The first post was from 6 years ago.

Not reblogged. Not tagged.

Just sitting there, a group photo with few guys at a restaurant. The quality wasn't good and there was nothing catchy about it.

You found the blog completely by accident. One wrong click from a dead link, another from an archived fan page, and suddenly you were staring at a Tumblr account that looked like it had been abandoned for over a decade.

Your eyes fall on to the user name. Yeah, this was definitely a teen boy.

The profile picture was hard to make out - a blurry photo of someone's hand.

The name sounded very familiar but at the same time you couldn't exactly say who it was. But everything about the whole profile screamed nostalgia.

No replies. No notes. Just post after post.

Just a teenage boy with random thoughts at 3 am, half finished lyrics, photos of his friends and himself and song recommendations.

Everything about this boy was raw and unfiltered and that's what drew you in with the current world being set on restrictions and fitting in.

The post that was pinned had a random writing on it. But it looked a bit too familiar to you.

A line that eventually became a song.

A phrase you'd heard in interviews.

A thought that you deeply resonated with.

Not famous Martin.

Not stadiums and magazine covers Martin.

Just Martin. Young, restless and awake at three in the morning.

You kept scrolling.

Who was he even talking to? It felt like peeking into someone's old diary, it was weird.

You remembered seeing in one of the interviews, Martin would get messages on twitter but he'd reply somewhere else because he was scared to get cancelled over the smallest things.

Maybe this was it. Perhaps this really was his secret diary.

Across the town, Martin was trying to remember a password.

It started as a joke, a conversation with a friend. A mention of old websites, ancient internet archaeology.

Then he suddenly remembered, the tumblr account.

One that nobody knew about, one that was made before everything changed in his life, before the records and tours. Back when it was just him and his friends on soundcloud for fun.

He stared at the login screen.

Tried a password. Wrong.

Tried another one. Wrong

And finally a third one. Success.

When he got in, it was exactly as he had left it. Embarrassing and full of things no one should ever read.

"Oh no." He groaned as his eyes went to the notifications. Someone had been liking his old posts.

A new follower.

One follower.

01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10

You stand near the center of the living room, red solo cup dangling from your fingers, wearing a black crop top that barely qualifies as a shirt and a skirt short enough that you’d tugged it down twice on the walk over. Not that you care. You know you look good. The stares confirm it, the way eyes track you when you move through a room, the way conversations pause just slightly when you laugh.

“Babe!” Mina’s voice cuts through the music, and you turn to see her shoving her way through a cluster of drunk business majors, her own outfit just as devastating as yours—a tight red dress that clings in all the right places. She’s holding two fresh drinks, wearing that wild grin that always means trouble.

You take the cup she offers, raising an eyebrow. “What’s that look for?”

“I’m bored,” she announces, taking a long sip. “This party’s gotten stale. Everyone here is so predictable.”

You glance around. She’s not wrong. Same people, same drama, same bullshit. Heeseung is doing keg stands in the corner while Jake hypes him up, Jay is flirting with some girl from your Econ lecture, and everyone else is just going through the motions of a typical Friday night.

“So what do you wanna do?” you ask, leaning against the wall. “Leave?”

“No.” Mina’s eyes glitter with mischief. “I want to make a bet.”

You laugh, already intrigued. Mina’s bets are legendary—last semester she’d dared you to steal a traffic cone from campus security, and you’d done it just to see the look on her face. “I’m listening.”

She leans in close, her breath smelling like vodka and cherry chapstick. “See that guy over there?”

You follow her gaze across the room. At first, you don’t see who she’s talking about—there’s too many people packed into the space—but then the crowd shifts, and you spot him.

Park Sunghoon.

He’s standing near the bookshelf, looking deeply uncomfortable in a neat button-up shirt and glasses, holding what appears to be a bottle of water. His posture is stiff, like he’s not sure what to do with his hands, and he’s nodding along to something Heeseung is saying with this polite, awkward smile.

You know who he is, obviously. Everyone does, but for different reasons than they know you. Where you’re known for the parties, the chaos, the way you light up every room you enter, Sunghoon is known for being the biggest nerd on campus. Statistics and Data Science major, perfect GPA, the guy everyone goes to when they’re desperate for tutoring. You’ve seen him around—usually in the library, hunched over a laptop, or walking to class with his nose in a textbook.

“The nerd?” you say, taking a sip of your drink. “What about him?”

“I bet you can’t make him fall for you.”

You almost choke on your drink. “What?”

Mina’s grin widens. “Come on. Look at him. He’s like… a different species. You really think someone like him would ever go for someone like you?”

There’s no malice in her words—this is just how you two operate, all teasing and challenge—but something about it pricks at your pride. “Someone like me?”

“You know what I mean. Party girl. Confident. Hot as fuck. He probably faints if a girl even looks at him.” She gestures toward Sunghoon, who is now adjusting his glasses and looking around like he’s searching for an escape route. “I don’t think he’s ever even been to a party before tonight. Heeseung probably dragged him here.”

You study Sunghoon more carefully. He’s taller than you expected, with sharp features that might actually be attractive if he didn’t look so perpetually nervous. His hair is neat, parted carefully, and his clothes scream “I iron my shirts on Sunday nights.”

“That’s the bet?” you ask, turning back to Mina. “Make him fall for me?”

“Yep. And I’m talking actual feelings. Not just him stuttering around you—I want him gone for you. Pining. Obsessed.”

You laugh, loud enough that a few people glance over. “That’s almost too easy.”

“Then you won’t mind putting money on it.” Mina pulls out her phone, thumbs flying across the screen. “Two hundred dollars says you can’t do it.”

Two hundred dollars. That’s not nothing—that’s a weekend trip, or a new pair of boots you’ve been eyeing, or enough drinks to not worry about your bank account for a month.

But more than that, it’s the principle. The idea that Mina thinks you can’t do something, that Park Sunghoon is somehow immune to you, needles at something deep and petty in your chest.

“You’re on,” you say, shaking her hand. “Two hundred dollars. And bragging rights.”

“Bragging rights,” Mina agrees, her grin turning wicked. “This is going to be so fun to watch.”

You drain the rest of your drink, feeling the alcohol warm and loose in your veins, and set the empty cup on the nearest surface. “How long do I have?”

“End of the semester,” Mina says. “That’s what, fourteen weeks? Should be plenty of time. If you’re as good as you think you are.”

“Please.” You flip your hair over your shoulder, already feeling the familiar thrill of a challenge. “I’ll have him obsessed with me by midterms.”

Mina cackles, pulling you into a quick hug. “God, I love you. Okay. Go work your magic.”

You glance back toward Sunghoon. He’s still standing with Heeseung and Jake now, looking like he’s barely contributing to the conversation. Jay has joined them too, and the contrast is almost funny—three effortlessly cool guys and one awkward nerd who looks like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.

The smart play would be to approach him tonight, start planting the seeds. But you’re tipsy and the party is loud, and you know first impressions matter. You need to do this right.

“Not tonight,” you say, turning back to Mina. “I need a strategy.”

“Ooh, strategic. I like it.”

“Monday,” you decide. “I’ll figure out his schedule, and I’ll make my move.”

Mina raises her fresh drink in a toast. “To the downfall of Park Sunghoon’s GPA and emotional stability.”

You clink your cup against hers, grinning. “He won’t know what hit him.”

Monday morning comes with a hangover you shake off in the shower and a determination that feels almost dangerous.

You dress carefully—a tight cropped sweater that shows a sliver of skin above your low-rise jeans, paired with heels that make your legs look longer. Your makeup is flawless, lips glossy, and you know you look good because your roommate actually stops mid-bite of her cereal to stare.

“Where are you going looking like that?” she asks.

“Library,” you say, grabbing your bag.

“The library?”

You just smile and head out.

You’d done your research last night, scrolling through social media and asking around until you had a decent sense of Sunghoon’s schedule. Turns out, he’s a creature of habit—every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, he’s in the library from 9 AM to noon, tutoring students for credit. Something about needing volunteer hours for his degree, or maybe it’s for some honors society. You don’t really care about the why. You just need the when and where.

The library is quieter than usual, the Monday morning crowd sparse. You spot him almost immediately, sitting at one of the large tables near the windows, his laptop open and a stack of textbooks beside him. He’s alone right now, tapping away at his keyboard with the kind of focus that makes you think he’s probably forgotten the rest of the world exists.

You take a breath, adjust your bag on your shoulder, and walk over.

He doesn’t notice you at first. You have to actually stop in front of his table and clear your throat before he looks up, and when he does, his eyes widen slightly behind his glasses.

“Um,” he says, his voice soft and uncertain. “Hi?”

“Hi,” you say, flashing your most disarming smile. “You’re Park Sunghoon, right?”

“Uh. Yes?” He blinks up at you, clearly confused about why you’re talking to him. His gaze flickers down for just a second—taking in your outfit, probably—before snapping back to your face, his cheeks flushing pink.

Perfect.

“I heard you do tutoring,” you say, sliding into the chair across from him without waiting for an invitation. “For Statistics?”

“Oh.” His expression shifts slightly, relaxing into something more familiar. This is territory he knows. “Yeah, I do. Are you… do you need help with a class?”

“Desperately,” you lie, letting a little frustration creep into your voice. “I’m in STAT 400, and I’m completely lost. Like, I don’t even know where to start.”

STAT 400 is a class you could probably teach at this point—you’d aced it last semester—but he doesn’t need to know that.

Sunghoon nods, pulling out a notebook. “That’s a tough class. What specifically are you struggling with?”

You wave a hand vaguely. “Honestly? All of it. Probability distributions, hypothesis testing… I just can’t make it click, you know?”

He’s scribbling something down, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Okay. Yeah, I can definitely help with that. I tutor that class a lot, actually.”

“Really?” You lean forward slightly, resting your chin in your hand. “You’re a lifesaver. I was seriously worried I was going to fail.”

His eyes flicker to you again, and you can see him trying very hard not to stare. It’s almost endearing, the way he’s fighting to keep his focus on his notebook.

“So, um,” he says, clearing his throat. “When works for you? I usually do sessions twice a week, an hour each.”

“Whatever works for you,” you say easily. “I’m pretty flexible.”

He checks his phone, scrolling through what looks like a calendar. “How about… Tuesdays and Thursdays? 5 PM?”

“Perfect.” You pull out your own phone, typing in the times. “Should I meet you here?”

“Yeah, here’s good.” He looks up at you, and for a moment, you’re struck by how dark his eyes are behind those glasses. “Can I get your name? For my schedule.”

You tell him, and he types it into his phone, his fingers quick and precise.

“Got it,” he says, offering you a small, polite smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Looking forward to it.” You stand, slinging your bag over your shoulder, and give him a little wave. “Thanks, Sunghoon.”

His blush deepens at the sound of his name, and you have to bite back a grin as you walk away. This is going to be easier than you thought.

You show up to the library on Tuesday at 4:55 PM, which is late enough to seem casual but early enough to seem eager. You’ve dressed down slightly from yesterday—a fitted long-sleeve shirt that still manages to show off your figure, paired with jeans that sit low on your hips. Still hot, but approachable. You’re playing a character here, and the character is a girl who’s struggling with statistics and needs help, not a girl who’s about to ruin someone’s life for two hundred dollars.

The guilt hasn’t hit yet. Right now, it’s still just a game.

