private plunge pool, shirtless, his swim trunks riding low on his hips. The morning light caught the slight sheen of water on his tanned skin, highlighting the lean, understated strength of his frame. His hair was slicked back, dripping wet, water still clinging to his eyelashes and tracing rivulets down his neck and shoulders. He looked utterly relaxed, a stark contrast to the stressed-out workaholic who’d boarded the plane with you just yesterday. This version of Seungcheol, with his sun-kissed skin and easy confidence, was… dangerous. He was no longer just the comfortable best friend from your everyday life. This version was a whole new level of attractive, an almost primal appeal you weren't prepared to confront.

You must have been staring, openly, unashamedly, because he turned, a wide, easy grin spreading across his face. His eyes, crinkling at the corners from the bright sun and genuine happiness, met yours.

"Morning, sleepyhead," he said, his voice a low rumble, richer and deeper than usual, as if the ocean air had smoothed out any lingering stress. "Finally decided to grace us with your presence, huh?" Then, his eyes narrowed playfully, a hint of something else sparkling within them. "See something you like?"

He was teasing, you knew that, the familiar Seungcheol banter you’d grown up with. But there was an undertone in his voice, a deeper resonance that made your stomach clench. Your cheeks heated instantly. You could feel the blush creeping up your neck.

"Just admiring the view," you retorted, trying to sound breezy, trying to inject enough sarcasm to mask your sudden shyness. You gestured vaguely at the shimmering ocean behind him. "Couldn't tell where the horizon ended and your abs began."

He laughed, a genuine, booming sound that made the birds momentarily hush. It was a sound that always made you smile, a deep, full-bellied laugh that started in his chest. "Smooth, real smooth. Come on in, the water's perfect. Best way to wake up, trust me." He extended a hand towards the pool, inviting you in.

You shook your head, still trying to compose yourself, trying to shake off the effect his shirtless presence had on you. "Nah, I'm good. Need coffee first. And maybe an hour to adjust to this level of… brightness." You gestured vaguely at his gleaming, wet chest, trying to make it a joke. It barely sounded like one to your own ears.

His gaze lingered on you for a moment, a considering look in his eyes that felt too intense for just friends. You felt like he was seeing right through your feigned nonchalance, past the easy banter, right into the confused flutter of your heart. "Sure. I'll get you a cup," he said finally, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting second before meeting your eyes again. "Make yourself at home." He disappeared into the villa, and you took a long, shaky breath, letting it out slowly. Get it together, you chastised yourself. He’s your best friend. He’s always been handsome. This is just the vacation air getting to you, the lack of sleep, the… everything.

After a much-needed cup of coffee – which Seungcheol had thoughtfully prepared just the way you liked it – you decided to explore the rocky coastline near the villa. Seungcheol, ever the adventurous one, insisted on leading the way, bounding over rocks with an almost childlike enthusiasm. "Come on, slowpoke! There's a cool tide pool just around this bend!"

The rocks were smooth and dark, slick with sea spray in places, and you were laughing about some ridiculous incident from your university days, a story about a botched science experiment that involved a lot of smoke and a very angry professor. You were mid-sentence, gesturing wildly, when your foot slipped on a particularly wet patch, hidden beneath a thin layer of seaweed.

You yelped, arms flailing, bracing for an embarrassing, probably painful fall onto the sharp, uneven rock. Before you could hit, Seungcheol was there. His hands shot out, gripping your hips firmly, steadying you with an almost instantaneous reaction. His fingers dug in just enough to anchor you, preventing the fall, and the unexpected strength of his grip, the warmth of his palms through your thin swimsuit, sent a jolt right through you. You were acutely aware of how close he was, the faint scent of salt and his sun-warmed skin filling your nostrils.

"Whoa there, careful," he murmured, his voice close to your ear, a low rumble that vibrated through your entire body. "Almost took a dive. You okay?"

You nodded, your voice a little breathless, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Yeah. Yeah, fine. Thanks. You, uh, you caught me." You tried to pull away, but his hands remained, a comforting, yet thrilling, weight on your hips. He didn't release you until you were completely steady, his eyes searching yours for any lingering sign of distress, concern etched on his face. The brief touch felt like it had stretched into an eternity, leaving a tingling sensation long after his hands finally left your skin.

Just as you managed to regain your composure, to pretend that moment hadn't completely thrown your equilibrium, your phone vibrated insistently in your pocket. You pulled it out, glancing at the screen. Your breath hitched. Your stomach twisted into a painful knot. It was your ex. Mark. The name glared back at you, cold and unwelcome. You hadn't heard from him since the messy, confusing breakup weeks ago. Why now?

You quickly silenced the call, your thumb hovering over the delete button, a flicker of panic in your chest. You turned your back slightly to Seungcheol, trying to shield the screen from his view. "Everything alright?" he asked, his voice sharp with a hint of suspicion. You could feel his gaze on you, probing.

"Yeah, just… spam," you mumbled, the lie feeling flimsy and transparent even to your own ears. You shoved the phone back into your pocket before he could see the caller ID, but the quick movement, the sudden evasiveness, hadn't gone unnoticed. You felt his gaze on your back, heavy and questioning, but he didn't press it. The air between you, which had just been lightened by the shared laugh and the near-fall, thickened again with unspoken tension.

The rest of the day passed in a pleasant haze of swimming in the clear, warm ocean, reading on the veranda, and more easy conversation. Yet, that brief, unsettling moment with your phone, and the way Seungcheol’s gaze had sharpened, clung to the back of your mind like a persistent burr. You found yourself subconsciously avoiding the topic of your ex, skirting around any mention of your life before this trip. You felt a new, unfamiliar layer of guardedness settling over you.

As night fell, a gentle, tropical rain began to patter on the villa roof, creating a soothing melody that lulled the island to sleep. You were both curled up on the large sofa in the living area, a movie playing softly on the screen. The day's activities, combined with the rhythmic sound of the rain, slowly started to lull you into a heavy drowsiness. Without realizing it, your head drooped, your eyelids growing heavy, the exhaustion of your sleepless night catching up.

The next thing you knew, you were waking up, truly waking up this time, to the soft glow of the television and the undeniable warmth of a body next to yours. You were no longer just on the sofa; you were nestled against Seungcheol. Your head was comfortably tucked into the crook of his shoulder, his arm was wrapped loosely around you, and your ear was pressed against his chest. You could hear it, clear as day, a strong, steady thump-thump, thump-thump. And it was fast. Not frantic, but definitely faster than a resting heartbeat should be. Your mind, still hazy from sleep, tried to make sense of it. Was he cold? Was he having a bad dream? Was he… excited about the movie? The excuses felt hollow, even to you.

Your fingers, nestled against his chest, felt the subtle vibration of his breathing, the warmth radiating from him, the solidness of his muscles beneath your cheek. You longed to ask, to break the comfortable silence and query the frantic rhythm of his heart, to understand what caused it. But a strange, potent fear held you back. Fear of what the answer might be. Fear of what it might mean if his heart was racing because of you. You stayed perfectly still, feigning sleep, listening to that wild beat beneath your ear, your own heart echoing its frantic pace, far too afraid to ask why. And as you listened, you realized that the soft rain outside wasn't the only sound filling the villa. It was the increasingly loud, undeniable beat of a truth you were desperately trying to ignore.

--

The next morning dawned with a relentless sun, burning away any lingering mist from the night’s rain. You woke feeling surprisingly refreshed, the confusing tangle of the previous night’s closeness pushed to the back of your mind by the sheer brightness of the day. Seungcheol was already up, clattering around in the kitchen. When you emerged, he was whistling, flipping pancakes with an almost professional flourish.

"Morning, stranger," he chirped, setting a plate piled high with golden pancakes in front of you. "Slept well?" His eyes, bright and unreadable, met yours, and for a fleeting second, you wondered if he remembered draping his arm over you, if he'd felt your heart hammering against his chest. You quickly averted your gaze, focusing intently on drizzling syrup.

"Like a log," you lied, hoping your cheeks didn’t betray the heat rising in them. "The rain helped."

He just chuckled, a low, knowing sound. "Good. Because I've got a surprise for you." He gestured towards a neatly tied mesh bag by the door, and inside, you could make out the unmistakable orange of a basketball. "There's a court down the road, part of the resort. We're getting some shots up."

Your eyebrows shot up. "Seriously? On vacation? Cheol, I haven't played basketball since high school gym class."

He grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Exactly! Time to relive the glory days. Besides," he winked, "you owe me. I made breakfast."

You tried to protest, but Seungcheol was notoriously persistent when he had an idea. Ten minutes later, you found yourself walking down a sandy path, the warm concrete of a half-court shimmering in the distance. The court was surprisingly well-maintained, nestled amongst palm trees, the ocean visible through a gap in the foliage.

"Alright, princess, first one to twenty wins," he declared, bouncing the ball with an easy grace that made you feel acutely aware of your own rusty skills. He dribbled around you, feinting left, then right, effortlessly sinking a lay-up. "Still got it."

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips. "Show-off. Okay, fine. But no mercy."

The game quickly devolved into less a serious match and more a chaotic, breathless flirt war. You were rusty, sure, but the competitive fire ignited something playful between you. You'd duck under his arm, snatch the ball, and make a clumsy dash for the hoop. He’d laugh, long and genuine, then be right on your heels, his shadow looming large over you.

"No fouling, Cheol!" you gasped, winded, as he managed to box you out, his broad back pressing against your front.

"What, this?" he teased, his voice vibrating through you. "I'm just playing defense. Close defense."

You elbowed him lightly. "Yeah, too close!"

He stole the ball from you mid-dribble, effortlessly spinning it on his finger before passing it back. "You’re off your game today. Need some pointers?" His eyes twinkled.

"I’m just warming up, don't worry," you retorted, though you knew it was a losing battle. You took a shot, your aim completely off, sending the ball bouncing off the rim. You groaned in frustration.

"Here, let me help you with that form," he said, stepping behind you. Before you could react, he pressed himself flush against your back, his chest against yours, his thighs brushing the back of your legs. Your breath caught. His arms came around you, reaching for yours, his palms sliding along your arms until his fingers intertwined with yours around the ball. You were hyper-aware of everything: the heat of his body, the faint scent of sweat and sunscreen, the rough texture of his swim shorts against your skin. His voice, now a low, husky whisper, was right by your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

"Relax, princess," he murmured, his thumb brushing over your inner forearm, a feather-light touch that sent goosebumps blooming across your skin. "Let me take care of you. You gotta follow through, like this." He guided your arms, his body moving with yours, a single, fluid motion that felt electrifyingly intimate. The ball swished through the net.

You pulled away abruptly, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "Okay, okay, I got it. Thanks, Coach." Your voice sounded far too shaky, even to your own ears.

He just chuckled, a knowing glint in his eyes, but didn't comment on your sudden retreat. The tension between you, though, was suddenly palpable, humming beneath the surface of the game.

Later, cooling off with drinks at the resort’s small beach bar, the easy camaraderie returned. But it was fleeting. A few tables over, a girl with long, dark hair and an infectious laugh caught Seungcheol’s eye. She was clearly a tourist, her skin glowing with a fresh tan, and she was undeniably pretty. Seungcheol, ever the charmer, exchanged a friendly smile and a brief nod with her. No big deal, right? Just being polite.

But then, she caught his eye again, a little too quickly, and this time she offered a wider, more inviting smile. Seungcheol returned it, and a polite, brief exchange of words followed – something about the great weather, a shared laugh. You smiled politely too, a fixed, slightly brittle expression on your face. Inside, though, you felt a cold, sharp stab in your chest. It was irrational, ridiculous. He was just being friendly. But the ice spread, a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the cool breeze coming off the ocean.

You watched them for a few more seconds, the easy way she tossed her hair back, the way her gaze lingered on him. A knot tightened in your stomach. She's definitely flirting with him. And he was… well, he was being Seungcheol. Polite, charming, completely oblivious to the sudden chill radiating from your side of the table.

When she finally turned away, you felt a disproportionate sense of relief. You took a long, exaggerated gulp of your drink.

"She seemed nice," Seungcheol commented, completely oblivious to your internal turmoil. "Cute, too."

You bristled, an unexpected sharpness in your tone. "Oh, really? You think so? Just 'nice'?"

He looked at you, surprised by your sudden bite. His eyebrows furrowed slightly. "Yeah, I mean… she seemed friendly. Why? What's wrong?"

You shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, but your jaw was tight. "Nothing. Just commenting. You're very observant today."

He leaned back in his chair, studying you, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "You know, you get this particular wrinkle between your eyebrows when you're trying to hide something." He paused, his gaze unwavering. "Are you jealous?"

The question hit you like a splash of cold water. Your heart leaped into your throat. "Jealous? Of what? Don't be ridiculous, Cheol. We’re literally on vacation. And she's… she's just some random tourist." You heard the defensive edge in your voice, hated it, but couldn't seem to stop it.

He chuckled, a low, soft sound that did nothing to soothe your ruffled feathers. His expression, though, wasn't amused. It was something else – something unreadable, but definitely not convinced by your denial. It was a look that said, I see you. I see exactly what's happening here. He just took a slow sip of his drink, letting the silence hang heavy between you, charged with the unspoken truth of your denial. You suddenly felt very exposed, and very, very frustrated. With him, with her, and most of all, with yourself.

--

The next day unfolded under a sky so intensely blue it almost hurt your eyes. The air hummed with the gentle thrum of island life, a stark contrast to the buzzing confusion in your head after yesterday’s basketball court skirmish and that infuriatingly knowing look from Seungcheol. You tried to brush it off, to tell yourself his "Are you jealous?" was just a tease, but the sharp sting in your chest when that tourist girl had flirted with him was undeniable. And worse, he knew.

You found Seungcheol already on the beach when you ventured out, setting up a couple of lounge chairs under a wide, thatched umbrella. He looked unfairly good, relaxed in swim shorts and a loose, unbuttoned linen shirt that billowed slightly in the breeze, revealing tantalizing glimpses of his chest. He caught your eye and offered a casual wave, as if nothing had happened yesterday. His nonchalance almost infuriated you.

"Morning, feeling less murderous today?" he asked, a hint of a smile playing on his lips as you settled into the chair next to him.

You narrowed your eyes. "I wasn't murderous. Just… competitive. And you were annoying."

He chuckled, stretching his arms above his head, his muscles flexing. "Right. And I'm sure that look you gave that poor girl yesterday was pure 'competition.'"

You bristled. "She was practically draped all over you! And anyway, what's it to you? You're just my best friend, remember?" The words felt harsher than you intended, a desperate attempt to re-establish the boundary you felt slipping away.

His smile faded, replaced by a strangely intense gaze. "Right," he echoed, but his voice was low, laced with an emotion you couldn't quite decipher. He turned away, picking up a bottle of sunscreen. "Want some?"

The sudden shift in atmosphere was jarring. You nodded, feeling a strange mix of regret for your sharp words and a defiant refusal to back down. He poured a generous amount into his palm, then started rubbing it onto his own shoulders. You watched the play of muscles under his skin, the smooth, powerful movements of his hands, and suddenly felt a fresh wave of heat.

"My back too?" you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, pushing the boundary back just a little, unable to resist.

He paused, then slowly turned. His eyes met yours, a silent question passing between you. He nodded, a small, almost imperceptible dip of his head. You turned, pulling down the straps of your swimsuit to expose your back. You felt the cool smear of sunscreen first, then the warm, firm pressure of his hands as they began to rub it in. His touch was deliberate, slow, his fingers tracing patterns along your shoulder blades, his thumbs pressing gently into the small of your back. Every brush of his skin against yours sent a shiver through you. It was far too intimate for 'just friends'.

"You're tense," he murmured, his voice a low hum against the backdrop of the waves. His thumbs worked circles into your tense muscles, dangerously close to the sides of your waist. You bit your lip to suppress a gasp. The line between platonic comfort and something entirely different was not just blurring; it was dissolving under his hands.

When he finally pulled away, your skin tingled, and you felt oddly exposed, despite being fully covered by your swimsuit. You didn't dare meet his eyes.

The afternoon rolled into evening, the golden light softening as you found yourselves at a quaint little beachside bar. You were under the same umbrella you’d claimed earlier, now strung with fairy lights, creating a cozy, almost magical ambiance. Cocktails, vibrant and fruity, arrived, their clinking ice a cool counterpoint to the growing heat between you two.

You were halfway through your second drink, laughing at one of his ridiculously bad puns, when a drop of condensation ran down the side of your glass and onto your lip. Without thinking, Seungcheol reached out, his thumb gently wiping the moisture away. His touch was feather-light, barely there, but his thumb didn't pull away immediately. It lingered, brushing softly against your bottom lip, tracing its curve. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then slowly, deliberately, lifted to meet your eyes.

The air thickened, crackling with unspoken words. The soft music from the bar, the gentle lapping of the waves, all faded into a distant hum. All that existed was the warmth of his thumb on your lip, the intensity of his stare, and the sudden, overwhelming awareness of his proximity. Your heart hammered, a frantic drum against your ribs.

"What are you doing?" you whispered, your voice barely audible.

His thumb slowly, reluctantly, pulled away. He leaned back slightly, but his eyes never left yours. "Nothing," he murmured, though his expression said otherwise. "Just… wiping your lip."

The flirt-off, already a staple of your dynamic, escalated. "Why do you look at me like that, Cheol?" you challenged, the alcohol loosening your tongue, making you bolder than you would have been sober. Your voice was soft, but laced with a dare.

"Like what?" he countered, his voice equally low, his eyes dark and intense.

"Like you want me," you breathed, the words out before you could stop them, raw and honest and terrifying.

A flicker of something—surprise? desire? satisfaction?—crossed his face. A slow, knowing smile spread across his lips. "Maybe I do," he said, his voice a dangerous whisper that sent shivers down your spine. "What if I do?"

Your breath hitched. The honesty was disarming, shattering the carefully constructed wall you'd maintained for years. You had no response. You just stared at him, your mind reeling.

He didn't press it. Instead, he just raised his glass. "Another round?"

Before you knew it, another hour had passed, then another, and the "too many drinks" threshold had well and truly been crossed. The world felt softer, brighter, and all your inhibitions seemed to have dissolved into the warm island air. The music, which had been background, suddenly felt irresistible.

"Come on!" you giggled, pulling him from his seat. "Let's dance!"

He followed, a smile on his face, though he swayed a little. You both stumbled onto a small, makeshift dance floor near the bar, joining a few other tourists. You danced badly, laughing loudly, your arms flailing, bumping into each other. He caught your waist, steadying you, and you leaned into him instinctively, the world spinning just a little.

His grip tightened, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush. Your hands found their way to his shoulders, then tangled in his hair as the music swelled around you. You pressed against him, moving to the beat, your hips swaying against his. The laughter died down, replaced by a breathless awareness. His head dipped, his forehead resting against yours, then lower, until his lips were just inches from yours. You could feel his warm breath on your mouth, the faint scent of his drink, and the intoxicating pull of something you'd denied for so long.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, his voice rough with something that sounded like raw longing. His eyes were half-closed, heavy-lidded, fixed on your lips.

Your breath hitched. This was it. The moment. The line, stretched to its absolute breaking point, was about to snap. He leaned in further, his lips just barely brushing yours, a feather-light touch that promised so much more. Your heart hammered, a wild bird desperate for escape.

But then, the familiar, insistent voice of reason screamed in your head. He’s your best friend. Your best friend. Don’t ruin this. Don’t lose him.

You stopped it. You put a hand on his chest, gently but firmly pushing him back, just an inch. The world, which had been spinning, crashed back into focus. His eyes opened, suddenly clearer, and a flicker of something—disappointment? confusion?—crossed his face.

"Cheol," you murmured, your voice barely a whisper, filled with a sudden, overwhelming regret for the proximity, for the almost-kiss, for the chaos of your own feelings. "I… I can't. We're… we're best friends."

He looked at you for a long moment, the warmth in his eyes slowly cooling, replaced by a familiar frustration. He just nodded, a slight, almost imperceptible dip of his head. He pulled his hands from your waist, his arms dropping to his sides, the distance between you suddenly feeling vast. The spell was broken. You felt a wave of cold sobriety wash over you, leaving you chilled despite the warm night.

You stumbled back to the villa in a tense silence. The comfortable ease had evaporated, replaced by an awkward chasm. When you got back, you both went through the motions of getting ready for bed, but the unspoken words hung heavy in the air.

That night, in bed, you lay awake for what felt like hours. He was next to you, shirtless, the covers half off, his body a dark silhouette in the dim room. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the soft rise and fall of his chest with each breath. You desperately wanted to reach out, to touch him, to erase the distance you had just created. To pull him back into the almost-kiss, to let the line completely dissolve. You rolled over, facing the ceiling, biting your lip hard enough to taste copper. Your mind replayed the feel of his thumb on your lip, the raw longing in his voice, the weight of his body against yours as you danced. The 'best friend' mantra, which had been your shield for so long, now felt like a cruel prison. You could hear his soft, even breathing, and knew he was asleep, utterly unaware of the storm raging within you. And that, somehow, was the most frustrating part of all.

The morning after the almost-kiss hung heavy between you, a tangible weight in the humid air. The vibrant blues and greens of the island seemed muted, overshadowed by the awkward silence that had settled in the villa. You woke to the dull ache of a hangover – both from the too-many drinks and the emotional whiplash of the night before. Seungcheol was already up, sitting on the veranda, staring out at the ocean. His back was to you, rigid, giving nothing away.

You showered quickly, trying to wash away the lingering tension. Every movement felt self-conscious, as if he could feel your nervousness from across the villa. When you emerged, he still hadn't moved. The silence stretched, becoming unbearable. This wasn't how your mornings with Cheol usually went. There was always laughter, easy banter, the clatter of breakfast being made. Now, there was just this oppressive quiet.

You decided to break it, to pretend everything was fine, to re-establish the "best friend" boundary you’d so desperately clung to last night. "Hey," you said, your voice a little too bright, a little too forced. "Beautiful morning, huh?"

He turned slowly, his expression unreadable. His eyes, usually warm and crinkling with a smile, were cool, almost distant. "Yeah," he said, his voice flat. "Real beautiful."

You walked over, trying to project an air of casualness, and leaned against the railing beside him. "Rough night?"

He scoffed, a short, humorless sound. "Rough night? You stopped me. You physically pushed me away. After everything." His voice was low, laced with a quiet anger that made your stomach clench. "Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about."

Your carefully constructed facade crumbled. Your heart hammered. "Cheol, I… I just. I can't. We're best friends. What happened last night, it was the drinks. It was… a mistake." The words felt like sandpaper in your throat, a betrayal of your own swirling emotions, but you felt trapped, desperate to pull back from the edge.

He finally stood, turning to face you fully. The sudden proximity, the raw anger in his eyes, made you instinctively take a step back. "A mistake?" His voice rose, though he kept it under control, a dangerous undertone to its controlled volume. "A mistake? Are you serious right now? You think all the flirting, all the touching, all the tension between us for the past how many years has been a mistake? You think that kiss you almost let happen was just 'the drinks'?"

His gaze pinned you, sharp and accusatory. "You think I haven't seen the way you look at me? The way your breath hitches when I get too close? The way you go stiff when some other girl even looks at me? Don't you dare tell me that was a mistake. Don't you dare act like it's nothing, and then shut me out the second it gets real!"

His words hit you like a physical blow, each one echoing the truths you’d been so desperately trying to suppress. Tears pricked at your eyes, blurring the perfect ocean view behind him. The anger in his voice was a whip, but it was the hurt beneath it that truly stung.

"I just… I don't want to lose you, Cheol!" you finally yelled back, the words tearing from your throat, ragged and desperate. "You're my best friend! What if we… what if we try this and it ruins everything? What if we lose us? I can't risk that!"

The admission hung in the air, raw and vulnerable. Your voice cracked on the last word, and a tear finally escaped, tracing a hot path down your cheek. The fear of losing him, of shattering the foundation of your friendship, was a deep, primal terror. It felt safer, easier, to stay in the familiar, even if it meant denying a burgeoning desire you couldn't control.

His face softened infinitesimally, the anger in his eyes dimming, replaced by a profound sadness. He stepped closer, reaching out a hand. You flinched, expecting him to pull away, to turn his back on you entirely. But his hand simply cupped your cheek, his thumb gently wiping away the tear. His touch was feather-light, tender, a stark contrast to the angry words that had just passed between you.

