you fall back onto the bed, fingers tangling in jake’s hair as he makes a humming sound against you, the vibrations sends sparks up your spine.

jake is good at this, always has been, but tonight he’s showing off. his tongue traces slow circles around you before flicking at your opening and dragging up, seeking out the place where you need him most.

“oh”, you whine. “oh fuck.”

“the clitoris”, he says against you, pulling his head back enough to meet your gaze, eyes becoming glossy as if he wants something more. “did you know it has over eight thousand nerve endings? the most of any part of the human body.”

“jake.” you threaten, fingers finding his temple as he continues to suck gently on your clit, his other hand splayed over the juncture of your thigh and hip.

“its educational,” he teases.

you laugh, a high pitched giggle that turns into a moan when jake sucks your clit into his mouth. your hips buck upwards as he braces himself over you.

“you’re such a nerd,” you manage to say through your moans.

“you are dating a nerd,” he says against your skin. “you knew what you were getting into.”

jake eases two fingers into you as you groan, your head falling back. he uses the stretch of his fingers to find the place deep inside you that makes your whole body twitch. his fingers are long and beautifully angled, curling in just the right way to send another pulse of sensation through you.

“see?” he murmurs, his mouth pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. “angles and vectors, all geometry.”

“shut up,” you gasp, your mouth forming an ‘o’ shape as you try to catch your breath. “ah— jake!”

“the g-spot is actually part of the clitoral structure,” he says, his fingers sliding in and out as his mouth finds your core again. “it all connects.”

“jake, i swear—”

“did you know that the clitoris is shaped like a wishbone?” he asks, tracing slow patterns along you with his tongue, working you over from bottom to top. you forget what you were about to say when he begins rolling his tongue over your clit in fast, shallow strokes.

you are so close, already writhing, and jake knows it, he always knows it. he knows your body the way he knows his textbooks, every little sound and reaction to a chapter he memorizes with devotion.

“you’re gonna come for me, baby?”

jake asks, his voice thick with something between amusement and need as his tongue skates over your thigh. “on my face? are you really going to do it? let’s test it, shall we?”

“your— fuck, glasses—!”

“forget the glasses.”

they are completely fogged over now, all opaque. its absurd, really, the way his tongue flicks over you in short bursts while his fingers curl inside you, making you dizzy with need. you can barely focus on what he says next.

“take them off,” you whine, practically begging. “jake— ”

“cant, im too busy recalling the theory of..” he says, practically purring. you find yourself laughing and whimpering at the same time.

“that doesnt even— thats not how it—”

“maybe physics isnt my strongest subject.” jake sighs dramatically before his tongue licks insistently at your folds, his fingers pumping in and out at a steady pace. he manages to ignore the fog on his glasses long enough for you to climax, shuddering and whimpering his name as your thighs shake on either side of his head. jake hums against your skin.

“come on, baby,” he groans, voice rough. “let me taste it. let me have it.”

“ah— jake!”

“i’ve got you. i’ve got you.”

your orgasm rolls over you, until you are gasping your release into the air, your back arching violently. your fingers dig into jakes scalp, his hair splayed out on either side of your hips. jake licks at you determinedly until your whimpers die down, your body limp, exhausted.

you push his head away weakly.

jake grins, finally lifting himself off of you, his chin glistening. he peeks up at you, the lenses blurred with condensation.

“see?” he says, sliding them up his nose. “perfectly functional.”

“you can’t see a thing.” you scoff.

“i can see enough, princess.”

jake leans over you, his head hovering just above your torso as he peppering kisses all over your body. you taste yourself on his lips when his glasses press against your cheek, warm and fuzzy.

you lift his head by the back of his skull, kissing him thoroughly before sliding his glasses off his face.

“hey,” he whines, blinking up at you. his lashes cast shadows across his cheeks. jake’s face is softer without the frames.

“i was going for a look.” he mumbles softly.

you raise your eyebrows, “the look was clouded nerd who cant see.”

“hey, that’s a classic aesthetic!”

you laugh, pulling him down on top of you. jake melts against you, kissing your collarbone, his fingers finding the sensitive spot at the juncture of your thigh and hip.

“i could go again,” he murmurs, voice heavy with intent. “we could run another trial. for science.”

“for science,” you repeat, laughing when jake’s fingers push into you once more, coaxing another moan from your lips as his glasses sit on the nightstand, forgotten.

Riki is utterly fucked.

He is, by all means, a chill guy. All alpha stereotypes be damned—Riki has instincts, yes, but rarely ever did he act on them.

He never feels the need to fight other alphas for dominance, which contributes to Heeseung easily becoming team captain. He barely reacts to omega’s sweet pheromones, which most likely has to do with his suppressed feelings for you. But hey, at least he’s not baring his teeth to any unmarked neck offered his way. Unlike some alphas.

The most alpha he’s felt is probably when he’s dribbling across the court. Competitiveness is the only trait he fully embodies, because Riki treats basketball like an extension of his existence more than he does his subgender. Not territoriality. Not control. Certainly not omegas.

Well. Except for one omega. 

Which is why, with all the resignation of a fallen warrior against a battalion of armed enemies, Riki believes that he is utterly fucked.

Because that one omega—newly-presented, hundred-percent his girlfriend—is none other than you.

Riki swears he’s a chill guy, but he finds himself unable to uphold his principle when it comes to you. It was already bad when he and the rest of the world had thought that you were a beta; someone with no apparent subgender traits and behaviours; someone he called his best friend in public and his biggest, pathetic crush on his private X account. 

Teenager-him did everything he could to insert himself into your life. Taking up your free time by forcing you to join him at practice, lounging in your bedroom whenever he pleases just to get a whiff of your perfume (it smells the strongest in your room), staring down boys that attempted to confess to you until they ran away with their tails between their legs.

The most alpha he’s felt, after basketball, though it remains a secret, is every time he is around you.

Seriously, it’s honestly surprising how oblivious you had been, but it was probably for the best. Riki isn’t too keen to admit that he is perhaps a little (too much) possessive when it comes to you.

It was already bad back then, and it’s only getting worse now when he and the world are aware that you are an omega; someone with the sweetest scent he’s ever smelled on anyone; someone he calls his girlfriend in public and his wife on his private X account. Please do not blame him. He’s had a crush on you ever since he knew how to speak Korean, and it also doesn’t help that the sweet vanilla pheromone comes with a beautiful face like yours. So yeah, you are his wife. You just don’t know it yet. It’s just a matter of time.

It’s just a matter of time before Riki loses his shit, if anything—because suddenly, all of his alpha instincts are coming to life like a wire on flames ever since your presenting. Feelings that he used to ignore, urges he used to control; they’re suddenly not so ignore-able or controllable anymore. 

And that’s why Riki is utterly fucked.

Especially now. 

It’s another Tuesday, which means another day full of classes for you and classes and practices for him. Which means, being the dutiful boyfriend that he is, Riki is going to pick you up from your shared apartment with Wonyoung and drop you off at your campus, hold your hand and carry your bag to class, and kiss you goodbye before he leaves for his class (you only have one shared class this semester, him being a business major and you an economics major). It’s routine now. A routine that’ll change after he convinces you to move in with him, but it’s routine for now.

He’s in his building’s elevator, descending to the car park when he sends you a text.

you

omw 

my baby

okie riki ducky

car or motorbike?

Riki bites back a smile. He swears he’s a puma, but you always insist that he resembles a duck. Riki’s no puppy but he listens to you so well he doesn’t even fight it anymore. He just nods. Yes, he’s a duck.

You can call him a roach and he’ll be willing to change his identification card to a resident roach. But of course he won’t let you know that. Riki still has his human and alpha pride to protect.

you

motorbike

my baby

oh!!!

i’m wearing that black skirt that u like tho

u bring a jacket? or shld i take the uber instead?

Wait a damn minute. The black skirt that he likes? He’s sure you’re talking about that miniskirt that hugs the swell of your ass tight and pinches your waist right. The hem cuts just above your mid-thigh, leaving little to imagination and more skin to expose. Fuck. He likes that skirt so damn much that the last time you wore it, he had his face buried in between your legs for hours and you could barely move without his cum oozing out of your abused pussy.

And it’s so damn short too.

Something ugly and hot coil in his stomach. His eyes are thinly-veiled possessiveness that he almost missed the floating dots on the chatroom.

my baby

or shld i change?

No! Riki wants you to be free to wear whatever you want. It’s just his stupid alpha instincts that are howling at him, asking him to lock you in his room and have you all to himself. But Riki is a chill guy. A bit possessive, yes, but he’s a chill guy. 

you

changed my mind

gna bring my car instead

my baby

okieeee

tysm baby 

drive safe! <3

Ignoring the nagging wolf inside him, Riki takes a detour around the walls towards where his sedan is parked. Yeap, he’s a good alpha and a good man. He’ll let you wear anything you want, even if it means having more eyes on you in that skirt he loves so much.

His jaw tightens.

It’s okay. It’s going to be fine. 

For now, you’re going to ride in his car. He’s not going to let even the wind catch a glimpse of your lace panties. That is, if you’re wearing lace. He hopes you wear lace. Fuck. Riki hopes you can ride him after.

God, please forgive him. He’s been reduced to nothing but a horny, jealous alpha ever since your presenting. Someone please send help.

That day, he barely manages to let you out of his sight. Never mind the fact he almost locks you in his car and has his way with you, uncaring about whatever public indecency fine he might get charged with. But Riki is a good alpha. He successfully (reluctantly) watches you enter the lecture hall, even when his wolf is begging him to drag you into an empty classroom and fuck you senseless. 

Riki is a good alpha. An alpha with a raging boner, but a good alpha regardless.

That evening, you so generously let him eat you out at the backseat of his car. The skirt stays on, of course. With his mouth on your clit, tongue shoved up your hole, your breathy moans fogging up the windows, Riki thanks his wolf for the patience he has. 

Good, patient alphas always get their rewards.

And his rewards come with your sweet slick and his hot cum spurting out in his pants.

Riki is doomed.

He’s so attuned with his alpha that sometimes it slips from his mind that somebody somewhere might have just presented into their subgender and has no clues about their newly-sorted body.

That someone being you.

Sure, in theory, you know the do’s and the don’t’s of the omegaverse. But in practice, it’s quite difficult for you to adapt to the changes. Like how heightened your senses have become.

Pheromones are the easiest thing to learn. You manage to set people apart from their scents alone—especially your boyfriend’s pheromone. Riki’s sandalwood turns ashy when he’s nervous before a game, and it has a musky note to it when he’s aroused.

Riki notices this. You are fast to adjust to changes directly related to your body internally. Externally, though, you actually have him stressed the fuck out.

Which is why Riki is doomed.

Especially today. 

It’s a Thursday, an ordinary day of Riki only having his practices in the morning and finishing half-day. It’s also a day of you having only one class that starts midday. Due to this (unfortunate) arrangement, Thursday is the day Riki hates the most because he couldn’t drive you to campus himself. 

Thursdays are for Uber. Fuck Uber.

But Riki is a chill guy, so he won’t let one inconvenience sour his mood. After quickly showering post-practice and roasting Heeseung over his another failed date night, Riki struts through the hallway in the direction of the lecture hall you’re going to be in. According to the live location you just shared, the Uber driver has just dropped you at the entrance. He still has time to see you before your class starts.

(Never tell his teammates that he’s this clingy, please. Unlike you, they believe that he’s a puma. Riki intends to keep it that way.)

As he nears the lecture hall, with you still nowhere in sight, Riki hums a happy tune despite his brooding demeanour. He’s going to see you. God, he can’t wait for the day you’ll finally move in with him. He knows it’s inevitable, and that you’re just taking things slowly with him (which he’s so fine with, by the way!) but he’s only a doting alpha. Nobody needs to know if he prays you change your mind faster than his dick getting hard from seeing you in that miniskirt. 

Riki takes another step and almost falters when his nose picks up on something. A pheromone—so sweet and inviting and alluring—but it’s not subtle. No. It’s flooding the hallway like a broken dam that even a taken alpha like him is reacting to it. 

Wait.

This scent—soft vanilla, sweet caramel—he knows this scent. He breathes it everyday; it's practically his oxygen. Riki’s stomach drops.

This is your pheromone.

But why is the smell so strong?

His answer comes in the form of you speed-walking down the hallway, face red and avoiding eyes. Your eyes blow wide when you spot him, your legs picking up their pace before you crash into Riki.

Riki inhales and almost chokes.

“Y/N?” He breathes out, confusion lacing his voice. A protective arm wraps around your shoulders, shielding you from the public eye. “What’s wrong?”

“Rikiii,” you whine, still hiding your face in his neck. Riki gulps down. He’s already a weak man, why are you moving your lips on his neck like that? 

“Yeah?” He croaks out, voice strained. 

“I’m sorry.” You lift your face, chin digging into his chest as you pout at him. “I forgot to take suppressants and wear my scent patch…”

Riki goes very, very still.

The scent clings to the roof of his mouth he could taste it on his tongue. Sweet, intoxicating, and driving him nuts. Beneath the cloud of vanilla and caramel, there lies something exposed and unguarded.

The muscle in his jaw ticks. 

How many alphas passed you like this? How many of them have smelled you? Fuck, what about the Uber driver just now?

Riki unconsciously pulls you closer to his broad chest, removing any distance between your bodies. His grip on your shoulders tightens.

“You forgot,” he repeats slowly. It’s not a question.

Heat floods his veins. The same fire that almost engulfed him whole at the court weeks ago, when you collapsed under the pressure of alpha pheromones. The same fire that urges him to bare his teeth to any prying eyes and curious glances. 

“What about your Uber driver?” A faux calm veils his voice, feigning control when he’s losing it. Riki’s eyes flicker to the hallway, narrowing down at people staring and at alphas with twitching noses. His thumb digs into your waist.

“Hm?” He presses, feeling every thread of rational thoughts loosening with every second of your silence. You look up timidly, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy.

“He sped to send me here…”

Riki’s fingers flex. “Is he an alpha?”

You hesitate. Then subtly, you nod.

“Yes.”

Riki closes his eyes. He’s sure he’s breathing, but it doesn’t reach his lungs. The fire in his chest has smoked up every fiber of his being, where your scent is gasoline and his possessiveness a paper. 

Somewhere in the distance, Riki hears an alpha’s growl. Snapping his eyes open, he wraps his fingers around your wrist, tugging you close to him.

“We’re going home.”

Thankfully, you don’t protest. Riki doesn’t know how his alpha would react if you did.

That evening, Riki isn’t so good or patient as he fucks you from behind, fisting your hair in a tight grip. Your thighs are trembling from overstimulation, his sheets are soaked from your multiple orgasms; but Riki doesn’t let go. His hold on your hips are bruising, leaving marks that you know will bloom purple by the next morning.

“Gonna fuck this into your brain, baby,” he rasps, pushing your face down into the pillow. You’re a blabbering mess, drools dripping out your mouth as you take his angry cock. Riki’s pace is ruthless, fucking your hole in sharp, harsh thrusts that has you seeing stars.

“Never.” He thrusts deep. “Forget.” The tip of his cock kisses that spot inside your walls. You arch your back. “Your.” His hips snap harder, and you let out a cry of pleasure as the heat pools in your belly. “Fucking.” Thrust. “Scent. Patch.” 

When you come again, it’s earth-shattering, ripping through your body in a violent shudder. His musky sandalwood and your honeyed caramel mix together, clinging to your body like a second skin. The air smells heavy of sex, and for a moment you think that Riki’s finally done. That he’s let out every pent-up frustration born from your clumsy, forgetful self.

But you’re so wrong. Because in the next moment, he’s already flipping you onto your back, knocking air out of your lungs. His eyes, heavy-lidded and intense, hold yours as he descends, tongue flicking out. You whine and clamp your thighs, trying to save yourself from further overstimulation. 

But Riki’s not having any of it.

His hands grip into your flesh, hard enough they’ll leave prints on the soft skin. Riki throws your legs over his shoulders, ragged breath fanning your swollen clit.

“‘M not done yet, babe,” he licks his lip, blowing on your sopping cunt and smirks when you shiver. “Gonna make you fucking remember.”

Riki laps up a thick stripe from your hole to your clit, nudging the nub with the tip of his tongue as he does so. You gasp, heaving out a sinful cry, fisting the sheets in an attempt to ground yourself.

“Oh God,” you choke, tears clinging to your lashes. “‘Feels so good, R-Riki.”

You’re so spent, so full, and Riki has been so harsh and mean. But your body is a temple of contradiction; it keeps begging for more—for his touch, his lips, his cock.

“Holy shit,” Riki chuckles, and then he takes another dive, prodding your hole in a merciless pace. You buck up your hip.

Two large palms push your middle down. Riki stares at you through his dark fringes, eyes sharp and intense.

“You’re not going anywhere without a scent patch,” he grunts against your slick, his voice thick with lust. He looks pornographic; with his messy dark hair and shiny, swollen lips. You mewl.

The corner of his lips curve up into a smirk.

“And that’s final, baby.”

You’re so in for a long night.

Riki admits it.

He’s a jealous, possessive alpha. Basically a textbook alpha; but only reserved for you.

He knows he once confessed to it; back when you told him you were going to spend your heat with his best friend. He knows he once spelled it out for you that he was jealous of imagining you with another man. But that was a one-time thing. 

Riki is a chill guy. His jealousy was reasonable, wasn’t it? It was only that time that he allowed himself to swallow his pride and admit that he was indeed jealous of his best friend and he wasn’t going to let him help you with your heat.

Anything jealousy-related after that, he managed to keep it subtle. An arm around your waist. A shadow looming by your side. A glare he throws when you’re not looking. 

Riki has always associated jealousy with heat and this burning urge to gauge someone’s eyes. All the ugly emotions that make him want to rip limbs apart (according to his wolf, not him, he’s still normal about everything). He never thought he would ever associate jealousy with sadness, vulnerability, or even insecurity.

Not until tonight. 

It’s a Saturday night, and Saturday nights are marked as party nights on every student’s calendar. Well, at least for those who could tolerate sweaty bodies, messy hookups, and sticky floors packed in a frathouse. Riki belongs in that category, simply because he can’t miss Heeseung twerking and singing in the living room. That man is a terrible drinker, and has a surprisingly good voice that will only come out when he’s drunk. It takes two red cups of beer to get him yelling Beyonce.

You, on the other hand, aren't a big fan of crowds. But Riki always insists you come, or he’ll cancel his plans with his homies and cuddle with you instead. If anything, you very much prefer to spend your night that way, but sometimes the guilt gets to you when Heeseung and Jay whine about not seeing Riki at parties anymore.

So, with a nose scrunched up from various kinds of pheromones and smelly armpits, you brave through the dancing bodies to where Riki’s basketball teammates are at. Riki follows closely behind you, chest pressed against your back as he uses both hands as barriers by your sides, shoving people out of your way unapologetically.

Heeseung is already red in the face by the time you settle on the couch, giggling at something Jake the famous beta says. Riki dabs his teammates, easily falling into conversations about games and badmouthing opposing teams while still keeping a hand on the small of your back.

The couch is on the smaller size, perfect for three adults. Four, if you force people to squeeze in. Riki relaxes at the nearest handrest, which leaves you to sit right beside him, which leaves the spot beside you empty. The spot that is soon taken by one of Riki’s teammates.

By none other than Jay himself.

“Hey, Y/N,” he greets, giving you a lopsided grin as he sinks into the couch. “How’ve you been?”

Now, Riki loves Heeseung and Jay to death. They’re the seniors that have taken him under their wings when he was nothing more than a lost freshman, trying to secure a spot in the college’s basketball team. Heeseung cooks ramen for him, and Jay cooks him Michelin-star meals. Both of which Riki appreciates greatly, deepening the respect that he feels for the elder guys.

Heeseung is an easy man, falling in and out of relationships as routine as changing his clothes. He’s that kind of alpha that puts his knot into good use and into any available hole. Riki used to be the most wary of him, flagging him as the most dangerous alpha to be in your proximity. 

Jay, on the other hand, is the steady one. He’s respectful, knows the right thing to say, always accidentally attracts the ladies even when he doesn’t mean to. He’s that gentleman who’s looking for a serious relationship with the intention to marry. Riki used to set him as the dependable guy; someone he confides in when the topic concerns a certain girl (you); someone he asks for help for when he couldn’t buy pads for you.

But after that incident, Riki ought to revise his judgement. Heeseung’s off the hook now. Jay, however, has risen as threat number one.

And threat number one is making silly jokes right now, prompting you to laugh until your familiar squeaks spill out of your pretty lips.

Riki shifts in his seat. Whatever Taesan rambles about flies over his head, going past his ears, blending into the loud music from the speaker. Jay is obviously trying to make you feel more comfortable, because you’re not the most subtle when you’re in discomfort; anyone in the room could notice it.

And comfortable you are.

Jay leans closer to hear you over the music, still keeping a respectful distance from you. But it’s enough to make Riki’s thumb slow down from rubbing circles on your back. The bass vibrates through the walls, but it feels distant. 

You feel so distant.

Riki doesn’t want to, but his mind spirals in the way it always spirals whenever it involves something to do with you and Jay. He’s brought back to the past, to when you didn’t hesitate to ask Jay for help. To the time when you thought Jay to be the ideal alpha for you. A worthy alpha to help you through your heat. 

The ugly emotions resurface. But this time, they didn't paint everything red. Instead, it feels like a lump has formed in his throat, blocking every reassurance you always give him in his vulnerability from reaching his rational mind. Every ‘I love you’s, every ‘It’s only you’s, evaporates into thin air in the presence of what-ifs.

What if you didn’t come to his apartment to talk to him that day? What if he let his ego win over and he never confessed? What if his silent treatment drove you tired, and you just went straight to Jay instead of to his doorstep?

The questions leave a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. 

Riki is a chill guy. But even a chill guy falls weak against an even chiller guy. In Riki’s case, the chiller guy is sitting on the other side of the couch, wearing a Polo despite the function, and an heir to a family-owned business. And is currently telling you funny stories that he likes to tell Riki too.

Riki swallows down the lump. Fuck, he’s always at wars with his wolf regarding his emotions and how he should act. But at this moment, his wolf is not yelling at him to stake claim. His wolf is quiet, whining lowly, ears flattened like a kicked puppy. A perfect visual presentation of how Riki’s feeling currently. He’s perfectly in sync with his wolf tonight.

Riki unconsciously withdraws his hand from you and places it onto his lap, toying with his fingers absentmindedly. He laughs at something Heeseung says, but it sounds foreign even to his ears.

Beside him, you feel the loss of his warmth almost instantly. Jay was in the middle of telling you about Riki’s silly mistakes during a game when the scent hits you. The sandalwood thins out, like firewood left out in the cold. You instinctively turn to your boyfriend, already tuning out whatever Jay’s about to say as you stare at Riki’s side profile.

“Riki?”

There’s a pause. Then, Riki slowly turns to you, eyes dimmed. His smile is losing its usual softness, and it settles heavily in the pit of your stomach. Your wolf is whining at the sight of the sad alpha, and your instinct is telling you that it has everything to do with the alpha you were talking to.

Your heart deflates.

“Yes, baby?” Riki answers, though his voice wilts. Seeing his slumped shoulders, losing all his easy confidence and still trying to fake it with a smile, tugs at your heartstrings violently. 

You give him a small smile, sensing his bare vulnerability through his scent alone. You reach out a soft hand, intertwining your fingers with his. 

“I feel tired. Let’s go home?”

Riki chews on his bottom lip.  For a moment, it’s like seeing twelve-year old Riki; when you used to comfort him after he got scolded for playing too rough with his younger sister. He casts a glance at something behind you—or someone, Jay, most likely—before turning back to you. Jay is back at conversing with others, easily leaving the one he had with you. Riki squeezes your hand back.

“Let’s go. I’ll drop you off.”

“No,” you pull at his hand slightly, a soft smile playing at your lips. “Let’s go back to our home.”

“Yeah, let’s—” Riki pauses. He takes a double look at you, slowly registering what he just heard.

“Our home?” Is he dreaming? Did you just imply that you agreed to move in with him?

You nod, deliberate and confident. Riki blinks at you, disbelieving. Holy shit. It’s true. He’s not drunk, and the warmth of your touch confirms that he’s not dreaming either. Then, a wide grin spreads across his face, boxy and teethy in all its cute glory. 

“Okay, let’s go home. Our home.”

The words taste sweeter than honey on his tongue.

That night, Riki cages you in his arms, holding you firm against his half naked body. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady of his heartbeat. Your finger traces on the skin mindlessly, mapping out trails of softness and silent reassurance. 

“Riki.”

He hums. The sound vibrates through his chest, and you smile at the feeling.

“I never told you this. But I used to pray to present as an omega ever since I learned that your mother only wants omegas as your mate.”

Riki stiffens, but his breathing doesn’t. His heart, however, is gradually speeding up.

He senses that you knew the moment you softly called his name at the frat house. God, you and your omega instincts. He knew he couldn’t hide anything from you, even his deepest secrets.

And you, being the caring, empathetic person that you are—a trait that doesn’t dull even with age—will always try to make it better for him.

Riki squeezes your waist, signaling you that he’s listening. His silence prompts you to continue. “I’ve been so in love with you that I was willing to be anything as long as I could be by your side. I couldn’t eat after finding out that I was a beta. But then I thought, maybe I can be your wedding planner. I even learned how to babysit just in case you needed one. As long as you’re happy. Even if it’s not with me.”

The back of your eyes feel hot but you blink the tears away.

“That day…when I mentioned Jay,” you started, carefully touching the subject that’s been an unspoken sensitivity to your boyfriend. “I did it out of obligation. My wolf wanted it to be you, but human-me knew it wasn’t possible. Back then, when I didn’t know that you liked me back.

“I didn’t want to force you to do something you probably didn’t want, and possibly lose the friendship that we have. So I just mentioned whoever. I did it to protect us. I did it because I didn’t want to scare you away and lose you.”

You inhale deeply and look up. To your surprise, Riki’s already staring at you, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. You’re not sure if they’re reflecting back your tears, or if they’re truly his, but you’re sure that this is the most vulnerable the both of you have been since that fateful night.

You cup his cheek, brushing the tender skin gently. “I didn’t do it because I wanted him or if he was better. I could never; not when the person I have ever wanted; the person I have been in love with almost my entire life is you, Riki.”

A drop of tear slides down Riki’s smooth skin and disappears into the pillow. He exhales through his mouth, the sound wet and warm.

“Thank you, baby. Truly.”

Riki drops his forehead onto yours, eyes fluttering shut. For a moment, the buzz of the city fades, leaving only vulnerability and love between tangled breath and silent tears. After a minute of silence, you say it again, sealing your package of reassurances for the alpha you cherish dearly.

“I love you, Riki.”

Riki pulls you closer, mouthing a wet kiss into the crook of your neck. His lips brush the shell of your ear, tentative and soft. There is a sigh of relief, like a weight is finally lifting off his chest.

“I love you more, Y/N.”

Riki snuggles closer, then he noses at your scent gland promptly. You giggle from the ticklish feeling, writhing away from him. But Riki only tightens his hold.

“Let me scent you,” Riki rasps, breath warm on your skin. You shiver. “You kinda smell like him. I hate it.”

Your play-fight dies down and you let Riki do whatever he wants. His nose inches upwards, caressing the crown of your hair with his cheek, then trailing back down to where your neck meets your shoulder. You melt into his embrace, a contented sigh slipping past your lips.

“Feels warm, Ki.” You mumble, drunk on cozy sandalwood and clean cedar. Riki hums, pulling you flush against his chest. His finger trails your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake, then gently closes a gentle hold around your wrist. He brings it to his nose, nuzzling your pulse.

By the time he’s done, you’re drenched in his pheromones. Every inch of your skin smells like Riki, feels like Riki, touched by Riki. 

You’re his. Utterly his.