Sunghoon is already at the same table by the windows, his laptop open and a thermos of what you assume is coffee beside him. He looks up when you approach, and you catch the tiniest flicker of surprise in his expression, like he half-expected you not to show.

“Hi,” you say, dropping your bag onto the table and sliding into the seat across from him.

“Hi.” He closes his laptop and pushes it aside, pulling out a notebook instead. “Ready to get started?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you say with a self-deprecating laugh. “Fair warning, I’m really bad at this.”

“That’s okay,” he says, and there’s something unexpectedly kind in his voice. “Everyone starts somewhere. Can you show me what you’re working on in class right now?”

You pull out your own notebook—you’d actually done some prep work last night, writing out problem sets from the STAT 400 syllabus you still have saved on your laptop. You’d deliberately gotten some of them wrong, made your handwriting a little messier than usual, added some confused notes in the margins. It has to look real.

Sunghoon takes the notebook and studies your work, his brow furrowing in concentration. His fingers tap against the edge of the paper, a nervous habit, and you notice that his nails are neatly trimmed, his hands surprisingly elegant for someone so awkward.

“Okay,” he says after a moment. “I see what’s happening here. You’re getting tripped up on the notation, I think. The concepts aren’t that complicated once you understand what the symbols actually mean.”

He flips to a blank page in your notebook and starts writing, his handwriting neat and precise. As he explains the basics of probability distributions, you force yourself to pay attention, nodding along and asking questions that someone who’s actually confused would ask.

“Does that make sense?” he asks after a few minutes, glancing up at you.

“I think so,” you say. “Can you go over that last part again?”

He does, patient and thorough, and you notice the way he relaxes slightly when he’s teaching. The nervousness fades, replaced by something that almost resembles confidence. This is where he’s comfortable—explaining things, breaking down complex ideas into manageable pieces.

It’s… not what you expected.

You’d thought this would be painful, sitting through tutoring sessions for a class you don’t need help with. But Sunghoon is actually a good teacher, and there’s something almost soothing about the way he talks through problems, his voice low and steady.

“Try this one,” he says, sliding the notebook back to you with a new problem written out.

You make a show of working through it, deliberately hesitating in places, second-guessing yourself. When you write down the final answer—which you know is correct—you look up at him uncertainly.

“Is that right?”

He checks your work, and a small smile crosses his face. “Yeah. That’s perfect.”

The praise shouldn’t feel as good as it does.

“Really?” You let yourself sound surprised, pleased.

“Really. You’re getting it faster than you think.”

You beam at him, and his cheeks flush pink again. He looks away quickly, clearing his throat.

“Let’s do a few more,” he says.

The hour passes faster than you expected. By the time Sunghoon checks his phone and announces that your session is up, you’re almost disappointed.

“Same time Thursday?” he asks, packing up his things.

“Yeah, definitely.” You stand, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Thanks, Sunghoon. You’re really good at this.”

“Oh. Thanks.” He ducks his head, and you catch the small smile on his face as he turns away.

As you walk out of the library, you pull out your phone and text Mina.

Session one: complete. He blushed like four times.

Her response is immediate: you’re evil. i love it.

Thursday’s session follows a similar pattern. You show up right on time, dressed in a crop top and high-waisted pants that make Sunghoon’s eyes widen for just a second before he forces his gaze back to his notebook. You work through more problems, ask more questions, let him guide you through concepts you already understand.

But this time, you start to push things slightly.

“God, I don’t know how you keep all of this straight in your head,” you say at one point, leaning back in your chair and stretching your arms above your head. The movement makes your shirt ride up slightly, exposing your stomach, and you don’t miss the way Sunghoon’s gaze flickers down before he quickly looks away.

“It’s just practice,” he says, his voice a little strained. “Once you do enough problems, it becomes automatic.”

“You must be so smart,” you say, propping your chin in your hand and looking at him with wide, admiring eyes. “Like, seriously. I feel like I’m barely keeping my head above water in most of my classes, and you’re just… breezing through everything.”

He shifts uncomfortably. “I’m not that smart. I just work hard.”

“Don’t be modest.” You nudge his foot lightly under the table with yours, and he actually jumps a little. “You’re like, a genius. Everyone says so.”

“I’m really not,” he insists, but you can see the pleased flush creeping up his neck.

You let it drop, returning your attention to the problems in front of you, but you’ve planted the seed. Compliments, physical proximity, attention—these are the tools you know how to use.

Near the end of the session, as Sunghoon is explaining something about confidence intervals, you let your knee bump against his under the table. It’s brief, could be an accident, but you see the way he falters mid-sentence, his train of thought derailing completely.

“Sorry,” he says, blinking rapidly. “Where was I?”

“Confidence intervals,” you prompt, biting back a smile.

“Right. Yeah.” He takes a deep breath and continues, but his voice is slightly shakier now.

When the session ends, you pack up slowly, deliberately taking your time.

“Hey,” you say as he’s closing his laptop. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why do you tutor? Like, I know it’s for credit or whatever, but you’re already so busy. Don’t you ever just… want a break?”

He seems surprised by the question. “I don’t know. I guess I like helping people. And it’s good practice for me, too. Explaining things helps me understand them better.”

“That’s really nice,” you say, and you’re surprised to find that you actually mean it. “Most people wouldn’t go out of their way like that.”

He shrugs, looking uncomfortable with the praise. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is, though.” You give him a warm smile. “Anyway. Thanks again. I actually feel like I might not fail this class now.”

“You’re not going to fail,” he says firmly. “You’re doing really well.”

Something about the conviction in his voice makes your chest tighten, but you push the feeling aside.

“See you next week,” you say, heading toward the exit.

As you leave, you glance back and catch him watching you. He looks away immediately, his face flushing, and you can’t help the satisfied smile that crosses your face.

This is almost too easy.

By the third week of tutoring, you’ve established a routine. Tuesdays and Thursdays, 5 PM, the same table by the windows. Sunghoon is always there early, his materials already laid out, a thermos of coffee within reach. You’ve started to learn his habits—the way he taps his pen against the table when he’s thinking, the way he pushes his glasses up when he’s concentrating, the way he smiles when you get a problem right.

You’ve also started to push boundaries more deliberately.

You sit closer to him now, close enough that your arms brush when you’re both leaning over the same textbook. You ask him to show you how to work through problems on your laptop, which means he has to lean in close, his shoulder pressed against yours, his face inches from yours as he points at the screen.

He’s still nervous, still awkward, but he’s getting more comfortable with you. He makes eye contact more often, laughs at your jokes, occasionally offers comments that aren’t strictly about statistics.

“Are you going to the game on Saturday?” you ask during one session, glancing up from your notebook.

“Game?” He looks confused.

“The basketball game. Against State.”

“Oh. No, probably not. That’s not really my thing.”

“What is your thing?” you ask, genuinely curious despite yourself.

He thinks for a moment. “I don’t know. I like hiking, I guess. And I play chess online sometimes.”

“Hiking?” You raise an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the outdoorsy type.”

“Why not?” There’s a hint of defensiveness in his voice.

“I don’t know. You just seem like you’d rather be inside with a book.”

“I can like both,” he points out, and there’s a glimmer of something in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or challenge.

“Fair enough.” You grin. “Maybe you should take me sometime. I could use the exercise.”

His eyes widen. “Oh. Uh. I mean, if you want. There’s a good trail about twenty minutes from campus—”

“I’m kidding,” you say quickly, laughing. “Can you imagine me hiking? I’d die.”

“Right.” He laughs too, but it sounds slightly forced. “Yeah.”

You almost feel bad for teasing him, but you push the feeling aside. This is the point—keep him off balance, make him think about you, wonder about you.

Later in the session, when you’re both bent over a particularly complicated problem, you reach out to point at something on the page. Your hand brushes against his, and you let it linger for just a second longer than necessary before pulling away.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

“It’s fine,” he says, but his voice is tight, and when you glance at him, his jaw is clenched. Interesting.

After that session, as you’re walking back to your apartment, Mina calls.

“How’s Operation Nerd going?” she asks immediately.

“Good,” you say. “He’s definitely noticing me.”

“Noticing you, or noticing you?”

“Both, I think.” You push open the door to your building, nodding at a couple of girls you recognize from a party last weekend. “He’s still really awkward, but he’s warming up.”

“Have you guys hung out outside of tutoring yet?”

“No. I’m taking it slow.”

“Slow?” Mina sounds incredulous. “Babe, you have like eleven weeks left. You need to speed this up.”

“I know what I’m doing,” you say, climbing the stairs to your floor. “If I come on too strong, he’ll get suspicious. He’s not stupid.”

“Fine, fine. You’re the expert.” There’s a pause, and then: “Are you having fun, at least?”

The question catches you off guard. “What?”

“I mean, is this entertaining? Or is it just a chore?”

You think about the way Sunghoon’s face lights up when you get a problem right, the way he listens so intently when you talk, the way he’s slowly becoming less guarded around you.

“It’s fine,” you say eventually. “He’s not as boring as I thought he’d be.”

“High praise,” Mina says dryly. “Okay, well, keep me updated. I want all the details.”

After you hang up, you find yourself thinking about the question. Are you having fun?

The honest answer is yes. You are. And that should probably worry you more than it does.

The following Tuesday, something shifts.

You’re halfway through the session when Sunghoon’s phone buzzes. He glances at it, frowns, and then looks at you apologetically.

“Sorry, do you mind if I take this? It’s my friend.”

“Go ahead,” you say, waving him off.

He steps away from the table, phone pressed to his ear, and you watch as his expression shifts from confused to annoyed to resigned. When he comes back, he’s running a hand through his hair, making it stick up slightly.

“Everything okay?” you ask.

“Yeah, sorry. That was Heeseung. He’s having people over tonight and wanted to make sure I’m coming.”

“Are you?”

“I guess. He’ll give me shit if I don’t.” Sunghoon sits back down, but he seems distracted now, his usual focus scattered.

“You don’t sound excited,” you observe.

“Parties aren’t really my scene,” he admits. “Too loud, too crowded. I usually just end up standing in a corner wishing I was home.”

You laugh. “Then why go?”

“Because Heeseung, Jake, and Jay are my friends, and they actually want me there. I think.” He says it like he’s not entirely sure, and something about that makes your chest ache.

“They definitely want you there,” you say. “Those guys don’t do pity invites.”

He looks at you, surprised. “You know them?”

“Everyone knows them. We run in similar circles.” You lean back in your chair, studying him. “How’d you end up friends with them, anyway? No offense, but you’re not exactly the typical crowd they hang out with.”

“We lived in the same dorm freshman year,” Sunghoon says. “Heeseung and I got paired as roommates, and Jake and Jay lived down the hall. They kind of… adopted me, I guess. I don’t really know why.”

“Maybe because you’re cool,” you suggest.

He snorts. “I’m definitely not cool.”

“You’re cool in your own way.”

“That’s a nice way of saying I’m a nerd.”

“Being a nerd isn’t a bad thing,” you say. And then, before you can think better of it: “I’ll be there tonight, probably. At Heeseung’s thing. Maybe I’ll see you.”

Sunghoon’s eyes widen slightly. “Oh. Yeah. Maybe.”

The rest of the session is slightly stilted, both of you distracted by the knowledge that you’ll be in the same place later, outside the safe confines of the library. When you pack up to leave, Sunghoon clears his throat.

“Hey, um. Thanks. For saying that. About me being cool.”

You smile. “I meant it.”

And as you walk away, you realize with a start that you actually did.