"You think I haven't thought about that?" he murmured, his voice now low, rough with emotion. "You think I'm not scared?" His thumb moved, stroking your wet cheek bone. "But what if… what if we've already lost 'us' by pretending we're just friends? By denying what's been between us for so long?"

Another tear escaped, then another, and soon you were openly sobbing, the floodgates opening on weeks, months, years of suppressed feelings. The fear, the confusion, the longing – it all poured out. Your shoulders shook, and you buried your face in your hands, the shame of your emotional breakdown overwhelming you.

Suddenly, his arms were around you, pulling you against his chest. He held you tight, a warm, solid anchor in the storm of your tears. He didn't say anything, just let you cry, his hand stroking your hair, murmuring soft, comforting sounds. Your body sagged against his, finding an unexpected solace in his embrace. The anger had dissipated, replaced by a profound sense of relief, of being held and understood.

"You always shut me out right when I get close," he whispered, his voice vibrating against your ear, his words a gentle accusation. His hands started rubbing your back, a soothing, rhythmic motion that felt both comforting and subtly spicy, sending shivers through your damp skin. "Every time I think we're getting somewhere, you pull away. You put up that wall."

"I'm scared," you choked out, your voice muffled against his shirt. "I'm so, so scared, Cheol."

"I know," he whispered back, his voice thick with empathy. He pulled you even tighter, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. "But you don't have to be. Not with me." His fingers tangled in your hair, gently massaging your scalp. The quiet intimacy of the moment, the raw vulnerability, felt more profound than any physical act. His warmth seeped into your bones, chasing away the chill of your fear.

You clung to him, your tears slowly drying on your cheeks. The soft sounds of the rain outside had stopped, replaced by the gentle hush of the ocean. You could feel the steady beat of his heart against your cheek, a comforting rhythm that finally began to soothe your own frantic one. Exhaustion, emotional and physical, washed over you.

You fell asleep right there, held tightly in the crook of his neck, the scent of his skin and the gentle rhythm of his breathing lulling you into a peaceful slumber. His fingers were still tangled in your hair, a silent promise of comfort and closeness. For the first time in days, maybe even weeks, you felt truly safe, truly at peace, despite the raw honesty that had just erupted between you. The anger had passed, leaving behind a fragile, yet undeniable, bridge built from shared vulnerability.

The morning after the storm, a fragile peace settled over the villa. The air felt lighter, the tension that had been a constant companion since your arrival having finally broken, giving way to a raw, tender honesty. You woke still curled against Seungcheol, his arm a gentle weight around you. This time, there was no panicked escape, no frantic disentangling. You simply lay there for a moment, listening to the steady beat of his heart, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. When you finally stirred, he was already awake, his gaze soft as he looked down at you.

"Morning," he murmured, his voice husky with sleep, a faint smile playing on his lips. He didn't move, just let his fingers trace lazy circles on your back, sending shivers through you.

"Morning," you replied, your voice still a little thick with sleep and lingering emotion. You finally pushed yourself up, the warmth leaving your side immediately missed. You felt a blush creeping up your neck, but this time, it was less about embarrassment and more about a shy awareness of the shift between you.

Breakfast was quieter than usual, but it was a comfortable quiet, punctuated by soft glances and small, knowing smiles. The elephant in the room hadn't vanished, but it felt less like a threat and more like a shared secret, something still too new and delicate to articulate fully.

After eating, you decided on a lazy beach day. The sun was already high, promising a scorching afternoon. You pulled on your favorite bikini – a simple, classic black one – and then, almost as an afterthought, grabbed a loose, oversized tank top to pull over it. It was more for sun protection than anything else, or so you told yourself.

When you stepped out onto the veranda, Seungcheol was already there, spreading a large beach towel on the sand. He looked up as you approached, and his eyes, which had been scanning the horizon, fixed on you. His gaze lingered, trailing from your face, down the loose fabric of your tank top, to your legs. A slow, appreciative warmth spread through his eyes. He paused, his movements stilled, openly watching you.

You felt the heat of his stare, an entirely new sensation, even after all your years of casual flirting. This wasn't the teasing, friendly gaze. This was something else. Something possessive, hungry, and deeply, undeniably masculine. It made your stomach flutter and your skin tingle. You felt oddly exposed, despite the loose fabric.

"Eyes up here, bestie," you teased, your voice a little breathy, trying to break the intensity of the moment. You batted your eyelashes playfully, but inside, your heart was hammering.

He chuckled, a low, rich sound that seemed to vibrate through the air. His gaze finally lifted, meeting yours, a spark of pure mischief in his eyes. "Hard to do when the view's so distracting, princess." He pushed himself up, still looking at you, and walked over to where you stood. "Need help with that?" He gestured with his chin towards the small tube of sunscreen in your hand.

Your pulse quickened. You swallowed, trying to appear nonchalant. "Oh. Uh, yeah. Sure. My back, anyway." You turned, pulling down the straps of your tank top, then your bikini top, exposing your entire back. It was a bold move, an unspoken invitation. You felt the warm air on your skin, and then, the cool, smooth slide of sunscreen as he squeezed a generous dollop onto your shoulder.

His hands began to work, his touch slow, deliberate, almost agonizingly so. His palms glided over your shoulder blades, down your spine, the movement languid and sensual. His fingers seemed to drag, almost imperceptibly, along the curve of your back, taking their time. Every brush of his skin against yours sent electric currents through your body. You felt your breath hitch in your throat as his thumbs, with agonizing slowness, brushed the sides of your waist, just above the line of your bikini bottoms, lingering there for a fraction too long before moving up again.

His touch wasn't rushed or hurried; it was a patient, exquisite torture. You could almost feel the heat radiating from his hands, seeping into your very bones. You bit your lip, trying to control the shivers that threatened to erupt. The silence stretched, filled only by the whisper of the waves and the frantic thrum of your own heartbeat. You closed your eyes, utterly consumed by the sensation. It was an exercise in pure, delicious slow burn, every inch of his contact a whispered promise of what you now knew he wanted.

"You're going to burn if I don't get this all the way down," he murmured, his voice a low, rough rumble right by your ear. His fingers slid further down, lingering just above the curve of your buttock, then returning slowly. "Or maybe I just want an excuse to keep touching you."

You gasped softly, a little sound escaping your lips. The honesty, delivered in that husky tone, sent a jolt right through you. "Cheol," you whispered, his name a plea, a warning, and something else entirely.

He chuckled, a low, satisfied sound. "Done," he said, but his hands didn't immediately pull away. They lingered on your lower back, his thumbs still stroking gently. You felt his chest brush your back as he leaned in slightly. "Go enjoy the sun."

You practically bolted to the beach towel, throwing yourself down, your skin still tingling from his touch. You could feel his eyes on you, even from a distance, and it was all you could do to try and regulate your breathing. This was a whole new level of 'spicy without sex,' a simmering cauldron of unspoken desire.

The rest of the day was a blur of swimming and sun, punctuated by glances that lasted too long, touches that lingered, and a constant, almost unbearable awareness of each other. You felt like you were walking on a tightrope, every step a delicate balance between pulling away and leaning in.

As evening approached, Seungcheol suggested a special dinner at the villa. "Candlelit, just us. I’ll cook."

You agreed, a nervous excitement fluttering in your chest. The villa transformed. Candles flickered on every surface, casting warm, dancing shadows that made the familiar space feel intimate and new. The scent of a delicious, savory meal wafted from the kitchen.

You watched him as he moved around, effortlessly chopping vegetables, searing meat. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his casual shirt, revealing strong forearms, and a lock of hair kept falling into his eyes, which he’d push back with an impatient flick of his wrist. He looked utterly masculine, utterly captivating.

"Need any help?" you asked, leaning against the kitchen counter, your voice softer than you intended.

He glanced up, a grin spreading across his face. "Just moral support, princess. And maybe some dancing." He reached for your hand, pulling you gently into the center of the kitchen. A slow, romantic song was playing softly from his phone.

You laughed, a little shyly, but let him pull you close. His hands found your waist, and yours linked behind his neck. You swayed together, slowly, to the music, the flickering candlelight making his eyes seem darker, more intense. The comfortable silence settled, filled only by the soft melody and the brush of your bodies.

His hold tightened, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. Your chest was pressed flush against his, your legs brushing with every subtle sway. You could feel the solid warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart mirroring your own frantic rhythm. His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, a silent question passing between you.

"You have no idea," he murmured, his voice raw, thick with unexpressed desire, "how hard it is not to touch you the way I want to. How hard it is to just stand here, holding you like this, when all I want to do is…" He didn't finish the sentence, but his eyes said it all.

Your breath caught in your throat, a sharp, ragged sound. The intensity of his gaze, the raw honesty of his words, was overwhelming. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the potent pull drawing you closer. He leaned in, slowly, his head dipping, his lips just inches from yours. You could feel his warm breath on your mouth, the desperate longing in his eyes. Every cell in your body screamed to lean in, to close the distance, to finally give in to the magnetic pull that had been building for days.

But the fear, the familiar, insidious fear, clawed its way back. The memory of your breakdown, of your desperate plea not to lose him, flashed in your mind. This was it. The point of no return. And you were terrified.

You put your hands on his chest, gently but firmly, and pushed. Not a harsh shove, but enough to create a small, desperate space between your bodies. He stopped, his eyes wide, confused, but he allowed the distance. You were shaking, your hands trembling on his chest.

"I can't do this," you whispered, the words choked out, raw with emotion. The decision felt like tearing a part of yourself away.

His eyes, which had just been filled with longing, hardened, a flicker of that familiar frustration returning. "Why?" he asked, his voice low, controlled, but laced with a simmering anger. "Why can't you? Because I make you feel something? Because it's not 'just friends' anymore? Because you're scared?" Each question was a jab, a direct hit to your most vulnerable spots. He knew. He knew your fears, your denials, and he wasn't letting you hide from them anymore.

The kitchen, once so warm and inviting, now felt suffocating, filled with the bitter taste of your unresolved emotions. You couldn't meet his gaze, unable to deny the truth in his words, unable to voice the overwhelming terror that held you captive. The line, which had blurred so beautifully under the candlelight, had once again become a chasm, separating you from the very thing you secretly craved.

The morning after your retreat, the villa felt colder, despite the tropical heat. The air crackled with unspoken frustration, a stark contrast to the fragile intimacy of the previous day. You woke up feeling raw, exposed, and deeply, terribly regretful of pushing Seungcheol away. You could still feel the phantom warmth of his hands, the ghost of his breath on your lips, and the sting of his unanswered questions: “Why can’t you? Because I make you feel something? Because you’re scared?”

You found him in the living area, meticulously wiping down the kitchen counter, his back to you. The silence between you was a thick, oppressive blanket. He usually left that kind of tidying to the staff, a clear sign of his internal agitation.

"Morning," you offered, your voice small, tentative.

He didn't turn. "Morning," he replied, his voice devoid of warmth, clipped and distant. He continued wiping, his movements precise and stiff.

You hovered awkwardly, wanting to bridge the gap, but unsure how. "Look, Cheol, about last night… I just… I panicked. It's a lot, okay? All of this." You gestured vaguely around the villa, trying to encompass the sudden intensity of your shared space.

He finally stopped wiping, slowly turning to face you. His eyes were cold, shuttered, a stark contrast to the open vulnerability of the day before. "Yeah, I get it," he said, his voice flat. "It's a lot. Too much, apparently." He dropped the cloth onto the counter with a soft thud. "Maybe we should just… stick to the original plan. Relax. Be friends. No more 'spicy without sex' moments, right? Wouldn't want to make you 'panic' again." The sarcasm in his tone was a bitter sting, cutting deeper than any anger.

Your heart ached. "That's not fair," you whispered, tears pricking at your eyes again. "You know it's not that simple."

He scoffed. "Isn't it? Seems pretty simple to me. I make a move, you run. Classic." He walked past you, out onto the veranda, leaving you standing alone in the suddenly silent kitchen, feeling utterly abandoned.

The rest of the morning was unbearable. He avoided your gaze, spoke only when necessary, and maintained a polite, impenetrable distance. It was worse than anger; it was indifference, a stark reminder of what you truly stood to lose. You tried to suggest activities – a snorkel trip, exploring the local village – but he just gave non-committal answers or suggested you go alone. The easy camaraderie had completely evaporated, replaced by a chasm of hurt and frustration.

Around midday, you decided to take a walk along the beach, desperate for some space and fresh air. You rounded a bend in the coastline, near a cluster of vibrant coral reefs, when you saw them. Seungcheol, standing by the water's edge, talking to her. The same tourist girl from the beach bar. She was laughing, her head thrown back, her dark hair catching the sunlight. And Seungcheol was smiling, a wide, genuine smile that you hadn't seen directed at you all morning.

Your breath caught in your throat. He looked relaxed, engaged, completely at ease with her. He even reached out, his hand briefly touching her arm as she pointed at something in the water. It was just friendly, you told yourself. Casual. Harmless. But it stung, a deep, hot ache in your chest. The ice from yesterday had returned, but this time, it was laced with fire.

You quickly ducked behind a cluster of palm trees, your heart hammering. You felt a wave of pure, unadulterated jealousy wash over you, hot and undeniable. You watched for another minute, the sight of them together, so easy and carefree, twisting the knife in your gut. She's everything I'm not right now, you thought bitterly. Easygoing. Uncomplicated. And she clearly wasn't afraid to lean in.

You turned and practically ran back to the villa, the beautiful beach now feeling like a personal affront. You burst through the door, your blood still simmering, and found Seungcheol already inside, getting a bottle of water from the fridge. He looked up, his easy expression from the beach still lingering.

"Oh, hey," he said, his voice still too casual, too normal, after what you’d just witnessed. "You're back quick. Find any cool shells?"

You slapped your hands on your hips, your eyes narrowed. "Actually, I found something much more interesting." Your voice was tight, strained. "Looks like you had a very pleasant conversation out there."

He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, you know exactly what I'm talking about," you shot back, your voice rising. "The girl from yesterday! The one you find so 'nice' and 'cute.' Looks like you two are getting along famously."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. The casual indifference was gone, replaced by a weary frustration. "Are you serious right now? I was literally just talking to her about the best snorkeling spot. We ran into each other. You're going to make a scene over that?"

"A scene?" you scoffed, feeling the irrational anger bubble up. "I'm making a scene? You're out there, flirting with some random tourist, acting like everything is perfectly fine, while I'm in here, completely losing my mind because I don't know what we are anymore!" You knew you were being unfair, lashing out, but you couldn't stop. The jealousy was a live wire, sparking and burning.

He stared at you for a long moment, his eyes hardening. Then, a slow, infuriating smile spread across his face, a challenge in his gaze. "Oh, so now it's about you losing your mind? Interesting. Because last night, when things actually got 'interesting,' you were the one who pushed me away. You don't want me, but no one else can have me either, huh? Is that it? You want to keep me on a leash, just in case?" His voice was low, dangerous, hitting every raw nerve.

The accusation, so close to the truth of your own fear, felt like a direct punch to the gut. "That's not fair!" you yelled, your voice cracking. The villa, usually so peaceful, now echoed with your raised voices. "You think I want to keep you on a leash? I just… I just don't want you with anyone else! Okay? Is that what you want to hear? I don't want you with anyone else!"

The words burst out of you, raw, unplanned, and laced with every ounce of your desperate, painful jealousy. The confession hung in the air, heavy and undeniable, silencing the argument instantly.

Silence. The only sound was the distant murmur of the ocean, a stark contrast to the storm that had just erupted between you. Seungcheol’s eyes, which had been hard and challenging, softened, a flicker of something new replacing the anger – surprise, then a slow, dawning understanding. He took a single, deliberate step closer, then another, closing the distance you had so desperately tried to maintain.

You watched him approach, frozen, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. He stopped directly in front of you, just inches away, completely invading your personal space. The tension that had been building for days, for years, was now a palpable force, thick and electric. His gaze was intense, unwavering, reading every single one of your unspoken thoughts.

"Then show me," he said, his voice a low, rough murmur that sent shivers down your spine. He didn't raise his voice, but the quiet demand was more powerful than any shout. "Stop running. Stop hiding. Show me."

Before you could even process his words, he moved. He didn't grab you, didn't pull you in forcefully. Instead, he simply reached out and placed his hands on either side of your head, framing your face, his fingers gently tangling in your hair. Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned in. Your breath hitched, your eyes wide as you watched his face draw closer. His forehead came to rest against yours, skin to skin, the contact sending a jolt right through you. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, the slight tremor in his hands, reflecting the tremor in your own.

His eyes, dark and intense, searched yours, seeking confirmation, demanding a final answer. He was so close you could feel the soft brush of his eyelashes, the faint scent of his skin, and the raw, hungry longing in his gaze. His lips were just a breath away, so tantalizingly close. Your own lips parted slightly, an involuntary invitation. Every instinct screamed to close the distance, to finally give in to the magnetic pull that had been building between you for so long.

This was it. The culmination. The moment you’d denied, fought, and secretly yearned for. You felt the delicious, terrifying pull towards him, your body aching to melt into his.

But then, just as your eyes fluttered closed, just as you leaned the last fraction of an inch, he pulled back. Not completely, but enough to break the imminent contact. His forehead remained against yours, his hands still cradling your face, but his lips were no longer hovering. His eyes, now clear and resolute, looked deeply into yours.

"If we do this," he said, his voice a low, gravelly whisper, filled with a gravitas that made your heart skip a beat, "you better be ready. Because once we cross this line, there's no going back to 'just friends.' Understand?"

The question hung in the air, a final challenge, a demand for complete honesty. The spice and tension of the moment weren't in a kiss, but in the raw, aching anticipation, the undeniable craving, and the terrifying weight of his words. He was putting the choice squarely in your hands, asking you to be as brave as he was. And the silence screamed with the magnitude of that decision.

You woke to an emptiness beside you, a cold dread seizing your chest before your eyes even fully opened. The bed, vast and silent, swallowed you whole. The last thing you remembered was Seungcheol's intense gaze, his raw question hanging in the air: "If we do this, you better be ready. Because once we cross this line, there's no going back to 'just friends.' Understand?" And then… nothing. You had been too overwhelmed, too terrified, to answer.

Panic, sharp and cold, hit you like a physical blow. He was gone. Had you pushed him away for good this time? Had your fear finally driven him away, just as he’d warned? Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drum against the silence of the villa. You scrambled out of bed, a frantic search beginning. The bathroom was empty. The kitchen, usually smelling of his morning coffee, was cold. You called his name, a desperate whisper, then a little louder, but only the gentle hum of the villa’s air conditioning answered.

You rushed to the veranda, your eyes scanning the horizon, your breath held tight in your throat. He wasn't by the pool. He wasn't on the lounge chairs. For a terrifying moment, you thought he'd packed up, hailed a cab, and left you there, stranded with your regret. The thought sent a fresh wave of tears pricking at your eyes.

Then, you saw him. A lone figure on the beach, far down the shoreline, near the water’s edge. He was sitting on a fallen palm log, staring out at the vast, indifferent ocean. His shoulders were hunched, a posture you rarely saw in the usually confident Seungcheol. Relief, so potent it made your knees weak, flooded through you, quickly followed by a resolute determination. This was it. No more running. No more hiding.

You didn't hesitate. You practically ran down the steps, the sand cool beneath your bare feet, then warm as you hit the sun-drenched expanse of the beach. Your heart pounded, not just from exertion, but from the immense gravity of the conversation you were about to have. With every step, your mind cleared. The fear of losing him, which had shackled you for so long, was now eclipsed by the terrifying, exhilarating prospect of not having him. Not truly having him, in the way you now realized you desperately wanted.

As you got closer, you could make out the slight tension in his shoulders, the stillness of his form. He looked like he was deep in thought, perhaps coming to his own painful conclusions. You reached him, your breath a little ragged, and stopped just a few feet away. The sound of the waves crashing softly on the shore filled the silence between you.

He didn't look up immediately, lost in his own world. You swallowed, trying to find your voice, your hands suddenly clammy.

"Cheol," you finally managed, his name coming out as a soft, almost broken whisper.

His head snapped up, his eyes wide with surprise as he registered your presence. They were shadowed, tired, but held a flicker of something that looked like hope, quickly masked. He started to say something, perhaps another cutting remark or a dismissive question, but you cut him off. You couldn't let him retreat again.

You took another step, closing the remaining distance, until you were standing right in front of him. You reached out, your hand trembling slightly, and gently took his. His fingers, initially stiff, slowly relaxed, intertwining with yours. His skin felt warm, familiar, comforting. Your eyes locked.

"I want you," you said, your voice clearer now, stronger, despite the tremor in your hand. You squeezed his hand gently. "Even if I'm scared. Even if it changes everything. I want you. I'm ready."

The words hung in the air, simple, honest, utterly raw. His eyes widened slightly, a profound relief washing over his features, chasing away the shadows. He searched your gaze, as if trying to find any trace of doubt, any lingering fear. But there was none, only a desperate, aching longing that matched his own.

A slow, breathtaking smile spread across his face, lighting up his eyes like the sunrise. He stood, pulling you gently towards him until you were standing directly in front of him, hands still clasped. His other hand came up, gently cupping your cheek, his thumb stroking softly.

"Are you sure?" he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, barely audible above the waves. "Because once we do this, there's no going back, princess."

"I'm sure," you breathed, leaning into his touch, your own hand coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart. "I've never been more sure about anything in my life."

His eyes devoured yours, a silent communication passing between you that transcended words. Then, with a low groan that vibrated through your chest, he leaned in, finally, definitively, closing the last agonizing inch between you.

His lips met yours, not tentatively, not as an "almost," but with a fierce, unleashed hunger that took your breath away. It was a heated, desperate kiss, months—no, years—of unspoken longing pouring into it. His mouth was soft yet firm, demanding and receiving. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate for more. You kissed him back with equal fervor, your body arching into his, a soft moan escaping your lips as his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, crushing you against him.

His hands, restless and eager, roamed over your back, tracing the curve of your spine, pulling you even tighter against his hard body. You could feel the rigid strength of him, the unmistakable evidence of his desire pressed against your swimsuit-clad body. A delicious friction started as your hips instinctively pressed closer to his. Your soft moans were muffled against his lips, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling with yours in a sensual dance that left you dizzy and breathless. The world spun, but it was a joyous, exhilarating spin, not the dizzying fear of before.

He broke the kiss for only a moment, pulling back just enough to graze his lips over your jawline, down your neck, scattering hot, open-mouthed kisses that left a trail of fire in their wake. You gasped, your head falling back, granting him more access.

"God, you don't know," he murmured against your skin, his voice rough with emotion, his breath hot against your neck. His hands slid lower, tracing the curve of your hips, pulling you into an undeniable grind against him. The exquisite pressure, the body-to-body tension, sent a fresh wave of desperate longing through you. "You don't know how long I've wanted this. How long I've dreamt of touching you like this. Of having you like this."

His lips found yours again, deeper this time, more possessive. He guided you down, gently pulling you to sit on the warm sand, then pulling you into his lap, facing him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, clinging to him, your bodies pressed together, swimsuit to swim shorts, the friction delicious. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, his hair, pulling, demanding more.

"Mine," he whispered against your mouth, a fierce, primal claim that sent a thrill through every nerve. "You're finally mine."

You could feel his heart hammering against your chest, matching the frantic rhythm of your own. Your whispered confessions mixed with desperate moans as you kissed him again, your mouths fused, the taste of salt and him filling your senses. His hands were everywhere, roaming, exploring, pulling you impossibly closer, eliciting soft, breathless sounds from your throat. The sand was rough beneath your bare skin, the sun warm on your faces, and the ocean roared its approval.

He pulled back, just slightly, to look into your eyes, his own dark with desire and a profound, overwhelming happiness. His thumb stroked your cheek, brushing away a stray grain of sand.

"From now on," he said, his voice husky, filled with a new, beautiful certainty, "I'm not just your best friend."

You smiled, a wide, genuine smile that reached your eyes, feeling a profound sense of rightness, of coming home. You leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, a promise in the touch. You were tangled in his arms, the ocean breeze ruffling your hair, the stars slowly beginning to emerge in the vast expanse above. The fear was gone, replaced by an exhilarating sense of freedom and belonging.

"Guess we’re not going back the same way we came, huh?" you murmured, your voice soft, content, nestled against his chest.

He chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound that vibrated through your body. He tightened his arms around you, pulling you closer still, his lips brushing your forehead. "No," he whispered, his voice a possessive murmur, filled with triumph and adoration. "We’re going back as mine."

The End

first, you’d wandered into the store in a daze, forgetting that joshua was grabbing the shopping cart with your daughter, after having sat in the front seat watching him drive for twenty minutes. his hand sat steady at ten and two, ever the safe driver when your daughter was present, though at stop lights he would sometimes grab your hand or settle his palm on your leg. you felt lost since the morning, woke up with your mind cloudy and your brain foggy just at the mere sight of him.

then, you couldn’t remember a single thing on your grocery list. in your clouded state, you must’ve forgotten the list in the kitchen; it wasn’t a big deal, except for the fact that you literally couldn’t think about a single thing that you needed to buy, and you are usually the one leading the pack around the store. so the three of you have been wandering around the grocery store for longer than you want to be, circling back to the same aisles you’ve already been on because you can’t remember what it is you need to buy.

now you’re back in the dairy aisle, unsure of why you’re back because youve already grabbed milk and cream cheese, so you’re just standing in front of the cold, double doors without a single thought in your head. “yogurt, maybe?” joshua tries, pausing his conversation with your child to help you out. you blink once, twice before mumbling out a ‘right’ and pulling the doors open and grabbing a container.

“mommy, that’s not the right one!” your daughter whines when you drop it in the basket. she’s frowning at you, eyebrows crinkled the same way joshua’s do. god. you make the mistake of looking up at him, and your entire body flushes you meet his gaze. his eyes are soft but questioning, asking if you if you’re alright without actually saying it. no, i’m not, you think to yourself, discreetly sweeping your hand up your neck to check your pulse. it’s fast, and you’re definitely still alive.

joshua watches you with mild concern; he’s noticed your strange, avoidant behavior since this morning when he got back from the gym. you had looked almost surprised when he walked into your bedroom, like you weren’t expecting him back. your eyes widened, and your lips parted like you were going to say something but nothing came out. he beat you to words, anyway, giving you a soft ‘good morning’ that made you blush—he’d ignored it because you seemed… off—and kissed you on the lips. he thought he really smelled with the way you rushed your lips off of his and rolled out of bed, nearly tripping over your own feet. joshua grabbed you so you wouldn’t fall, and he felt you tense in his hold, a frown etching on his features. he brushed it off and asked if you wanted to shower with him, expecting a ‘yes’ from the look that flashed through your eyes, but you instead mumbled something about having to make breakfast before hurrying out of the bedroom all together. you basically avoided him all day since then, never really looking at him or talking to him directly—none of which you do on a constant basis.

the yogurt was, in fact, incorrect down to the brand and flavor. “i’m sorry, baby,” you say to your daughter, running a hand over her hair before grabbing the yogurt to swap it out for the correct one, this time taking a few seconds to scan everything in the fridge. you appreciate the cold air from the refrigerator, as it cools you down from the rush of heat you feel along your face and neck. you take a breath and tell yourself to get a fucking grip before dropping the correct item into the cart.

“daddy, can i get ice cream?” your daughter asks joshua as you start ambling through the grocery store. you cut your eyes at your daughter for not asking you, but you know it’s because joshua never says no to her.

“of course, princess,” and you watch with pure adoration as he places a kiss on her forehead and she just giggles, scrunching her shoulders up to her ears. joshua is a good husband, but he’s an even better father, and you love watching him interact with your daughter. they have a special connection that you love to witness, a secret language just between the two of them. it’s moment like this where you want another kid—or maybe it’s part of the hazy mess you’re in because of his sheer existence.

you follow behind joshua towards the ice cream aisle. the shirt he wears is tight on him, straining against his biceps and shoulders. you can make out his back muscles depending on how the light hits the fabric, and you feel even crazier than before. his muscles have been the source of your you distracted state today. joshua has always been muscular, and he’s always worked out, but something about him recently has flipped a switch in your brain that has made you feel absolutely feral every time you catch a mere glimpse of his arms—which is quite literally every day. this morning it was too overwhelming, him coming home and shedding his jacket to reveal himself in a simple black tank top that looked a size too small, and gray sweats that made you feel like you needed to go to confessional.

another rush of cold air pulls you out of your lustful daze and you stand at the back of the shopping cart as joshua shuffles through the cartons of ice cream, asking your daughter her input. you try to keep your eyes focused on your daughter, anything else, but cant help when they drift over to your husband, his arms flexing each time he grabs a pint and displays it to your daughter. joshua casts a glance at you, a smile that says can you believe this? when you daughter shakes her head for the fourth time, despite not asking to look for herself. you blush under his gaze, heat spreading down your neck and chest before settling in your stomach.

"i thought you liked the oreo one?" you say to your daughter, voice slightly hoarse. you smooth a hand over her hair to give yourself something to do, hands a little clammy from all of your nerves working overtime.

"i do..." she trails off, turning to look at you with a tiny pout on her lips.

"tell daddy before he freezes," you say, placing a soft kiss on her cheek. just the mere reference to joshua feels heavy in your mouth, makes your stomach flutter for reasons you can't really explain.

joshua places the pint of oreo ice cream into the cart, circling around to the front and playfully ticking your daughter under her chin. she giggles loudly and you smile as you watch her become a spitting image of her father. arms cage you between the carts handlebar and a firm chest, and suddenly your eyes are no longer on your kid but on the strong, veiny forearms that belong to your husband. “excuse me,” he murmurs, a teasing lilt to his voice like he knows that you’re losing your mind at the simple sight of him.

wordlessly, you gently grab his right arm to remove yourself from his entrapment. “hey,” joshua says softly, reaching out for your wrist as you move swiftly to get away from him. turning, goosebumps arise on your skin, and you tell yourself that it’s because his hands are ice cold. “you okay, honey?” your stomach flips and you press your lips into a small smile, nodding.

joshua stares at you for a beat before leaning down a few inches, silently begging for a kiss. you nearly combust at the thought, not trustworthy of yourself to behave normally in public. but his eyes are fond, and you love him so much and want him so bad that you raise up on your toes and brace yourself on his shoulders before delivering a soft, quick peck to his lips. you’re proud of yourself for holding back, but joshua isn’t satisfied because he stays leaned over in the spot you kissed him in for a few seconds after the fact that you’ve pulled away. if you were at home, he’d yank you back to him but because you’re in public he files that grievance away and straightens up.

“i want a kiss,” your daughter pouts, cutely crossing her arms over her chest. since she doesn’t specify from whom, both of you lean in and press kisses to her cheeks. her giggle ripples through you, filling your stomach with butterflies and your chest with a type of love reserved only for her. you’re momentarily pulled away from your joshua shaped daze, until his hand is settling on your lower back. it chilling, his touch, and it’s not because his hands are ice cold from standing in the grocery store freezer for two minutes.

a shiver runs up your spine and you slip out of his grasp, not paying attention to where or what you’re walking into until joshua is pulling you back into him, his hand splayed across your stomach and your back colliding with his chest. “babe, watch out,” a woman pushing a cart stops short, a look of remorse on her face.

“oh my god, did i hit you?” she asks, and you figure you must look injured or something, because she looks genuinely concerned for your wellbeing. the flush on your face is not due to the fact that you were almost ran over, but because joshua hasn’t moved his hand from your stomach and hasn’t put any distance between your back and his front. he stays pressed against you, holding you firmly in front of him, his hold tightening ever so slightly.

“n-no, i’m alright,” you manage, lips tingling. “i swear.” you add when her eyebrows don’t drop from her hairline. at that, she seems to believe you enough snd offers you a smile and a curt nod before hurrying down the aisle.

“are you alright, honey? you’re trembling,” joshua says, his deep voice like melted wax running down your back. you make the mistake of looking up and over your shoulder at him, his palm pressing into your lower belly.

he peers down at you with soft eyes, ready to question you again until your tongue darts out to wet your lips before you tuck your bottom lip under your top one and nod. he knows the look in your eyes all too well—hunger, but not for food—and heat pools in his chest. joshua is much better at hiding his desire for you, especially in public and in front of your child, and he’s able to keep his expression the same, pretending he never saw that look in your eye. “i’m fine,” you’re shuffling away from him again, this time checking to make sure you’re not seconds away from being ran over with a shopping cart.

somehow, you three mange to finish your shopping trip without anymore mishaps. it requires circling back to the same aisles more than once because neither you nor josh can remember what you wanted to buy, but at least you can say you’re done. joshua loads the groceries into the trunk while you buckle your daughter into the backseat. she yawns, stretching her little arms up and out. “sleepy?” you ask her, a small smile on your face.

“no,” she says, vehemently shaking her head. you chuckle hum a sound of disbelief before dropping a kiss on her forehead and going to the front seat. the trunk closes and you suck in a breath as you watch him in the rearview mirror. he brushes his hand through his hair, and even through the mirror and the tint of the trunk window, you can make out his bicep muscle flexing with the motion.

it’s nearly pathetic how horny you feel just looking at him—like an overgrown teenager who just got into their first relationship. except you’re an adult, married to this man, and this behavior is no longer considered ‘cute’.

joshua gets into the front seat and smiles at you, leaning over the console to give you a kiss. his hand rests on the side of your neck, and you wonder if he’s trying to check your pulse, to mess with you. you keep your hands to yourself, because if you touch him, you might never stop.

pulling back from your mouth, he looks into your eyes before flicking them back down to your lips. joshua starts to lean in but seems to remember you’re not alone, and sits back in his seat, his hand lingering on your neck for a moment before he starts the car and asks your daughter if she’s ready to go.

the car ride is quiet, save for your daughters yawns and insistence that she is not tired. she makes most of the noise, talking about random things that you and joshua entertain with ease. he watches her in the review mirror with real, unconditional love in his eyes. it does nothing to help your situation, and just makes you want to give him another baby.

when you arrive back at your house, you quickly get out of the car, grateful to get out of the stuffy, suffocating feeling of being in the front seat. you walk around the back and help your daughter out, ready to carry her inside until she exclaims, “i want to help!”

you ser her down on the ground and she runs over to joshua. you watch him give her two of the lighter bags of groceries, and raises her arms to show you, a big smile on her face. you smile back and press in the garage code and tell her to go inside of the house, seemingly leaving you and joshua alone. you sidle up next to him, and joshua lightly bumps his hip into yours. “hmm?” you question without looking up from the numerous bags in the back of the car.

“why are you avoiding me?” he asks, and the directness makes your hands clam up.

“i’m not avoiding you,” you say, taking a few grocery bags and backing up from him.

“you quite literally are.”

you stare up at him, his eyebrows knitted together in slight irritation. “i still love you, if that’s what you’re asking,” you clarify. his features soften and his shoulders relax a bit. those shoulders. your eyes drifts down his figure, lingering on his flexed forearms, veins bulging out from the tension of carrying the grocery bags.

joshua watches you obviously ogle and check him out, his entire figure relaxing at his realization. “oh, i get it now,” he teases, a slow smirk sliding across his lips.

“get what?” you play dumb, taking a tentative step backwards before turning around and trying to keep your walk casual as you walk through the garage. it’s so obvious you’re trying to keep space between the two of you, putting anything in the way to keep you off of him.

“that you wan-“ joshua cuts himself off because you push open the door that leads you into the house. he clears his throat and closes the garage door before following behind you into the kitchen. your daughter is standing on her tippy toes trying to reach a cupboard that’s way to high for her, concentration etched on her face. “need help, bub?” he asks, setting his bags down on the counter.

“i can’t reach,” she whines, yawning immediately after. joshua lifts her up into his arms and opens the cupboard for her abd allows her to put the item away. “i’m tired, daddy.” she rests her head on his shoulder, tiny arms encircling around his neck.

you watch them and you feel your heart grow three times in size, like the grinch. joshua coos at her and pats her head before agreeing to put her down for a nap. you busy yourself with unloading the groceries, stomach flipping at the thought of having at least an hour alone with your husband. you can’t believe how depraved you feel.

joshua comes back downstairs a few minutes later, right when you’re putting the last thing into the fridge. “you finished?” he asks. you nod, heart hammering in your chest as he walks over to you. his hands drop onto your hips, pulling you flush against him. you keep your eyes straight ahead, leveled wirh his chest, and joshua dips his head down to meet your eyes. “see: you’re avoiding me.”

hear creeps up your neck and you shake your head. “i’m not.”

“don’t try to gaslight me,” he teases, making you roll your eyes and finally look up at him. “there she is.” he murmurs, leaning down a few centimeters to connect your lips. your hands flatten against his chest, and he walks your backwards into one of the kitchen counters. joshua leans over you, trying to press you flat against the surface despite the lack of space.

“shua,” you breathe once you pull away when he unbuttons your jeans.

“what, you’ve got somewhere better to be?” he asks, arching one of his eyebrows.

“i… i have to do laundry…” you say halfheartedly. joshua laughs at this, dropping his forehead against yours. “i’m serious!” you say, but you’re smiling too. “i want to go back to avoiding you.”

joshua pulls back to look down at you, making a face that says for what? “i thought you wanted me to fuck you?”

“yeah, i’m afraid nothing will keep me off of you if we start,” you say honestly. joshua blushes deeply, a boyish grin on his face. “i want you so bad—i think i might be ovulating? i don’t know. i just want you so. bad.” you punctuate the last part with the press of your knuckles into his chest.

“you’re ovulating?” it’s like bells went off in his head.

“maybe, i don’t know. i don’t keep track of that shit. i just need an explanation for how i feel,” you say, hands sliding along his chest absentmindedly.

joshua raises both of his eyebrows at you, fake shock on his face. “maybe because you have a super hot and sexy husband who is also a really good father? just a hunch.”

“no, i don’t think that’s it,” he rolls his eyes at you and you giggle, balling his shirt up into your fists and pulling him down to you. joshua grips onto the counter to steady himself, his hold tight enough to turn his knuckles white. he presses his pelvis into yours, his his erection pressing against your leg.

joshua wraps an arm around you and splays his hand across the small of your back. he presses you down onto the counter and you grip his shoulders tightly, craning your mouth away from his to breathe out, “not here.” he pulls you up from the counter and looks down at you, his chest moving up and down quickly. you can practically see the gears turning in his head as he thinks about a place to fuck you that won’t bring attention to the two of you. “laund-ah!” he swoops you up into his arms easily, already carrying you in the direction of your laundry room before you can even get the entire word out.

you wrap your legs around his waist as you buzz with need and anticipation. you let yourself revel at being carried by him after lusting over his arms all day. he carries you like you’re weightless, with his his hands resting under your ass for support. “god,” you whisper to yourself, pressing a kiss into his neck.

“i love you,” he rasps as he enters the laundry room. he shuts and locks the door behind him before dropping you onto the washing machine. his hands are flying to undo the buttons of your blouse and you pull him closer using your ankles that are still wrapped around him.

“love you more,” you murmur, helping him with removing your top. “your turn.” your urge, pulling the hem of his shirt.

“sure you can handle it?” he teases. you flush and lightly push at his abdomen. “don’t wanna make you pass out or anything.” he smirks at you, loving to watch you squirm.

“i can handle it,” you say, feeling so embarrassed to even be in this position. luckily, joshua is sweet to you above all and draws you in for a kiss. you skate your hands up underneath his shirt, nails lightly scratching against his torso. “take it off.” you mumble against his lips, hands pushing up the material of his shirt. you feel like you could rip him out of the fabric.

joshua pulls back and makes an entire show of getting undressed. he runs a hand through his hair and purposefully flexes his bicep as he does so. if this was any other time, you’d roll your eyes and call him annoying. but today, all you can do is watch and try not to drool.

he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it into an empty laundry basket nearby. you waste no time leaning forward and pulling him into a kiss, threading your fingers through his hair. you move to kiss his jaw and then his neck, your hands sliding down his body. you kiss across his chest, going lower until the position becomes uncomfortable. lightly shoving him, you hop off of the washing machine and drop to your knees in front of him.

joshua watches you with dark eyes, holding onto the edge of the machine. you fumble with his belt, hands shaking with anticipation of finally having him, and he makes no effort to help you out. your hands work too fast, and you mess up when you try to pull the buckle open for the second time. “i’ve got all day,” he say smugly. you ignore him, and finally pull his belt free. you work his pants down to his ankles, leaving. him in just his briefs. you let out a breath and look up at him with pure lust. “as pretty as you look right now, you’d look much better with my cock in your mouth.”

quickly, you pull his underwear down and let them pool together with his pants, hands flying to grab ahold of his member. you pump him a few times, flicking your eyes to look up at him. joshua gives you a slight nod, signaling you to start sucking, and you eagerly oblige. sticking your tongue out, you lick up the precum that dribbles out of the tip before you wrap your lips around the head and push him into your mouth, cheeks hollowing as you go. a groan escapes joshua’s mouth and he gathers your hair into a makeshift ponytail.

you drag him into your mouth inch by inch, your eyes never once leaving his. his chest heaves up and down, moving faster and faster the closer you get to taking him all the way. tears prick in your eyes when he hits the back of your throat, but you keep going until your nose nearly presses into his hips. “shit,” he whispers, leaning more of his weight into the washing machine.

you bob your head up and down, pulling back and stroking what doesn’t fit. you swirl your tongue around the tip, cheeks hollowing to create more suction when you suck on the tip. joshua moans lowly above you and tells you how good you’re doing. his eyes flutter shut, squeezed shut in pleasure and his chin drops down to his mouth. you want his eyes on you, want him to watch you as you make him feel good, so you purposefully scrape your teach against his dick to get his attention.

his eyes fly open as he jerks back from you, glaring at you when you smile around him. “brat,” he spits and tightens his grip on your hair. you sigh through your nose and press your thighs together, cunt throbbing with need. you keep bobbing your head, speeding up slightly and taking more of him into your mouth. when joshua presses your head down, you relax your throat and let him take control, hands moving to hold onto his thighs. “good girl.” he grunts, holding your head down on his dick for a few seconds until you gag, and then he pulls you off of him.

he does this a few more times, his cock twitching against your tongue. tears gather in your eyes but you power through, determined to make him cum. he pulls you down onto him, cursing each time he hits the back of your throat. “fuck, you take me so well. i’m c-close,” tears slip down your cheeks and mix in with the spit and cum. your face is a mess, but neither of you care.

joshua fucks his cock into your mouth, holding your head steady in his hands. you dig your nails his thighs to combat the ache in your jaw. he thrusts into your mouth until he can’t take the feeling of your warm mouth around him anymore, his cum shooting into the back of your throat. you keep your mouth open to catch all of his seed, some of it gathering around the corner of your lips. “s-swallow,” he demands when he pulls his cock away from your mouth.

you obediently swallow, and he whines in the back of his throat. “goddamn, i love you,” he holds his hands out to you and helps you up onto his feet. he wipes the corners of you lips with his thumb and shoves it into your mouth, lips parting when you suck on his thumb like you just did his cock. “youre such a slut.” he murmurs, a loving gaze in his eyes.

a trail of saliva connects your lips to his thumb when you pull it out of your mouth. “promise?” you ask.

joshua smiles and pulls you into a kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth. his hands make use of unbuttoning your jeans and shoving his hands down your pants. your panties are damp, and he’s a bit shocked and honored that you’re this wet for him. “i need you,” you whine, peppering kisses down his neck. you don’t even want his fingers, just want him inside of you.

“i know,” he rasps, slipping a finger between your folds. you shudder when he touches you, his finger playing with your arousal and brushing over your clit, just to make you jump. you clench around nothing, and it’s nearly painful how turned on you are.

“joshua!” you whine, nipping at his neck. his hand immediately grabs onto your hair and yanks, a hiss emitting from your lips followed by a smirk.

“needy brat,” he grumbles, walking the two of you over to the work bench in the room. he drops onto it and spreads his legs invitingly. you quickly step out of your jeans and underwear, his eyes roaming over your body. “you’re a beautiful, y/n.”joshua says sincerely; at the end of the day, he is simply a lover boy.

you smile at him and quickly drop yourself onto his lap, straddling him and wrapping your arms around his neck. you reach between the two of you and position yourself over his cock. his hands grip onto your hips tightly and guide you down onto him, bottom lip drawing in between his teeth.

“ah-fuck!” you cry when you sink onto the tip, the initial stretch rippling through you.

“you’ve got it, baby,” he encourages, thumbs rubbing sift circles into your hips. you bite down on your bottom lip, hands gripping tightly onto his shoulders as you sink lower and lower onto him. “goddamn, girl.” he grunts, hips bucking when you clench around him.

when you manage to take all of him, you sit still and catch your breath, head resting on his shoulder. joshua unhooks your bra and you lean back to slide it off your arms. “you okay?” he asks, hands groping your chest.

“uh huh,” you rasp, taking it as a sign to start fuckign him, licking your lips and raising your hips before dropping onto his lap. “fuck, shua.” whimpers leave you lips as you fuck yourself onto him, using his shoulders as leverage to move yourself up and down. joshua relaxes into the wall, his grip on your hips loosening as you gain momentum and find a rhythm.

“you’re so tight,” he groans, one of his thumbs finding your clit and rubbing slow circles around the sensitive nub. “been thinking about fucking you all day.” joshua sighs and rubs your clit quicker, eyes peering up to watch your facial expressions. “you need me as bad as i needed you?” he mumbles, voice low and husky.

“more,” you pant, still bouncing up and down on him. your cunt clamps around him like it’s trying to keep him there. “shuaaa!” you whine, thighs burning. you sit on his lap, rolling your hips into his.

he chuckles breathlessly, rolling his other thumb over one of your nipples. “yeah? tell me,” he grins at you devilishly, this side of him only coming out in your intimate moments.

“so bad,” you cry, grinding down onto his lap. “w-wanna give you a-another baby.” you squeeze around him involuntarily, a knot forming in your stomach. joshua twitches inside of you at the mention of having another child.

“yeah? want me to fill you up?” you whimper and nod, legs starting to shake. “want me to fuck you full of my cum until you’re pregnant again?” he lets go of you breast to place both hands underneath your ass. he lifts you up and drops you down, a show of his strength as he fucks you up an down onto him.

joshua grumbles filthy things into your ear; tells you that he’s gonna fuck you until you can’t walk, that he’s gonna stuff you full, that’s he’s going to give you another baby tonight. “f-fuck! i-im gonna cum,” you cry, throwing your head back in pleasure. he bucks his hips up into you, hitting that spongy spot inside of you repeatedly.

spots blur your vision and your cunt spasms around him as you reach your climax. it hits you like a thousand bricks, and you’re shaking in his arm and crying out his name. you expect him to stop, but he keeps thrusting up into you, drawing out your orgasm further. you can hardly think through the waves of pleasure, which is why you hardly register that he’s lifted you up until you’re placed on a cold surface.

joshua drags you to the edge of the washing machine and slams his cock into you, nearly knocking the wind out of you. “o-oh my god,” you gasp, tears brimming in your eyes for the second time tonight. “you feel so good!”

he drives his hips into you brutally, his fingers digging into the fat of your thighs. “f-fuck, i’m not gonna last,” he groans, dropping his head into your neck. he kisses your skin and lightly bites, though not hard enough to leave marks. you cling to him, arms secured around his shoulders like you may fall if you dont hold on.

his thrusts get sloppier by the second, indicative of his nearing climax. “i love you,” you breathe, nails clawing at his back. he grunts, whining out curses as he cums inside of you, his dick twitching between your walls. he stills, fingers applying bruising pressure to your hips.

after a few moments, he lifts his head from your shoulder and looks at you, a tender smile on his face. he presses his lips to your gently, sighing against you as he goes soft. “shit,” he pants, followed by a light chuckle.

you can’t help but giggle back, running a hand through his hair. he doesn’t want to pull out, not yet at least, wanting to make sure his cum stays inside of you as long as possible. he lets go of your thighs and wraps his arms around you, squeezing you into his chest. you kiss the column of his throat, right on his adam’s apple and rubs soft circles into your back.

“we should clean up,” he murmurs, starting to draw back from you. you make a sound of disagreement and squeeze around him on purpose. “b-brat.” he stammers, curling away from you.

he pulls out of you with a lewd squelch, both of you turning light shades of pink at the noise. he helps you off of the washer and you lean against it. he finds a random towel and comes back to wipe between your legs before cleaning himself off and tossing it in the same basket he threw his shirt in. “i guess i could start a load,” you say, looking at all of the discarded clothes, making joshua laugh.

