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‘take it easy on him’, you remember hyuck saying.

‘what do you mean?’

‘he’s never done this stuff before,’ he explains, smiling as you raise your eyebrows. ‘you’ll scare him off with how freaky you are.’

‘really?’ you muse, looking over at your new boyfriend. the glasses on his face slightly lopsided, jet black hair disheveled and falling over his eyebrows, you watch as he tilts his head back to take a shot, moving as if in slow motion, so you can see the bob of his adam's apple. and of course, his big hands, pushing lime between his plush lips, as he screws his face up at the taste – something so hopelessly endearing about all of it. his hoodie sits loose on his broad shoulders, zipper pulled down low enough that you can see he wasn't wearing anything under it…

‘i think jisung can get kinda freaky if you let him.’

‘jisung? our jisung?’ jaemin ambles over, his interest piqued at the topic at hand. glancing over at jisung - who was now frantically looking for a glass of water - he shakes his head. ‘there’s no way. that guy’s vanilla - missionary… hand-holding…probably kinda quiet too.’

‘i don’t know guys…’ you put your hands up, shrugging. ‘i just have a feeling.’

there was something urgent in the way jisung always touched you behind closed doors, when it was just the two of you. hands pressed to your waist, eagerly pushing your body into his whenever you hugged or kissed, the way he’d get slightly rough when you were playing around - shoving you a little too hard, a hand slapping over your mouth when you teased him… you think about the way he looks at you whenever you’re walking over to him — eyes hungry and needy, his big hands drawing you close, responding to each touch like he’s racing to prove himself and how much he knows your body.

‘what feeling?’ hyuck’s voice breaks you out of your reverie, as he eyes you suspiciously. ‘wait… did you guys secretly fuck? he told me he was waiting until you were officially his girlfriend…’

‘we haven’t…’ you clarify, as both boys eye you suspiciously. ‘i’m just saying… just the way he acts sometimes. he’s… he’s needy.’

jaemin scoffs. ‘really?’

‘i think he’d let me… you know… take control.’

haechan balks at that. ‘what?!’ he tilts his head, before shaking it again. ‘no way. that would be too overwhelming for him.’

‘maybe,’ you concede. ‘i can also kinda see him taking control too.’

‘now that,’ jaemin laughs. ‘is impossible’.

—

they couldn’t have been more wrong.

‘you said you’d be home an hour ago.’

‘i’m s-sorry baby,’ your back hits the mattress as the boy all but leaps into your arms — his hair still wet from his shower, arms all over your torso, stroking your back, nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck. ‘my phone ran out of battery - fuck, jisung, are you okay?’

‘need you so bad,’ he’s visibly shaking, biting his lip as he moves against you — you can feel how hard he is as he ruts against your thigh. ‘i… fuck…i’m sorry…’

‘’s ok…’ you push him away from you slightly, and he whimpers. you knew he’d been drinking with the boys, that he’d come home by himself, calling you in a sleepy voice asking you to come back from work as soon as possible. you knew drinks made him a little unsteady — his body too hard to control, hands grasping and kneading at your curves whenever he could get his hands on you, a little too rough at times, but you had never seen him this blatantly needy.

‘please…’ he begs. he takes one of your hands in both of his, bringing it up to his face as he crushes his cheek against it. pouty lips red and wet, his whole face flushed, his lashes fluttering. ‘please i… i need to put it inside. it’s…. i’m so hard… it really hurts…’

your heart melts. ‘okay,’ you say, softly. you barely get the word out before he kisses you - it’s wet and sloppy because of how his lips can barely press together to contain his groans. pressing wet kisses down your neck, he noses his way into your blouse, hands slowly coming together to unbutton it.

‘fuck…. fuck!’ he pants, fingers slipping on the buttons, the veins in his arms and hands popping out as he tugs on your shirt. ‘i can’t….b-baby your…your shirt… i cant’t-‘

‘it’s okay,’ you soothe, hands coming over to his, slowly easing them away from your shirt. undoing them as quickly as you can, you move to unclasp your bra as well before you’re stopped with a frantic whimper.

‘no!’ he blurts out. the air goes silent. swallowing, he brings his hands to cup your breasts over your flimsy, lacy bralette — one he had picked out for you.

‘jisung?’

‘if you take it off i’m…’ he swallows again, hard. ‘i… i wanna come inside today. and if you take them off…the only thing i think about is going to be… c-cumming on your tits. oh fuck….y/n,’ he throws his head back, backing away slightly as he starts to palm himself, his hips rolling and bucking. ‘i’m not gonna last…’

if only haechan and jaemin saw this side of him. ‘okay jisung…’ your hand goes to your skirt, tugging down what’s left of your clothes as jisung watches, transfixed. ‘sungie, please…’ spreading your legs slightly further, you watch as his chest caves in — his need causing his entire body to tense. ‘please… please i need it…’

‘d-don’t!’ a hand flies up to your mouth as he winces, almost in pain. ‘don’t… don’t beg… i… it’s too…i won’t be able to stop myself. please…’

you nod and he lets go, hands now almost shaking as his slips off his sweatpants, the blunt tip of his dick flushed a pretty pink, dripping with precum as he lowers himself to you. he’s whimpering again as he slides his dick through your folds, coming down to kiss you, guiding your hands towards his back and fuck he’s so huge — you feel tiny trapped under him, the way he fits himself against you possessive.

‘wait.’

you open your eyes. you can feel his length heavy against your entrance, the tip pushing slightly through, feeling him slowly work you open.

‘jisung? are you okay?’

‘yeah, yeah i’m fine but -‘ he lifts himself, slightly, and you can see his face - flushed, sweaty and panting, but his eyes are bright and loving. ‘i realise i forgot to ask you about your day.’

you raise your eyebrows. he pushes a little further into you, and you suck in a breath, harshly. ‘w-what?’

‘i…’ he ruts against you a little more, more of his dick stretching you out and he hisses. ‘baby, you feel so good…. but how did y-your day go? did your meeting g-go well?’

you start to smile, but the way he’s pushing into you makes your jaw drop again, a silent moan gripping you as you hold onto his broad shoulders. his eyes are still curious, staring into yours — even in this obscene position.

‘my day went fine, jwi. i’m s-sorry i came home so late, i should’ve been here earlier.’

he smiles, shyly. ‘it’s okay.’ leaning down, his lips brush against yours. ‘i’m glad you had a good day.’

‘jisung…’ you say, slowly. ‘i really need you to fuck me now.’

he blinks. ‘r-right. yeah. fuck.’

immediately, his hips start to work against yours, and the sound of skin on skin starts to fill the room. soon enough, the heady feeling starts to overwhelm him again, and when you next look up jisung is all but gone — his puffy lips ajar as he pounds into you.

‘so… you’re so wet, fuck…’ his fingers slip on your clit, starting to rub gentle circles as he speeds up. it’s messy, and wet — his length so thick it makes you feel impaled on him, his movements desperate but precise as he pounds right into the spot of yours that makes your toes curl.

he hisses. ‘are you… you feel…’

you nod. ‘i’m close…please-‘ his fingers glide over you just right, and before you know it your whole body is tensing — your nails digging into his shoulders as you wrap around him. you can feel yourself pulse around him, can feel how he falters in response to how tight you’ve suddenly become.

jisung groans as he cums without warning, warmth flooding your insides as he lets himself cum inside you as he’d wanted. he’s panting, hands scrambling over your body like he’s trying to make sure you’re okay, sweat dripping from his bangs. it’s a second before you notice he’s kissing all over you — going right back to nuzzling on you. you smile to yourself — you’d only mentioned once the importance of physical contact after sex, and since then he’d never once let you alone after you both came, clinging onto you with everything he had, sometimes grasping and playing with your fingers even when you left to go to the bathroom.