Heeseung’s apartment is packed when you arrive just after ten, Mina in tow. The music is loud enough to make the walls vibrate, and the air is thick with the smell of beer and too many bodies in a small space.

“This is going to be good,” Mina says, already scanning the room. “Is your nerd here yet?”

“Don’t call him that,” you say automatically, and then catch yourself. Since when do you care?

Mina gives you a look but doesn’t comment. “Well? Do you see him?”

You crane your neck, looking over the crowd, and finally spot Sunghoon near the kitchen. He’s wearing jeans and a plain black t-shirt—the most casual you’ve ever seen him—and he’s talking to Jay, looking significantly less uncomfortable than you’d expected.

“There,” you say, nodding toward him.

“Oh my god, he’s actually kind of hot when he’s not dressed like someone’s dad,” Mina says.

She’s not wrong. Without the button-ups and the overly neat hair, Sunghoon looks… different. Younger. More relaxed. And yeah, hot.

“I’m going over,” you say.

“Good luck,” Mina calls after you, already veering off toward the makeshift bar.

You weave through the crowd, dodging drunk dancers and people shouting over the music. When you reach the kitchen, you tap Sunghoon on the shoulder.

He turns, and his face lights up when he sees you.

“You came,” he says, and he sounds genuinely happy about it.

“I said I might,” you reply, grinning. “Hi, Jay.”

Jay gives you an appreciative once-over—you’re wearing a tiny black dress that leaves very little to the imagination—and nods. “Hey. You two know each other?”

“Sunghoon’s my tutor,” you say.

“Tutor?” Jay looks at Sunghoon with mock suspicion. “You didn’t tell me you were tutoring hot girls.”

Sunghoon’s face goes red. “It’s not—she needed help with stats—”

“I’m just giving you shit,” Jay says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m gonna go find Jake. You two have fun.”

He disappears into the crowd, leaving you and Sunghoon alone in the relative chaos of the kitchen.

“Want a drink?” you ask, already moving toward the counter where someone’s set up a chaotic array of bottles and mixers.

“I’m okay,” Sunghoon says, holding up a bottle of water.

“Of course you are.” You pour yourself something strong, turning back to him. “So. How are you surviving so far?”

“It’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” he admits. “Maybe because you’re here.”

The comment catches you off guard. It’s surprisingly bold for him, and when you meet his eyes, there’s something there you haven’t seen before—a flicker of confidence, maybe, or just the tiniest bit of flirtation.

“Smooth,” you say, taking a sip of your drink.

He looks immediately mortified. “Sorry, that was—”

“I’m kidding. It was sweet.” You step closer to him, close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to maintain eye contact. “You should let yourself relax more often. You’re less uptight when you do.”

“I’m uptight?” He sounds offended.

“A little,” you tease. “But it’s part of your charm.”

Before he can respond, someone cranks the music even louder, and the kitchen suddenly floods with people trying to escape the living room. You’re jostled forward, and Sunghoon reaches out instinctively to steady you, his hands landing on your waist.

For a moment, you’re pressed against him, close enough to feel the heat of his body, to see the way his pupils dilate slightly behind his glasses.

“Sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t let go immediately.

“It’s okay,” you murmur.

The moment stretches, tension coiling between you, and you realize with a jolt that your heart is beating faster. Not because you’re playing a role, but because he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the room, and it feels…

It feels good.

“Do you want to go somewhere quieter?” he asks, his voice low.

You nod.

He takes your hand—his grip warm and surprisingly steady—and leads you out of the kitchen, through the crowd, and out onto the apartment’s small balcony. The noise fades to a dull roar as he slides the door shut behind you, and suddenly it’s just the two of you under the night sky.

“Better?” he asks.

“Much.” You lean against the railing, looking out at the campus spread below. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He stands beside you, close but not touching, and for a few moments, neither of you speaks.

“Can I ask you something?” he says eventually.

“Sure.”

“Why did you come tonight? You said parties are your thing, so you probably had other options.”

You turn to look at him. “Maybe I wanted to see you.”

His breath catches. “Really?”

“Really.” You’re not sure if you’re lying anymore.

Sunghoon holds your gaze, and something shifts in the air between you. He takes a step closer, and your pulse spikes.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says softly.

“Me too,” you whisper.

And when he smiles—a real, genuine smile that makes his whole face light up—you feel something crack open in your chest.

This was supposed to be simple. Easy. A game.

But standing here with him, the city lights glittering below and his hand just inches from yours on the railing, you’re starting to realize that you might be in over your head.

Sunghoon is already at your usual table, but today there’s something different. Instead of his typical setup of laptop and textbooks, there’s a white paper bag and two coffee cups.

“Hi,” he says when you approach, and he looks almost nervous. “I, uh. I brought coffee. And pastries. I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I just guessed. I hope that’s okay.”

You stare at the cups, something warm and unfamiliar blooming in your chest. “You brought me coffee?”

“Yeah. You mentioned last week that you didn’t have time to grab any before our session, so I thought…” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. “Is that weird? That’s probably weird.”

“It’s not weird,” you say softly, sliding into your seat. “It’s really sweet.”

His face lights up, and he pushes one of the cups toward you. “It’s a vanilla latte. But if you don’t like it, I can—”

“Vanilla latte is perfect.” You take a sip, and it’s exactly the right temperature, exactly the right sweetness. “Thank you, Sunghoon.”

“You’re welcome.” He’s smiling now, that soft genuine smile that makes your heart do stupid things.

The session proceeds normally—problem sets, explanations, the comfortable back-and-forth you’ve developed—but the coffee and pastries feel like something more. Like he’s trying to take care of you in his own quiet way.

Halfway through, while you’re working on a problem, Sunghoon speaks up.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” you say, not looking up from your notebook.

“Why economics?”

You pause, pen hovering over the page. “What?”

“Your major. Why did you choose economics?”

No one has asked you that in a long time. Most people just assume you picked it because it’s practical, or because you wanted something that would make money, or because you didn’t know what else to do.

“I like understanding how things work,” you say slowly. “Like, why people make the decisions they make. What drives markets, what causes crashes, all of that. It’s like… a puzzle, I guess. And I’m good at puzzles.”

Sunghoon is looking at you with this intense focus, like he’s genuinely interested in your answer. “That’s really cool.”

“Yeah?” You feel oddly vulnerable suddenly.

“Yeah. Most people just say it’s for the money.”

“I mean, the money doesn’t hurt,” you joke, but it falls flat.

“I get it, though,” he says. “That’s kind of why I like statistics. Everything can be understood if you have enough data. The world makes sense when you can quantify it.”

You find yourself smiling. “We’re more similar than I thought.”

“Is that surprising?”

“A little,” you admit. “I thought you’d be all… I don’t know. Textbooks and equations and no personality.”

He laughs, a real laugh that makes his eyes crinkle. “Wow. Thanks.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” You’re laughing too now. “I just meant—you’re not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. Boring? Uptight? But you’re actually…” You pause, searching for the right word. “You’re actually really easy to talk to.”

Sunghoon’s expression softens. “So are you.”

The moment hangs between you, charged with something you can’t quite name. You’re suddenly very aware of how close you’re sitting, how his knee is almost touching yours under the table, how easy it would be to just lean forward and—

Your phone buzzes, shattering the moment. It’s a text from Mina: party at sigma chi friday. you coming?

You type back a quick yeah probably and set your phone down, but the spell is broken. Sunghoon has already returned his attention to the textbook, his expression neutral.

The rest of the session passes normally, but something has changed. There’s a weight in the air now, a tension that wasn’t there before.

When you’re packing up to leave, Sunghoon clears his throat.

“Hey, um. Are you doing anything this weekend?”

Your heart skips. “Why?”

“There’s this new exhibit at the art museum. Photography from conflict zones. I thought it might be interesting, and I was wondering if… if maybe you wanted to go? With me?”

He’s asking you on a date. Park Sunghoon is asking you on an actual date.

You should say yes. This is perfect for the bet—spending time together outside of tutoring, building a connection, making him fall harder.

But the thought of it makes your stomach twist with something that feels uncomfortably like guilt.

“I can’t this weekend,” you say, and you’re not sure if you’re relieved or disappointed. “I have plans with friends.”

“Oh.” He tries to hide his disappointment, but you can see it in the way his shoulders slump slightly. “That’s okay. Maybe another time.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Another time.”

As you walk away, you can feel his eyes on your back, and you hate yourself a little bit.

Friday night comes, and you’re at the Sigma Chi house with Mina, three drinks deep and feeling reckless.

The party is packed, bodies pressed together in every room, music so loud you can feel it in your bones. You’re wearing your sluttiest dress—a tiny red thing that barely covers your ass—and you know you look good because you’ve been turning heads all night.

“There’s Jake,” Mina says, pointing toward the kitchen. “With Heeseung and Jay.”

“So?” you say, taking another sip of your drink.

“So, isn’t that Sunghoon’s friend group? Maybe he’s here.”

You scan the kitchen, but you don’t see Sunghoon anywhere. Just his three friends, laughing and drinking and looking effortlessly cool in a way Sunghoon never quite manages.

“I don’t think he’s here,” you say.

“Probably for the best,” Mina says. “You can actually have fun without worrying about the bet.”

But that’s the problem. You’re starting to realize that you have more fun with Sunghoon than without him.

You push the thought away and drain your drink. “I need another.”

The next hour is a blur of alcohol and dancing and the kind of mindless fun you usually thrive on. You dance with strangers, do shots with girls from your econ class, lose Mina somewhere in the crowd. And then Jake finds you.

“Hey,” he says, appearing at your elbow with that easy smile. “You look like you’re having a good time.”

“I am,” you say, and you realize you have to raise your voice to be heard over the music.

“Want to get some air? It’s hot as hell in here.”

You follow him out to the back porch, where it’s marginally quieter and cooler. There are a few other people out here, smoking and talking in low voices, but Jake leads you to a corner that’s relatively private.

“Better?” he asks.

“Much.” You lean against the railing, looking up at him. Jake is attractive in an obvious way—tall, athletic build, sharp jawline. The kind of guy you’d normally go for without thinking twice.

“I’ve seen you around,” Jake says, moving closer. “You’re hard to miss.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Definitely.” His gaze drops to your lips, then back up. “You’re friends with Sunghoon, right?”

The mention of Sunghoon’s name sends a jolt through you. “He’s tutoring me.”

“That’s all?”

“What else would it be?”

Jake shrugs. “I don’t know. He talks about you a lot.”

Your heart stutters. “He does?”

“Yeah. He tries to be subtle about it, but it’s pretty obvious he’s into you.” Jake grins. “Can’t blame him.”

You should ask what Sunghoon says about you. You should care more about the implications.

But you’re drunk and Jake is hot and he’s leaning in, and when his lips meet yours, you don’t pull away.

The kiss is good—he knows what he’s doing, his hands confident on your waist—but it feels wrong somehow. Like you’re kissing the wrong person. When you break apart, Jake is smiling.

“Want to get out of here?”

“I—”

“There you are!”

You turn to see Mina stumbling out onto the porch, clearly wasted. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. We need to go. Now.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I’m about to throw up and I need you to hold my hair.” She grabs your arm, pulling you away from Jake. “Sorry, Jake. Emergency.”

You let her drag you back through the party and out the front door, and it’s only when you’re halfway back to your apartment that you realize you’re relieved.

“Did I really interrupt something?” Mina asks, her words slurring slightly.

“Nothing important,” you say.