“Hey, Wonwoo-yah,” you softly call, knuckles taping gently against his half-open door.

Wonwoo looks up from his desk, pausing his game and slipping his headphones down to hang around his neck. His brows lift in that quiet way he always greets you — surprised but gentle, like he’s glad you’re there. The light from the hallway outlines your silhouette, casting a soft glow behind you.

You step in slowly, hands twisted nervously in the sleeves of your oversized sweater. It's one of his, though you’ll never admit that out loud. Your fingers fidget in the fabric as you search for the right words.

Wonwoo tilts his head, “What’s up?” he asks gently prodding you to speak whatever is making you nervous.

You open your mouth, close it again, then finally manage, “I… have kind of a weird favor to ask.” You finally admit as you plop yourself down on his bed, grabbing one of his pillows to wrap your arms around it, a makeshift shield.

He leans back in his chair. “Yes.”

You blink, face contorting in astonishment. “You don’t even know what it is.”

He smiles, soft and sincere. “Doesn’t matter. I’d do anything for you.”

That makes your stomach flip, and you have to look away for a second. “That’s… really sweet. But you might want to hear it first. I need you to…” You suck in a breath and rush it all out: “Pretend to be my boyfriend.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Sorry?” he says, blinking like he didn’t hear you right.

You force yourself to slow down, squeezing his pillow for comfort — and not that you'd ever admit it, take a massive whiff of his cologne, something that always seems to calm you. “I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend.”

Wonwoo stares for a second, face blank in that quietly-processing-everything way of his. You can tell he’s trying to decide whether this is a prank, a cry for help, or some unspoken code he’s supposed to understand.

You let out a frustrated sigh and flop down on his bed, clutching his pillow tighter. “Okay. Context. Remember how I told you the pay from the studio isn’t amazing? Like, I love it, but it’s not really paying all my bills?”

Wonwoo nods, clearly still confused.

“Well, the pay is actually, really bad, like I don't make enough to cover my portion of the rent—”

Wonwoo cuts you off, “If you need me to pay more I can, it's really no problem, I just got a huge bonus for the—”

“No!” This time you interrupt, “I've got it covered, that's the point. I was complaining to a friend, and well she told me about this website…” Your words trail off giving Wonwoo a look like he's meant to use that big brain of his and fill in the blanks.

“You have a sugar daddy?” He guesses. God, for someone so smart he is also completely clueless.

“I'm a sex worker.” You admit, staring at him, waiting for his reaction.

There’s a very long silence. You wait for the judgment. The discomfort. Anything.

Wonwoo looks like he's trying to remember how to breathe,

“Uhm,” His voice is startlingly high when he speaks, in a way you've never heard, he clears his throat, “So someone you uhm…” you can see the tips of his ears going red, “had business with is being a creep so you need me to scare them off.”

You can't help the burst of laughter that bubbles out—Wonwoo? Intimidate anyone?

“No, no.” You shake you head, laughter still on your lips, “Look, I, I don't fuck any one. I'm a streamer, people pay to watch me, fuck myself, that is.”

You can feel the heat flushing to your face but at least Wonwoo isn't in better shape, the red has creeped its ways from the tips of his ears down his neck and touches his cheeks.

He loudly clears his throat. “So… you’re like a camgirl?”

You wince. “I prefer streamer with benefits, but yeah.”

“And… the fake boyfriend?”

You sigh, “I like started this false narrative around this boyfriend I had, so people wouldn't get too lost in the fantasy, because my friend shared all types of horror stories about doing this. And I guess I kind of just get myself off and tell them stories about this imaginary boyfriend I don't have and well on my last stream for reaching a fuckton of subscribers I said I'd do a request to the highest donation and well… they want my nonexistent boyfriend to fuck me. And I just, I can't ask anyone else because I can't even imagine how they would take it, like can you imagine if I asked Jihoon? That would be so embarassing. God, or Mingyu? He'd say yes but I don't think he's capable of having sex without catching feeli—

“I’ll do it.”

You slow down from your spiral, startled. “Really?”

Wonwoo nods, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Of course.”

౨ৎ

A few days later, you're at the kitchen table, half-draped over it in shame, while Mingyu sits across from you absolutely losing his mind.

“You—” he chokes out between wheezes, “you asked Wonwoo to fuck you. On camera. In front of an audience. I—god, I’m gonna pass out. This is the greatest day of my life.”

You groan into your arms. “Stop saying it like that.”

“Like what? Like the truth? Like the guy you’ve been crushing on since forever is going to dick you down live in front of thousands of horny strangers?”

“It’s not like that—”

“It is exactly like that,” he howls. “You asked your crush to clap you like a goddamn cymbal monkey for money. What is this, fanfiction?”

You glare at him, snatching the spoon from your tea and brandishing it like a knife. “I swear to god, if you don’t shut up, I will FaceTime Yuna right now and tell her exactly why you broke up with her.”

Mingyu pales instantly, hands in the air. “Okay. Truce. Fuck, Noona. Harsh.”

You slump back into your seat, pressing your fingers to your temples. “This sucks.”

“Correction,” he says smugly, “this is your origin story. You’ve been in love with him since he "fixed" your wifi, and now you're gonna get railed on stream by him. It's the slowest burn friends-to-lovers-to-livestream-fuck arc I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s not romantic,” you mutter, glaring into your cup like it might drown you.

“Really?” Mingyu raises a brow. “So you’re telling me you're going to let the guy you’ve been mentally undressing since 2022 fill you up on camera, and then what — fist bump and call it a night?”

You don’t answer.

He grins. “That’s what I thought.”

“…Shut the fuck up, Mingyu.”

౨ৎ

Friday.

Wonwoo walks into your room just as you're adjusting the camera angle and checking the lighting. He's wearing a simple black shirt, chain at his neck, hair slightly mussed like he just rolled out of bed looking unfairly perfect.

You swallow.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he replies, then nods toward the bed. “You ready?”

Your heart is pounding. “Only if you are.”

He steps closer, eyes flicking over your outfit—an oversized sweater, one of his, and shorts so short you can barely see them—his Adam’s apple bobs slightly as he swallows.

“You look nice,” he says.

You force a laugh. “Thanks. You do too.”

That gets a real smile out of him, and your stomach flips.

You go live, and watch as the first messages roll in.

Your usuals, the ones who know you don't like to go right into.

You let yourself forget that Wonwoo's there as you fall into another version of yourself—slipping into the role like a second skin. Your eyes flicker across the screen reading the message until you find one worth responding to

tigersgaze: god i needed this, work deadlines are killing me. hope your week was better than mine.

“Aww, I'm sorry, tiger. I hope stream will help you relax.” You say leaning back, with the practiced ease of someone who's been doing this for ages.

angelface666: is this finally the stream where we meet the elusive boyfriend? mommyplease: show us your perfect tits please mommy? cumslut44: i like your sweater baby singledad95: please show me your cunt, i miss it so bad.

“Hmm, my boyfriend is here. Maybe if you're good I'll let you meet him.” There's an unspoken request in your words, and the viewers seem to get it clearly. The donations start flowing in.

You spentd a few more quiet moments just talking with your viewers, letting more people come in.

You glance to your left. He’s just out of frame, waiting. Calm. Cool. You reach out and tug him into view.

You know exactly the vision he looks on screen—his hair falls in his face, just brushing against the frames of his glasses, the sharp jawline. He sits beside you on the bed, one hand possessively on your thigh.

You watch as the chats roll in.

angelface666: oh. he's pretty. justherefory/n: god i know his dick is big. tigersgaze: i bet you look so pretty on him.

You can’t help but laugh softly. “You're right tiger, I do look pretty on him.”You slide closer to him, deliberately swinging a leg over his lap, your hips settling just against his. “They’ve been very curious about you,” you say it like it's a confession between lovers and not like it's your best friend simply playing a role.

Wonwoo’s fingers flex on your thigh. “I don't share well.” And you know he's playing his part but the truth in the statement makes you giggle, Wonwoo's never been good at sharing.

You shift your hips slightly in his lap, just enough friction to draw a sharp inhale from him.

You lean in, brushing lips against Wonwoo’s ear again.

“Ready to give them a show, baby?”

His reply?

A hand around your throat and a dangerous smile.

Wonwoo leans in. You tilt your head. And then his lips meet yours. It’s not for show. It’s not practiced.

It’s soft. Deep. Slow. Like he’s wanted to do this for a long time. You’re too breathless to keep pretending.

Your thighs clench involuntarily.

Wonwoo pulls back just far enough to brush his nose against yours. “Color?”

You blink, dazed. “Green,” you breathe.

He hums in approval, a low sound that rumbles in his chest and vibrates through you. His hand slips lower, fingers tracing the hem of your shorts, and your pulse spikes.

You look back at the chat to distract yourself.

facefucker29: hurry up and fuck already dirtywhitetee: i knew you'd look pretty with a hand around your throat y/nsdirtylittleslut: i want him to make a mess of you mommyplease: that should be me mommy i'd treat your so well

You gasp a little when his hand sneaks beneath the fabric and settles possessively on your thigh. He doesn’t move further — not yet — but the message is clear: mine.

He leans in again, lips ghosting over your ear. “You’re doing so well for me,” he whispers, just loud enough for the mic to catch. “You want me to keep going?”

You nod. Then realize they can’t see that, and breathe out, “Yes. Please.”

His laugh is low and dark. “Then beg.”

The room spins. You forgot you asked for this. You forgot you wanted him to play rough — like the dominant boyfriend your viewers fantasized about. You forgot that Wonwoo could look at you like that — hooded gaze, parted lips, one hand gripping your thigh, the other loose around your neck like he owns every inch of you.

“I said—” his voice dips, something low that has you clenching around nothing, his grip on your throat just the slightest bit tighter, “—beg.”

You almost forget the camera is even there.

“Please, Wonwoo,” you whisper, and it’s more than a performance now. “Touch me. I need you to.”

He pats your thigh gently. “Good girl.”

The words hit you like a freight train. You whimper, openly this time.

Your eyes shift back to the chat again, trying not to get lost in him—a small part of you fears it's already too late.

singledad65: i knew you'd make such a pretty sub. what a pretty mess already

tigersgaze: fuck i'm so hard already. wanna see you choking on his cock baby.

mommyplease: mommy show us your tits please please please i'm so hard.

Wonwoo shifts slightly, demanding your attention, enough for his knee to knock your legs apart, spreading them just enough for the camera to catch view of the blooming wet spot on your cotton shorts.

You feel dizzy. You’re wet — obviously, hopelessly wet — and every part of you is pulsing, aching, desperate for more. You don’t even care about the stream anymore. You only care about him.

And then, without warning, he grabs your wrists and pins them gently above your head, pushing you back onto the bed.

It’s not rough — not really. Just firm enough to make your whole body light up.

“Keep your hands right there,” he says, voice like velvet-wrapped steel. “Let me take care of you.”

You nod helplessly. “Yes, Won-.” you gulp stopping yourself from saying his name aloud. You never discussed if he was okay with his name being used on stream.

He kisses down your neck, slow and deliberate, pausing just above your collarbone as his fingers graze the curve of your waist.

You can't imagine how you must look on camera right now, the image of you splayed out just for him. You almost whimper at the thought, your hips rolling up to chase friction.

But before anything else can happen, he pauses.

Pulls back just slightly. Meets your eyes.

“This okay?” he asks, quietly this time. “You sure?”

Your heart clenches.

God. Even now, with your legs spread and your body shaking and the camera still rolling, he’s checking in.

“I’m sure,” you whisper. “I trust you.”

His smile is soft. And just like that, you're ruined all over again.

“Good.” Wonwoo kisses you again — deep, filthy, and completely in control.

Your hands twitch against the pillow beneath your head, instinct screaming at you to touch him, to grab his shoulders, tangle your fingers in his hair, something — but but the larger part of you is begging you to listen, to be rewarded for being a good girl.

“You stay right there,” he murmurs. “You take what I give you.”

You nod, panting. “Yes, W-sir.”

His free hand slides slowly beneath the hem of your sweater, palm splaying flat over your stomach. He doesn’t move higher. Not yet. He waits — lets the silence stretch until your back arches off the mattress and your hips squirm beneath him.

And then he laughs, low and mean. Almost cruel, if not for the affection in his eyes.

“You’re already so needy,” he taunts. “I haven’t even touched you yet.”

His thumb brushes your bottom lip. You suck it in instinctively and the growl that slips from his throat makes your thighs clamp together.

He sees it. Of course he does.

"Open."

You do. Without question.

He pushes his thumb between your lips, slow and steady, eyes fixed on your face the whole time. You swirl your tongue around it, moaning as you suck, and the flash in his eyes makes your whole body light up like a warning sign.

He pulls his thumb free with a wet pop, then brings it down between your legs, slipping it just inside the waistband of your shorts — not enough to touch you, but enough to make your hips buck toward him.

"You're gonna be good and cum for me like this," he murmurs. "Still wearing your pretty little shorts. Think you can do that?"

“I—yeah,” you pant. “I can.”

“Good girl.”

The two words hit harder than any touch. Your whole body clenches at the sound of it. He starts to rub, slow firm circles over your panties, and your head drops back against the bed.

You’re so wet it’s humiliating. You can feel the damp fabric clinging to you, feel the friction sparking with every motion of his fingers — and you dig your nails into into your palms to keep yourself from reaching out for him.

You’re moaning now, high and choked, not even bothering to hold it in. You can’t. His voice, his hand, his weight on top of yo —it’s all too much.

“Keep your hands up,” he growls, and there’s no mistaking the real edge in his voice now. “You want to cum? You earn it.”

You nod, frantic. “Yes, yes, please—”

“You don’t get to cum until I say so.”

“Sir—!”

He presses harder. You cry out, thighs trembling, hips jerking uselessly as he works you faster. Your breathing is ragged. You’re so close it hurts.

And then—

He stops.

Your eyes fly open.

“Wonwoo—!” You cry out in shock, not even pausing to think about using his name, the nager clear in your tone.

“Shh,” he soothes, lips brushing your cheek. “You’ll get it. But first…”

His hands slip beneath your sweater, and this time he doesn't hesitate. He pushes it up, exposing your bare chest to the camera.

You had honestly forgotten about the stream—about the chat, and clearly they had noticed. Your eyes rake the comments:

singledad95: poor baby she's gone already dacefucker69: fuck i'm gonna cum. mommyplease: thank you daddy, look at mommy's perfect tits. can i cum please? tigersgaze: god i think she forgot about us, but i don't care you look so good like this baby

You gasp. You should feel embarrassed, but you’re so deep into this you don’t even care. You just want his hands back on you.

Wonwoo doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares. His lips part slightly. There’s something reverent in the way his gaze drags across your skin.

Then he looks up — into the lens. Into the eyes of everyone watching.

“She’s mine,” he says, voice low and lethal. “You can look, but you don’t get to touch. Ever.”

Then he looks down again, and he smiles — slow, devastating, like a man who knows exactly how fucked you are.

“Now beg again, baby. Real pretty for the camera.”

You choke on your own breath.

“Please, Wonwoo,” you whisper. “I need to cum. I—I need you so bad, please, I’ll be good, I swear.”

His hand slips back between your legs.

And this time, he doesn’t stop.

You don’t know if you’re begging in words anymore or just making sounds — the kind of half-choked whines you never thought would leave your mouth outside of your most desperate dreams.

And he’s still touching you, still working tight, devastating circles against your clit through the soaked fabric of your panties. Your hips buck wildly beneath him, your legs trying to close, but his free hand pins your thigh open with ease.

“Don’t fight it,” he murmurs. “You wanted to cum so bad—so do it. Cum for me, just like this. Let them all watch how sweet you sound when I ruin you.”

You gasp, a high-pitched sob, and your fingers claw into the sheets beside your head, straining to obey his earlier command to keep your hands to yourself. You're on fire, every muscle drawn tight and twitching, a livewire underneath his touch.

“You're so wet," Wonwoo growls. "You really were gonna cum for me in your shorts like a little slut, huh?”

Your whimper is confirmation enough. Your body is spiraling out of your control now.

And then he leans in — mouth brushing your ear, voice so low it’s filthy.

“I'm not even inside you yet and you're already a fucking mess.”

Something in you snaps.

Your mouth drops open in a silent scream as your orgasm slams into you. Your thighs shake, your breath catches, and your entire body locks up beneath him as he works you through it, never slowing down — rubbing mercilessly until you’re twitching and gasping and trying to twist away from his hand.

But he doesn’t let you go.

“Oh no, no, baby,” he coos, voice suddenly cruel again, deceptively sweet. “You can cum more than that.”

“Wonwoo—” you plead, voice broken.

“You’re gonna cum again. For them,” he says, nodding toward the camera, “and for me.”

Your body is oversensitive now but his hand doesn’t stop. It changes. Slower now, deeper pressure, coaxing you through the aftershocks.

You try to speak. It’s just a stuttering, useless gasp of air.

“Come on,” he says gently now. “One more. Be good.”

And then he bites you, open mouth, right over your collarbone, and that's all it takes for you to fall apart.

The second orgasm crashes over you before you’re fully recovered from the first. It drags a low moan from your lips this time, ragged and raw, and you sob out his name like a prayer as your body convulses underneath him.

Your vision goes blurry for a second.

The only thing anchoring you is the press of his hand between your thighs and the sound of his voice — murmuring quiet praises you’re barely coherent enough to understand.

“Just like that. That’s my girl.”

And you're just coming down from the last waves of your orgasm when Wonwoo shifts you, until you're once again his lap, laying with your back against to his chest, your legs hooked on both sides of his thighs, he pushes your shorts down and off. He removes your sweater too, you're completely bare, body flushed and looking all too fucked out and he hasn't even fucked you yet. Exposed and bare on his till clothed form.

You don’t even notice the camera at first.

He turns his gaze to the camera and smiles. He smirks, really — eyes heavy-lidded, lazy with satisfaction.

You're too fucked out to really pay attention, he says, “If you want more, you know what to do.”

The dings of incoming donations flood the room, one after another until Wonwoo is seemingly satisfied.

He trails a finger up your thigh, playing with your dripping pussy. He looks at the chat for confirmation, you try to, too, eyes still unfocused from pleasure as his fingers tease your core.

“You're so dirty baby, I haven't even got my fingers in you yet and you're dripping.” A sharp whine leaves your lips at his words. His finger teases your opening, before pulling away to brush lightly against your abused clit.

"Tell me, what do you want? Do you want me to touch you here?" He pauses, his breath warm on your skin as he whispers near in your ear, "Or maybe somewhere else?"

His hand slowly moves upwards, caressing your stomach, then higher to cup one of your breasts. He squeezes softly, feeling the weight and shape of it in his palm, brushing a finger against a peaked nipple. “Use your words, baby.”

“Wonwoo,” You whine, rocking your hips softly, feeling his cock, thick and hard beneath you, you feel oh so empty, “Please.”

Wonwoo slowly pushes a finger inside you, he groans softly, the sound vibrating against your skin as he continues to place gentle kisses along your neck and collarbone. "Mmm, so tight," he murmurs, slowly pumping his finger in and out, building a steady rhythm.

With his free hand, he reaches up to tangle his fingers in your hair, and pulls, hard enough to sting. He trails his lips over the sensitive skin, nipping and sucking gently as he works another finger into your slick heat, stretching you out.

"Does that feel good?" he asks, his voice rough with need. "Do you like having my fingers inside you, stretching you open?"

You nod, mouth open in a moan—you're so lost in your own world, in the pleasure, it's easy to forget that this is all for show, that this moment is just an act and Wonwoo isn't yours. But in this moment he is.

“More, please.” You whine rocking your hips, simultaneously grinding down on his clothed cock and against his fingers inside you.

His fingers fuck into you with a purpose until—“Ahhh” you moan, shaking, when he pushes against your g-spot with a determined persistence.

His eyes go sharp again as he stares down the camera, he's staking his claim. You're his.

“What do you think? Should I make her cum again like this?” He asks, a smirk on his lips as he stills his hand, you rock your hips shamelessly chasinging your release.

“Wonwoo please please please please please.” A litany of pleas leave your lips, tears nearly forming in your eyes. You're so close you can taste it.

“Don't ask me, baby.” He chuckles low and deep, unbelievably sexy. “Ask them.”

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the viewfinder, fucked out, a mess, eyes heavy lidded. You look debauched, and pretty.

“I want to cum,” Your voice is raw from all the moaning, your lips are plump from biting on them, you look the very essence of sin, “please.”

The chat explodes with tips and that seems to be enough for Wonwoo.

He kisses you like he owns you.

And maybe, in this moment, he does. The way he’s touching you says it — the way he’s holding your hips down, dragging his fingers up your thigh, says it. You can feel the tip of his cock brushing against your entrance — you hadn't even noticed he'd pulled it out of his sweatpants, and it’s not even in yet but your body is already begging.

“Ready?” he murmurs low against your throat, lips brushing your skin like a tease.

You nod, wordless. Already wrecked, slick and throbbing under him, your thighs trembling with every shallow breath.

“Words,” he reminds you, and you feel the tip press just slightly inside.

“Yes. Yes, Wonwoo, please.”

He groans like he’s been waiting to hear that all night. “Good girl.”

And then he pushes in.

Your gasp catches high in your throat, nails clawing at the sheets beneath you as he splits you open, inch by inch, his hips slow and deliberate. He’s thick, the stretch almost too much—almost, but then he bottoms out, presses flush against your body, and you swear you see white.

Wonwoo pauses there, buried inside you. His voice is a low growl when he speaks.

“Let them see you like this,” he says, staring down the camera with a smirk. “Stuffed full of me.”

You don’t even care that they’re watching. Not when he starts to move.

His thrusts are deep from the start, slow at first, but with that tight rhythm that makes your brain melt. One of his hand wraps around your throat, thumb resting just under your jaw, and the contact makes your whole body tense beneath him. The other steady on your hip, moving you like a ragdoll, his personal fuck toy as he lifts you up and down on his lap, meeting his every thrust.

“You like that?” he says, almost mockingly sweet. “Getting fucked in front of a live audience?”

“Wonwoo—” you gasp, already spiraling.

“You’re taking me so well,” he praises. “Look at that. So tight. So fucking wet.”

Each thrust punches a little sound out of you, his cock hitting that sweet spot over and over, and when he pulls your hips down to meet his, the slick slap of skin echoes off the walls. You don't even try to stop the sounds falling from your lips anymore—you're beyond pride, beyond shame.

“Gonna cum already?” he teases, kissing along your jaw, grinding deep. “Not even halfway done with you, baby.”

“I—I can’t—” you whimper.

“Yes, you can,” he growls. “You’re gonna cum around my cock like a good girl.”

The orgasm builds fast, your body tight, trembling, every muscle locking up as you struggle to hold back. But his voice is right in your ear, coaxing you through it.

“Let them watch you fall apart for me,” he whispers. “Now. Be good. Cum.”

You shatter.

It’s too much. Your vision goes white, your body clamps tight around him, and your orgasm tears through you like a storm. You cry out, maybe even sob his name, but it’s all blurred in the wave of pleasure. You can’t think, can’t breathe.

Wonwoo groans low in his throat as you tighten around him, and it’s like a switch flips. His hips snap into yours harder now, faster. His grip on your throat tightens as he chases his own release.

“You feel too fucking good,” he hisses, fucking into you like he’s about to lose control. “So perfect. Gonna cum inside you. Fill you up. You want that?”

You nod frantically, barely coherent, and that’s all he needs.

He slams in once more and holds there, hips pressed hard against you as his body trembles, his breath catching in a deep, guttural groan. You feel the heat of it, the way he pulses inside you, and it only makes your body twitch around him again.

Silence.

Except for your ragged breathing, the camera still rolling in the background, and the sound of his heartbeat thudding against your chest.

Wonwoo finally exhales.

He gently eases out of you, hand trailing softly down your thigh, and your body gives a full-body twitch—overstimulated and still shaking.

Your eyes meet his, no teasing now. Just something real.

The camera light is still on.

He gives it a final look, then leans forward, and with the same casual dominance as before, clicks it off.

Then he looks back down at you. Smirking. But softer now.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod.