‘are you okay? was i too rough?’

‘that was really good, jwi.’

‘i…you were really good too.’

he’s blushing furiously, still more than a little turned on. slowly, his hips move against yours and both of you wince at the sensitivity — but something about the wetness of it, his cum leaking out of you, getting all on him…

‘y-you’re so…fuck…’ he pulls out, mumbling apologies the entire time, watching your entrance carefully, your puffy slick folds barely able to contain all of him. ‘i… oh fuck…’

‘jisung…’

he looks up at you through his lashes, shyness radiating off of him in waves.

‘do you want to go again?’

he nods, smiling sheepishly when you laugh. ‘i wanna eat you out….’ he mumbles

You told yourself you wouldn’t do this again.

And yet here you are, sitting in the passenger seat of Chenle’s car, completely silent and still, whilst his jaw ticks and one hand strangles the steering wheel. 

If it were any other man, you’d be concerned about how often his eyes leave the road. But this is Chenle. Your Chenle, with wild, dark eyes that seem to dart everywhere but forward—flicking to your legs, lingering shamelessly on the exposed sliver of thigh peeking out from that tight little skirt you decided to wear. The same skirt he swears is taunting him.

Him, and every other fucker in that room tonight.

He had no choice but to get you out of that damn afterparty and into his car. Straight home. He still remembered the route—of course he did.

Honestly, part of him expected you to tell him to get fucked. He would’ve deserved it. Because truthfully, Chenle had no right offering to drive you home. No right to act territorial or interject your conversations with other men. He never did.

Not when he was the one who could never quite figure out what he wanted.

Still, deep down, you hoped it was you. A part of you still does. Because you're just so stupidly drawn to him.

That’s why you don’t say a word when he pulls into your driveway. That’s why you don’t stop him when he kills the engine, steps out, and follows you inside like it’s second nature.

You know damn well you should tell him to leave.

Especially when you already know the consequences of letting him—this man—walk through your door, shrug off his jacket like it still belongs here, and drape it over the back of your chairs like he never left. You know the routine. The toxic, repetitive cycle. The inevitable crash.

You know exactly where it leads.

Chenle tosses his keys onto your kitchen counter without bothering to turn on the light. He doesn’t need to—he knows your place just like he knows your body. Thoroughly. 

He leans back against the marble counter, arms crossing over his chest as he watches you kick off your heels and flick the switch. For a split second, in the soft glow of the kitchen light, it almost looks domestic.

If you were any other couple, it might’ve been.

But you weren’t any other couple.

Because you were you, and Chenle was Chenle—unconventional, uncommitted, undefined. Definitely not a couple. Just three long years of messy arguing, sneaking around, and dirty sex.

“You looked friendly with Sungchan tonight,” he mutters finally, like it’s nothing more than an observation. But the bitterness in his voice bleeds through every word.

You glance at him over your shoulder, folding your arms to mirror his stance. You can’t believe him right now.

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting," he shrugs nonchalantly, but his jaw still ticks. “I just thought the two of you looked…cosy, is all.”

“Cosy?” you repeat, brow arching. “Are you seriously jealous right now?”

He scoffs, pushing off the counter. He rakes a hand through his slicked back hair, leaving it all messy.

“I’m not jealous. I just didn’t realise the two of you were that close.”

“That’s because you don’t know the meaning of close, Chenle.”

His jaw tightens whilst you rant. 

“Seriously, I haven’t heard a fucking peep from you in months,” you quip, stroming towards him. “No call. No text. Nothing. And now you wanna walk through my door like it’s yours, drop your shit on my counter, and act territorial about who I talk to at a work party?”

“I’m not acting terr—”

“Yes, you are,” you cut in. “You always do this. You disappear for weeks, then show up acting like you have some kind of claim to me. You don’t.”

He flinches. Just barely. But you see it. And still, you press on, because it’s the only way to survive conversations like this with him. 

“You don’t get to act like this,” you shout. “Not when you’ve been out and about with some other girl on your arm.”

“Don’t turn this around on me,” he grits out. “You think it didn’t fuck with my head, seeing you smile like that at him? He’s my friend, Y/N, and it looked like—it looked like you wanted him.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t soften. “And if I did?”

“Watch it,” he growls. 

You shake your head, jaw clenched. “No! I’m done doing this with you. I’m sick of waking up to every damn gossip site and fan account showing pictures of you with other girls!”

His eyes darken.

Then, he's crossing the room and closing the distance between you two in quick, hasty strides. You don’t move. You should. But you don’t. Because some reckless, masochistic part of you wants this. Enjoys it.

You like it when he’s angry. Because at least then, you know he cares.

His hand slides up, fingers wrapping around the side of your neck—firm enough to steal your breath, soft enough to make you remember exactly who he is and who he always will be to you.

“You’re not done with me, baby,” he says, voice gravelly. “You’ll never be done with me.”

Your heart thumps heavily in your chest. Warmth pulsing low in your belly, spreading outward in a burning ripple that leaves goosebumps along your forearms. 

You hate the effect he has on you—hate how easily he can crack you with nothing more than a look, a brush of his fingers, the goddamn rough scrape of his voice. But what you hate most is how it keeps pulling you back. Every time. No matter how often you promise yourself you won’t.

His thumb drags slow strokes along your jaw, studying and possessive. 

“What you’ve heard and seen is true,” he continues, searching your face. “I’ve been out, but I swear, none of them meant shit. None of them stuck. Because every damn night, I come back to the same thought.”

You swallow hard. “What thought?”

He leans in, breath hot against your ear, and your knees almost buckle.

“You,” he exhales. “What you do to me. What we do to each other,” he says. “You haunt me, Y/N. You get in my fucking head and you stay there. Even when I know I need to let you go.”

His forehead presses to yours, and you’re met with eyes that burn. Eyes that are so raw and pleading. 

“You think I don’t hate this too?” he whispers. “I hate how I ruin everything the second it starts to feel real…but baby, I swear to God, no one—not a single person—makes me feel the way you do.”

His grip softens, fingers sliding down your neck to your collarbone, then teasingly tracing the hem of your shirt over your lower abdomen.

You suck in a breath at his cold fingertips, voice cracking. “Then why do you keep leaving?”

“I don’t know,” his eyes screw shut as he breathes. “Maybe because wanting you this much scares the shit out of me.”

God, you hate that too.

Hate the way your chest aches at his voice when it drops so low. Hate the fact that you’re always his secret. His weakness. His maybe. His fear. 

He can parade around with other girls, laugh with them, be seen with them. Smile for the cameras and let them touch his arm, lean into him. He can be theirs in the way that matters—publicly.

But you?

You’re the one he hides. The one he ghosts and crawls back to. The one he craves in the quiet. Behind closed doors. Always behind closed doors.

Because you’re staff. 

And this is what happens when you cross the line and start sleeping with idols.

Still, you stare up at him, furious with how good he looks tonight. Black hair a little messy, pushed out of place by his own frustrated fingers. White t-shirt clinging to the ridges of his torso like it was stitched onto his skin. Your eyes wander before you can stop them, and you curse yourself for it—because he notices.

His own eyes dip to your mouth, that familiar lustful haze clouding his features. It’s hot. The kind if look that makes you wet your lips without thinking. 

He follows the movement. Tracks it like instinct.

Then his hand lifts, almost unconsciously, and his thumb drags a featherlight line across your bottom lip. You let him. You always do. You always will.  Because this has always been his thing.

He stares at his thumb now, at the smear of lipstick staining the pad—a deep, bruised red. The classic kind. The one you know he likes. The only reason you still wear it, really. 