You hum in a daze, mind hazy and chest full with contentment. Deep inside, your wolf purrs, happy and satisfied that she’s marked by her beloved alpha. Riki leaves one final kiss on your forehead before tucking you under his chin.

“Night, my love.”

Both of you drift off to sleep, blanketed by each other's warmth, drowned in each other's scent.

man i actually love writing this couple so much <3

The frat house is crowded as usual, with people getting drunk and high on whatever substances they prefer in their system. On any other night, Jay would find the scene irritable and annoying. 

After all, he always keeps himself in check, always sober and in control of his actions and thoughts, always so, so responsible. He’d prefer watching from the sidelines and being of help for when Riki starts throwing up from too much drinking or when Heeseung sings too loud after his second fill.

Jay is always responsible. He never lets himself on the loose.

But tonight, as the aftermath of his near-fight with Heeseung and him having to rush to the hospital after the burgundy-haired alpha collapsed in his omega’s doorway, despite Jay himself being too shaken to stand, he thinks he’s fine with getting slightly reckless.

Slightly reckless, in this case, is drinking more than the two red cups he usually gets.

“Why are we using fruits to represent anatomy?” 

Back to the situation at hand, where he’s sitting on top of a tall stool around the kitchen island, Sunoo is throwing Jake a grimace. Beside him, Riki already has his head bobbing to the music, a telltale sign of a blackout drunk that would usually result in Jay and Sunoo cleaning his mess up. A defeated sigh leaves his lips involuntarily.

Jay downs another shot.

"I don't want to be too explicit," Jake shrugs, like it's the most normal thing to do. "So, peach or cherry?"

Jay knows how this will go.

Riki is an ass guy, judging from the way he likes to slap anyone's butt within his proximity. Jake is both because he's an indecisive little shit who's just too greedy to pick. If pussy was on the options, he'd pick all three.

Sunoo, despite his reckless endeavor with alphas, Jay has never heard him doing anything more than a messy make-out and a blowjob. But he might be an ass guy too, just because he has a juicy fat ass. Heeseung—well, if he was here, anyway—would've said boobs, because Jay knows him a little too well which makes him privy to the former's (previously) sexually active life.

And Jay—he's too respectful to even answer that.

True to his own guess, Riki shakes his head drunkenly from beside an expressionless Sunoo. "My girl is perfect," he says, then grins cheekily. "But I like taking her from the back. Shit, you shouldn't know that."

"We shouldn't, dumbass. Why are you airing out your bedroom activities to us?" Sunoo rolls his eyes, but there's no bite to it. Everybody knows how loose Riki's tongue can get when he's wasted. On any other sober days, he would gate-keep the hell out of his omega. "Anyway, peach."

Jay has guessed almost everything right. He downs another shot.

A shit-eating grin appears on Jake's face. "I knew it, Sunny, you're an ass guy!"

"It's not really a groundbreaking discovery," Sunoo shrugs his shoulders, then turns to Jay. "Jay hyung, what about you?"

Jay is a respectful guy, so there's no way he would ever answer that. He shakes his head, already dizzy from the buzzing alcohol in his system.

"I don't like talking about this."

A chorus of groans echoes around the island. Only Sunoo smiles at him.

"You're no fun, Jjongsaeng," Jake shoves his shoulders playfully. "It's harmless conversation. As for me, I like anything they give me, but I love pussy the most. Which will make me a butterfly guy."

Sunoo lets out a loud groan, while Riki is already giggling. "Are you calling pussy a butterfly? Hyung, please shut the fuck up."

It's ridiculous, really. Jay loves his friends, but they sometimes do questionable things that makes him want to rip his own hair out. If Jungwon was here, he would be up his ass and plot ways to get on his nerves. If Sunghoon was here, well, Jay likes his company the most because he's the calmest and doesn't say controversial shits that could get them cancelled. His friends can be insufferable sometimes, but the most annoying one at this moment is none other than Heeseung.

Thinking about the burgundy-haired alpha just makes his wolf bitter all over again. Seriously, what did he do wrong? Heeseung should've been thanking him instead for keeping his omega dry from the rain. Not taking him down in an almost-fistful physical attack, and definitely not this silent treatment between them that makes their shared apartment smaller than it is, on-edge pheromones suffocating the air.

Jay is pissed. Pissed that they haven't made up yet and pissed at himself for being too kind.

Is he too kind? Should he just let her get soaked in the rain?

He grabs his red cup, ready to feel the alcohol again, and sighs quietly when there's only a drop left inside. Jay is about to stand and refill more booze, but he's stopped by a firm hand on his wrist.

He looks up to a worried Sunoo.

The younger alpha gives him a once-over. He probably looks so red in the face right now, but nobody seems to notice because Jake and Riki are somehow trying to bite each other's heads off arguing about the proper fruit representative for a pussy.

"You're drinking a lot tonight," Sunoo finally says, ever the observant. "Did something happen?"

Everything happened.

Is what Jay wants to say badly.

That near-fight with Heeseung happened. That still-awkward tension between him and Riki's mate happened. That weird glances mated alphas throw at him whenever he's around their omegas happened. That flirty and hopeful stares omegas give him whenever he so as looks their way happened.

And, despite everything, him still not meeting his mate happened.

If anyone should be envious, it's Jay. Not Heeseung. Not Riki.

"Envious of?"

Shit. He said that out loud, didn't he?

He was about to deflect, but now that Sunoo is fixing him with that foxy gaze, glinting with relentless curiosity that won't back down no matter the excuses, Jay knows he has nowhere to go. He looks to his left, where Jake and Riki has reconciled and agree that no fruit matches with a pussy's shape because apparently pussy is too special for fruit comparisons, settling on calling it flower instead, and now have started discussing about how diabolical it is to compare a dick to an eggplant, and sighs.

Jay thinks he needs new friends. Better friends, even. Except Sunoo. And Sunghoon.

"Hyung?"

When Jay's sure that Jake and Riki are too wasted and distracted to eavesdrop, he finally relents.

"I…Sunoo-yah," he swipes a tongue across his bottom lip. "Is there something wrong with me?"

This is why he hates getting drunk. Because his body recognises alcohol as invitation to start talking deep shits and pouring his heart out like an endless stream of river. It's not a bad thing to be vulnerable, but Jay has guarded his heart so tight that only certain people have the privilege to listen to his deepest secrets.

Thankfully, tonight is just his luck. Rather than exposing himself to a stranger, which has been his biggest fear when getting drunk, it's Sunoo who's listening to him attentively. The brown-haired alpha is looking at him softly, amber eyes full of understanding and encouragement, and it makes the tension in his shoulders slowly melt away.

"Why'd you say that?"

Jay is quiet for a moment. Right, why would he? Then he remembers Heeseung and Riki, those omegas and alphas, and, finally—his own wolf.

"Am I too…" he sucks in a breath, not wanting to sound self-absorbed, but it's what he's been hearing from people.

"Am I too much of a green flag?"

Sunoo didn't expect that from him, judging by the micro-surprise in his expression. Maybe he should stop there and let Sunoo reply, but now that he finally lets it out, Jay finds it easy to just continue.

"Is it wrong to be a kind alpha? I think it wasn't, but seeing how anxious and weary alphas can get when I'm being a gentleman to their omegas…" he trails off, hating the fact that it's his best friends' faces that appear on his mind. "I think it's a mistake. I shouldn't be too kind, right?"

There's a muffled silence between them, dampened by the loud bass from the living room and the sharp citrus turning bitter in the air. Jay looks off to the kitchen island, realising that it's now just him and Sunoo in that space; Jake and Riki are now joining the beer pong just getting started in the backyard.

Across from him, a look of understanding crosses Sunoo's face.

"There's no such thing as being too kind, hyung."

"Then why am I being punished for it?" He cuts in sharply. "Why do I feel bad for doing those things to them?"

He still remembers, the day Riki showed up in his apartment, crying because his lifelong crush wanted Jay to help her with her heat. Riki begged him not to agree, and Jay had done so—it didn't feel right to do that, especially when he knows about the younger boy's feelings for his childhood friend. But then Riki changed his mind and convinced him to say yes, because 'I didn't want her to go through it alone in indescribable pain, and I don't want to ruin our friendship if it's not me that she wanted. Please help me, hyung, she's just presented as an omega. It'll be too dangerous for her to do it alone.'

He had agreed out of sympathy for his younger friend, but somehow him agreeing had bloomed jealousy in the alpha's heart. Jay understands—Riki is still too young, and young alphas are the most territorial creatures to walk on this Earth—but it still hurts his feeling to be treated like a Mr. Steal Your Girl, when he has never stolen anything except omegas' hearts unintentionally.

Riki had apologised and admitted to his immaturity, but still, it wasn't enough to erase weeks of awkward silences and clipped conversations over a single apology. His omega has been extra cautious around Jay, and it always makes him sore to hold back from being himself around her. Or around any taken omegas, for the record.

So, really, he'd appreciate it a lot if Sunoo could just be honest with him and tell him, 'Yes, hyung, you're too kind for your own good,' instead of sugarcoating it.

But of course Sunoo would say the opposite.

"The ones who did that to you aren't the people you helped, right?" Sunoo says, smooth voice weaving through the music like it's meant to find Jay no matter the noise. "It's always the jealous alphas. But I'm sure those omegas were thankful for you for helping them. You're not being punished, hyung. You're just too good that you kinda intimidated these alphas into thinking that their mates would run to you the second they look away."

Jay doesn't know what to say to that. Sunoo always has this way of charming people with his words, the kind that can convince a criminal that they're a saint with that lilt in his voice that only he has. He's not sure if Sunoo really means it, or if it's the truth as it is.

The younger alpha sees right through him. "You're doubting me."

"No! No, I'm just—" Jay pauses, hating the fact that he is indeed doubting his friend's words, and decides to just be honest. "Okay—yeah. You're right. It's hard to believe you."

Sunoo hums, not the slightest offended. He leans forward, turning his head to watch the ongoing beer pong, seen through the transparent sliding door. Jay follows his line of sight, and feels his chest tighten when he sees Riki making out with his omega.

It's the familiar ache that he felt when he saw the mating mark on Riki's neck. The same longing he feels whenever his mated teammates talk about their fulfilled love life. It's like a circle of bubble that Jay doesn't dare burst, being the only one outside of a room full of people who have found the meaning of love.

I wish I could have that too.

Sunoo catches him before he could mask his scent. He throws Jay an expressionless look. For a moment, Jay prepares himself for a 'Gotcha!' comment from him, but the younger alpha only gives him a close-lipped smile.

"Ah, hyung. I should've known. You want a mate, don't you?"

"I don't," Jay is quick to deny, but upon seeing the knowing glint in Sunoo's eyes, he realises there's no point in denying. He sighs for the umpteenth time that night.

"Yes, I do. But it's not as easy as you might think."

"Why? I'm pretty sure there are many omegas who'd throw themselves at you."

"But I can't because I…" Jay licks his lips, "I don't find anyone I like enough yet."

Sunoo doesn't say anything for a long, stretched moment. Jay almost squirms under his dissecting eyes. It feels as though Sunoo is picking him apart by his gaze and his scent alone, seeing parts of himself that he wouldn't show bare. It's unnerving yet weirdly comforting at the same time, having someone who can see right through him despite the walls he built.

"Hyung, everything about this gentleman persona and you wanting a mate—there's only one thing I can say."

Jay swallows thickly, mind sobering up with each passing second. "What?"

"You are with this kindness not without a purpose," Sunoo says calmly, like he hasn't just dropped the most riddled sentence that sounds too Shakespeare-ish to Jay's drunken mind.

"Huh?"

"I'm saying, there is someone out there who needs your kindness, hyung. Your patience. Your heart," Sunoo flashes him a small smile, sincere and genuine. "You'll meet them someday. And when you do, you'll understand why you are the way you are. You are never too much for someone who's meant to hold you."

Jay hears him, truly, but that promise sounds so distant and far away. Like a reality he's witnessesing from a different universe, through a portal of lifelong waiting and yearning. He wants to believe it, wants to hold onto every syllable and let it be his new faith, but the deepest, ugly part of him doesn't believe he belongs to that kind of destiny.

He doesn't say anything. Not that he has the chance to when the smell of burning chocolate greets his senses and soon, an upset Jungwon is already filling up the space with his broad shoulders and moody pheromones.

A black leather jacket, zipped up to his chin, hugs his body, highlighting his wide figure under the kitchen light, paired with leather pants. Jungwon's hair is messy, untamed around the frame of his eyes, and Jay knows why when he sees the helmet in his arm.

"Hyung, be honest. Do I look too baby-faced?" The alpha pouts, gesturing at his body. "Even after wearing this whole gear? I even rode my precious bike to see her!"

Jay doesn't have to stay to know that Jungwon's whining about the older omega he has a crush on, someone that used to babysit him when he was 10 years old and is now still treating him like a baby. He would've stayed to listen and comfort the younger alpha, really, but unfortunately for Jungwon, Jay also needs some comfort for himself before he loses his fucking mind.

He grabs his red cup and stands up, needing the alcohol to be in his system now more than anything. The other two alphas don't notice him leaving, and if they do, Jay's sure Sunoo's more interested to hear about Jungwon's failing love life than his already-doomed one.

Jay makes his way through the crowd, giving polite smiles to everyone in his way. He's not really a fan of this kind of crowd—it's more of Heeseung's and Riki's crowd—but it's the least of his concerns now. The alpha squeezes past dancing omegas whose stares linger, past a group of alphas who give him a nod of acknowledgement, past a pair of lovers making out on the wall.

That makes him falter.

Jay blames it on the alcohol. Really, he's usually not like this. It's actually easier to act like not having a mate among friends who are already mated doesn't affect him when his thoughts are more coherent and making sense. But right now, as he watches the couple giggling at each other, lips in ears and soft eyes looking into soft eyes, a pinch of envy twists in his chest.

Jay huffs, leaving the scene faster than he'd like to admit. Seriously, if he was so good and kind like everybody had said, if he's the picture-perfect alpha like every family member had boasted about, then why is it only him alone with no one to hold? Why is it always him who's cleaning after everybody's mess when he only watches on the sidelines as they get their happy ending? Why is it that people who run from love are more favoured than someone who's always been ready like him?

What about him? What about his happy ending?

After what felt like hours, Jay finally finds his booze. Jake has an eccentric preference of placing the booth all over the frat house, and the one in the kitchen has long ran out. He's standing at the booth by the stairs right now, the majority of them still untouched. Jay pours into his cup full to the brim. His senses are already tingling with the thoughts of drinking more.

When the alcohol buzzes through his system, Jay lets out a satisfied sigh. God, he's so carefree tonight. But whatever, he's pretty sure Sunoo can drive them home safely. Right now, Jay's focus is only on making himself feel better and forget whatever ruckus that has unfolded the past few weeks.

He pours more when his cup empties. From where he's standing, the bass doesn't really reach him, a bit distant from the speaker now blasting Miley Cyrus' Party In The U.S.A.. It makes the conversation around him sounds clearer in his ears. Including the ones coming from upstairs.

Jay pays them no mind. He's not here for gossips or shits and giggles—he's here to cool off. But when something sweet, something that reminds him of his mom's berry strudels and morning coffee drifts into his nose, Jay's senses sharpen.

Is someone baking? He wonders alone. The last time he left the kitchen, there were only Sunoo and Jungwon. As far as he remembers, neither could touch the oven without risking an explosion.

So where does this sweet scent come from?

It gets sweeter the more he spends his focus on it. Jay looks around, mind still buzzing, unable to find the source of the scent that has piqued his interest through the haziness. His nose twitches. Even in his drunken state, Jay can't help but notice how constrasting the scent is to his sharp citrus.

And for some reason, his wolf likes it.

"Is it from the stairs?" he mumbles, stumbling to the foot of the stairs, drink sloshing in his cup.

But just as he's about to look up, he's already colliding into a soft body coming down from upstairs.

"Ah!"

Oh no.

Jay watches in horror as the drink in his hand spills all over the person's shirt, staining the white fabric with yellowish mark that almost looks like someone's piss. He freezes, mouth gaping in surprise, but the only thing his hazy mind picks up is 'Yes, he's finally found where the scent comes from.'

It's from the victim of his booze.

Or rather, the furious omega who's looking down at him with a sneer on her face right now.

"Hey!" You yell, face burning red. "Look at what you did!"

Oh, Jay is definitely looking. For some reason, his eyes are glued to your face, taking in every feature decorating your sweet face. The perfectly sculpted brows that are now frowning deep, the round eyes that are narrowing down at him, the full lips that are pulled into a tight, dissatisfied line.

Such an angry omega. But also the most beautiful he's ever laid his eyes on.

"Hey, stupid alpha. I'm talking to you!"

Jay has never seen you before. Who are you? Why are you making his heart beat so fast? Why is his wolf wiggling his tail at the sight of you?

"Oh my fucking God. So fucking annoying."

Even when you're glaring at him, under the dim light of Jake's frat house, you look very, very pretty. Are you even real, or just a drunken manifestation of his desperation for a mate?

Jay's too starstruck and drunk to notice how dumb he must look right now, but you've had enough of the alpha gaping at you like a dying fish. You shake his shoulders, manicured nails digging into his shirt.

"Earth to dumbass alpha! Hello??? You just spilled your drink all over my Limited Edition Cherry Chanel Baby Tee!"

Oh, right. Jay snaps out of his reverie, and drops his eyes on your chest to see the damage he's done.

But instead of realising his mistake, he's realising something else instead.

The wet patch darkens your shirt from its usual shade, sticking to your chest like second skin. From where he's standing so close, just a step below you on the stairs, his eyes level with your chest, Jay has a belated realisation that you have such perfect…boobs.

They're slightly bigger than average, perfectly-shaped and round, and they sit so nicely that Jay feels like they'd beat his expensive pillows in softness. A thought, a small thought that sober-Jay would never have, crosses his mind.

Jay wants to bury his face in your chest to test it.

Oh my God. This is bad. Drunk-Jay is so, so bad. He's really malfunctioning tonight.

You, on the other hand, are already at your wits' ends. It doesn't help that the shirt feels so sticky, so uncomfortable and it irritates you to the core. Also, why the fuck is this stupid alpha staring at your chest like—like he wants to touch it?

"Hey!" you push his shoulder again, but the alpha doesn't budge. You grit your teeth. "My eyes are up here, dumbass!"

Jay breathes out. "Che…rry."

Your brows furrow in confusion.

"What?"

"Cherry." Jay repeats, eyes never leaving your chest. His mind is dissolving into mixed up conversations—he can hear Jake's voice, your voice, and the bass mixing together.

"I prefer…cherry."

There is a heavy silence that follows, loaded with bubbling anger, drunk confusion, and a very, very horrific realisation that he's talking about your chest. Your mouth falls open.

With a handsome face and neat shirt like that, you can't believe that this alpha is such a fucking pervert!

"Yah! Are you crazy?! What cherry?!" You scream, attracting more attention on the two of you. Jay barely blinks. "Are you talking about—about my boobs?!"

Jay blinks blearily, then nods.

"Your…cherry."

You let out a scandalised gasp. Humiliation starts creeping up your face, painting your skin even redder than before.

This is ridiculous. This is diabolical! The audacity of this alpha—!

Before you know it, your hand already swipes across his cheek in a surprised, harsh slap. Jay's head jerks to the side, his own eyes growing wide at the impact. A ringing silence echoes between the two of you, followed by a chorus of gasps from the onlookers.

After literally getting slapped into his senses, Jay sobers up in that one single moment and realises with a dread, What the fuck did he just do?

He slowly looks back at you, touching his stinging cheek like you had personally offended his whole bloodline. You're glaring at him, chest heaving rapidly like you can't contain your anger any longer.

"You fucking pervert!"

Jay's breath hitches. He's a pervert?

"Get away from me!"

The alpha lets his body get shoved to the side like a door blocking the way. He stands there, motionless, as he watches you leave, angry steps making your hair bounce. Shame and guilt start crawling up his chest when his mind decides to replay the scene, realising in horror how out of character he had been and how rude he was to you.

Oh God. Oh my God.

Seriously, Park Jongseong? Cherry? That's the first thing you say to the literal love of your life?

"Isn't that Park Jongseong?"

"Oh my God, I thought he was a green flag?"

"I guess even a green flag still has a knot to satisfy."

"Park Jongseong is a pervert?"

Jay squeezes his eyes shut and runs a hand down his face. He doesn't really care about his reputation, so the whispers barely bother him.

What he cares more is the lingering scent of acidic espresso and rotting cherries in the air, trailing after you even when you're long gone. His cheek still burns, but he couldn't care less because—you know…he kind of deserved it.

Fuck.

And Jay doesn't even know your name.

"All alphas are nothing but a knothead!"

You spit, seething in anger as you glare at anyone in your way. Not even the loud music can muffle your voice, sending death threats and insults to a certain alpha (and literally all other alphas.)

Maybe it's just your bad day, because just as you finally see your exit, an alpha—stupidly broad-shouldered alpha, fuck alphas and their ridiculous proportions—bumps into you. You click your tongue and look up at him.

"Why do you guys stupid alphas only think with your dick, your cock, and only your small fucking knot?!"

The alpha stares at you in horror. It seems like today is more of his unlucky day than yours.

"I-I don't—"

"What? You don't have a dick?" You cut him off, irritation pulling at your nerves. Tonight is such a shitty night. "Isn't that the only thing you alphas are proud of? Thinking with your knot and tricking omegas with your cock?!"

The poor alpha stands there cowering, hanging his head low as if he's already accepted his fate of being the receiving end of your hatred towards alphas and…dicks.

You push a trembling finger on his chest, eyes prickling with tears. Fuck these hormones and emotions, fuck this soft scent that makes people think you're nothing more than a weak, defenceless omega—you've had enough of everything.

"Am I wrong? Isn't that why Riki cheated on me?!" You yell, not caring if people catch your words. "Because his dick can't get enough with only one pussy?!"

A ripple of murmurs and whispers start spreading around you. Even the DJ has turned the volume down slightly, taken aback by the sudden drop of the bomb of truth.

A cheating scandal? That's the juiciest gossip college students could have ever had.

The nameless alpha looks at you, eyes wide in surprise mixed with disappointment when he hears your words.

"Oh my God—there's no way—Riki cheated?" He stammers. "Nishimura Riki cheated?"

"Who the fuck is Nishimura Riki?" Your brows furrow, first time hearing that family name. "It's Hirota Riki! My stupid, cheating ex who's immature and younger than me and just plain dumb like a textbook alpha!"

The relief physically vanishes from his face. Then, as if realising what you have said, his face mirrors your confusion. "Wait—you mean Maki? That German-Japanese guy?"

You squeeze your eyes shut. Of course people know him. You almost forgot that your ex, other than being a piece of garbage and a pain in your ass, is also a famous model for the college magazines. His face is everywhere, in every campaign and poster and advertisements, wearing clothes that always gains attention.

Clothes that you designed and sewn by hand.

The back of your eyes burn with tears, but you blink them back, not wanting people to see your sadness. You'd rather they have your anger and rage, because lashing out and being called crazy for screaming seem less vulnerable than the little drops of tears down your cheeks.

You push at the alpha weakly, every fibre of your being just begging to go home and forget everything about tonight.

"Are you okay, angry omega?"

"Shut up," you hiss, voice shaky. "I'm leaving this place."

The crowd parts for you as you make your way to the exit. You sway slightly, too drained from spending your energy screaming at everyone and no one at the same time.

You hate the prying eyes. You hate the pitying words. You hate the whispers. But there's nothing you can do when it's you who accidentally aired out your ex boyfriend's scandal in your fit of anger.

It's been two months since the breakup—a breakup that you thought was healthy and reasonable. Maki told you that he was going to get busy with growing his career, balancing his job as a freelance model with being an engineering student was starting to take up most of his time. Somewhere in between schedules, he no longer could find the time to love you, to fit you in his world of fame and glory.

You didn't want to hold him back. Even when you had liked him more than you ever did anyone, you still let him go. The relationship lasted only for nine months, and you never really expected anything serious or long lasting from dating someone in college.

But tonight, a friend let the truth slip.

Maki didn't break up with you because he wanted time for his career growth—or whatever bullshit he spouted at you. No.

He has been seeing another omega behind your back. Someone from the same major as you.

It's no surprise that you didn't find out any sooner. Being a fashion major warrants competitiveness and rivals—and you're not exactly well-loved by your fellow designers. You're the notorious omega known for your ridiculous standards, your pride and stubbornness, and your sharp tongue. It's your brilliant designs that get people to at least pretend to be your friends, hoping to steal a bit of your creative talent—but you always smell bullshit from miles away.

So, really, it upsets you that you failed to detect Maki's bullshit first. And people have been keeping it from you because they like to see your downfall.

And what better downfall is there than seeing your ex cheating on you with your fashion rival?

It's not like you liked him to the point of love—no. It's the betrayal that makes your mouth feel dry, heart heavy in ways it never had been before, like an anchor pulling down ships to sink.

Before you know it, you're already outside. The air is too chilly for your skin, amplified by the wet stain on your chest. You bite your lips, on the verge of tears when you're reminded of that perverted alpha.

Another alpha that only caused you humiliation. Really?

How can someone look at you like you're the most divine being one minute, then blatantly stare at your chest the next?

It's beyond you, really. Alphas are just evolutionary failures.

You fish out your phone from your wallet and look for an Uber. You're not too drunk to drive. If anything, you've never felt more sober in your life. It's just skills issue—you just cannot drive. Even when you have a whole damn Porsche in the garage of your family's mansion; a gift from your overly-doting parents who got too excited when you managed to get into fashion school—it still terrifies you to hold the steering wheel.

All of these privileges and wealth, yet no success in the dating department (and driving classes). Your whole life, you have dated a cheater, a closeted alpha who was too scared to tell you that he liked knots better than your pussy, and just a total manchild who sulked back whenever you pouted.

"Seriously," you mutter, confirming your location on the screen. "When will it be my turn to date an actual manly alpha?"

You pause. Now that you think of it, even so-called green-flag alphas give you the ick.

They're just a bunch of performative males. Just look at the college's beloved cheater. Maki was acting like a green forest itself when he was courting you!

None of these alphas can be trusted!

"I will just die single," you decide, closing the app once your driver is confirmed. Your parents have more than enough money to support you anyway.

You stand at the porch in silence, the sound of the bass can be heard faintly through the walls. The stickiness of your shirt is now long forgotten; you've given up thinking about it when the memory of your ex comes back. There are more pressing matters at hand that need your attention.

Like the upcoming fashion week, no doubt will get you into another spiral of self-doubt and stress. Like your parents who keep insisting you meet this one young, handsome bachelor that apparently would be just your type—but you're still hurt by Maki's action that you haven't found the right timing to say yes. Like your favourite cherry Chanel baby tee, now ruined and stained, and you wonder if you should send it for dry cleaning or pay a fortune to scalpers—

"Miss?"

A deep timbre greets your hearing. It's soft and a tad bit familiar, like you've heard it somewhere before.

You turn around and immediately frown when you see him.

It's that perverted alpha.

"What?" You reply, already annoyed. The alpha blinks at you, looking more sober than before. His collar is folded neatly now, and the red tips of his ears are hinting more on shyness than alcohol influence.

He gives you a nervous smile. "I came to apologise."

Tch. Another performative alpha. But this one likes to stare at your chest too much.

You roll your eyes and turn back to the front, wishing for your driver to arrive fast.

"Just save your breath and go. You don't even know what you're apologising for."

One thing you hate about men, especially alphas, is that they never mean their sorry's. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry for everything'. Everything is too generic. They don't have any idea what they apologise for. The phrase has lost its value from how often it flows out of their mouths without meaning.

But this alpha is a bit more stubborn than you think. He shuffles closer, still keeping a safe distance, and stands next to you. Now closer, you can smell the citrusy scent wafting from him—sharp and refreshing, something that reminds you of summer. It has to be his pheromones.