But your voice is hoarse when you whisper back, “Yeah. But that didn’t feel fake.”

the gym lights cast a harsh glow over the court, but they couldn’t outshine the heat radiating from the crowd. the air was thick with the scent of sweat, excitement, and adrenaline — the unmistakable atmosphere of a high-stakes volleyball match. fans were on their feet, some screaming, others frozen in disbelief, but bokuto’s world had already shrunk down to one thing: you.

sitting courtside with akaashi, you watched every move, every spike, every tense moment with quiet intensity. your fingers tapped nervously against your knee, your lips barely moving in silent encouragement.

bokuto caught your gaze several times during the game, his chest heaving with effort and determination, but your calm presence was the anchor that kept him steady.

back then, in high school, it was just like this — chaos on the court and calm off it.

the gym was always alive — alive with squeaking shoes, sharp whistles, the rhythmic slap of volleyballs, and bokuto’s booming voice cutting through it all like a flare. he had a way of making his presence known in every room he stepped into, larger than life and blindingly intense. but what most people didn’t see — what only you really saw — was how hard he worked to hold all that light inside of him.

as fukurodani’s manager, you stood quietly on the sidelines, clipboard in hand, eyes sharp. you were the one who made sure every training drill ran smoothly, kept track of stats and schedules, filled in the gaps left behind when others overlooked the little things. water bottles, towels, first aid kits — you made sure the team never had to ask for them. you were reliable. efficient. present.

but around bokuto, something shifted. there was a gravity to him — bright, explosive, erratic — and somehow, instead of being burned by it, you found warmth in its orbit.

he’d bounce over to you between drills, sweat clinging to his neck, and grin wide enough to make your stomach twist. “did you see that spike?” he’d ask, breathless.

“i did. and you know it was good, so stop fishing for compliments,” you’d reply, pretending not to smile — but you always did. and he always noticed.

at first, your relationship had been built in those in-between moments — water breaks, gym clean-up duty, walks home when the sky turned lilac and gold. you learned how to read him better than anyone else did. when he missed a shot and his shoulders tensed? you’d casually toss him a towel and murmur, “you’ve got another thirty chances. don’t fold on the first one.”

and when he scored, when he lit up and high-fived the whole team, he always turned to look for you in the corner. his expression softer, quieter. like he just needed your eyes to find his.

late practices were your favorite — when everyone had gone home and the world slowed down. he’d collapse on the floor beside you, sweat-soaked and tired, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling.

“you think i’ve got a shot?” he asked once, after a particularly brutal practice. his voice was quiet, a crack in the usual bravado.

you didn’t hesitate. “of course. you don’t even need to ask that.”

he rolled onto his side to look at you. “i do. because when you say it, i believe it.”

you hadn’t said anything then. just offered him the last bite of your convenience store onigiri and smiled. that was enough.

by your third year, your connection was no secret. the team teased, subtly at first — side-glances when he carried your bag, exaggerated coughs when you handed him a towel with too much tenderness. bokuto would brush it off with a wave of his hand and a grin that reached his ears.

“let ’em talk,” he whispered to you once, when he’d snuck out to walk you home. “i only care what you think.”

you started dating officially after graduation, when the intensity of entrance exams had passed and you both realized you couldn’t keep pretending your hearts weren’t already tied up in each other. it wasn’t flashy or dramatic — no rooftop confessions, no perfect timing. just the two of you on a summer evening, sitting side by side on the train after visiting the old gym one last time before leaving for college.

bokuto had been fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, unusually quiet.

“i don’t want to be apart from you,” he finally blurted.

you looked at him, startled. “who said anything about being apart?”

“you’re going to university in tokyo,” he said, frowning. “and i'm heading into full-time training. i just…” his voice dropped. “i don’t want us to drift.”

you reached out and held his hand right there on the train, surrounded by strangers. “then let’s not.”

you found a tiny one-bedroom apartment just outside the city — a shoebox, really, with off-white walls and a heater that rattled in the winter. the kitchen could barely fit two people, and you had to take turns brushing your teeth. but it was yours. the first home you built together.

there were volleyballs by the front door, your work notes strewn across the kitchen table, and bokuto’s shampoo always invading your shelf in the bathroom. he liked waking up early to train; you liked staying up late to finish your assignments. you bickered about groceries, cuddled under mismatched blankets, and danced in the living room when things felt too heavy.

you became his anchor — the person who knew how to hold him steady when the crowd’s cheers faded and all that was left was a boy who sometimes still doubted himself.

he would come home after rough practices, dropping his duffel by the door and collapsing on the floor face-down.

“they’re faster than me,” he muttered into the carpet one night. “i can’t keep up.”

you knelt beside him, fingers threading gently into his hair. “you’ve said that before, remember?”

“yeah.”

“and what happened then?”

“…i worked harder.”

you smiled. “and you’ll do it again.”

he tilted his head up just enough to look at you. “i’d be lost without you, baby.”

you kissed his forehead. “luckily for you, i plan on sticking around.”

supporting him wasn’t something you did out of obligation. it was your heartbeat. you loved his fire, but you also loved the quiet after — the way he needed reassurance without asking for it, the way he would hold your pinky when he was anxious, the way he listened when you vented about your day even if he was exhausted from training.

he wasn’t just your boyfriend. he was your best friend. and you were his reason to keep climbing higher.

and now, as you sat courtside at the msby black jackals vs. schweiden adlers game years later, watching him chase a victory in front of a roaring crowd, you weren’t surprised when he didn’t look at the trophy when the final point was scored.

he looked at you.

because from the first rally to the last, no matter how high he flew — he was always coming back to you.

his legs moved without him thinking, without waiting for permission or logic to catch up. he ran — no, he surged — like something had ignited inside his chest and there was only one direction for the flames to go.

not towards the trophy.

not towards the cameras or the crowd or his teammates still caught in the swell of celebration behind him.

he ran straight toward you.

the noise around him was deafening — the roar of the stadium, the blare of victory music, the low rumble of the announcer's voice barely audible over the cheers. but it all faded into white static the moment his eyes found yours in the front row. you were standing now, hands clutched near your mouth, eyes wide — shimmering with emotion, disbelief, pride, something deeper.

your heart stuttered in your chest. it felt like everything around you had slowed, like time itself knew not to interrupt. you barely registered akaashi standing next to you, still seated and smirking to himself as he leaned over and muttered under his breath, “he’s really gonna do it.”

but you couldn't move, couldn't think — not when bokuto, sweat-drenched and glowing with the heat of victory, was charging toward you with the same energy he used to throw down match-point spikes. it was the same look he wore when he chased down dreams, but this time, you were the finish line.

when he reached you, it wasn’t graceful. he almost tripped over the barrier separating the court from the stands, nearly knocking you off balance with the sheer momentum of his body. but none of that mattered. his arms caught you like they always did — strong, warm, and full of emotion too big for words.

“baby!” he half-laughed, half-shouted, voice cracking with joy. his chest was heaving from the run, his forehead damp with sweat, eyes shining as if he was still in the game and the final point hadn’t yet fallen.

you were already moving into his arms before he finished saying it.

the embrace was bone-deep. fierce. his arms wrapped tightly around your waist as he lifted you just slightly off the ground, holding you like he’d been waiting years for this exact second. you buried your face in the crook of his neck, clinging to him like you always had — not out of fear, but out of knowing he was home.

he smelled like victory and salt and that familiar, earthy warmth you’d memorized back in your high school gym. your fingers curled into the fabric of his jersey, clutching it like it was the only thing anchoring you to the moment. and in a way, it was.

all around you, the stadium kept roaring. cameras began to shift, turning lenses in your direction, catching the image that would circulate online for weeks: not the final point, not the scoreboard — this. bokuto, eyes closed, forehead pressed to yours, smiling like the world had narrowed down to only one person in the crowd.

the image that would silently echo the line that neither of you needed to say:

“where’s the trophy? he just comes runnin' over to me."

he pulled back just enough to look at you, hands still firm around your waist. his grin was still wild, still unfiltered, but there was something softer in his gaze now. something tender.

you blinked back tears, cupping his face, voice trembling with emotion. “you did it.”

but he shook his head. “we did it.”

your chest tightened, your breath catching in your throat. because you knew what he meant. the years — the early mornings, the late-night ramen after bad losses, the job interviews you rescheduled to travel with him to qualifiers, the way you whispered encouragement into his ear when no one else could see the weight on his shoulders.

he saw it all. he never forgot.

the after-party buzzed with the kind of electric joy only hard-won victories could bring.

laughter echoed off the walls of the event hall, glasses clinked, and the players from msby floated from table to table like gods fresh from the battlefield. bokuto had been in the center of it all — hyped, glowing, still riding the adrenaline of the win. you’d watched him with your chin propped on your hand, a smile tugging at your lips as he retold a play for the fifth time, each version more dramatic than the last.

but you could tell he wasn’t all there.

his eyes kept flicking over to you. quietly. softly. as if you were the only steady point in a room full of motion.

eventually, he slipped away from the crowd and approached you, eyes glinting under the golden lights, his hand reaching down for yours.

“hey,” he murmured, “come with me for a sec?”

you blinked. “where?”

he squeezed your fingers. “just… trust me.”

you always did.

he led you through the hotel corridors and out a discreet side door, his hand warm and solid in yours. the sounds of celebration faded behind you, replaced by the soft hush of the night. outside, the terrace was lit by hanging fairy lights and wrapped in soft shadows. beyond it was a quiet, manicured garden, the scent of early spring flowers drifting on the breeze.

bokuto paused, glancing up at the stars for a breath, then turned to face you fully.

you opened your mouth to speak — to tease, maybe, or ask what this was — but the look on his face stopped you cold.

he was nervous.

not the giddy, bouncing bokuto you knew, but something quieter. deeper. his hands were trembling slightly as he took yours again and drew you in closer.

“i’ve been trying to find the right moment all night,” he admitted, his voice soft, steadier now that you were alone. “but every time i looked at you, it hit me all over again. i don’t need the perfect moment. i just need you.”

your breath caught.

“i’ve been thinking about this since high school,” he went on. “since those nights when we’d close up the gym together and walk home under streetlights, when you’d tell me i was more than just my mood swings, more than just a powerful spike.” his voice cracked a little. “you’ve been with me through everything, baby. before anyone knew my name. before the jersey, before the wins.”

he let out a small laugh, gaze locked with yours. “you saw me — all of me. and you stayed.”

the silence between you was tender, and electric, and brimming with everything that couldn’t be spoken aloud all at once.

“so tonight, i don’t care if we won or lost,” he whispered. “i still would’ve done this. because i knew the only thing i’ve ever been sure of — even more than my cross spike — is that i want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

then, with one more shaky exhale, he dropped to one knee.

you gasped — hands flying to your mouth, the world narrowing down to just him, kneeling in a garden that now felt like something out of a dream. in his hand was a simple velvet box, trembling slightly as he opened it to reveal a ring that sparkled softly under the fairy lights.

“will you marry me?”

the tears came before your voice could.

you nodded rapidly, voice breaking. “yes,” you choked out, the word thick with emotion. “yes, yes — of course.”

he surged up, slipping the ring onto your finger with shaking hands before pulling you into him, wrapping his arms around you like he never wanted to let go.

you barely had time to breathe before —

“wooooo!!”

the terrace doors burst open behind you.

you turned, startled, only for a wave of familiar faces to come rushing out from behind the hedges and doorways where they’d been hiding.

“finally!” hinata crowed, fist-pumping into the air. “we were freezing our asses out here!”

akaashi appeared behind him, arms crossed but a faint smile tugging at his lips. “he wanted us here. said it wouldn’t be right if we weren’t.”

konoha and komi barreled over next, both looking a little misty-eyed despite their teasing smirks.

“you’re stuck with him forever now, huh?” konoha teased, slinging an arm around bokuto’s shoulder. “good luck with that emotional rollercoaster.”

“she’s the only one who’s ever kept him from flatlining mid-game,” komi joked, wiping discreetly at his eyes. “she deserves the mvp title too.”

bokuto laughed through a choked breath, cheeks red, still holding you tightly against his side.

the msby boys spilled out next — atsumu whistling loud and obnoxious, sakusa staying slightly behind but nodding with quiet approval, meian raising a glass he’d somehow snuck out with.

“congrats, lovebirds,” meian said with a grin. “you’re officially team captain of his heart now.”

you covered your face in your hands, overwhelmed and laughing through tears as bokuto gently pulled them down.

“hey,” he whispered, his smile crooked and boyish. “you said yes.”

“i did,” you whispered back, eyes shining.

he leaned in, forehead resting against yours, voice barely audible over the sound of your friends cheering behind you.

“i can’t believe i get to keep you forever.”

you smiled.

“you always had me.”

and in that garden, wrapped in fairy lights and the laughter of people who’d known you both from the beginning, bokuto knew:

this was the real victory.

the morning sunlight came slow and golden through the hotel window.

it filtered through sheer curtains, turning the room a soft, buttery hue — the kind of light that invited you to stay in bed just a little longer. the world outside had quieted, the frenzy of the match and the after-party now distant echoes. what remained was the hush of morning. breath. warm skin. the steady rhythm of someone you love sleeping beside you.

bokuto was on his side, one arm sprawled over your waist, the other tucked beneath his pillow. his hair was flattened in odd directions, still faintly smelling of cologne and sweat and champagne. his mouth was parted slightly, breath soft and even. one bare leg was tangled in the sheets, his hand unconsciously tightening against your hip every few minutes like his body remembered you even in sleep.

the engagement ring still glittered faintly on your finger.

you turned your hand slowly in the light, watching it catch on the delicate band. there was something surreal about seeing it there. not because it felt out of place — but because it felt so right, so natural, it was as though your hand had always been waiting for it.

a quiet sigh pulled your attention.

bokuto was stirring.

his lashes fluttered, and after a few blinks, his golden eyes found yours. for a moment, he just looked at you — as if making sure you were really still there. like maybe he thought he’d dreamed it all. the match. the garden. your yes.

“morning,” he rasped, voice rough and low, eyes still heavy with sleep.

you smiled, brushing his messy hair back from his forehead. “morning.”

his brows furrowed. “did we…? last night…”

“you proposed,” you whispered, smiling softly. “and i said yes.”

he stared for a beat, eyes wide with awe, before he groaned and buried his face against your neck.

“baby,” he mumbled into your skin. “i’m engaged. to you.”

you laughed gently, curling your fingers into his hair.

“yeah. you are.”

he pulled back slightly, blinking at you like he still couldn’t believe it, like the realization was settling deeper into his bones with every second. then, slowly, his hand reached for yours beneath the sheets. he laced your fingers together, bringing them to his lips. his thumb brushed over the ring as he kissed your knuckles, lingering there.

“you’re gonna wake up next to me every day,” he murmured. “forever.”

“every day,” you echoed.

“and we’re gonna get a place with a huge couch. like, huge. so we can lie on top of each other and still have room for snacks.”

you smiled. “is that your dream for our marriage?”

“that and putting your name in my phone as my wife.” his eyes softened again. “but mostly… just being with you. like this. always.”

you didn’t say anything for a long moment. you just stared at him — his sleep-ruffled hair, his crinkled eyes, his earnest smile. he was still the same bokuto who used to chase you around the fukurodani gym with a towel over his head, pretending to be a ghost. still the boy who gave you his milk bread after practice when you forgot yours. still the man who looked at you like you held his whole world in your hands.

and now, he really had given you everything.

you leaned forward and kissed him — slow, sleepy, and full of quiet promise.

when you pulled back, your forehead rested against his.

“i’m really glad you ran to me yesterday.”

he smiled, eyes closing as he breathed you in.

“where else would i go?”

outside, the city slowly stirred awake — but in that quiet room, with his arms around you and your hand in his, there was nothing else the world could offer that could compare.

because the greatest win of his life wasn’t last night’s match.

it was waking up to you — every morning, from now until forever.

Atsumu ignored his teammate and turned back to you. "I'm assumin' ya haven't eaten dinner yet, either?"

"No," you admitted, chewing on the drawstrings of your hoodie. "I had a protein bar from the library vending machine, but I'm pretty sure it expired in 2005."

Pulling on his own hoodie, Atsumu grabbed his phone, slammed the locker door shut, and slung his gym bag over a shoulder. "Just hang in there, alright? I'll be there in fifteen with food."

"Are you sure?" you asked as Aran mimicked the sound of a whip somewhere in the distance. "You already had a long day with practice. I don't want to bother you."

"What? No, ya ain't botherin' me," Atsumu promised, shoving his team captain off-screen with his free hand. "I love goin' to the library — exposin' myself to all that knowledge and asbestos. It's a real campus treasure."

That's how he ended up here. A broken umbrella in one hand. A soaked paper bag of burritos in the other. Stumbling across campus in the middle of a torrential downpour like the fool that he was.

"Stupid piece of crap," Atsumu murmured, flinging the defective contraption into the trash bin of the library's first-floor lobby. It clamored to the bottom with a loud clank.

A security guard glared up at him from the circulation desk. Atsumu raised his hand with a wince. "Sorry."

Atsumu never understood why you liked the library so much. The floors were far too quiet, the smell of the carpet too musty. In fact, as he took the elevator up to the fifth floor and knocked on the door to your private study room, he felt like a visitor at a state penitentiary.

"Thanks for coming," you sighed, letting him into the cramped room you had reserved since 9:00 AM that morning. Your mouth practically watered at the greasy paper bag in his arms. "That smells divine."

Meanwhile, Atsumu plopped your late-night dinner atop the wooden desk and looked around the room with his hands on his hips.

"Yer tellin' me you've been locked in here all day?" he asked, taking in the dreary beige walls, the single vision panel in the door. "There ain't even windows to the outside!"

"Please. It wasn't like I was gonna get a ton of Vitamin D today anyways," you retorted, gesturing to Atsumu's wet hair and soaked sneakers. You grabbed the blanket you'd brought from home and wrapped it around yourself. "I think it's cozy."

"Claustrophobic's more like it," Atsumu murmured. "Will ya eat yer dinner please? Ya look malnourished."

You sat in silence while you both ate your burritos from their tin-foil wraps, the smell of salsa and queso and fresh guacamole seeping into the walls. Atsumu licked his fingers clean and plucked a page of your thesis from the stack scattered across the desk, his dark brows furrowing in concentration.

"So what scene in your thesis has got ya this worked up?"

You exhaled slowly, tossing your dirty napkin onto the table. "The smut scene. My TA thinks I'm 'playing it safe,' but I don't know what the fuck that means."

"Playin' it safe?" Atsumu scoffed. "Yer not trying to rewrite Fifty Shades 'ere."

"That's what I told her!" you cried, throwing your hands into the air. "She said she wants to see my main character fully loose herself in the heat of the moment, stop thinking so critically about everything. But I just...I don't know how to capture that."

Atsumu hummed thoughtfully as you stood from the table and began clearing your dinner.

"Well, maybe ya don't know how to write about it because ya haven't experienced it for yerself."

You paused by the trash can, the air in the study room somehow stiller than it was before. You slowly spun on your heel to meet Atsumu's eye.

"Are you saying I've never had good sex before?"

Atsumu blinked at the slight tilt in your voice. The challenge it carried.

"No," he said, although the grin slowly pulling at his lips told you otherwise. "I'm just sayin' you've never been with me."

"Wow," you drawled. Atsumu laughed.

"I mean, look! I didn't know what yer previous boyfriend was like, but I can assure you, he ain't nothin' like me."

"That's awfully bold of you to say. You know, as someone who isn't my boyfriend," you pointed out.

It had been a few weeks since you and Atsumu had blurred the lines between friendship and more, and while you hadn't exactly defined what that more meant, it hadn't included anything overtly physical. Between your thesis meetings and Atsumu's hectic volleyball schedule, the both of you were too tired, too busy to explore that part of your relationship.

But that didn't mean you weren't curious.

In fact, as Atsumu reached across the cramped room and gently pulled you into his lap, you wondered why you hadn't acted on that curiosity sooner.

"I'm just sayin', maybe it'll be helpful to have some real-life experience to draw from," he suggested with an easy shrug. "Why don't ya read for me the first few lines of the scene, and I'll tell ya what I would do instead?"

"...okay," you huffed in bemusement, selecting the correct page and nestling into Atsumu's warm embrace. He rested his chin atop your shoulder as you read. "His lips crashed into hers without any sort of indecision, his desire potent. Unmistakeable —"

"Nah. Nuh-uh."

"What?" you laughed, dropping the page into your lap. "Is it really that bad?"

"It ain't bad, it's just...sudden!" Atsumu stammered. "If I were the love interest, I would slow things down. Tease her. Leave her wantin' more."

"Oh?" you asked, raising an eyebrow. "And how exactly would you do that?"

"Well," he began, staring up at you suggestively. "Can I demonstrate? Ya know, for research purposes?"

You smirked at the confidence in his voice, the way his fingers gently began massaging the flesh of your hips.

"Why, what are you gonna do?" you asked, your voice low. Humored. "Have sex with me on top of this table?"

"Please," Atsumu scoffed, his breath hot on your lips. "I may be down bad for ya, babe, but I'm still classy."

Your eyes scanned his face, the mixture of cockiness and affection there.

You parted your lips and said, "Show me, then."

Dimples deepening on either side of his grin, Atsumu leaned in and brought your lips to his.

Just as he'd promised, his movements were slow, languid. Almost as if he were savoring you. Your hand found purchase at the base of his neck, his at the small of your back. His touch was warm, fortifying. You longed for it elsewhere the deeper he kissed you.

His other hand slid out from beneath your knee and gently worked its way up your thigh.

"...is this okay?" he murmured, thumb brushing back and forth across the thin material of your leggings.

You nodded, a light gasp escaping you as he parted your legs and massaged the flesh of your inner thigh. He chuckled lowly against your lips.

"Easy now, sweetheart. I'm just gettin' started."

You didn't know what it was — the scent of rain in his hair, the way his Kansai accent bent around the word sweetheart, but your thoughts grew fuzzy.

The seconds stretched on as Atsumu took his time with you, teeth grazing your bottom lip. Tongue working against yours. Hand kneading your thigh at an excruciatingly slow pace.

Your first kiss with Atsumu had felt spontaneous, hurried. Like a secret you couldn't wait to tell each other. This, on the other hand, felt anything but. This time, Atsumu kissed you like he was studying you. What you tasted like. What made you moan. How long he could touch you before you started aching for more.

You broke the kiss only to change positions, the wooden chair creaking beneath you as you straddled him.

"T-Tsumu..." you managed between jagged breaths, his lips now tracing the curve of your jaw, sucking the sensitive spot behind your ear. "...the window..."

"We can stop," he said thickly, though the sheer pressure of his lips on your skin suggested otherwise. "Want me to stop?"

"No," you said firmly, grip tightening in his hair.

"Then don't think 'bout it. Ain't no one lookin' in here anyways.” He pulled his mouth away, cupped your chin, and gently turned your face towards his. “Just focus on me, babe. It’s just us two.”

His lips caught yours once more, your kisses hungrier. More desperate. Your breath caught in the back of your throat as you felt him, every inch of him, harden through his dark grey sweatpants. A barely restrained moan slipped past his lips as you, without thinking, gently rolled your hips against his.

“Fuck,” he ground out, the friction of his erection between your legs enough to make his eyes roll back.

"...so much for teasing me," you said amusedly, steadying your hands on his shoulders as you moved. God, the friction was phenomenal.

"Please," Atsumu huffed, hands sinking into your hips as he dragged you back and forth across the length of his clothed cock. "Do ya even know what other things I've wanted to do to ya, babe?"

His question alone sent a shiver down your spine.

"I think I have a pretty good idea of what you'd want to do to me, too," he drawled, leaning his head back as you continued pleasuring yourself. "I mean, all those stories ya made me read? All those filthy sentences ya write?"

"Yeah?" You refused to give him the upper hand in this, but the way your voice cracked betrayed you entirely.

"'She rode his cock the same way she wrote her novels. Furiously. Without a doubt of whether or not she was good at it,'" he recited from your first creative writing story of the year. "Think you'd be good at it, babe?"

The mere fact that he remembered that was enough to have you stammering out your next words.

"We...we could try..."

The smirk he gave you drove you mad.

"I don't want the first time I fuck ya to be on a table, sweetheart," he admitted. "...I wanna enjoy ya properly."

"...Tsumu, fuck..."

"...wanna treat ya right. Put my mouth on that pretty pussy of yours and put all yer sentences to shame." The chair beneath you squeaked even louder now as he said, "I bet ya taste good, too. Just like the rest of ya."

Despite yourself, you moaned at that. Loudly.

"I swear to God, Tsumu, if you don't shut your mouth — "

He grazed his lips against your own, cutting you off mid-sentence.