“Liar. That was Jake. He’s hot.”

“Yeah.”

“So why do you sound sad about it?”

You don’t have an answer.

Saturday morning, you wake up with a pounding headache and a feeling of vague dread that has nothing to do with the hangover.

You kissed Jake. Sunghoon’s friend. One of his only friends.

It shouldn’t matter. This is a bet. You’re not actually dating Sunghoon. You don’t owe him anything.

But the guilt sits heavy in your stomach anyway.

Your phone buzzes with a text from Sunghoon: Hey! I know you said you were busy this weekend, but if you have any free time tomorrow (Sunday), I’d love to show you that trail I mentioned. No pressure though!

You stare at the message for a long moment.

You should say no. You should keep your distance, maintain the boundaries of this fake tutoring relationship.

But instead, you type: Sure. What time?

His response is almost immediate: 10 AM? I can pick you up.

Sounds good.

You set your phone down and bury your face in your pillow, trying to ignore the voice in your head that’s asking what the hell you’re doing.

Sunday morning dawns clear and bright, and you find yourself actually putting effort into your outfit—athletic leggings, a fitted tank top, your hair pulled back in a high ponytail. Hiking clothes, but still cute.

Sunghoon picks you up at exactly 10 AM in a slightly beat-up Honda Civic that’s meticulously clean inside. He’s wearing athletic gear too, and without his glasses—he’s wearing contacts, he explains—he looks different. Younger. Even more attractive.

“You ready?” he asks as you buckle your seatbelt.

“As ready as I’ll ever be. Fair warning, I haven’t hiked since high school.”

“It’s an easy trail,” he assures you. “More of a nature walk, really.”

The drive takes about twenty minutes, filled with easy conversation and music from a playlist that’s surprisingly good—indie rock mixed with some Korean R&B. You learn that Sunghoon is an only child, that he grew up in a small town, that his parents are both engineers and have very high expectations for him.

“Is that why you work so hard?” you ask. “Because of them?”

“Partly,” he admits. “But also because I don’t really know what else to do. School is the one thing I’m actually good at.”

“That’s not true. You’re good at lots of things.”

“Like what?”

“You’re a good teacher. You’re patient, you actually listen, you explain things in a way that makes sense. That’s a skill.”

He glances at you, surprised. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

When you arrive at the trailhead, it’s not crowded—just a few other cars in the small parking lot. Sunghoon grabs a backpack from the trunk, and you start walking.

He was right about it being an easy trail. The path is well-maintained and mostly flat, winding through trees that are just starting to show their fall colors. It’s beautiful in a quiet, understated way.

“I come here when I need to think,” Sunghoon says as you walk. “It’s peaceful.”

“What do you think about?”

“Everything. School, the future, whether I’m making the right choices.” He pauses. “Sometimes I feel like I’m on this path that was decided for me, you know? Like, I’m going to graduate, get a good job, make my parents proud. But I’m not sure if it’s what I actually want.”

You’re surprised by the honesty. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know. That’s the problem.” He looks at you. “What about you? Do you know what you want?”

The question catches you off guard. What do you want?

A month ago, you would have said you wanted to graduate, make money, have fun. Simple things.

But now, standing here with Sunghoon, you realize you don’t know anymore.

“I’m figuring it out,” you say finally.

You walk in comfortable silence for a while, and then Sunghoon leads you off the main path to a clearing that overlooks a small lake. The view is stunning—water glittering in the sunlight, trees reflected on the surface.

“Wow,” you breathe.

“Right?” He sits down on a large flat rock near the edge of the clearing, and you join him. “I found this spot last year. I don’t think many people know about it.”

“It’s beautiful.”

He pulls out his backpack and produces two bottles of water and some trail mix. “Snack break.”

You laugh. “You really came prepared.”

“I try.”

As you sit there, eating trail mix and looking out at the lake, you feel something loosen in your chest. This is nice. Simple. Real.

“Can I tell you something?” Sunghoon says after a while.

“Of course.”

“I’m really glad you agreed to come today. I know tutoring is our thing, but I wanted…” He trails off, looking uncertain. “I wanted to spend time with you outside of that. As friends. Or, I don’t know. Whatever this is.”

Your heart is pounding. “Whatever this is?”

He turns to face you fully. “I like you. I know that’s probably obvious, and I’m sorry if that makes things weird, but I can’t stop thinking about you, and I thought maybe—”

You kiss him.

You’re not sure why you do it. Maybe because of the way he’s looking at you, so open and vulnerable. Maybe because you want to stop him from saying more things that will make you feel guilty. Maybe because you’ve been wanting to kiss him for weeks and you’re tired of pretending otherwise.

Whatever the reason, you lean in and press your lips to his, and for a moment, he freezes.

Then he’s kissing you back, tentative at first and then deeper, his hand coming up to cup your face. His lips are soft, and he tastes like trail mix and mint gum, and it’s good—better than it should be, better than kissing Jake, better than anything you expected.

When you finally pull away, you’re both breathing hard.

“Wow,” he says softly.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

“Does this mean…?”

“I don’t know what this means,” you say honestly. “But I like you too. I think.”

He smiles, bright and genuine, and pulls you in for another kiss.

You lose track of time there by the lake, kissing Sunghoon like teenagers, his hands respectful but wanting, your fingers tangled in his hair. It feels right in a way that scares you.

When you finally break apart for real, the sun has shifted position, and you realize you’ve been here for over an hour.

“We should probably head back,” Sunghoon says reluctantly.

“Yeah.”

The hike back to the car is different from the hike out. Sunghoon holds your hand the entire way, his grip warm and steady, and you can’t stop smiling.

This wasn’t part of the plan. You weren’t supposed to actually like him.

But as he helps you into the car and leans over to kiss you one more time before closing the door, you realize you’re completely screwed.

That night, lying in bed, you finally respond to Mina’s texts.

how’s the bet going?

You stare at the message for a long time before typing: Good. He’s definitely into me.

perfect. keep it up. easy money.

Yeah. Easy money.

But it doesn’t feel easy anymore.

The following week, everything changes.

Your tutoring sessions become something more—study dates, really, where you spend as much time talking and laughing as you do working through problems. Sunghoon brings you coffee every time now, always remembering exactly how you like it. You find excuses to touch him, and he finds excuses to touch you back—a hand on your shoulder, fingers brushing when you pass papers back and forth.

On Thursday, after your session ends, he walks you back to your apartment. It’s out of his way, and you both know it, but neither of you mentions it.

At your door, he kisses you goodbye, slow and sweet, and you have to physically stop yourself from inviting him inside.

“I’ll see you next week,” he says, his forehead resting against yours.

“That’s so far away,” you murmur, and you’re surprised to find that you mean it.

“We could… do something over the weekend?” he suggests. “If you want.”

“Like what?”

“There’s a film festival on Saturday. Foreign films. Probably boring to most people, but—”

“I’d love to,” you interrupt.

His face lights up. “Really?”

“Really.”

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and you feel yourself melting into him.

When he finally leaves, you float into your apartment in a daze. Jiwoo takes one look at your face and grins.

“Oh, you’ve got it bad,” she says.

“Shut up,” you say, but you can’t stop smiling.

That night, you’re lying in bed scrolling through your phone when you see a post on Jake’s Instagram story. It’s from the Sigma Chi party—a blurry photo of the crowd with the caption good times.

And suddenly you remember. The kiss. Jake.

Your stomach drops.

You need to tell Sunghoon. You should tell him before he hears it from someone else, before it becomes a thing.

But how do you explain that you kissed his friend while you were… what? Were you dating him then? Are you dating him now? You never actually defined what this is.

You open your messages with Sunghoon, type out Can we talk? and then delete it.

This is fine. It was one kiss, weeks ago, before you and Sunghoon were actually together. It doesn’t mean anything.

Except it does mean something, because it means you were pursuing the bet. And if Sunghoon ever found out about the bet…

You close your phone and stare at the ceiling, your earlier happiness curdling into anxiety.

What the hell have you gotten yourself into?

Saturday arrives, and you meet Sunghoon at the small independent theater on the edge of campus. He’s dressed nicely—dark jeans and a fitted sweater that makes him look older, more sophisticated. When he sees you, his entire face transforms with his smile.

“Hi,” he says, pulling you in for a kiss that makes your toes curl.

“Hi yourself.”

The film festival is showing three movies back-to-back, and you settle into your seats with a large popcorn between you. The first film is French, subtitled, about a woman navigating love and loss in Paris. It’s beautiful and melancholy, and halfway through, Sunghoon reaches over and takes your hand.

During the second film—a Japanese drama about family—you rest your head on his shoulder, and he wraps his arm around you. It feels domestic and comfortable and utterly terrifying.

By the third film, you’re barely paying attention to the screen. All you can focus on is the warmth of Sunghoon’s body next to yours, the way his thumb traces patterns on your shoulder, the way he occasionally leans down to whisper commentary that makes you laugh.

When the festival ends and you step out into the evening air, you feel drunk on happiness and caffeine from the terrible theater coffee.

“That was amazing,” you say.

“Yeah?” Sunghoon looks pleased. “I wasn’t sure if it was too pretentious.”

“It was exactly pretentious enough.” You loop your arm through his as you walk. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Thank you for coming. I know it’s not exactly a typical date.”

“Who says I want typical?”

He grins and pulls you close, kissing you in the middle of the sidewalk like you’re the only two people in the world.

You end up at a small cafe nearby, ordering hot chocolates and splitting a piece of chocolate cake. The conversation flows easily—he tells you about his thesis project, you tell him about your internship applications, and somehow you end up talking about childhood dreams and fears and all the small details that make up a life.

“I wanted to be an astronaut when I was a kid,” Sunghoon admits. “I was obsessed with space.”

“What changed?”

“I realized I get motion sickness really easily.” He laughs. “Not exactly ideal for space travel.”

“That’s tragic.”

“What about you? What did you want to be?”

You think back. “A lawyer, I think. I liked arguing.”

“That tracks.”

You kick him lightly under the table, and he catches your foot between his, holding it there.

The cafe starts to close, and reluctantly, you both leave. Sunghoon walks you home again, and at your door, the goodbye kiss turns into several goodbye kisses, which turn into you pressed against the door with his body flush against yours.

“Do you want to come inside?” you breathe against his lips.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes dark. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

You unlock the door and pull him inside, grateful that Jiwoo is gone for the weekend. The apartment is dark and quiet, and you lead Sunghoon to your bedroom, your heart pounding.

Inside, you turn to face him, suddenly nervous. This feels different than all the other times you’ve done this with other guys. This feels like it matters.

“Hey,” Sunghoon says softly, stepping closer. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

“I want to,” you say. “I want you.”

He kisses you then, slow and deep, walking you backward until your legs hit the bed. You fall together, a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter, and as he hovers over you, looking down with so much want and tenderness that it makes your chest ache, you think: I’m in so much trouble.

But you push the thought away and pull him down into another kiss, losing yourself in the feeling of his hands on your skin, his mouth on your neck, the weight of him above you.

When you pull him inside your bedroom, the air between you feels electric. Sunghoon’s hands are tentative at first, skimming over your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice low and rough in a way you’d never heard before.

“More than okay,” you whisper, reaching up to pull him into another kiss.

That seems to break something loose in him. His kisses become deeper, more urgent, his hands more confident as they explore. You pull at his sweater, and he breaks away just long enough to tug it over his head.