His throat bobs as he brings the thumb to his mouth and wipes it along the plump flesh.

He doesn’t lick. Doesn’t taste. Just wipes. Lets it brand him.

“You still wear this shade,” he murmurs. It’s not a question—just a statement, the memory of him buying it for your first birthday together flashing vividly in his mind.

“You liked it.” 

“No,” his eyes flick to yours. “I loved it.”

A beat passes.

“I hate this, Chenle,” you breathe.

“I know,” he says, gaze dropping to your mouth again. His thumb brushes your lip once more, slower this time. “I hate it too.”

Maybe he means it. Maybe he really does this time. But it doesn’t matter. Not now. Not when he’s looking at you like that—like you’re the last good thing he’s ever touched.

“I hate when you do this,” you continue, even as your fingers fist into the hem of his shirt.

“I know.”

“No.” You shake your head, pressing your forehead to his chest. Your voice breaks a little. “You don’t get to show up like this. All hot and brooding and act like you’re—”

“Yours?” he cuts in gently, lifting your chin, just enough to meet your eyes. “I don’t get to show up here all hot and brooding and act like I’m yours, Y/N?” He asks. “But I did. Because I am.”

You sigh. 

“You don’t mean that,” you say, barely audible.

“I do,” he says, and his voice—God, his voice—it’s so damn raw. “I do, baby.”

You see it flicker.

Right there, behind his eyes. That look that never lies or fades. That want. That need. That ache. And your brain, the traitorous thing that it is, clings to it like a lifeline. Because that flicker means he still wants you. Means he always has.

No matter how long he disappears. No matter how many nights you cry yourself to sleep. No matter how many months pass with nothing but radio silence and reruns of memories you swore you’d forget. No matter the girls, the headlines, the cruel, painful game of pretending he’s not your favourite mistake—you always come back.

He exhales a shaky sigh, brushing his hand against your cheek. And you lean into it. Into him. Into the quiet, stupid comfort that still lives in his touch.

Because the thing about Chenle (the thing that wrecks you) is that he never touches you like it’s an accident. He knows your skin. He remembers exactly what makes you tick.

His other hand slips to the hem of your skirt, fingers dragging lightly along your thigh. Not to push. Not yet. Just to remind you that he knows.

And then, with a soft breath, he whispers, “You and me, baby… we just fit. We’re perfect for each other.”

“Perfect?” you echo on a scoff. “Chenle, we’re a fucking disaster.”

His fingers press just a little more into your waist as he leans in, forehead resting gently against yours again.

“I don’t care,” he says. “This is how we work. You know it is.”

And goddamn it, you do.

This push and pull. This mess of a relationship. This history that keeps bleeding into the present. It’s yours. All of it.

The midnights. The 3 a.m. fights and 4 a.m. kisses. The long drives. The missed calls and texts. The way he disappears for weeks—only to show up again, looking at you like you’re perfect, like you’re sin, like you’re all his.

You close your eyes, forehead tilting into his hand as his thumb brushes along your cheekbone. He’s breathing you in harder than he needs air. 

“I don’t know how to let you go,” he admits, brokenly.

Your heart aches, splits right down the middle, but you don’t move. You never do. Because deep down, you don’t know how to let him go either. 

“But we don’t make sense,” you whisper, words trembling. “Not to anyone.”

Chenle shakes his head, lips brushing the edge of your jaw. “We don’t have to. You make sense to me. I get you, baby. I always have. No one else needs to.”

Then he kisses you.

And it’s not gentle. It’s not soft or sweet or anything close to safe. It’s a collision—raw and explosive and possessive. A kiss that ruins, devours, and breathes life into the parts of you he’s broken. Everything he needs to say to you pours into that simple press of his mouth against yours—like an apology. He knows you deserve one.

It feels like drowning and crashing down. But still, you’re willing to hold him in your bare hands.

Because even if you don’t necessarily make sense… you look right together. You feel like fate. And for now, that’s enough. All you can think about is how good it feels to burn—and how right it feels to fall.

Your hands twist in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer because you need to feel the heat radiating from his skin, need to know that he’s here and equally burning for you too.

Without breaking the kiss, Chenle’s fingers hook under the hem of your skirt, dragging it down lower until it slips off completely, pooling at your ankles. You don’t feel embarrassed standing in front of him wearing your panties anymore. You no longer tense under his stare or shiver at his fingers teasing the tender skin just above the waistband. 

His eyes flare, and without another second’s hesitation, he flips you around, caging you against the counter he was leaning on. He pauses for a moment, watching you, but when he sees you bite down on your lip and nod once, it’s enough for him to drop his voice. 

“Get your ass on that counter, baby,” he commands lowly, hooking you under the arms and helping you up. “And open these pretty legs.”

He doesn’t give you a second to comply, eagerly prying your legs apart himself before dropping to his knees, eyes clouded and lip caught between his teeth. His fingers hook into the lace of your underwear, a groan escaping him as he inches them down gradually.

His eyes stay locked on you, tracking every nervous flex of your stomach, every sharp inhale of breath.

Fucking beautiful. Fucking perfect, he thinks.

He leans in, mouth gliding along the inside of your trembling thigh, letting his breath ghost across your skin that’s already burning. His hands grip your knees, firm, keeping you spread open for him, exposed under the flickering kitchen light.

“You’ve got no idea what you do to me,” he whispers.

Then his lips brush closer. Close enough for his mouth to find your puffy and aching clit. And he sucks. Hot. Slow. Languid. Worshipful sucks.

Your head tips back with a whimper, hands scrambling behind you for balance against the counter’s edge. He doesn’t rush. He savours, tastes, tongue mapping every sensitive inch, locating every spot he knows that makes you squirm, makes you pathetic for him.

Each sound you make has him groaning against you, his fingers digging hard into the plush of your thighs, anchoring himself as he drowns in you.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” Chenle says, pulling back just enough to speak—lips slick with a mix of his spit and your arousal. “Dripping, baby. You like this? Like letting me bury my face in this tight little pussy?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer—not really—your heavy eyes say everything he needs to get his tongue on you again. Rougher now, harder, dragging filthy little moans out of you that ring around the kitchen. He eats like he owns you—like he’s starving for you and only you.

Your hips twitch, legs wobbling and borderline threatening to close, but he growls low in his throat, fingers pressing into your thighs as he keeps you wide open.

“Don’t you dare fucking move,” he groans against you. “You take it. Just like that. Let me make this cunt all nice and messy.”

You sob, a high, needy sound, head thrown back as pleasure builds fast and brutal.

“That’s it,” he coos. “Ride my face, baby. Use me. You taste so good—fuck—I could eat this sweet pussy all fucking night if you’d let me,” he grits out, lips brushing your clit with every word.

He slides two fingers inside you then, without warning, curls them deliciously just to watch the way you shudder. 

“God, listen to that. So fucking wet. Gonna cum all over my face, baby? You’ll let me taste it, won’t you?”

You can’t even answer. All you can do is shake, pant, fall apart while he keeps going, keeps sucking and licking and fucking his fingers—relentless, filthy, starved.

“Chenle—” you whimper, but it catches in your throat. 

You feel it now, the heat, the pressure coiling tight in your gut, the obscene wet sounds of him between your legs, eating your pussy shamelessly. 

“Come on, baby, give it to me,”  he rasps. “Be good. Cum for me. Let me have it. Right here on my fucking tongue.”

He carries on, nose pressed tight against your clit, moaning into you like the taste of you is driving him insane. You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Not when he talks like that. Not when he touches you like this.

“That’s it,” he whispers hoarsely. “I can feel it. This pretty cunt’s clenching around my tongue.”