Well, okay. He has sexy pheromones. You'll admit that. Too bad that the owner is already on your blacklist.

"I apologise for spilling my drinks on you and ruining your baby tee," he begins, turning his body facing you. But you refuse to look.

"It's the Limited Edition Cherry Chanel baby tee," you correct him. From your peripheral vision, you can faintly see him grin.

"Yes, I'm sorry for ruining your Limited Edition Cherry Chanel baby tee."

Okay. He's obedient. But it could be performative. Maybe he's just trying to get into your pants. You're not oblivious to how beautiful you look. You know that your family has good genes.

"And I apologise for staring at your chest inappropriately. I came off as a pervert even when I didn't mean to," he breathes out, voice lowering down in shame. "I'm sorry that I made you uncomfortable."

Something tugs at your heart unexpectedly. It surprises you that this alpha actually knows what he's apologising for, unlike your previous exes who only said sorry to get your nagging self off their backs. You shift slightly, unwilling to let this new change get to your head.

"Well, apology heard," you retort, still strong on not letting the alpha get too close—or accepting his apology. "But I'm not sorry for slapping you. So don't expect an apology from me."

An amused chuckle slips past his lips. His lemon scent bursts in the air, sounding too elated for your liking.

What's so funny?

"I guess I deserved it," the alpha, whose name you just realise you never know, replies as he touches his cheek with a brush of his fingers. You take a glance, satisfaction blooming in your chest when you notice the red mark on the tender skin.

That's what alphas like him deserve. Omegas run the world anyway.

You don't bother to say anything, just letting the cold breeze of night wind engulf you. It seeps into your bones, making you shiver almost too aggressively. The driver is still five minutes away, taking suspiciously long time at the red light just in front of a Burger King drive-thru.

You feel eyes on you before you feel his movements. The alpha sheds his trench coat, brushing wrinkles off the fabric before he hands it to you. You almost sigh, both out of relief and annoyance because really, you could use some extra layers right now but seriously, does it have to be in the most cliche, K-drama-worthy situation ever?

"What is this," you flatly ask, unimpressed.

"You're cold."

"How did you know that I'm cold?"

You watch the tip of his ears blush, and then his eyes traitorously drop to your chest before quickly lift up to face you again.

"I just…noticed."

You roll your eyes before looking down. "I know it's soaked, and it's—"

The words die on your tongue.

Your nipples. They're erect from the cold, mounting the thin, drenched fabric of your shirt in deadly-obvious pebbles. You brain dissolves into incoherent blabbering as a heat of embarrassment creeps up your neck. It's seriously the worst day ever to choose not wearing a bra.

You don't know if it's shame, or anger, or both, but when you look up to the now-blushing alpha, there's rage boiling over like a kettle about to whistle.

"I fucking knew it!" You couldn't hold yourself back this time, snatching the coat and smacking the alpha with the fabric. The alpha's eyes widen as he cowers to dodge your attack.

"You're just a pervert!"

"I-I'm not! I'm sorry—ow! Ow!"

You don't relent and keep hitting him with his coat, tears of shame threatening to spill over.

"What are you sorry for, you performative wolf?!" Smack! Smack! "You just ogled at my chest again!"

"I didn't mean to—ow! I'm sorry!"

With one final hit, you throw the coat at his face with all your might. He clumsily catches it, eyes wide with shock. The anger is hot, too hot that the cold doesn't bother you anymore, in fact you think steam might rise from your head in any second. With a huff, you stomp down the porch, ignoring his cries of sorry's from behind.

"I-I'm sorry! It's a misunderstanding! I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable again!"

"Shut the fuck up! You better not show your face anymore!" You flip him off without looking back.

However, upon seeing the Uber driver, you take a U-turn and stomp back to the alpha. His eyes immediately light up, there's a thin layer of moisture in his eyes. Maybe the coat hit his eyes or he's just so performative he'd cry if he could, you don't really care.

"You came back," he breathes out. "I'm sorry—"

"I said shut up!" You yell, already too irritated and overstimulated. While you're at it—embarrassing yourself to the point of no return—you snatch his trench coat and sling it over your chest shamelessly.

The driver is also an alpha, and you're not risking flashing your tits to another pervert.

"I'm taking this. Bye!"

"Wait!"

"And I am NOT returning it!"

With a harsh slam of the door, the car finally drives into the horizon, leaving behind a confused and guilty and perverted alpha as he chases after your Uber. Your chest heaves deeply, adrenaline running hot as your face flushes. You pretend not to notice the bag of chips and burger in the driver's lap, or the way the perverted alpha stands smaller in the side mirror as he watches you leave.

You just hope you never see that alpha again.

You never see that alpha again. However, as if you had personally offended the Earth and the entire Solar system, the Goddess doubles it down and sends your cheating ex to your studio instead.

His presence is too invasive that you feel him before you see him. His pheromones, now making your hair stand instead of providing the comfort that it used to do, breaches your senses when you round the corner. You had just stepped out to get some lunch, already grumpy from resisting your persistent mom and her chosen alpha for you to mate, when you see Maki walk down the hallway like it was his runway.

Your stomach drops. Like it's survival instinct, you turn back around and speed-walk to your studio. It's like a drum war being hit inside your chest, and you hope you're fast enough because you really, really don't want to deal with him right now.

Just as you're about to close the door, a force of Maki's hands pushes it back open. You stumble backwards, eyes wide in surprise as Maki effortlessly slips inside. His body, tall and wrong and crowding, swallows the room like a black hole sucking in the light and leaving you empty and alone in the darkness.

There's a lazy smirk playing at his lips.

"If it's not my favourite ex."

His voice is dripping with honey, a sweet poison that always gets to you no matter how hard you pretend it doesn't. It's sticky and uncomfortable, it makes you squirm and feel like there's something you should be scrambling for. It gets under your skin and Maki always gets the reaction that he wants.

You snap, face pulling into a scowl.

"What do you want, Maki?"

Maki lets your voice fade, acting like he didn't hear you. With his hands in the pockets of his jeans, the young alpha straightens, easy eyes meeting your sharp ones. And when he speaks, the words roll off his tongue so smoothly, like seeing the person he used to love didn't affect him the slightest. Like you didn't have such an impact on him the way he does you.

"Did I cheat, Y/N?"

The question strikes you dumb for a moment, but you recover quickly. Of course. Words spread fast on campus, especially if the source is the frat house. You knew it'd reach Maki eventually, but you didn't expect it to be this fast. It's like every person inside that house was an extension of Maki; the golden boy, the people's favourite, the face painting every cover of magazine.

You try to hide the tremble in your fists.

"You did."

Maki hums noncommittally.

"Do you have proof?"

"Liz told me," your voice grits out, "You'd been fucking around with your new girlfriend since you were with me."

The alpha tilts his head, still wearing that laid-back expression that you wish you could slap off his face. "Did she?"

"Yes. Now get out of here, you fucking stink—"

"Why would she help you, Y/N?" Maki calmly cuts you off, a bored tone in his voice. Like he'd rather be anywhere else but here, like he'd rather deal with a child than you. His smug face makes your skin prickle. You hate how easily he can hit your nerves.

Maki takes a step closer, taunting as ever.

"Had you started thinking that you have friends now?"

It's a soft blow that lands hard in your chest. Maki used to know you, therefore he knows all the ugly parts of you. And seeing him turning every knowledge he has of you into a weapon against you feels like being forced looking into a mirror that you've spent your whole life avoiding.

Your fists shake, nails digging into soft skin, almost drawing blood.

"Even if she lied to me, you got together with your new girlfriend so quick after the breakup," you spit between gritted teeth, holding back more than words. "That told me enough."

Maki is silent for a few heartbeats, his face unreadable.

"So what?"

There's a drop in your heart. Confused, disbelieving. "What?"

"What's wrong with moving on from you so fast? You didn't think you were so special for me to weep around, did you?"

There's a vaccuumed silence that swallows you whole. His words, casually laid out like he was discussing the weather, like the matters of your heart was something he wasn't concerned about, seep into your skin and every fibre of your being. The thoughts turn and curl, igniting a numbing buzz that replays his voice like a broken record.

Special. What's so special about you?

And when even you cannot find an answer, you feel the first crack in your chest.

Maki revels in your silence; in the first sign of submission. His smugness is loud in the studio, his pheromones flaring with dominance. He advances, taking deliberate steps, circling you like a predator assessing its prey.

"You've always been like this. So fiery, so passionate. All this energy yet no particular direction to go to," he drawls out, the words tumbling out lazily. He stops right in front of you, only a few centimeters away, and makes a show of looking around your studio.

He takes in the rumpled fabric, the crumpled sketchbooks, the spilled coffee. It appears as what he just observed: too much energy with no proper control. Loud. Messy. Reckless.

You.

"You can't even keep your studio tidy, Y/N," he breathes out a sigh.

"What's so unforgettable about you?"

When you had first started fashion school, you'd been told by every living person that money couldn't buy talent. No matter how big your mother's name is in the beauty and healthcare industry, no matter how prominent your father is in the automobile sector—you're nothing more than a mundane, passing student if you don't possess talent. And here, people always feel the need to remind you of that fact, especially after learning about the affluent background you come from.

So you learned. It's not like you got here through nepotism, anyway—you got in through your own grit. Your parents had always wanted you to get into med school, and the only thing you're good with when it comes to medicines is drawing the anatomy by hand. That sketch turned into figures and furls and soon, your dream to study fashion finally bloomed.

You have the talent and you have the grit. People always pass you nice compliments and constructive feedbacks you often dwell on—but the sleepless nights didn't really matter when you could finally see your collection walking down the runway front-row. You wear your confidence loudly that sometimes it's easy to forget that some people hate shiny things.

Your designs are so forgettable.

Said the new lecturer one day, tearing your sketchbook apart in front of the whole class came the third semester.

It was humiliating; the kind that burned your skin and the back of your eyes. Your nails cracked under pressure, trying so hard not to shed tears in front of so many pairs of eyes. But no matter how hard you try to reassure yourself, the comment lingers. It becomes an invisible knife that twists each time someone so much as look at your designs the wrong way.

And the first mistake you did was open up about it to someone.

The second mistake was that someone was Maki, of all people.

Because now, that alpha—all pride and arrogance—is throwing back the exact same insult at you right in your reddening face.

What's so unforgettable about you?

What's so unforgettable about you?

What's so unforgettable about you?

"Nothing," Maki finishes, eyes never leaving your face, as if savouring every twitch of hurt in your features.

There's nothing unforgettable about you. Not your designs; someone else probably invented something far more interesting than you. Not your face; you're just another pretty omega in a sea of more pretty omegas. Not your scent; you smell like pastries that people can easily get from any bakery. And certainly not you as a whole.

That's what he meant by it, right?

You're just a plus-one. An afterthought. The reason why skip buttons exist.

A heavy lump forms in your throat.

Maki takes your silence as a win and steps back.

"Now be a good girl and retract your statement. I never cheated on you," he says with conviction that you start questioning your own truth. "It's just your omega hormones messing around with you."

The door closes with a thud, leaving behind a ringing silence, the echo of his insults bouncing off the walls. There's a thin veil of moisture in your eyes, but you refuse to cry.

You refuse to cry for the rest of your time in your studio, trying to fix some of the mess, hating yourself even more when you realise that you care about his comments more than you should.

You refuse to cry on your way home, sitting in silence at the backseat of your Uber, replaying Maki's words in an endless loop that you wish could stop.

You refuse to cry when you have nothing to eat for dinner, stomach growling in hunger for some warm, homecooked meals, yet you have to settle for takeout again.

You refuse to cry when you sit in the middle of your living room, a luxury apartment far too big for one person to live in, trying to eat the soggy noodles and too-drenched fried chicken.

But like any normal human being, you have a heart too—a soft one at that. You can only hold on for so long.

It's hard to ignore the vast, empty space of your apartment; of the two vacant rooms down the hallways; of the single mug, single cutlery set, single-everything because for some reason you half-know and half-not, you just don't have…friends. At least not those who can reach the depths of your being—just fleeting, surface-level friends. Or companion.

Or whatever it was that Maki said that finally got to your head.

The dam finally breaks when you enter your room.

For the first time in your life, your nest that you always keep tidy on the love couch you have by the window, your safe haven where you lie in to find comfort, becomes the spot that you want to avoid the most.

There, arranged into a circle, are all the things that smell like solace and consolation after a rough day—or at least used to. Maki used to be like that—used to be your person, used to be your comfort place. So it's almost pathetic that you are still clinging onto his hoodie, his sweatshirt, the mittens he gave you last winter, the plush bunny that he won at an arcade, for comfort long after the breakup happened.

God, you didn't even want that bunny. You wanted the black cat.

You pick up his hoodie. It's the one he asked you to wear during a movie night, the one he received as a gift from GAP after a modelling gig with them. With shaky hands, you press your nose into the fabric, trying to catch the person who used to care for you—the person he was before he is now.

His scent lingers, faint and fading, but it's still there. Pine and frost, cold and sharp as his features. But instead of the warm feeling that you used to get, his scent makes your stomach twist and churn, a bile rising behind your throat.

The first drop of tears slides down your cheek.

He's no longer your safe space. Hadn't been since that breakup. Hadn't been since the night he kissed another woman behind your back.

Without thinking, you throw the hoodie on the floor. The fabric lands with a soundless thud, but the indication is loud regardless. When you look back at the love couch, the sight almost breaks you into pieces.

Your nest is all destroyed.

With a cry of fury, you lunge, hands tearing his sweatshirt apart next. At your force, the plush bunny tilts sideway, further breaking the perfect circle that used to be your nest.

"It's just a nest," your voice trembles, but the words ring hollow. Inside, your wolf twists and turns, aggressively shaking her head.

A nest is never just a nest.

"I don't care!" you shout, stomping on the plush bunny. "It's not like—it's not like anything would ever comfort me anymore."

Your knees buckle, too worn after carrying the weight of your inner battles for so long. You slump on the floor, sobs wrecking your chest, the sound raw and scratched. As if on instinct, you bring your knees close to your chest, staring at the mess with a solemn, teary gaze.

You don't even know what you're crying for. It's not like you still have feelings for Maki; or at least, there's no positive feelings for him except for lingering resentment and a strong sense of betrayal.

Is it because what the destroyed nest symbolises?

That you're nothing but a lonely, easily-discarded omega?

That nothing will ever be safe enough for you to rely on anymore?

You might act strong on the outside and bite every bullet with squared shoulders, but if only they knew what you truly feel inside.

If only they knew.

A loud, shrill ringing from your phone cuts you off your silent misery. You drag your body to where your mattress is located at the center of your bedroom, your mom's contact name blinking to be picked up.

With a wipe on your cheeks and a sniffle, you answer the phone.

"My lovely daughter! How are you? Are you eating well, sweetheart?"

I just destroyed my nest. "I'm good, Mom. Just had dinner."

"Come visit this weekend! I'll send our chauffeur to you. I'm planning to—"

"Mom."

You look around your room. At the space that feels too big to fill in, the discarded fabric on the floor. Then, at your disheveled reflection in the mirror.

"Yes, daughter?"

You bite your lower lip, trembling. You look like a mess. Just like what Maki had said.

"I wanna go home."

There's a split second of silence before your mom's voice echoes again.

"You mean you wanna move back here, sweetheart?"

"Mhm," you almost sniffle but you catch yourself, not wanting to give yourself away. "I wanna live with you again."

"Oh, my! That means you agree that alpha, don't you?"

Sigh. You almost forgot about that. The silly condition your pouty mom makes if you ever want to live with them again. One that you've been trying to avoid, too busy with the fashion week preparation and planning revenge on your heartbreak.

But is there really anything to lose?

If you agree, you'll be in close proximity with what you'd say your comfort: your family, and the mansion you used to grow up in. A blind date is just free dinner and having an alpha shower your with praises and compliments. You might have to put up with a little bit of boasting here and there, but it's nothing you can't handle.

So long as you can escape this loneliness, even if only for temporary…

"Yeah," you breathe out. "I'll meet him."

Just let me go home to you, Mom.

Park Jongseong's cheek is still stinging.

But instead of acting like any other man who just got slapped would, he's wearing a giddy smile on his face. He's lying down on the couch, his apartment being the hangout spot of the day for the weekend, but thoughts about his friends are scattered away. Jay is absolutely gone and lost in cloud nine, a cherry-shaped cloud wearing the face of a certain beautiful omega that has been running on his mind as of late.

"Geez, this guy has turned crazy," Sunoo shakes his head before he nudges the older alpha. "Jay-hyung, I brought some ice packs for your cheek."

Jay absentmindedly reaches out his hand, barely registering his friend's words. "Sunoo-ya, Britney Spears was right."

Confusion knits Sunoo's brows closer. "Britney-noona?"

Jay hums. "I want her to hit me one more time."

Sunoo gives him a deadpanned look and then shoves the ice pack in his face. Jay yelps from the sudden cold contact.

"Ow!"

"Well, if you can't find her, I'm more than willing and capable to hit you one more time in her stead."

The older alpha huffs, pressing the cold compress into his swollen cheek. "You don't understand, Sunoo," he defends, "Her hands were so soft and she's so….beautiful."

"She slapped you."

"I deserved it."

"Yeah, cause you were ogling at her chest."

"I—" Jay gulps. Well, now it doesn't sound so good. "I mean…yeah, I did. I stared too long, in fact. That's why I said I deserved it."

Even while saying so, there's still this stupid smile decorating his handsome face. Sunoo can only shake his head, hands on his hips like a tired mom handling her teenage son's first underage drinking. It sounds that bad because it was that bad.

"I can't believe this is the end of Jay-hyung's gentleman era," Riki snorts from the floor. He's been hogging Jay's latest edition of PlayStation all to himself, secretly eavesdropping the two alpha's conversation.

Jay doesn't take it nicely. "What do you mean? I am still me."

"Mhm. Gentleman by day, boob enthusiast by night. Totally not a pervert."

Jay is open to criticism, especially anything to improve himself. But there's nothing to improve here. Jay is just…in love. Okay, that's a bit too soon. Jay is infatuated would be the best way to describe his situation right now because there's no doubt that he, as in human-Jay, and his wolf, like you.

Yes, in a romantic way. Yes, in a 'he wants to court you' way. Yes, in a 'I need her name and a priest now because he does hope he can marry you' way.

He's everything but he's not a pervert. No. And Jay has a hard time receiving criticism about his personality if it comes from a certain alpha named Nishimura Riki, and another alpha named Lee Heeseung. Call it pettiness or a vendetta, but those two have no right to say shit about him. Right now or ever.

Beside him, Sunoo starts to sigh. "Riki."

"What? At least we know why omegas like you now."

Jay's expression hardens. There's a twitch in his jaw that doesn't go unnoticed by Sunoo.

"What do you mean by that?"

Riki, still not sensing the sudden drop of temperature in the room, casually shrugs. "I'm saying maybe you've always been looking. Heeseung-hyung and I knew better."

A heavy silence blankets the room, suffocating each corner with unspoken rage. Sunoo almost recoils from the sudden bitterness that comes from Jay's pheromones. He casts a worried glance at the wounded alpha.

"Yeah." Jay lets out a quiet laugh. "Because both of you thought I'd steal your omegas."

Riki goes rigid. He puts down the console, finally registering the damage that came out of his mouth. He whips his head around, only to be met with a sharp glare from Jay.

"Jay-hyung…"

"No, let's talk about it." Jay gently pushes away Sunoo's hands that come up to comfort him, putting down the ice pack with calm fury that radiates more heat than if he had shouted. He fixes Riki with a burning glare that could've melted the ice pack.

"Let's talk about how I am always the collateral damage of your love story."

Riki gulps. Truthfully, he has never seen Jay angry. And even when he did, that anger was never directed to him. But this time, being the receiving end of such disappointed eyes, Riki wishes the ground would swallow him whole.

"Jay-hyung, you know I don't mean it like that."

"Which part? The pervert part? Because you and Heeseung surely treat me like one whenever your omegas are around," Jay says, still soft, but the venom is there. "As if I was some horny wolf waiting for the time to pounce on them. Let me ask you, Riki. What was so wrong with wanting to help you when you literally asked me for help?"

"I—I know. You're never wrong—" Riki swallows, too paralysed from how fast the situation took its bad turn. "I just…shit. I'm sorry, hyung. You're such a good alpha—"

"Am I, really? Because with you two, I never feel like one."

Riki tries to say something back, mouth gaping like fish out of water. Jay heaves out a long sigh, ruffling his already-messy hair. As if on cue, the door to his apartment opens and comes in Heeseung, whose eyes immediately widen in alarm upon sensing the tension in the living room.

"What are we fighting about?"

"About your terrible jealousy issues," Jay grits through his teeth, looking up to meet eyes with Heeseung. The latter almost flinches from how sharp his gaze is. Jay takes another deep breath.

"God, you know what? I understand jealousy. I truly do. I wouldn't want any alpha near my omega too. But that would be any alpha but you two. Because I trust you. I trust you so much and it actually," Jay halts for a moment, realising how intense his emotions have been running. But the reassuring pat from Sunoo serves as his motivation.

He needs to say this. He needs to. Otherwise he'd drown in undeserving guilt and shrink himself again.

"It actually hurts when you guys don't feel the same about me."

The tension thickens it could be cut with a knife. Riki's expression crumples, the alpha who's usually prideful and cocky is now in shambles upon seeing his older alpha breaking down like this. Heeseung fails to find any words, the guilt is lodged in his throat that barely any voice would come out, blocking any syllables from being spoken.

"I just wanted to help. My kindness has no underlying meanings. I didn't offer to help because I wanted to have your omega in bed, Riki. I was thinking about you. I was thinking how I could stop you from crying because you were my friend first and it—it hurt to see you cry so much like that."

Jay is still soft. His voice is still gentle, and that's what makes this whole situation uglier. That's what makes the guilt press harder. Both alphas in question could only stare at their feet, reflecting on their actions towards Jay.

"And you, Heeseung. Would you rather have your mate get soaked that night?" Jay doesn't let him answer. "I don't think you would. I couldn't just leave knowing she'd get drenched in the rain, knowing how much my friend cherishes her and would freak out if she got sick."

Heeseung purses his lips. He was so busy mending what was broken with his omega that he didn't realise how much he's been hurting his friend.

The apartment is silent, save for the PlayStation menu playing its music on loop. Riki can't bring himself to look at Jay, perfectly fine with tucking his chin low and hiidng his shame. Heeseung still has a hand on the doorknob, the metal feels cold on his slippery palm.

"Jay-ah…"

"I'll be in my room. I want to be alone for a moment."

The anger has long left his body. All he feels now is exhaustion and relief, like finally putting back a heavy backpack he's been carrying for months.

The three watch as Jay disappears behind the door of his master bedroom. It closes with a gentle click, as if even in anger and disappointment, Jay wouldn't ever be harsh to his friends. Heeseung and Riki immediately let out a breath they didn't know they were holding while Sunoo watches them with amusement.

"It took him a lot of courage to say that, you know." Sunoo takes a seat on the couch, grabbing the console that was left untouched by Riki. "You guys better apologise and make up to him properly."

"I am such an asshole," Riki whines and drapes his body across the couch, letting his head fall into Sunoo's lap despite his protest. "Hyung was right. It's all about trust. And I was acting like an insecure dog."

Sunoo snorts. "You're a big puppy, Riki."

Heeseung is still quiet. The memory of the punch that almost landed on Jay's face still haunts him, even before the confrontation. He knew it needed to be talked about eventually, he just didn't expect it to be in a situation like this. But alas, Jay has been a sponge that absorbs everybody's emotions, the reliable one—it's about time that the patient alpha loses it.

Just as he's about to enter the apartment fully, the door is suddenly pushed open from behind and Heeseung gets shoved inside instead. Immediately, the smell of burnt chocolate fills the air and the insults he prepares for the intruder die on his tongue.

"Sunoo-hyung!" Jungwon barges in, a pout protruding on his lips. "Noona called me his little brother again!"

Oh, Goddess of the Moon. Please protect this friendship.

Heeseung walks silently to his room, ignoring the trio alpha now fighting for Sunoo's attention. Jungwon, however, upon seeing Riki, immediately scowls at the younger. His pout disappears and his complaints die in his throat.

"YOU! Nishimura Riki. You're not cheating, aren't you?"

Riki blinks confusedly.

"Cheating? In FIFA or PUBG?"

"On your girlfriend!"

"Fuck, no!" The blond-haired alpha sits up, taking full offence from the sudden accusation. "I would jump off the cliff first before I'd ever dare cheat on my lovely mate. What the fuck are you on? You know I'm loyal as fuck."

Sunoo pinches his arm. "That's too many curse words, Riki."

Jungwon shakes his head. He pushes the younger off the couch and claims his previous spot, laying his head comfortably on Sunoo's lap. The scandalised look on Riki's face hasn't faded, the alpha is still glaring at Jungwon like he has offended Riki's ancestors.

"Nothing. There was just this omega yelling about getting cheated on during last Friday's party."

"And? What does that have to do with me?"

"The cheater's name is also Riki! You don't know how disappointed and heartbroken I was for those three seconds when I thought it was Nishimura Riki. It turned out to be Hirota Riki," Jungwon nudges Sunoo's hand, urging the older to pat his head. He's still heartbroken, please comfort him, thank you. "I was so close to committing a murder on you that night."

With that explanation, a look of understanding passes Riki's face. He slumps and sprawls on the floor, relief bleeding out of his muscle.

"Oh. That's Maki. Riki C. He's the disgraceful Riki. I don't fuck with him. Not anymore."

"You better not!" Jungwon hisses at him like an angry kitten.

"Wait, so you're Riki B?" Sunoo tilts his head. One of his hands is playing with Jungwon's hair. "Then who is Riki A?"

"The other Riki is Taki, and no, I am Riki D, because this dick—"

"Nishimura Riki!" Sunoo and Jungwon simultaneously yell, drawing out a cheeky laugh from the youngest.

From inside his room, Heeseung could hear the commotion. He shakes his head. Oh, Goddess of the Moon. Please save Nishimura Riki.

Living with your parents has been as peaceful as it can get. Nothing much can be said, considering that it has only been a week.

For the time being, you manage to get your mom off your back about meeting this handsome alpha that she'd like to have as a son-in-law. You hide behind the excuse of being busy with the fashion week, which is not totally a lie.

Fashion week is one of the biggest assessments there is. It means two months of outsourcing high-quality fabrics, sketching and crumpling papers and sketching, hours spent in the studio, finding suitable models for your runway and, the most important part: piecing your imagination and hardwork into a clothing worth wearing and parading.

Which is why you're spending your time in the studio on a Saturday, leisurely going over your sketches again as you wait for your fabrics to arrive. It had been preordered a month ago and the delivery was scheduled today. Precisely, two hours ago.

But you try not to worry. It's only 12 p.m., and there's probably traffic on the road since the working civilians are supposed to be having lunch now. But one hour turns into two. Then another one passes.

Before you know it, it's almost five in the evening, yet there's no sight of a truck or even a ring from the company itself. By the time you dial their office number, you have already done a cherry set on your nails, tidied up the space to accommodate your resources, and even sketched a whole damn new collection.

"Hello, this is The Nakakita. How may I help you?"

The Nakakita. A Japanaese establishment that is owned by the Nakakita family. You wouldn't have gotten in touch with such a prestigious supplier of the Japanese fabric materials had it not been for your cheating ex's connection in the fashion industry.

Maki is all things, and resourceful is one of them.

"Good evening. I'm Y/N. There's supposed to be a delivery for order #1284 today to my studio. Japanese denim, linen cotton, blended silk?"

Well, you might have sounded too demanding. But that's the least of your concern now.

"Oh, Miss Y/N. I'm terribly sorry, but this order was cancelled."

If your jaw could drop down to the ground right now, it would cause a huge-scale earthquake across the city.

"What? I never cancelled it, though?"