You’ve never seen him like this—shirtless, his body leaner than you expected but defined, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Your hands find his skin, tracing the lines of his shoulders, his ribs, and he shivers under your touch.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your neck, his lips trailing down to your collarbone. “I’ve thought about this so many times.”

The admission sends heat pooling in your stomach. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His hands find the hem of your shirt, and he looks up at you, waiting for permission.

You answer by pulling it off yourself, and his eyes go dark with want.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and the curse sounds foreign in his mouth, which somehow makes it hotter.

His hands cup your breasts through your bra, and you arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips. He kisses down your sternum, your stomach, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans.

“Can I?” he asks, looking up at you.

“Please.”

He unbuttons your jeans slowly, reverently, sliding them down your legs along with your underwear. When you are finally bare before him, he sat back on his heels just looking at you, and you feel genuinely seen in a way that should have made you self-conscious but instead makes you feel powerful.

“You’re staring,” you say, but is no bite to it.

“Can’t help it.” He leans down to kiss you again, his body presses against yours, and you can feel how hard he is through his jeans.

Your hands go to his belt, fumbling with the buckle until he helps you, kicking off his jeans and boxers in one motion. And then there was nothing between you, just skin on skin, his weight pressing you into the mattress in the best way.

“Do you have…?” he starts.

“Nightstand,” you gasp. “Top drawer.”

He reaches over, finds a condom, and you watch as he rolls it on with shaking hands. When he settles back over you, positioning himself between your legs, he pauses.

“Tell me if anything doesn’t feel good,” he said, his eyes searching yours.

“I will. I promise.”

He pushes into you slowly, carefully, and you both groan at the sensation. He fills you perfectly, and when he’s fully seated inside you, he drops his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

“Okay?” he manages.

“So okay,” you whisper. “Move. Please move.”

He did, starting with slow, deep strokes that have you gasping and clutching at his shoulders. His technique was unpracticed but enthusiastic, and when you shift your hips to find the angle you need, he paid attention, adjusting immediately.

“Like that,” you breathe. “Right there.”

“Here?” He hits the spot again, harder this time, and you cry out.

“Yes, fuck, yes.”

He set a rhythm then, his hips snapping against yours, one hand braced beside your head and the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and the sounds he makes—low groans and whispered curses—were pushing you closer to the edge.

“You feel so good,” he pants against your neck. “So fucking good.”

Your nails rake down his back, and he hisses, his rhythm faltering for a moment before he regains control. You can feel yourself getting close, that familiar tension building low in your belly.

“Touch yourself,” he says, his voice strained. “I want to feel you come.”

The command sends a shock of heat through you. You slide your hand between your bodies, finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. The added stimulation combined with the feeling of him inside you is too much.

“Sunghoon,” you gasp. “I’m—”

“Come for me,” he says, and that’s it.

Your orgasm hits you like a wave, your body tensing and shaking as pleasure rolls through you. You feel yourself clenching around him, and he groans, his movements becoming erratic.

“Fuck, I’m—” He doesn’t finish the sentence, just buries himself deep and comes with a broken moan, his body shuddering against yours.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, both of you catching your breath. Then he carefully pulled out, disposed of the condom, and collapsed beside you, immediately pulling you into his arms.

“That was…” he started.

“Yeah,” you agreed, your voice still shaky.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, your temple, your lips. “You’re amazing.”

And lying there in his arms, your body still humming with aftershocks, you feel something crack wide open in your chest. Something that feels dangerously close to real feelings.

Later—much later—you lie tangled together in your sheets, Sunghoon’s arm wrapped around you, his breathing deep and even. You should feel satisfied, content.

Instead, you feel like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to fall.

You wake up to sunlight streaming through your window and the unfamiliar weight of someone else in your bed.

For a disorienting moment, you forget where you are, who you’re with. Then Sunghoon shifts beside you, his arm tightening around your waist, and everything comes rushing back.

The film festival. The cafe. Bringing him back here. The sex.

Oh god, the sex.

Your face heats at the memory, and you bury it in the pillow. Sunghoon makes a soft noise in his sleep, nuzzling into your neck, and despite everything—the guilt, the confusion, the looming disaster of the bet—you can’t help but smile.

“Are you awake?” His voice is rough with sleep, muffled against your skin.

“Maybe.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Good morning.”

“Morning.” You turn in his arms to face him, and he’s unfairly attractive like this—hair messy, eyes soft, a small smile on his lips.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

He kisses you, slow and lazy, and you can feel him hardening against your thigh. Your body responds immediately, heat pooling low in your stomach, but before things can progress, his phone buzzes insistently on the nightstand.

He groans, breaking away to check it. “It’s Heeseung. He wants to know if I’m alive.”

“Are you?”

“Barely.” He types out a quick response and sets the phone down. “I should probably go. I have a study group at noon.”

Disappointment lances through you, which is ridiculous. You just spent the entire night with him. “Yeah, okay.”

“Unless…” He looks at you hopefully. “Do you want to get breakfast first? There’s that place near campus that does really good pancakes.”

You should say no. You should put some distance between you, figure out what the hell you’re doing.

But instead you say, “I love pancakes.”

The diner is busy with the Sunday morning crowd, but you manage to snag a booth near the back. Sunghoon orders a truly obscene amount of food—pancakes, eggs, bacon, hash browns—and you raise an eyebrow.

“What? I’m hungry.” He grins. “Last night was… athletic.”

You kick him under the table, face flaming. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying.” His grin widens. “You’re very… energetic.”

“Oh my god, stop talking.”

But you’re laughing, and so is he, and when the food arrives, you end up stealing bites from his plate while he pretends to be offended.

It’s domestic and easy and terrifying.

Halfway through the meal, Jake walks in with Heeseung and Jay. Your stomach drops.

Jake sees you first, and something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or understanding. Then he’s heading over with the other two in tow.

“Sunghoon!” Heeseung says cheerfully, sliding into the booth beside him without asking. “You never came home last night. We were worried.”

Jay smirks, looking between you and Sunghoon. “Clearly not that worried.”

Sunghoon’s ears turn red. “We were just… we went to the film festival and then—”

“And then you stayed over,” Jake finishes, his eyes on you. There’s something unreadable in his expression.

“Hi, Jake,” you say carefully.

“Hey.” He slides in next to you, forcing you to scoot over. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah.”

The tension is palpable, at least to you. Sunghoon seems oblivious, too busy fielding questions from Heeseung about the films, but Jake is looking at you like he knows something.

“So you two are like, together now?” Heeseung asks bluntly.

Sunghoon glances at you, and there’s vulnerability in his eyes. “I… we haven’t really talked about it.”

“We’re seeing each other,” you say, reaching over to lace your fingers with his. “Right?”

“Right.” His smile is so genuine it makes your chest ache.

“Cute,” Jay says, stealing a piece of bacon from Sunghoon’s plate. “Our boy’s all grown up.”

“Fuck off,” Sunghoon says, but he’s grinning.

The conversation shifts to other topics—an upcoming game, someone’s disastrous Tinder date, plans for Halloween. You mostly stay quiet, hyperaware of Jake beside you, wondering if he’s going to say something about the party. About the kiss.

But he doesn’t. He just eats his food and makes jokes with the others, and when they finally leave, he gives you a long look that makes your stomach twist.

“He knows,” you say once they’re gone.

“Knows what?” Sunghoon asks, signaling for the check.

“Nothing. Never mind.”

The next week passes in a blur of classes, tutoring sessions that turn into makeout sessions, and stolen moments in empty classrooms and dark corners of the library.

You can’t keep your hands off each other. It’s like a switch has been flipped, and now that you’ve crossed that line, neither of you can go back.

On Tuesday, your “tutoring session” lasts all of fifteen minutes before Sunghoon is pulling you into his lap, his mouth hot on your neck.

“We should actually study,” you gasp, even as you grind down against him.

“We should,” he agrees, not stopping.

You end up in the single-user bathroom on the third floor, Sunghoon pressing you against the door as he kisses you breathless. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your hips, sliding up under your shirt to cup your breasts.

“God, I can’t stop thinking about you,” he breathes against your lips. “It’s affecting my grades.”

“Liar. You’re incapable of getting bad grades.”

“Want to test that theory?” His hand slips between your legs, rubbing you through your jeans, and you bite back a moan.

“Someone could hear.”

“Then you’ll have to be quiet.”

He drops to his knees, and your brain short-circuits.

“Sunghoon, what are you—”

“Let me,” he says, already unbuttoning your jeans. “Please. I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

You should say no. You’re in a public bathroom in the library. Anyone could walk by.

But then he’s pulling your jeans and underwear down, and his mouth is on you, and all rational thought flies out the window.

“Oh fuck,” you breathe, your hands flying to his hair.

He’s enthusiastic if not entirely skilled, his tongue exploring with scientific precision, trying to figure out what makes you gasp and moan. When he finds your clit and sucks lightly, your knees buckle.

“There,” you manage. “Right there, don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He works you with his mouth, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady, and you have to bite down on your fist to keep from crying out. The knowledge that you’re doing this here, in public, with Sunghoon of all people on his knees for you, makes it even hotter.

You come embarrassingly quickly, your orgasm hitting you hard and sudden. Sunghoon works you through it, lapping at you until you’re shaking and oversensitive, and when he finally pulls away, his lips are shiny and his eyes are dark with lust.

“You taste amazing,” he says, his voice wrecked.

You pull him up and kiss him hard, tasting yourself on his tongue. “Your place. Now.”

“I have a roommate.”

“My place then.”

You somehow make it back to your apartment without attacking him in public, though it’s a close thing. The moment you’re through the door, you’re on him, pushing him toward your bedroom and stripping off his clothes.

“Bed,” you command, and he goes willingly, lying back and watching as you undress.

When you straddle him, positioning yourself over his cock, he groans.

“Condom,” he manages.

“Nightstand.”

He reaches over, fumbles with the drawer, and rolls one on with shaking hands. Then you’re sinking down onto him, both of you moaning at the sensation.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his hands gripping your hips. “You feel so good.”

You start to move, riding him slowly at first and then faster, chasing your pleasure. His hands roam your body—your breasts, your stomach, your thighs—like he can’t decide where to touch you first.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he says, his eyes locked on you. “So fucking beautiful.”

The praise sends heat through you, and you lean down to kiss him, your movements becoming erratic. He takes over then, thrusting up into you hard and fast, and the change in angle has you gasping.

“Touch yourself,” he says, echoing his words from last time. “I want to see you come again.”

You do, your fingers finding your clit, and the combination of his cock inside you and your own touch is too much. You come with a cry, your body clenching around him, and he follows a moment later with a groan, his hips stuttering.

You collapse on top of him, both of you breathing hard, and he wraps his arms around you.

“I’m never going to be able to concentrate in the library again,” he says, and you laugh into his chest.

Thursday’s session is more of the same. You try to actually study—you really do—but Sunghoon keeps looking at you with these heated glances, and his hand keeps finding your thigh under the table, and eventually you give up and suggest going back to his place.

His roommate is at class, and you have exactly ninety minutes before he’s back.

You make the most of it.

This time, you’re the one on your knees, learning what makes Sunghoon gasp and curse. He’s bigger than you expected, and you take your time, using your tongue and lips and hands until he’s gripping the sheets and saying your name like a prayer.

“I’m close,” he warns, but you don’t pull away.

When he comes, you swallow, and the look on his face is worth it—complete bliss mixed with awe.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “That was…”

“Good?” you ask, crawling up his body.