You nod frantically, a broken sound ripping from your throat as your back arches, thighs jerk, and you moan out his name. He keeps licking you through every wave, holding you wide open and helpless, until you’re too spent to even twitch.

When your breathing begins to slow, he starts rising to his feet—pupils black, cock straining hard against his jeans.

“We’re not done, baby,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen, soaked lips. “Not even close.”

He leans over you, chest heaving, trapping you in with his arms on either side of your thighs. His mouth is swollen, glistening with your orgasm, and he drags his tongue across his bottom lip like he’s still hungry and relishing the taste of you. Then he tilts your chin up with two fingers.

“Want you to return the favour for me,” he demands, voice all raspy and low. “Like the good girl I know you are.”

Your stomach clenches at the praise, excitement pulsing between your legs as you nod. You slide off the counter, legs feeling a little like jelly, and Chenle steps back, giving you space. But the moment your knees hit the floor in front of him, something in him snaps—his jaw tightens, the vein in his neck flexing hard.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growls, hand slipping into your hair—not pulling, not yet, just holding you there. “On your knees for me. God, you look so fucking pretty like this. All ruined and ready.”

You reach for the waistband of his jeans, hands trembling slightly as you undo them. He watches you the entire time, completely focused, completely in awe. 

Once he’s free—thick, hard, already leaking—he taps his cock against your lips.

“Open up,” he rasps. “Wanna see those pretty red lips wrapped around my cock.”

You part them without hesitation, tongue flicking out to taste him, and he lets out a sharp hiss, head dropping back for just a second.

“Jesus fuck—yes. Just like that. So damn good.”

You take more of him, inch by inch, until he hits the back of your throat and you gag slightly, tears welling in your eyes. He mosns from deep in his chest, both hands threading into your hair now, holding you steady to take him.

“Doing so fucking good for me,” he pants. “Taking me so deep. You love choking on my cock, don’t you?”

You hum around him, the vibrations pulling another harsh string of curses from his mouth.

“Fuck, that’s it. Look at you—glassy eyes, drool dripping down your chin. So fucking eager to please me.”

His hips begin to move, rolling forward as he starts to fuck your mouth like he owns it. Every time your throat clenches around him, his grip on your hair tightens right back.

You whimper, and it only spurs him on to go deeper. One hand slides to your cheek, thumb brushing away the spit and tears there with a surprising gentleness, despite how hard he’s breathing.

“My messy, filthy, perfect girl,” he groans. “Keep looking up at me like that, baby. Shit—those eyes. Could cum just from this fucking view.”

He rocks into your mouth again—deep, greedy—pushing past your limit before pulling out to the tip. Only then does he let you catch your breath for a second… only to thrust back in deeper.

Eventually, a harsh hiss leaves him, his hands locking you in place as your mouth works him harder, your throat fluttering with every push forward. He’s close—too close for his liking—and he knows it. That coil tightening low in his stomach. 

“Fuck—no,” he growls suddenly, breath strained.

He pulls out abruptly, cock slick and glistening, flushed at the tip with a string of spit connecting you in one filthy, shining line before it breaks. You’re left panting, mouth swollen, eyes cloudy and wet with tears—but there’s no shame in it. Not with Chenle. There never is.

“Why’d you stop?” You blink up at him, all dazed and breathless. “I can take it. I want it.”

His jaw flexes. He knows you can—he’s seen you take it, again and again—but hearing you say it like that? With that much need? Holy fuck.

He cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he leans in to press his forehead against yours again. 

“Not like that,” he exhales. “Not wasting it down your throat, baby. Not when I need to be inside you.”

He nudges your legs apart again with his knee, pushing you gently back onto the counter. The cold surface shocks your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the intense look in his eyes—all focused, all fire, locked on the soaked mess between your legs.

His fingers trail between your thighs. “Look at you,” he breathes. “Could slide right in, no fucking problem.”

One finger sinks in with ease, and your back arches with a cry. He adds another, bending them just right, watching the way your body twitches at the sensation.

“Desperate little thing,” he chuckles, mouth grazing your jaw before biting lightly at the hinge.

“You haven’t heard a peep from me in months?” he mocks your earlier words, amused. “Bet you’ve still been thinking about this. About me. Every night though.”

You nod wildly, hips grinding down to chase his hand. He smiles darkly against your throat. 

“Yeah? Been touching yourself to the thought of my cock buried deep inside you?” His fingers press harder, deeper, stretching you open. “Tell me. Because I’ve only ever fisted my cock for one girl. One girl—you.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Fuck—yes. All the time. I only ever think of you too.”

His mouth slams onto yours, teeth biting and tongue hot, as he slowly pulls his fingers out, leaving you aching and empty.

“Then you’re gonna take it now,” he grits out, lining himself up with no warning. “All of it. Every inch. All of me.”

You whimper as he presses the tip against you, easing into your cunt with little resistance. You’re so wet, so ready—but the stretch of him, thicker than his fingers, triggers that tightening ache in a way that makes you spiral faster. He’s filling you, claiming you inch by inch, like he owns you.

Because right now, he does.

You think, maybe, he always has.

“Fuck, baby,” he lets out a strained moan, hips rocking forward in relentless thrusts. “You were made for this. For me.”

He’s deep now—buried to the hilt—each thrust making you clench and tremble. His rhythm quickens, hips snapping harder, pressing you back against the counter. The air thickens with sweat and breathless curses.

Then his hand finds your face—fingers curling around your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek as he squishes them together, making your lips pout around soft moans.

“Look at this fucking mouth,” he grumbles, slowing just enough to admire you. Lipstick smeared, red and messy, your spit slicking your chin from earlier. “You never wear that colour for anyone else.”

It’s not a question. It’s a demand. A rule you already follow. You didn’t need him to say it, because you only ever wear it with him in mind. Only when there’s a chance you might see him.

You shake your head, eyes half-lidded, mouth still caught between his fingers. He knows the answer—but fuck, he wants to hear it.

“Say it,” he demands, thrusting deep and slow now, grinding against that sweet spot until your eyes roll back. “Tell me who you wear it for.”

“You,” you gasp, voice muffled by his grip. “Only you.”

He smirks, eyes dipping down to where he’s buried inside you, glistening with the proof of just how badly you’ve needed this. “Yeah, that’s right. All dressed up for me.”

Then he slams into you again—harder this time, relentless. The slap of skin echoes through the room, each thrust forcing filthy little sounds from your throat as your slick spills and drips down his length. Your lipstick is undoubtedly smeared across your cheek now, mouth pouty, chest heaving

“No matter how long it’s been,” he says more to himself than you, “I always end up right back here. With you. Fucking losing it over you.”

You’re shaking, right on the edge, and he can feel it—the way your pussy flutters around his cock, clinging to every thrust, so hot and tight. You don’t even have to say a word. Your body’s begging to cum. 

But he’s not letting you just yet.

“Tell me this doesn’t feel right,” he growls, snapping his hips forward as the counter creaks beneath you. “Tell me my cock doesn’t fucking fit like it was made for me.”

“It does,” you gasp, voice breaking. “Fuck—it always has, Chenle.”

He groans at that all guttural, and crashes his mouth to yours again. It’s less desperate now, more possessive, like he’s trying to seal the truth between your lips. Because you’ve both tried. Tried to forget. Tried to move on. Tried to tell yourselves your situation wasn’t healthy.

But this—you two—never really ended. It never could.

And when he drives into you one last time, burying himself to the limit as you shatter around him—slick and pulsing, your cunt squeezing him so perfectly—he groans and lets go, spilling his cum inside you with a shudder.

It’s filthy. It’s messy. It’s everything you swore you wouldn’t do again.

But some things don’t change.