"Then what? You'll realize I'm pretty good at teasin' ya after all?"

You don't know how much longer you could've lasted at that point. Blushing furiously. Grinding against his clothed cock like your life depended on it. He felt so good between your legs, you could only imagine how much better it would feel without your stupid leggings on.

"God, Tsumu, I'm so wet..." you ground out, eyes fluttering shut. Heat building in your lower belly. “…so close…”

"Yeah?" His lips pulled into a lazy grin. "Ya can cum for me if ya want. I won’t mind.”

He gripped your ass and moved you faster, harder against him, the pressure between your legs at a near-boiling point as you moaned his name.

"...that's my girl," Atsumu breathed, watching your eyes roll back in sheer bliss. "Use me, baby. Show how much ya want me.”

A jagged whine escaped your throat as you came, a wave of pleasure ricocheting across your every nerve, every muscle. Atsumu cursed under his breath as he continued to drag you back and forth across him, hips gradually slowing as you rode out your orgasm.

The thin material between your legs was soaked by the time you had finished.

“Do you…” you asked him in between breaths, chest heaving. “…do you want me to…?”

"Huh?" Atsumu followed your gaze toward the hard-on still in his pants. A soft chuckle escaped him. "Oh! Nah. I-I mean, yes, I’d love that, but we don’t need to now.”

An easy smile tugged at lips as he leaned in to kiss you. “What matters most to me is that ya feel good, baby.”

Your face flushed as you stood from his lap and began readjusting your clothes. “Since when did you start calling me pet names?”

“Since…now, I s’pose.” Atsumu leaned back in his chair with a grin. “Why? Ya like it?”

“It felt a little weird at first, but…I also came without ever taking my clothes off, so it clearly worked.”

The way he laughed made your chest ache in affection. Head tilted back. Shoulders shaking. Dimples on full display. You wished you could photograph this moment and keep it in your back pocket forever.

He folded his arms across his chest and shot you a humored look. “Ya got everything ya need for yer thesis now?”

“Think so,” you replied, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Thank you, Tsumu.”

“Anytime, sweetheart.”

You returned to your own chair across the table from him and immediately cracked open your laptop.

“…but just so you know,” you said, eyes never leaving the screen as you began typing away. “The next time I sit on your lap like that, I expect you to take my clothes off, first."

Atsumu didn’t know what it was — be it the unrelenting tent in his pants, or the sheer confidence in which you’d just said that, but the tips of his ears turned bright red.

“I — ya can’t just say stuff like that and keep workin’!”

You smirked up at him from your computer and shrugged noncommittally.

“Two can play at that game, sweetheart.”

His dick throbbed in his pants long after you continued to write.

you've been standing in front of the mirror for almost fifteen minutes now.

the room is quiet, your son’s giggles a memory from earlier when you dropped him off at your mom’s house. he’d clung to bokuto’s leg, babbling about pancakes and cartoons and bringing his stuffed hawk for bedtime, and your heart had both ached and melted. still, you and bokuto had kissed his cheeks, promised to pick him up in the morning, and waved until your sister closed the door behind them.

tonight was supposed to be for you and koutarou.

just the two of you. no diaper bags. no cartoons in the background. no stepping on toy trucks in the middle of the hallway.

a formal dinner with his team—something sleek, elegant, just adults being adults. he’d even insisted on getting a driver so you wouldn’t have to worry about anything. you’d spent the afternoon doing your hair, soft makeup, painted your nails. it had been a long time since you felt like a woman first, not just a mother.

and for the first time in what felt like forever, you dared to reach for that dress.

it had waited in the back of your closet, untouched since before pregnancy. deep midnight silk. halter neckline. backless, with two satin ribbons—one that tied around your neck, the other knotted delicately at the waist. the fabric draped around your curves, slitted high on the hip, pooling like liquid at your feet.

when you slipped it on, you’d held your breath.

you had imagined bokuto’s reaction—his eyes lighting up, mouth parting, that low whistle he always gave when he was really floored.

but now, facing the mirror, the insecurities start whispering.

your body is different.

softer.

the silk clings to the swell of your belly, the curve of your hips, the stretch marks trailing like pale lightning bolts across your skin. some new, from carrying your son. some old. your thighs look thicker. your waist wider. your back—bare in the mirror’s reflection—is webbed with silvery lines and gentle dips that didn’t used to be there.

you love your body. at least, you try to.

but tonight, it’s hard. tonight, the dress you once loved feels like a spotlight instead of armor.

you reach for the ribbon at your neck, fingers trembling.

“babe?”

his voice is muffled from the hallway.

you don’t answer.

the door creaks open a moment later, and then you hear him inhale like he’s been punched.

you can feel his eyes on you—hot, stunned. still, you keep your back turned.

“kou,” you start, voice quiet. “i think i’ll just change.”

he doesn’t move. not at first. and then:

“what the hell are you talking about?”

your stomach clenches.

“the dress—it’s not working. i thought i could wear it again, but… it’s not the same on me anymore.”

he’s behind you in three strides, large warm hands settling on your waist.

you see it in the mirror: the way his brows draw together, the confusion on his face slowly giving way to something else—something deeper.

“you don’t think this looks good?” he asks, voice low, rough around the edges.

you shake your head, too embarrassed to speak.

his fingers tighten slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to ground you.

“baby,” he murmurs, stepping closer until his chest brushes your back. “do you have any idea what you look like right now?”

“i look like i’m trying too hard,” you whisper. “like i don’t know this body anymore.”

his hands slide around to your front, fingers splaying wide over your belly, pressing his mouth to the side of your neck.

“you mean the body that carried our son?” he murmurs, lips grazing your pulse. “the body that gave me a family, that holds all the softness i love touching every damn night?”

you squeeze your eyes shut, voice cracking. “it’s not just that. my stretch marks… they’re worse now. they’re everywhere.”

bokuto goes still—then slowly pulls back just enough to meet your gaze in the mirror.

“you mean these?” he asks, dragging one finger gently along the marks on your waist, then dipping lower toward the pale streaks on your thigh. “baby. these are gorgeous. do you know how crazy you drive me when i see them?”

you let out a breathy laugh, disbelieving. “you don’t have to say that.”

“i’m not saying it,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady, but full of something fierce—real. “i’m obsessed. i love your stretch marks. i love that your back is soft now. i love your thighs, your stomach… all of it. i married this body, baby. i’ve worshipped this body. and i’ve missed this body.”

his fingers find the ribbon at the back of your neck. slowly, deliberately, he begins to untie it—each motion careful, almost delicate. like he’s unwrapping something fragile. precious.

the bow comes undone.

the silk slides down your chest, the top of the dress falling away in a soft whisper.

your breasts spill free.

bokuto’s breath catches in his throat, and he steps in closer, his hands already rising like instinct—like need.

“oh, baby…”

his voice is a low rasp now, warm against your ear as he cups your breasts gently, reverently—his palms broad, fingers spreading across your soft skin like he’s touching something holy.

you feel his lips brush your shoulder, followed by a kiss, slow and tender.

“so soft,” he murmurs, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, coaxing them into peaks. “god, i love them. i love you.”

he starts to knead them in slow, rhythmic circles—not rough, not hurried—just firm, just intentional, just his. his touch is grounding. comforting. and yet, the way he sighs against your neck, the way he holds you like you might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t keep you close—it makes your knees weaken.

“god…” he breathes, voice low and reverent as his thumbs sweep over your nipples again, “they even got bigger than i thought.”

he groans quietly into your skin, the heat of his breath washing over your shoulder.

“fuck, baby,” he murmurs, squeezing a little more firmly now, his thumbs brushing over your peaked nipples with reverence. his hands cradle you like you’re something delicate and divine, like he still can’t believe you’re real. “look at this… so full. heavy. soft. they’re perfect. you’re perfect.”

you gasp, the sound escaping before you can catch it, hips twitching at the way his fingers roll over your nipples, teasing, coaxing little jolts of pleasure from deep inside you. the sensation sends heat curling through your belly—warm, slow, wanting.

your eyes lift—almost instinctively—to the mirror in front of you.

the image steals your breath.

there you are: flushed, silk dress slipping low on your waist, your breasts fully exposed in the warm lamplight, soft and generous in his broad hands. bokuto stands behind you, taller, darker, haloed by the shadows—his arms wrapped tight around you, his eyes locked on yours through the reflection.

he looks wrecked already. like he’s holding the most precious thing in the world.

and the look in his eyes?

adoration.

claim.

love.

“kou,” you breathe, voice trembling around a moan.

his name leaves your lips like prayer.

his grip tightens just slightly, hands still moving in slow, reverent circles. he kisses the curve of your neck, soft and open-mouthed, then trails his lips to your shoulder, murmuring between kisses:

“that’s it, baby… say my name again. let me hear how good it feels. you look so fucking beautiful right now.”

you tilt your head back into him, overwhelmed—not just by his touch, but by the way he’s seeing you. not as someone changed or less—but as something more. someone whole. someone desired.

and that’s when you hear it, quiet but firm, right beside your ear:

“we’re not going to the dinner.”

your breath hitches.

“but, kou—”

before you can finish, his fingers pinch your nipple—not hard, but enough to make you gasp, your body arching in surprise, pleasure shooting straight to your core.

his grip stays there, gentle but firm, as he kisses your shoulder with a grin in his voice. “that wasn’t a suggestion, baby.”

you shiver, your mouth falling open, but no words come out. only a soft whimper.

bokuto chuckles, low and warm, nuzzling into the curve of your neck. “you think i can let you out in that dress now? after seeing you like this?” he squeezes your breast again, a little slower this time. “after touching you, feeling how fucking soft and warm and mine you are?”

his hand glides down your side, slow and deliberate, skimming the stretch of your belly, over your hips, toward the slit of your dress.

“nah,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with want. “you’re not going anywhere, pretty girl. you’re staying right here… and letting me ruin you.”

you barely have time to breathe before his hands are guiding you toward the bed, his grip steady, warm, unyielding. he sits down first, spreading his thighs, his dark slacks still on but straining with how hard he is for you already.

he tugs you into his lap, slow and sure—settling you on top of him, facing the mirror again.

his hands slide up your sides, slow and reverent, like he's mapping you all over again.

you feel his breath at your ear as he whispers, “look.”

you lift your gaze—and there it is again. you, bared and flushed, seated on his lap in nothing but a half-fallen silk dress. your back, soft and scarred with stretch marks he calls beautiful. your breasts, full and heavy in his palms. your body, wrapped in his. like a living portrait of indulgence and love.

bokuto lets out a low groan as he starts massaging your breasts again, rolling your nipples slowly between his thumbs and forefingers, coaxing more of those soft, breathy moans from your lips.

“you see that?” he murmurs, kissing just below your ear. “that’s what i see every day. every night. the woman i married. the mother of my son. the body that keeps getting more perfect every time i touch it.”

his lips trace a path down your neck, slow and wet, tongue flicking out between kisses. “and fuck, baby… the way you feel in my hands…”

you whimper, hips rolling instinctively over the hard line of him beneath you. the friction sends sparks dancing up your spine, your breath catching as your body presses closer to his. every shift of silk and skin heightens the heat that’s been simmering since the moment his hands touched you.

his mouth is still on your neck, hot and open, kissing and licking slowly—patiently—while his hands move with purpose. one stays on your breast, still kneading softly, while the other trails down, over your belly, and toward your thigh.

his fingers brush the slit of your dress.

you feel him pause.

“…baby.”

his voice drops into something deeper—surprised, low, undeniably turned on.

you bite your lip, eyes locked with your own reflection as you whisper, “i didn’t wear any. figured it’d feel better with the slit that high.”

his groan is immediate, buried into your shoulder, like the thought physically affects him.

“fuck me,” he breathes. “you’re really trying to kill me tonight, huh?”

with slow, deliberate care, he slides his hand under the dress, pushing the silk up until the slit parts wider. he uses his knees to spread your thighs open, guiding you with a firm touch until your legs drape over his, knees bent, completely exposed to the mirror.

and there it is—you, in the reflection.

flushed, already trembling, folds glistening with arousal under the warm light, your thighs trembling ever so slightly, your body bared and beautiful and soaked.

bokuto lets out a shuddering breath.

his hand slides lower, fingers parting your folds as he whispers, “look at that. look how wet you are for me.”

you moan, your hips twitching when he drags a finger through your slick, slow and indulgent, circling your clit with the lightest pressure.

“this all for me, baby?” he murmurs, voice warm against your ear. “just from a dress and a few kisses?”

you nod shakily, but that’s not enough for him.

“say it.”

“it’s for you,” you breathe, arching into his hand. “only you, kou.”

his lips curl into a soft smile against your shoulder. “that’s my good girl.”

he keeps you like that—your legs spread wide over his, silk bunched around your hips, your chest bare and glowing in the golden light. the mirror reflects everything: the way he holds you, the way your body trembles under his touch, the reverence in his eyes as he gazes at you through the glass.

and then his fingers slide deeper.

you let out a soft gasp, eyes fluttering closed before fluttering open again—drawn to the sight in front of you. his fingers sink into you with slow, patient pressure, thick and warm and perfect, curling just right as your walls pulse around him.

“you feel that?” he murmurs against your skin. “how good you take me?”

you whimper, leaning back into his chest, your hands gripping his thighs for support.

his free hand returns to your breast, gently squeezing, grounding you, while the other works slow and steady between your legs—two fingers pushing deeper, spreading you open.

you glance at the mirror again—and you moan at what you see.

your own reflection stares back: eyes glassy and dazed, lips parted, flushed and messy, your soft thighs shaking as his fingers pump into you. your breasts bounce with every breath, nipples hard, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps.

you clench around him at the sight—watching how your body responds so desperately to his touch, how needy you look seated in his lap, fucked open by just his hand.

“ohh, baby…” he groans, feeling the way you tighten. “you saw that, didn’t you? fuck, that got you, huh?”

you nod, a whimper caught in your throat. “kou, i—”

“shh,” he soothes again, voice low and warm as silk. his lips press gentle, open-mouthed kisses to the side of your neck. “just feel me, baby. let me take care of you.”

but his fingers don’t stay slow for long.

they start to move faster—steadier—fucking into you with purpose now. curling deep, spreading you just a little wider with every thrust as slick sounds echo between your thighs. he knows exactly where to reach, exactly how to touch you—how to ruin you gently.

you gasp, then moan, the sound raw and breathless. your hips roll helplessly in his lap, matching his rhythm, chasing more friction, more pressure, more of him.

“that’s it,” he murmurs against your skin, groaning as your walls flutter around his fingers. “you’re doing so good. fuck, you’re perfect like this.”

your reflection—messy, flushed, and trembling—is too much to look away from. your thighs are spread wide, his hand buried between them, his arm flexed around your waist. your eyes are heavy-lidded, lips parted, hair beginning to stick to your damp skin.

your body moves instinctively—your own hands rising to your chest, squeezing your breasts with a whimper. the extra pressure makes your nipples throb, your arousal spike.

“kou,” you cry softly, arching your back as your fingers pinch one peak. “feels so good—please, i’m so close.”

bokuto groans, watching your every move in the mirror.

“you touching yourself too, baby?” he pants. “fuck, that’s so hot. you’re so beautiful like this.”

he doesn’t stop—he can’t. the pace of his fingers keeps building, faster now, deeper, hitting that spot inside you that makes your legs twitch and your breath stutter.

“that’s it. come on, pretty girl,” he whispers, his forehead resting against your temple as his fingers work you closer. “give it to me. let me feel you come on my hand.”

and you do—falling apart in his lap, thighs shaking, breasts bouncing under your own touch as your climax rips through you with a broken moan of his name. your body clenches so tightly around his fingers, so wet and overwhelmed, that he just holds you through it—kissing your neck, whispering praise, grounding you in the strength of his arms.

“that’s my girl,” he breathes, voice low and filled with awe. “you’re everything to me.”

you’re still trembling in his lap, body warm and slick and pliant, your head lolling back against his shoulder as you gasp for air. your thighs twitch with aftershocks, your fingers slack against your breasts, and your eyes are glassy as they stay fixed on the mirror—still processing the intensity of it all.

bokuto presses a slow, reverent kiss to your bare shoulder.

then another. and another.

his fingers finally ease out of you, coated in your release, and he holds you even tighter, his arms wrapping around your soft middle as though to anchor you, protect you, remind you that he’s here.

his palms rub up and down your arms in long, soothing strokes—his touch gentle and patient now, helping you float down from the high, from the haze, from the heady rush of being completely seen and utterly wrecked by someone who loves every inch of you.

“you did so good, baby,” he whispers, resting his chin on your shoulder. “took my fingers like a fucking dream. you’re amazing.”

you manage a soft, dazed laugh, and he grins, nuzzling into your neck with a little hum.

“you okay?” he murmurs, brushing your damp hair from your cheek, his hands still trailing soft circles over your arms.

you nod slowly, chest still rising and falling with aftershocks. “yeah,” you breathe. “better than okay.”

he smiles into your skin, lips brushing warm and soft over your shoulder, before he murmurs, “good… ’cause i’m not even close to done with you yet.”

there’s heat in his voice, yes—but it’s not rushed. it’s not greedy. it’s the kind of hunger that lingers, that savors. and you feel it in the way his hands slide to your waist again, fingers slipping beneath the second satin ribbon tied just below your ribs.

“let me take this off you,” he says, lips ghosting along the nape of your neck.

he unties the bow slowly, with that same reverence from before—like he’s undressing something sacred. the fabric loosens, the tension of the silk falling away, and he helps guide the dress down your body with careful hands.

he watches as it pools around your hips, then slips over your thighs in a slow, fluid glide.

you lift slightly, and he pulls it down the rest of the way, letting the silk fall to the floor without a second thought.

his breath hitches—not in surprise, but in awe.

you’re fully bare now.

no lingerie. no gloss of perfume or body shimmer. just your skin, your softness, your postpartum curves—marked with the stretch of motherhood, lined with silvery streaks that trace along your hips, your breasts, your back, your thighs. and he looks at you like you’re the most divine thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

he leans forward again, lips brushing over your shoulder blades, kissing them softly. slowly. one by one.

you shiver when he presses his mouth to a stretch mark just under your shoulder. then another, by the dip of your spine. his kisses aren’t fleeting—they linger. he tastes you like a man starved.

“these,” he murmurs, reverent. “these are so fucking beautiful. they’re yours. and they’re mine. every inch of you, baby. mine.”

you turn your head into the crook of his neck, flushed and overwhelmed and maybe a little shy. he can feel your thighs twitch against his as he brings you closer, drawing little circles over your hips with his thumbs.

“lie back,” he says, low and soft.

you nod, but before you can move, he shifts slightly under you—his body warm, solid beneath yours. his hands hold your waist still.

“…or better yet,” he breathes, voice thickening, “ride my face.”

your heart skips. your thighs clench around his hips instinctively.

you blink at him through the mirror, eyes wide. “kou…”

he doesn’t let you finish the protest.

“yes,” he says, calm but unyielding. “don’t hide from me. don’t. not when i love you like this.”

his hand slides up your back slowly, smoothing over the stretch marks there, grounding you. his other hand tilts your chin up gently so your eyes find the mirror again.

you see yourself. bare. vulnerable. trembling—but not from shame.

from how seen you feel. how claimed.

“you think i don’t want this?” bokuto murmurs against your shoulder. “you think i haven’t dreamed about this—about feeling your thighs around my face again? watching you fall apart on my tongue while you look at yourself in the mirror and see how fucking perfect you are?”

your stomach twists with heat. your body’s already responding—pulsing between your legs, your chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

“kou, it’s just—my thighs, i—”

“your thighs are my heaven.” he interrupts, voice rough now. “you don’t even know what you do to me when you shake around me. when you clench down on my tongue and cry my name. i love it. i love you. and i want all of you on top of me. right now.”

he shifts again, lying back against the pillows, broad chest rising with every breath, hair messy and eyes dark with adoration. he pulls you with him, hands guiding your thighs gently to straddle his shoulders.

“you don’t have to do anything, baby,” he promises, voice soft now as he looks up at you. “just sit. let me do the work. let me make you feel good.”

you hesitate for only a heartbeat more—and then his hands squeeze your hips again, warm and sure.

“come on,” he whispers again, his voice so soft, so sure. “ride my face like the goddess you are.”

you hover over him, trembling just slightly—knees on either side of his head, thighs brushing his jaw, your hands braced against the headboard behind him. the heat between your legs is unbearable now, but the nerves twist with it. being this exposed, this seen, even with his praise still ringing in your ears—it makes your chest flutter and your breath catch.

you hesitate, trembling above him—your pussy just barely hovering over his mouth, soaked, swollen, and aching with need. the heat radiating off his skin only makes it worse, makes your core pulse with the want to just drop onto him—but your body still shakes with that small sliver of self-consciousness.

bokuto sees it. he feels it.

but he doesn’t rush you.

instead, he leans in—just enough—and his tongue flicks up to meet your clit in a single, slow stroke.

you shiver, your thighs clenching instinctively as a sharp gasp escapes your lips.

your hips jolt, but still—you stay hovering, breath caught in your throat, pussy twitching from that first delicious contact.

bokuto groans beneath you, loud and needy, like he’s finally tasted the thing he’s been craving all night.

“mmm,” he moans, mouth brushing your folds again. “fuck, baby… why’re you keeping her from me?”

his hands rub up your thighs, spreading warmth through your skin, grounding you again. he kisses your inner thigh, wet and soft. then licks your clit again—slower this time, a long, flat drag of his tongue that has your hips stuttering forward.

“she’s already begging for me,” he says, voice thick with praise. “you’re so wet… so pretty. you don’t need to be shy.”

you whimper, thighs trembling, your breath becoming more ragged the longer you hover. every flick of his tongue—every teasing brush over your clit, every please groaned into your skin—chips away at your hesitation. you're so close to giving in, body already betraying you with the way your slick drips down his chin from just the teasing alone.

bokuto’s eyes flick up to yours—dark, focused, starving.

“when i say sit,” he says, voice dropping into something low and commanding, “i mean it.”

and with that—he pulls you down.

his hands grip your thighs with intention, broad and strong and sure, and he seats you on his face in one swift, fluid motion. there’s no more hovering, no more hiding. your pussy sinks fully onto his mouth, and his lips part with a groan like he’s been waiting for this since the moment he first touched you tonight.

“k—kou—” you cry out, voice pitching into something breathless and broken.

but he doesn't stop.

his arms wrap around the backs of your thighs, locking you in place. his grip is firm, possessive, but still gentle—like he’s holding something precious and refuses to let it go.

and then he devours you.

his mouth moves with purpose now, tongue pressing flat against your clit and dragging in long, unrelenting strokes. he moans into you, deep and greedy, like the taste of your cunt is all he’s ever needed. the vibrations shoot up your spine, your hands scrambling to grip the headboard, the sheets, anything.

you try to lift off—just a little, just to breathe—but he holds you tighter, arms flexing, anchoring you in place.

“no,” he groans against you. “stay. you’re not going anywhere.”

his voice is muffled but clear, and it sends another rush of slick from your core straight onto his tongue.

your thighs clamp around his head without meaning to, and instead of backing off, he groans again—louder, messier—and pulls you closer, burying himself deeper between your thighs like your body is his religion.

you’re already shaking, panting, hips rocking against his mouth now in a desperate, aching rhythm. every drag of his tongue, every flick and swirl over your clit, is maddening—precise. practiced. like he’s memorized you. like his entire existence is wired to make you fall apart on his face.

his lips suck softly, then harder, the change in pressure making your thighs tremble violently around his head.

“f-fuck, kou—” you gasp, voice caught somewhere between a cry and a moan, your head falling back as your hands scramble to brace yourself against the headboard.

your legs threaten to lift, to flee the overwhelming pressure building low in your belly, but he’s not letting you go anywhere. his arms only tighten around your thighs, pulling you down, locking you in place like your pussy belongs to his mouth and his mouth alone.

he groans in response—needy, wrecked, starved—and the sound vibrates directly against your clit, sending your hips into another desperate grind against his face.

“fuck,” you whimper again, eyes fluttering open just enough to glance at the mirror.

the sight nearly undoes you.

you—naked, flushed, breasts bouncing with every trembling breath. your thighs draped over bokuto’s broad shoulders, his silver hair buried between your legs, thick arms holding you down like he’ll die if you pull away. his muscles flex with each lick, his body completely beneath yours, fully focused on worshiping every part of you.

and your face… your mouth open in a soundless moan, tears prickling the corners of your eyes. pleasure turning you into something undone. something sacred.