“Understatement of the century.” He pulls you in for a kiss, apparently not caring that you just had him in your mouth. “Your turn.”

“We don’t have time—”

“We have time.”

He proves it by going down on you again, this time with more confidence and skill. He’s a fast learner, you’ll give him that. He remembers exactly what you liked before, adding new tricks that have you squirming and begging.

When you come, it’s intense enough that you see stars, and Sunghoon looks so pleased with himself that you can’t help but laugh.

“What?” he asks, grinning.

“Nothing. You’re just… you’re really into this.”

“Into making you feel good? Yeah, I am.” He kisses your inner thigh. “Is that weird?”

“No. It’s perfect.”

And it is perfect, which is the problem.

Because every moment with him feels more real, and every real moment makes the lie bigger.

That night, Mina corners you at a party at some frat house you don’t remember the name of.

“Okay, what the fuck?” she demands, pulling you into a relatively quiet hallway. “You’ve been dodging my texts for two weeks.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy to update me on the bet? Because from what I’m hearing, you and Park Sunghoon are basically dating now.” She raises an eyebrow. “Which is great for the bet, obviously, but you’ve been weird about it.”

“I haven’t been weird.”

“You’re being weird right now. What’s going on?”

You take a long drink from your cup, buying time. “Nothing. It’s going fine. He’s definitely into me.”

“And are you into him?” The question is pointed.

“It’s a bet, Mina. Of course I’m not actually—”

“Bullshit.” She crosses her arms. “I’ve known you for three years. I can tell when you’re lying.”

“I’m not—”

“Do you actually like him?”

The question hangs in the air between you. You could lie. You should lie.

But you’re so tired of lying.

“I don’t know,” you admit quietly. “Maybe.”

Mina’s expression softens. “Babe…”

“I know. I’m an idiot. This was supposed to be easy, and I’m making it complicated.”

“So end the bet. Just tell him the truth.”

“And say what? ‘Hey, funny story, I only started talking to you because my friend bet me two hundred dollars that I couldn’t make you fall for me, but surprise, I actually caught feelings’? That’ll go over well.”

“Better than him finding out some other way.”

“He’s not going to find out.”

“Jake knows.” Mina says it casually, but the words hit like a punch.

“What?”

“Jake knows about the bet. He was there when I made it, remember? And he’s Sunghoon’s friend. You really think he’s not going to say something?”

Your stomach drops. “Jake wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t he? You two hooked up at that party. And now you’re dating his friend. You don’t think that’s going to come up eventually?”

Panic rises in your throat. “We didn’t hook up. We just kissed.”

“Does Sunghoon know that?”

“No.”

“So you’re keeping secrets on top of secrets. Great plan.”

“What do you want me to do, Mina?” Your voice comes out sharper than intended. “I can’t unfuck this situation. It’s already fucked.”

She sighs, her expression gentler now. “Look, I’m not trying to be a bitch. I’m worried about you. This isn’t like you. You don’t do feelings, you don’t do relationships. And now you’re in this mess because I made a stupid bet. So I’m giving you an out. Call it off. Keep your money. I don’t care. Just… don’t hurt him. And don’t hurt yourself.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It could be.”

But she doesn’t understand. It’s not about the money anymore. It’s not even about the bet.

It’s about the fact that you’ve built something real with Sunghoon, even if it’s built on a foundation of lies. And you don’t know how to tell him the truth without destroying everything.

The next morning, you wake up to a text from Sunghoon: Can’t stop thinking about yesterday. When can I see you again?

Despite everything—the guilt, the fear, the looming disaster—you smile.

Tonight? My place?

Perfect. I’ll bring dinner.

You spend the day in a state of anxious anticipation. Part of you wants to cancel, to put some distance between you and figure out what to do. But a bigger part of you just wants to see him, to pretend for a little while longer that everything is okay.

He shows up at seven with Thai food and that soft smile that makes your heart hurt.

“Hi,” he says, kissing you hello like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Hi.”

You eat on your bed, cross-legged and trading bites of pad thai and spring rolls. Sunghoon tells you about his thesis advisor giving him shit for missing a meeting, and you tell him about your nightmare group project in your econometrics class.

It’s domestic and comfortable and you wish you could freeze this moment forever.

After dinner, you end up tangled together, kissing lazily. His hands are under your shirt, yours in his hair, and it’s not urgent or desperate—just sweet and slow.

“Can I ask you something?” Sunghoon says against your lips.

“Mm?”

“Are we… I mean, I know we said we’re seeing each other, but are we like, exclusive? Because I’d like to be. Exclusive, I mean. If you want.”

Your heart squeezes. “You want to be my boyfriend?”

“Yeah. I really do.” He pulls back to look at you, and there’s such open honesty in his face that it makes you want to cry. “Is that okay?”

You should say no. You should end this before it gets worse.

But instead you kiss him hard and whisper, “Yes. I want that too.”

His smile is brilliant, and he pulls you closer, deepening the kiss. Things heat up quickly after that—clothes coming off, hands and mouths everywhere.

This time, Sunghoon takes his time. He kisses every inch of your skin, mapping your body with his lips and tongue. When he finally settles between your legs, he looks up at you with dark eyes.

“Tell me what you want,” he says.

“You. Just you.”

He works you with his mouth until you’re trembling and gasping, and when he finally pushes inside you, it feels different. More intimate. Like you’re not just fucking but making love, which is a thought that should terrify you but instead just makes you hold him tighter.

“I’m falling for you,” he breathes against your neck as he moves inside you. “I know it’s fast, but I can’t help it.”

You should tell him the truth. Right now, in this moment, you should come clean.

But instead you just kiss him and whisper, “I’m falling for you too.”

And the worst part is, you mean it.

Later, after he’s fallen asleep, you lie awake staring at the ceiling.

You’re in love with Park Sunghoon.

You’re in love with the boy you were supposed to play, the bet you were supposed to win. And he loves you back, except he doesn’t really love you—he loves the version of you that you’ve been pretending to be.

Or maybe he does love the real you. Maybe all the pretending has become real. Maybe there’s no difference anymore.

Your phone buzzes with a text from Jake: We need to talk.

You stare at the message, your heart pounding.

Everything is about to fall apart. You can feel it.

And you have no idea how to stop it.

You meet Jake at a coffee shop off campus, somewhere you’re unlikely to run into anyone you know.

He’s already there when you arrive, sitting in a corner booth with two cups of coffee in front of him. He slides one toward you as you sit down.

“Vanilla latte,” he says. “I remembered from that party.”

“Thanks.” You wrap your hands around the cup, more for something to do than because you actually want it.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Jake studies you with an unreadable expression, and you force yourself to meet his gaze.

“So,” he says finally. “You and Sunghoon.”

“Yeah.”

“How long has that been going on?”

“A few weeks. Officially, I mean. We’ve been doing the tutoring thing for longer.”

Jake nods slowly. “He’s really into you. Like, really into you. I’ve never seen him like this with anyone.”

Guilt twists in your stomach. “I know.”

“Does he know about the bet?”

There it is. The question you’ve been dreading.

“No,” you say quietly.

“Are you going to tell him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Eventually.”

“Eventually,” Jake repeats, his tone flat. “So you’re just going to keep lying to him?”

“It’s not that simple—”

“It actually is that simple.” He leans forward. “You made a bet that you could make him fall for you. You did. Congratulations. Now either you tell him the truth, or you don’t. But this middle ground where you’re pretending everything’s fine? That’s fucked up.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Your voice comes out sharper than intended. “I know it’s fucked up. I know I should tell him. But how do I do that without destroying everything?”

“Maybe everything deserves to be destroyed if it’s built on a lie.”

The words hit harder than they should. You take a shaky breath. “Why do you care so much? You barely know him.”

“He’s my friend. And he’s a good guy. He doesn’t deserve this.” Jake pauses. “And honestly? I don’t think you deserve to hurt yourself like this either. I saw your face when you’re with him. Whatever started as a bet isn’t a bet anymore. You actually care about him.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Tell him the truth. Before someone else does.”

Your blood runs cold. “Are you threatening me?”

“No. I’m warning you.” Jake’s expression softens slightly. “Look, I’m not going to tell him. That’s not my place. But Mina was drunk when she made that bet, and there were other people around. Someone’s going to say something eventually. And it’s going to be a lot worse if he hears it from someone else.”

He’s right. You know he’s right.

“I’ll tell him,” you say. “I just… I need to find the right time.”

“Don’t wait too long.” Jake stands, leaving his coffee untouched. “For what it’s worth, I think he’d understand. He’s not perfect either. None of us are. But he deserves honesty.”

After he leaves, you sit alone in the coffee shop for a long time, staring at your phone.

You pull up your messages with Sunghoon, dozens of texts full of inside jokes and sweet nothings. Then you scroll to Mina, her most recent message asking if you want to go out this weekend.

You type out three different messages to Sunghoon—variations of “we need to talk”—and delete them all.

Tomorrow. You’ll tell him tomorrow.

But tomorrow comes and goes, and you don’t tell him.

You tell yourself you’re waiting for the right moment, but the truth is you’re a coward. Every time you’re with him, you see how happy he is, how he looks at you like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and you can’t bring yourself to shatter that.

The week passes in a strange tension. On the surface, everything is perfect. You and Sunghoon are inseparable—studying together, eating together, sleeping together. He’s introduced you to his parents over video chat, and you’ve started keeping a toothbrush at his place.

But underneath, you’re drowning in guilt and anxiety, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It happens on Friday night.

There’s a Halloween party at one of the bigger fraternity houses, and everyone is going. Sunghoon isn’t thrilled about it—he’s still not much of a party person—but you’d promised you’d go together, and he’s trying.

You’d put actual effort into your costume—a devil, complete with red bodysuit, horns, and a tail. Sunghoon is dressed as an angel, which he’d been embarrassed about until you told him how hot he looked in all white.

“We’re very on the nose,” he says as you walk to the party, his hand in yours.

“I think it’s cute. Heaven and hell, together at last.”

“Is that what we are?” He grins. “I’m corrupting you or you’re corrupting me?”

“Definitely the second one.”

The party is already in full swing when you arrive, the house packed with people in various states of intoxication and costume creativity. You spot Mina almost immediately—she’s dressed as a sexy nurse and is already drunk, dancing on a table with some guy from her marketing class.

“I’m going to get us drinks,” Sunghoon says, kissing your temple. “Want your usual?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

He disappears into the crowd, and you start making your way toward Mina. But before you can reach her, someone grabs your arm.

It’s Jenna, a girl from your econometrics class. You’ve talked to her a few times, but you wouldn’t call her a friend.

“Oh my god, I’ve been looking for you!” She’s clearly drunk, her words slightly slurred. “I need to know—is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“The bet! With Park Sunghoon!” She’s practically shouting over the music. “Mina told Sarah who told me that you made a bet you could make him fall for you. And oh my god, you guys are actually dating now? That’s hilarious. How much did you win?”

Your blood turns to ice.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, but your voice sounds wrong even to your own ears.

“Come on, don’t be modest! It’s genius, honestly. I mean, he’s such a nerd, it probably wasn’t even that hard—”

“Stop.” The word comes out harsh, cutting. “Just stop talking.”

Jenna blinks, taken aback. “Whoa, okay. I was just—”

But you’re not listening anymore. You’re scanning the crowd frantically, looking for Sunghoon, praying he’s still in the kitchen getting drinks, praying he didn’t hear any of that.