Some things never go out of style.

you knock once. and he opens the door like he was expecting you. his hair’s messy. he’s in sweatpants and a black t-shirt that clings to his chest. his mouth parts when he sees you, but he doesn’t say anything.

he doesn’t have to.

you walk in without a word. drop your bag. kick off your shoes. he closes the door behind you, slow, still watching.

then he’s sits on his couch, elbows on his knees, head down, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to keep something from spilling out.

you know it’s late, too late to pretend this isn’t exactly what you came for. so you cross the room, slow, step between his legs, and cup his face with both hands. too intimate for what this is supposed to be.

his eyes meet yours. there’s a flicker of something, surprise, maybe. but he doesn’t move, just breathes you in.

you don’t ask. you just climb into his lap, careful, your knees on either side of his hips, your hands sliding under his shirt like you’ve done it a thousand times before. because you have.

he exhales, slow through his nose. jaw tight. “what are you doing.”

you rest your forehead against his. “today was shit,” you whisper, voice smaller than you meant. “just… let me have this.”

“you always come to me like this.” he mutters, like it bothers him. but he doesn’t stop you.

“because you make me forget,” you breathe. your lips graze his neck. “just for a little while.”

he scoffs. not soft this time, bitter. “you want comfort, go cry to someone who cares.”

you flinch, but your body stays close. because you know him. you know if he really wanted you gone, he wouldn’t be sitting here, breathing hard through his nose, fists clenched like he’s holding back the urge to touch you.

you kiss his neck. “don’t do that,” you murmur. “don’t lie.”

you grind down once, slow, and feel him already hard beneath you. his breath catches, head tilting back. he just leans back on the couch, arms spread along the backrest, jaw tense, pretending to be unaffected. but you know better.

he growls, soft. “you think i like being used?” his voice is flat, but his hands are already on your thighs, sliding higher, gripping tighter.

you press your mouth to his jaw, teeth barely grazing skin. “i think you like when i need you.”

he leans back as he drags his gaze over your face, trying to decide what to do with you, he exhales. “is that what you want? to get fucked so deep you can’t think straight?” he watches you with that look again. like he wants to ruin you and hold you at the same time. you nod.

“go ahead then,” he says, voice rough, eyes locked on yours. “show me how much you want it.”

your hands move before your mouth can answer. you reach for the buttons of your shirt and take it off. his eyes drag down the curve of your chest, tongue pressing into his cheek when your bra follows, tossed somewhere to the side.

next your palms drag over his chest, his stomach, teasing, until the hem of his shirt. you push the fabric up and he lets you take it off, arms raised for just a second before they’re back on your thighs raising the fabric of your work skirt.

you tug at his pants and he lifts his hips just enough for you to slide them down. not all the way, just enough. just enough to get to what you need.

he watches you as you reach down, slide your panties to the side. with your other hand you reach down between your bodies, fingers wrapping around him, guiding him to your entrance, and sink onto him in one smooth, aching motion. his fingers tighten, jaw clenched, eyes locked on we’re your bodies met.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you’re already soaking.” you nod, and your mouth parts as you start to move, slow, feeling every inch of him. his eyes locked on the way your body grinds down on him.

“look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough. sitting back as you grind on him. “fucked open on my cock while i just sit back and watch. like it’s the only thing that’ll fix you.” your hands goes to his chest, your thighs trembling, he watches you like a man starved.

he spits on his hand and rubs it over where you’re stretched around him, “so fucking wet. so fucking messy.” you don’t answer. you just move. his grip tightens around your hips, guiding you, dragging you down harder.

your nails dig into his chest, and he just grunts, dragging his teeth across your jaw. “you love this, don’t you? love using me like this. acting like you don’t care, and then showing up like this. crawling into my lap like you’re mine.” you hate how true it feels. how good it feels when he says mine like that.

his grip shifts, one hand on your throat now, firm, just enough pressure to make you focus, to make you feel it. to make you look at him. “ride me, baby,” he whispers, “prove i’m what you need.”

you do. your rhythm falters, hips stuttering as he meets you halfway, fucking up into you harder, rougher. his head tilts back, veins in his neck straining as he groans, lost in the feel of you wrapped so tight around him. “you’re so tight. every time i sink into you it’s like your body doesn’t wanna let go. fucking greedy. you were made to keep me inside.”

the room is quiet except for your breath, his voice, and the slick sound of your bodies clashing into each other. filthy. desperate. and familiar.

“you hear that?” he hisses, eyes on where your bodies meet, on the obscene sounds of you taking him again and again. “that’s your pussy sucking me in. begging for more.” his voice drops lower, rougher.

you cry out when he hits deep. he grins like he’s high on the sound of it, grabbing your jaw, forcing your eyes on his. “what? too much?” he mocks, voice low and filthy. “you can take it. you wanted this.” he snarls, breathless.

your hips twitch, trying to keep up, but he’s relentless. fucking up into you like he owns you. like he’s trying to carve the shape of himself into your body. he watches your face twist, your body start to give, you’re close. he feels it.

“you gonna fall apart for me?” he murmurs, lips against your neck, teeth dragging.

his thumb brushes over your clit, enough to make you gasp, as he laughs darkly. he fucks up into you harder, rougher. and you come, loud, trembling, his name falling from your lips like a curse or a prayer.

he loses it too, groaning into your neck as he slams deep and stays there. he grips your hips so tight you can’t move, groaning, emptying himself inside you.

he presses one last thrust into you, slow and deep, just to feel your body twitch again around him. just to hear you whimper. his hand on your back pulls you down, until your chest is pressed to his, your mouth open against his shoulder.

and then silence. breaths uneven, your thighs are sore, your body spent, but he hasn’t let go. he’s still inside you. and now he doesn’t said a word.

you feel his grip on your hips, tight, like he’s still not sure if he wants to pull you closer or push you away. your hand finds his shoulder.

“i didn’t come here to hurt you,” you whisper.

he laughs. low, bitter. “you didn’t come here for me. you came here because your day was shit.”

you swallow. hard. but you don’t deny it. still, he doesn’t move. his thumb brushes the edge of your spine, slow. a gesture that contradicts every word he’s said.

“next time,” he says, finally, voice raw, “just fucking say you need me.”

it shouldn’t hurt. but it does.

because he’s right. you never say it. you just show up, touch him, take what you need and pretend it doesn’t mean anything. pretend it’s just about tonight.

you stay quiet. because if you open your mouth, you’ll either lie or fall apart, and you’re not sure which one would be worse.

he sighs. that tired, familiar sound, like he’s already bracing for the part where you leave. but his hand is still on your back. his body still warm beneath yours.

“i’m sorry.” you murmur, so soft it barely leaves your lips.

he closes his eyes. leans his head back against the couch. “like it changes anything...”

you nod, even though he’s not looking. “i know.”

there’s a silence then. full of everything neither of you ever says.

his thumb keep moving in slow circles against your skin, like muscle memory, like habit. like he doesn’t know how not to touch you, even when he’s trying to protect himself.

you want to pull away, to break the spell, but your body won’t listen. instead, you lean into the touch, desperate for any kind of connection, even if you don’t deserve it.

“you make it so hard to hate you,” he admits, voice low, almost breaking.

you laugh, bitter but soft. “i don’t want you to hate me.”

his fingers tighten on your back. “doesn’t mean i don’t.”

and there you were, curled up into his side of the bed, chest rising and falling in that gentle rhythm, legs wrapped around a pillow. his shirt on your skin rises a little, giving him a peek of your lacy pink underwear.

god, he missed you.

missed your body. your warmth. your presence. the little things. your hums when you think, the way your fingers trace patterns on his back when you’re half-asleep, the way you fit perfectly in his arms like he was made for you and only you.

he changes out of his clothes, slipping on his grey sweats, before finally joining you in bed, pulling your back to his chest. you stir a tiny bit, a hum slipping from your lips.

mark breathes you in like he’s been starved of you, the warmth of your body, the scent of your shampoo all intoxicating him like a sweet drug he couldn’t get enough of.