“kou—kou, i’m—i can’t—” you gasp, but the words blur into a sob as your orgasm tears through you without warning.

your thighs clamp around his face. your hips buck. your body shakes uncontrollably as you scream his name.

bokuto doesn’t stop. he moans, dragging his tongue through your release, licking you through every wave of pleasure like he’s addicted. like you’re feeding him something holy.

“that’s it,” he pants when he finally pulls away for air, lips soaked, voice absolutely wrecked. “that’s my good girl… fuck, you taste so good.”

your body slumps forward, chest heaving, and he holds you against him as you shake—still grounded, still safe, still in his arms.

and his voice, low and reverent beneath you, whispers:

“and i haven’t even started fucking you yet.”

his voice is rough—breathy, low, wrecked from being buried between your thighs—but there’s a glimmer of that boyish awe still in it. like he can’t believe he gets to have you like this. again. and again.

he kisses your thigh once more before gently helping you up. his hands stay warm and steady beneath you, supporting your weight as he lifts you from his face. you whimper at the loss of contact, still trembling, your body sensitive and flushed, your thighs sticky with your release.

“easy,” he soothes, rubbing slow circles over your hips as he helps you lower yourself onto your knees beside him.

you barely have time to catch your breath before he shifts behind you, kneeling. his hands are firm as they guide your body forward, pressing between your shoulder blades, easing your chest down onto the mattress.

“face the mirror, baby,” he murmurs, one hand sliding up your back. “i want you to see everything.”

your arms brace against the bed, head lifting just enough to see your reflection—messy hair, parted lips, heavy eyes, your body trembling but wanting.

bokuto groans as he takes in the sight from behind. “god, you’re beautiful like this.”

he kneels between your thighs, spreading your legs wider with gentle hands, his thumbs brushing over the stretch marks that line your hips and ass.

he leans down, pressing a kiss right at the dip of your spine.

then another. lower.

“these marks,” he murmurs, lips trailing the backs of your thighs. “i love every single one.”

you tremble beneath him, thighs twitching. “kou…”

“shh,” he hushes. “just breathe for me.”

his hand slides between your thighs again, fingers grazing your soaked folds, and he moans at the wetness still dripping from you. “still so ready for me. even after all that.”

you can feel him now—his cock, thick and hard, pressed against the curve of your ass as he lines himself up.

he leans over you, chest against your back, his hand curling under to gently hold your belly.

“you ready for me, pretty girl?”

you nod, voice barely a whisper. “yes. please.”

he smiles against your shoulder, warm and breathless, nuzzling the soft space where your neck meets your spine. his fingers splay across your waist like he’s grounding himself—like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality.

“you always take me so well,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe. “like you were made for me.”

then—slowly—he begins to push in.

and no matter how long you’ve been his, no matter how many nights he’s touched you like this, it never changes: the sheer stretch of him, the way your body strains and clings and burns as he eases inside.

bokuto’s cock is thick—obscenely so. you can feel every vein, every throb, every hot inch of him forcing your walls to part, welcoming the slow invasion.

“f-fuck, kou,” you choke out, fingers clawing at the sheets as your arms buckle. “you’re too big—”

“shh,” he soothes, voice thick and ragged. “you’re doing so good. look how perfect you are for me. look.”

his hand slides beneath your belly, lifting you just slightly, angling you up toward the mirror.

“eyes up, pretty girl,” he murmurs. “don’t look away.”

your gaze flickers up—just barely—and your breath catches.

the reflection is devastating.

you, on all fours, soft thighs parted wide, back arched. your flushed body trembling as bokuto’s hips press close to yours, his thick cock slowly sinking deeper and deeper into your soaked, desperate pussy. your breasts sway with each shaky breath. your mouth hangs open. your lashes flutter.

behind you, bokuto looks wild. hair tousled, jaw clenched, his big hands gripping your hips like he’s barely holding himself back.

you can see the stretch. you can see how full you are.

your pussy flutters around him just at the sight.

“don’t look away,” he repeats, voice darker now. “you keep those eyes on the mirror.”

and you try.

but the heat curling in your gut, the pressure, the fullness—it overwhelms you, makes your head drop with a moan as your arms start to shake.

smack.

you yelp as his palm lands clean across your ass, the sting making your back arch harder.

“kou—”

“what did i say?” he growls, leaning forward, his lips brushing your ear. “keep your eyes on the mirror.”

his hand kneads your ass gently after the spank, soothing it even as his hips grind deeper.

“you need to see what i see,” he breathes. “how beautiful you look when you’re filled up. how fucking perfect this body is. how much it turns me on to watch you take every inch.”

you whimper, eyes fluttering back up—locking onto the mirror again. and you do see it now.

the way your body ripples with every slow thrust. the way your pussy grips him. the stretch of your stomach, your breasts, the marks lining your hips and back—and the way bokuto’s looking at you like you’re a dream.

“look at that pussy,” he groans, pulling out halfway only to thrust back in, deeper this time. “see how she pulls me in? she wants me.”

your whole body jolts, a broken moan falling from your lips.

then—your head tips down again, overwhelmed.

smack.

“eyes up, baby,” he says again, breathless now. “that’s two. don’t make me count to five.”

you whine, tears prickling your lashes as you force your eyes back to the mirror.

“there you go,” he praises, slowing down just enough to grind into you, cock pressing against the softest parts inside you. “you’re doing so fucking good for me.”

his thrusts start to build—steady, deep, intentional. his hand stays splayed beneath your belly, holding you steady, while the other grips your hip tight enough to leave marks.

“i want you to remember this,” he groans. “remember how good you look. how full you feel. how loved you are.”

you sob out a moan, thighs trembling. “kou—i’m close—”

his eyes snap to yours through the mirror, dark and burning, almost feral with how much he wants you. and then you squeal—a short, breathy sound—when he suddenly pulls you upright from your hands and knees.

your back meets his chest, hot and solid, as his arms wrap around you and settle you against him. his cock stays buried inside you the whole time, thick and deep and stretching you even more in this position. you feel your walls pulse around him, overstimulated and raw, and he groans low into your shoulder.

“fuck, baby,” he pants, holding you tightly. “you feel so good. i could stay in you forever.”

your body trembles, soft and flushed, your thighs slick and shaking from how full you are, how overwhelmed you feel—especially when you lock eyes with yourself again in the mirror.

bokuto towers behind you.

his broad chest pressed to your back, skin sticky with sweat. his arms cradling your body like you’re something precious, like you’ll float away if he lets go. his cock still buried deep, your cunt wrapped tight around him. and he’s watching you. watching the way your belly heaves with each breath, the way your breasts bounce with every pulse of your hips, the stretch marks lining your skin like stardust.

his hand—warm and rough—slides down your side, past the curve of your waist, and rests on your stomach.

he massages there, deliberately. slow, grounding, and loving.

"you know what i see when i touch you here?" he murmurs against your skin. “i see the woman who gave me everything. the body that carried our son. the softness i come home to. the warmth that’s always been mine.”

your eyes gloss with emotion.

“don’t look away,” he says again, voice like velvet—deep, commanding, tender. “keep your eyes on that mirror. keep watching how good you look. how perfect you are when i’m inside you.”

his other hand slides up to your breast, cupping it fully, worshiping the weight of it in his palm. he groans under his breath as he massages it gently, thumb brushing over your nipple before rolling it between his fingers until you cry out again.

“look at these,” he rasps. “so full. so fucking heavy. they got even bigger after you had our baby. god, i’m obsessed.”

you gasp again, your whole body tightening. “kou, i’m—i can’t—i need to—”

“shh, i got you.”

his hand trails down, past your stomach, slipping through your slick folds—and the moment his fingers find your clit, your hips jerk and your cunt clamps down around him with a desperate squeeze.

he freezes for a beat.

and then—groans, deep and primal into your ear.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you just clenched so hard, baby. you feel that?”

he rubs your clit in tight, slow circles, never breaking eye contact through the mirror. you’re falling apart in his arms, your body melting, every nerve on fire. he watches every twitch of your mouth, every flutter of your lashes, every tremor in your legs.

and then he leans in, lips brushing your temple.

“you’re gonna come again, aren’t you?”

“i—i can’t stop—”

“don’t,” he growls. “don’t stop. i want it. i need it. come on my cock, baby. let me feel it. let me feel this pussy take me again.”

you cry out, high and raw, but he’s not done.

his hand on your stomach tenses, and he lowers his voice even further—gravel, hunger, possession.

“you know what else this perfect body’s gonna do?”

you can’t answer. you’re shaking too hard. his cock twitches inside you, and his hand keeps working your clit until you’re seeing stars.

“she’s gonna take my cum,” he whispers, lips right at your jaw. “she’s gonna take every drop. and you’re not gonna let a single bit go to waste.”

your walls flutter again, the edge creeping so close it’s unbearable.

“you want it, don’t you?” he growls, breath hot in your ear. “want me to fill you up again. knock you up. fuck another baby into this perfect body.”

his cock is still deep inside you, thick and pulsing, your pussy fluttering with every word he says, every stroke he grinds into you from behind. his chest is pressed to your back, his arm wrapped tightly around your waist, and the other hand still palming your breast like it’s his.

and it is.

you’re his.

his wife. his love. the mother of his son.

and his whole body is trembling behind you like he’s on the edge of worship.

“you remember how beautiful you were?” he murmurs now, his voice dipping low—almost reverent. “when you were pregnant? glowing. fuck, you glowed every day.”

he massages your soft belly with his palm, slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing it all over again.

“you used to waddle around the kitchen in my shirts and nothing else, holding your back, rubbing your belly, so damn radiant. and your tits—god, baby, they were so swollen. always sore.”

his hand trails up, cupping your breast again, squeezing gently like he’s remembering them full and aching with milk, like he’s picturing you sitting between his thighs, flushed and tired, as he helped ease the ache with his mouth.

“i used to kiss them for you,” he whispers, nuzzling behind your ear. “suck them soft until the pain faded. said it helped you sleep, but fuck, i just loved the taste of you. i still do.”

your moan is wet and broken. you grind back against him, your hips helplessly chasing friction.

“you were so sensitive back then,” he pants, thrusting slowly, so deep you swear you can feel him pressing right against your womb. “so full. so warm. i loved how your body carried our baby—how it carried me.”

his thumb drops to your clit again, circling, rubbing you fast and hard in contrast to the slow drag of his cock inside you. your walls clamp around him and you cry out, overwhelmed.

“fuck,” he groans, gripping you tighter. “you feel that? how you’re squeezing me? like your body already wants it—wants to be bred again.”

you’re gasping, shaking, your orgasm building fast—too fast.

and then, his hand catches your chin and tilts your face up.

“look at me,” he says. “no—look at you.”

he turns your gaze to the mirror. “don’t look away this time. when you cum, you watch yourself. i want you to see what i see.”

your breath stutters, vision hazy, but you obey—and what you see almost pushes you over the edge.

you, flushed and ruined, stretched wide and full of him. your breasts bouncing slightly from the motion of his hips. your belly, soft and glowing with sweat. his thick arms wrapped around you, his cock buried inside you, and his eyes locked on your reflection like you’re something holy.

“you see it?” he murmurs. “see how good you look when you’re falling apart?”

you moan, your body writhing. “kou—i’m—i’m cumming—”

“that’s it,” he growls, thrusting deeper, faster now. “cum for me. fall apart on my cock. watch yourself break.”

you scream, your orgasm crashing into you like a wave. your entire body seizes, your pussy clenching tight around him in pulsing waves, your vision swimming as your hips jerk against his.

and bokuto loses it.

he grunts, his thrusts turning messy, erratic, slamming into your overstimulated cunt with everything he’s got. he fucks you through your orgasm, chasing his own with pure, primal desperation.

“fuck—fuck, baby,” he moans, voice cracking. “you’re milking me—i’m—gonna—”

he slams into you one final time and holds—buried so deep it feels like he’s in your throat.

then he cums.

hot, thick spurts flooding your pussy, pulse after pulse, his cock twitching deep inside you. he groans your name into your shoulder, his body trembling as he fills you to the brim, his arms locked tight around your belly like he’s claiming you again—all of you.

he stays like that for a long moment, breathing hard, lips pressed against your neck.

“you’re mine,” he whispers, softer now. “always have been. always will be.”

his fingers slip between your legs again, pressing gently at your cunt as his cum starts to leak around him.

“look at that,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder. “filled you up so good, you can’t even hold it in.”

you whimper, body trembling from sensitivity, exhaustion, love.

and then he kisses the back of your neck — slow, tender, proud.

“you ready to make another baby with me?” he breathes, voice low and wrecked. “’cause i’m not stopping until this pretty pussy keeps it.”

he meant it.

bokuto was insatiable.

you thought it would end there — the way your thighs shook, how his cum leaked down your legs, how your body trembled in his arms — but no. he reminded you with every grip of your hips, every reverent kiss down your spine, that his love wasn’t soft tonight. it was devouring.

he bent you over the vanity next, hand gripping your jaw so you could see how wild you looked taking him again, your slick dripping down your thighs.

he took you pressed to the wall, one of your legs thrown over his shoulder, whispering against your ear how this body made him a father, how it would again.

and then — in the center of the room — he laid you down on the floor.

mating press.

your knees pinned to your chest, your belly soft beneath his palms, his body heavy over yours, cock driving into you slow and deep.

“you feel that?” he grunted, his pace bruising. “this is how i know it’ll stick. how your pussy was meant to keep me.”

you sobbed his name — again.

your body gave in completely, writhing beneath him as another orgasm tore through you. and then another. and another, until your voice was barely a whisper and your limbs were limp, trembling, surrendered entirely to the man still pressed so deeply inside you.

your eyes were glassy, unfocused, your lips red and parted, throat raw from the way he'd made you scream for him. your cunt was throbbing, messy and soaked and overflowing with everything he’d poured into you.

you were shaking — overstimulated, dazed, ruined in the most loving way.

you felt so full.

so warm.

every inch of you pulsed with the weight of him — his body, his love, his release.

bokuto leaned over you slowly, body still blanketing yours in the final position — that tight, delicious mating press. your thighs were spread wide, knees pinned by the strength of his arms. he hadn’t pulled out. his cock was still buried inside you, twitching gently, warm and thick, keeping every drop in place.

“look at you,” he murmured, forehead resting against yours, lips brushing your cheek. “you took it all.”

he lifted himself just enough to trail a hand down your soft, sweat-slick stomach. his palm splayed wide across the curve, warm and gentle, his thumb brushing the faint stretch marks with reverence. he watched the way your stomach rose and fell under his touch, your breath still shallow, uneven.

“you feel that?” he whispered. “how full you are?”

you let out a breathless whimper, and he groaned low against your ear.

“with how much i filled you up, baby,” he rasped, voice full of pride and hunger and love, “you’re gonna be pregnant again in no time.”

his hips rolled forward slowly — just a little — and you gasped, your body instinctively trying to clamp down around him again despite the overstimulation.

“gonna get to see you like that all over again,” he breathed, kissing down your jawline. “all round and glowing. tits heavy. belly soft and full of our baby. fuck, you were already perfect, and then you went and gave me a son. and i didn’t think i could love you more, but i did.”

he kissed you — deeply, slowly, like a man who had nowhere else to be.

you moaned into his mouth, and tears prickled behind your eyes — not from pain, not even from pleasure — but from the way he held you, like you were sacred. his.

he pulled back and looked down at you, eyes still hazy with lust but now softened at the edges. his thumb brushed the damp hair off your forehead. “hey,” he murmured. “you okay?”

you nodded, voice shaky. “mm-hmm… just—feel so full.”

he chuckled, low and tender. “yeah, you are. i made sure of that.”

you laughed faintly, and he kissed your forehead before gently, gently easing himself out of you.

you whimpered at the emptiness, the slow leak of his cum slipping out between your thighs.

bokuto caught it — cupping your pussy with his palm as he reached for your thigh with the other hand, coaxing them closed. “not wasting a single drop,” he muttered. “need you to keep it in for me.”

then — slow, careful, loving — he shifted you into his arms and picked you up off the floor like you weighed nothing.

you whimpered softly, nuzzling into his chest, dazed and raw and utterly spent. but his grip was steady. protective. sure. bokuto held you like you were the most precious thing in the world — and to him, you were.

his voice rumbled low as he kissed your hair, “let’s get you cleaned up, pretty girl.”

he walked you to the bathroom, one arm under your thighs, the other wrapped securely around your back. the lights were low, casting everything in warm gold — just enough to see the tenderness in his eyes.

he gently set you down on the bathroom counter, making sure you were stable before brushing your hair behind your ears.

“stay here for me, yeah?” he said softly, thumb stroking your cheek. “just a second.”

you nodded weakly, legs still trembling from how thoroughly he’d ruined you.

he turned to the tub, opening the faucet with a practiced hand, testing the water until it was the perfect warm. then he poured in your favorite bath soak — the one you always kept in the back of the cabinet, the one you only used on nights you really needed comfort.

he added a few drops of oil, swirled the water until it clouded and steamed with calming lavender and vanilla. the scent filled the air instantly.

you watched him from the mirror — broad back, tousled hair, strong hands moving with such care. it made something flutter in your chest.

he glanced at you, eyes softening. “almost ready.”

once the tub was full, he turned back to you, stepping between your thighs. his hands cradled your hips, and he kissed your forehead before trailing his lips down your cheek.

“you did so good tonight,” he whispered, voice thick with love. “i know i was a little much… but fuck, i just couldn’t help myself. you’re too perfect.”

you leaned into him, letting his warmth soothe the ache between your thighs.

he helped you down gently, one hand holding yours, the other steady at your back as he guided you into the bath. the water welcomed you like a hug.

bokuto knelt beside the tub, his palm warm and grounding as it slid down your arm. “gonna wash your hair, okay?” he murmured. “then your back… and everything else.”

you gave a small, sleepy hum, melting further into the fragrant warmth of the bath. the soft scent of lavender curled in the steam, your skin flushed from heat and afterglow. your muscles were spent, your thighs sore, your pussy still tender from how many times he’d pulled you apart — but your heart felt light. your body was still trembling with the memory of him, but wrapped in peace.

you heard the water shift again — not from your own movement, but from his.

you opened your eyes just in time to see bokuto stand, fully naked, thick thighs flexing, bare chest flushed and glistening with sweat. his cock hung heavy between his legs, still spent but twitching faintly at the sight of you in the water — your body soft, glowing, marked up from head to toe with his kisses, his grip, his love.

“you didn’t think i was gonna let you bathe alone, did you?” he grinned, stepping into the tub behind you. “not after i ruined you like that.”

bokuto slid into the bath behind you, his broad frame easing into the water with practiced care. his strong thighs bracketing yours beneath the surface, his chest flush to your back, skin to skin. the bathwater sloshed softly around you both, the scent of lavender and vanilla blooming thick in the air, curling like a lullaby in the rising steam.

he exhaled deeply, his arms immediately wrapping around your middle, palms spreading wide across your soft belly like a promise.

you let yourself melt into him.

“mmm… you okay?” he asked, voice soft and gruff against your ear, his lips brushing your damp skin.

you nodded, barely able to respond. your limbs felt heavy from release after release. your pussy still throbbed — used and full. your breasts ached from how often he’d touched and worshipped them. your voice was wrecked from the way he’d made you scream. but despite it all, your chest was light. your body was warm. you were loved.

“you’re amazing,” bokuto murmured again as if reading your thoughts, his hands stroking up your sides. “i mean it. i could hold you like this forever.”

you smiled softly, cheek pressing to his shoulder.

he kissed your temple, then reached for the washcloth, dipping it into the water and wringing it out with gentle fingers. when he brought it to your skin, the warmth made you shiver.

he started at your collarbone, working slowly downward — your chest, between your breasts, under them. his palm lifted the weight of one, then the other, fingers gentle as he cleaned them carefully. your nipples, still sensitive, stiffened instantly, and you gasped lightly.

“sorry,” he whispered, not sounding sorry at all. “just love how soft you are.”

his cloth slid lower, over your belly, tracing the stretch marks with such care it made your throat tighten. you didn’t need to look to know he was staring — the way he always did — like you were art. like every mark on your skin was something sacred.

his voice dropped again. “i love your body so much, you know that?”

you nodded, not trusting your voice.

and then his hand dipped between your thighs, parting them under the water. you tensed at first, a small gasp catching in your throat, but he didn’t rush. he took his time, sweeping between your folds, careful around the raw ache that lingered from how deeply he’d claimed you.

his fingers brushed against the oversensitive bundle of nerves and your hips jerked. “kou…”

he immediately stopped. “too much?”

you shook your head quickly — then surprised even yourself with the next words that left your lips.

“…can you…” you hesitated, voice barely a whisper, “can you finger me again?”

bokuto blinked, as if trying to decide whether he heard you right. his grip around your waist tightened slightly, chest rising behind you.

“you want me to?” he asked, low and careful. “after everything?”

you swallowed. “i just want to feel you again. like that. just once more. please.”

he didn’t answer with words at first. just pressed a long, slow kiss to your neck, a soft groan humming through his chest.

“you don’t have to ask me twice, baby,” he whispered, one hand sliding lower beneath the water again. “but we go slow, okay? real slow. i’ll stop if it’s too much.”

you nodded.

and then you felt it — the subtle stretch as one thick finger slid into you, slow and unhurried. the water around you rippled, your hips rising slightly despite yourself.

you gasped — body trembling under the slow, careful press of his fingers inside you. you were still so sensitive, still pulsing with the aftershocks of everything he'd already given you. every inch of you felt flushed, open, raw in the best way. the bathwater lapped softly around your bodies, steam curling over your skin as the scent of lavender lingered thick in the air.

his fingers stretched you gently, curling slow and deep inside, and it was almost too much — too intimate, too tender, too good.

“still so warm,” bokuto murmured into your neck, his breath making your skin prickle. “still so wet for me.”

and then one of his hands slid upward — over the swell of your stomach, across the curve of your chest — before cupping one heavy breast in his palm. he groaned softly at the feel of it, like he still couldn’t believe you were real. how soft. how full. how his.

his thumb brushed lightly over your nipple, and you arched, breath hitching.

“fuck,” you whispered, voice breaking.

bokuto smiled against your jaw. “i know, baby. you're so sensitive right now, aren't you?”

he pinched your nipple gently between his fingers — not enough to hurt, but just enough to make you jolt. the dual sensation — his fingers stretching your pussy while his other hand teased your chest — left you whining, breath coming in shallow gasps.

“kou—” your voice cracked again, hips rolling instinctively toward his hand, searching for more, for deeper, for everything.

“yeah?” he coaxed, nuzzling into your shoulder. “what is it, pretty girl? too much?”

you shook your head — or tried to — as your fingers gripped his thighs under the water. “n-no. i… i need it.”

his breath caught, his rhythm stuttering for just a beat.

“then let me take care of you,” he said, voice low and reverent. “let me make you feel everything.”

his thumb rolled over your nipple again, slow and purposeful, and his fingers inside you pressed deeper — hitting just the right spot, right where you ached, again and again. your body was squirming in his lap now, overwhelmed by sensation, trembling from overstimulation and how deeply he knew you.

his mouth found the shell of your ear.

“you’re so fucking perfect like this,” he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “soft and sensitive and all mine.”

his fingers curled deeper inside you, and then his pace began to pick up — still gentle, but more deliberate now, like he knew exactly what you needed, what your body was begging for even before you could ask.

his thumb never left your nipple, rubbing it in slow, steady circles as your chest heaved, your moans spilling out freely now.

the pressure built fast, heat blooming low in your belly as the wet sound of his fingers moving inside you filled the bathroom, layered with your whimpers and the soft splash of water. the rhythm was hypnotic — the pulse of pleasure spiraling up your spine with every stroke, every squeeze, every word murmured into your skin.

“you’re gonna come for me again, aren’t you?” he murmured, nosing along your neck. “even after everything. fuck, baby… look at you.”

your body tensed, your back arched, and your head dropped back fully onto his shoulder.