And then you see him.

He’s standing about ten feet away, two cups in his hands, his face completely blank.

Your heart stops.

“Sunghoon—”

But he’s already turning away, setting the cups down on the nearest surface and heading for the door.

“Shit,” you breathe, pushing past Jenna and fighting your way through the crowd. “Sunghoon, wait!”

You catch up to him outside, on the front lawn. He’s walking fast, his shoulders tense, and when you grab his arm, he jerks away.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice cold in a way you’ve never heard before.

“Please, just let me explain—”

“Explain what?” He whirls to face you, and the hurt in his eyes is devastating. “Explain how you made a bet that you could make me fall for you? Explain how this entire thing has been a lie?”

“It’s not—it wasn’t all a lie—”

“How much?” His voice cracks. “How much did you win?”

“Sunghoon—”

“How much?” He’s shouting now, and people are starting to stare.

“Two hundred dollars,” you whisper. “But I don’t want it. I never wanted it. That’s not what this is about.”

He laughs, a bitter sound. “Right. So what is it about? Entertainment? Did you have fun? Watching the awkward nerd fall all over himself for you?”

“No, it’s not like that—”

“Then what is it like? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you played me. You pretended to need tutoring, pretended to be interested in me, pretended to—” His voice breaks. “Did you fake all of it? Every moment, every kiss, every time you said you cared about me?”

“No!” Tears are streaming down your face now. “I didn’t fake it. I swear, I didn’t. It started as a bet, yes, but it became real. My feelings are real.”

“How am I supposed to believe that?” He’s crying too, and seeing him cry because of you is the worst thing you’ve ever experienced. “How am I supposed to believe anything you say when everything has been a lie?”

“Because I love you,” you say desperately. “I love you, Sunghoon. That’s real. That’s the realest thing I’ve ever felt.”

For a moment, something flickers in his expression—hope, maybe, or want. But then it hardens again.

“You don’t love me,” he says quietly. “You don’t even know me. Because if you did, if you cared about me at all, you wouldn’t have done this. You wouldn’t have—” He stops, taking a shaky breath. “I need to go.”

“Please don’t leave. Let me explain properly, let me—”

“There’s nothing to explain.” He takes a step back, putting distance between you. “You made a bet. You won. Congratulations.”

“Sunghoon—”

“I don’t want to see you anymore. I don’t want to talk to you. I just… I need you to leave me alone.”

And then he’s walking away, and you’re standing alone on the lawn in your stupid devil costume, crying so hard you can barely breathe.

Behind you, the party continues, oblivious to the fact that your entire world just imploded.

You don’t remember getting home. One minute you’re on the lawn, the next you’re in your apartment, Mina’s arms around you while you sob into her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” she keeps saying. “I’m so, so sorry. I should never have made that stupid bet. This is my fault.”

But it’s not her fault. It’s yours.

You’re the one who accepted the bet. You’re the one who lied. You’re the one who kept lying even after you started developing real feelings.

You’re the one who broke Park Sunghoon’s heart.

Your phone won’t stop buzzing—texts from people at the party, from Jenna apologizing, from people you barely know asking if it’s true. You turn it off and curl up in bed, still in your costume, feeling like you’re suffocating.

“What do I do?” you ask Mina, your voice hoarse from crying.

“I don’t know, babe. Give him time, maybe? Let him cool off, then try to talk to him again?”

“He said he doesn’t want to see me.”

“He’s hurt. People say things they don’t mean when they’re hurt.”

But you saw his face. The betrayal, the devastation. That wasn’t just hurt. That was something deeper.

You’d made him believe someone could care about him, could see past the nerd label and the awkwardness and love him for who he is.

And then you’d proven that it was all an act.

“I ruined everything,” you whisper.

Mina doesn’t argue.

The next morning, you wake up with a pounding headache and swollen eyes. Your phone is still off, and you’re afraid to turn it on.

But you force yourself to. You need to know how bad it is.

The damage is worse than you thought. There are dozens of messages, multiple group chats discussing the drama. Someone apparently recorded part of your argument with Sunghoon and posted it online. Your mentions are full of people calling you a bitch, a heartbreaker, cruel.

And they’re not wrong.

You scroll through until you find messages from people who actually matter. Heeseung sent you a long text that essentially amounts to “what the fuck is wrong with you.” Jay’s is shorter but somehow more cutting: “He really loved you. I hope it was worth it.”

Jake’s is the one that makes you cry again: “I warned you. I hope you figure out how to make this right.”

There’s nothing from Sunghoon.

You open your conversation with him, looking at the last messages he sent—a string of heart emojis in response to a photo you’d sent of your costume. It was less than twelve hours ago, but it feels like a lifetime.

You type out a message: I’m so sorry. I know you don’t want to talk to me, but please, let me explain. What I said last night was true. I love you. I never meant to hurt you.

You stare at it for a long moment, then delete it.

Words aren’t going to fix this. Nothing is going to fix this.

You’ve lost him.

And it’s entirely your own fault.

The first week without Sunghoon is the worst week of your life.

You stop going to parties. You can barely drag yourself to classes. Your carefully constructed social life—the one where you were always the center of attention, always having fun, always in control—crumbles around you.

Because it turns out that when people know you’re capable of something that cruel, they look at you differently.

Mina tries her best to support you, but even she doesn’t know what to say. She canceled the bet immediately, told you to keep your money, apologized a hundred times. But it doesn’t change anything.

You avoid the library completely. You can’t bear to walk past your usual table by the windows, can’t bear to remember all those tutoring sessions that turned into something more. Your statistics homework sits untouched—you can’t bring yourself to look at probability distributions without thinking of Sunghoon’s patient explanations, his neat handwriting, the way his face would light up when you got a problem right.

Your roommate Jiwoo walks on eggshells around you. She brings you food you don’t eat, suggests watching movies you can’t focus on, and eventually just sits with you in silence because that’s all you can handle.

“You need to get out of bed,” she says on day five, opening your curtains despite your protests. “You haven’t showered in two days. You’re not eating. This isn’t healthy.”

“I know.”

“So get up. Take a shower. We’ll go get coffee or something.”

“I don’t want coffee.”

“I don’t care what you want. You’re getting out of this apartment.” Her voice is firm but kind. “Come on. I’ll wait.”

You drag yourself out of bed, shower on autopilot, and put on clothes that aren’t pajamas for the first time in days. When you look in the mirror, you barely recognize yourself. Your face is pale, eyes hollow and red-rimmed. You look like you’ve been through a war.

You feel like it too.

Campus feels different now. You walk with your head down, avoiding eye contact, hyperaware of every whisper and pointed look. The story has spread—everyone knows about the bet, about what you did. Some people are sympathetic, but most just see you as the girl who broke Park Sunghoon’s heart for two hundred dollars.

You deserve it. Every bit of judgment, every dirty look. You deserve all of it.

Jiwoo takes you to a small cafe on the edge of campus, one you’ve never been to before. It’s quiet, mostly empty, and you’re grateful for the anonymity.

“Talk to me,” Jiwoo says once you’re settled with your drinks. “What are you feeling?”

“Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.” You wrap your hands around your cup. “I keep thinking about his face. When he found out. I’ve never seen anyone look so… broken.”

“Have you tried to reach out?”

“What would I even say? ‘Sorry I made a bet to make you fall in love with me’? There’s no apology big enough for what I did.”

“Maybe not. But maybe he deserves to hear that you’re sorry anyway.”

You shake your head. “He said he doesn’t want to see me. I have to respect that.”

“So that’s it? You’re just giving up?”

“I’m not giving up. I’m accepting that I fucked up so badly there’s no coming back from it.” Your voice cracks. “I lost him, Jiwoo. And it’s my own fault.”

She reaches across the table to squeeze your hand. “For what it’s worth, I think your feelings were real. I saw how you were with him. That wasn’t fake.”

“It doesn’t matter if they were real. Not when everything else was a lie.”

You start seeing Sunghoon around campus, though “seeing” isn’t quite right because you make sure he never actually sees you. You’ve become an expert at ducking into buildings, changing directions, hiding behind groups of people.

Each glimpse of him is like a knife to the chest.

He looks tired. Sad. He’s always alone now, you notice—no more walking with Heeseung and the others, no more sitting in groups at the dining hall. He’s retreated back into himself, back into the lonely, isolated version of himself that existed before you.

Before you ruined everything.

On Tuesday at 5 PM, you walk past the library and see him at your old table. There’s a girl sitting across from him—you don’t recognize her—and she’s working through what looks like statistics problems. He’s explaining something, using the same patient tone he used with you, and seeing it makes you feel physically ill.

He’s moved on. He’s replaced you.

Which is what you wanted, right? For him to be okay? But watching it happen feels like dying.

Week two is somehow worse than week one.

You run into Heeseung at the gym. You’ve been going at odd hours to avoid people, but apparently not odd enough. He’s on the treadmill next to yours, and for a moment you consider just leaving. But he speaks before you can.

“You look like shit,” he says bluntly.

“Thanks.”

“Sunghoon looks worse.”

Your chest tightens. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Too bad.” Heeseung stops his treadmill and turns to face you fully. “You fucked up. We all know it. But I’m not here to lecture you.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I’ve known Sunghoon since freshman year, and I’ve never seen him as happy as he was with you. And I’ve also never seen him as miserable as he is now.” He pauses. “And because Jake told me what you said. That you actually fell for him.”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“It matters to him. Even if he won’t admit it.”

You stop your treadmill too. “What do you want me to say, Heeseung? That I’m sorry? I’m sorry. That I wish I could take it back? I do. That I love him? I—” Your voice breaks. “I love him so much it’s destroying me. But he doesn’t want anything to do with me, and I don’t blame him.”

Heeseung studies you for a long moment. “He’s stubborn. Probably the most stubborn person I know. When he decides something, it’s really hard to change his mind.”

“So I’m fucked.”

“I didn’t say that.” He grabs his water bottle. “I’m just saying, if you really love him, you’re going to have to fight for it. Because he’s not going to make it easy.”

“He shouldn’t have to make anything easy. I’m the one who screwed up.”

“Yeah, you did. But people screw up. That’s life. The question is whether you’re going to let one mistake define you, or whether you’re going to do everything you can to make it right.”

He leaves you there, heart pounding, his words echoing in your head.

On Saturday morning, you wake up to a text from Mina: brunch? you need to eat and i miss you

You almost say no. But Jiwoo would just drag you out anyway, so you agree.

Mina picks the place—a cute little diner near campus that does bottomless mimosas on weekends. It’s the kind of place that’s usually packed, but you arrive early enough to get a table.

You’re halfway through your pancakes when the door opens and Sunghoon walks in.

Your heart stops.

He’s not alone. There’s a girl with him—the same one from the library, you realize. She’s pretty, with long dark hair and a sweet smile. She’s laughing at something he said, and he’s smiling back, and seeing them together feels like someone reached into your chest and ripped your heart out.

“Oh shit,” Mina breathes, following your gaze.

You can’t look away. You watch as they’re seated at a booth near the window—the same booth you and Sunghoon sat in that Sunday morning after your first night together. The morning when everything felt perfect and possible.

The girl says something and Sunghoon laughs—really laughs—and you realize with a sick feeling that you haven’t heard that laugh in weeks. Not since before everything fell apart.

“We should go,” Mina says, already signaling for the check.

“No.” Your voice sounds strange, hollow. “It’s fine. We were here first.”