“baby,” he murmurs against your skin, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “i missed you so much,” he whispers, leaving soft, ghostly kisses on the back of your neck. your body shifts a little closer to him, like it recognizes him before your mind could even catch up.

mark leans in, pressing a trail of kisses along your shoulder, his voice low and raw with affection, “i hate being away from you,” his cold fingertips wander under your shirt, exploring the familiar curve of your waist, tracing lazy circles with his fingertips, “—feels like i leave a part of myself every time.”

you shift again, sighing as your hips nudge back into him, the faintest sign that your dreams are starting to blur into something warmer, something more aware.

mark holds you closer, his need pressed against the curve of your backside. “need you so bad, baby…do you feel it?,” his hand wanders down your thighs, body responding to his touch with a million goosebumps.

his fingers dipped into your underwear, feeling your slick, “god, you’re dripping,” his cock twitches at the idea that even in sleep, you were all his, “i’ll take care of you baby, don’t worry,” dropping a kiss to your shoulder before carefully slipping your panties off of you, afraid to wake you up.

he slides his sweats down enough to free his hard cock, all ready and leaking for you, before situating himself behind you. his tip teases your warm hole before he finally slides in, a grunt falling from his lips, “fuucck baby, you feel so good,” he groans as he slowly starts rocking into you, earning a whine from your lips, eyes still shut closed, “gonna make you feel real good.”

he moves with care. everything he does is slow, intimate, meant only for you. his arm tightens around your waist, body molding to yours. your body responds naturally, instinctively, the way it always has for him. your hips shift, your breath quickens, your fingers curl into the pillow beneath your head. he moves within you in a rhythm that’s steady, tender, like he’s not just chasing pleasure but holding onto something more sacred. his aching cock kissing that spot over and over again.

“almost there, baby,” he whispers, voice completely wrecked, lips pressed to the back of your neck, his fingers make his way around, rubbing soft circles on your sensitive bud, “i’ve got you. just let go.”

and as if it was like his voice was your body’s command. you do. he feels your release all around him, “so fucking perfect baby, you’re doing so well,” he manages to breathe out, his eyes shutting in bliss as your pussy sucks around him incredibly tight, a sharp intake of breath from your unconscious lips, a tiny whine of his name even in dreams. it’s not loud. it’s not wild. it’s the kind of release that comes when you feel completely safe, completely his.

mark follows soon after, hips stuttering, a groan tearing from his throat as he holds you close and lets himself fall apart with you. his face buries into your shoulder, his breath warm and shaky against your skin.

when it’s over, he doesn’t pull away. he just holds you tighter, still inside you, still wrapped around you like he’s afraid the world might take you away if he loosens his grip even a little.

your fingers find his, where they rest gently across your stomach, your smaller hand curling around his in that soft, instinctive way you always do when you’re half-asleep but still reaching for him.

“don’t leave,” you whisper, voice thick with sleep and love. he presses a kiss to your skin, one to your shoulder, another to your neck, then another, and another. each one soft, unhurried, like a love letter written in touch.

“not going anywhere” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “go back to sleep, baby, i’m here.” you nod faintly, body already melting into him again, boneless and safe. mark stays inside you, your bodies pressed close, your fingers still woven with his. he can feel your heartbeat under his hand, slow, steady, calming.

as your breathing deepens, your body relaxes fully into his, he knows you’ve slipped into REM…that precious, vulnerable stage of sleep where your mind begins to dream and your heart can truly rest.

his chest rises and falls in time with yours, and as the minutes stretch, his own thoughts begin to fade into the haze of contentment, into the quiet hum of your shared rhythm.

still inside you. still holding you.

Renjun swirled the straw around his nearly untouched mojito, watching the lime float around the glass like a tiny boat in a sea of awkward tension. Across from him, his date—Minji? Miyeon? Something with an M—tapped her acrylics on the table like she was sending out a distress signal in Morse code.

She probably was. And he couldn’t blame her. He hadn’t exactly been present lately—not on this date, not on any of the dates his best friends had set him up on in the last two weeks since the incident. Since the day he’d chased after a girl who looked like you in the cereal aisle at Target. That was the moment his friends decided enough was enough—Renjun needed an intervention. He needed to finally get over the fling he’d had with you a year ago. 

“So,” the woman finally said, arching a perfectly plucked brow, “do you always look like you want the ground to swallow you up on a first date, or is that just a me thing?”

Renjun blinked, forcing a smile. “Sorry. Just a long day.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Right. And calling me another girl’s name before? Was that part of your long day too?

Fuck.

He didn’t even remember doing it—just a flicker of déjà vu, a flash of you in his peripheral vision as someone passed in a red hoodie. The same red hoodie he’d given you. Or maybe it wasn’t. You probably didn’t even wear it anymore anyway. He wouldn’t know. He hadn’t seen or heard from you in months.

Minji-Miyeon-Mirae scoffed. “You’re actually such an asshole.”

She stood, grabbed her coat in one dramatic movement, and was out the door before Renjun could even finish saying “wait.” Not that he was going to. 

Silence returned to the bar, dragging its usual friend, guilt. The girl was pretty, objectively. Funny in a dry, slightly sarcastic way. Renjun thought maybe he could’ve liked her, in some alternate universe where he wasn’t still emotionally committed to the ghost of you. 

“Woah,” a voice said next to him, smug and far too amused. “You lasted a measly ten minutes before scaring her off. New record buddy.”

Renjun didn’t look up. “Go away, Haechan.”

“Can’t,” Haechan replied, sliding into the now-empty seat with his signature shit-eating grin. “You’re way too entertaining like this.”

A beat.

“You called her Y/N again, didn’t you?”

Renjun sighed, letting his forehead drop to the table with a dull thud. “Shut up.”

“Can’t you just call her?” Haechan said after a pause, fiddling with the edge of a coaster. “Or text? Or something? Because this whole pining-in-silence act is getting a little pathetic.”

Renjun’s jaw tensed. If only it were that simple.

He would call. He would text.  Hell, he’d even scroll through every corner of the internet just to find a trace of you—an old post, a tagged photo, anything. But there was nothing. No number. No handle. No digital footprint to cling to.

The only thing he had left was the look on your face the day he let you go. And God, he saw it every time he closed his eyes.

It was his biggest mistake—is his biggest mistake. Letting his pride, his fear, that dumb male ego of his convince him that he didn’t need to commit. That he could keep you close, enjoy the warmth, the jokes, the fun part of you—without ever having to actually choose you.

He’d thought you were joking when you asked him for something more. He laughed, deflected, tossed out some careless comment about not being the boyfriend type. He figured you’d just let it slide because you never made things difficult. You didn’t push.

He thought everything was fine. But it was worse. Because you left.

He woke up the next morning to cold sheets. There was no note. No explanation. Just a blocked number staring back at him like a punishment.

It didn’t hit him all at once. It crept in—slow, insidious, like rot spreading under his skin. He tried to tell himself it wasn’t that deep, that maybe you were just taking space, maybe you’d come back. But the empty space beside him, the silence, the unanswered calls, proved him wrong every single time.

Each minute that passed, he wished he’d been that bit more attentive, more aware. Maybe then he’d know exactly where to look for you, to apologise, to beg for you to come back. He didn’t really know. He had never been good at this.

525,600 minutes later (a year), and he still had no clue where your broken heart had gone. All the searching, all the calling, all the desperate attempts to find you... all of it was useless.