“kou—i—” your voice caught as the wave overtook you.

and then you shattered.

your body convulsed in the water, pleasure crashing through you in long, slow pulses that dragged a sob from your throat. your walls clenched around his fingers, your thighs trembling against his, your hand gripping his arm like a lifeline.

bokuto held you through it, murmuring praise against your skin — soft, breathless things like “that’s it,” and “so good for me,” and “i’ve got you, baby, i’ve got you.”

he slowed his hand gradually, easing you through the high, never rushing, never letting go.

when your breathing finally steadied, when your body sagged back against his chest, spent and heavy, he kissed your cheek and held you tighter.

“still with me?” he whispered, voice thick with warmth.

you nodded weakly, your breath still shallow, your body limp and trembling in his arms. every inch of you ached in that blissful, used way — soft and sore and full of him.

bokuto kissed your temple, slow and lingering, and murmured, “good girl.”

he shifted slightly behind you, never letting go, and reached again for the cloth he’d set aside earlier. the water had grown cooler now, but his touch was still warm — always warm.

“let me clean you up again,” he said softly, more to himself than to you. “you did so good, baby.”

he dipped the cloth into the water, wrung it out, and gently parted your legs again beneath the surface. this time, there was no teasing, no pressure — just quiet reverence in the way he moved. his hand was firm but careful, wiping away the slick, the stickiness, and the mess he’d made of you.

you whimpered softly at the contact — your body still tender, your thighs twitching reflexively with every slow pass of the cloth between your folds.

“i know, i know,” he soothed, his free hand holding your thigh steady under the water. “you’re sensitive. just one more second, pretty girl.”

he was meticulous. thorough. he cleaned every trace of your shared high with that same unhurried love — the kind that never demanded, never took, only gave. he rinsed the cloth and went again, brushing over your skin, careful around the curve of your belly, the inner crease of your thigh, and the backs of your knees.

you were pliant in his arms now, your head tucked into the crook of his neck, barely moving except for the slow rise and fall of your chest.

once he was sure you were clean, he tossed the cloth to the edge of the tub and wrapped his arms back around you, holding you close again, skin to skin, his lips grazing your shoulder in a kiss that lingered.

“all clean,” he whispered. “all mine.”

the bathwater had cooled, the steam fading from the mirror, but his hands never stopped being warm. never stopped holding you like you were something sacred.

you stayed against him a moment longer, your head on his shoulder, heart beating steady in his chest. there was no rush. not with him. bokuto always made time stretch for you, made quiet feel like love.

when you finally nodded, wordlessly telling him you were ready to get out, he moved first — careful not to jostle you as he stood. he grabbed the softest towel you owned, the big one you both shared sometimes, and opened it wide.

he helped you to your feet like he was lifting something breakable. he didn’t just hold the towel out for you — he wrapped it around you himself, tucking it around your chest before bringing you close, enveloping you in his body again.

his nose nuzzled your temple. “c’mere, baby. let me take care of you.”

he carried you out of the bathroom like you weighed nothing, like you weren’t still trembling from everything he’d given you — like you weren’t the heaviest thing in his heart.

he set you on the edge of the bed, crouching in front of you. “stay here. i’ll get everything ready.”

you watched as he padded across the room — still naked, still damp, but moving with the unshakable intent of a man on a mission.

he returned with your favorite lotion, a fresh pair of soft cotton clothes, and another towel. then, without a word, he knelt in front of you again, gently patting your arms and shoulders dry.

“you always take care of everyone else,” he murmured. “let me do this for you.”

he rubbed the towel over your legs, your back, careful not to tug or rush. his fingers worked with intention — not just drying you, but loving you in every pass.

and then he opened the bottle of lotion and warmed some between his hands.

he started at your shoulders, massaging slow, soft circles into your skin. you sighed at the first touch — already more relaxed than you’d realized.

his hands glided down your arms, around your elbows, to your wrists and fingers. “still with me?” he asked softly.

you nodded.

when he moved lower, to your chest and belly, he didn’t just pass over them. he lingered — fingertips pressing gently into your softest places, reverent, unhurried.

his thumbs traced the stretch marks that curved along your sides and lower abdomen. the marks you'd once resented, once tried to hide.

he didn’t hide them. he touched them like they were beautiful.

“these,” he whispered, fingers brushing over one gently, “remind me of what your body’s done. what it’s given us.”

he leaned forward and kissed just above your belly button.

“you’re still the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen.”

your throat tightened. “kou…”

he looked up, eyes shining with so much softness it nearly undid you. “you think i don’t notice how hard you are on yourself? how sometimes you avoid the mirror? baby, don’t. don’t you dare. not when i look at you and see the woman i married. the woman who made me a father. the love of my life. you’re everything.”

his voice cracked a little — just a fraction — and your chest clenched.

he moved lower again, smoothing the lotion across your thighs and calves, his palms broad and soothing. when he reached the stretch marks along your hips, he took his time, rubbing them in slow, circular motions, whispering praise between kisses he pressed gently against them.

you let out a shaky breath.

then — like it was second nature — he reached for the clothes he’d laid out.

“arms up, pretty girl.”

you obeyed without thinking, trusting him. he slipped the soft tank top over your head, pulled it down gently, smoothing it over your stomach like he was tucking in love itself. then came your shorts — he knelt again, guiding your legs one at a time, pulling the fabric up over your hips with so much care.

once you were dressed, his hands lingered at your waist. his thumbs stroked the skin just beneath the hem of your top, then he pressed his forehead to your belly and stayed there, breathing you in.

you let your fingers card through his damp hair.

he looked up slowly, his eyes soft and steady.

“i love every part of you,” he whispered, voice barely audible over your breathing. “every change. every curve. every scar. every stretch mark. i loved you before. i love you now. i’ll love you through everything that’s still to come.”

your heart clenched at the weight of it — not heavy, but grounding. solid. the kind of love that never asked you to shrink, only to exist as you are. the kind that looked at you and saw home.

bokuto finally pulled back, kissed the space just above your heart one last time, then stood to pull on his pajama pants — low-slung on his hips, the waistband still damp from his skin. he didn’t bother with a shirt. he rarely did. and tonight, in the dim golden light of the room, with the scent of lotion still clinging to your skin, you were grateful for the view.

he returned to your side immediately, taking your hand as if it was a reflex. “bedtime, pretty girl,” he said with a sleepy grin, tugging you toward the pillows.

you let him guide you down, your body too relaxed and content to do anything but lean into him. as soon as you were under the covers, he was on you — not with hunger this time, but with an explosion of affection.

“mmwah! mmwah! mmwah!” he planted kisses all over your face — your cheeks, your forehead, your jaw, even the tip of your nose — with exaggerated little sounds for each one.

you laughed, trying to squirm away. “kou! i just got clean!”

“you’re my wife!” he declared proudly, grinning as he peppered your temple with more. “my perfect, beautiful wife! i can kiss you as much as i want!”

“not if i drown in your spit.”

he gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “you wound me.”

but the way he was smiling — eyes crinkling, dimples out, full of warmth — you knew he was exactly where he wanted to be. the soft, affectionate post-aftercare bokuto was replaced now by the one you fell in love with — boisterous, a little ridiculous, and entirely yours.

he flopped beside you, wrapping his arms around your waist again, curling in like he never wanted to leave your side.

“you think they noticed we didn’t show up?” you asked quietly, snuggling deeper into him.

he snorted. “baby, they definitely noticed. hinata probably texted. sakusa’s probably relieved. and atsumu’s definitely making up stories.”

“kou,” you groaned, burying your face into his chest again.

he laughed, fingers tracing slow circles against the soft stretch of your lower back. “let ‘em talk. i got my pretty girl in my arms and nothing else matters.”

“we probably looked really dressed up,” you mumbled. “and then we disappeared.”

bokuto gave a low, amused hum, then nuzzled into your hair. “to be fair, i was a lost cause the moment you walked out in that dress. i was trying to behave, but then you turned around and i saw your back—those stretch marks, your skin, the ribbon? fuck, babe. i blacked out.”

you laughed again, swatting his chest lightly, but he only caught your hand and brought it to his lips, kissing each knuckle.

a beat of silence passed, full of contentment.

then bokuto sighed — soft, warm, and honest — and tucked his chin over your head.

“we should sleep,” he mumbled. “we gotta pick up our little guy tomorrow.”

you smiled, the thought of your son blooming in your chest like something sunlit and steady.

“he’s probably worn grandma out.”

“she’ll survive,” bokuto teased. “but we won’t if we show up sleep-deprived and looking freshly wrecked.”

you laughed again, sleep tugging at your limbs.

he adjusted the blanket over you both, arm still around your middle, one hand lazily stroking your stomach beneath your shirt. every touch was gentler now — no rush, no pressure. just love. thick and lingering in the silence.

“i missed this,” he whispered after a pause.

“what?” you asked sleepily.

“you. us. not just the sex — but the way it feels after. like the world got quiet again.”

you smiled into his chest. “i missed it too.”

“then let’s never wait this long again,” he said, kissing the crown of your head. “deal?”

you nodded, eyelids heavy, heart full.

and with his warmth wrapped around you, with soft kisses still ghosting over your skin, you finally let yourself fall asleep — loved, safe, and completely at home.

“Am I wrong?” he asked, not missing a beat.

“Yes?” You looked down at your sandwich. “I… don’t know how to properly respond to that.”

Akaashi gave the faintest smile, his eyes flickering with mischief. “Stage three is the little sigh you do afterward. Like you just survived a great war. Then you sniff once and pretend it didn’t just shake the room.”

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he admitted with a shrug, “but it’s endearing. You sneeze like a bazooka. It’s adorable.”

“No one’s ever called a bazooka adorable.”

“I’m a trailblazer,” he said matter-of-factly.

-

There were his journal entries—yes, journal entries—about you. You found one once by accident, tucked between a book of poetry and a volleyball strategy book. He didn’t write about major milestones like one might expect. No, you found out your boyfriend documented the way your nose crinkled when you lied, or how your left hand twitches a little when you were anxious.

There was an entire paragraph dedicated to the way you wrapped your scarf, how it was “disarmingly efficient, yet always crooked to the left, like her heart’s trying to lean on someone without asking.”

Who says that?

Akaashi Keiji, apparently.

He once paused mid-sentence in a phone call with Bokuto because you, half-asleep and grumpy, had mumbled something unintelligible from the other room (you had come over for a project and fell asleep after lunch). “She sounds like a disgruntled possum when she’s waking up,” he said dreamily. “It’s charming.”

...

“Akaashi. You okay?”

“More than okay.”

-

Akaashi even adjusted his wardrobe—not that he admitted it. You mentioned once, half-joking, that he looked really good in dark green, and suddenly half of his winter clothes were moss, olive, or emerald. You caught on when he started showing up with sleeves rolled halfway up because you once muttered something about liking the veins in his arms.

“Yum,” you murmur, squeezing his triceps before bursting into a fit of laughter after realizing how embarrassing you’re acting.

But you learned long ago that there was never such a thing as too embarrassing when Akaashi acted the same, if not to a greater degree. He wasn’t nonchalant. Not even close. He was... silly.

A helpless romantic who never made grand proclamations or public gestures but instead memorized the oddest, most mundane things about you like it was part of some sacred text.

And yet, he wasn’t clingy nor weird to the point of you being uncomfortable. He knows your boundaries well. He wasn’t overbearing or overly expressive. He just noticed. Quietly, constantly, lovingly. He didn’t tell you he loved you every day in words, but he knew the way you curled your pinky when you drank from your mug.

He knew you got cold at 3 a.m. even in the summer and always made sure a blanket was within reach. He noticed when you rewatched the same ten-minute section of your favorite show because you liked the background music.

He remembered the exact number of sugars you took in your coffee and the fact that your favorite mug was slightly chipped, but you used it anyway because it was a gift from your cousin. He once stopped mid-sentence while talking to Bokuto on the phone just to say, “She’s humming the Sailor Moon theme in the shower again,” with a fondness so full it made Bokuto gag.

Man, he was whole-body deep into loving you.

-

How Akaashi often spends a lot of time thinking about things that weren’t even that serious.

Like how, that one time, you laughed at someone else’s joke for a few seconds longer than how he’d normally get from you. He doesn’t even get jealous when someone’s flirting with you because he knows—you know—and you’re both trusting of one another.

But to hear you laugh for 1.7 seconds longer?

You might as well give up now, because this man is persistent.

“Are you seriously keeping time now?” you asked, laughing at his behavior.

“Yes, my dad raised me to be competitive.”

“Don’t bring him into this, Keiji,” you laughed.

He looked at you as if you hung the moon and individually painted the stars in the beautiful night sky itself. “You’re very pretty,” he says. “I think I might experience a heart attack.”

You hugged him so hard you nearly knocked his glasses off.

-

When you painted your nails—usually some soft pastel or neutral tone—he would watch intently, chin in his hand like an art critic evaluating a masterpiece. At first, you thought he was just being polite (to try and appear interested, since guys don’t usually find interest in these sorts of things), but when you noticed the way he always commented on the color and style like it was a whole personality trait, you realized it wasn’t an act.

“Oh, that shade of sage green,” he murmured once. “It makes your fingers look like they’ve been kissed by a forest spirit.”

“What does that even mean?” You laughed.

He blinked, entirely serious. “It’s a compliment.”

“Keiji, I told you. If you’re going through something, you tell me—not just like—act this way.” As a joke, of course.

He laughed too.

Eventually, Akaashi started doing them for you. It began as a fleeting thought—you had been painting your left hand with your non-dominant one, struggling to keep it clean, when he silently plucked the brush from you and started painting with delicate strokes.

“You’re going to mess it up,” you warned.

“I have steady hands,” he said with all the gravitas of a surgeon. “We did this in Home Economics, remember?”

“...Yeah.”

From then on, it became a quiet ritual. You’d sit in his lap or next to him on the bed while he carefully painted your nails (he prefers the first one but isn’t shameless enough to tell you most of the time), brows furrowed in concentration, tongue sometimes poking out as he focused too hard. And every time he picked a color, it came with an elaborate reason.

“This one reminds me of the sky right after it rains in early spring. Soft, muted, but a little hopeful.”

You’d pretend to roll your eyes, but your heart would always flutter. Because you won the boyfriend lottery with him.

Akaashi was just built like that. When you two cooked together, he’d narrate what you were doing like it was a documentary on divine beings. “And now, the goddess stirs the pot, bestowing warmth and nourishment unto mankind.”

“Stop it,” you giggled, flicking water at him. “Don’t narrate it like that. You’re making it sound like a case study.”

“But it’s fun,” he says with a smile.

“You’re so weird.”

“I’m so in love with you.”

And he truly is.

And you believe him.

Akaashi wasn’t nonchalant. He was soft-spoken, yes. Composed, yes. But behind that calm exterior was a boy with a mind full of your quirks and a heart that was overflowing with enough love to swallow you whole. And somehow, that made you feel even more lucky than you already were.

You notice him on a Tuesday.

Which is strange, because Tuesdays are usually your most half-hearted gym days. Mondays are for fake enthusiasm. Wednesdays are for convincing yourself you're halfway through the week and therefore invincible. But Tuesdays? Tuesdays are for regretting all your life choices while trudging on a treadmill and pretending not to hate everyone around you.

But then he appears.

Tall. Built like someone who owns multiple foam rollers and actually uses them. His hair is tousled in that “I totally woke up like this but in an expensive shampoo commercial way,” and his eyes—oh God, his eyes—are these wide, soft things, like they were stolen from a Disney deer. If Bambi decided to bulk up and develop a jawline.

You try not to stare. You fail.

He doesn’t look like a brooding gym type. No aggressive grunting. No primal chest thumps. No mirror selfies. Instead, he quietly sets up at the far corner near the free weights, earbuds in, hoodie on despite the heat. Private, maybe. Or shy. Or both.

You spend longer than you'd like to admit trying to figure out if he's intimidating or just doesn’t like people.

There's a difference, you think. Intimidating guys usually flex unnecessarily and wink at you when you’re just trying to do lunges without dying. This guy? He barely makes eye contact with anyone. When someone walks too close to his bench, he politely scoots over without making a fuss.

It's almost disappointing.

Because if he was a jerk, you could just write him off and move on with your life.

But no. Instead, he has the audacity to stretch quietly in the corner with perfect posture and soft eyelashes and forearms that look carved out of daydreams. Who even looks like that at your local gym? This isn’t Hollywood.

And you, meanwhile, are pretending to know how to deadlift properly while sneaking glances like you're trying to memorize the periodic table. You are not slick.

At one point, he catches you mid-glance, and for a brief, painful second, you both hold eye contact.

Your brain short-circuits.

You do the only logical thing and immediately look away like you've just remembered an urgent errand in the opposite direction. Possibly in another country.

You spend the rest of your workout way too aware of his presence. Like he’s gravity and your body is betraying you by orbiting around him.

You leave the gym sweaty, confused, and very annoyed with yourself. You don’t even know his name.

But you’re definitely going to find out.

=

A few days later and you’re at the gym again..

You're not proud of it, but you're here standing in front of a very complicated-looking machine that has too many pulleys and not enough labels. You've never used it before. You don’t even know its name. 

Chest press? Lat pulldown? Mid-life crisis simulator?

Honestly, you just got bored of the StairMaster. Your usual routine suddenly felt repetitive… or maybe it just felt less interesting now that he’s become part of your peripheral gym experience.

And hey, maybe it’s time to switch it up. Be spontaneous. Try new things. Be mysterious and well-rounded.

You immediately regret it.

Because you’ve been standing here for a full minute pretending to “study the mechanics” of this cursed contraption, while mostly just staring at the diagram like it’s written in ancient Sumerian. There are straps. Levers. Pins. Maybe even a hidden booby trap?

You tug at one handle, and it clonks loudly against the frame, echoing across the gym like the sound of your pride imploding.

And then—

“You, uh… planning to fight it or use it?”

The voice is soft, warm—teasing without being mean. Like maple syrup with a smirk.

You freeze. Your brain goes completely silent.

Because it’s him.

And God, he’s even better up close. There’s this effortless softness to him, like he’s not trying to be charming but it just… leaks out of him naturally. Like an accidental flirt. A boy-band heartthrob doing errands.

You laugh, but it comes out weird and high-pitched, like you’ve swallowed helium and regret all your life choices.

“I’m, uh. Studying it. For science.”

He grins, bright and immediate, like you’ve said the most charming thing ever. “Well, if you figure out how to make it time travel, let me know. I think it's supposed to be a row machine. Or a medieval torture device. Could go either way.”

“So,” he continues, still smiling, “want a hand? Or do you prefer to risk dislocating something for the thrill of it?”

You blink. “I mean… I do like to live dangerously.”

He chuckles, then steps closer. “Dangerous is not knowing which pin to pull and just yanking stuff randomly. Let me show you.”

You do your best to stay calm while he casually leans over, adjusting the weights, pulling one of the pins like it’s nothing. His arm brushes yours and it’s electric. Not in a dramatic, soul-bonding way—just enough to make you forget your own name for a second.

“There,” he says. “Now you just sit here, pull this toward your chest. Keep your back straight, don’t yank.”

You nod, fully intending to listen.

You will absolutely not remember a single word of that.

He steps back, giving you space, but that soft smile lingers like a secret between you. “You got this. I’m Joshua, by the way”

You quickly mumble your name back, then look at the equipment again

“Damn,” you say. “Guess I’ll have to actually work out now.”

He starts to walk away, then glances over his shoulder. “If you survive this thing, I’ll be impressed.”

You don’t say anything back. Mostly because your brain still hasn’t rebooted.

But your heart is definitely doing wind sprints.

After the brutal set you tried to finish, you grab your water bottle, stealing one last glance his way. He’s still watching.

You take a long sip of water, trying to ignore the way your pulse is very much not calming down. It’s not the workout. It’s not the row machine. It’s definitely not the totally casual conversation with the gym’s most charming human.

You glance back at him, and that teasing glint is still there, like he’s waiting for a comeback.

So you give him one.

“I’m gonna get you back,” you say, capping your bottle. “Just you wait until you try the StairMaster.”

He snorts. “Is that a threat?”

“Oh, absolutely. That thing humbles even the cockiest of men.”

He groans dramatically, head dropping back against the bench. “Ugh. Not the StairMaster. That thing is evil in mechanical form.”

You gasp, mock offended. “You take that back.”

“I won’t. It’s unnatural. No human should ever climb stairs endlessly to nowhere. It's a trap.”

You grin, arms crossed. “Spoken like someone who’s never reached the top.”

He squints at you suspiciously. “There’s no top. That’s the whole scam. It just keeps going until your legs give out and your soul leaves your body.”

“That’s where the character-building happens.”

“That’s where the near-death experience happens.”

You walk past him toward the water fountain, tossing a smirk over your shoulder. “Someday, Joshua. I’m gonna catch you on it. And when I do, I’ll be right there. Watching.”

He laughs, low and warm. “If that day comes, I expect emotional support. And probably an ambulance.”

“Nope,” you call back. “Only judgment.”

“Brutal.”

You glance at him again as you turn the corner. He’s still looking, shaking his head, that smile spreading slow like he’s already thinking about what he’s going to say next time.

And you? You’re definitely planning what machine to “accidentally” use wrong next.

=

A few days later, you’re back.

Same gym. Same playlist. Same questionable protein shake sloshing around in your stomach.

You’ve already stretched, done your usual warm-up, and for some reason—maybe it’s the memory of a certain pair of bambi-eyes watching you flirt with death on the row machine—you find yourself standing in front of the pull-up bar.

Just staring.

It stares back. Cold. Unforgiving. Judgy.

You’ve never really attempted it. You know you have the upper body strength of a sleepy cat. The last time you even tried, you managed one and a half reps and pulled a muscle in your neck that made it look like you were perpetually trying to dodge an awkward hug.

But today… today you’re thinking about it.

And thinking about it is basically halfway to doing it, right?

You clap your hands like you’re about to do something epic. Then you hop up, grab the handles, and immediately regret all your choices.

You get one. One clean pull-up, arms shaking, face doing things that definitely aren’t attractive.

The second one? You try. God, you try.

Halfway up, your arms begin to betray you. Your legs flail in a pathetic attempt to help. Your body says “absolutely not” and your pride goes down with you. You hang there, a weird little noodle of a human, wondering if there’s a graceful way to descend without collapsing completely.

“Alright,” a voice says behind you, amused. “Now that’s bravery.”

You don’t have to turn around to know who it is.

“Don’t,” you groan. “Don’t you dare say anything.”

Joshua’s laugh is warm and merciless. “I wasn’t gonna say anything! Just… observing. You know. For science.”

You drop down from the bar and turn to face him, breathless, cheeks burning, arms already sore.

“You’re stalking me,” you accuse, pointing a finger at him.

He raises both hands in mock surrender. “Hey. You were the one declaring StairMaster vengeance. I came to see if you were plotting.”

“Plotting,” you huff. “Right. Clearly I’m too busy being an upper-body icon.”

“Iconic,” he nods solemnly. “In the way baby goats are iconic for trying to jump and immediately falling over.”

You glare, but it’s only half-hearted. “Wow. First, sarcasm coach. Now personal trainer and comedian.”

“I contain multitudes,” he says, then glances up at the bar. “You almost had that second one though.”

You raise a brow. “You’re lying to make me feel better.”

“I’m lying to make me feel better,” he grins. “Because if you get better at this stuff, you’re gonna be way too powerful.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “Well, if I mysteriously vanish, check under the StairMaster. That’s where I hide all my victims.”

Joshua tilts his head, considering. “Dark. Unexpected. I like it.”

You’re just about to make some kind of witty escape when Joshua says it.

“Come on,” he nods toward the pull-up bar. “I’ll spot you.”

You blink. “You’ll what now?”

He’s already walking over, casual like it’s no big deal, like this isn’t a defining moment in your emotional history.

“Spot you,” he says again, glancing back at you with that stupidly gentle smile. “So you don’t fall to your dramatic death after one and a half pull-ups.”

You try to laugh. It comes out as more of a nervous wheeze.

“Very heroic of you,” you manage, eyeing the bar like it personally wronged you.

He shrugs, standing just under it now, hands flexing like he’s warming them up. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive.”

You stare at him. At the way his shirt clings to his shoulders. At the veins in his arms. At the way he’s looking at you like this is casual. Normal.

It is not normal. You try to be cool. You try to be composed. But your body? Your body has completely abandoned the plan.

Because now you’re walking toward him. Slowly. Automatically. Like some magnetic force is pulling you in.

You step under the bar. He’s standing right behind you now, close but not too close. His hands lift, hovering for a second like he’s giving you a chance to back out.

You don’t.