There is a sound of clicking on the keyboard from the end of the line. "Um…it was cancelled by the account holder two weeks ago. By Mr. Hirota Riki, approved by the heir himself, Mr. Nakakita Yuma."

What the actual fuck. Two weeks ago was when Maki had confronted you about the rumour spreading about his infidelity. Despite feeling a bit intimidated (not that you'd ever admit), you did no such thing and let his reputation continue to get tarnished. You still firmly believe that he did cheat and whatever manipulation he pulled on you was just an attempt at making you feel miserable.

Not only is his ego as big as he is and a gaslighter, but he is petty, too?!

You let out a disbelieving scoff. Oh my Goddess…That alpha is really something else. As if shattering your dream of having a mate wasn't enough, now he wants to interfere with your career path as well?

What a fucking weirdo.

"So, what happened to all those fabrics? I already paid for the deposit."

"Based on this record, it has been delivered to Miss Kim Areum three days ago and your money is in the process of being refunded back to your bank account."

And as if all of those things weren't enough to pull you under, Maki just has to deliver the final blow to the most sensitive part of your heart.

Of course he'd give those resources to his new girlfriend. Of fucking course.

It's like a cellotape on skin. Peeling it off would sting, taking away your body hair that gives you heat, and leaving sticky residue that wouldn't come off easily. Your relationship with Maki—during and after the breakup—has always left you with this hollow, sinking feeling that weighs heavy on your shoulders.

No matter what you did, if the relationship has ended or not, it'll always leave burn marks that you have been trying so hard to heal. And whether the world has moved on or not, it's always you bearing the ugly aftermath.

"…Miss?"

"I see," you finally speak, voice hoarse from suppressed anger. "Let Yuma know that my attorney will be in contact with your team soon."

"Wait—"

Not letting them finish, you end the call and toss your phone on the couch. Your perfectly blowed hair is now disheveled, untamed by your fingers as you pace the room. There's unshed tears hanging low on your waterline, waiting for the time to fall down, yet you still refuse to give in.

"Fuck!"

It's so unfair. It's so fucking unfair. It wasn't you who left, nor was it you who cheated and being disloyal—yet you are the one who have to pay the price for his crumpling ego? And now he's putting your hard-earned place in the fashion school on the line?

What a fucking manchild.

"What am I supposed to do? Goddess, help me—what am I supposed to do?"

You sink into the couch, the tears now slide down your cheeks with no restraints. There's a choked sob coming out of your throat, your scent souring with every hiccup slipping past your lips.

Time is not a luxury that you can afford now. Confronting Maki would only mess with your head more and result in nothing. You'd love to find a way to sue The Nakakita, but that's a matter that you'd like to solve after the fashion week ends.

Fuck. You barely have two months on your hands, yet you have just lost your resources that you have ordered a month ago. Finding a new supplier would be tough—since not many of them would take indiviual customers due to economies of scale. You are no wholesaler or retailer; catering to you would be expensive for them.

But you have to find a way somehow.

With a shaky hand, you tuck your hair behind your ears and grab your laptop. The tears are uncontrollable at this point, but it's not a sign to give up or stop. Your dainty fingers start typing fast on the keyboard, trying to search for any textile businesses that would make some space for you.

This is not how you imagine your evening would end. You had pictured measuring and cutting fabric pieces to fit your six-piece collection, getting prepared to start assembling them and fitting your models.

Yet here you are, giving calls after calls, accepting rejection after rejection from every business you try to contact. It's exhausting, the tears are now just cracked vulnerbaility on your cheeks. Somewhere along the way, you have accidentally snapped your manicured nails while typing.

"I'm sorry, you have to place an order three months prior in order to secure the fabrics."

This is the sixth one.

You barely hold back a sigh. "I see. Thank you for your time."

You slam your phone on the couch and start rubbing your face. This is hell. You're sure a truck had hit you somewhere on the road and this is your hell, punishing you for being such a bitchy omega to everyone around you.

But how could you not be one when everybody always gives you a reason to protect yourself?

Taking in a shuddering breath, you open your bleary eyes and stare at another line of name on the screen.

Sinar Textile.

It's operating until 8 p.m., which is unusual for many companies. Talking about the time, your stomach growls on instinct, as if reminding you of the skipped lunch and forgotten dinner that you are yet to acknowledge.

"This is the last one," you whisper to yourself. "If this too fails, I will fucking kill Maki."

You punch the number on your phone screen, exhaustion clinging to every movement. It's inhumane to sabotage someone like this; you wonder if you can sue Maki too somehow. He deserves it more than anyone in this world.

It takes five rings before the call gets picked up. A cheery voice greets you.

"Good evening! I am Jake from Sinar Textile. How can I help you?"

You rub your temple, appreciating the friendly tone while it lasts before you start threatening this poor Jake to agree to your proposal.

"Hi. I'm Y/N. I'm looking for a few bolts of fabric for my upcoming collection."

A rustle is heard from Jake's side. "Hello, Miss Y/N. When do you need the fabrics?"

You tap your fingers on your thigh. "Two weeks from now."

There's a few seconds of silence before Jake speaks again. "Are you a wholesaler or a retailer?"

I fucking knew it. "Um," you gnaw at your bottom lip, nerves grating your edges. "Neither. I'm in fashion school, and I need them for my fashion week."

Please. Please accept me. Please take my request. Oh Goddess, this is the least you can do for justice.

But unfortunately, Jake is not your Goddess. "I am sorry, Miss Y/N, but our business strictly provides for wholesaling and retailing establishments only. As for indivi—"

"Please," you let out before you could stop yourself. "I'll take scraps or leftovers. Or even any cancelled order. I'll take anything but please don't turn me down."

You are never one to beg. Especially not to alphas. And while you're not sure about Jake's secondary gender, he's still a man and it still feels humiliating to beg.

But you don't have many choices now, do you? You care more about your degree than your dignity as of now.

The hesitance in Jake's silence is loud. "Miss Y/N, I am a mere part-timer here. I'm afraid I don't have the power to decide."

"Then let me talk to the person in charge, please."

You feel bad for Jake for putting him in a tough spot like this. But to be fair, he's receiving your kindest energy now—since you've lashed out on many other receptionists prior to this call, when you were still brimming with anger.

"Please wait a moment."

You inhale sharply. Is this really happening?

It doesn't take long before a feminine voice takes over the call. "Hello. You're speaking to the CEO of Sinar Textile. I am Mrs. Park."

You straighten up. "H-Hello, Mrs. Park. I apologise for the late disturbance."

The woman hums. "It is not a big deal. My receptionist has told me about your situation. Unfortunately, we do not supply for individuals like you."

The hope blooming in your chest deflates instantly. You close your eyes as you gather your composure.

"I—Please, ma'am. I don't know how to tell you that I desperately need them for my fashion week." For a strange reason, you feel yhe need to give her context. You're no careless student who forgot to book her supplier until last minute—you just got sabotaged. "My supplier terminated our agreement after my…ex-boyfriend intervened."

The woman seems to consider this, as her next words give you a sliver of hopium. "Please email me your sketches. Then I will consider. What's your name again, Miss?"

"Y/N. I am Y/N."

"Y/N?" She repeats, and if you tried to listen hard enough, you'd be able to detect the hint of recognition in her tone. "Great, Miss Y/N. Email me at [email protected], then I will let you know my decision."

Relief floods your senses like a tidal wave. With trembling lips, you try to piece your words together.

"Thank you, Mrs. Park. I—I'll take anything. Leftovers—or any defects. I can do it. Please consider my request."

"No worries, Miss Y/N. I'll get back to you the soonest tomorrow."

And with that, the call ends. You slump in your seat.

You could've gotten the details of their wholesale customers and buy from them, but from experience, you knew that getting the materials directly from the sources is hundreds time better in terms of quality and the price. And you have reports to submit much later on, where your budgeting would be questioned like you just laundered the national income.

Later that night, you arrive home with this aching need to be comforted. Instead of a pile of all the soothing scents you've encountered in your life, you open the door to your empty bed, void of any nest. Your mom's bedroom is just one door away, but it's too late to ask for cuddles, isn't it?

You open your wardrobe, staring at the empty spot where your nesting blankets used to be.

"It's just a nest," you convince yourself. "I'll feel better after waking up."

Completely ignoring the twisting pain in your gut, you settle yourself under the cover after washing up.

Sundays are fun days, and this time, your kind of fun is rushing your chauffeur to take you to your studio and threatening him into disregarding every traffic rule he's ever learned about.

"Miss, the light is red."

"I don't care."

"We will get fined."

"I will pay," you urge.

The chauffeur closes his eyes. "Please don't tell your mother."

And that's how a fifteen-minute drive could be cut into ten minutes of ride only. Your thanks barely leaves your lips as you rushes out, trying your best to look put-together while also lightly sprinting to the private studio that you've rented since your first year, located inside the university compound.

This morning, you woke up to an email from Sinar Textile. Mrs. Park, bless her heart—seems so taken with your sketches and has decided to give you some leftovers of their previous arriving batch from Japan. It's like the Goddess has finally taken pity on you overnight, and proving that the evil shall perish altogether (Fuck you, Maki).

You spend the entire ride mentally redesigning half your collection. Leftovers are more than enough. You'll make them work. You always do.

By the time you reach the studio, your mood has improved significantly.

There are bolts of fabric, stacked near the door to your studio. Two men wearing short-sleeved Polo stand around the stack, chatting with each other while waiting for your arrival. You waste not even a second and approach them faster.

"Good morning!" You greet them enthusiastically, so unusually you, but you're too giddy to care. "Are you from Sinar Textile?"

The shorter of the two greets you back, a puppylike smile stretching wide on his face. "Hello! You must be Miss Y/N. I'm Jake, and this is Sunghoon. We are the part-timers from Sinar Textile."

The latter bows to you. Up close, you finally notice the wolf ears nestling among his pitch-black hair. Oh, so he's a wolf hybrid. No wonder his pheromones are still strong to your nose despite the thick scent patch glued to his neck.

Well, first of all—Sinar Textile sure hires only super good-looking guys to work with them. If you weren't so into your post-breakup feelings, you might think about asking for their numbers after this.

"Nice to meet you two. Now, shall we?"

"We're waiting for Jay."

Your brow jumps at that. Who is that? "Jay? Is he supposed to be here?"

"Yeap! He went to take the last bolt of your Japanese denim—oh there he is!"

You know the saying, every good thing comes with a price? While yes, there is a price tag to every bolt of fabric tha you receive from Sinar Textile today—apparently, there is a hidden tax that you have to pay the Goddess for granting you with this opportunity after Maki's stupid stunt yesterday.

And that tax is Jay. Or more precisely, if your memory hasn't betrayed you—the pervert alpha from the frat house party a few weeks ago.

There he is indeed, walking down the hallway in a similar black Polo shirt. He's carrying a bolt of Japanese denim, but does he have to carry it on his shoulder like that? It looks so show-off-y, what with the way his biceps stretch against the sleeves, bulging muscle straining under the weight of the fabric. His face is as handsome as you remember it, and without the dim light of the porch, every cut of his face is clearer for your eyes to see now in broad daylight.

Damn it. Why does he have to be so infuriatingly good-looking?

Your smile has never dropped so fast, but it's the opposite case for the alpha, because as soon as he recognises you—you've never seen a smile light up so fast.

"Cherry?"

You could barely tone down your irritation. Who the hell is Cherry?

"Are you the other part-timer?"

Jay blinks confusedly. He glances at the clipboard in his hand, and then his eyes widen imperceptibly.

"Oh—I apologise. You're Miss Y/N, right?"

"Yes, that's me," you narrow your eyes at him. But Jay only smiles back. "And you are Jay."

His eyes shine—what the heck?—at the mention of his name. "You know my name? It's actually Park Jongseong, but you can call me Jay. It sounds better when you say it."

You try to ignore the offended gasp coming from Jake.

"Are you flirting with me?"

"I'm not!" Jay is fast to deflect, shaking his head when you only stare at him thretaeningly. "I just—I think—I just want to…talk to you?"

Jake and Sunghoon wince from sheer awkwardness.

"Aren't you here for Sinar Textile?"

"Yes."

"Then we're here strictly for business. I am going to open my door and you three will carry the bolts inside, and then you leave. Understand?"

If Jay were to have wolf ears like Sunghoon, they'd droop like wilting flowers from your tone alone. "I understand," he gives in, then shoots a serious look at two of his friends behind you.

"Boys, let's get moving!"

Jake springs up with a salute. "Aye aye, captain!"

You sigh and unlock the door to give way to them. The three boys lift two bolts at the same time, marching in like soldiers ready for the battlefield. Jay stops briefly in front of you, and you prepare another scolding if he tried to say something absurd again.

"Where would you like these?"

You almost falter by the unexpected, but you don't let it show. "At that corner. I tidied up that space for these bolts yesterday."

Jay nods and wordlessly steps further inside. You watch as the three men move effortlessly together, avoiding mannequins and putting down the bolts gently like true experts. They seem close, judging by how at ease they are with each other. Probably just three best friends working part-time together to kill the time while gaining extra pocket money.

Jake, being the first one to reach the corner, claps his hands and looks around. There's amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Wow, this is my first time at the fashion building and I already got to be in a private studio."

You quirk up an eyebrow. "Are you from around here?"

There's a surprised chuckle from the beta. He slaps a hand on Sunghoon's shoulder, but the wolf hybrid barely budges.

"Yeah, we attend this university too! I am from engineering, Sunghoon is from law school, and Jay is from the business department—obviously, if he wants to inherit this company."

Your curiousity is growing like a moving snowball. "Inherit…?"

"Sinar Textile is owned by his parents. He's just doing this on the weekend when he's got nothing to do with his basketball team," Jake casually says like he didn't just drop the bombest bomb you've heard the entire week.

That says a lot, considering The Nakakita incident yesterday.

And—What?! Sinar Textile is—what—so Mrs. Park is his mother?

You are left with no words. Not that you could muster anything, when said guy is already speaking. "Stop referring to me like I'm not in the same room as you."

Jake pouts at that. "Well, you're busy with your clipboard, so why not?"

"I am counting the inventory and preparing the invoice for Miss Y/N," Jay smoothly says, while he's scribbling something on the clipboard. You ignore the efficient way his hand moves, the veins popping on his forearms, and the pout he makes when he's focusing.

When he chances you a glance, you scowl back at him. The alpha only smiles.

It's so irritating. Why does he keep smiling?

"Alright boys, get back to the van. I'll follow you after I'm done with the invoice."

"Stop bossing me around! We are the same age!" Jake protests.

"Well, technically, I am your boss."

"A boss baby! You are not even the CEO yet!"

Sunghoon only sighs and drags Jake by the arm to follow him. He stops momentarily in front of you, gives you a short bow and a 'thanks'—that you reply back with a 'thanks' too, what the heck?—before he leaves with the beta. Jake waves his hand at you, his previous pout melting into a wide grin.

"See you again, Miss Y/N!!! Please invite me to your fashion week!"

If it weren't for Sunghoon's tail and wolf ears, you'd think that Jake was the hybrid. Probably golden retriever—that seems to suit him more.

It's only when Jay clears his throat that you're reminded you're left alone with him in this studio. Instinctively, you back into the door, putting more distance between the two of you. Jay doesn't seem to mind or take offence, he just gives you that easy smile that's been putting you on edge since fifteen minutes ago.

"Two bolts for Japanese denim, linen cotton, and blended silk each. This is your invoice. You may make the first payment when we send you an email," Jay speaks, his tone professional, as he hands you a piece of paper the size of A4. "Please sign here."

You take the pen painfully slowly, trying to avoid any physical contact, and sign.

"If you need anything more, please feel free to contact me." You glare at him. "Or any of us, really! But don't hesitate—my mom told me to put you on our priority list."

There he goes again. Typical alpha trying to flirt his way into your pants. As if you had forgotten about his perverted gaze a few weeks ago!

You cross your arms and dare to look into his eyes. "Thank you. I will contact Jake."

Jay purses his lips. "That's great. Jake works every Saturday and Sunday, while Sunghoon works after 3 p.m. on weekdays. Please feel free to reach out."

He opens his mouth, seemingly to add something, but decides against it when he smiles instead.

"It's actually nice to see you again," he mutters almost quietly, his tone soft and delicate, the grip of professionalism loosening. "I've been hoping I could run into you again."

But you're not easily swayed by sweet-faced alphas like him. "So you can, what, stare at my chest again?"

Jay's ears perk and blush a deep shade of pink. "What? No! Y/N—" he shakes his head, eyes pleading. "I really meant it when I said that I didn't mean to! I swear I'm not a pervert. Please forgive me."

"But you still stared."

"I…did." His voice becomes quieter, the confession feels like cold air hanging in the studio.

Jay shifts in place. The way you stare at him all cold and menacingly seems to undo him more than anything. From where he stands, he can catch a whiff of your scent—the sweet cherry that's been haunting him since that night.

You're so pretty even when you're mad, glaring at him like some kind of a criminal like this. A sight that he's not used to, because people often look at him like an angel sent from the Goddess as an apology on behalf of the alpha population.

"Y/N," he begins, already making up his mind. Your name falls easily from his lips now that he finally gets the chance to know it. "I would like to apologise. I made you feel uncomfortable twice, and probably unsafe, too. I deserved to get beaten more than what you did that night."

"Yeah, I should poke your eyes for good measure. Making sure your eyes don't stare at omegas like that again."

"I don't do that with other omegas, though. Only with you."

"So, congratulations? I'm your first victim?"

Jay panics. "No!"

"Your favourite victim?"

"No!"

"Your exclusive victim?"

"Please stop saying victim."

"Then stop staring at my boobs. You're doing it again." The corner of your lips lifts when the crimson on his ears deepens. Okay. It's kind of fun teasing him, and truthfully, you're no longer that upset from his behaviour that night.

"No, I'm sorry," Jay dips his head lower, staring at his feet, not catching your intention. "It's very wrong of me. I sincerely apologise. Please forgive me."

Your heart does something strange. The sincerity in his voice is unlike any other you've heard from not even a single alpha before. It's raw with honesty and vulnerability, like he actually spends every night dwelling on this mistake of a first impression he had made of himself.

But you say nothing. You simply stare at the alpha whose eyes are remorsely fixed on the ground.

"I know you probably don't trust me."

You snort. "Obviously."

"But I hope one day you'll feel safe around me."

There it goes again—your heart, lurching like Jay was a K-drama main lead saying something corny to win the heroine over. But this is not fiction, and Jay is not your alpha, nor are you his omega.

"Are you threatening me with a next time?"

He shifts again. "May I earn another first impression someday?"

You almost scoff at that. You wish there's no next time or someday! ...Though, you admit, if you put aside the two—or three if you count just now—times he stared at your boobs, it has been quite alright to talk to him.

He just has this aura that puts people at ease around him. Maybe it's his face, or the citrusy scent coming from him that easily tops every other masculine pheromones you have ever sniffed, but Jay just has a way with words that makes you feel like old acquaintances.

Whatever. A pervert is still a pervert!

"Actually, my family has chosen an alpha for me."

Jay's smile falters. "Oh."

You lift your chin proudly. "Yeah! Apparently his family is very wealthy, and he's ridiculously handsome too."

Jay only blinks at you, taking every hint of rejection like a champ. "I see. I mean—that's what you deserve. An omega like you doesn't deserve anything less than that."

Your eye twitches. Why is he so damn good with words? You can't tell if it's genuinelt who he is or if it's all performative. And that infuriates you.

With a newfound determination to flaunt an unknown alpha, you triumphantly nod. "And everyone says that he's the most perfect gentleman. My mom said that he's—" How was he again? "—Very capable and hardworking. I can't wait to marry him!"

Now, you're pushing it. You don't want to marry that alpha. Hell, you're just about to accept the dinner invitation after this!

"That's good…" Jay scratches his cheek. Damn it. Jay realises that you're really trying hard to reject him, even when he hasn't said explicitly that he likes you.

But Jay is a man who can take a hint.

"That's quite a reputation. I really hope he treats you well."

"He will."

Jay purses his lips, trying to swallow down his disappointment. Of course. A pretty omega like you is rarely ever single or unclaimed, even though he doesn't see any mark on your nape or sense any alpha presence around your scent.

Sigh. Just as he finally found an omega that he genuinely likes.

"I wish you and your alpha the best, Miss Y/N." Jay lowers himself to a 90-degree bow. "Thank you for trusting Sinar Textile, and I'm sorry again."

And with that, Jay takes his leave, until the echo of his footsteps fades into oblivion. Once you're confident that you're out of his earshot, you instantly fish for your phone and call your mother.

"Mom!"

"Hello darling~ Did everything go well with the shipment?"

You bite your nails. "Yes, yes it did. Mom, I need your help."

"What is it, sweetheart? Have you finally decided to buy that new handbag from Bonia?"

"No, Mom. I think," you close your eyes and sigh exasperatedly. Truly, there's no one else that puts you in worst case scenarios but yourself and your life decisions.

"I think I'm ready to meet that alpha that you like so much."

As expected, your mother squeals into the phone and you have to force your phone away from your ears.

Great.

Now you have to mentally prepare yourself to sit with an alpha boasting about his wealth and alpha-ic achievements for approximately two hours.

All because you wanted to avoid Jay.

Or so you thought.

Of course, fate—the little evil author that it is—decides that humiliation ritual would be the perfect trope for your failing love life.

Because why the hell are you seeing Jay coming out of the black Mercedes now parked in your mansion?!

"Mom!" You whisper-yell, already halfway bolting upstairs when you see him and his parents start walking towards the door of your house. "You said that the alpha's name was Park Jongseong!"

Your mom, who's been gushing over how handsome and perfect Jay is for you from behind the curtain where the both of you are spying on the newly-arrived guests, only nudges your shoulder gently.

"He is Park Jongseong. And those are Mr. and Mrs. Park."

"No! That's—that's Jay!"

Your mom coos, fanning her face dramatically and turning to your father. "Oh my, honey, did you hear that? They're already on nickname terms with each other."

You feel like climbing the stairs and purposely falling and rolling down to the ground.

This cannot be real!

"Wait," your mother suddenly stops her dramatic gesture. She fixes you with a curious gaze, eyes squinting suspiciously.

"How do you know him?"

Maybe jumping would be faster and easier.

On the other side of the door, Jay has been fiddling with the collar of his suit for the tenth time. Beside him, Mrs. Park is frowning, swatting at his hand when he reaches for his tie again.

"Why are you fixing your tie again? It already looks perfect."

Jay swallows. "I don't know."

No, he actually knows why. Jay has never been able to lie truthfully—an irony that always amuses his friends. His body is vibrating with never-ending nerves ever since he had reluctantly agreed to his mother's planned family dinner with the omega she has taken a liking too.

Yeap. To put it simply, Jay is nervous.

And his mother catches it, if the soothing accent of her scent is telling something. "You'll like her," she convinces. Then, as if it was an afterthought, she adds, "You already met her."

If Jay was shocked, he didn't let it show.

Well, it doesn't matter, does it? When his wolf and himself have been so captivated by you.

Whoever this omega is, Jay wants to apologise in advance. He thinks he needs a couple of months to properly move on from the wonder of you before he'll be ready to accept any dating arrangement again.

"If you're confident that I'll like her, then I hope she's the person I have on my mind, Mom."

And that is the truth. If he had already met this omega and his mother's instincts are sure that he'd fall for her—then it can't be no one else but you.

Jay had crossed paths with many omegas. He had been flirted with, pursued, and even outright confessed to more times than he could count, yet no one had occupied his thoughts quite like you.

And to think that you're spending your time with another alpha…

Jay swallows down the bitterness and forces his pheromones to calm down.

Too lost in his frantic, chaotic mind, Jay hasn't realised that he's already standing in front of the door. It swings open before any of them could press the doorbell, revealing a beautiful couple and…

"Cherry?"

His cherry.

When the scowl appears on your face, Jay feels like a diver finally coming up to the surface for air. The nerves that have been jagging every edge vanish almost instantly, now replaced with a relief so profound it feels like being given a second chance at life again.

It's really. Really. You.

"It's Y/N, you dummy."

That hostile gaze. That frown and unfriendly tone.

It's really you.

The smile that spreads across Jay's face is so hopelessly fond that Mrs. Park immediately knows she doesn't have to do any matchmaking tonight. Your frown deepens, hating the blatant display of joy that's coming from him.

What is he so giddy about?!

Meanwhile, your mother is completely oblivious to the glare you're shooting at him.

"I told you, they're already using endearments for each other!"

You hope the ground could swallow you.

Jay hopes the ground could move and bring him closer to you.

part two coming soon <3

divider from @/cursed-carmine

permanent taglist: @kristynaaah @seungiesdoll @in-somnias-world @rikismists @loviseamms @ikeupop @k3nza @heezeunx @ot7archives @petulapetula @sugarcwtie @whiskymiller

That includes knowing who to follow on Instagram, who not to approach in the hallway, who to invite in group projects, and who to sit with in lunch. He goes by what makes sense and knows who the hell doesn’t belong in his circle, who rightfully has his phone number, and who can comment on his Instagram posts. 

Except when it comes to substances. He’s not a drug addict but he does enjoy good weed. 

He did listen during chemistry lectures, which basically means he knows a thing or two about pharmaceutics — at least the important parts like which produce larger surges of dopamine and intense euphoria. So while they get drug orientations every start of the school year and the addition of the entrepreneurial mindset of a businessman his father has passed down to him; Riki’s a fucking a jackpot. He simply believed every structure had blind spots, and if someone was smart enough to notice them, then maybe they deserved to profit a little. 

Maybe that made him a hypocrite. He knew that. Sometimes, in the middle of his own judgment, the thought would occur to him that he was not exactly living inside the moral boundaries he pretended to respect.

So with all of these in mind — weed-seller and social scale follower — imagine his surprise seeing a text from you.

You, an A-tier cheer captain with perfect grades and perfect friends and a perfect boyfriend and someone he doubts even has ever touched weed within a 10 feet radius because of how goody-two-shoes and slightly more socially-conformed you are, texted him: 

you: hi you sell right

The kind of surprise a priest might feel if the Virgin Mary asked to borrow a dildo.

Riki stared at his phone for a full thirty seconds. Not because he was shocked by the question itself — he’d gotten worse, far more incriminating messages from people with nothing to lose – but because of who it was from. Your name sat there, attached to a profile picture he never thought would sit on his chat log. Someone who followed the rules so well she barely seemed to touch the ground and practically flew up the school field with the school banner.

This was not how the structure worked. Nope.

He knew you didn’t look at people like him unless it was to borrow a pen or unwillingly get assigned to a lab partner. You definitely weren’t supposed to be asking him this. 

Riki leaned back in his chair and rethought the logistics. He wasn’t paranoid – paranoia implied irrationality. This was risk assessment, you’re high visibility, you’re a liability, you’re a cop in disguise, you’re a prig who’ll ruin his cloak and dagger, you’re holier-than-thou. You’re interesting.

riki: ???? is this a test loll

you: ? its a question

riki: u fr????

you: js tell me if its a no i have money

riki: 3pm behind the science building

you: ok thanks

But more than whatever you are, he knows this was stupid. This was the kind of deviation that got people caught and into the most flouting position he’ll ever be, therefore ruining his very wish to stay within a lawful system. It was, unequivocally, a very bad idea.

And yet he finds himself at the back of the building while he reevaluates the measures of bad-ness in the idea. If math really has been on his side along with his really athletic stature, he can run when you pull out as witness to his little dissenter mood. It halts when he sees you rounding the corner in your cheer uniform — ponytail perfect, knee tape slightly crooked, eyes darting like you weren’t sure you belonged back here — he realizes something his knees will give out before he can even try to walk away.

You stop a few feet away from him, awkward, out of place, glowing like a wrong answer circled in red. You stare at him with your arms crossed, hyperaware when his eyes follow the silhouette of your frame like he’s finding a covert surveillance device underneath your pleated skirt.