So, no—he couldn’t just call.

But explaining all of that to Haechan would only lead to another lecture, maybe something more than his current intervention attempt. And Renjun really didn’t want to talk about you on some therapist’s couch, which is exactly where Haechan would drag him next.

So instead, he settles for the simplest version of the truth: “She doesn’t answer my calls.”

Haechan groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus, Renjun. You really need to move on. Like, actually move on—not emotionally dissociate for ten minutes before accidentally trauma-dumping or calling the girl the wrong name.”

Renjun didn’t respond. Just kept stirring the lime in his drink, watching it swirl like it might somehow drown out the noise of his best friend. 

Haechan huffed, snatching the untouched glass and taking a sip like it was his own. Then he kicked Renjun lightly under the stool. “I’m serious, man. I know it sucks. But you can’t keep living in a relationship that doesn’t exist anymore. She’s gone, and you’re—”

He cut off.

Eyes wide. Mouth frozen mid-sentence.

“Holy fucking shit.”

Renjun blinked, glancing up. Haechan had gone still—too still. His eyes were gaping, unblinking, locked on something over Renjun’s shoulder. His whole body had shifted, like someone had yanked him upright by invisible strings. It wasn’t just surprise. It was recognition. Shock.

Like he’d just seen a ghost.

“What?” Renjun asked, brow furrowing.

But Haechan didn’t answer. Didn’t even blink. Just kept staring. And that silence—that silence—told Renjun everything.

He turned, slowly, already bracing for nothing. For some false alarm, a girl who only looked like you from behind—because that had happened before. Too many times before. But his heart knew better.

Because there you were.

Right there, standing just inside the entrance of the bar, shaking rain from your umbrella, laughing at something someone said. Your head tilted slightly, eyes crinkled at the corners in that way that used to undo him. That way he used to love.

Your hair was a little shorter now, styled differently, and you wore a new shade of lipstick he didn’t recognise. But none of it mattered. You were still you—unmistakably, devastatingly you. 

And then his eyes dropped.

To the guy beside you. To the way his hand settled at the small of your back—easy, familiar, like he belonged there. Like he’d been there for a while.

Renjun’s lungs seized. Because all this time, he’d been clinging to the ghost of you. And now you were here—real, alive, radiant. But no longer his.

“Dude,” Haechan said quickly, reaching across the bar like he could physically pull Renjun back into his body by the shoulder. “Just—relax. You don’t even know if it’s serious. Could be her cousin. Could be—”

But Renjun wasn’t listening.

His pulse roared in his ears. His vision tunnelled.

Because this wasn’t your cousin. He could tell by the way the guy leaned in, like he had every right to whisper in your ear—how fucking natural it looked. He could feel something inside him unravelling, thread by thread.

What if you loved this guy? What if you told him all the secrets you used to tell Renjun in the dark? What if you gave that guy the parts of you that Renjun had taken for granted? 

A cold sweat prickled across his neck. His mind felt like it was shutting down—thoughts crashing into each other. He should’ve done more. He should have fought harder. Chosen you, openly, without hesitation. He should’ve been the one to make you feel wanted—needed. He should’ve been the one at your side tonight. 

But he wasn’t.

You were here—in his city, in his favourite bar—with someone else’s hand on your back and that smile on your face. The one that used to be his. And you looked okay. Happy. Without him.

“Renjun,” Haechan tried again, quieter now. “You need to stop looking. Maybe they’re just talking.” 

“You don’t get it,” Renjun’s voice was hoarse as he spoke, the sentence barely making it past his lips. 

Haechan frowned, his typical grin replaced with concern. He leaned forward, eyes searching his friend’s face. “What do you mean?”

Renjun swallowed hard, trying to steady the rage that was bubbling inside him, but the image of you—standing there, laughing with someone else—kept burning into his mind.

“You don’t get it,” he repeated, the words slipping out in a raw rush. “Because you’re not the one who let her go. You don’t get it because she’s not your mistake. You don’t get it because you’re not sitting here watching the person you could’ve had—should’ve had—move on with someone else.”

“Renjun…” Haechan’s voice was soft, but Renjun couldn’t stop.

“I fucked it all up, Haechan,” his hands tremble as they gripped the edge of the bar. “I had everything with her—everything—and I just... let it slip through my fingers because I was too scared. Too fucking scared to admit that I wanted her. That I needed her. And now she’s gone. And she’s happy. How the hell am I supposed to move on from that?” 

Haechan didn’t answer right away. He just looked at his friend with a weakened expression—sympathy, pity, worry. It only made it worse.

Renjun shook his head, his breath shaky as he said, “Look, forget it.” He threw a few bills onto the bar counter and a couple of coins as a final, defeated gesture. “I can’t do this.”

He was already on his feet before Haechan could say anything.

“Renjun—wait, come on,” Haechan called after him, but Renjun didn’t look back. Didn’t need to. Didn’t want to. 

And the scrape of the stool mixed with the echo of his name was loud enough to draw attention. Loud enough that you looked up from across the bar. 

Your smile faltered.

For a second, you froze—glass halfway to your lips, laughter still clinging to your expression but slowly fading because your eyes tracked toward the door. Where you saw him.

Your Renjun.

Storming out, shoulders stiff, head down, already bracing against the rain smearing the windows. That same stupid black jacket he always wore—fraying at the cuffs, faded at the seams.

Something in your chest clenched.

The guy beside you—your date, though that word felt hollow—said something. Maybe your name. Maybe a joke to pull you back. But none of it mattered. You were already moving.

Haechan caught sight of you just as you passed. His eyebrows jumped, startled. “Y/N?”

But you didn’t stop to explain. Didn’t grab your coat or your bag. You just went.

Out the door. Into the rain.

The door of the bar slammed behind Renjun with a gust of wind, and the cold slapped him in the face. 

The rain had turned to a steady downpour, but Renjun didn’t bother pulling up his hood. There was no point because he didn’t mind. He wanted to let it soak through his jacket, soak through his bones. Maybe if he got cold enough, numb enough, it would stop the hollow pit gnawing his chest.

He walked. Fast, at first. Then slower. Then not really walking at all, more like drifting—head down, eyes unfocused, just moving because it was the only thing he could do. He didn’t care that his shoes were getting ruined, that his shirt was clinging to his skin, or that people were staring.

He was okay with letting them see the idiot who couldn’t move on. The idiot who’d spent a year whispering apologies to an empty pillow, to a blocked voicemail, begging the universe for one more chance, only to find out that it had given that chance—to someone else. 

He should’ve never come out tonight. He should’ve stayed home. Should’ve ignored Haechan’s half-hearted setup, the hopeful way his friend kept saying, “Maybe this girl will be the one to help you move on.”

No one could help. Because no one was you.

His steps slowed to a halt in the middle of the street, rain pelting down. He blinked up at the sky, and for a moment, he thought maybe he could cry. But no tears came. Just that same hollowness in his chest—the one shaped like you.

Then—

“Renjun!”

He froze. His heart stuttered like a glitch because that voice—that fucking voice.

He turned slowly, every movement mechanical, like his body wasn’t quite connected to his mind. Raindrops clung to his lashes enough to blur his vision. But not enough to miss you—you—running down the street toward him.

“Renjun, wait!”

Your shoes splashed through puddles until you stopped a few feet from him, breathless and soaked. Chest rising and falling. Your hair stuck to your cheeks. Your eyes were wide and frantic. And that guy—the one who had his hand on your back—was nowhere to be seen. Just you. Just him.

And he wanted to revel in that. Wanted to soak in the fact that, for the first time in a year, you were standing in front of him, not as a memory, not in his dreams—but real. 