“Babe—”

“I said it’s fine.”

But it’s not fine. Nothing is fine. You watch as they order coffee, as Sunghoon does that thing where he pushes his glasses up when he’s happy, as the girl reaches across the table to show him something on her phone and their fingers brush.

Does he touch her the way he touched you? Does he kiss her like he kissed you? Does he tell her about the hiking trail, about his dreams of being an astronaut, about all the little things he shared with you?

Has he replaced you that easily?

“I need to go,” you say abruptly, standing up. Your chair scrapes loudly against the floor, and several people look over—including Sunghoon.

Your eyes meet across the diner.

For one terrible, eternal moment, everything else falls away. It’s just you and him, all the hurt and love and regret hanging between you like a physical thing.

His expression shifts—surprise, then pain, then carefully controlled blankness. He looks away first, turning his attention back to the girl across from him with deliberate focus.

The dismissal is clear. You mean nothing to him now.

You barely make it outside before you start crying.

Mina follows, wrapping her arms around you while you sob on the sidewalk. People walk past, staring, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“He’s moved on,” you choke out. “He’s already moved on.”

“You don’t know that. Maybe she’s just a friend—”

“Did you see the way he looked at her? He was happy, Mina. Really happy. Like he is when he’s—” You can’t finish the sentence. Like he was with you.

“Come on,” Mina says gently. “Let’s get you home.”

You let her lead you back to your apartment, your mind stuck on repeat. The image of Sunghoon laughing with that girl, the way he looked away from you like you were nothing, the realization that you’ve truly, permanently lost him.

This is what you deserve, you tell yourself. This is the consequence of your actions.

But knowing you deserve it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

That night, alone in your room, you finally let yourself break completely.

You pull out your laptop and open the folder of photos from the past few weeks. There are dozens—candid shots of Sunghoon studying, selfies you took together, photos from the hiking trip. In every single one where he’s looking at you, his expression is so full of love it makes your chest ache.

He really did love you. Completely, genuinely, without reservation.

And you destroyed that.

You find yourself scrolling through your text messages with him, reading through months of conversation. The early ones are formal—just coordinating tutoring sessions. But they gradually shift into something more. Long conversations about nothing and everything. Stupid jokes. Good morning and goodnight texts. The kind of constant communication that happens when you can’t stop thinking about someone.

The last text is still the string of heart emojis he sent in response to your costume photo. You’d been so happy that night, getting ready for the party, excited to show him off to everyone.

And then it all came crashing down.

You start typing before you can stop yourself: I saw you today at the diner. You looked happy. I’m glad. You deserve to be happy. I know you don’t want to hear from me, and I promise this is the last time I’ll bother you. But I need you to know that I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. What I did was unforgivable, and I understand why you hate me. But I need you to know that my feelings were real. Are real. I fell in love with you, Sunghoon. Really, truly in love. And I know that doesn’t excuse what I did, and I know it doesn’t change anything, but I needed to say it. You made me want to be a better person. You made me see that there’s more to life than parties and surface-level friendships and keeping people at arm’s length. You made me feel things I didn’t think I was capable of feeling. And I ruined it. I ruined the best thing that ever happened to me because I was selfish and careless and stupid. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t even expect you to respond to this. I just need you to know that I’m sorry. And that I love you. I’ll always love you.

You read it over three times, your finger hovering over the send button.

Then you delete it.

He’s moved on. He’s happy. And sending that message would just be selfish—making yourself feel better at his expense.

So instead, you close your laptop, turn off your phone, and cry yourself to sleep.

The next morning, you wake up to pounding on your door.

“Go away, Jiwoo,” you mumble into your pillow.

“It’s not Jiwoo.”

You bolt upright. That’s not Jiwoo’s voice. You stumble to the door and open it to find Jay standing there, looking uncharacteristically serious.

“We need to talk,” he says.

“I don’t—”

“It’s about Sunghoon. Let me in.”

Your heart racing, you step aside. Jay walks in, looking around your disaster of an apartment—tissues everywhere, empty takeout containers, your laundry piled in the corner.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You really are a mess.”

“If you came here to insult me—”

“I came here to tell you that Sunghoon is miserable.” Jay turns to face you. “That girl you saw him with? That’s his cousin. She’s visiting for the weekend, and he agreed to show her around campus. But according to Heeseung, the entire time they were at that diner, he kept staring at the door like he was hoping someone specific would walk in.”

Your breath catches. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because he’s too stubborn to admit that he misses you. And you’re apparently too much of a coward to fight for him.” Jay crosses his arms. “Look, what you did was shitty. We all agree on that. But Sunghoon isn’t some innocent victim in all this either.”

“Yes, he is—”

“No, he’s not. He put you on a pedestal. He built up this image of you as this perfect girl who chose him over everyone else, and he didn’t give you room to be human. To make mistakes.” Jay pauses. “I’m not saying what you did was okay. But I am saying that relationships are complicated, and people fuck up, and maybe if you both actually talked to each other instead of suffering in silence, you could figure this out.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“Have you actually tried? Like, really tried? Or did you just accept his initial reaction and give up?”

You don’t have an answer to that.

“That’s what I thought.” Jay heads for the door, then pauses. “He’s going to that hiking trail. The one he took you to. He goes every Sunday morning. Maybe you should accidentally run into him.”

“Jay—”

“Or don’t. Keep wallowing in your guilt and let him keep wallowing in his hurt. But I’m telling you, you’re both miserable apart. So maybe it’s worth at least trying to be miserable together.”

He leaves, and you stand in your apartment, his words echoing in your head. Maybe it’s worth at least trying.

Sunday morning dawns gray and overcast, threatening rain.

You almost take it as a sign to stay home. But you’ve spent two weeks being a coward, and you’re done with that.

You dress in the same athletic clothes you wore the first time Sunghoon took you hiking. No makeup, hair pulled back. This isn’t about looking good. This is about being honest.

The drive to the trailhead feels both endless and too short. Your hands shake on the steering wheel, and you have to give yourself a pep talk in the parking lot before you can get out of the car.

Sunghoon’s Honda Civic is already there.

He’s here.

You start up the trail on unsteady legs, every step feeling monumental. The trees are mostly bare now, leaves crunching underfoot, fall having settled fully into the world while you were busy falling apart.

You find him at the clearing overlooking the lake, sitting on the same flat rock where you first kissed him. His shoulders are hunched, head down. Even from a distance you can see the exhaustion in his posture. He looks like he hasn’t been sleeping any better than you have. You step into the clearing.

He hears you immediately, head snapping up. When he sees you, his expression cycles through surprise, pain, anger, and finally settles on something carefully neutral.

“What are you doing here?”

“I needed to talk to you.”

“I thought I made it clear—”

“I know. Five minutes. Give me five minutes, and if you still want me to leave after that, I will. I’ll never bother you again.”

A long pause. Then he gestures stiffly to the rock beside him.

You sit, leaving space between you, and for a moment you both just stare out at the lake. The water is choppy today, reflecting the gray sky.

“I’m sorry,” you say finally. “I know that’s not enough. But I need to say it again. What I did was cruel and selfish and unforgivable, and I hate myself for it.”

“Why did you do it?” His voice is quiet. “Was I really that much of a joke to you?”

“No. You were never a joke. That’s the thing—you were supposed to be. It was supposed to be easy. I was supposed to play a part, win the bet, and move on.” You take a shaky breath. “But then I actually got to know you. And everything changed.”

“When?” he asks. “When did it become real?”

“Maybe when you brought me coffee without being asked. Maybe on Heeseung’s balcony. Maybe the first time you made me laugh for real.” You look at him. “I don’t know the exact moment. I just know that somewhere along the way, pretending became impossible because what I felt was completely real.”

He’s quiet. You press on.

“I saw you at the diner with your cousin. I thought she was someone you were moving on with, and it destroyed me. The idea of you loving someone else—” Your voice breaks. “That’s when I knew I couldn’t just accept losing you without a fight.”

“Jay told you she was my cousin,” he says flatly.

“Yes. And Heeseung told me you still had feelings for me. And Jake—” You pause. “Jake warned me weeks ago to tell you the truth. I should have listened.”

“You should have told me from the beginning.”

“I know. I was a coward. I kept telling myself I’d do it tomorrow, and then tomorrow became two weeks, and then it was too late.” Tears stream down your face. “I don’t expect you to forgive me easily. I’m not asking for that. I’m just asking for a chance to prove that I’ve changed. That my love for you is the realest thing I’ve ever felt.”

Sunghoon is quiet for so long you think he’s going to ask you to leave. Then he speaks.

“I’ve been miserable without you,” he says roughly. “I’ve been trying to be angry. Trying to hate you. But every time I come here, I think about kissing you on this rock. Every time I tutor someone new, I compare them to you.” He exhales. “I told my cousin about you. She called me an idiot for not hearing you out.”

Something flickers in your chest. “You talked about me?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you.” He finally turns to look at you, really look at you, and his expression breaks open. “You look terrible.”

“So do you.”

“Yeah.” He reaches out hesitantly, brushing a tear from your cheek. The touch sends electricity through you. “I missed you.”

“I missed you every single day.”

“I want to forgive you,” he says slowly. “But I’m scared. How do I trust you again? How do I know this isn’t another performance?”

“You don’t. Not yet. I can’t hand you trust—I have to earn it back. Slowly, honestly, for however long it takes. I’ll be transparent about everything. I’ll go to therapy. I’ll do whatever it takes.” You lace your fingers through his. “Just don’t give up on us before we even try.”

“You’d go to therapy?”

“I’d do anything for you.”

He looks down at your joined hands. “I really loved you. Love you. Present tense. I can’t seem to stop, no matter how hard I try.”

“Then don’t try.” You move closer, until your knees are touching. “Let me love you back. For real this time.”

He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, something has shifted.

“No more lies,” he says firmly. “No more games. If we do this, we do it honestly. Complete honesty, always.”

“Complete honesty. Always.”

He leans in slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You don’t.

When his lips meet yours, it’s careful at first, tentative—like you’re both afraid of breaking something fragile. But then you’re kissing him deeper, pouring everything into it. All the guilt, all the love, all the desperate hope that you haven’t destroyed something irreplaceable.When you finally pull apart, you’re both crying.

“I love you,” you whisper. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” He presses his forehead to yours. “Even though I probably shouldn’t.”

“We’ll make this work. I promise.”

“We’d better.” He squeezes your hand. “Can I take you to breakfast? Somewhere new. Not the diner.”

“New memories,” you say softly.

“New memories.”

He stands and offers his hand. You take it.

Three months later, you’re back at the library table by the windows.

Actually studying this time. Sunghoon is beside you, working on his thesis, occasionally stealing your coffee or reaching over to help with a problem. His hand finds yours between pages, a habit neither of you noticed developing.

Things aren’t perfect. There have been arguments, moments of doubt, nights where old wounds reopened. But you’ve worked through them. Therapy helped. Honesty helped more.

Mina waves from across the library. Jake gives you shit sometimes, but it’s affectionate now. Heeseung and Jay have folded you into the group like you were always there.

Your life looks different. Quieter in some ways, fuller in others. Less performance, more presence.

“Want to get out of here?” Sunghoon asks, already packing up his bag. “I know this hiking trail…”

You laugh. “Always with the hiking.”

“You love it.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” He takes your hand. “Come on. Let’s go make some more memories.”

Park Sunghoon was never just the biggest nerd on campus.

He was the love of your life.