Riki talks calmly, like this wasn’t insane at all, like he hasn’t been in his head for the past hours: “So,” he starts, hands slipping into the pockets of his hoodie. “What do you need?”

The question should’ve been easy. You’d rehearsed it in your head on the walk here, timed it with your steps, told yourself not to sound like an idiot. But standing this near — near enough to notice the faint, clean smell of cologne and something green and earthy — you blank.

You shift your weight, arms tightening across your chest. “Um. Weed.”

Riki blinks once, and immediately he knows what this is. He studies you the way he did with lab results that didn’t line up with the predictions — or maybe it did exactly, and he can’t believe it was that easy.

“…Okay,” he said. “What kind?”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

“What kind.” he repeats.

You felt heat crawl up your neck. “Just… normal?” you say, immediately hating yourself. “Like. The kind people use?”

A corner of his mouth twitches before he can stop it. Then he licks the inside of his cheek, shaking his head when he realizes that yeah, his guess is right. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” he says. 

You bristle. “So?”

“You don’t even know dosage. Or strain. Or why you want it.” His eyes flick up to yours. “Do you?”

Your confidence wobbles, the polished composure you wore so easily in hallways cracking just a little now. He pulls out a small, neatly labeled bag and holds it between his fingers instead of handing it to you. “This is low THC,” he explains. “Won’t make you freak out. But I need to know what you specifically need so you don’t… panic.”

This was supposed to be transactional, quick, something you could tuck away and forget about. Yet every risky glance you take, he doesn’t look like someone who’d hold anything against you.

Riki sighs, about to put the bag away. “Look, let’s just forget —“

“I just,” you start, then sigh because there’s no cool way to say it. “I don’t know. I had a bad week. I wanted to try something.”

When you finally look up, he’s watching you differently. Not like you’re stupid or embarrassing, though you feel plenty of that on your own. His brows have lifted slightly, the faint amusement in his mouth fading into something quieter as he takes you in properly: your tight grip on your own arms, the way your eyes keep darting away.

And it makes it worse.

You meet his eyes for half a second before looking away with a small huff, embarrassed by the sudden attention. 

He puckers his lips slightly, staring at the thing in his hand like he’s thinking. At first, you think he might be deciding if you’re worth the trouble, but then he nods once. “Okay,” he says. “So you’re not becoming a stoner. You’re just trying a new cuisine.”

You blink at him, then laugh under your breath before you can stop yourself.

His mouth twitches, but hides it. He steps closer, just enough that you can see the smoothness of his skin, like he owns expensive skincare. He’s very tall, in a way that surprises you maybe because you’d just never stood this close before.

Really, you never spent time looking at Riki Nishimura. You’ve known the name, because who can ever look past the opulent sound of it, but to know the man behind it didn’t matter. After texting him, you don’t know what you expected either, maybe someone grubbier and smelled like smoke, someone with dry lips from all the ash. You thought he’d smell like one of those hippie guys who sold sketchy shit while wearing the same beanie for three years. 

But no, he smells like a familiar perfume your father owns in his fragrance wardrobe.

And his clothes are annoyingly nice, like the hoodie is probably more expensive than it looks and the loose pants are intentional, not lazy. 

Also, he’s 6’1.

“This,” he taps the bag lightly, “will help you relax. Body high, mostly. You’ll still be functional. But since it’s your first time, better not fuck around too much.” 

He’s still standing in front of you, close enough for you to notice the way his lashes lower when he looks at the bag in his hand, and you feel deeply, horribly stupid for only realizing now that he looks like that. 

Your gaze lingers, and he catches it. Riki clears his throat, spine straightening a little. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say too fast.

He only hums. You tighten your arms across your chest. “Just give me the thing.”

He finally hands you the bag, and you eye it once you feel its weight in your palm; leafy and green and brown and not you — but it doesn’t look so bad right now. It looks enticing, even, which you won’t try to admit out loud.

“Twenty,” he says, not planning to converse himself with the sudden discount. 

You dig into your bag, finding for the vintage pink wallet that screams the contrast of cannabis in your palm right now. “You know,” you say, hesitant but honest, “I don’t know. It’s weird how we’ve never talked before.”

That gets him. He chuckles even if there’s nothing funny about what you said, but there is something humorous about the fact he remembers shit you obviously forgot. He’s quick to question the lack of indifference, because he remembers it well that this is definitely not the first time you two talked.

“We were partners in freshman year,” Riki says.

He watches your face blank in real time, and something about it makes his mouth lift again, but not kindly enough to be mean. More like he expected it and still finds it a little funny that you are proving him right.

“English lit,” he adds. “The mythology presentation.”

For a second, he looks at you like someone who’s always known you, and you look at him like you’re seeing him for the first time. He sees it flash in your eyes, that maybe you remember him more than just some guy who sells weed to irresponsible decision-makers.

“Oh,” you say.

Riki nods once, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh.”

Until your phone buzzes to drag you back from this little bubble you’re in – your boyfriend’s name lights up the screen and Riki notices it too.

“Oh,” you say again, clearly out of your own head. “I — sorry.”

Something shifts, like the structure rebuilds and reasserts itself back into proper footing. You pull the bills from your wallet and press them into his hand. “Thanks,” you say. “For, um. The stuff.”

He closes his fist around the money, nods once. “Yeah.”

You hesitate like you might say something else, so you just tuck the bag away and step back. “I’ll go,” you say.

You turn the corner first. Riki exhales only when you’re out of sight, and chews on his bottom lip before hitting the side of his fist against the wall without real effort. He turns the other corner, parting from the rendezvous kept between eng lit and discounts.

The thing is, Riki knows you before whatever you are now. Miss Perfect who buys weed from Mister Lowkey Weed Seller — it’s a whole tangle in his brain in which he can’t exactly comprehend, but while he smokes a joint and music blasts through the speakers from the house party he’s dragged into, your picture’s pinned with red strings. 

He’s known you since third grade. You’ve been part of the cheer team before puberty, and since then you’ve accumulated likable girls your age into your circle, then the guys from the football team after. It becomes a whole coupling session when the age came right, which Riki is convinced is just some orgy labeled friendship goals in curated Instagram. He thought you were mean mostly because that’s what someone like you would be — but he does know a thing or two about you, other than the assumption of character. You’ve been in the same group projects against your will, sometimes you’d stand next to each other by the queue lines in the cafeteria, sometimes you’d bump against him in the hallway when you’re chasing time.

Is it weird he kept tabs? Maybe.

He always noticed, obviously, why wouldn’t he? You are not exactly unnoticeable. You’re nicer than your friends, you say sorry when you accidentally bump into someone, you say thanks to the staff, you say good morning to strangers, you’re pretty, you’re talented, you’re smart, you laugh at his jokes, you bought weed from him, you’re pretty, you’re perfect, you’re funny, you’re ridiculously pretty —

Riki takes another puff, too fast and too harsh, earning a rough cough from his throat. Heeseung chuckles, giving him an aggressive pat on the back when he leans his elbows against his knees. “Geez, first time?”

Riki shoves his arm away with a laugh, unsure where this is coming from. Because on top of every other noticeable trait you have, you have a boyfriend. So. Yeah. He knows better than to think about you.

He sinks deeper into someone else’s couch — leather, cracked at the seams — while the bass rattles the walls and bodies blur together in the dim lights. Smoke hangs thick in the air, clinging to his clothes, his hair, his thoughts. He takes another drag, slower this time, lets it sit in his lungs until the noise dulls around the edges.

Across from him, someone’s laughing too loud, then a couple is making out like it’s an Olympic sport. Heeseung steals the joint from his fingers and flicks the ash into an empty cup.

“You look fucked,” Heeseung says.

“I’m not,” Riki replies automatically.

“Mhm.”

Riki pushes himself up from the couch, suddenly restless. He just wants a drink — something cold, something that doesn’t make his head spiral because even the thought of weed pulls him back to this cheerleader. So he goes to the kitchen, instinctively saying half-assed sorry’s to strangers without meaning them. 

Until he bumps into someone.

For half a second, he genuinely wonders if the side effects are finally catching up to him, because his head feels several feet away from his eyes and the kitchen lights look more hazy than they should.

But it’s you, he knows that because your kind voice apologizes; the way you always do, the way your friends don’t. Your shoulder knocks into his chest and you’re already stepping back, eyes wide a fraction of a second when you look up. Riki freezes too, unsure what to do with his hands or his feet or where to look without threading too close to the sternum your lowcut top exposes. Up close, under dim kitchen lights instead of school hallways, you look unreal — hair loose, lips parted like you’ve been laughing. 

“Riki,” you say, breathless, like his name slipped out before your brain could catch it.

His name on your mouth does something stupid to him. 

“Hey,” he says, too softly. He’s just thankful you don’t notice the slight roughness of it.

You smile, small and polite — but there’s something else underneath it now. Recognition that shouldn’t exist, not in the structure where you’re meant to forget that you know; one where he looks up at you from beneath your echelon, now he’s standing close enough that you have to tilt your chin to look up at him.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you say.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “I didn’t either.”

You glance past him, toward the other room, toward where your friends probably are — or your boyfriend. Then back at him, polite in a way he’s sure is because you’re you and not because he’s him.

“I don’t usually see you in… parties,” you say. 

He puts both hands in his pant pockets, shoulders loose, eyes on yours like the noise around you doesn’t have enough authority to interrupt.

“You don’t usually look,” he says.

It’s not said rudely, just calm, like he’s stating something obvious enough that both of you should stop pretending around it.

Your fingers tighten around your cup. “That’s not true.”

Riki tilts his head, eyes moving over your face. “Yeah?”

You hate how it sounds coming from him, low and slow and almost amused, like he knows you’re lying before you do. You scoff a quiet laugh, eyes looking away because you can’t keep looking at him. 

“I mean, I know you exist.” You look back up at him when you say it, bottom lip catching between your teeth before you can stop yourself.

His eyes drop for half a second, then he smirks and looks away, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying not to say something.

When he looks back, his face is calmer. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

The question is casual enough that it almost sounds harmless. You glance elsewhere instinctively, like you’re going to find him close. “Somewhere.”

“Specific.”

“He’s with his friends.”

Riki just nods, doesn’t wanna push, even though he’s pretty sure you don’t actually know where he is. Leaving is the smarter and normal thing to do. The thing a girl with a boyfriend and a reputation and a phone full of unread messages from her friends would do.

Instead, you stay there. And Riki’s got that tabbed already.

You hesitate, fingers worrying at the rim of your cup. “I, um. I haven’t — used it yet.”

Riki blinks. “The stuff?”

You nod, cheeks warming. “I just… don’t really know how.” It’s weird being this honest with someone you barely know, yet your bones don’t buzz with the prompt demand to pause. It must be the slight slosh, it’s the only real thing to excuse why you’re not pulling away.

For a second, he just looks at you. Then his mouth curves, slow and amused. “You bought weed without knowing how to use it?”

Your face warms, but you try not to look embarrassed. “Okay, well.” You lift your cup a little, like that somehow helps your argument. “You can teach me.”

Riki grimaces immediately, playful but clear. “Sounds like a bad idea.”

You blink. “Wow. Rude." You huff, looking away, but you’re smiling a little because he doesn’t sound scared of you. Or impressed by you. Or desperate to keep you there. He just sounds like he already knows better and hates that he has to be the one saying it.

He sighs, looking away for a second. “Fuck, fine.” his jaw clenches. “But not here.”

You try not to smile and fail almost immediately. You take one step back, still looking at him. “I’ll text you. Maybe later?”

Someone calls your name from the other room and you exhale, dragging back through the fracture. The music spikes and someone bumps into you again, closer this time, and Riki’s hand lifts instinctively, hovering over your waist without touching. 

Your eyes flick down, then back up to his. “Nice seeing you,” you say finally, voice softer now. 

“Yeah,” he says. “You too.”

You step around him, brushing past just close enough that he catches your scent — which is bad, because now he’ll have to remember that too. When you disappear back into the crowd, Riki stays rooted in place for a beat too long.

He exhales, rubs a hand over his face, and laughs quietly to himself.

He really, really knows better.

Which somehow makes it worse.

Riki glances back to see you’re sitting on the couch now, legs tucked in, your boyfriend’s arm slung easily around your shoulders. He leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, which makes you smile and ease back into him. Riki turns away to open the fridge and grabs the coldest beer he can find. He lifts it and downs it in one go, throat burning at the coldness and bitter taste.

He shouldn’t do this. He really shouldn’t.

Later, in that strange lull when the party has gotten worse and louder — you text him.

You: bathroom upstairs

The bathroom is cramped and clean but gross in concept: flickering light, foggy mirror, the smell of cheap air freshener. You’re perched on the edge of the sink when he slips inside and locks the door behind him, eyes bright, a little nervous, because being in a bathroom with you feels worse than any sketchy deal he’s made.

“Okay,” you whisper, like you’re conspiring. “So. Teach me.”

He winces, glancing around. “This is… not ideal.”

You just grin. He laughs despite himself and sets the weed down on the closed toilet lid, grimacing when he starts rolling paper against it. Once he’s done, he holds the roll up to your mouth and he tells you to lick it. You follow through, leaning down and sticking your tongue out to lick the side. He clears his throat, trying not to think about the way you looked doing that, trying not to imagine anything else.

He’s careful, not clinical or a lecture when he instructs, just calm and reassuring like he’s trying to keep you comfortable more than correct. When he hands the final roll to you, your fingers shake a little as you take it.

“Like this?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Slow.”

You cough immediately after trying, sharp and sudden, bending forward with a surprised laugh. “Oh my god — why does it — ”

“Hey,” he says, too fast, stepping closer, hand hovering at your back. “You okay?”

You wave him off, still laughing, eyes watering. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

He watches you like you might disappear if he looks away. You’re laughing, which isn’t comforting Riki even in the slightest because the last thing he needs is to not be a conformist and end up in jail for accidentally supporting your homicide.

You try again, better this time. You still cough, laugh, cough again, but way more manageable as time goes by.

“Sorry,” you say, breathless.

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “You’re doing fine.”

You keep at it, stubborn in that way of yours, until the coughing eases and something in your shoulders loosens. You lean back against the wall, head tipping gently, eyes half-lidded.

“Oh,” you murmur. “That’s… actually really nice.”

Riki lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a nervous laugh slipping out. He leans back against the wall, hand through his bangs, exposing the skin of his forehead. “Jesus fucking Christ,”

You nod slowly, smiling to yourself. “My brain’s quiet.”

He watches you for a moment: relaxed, unguarded, glowing in this tiny bathroom because you don’t belong here at all, holding a joint Riki himself rolled for you. Really, you never belonged anywhere that tried to put you in a box, and he wasn’t going to make himself an exception to that opening.

He tries thinking about who you really are, beyond what most people would take you as. Though he knows not to fantasize a tale where he saves the damsel from her golden label. He takes you with memory and not assumption: cheer girl, disciplined afternoon drills, academically smart, socially competent, good. But tonight, while you lean against the cracked sink and stand diagonally across him, he sees a side he never thought he’d secretly behold.

Your eyes flick to him. “You’re a good teacher.”

He swallows. “You’re an easy student.”

Riki rolls another one for himself, hands steadier now that you’re settled, and lights it with a quiet flick. The bathroom fills with a softer haze this time, the kind that wraps instead of hits like a downer high school series. He takes a drag, exhales toward the ceiling, letting the room reek with shouldn’ts and endorphine boosters.

You smoke more confidently now, less harsh and rough when you let the smoke run down your throat. Your eyes are a little red, lashes heavier, the sharp edges of you blurred into something warmer and looser, less polished and picture perfect the way your boyfriend would like. Riki thinks — stupidly — that he’s never seen you look better.

You lean your head back against the wall again, staring at the ceiling like it’s just told you a secret. He doesn’t stare, actually. He keeps his eyes narrowed to the broken tile in front of him like he’ll discern the reason it’s cracked (maybe someone opened the door too hard, maybe someone once stood there trying to look normal while his heart acted stupid over a girl, which was especially humiliating when the whole point of being high was to feel less insane). Sometimes he’ll permit himself to glance, but even the very glimpse of your smudged lipstick makes him look away and inhale the fuck outta that weed.

Then, suddenly, with eyes still trained to the dim bathroom light — “I thought you were,” you start, then laugh, a little too loud before clapping a hand over your mouth. “Sorry. I thought you were, like… this weirdo.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Wow. Honesty hour already?”

“No — ” you groan, waving the joint like you’re conducting an orchestra. “I mean it nicely. You always stayed away from everyone. I figured you were judging us.”

“Us?” he repeats, amused, cocking a brow when he glances at you.

“You know. People like me.” You squint at him, trying to focus. You gesture at yourself ineptly, clearly out of the ordinary intellectual capacity you clench tight, not when rickety makes up for your feet.

He quickly looks away, trying not to smile. 

“Loud. Annoying.” you clarify, hand gesturing around.

He tilts his head, considering. “Was I supposed to be friends with people like you?”

You blink, like you’re thinking about what he said and calculating the rationale behind his causes. It was a hit, one that steadies a thought in your brain.

“Is that so bad?”

The question knocks the breath out of him, especially when you look up at him like that, eyes bright and wide. He blinks, and then he laughs, coming out quieter this time, looking away because he can’t keep eye contact with you. “I didn’t think you’d want that.”

“Why not?”

Because there’s a system. Because there’s levels to this shit. Because you have a boyfriend. Because you’re untouchable. Because you’re perfect and he’s whatever this was. Because people like him didn’t get pulled into your orbit unless it was transactional. Like weed exchanges and favors on the toilet. 

For now, he shrugs. “Seemed like you already had your people.” 

You hum, nodding slowly, then smile. You tap the joint, watching some ash fall to the tiles. “They’re loud.”

He smiles back despite himself. “Yeah. They are.”

The bathroom feels like it’s floating away from the music that pumps loud through the pipes, a constant reminder that there’s more than the stinky bathroom you two share as a secret. It’s risky because it’s merely wood that separates the crypticity of Mary Jane from the Average Joe you two function in individually.

You glance at the joint, then at him. “You’re not weird, by the way.”

“Oh?” he says, eyebrow lifting. He even scoffs, because he (un-admittedly) finds you adorable. 

“You’re just… quiet. You keep to yourself, but that doesn’t make you… eccentric.” You grin lopsided, cheeks warm but you ignore that. “You’re nice.”

That one gets him, more than he’d ever admit to anyone. Riki looks over, and for half a second, his gaze slips lower before he forces it back to your face. You’re already looking at him, all soft eyes and honest mouth, like you have no idea what you’re doing to him.

He looks away first, rubbing the side of his jaw like that might help. “You’re high,” he says.

“Maybe,” you confess. “But I mean it.”

He’s been called quiet and nice all his life, but that was never the full truth. He just knew who deserved access to the rest of him, and most people didn’t. It wasn’t personal. He could talk when he wanted to, laugh when something was actually funny, keep a conversation going if he cared enough. He just didn’t feel the need to prove he had thoughts by saying all of them out loud.

Riki takes a drag, exhales slowly, looking over the tiles of the bathroom while he rethinks the decision he’s about to drop. He clears his throat before speaking, “You’re not mean either.”

Your eyes widen a little, gaze recklessly steady at his side profile. “You thought I was?”

“Everyone did,” he says honestly, smiling a little.

You make a face, frowning at him even though he refuses to look at you. “That’s rude.”

He laughs, really laughs this time, head tipping back. When he looks at you again, you’re smiling up at him like you’ve discovered something new and decided to keep it. For a moment, it feels like maybe there was always a version of this where you talked in bathrooms and shared smoke and didn’t belong where people expected you to.

You take another small drag, then suddenly straighten when you decide to take him in. He’s wearing a jacket over his hoodie, simple sweats loose around his hips. Only a few strands of his dark blonde hair graze over his forehead, leading down to the sharp features you only really notice now.

You never thought Riki Nishimura was ugly. Now, you can’t help but think that he’s… kinda hot.

You’re high, you’re just gone. That’s why. It also explains why you nudge closer than you have been before, letting your skirt brush slightly against his pants, thighs grazing slightly against his.

You’re both still smoking — slow now, like the room itself has decided to breathe with you. The bathroom feels even smaller than before, shrinking with every second the music downstairs gets louder but muffled through the wooden door keeping you a secret. Your head feels light, buoyant, like you’re floating a few inches above your body. Maybe it’s the weed. Maybe it’s the half-drinks you’d taken before this. Maybe it’s neither.

He stares at the tile beneath his boot like it holds the secrets of the universe, or like it had the equations for him to understand gravity’s intentions and how it led to him feeling your softness against him.

“Is there something on the floor?” you laugh.

He just huffs, shaking his head because that’s all he can do right now. You’re still leaning back and he’s still standing just a little too close. Your knee brushes his again, accidental but not corrected.

He looks down at you then. The red in your eyes, the crooked smile, the way you’re leaning just a little toward him like gravity’s doing something new. You lean closer because you’re completely zooted and smart-Riki who knows better, leans away and only lets his chest tighten. His eyes drop traitorously down to your lips, and he’s not fast enough to look back up. You notice, of course, which makes you both look away and straighten back on your feet instead of the wall. 

Riki clears his throat, smoking the last of his before he rids of it against the sink. “You gotta go?” he asks out of the blue, which makes you frown a little. It wasn’t exactly a statement, but you know when things are implied and telling, so you shove back the nerves and remember that he’s different from you.

You’re not his type of person. He probably likes more chill people who actually know how to roll this shit — not the sheltered ones who’s clueless with THC or terms alike it.

“Yeah. I guess.” you smooth out your clothes even though nothing’s wrong with them.

He realizes what he just did, especially now that you’re not even looking back at him. He tries correcting himself, to backtrack, but the moment you glance back up, he’s silenced. You put your unfinished joint in his hand. “See you.” You say just before unlocking the door, slipping through it, and accidentally slamming it too hard.

Riki reels in from the solitude of the silence, like he’s now just realizing the ruins he broke himself. He sighs in resignation, head falling forward in defeat. “Shit.”

He stares at the thing in his hand, unfinished and yours, half-burnt and still warm.

“Idiot,” he mutters to himself, dragging a hand down his face. He can still feel the ghost of your skirt brushing his leg, the way you didn’t look back because he gave you a reason not to.

But the bathroom still smells like you — sweet perfume tangled with smoke — and the joint is there, remaining as an accusation wrapped in paper. He turns it between his fingers, thumb brushing the spot where your lipstick smudged faintly against the edge.

Riki exhales, then lifts it.

He wraps his lips around it carefully, stupidly aware of the fact that yours were there first. The thought alone makes his chest tighten, heat creeping up his neck and pelvis as he takes a slow drag.

He closes his eyes as he exhales, leaning his head back against the wall, heart thudding too loud for a room this small. For a split second, he imagines you still there — tilted smile, red-rimmed eyes, saying his name like it belongs to you, all while your boyfriend waits in the living room.

He laughs shakily under his breath. It’s so wrong.

After that, you two haven’t really talked for weeks. 

That part isn’t weird. You both have lived the majority of your lives settling with the insouciance despite recognition, and one night in a bathroom, smoke and secrets and red eyes, isn’t enough to reroute that kind of muscle memory. Riki tells himself that over and over, like it’s a theorem he’s already proven.

He hasn’t been worried. He still goes to class, still shows up on time, still hands in assignments with some effort. The only difference — although barely worth mentioning — is that he’s been dipping into his stash more often than usual. A little before bed. A little after. 

Riki exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling, telling himself — again — that this doesn’t mean anything and it doesn’t have anything to do with the cheer girl he kinda had a moment with in the bathroom.

It’s so fucked, even if you don’t think being his friend is bad, because you’re not meant to be a part of this. He was simply curious that Miss Cheerleader bought weed from him and kinda trusted him way too fast and that wasn’t just some everyday occurrence — that’s the only best psychological explanation why you’re here even when you’re not.

You have a boyfriend. He’s not about to be a homewrecker. Yet it’s not helping.

No talking for weeks, reaching a month even. That says enough. He has to stop.

“Probably about Little Miss Perfect.”

Riki flinches like someone just snapped a rubber band against the back of his neck. He sits up, glaring at Heeseung. “What the fuck,” he blurts. “How do you know that?”

Jake slowly looks up from his laptop, eyes lighting up like he just unlocked a bonus level.

“Oh my god.” Sunghoon’s grin spreads and Heeseung laughs, clapping like he’s won because technically he did, at the mental betting at what keeps Riki Nishimura downing his marijuana greenhouse.

“Ohhh,” Heeseung says, taunting and annoying. “So it is about her.”

Riki blinks. “No.”

“That was the weakest no I’ve ever heard,” Jake says immediately, pointing a finger at Riki. “You’re a guilty man, aren’t you?”

Riki scoffs, scrambling, fingers rubbing against his temple in attempts to cool. “You’re literally insane. Why would it be about her?”

Heeseung shrugs, casual. “I saw you two talking at that party.”

Riki’s stomach drops. “You — what?”

“Relax,” Heeseung says, laughing. “I wasn’t spying. You two just kinda had a freeze frame by the kitchen. Wasn’t so hard to notice.”

Riki opens his mouth, just to close it. Then he runs a hand through his hair with the irritated slant of said illegality stamped in your name. “We were just talking. Nothing happened.” Riki snaps, defensive again, hands up like he’s caught. 

Jake squints at him. “Then why are you acting like that?”

Riki looks away. Usually, it’s enough answer to more teasing and mocking, but maybe not this time. Because now, it raises actual questions that regard his very bearing at this monumental association with you — a damn unicorn of a scene snatched out a comedy fantasy movie.

Heeseung asks carefully, “Are you, like, her boy toy or something?”

Riki whips around with the flush of unpredictability and utter shock. “What? No!”

Heeseung grins again, gentler this time. “Okay, not her boy toy. What now?”

Riki exhales, long and slow, falling back supine against the floor with the decency of a man with boundaries and the understanding of someone brilliant to keep himself away. “Nothing. She has a boyfriend. She lives in a different world.”

It’s realistic. He thinks he’ll drag the shit out of his stash to get his mind off this, because Riki Nishimura was a conformist by all means.

You’re where you’re supposed to be.

You laugh at the jokes while dawdling down the hallway with girls you actually consider your friends, your boyfriend’s arm heavy around your shoulders like it belongs there. You learned how to roll your own joints now, practiced with irritated little shrieks until it stopped being embarrassing, until they came out neat and perfect between your fingers. You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone, actually. Independence always looked good and natural on you.

Then Riki walks past with Heeseung and Jay.

Backpacks slung low, shoes dragging lazily against the floor, laughing about something stupid like someone’s terrible quiz score. Riki’s eyes stay forward like always, keeping his business private from everyone. Especially from you.

You don’t acknowledge each other beyond the bare minimum of peripheral awareness of two classmates that happen to be in the same class and two planets in the same orbit. Your boyfriend tightens his arm around you, leaning down to murmur something about lunch plans. You nod, glossed lips wrapped around a lollipop, sugar sweet and cherry-flavored on your tongue. You should be listening, you’re sure you are, until he passes.

Your eyes follow Riki — not openly, just enough to catch the back of his neck, the familiar slope of his shoulders, the same boy who leaned against a bathroom wall while you were high and laughing too much, knees brushing his because the room was small and neither of you moved away.

The lollipop slides down your tongue: all artificial sugar because the substance stays at home in the back of your secret drawer, while some of it just passed you down the hallway.

“I’ll catch up,” you say lightly, lifting your boyfriend’s arm off your shoulders. “I forgot something.”

You slip away before anyone can think too hard about it, weaving through the hallway with your lollipop still between your lips. You keep enough distance to make it look accidental, watching as Heeseung and Jay split off with quick fist bumps and loud voices. Riki keeps walking and pushes open the door to an empty lecture hall before disappearing inside.

You stop outside, remembering that this is probably the part where you’re supposed to turn around. Where the perfect, reasonable version of you remembers her boyfriend, her friends, her place in the hallway. Where the status quo reaches for your wrist and pulls you back into line.