But then… he really looked at you. You were wearing a little white dress. Thin straps. Bare shoulders. Rain clinging to your skin like mist, making you shiver. And for a second, all he could feel was worry.

“Are you crazy?” he snapped, already shrugging off his jacket. “What the hell are you doing out here in that?”

You blinked, caught off guard, arms instinctively wrapping around yourself. “I—”

“You’re gonna get sick,” he muttered, moving forward, rain dripping from his lashes. “Fucking hell—Here.” He shoved the jacket toward you.

But you took a step back. “Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t do that.”

His brows pulled together. “Do what?”

“This.” Your voice cracked on it. “Be like this. Be… nice. Be the boyfriend type.”

There was a beat. Then two. And then he stilled, completely. The words hit him like a slap. Like ice water and he dropped the jacket to his side.

“You’re not the boyfriend type,” you said again, quieter this time. “Remember?”

He remembered. God, did he remember. And so did you—clearly. Except, you hadn’t just remembered it. You’d internalised it. Let it sink into your chest and fester. 

That one careless comment—meant to keep you from getting too close—had gutted you. And it had cost him a year of quiet regret. A year of replaying that moment, trying to rewrite it in his mind, trying to imagine what might’ve happened if he’d said literally anything else.

And it may have taken him time, too much damn time, but he was here now—trying to figure out how to fix up the heart he’d let down.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, voice hoarse and ragged. “That night—I was scared. You were getting too close, and I—I panicked. I thought if I pushed you away, it would hurt less when you left. I thought I was protecting myself. I wasn’t thinking about you. I was being selfish.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh. “That’s not an excuse.”

“I know it’s not.” His breath caught. “I fucked up. I know I did. And I’m so fucking sorry—”

“No.” You stepped back like his words had teeth. “You don’t get to do this,” you said, angrier. Hurting. “You don’t get to show up a year later and drop some sad little apology like that makes this all okay. Like it undoes the pain.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do—”

“Bullshit!” You snap. “You didn’t just fuck up, Renjun. You wrecked us. Wrecked me. Made me feel stupid—like everything we had was just something I made up in my head. And then you let me walk away.”

His breath hitched like you'd punched the air out of him.

“I didn’t let you—” His voice cracked. “You left while I was asleep. You didn’t even give me the chance to fight for you. You changed your number, deactivated your accounts. Moved.” 

You shrug, jaw trembling. “What was there to fight for? You’d made yourself clear.”

He stared at you, silent, rain running down his face like tears. And then—his voice dropped. “Then why are you here?”

You blinked. “What?”

“If it was really over for you—if you meant all of that—why the hell did you come after me?” he says lowly. “Why run through the fucking rain just to tell me it’s too late?”

“I don’t know!” you bite back, chest heaving. “Okay? I don’t fucking know!”

He tongues the inside of his cheek, jaw tight, and shakes his head slowly.  

“No,” he states. “You don’t get to do this either. You don’t get to scream at me for not fighting for you when you vanished. You didn’t just leave—you fucking disappeared. No goodbye. No warning. And I’ve been looking for you, Y/N. Everywhere. In crowds. In strangers. In every room I walk into, I look for you.”

His voice splinters, but he continues. “And the one time I find you—you’re with some fucking guy. And that’s fine. It may have killed me to see it, but you looked happy. You were smiling. So I left. Because I didn’t want to ruin your night. I told myself I had no right.”

His chest rises and falls, drenched, furious, heartbroken. “But then you follow me. And I don’t know what the fuck to do with that.”

The silence that followed was deafening. You turned your face away, ran a shaking hand through your dripping hair, trying to breathe, trying to hold it in—but your mouth was already trembling, your eyes already breaking.

Renjun stepped closer. And this time, you didn’t move. You let him into your space. You let him drape the soaking jacket over your shoulders, tender in a way that makes it worse. Makes it hurt more. Then his shaky voice cuts through the quiet. 

“Tell me what you want me to do with that, baby,” he says. “And I will. I can be sorry—I am sorry. I’ll always be sorry. But I’m not a mind-reader.”

The words barely register. All you can hear is that pet name. Baby. The way it slips off his tongue like it never stopped living there. The way it sounds like home and heartbreak all at once.

“I saw you leaving,” you finally whisper behind a sniffle. “And I don’t know—I couldn’t let you go. Not again. Not without saying something. Even if I hate you for the past, I couldn’t let this go. Not when I still—”

You stopped. The words lodged in your throat like glass.

Renjun stepped forward, eyes dark and wrecked and pleading. “Not when you still what?”

Your eyes found his. Red-rimmed. Glassy. Brimming with everything you swore you’d buried.

“Not when I still love you,” you breathe. “and I fucking hate that I do.”

He doesn’t even let the last part of that sentence affect him. Not when his mind has been running in circles for the last year, for the last hour, with thoughts of you. Because Renjun has spent too many minutes (525,600, to be exact) wondering if you’d ever love him again. So his mind clings to the one word. Still. Meaning you never stopped.

He stands there, a breath away from you, his chest rising and falling as his gaze settles on your lips. 

“Don’t,” you whisper, though it’s more for yourself than him.

Not that it matters anyway because Renjun’s not listening. He takes a step closer, his hand brushing against your cheek, his thumb tracing your jaw like he’s familiarising himself with the feel of you.

“I will,” he breathes, almost pained. “Because I still love you too.”

And then he’s kissing you.

His hands grip your face, his thumbs pressing into either side of your skin, holding you in place as though you might slip away again if he doesn’t.

It’s not a gentle kiss, not soft. It’s aching, as if every second apart has been torture. And it has been, at least for him. 525,600 minutes being deprived of the ability to taste you, to kiss you, to claim you as his. 

His body moulds against yours, slick and cold, every wet inch of him flushes against you as he pulls you closer, tighter. The rain clings to his skin, and you taste it on his lips—salt and earth, a sobering reminder that this is really happening, that he’s here, and you’re not imagining any of this. 

You don’t think; your hands find their way to the damp fabric of his shirt, fingers digging into the material hungrily. His lips trail from yours, slow and delicate, down the line of your jaw, across your throat. You shiver at the sensation of his breath on your skin, his lips leaving a juxtaposing heat in their wake. 

When he kisses the delicate curve of your collarbone, you gasp, your body responding instantly to the person it knows it belongs to. 

"God, I’ve fucking missed you, Y/N," he pants.

“I’ve missed you too.”

Renjun smiles and presses his forehead against you. His fingers trace idle patterns on your back, but there's a weak, almost vulnerability in his eyes when he speaks again. 

"If I take you home with me right now," he starts, "will that guy you walked in with be mad?"

You arch an eyebrow, trying to stifle a grin. “That guy? You mean Yunho?”

The corners of his lips drop as he presses them in a thin line and nods. “Yeah. That guy. You and him... you’re not...”

You bite your lip, tempted to play along, but the fragile ache in his voice pulls at your heart, making you want to stop whatever scenario he’s spiralling in his head

 "Nope," you reply, shaking your head. "Yunho and I are just friends. Nothing more, I promise."

Renjun’s grin widens, his eyes softening with relief. “That’s good, then,” he says, chuckling. 

It’s your turn to lean in, your breath hot against his lips as you murmur, “Truthfully, the only reason I even asked him on a date is because my friends kept telling me I needed an intervention. The only way to get over you is by getting under someone else and all that.”

He pulls back slightly, raising his own eyebrow with a small chuckle.  “You know…Haechan said the same thing to me.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. "It’s weird, actually. How my very first date since we ended things just so happened to bring me right back to you.”

His grin deepens, a look of pride swelling in his chest as he gently traces his finger along the curve of your jaw.