Well, you push the door open.

Riki is near the front row, one hand still on the strap of his bag when he looks up from his seat, legs spread wide, thumbs midway to scroll through his phone. His eyes widen slightly, posture going still like he did not think you’d actually follow him.

For some reason, it thrills you. Because now he’s looking at you.

You pull the lollipop from your mouth, twirling the stick between your fingers as the door clicks shut behind you. “Hey.”

His eyes flick briefly to the door behind you. “You lost?”

This isn’t a bathroom of some random houseparty. There’s no smoke, no music, no excuse, just you, Riki, and an empty lecture hall in the middle of the school day — which means you came here on purpose.

“You should roll a joint for me again,” you say, like it’s so simple. “One of these nights.”

Riki blinks once. Then he huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “What, you haven’t learned since last time?”

You step closer anyway, slow and unhurried, allowed to exist wherever you want. He leans back against his seat, still careful and invisibly (but truly) restless. “I did.” you answer, then you smile small and lazy. “You’re just better at it.”

That gets him (because you’ve been knowing what to say to get him). His eyes lift to you, amused now, something low and unreadable settling there which sets you on fire because you have no idea what he’s thinking, not even a little hint. 

“Flattery,” he says, then scoffs.

You hum and step closer, close enough that his knee is almost in front of your thigh. Riki leans back in his seat, one arm loose over the desk beside him, phone forgotten in his lap. 

“There’s another party this weekend,” you say. “At McKay’s. You and your friends should go.”

He tilts his head. “Should we?”

“I think so.” You shrug. “Good music, large pad, beer games.” 

He chuckles, eyes dropping briefly to the floor before meeting yours again. “And you’ll be there.”

“Probably.”

“And you’ll want me to roll one for you.”

You pull the lollipop from your mouth, tapping it lightly against your lower lip as you think. “If you’re offering.”

“I’m not,” he says, but his mouth twitches.

You lean back against the edge of the desk beside him, copying his ease like you have any right to be comfortable around him. From far away, it would look casual, just two classmates talking before class. Except there’s only you standing between him and the empty rows, him sitting back in his seat, looking up at you with that unreadable expression while you try not to smile too much.

He should probably feel insulted that you only do this when nobody can see — maybe he does, if he still believes in self-respect. It’s just hard to stay offended when you’re looking at him like that.

Riki nods once. “I’ll think about it.”

Satisfied, you push off the table and head for the door. “Cool.”

When the door shuts behind you, he thinks about red eyes and smoke, about how your usual crowd will be there, your boyfriend’s arm around you just before you sneak away to Riki’s. 

You’re trouble, which makes Riki smile. ‘Cause he knows damn well he’s going to that party.

-

McKay’s house is already vibrating when Riki gets there with Heeseung, Jake, and Sunghoon — bass rattling the windows, someone yelling about cups, someone else yelling back about something incomprehensible. Riki isn’t a frat boy at all, and he doesn’t really go to parties, but the perfume layered on top of alcohol is basically familiar territory.

“This place is a fire hazard,” Jake mutters, stepping over a discarded heel.

Riki scans the room pretending he doesn’t mean to, observing layouts and people, when really he’s actually looking for one specific designer wardrobe of a person.

He doesn’t see you, but he sees your usual crowd scattered around the room, posing with red cups they barely drink from and laughing a little too loud whenever someone points a camera at them. You’re not there, nor is your boyfriend, and that usually speaks for itself already.

Heeseung nudges him, already mischievous with the smile Riki can’t see. “Little Miss Perfect?”

“Fuck off,” Riki replies, flat.

Jake’s halfway to disbelief when he narrows his eyes at Riki. “You’re already staring.”

“She’s not even here,” the former hisses.

“Looking for her, though.” Sunghoon teases, practically grinning widely.

Riki pushes past them. “I’m getting a drink.”

He doesn’t get a drink. He goes through hallways and in between bodies that nudge abruptly into him, half-assed apologies going through one ear and out the other while he properly finds footing again and again. When he gets to the bathroom and finds it locked, he groans and leans back against the wall. For now, he flicks the light on his own joint and smokes away while he waits — for you, for the bathroom, for anything to make him think going here was worth it at all. 

Too many girls brush against him, too many of them apologizing with tilted heads and lashes batting. He has no interest in rewarding the performance, not tonight, not when the party is already crawling under his skin, all bass-heavy music, sticky floors, smoke in the air, perfume clinging to his throat, and people packed so tightly he can’t move without touching someone. It’s too much at once; too loud, too hot, too bright, too dark. Then he sees it, and everything in him goes still.

Your boyfriend has another girl pushed against the bedroom wall. 

Riki sees this through the crack of the door, just slightly opened enough for him to see how he moves his hand underneath her skirt really fucking aggressively. They’re kissing too, and it’s not at all sweet or even arousing; it’s just straight out gross. He chokes, coughing so rough and loud and forward he has to lunge himself off the wall and straight through the crowd because his first instinct is you.

Your boyfriend is cheating on you.

What the fuck is happening? Why’s your boyfriend fucking a girl like someone who knows nothing about clits? Now, Riki isn’t an expert about pleasing women but he’s watched porn enough to know that Exhibit A over there was straight-up persecution. 

He finally spots you near the kitchen, talking to one of your friends with a cup in your hand. He starts toward you, but someone shoves past from behind, and he bumps lightly into your shoulder. You turn, already halfway to apologizing until you see him, your face already changing before you can stop it.

“You came,” you say, eyes flicking around before coming back to him.

He’s kinda out of breath, from the smoke and from hurrying, but he smiles too. “Yeah.”

While you’re still smiling, Riki clears his throat. It’s casual like he’s asking for a lighter, not like he’s abput to derail your night, ‘cause truth be told, he’s not sure he knows how you’ll react to the information. To be honest, he thinks about how it’s only fair — maybe — because he doubts your boyfriend knows you sneak into bathrooms with another guy. And sure, his hand isn’t performing DJ on your pussy, but the shared secrecy of eye contact with loaded tension is much more intimate than whatever the hell that was.

“Uh,” he says, hand rubbing on his jeans. “Can we talk? Like. Somewhere quieter.”

You blink. Then you nod, already stepping closer so he has to lean down to hear you.

“Bathroom or outside?” you ask, half-teasing.

“Outside,” he says easily.

The night is cold enough to make everything feel quieter, like it’s only the two of you standing under someone’s porch light while music leaks through the walls behind you. It’s strange, because you’re not even friends, not really, but the little space between you feels private in a way Riki doesn’t know what to do with. He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath since the second he walked into the house, then leans back against the railing and looks at you standing across from him.

He tries finding the words first, but the way you’re looking at him tightens his chest faster than his brain can work out. Is this karma for your cheating boyfriend? Is he the instrument God has given you to slam notes back to the guy you’re practically cheating on too? 

Then Riki clears his throat, casual as hell. “I saw something inside,” he continues, tone still chill but eyes a little sharper now. “Your boyfriend.”

Your smile falters. “What about him?”

“He’s, uh.” Riki taps ash off the joint. “He was fucking a girl. On a wall.”

You stare at him for a while, and he’s half-expecting you to lash out, on him, on the crowd, on your boyfriend, on something. 

Instead, you laugh this small, amused breath that slips out of you before you shrug, like he told you your boyfriend spilled punch on his shirt and not that he had just seen him with another girl.

What the fuck is happening?

It feels a lot like you don’t care and that surprises Riki leading him down a rabbit hole of introspection. He was already expecting you to cry and sob or scream in the party about how much of a dick he is, how you trusted him and gave him everything — all things they do when they find out their boyfriends are cheaters.

No, you just, “Wow.” then huff a laugh. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

He blinks once, watching you carefully while you regather your thoughts as a woman who’s been said something paltry rather than an admission of an affair. To be honest, Riki doesn’t understand, so now he just stands there and looks stunned. And confused. Very confused, actually.

Riki squints at you like he’s trying to solve a trick question. “That’s it?” he asks. “That’s your reaction?”

You shrug, lifting your cup to your lips for a sip. “I mean. It’s been happening. “We’re just sorta together for our parents. They’re friends so… but that’s a story for another night.”

Oh. He never thought fake relationships were a thing.

That makes sense. How come Riki didn’t know? Was he so out of touch from school gossips hat he genuinely didn’t know that you’re actually not the perfect couple he thought you two were? Is that why Heeseung and Jake and Sunghoon didn’t react so badly? Has this been a thing? Oh my God, Riki’s ecstatic and he hasn’t even finished a joint yet.

He lets out a quick, unguarded sound. “Jesus.”

You lean back against the railing across from him, far too relaxed for a revelation that should have ruined someone’s eyeliner. Riki watches you for a second, waiting for the anger, the hurt, the sharp inhale before you turn and storm back inside. But you just stand there, cup in hand, looking more inconvenienced than heartbroken.

That’s when it hits him, slow and weirdly humiliating, that you might not care about the relationship at all.

“But,” you say lightly, “thanks for telling me.”

He blinks, then shakes his head a little. “Yeah.” His voice comes out slower than usual. “No worries.”

You glance at the joint between his fingers, your eyes lingering a second too long on the veins along his hand. “You always this heroic when you’re high?”

“No,” he says, deadpan. “It’s just who I am.”

You laugh, and despite everything, his mouth twitches. He looks back toward the door, half-expecting your boyfriend to come out and make the night complicated. When no one does, he relaxes, shoulders easing, but not completely.

Because this is new information.

Someone inside screams the chorus to a song, and the night’s way too cold for the silence that buzzes. Riki offers the joint without looking at you, just holds it out between two fingers like it’s nothing.

You hesitate for half a second. But you take it.

“You have a car?” you suddenly ask while you take a puff.

Riki blinks once, then lets out a quiet laugh, dragging his thumb along the bridge of his nose. Right, so this is his life now. He sells you weed one time, and somehow he’s standing outside a party while your boyfriend (?)  cheats inside and you look mildly bored about it.

It’s stupid. It’s also the most interesting thing that’s happened to him in months.

So he just sighs and slumps back a little. “Yeah. I do.”

“Let’s go,” you say, completely not a question, flicking the finished joint on the pavement and trampling it beneath your heel. “I wanna smoke.”

He lets you trail after him through the side yard like this is already something you do, like he isn’t silently praying no one sees you following him away from the party. Gravel crunches under your shoes, the bass growing duller behind you as you cross the street toward his Supra, parked sleek and dark under the streetlamp. Riki unlocks it without looking back, rounds the hood, and opens the passenger door for you like it’s nothing.

You notice. You just don’t say anything.

Inside, the car actually smells clean and like coffee, for someone you’ve assumed is mad about marijuana and sorts alike (well, again, he’s proven how neat he is just for smelling so fucking good). He slides into the driver’s seat and just sits there for a second before turning the engine on, heater clicking low. 

The silence settles, but it doesn’t feel awkward, which Riki finds suspicious. Maybe it’s because you’re not acting like the version of you he’s used to, all neat edges and perfect timing. Now your heels are on the floor of his car, your hair is loose around your face, and you’re curled into the passenger seat of a Supra you’ve never sat in before like your body decided to trust him before your brain could argue. He clears his throat, trying to get rid of the warmth at the back of his neck, but you only glance at him like you don’t notice. The hem of your skirt rides up consequently, and he tries his hardest not to look.

“Thanks. For caring.”

He shrugs, one hand resting loose on the steering wheel. “Didn’t feel right not to tell you.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

The radio flicks on — some pop song bleeding through the speakers. He then pulls out pre-rolled joints from his pockets, which he sheepishly apologizes for hygiene and, well, it’s a bit delated, although you just smile and take one. He lights yours up and you two stay there, settled in his warm seats, dissolving the chill with cannabis down your system like two people who doesn’t give a shit about the system and fucking power dynamics and popularity status.

Again, weird. Hanging out in his car like you’re old buddies who smoke in free time on the usual. 

If he told himself a month ago that he would be smoking weed with the team cheer captain, he would have laughed his ass off about inhaling too much narcotics that totally screwed mental frameworks. Yet now, he’s stealing a few glances at you beside him, getting high off his greens, and he doesn’t feel completely off-center about it. It’s the weed obviously, but he feels steady. It’s charged because you’re not talking but your thoughts are everywhere, and even if you protrude the profile of indifference — he knows you care. Then again, what does he know about you, right? You are the odd in the equation, the alternative hypothesis that proves the difference in variables, and talks about the impact on the situation.

Now, conformist Riki Nishimura, who has spent his whole life respecting the ladder, is starting to wonder what happens if he climbs high enough to stand beside someone like you.

He stares through the windshield the second before he speaks. “You’re not what people think you are.”

You blink, caught off guard as you turn to him. “Is that good or bad?”

He huffs. “Depends who’s thinking it.”

You smile a little, your eyes moving over him before you can pretend they didn’t. Riki isn’t brawny in that loud, gym-mirror way, but he’s taller than he should be, broader than he looks from a distance, and unfairly very put together. His throat moves when he breathes in, and you catch yourself watching it for one embarrassing second too long.

You chew on your bottom lip. “And what do you think?”

Riki shifts in his seat, hand fidgeting against the wheel like he’s weighing how honest he’s allowed to be. “I think you’re quieter than your reputation.” 

You study him now — the calm posture, the way he never overdoes anything, the way his voice stays even like he’s learned not to tip his hand. 

He glances at you, then back ahead. “Makes it easier.”

You look at him for a second too long. “Easier for who?”

“You tell me.”

The car feels smaller and the windows are fogged enough that the streetlamp outside is just a blur of light now, like you’ve been sealed off from everything else. Away from the reality that boxes you two into something that makes sense rather than accepts. 

You laugh once, but it comes out softer than planned. “You always psychoanalyze girls in your car?”

“No.”

“Just me?”

His mouth twitches. “You asked.”

You turn your head toward the window, trying to keep your face normal. “You don’t know me that well.”

“I know.”

Riki finally turns to you, one hand still resting loose on the steering wheel. His eyes are a little low, a little unreadable, but not careless — that might be the problem.

“I’m not saying I do,” he says. “I’m saying people don’t either.”

Your fingers fidget with the joint, rolling it carefully between them even though you’re barely paying attention to it anymore. The tip glows faintly, forgotten for a second, and Riki reaches over without thinking to tap the ash into the tray before it can fall on your skirt.

You look down at his hand, then back at him when he hands it to you.

“Don’t you think that’s weird?” you ask. “Like, what kind of girl is cheer captain and smokes weed? Who gets into a fake relationship because of her parents? Doesn’t that sound kind of fucked?”

He looks at you for a moment.

Then he leans back, eyes returning to the windshield. “I sell weed.”

He says it from the driver’s seat of a spotless car that smells like coffee and cologne. It’s stupidly funny, actually, the whole contrast of him that kinda looks like you.

You laugh before you can stop yourself. “That’s different.”

“How?” he snickers.

You open your mouth, then close it again because you don’t actually have a good answer. “I don’t know,” you admit, laughing a little. “It just is.”

He hums like he expected that. Then he glances at you before back through the windshield. “I don’t think you’re weird,” His eyes flick over your face. “I think you’re bored.”

Obviously, that makes you furrow your brows. Obviously, you let him continue speaking.

“Of your boyfriend. Your friends. Your parents already knowing what you’re going to do.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Probably bored at being good at the same shit every day.”

You should probably deny it. It surprises you that you don’t, even though you’ve sworn hatred towards men that think they can assume your personality because of one little circumstance.

“That’s why you’re here, right?” Riki’s eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face. 

Your throat tightens.

“With me,” he adds.

He doesn’t smile like he won, he just sits there with one hand loose on the wheel, like he already knows the answer and is kind enough not to make you say it.

The air between you feels worse, like the moment before a storm cracks open into his car, and electrocutes you with a spark you’ve never experienced in your life. Which is eccentric considering you’re not the type of girl who’d be in Riki’s car instead of a party dominated by your friends, getting high off shit that would make your parents pass out. 

You scoff and look away, shaking your head like the whole thing is ridiculous. “You talk like you know everything.”

“I just guessed one fucking thing.”

You roll the joint between your fingers again, slower now. “Maybe I just wanted to try something.”

“With me?”

Your eyes cut to him, and you see there’s a slight curve to his mouth, like he heard the shape of your answer before you even made it. 

You huff. “You’re so annoying.”

Neither of you moves. Just suspended there, breathing the same warm air, the song on the radio dissolving into background noise, the world narrowed down to inches and intent and maybe weak will and strong urges. The tension’s palpable, solid enough that you could feel it grow between your thighs.

You’re probably one more joint away from being zooted, and Riki knows this of course, which is why he keeps his eyes narrowed across him and not the woman who’s audibly shifting in her seat. 

He’s high too — faster than usual — and it makes the moment stretch in this you know kind because he’s thinking bad. He keeps his gaze trained somewhere between the fogged windshield and the blur of your reflection in it, like it’s the only thing keeping him at bay.

For the record — you’re both twenty, obviously adults, even if the world still insists on calling you kids. Which is also the very age people let you experience the paradox of being too grown and too immature for anything consistent, so the underestimation you endure as an adult, smart woman, cheerleader, and a kinda-child — wow you’re in deep detestation for that system.

So you take control of things you can handle.

You’re a conformist, no doubt. Except in areas you loathe men’s freedom in yet expect restraint for women. So… in diminutive ways, you indulge. Like weed. Like running council. Like wearing short skirts. Like Riki Nishimura.

You glance at him sideways, voice light, almost bored. Almost. “So,” you say, like you’re asking about his major or what song’s playing on the radio. “I will ask you something kind of personal.”

Riki exhales a quiet laugh. “You’re already in my car smoking my weed. I think the line’s gone.”

You smile, satisfied, then tilt your head back against the seat. 

“Are you a virgin?”

The question hangs there. Unembellished and very dangerous in its simplicity. Also, of course, bold, which makes Riki actually freeze — a half-second pause where even his breathing stutters. Then he scoffs, shaking his head like he can’t believe you just dropped that between the heater hum and the low bass leaking from the house.

He blames the weed, though part of him wishes it isn’t from that.

“You always ask things like that?”

“I’m curious,” you say easily. “And a little high.” you gesture with your thumb and forefinger.

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking to you now despite himself. “Why?” he asks. “Does it change your opinion of me?”

You meet his gaze, unblinking. “I don’t know yet. That’s why I asked.”

He huffs a soft laugh. He admits to embarrassment, even if it doesn’t cover his entire skin with flush and heat, he’s never found himself in this position. But honestly, nothing from the past few weeks has ever been something he prepared for — which he has you to blame, of course.

“Yeah.” he licks the corner of his lips, refusing to meet your eyes while he taps the steering wheel. “I am.”

Your eyebrows lift, impressed but not shocked. “Huh.”

Riki looks over. “Huh?” he mocks.

You bite back a smile and turn toward the window, but the reflection gives you away. “I just didn’t expect that.”

He scoffs, looking back at the windshield. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug, still smiling a little. “You sell weed. And you drive this car.”

“And?”

“And you look like that.”

For one second, Riki’s fingers still on the steering wheel, and he learns to shut up. He lets out a quiet laugh after, but it sounds different this time, lower and almost embarrassed. “You’re so fucking high,”

That makes him quiet, makes him adjust on his seat. He’s touched a woman before, but no one’s ever sat on his dick, nor has he ever been in anyone. So maybe he’s half a virgin, maybe he’s just a sore loser. He watches you as you move, as you turn in the seat, knees pressing into the leather, facing him fully now. The space changes instantly, the air recalibrating around your movement and maybe even pushing you further toward him.

Riki stiffens — just suddenly very aware, and perhaps a little scared. “Uh,” he says, brows knitting. “What are you doing?”

You tilt your head, resting your hands casually on the seat, perfectly balanced. “Bored, like you said,” you say. “And my boyfriend’s cheating on me. Again.”

He swallows. His gaze drops, then snaps back up to your face, like he’s trying very hard to stay respectful and failing in slow motion because you’re especially gorgeous tonight. “That’s… not a great combo,” he says.

“Not really,” you agree.

You lean in just enough for him to feel it — not touch, not yet. Just close enough that he can smell your gloss, the faint sweetness still clinging to you, and the cannabis that if he warrants himself the scary concept, is his mark on you.

“At least you don’t think I’m boring.”

Riki exhales, a real one this time, like he’s surrendering to the moment instead of fighting it because what can a simple guy like him do, right? His eyes flick to your mouth again — longer now — and when he looks back up, there’s a decision there, from someone who’s tired of conforming.

You close the distance then, slow enough that he could pull away if he wanted to. When he doesn’t, your lips meet in a kiss that’s brief and soft at first. Riki’s hand lifts instinctively, stopping just short of your waist, hovering there like he’s giving you the choice.

When you kiss again, you’re pressing harder, with the very intent to steal the air from his lungs. So that is what happens, you inhale and climb over the console and close your knees around his waist and he’s breathing shakily against your mouth, fighting for the oxygen he’s willingly giving away. 

Your cunt presses against the zipper of his jeans, and when you roll, he pulls away like he’s burnt. 

“W-wait — this isn’t — we can’t do this.” He shakes his head insistently, looking down your joined thighs while he regains composure.

You frown. “Why not?”

He looks back up at you, eyes wide and glossy from the taste of your cherry gloss and his greens in your mouth. He looks like he can’t handle this. You’re high, he’s high, this isn’t a good idea. You’re perfect, he’s not, this isn’t a good idea. You’re pretty and he sells weed, this isn’t a good idea.

“Because you have a boyfriend.” he says weakly.

You smile, fingers brushing into the hair at his nape. “Not really.”

He stares at you before he laughs, quiet and disbelieving, like the whole situation is so stupid he has no choice but to let it be funny for half a second. You’re in his lap, his car is fogged, your party is across the street, and apparently your boyfriend is more of a family arrangement than an actual person you care about. 

“This is so fucked,” he mutters.

Still, he kisses you anyway. His hand finally settles at your waist, firm enough to make your breath catch. His fingers press into your flesh just before he pulls you closer and his hips thrusts up underneath you.

His bulge presses hard against your clothed cunt, and a small whimper slips out his mouth. Your thighs practically clench around him, your core tightening as you rub yourself on him. Beneath the jeans secured around his hips, the start of his v-line peeks, in which you softly graze with your thumb.

“F-fuck,” he whispers, resigned while he lets his head fall back against the headrest.

When you kiss him again this time, it’s slow and languid and licking into his mouth, and your hips start rolling against his while he unconsciously bucks into you. You gasp at the feeling of his growing erection despite the jeans, and you can’t help but feel rushed because it’s been way too long. 

His body’s hot and he doesn’t understand why he can’t even talk properly. “Are you okay?” you ask, kissing his cheek. He just nods.

“This is so wrong,” Riki says softly and raspy.

You just smile and kiss him again, feeling how sloppy he’s starting to become when your tongues meet. You set the pace, careful with how you bite and suck, more of a learning curve with what you like best rather than devouring. Riki realizes this and slows down too, relaxing underneath your thighs while his cock remains bulging against you. Your soft fingers slither at the back of his hair, tugging and caressing, while he finds the courage to sneak his tongue into your mouth.

When you pull to breathe, he’s practically panting. “You can touch me.” you whisper.

His gaze practically flicks up to look up at you, silently asking for clarification. You don’t use words, you instead take his wrists and start dragging his hands from your waist to underneath your shirt. His breath hitches at the feeling of your soft skin against his, watching intently as you guide his hands further beneath your cotton top, until his fingers slightly grazes the soft swell of the underside of your breasts.

“Shit.” Riki mutters, his breath unstable when you let go. He looks for your eyes, asking for instructions, except you just smile and lean in to kiss him again with your hands on his jaw. 

So he takes it upon himself to move by his own. His fingers grazes the soft skin, careful and learning, testing the underside swell by gently squeezing. After that, he gains confidence, hands going further up until they touch your nipples. 

You gasp, pulling away to breathe when he starts gently pinching them, rolling them against the pads of his fingertips. He plays with them for a little while, watching your reactions when you sigh heavy, when your eyes close, when you lean further against his touch. It’s so good, he doesn’t even notice how painfully hard he is when he can feel just how sensitive your nipples are, when he can feel the weight of your breast as he cups them.

After a while, he finally stops, hands gliding down your ribs instead, thumbs still grazing slightly at the curve. Your kissing eases, reduced to pecks and softness. At rest and caress, you giggle and he chuckles, finally reeling in from the moment at how high he feels.

From your taste, your softness, your clothed pussy still pressing against his hard-on.

“You’re good for a virgin.” you say.

At that, Riki huffs and leans his head back against the rest, caressing your waist while he watches your face. You’re very pretty, even when your lipsticks smudged and you’re clearly teasing him, not touching him at all. 

He doesn’t mind. He doesn’t think he’ll mind for a long time. “I’m trying to make decent decisions.”

You tilt your head. “And kissing me is one?”

His jaw tightens a little, but he smiles. “It’s a very bad decision.”

“Mm.” You lean closer, but you don’t kiss him this time. “You stopped.”

“Because I don’t want to be your rebound,” 

The teasing fades just a little. Your fingers, which had been lazily tracing the back of his neck, slow, and now you look at him too, at the way he’s looking at you like something cliche is about to happen now that he’s tasted something better than marijuana.

“You think I’d use you?” you ask.

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

You study him for a moment. His nose and ears are still pink, which admittedly does something to you. It makes him look shyer somehow, less untouchable, like all that quiet control has slipped just enough for you to see he’s not as unaffected as he wants to seem.

He looks back at you, thumb moving once at your waist. “Let me take you out.”

You stare at him. “You’re asking me on a date right now? While I’m sitting on you?”

His mouth twitches despite himself. “Not my best timing.”

You laugh, soft and surprised, but he doesn’t laugh with you right away. You lean in again, slower and softer, just lips meeting and staying there, but his breath still hitches. You lets it last for a few seconds before you pull back, still close enough that your noses nearly brush.

“Ask me when we’re not high.”

Then he laughs once, quiet and disbelieving, his hand flexing at your waist. “Fine.”

Riki drives you home that night and you arrive at around 3 am, friends completely unaware of where you are or who you’re with — but you don’t care, even when your phone’s blown out of weird proportion. You laugh when he insists on walking you to your front porch, just to make sure you don’t slip and fall and he wouldn’t lose his favorite weed customer. 

“You’re ridiculous, Riki Nishimura.” you shove at his arm weakly.

“And you,” he leans down enough that his nose nudges yours. “are so pretty.”

You laugh harder, admittedly a little flustered the way you never have been before. He tells you to eat something real when you head in, and you mock him for it but he just smiles and nods,  agrees with the idea he is so, very stupid and funny for you.

Riki thinks the universe is testing him. Because ever since last night, every single thing reminds him of you. 

The cherry gloss taste still ghosting his mouth when he wakes up, the faint perfume lingering on his hoodie, even the stupid heater smell in the car feels different now, like the seats remember the way you climbed over the console and kissed him until his dick ached for you.

“Dude,” Jake says, throwing his duffel bag. “You look like shit.”

Riki drags a hand through his hair. “Thanks.”

Jake doesn’t push it, which Riki appreciates for about three seconds before he sees where the cheer team is practicing. On the other side of the gym court, you’re standing with your friends, ponytail tied high, hands on your hips while you go over counts as the captain. You’re not doing anything special, occasionally laughing at something one of the girls beside you says, but Riki still feels his attention pull toward you like it has no discipline left.

He looks away first.

PE is already starting by the time he reaches their side of the court. He pulls his sleeveless shirt down properly and rolls his shoulders once, mostly because he needs something to do with his body. His hair keeps falling near his eyes, and he can feel sweat gathering at the back of his neck before class has even properly started.

He tells himself not to look. But then he looks.

You’re already looking too.

It only lasts a second. Your eyes meet his, then drop briefly to his arms before you turn back to your friends like nothing happened. Riki presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek and looks at the ball in his hands, suddenly way too aware of himself.

Jake notices, but all he does is glance between the two of you. “Since when do you know her like that?”

Riki bounces the ball once. “I don’t.”

Jake gives him a look. Riki doesn’t look back. “Not like that.”

“Okay.”

The drill starts, and for a while, it’s just run, catch, dribble, pass, move. Riki focuses on the court, on the PE teacher’s whistle, on the ball against his palms. It works for half the time, until your voice cuts across the space, counting with the rest of the cheer team, and he misses a pass by half a second.

“Pay attention,” Jake says, not even laughing.

“I am.”

“You’re really not.”

Later, when the class breaks for water, Riki walks toward the drinking fountain and finds you there already, refilling your bottle. Your friends are a few steps away, talking among themselves, close enough to notice if either of you makes it obvious, far enough that neither of you has to pretend not to see each other.

He stands behind you to wait for his turn, and from afar, it doesn't look scandalous. You take your time refilling your bottle, eyes forward, one hand steadying the plastic under the stream. He keeps his gaze on the wall in front of you, jaw working once, because he knows exactly what you're doing when you lean a little farther than necessary and let the silence stretch.

Your skirt shifts when you bend, showing the backside of your thighs and the slight swell of your ass, and he sighs through his nose like he's deeply disappointed in both of you. Then he looks away completely.

You bite back a smile.

When the bottle finally fills, you straighten and cap it slowly, still not moving right away. He doesn't meet your eyes when you step aside, he just moves in, bends toward the fountain, and presses one hand against the edge for balance.

Then it's your turn to look away. But you don't, not even shamelessly. Because you’re the girl who got things her way and never got scared of the repercussions.

His sleeveless shirt pulls against his shoulders when he leans down, arm tense from holding himself there, the veins along his bicep showing under the gym lights. Water hits his mouth, and you watch the way his hair falls near his eyes, the way his throat moves when he swallows. It's stupid, actually, how normal he's being and how much worse that makes it.

Riki finishes drinking, straightens, and wipes the water from his chin with the back of his hand. Only then does he look at you.

You're still staring. And for a second, neither of you says anything.

His expression barely changes, but something in his eyes does, like he caught you and decided not to make it easy. "What?"

You blink, then lift your bottle a little. "You took forever."

He looks at you, calm, unreadable, except for the faint color rising at the tips of his ears and the slight lift on the corner of his mouth. "You're one to talk."

Your friends laugh at something behind you, and the sound snaps the moment thinner, not enough to break it, but enough to remind you both where you are. You glance over your shoulder, then back at him, only to find he's still watching you. Not obviously, just enough to show that he knows exactly what that night did to you, and worse, exactly what this day is doing too.

And that he’s enjoying the view.

You tuck your bottle against your chest and step back. "Try not to miss another pass."

His mouth curves. "Then don't distract me."

The second he says it, your smile gets bigger, like a shared inside joke between you two now. Then you turn back to your team, and he stays by the fountain for one extra second, pretending the afternoon heat is the reason he can't stop feeling warm. In the locker room, he pretends it’s celibacy that’s making his cock hard again, and not the picture of you bending in front of him, the fat of your ass presenting itself to him so adorably.

In the cafeteria, while pages turn and keyboards clack for an upcoming test for biology, you try your best to stay focused the way you can on the usual. Riki was right about you — you were smarter than what people thought, and the merit beside your name is shocking to a whole lot when it’s pasted on the board. 

You think you’re no longer smart. Not when you’re staring at the open reviewer in front of you, color coded with little sticky tabs but you’re still distracted.

You grab your coffee and drink, just to try if that could help with your lost concentration. Something about protein synthesis and cell division. Something about how Riki’s hands looked wrapped around the steering wheel that one night while he called you weird and interesting in the same breath.

This is so inconvenient.

“Babe.”

Your boyfriend slides into the empty chair beside you like he owns the furniture, sunglasses pushed up on his head even though the cafeteria lighting could barely offend a bitch. His hand settles automatically on your thigh beneath the table, casual and familiar, and you almost flinch.

“You disappeared last night,” he says casually.

You lean back in your chair. “I told you I left.”

“Yeah, but where?”

You think briefly about Riki’s car parked under the streetlamp — fogged windows, heated air, cherry gloss smeared on his mouth, plump lips smirking in restraint, hands squeezing you in the right place, keeping you in place.

“I just went home,” you reply smoothly.

Your boyfriend hums, clearly unconvinced, but also has about three seconds of emotional stamina left for the topic, so he lets it go and steals one of your fries instead. “My parents want dinner with you this weekend.” he says instead.

He continues talking about it but you’re staring at the flashcards and reviewers in front of you, imagining what your parents would say if Riki would’ve showed up to a family dinner instead. Maybe he’d appear in different clothes, a white button-up just to sit there and attempt to look polite in ways he isn’t with you — which makes your heart jump a little. 

Dinner drags on for three excruciating hours.

Three whole hours of crystal glasses and polished silverware and your boyfriend’s parents discussing investment portfolios. The restaurant is one of those stupidly expensive places where portions are microscopic and every waiter looks vaguely judgmental — you don’t complain, you’re rather very grateful for his parents (sometimes).

You sat there in a pretty dress your mother picked out. Your boyfriend talks over you twice when you try contributing to the conversation, his mother asks about your grades before asking how cheerleading is going, like academics and aesthetics are the only two things remotely interesting about you. At some point, your boyfriend likes another girl’s Instagram story right beside you at the table and everything about the night is just bad.

You just feel tired, especially on the way home. 

Tired in the way performances always leave you feeling like you’ve spent hours acting inside a role you got stuck with years ago — because it mostly worked in your favor, until that one time you decided to jump out of your comfort zone and try weed. It’s the worst thing you have done, but it’s the only thing that made you feel good.

Your heels click quietly against the marble floors when you enter your house and you make it halfway upstairs before the pressure behind your eyes finally cracks. Obviously, you don’t sob out of sadness, just frustrated tears slipping down your cheeks while you struggle with the zipper of your dress. “Fuck,” you mutter.

Your makeup’s ruined now; mascara faintly smudged beneath your eyes, lipstick mostly gone except for traces still staining your mouth. 

Before you can think too hard about it — which is kind of bad — you open Riki’s contact, and your fingers move faster than your dignity can intervene.

you: he actually sucks so bad like genuinely i think talking to drywall has more nuance

You exhale through your nose and laugh weakly at yourself because obviously Riki probably has better things to do than babysit you after 9PM, not when you’re just another weed customer and smoking buddy he had. You toss your phone onto the bed and sit in silence for a second, still in your dress, earrings discarded somewhere.

You try not to think about anything for the minutes you’ve spent staring at the ceiling: not about Riki, or your dumb boyfriend, or your (im)perfect life, or the way Riki kissed you, or the way he looked at you, or the way he thought about you. 

Because that's the part that bothers you most. Not the kiss itself, not even the fact that you wanted it, but the way he seemed to actually think about you before touching you. Like you weren't just pretty or convenient or someone people liked because you made sense beside them. Riki looked at you like he was trying to understand you, and somehow that felt more intimate than anything you've ever had.

And maybe that makes you painfully average.

Maybe you’re not special at all, maybe you’re just another girl in the long, embarrassing history of girls who developed feelings for the first boy who looked at them like they were a person. Congratulations, really. Very original and groundbreaking, for being part of the emotionally confused teenage girls.

You turn onto your side and press your face into your pillow, immediately hating yourself for how dramatic that feels.

Until something taps three times against your window.

Your brows furrow immediately because your bedroom is on the second floor and nobody normally knocks on windows like some suburban horror movie, you don’t even try to look because of what could be there. For a second, you genuinely think you’re hallucinating from emotional exhaustion and expensive restaurant food and maybe (you did not do prior research) the possibility of the long term hallucinations of marijuana.

Then it happens again. Three deliberate taps.

You sit up slowly from the edge of your bed, the strap of your dress slipping off one shoulder while your heels remain abandoned somewhere near the door. When you turn to the window, your heart practically falls from your chest when you see Riki standing outside like a fucking delinquent moron. He’s standing on the roof of the first floor near your window, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, while one hand steadies himself against the frame. 

You burst out laughing while fumbling with the lock of your window. Riki’s entire expression softens the second he hears you laugh and that does something unhealthy to him.

Because he drove for twenty minutes thinking about you crying over some guy who doesn’t even look at you properly, wondering if climbing a house at this hour officially qualifies as insanity (he’s never done that before, and it doesn’t sound so conformist right now either). Riki’s usually good at self-restraint, at risk assessment, at understanding what makes sense and what doesn’t.

For the record, this doesn’t make sense. Yet here he is anyway.

 “Hi.”

You stare at him in disbelief once you finally open your window. “What the fuck are you doing?” you whisper-yell.

“You sounded sad.”

“Is that supposed to be an answer?”

“What?” he says defensively while climbing inside carefully. “You said your boyfriend sucks. That sounded shitty.”

The second he lands properly inside your room, he looks at you before anything else. He’s used to seeing you fixed with perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect posture, like you just stepped out of a university brochure about good conduct and that the school cheer spirit is something one definitely needs for personal development.

This version of you feels familiar, and traitorously and selfishly, he thinks it’s for him.

Your dress is wrinkled now, your jewelry sits slightly crooked against your skin, your makeup’s smudged enough to expose the eyebags underneath, and your hair’s started falling from whatever expensive style you wore to dinner.

Riki swallows once before he can stop himself. “You were crying?”

Immediately, you look away, a bit embarrassed when you realize what you look like. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird,” he says quickly, hands lifting instinctively. “I just.”

He cuts himself off because he suddenly realizes he has no idea how to navigate this. Girls usually don’t text him while being miserable and summon him to their bedroom windows like some modern romance movie directed by a bad romcom enthusiast. Nothing is romcom-y about this.

So instead, awkwardly, he holds the backyard vegetation toward you.

“I got you these.”

Flowers. They aren’t roses and lilies, especially not the peonies your boyfriend orders because it looks better in pictures. They’re not anything arranged like the bouquets your boyfriend’s family sends during competitions and birthdays and events where impression matters. They usually screamed ‘I have money’ so I had my manager fix these for you.

Riki brought you wildflowers, which are tiny white, yellow, and purple ones bundled unevenly together like he picked them himself on the side of the road and decided, yeah, these ones are perfect. They’re crooked and asymmetrical and a little pathetic, and it weirdly looks a lot like you.

You take them carefully, looking down at the tiny flowers bundled together with what suspiciously resembles a broccoli rubber band.

“Oh my God,” you laugh quietly. “These are so ugly.”

He looks offended immediately. “Okay, first of all, fuck you.”

You laugh, open and loud. “They’re literally weeds.”

“I mean. Matches us, no?” he argues.

You’re still smiling when you bring them closer to inspect, and he notices your eyes when you admire them because he notices everything when it comes to you now, apparently.

“He made you cry?” he asks quieter this time.

You look up at him, flowers resting against your chest while you slump a little. “Not exactly.”

He raises his brows. “That means yes.”

You sigh, gaze dropping to the petals between your fingers. “He’s just…” You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know. I guess I’m really sick of it.”

Riki stays quiet — not because he doesn’t have thoughts, but because he has too many.

The thing is, he understands that social hierarchy is basically one giant theater production and he’s spent his entire life studying how to survive inside it correctly — he’s admitted to live in it quite comfortably. Which people to talk to, which ones to avoid, what behavior keeps life stable and uncomplicated, who not to sell weed to.

You were supposed to be part of that stable world, the part that he shouldn’t have had any associations with. Instead, you’re now standing barefoot in front of him holding ugly flowers with watery eyes while confiding in him like he’s become something safe. Now he’s giving a girl weeds for flowers, while his own cannabis has become untouched for quite a while now.

You narrow your eyes up at him suddenly, a teasing smile on your lips. “You could’ve used the front door.”

“And say what?” he snorts. “‘Good evening, your daughter texted me so I’m here to comfort her?”

You laugh again and Jesus Christ, he thinks he’d probably climb ten more roofs if it meant hearing that sound a second time.

Which is not good at all.

He looks around your room now, and he finds that is not in the dramatic movie sense where he’s overwhelmed by femininity and candles or whatever bullshit directors think teenage girls do in bedrooms. It’s just your space and that feels undeniably you in a way he’s never gotten access to before — never thought he would, actually. There’s a stack of annotated reviewers on your desk beside skincare products, then a half-folded cheer uniform hangs over your chair. Your bookshelf is organized by color at first glance, but he notices that some books are stuffed sideways and doubled-up like gave up halfway through organizing.

You’re contradiction after contradiction. Which feels fitting considering Riki’s currently inside the bedroom of a girl he once categorized under absolutely not my problem.

This is exactly why social structures exist. To prevent situations like this where a guy who sells weed ends up standing in the bedroom of a girl who looks expensive enough to kill him.

You set the flowers carefully on your vanity like they’re not random plants held together by produce rubber. Riki watches how gentle your hands are, watches the way your dress slips slightly higher on your thigh when you move.

You step closer to him after, eyes peeking through your lashes, and he starts to feel drunk from your perfume.  “You really came all the way here because I was sad?” you ask softly.

Riki opens his mouth automatically with something sarcastic prepared because that’s safer, because joking is easier than admitting the truth. But then he looks at you looking at him like he’s become something important frighteningly fast.

Honesty slips out before he can stop it. “Yeah.”

Your eyes soften in a way that completely wrecks him, because nobody’s ever looked at him like this before — like he did something meaningful instead of useful.

You step even closer now until there’s barely space between you. “You’re really bad at being casual,” you murmur.

He huffs a laugh. “You climbed into my lap the first time we kissed.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I was high.”

“And what’s your excuse now?”

Your lips twitch and his gaze drops there instinctively.

Big mistake, because now he’s thinking about kissing you again and suddenly being in your bedroom at midnight feels significantly more dangerous than it did when he drove here. Riki clears his throat and looks away first. Usually he’s good at eye contact, good at keeping composure, good at staying levelheaded even when situations become complicated, because he knows emotional regulation keeps things orderly, predictable, and safe.

You are none of those things anymore.

Standing this close to you feels like someone slowly dismantling every sensible thought process he’s ever had and replacing it with bad decisions and pretty girls in wrinkled dresses. 

Riki swallows, eyes still not fully on yours. “Do you know what you’re gonna do?”

You sigh, shoulders dropping a little as you look away. “I don’t know.”

Riki nods, though he doesn’t look surprised. “Well,” he says quietly, “you aren’t happy.”

The honesty in his voice catches you off guard, because it isn’t dramatic or possessive or demanding — it’s actually the complete opposite. He says things carefully. Your boyfriend never talks to you carefully. 

You study Riki for a second — the slight flush across his cheeks, the hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, the fact he literally climbed your house because you sounded sad over text. 

Clearly, he’s lost the plot somewhere. He might find it in your room, but why would it be there?

You look at the boy who notices everything about you, who reads you better than anyone ever did. And maybe that’s pathetic, but after a long time of performance and image, you can’t quite find irrationality when something finally sees you so clearly. 

You don’t even realize you’re crying again until his expression changes. The tears just spill over quietly, slipping down your cheeks before you can catch them, and for a second, you don’t understand why his eyes drop there with so much concern because you aren’t sad, nor overwhelmingly happy.

His hand lifts and his fingers touch your cheek lightly and carefully. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the tear before it reaches your jaw. Then the other hand comes up too, steadying your face with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten worse than the crying did. You stare up at him while he wipes your face like it’s something important, his hands warm, his touch steady even though his breathing isn’t. He just keeps his palms against your cheeks, thumbs soft under your eyes, focused on you.

Riki’s thumb slows beneath your eye, his gaze moving over your face with something almost pained. “You’re too pretty to cry over him,” he says quietly.

Your hand lifts before you can think better of it, fingers wrapping gently around his wrist to keep him there. His skin is warm beneath your palm, and for a second, his whole body seems to still when you touch him. You look up at him because he’s so tall this close, broad enough to block out half your room, and he’s holding your face like you might bruise if he moves wrong.

“I’m not crying over him,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter, “I think I’m crying because I want someone else.”

His hand stays against your cheek, but his thumb stops moving entirely. He has no immediate answer right now, no dry comment waiting in the back of his throat, no clever way to make the moment smaller than it feels. He just looks at you, like he heard you perfectly and still needs another second for it to reach the rest of him.

He shifts closer, but only slightly, careful enough that you notice the restraint. “Are you sure?”

You let out a tiny, breathless laugh. “Yes.” 

Then your gaze drops from his eyes, not because you’re embarrassed exactly, but because looking at him straight on feels like standing too close to something bright. Your eyes settle on his chest instead, on the front of his hoodie rising and falling with a breath he’s clearly trying to control. His hands move from your cheeks, careful and slow, until his palms settle just beneath your jaw while his fingers slip behind your ears, curling gently at the back of your neck. 

For a second, you think he’s going to kiss you.

Actually, you know he is. You can feel it in the way his breathing changes, in the way his eyes drop to your mouth and stay there this time, no pretending it was an accident. He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne and whatever terrible decision-making brought him to your window.

Then something in you panics — not because you don’t want him to.

That’s the problem. You want him so much it feels insulting to every sensible part of your life (even though you’ve made many irrational choices that have shamed them anyway). You want him in your room, in your space, in the middle of all the pretty, curated pieces of yourself nobody else gets to see messy. You want him, and it would be so easy to lean up and let that be the answer. But there is still one stupid, technical, irritating thing standing between you and that, so you pull back a little.

He freezes immediately, hands dropping like he thinks he did something wrong. “What?”

“I need to do something.”

His brows pull together. “Right now?”

You turn away before you can lose your nerve, moving toward your bed where your phone is half-buried in the sheets. Your hands are unsteady when you pick it up, which is annoying because you are not the kind of girl who fumbles — you are the kind of girl who answers essay questions with proper structure, corrects formations instinctively, and pretends she’s fine so convincingly that people believe it until it becomes inconvenient not to.

Calling your boyfriend while Riki Nishimura stands in your bedroom after midnight is, admittedly, not your most elegant moment, but there’s a kind of clarity to it too.

He stays behind you, quiet, watching as you scroll to the contact you have ignored for most of the night. His name on your screen looks strange now.

The call rings twice.

Riki moves closer, though not touching you yet, just behind your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the heat of him. It makes focusing much harder, which is extremely inconsiderate for someone who climbed into your room to be supportive.

Your boyfriend answers with your name, voice already irritated. “It’s late. I’m busy.”

You close your eyes for half a second. “I’m just letting you know. We’re done.”

There is a pause. “What?”

You swallow, your grip tightening around the phone. “I’m breaking up with you.”

Behind you, Riki goes very still. Your boyfriend lets out a humorless laugh. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yes.”

“After everything? After tonight, you’re just gonna call me and say that?”

You stare at the wall in front of you. It’s absurd, actually, how little the anger reaches you. Maybe you should be shaking or crying harder or preparing a speech that starts with all the ways he hurt you — instead, you feel strangely calm.

He starts talking again, louder this time, something about your parents, his parents, how you’re overreacting, how you both agreed, how you don’t get to act innocent either. Until Riki’s hand appears beside you, and he takes the phone from your hand.

Your eyes widen. “Riki.”

He looks at the screen, hears your boyfriend still talking, then tosses the phone onto the bed, where it lands face-up against the sheets, the call still running, your boyfriend’s voice now small and furious through the speaker.

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

His eyes stay on yours. “You already broke up with him.”

On the bed, your ex says your name again, sharp and confused, but neither of you are looking at the phone. 

Riki lifts one hand, not touching your face yet, just brushing his knuckles lightly near your jaw like he’s giving you one last chance to move away.

That is all he needs before he kisses you. It is not rushed, not messy from panic, just a little harsh from jealousy. But it’s slow enough to make your knees feel unreliable, steady enough that your whole body seems to understand before your brain does. You grab the front of his hoodie and he exhales against your mouth, the sound going straight through you. His hand settles at the side of your neck, thumb brushing under your jaw while his other hand finds your waist, careful but sure. 

The phone is still there, your boyfriend is still talking. It should ruin the moment, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes the whole thing feel worse in the way your heart is pounding too hard, in the way Riki keeps kissing you like he’s trying not to prove a point and failing anyway, in the way you know this is a terrible way to end a relationship and still cannot bring yourself to care.

Riki pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead almost touching yours. “He talks a lot,” he says quietly.

You laugh before you can stop yourself, and he kisses you before you can even finish a thought he physically cannot hear another word about your boyfriend tonight, earning a gasp from your mouth. It’s soft at first, his mouth catching yours that makes you go still for half a second, surprised, and then your hand tightens around his wrist as you kiss him back. He exhales through his nose, quiet and shaky, and his fingers press a little more firmly into your nape, not pulling you in too hard, just holding you.

You make this soft startled sound against his lips and he swears it nearly kills him on impact. When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead bumps lightly against yours. 

“I don’t wanna talk about him anymore,” he says quietly.

His voice comes out rougher than before. You stare at him for a second, and your lips twitch.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He kisses you again almost immediately, and this time you kiss him back just as fast, your chests pressing against one another until you can feel the rapid beat of his heart through his hoodie. His hands find your waist, the weight of them warm and steady through the thin fabric of your dress, like he’s grounding you and keeping himself grounded too.

You tilt your head up to meet him properly, rising slightly onto your toes without meaning to, and he bends down into you like the movement pulls something out of him. His fingers press carefully at your sides, thumbs shifting once against your waist. The kiss deepens then, your hand sliding up the front of his hoodie until you’re holding onto him too.

Riki exhales against your mouth, almost shaky, and his grip tightens for one second before he loosens it again, like he’s reminding himself to be careful.

Without so much as a few words, your gaze meets his. But that’s not enough for him, not when he needs to hear that you want this too. The zipper you struggled with earlier starts undoing when his hand finds the back, before he leans in just enough for his voice to drop between you. 

"Words, baby," he whispers.

He isn't teasing now. His voice is low, but careful, like he needs to hear you say it before he lets himself want anything more.

You swallow, fingers tightening lightly in his hoodie. "I want you."

Riki watches your face for a second, and when he sees the true genuineness and want in your eyes, he lets himself have it. He dips down to your height, capturing your lips in a kiss again, before fully pulling the zipper down to the small of your back. With barely any effort, the dress slides off your body and pools around your feet on the floor. 

Too busy getting drunk on his plump lips, you don’t even notice his hands roaming over your skin, his fingertips memorizing the arch of your spine, before gliding up to the curve of your ribcage. You don’t notice how close he really is until his fingers find the underside part of your breasts. You pull away with a gasp, seeing him smile coyly when you finally realize you’re naked in front of him, and how he’s massaging your mounds in his hands.

He lets his thumbs brush your hardened nipples, watching your face scrunch and melt with fluster. He holds you so well, heat rushing all over your skin with the way he studies your body, eyes carefully taking in every detail about you. He continues stroking your nipples and massaging your breasts when he bends down again, kissing the corner of your lips before trailing over to your jaw. He presses open mouthed kisses on your pulse next, sucking and biting to leave love bites there.

You moan, all breathy and heavy, and his cock twitches in his sweats. For a man that’s been so cautious with you, he can’t help but fight the urge to pound into you recklessly right now.

“On the bed,” he prompts softly, taking a step forward. 

You obey with no fight, pathetically stepping backward until you sit back on the soft mattress. You adjust a little to get on your knees, eyes finding his through your lashes again. He’s looking at you with half-open lids, hand already reaching up to the back of your head, fingers tangling with your hair. He likes you like this, on your knees and your face so fucking close to his bulge, he can practically see it.

And because he has been so kind to you, you want to recompense for all of it. Your fingers hook at the hem of his sweatpants, keeping your gaze steady on his face to watch the way he reacts when he realizes what you’re about to do. You drag his pants down, enough for it to slip down his legs. 

His cock bulges in his briefs, begging to be set free. You cup it gently and he lets out a low moan, deeper than his usual, and when you look up, he’s just watching you. You lean in, only to lick a stripe from the bottom to top — his grip on your hair tightens, and you feel him pull you closer. Since you both don’t hold any godly kind of willpower, you waste no time lowering the fabric.

Riki’s stupidly long cock springs forward once you remove his briefs, and everything about it just makes sense. It isn’t excessively thick in girth, but it’s length makes you wonder if it can even fit at all. It’s pale at the base and turns pink towards the tip, the slit lathered with pre all over the head, all for you.

You bite your lip, not being able to help the thrilled grin on your face, eyes bright at the sight of it. He clears his throat, caressing the back of your head gently. “You good?”

You snicker, reaching up to wrap your hand around the base. He chokes out a gasp, stilling completely yet his hips buck forward. He watches you handle him so delicately, even the way you start pumping his dick, watching the way pre-cum leaks out the tip. You lean forward, tongue flat against the head, tasting him. 

“O-oh, s-shit —” his breathing becomes heavy, arm flexing involuntarily as he keeps rubbing the back of your head.

You giggle, tilting your head a little to press soft pecks all over his length. “Watch me, sweet boy. Okay?” 

You’re a fucking tease. That’s all he manages to come up with before his brain completely blanks out when you tilt forward and let your mouth close around the head of his dick. You start to suckle on it, tongue playing with the slit a little. Then you push forward, enough the tip touches the back of your throat and your cheeks hollow around his length.

And he’s still too fucking long. 

You start choking a little, tears touching your waterline. You stroke the part you can’t reach, and he can’t help but smirk arrogantly.

Heavy breaths turns into deep groans, trying to keep his sounds to himself but the way you look as your head bobs on his dick, practically choking as you suck on it, and his hand flexing a tight grip on your hair — this has got to be better than any fucking narcotic ever. He bets morphine won’t ever feel this good. “Y-you’re fucking sublime, baby,”

You retract your mouth, going back to suckle on the tip, before taking him all back down your throat. His hips jerk forward, you can tell just how gentle he’s trying to be even when he’s losing all control. 

And it’s too good, because twenty years of chastity has started to reach him faster than the way you rub him. He feels his abdomen tighten, and fuck does his balls feel tense. So as any illogical, preposterous, unsound idiot ever, he pulls you away from his cock. He holds you by your hair, slowing you down as you stare up at him, eyes wide and confused, lips wet from your saliva and his fluids.

“What the fuck?” you mutter, catching your breaths. 

Riki licks his bottom lip, and you can see every restraint holding him back from breaking you. The tips of his ears are red, and his eyes, once so tender and meticulous, looks down at you like he just can’t wait to fuck you senseless. They’re sharper than they ever have been, and once since this night began, you’re scared.

“Easy,” he drawls, hand withdrawing from you completely. He takes a step back, just enough to admire the way you look, panting and on your knees, breasts exposed and perky. Then with a small smirk, he pinches the edge of his hoodie. “You always this impatient?”

He slides the hoodie over his arms, the cloth revealing flesh that practically glow from your vanity lights. His chest and shoulder width is broad and wide, flat in that boyish way you love, expanding to the chiseled arms. You can feel yourself salivating at the muscles, at his taut abs, delicate grooves that trace down to a sharp v-line. Even his obliques and traps are so defined.

“Get on your back.” he rasps, and you don’t let yourself react before lying down, head against your soft pillows. He kneels in between your legs, eyes trailing over your body. He hooks his fingers over the elastic of your panties, just before he slowly pulls them off you, slow enough to make you embarrassed.

“Riki,” you murmur sheepishly, but he ignores you, keeping his eyes narrowed to the way your cunt glistens, your own fluids leaking out of you. She’s perfect, and his already frustrated cock twitches. 

Blonde hair sticks to his forehead, and his eyes are dark when your gaze meets again. He hovers over you, caging you against the bed before he leans in, kissing you again. Your lips part for him, breaths mingling, getting hot and heavy as his hand finds your ass. He squeezes the fat there, fingers digging into your skin. “You’re making it hard to think, pretty girl.”

You manage a giggle, though it quickly turns to soft moans when he kisses your jaw and presses his cock against your cunt. 

“Riki, please,” you can see how swollen his cock has gotten.

“I don’t know if I can be gentle,” he breathes, his arms tensing as he keeps himself up. He strokes himself a bit, just before he aligns the tip with your aching hole.

Your brain has gone hazy, not being able to process anything other than the way he kisses your neck when the head of his cock pushes through your folds, and immediately your arms come to his back, nails digging into his muscles. He tenses too, giving a sharp exhale when his length slides past the tight muscle and rubs against your gummy walls.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face against your neck while your teeth bite down your bottom lip. “G-god, that’s so good,” 

His hips closes against your pelvis, while his tip brushes against your cervix so good he’s pretty sure you’re sucking him in. And you feel stuffed, more than you ever have been, by Riki’s long cock. “Good fucking pussy, shit —”

Your legs are open wide for him, pressing flat against the mattress. And that’s enough for him, just to see you so spread beneath him, cunt squeezing him so tight; enough for him to pull back and watch the way your fluids wrap slick around his cock. Your hips wiggle for him, and that’s all he takes before slamming his hips back into you.

Riki’s jaw hangs open, a low moan gushing out him, strained and heavy into your ears. 

“R-Riki — f-f-fuck —”

The sounds of squelching pussy and skin slapping echoes throughout your entire room, walls so tight around his cock as you gasp. The pace is set already, quick and fucking drilling into you even though you’ve known him for his care and caution — yet he pounds into you like he doesn’t give a fuck about anything but his pleasure.

“S-s-so good — ugh, Riki — fuck,” you scratch his back muscles, tensing underneath your nails. His pelvis and abs are tight, slamming himself so hard against your cunt like he can’t keep himself apart from you.

He continues groaning, his eyebrows furrowed, eyes half-lidded watching you, completely fucked out while he admires the way your tits bounce every time he rocks his dick deep into your cunt. His lips part to moan your name, and you love how he almost whimpers when you squeeze around him. 

Then he stills, though only fast enough before he slides an arm beneath your waist and gathers you closer, like he’s scooping you into him without fully lifting you. 

“W-what are you —” 

“On your stomach.” 

You can only blink and nod, before turning around, suddenly feeling empty when his dick slips from inside you. You settle on your hands and knees, then lie on your chest, face pressed to the soft pillow. “Fuck, my good girl.”

You can’t see him anymore, and you’re not sure with how you feel about it — not until you feel his warm body press against your back, his chest hovering slightly over you. He presses a hand on the back of your thigh, gently adjusting your knee higher, the position immediately spreading your folds more than you would have thought. 

“Lift your hips for me, baby,” he breathes, voice low and strained.

You obey, pussy clenching around nothing when he whispers quiet praises as your ass perks up and your folds glisten for him again, slick oozing out from you. You get on your hands a little, just enough to lift yourself and look over your shoulder. Without much of a warning, he pushes his cock back deep inside you again, walls welcoming him with a dirty squelch, your breath catches, then escapes in a quiet gasp.

“There, just like that —” Riki moans, his v-line pressed tight against your ass.

Then he continues, retracting his hips only to slap back inside you. The new positions doing fucking wonders to you, stretching you a whole lot more, his dick fucking you so raw that you can’t help the screams you let out. He presses his hands against your waist, fingers ingrained to lift your ass up and pound into you right after, grip so tight it’s already bruising.

You fuck yourself against him too, slapping back against his hips, cock choking in your tight walls. His eyes are almost rolling back, if not for how obsessed he is watching your ass shake and tits bounce every sloppy stroke, his hand sliding under you to grope your mound. He fondles with it, pinching your nipple and loving the weight of it against his palm. 

Sweat’s getting hot and the air’s smells too much of sex, he can feel it when his balls clench and how desperate he’s starting to get.

You look over your shoulder and he meets you halfway, leaning over to capture your lips in a passionate kiss. It’s full of saliva and it’s warm, messy in a way that tells how close you both are.

Then with so little strength (can’t compare to Riki Nishimura, really), your weight falls back to the pillow, face and chest pressed against the softness while your ass stays up. If not for his large hands keeping you up and still, you would’ve fallen over completely. 

Your abdomen clenches and pressure builds in there, and he continues rutting into you while you become a puddle of sweat and moans. “R-right there — fuck, Riki — !”

“I-I’m gonna fucking cum, s-shit – I’ll blow a fucking load in you —” his hips drive into your pussy with a new kind of intensity, faster and deeper somehow, his tip hitting your cervix that has you throbbing around him.

“Cum all over me, baby, please —” he whines, face pressed against your shoulder. 

You feel hot spurts of him fill you the same time your cunt clenches around him one final time, legs twitching while his hips come to a stutter. Cum settles in your hole, warm and full and sticky and practically seeping out of you. He collapses on top of you, unconsciously maybe, his heavier weight pressing over your body.

Your vision goes white for a bit, then it comes back, only for you to see hair all over your face, stuck with sweat and saliva. He’s still on top of you, but you can feel him carry himself a little, making sure not to crush you right after cumming in you.

Quiet beats stretch out the moment, and you don’t even notice his arm tucking underneath you to massage your tit, a tired laugh leaving your mouth when you do. When you both muster enough strength, he straightens just enough to lift himself off of you, while you manage to get on your hands. By the time you look over your shoulder, he’s already leaning in, his mouth finding yours again, a hand still fondling with your breast.

“Riki,” a small sheepish smile curves on your lips, all while he presses soft pecks against your mouth and jaw. 

“Hm?” he hums, tired and spent, clearly having nothing else to do but to kiss you. His breaths are still shallow, eyelids heavy before shutting completely.

You giggle, putting your hand over his on your breast. “Get off me,” you say with a playful grin. “You’re so heavy!”

WIth a quiet groan, he listens. He slides out of you, unplugging you to let your fluids out. Then he lies down, and he hasn’t realized how strained his muscles are until he sinks into the softness of your bed. He relaxes inevitably, while you stay up just to admire him for a bit.

Riki Nishimura is never going to be insecure about his looks, but the way you stare at him with dilated pupils that match his, especially post-sex, he can’t help but grow a bit bashful. 

He huffs out a laugh, one hand reaching out to squeeze your waist because you feel so far. "So do you have a no-cuddle policy, or," he murmurs.

You laugh before you can stop yourself because he's so stupidly funny for someone trying to sound serious. Instead of answering, you shake your head and lean more of your weight against one hand, the other resting against his chest as your fingers trace lazy, thoughtless shapes.

He watches you do it for a second, his expression going quiet in that way that makes your stomach turn. Then you glance up at him. "Can you roll one for me?"

He sighs so heavily it almost sounds personal. Before you can even react, his arm hooks around your waist and pulls you down against his chest, firm and immediate, like the idea alone offended him. Your hand lands against his abs to catch yourself, your cheek nearly brushing his shoulder as he keeps you there.

“Throw that shit away,” he says, voice low near your ear. “I swear to God.”

You blink, caught against him. “What?” His arm stays around you, warm and unmoving. “Why?”

Riki looks at you with half-lidded eyes, sleepy and a little strained, like even answering takes effort. “Because,” he murmurs, his grip softening at your waist, “after tonight, I think I found something better.”

Your jaw actually falls open. For one second, all you can do is stare at him, because there’s no way Riki Nishimura just said that to you while looking half-asleep and impossibly calm, like he didn’t just say something that made your entire stomach turn over and tighten all over again.

Then you smack his chest lightly. “Riki.”

He chuckles, low and tired, the sound vibrating against your palm. His arm stays around your waist, keeping you close even when you try to lean back enough to glare at him properly.

“What?” he murmurs, eyes barely opening more. “Use my dick instead, I won’t get mad.”

You smack his chest harder, earning a yelp from him. “Riki!”

He laughs under his breath, but before you can pull your hand back, his fingers wrap around your wrist. His eyes open a little more as he looks at you, still tired, still amused, and then he tugs you. 

You land over him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips as his arm settles around your waist to steady you. For a second, neither of you moves. Your hand stays pressed to his chest, his heartbeat is faster than he's pretending. "Careful," he murmurs, like he wasn't the one who pulled you.

"You're so annoying," you whisper again, but it comes out softer this time, a quiet breath as you lean down to him. You're close enough now that your noses brush, close enough to feel his smile fade against your mouth.

Riki's gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes. Your fingers stay flat against the broad hardness of his chest while his hand stays warm at your waist, slowly smoothing over the curve of your ass.

“Ride me?” he whispers against your lips.

You sigh, rolling your eyes while your mouth curves to a grin, back straightening. You act like you think about it, only for your exposed cunt to start grinding against his cock — which, obviously, because he is a very simple man, erects again.

A simple man such as he, all he knows is that he is yours.

the knock on your apartment door comes at exactly ten o’clock - just how it usually does.

you swing open the door with your 2 year old daughter, Aria, balanced on your hip, her tiny hands wrapped around a stuffed, green duck that’s missing one wing.

“daddy!” she squeals and kicks her legs, trying to slide down your hip.

Riki’s expression softens instantly.

there’s something unfair about it, actually. how easy he smiles at her - how familiar he looks standing in your doorway dressed in that black hoodie and grey sweatpants. like he belongs there.

but he doesn’t. not anymore.

he reaches for her automatically, lifting her up and squeezing her tightly. “hey, princess.”

you watch him pull Aria against his chest as her little arms wrap around his neck.

and then he looks at you.

then there it is - that awkward pause, the one that happens every weekend.

“hi.” he says quietly.

“hi.”

neither of you move - neither of you say anything else. because what is there to say, honestly?

“have a good weekend”

“see you on sunday”

“i miss you”

the last one never makes it past either or your lips.

“okay, princess. shoes on.” Riki says, after clearing his throat, as he places her gently on the ground in front of you. you kneel and help her put on her trainers, fastening the velcro with shakier hands than you’d ever admit. you hate how he still affects you.

“there we go,” you smile at her before standing.

the silence settles again - it always does.

you watch as your daughter turns to pick up her bag, the hoodie you’re wearing slipping off one shoulder. his hoodie. at least, it used to be.

Riki tries not to stare. he really does. when your miniature self holds up her backpack to him and he doesn’t take it, you look up at him. he’s staring at you.

at his hoodie you’re wearing. at the necklace he gave you a few months before you told him you were pregnant. at your nails which were now a different colour from when he saw you last weekend.

“daddy!” Aria exclaims, her bag becoming too heavy for her little arms.

he looks down instantly, shaking his head, and picks her up. “sorry, love.”

“she ate breakfast already,” you say quietly. “there’s some snacks in her bag.”

he nods simply. “okay.”

you nod.

neither of you say goodbye when he turns towards the open door. because somehow, after all this time of being apart, saying it out loud feels too permanent.

your daughter saves you both.

“bye, mommy!”

you laugh, stepping closer to kiss her forehead. “i’ll see you on sunday, okay? have fun.”

then she turns to him. “let’s go, daddy!”

he should leave. but instead, his eyes lift to yours once more.

you’re smiling. tired. soft. pretty.

the same smile he used to wake up beside. the same smile he hasn’t stopped missing.

his throat becomes tight as he peels his eyes off your face and turns to leave one last time. Aria waves at you as he carries her down the hallway towards the elevator.

you stand at the door until they’ve disappeared around the corner. and only then do you exhale the breath that felt like you’d been holding since he knocked on the door.

—

the walk to his sleek, black mercedes feels much longer than it actually is. he can’t help his mind racing with thoughts of you. the way you smiled at your daughter so lovingly. the way your face completely changed when you caught him looking at you for a moment too long.

he shakes his head and sets the tiny human into her car seat before bucking the seatbelt. he checks it twice before shutting the door and sliding into the driver’s seat.

he should drive away. he turns the key, the engine purring to life beneath him, but he doesn’t pull away from the curb. he almost gets back out of the car before Aria speaks softly from the backseat.

“daddy?”

he blinks, his fingers loosening from the steering wheel. his knuckles are white.

“are we going?” she asks and he turns to look at her over his shoulder.

“yeah,” he smiles lovingly before shifting the car into gear and pulling away from the curb.

the drive is quiet. Aria tells him about the picture you helped her draw yesterday and how she wants pancakes for lunch.

he answers when he’s supposed to, but all he can think about is you. standing in the doorway wearing his hoodie, the sleeves pulled tightly over your hands, looking at him like he’s still someone you want to know.

“daddy!” Aria exclaims.

“hm?” he doesn’t take his eyes off the road.

“you forgot,”

“forgot what, baby?”

she frowns like it’s obvious. “to say goodbye to mommy.”

his fingers tighten on the steering wheel again. he doesn’t take his eyes off the road.

for a long moment, the only sounds in the car are the low hum of the engine and the blow of the air conditioning. then he swallows.

“i don’t think…” his voice comes out more unsure than expected. “i don’t think i’m very good at saying goodbye to mommy.”

Aria tilts her head to the side. “why?”

he laughs because how is he supposed to explain this to a two year old?

how is he supposed to tell her that every time he stands in the doorway, some part of him expects you to let him walk back inside. that every time you smile at him, he remembers what it felt like to come home to you.

he blinks hard and lets out a small breath through his nose. “i just miss her sometimes, princess.”

“i miss you too, daddy.” she says softly.

he swallows hard. he almost stops breathing. he glances in the rearview mirror and sees Aria looking out of the window, her little legs swinging slightly beneath her car seat like she hasn’t just shattered his heart.

he exhales shakily. “you do?”

she nods. “yeah. when i’m at mommy’s house.”

silence fills the car and his fingers grip the steering wheel tighter than ever. because he misses her when she’s gone. every week he counts down the days until he gets to see her again.

because somewhere between missing his daughter and missing you, he’s started to hate sundays.

—

at some point during the drive back to Riki’s house, he thinks Aria had fallen asleep in the backseat. she was silent, clutching her stuffed duck to her chest like it was the only thing keeping her there.

“you okay, baby?” Riki speaks softly from the driver’s seat. his daughter nods.

minutes later, he pulls up in the driveway and puts the car in park. he rounds the car and unbuckles Aria’s seatbelt before helping her out and grabbing her backpack.

once inside, he immediately begins taking off her trainers before heading to the kitchen to make the pancakes she asked for.

he watches her run into the living room and drop onto the rug before pulling a colouring book out of her backpack. then he blinks and she’s beside him.

“can i help?” she smiles, already struggling to drag over a stool from the counter.

he laughs and helps her up onto the stool.

he’s always careful with her. always making sure she washes her hands after using the bathroom. always making sure her laces are tied and that she’s wearing a jacket or a coat before going outside.

and he loves her just as much as he loves you.

that evening, Riki lets Aria help make the pancakes, laughing when she makes a mess all over the counter, before they settle onto the couch together to eat. he shakes his head when she asks silly questions. “daddy, do you like dinosaurs?” and he reads her three bedtime stories before she finally lays down and falls asleep.

once she’s finally asleep, he sits on the edge of her bed and watches her for a while. because in five days, he’ll miss this. again.

when you told him you were pregnant, he almost jumped for joy. he’s always thought about it - the three of you cuddling up on the couch together watching a movie and eating snacks, wearing matching pyjamas, and taking walks through the park with his hand on your lower back while your child jumps beside him.

except, this is everything he didn’t want.

—

“daddy, look! it’s a dinosaur!” Aria exclaims from the living room.

Riki walks towards her and stares down at the green blob on the paper. it’s definitely not a dinosaur but he nods anyway. “it sure is.”

“and this is you!” Aria beams, holding up the drawing proudly.

he squints at the tiny stick figure beside the green blob. “wow. don’t i look handsome.”

his daughter giggles. “no, daddy. you look silly!”

he presses his hand to his chest as if he’s physically hurt. “me? silly? i’m offended.”

her laughter fills the kitchen; its bright, loud, the kind of laugh that makes him laugh too.

actually, he hasn’t laughed that hard in months.

she’s sitting on the rug with a box of crayons scattered around her while the waffles she didn’t eat for breakfast go cold on the coffee table.

“daddy?”

“hm?”

“pink.”

he looks down as Aria holds out a pink crayon. “what about pink, baby?”

“you need pink.”

“for what?”

she points at the paper. “sit.”

Riki laughs. “you’re bossy.”

Aria grins. “sit.”

he sits.

she immediately begins scribbling and he doesn’t even ask what she’s drawing. he just watches her tiny hand move across the page.

at some point, she sticks her tongue out in concentration and his heart does that thing it always does. the thing where it feels too full.

he thinks maybe you’re his favourite part. not the cartoons, not the park, not even the pancakes. just this.

her talking nonsense, her colouring. being here.

being his.

“daddy?”

“yeah, princess?”

she looks up. “i like weekends.”

Riki smiles. “me too.”

she giggles and turns back to her masterpiece.

and suddenly, his chest aches. because weekends end; they always do. he glances at his phone.

sunday. already. too fast.

he swallows hard and looks down at his daughter, specifically where she has green crayon on her cheek. he doesn’t tell her, though.

instead, he just reaches over and gently tucks a wild strand of hair behind her ear. she doesn’t look up - she just keeps colouring.

as if he’ll still be here tomorrow. as if he doesn’t spend every week counting down the days until he gets to see her again.

he blinks once and then stands. “come on, baby.”

she finally looks up. “hm?”

“let’s get you ready.”

she pouts. “already?”

his heart drops to his ass. “yeah.”

she looks down at her picture and then back up at him.

“i stay longer?” she tilts her head.

silence. god, he wishes more than anything she could stay longer. he crouches beside her and cups her cheek with his palm.

“mommy’s waiting for you.”

she thinks about that. blinks. and then asks softly: “can you come too?”

Riki forgets how to breathe - because she’s two - she doesn’t understand why daddy has one house and mommy has another. why weekends happen, why sundays happen.

Aria just knows she likes being with both of you.

he swallows hard. “not today, princess.”

she nods slowly like she’s disappointed but she’s accepting it before reaching for her daddy. “carry.”

Riki immediately lifts her up and she buries her face into his shoulder while one tiny hand fists the fabric of his hoodie. he holds her a little tighter knowing that tomorrow, this house will be quiet again.

his chest tightens. Aria is getting bigger and both Riki and you know she is. her words are becoming clearer, her clothes keep getting too small, and she keeps asking questions he doesn’t quite know how to answer.

but right now, she’s still small enough to fit perfectly in his arms. so he holds her tightly like she’ll disappear if he lets go just a little.

“you ready to go see mommy?” he asks quietly while carding his fingers through her locs.

Aria nods against his shoulder. there’s none of the excitement she’d had when she arrived at his house on friday. she’s tired… and so is he.

Riki grabs her stuffed duck from the couch before stuffing it into her backpack.

he turns around to scan the living room for anything he might forget. but all he sees is one of her socks peeking out from under the couch, a tiny cup with cartoon animals on it, and her crayons still scattered on the rug.

little reminders that she’s been here - little reminders that in a few minutes, she won’t be.

his chest feels unbearably tight.

every weekend. every weekend he gets this; two days of cartoons and little giggles and tiny arms around his neck.

and then it’s over in the blink of an eye.

he shakes his head before flicking off the light and heading for the door.

the evening air is cool when he steps outside. his fighter is tucked securely against his chest as he makes his way to his car. she yawns, long and dramatic, before her body goes even heavier in his arms.

a small laugh escapes Riki’s throat. “you tired, baby girl?”

she nods once. small.

“you had a busy weekend, huh?”

another nod.

Riki smiles and presses a gentle kiss to the top of Aria’s head.

by the time he reaches his car, he thinks she’s already asleep in his arms. he unlocks the door with a beep of his keys and swings open the back door before lowering his tiny human into her car seat.

she makes a small noise of protest as he peels her away from his chest. her sleepy eyes blink open just enough to find him.

“there we go.” Riki mumbles as he buckles her seatbelt.

she doesn’t say anything, just watches him with heavy eyes. then, quietly: “daddy?”

he looks up. “yeah?”

“i had fun.”

he stills. it’s such a simple sentence, four little words, but somehow they hit in right in the chest. then he smiles back at her. softer this time.

“me too, baby.”

Aria smiles once more before her eyes slowly drift shut. Riki doesn’t move; he stays crouched beside the open car door for a moment, watching her breathing softly.

the he slowly stands and closes the door.

he walks round to the driver’s side and slid into the seat before resting his hands on the steering wheel. for a few seconds, he doesn’t start the car - he just sits there. listening to the quiet because he already misses her… and she’s still right behind him.

eventually, he starts the engine. the soft hum of the car fills the silence as he glances in the rear-view mirror.

Aria is still sleeping, her head tilted awkwardly to one side. her curls are messy from her exciting day with daddy, and there's still a faint mark on her cheek from the green crayon.

he almost smiles. almost.

his heart aches instead.

the drive to your apartment isn't long; Riki's done it enough times to know every turn, every shortcut, every set of traffic lights.

he also remembers driving this same route two years ago with you in the passenger seat. you were exhausted after a long night with the baby, your head resting against the window while he drove aimlessly to get Aria to sleep.

you'd looked so tired, so perfect, when you looked at him and smiled. "you're a good dad, you know."

the memory hits him unexpectedly and he swallows hard.

the light ahead turns red, forcing him to stop, before the car falls silent again. he glances in the mirror at Aria's sleeping form, a tiny frown has appeared on her face.

a few more minutes pass before familiar buildings begin appearing outside the window.

no matter how normal this arrangement has become, no matter how many months have passed, his throat always tightens as soon as he turns onto your street. because you're here and you'll open the door in a few minutes and he'll see you and pretend everything is normal... and then he'll have to leave again.

he pulls up outside your apartment and turns off the engine.

silence.

the curtains are drawn. the hallway light is on.

home. not his - not anymore.

he exhales slowly and unbuckles his seatbelt before rounding the car to the back door. she’s completely out and he smiles despite himself.

“hey, sleepyhead.” he murmurs.

nothing.

he carefully unbuckles her seatbelt and slides his arms beneath her warm, sleeping body. Aria stirs slightly before immediately tucking herself against his chest.

like she belongs there.

he kicks the door shut gently with his foot before walking towards your apartment. each step feels strangely heavy, and by the time he reaches the elevator, his breaths are coming a little too fast.

the elevator doors ding and slide open as he places a kiss to the top of Aria’s head.

by the time he reaches your door, his hands are shaky. he shifts her in his arms and raises an arm to knock.

then he waits.

—

the door doesn’t open straight away. Riki stands there silently - your daughter pressed against his chest, her little hand fisting his hoodie.

the dim light casts a soft glow over the two of them in the hallway, and for a moment, all he can hear is her slow breathing and the tv from one of the neighbouring apartments.

then he hears the footsteps and his heart does a stupid jolt when the lock clicks.

the door opens. and there you are.

your hair is messy, like you’d tied it up but given up halfway through. you’re wearing an oversized jumper and a pair of shorts - looking comfortable, tired, like you’d been curled up on the sofa waiting for them to get back.

looking like home.

neither of you say anything first. then your eyes drop to your daughter curled up in his arms. the corners of your mouth curl into a small smile at the sight - her sleeping silently on his chest.

then your eyes lift to his and something changes… it’s so brief he almost thinks he imagined it.

but your smile softens even more. because his hand is rubbing softly up and down her back, because he’s holding her carefully…

because he looks exactly like he did two years ago when you used to take turns getting up to warm a bottle for a crying baby.

“she fell asleep?” you ask quietly, your voice barely a whisper.

Riki blinks. “yeah,” his own voice softens more than he’d intended. “about ten minutes before we got here.”

you smile again, glancing down at your daughter. “looks like she had fun.”

neither of you notice how close you’ve gotten - or maybe you have but neither of you say anything.

for a few seconds, everything feels strangely normal.

“oh… come in.” you smile awkwardly as you step to the side to let Riki inside.

he steps inside and immediately heads to Aria’s bedroom.

you follow close behind him, watching the way he moves down the hallways of your apartment. like he’s done it a thousand times before. he has. like he still lives here. he doesn’t.

you stand in the doorway and watch as he leans over her bed and gently places her down under the duvet before slipping off her shoes.

you watch how he’s so careful with her, like one wrong move will break her. like she’s the most precious thing in the world. but to him, she is. and to you, she’s your everything.

he pulls her blanket up to her chin and strokes her cheek twice before quietly stepping back, careful not to wake her.

the apartment falls silent as you softly pull Aria’s bedroom door shut. when you turn around, Riki is standing there, hands tucked into his pockets. waiting.

neither of you speak at first. you both just stand there, looking at each other as if you both know this feels wrong. as if you both know this isn’t how it was supposed to be. as though you both know, deep down, it doesn’t have to stay this way.

“two days with her doesn’t feel enough anymore.” Riki speaks, finally turning your attention to something other than the weight on your chest.

“if you want more time with Aria, we can talk about it.”

he shakes his head before you can finish. “it’s not just that…”

your brows knit together. “then what is it?”

“i know i don’t deserve to ask this after everything that happened,” he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper. “but if there was even the smallest chance that we could try again, i’d take it.”

you sigh and cross your arms over your chest. “Riki, you know we can’t-“

“but we can, y/n!” he steps closer, his eyes search yours frantically. desperate for a sign you haven’t given up. not yet.

“you know we can. if you’d just let me-“

“Riki-“

“no, listen, y/n.” he says firmly and you close your mouth instantly.

he runs a hand over his face before taking the remaining step to fully close the distance between you. his hands land on yours and he threads his fingers through yours. “every sunday, i bring her here, tuck her into bed, and then leave.”

a humourless laugh escapes his throat. “it never gets any easier.”

you blink up at him, speechless.

“you know we’re both standing here acting like this is normal. it isn’t! not one bit.” his hands squeeze yours like he’s afraid if he lets go, you’ll turn and walk away. “we could be better and i know you know that. please give me another chance. for Aria.”

that last part shattered you.

for Aria.

those two words echoed in your mind, pounding on every wall you’d spent months building around your heart.

the thing is, you do know this could be different. you just refuse to be hurt again. you refuse to feel stupid like last time. you can’t ever let yourself become that vulnerable. not again.

“please, baby, give me another chance. i want us to be the family Aria deserves. i don’t want her growing up wondering why we stopped trying.” he whispers.

tears sting your eyes as you let out a shaky breath. “do you think i haven’t imagined it? every single day?” you whisper.

“then why are we still standing here like idiots pretending we don’t still love each other?” his voice shakes and you almost break down right there.

“because you don’t know what you’re asking, Riki.”

“i do.” his brows pull together.

you shake your head. “no, you don’t. if we try again and it falls apart… Aria doesn’t just lose the idea of us, she loses us all over again.”

Riki’s shoulders fall and his expression softens. “i know,” he says quietly. “i know that’s what you’re afraid of.”

his thumbs are tracing small circles on the backs of your hands now. “but i’m not asking you to pretend nothing happened, y/n, i’m asking you to let me earn it.”

the silence settles once again as you stare at the floor, refusing to look at him. because you know if you do, you’ll crumble.

every part of you wanted to believe him. to pull him into a hug and believe this time it’ll be different.

and… that’s exactly what happens.

you look up at him, eyes searching his face for any sign that means he’s lying. any hint that means whatever he’s saying will end up as another broken promise.

you don’t find one.

instead, you see the same boy you fell in love with. the same boy that held your hand during labour. the same boy that kissed your forehead and cooked dinner when you were stressed about work.

only now, he’s standing in front of you practically begging you to take him back. asking you to let him own up to his own mistakes.

you let out a shaky breath.

“okay…”

Riki’s eyes light up. “okay?”

you nod as tears stream down your cheeks before you can stop them. “one more chance.”

for a long moment, he just stares as you. almost like he’s convinced he heard you wrong.

“really?”

a small smile finds it’s way onto your lips.

“we’re not doing this just because of Aria,” you nod. “we’re doing it because i still love you. even after everything. i never stopped, Riki.”

his eyes glisten and he releases the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“i love you too.”

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